It seems that every time I go to write on this thing, I wind up rambling on about church or social justice issues or some such thing. It may give the impression that I sit around thinking about this stuff all day long. That would be a fine impression to make but it’s not true. I suppose it’s just what I’m drawn to write about and most of my thoughts on pop culture are better documented elsewhere. Last week I saw a headline about Jessica Simpson’s exes and it was bugging me for a while that I was missing one. Nick Lachey, John Mayer, Tony Romo… who else?! No, not Adam Levine. I think those were just rumors. Oh yeah... Billy Corgan...how could I forgot about him?!
With that said, welcome to another post about church and social justice crap. This time the topic: dead people and communion! What’s up with both of those crazy things?! Yesterday was the All Saint’s Day service at church. That’s the day where we reflect on those that went before us- particularly those that died this year. As I sat there thinking about the people I know that died this year, it started to sound like the beginning of a joke. “A niece, an aunt, an uncle, a surrogate grandmother, parents’ friends, some friends’ parents, some friends’ pets and Clarence Clemons are at the pearly gates...” But the end of that one, at least in my mind, is: “and you have no idea what the fuck happened to any of them.” What a knee-slapper!
I do love the All Saints Day service. It was jam packed with great music. I had the privilege of singing a number of festive songs about death with a great group of people. I’m a sucker for depressing music so musical reminders of mortality are right in my wheelhouse. While we practiced the harmonies on “We Shall Never Die," Rebecca gave us the upbeat friendly reminder, “The lyric is we shall never never die”…BUT…we will! We sing it with hope that we won’t, knowing that we will!” Yay! Throw in the dirgey shape note song that is a beautiful assault on the eardrums beginning with the line “And am I born to die...to lay this body down...” and I’m in heaven. So to speak.
Earlier in the day I heard the song “Aeroplane Over the Sea” by Neutral Milk Hotel. The lyrics to that come close to my thoughts on life and death. I love the final line: Can't believe how strange it is to be anything at all.
Then there’s the topic of communion. I would guess that most people, whether they’ve ever been to a Christian church or not, are familiar with the concept of communion. You get a piece of bread...they tell you it’s the Body of Christ. You drink some wine or grape juice…Blood of Christ. I grew up going to Catholic Church every single Sunday so receiving Communion was a normal part of my week. That said, I have always and still do think it’s some completely insane shit. But, there’s also something I have always loved about it. I love ritual. I like candlelight. I like when everyone, including myself, stops yammering on about stuff for a few minutes. I love mystery and understanding being all intertwined. I love food. I love sharing food with people.
But then there’s the Jesus part.
When it comes to that guy, I have NO CLUE what I believe. My feelings and thoughts have changed over the years, but as of this moment, I am perfectly content being clueless. If Jesus was just a hippy that wanted to hang out with hookers and drug addicts and feed the hungry and invited his pals to dinner and that turned into hundreds of years of communion being celebrated every week, I’m fine with it. I don’t know that it’s anything more than just a piece of bread dipped in some grape juice, but I don’t really know for sure that it’s anything less than a miracle. What I do know is that it’s a ritual that my parents hold, and their parents held, sacred. I love the thought that I’m part of a ritual that has been practiced for hundreds of years, and still continues to happen, all over the world. I love the thought that people are taking even a small moment out of their week to think about things on another level. Whether it’s how to be a better person, being thankful, seeking change, wondering about God, or just showing up and being quiet, and listening to whatever happens in silence...I like it. Opening doors, welcoming absolutely anyone who comes in, and offering a meal- that’s just about the most basic and most beautiful thing I can think of. It’s why Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. It’s why I love Passover Seders. Food and community…it’s a winning combo.
Last night when I received communion, I thought…is this God? Then I thought about all those that I know that have died. Every person I’ve met has left their mark on me and is still alive in me and the rest of the people they’ve touched. This simple piece of bread came to me after farmers and cooks and drivers did their part. None of it could be possible without those on whose shoulders we now stand. I am here because of them. I have food and water and love and shelter because of them. Others may go to communion and find it creepy and weird and not their style. But for me, it evokes peace and love and connection to my family and those that have passed away and the connections of the strangers and friends that surround me in that moment. So yeah, I’m pretty sure anything that does all that is God.
I could stare at this computer screen and think similar thoughts- my ability to connect with friends and family all over the world in an instant is directly related to the gifts of all of those who came before me. So yes, in that way, God is in my laptop.
Point for the Jesuits. Four years of college education and they got me on board with their whole “God is in all things” bit.
All of this reminds me of a passage from the story “The Third and Final Continent” by Jhumpa Lahiri, which I just read last week. The whole story was beautiful but this particular paragraph really got me:
“While the astronauts, heroes forever, spent mere hours on the moon, I have remained in this new world for nearly thirty years. I know that my achievement is quite ordinary. I am not the only man to seek his fortune far from home, and certainly I am not the first. Still, there are times I am bewildered by each mile I have traveled, each meal I have eaten, each person I have known, each room in which I have slept. As ordinary as it all appears, there are times when it is beyond my imagination."
Those feelings and thoughts of wonder and awe and love and appreciation that are beyond my imagination...being blown away by how extraordinary the ordinary is...that's what I call God.
(I don't think Jessica Simpson ever actually dated Dane Cook. I think they were just friends from when they were in "Employee of the Month" together.)
Monday, November 7, 2011
Monday, October 24, 2011
Pen Pals
Two posts in a week. What has gotten into me?
Welp...there are a few things that are making me want to write today. First of all, it’s 10pm in late October and I have the window open and the fresh air is autumn-rific. I’m an old lady that needs my sleep but why not stay up a bit longer writing and taking in this perfect Sunday evening.
What to write about? Well, speaking of writing, I had my first exchange with the death row pen pal I was assigned. Methinks this will be an intense experience. Hopefully it’ll be intense in a good way that’s rewarding for both of us. Shortly after Troy Davis was put to death someone posted on a list serve I’m on, talking about how she was set up with a pen pal who is on death row and the organization she did this through was looking for more pen pals. Troy Davis’ death really struck me. I wanted to do something. I saw someone on Facebook write about how awful the death penalty is and “besides it’s much worse punishment to have to suffer for a lifetime in prison.” I couldn’t stop thinking about this. Is that the goal? Find a system in which people can suffer the most? Is this person against the death penalty because it’s not barbaric enough? I’m very much opposed to the death penalty but I’m also not for a system in which people just spend their lifetimes rotting away in prisons. I don’t know what the right answers are and I know that there may be no chance for rehabilitation for some people. The people who were recently arrested for kidnapping people with mental illness and chaining them up in a dungeon so they could steal their SSI checks…well, I’m hoping they don’t get out of prison any time soon. Part of me wants them to be chained up and left for dead and be forced to eat shitty food out of dog bowls just like they made their victims do. Another part of me...just doesn’t know what the hell to think.
Yesterday I received an envelope from the organization that set me up with my pen pal. In it were two letters from a guy that’s been on death row for more than 20 years. The letters are filled with friendly chit chat, appreciation in advance for anyone willing to write to someone in his situation, info about some of his interests and the usual get to know you pleasantries. I read the letters again and again and again. I googled him and read all about his crime. This is no Troy Davis scenario. This guy seems to clearly be guilty as charged.
I walked over to Welles Park, sat on a park bench and took out my little journal with the hearts on it that I got for a quarter at the Sweet Adeline’s rummage sale. I cracked it open and stared at the blank page for a while. I thought about this guy and his life and wondered how he grew up and what drove him to commit that crime and I thought about good versus evil and forgiveness and redemption and justice and retaliation and I thought about the victim and the family of the victim and I thought about “Dead Man Walking” and Sr. Helen Prejean and I wondered if he was getting into terrifying fights and was a part of prison gangs like I’ve seen on “Oz” and “Locked Up.” Then I wrote him a letter and talked about books and art and music and asked him dorky questions about his interests and told him about the book I’m reading. To paraphrase a friend who I was discussing this with, “The three things you shouldn’t discuss in polite conversation: religion, politics and murder convictions.”
As I lit a candle for him and his victim at church tonight, it struck me more than usual that I have no clue what I’m doing with my life. Some chick from Jersey, raised Catholic, is in a tiny Methodist church in Chicago lighting candles for her new murderer pen pal and the person he killed 25 years ago. How did I get to this place in life? A place where despite the usual level of life bullshit, I’m very happy and content and grateful. As these thoughts ran through my mind, they were suddenly overcome by the stronger thought that there was pumpkin chocolate chip bread awaiting me at the post-service shin-dig in the gallery.
So about that book I’m reading... it’s called “Born to Run” and even though it has nothing to do with Springsteen, I love it anyway. I won’t bore anyone with a summary you can read at this Amazon link. I’ll just say that it’s made me think about why I enjoy distance running and it’s made me particularly grateful for my health and my ability to chug along for miles, even if it’s extremely slowly. I’m not planning to do any ultra marathons but reading this made me realize that I get a lot more from running than I sometimes give it credit for. Also, I now have half a mind to buy those ridiculously stupid looking Vibram Five Fingers.
I need to go to bed. Alarm is set early so I can go for a run before work.
Welp...there are a few things that are making me want to write today. First of all, it’s 10pm in late October and I have the window open and the fresh air is autumn-rific. I’m an old lady that needs my sleep but why not stay up a bit longer writing and taking in this perfect Sunday evening.
What to write about? Well, speaking of writing, I had my first exchange with the death row pen pal I was assigned. Methinks this will be an intense experience. Hopefully it’ll be intense in a good way that’s rewarding for both of us. Shortly after Troy Davis was put to death someone posted on a list serve I’m on, talking about how she was set up with a pen pal who is on death row and the organization she did this through was looking for more pen pals. Troy Davis’ death really struck me. I wanted to do something. I saw someone on Facebook write about how awful the death penalty is and “besides it’s much worse punishment to have to suffer for a lifetime in prison.” I couldn’t stop thinking about this. Is that the goal? Find a system in which people can suffer the most? Is this person against the death penalty because it’s not barbaric enough? I’m very much opposed to the death penalty but I’m also not for a system in which people just spend their lifetimes rotting away in prisons. I don’t know what the right answers are and I know that there may be no chance for rehabilitation for some people. The people who were recently arrested for kidnapping people with mental illness and chaining them up in a dungeon so they could steal their SSI checks…well, I’m hoping they don’t get out of prison any time soon. Part of me wants them to be chained up and left for dead and be forced to eat shitty food out of dog bowls just like they made their victims do. Another part of me...just doesn’t know what the hell to think.
Yesterday I received an envelope from the organization that set me up with my pen pal. In it were two letters from a guy that’s been on death row for more than 20 years. The letters are filled with friendly chit chat, appreciation in advance for anyone willing to write to someone in his situation, info about some of his interests and the usual get to know you pleasantries. I read the letters again and again and again. I googled him and read all about his crime. This is no Troy Davis scenario. This guy seems to clearly be guilty as charged.
I walked over to Welles Park, sat on a park bench and took out my little journal with the hearts on it that I got for a quarter at the Sweet Adeline’s rummage sale. I cracked it open and stared at the blank page for a while. I thought about this guy and his life and wondered how he grew up and what drove him to commit that crime and I thought about good versus evil and forgiveness and redemption and justice and retaliation and I thought about the victim and the family of the victim and I thought about “Dead Man Walking” and Sr. Helen Prejean and I wondered if he was getting into terrifying fights and was a part of prison gangs like I’ve seen on “Oz” and “Locked Up.” Then I wrote him a letter and talked about books and art and music and asked him dorky questions about his interests and told him about the book I’m reading. To paraphrase a friend who I was discussing this with, “The three things you shouldn’t discuss in polite conversation: religion, politics and murder convictions.”
As I lit a candle for him and his victim at church tonight, it struck me more than usual that I have no clue what I’m doing with my life. Some chick from Jersey, raised Catholic, is in a tiny Methodist church in Chicago lighting candles for her new murderer pen pal and the person he killed 25 years ago. How did I get to this place in life? A place where despite the usual level of life bullshit, I’m very happy and content and grateful. As these thoughts ran through my mind, they were suddenly overcome by the stronger thought that there was pumpkin chocolate chip bread awaiting me at the post-service shin-dig in the gallery.
So about that book I’m reading... it’s called “Born to Run” and even though it has nothing to do with Springsteen, I love it anyway. I won’t bore anyone with a summary you can read at this Amazon link. I’ll just say that it’s made me think about why I enjoy distance running and it’s made me particularly grateful for my health and my ability to chug along for miles, even if it’s extremely slowly. I’m not planning to do any ultra marathons but reading this made me realize that I get a lot more from running than I sometimes give it credit for. Also, I now have half a mind to buy those ridiculously stupid looking Vibram Five Fingers.
I need to go to bed. Alarm is set early so I can go for a run before work.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
It’s time for a stupidity detox, Newsweek.
I went on a wee bit of a rant on my Facebook wall about the recent Michele Bachmann Newsweek cover photo. It pisses me off. Can we all just take a deep breath and then grow the hell up for a second? First that weird Princess Di photo and now this. There was some talk about how the Michele Bachmann photo was sexist and then I read a Salon article saying it’s not sexist; it’s just that she’s “a crazed zealot.” Oh well, thanks for debunking that one, Salon. Apparently making fun of the mentally ill isn’t as chic as being anti-sexism right now. Hold on to your Prozac, crazies...hopefully not offending you wacky folks and your kooky antics will come back in fashion when we all get tired of caring about homophobia and sexism and stuff. (Sorry old people- ageism is always at the bottom of the list. You guys are fucked.)
(I don’t think it’s sexist, either. I just think it’s childish.)
There are many things that annoy me about this use of the word “crazy” and the photo in general. One is that it evades the actual issue. Saying someone like Michele Bachmann is “crazy” is getting her off the hook. How about we stop for a second and realize how we as a community of people vote for people who support the decisions of the Michele Bachmanns of the world AND many of us hold those same opinions.
Second, the Newsweek editors had to know that was an extremely bizarre photo. I’m sure they had hundreds of photos to choose from at least one of which wasn’t so strange looking.
What is crazy? I realize I’m particularly sensitive to this now that I work for an agency that serves people who have severe mental illness. Many times when I tell people where I work, I get that insincere shoulder shrug, with the deep breath and the “Oh wow...what you do is so important.” And if I share a story about what a client did or said, I’ll get the, “Ohhhhhh...that’s so cute.” Adults with schizophrenia are adorbs! I get it. People don’t know what to say. They’re being nice. But, would that same guy be so cute if he was talking to himself on the train? Do we all have the “Ooh…that’s so cute” compassion then? I know I often don’t. Cause I’m all holier than thou and inconsistent and crap and dude, don’t you realize I’m a yuppie stereotype trying to listen to the “This American Life” podcast and you talking to yourself nonsensically is totally bumming out my commute?
Today when I got to work, I saw a client that I often see in the morning, and had the same little chat we seem to have every day. He comes practically every day to hang out our drop-in center, participate in groups, and receive therapy and primary care medical services. He visits with friends and is part of a community. After our little daily chat, it occurred to me that he laughs constantly as he talks. I hadn’t really noticed it before. I’m not sure why I hadn’t noticed. He’s just so friendly and always has something interesting to say that I’m usually absorbed by the content of what he’s saying and hadn’t really paid attention to the delivery. And, admittedly, my sensitivity to such things while I’m at work is different. I’m ready for some odd behaviors so I’m not as sensitive to them when they occur. It made me think- what if he was my friend and I brought him out to a party? He would be that weirdo that wouldn’t freaking stop laughing. I’d feel self-conscious and awkward about it and people would likely wonder how the hell I know him and what the deal is. But the thing is- this guy has admitted that he has a mental illness and sought help for it and has become part of a supportive community. Nothing about THAT is crazy. That’s courageous and smart and noble. Many of us read countless books and attend workshops on how to live our best life and travel around the world looking for answers and go on maple syrup/cayenne pepper detoxes and this guy is just doing it. Who’s the crazy one now?
