Twilight and Faint Hearts

It's not the fact that vampires are gaining steam these days in popular culture with the intensity of some superhero juggernaut. That can't, I don't believe, be the reason why Stephenie Meyer's Twilight saga continues to sell by the millions of copies, and even more millions of DVDs. Well, not the only reason. Or rather, not the most important reason. The most important reason; the only reason as far as I'm concerned is simple, abstract and--as concepts go--largely overlooked in the minds of people theses days: True. Love.

I finished this saga, which, over four books, amounts to at least 2,300 pages, in roughly 10 days. Yes reading fiction is a passion of mine to say the least. But even for the most avid reader who does indeed have a life--and responsibilities--outside the page, this is an intense experience. Certain days I would put in ten hours of reading time, only breaking to go to the bathroom, to answer my phone (if it was important enough), to eat, which often I did while I was reading, god bless popcorn--easy clean up, and to exercise.

Many long runs I took along Lake Michigan while I processed this arresting story, often tear-filled runs. Not tears of sadness, not at all. Tears of joy. Tears of unexplained emotion, emotion that has no singular name due to its kaleidoscopic complexity. Tears of overwhelm. Of intrigue. Of disbelief that someone could dream something that seemed, to me--a passionately, yet private writer, nothing short of genius. I should have to write Stephenie Meyer a dedication in one of my own public works someday, should I become so blessed to publicize a piece that exudes a fraction of emotion that Meyer's series offered to be decoded by me.

So what's the big idea? The big idea is true love, and it cannot be overlooked, as I mentioned. The characters that begin in Twilight have such an intense love for each other. An inexplicable force, like electricity, that draws them in to the other, without understanding why. Such force that allows them to gaze into each other's eyes in pursuit of understanding the complicated workings of their counterpart's soul. It's beautiful. But beautiful is not a good way to describe how I processed this story. My experience was far stronger than anything I would describe as beautiful. Sublime. Maybe that better covers it.

There will be a time in my life, perhaps sooner than later, where I will take the opportunity to attempt to capture words that bring what I went through over this 10 days to life. That's not why I write today, however. I write today for two reasons. One: to tell you that true love is not a belief to be trifled with. True love is not a thing to be ignored, swept under the rug of 'that's just myth--the concept of a mate for a soul, that's merely'...dare I even utter the bastardized word: 'ideal.' Shudder.

Ideal. Ideal is a concept that you choose to paint for yourself. Much like integrity, or passion, or independence or love. You choose to illustrate for yourself what ideal might be to you. Meyer's flawed hero, Edward Cullen, who chooses to live only for his true love, might be simply ideal for person x or person y or the other person. But to me, or to you, someone like Edward might be something more like...a possibility. Maybe the only possibility. The only thing to believe in. Do we have such low opinions of our race that we settle for anything less than what is ideal? An answer that I also shudder to think of.

And the second reason I write in this moment: to pledge. I do pledge, throughout my writing career, however many lifetimes that will span, to live up to the standard that Stephenie Meyer has unknowingly, I am certain, laid down. I choose to believe in what she portrays: a love without doubt, caring and compassion without falter, the power of the imagination, believing in one's own abilities, and the list goes on. This pledge extends into the future. And since this page is public--technically, though I could count my viewers on my big toe, know that I do love you, by the way, for viewing--I vow to dedicate, in some part, whatever initial success I may have as writer of fiction to Stephenie Meyer. Because, even though I have been preparing for whatever may come to me my entire life, and possibly lifetimes before, many answers for how to proceed were not clear to me until I picked up this saga.

Pick it up yourself.

The Bore that is Babies

I just think it's important to let people know, those people who have babies, or those who are thinking of having babies, or who have played children's games (hopefully when they were actually children) whereby they pretended they were parents and whatever more: if you have a kid, even one, you will become irreversibly boring.

I take that back. Maybe not irreversibly boring. Sure, when your kid, or the last kid if you have more than one, goes off to college (hopefully before the age of 24), or leaves home in search of a traveling circus (hopefully for you at age 16), you'll have your independence back. Then you can get back to basics: the beauty that is yourself and thinking of nothing but it. But then again, by that time hopefully you won't be so old and deteriorated, that you'll need a servant to see to it that your ass gets wiped.