Speaking of detoxes...this seems like it’s trendy lately too. (That maple syrup/cayenne thing is not made up. I wish it was). It reminds me of something one of Chicago’s top gastroenterologists once said to me when I worked at the American Liver Foundation and hung with gastroenterologists on a regular basis: “As someone who has seen the inside of more colons than I’d like to admit, I can tell you that detoxes are bullshit. A few days of fasting isn’t going to help what’s going on in there. You either live a healthy life or you don’t.”
Here’s where I say something brilliant connecting all of this. Something about what it truly takes to clean out the shit from our lives. But instead, I’ll just say that that stupid Newsweek cover and detoxes get on my nerves.
(I don’t think it’s sexist, either. I just think it’s childish.)
There are many things that annoy me about this use of the word “crazy” and the photo in general. One is that it evades the actual issue. Saying someone like Michele Bachmann is “crazy” is getting her off the hook. How about we stop for a second and realize how we as a community of people vote for people who support the decisions of the Michele Bachmanns of the world AND many of us hold those same opinions.
Second, the Newsweek editors had to know that was an extremely bizarre photo. I’m sure they had hundreds of photos to choose from at least one of which wasn’t so strange looking.
What is crazy? I realize I’m particularly sensitive to this now that I work for an agency that serves people who have severe mental illness. Many times when I tell people where I work, I get that insincere shoulder shrug, with the deep breath and the “Oh wow...what you do is so important.” And if I share a story about what a client did or said, I’ll get the, “Ohhhhhh...that’s so cute.” Adults with schizophrenia are adorbs! I get it. People don’t know what to say. They’re being nice. But, would that same guy be so cute if he was talking to himself on the train? Do we all have the “Ooh…that’s so cute” compassion then? I know I often don’t. Cause I’m all holier than thou and inconsistent and crap and dude, don’t you realize I’m a yuppie stereotype trying to listen to the “This American Life” podcast and you talking to yourself nonsensically is totally bumming out my commute?
Today when I got to work, I saw a client that I often see in the morning, and had the same little chat we seem to have every day. He comes practically every day to hang out our drop-in center, participate in groups, and receive therapy and primary care medical services. He visits with friends and is part of a community. After our little daily chat, it occurred to me that he laughs constantly as he talks. I hadn’t really noticed it before. I’m not sure why I hadn’t noticed. He’s just so friendly and always has something interesting to say that I’m usually absorbed by the content of what he’s saying and hadn’t really paid attention to the delivery. And, admittedly, my sensitivity to such things while I’m at work is different. I’m ready for some odd behaviors so I’m not as sensitive to them when they occur. It made me think- what if he was my friend and I brought him out to a party? He would be that weirdo that wouldn’t freaking stop laughing. I’d feel self-conscious and awkward about it and people would likely wonder how the hell I know him and what the deal is. But the thing is- this guy has admitted that he has a mental illness and sought help for it and has become part of a supportive community. Nothing about THAT is crazy. That’s courageous and smart and noble. Many of us read countless books and attend workshops on how to live our best life and travel around the world looking for answers and go on maple syrup/cayenne pepper detoxes and this guy is just doing it. Who’s the crazy one now?
Speaking of detoxes...this seems like it’s trendy lately too. (That maple syrup/cayenne thing is not made up. I wish it was). It reminds me of something one of Chicago’s top gastroenterologists once said to me when I worked at the American Liver Foundation and hung with gastroenterologists on a regular basis: “As someone who has seen the inside of more colons than I’d like to admit, I can tell you that detoxes are bullshit. A few days of fasting isn’t going to help what’s going on in there. You either live a healthy life or you don’t.”
Here’s where I say something brilliant connecting all of this. Something about what it truly takes to clean out the shit from our lives. But instead, I’ll just say that that stupid Newsweek cover and detoxes get on my nerves.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Love my enemies...but delete them from Facebook.
People’s reaction to Amy Winehouse’s death has really gotten my goat. I saw something on FB where someone I don’t know commented on a friend’s page saying how Amy deserved to die and she brought it on herself. With this shitty logic, everyone who smokes deserves to die of lung cancer and those who ever eat crappy fast food deserve to die of diabetes. And by this logic, the person who posted the stupid comment deserves to die from the weight of the rock he is apparently living under. I really hope that people just want to seem witty but actually aren’t at all and just feel the need to say SOMETHING about news stories like this one, and don’t ACTUALLY despise people with addiction. IT’S A DISEASE. Even if it wasn’t- how about we start analyzing your life choices, random FB dude, and see what’s what. This lack of compassion for people who are in difficult situations overwhelms me.
What’s it like to be friends with this FB guy? “Hey friend. My sister just died of a drug overdose.” FB guy: “SHE DESERVED IT! NO LOSS THERE!”
And then the comments from people who seem most concerned that they won’t get another Amy Winehouse album that I’m sure they wouldn’t even buy anyway. Life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness… and new Amy Winehouse downloads when I damn well please…apparently these are things to which I am entitled.
So I worked myself up into a comforting holier than thou rage about this, and then headed off to church. Some sweet tunes and happy faces and then a sermon about that old standard passage talking about how we should love our enemies. I HATE THAT BULLSHIT! Uh hello people, my enemies are my enemies because they suck. As the fine Pastor so astutely pointed out, this is tricky because it’s hard enough to love the people we love. Now we should add enemies to this mix? Sometimes this trying to live my best life is for the friggin’ birds.
This reminds me of 6th grade when I went home and told my Mom, “I HATE…” (insert name of girl who had a HUGE tude). My Mom, “We don’t hate anyone. We just dislike the things they do.” “Yeah, I know, Mom. That’s usually what we do but I HATE her. If you had to be in gym with her, you’d hate her too.” I only remember this because my Mom quoted that one years later. And also, because I really hated that girl and hate like that is memorable.
The thing is, I don’t think of myself as having many enemies. Enemies sounds so dramatic. It’s more that there are people that I just don’t want to deal with because they’ve done and/or said crappy things to me or people I love, or I just find their choices irritating and life is short, and I’d rather surround myself with awesome people. In thinking about this, my thoughts went to- what is love? I, like Foreigner, wanna know what love is. I want these assholes that I don’t like to show me. I know what love is when it’s unconditional family and friend love, or romantic love, or love for that delicious monkey bread with the dill butter dipping sauce I had at the Bristol the other night. But what is love for an enemy?
Practically speaking, how do I go about loving a shithead? I’m so crappy at this that I almost want to passive aggressively give examples of shitty things people have said/done just to prove how much I shouldn’t even bother trying to love them. Can you believe she said THAT?!! Can you believe he did THAT?! I like to convince myself that not talking about it and trying not to take things personally and keeping a positive outlook and pretty much ignoring the existence of “enemies” is the nicest thing to do. But alas, I think I’m suppose to actually be wishing well on these people and considering why they do the things they do. Because if most people did that than good really would win out over evil- in large scale war situations and in interpersonal relationships. Ew. How annoying is that?
The doozy is that I’m a peace-loving kinda gal at heart. And the only sensible avenue for actual peace in the world is to actually show love to everyone and think about the reasons for why people do what they do, and then….drum roll…address those reasons. Last night I watched Diane Sawyer’s interview with Jaycee Dugard. Jaycee was kidnapped and held hostage by a guy who raped her… for 18 YEARS. Jaycee exudes happiness and peace. Her life is far from perfect and she’s receiving a boat load of therapy just to get through everything now but she said it herself that she’s very happy, and holds no rage for the guy that did that to her. She won’t give him the satisfaction of wasting energy on rage. It’s amazing and inspiring and so fascinating to me. Then I thought about the kidnapper. I guess I’m supposed to love that guy. I have no idea what that means. I am curious to know what his life was like growing up and what happened to him, to lead him to do the horrific things he did. This curiosity comes more from the social worker in me that is curious about people and the desire to understand these behaviors so that we are able to look out for them in others and address problems early on and atrocities like the ones Jaycee experienced are prevented from happening again. But love the guy? Yikes. That is a tall order. The guy that led the terrorist attack in Norway? The people who have said and done racist, homophobic and sexist things to friends? REALLY?
That said, no matter how I’m supposed to love these folks, I know for sure that I can do it without them crapping up my Facebook feed.
Speaking of the social worker in me, let’s end on a happier note. The other day it occurred to me while chatting with social workers at my office, that no matter what work I’m doing or will ever do, I’ll most likely always consider myself a social worker. I love that freaking profession so much and am so glad that I happened to fall into with what seems like zero forward thinking on my part.
Trying to love people that aren’t easy to love… I suppose that is both social, and it is clearly work. I should be better at this seeing as I spent 40k on a masters in it.
What’s it like to be friends with this FB guy? “Hey friend. My sister just died of a drug overdose.” FB guy: “SHE DESERVED IT! NO LOSS THERE!”
And then the comments from people who seem most concerned that they won’t get another Amy Winehouse album that I’m sure they wouldn’t even buy anyway. Life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness… and new Amy Winehouse downloads when I damn well please…apparently these are things to which I am entitled.
So I worked myself up into a comforting holier than thou rage about this, and then headed off to church. Some sweet tunes and happy faces and then a sermon about that old standard passage talking about how we should love our enemies. I HATE THAT BULLSHIT! Uh hello people, my enemies are my enemies because they suck. As the fine Pastor so astutely pointed out, this is tricky because it’s hard enough to love the people we love. Now we should add enemies to this mix? Sometimes this trying to live my best life is for the friggin’ birds.
This reminds me of 6th grade when I went home and told my Mom, “I HATE…” (insert name of girl who had a HUGE tude). My Mom, “We don’t hate anyone. We just dislike the things they do.” “Yeah, I know, Mom. That’s usually what we do but I HATE her. If you had to be in gym with her, you’d hate her too.” I only remember this because my Mom quoted that one years later. And also, because I really hated that girl and hate like that is memorable.
The thing is, I don’t think of myself as having many enemies. Enemies sounds so dramatic. It’s more that there are people that I just don’t want to deal with because they’ve done and/or said crappy things to me or people I love, or I just find their choices irritating and life is short, and I’d rather surround myself with awesome people. In thinking about this, my thoughts went to- what is love? I, like Foreigner, wanna know what love is. I want these assholes that I don’t like to show me. I know what love is when it’s unconditional family and friend love, or romantic love, or love for that delicious monkey bread with the dill butter dipping sauce I had at the Bristol the other night. But what is love for an enemy?
Practically speaking, how do I go about loving a shithead? I’m so crappy at this that I almost want to passive aggressively give examples of shitty things people have said/done just to prove how much I shouldn’t even bother trying to love them. Can you believe she said THAT?!! Can you believe he did THAT?! I like to convince myself that not talking about it and trying not to take things personally and keeping a positive outlook and pretty much ignoring the existence of “enemies” is the nicest thing to do. But alas, I think I’m suppose to actually be wishing well on these people and considering why they do the things they do. Because if most people did that than good really would win out over evil- in large scale war situations and in interpersonal relationships. Ew. How annoying is that?
The doozy is that I’m a peace-loving kinda gal at heart. And the only sensible avenue for actual peace in the world is to actually show love to everyone and think about the reasons for why people do what they do, and then….drum roll…address those reasons. Last night I watched Diane Sawyer’s interview with Jaycee Dugard. Jaycee was kidnapped and held hostage by a guy who raped her… for 18 YEARS. Jaycee exudes happiness and peace. Her life is far from perfect and she’s receiving a boat load of therapy just to get through everything now but she said it herself that she’s very happy, and holds no rage for the guy that did that to her. She won’t give him the satisfaction of wasting energy on rage. It’s amazing and inspiring and so fascinating to me. Then I thought about the kidnapper. I guess I’m supposed to love that guy. I have no idea what that means. I am curious to know what his life was like growing up and what happened to him, to lead him to do the horrific things he did. This curiosity comes more from the social worker in me that is curious about people and the desire to understand these behaviors so that we are able to look out for them in others and address problems early on and atrocities like the ones Jaycee experienced are prevented from happening again. But love the guy? Yikes. That is a tall order. The guy that led the terrorist attack in Norway? The people who have said and done racist, homophobic and sexist things to friends? REALLY?
That said, no matter how I’m supposed to love these folks, I know for sure that I can do it without them crapping up my Facebook feed.
Speaking of the social worker in me, let’s end on a happier note. The other day it occurred to me while chatting with social workers at my office, that no matter what work I’m doing or will ever do, I’ll most likely always consider myself a social worker. I love that freaking profession so much and am so glad that I happened to fall into with what seems like zero forward thinking on my part.
Trying to love people that aren’t easy to love… I suppose that is both social, and it is clearly work. I should be better at this seeing as I spent 40k on a masters in it.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Back on the blog-wagon.
I haven’t written on here in a while. Partially it’s because it’s summer and I’m living by the all free time should be spent outside philosophy. Also, the death of my niece left with a lot to reflect on but most of it is nothing I’d want to write on a public blog. There are so many moments shared with family and new and old friends that feel sacred and I want to remember everything about them forever but I also can’t even put them into words and don’t know that I’d want to try. I am grateful for many things in life and this month my family’s ability to retain their sense of humor during a tragedy is high up there. It’s not the kind of humor that is avoiding the truth. It’s the kind that is celebrating the beauty and tragedy of life all at once. It’s the kind that makes me know we’ll all be okay no matter what life brings us. Also, we think we’re so damn funny and no amount of tragedy will stop us from that dumbass one-liner.
I also spent a good amount of time thinking about how awesome siblings are. Hanging out with just my three brothers for the first time in a while made me realize how weird and incredible it is that the four of us are friends. If we weren’t raised by the same parents, we’d most likely never come into contact with each other. But, the situation is what it is, and here we are in a world where even though there is probably no one political issue the four of us agree on, we’d all take a bullet for each other.
It’s trite to talk about how death makes me think about how precious life is but just because it’s trite doesn’t mean it isn’t true. I’ve done my best to appreciate small moments this month and so far it’s working quite well. Swimming around in Lake Michigan this weekend with some friends... the water was perfectly refreshing on a sunny and hot summer day, conversation was top-notch, the Hancock and Sears Tower in the distance... pure joy.
I also spent a good amount of time thinking about how awesome siblings are. Hanging out with just my three brothers for the first time in a while made me realize how weird and incredible it is that the four of us are friends. If we weren’t raised by the same parents, we’d most likely never come into contact with each other. But, the situation is what it is, and here we are in a world where even though there is probably no one political issue the four of us agree on, we’d all take a bullet for each other.
It’s trite to talk about how death makes me think about how precious life is but just because it’s trite doesn’t mean it isn’t true. I’ve done my best to appreciate small moments this month and so far it’s working quite well. Swimming around in Lake Michigan this weekend with some friends... the water was perfectly refreshing on a sunny and hot summer day, conversation was top-notch, the Hancock and Sears Tower in the distance... pure joy.
Monday, May 16, 2011
The Call
When I was in high school, I was in a Catholic youth group. It was weird in all the ways one may expect a fairly conservative Catholic youth group to be. I have mixed feelings on that group and how it was run but there are many positives that came from it. Some of the people I met there are still among my closest friends. The ways in which we’ve changed since then fascinate me and sometimes crack me up. If not for that group, I probably wouldn’t have gone to a Jesuit college and if I didn’t go to a Jesuit college I probably wouldn’t have done the Jesuit Volunteer Corps and if not for JVC I probably wouldn’t have gone into social work. I loved St. Joe’s and JVC and social work, so I’m happy about that group and the place it held in my life. All this to say that at one of those high school retreats I was assigned to give a talk called “Our Call to Love.”
I remember being sixteen and writing that talk and thinking it was all pretty simple. Duh guys, we’re called to be nice to everyone and help people out in whatever ways we can. I said a bunch of nice stuff about volunteering and played “Hammer and a Nail” by the Indigo Girls and then probably had some fraught with weird sexual tension not so deep chat about it with a kid from Delbarton. The usual.
At St. Joe’s I often attended mass on Sundays at 10pm. I didn’t really know what I believed but I liked the community and the ambience and the music. Whenever my thoughts turned to the typical college student “what am I going to do with my life” track, I found solace in the song “We Are Called.” It was a kickass tune and Tim, who often sang it, has a kickass voice (as his subsequent Broadway career indicated). But the lyrics are what really got me. “We are called to act with justice; we are called to love tenderly. We are called to serve one another; to walk humbly with God.” Well shit. That just sums it right up. Except how the hell are we supposed to do THAT?
I have a love/hate relationship with the concept of a “calling.” The word kind of weirds me out and seems too evangelical for my liking but I do love the idea that there’s a reason or reasons why each person is on this earth and an important part of life is figuring out those reasons. Whether that’s our “calling” or just doing what we love to do, it’s something I give a fair amount of thought.
Last weekend I attended the ordination ceremony for a friend at church. It was a beautiful service filled with great music and friends and family. When talking about why she chose to become a pastor, my friend said that above all else it’s because it’s what brings her joy. Having heard a number of her sermons and sung with her at services and participated in the small groups that she’s organized, I can say that she is excellent at what she does and she brings a unique blend of talents to a very unique job. There’s something so cool about watching someone do the thing that she seems to have been put here to do.
The next day I went to see a friend’s show at the Neofuturarium. He’s been known to put on some very bizarre performances but this one took the damn cake. It was a mime/clown/bouffon character that was just about the weirdest shit I’ve ever seen on a stage. There’s no explaining it. It’s always been pretty standard to make fun of clowns and mimes and think they’re totally freakish and possibly annoying. I was in that camp for a long time. In my defense, when I was about 8, I watched an episode of “Fantasy Island” involving terrifying clowns that scarred me for many years. Point being, as I was watching my friend’s performance I was completely mesmerized. It was unsettling and horrifying and hilarious and beautiful and inspiring. The amount of talent, research and awareness of people and art and humanity all wrapped up in this weirdass performance astounded me and made me think about the concept of calling again. He is doing what seems like only he could do as well. He is making the world a better place with this crazy shit.
Last night I went to a friend’s poetry reading. I grew up writing in journals and being very angsty so one would think I would’ve tried my hand at some poetry, at least in my teenage years. But I never really got poetry. I didn’t think I liked it that much. I would read stuff for English classes and either thought it was completely dumb and pretentious or I just didn’t understand it at all. Listening to my friend’s poems put me in a bit of a trance. I was swept up into her world of family and travels and science. I wanted to know more about my friend, and her experiences, and the topics she brought up in her poems, and I wanted to know more about poetry in general. As I listened, I thought- I guess this is what happens when someone finds her calling. She is good at what she does and it clearly brings her joy.
The woman who works at the Western Brown Line stop weekday mornings has a joyful presence that I’ve grown to depend on each day. She says hello to everyone with sincerity and kindness. A few weeks ago a guy walked through the doors and ran over to her and shouted, “I missed you!” She said, “I missed you too! How was your vacation?!” “Great!” he said. Then he smiled and pulled a Ziploc bag out of his backpack. “We made cookies last night so I brought some for you!” Last week, a guy came through the turnstile and said to her, “I haven’t seen you in a while because…” He paused for a second. “I got laid off last week.” She immediately said, “OH NO! WHAT HAPPENED?!” and he walked over and leaned on the booth next to where she was standing, and filled her in. I hope that this woman finds joy in her job because she is extremely good at it and is bringing happiness to so many people each day.
When I think about all my family and friends, so many are doing what they seemed to be called to do- whether it be in medicine or parenthood or as an attorney, a teacher or a CPA or a musician. It’s inspiring. I’ve never been one to focus too much on my career in the long-term. I hate being asked in interviews where I see myself in 5 years. I have no idea. Most major decisions in my life in terms of my career were made because it felt like the right decision for me at the time. I did a semester of grad school in anthropology because, at the time, I was really into Appalachia and the beauty and challenges there, and I had visions of becoming an expert in it and doing something…I didn’t know what…that would change Appalachia for the better forever. Then I decided that anthropology wasn’t for me, and it seemed really clear to me that my next step was to go to grad school for Social Work.
I went out with a bunch of coworkers after work on Friday. I’ve been working there for just about five months so I’m still getting to know everyone. We all exchanged a bunch of heartwarming and hilarious and sometimes tragic stories of the trials and tribulations involved in the not so glamorous world of social services. I drank my Daisy Cutter and ate my chipotle grilled cheese and I was happy. A coworker who works directly with clients was asking me about grantwriting and if I miss working directly with clients. I said that I feel like I’m in the perfect place right now because I love interacting with people and feeling connected to what’s going on, but that I enjoy writing and getting to think about the big picture. She said, “I’m so happy you’re here. We need you and not many people have the skills and desire to be doing what you’re doing.” Huh…looky there. Maybe I’ve found what I’m good at and supposed to be doing. Calling? Who knows but it’s bringing me joy right now.
I remember being sixteen and writing that talk and thinking it was all pretty simple. Duh guys, we’re called to be nice to everyone and help people out in whatever ways we can. I said a bunch of nice stuff about volunteering and played “Hammer and a Nail” by the Indigo Girls and then probably had some fraught with weird sexual tension not so deep chat about it with a kid from Delbarton. The usual.
At St. Joe’s I often attended mass on Sundays at 10pm. I didn’t really know what I believed but I liked the community and the ambience and the music. Whenever my thoughts turned to the typical college student “what am I going to do with my life” track, I found solace in the song “We Are Called.” It was a kickass tune and Tim, who often sang it, has a kickass voice (as his subsequent Broadway career indicated). But the lyrics are what really got me. “We are called to act with justice; we are called to love tenderly. We are called to serve one another; to walk humbly with God.” Well shit. That just sums it right up. Except how the hell are we supposed to do THAT?
I have a love/hate relationship with the concept of a “calling.” The word kind of weirds me out and seems too evangelical for my liking but I do love the idea that there’s a reason or reasons why each person is on this earth and an important part of life is figuring out those reasons. Whether that’s our “calling” or just doing what we love to do, it’s something I give a fair amount of thought.
Last weekend I attended the ordination ceremony for a friend at church. It was a beautiful service filled with great music and friends and family. When talking about why she chose to become a pastor, my friend said that above all else it’s because it’s what brings her joy. Having heard a number of her sermons and sung with her at services and participated in the small groups that she’s organized, I can say that she is excellent at what she does and she brings a unique blend of talents to a very unique job. There’s something so cool about watching someone do the thing that she seems to have been put here to do.
The next day I went to see a friend’s show at the Neofuturarium. He’s been known to put on some very bizarre performances but this one took the damn cake. It was a mime/clown/bouffon character that was just about the weirdest shit I’ve ever seen on a stage. There’s no explaining it. It’s always been pretty standard to make fun of clowns and mimes and think they’re totally freakish and possibly annoying. I was in that camp for a long time. In my defense, when I was about 8, I watched an episode of “Fantasy Island” involving terrifying clowns that scarred me for many years. Point being, as I was watching my friend’s performance I was completely mesmerized. It was unsettling and horrifying and hilarious and beautiful and inspiring. The amount of talent, research and awareness of people and art and humanity all wrapped up in this weirdass performance astounded me and made me think about the concept of calling again. He is doing what seems like only he could do as well. He is making the world a better place with this crazy shit.
Last night I went to a friend’s poetry reading. I grew up writing in journals and being very angsty so one would think I would’ve tried my hand at some poetry, at least in my teenage years. But I never really got poetry. I didn’t think I liked it that much. I would read stuff for English classes and either thought it was completely dumb and pretentious or I just didn’t understand it at all. Listening to my friend’s poems put me in a bit of a trance. I was swept up into her world of family and travels and science. I wanted to know more about my friend, and her experiences, and the topics she brought up in her poems, and I wanted to know more about poetry in general. As I listened, I thought- I guess this is what happens when someone finds her calling. She is good at what she does and it clearly brings her joy.
The woman who works at the Western Brown Line stop weekday mornings has a joyful presence that I’ve grown to depend on each day. She says hello to everyone with sincerity and kindness. A few weeks ago a guy walked through the doors and ran over to her and shouted, “I missed you!” She said, “I missed you too! How was your vacation?!” “Great!” he said. Then he smiled and pulled a Ziploc bag out of his backpack. “We made cookies last night so I brought some for you!” Last week, a guy came through the turnstile and said to her, “I haven’t seen you in a while because…” He paused for a second. “I got laid off last week.” She immediately said, “OH NO! WHAT HAPPENED?!” and he walked over and leaned on the booth next to where she was standing, and filled her in. I hope that this woman finds joy in her job because she is extremely good at it and is bringing happiness to so many people each day.
When I think about all my family and friends, so many are doing what they seemed to be called to do- whether it be in medicine or parenthood or as an attorney, a teacher or a CPA or a musician. It’s inspiring. I’ve never been one to focus too much on my career in the long-term. I hate being asked in interviews where I see myself in 5 years. I have no idea. Most major decisions in my life in terms of my career were made because it felt like the right decision for me at the time. I did a semester of grad school in anthropology because, at the time, I was really into Appalachia and the beauty and challenges there, and I had visions of becoming an expert in it and doing something…I didn’t know what…that would change Appalachia for the better forever. Then I decided that anthropology wasn’t for me, and it seemed really clear to me that my next step was to go to grad school for Social Work.
I went out with a bunch of coworkers after work on Friday. I’ve been working there for just about five months so I’m still getting to know everyone. We all exchanged a bunch of heartwarming and hilarious and sometimes tragic stories of the trials and tribulations involved in the not so glamorous world of social services. I drank my Daisy Cutter and ate my chipotle grilled cheese and I was happy. A coworker who works directly with clients was asking me about grantwriting and if I miss working directly with clients. I said that I feel like I’m in the perfect place right now because I love interacting with people and feeling connected to what’s going on, but that I enjoy writing and getting to think about the big picture. She said, “I’m so happy you’re here. We need you and not many people have the skills and desire to be doing what you’re doing.” Huh…looky there. Maybe I’ve found what I’m good at and supposed to be doing. Calling? Who knows but it’s bringing me joy right now.
Monday, May 2, 2011
I don't feel like celebrating.
Whenever the President ends a speech with “God bless you and God bless the United States of America” I get a little choked up. It doesn’t matter the President. I think the reasons behind my emotions differ depending on the situation, but choking up is a given.
I love this country. I am extremely proud to be from the United States of America. I feel very fortunate to have been born and raised in the USA. I’ve had opportunities that my ancestors did not. I have rights and privileges that so many women around the world do not. I’ve driven across the US seven times and every time new beautiful places and people reveal themselves to me. Camping in the desert, climbing the Rocky Mountains, diving into the Atlantic Ocean, canoeing through the Everglades, jogging along the path that borders Lake Michigan...the beauty and diversity in this country is overwhelming. The diversity in music and food and people and humor and accents…I love it all.
I am proud of our President. I am proud of our soldiers. I am proud of the CIA. I am proud of all those who carried out the dangerous mission to kill Osama bin Laden.
I am not proud of the scenes of people celebrating Bin Laden’s death outside the White House like their team just won the Super Bowl. There is a big difference between recognizing that justice was served and celebrating violence and murder. I recognize that given the state of the world, it was necessary to kill Osama bin Laden. I accept that we need to invest in our military. But I don’t like it. I will never like it. I hope for a world where peace is a reality.
The celebrations seem to oversimplify a very complicated issue. May 1, 2011 was certainly a historic day. I hope that those who lost loved ones in 9/11 experience a sense of justice being served. But having to resort to murdering someone is never a good thing. This “war on terror” remains far from over. Young soldiers are still being deployed to Afghanistan on a regular basis. We are still at war in numerous countries- those that are publicized and those that never get mentioned.
Last night I stared at the TV in a stupor and didn’t know how I felt. It brought me back to the stupor I felt while watching the news on 9/11/01. This world is a beautiful place filled with beautiful people. What are we doing? How did we get to this? What can I do with my one precious life to contribute to the world being a better place?
Last night I lay in bed and thought about my day. It was a particularly great day. The weather was absolutely perfect. I ran a 5k with a group of friends which was followed up with a delicious brunch. Felt great and laughed a lot. Ran some errands. Took a really satisfying nap. Went to see a friend’s sketch comedy show. A perfect spring Sunday. I thought about how while I was going about my great day, there were people across the world carrying out a mission to kill Osama bin Laden. What were they thinking? How were they feeling? Will we support them when they come home or will they, like so many vets, live on the street suffering through PTSD, pushing a shopping cart of all their worldly belongings? I hope they went to sleep feeling proud. And safe.
I wondered what the family members of those lost in 9/11 were feeling. Did this make them feel happy? Satisfied? Relieved? What about the civilians in Pakistan? How do they feel when they see the celebrations? Are they celebrating with us? What about Muslim Americans? Are they scared for their safety?
Osama bin Laden was a human. Just like me. That absolutely terrifies me. I wish it were so simple to say that some people are just born evil but I don’t think it works like that. Evil thoughts and behaviors are learned. The majority of sexual predators were sexually abused at some point. The majority of serial killers have experienced extreme trauma. I’m not justifying these behaviors in ANY way. But, if we want terrorism to stop, for real, than we need to think about the root causes. Killing Osama bin Laden may have been necessary but we have so much further to go. Watching the cheers and hearing the fireworks makes it painfully obvious just how far.
I am disgusted by the things I hear said about Muslims. Absolutely disgusted. First of all, it’s ignorance at its finest. Second, it’s putting us in greater danger. Third, it’s another fine example of hate begetting hate.
It’s scary and exciting how we all come into this world equally clueless and given our family and friends and experiences, we figure out for ourselves what is right and wrong. As our country moves past the historic day of May 1, 2011, I pray that all American citizens, our leadership included, think seriously about what is right and what is wrong. I pray that we are proud to be Americans because we are living lives of honor and kindness and compassion. I pray that we are proud because we are doing what is right for all human beings from all countries regardless of religion or skin color or sexual orientation or gender.
I pray that God bless us and that God bless the United States of America.
I love this country. I am extremely proud to be from the United States of America. I feel very fortunate to have been born and raised in the USA. I’ve had opportunities that my ancestors did not. I have rights and privileges that so many women around the world do not. I’ve driven across the US seven times and every time new beautiful places and people reveal themselves to me. Camping in the desert, climbing the Rocky Mountains, diving into the Atlantic Ocean, canoeing through the Everglades, jogging along the path that borders Lake Michigan...the beauty and diversity in this country is overwhelming. The diversity in music and food and people and humor and accents…I love it all.
I am proud of our President. I am proud of our soldiers. I am proud of the CIA. I am proud of all those who carried out the dangerous mission to kill Osama bin Laden.
I am not proud of the scenes of people celebrating Bin Laden’s death outside the White House like their team just won the Super Bowl. There is a big difference between recognizing that justice was served and celebrating violence and murder. I recognize that given the state of the world, it was necessary to kill Osama bin Laden. I accept that we need to invest in our military. But I don’t like it. I will never like it. I hope for a world where peace is a reality.