I digress. Now, back to the importance of knowing just how fucking boring you're about to become as you consider you or your female significant other's impending gestation; a launching period into the land I like to call boring boredom biggie bore land. Why such a bore you are to be if you have vomit-smelling kiddies, you ask? It's simple really: upon the birth of an identity-sucking infant that you so badly wanted, you lose all ability to talk about anything really...EXCEPT the fucking identity-sucking nipple sucker him (or her) self.

It's true I've seen it happen time and time again. Happy frolicking young adults. One day skydiving. The next day talking about how much their little Steven took a shit. And if that's not enough: what color it was, how runny it was. How many wipies it took to return the ass to something that resembled a baby's ass, as opposed to a war zone of turds. Ah, the aroma.

What else? Get around with a bunch of post-baby chics, and here's what they say. "Oh god, my labor lasted 23 hours. Yeah, I had an epidural for shiz," (I editorialize there with the terms--'for shiz,' is too slangy for new parents, who now are turned over to the land of G talk: "Is it n-a-p time? Oh you want your ba-ba?"). Yawn.

Funny how the divide between baby goers and baby noers becomes nothing other than a great divide. And more funny that the former mentioned goers don't get that. "Why don't my single friends want to hang out with me?" they wonder. Oh how they wonder. For my part, I'd rather talk about what I'm doing to avoid STDs and what hot new dance night I just encountered as opposed to pink bunny blankets.

If you think about it: single people don't envy their non-single parent counterparts. Yet non-single parents die to have the single lifestyle. Well no shit! Babies make you boring. And parents, god bless you for doing it all. We need you. But it's important to know that you're boring as hell. Don't fight it.

What's So Funny?

Ever reflect on what makes you laugh? Not about those lines you hear--or the things you see--that kick off a mere modicum of laughter, a simple chuckle. No no, that's what I like to call common laughter.

What I mean, is the friends you have, the films you watch, the people you observe, the jokes you hear, the scenes you find yourself a part of that make you roar into gut-swelling guffaws. Doubling over from pain, laughing so hard that you--no, sobbing in fact, sobbing so hard that you wonder if you might choke on your saliva. The life episodes that make you wonder if you'll ever inhale another breath of life. The moments during which you then become certain the hysterics will indeed kill you. Knocked dead by laughter. What a concept.

Have you though? Stopped to think about it I mean. I have. I'd say I'm a sucker for comedy. Who isn't? But I grew up honing my own sarcasm, mostly because--as with everyone else, the countless others who are painfully sarcastic--I wanted to hide my buried, deep-from-childhood pain and all that yada yada. I did this by keeping others at bay through this dry, biting humor. Sarcasm is deeply ingrained into my personality; to such a degree that I don't know who I'd be if I didn't employ it each and every day in my mind and through my public discourse.

But despite all of this, I don't laugh easily. I won't laugh at a lot of potty humor, or slapstick bullshit. Cheap humor consists of such thrills from which many people derive great pleasure. But many people are cheap too. Different topic. I love it when people say, 'Oh but you haven't seen Anchor Man? But it's so hilarious. You have to see it!' Uh, no I don't. Will Farrell doesn't do it for me. What happened to him after Saturday Night Live, by the way?

What I like is humor that comes from unparalleled hot people like Ryan Reynolds. Just Friends, for instance, might have been one of the funniest movies I've seen in a while. Is it because Ryan Reynolds wears that fat suit to be his fat younger character? And then years later in the movie he's ulta hot, making you wonder if you could track down his LA address and take that Scarlett Johansson down, down to China Town? She's great and all as an actress, blah blah okay fine she is. But she's too young. And too blond. Bore. I'd work way better as a wife for Ryan Reynolds.

Who cares though, the point is he's hot and he makes me laugh. But maybe I just think he's funny because he's hot. And you know, there might be something to that. What a superficial cad-ette I am. I'm fine with that. It's not my fault. I'm so superficial in fact, that I've made this discussion about hot men instead of humor. They have nothing to do with one another!