The celebrations seem to oversimplify a very complicated issue. May 1, 2011 was certainly a historic day. I hope that those who lost loved ones in 9/11 experience a sense of justice being served. But having to resort to murdering someone is never a good thing. This “war on terror” remains far from over. Young soldiers are still being deployed to Afghanistan on a regular basis. We are still at war in numerous countries- those that are publicized and those that never get mentioned.
Last night I stared at the TV in a stupor and didn’t know how I felt. It brought me back to the stupor I felt while watching the news on 9/11/01. This world is a beautiful place filled with beautiful people. What are we doing? How did we get to this? What can I do with my one precious life to contribute to the world being a better place?
Last night I lay in bed and thought about my day. It was a particularly great day. The weather was absolutely perfect. I ran a 5k with a group of friends which was followed up with a delicious brunch. Felt great and laughed a lot. Ran some errands. Took a really satisfying nap. Went to see a friend’s sketch comedy show. A perfect spring Sunday. I thought about how while I was going about my great day, there were people across the world carrying out a mission to kill Osama bin Laden. What were they thinking? How were they feeling? Will we support them when they come home or will they, like so many vets, live on the street suffering through PTSD, pushing a shopping cart of all their worldly belongings? I hope they went to sleep feeling proud. And safe.
I wondered what the family members of those lost in 9/11 were feeling. Did this make them feel happy? Satisfied? Relieved? What about the civilians in Pakistan? How do they feel when they see the celebrations? Are they celebrating with us? What about Muslim Americans? Are they scared for their safety?
Osama bin Laden was a human. Just like me. That absolutely terrifies me. I wish it were so simple to say that some people are just born evil but I don’t think it works like that. Evil thoughts and behaviors are learned. The majority of sexual predators were sexually abused at some point. The majority of serial killers have experienced extreme trauma. I’m not justifying these behaviors in ANY way. But, if we want terrorism to stop, for real, than we need to think about the root causes. Killing Osama bin Laden may have been necessary but we have so much further to go. Watching the cheers and hearing the fireworks makes it painfully obvious just how far.
I am disgusted by the things I hear said about Muslims. Absolutely disgusted. First of all, it’s ignorance at its finest. Second, it’s putting us in greater danger. Third, it’s another fine example of hate begetting hate.
It’s scary and exciting how we all come into this world equally clueless and given our family and friends and experiences, we figure out for ourselves what is right and wrong. As our country moves past the historic day of May 1, 2011, I pray that all American citizens, our leadership included, think seriously about what is right and what is wrong. I pray that we are proud to be Americans because we are living lives of honor and kindness and compassion. I pray that we are proud because we are doing what is right for all human beings from all countries regardless of religion or skin color or sexual orientation or gender.
I pray that God bless us and that God bless the United States of America.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Book reviews
I took a break from intense spiritual texts to read some light chick lit. For many years, I’ve seen ladies reading Jodi Piccoult books on the train. I was pretty sure it wasn’t my style of book, but I was curious. A number of people recommended “My Sister’s Keeper” to me, so when I saw it on sale at Salvation Army for 25 cents, I decided to make the investment.
At first I thought it may be bad timing to read a book about a child that has cancer. But part of me wanted to wallow in the sadness. It turned out, there was no wallowing. Just annoyance with every single one-dimensional character. And that ridiculously selfish mother. She was masterful at making absolutely every situation in life about her. It was as if her kid getting cancer was the highlight of her life because now she could have a real problem to brag about. Also, the writing was beyond corny. Two thumbs down on that one.
Then I read “Some Girls: My Life in a Harem” by Jillian Lauren. It’s your basic tale of a girl from Jersey that leaves home at 16, becomes a sex worker in NYC and then finds herself in a Prince’s harem in Borneo. That ‘ol story. I loved it. It’s not the most amazing writing but I was hooked (that’s what hookers do- they get you hooked! See what I did there!) from the beginning. Her description of a party with the Prince and his harem sounded a lot like a cocktail party on an episode of The Bachelor. In other words, misogynistic, bizarre and something I feel the need to know about. I need to put more tales of polygamy on my book list. It’s a recipe for page-turning.
And now for some really uplifting reading. My recent blog posts for the 'ol church blog:
Some thoughts on death!
Some thoughts on crying!
At first I thought it may be bad timing to read a book about a child that has cancer. But part of me wanted to wallow in the sadness. It turned out, there was no wallowing. Just annoyance with every single one-dimensional character. And that ridiculously selfish mother. She was masterful at making absolutely every situation in life about her. It was as if her kid getting cancer was the highlight of her life because now she could have a real problem to brag about. Also, the writing was beyond corny. Two thumbs down on that one.
Then I read “Some Girls: My Life in a Harem” by Jillian Lauren. It’s your basic tale of a girl from Jersey that leaves home at 16, becomes a sex worker in NYC and then finds herself in a Prince’s harem in Borneo. That ‘ol story. I loved it. It’s not the most amazing writing but I was hooked (that’s what hookers do- they get you hooked! See what I did there!) from the beginning. Her description of a party with the Prince and his harem sounded a lot like a cocktail party on an episode of The Bachelor. In other words, misogynistic, bizarre and something I feel the need to know about. I need to put more tales of polygamy on my book list. It’s a recipe for page-turning.
And now for some really uplifting reading. My recent blog posts for the 'ol church blog:
Some thoughts on death!
Some thoughts on crying!
Friday, April 8, 2011
Looks like it's time for another Rally for Sanity.
Is Crazy Eddie in charge of budget negotiations? Because this is IN-SANE.* This impending government shutdown and the rhetoric surrounding it is completely over the top.
I’m quite politically progressive. I’m all for government funding social services. But all this talk about the proposed cuts to Planned Parenthood as a “war against women” seems a wee bit hyperbolic. Planned Parenthood is NOT synonymous with women. It is one organization out of many that serves women. I get it that people are angry because it’s an organization that is important to them, and the services that it provides are important to them. But if Republicans are pushing to cut funding to that ONE ORGANIZATION it is not an entire WAR against women. Planned Parenthood is not a necessary institution that is required to ensure that women have rights in the United States of America.
How about we get a real healthcare system so that every man, woman and child can get basic medical care and screenings? The fact that one nonprofit organization potentially losing government funding is equated to war points to a much bigger issue. Speaking of which, I’m really sick of the war analogy in general. My ability to get a low-cost pap smear should not be compared to a situation in which an innocent Iraqi child gets obliterated by a missile or a soldier watches his entire battalion die and has to live with the consequences. Yes, health screenings are important and save lives but the repeated analogy to war, when we have multiple actual wars going on, seems very callous to me.
Not that it makes it right but there are worthy organizations going under every day. Good, necessary, programs are folding left and right. Last year Medicaid was slashed and many of the clients served at my job no longer received benefits. These are all people who have been diagnosed with a severe mental illness. Take a large group of people with severe mental illness, who are often either unemployable or unable to work full-time and earn a living wage, and take away their benefits, and now you have a large group of homeless individuals with severe mental illness. Crime increases. Incarcerations increase. And now we’re paying at least five times what we’ve paid to house the person and provide support services, just to keep him or her in jail. And instead of that person being a happy, contributing member of society, he or she is now sitting in jail. Add the cost on society and the crime victims, and the social service employees who lost their jobs and the whole thing is a HORRIBLE IDEA. I don’t know that this was a WAR on anyone. It was just really poor, short-sighted, decision-making.
As proposed cuts go…the proposed cut to the EPA really enrages me. The Environmental Protection Agency is a government agency that exists to protect human health and the environment. Slashing their budget? How does THAT make sense? Just look to the crisis in Japan to see how important air quality is.
The fact that the incessant talk of the importance of spending cuts NEVER seems to include even glancing at military spending- hoo boy…that makes my blood boil.
I don’t know the answers to this whole mess. I do know that it’s both more complicated yet simpler than the media continually makes it out to be. It’s not us/them. It’s us. None of us are beyond a health scare, or a natural disaster that would have environmental consequences, or a layoff. I really pray that everyone involved in these talks right now who are making these extremely important decisions are actually listening to each other, and make decisions out of concern for EVERY human being, and not just to stay true to party lines or to be right. This us/them crap isn’t working. Let’s try something new already.
*Was Crazy Eddie just a northeast thing?
I’m quite politically progressive. I’m all for government funding social services. But all this talk about the proposed cuts to Planned Parenthood as a “war against women” seems a wee bit hyperbolic. Planned Parenthood is NOT synonymous with women. It is one organization out of many that serves women. I get it that people are angry because it’s an organization that is important to them, and the services that it provides are important to them. But if Republicans are pushing to cut funding to that ONE ORGANIZATION it is not an entire WAR against women. Planned Parenthood is not a necessary institution that is required to ensure that women have rights in the United States of America.
How about we get a real healthcare system so that every man, woman and child can get basic medical care and screenings? The fact that one nonprofit organization potentially losing government funding is equated to war points to a much bigger issue. Speaking of which, I’m really sick of the war analogy in general. My ability to get a low-cost pap smear should not be compared to a situation in which an innocent Iraqi child gets obliterated by a missile or a soldier watches his entire battalion die and has to live with the consequences. Yes, health screenings are important and save lives but the repeated analogy to war, when we have multiple actual wars going on, seems very callous to me.
Not that it makes it right but there are worthy organizations going under every day. Good, necessary, programs are folding left and right. Last year Medicaid was slashed and many of the clients served at my job no longer received benefits. These are all people who have been diagnosed with a severe mental illness. Take a large group of people with severe mental illness, who are often either unemployable or unable to work full-time and earn a living wage, and take away their benefits, and now you have a large group of homeless individuals with severe mental illness. Crime increases. Incarcerations increase. And now we’re paying at least five times what we’ve paid to house the person and provide support services, just to keep him or her in jail. And instead of that person being a happy, contributing member of society, he or she is now sitting in jail. Add the cost on society and the crime victims, and the social service employees who lost their jobs and the whole thing is a HORRIBLE IDEA. I don’t know that this was a WAR on anyone. It was just really poor, short-sighted, decision-making.
As proposed cuts go…the proposed cut to the EPA really enrages me. The Environmental Protection Agency is a government agency that exists to protect human health and the environment. Slashing their budget? How does THAT make sense? Just look to the crisis in Japan to see how important air quality is.
The fact that the incessant talk of the importance of spending cuts NEVER seems to include even glancing at military spending- hoo boy…that makes my blood boil.
I don’t know the answers to this whole mess. I do know that it’s both more complicated yet simpler than the media continually makes it out to be. It’s not us/them. It’s us. None of us are beyond a health scare, or a natural disaster that would have environmental consequences, or a layoff. I really pray that everyone involved in these talks right now who are making these extremely important decisions are actually listening to each other, and make decisions out of concern for EVERY human being, and not just to stay true to party lines or to be right. This us/them crap isn’t working. Let’s try something new already.
*Was Crazy Eddie just a northeast thing?
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
The proposed funding cut to the Arts ENRAGES me.
This proposal to cut arts funding infuriates me. It makes NO sense. First of all, we have the money. That’s totally not the issue. We all know those depressing stats about how the top tiny percent has as much money as the bottom ginormous percent. Our economy didn’t crash because money evaporated. The people at the top are living larger than ever. We know this. It’s a fact.
Ask anyone what they like to do in their free time or what makes them happiest and the large majority will mention things like seeing live music, listening to music, going to movies, reading, photography. Ask Chicagoans why they love Chicago and you’ll hear most mention things like theater, comedy, music and art. When we try to communicate with people who don’t speak our language, we immediately can share art. It’s the friggin UNIVERSAL LANGUAGE, people! Why on earth would we cut the universal language?
Arts programming for kids. These are the classes kids enjoy. These are the classes where kids are paying attention. And learning teamwork and discipline and building self-esteem and having healthy outlets for stress and developing creativity and thinking of new ways to see things and adding beauty to a freaking beautiful world. WHY THE MOTHER F WOULD WE CUT THESE PROGRAMS?!?
I’m pretty sure if you asked my Thursday night Guitar 4ever class at Old Town what the top 3 highlights of their week are- every single person would include that class. I can not stress enough how important that is. That one class is adding happiness to that group of 15 or so people. A healthy outlet for stress, a way to make friends, a way to develop a new skill, a way to create something new and lovely. I way to remember how awesome “Love My Way” by the Psychedelic Furs is. All that goodness adds to how that group of people will carry themselves out in the world. Multiply that by the thousands of students at that one school. Then multiply that by all the theaters and the dance studios and the writing workshops in every town across our country. That’s a lot of goodness going out into the world. Sure, it may not always be goodness in terms of quality but it’s still goodness.
When I was leaving work today, there was a group of clients in the lobby waiting for their theater rehearsal to begin. They were giddy. They're always giddy on Wednesdays before rehearsal. Chatting and laughing and talking about the upcoming performances. This group of people, who suffer from severe mental illness and are often ignored by society, have a chance to express themselves and make friends and have a purpose. They're learning new, healthy ways, of living. They're developing skills. They're having fun. Having spent a large portion of the day pouring over sobering statistics of the number of mentally ill in prison, it's crystal clear to me that programs like this theater program or no small thing. From a purely economical perspective- we should pour a ton MORE money into the arts. Drama class is WAY cheaper than prison.
A few years ago a couple friends and I were volunteering at an orphanage in Cambodia. One of our jobs was to teach English classes to the kids. My one friend and I were assigned to a class. Neither of us are teachers. We were faced with a class of about 30 eager, smiling children, ready to learn. It was quickly clear to us that none of the kids spoke a lick of English. They smiled at us. We smiled at them. My friend and I looked at each other, not knowing what to do. The book we’d been given was WAY over their heads.
So we sang the "Itsy Bitsy Spider." Soon enough, they were singing the "Itsy Bitsy Spider." Throughout the few weeks we were there, we attempted lessons on colors and animals and basic phrases and directions, but the thing that stuck were the songs. Every day the highlight of the class was the run through of our set list. Soon kids were teaching us the Khmer words for animals and colors and basic phrases, but the thing that really stuck with me the most were the dances they showed us how to do.
It’s not really news that the arts are pretty much the best way we have to share stories and sharing stories is what builds relationships and energizes communities and helps us to understand each other and that is what is going to prevent war and allow every person to live the life of freedom and peace that he or she deserves to live. This is not hippy bullshit. It’s how it would motherfreaking work if we actually recognized it and valued it. Valued it with cold hard cash.
I better go write a song about this before I break something.
But before that, let me leave this on a happy note. Here's video of that class in Cambodia singing "Itsy Bitsy Spider."
Ask anyone what they like to do in their free time or what makes them happiest and the large majority will mention things like seeing live music, listening to music, going to movies, reading, photography. Ask Chicagoans why they love Chicago and you’ll hear most mention things like theater, comedy, music and art. When we try to communicate with people who don’t speak our language, we immediately can share art. It’s the friggin UNIVERSAL LANGUAGE, people! Why on earth would we cut the universal language?
Arts programming for kids. These are the classes kids enjoy. These are the classes where kids are paying attention. And learning teamwork and discipline and building self-esteem and having healthy outlets for stress and developing creativity and thinking of new ways to see things and adding beauty to a freaking beautiful world. WHY THE MOTHER F WOULD WE CUT THESE PROGRAMS?!?
I’m pretty sure if you asked my Thursday night Guitar 4ever class at Old Town what the top 3 highlights of their week are- every single person would include that class. I can not stress enough how important that is. That one class is adding happiness to that group of 15 or so people. A healthy outlet for stress, a way to make friends, a way to develop a new skill, a way to create something new and lovely. I way to remember how awesome “Love My Way” by the Psychedelic Furs is. All that goodness adds to how that group of people will carry themselves out in the world. Multiply that by the thousands of students at that one school. Then multiply that by all the theaters and the dance studios and the writing workshops in every town across our country. That’s a lot of goodness going out into the world. Sure, it may not always be goodness in terms of quality but it’s still goodness.
When I was leaving work today, there was a group of clients in the lobby waiting for their theater rehearsal to begin. They were giddy. They're always giddy on Wednesdays before rehearsal. Chatting and laughing and talking about the upcoming performances. This group of people, who suffer from severe mental illness and are often ignored by society, have a chance to express themselves and make friends and have a purpose. They're learning new, healthy ways, of living. They're developing skills. They're having fun. Having spent a large portion of the day pouring over sobering statistics of the number of mentally ill in prison, it's crystal clear to me that programs like this theater program or no small thing. From a purely economical perspective- we should pour a ton MORE money into the arts. Drama class is WAY cheaper than prison.
A few years ago a couple friends and I were volunteering at an orphanage in Cambodia. One of our jobs was to teach English classes to the kids. My one friend and I were assigned to a class. Neither of us are teachers. We were faced with a class of about 30 eager, smiling children, ready to learn. It was quickly clear to us that none of the kids spoke a lick of English. They smiled at us. We smiled at them. My friend and I looked at each other, not knowing what to do. The book we’d been given was WAY over their heads.
So we sang the "Itsy Bitsy Spider." Soon enough, they were singing the "Itsy Bitsy Spider." Throughout the few weeks we were there, we attempted lessons on colors and animals and basic phrases and directions, but the thing that stuck were the songs. Every day the highlight of the class was the run through of our set list. Soon kids were teaching us the Khmer words for animals and colors and basic phrases, but the thing that really stuck with me the most were the dances they showed us how to do.
It’s not really news that the arts are pretty much the best way we have to share stories and sharing stories is what builds relationships and energizes communities and helps us to understand each other and that is what is going to prevent war and allow every person to live the life of freedom and peace that he or she deserves to live. This is not hippy bullshit. It’s how it would motherfreaking work if we actually recognized it and valued it. Valued it with cold hard cash.
I better go write a song about this before I break something.
But before that, let me leave this on a happy note. Here's video of that class in Cambodia singing "Itsy Bitsy Spider."
Sunday, March 27, 2011
You Can Take The Girl Outta Jersey
I’ve been loading up all my CDs into itunes on my new computer and it’s been quite a journey down musical memory lane. With thousands of songs to choose from covering indie rock, alt-country, regular country, plain old rock ‘n roll, pop, dance, folk, hip hop, classical, blues and God knows what else, yesterday I listened to the soundtrack from the Broadway show “13” twice in a row. I am my gay brother’s sister. There’s just something about one of my Saturday afternoon neurotic cleaning episodes that is sometimes best accompanied by show tunes.
Last night I saw a group of Old Town School folks do a tribute to Springsteen’s Darkness tour at the Viaduct. That means all stuff from Springsteen’s first 4 albums, which are my favorite 4 Springsteen albums. So many of the songs gave me intense memories. “Candy’s Room” took me back to the basement at 18 Holly. I was about eight years old and discovered the “Darkness On The Edge of Town” 8-track in the little wooden homemade 8-track holder, somewhere between ELO’s Greatest Hits and the soundtrack to “Grease”. I would usually play the first track only which was “Badlands”, “Adam Raised a Cain” and “Candy’s Room.” Over and over. Listening to those songs now, I can smell the musty basement air, see the puke-green painted basement stairs and that creepy clown paint by numbers that still hangs on the concrete wall to this day.
“Spirit in the Night” takes me back to the summer of 1992. I was home from college on my break, and my summer temping job hadn’t yet begun. It was a hot and sunny afternoon, and I got in my red Pontiac Grand Prix and drove to pick something up at Caldor on Route 10. When I was on my way home “Spirit in the Night” came on WDHA, “The Rock of New Jersey.” I did the obvious, and blasted it, singing along at the top of my lungs. One listen wasn’t enough so I popped the “Greetings From Asbury Park” cd into my player (which was of course a separate contraption that hooked up to the cassette player in the car). I just kept driving and driving, screaming along to Springsteen, watching the heat rise from the pavement in front of me. I was so happy. I had no real responsibilities. It was summer. I was in love. I finished up year one of college and was excited for year two. I felt free. I was, in that moment, the best of Jersey stereotypes in action.
Get off the porch. Get into my car. Let’s drive down the shore.
The smell of freshly poured asphalt, cherry Slurpee, Forsythias, salt water and funnel cakes with music blasting and my friends and I cracking up over pretty much nothing... Jersey is a lot more than mobsters and sluts. Snooki and The Situation aren’t even from Jersey, fer Pete’s sake.
That said, stereotypes are born in reality. This conversation once happened when I was in high school:
Mom: Who’s the guy that called?
Me: (Super Italian name)
Mom: He sounded nice. Do you like him?
Me: I’m not sure. He asked me out.
Mom: What’s his Dad do?
Me: He’s in waste management.
Mom: DON’T GO OUT WITH HIM.
(I didn’t wind up going out with him and I think my Mom’s instincts were correct on that one.) Also, I’m hoping there are no long-term health effects from second-hand Drakar Noir inhalation because if so, I’m screwed. But I digress…
“Born To Run” comes with a ton of different memories. One of my favorites was when my friend Judy and I, both super fans, saw Springsteen play for the first time at Madison Square Garden. “Born To Run” was playing and the entire stadium of thousands were on their feet, singing along to every word. I remember thinking how there was nothing in the world like being in a room full of thousands of people who are all singing the same song. Then I turned to my friend and she took a quick break from screaming the lyrics at the top of her lungs, to yell to me, “I’VE NEVER BEEN THIS HAPPY IN MY ENTIRE LIFE.” Thinking about that moment cracks me up and makes me get a little choked up. Musical bliss.
As I continue to load up these cds, no matter how much I’ll wind up listening to Neutral Milk Hotel, Iron & Wine, or The Smiths, or maybe James Taylor, Ella Fitzgerald and The Beatles or even Timberlake, Bruce Springsteen will always be the boss of me.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Links for a Rainy Sunday
I was asked to write a weekly post on my church's blog. A bunch of people have agreed to take on spiritual practices during Lent, and write a weekly reflection on the whole experience. I've never been much of a Lent gal, but I took on the challenge. Here's this week's post.
I just came across this video/photo montage that I put together from the Eastern European portion of the trip I took a few years ago. It made me nostalgic and made me realize I need to make more of them with the rest of that trip, and other trips. Mostly just for myself. I'm always a sucker for a photo montage and some Grey's Anatomy soundtrack type music playing over it.
I just came across this video/photo montage that I put together from the Eastern European portion of the trip I took a few years ago. It made me nostalgic and made me realize I need to make more of them with the rest of that trip, and other trips. Mostly just for myself. I'm always a sucker for a photo montage and some Grey's Anatomy soundtrack type music playing over it.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Recovery
The situation in Japan has made me think about my experiences with the little bit of volunteering I did in New Orleans after Katrina and in Khao Lak, Thailand a few years after the tsunami there. When I see what’s going on in Japan I just pray that everyone gets the food and water and shelter that they need, and that once the basic needs are met that everyone has the resources they’ll need to rebuild communities and recover from the trauma of it all. It’s all so overwhelming.
When I think about Khao Lak, in particular, my heart melts. I hate that it was a tsunami that led me to even know that lovely town exists, but I guess that’s how some things sometimes go. The community that has formed there since the tsunami is incredible. Volunteers from all over the world have gone to help. Some for a week, some for a few months, and others have relocated there and made it their home. Each person pitching in with their own set of skills- photography, teaching, construction, music, fundraising, or just good old fashion hospitality.
Here’s a little bit about Khao Lak from the blog my friend and I kept during our travels.
Khao Lak
I’ve been thinking a lot about this place over the last week. Apparently I wasn’t the only one. One of the women who worked with the volunteer group there, created an FB event today for a reunion in Khao Lak in December of 2014. That will be the 10 year anniversary of the tsunami. Seeing all the people responding…from all over the world…excited to reunite…it gave me some hope for the people in Japan right now. There’s a lot of bullshit in this world but I really believe that when it comes down to it, the good people outnumber the bad. We may not be able to prevent natural disasters, but I hope that something this tragic can bring out the very best in humanity.
The recovery needs in Japan may be quite different than what was/is needed in the communities I experienced in New Orleans and Thailand but no matter the needs and the recovery approaches taken, there are opportunities to save lives, form new communities of friends, break down cultural barriers and expand worldviews.
I’m already looking forward to December 2014 in Khao Lak.
When I think about Khao Lak, in particular, my heart melts. I hate that it was a tsunami that led me to even know that lovely town exists, but I guess that’s how some things sometimes go. The community that has formed there since the tsunami is incredible. Volunteers from all over the world have gone to help. Some for a week, some for a few months, and others have relocated there and made it their home. Each person pitching in with their own set of skills- photography, teaching, construction, music, fundraising, or just good old fashion hospitality.
Here’s a little bit about Khao Lak from the blog my friend and I kept during our travels.
Khao Lak
I’ve been thinking a lot about this place over the last week. Apparently I wasn’t the only one. One of the women who worked with the volunteer group there, created an FB event today for a reunion in Khao Lak in December of 2014. That will be the 10 year anniversary of the tsunami. Seeing all the people responding…from all over the world…excited to reunite…it gave me some hope for the people in Japan right now. There’s a lot of bullshit in this world but I really believe that when it comes down to it, the good people outnumber the bad. We may not be able to prevent natural disasters, but I hope that something this tragic can bring out the very best in humanity. The recovery needs in Japan may be quite different than what was/is needed in the communities I experienced in New Orleans and Thailand but no matter the needs and the recovery approaches taken, there are opportunities to save lives, form new communities of friends, break down cultural barriers and expand worldviews.
I’m already looking forward to December 2014 in Khao Lak.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Danny's St. Patty's Day Countdown
My friend Danny began a countdown to St. Patrick's Day at the 14 day point. Each day he sends out an email to a group of friends and family with St. Patty's Day related facts, stories and music. I love a theme. I love stories. I love this countdown. Danny was kind enough to ask me to contribute a story for the countdown. My contribution was sent out today. Here it is:
From Danny:
San Francisco is a well-known destination for the Irish, and is right up there with Boston, New York, and Chicago. It is also the home of the Irish coffee, which was invented in 1952 at the Buena Vista Cafe right by Ghiradelli Square and Fisherman's Wharf. San Francisco is also where I met my close friend Mary Colleran, a true rock star happens to be one of the best writers I know! A world traveler, a musician, a resident of the Windy City, and one amazing creator of prose, I asked if she would be willing to submit a short, and very true, story of our San Francisco St. Patrick's Day from 2003-2004. And she absolutely rose to the challenge! I just wish I could remember the joke I told. But with one week remaining, I would like to share with you Mare's thought's on all that is good, all that is Irish, all that is St. Patrick's Day:
Hello family and friends of Danny,
I’m thoroughly enjoying Danny’s countdown to St. Patrick’s Day. Informative, funny and entertaining. Just like our Danny. When Danny asked if I’d like to contribute a story to the countdown I gladly accepted. It’s truly an honor.
I had the privilege of sharing St. Patrick’s Day with Danny in…2003? We were both living in the Bay Area, and met up to attend the San Francisco St. Patrick’s Day street festival. As I’m sure you’re all aware, hanging out with Danny almost always includes making new friends and enjoying a frosty beverage usually accompanied by some sweet tunes, and laughing hysterically. This night was no different. Except, in my experience, unlike this fateful St. Patty’s Day, nights hanging out with Danny don’t usually involve a 60-something named Barbara.
Danny and I befriended a group of strangers in the middle of the street. We shared stories and being the dedicated native of the Commonwealth that Danny is, he told a really long joke about Mainers. Danny went to go grab another beer and I stayed chatting with my new friends. A fair amount of time had passed and I went to look for Danny. I finally found him. There he was, dancing in the middle of the street, with an extremely overserved woman who looked to be twice his age. This gal was married, but her Irish eyes were clearly smiling for Mr. Richer. Danny, always a good sport, danced for a bit, occasionally looking over at me with a “WHAT is going on here?!” glance. I wanted to try to save him but I was doubled over in laughter and really couldn’t move. Finally, Danny broke away from Barbara’s stronghold and propped her up against her husband. He walked over to where I standing and quickly assumed the doubled over in laughter position. When he was finally able to speak, Danny said, “She said….she said…. (more hysterical laughter)….MY NAME IS BARBARA AND I THINK I LOVE YOU. And then…she kissed me….she kissed me…. (even more hysterical laughter) on the cheek!” I completely lost it again.
Now for the Irish music portion of this post. Raise your hand if you don’t know that Danny loves Springsteen. Trick question because there’s probably no way to get your hand up from that rock you’re living under. Being born and raised in Jersey helped me develop into something of an obsessed Springsteen fan myself. From my first conversation with Danny about Springsteen, I knew we had to see a Springsteen show together sometime. So when the 2009 spring tour dates were announced, Danny and I did some coordinating, and I booked my flight from Chicago to Pittsburgh. As Danny so accurately says, “Doers do.” On May 8, 2009, Danny drove up from West Virginia, picked me up at the airport, and we were off to the Bryce Jordan Area at Penn State. That show is another story entirely but all this to say, when I think of St. Patty’s Day and Ireland and Irish people…I think of hospitality, friendship, music, meat and potatoes, celebrating the little things, finding humor in all situations, honoring your family, and singing loudly with abandon when the mood strikes you. These are all things that also describe my friendship with Danny.
So on the evening of May 8, 2009 at the Bryce Jordan Center when Springsteen and the E Street Band busted out the song “American Land” during their encore, Danny and I both freaked out. An Irish jig of sorts with incredible lyrics. Here’s the performance from that night.
They died building the railroads, worked to bones and skin
They died in the fields and factories, names scattered in the wind
They died to get here a hundred years ago, they're dyin' now
The hands that built the country we're all trying to keep down
There's diamonds in the sidewalk, there's gutters lined in song
Dear I hear that beer flows through the faucets all night long
There's treasure for the taking, for any hard working man
Who will make his home in the American land
I mean, come ON. Lyrics like that are just one of many reasons that Springsteen rules. So, as we gear up for this St. Patrick’s Day, I feel particularly grateful for all of our ancestors, Irish, Italian, German, Jewish…you name it, who helped to make my home in the American Land. If not, I wouldn’t be here in this place, at this time, writing to you fine people. To those of you that I don’t know, I hope we meet some day. Until then…I’ll leave you with this Irish prayer:
May God give you...
For every storm, a rainbow,
For every tear, a smile,
For every care, a promise,
And a blessing in each trial.
For every problem life sends,
A faithful friend to share,
For every sigh, a sweet song,
And an answer for each prayer.
Peace and love,
Mary
From Danny:
San Francisco is a well-known destination for the Irish, and is right up there with Boston, New York, and Chicago. It is also the home of the Irish coffee, which was invented in 1952 at the Buena Vista Cafe right by Ghiradelli Square and Fisherman's Wharf. San Francisco is also where I met my close friend Mary Colleran, a true rock star happens to be one of the best writers I know! A world traveler, a musician, a resident of the Windy City, and one amazing creator of prose, I asked if she would be willing to submit a short, and very true, story of our San Francisco St. Patrick's Day from 2003-2004. And she absolutely rose to the challenge! I just wish I could remember the joke I told. But with one week remaining, I would like to share with you Mare's thought's on all that is good, all that is Irish, all that is St. Patrick's Day:
Hello family and friends of Danny,
I’m thoroughly enjoying Danny’s countdown to St. Patrick’s Day. Informative, funny and entertaining. Just like our Danny. When Danny asked if I’d like to contribute a story to the countdown I gladly accepted. It’s truly an honor.