But then again, doesn't everyone say what they'd love in a mate is for them to be hot as hell and funny? And of course smart, there's that. But by mathematical logic, if someone is genuinely funny, they're smart too. Don't forget, people: developing the gift of comedy is an art, and it must be studied, nurtured. Not just anyone can spin tall tales ultimately amounting to sheer comedic bliss.

I love when people are mega dramatic about being put down in society. Like as kids, they are unpopular and mocked. They want the hot guy or girl and they can't have them, so they're depressed. Self deprecation, that's pretty damn funny. Brothers slapping each other like boys, especially when they're adults--that's pretty funny. Girls who have gone psychotic on each other or on men, that's always funny to watch. And particularly funny when said psychos are dumb as a shower of sock monkeys.

Educated people like to make fun of dumb people. I sure do. And that's not nice, I know. But what can be done? I mean it's hard, you know, really hard to be patient with people who are slow and incompetent.

If my life were a film, and someone peered in on me and saw my facial expressions when I have to speed up to walk ahead of people who look like they just took a bunch of ecstasy pills--note to reader: they look like this because that's how they look every day, because they don't have a fucking clue--they might laugh. Just understand that I have fits when this happens, observable fits to be sure. I sigh audibly and I stomp right past them, often cutting them off. A lot of people in this town probably hate me because I'm such a dramatically impatient bitch.

Maybe you feel the same way. I mean if we made you into a funny movie, would we laugh? What makes you really laugh though, seriously? Whatever it is, you've gotta find it once and then find it again and again. Go think about it now actually. Yes, now, right now.

The Power of Me

Recession, right. 'These days, that's how it is,' we keep hearing. Or, 'but with this economy, people need all the help they can get.' Right right right. But apart from living in a bubble where all of my bills are paid, and being unsure whether or not I even notice that we're in 'recession,' though everyone keeps saying we are, I still have an opinion on this outlook. The outlook I refer to is that in 'these times,' we need to help others as much as we can. I personally, however, am taking this opportunity to be as selfish as possible.

Take Dominicks for example. I have a relationship with this store in that I visit it every so often (I go much more frequently to Jewel Osco, but don't worry, it doesn't matter). Usually I go to the Dominicks in between Illinois and Grand near the AMC movie theater in River East. This is so that I can get snacks for whatever movie I'm about to indulge in on a Monday in the middle of the day when everyone else is at work and hating their lives.

But though I like Dominicks in that they are there where I need them to be, they piss me off. You see, they ask for me to donate to causes and such. But how do I have money for that? I'm about to go to a movie, which even at matinee prices is nearly 10 ducks these days. And also I need the snacks! Christ, even with 'this economy,' a 5 oz carton of greek yogurt is still over $2. I mean I could probably churn the shit for cheaper than that (maybe I'm thinking of butter). Donate to a cause?

I'm not entirely sure what cause I'm asked about. Maybe prostate cancer. Let's say it's prostate cancer. Weeks ago, there I am at the checkout line at my trusty Dominicks. And I'm pretty sure the only and the only reason I don't go through a self checkout machine is because they don't have any. So damn, I need to actually talk to someone to get my illegal in the theater snack fare.

Before this cute, admittedly she is hopelessly cute, chubby latino lady gives me my bottom line balance, she says, 'Donate to prostate cancer today? A dollar or two maybe?' And she peers up at me--she is short afterall, short and stout--through her little glasses and the flesh around her eyes.

I take inventory of how much cash I have with me, but who are we kidding, I probably wouldn't donate even if I had dollar bills coming out of my nostrils. I'm selfish, that's the point of this blog. And I mean too, come on it's a dirty trick: putting me on the spot like that.

I'm cornered. If I say no, I look like an asshole. And there is this woman who is blonde and has a baby standing there behind me, waiting for me to answer whether or not I want to donate to prostate cancer. When I refuse, she probably thinks about how her cooing little baby there is going to grow up in a world of never ending recession and hate. Can't say I blame her. That's exactly what the kid is getting.