I had the privilege of sharing St. Patrick’s Day with Danny in…2003? We were both living in the Bay Area, and met up to attend the San Francisco St. Patrick’s Day street festival. As I’m sure you’re all aware, hanging out with Danny almost always includes making new friends and enjoying a frosty beverage usually accompanied by some sweet tunes, and laughing hysterically. This night was no different. Except, in my experience, unlike this fateful St. Patty’s Day, nights hanging out with Danny don’t usually involve a 60-something named Barbara.
Danny and I befriended a group of strangers in the middle of the street. We shared stories and being the dedicated native of the Commonwealth that Danny is, he told a really long joke about Mainers. Danny went to go grab another beer and I stayed chatting with my new friends. A fair amount of time had passed and I went to look for Danny. I finally found him. There he was, dancing in the middle of the street, with an extremely overserved woman who looked to be twice his age. This gal was married, but her Irish eyes were clearly smiling for Mr. Richer. Danny, always a good sport, danced for a bit, occasionally looking over at me with a “WHAT is going on here?!” glance. I wanted to try to save him but I was doubled over in laughter and really couldn’t move. Finally, Danny broke away from Barbara’s stronghold and propped her up against her husband. He walked over to where I standing and quickly assumed the doubled over in laughter position. When he was finally able to speak, Danny said, “She said….she said…. (more hysterical laughter)….MY NAME IS BARBARA AND I THINK I LOVE YOU. And then…she kissed me….she kissed me…. (even more hysterical laughter) on the cheek!” I completely lost it again.
Now for the Irish music portion of this post. Raise your hand if you don’t know that Danny loves Springsteen. Trick question because there’s probably no way to get your hand up from that rock you’re living under. Being born and raised in Jersey helped me develop into something of an obsessed Springsteen fan myself. From my first conversation with Danny about Springsteen, I knew we had to see a Springsteen show together sometime. So when the 2009 spring tour dates were announced, Danny and I did some coordinating, and I booked my flight from Chicago to Pittsburgh. As Danny so accurately says, “Doers do.” On May 8, 2009, Danny drove up from West Virginia, picked me up at the airport, and we were off to the Bryce Jordan Area at Penn State. That show is another story entirely but all this to say, when I think of St. Patty’s Day and Ireland and Irish people…I think of hospitality, friendship, music, meat and potatoes, celebrating the little things, finding humor in all situations, honoring your family, and singing loudly with abandon when the mood strikes you. These are all things that also describe my friendship with Danny.
So on the evening of May 8, 2009 at the Bryce Jordan Center when Springsteen and the E Street Band busted out the song “American Land” during their encore, Danny and I both freaked out. An Irish jig of sorts with incredible lyrics. Here’s the performance from that night.
They died building the railroads, worked to bones and skin
They died in the fields and factories, names scattered in the wind
They died to get here a hundred years ago, they're dyin' now
The hands that built the country we're all trying to keep down
There's diamonds in the sidewalk, there's gutters lined in song
Dear I hear that beer flows through the faucets all night long
There's treasure for the taking, for any hard working man
Who will make his home in the American land
I mean, come ON. Lyrics like that are just one of many reasons that Springsteen rules. So, as we gear up for this St. Patrick’s Day, I feel particularly grateful for all of our ancestors, Irish, Italian, German, Jewish…you name it, who helped to make my home in the American Land. If not, I wouldn’t be here in this place, at this time, writing to you fine people. To those of you that I don’t know, I hope we meet some day. Until then…I’ll leave you with this Irish prayer:
May God give you...
For every storm, a rainbow,
For every tear, a smile,
For every care, a promise,
And a blessing in each trial.
For every problem life sends,
A faithful friend to share,
For every sigh, a sweet song,
And an answer for each prayer.
Peace and love,
Mary
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Express Yourself
A few days ago, I was sitting on the Red Line heading north, and the driver made the announcement "This train will go express from Wilson to Granville." As we’re speeding along, a guy yelled, "THIS IS GOING EXPRESS?!" I looked up and saw a frazzled, unkempt, very skinny man, bundled in a giant coat, his yelling showing the crooked gray teeth filling his mouth.
“EXPRESS?! I DON’T NEED EXPRESS! THEY NEVER ANNOUNCED IT!”
A guy in front of me, calmly said, “Yeah dude, they did. Sucks though. That’s happened to me.” A girl sitting across from him said, “Yeah…they did announce it a couple times.” Mr. Puffy Jacket stopped yelling. Until he got off at Granville. Then he headed to the front car and yelled, “YOU NEED TO MAKE AN ANNOUNCEMENT! I DIDN’T NEED EXPRESS!”
Yesterday I got on the train, and sat right down only to be met with a strong, unpleasant odor. I took my book out and did my best to ignore it. Seconds later, I heard, “OH NO!” I looked up and sitting near me was my friend in the puffy jacket. He continued. “WHO SQUEEZED ONE OUT?! THAT’S DISGUSTING!”
Seriously, guys. It IS disgusting.
Mr. Puffy Jacket shook his head in disgust, took a swig from his giant plastic coffee mug from Pepper’s, put his headphones on and got right to jamming to his tunes. Then his phone rang. After some chaos related to removing the headphones, he answered.
Mr. Puffy Jacket: “Hey Ma. WHAT?! MA! You gotta let Nicky live her life! She can’t keep cryin ta Mom and Dad. She’s 1500 miles away. There’s nothing we can do! Ma…I’m on the train. I’ll call ya…MA. MA!”
Announcer: “This train will be going express from Wilson to Loyola. I repeat…this train will be going express from Wilson to Loyola.”
Mr. Puffy Jacket: “Wow…you must’ve woke up….WOW. MA! I’m not sayin anything against Pat but you should go to the doctor. You gotta focus on yourself, Ma! Not worry about Pat. “
Announcer: “Wilson is the next stop. This train will go express from Wilson to Loyola.”
The train rolls into Wilson station. I’m considering saying something to this guy but not sure if I want to get involved.
“OH FER...MA! I’m tellin ya, Ma….”
The doors open. Announcer: “Our next stop will be Loyola.”
Mr. Puffy Jacket looked up, his eyes got wide, he stood straight up and yelled, “AHHHHHHHHHH!!! EXPRESS!!!!!!!” and ran, like a cartoon, off the train.
I was so happy he made it. And by it, I mean off the train and my day.
“EXPRESS?! I DON’T NEED EXPRESS! THEY NEVER ANNOUNCED IT!”
A guy in front of me, calmly said, “Yeah dude, they did. Sucks though. That’s happened to me.” A girl sitting across from him said, “Yeah…they did announce it a couple times.” Mr. Puffy Jacket stopped yelling. Until he got off at Granville. Then he headed to the front car and yelled, “YOU NEED TO MAKE AN ANNOUNCEMENT! I DIDN’T NEED EXPRESS!”
Yesterday I got on the train, and sat right down only to be met with a strong, unpleasant odor. I took my book out and did my best to ignore it. Seconds later, I heard, “OH NO!” I looked up and sitting near me was my friend in the puffy jacket. He continued. “WHO SQUEEZED ONE OUT?! THAT’S DISGUSTING!”
Seriously, guys. It IS disgusting.
Mr. Puffy Jacket shook his head in disgust, took a swig from his giant plastic coffee mug from Pepper’s, put his headphones on and got right to jamming to his tunes. Then his phone rang. After some chaos related to removing the headphones, he answered.
Mr. Puffy Jacket: “Hey Ma. WHAT?! MA! You gotta let Nicky live her life! She can’t keep cryin ta Mom and Dad. She’s 1500 miles away. There’s nothing we can do! Ma…I’m on the train. I’ll call ya…MA. MA!”
Announcer: “This train will be going express from Wilson to Loyola. I repeat…this train will be going express from Wilson to Loyola.”
Mr. Puffy Jacket: “Wow…you must’ve woke up….WOW. MA! I’m not sayin anything against Pat but you should go to the doctor. You gotta focus on yourself, Ma! Not worry about Pat. “
Announcer: “Wilson is the next stop. This train will go express from Wilson to Loyola.”
The train rolls into Wilson station. I’m considering saying something to this guy but not sure if I want to get involved.
“OH FER...MA! I’m tellin ya, Ma….”
The doors open. Announcer: “Our next stop will be Loyola.”
Mr. Puffy Jacket looked up, his eyes got wide, he stood straight up and yelled, “AHHHHHHHHHH!!! EXPRESS!!!!!!!” and ran, like a cartoon, off the train.
I was so happy he made it. And by it, I mean off the train and my day.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Volunteering at Ronald McDonald House
Following up on that post from a few weeks ago... I scheduled some dates to make a meal for the residents at Ronald McDonald House. Dates/times are:
Saturday, April 2- Brunch 9am
Tuesday, May 10- Dinner 5:30pm
Saturday, June 11- Brunch 9am
If you're interested in helping out, just let me know. I'm looking to get 6 to 10 people each time. We'll be cooking for 25. Thanks!
You can go HERE for more information about the organization.
Saturday, April 2- Brunch 9am
Tuesday, May 10- Dinner 5:30pm
Saturday, June 11- Brunch 9am
If you're interested in helping out, just let me know. I'm looking to get 6 to 10 people each time. We'll be cooking for 25. Thanks!
You can go HERE for more information about the organization.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Social skills...is there an app for that?
A friend sent me this article and it fired me up about an issue that already has the tendency to get me fired up.
I just googled “Emily Post” “technology etiquette” and sure enough- there’s an Emily Post website with an entire section devoted to technology. That one must be getting an average of zero hits a day.
This technology stuff is really awesome in so many ways. I do love being able to check out the new girlfriends of ex-boyfriends and read blogs written by people I’ve never met on topics that actually hold very little interest to me. Videos of baby monkeys kissing puppies really make my life more complete. The way the internet was used to organize the protests in Egypt is amazing. But not as amazing as how the internet allowed me to learn that someone named their baby Facebook as a tribute to the place the site held in the revolution. (As a friend so astutely exclaimed, “Facebook?! For a GIRL?”)
I will write unnecessarily long emails and Youtube up a storm and I certainly am no stranger to posting on Facebook. But, I fall very short on the demands society holds for technology users. Cell phone users, especially. Generally speaking, I hate talking on the phone. If you’re Danny and the Bachelor is on, I will exchange 45 texts with you on the subject. But if you’re pretty much anyone and I’m doing pretty much anything, I may or may not answer my phone, because I just don’t feel like it. This is certainly not my best quality and people have understandably gotten pissed off at me for this one on more than one occasion. (In my defense, if you leave a voicemail with any situation that seems to warrant a response, I WILL call back.) Here’s the thing. If we hang out, as in, actually in person? You can guarantee I won’t be staring at my phone when you’re talking to me. I will most likely have it on silent or maybe I even forgot to bring it with me (Little research project I’ve conducted mostly by accident when I forget to bring my phone with me- it’s very possible to get through the day without a phone).
Emily Post’s site summarizes this topic well.
Witnessing the entire population’s ADD collectively increase both depresses and infuriates me. People. WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!?! You are out with friends. Why are you planning the next thing? Or reading the past thing? I’m not sure if it was Ghandi who said this or not but: LIVE IN THE FRIGGIN MOMENT FOR LIKE ONE MOMENT ALL-FRIGGIN-READY. It seems that many people are under the impression that basic social skill requirements have changed with the development of new technologies. News flash: They haven’t. I’m not even concerned for people’s need to always be escaping reality and what that means for the happiness of their souls. I’m too selfish to worry about that. I’m just annoyed that I woke up from a nap to come and hang out and now hanging out seem to mean me watching someone play Angry Birds.
And how many times does Oprah need to tell you? LIVE YOUR BEST LIFE! On no. Not that. Wrong Oprah lesson. DON’T TEXT WHILE YOU DRIVE!
And while I’m on this rant about technology, some of my Facebook gripes:
Apparently this pet peeve of mine has a nickname...vaguebooking. Oh man, how it gets me. “Hoping a certain someone does a certain something!” Just write what you mean: Ask me about my new boyfriend/job/fish/neuroses/whatever.
People getting pissed off at days of the week. Who knew this would become a trend?? I hate when I’m having a bad day and some know-it-all tries to “put it in perspective” with an actual global crisis. I know it must really suck to be caught in the Libyan crossfire but gosh darnit, I forgot my lunch AND there was a weird smelly guy talking to me during my entire train ride to work. HOWEVER. The repeated wah wah Debbie Downer status updates directed at days, “I broke a nail. Thanks a LOT, Tuesday!” Really? Is it Tuesday’s fault you put on your grumpy pants, which incidentally must be extremely dirty because you’ve worn them EVERY day since ever.
Old people (yes, I fall into this category) who don’t know how to work the internet. Think carefully before posting on teenagers' walls. You’re embarrassing everyone.
All right...I could go on but instead I will take my own advice and go change out of my grumpy pants.
Thanks a LOT, Monday.
I just googled “Emily Post” “technology etiquette” and sure enough- there’s an Emily Post website with an entire section devoted to technology. That one must be getting an average of zero hits a day.
This technology stuff is really awesome in so many ways. I do love being able to check out the new girlfriends of ex-boyfriends and read blogs written by people I’ve never met on topics that actually hold very little interest to me. Videos of baby monkeys kissing puppies really make my life more complete. The way the internet was used to organize the protests in Egypt is amazing. But not as amazing as how the internet allowed me to learn that someone named their baby Facebook as a tribute to the place the site held in the revolution. (As a friend so astutely exclaimed, “Facebook?! For a GIRL?”)
I will write unnecessarily long emails and Youtube up a storm and I certainly am no stranger to posting on Facebook. But, I fall very short on the demands society holds for technology users. Cell phone users, especially. Generally speaking, I hate talking on the phone. If you’re Danny and the Bachelor is on, I will exchange 45 texts with you on the subject. But if you’re pretty much anyone and I’m doing pretty much anything, I may or may not answer my phone, because I just don’t feel like it. This is certainly not my best quality and people have understandably gotten pissed off at me for this one on more than one occasion. (In my defense, if you leave a voicemail with any situation that seems to warrant a response, I WILL call back.) Here’s the thing. If we hang out, as in, actually in person? You can guarantee I won’t be staring at my phone when you’re talking to me. I will most likely have it on silent or maybe I even forgot to bring it with me (Little research project I’ve conducted mostly by accident when I forget to bring my phone with me- it’s very possible to get through the day without a phone).
Emily Post’s site summarizes this topic well.
Witnessing the entire population’s ADD collectively increase both depresses and infuriates me. People. WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!?! You are out with friends. Why are you planning the next thing? Or reading the past thing? I’m not sure if it was Ghandi who said this or not but: LIVE IN THE FRIGGIN MOMENT FOR LIKE ONE MOMENT ALL-FRIGGIN-READY. It seems that many people are under the impression that basic social skill requirements have changed with the development of new technologies. News flash: They haven’t. I’m not even concerned for people’s need to always be escaping reality and what that means for the happiness of their souls. I’m too selfish to worry about that. I’m just annoyed that I woke up from a nap to come and hang out and now hanging out seem to mean me watching someone play Angry Birds.
And how many times does Oprah need to tell you? LIVE YOUR BEST LIFE! On no. Not that. Wrong Oprah lesson. DON’T TEXT WHILE YOU DRIVE!