But I guess it doesn't matter that we're in recession. The point is that I'm kind of selfish. And I do feel a twinge of guilt as I gather my belongings and stuff them into my sack and frolic along across the street to the AMC. Who knows what I am about to watch. Probably something horribly frivolous like 'Ghosts of Girlfriends Past' or some such. As I give the theater cashier my money for the ticket, I grin at her and I tell her thanks so much, and to have a nice day.

I'm so excited about this movie and my snacks, I hardly even remember we're in a recession.

Is it Essential That We Wear Shirts?

There's something that has been bothering me the last 24 hours. I saw a black man walking down Sheffield street yesterday, a rather balmy afternoon, and he didn't have a shirt on. But that's not really what was so disturbing. Not as much as that I noticed him, and then he noticed me noticing him, and then he stopped walking away from where I was, and instead started walking toward me.

But that's not what disturbed me either. No, I was disturbed by my reaction to him. Alarmed by the fact that he looked like he may have been drunk, as he was swaggering to and fro, compounded by the fact that he had no shirt on, compounded by that I took him to be homeless, I panicked. And then I hurried off about my business, in a direction opposite from him. So, in essence, I was running away from him. But why?

He wanted to have a word with me it seemed, and I rejected the possibility of any discourse with him based on my judgments and fears. What was I afraid of? That he would spit on me? That he would talk at me nonsensically as so many 'street people' tend to do? That he would harm me, pull out a gun, flash me his wang? Who knows? Maybe he'd vomit on my shoes, or simply, ask me for some change. 

Though any of these outcomes are possible, I surmise that the latter is probably, in all its simplicity, the most likely. The poor no-shirted man probably just wanted me to give him a dollar or something. And would that be so bad? Couldn't I just offer up a tiny little George Washington so that he might believe the human race is not all about stinginess and greed? Maybe if nothing else, he felt lonely, and he'd find that he had a friend in the world...if only for a moment.

But I didn't offer that GW. I was too scared. I read recently that if we are to find the path of higher understanding, we must realize that human encounters are opportunities to unleash our full potential, to live among greater joy. Though it's one thing to understand that, and quite another it seems, to act accordingly. Oh well, this is a journey, this crazy life. I have no intentions of lambasting myself for not speaking to the shirtless man who wanted my ear. But I want to tell him, if he could ever read this, that I'm sorry I fled him. He deserves better.

And so do you. 

Who Knows, Death Could Be Friendly

As I walk along all these budding tree blossoms, inhaling the spring air and reflecting on joys that result from putting the winter down like a maimed mare, I've also been turning over a new topic in my mind: death.

I'm telling people lately that I might die young, before I'm 40 to be exact. They don't take well to that notion, particularly if they care a great deal about me, and even more particularly if they are my mother. This make sense. We don't like to think of losing someone from this world who we cherish. Who would we talk to with the same level of familiarity? How would we feel like we're not alone through life's adventures (and misadventures)?

For my part, I do feel alone a lot. The human spirit is conditioned to feel alone, lest he or she give up the rooted belief that nobody else has the same thoughts or feelings, or can understand the degree to his or her suffering. I understand this. I am one of these human spirits that clings to such a belief. But the belief is horsewash. Suffering is suffering, is it not?

I mean yeah some people might say they'd rather suffer a broken heart than deal with the death of a loved one. Try Jeopardy: broken heart for 500, or being a rape victim for 700? Broken heart, please. Sprain the ankle for 250, or be a part of a mass exodus as a result of your native country falling siege under a nasty, power hungry regime for 400? Twist my ankle, I'll take the ankle. Accidentally getting pepper-sprayed, or being fired from your favorite job? Who knows!

It's nuts when you try to compare levels of suffering, isn't i? The point is, suffering is suffering. We all feel it, and we all deal with it in different ways. But how is suffering linked to death in a direct way? Well, good question. In my experience, if I encounter too much suffering, I naturally feel like I want it to stop. But instead of thinking of ways to get myself out of the suffering, say, by sprinkling some faith over my head, I think: maybe it's time for me to die. Maybe it's my destiny to die young.