And while I’m on this rant about technology, some of my Facebook gripes:
Apparently this pet peeve of mine has a nickname...vaguebooking. Oh man, how it gets me. “Hoping a certain someone does a certain something!” Just write what you mean: Ask me about my new boyfriend/job/fish/neuroses/whatever.
People getting pissed off at days of the week. Who knew this would become a trend?? I hate when I’m having a bad day and some know-it-all tries to “put it in perspective” with an actual global crisis. I know it must really suck to be caught in the Libyan crossfire but gosh darnit, I forgot my lunch AND there was a weird smelly guy talking to me during my entire train ride to work. HOWEVER. The repeated wah wah Debbie Downer status updates directed at days, “I broke a nail. Thanks a LOT, Tuesday!” Really? Is it Tuesday’s fault you put on your grumpy pants, which incidentally must be extremely dirty because you’ve worn them EVERY day since ever.
Old people (yes, I fall into this category) who don’t know how to work the internet. Think carefully before posting on teenagers' walls. You’re embarrassing everyone.
All right...I could go on but instead I will take my own advice and go change out of my grumpy pants.
Thanks a LOT, Monday.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Election Day
I’m a real sucker for Election Day. Politics very often frustrate the hell out of me, and politicians very often sicken me, but I’m a huge fan of democracy and this day where we all take a stand for what we believe. I get a little choked up EVERY TIME I vote.
There are a few things in this world that absolutely drive me insane. Among them: Homophobia, movies in which live animals have human voices, corporate catch phrases like “let’s take a 30,000 view” and apathy. Voter apathy really gets my goat.
I’m not saying everyone should go out and run for office, or volunteer for a candidate- it’s VOTING. It’s making a choice. I think most people agree that the system is nuts and politics is full of a lot of bullshit, but so what. There are very few things in this world that aren’t at least partially nuts and full of bullshit.
And that brings me to my family.
I come from a family in which we are all passionate about politics. Our actual voting choices span the entire political spectrum which certainly leads to some frustrating conversations and headaches, but (I think) I’m thankful for it. This mixed bag of political opinions forces me to see things from many sides. I often feel a bit defensive when my fellow progressive/liberal types immediately demonize conservatives and do that stereotyping thing we all love to do. This us/them thing is the easy cop-out. It would be so simple if every issue just had one of two very clear answers.
One of the main reasons I’m politically progressive is because my Republican parents raised me to be that way. They hammered home the point that voting is important. I grew up watching them discuss politics with each other, attend rallies for things in which they believed, and write strongly worded letters when they deemed it necessary. I learned from their example that volunteering is a way of life and it’s important to give- whether it be political campaigns or your church or your favorite charity- financially and with your time. I read from their boring selection of conservative magazines and learned the ways of political rhetoric. I did go through a conservative phase in high school, but ironically I think the Christian youth group of which I was a part, led me to be more liberal. (That’s another story entirely). When it came time for me to vote, I read and researched and talked to people and, as it turned out, those decisions led me in a much more liberal direction than my parents.
Thinking back, my parents never told me how I should vote or what I should believe. I’m pretty sure we’ve never voted the same in any election but whenever I get involved in any political event, my Mom tells me that she’s proud that I take a stand. When Bush was elected, my Mom called and said, “I’m sorry. You must be very disappointed.” I cracked up. She was so sincere.
I do recall a heated discussion with my Dad about public education in which I said, “I’m the product of public education.” He yelled, while laughing, “You’ve just proven my point!!” Touché, mon pere. Touché.
Speaking of my father, I’ve instructed him that should a gentleman ever ask for his blessing to marry me, that he is not allowed to express an opinion because whenever he is given two choices of people to vote for, he has never picked one that I agree with, so I am certainly not leaving it up to him to decide who I should spend my entire life with. (I would, however, agree with his inevitable disdain for the number of ending prepositions in that sentence).
That said, I am very thankful for my conservative parents and the part they’ve played in making me the hippy liberal that I am today.
Happy Election Day, everyone. Go vote.
P.S. Speaking of the election: My politically obsessed friend Chad and I once wrote (just in our heads) a bunch of awesome scenes for a rom com loosely (totally) based on his life about a guy trying to find love on the campaign trail. It’s called “Hanging Chad” and had a tagline along the lines of “Counting votes…for love.” (The sequel will obviously be “Pregnant Chad.”) But I just realized, it wouldn’t be a rom com- it’d be a Rahm Com. Buh dump bump.
There are a few things in this world that absolutely drive me insane. Among them: Homophobia, movies in which live animals have human voices, corporate catch phrases like “let’s take a 30,000 view” and apathy. Voter apathy really gets my goat.
I’m not saying everyone should go out and run for office, or volunteer for a candidate- it’s VOTING. It’s making a choice. I think most people agree that the system is nuts and politics is full of a lot of bullshit, but so what. There are very few things in this world that aren’t at least partially nuts and full of bullshit.
And that brings me to my family.
I come from a family in which we are all passionate about politics. Our actual voting choices span the entire political spectrum which certainly leads to some frustrating conversations and headaches, but (I think) I’m thankful for it. This mixed bag of political opinions forces me to see things from many sides. I often feel a bit defensive when my fellow progressive/liberal types immediately demonize conservatives and do that stereotyping thing we all love to do. This us/them thing is the easy cop-out. It would be so simple if every issue just had one of two very clear answers.
One of the main reasons I’m politically progressive is because my Republican parents raised me to be that way. They hammered home the point that voting is important. I grew up watching them discuss politics with each other, attend rallies for things in which they believed, and write strongly worded letters when they deemed it necessary. I learned from their example that volunteering is a way of life and it’s important to give- whether it be political campaigns or your church or your favorite charity- financially and with your time. I read from their boring selection of conservative magazines and learned the ways of political rhetoric. I did go through a conservative phase in high school, but ironically I think the Christian youth group of which I was a part, led me to be more liberal. (That’s another story entirely). When it came time for me to vote, I read and researched and talked to people and, as it turned out, those decisions led me in a much more liberal direction than my parents.
Thinking back, my parents never told me how I should vote or what I should believe. I’m pretty sure we’ve never voted the same in any election but whenever I get involved in any political event, my Mom tells me that she’s proud that I take a stand. When Bush was elected, my Mom called and said, “I’m sorry. You must be very disappointed.” I cracked up. She was so sincere.
I do recall a heated discussion with my Dad about public education in which I said, “I’m the product of public education.” He yelled, while laughing, “You’ve just proven my point!!” Touché, mon pere. Touché.
Speaking of my father, I’ve instructed him that should a gentleman ever ask for his blessing to marry me, that he is not allowed to express an opinion because whenever he is given two choices of people to vote for, he has never picked one that I agree with, so I am certainly not leaving it up to him to decide who I should spend my entire life with. (I would, however, agree with his inevitable disdain for the number of ending prepositions in that sentence).
That said, I am very thankful for my conservative parents and the part they’ve played in making me the hippy liberal that I am today.
Happy Election Day, everyone. Go vote.
P.S. Speaking of the election: My politically obsessed friend Chad and I once wrote (just in our heads) a bunch of awesome scenes for a rom com loosely (totally) based on his life about a guy trying to find love on the campaign trail. It’s called “Hanging Chad” and had a tagline along the lines of “Counting votes…for love.” (The sequel will obviously be “Pregnant Chad.”) But I just realized, it wouldn’t be a rom com- it’d be a Rahm Com. Buh dump bump.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Why I'm Not Married (according to Tracy McMillan)
A friend posted this article, "Why You're Not Married, by Tracy McMillan on Facebook yesterday and a bit of debate ensued about it in the comment section.
I love this article. As an unmarried woman, I think Tracy is right on. The article is directed at a certain subset of the population wondering why they're not married and is obviously using extremes to make the point and probably to get published. But I think she's right. As I said in my too long comment on a friend's FB wall, there could be plenty of companion pieces written to other common questions and scenarios. "Why You're in a Crappy Marriage." "Why You Never Go 3 Seconds Without Being in a Relationship." "Why You Don't Have Any Female Friends." And then a whole host of articles for the gentleman. "Why You Keep Dating Women You Don't Really Even Like That Much." "Why You Will Never Come Out of the Closet and Instead You Will Continue to Waste Women's Time in Totally Unfulfilling Relationships."
I don't really wonder why I'm not married. I'm pretty sure I get it. To use Tracy's terms, I'm a selfish, bitch. Actually more selfish, than a bitch. I really love my life and it's going to take a super awesome fella to make me want to prioritize him in my life. I have been known to a be a liar in the past, but I think I'm over that. The liar thing is an EPIDEMIC though. SO many women I know have done/are doing this. Guys...news flash...you didn't luck out and meet the one woman who's so cool with where you're at in life and is just fine seeing where it goes. Ask any of her gal pals and they will know the names of your future children (obviously never to actually be born because at some point when she has a weak moment and actually admits how in love with you she is, you will get quiet and say "I don't know what to say" and she will start sobbing and after months of pointless discussions, she will force you to end it and you will start dating that chick you'd been fantasizing about for a while). I'M NOT EVEN KIDDING. I wish I was kidding. We've actually looked at her wedding dress online. Her wedding dress for when she marries YOU.
The other day I had a funny little guy-related scenario ensue and a close friend of mine said, "Now THAT is even ridiculous for one of OUR storyboards." One of our storyboards. Right. Because we ALWAYS have storyboards! Cause we're ladies!
I have disappointed more than one man when it becomes painfully obvious that I am actually a woman. If in the beginning he says anything remotely close to, "Wow...it's so easy to date you. You're so easygoing. It's like hanging out with my guy friends." I know that's trouble waiting to happen. Oh, of course...I'm just like your guy friends except my hair smells like coconut and I have girl parts. This thought of his is quickly dashed the moment he says something kinda sorta maybe that I could possibly take the wrong way and I start to cry. Dude...don't like it? Give your buddy some Aveda shampoo and some implants and DATE HIM. Now if you'll excuse me my friends and I have to figure out the details of where you and I will be honeymooning. These storyboards don't write themselves, asshole!
Sheesh.
Yup...pretty clear on why I'm not married.
Thanks, Tracy McMillan. You gave me a lot to think about.
I love this article. As an unmarried woman, I think Tracy is right on. The article is directed at a certain subset of the population wondering why they're not married and is obviously using extremes to make the point and probably to get published. But I think she's right. As I said in my too long comment on a friend's FB wall, there could be plenty of companion pieces written to other common questions and scenarios. "Why You're in a Crappy Marriage." "Why You Never Go 3 Seconds Without Being in a Relationship." "Why You Don't Have Any Female Friends." And then a whole host of articles for the gentleman. "Why You Keep Dating Women You Don't Really Even Like That Much." "Why You Will Never Come Out of the Closet and Instead You Will Continue to Waste Women's Time in Totally Unfulfilling Relationships."
I don't really wonder why I'm not married. I'm pretty sure I get it. To use Tracy's terms, I'm a selfish, bitch. Actually more selfish, than a bitch. I really love my life and it's going to take a super awesome fella to make me want to prioritize him in my life. I have been known to a be a liar in the past, but I think I'm over that. The liar thing is an EPIDEMIC though. SO many women I know have done/are doing this. Guys...news flash...you didn't luck out and meet the one woman who's so cool with where you're at in life and is just fine seeing where it goes. Ask any of her gal pals and they will know the names of your future children (obviously never to actually be born because at some point when she has a weak moment and actually admits how in love with you she is, you will get quiet and say "I don't know what to say" and she will start sobbing and after months of pointless discussions, she will force you to end it and you will start dating that chick you'd been fantasizing about for a while). I'M NOT EVEN KIDDING. I wish I was kidding. We've actually looked at her wedding dress online. Her wedding dress for when she marries YOU.
The other day I had a funny little guy-related scenario ensue and a close friend of mine said, "Now THAT is even ridiculous for one of OUR storyboards." One of our storyboards. Right. Because we ALWAYS have storyboards! Cause we're ladies!
I have disappointed more than one man when it becomes painfully obvious that I am actually a woman. If in the beginning he says anything remotely close to, "Wow...it's so easy to date you. You're so easygoing. It's like hanging out with my guy friends." I know that's trouble waiting to happen. Oh, of course...I'm just like your guy friends except my hair smells like coconut and I have girl parts. This thought of his is quickly dashed the moment he says something kinda sorta maybe that I could possibly take the wrong way and I start to cry. Dude...don't like it? Give your buddy some Aveda shampoo and some implants and DATE HIM. Now if you'll excuse me my friends and I have to figure out the details of where you and I will be honeymooning. These storyboards don't write themselves, asshole!
Sheesh.
Yup...pretty clear on why I'm not married.
Thanks, Tracy McMillan. You gave me a lot to think about.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Valentine's Day Cheer
Got on the red line this morning headed north from Belmont. Two guys, looking a little worse for wear, were in the midst of a conversation bitching about public transportation.
Guy #1: I guess the train is okay but I fuckin hate the bus.
Guy #2: Yeah, the bus really sucks.
Guy #1: Have you talked to Rick?
Guy #2: I don’t fuckin care what he does anymore. He knows he needs to quit drinking but he won’t and I’m tired of hearing him bitch about everything.
Guy #1: Yeah, you’re right.
(Some silence)
Guy #1: (leans head back on the seat, looking extremely exasperated) I bet there’s gonna be a lotta cheer at the office today.
Guy #2: Cheer? Why would there be cheer at the office?
Guy #1: Cause of Valentine’s Day.
Guy #2: Oh shit, I hope not.
Guy #1: I guess the train is okay but I fuckin hate the bus.
Guy #2: Yeah, the bus really sucks.
Guy #1: Have you talked to Rick?
Guy #2: I don’t fuckin care what he does anymore. He knows he needs to quit drinking but he won’t and I’m tired of hearing him bitch about everything.
Guy #1: Yeah, you’re right.
(Some silence)
Guy #1: (leans head back on the seat, looking extremely exasperated) I bet there’s gonna be a lotta cheer at the office today.
Guy #2: Cheer? Why would there be cheer at the office?
Guy #1: Cause of Valentine’s Day.
Guy #2: Oh shit, I hope not.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
He loved phlebotomy.
Yesterday at work there was a memorial service for a client who passed away. I didn’t know him but went anyway. About 30 other clients and a bunch of staff were there. Some of the things said:
“I got to watch MASH with him the day before he had to go to the hospital.”
“He was a good friend. He was my best friend. And that’s all I have to say.”
“He did an awesome impression of Achilles in Drama Class!”
“He loved food and would tell you if what you made was delicious or tasteless.” (Shout from the back of the room) “He was a conisseur of food!!”
“He loved phlebotomy and in art class he made a sculpture of an arm and put a toothpick in it.”
“When I saw him, he was smiling before anyone even started talking!”
“He was a cool guy. He was always listening to music. He had a real nice way about it. I’ll miss him.”
“I remember fighting with him over the TV. He ALWAYS wanted to watch baseball.”
“I learned everything I know about sports from him.”
“His smile always made me happy.”
“He loved Outback Steak House. But buffalo wings were his favorite.”
“Education was important to him. And he loved his family. He was always talking about his family.”
I can only guess what kind of hardships he dealt with in life based on his mental illness and how that illness may’ve often defined him- at least in some people’s eyes. But when was the last time they made a sculpture of an arm and put a toothpick in it as a tribute to their love of phlebotomy? To those that knew him best, talking about him resulted in laughter and smiles. It sounded like a life well-lived to me.
It makes me think it’s time to rewatch “Harold and Maude.”
“I got to watch MASH with him the day before he had to go to the hospital.”
“He was a good friend. He was my best friend. And that’s all I have to say.”
“He did an awesome impression of Achilles in Drama Class!”