And so back to my mom. She would say, but you're too young, I can't believe that you'd want to give up at this point. Is death giving up in all cases? Surely no. I mean we all have to die sometime. I've recently been reading a fantastic find: 'Conversations with God' (book 1). One of the magnanimous ideas promulgated in this book is that we choose our path, we choose our life journey's components, and so naturally, we choose our death.

But a contingency to this concept, is that your soul has to really want to die in order that you find your way out of the breathing part of this life. So I wonder, when I'm walking down Clark street on a sunny Monday afternoon (Mondays are such fucking depressing days), and I'm thinking, I'm tired of being afflicted by the weight that I feel of the world, or the burden of my own internal suffering, I might just die soon so that I can stop this charade, does that mean I really want to die?

In that moment, I guess sure, I want to die, or maybe at the very least: I'm indifferent about life. But the next day, or two days later maybe, I'll be in touch with something more inspiring, something that looks more like faith. And I'll think, but I can't die yet, I have too much to do!

But does god take irrevocable requests? Like 'Monday, I got that yellow slip from Jinnene down in Chicago. She says she's tired and wants to die.' But then Wednesday I send a follow up note that says, hey it's me again. Scratch that last request. I'm all good now. If I can live a pretty long life replete with helping others any way I can, that's what I'd prefer.

But is it too late? Will death come knocking on my door, like a book from Amazon that I didn't cancel before the cancelation date? Woe is me, this is so complicated!

I'll help you along my little discussion here. The point is, and Neale Donald Walsch, 'Conversations' author, would agree, the soul has certain desires. If I choose to live a short life, and do what I can while I'm here, and then go, then so be it. But the truth is, I don't really think I have that in store for me. No, there's lots to do. I'll have to find a way to quiet the blue Mondays.

And speaking of blue, maybe I'll be like that adorable old lady from the film Titanic, the one with the gentle blue eyes. The one who had that sapphire stone. She died an old lady, quietly, and harmoniously, alone, in her sleep.

Imagination is Everything

It has been said by purveyors of truth that the key to life is to exercise imagination. Actually I don't think I recall hearing those exact words, and I'm not sure I even know a true purveyor of truth for that matter (do these people still exist?). Earlier in my blog, I think I said that the key to happiness was to not care what anyone thinks about you. And I really still believe that. I do. But today, I'm saying that I'm my own purveyor of truth, and I'm telling you: you could die if you don't use your imagination.

I recently did read, however, in a novel that I very much liked ('Winter's Tale' by Mark Helprin--pick it up, you can't be sorry that you did), that in order to find some sort of path to wisdom, we've first got to be willing to become a bit crazy. Doesn't Seal say something like that in a smash 90's hit too? I really feel bad that his face is so slashed about. I wonder if Heidi minded. Anyway, I believe in this concept of finding sensibility through insanity. And so, I'm afraid, if we want to be sensible, it seems that we've got to be okay with first (or concurrently) being crazy.

I personally would say that I'm pretty nuts. Not so much because most people don't understand me, but for my mom as a rare exception, but more because I do things that run in a river far away from the forest of the norm. I refuse to work in corporate jobs. I hate social activities. I'd rather eat razors than date regularly, just for the sake of it. I'm unpredictable. I flake out on people (not purposefully, but who knows how I'll feel any given day?). I send random texts that make no sense (to others, but they do to me) to test people. I truly believe in love even though I've not gotten a really good dose of it.

When I say love, I mean the most pure kind of love that you could possibly imagine. The kind of love that makes you feel like you'll live beyond this life, or that your love will outlast your mortal body. I believe in romance. The kind that can last a lifetime. I believe that one can love a person indefinitely; and that though there may be doubts, the feeling of certainty will always be stronger than the fear of failure to love, or the fear to lose.

I spent a long time being really cynical. But I'm starting to look around me, and I'm realizing how simple it is to be jaded. There are all kinds of reasons to be cynical and depressed and mean and bitter. There are countless ways to want to give up, to lose hope, to be sad, to believe in the worst in people. That's all easy.