“He loved food and would tell you if what you made was delicious or tasteless.” (Shout from the back of the room) “He was a conisseur of food!!”
“He loved phlebotomy and in art class he made a sculpture of an arm and put a toothpick in it.”
“When I saw him, he was smiling before anyone even started talking!”
“He was a cool guy. He was always listening to music. He had a real nice way about it. I’ll miss him.”
“I remember fighting with him over the TV. He ALWAYS wanted to watch baseball.”
“I learned everything I know about sports from him.”
“His smile always made me happy.”
“He loved Outback Steak House. But buffalo wings were his favorite.”
“Education was important to him. And he loved his family. He was always talking about his family.”
I can only guess what kind of hardships he dealt with in life based on his mental illness and how that illness may’ve often defined him- at least in some people’s eyes. But when was the last time they made a sculpture of an arm and put a toothpick in it as a tribute to their love of phlebotomy? To those that knew him best, talking about him resulted in laughter and smiles. It sounded like a life well-lived to me.
It makes me think it’s time to rewatch “Harold and Maude.”
Monday, February 7, 2011
Groupoff is more like it. SEE WHAT I DID THERE?
If I had more will power, I'd never buy another Groupon based on that ridiculously offensive Super Bowl commercial alone. What's next...
What's the big whoop with that Egyptian dictator, when you can have such delish kebabs?!!!? Am I right, ladies and germs?! Just pay us $10 and we'll give you millions of bucks worth of offensive commercials exploiting entire cultures...and a piece of lamb on a stick!
But. I don't have that kind of will power. I DO have the kind of will power that will make me think a wee bit harder before I buy another Groupon again. So clearly...with a backlash like THIS, they'll be going under any day now.
What's the big whoop with that Egyptian dictator, when you can have such delish kebabs?!!!? Am I right, ladies and germs?! Just pay us $10 and we'll give you millions of bucks worth of offensive commercials exploiting entire cultures...and a piece of lamb on a stick!
But. I don't have that kind of will power. I DO have the kind of will power that will make me think a wee bit harder before I buy another Groupon again. So clearly...with a backlash like THIS, they'll be going under any day now.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Because food is love.
Here we go again. Grace? Coincidence? Just being more aware of something because it’s what’s been on my mind? Maybe all of the above and maybe all of the above are one in the same. Either way…the universe has done it again.
So here’s the deal. My sweet 8 month old niece has put on the proverbial boxing gloves and is fighting a battle with cancer. Chemo begins this week. I don’t think I need to outline how much this sucks. If anyone can win this fight, it’s this gal. She’s got a whole troop of devoted fans on her side (family, doctors, friends, kind strangers).
The other day I was feeling particularly helpless and thought that maybe it would be good to volunteer at the Ronald McDonald House in Chicago. I’ve heard great things about the place and it looks like my family will be using their services in Atlanta. If I can’t be down there to help, at least I could do a little something to help out families in Chicago who are going through something similar. I downloaded the volunteer application and just kind of figured it would be something I’d deal with at some point.
This morning I headed to church figuring the music and reflection and kind people would do a body and mind good. Well, it did. It’s why I keep going back. That and things like this are said in sermons: “Have you guys seen “Brokeback Mountain? OF COURSE. I should’ve assumed that this congregation has seen Brokeback Mountain.” I sat listening to some sweet tune the choir busted out and my mind wandered in all sorts of directions. Then my friend Maria got up to speak. I perked up because who doesn’t love Maria and want to hear what she has to say?
Maria talked, with much humor and eloquence, about her career path and her ongoing journey to figure out what she’s passionate about and how she wants to use those gifts in her life. Thankfully for the rest of us, one of Maria’s great gifts is baking. Another is generosity. Combine the two and suddenly I’m shoving my piehole with the best coconut cake ever produced. But I digress. Kind of. Maria talked about how she’s putting her passions to use in her involvement with the Night Ministry in Chicago and the monthly meals she organizes (from menu planning to cooking to serving). This made me think...
What am I passionate about? Family. Friends. Delicious food prepared with love. Playing guitar badly but loving it anyway. Humor. Creativity. Chicago. The community at Holy Covenant United Methodist Church (even thought I’m not Methodist and don’t even really know what it means and am not sure I care that much at this point because I love it there). Volunteering. Staying healthy. Enjoying the outdoors. Appreciating the differences in people. Writing. And that people should take their fucking lawn chairs out of these parking spots that they don’t own. And many more things.
My thoughts wandered back to that volunteer application from Ronald McDonald House sitting on my desktop. Here’s what I came up with. I’d like to organize cooking a meal for the residents at Ronald McDonald House at least once a month. I hope to get a posse of pals together to head over there and cook up the meal with me. I hope these meals will be interesting and delicious with as many locally grown ingredients as possible. Because that’s the NPR-listening, urban, yuppie-type I enjoy being sometimes. I’m happy to donate money to pay for the meals but cooking for about 50 once a month may be beyond my budget. Hmmm...how to pay for it. Let’s check the list of passions…sell lawn chairs? Maybe but not feasible all year round. Oh…play guitar badly and charge people! YES! I will make (suggest to) some of my Old Town pals play somewhere and we can charge a nominal fee that can go to my monthly meals at Ronald McDonald House fund. Fun will be had by all.
I’ll figure out the logistics for RMH and let Chicago folks know when I’m gonna get my cook on. Feel free to join me. In the mean time, prayers and good thoughts for my little gal are very much appreciated.
She comes from a long line of strong folks so I have faith that she’ll KO cancer.
Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee, little lady.
So here’s the deal. My sweet 8 month old niece has put on the proverbial boxing gloves and is fighting a battle with cancer. Chemo begins this week. I don’t think I need to outline how much this sucks. If anyone can win this fight, it’s this gal. She’s got a whole troop of devoted fans on her side (family, doctors, friends, kind strangers).
The other day I was feeling particularly helpless and thought that maybe it would be good to volunteer at the Ronald McDonald House in Chicago. I’ve heard great things about the place and it looks like my family will be using their services in Atlanta. If I can’t be down there to help, at least I could do a little something to help out families in Chicago who are going through something similar. I downloaded the volunteer application and just kind of figured it would be something I’d deal with at some point.
This morning I headed to church figuring the music and reflection and kind people would do a body and mind good. Well, it did. It’s why I keep going back. That and things like this are said in sermons: “Have you guys seen “Brokeback Mountain? OF COURSE. I should’ve assumed that this congregation has seen Brokeback Mountain.” I sat listening to some sweet tune the choir busted out and my mind wandered in all sorts of directions. Then my friend Maria got up to speak. I perked up because who doesn’t love Maria and want to hear what she has to say?
Maria talked, with much humor and eloquence, about her career path and her ongoing journey to figure out what she’s passionate about and how she wants to use those gifts in her life. Thankfully for the rest of us, one of Maria’s great gifts is baking. Another is generosity. Combine the two and suddenly I’m shoving my piehole with the best coconut cake ever produced. But I digress. Kind of. Maria talked about how she’s putting her passions to use in her involvement with the Night Ministry in Chicago and the monthly meals she organizes (from menu planning to cooking to serving). This made me think...
What am I passionate about? Family. Friends. Delicious food prepared with love. Playing guitar badly but loving it anyway. Humor. Creativity. Chicago. The community at Holy Covenant United Methodist Church (even thought I’m not Methodist and don’t even really know what it means and am not sure I care that much at this point because I love it there). Volunteering. Staying healthy. Enjoying the outdoors. Appreciating the differences in people. Writing. And that people should take their fucking lawn chairs out of these parking spots that they don’t own. And many more things.
My thoughts wandered back to that volunteer application from Ronald McDonald House sitting on my desktop. Here’s what I came up with. I’d like to organize cooking a meal for the residents at Ronald McDonald House at least once a month. I hope to get a posse of pals together to head over there and cook up the meal with me. I hope these meals will be interesting and delicious with as many locally grown ingredients as possible. Because that’s the NPR-listening, urban, yuppie-type I enjoy being sometimes. I’m happy to donate money to pay for the meals but cooking for about 50 once a month may be beyond my budget. Hmmm...how to pay for it. Let’s check the list of passions…sell lawn chairs? Maybe but not feasible all year round. Oh…play guitar badly and charge people! YES! I will make (suggest to) some of my Old Town pals play somewhere and we can charge a nominal fee that can go to my monthly meals at Ronald McDonald House fund. Fun will be had by all.
I’ll figure out the logistics for RMH and let Chicago folks know when I’m gonna get my cook on. Feel free to join me. In the mean time, prayers and good thoughts for my little gal are very much appreciated.
She comes from a long line of strong folks so I have faith that she’ll KO cancer.
Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee, little lady.
Parking
Just yesterday I got myself worked up about the "save a parking spot with a lawn chair" phenomenon that seems to occur on city streets after a snow storm. The city owns the spot but the combination of feelings of entitlement and unused summer furniture lead to what I find to be an infuriating selfish practice.
Netflix must've sensed my disgust because they recommended the documentary "The Parking Lot" to me. I just watched it while paying bills. I loved it. It follows a group of parking lot attendants who work at a lot in Charlottesville, VA. They're hilarious people. Not much happens in the movie aside from the attendants' quips and rants about humanity based on their interactions with the folks that park at The Corner Parking Lot.
I particularly enjoyed one guy's rant about the chick from high school who didn't want to pay him 40 cents to park. She gave him shit for where he was at in life, meanwhile she was driving her Dad's SUV. Spoiler alert: He's now the bassist in Yo La Tengo.
Also: This dude should get a record contract.
In other annoying parking lot news, one of my least favorite corporate speak phrases is "Let's put that in the parking lot." For those lucky enough to have avoided hearing this stupid phrase, it means, "Well Bob...I think that idea is stupid but I'm going to be passive aggressive for a moment and pretend that we'll get to it later." In short, the imaginary "parking lot" is where ideas go to die.
Drive safe, kids.
Netflix must've sensed my disgust because they recommended the documentary "The Parking Lot" to me. I just watched it while paying bills. I loved it. It follows a group of parking lot attendants who work at a lot in Charlottesville, VA. They're hilarious people. Not much happens in the movie aside from the attendants' quips and rants about humanity based on their interactions with the folks that park at The Corner Parking Lot.
I particularly enjoyed one guy's rant about the chick from high school who didn't want to pay him 40 cents to park. She gave him shit for where he was at in life, meanwhile she was driving her Dad's SUV. Spoiler alert: He's now the bassist in Yo La Tengo.
Also: This dude should get a record contract.
In other annoying parking lot news, one of my least favorite corporate speak phrases is "Let's put that in the parking lot." For those lucky enough to have avoided hearing this stupid phrase, it means, "Well Bob...I think that idea is stupid but I'm going to be passive aggressive for a moment and pretend that we'll get to it later." In short, the imaginary "parking lot" is where ideas go to die.
Drive safe, kids.
Monday, January 31, 2011
These are the people in my neighborhood
While sitting on the bench at the Western brown line stop, waiting for the train, a frumpy guy was pacing back and forth in front of me. He looked to be in his early 40s, was wearing tattered clothes, and had a head of frizzy hair shooting about in different directions. He was on his phone. I heard the following:
"Yeah...I'm at the Western station. Should be there in half an hour. I don't care...I figure we could just play some easy ones like Go Fish."
Then I was on the train and a woman sitting near me, with bright silver glittery eye liner slathered liberally on her eyelids, took out her phone. After the initial phone call pleasantries with her friend, I heard the following:
"You know that heavy set broad. (pause) The one that is too fat for her clothes. (pause) Yeah, well that ghetto-ass bitch..."
I love public transportation.
"Yeah...I'm at the Western station. Should be there in half an hour. I don't care...I figure we could just play some easy ones like Go Fish."
Then I was on the train and a woman sitting near me, with bright silver glittery eye liner slathered liberally on her eyelids, took out her phone. After the initial phone call pleasantries with her friend, I heard the following:
"You know that heavy set broad. (pause) The one that is too fat for her clothes. (pause) Yeah, well that ghetto-ass bitch..."
I love public transportation.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Saying Grace
Recently I felt like getting retro with it, and writing on my old blog again. I imported a bunch of old posts to a new layout and seemed to lose most of the comments. Oh well. Thanks for those comments, guys. Everything is impermanent.When I was thinking about writing, I immediately thought about a theme that keeps creeping up in my life lately. Grace.
I'm not exactly sure what grace is but I like this definition that I've come across:
Grace is experiencing the joy of being alive in the here and now.
Last fall my friend Suzanne gave a sermon about grace at church. It really had me thinking. She said how when people say how God knows the count of every hair on your head she thought that was a load of BS. But one time she was reading about the science behind how bears hibernate and she was so blown away that she thought there must be a God and if he can manage this thing with the bears and all the other bajillion organisms and the entire solar system, what's knowing how many hairs are on our heads. I thought that was a fascinating way to think about it.
There's so much that I don't know but the answers are out there. Whether God is an old wise gentleman or a hippy lady wearing sensible shoes or a Great Spirit or if there is no God...there is an answer to how many hairs are on my head and how many organisms are in the solar system. I don't know those answers. There's an answer to what will happen to me tomorrow, but right now I have no idea. That could be stressful, but it could also be beautiful because I can make the choice to concentrate on today and accept that tomorrow, no matter how I try to control it in my mind right now, is a giant mystery.
I sat in silence in lovely little Holy Covenant church and thought about these things until my head nearly popped off.
That night I left church, walked to the train station, sat down on the wooden bench while I waited for the brown line and cracked open "Travels with Charley" to the page where I left off. The first line I read:
"My grandfather knew the number of whiskers in the Almighty's hair. I don't even know what happened yesterday, let alone tomorrow."
I got the chills. Coincidence? Maybe. But also grace.
Grace is experiencing the joy of being alive in the here and now.
A couple days later I was cleaning out boxes and came across a paper I wrote for the class "Religious Visions in Modern Fiction" about discovering redemption and grace on my trip to Appalachia. I somehow tied Kurt Vonnegut's "Cat's Cradle" in there because that's what you do with college papers. My professor had written a page full of nice comments that read more like a letter, and it ended with, "One may consider it grace that you took this trip and this class at the same time. Keep this paper always." Oh grace...you sassy little concept...always creeping up on me.
When I went back to this old blog, the name "Saying Grace" came to me. I like it in terms of saying grace before meals because food is central to pretty much everyone and everything I love- family and friends and traveling and training for a marathon. And because saying grace before and after meals is a practice my parents instilled in me that we still do today and it makes me think of tradition and family and how I was raised. And because finding grace in small moments is what motivates my choices in friends and career and travel and music and family and everything. Maybe the key is to just say it's grace and not take this crazy shit for granted.
The perfectly ripe pear from the HarvesTime that somehow made it's way into my morning snack. Grace. The first time I laughed hard, from a real place, with a brand new friend. Grace. The familiarity and comfort and nostalgia I experience at 18 Holly Drive. Grace. Reading the final paragraph of a book I love. Grace. Sharing a homemade meal with friends. Grace. Making music. Grace. Setting up my tent in a new nook in the woods. Grace. Standing on the shores of an island off the coast of Belize, saying goodbye to my Italian fling, and having his parting words be: "Call me if you wanna make a baby." Grace.
Each day is full of moments that fill me with grace. They're the moments that make me smile or make me feel connected to someone or just make me think about someone or something other than myself. Just the other day a woman on the Red Line stood up and started singing gospel at the top of her lungs. I was prepared to be irritated with her because it was early and I was tired, but I was too busy being amazed at how lovely her voice was. Grace.
The plan is to use this blog to write about these moments. Current ones and old ones. Next up: the story about that Italian.
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