But what's not easy, what's a challenge, what's sexy, is to believe in something better. In something deeper, something that will transcend the ages. Something that is pure and just and bright and awesome. I think this is love, no matter where it comes from, or who it's directed toward. Ideally, the feeling is directed toward everyone because everyone deserves to be loved.

Isn't this stuff crazy? My imagination sauteed it all together in a pan of hope. I'm pretty sure when I'm finished...it will be delicious. Either way, I'm certain it will end in something superiorly sensical.

Use your imagination too! It could really take years off your waist and add an entire new glow to your face.

Two Little Red Birds

This morning, on a Sunday early in spring, as I was taking my coffee and thinking of life as I often do, I spotted two little red cardinals outside my living room window. This window overlooks a courtyard, and the view beholds a couple of leafless trees; though make no mistake: there shall be green leaves, and lush, in no time at all. But my window, in this moment, is ajar, and I can smell the fresh spring air, and hear the sounds of tiny and happily uttered cheaps.

It is the little red birds that say cheap cheap, as they dance and fly and play with one another. What they offer to me in so doing, is an upgraded view outside my window: rapid flashes of red, one in concise succession after the next. All the while, the sound of cheap cheap, not unlike what you would expect to hear from a nest of newly hatched little mouths to feed. Do their wings get tired? How long do they jest in the courtyard before they bore of the backdrop, and heed a pursuit for more?  

What they say might be cheap, but what I hear is priceless. Spring has finally arrived, it's true. 

But Clinging on is Just No Good

Previously, I wrote a rather lengthy bit justifying that reaching out to an ex can be fine and acceptable. I'm not taking that assertion off the table. But recently, after observing some friends, I came to realize a new truth: It can't really do much good, can it? 

Say this girl named Leah dates this guy, Joe. She likes him, but he likes her more. He's a bit too 'man's man' for her taste. This means that he plays a hell of a lot of video games, and he loves porn and strip clubs, and he eats awful shitty food, and talks about his past sexual exploits as if they were triumphs or chores that he completed, as opposed to tender memories that ultimately made him a more feeling person. 

He hangs out with his man friends and gets wasted into the wee hours of night; he does this very often. And when Leah suggests that she and Joe do something cultural, be it watch the symphony or visit a museum, he kind of sighs and puts it off and makes excuses. In general, when she gets emotional for whatever reasons, even if she cries because she is happy or moved, he asks her why she is crying, and tells her that it makes him uncomfortable. 

Leah gets fed up with all of this. And though she realized from the beginning that Joe was just not right for her, because she likes him, and because she likes having him around every now and again, she struggles with cutting it off. But one night, late in December, she does just that. They have an emotionally charged 'chat' in her car, which is replete with lots of tears (on her part, heaven forbid on his; a real man doesn't cry, right?). 

Months pass. She begins to miss him. Not that she wants him back, but she has an impulse to see him. She wants to talk to him and laugh with him, and give him a hug. So she calls him. But he doesn't return her call. This hurts her, but she understands. Soon after, she runs into him at the bar where she works. He will not look at her.

She approaches him and asks if they can talk after she gets off work, if only for a few minutes. He says that he's not up for it. This hurts her too, but she understands. Later that night, he sends her a text message to apologize for his reserved behavior; he says that he hopes she understands. The next day, they talk on the phone for a couple of hours. This is depressing for Leah, however. Depressing because 1) she realizes that whatever spark existed between them (though minor), is now completely dead. 2) Joe thinks Leah is crazy. He even states this.

Suddenly, during this call, as she fights back tears, Leah questions her decision to contact Joe, and her erstwhile desire to keep up any type of discourse with him. What's the point? It was over months ago, why bring out the dead? Why go looking for a love that just wasn't meant to be? 

Sure, in certain situations, people in relationships can end the relationships, and then remain friends afterwards. But sometimes it's just not possible. And the point is, if you know that, I don't see why you'd fight it. Move on...and don't look back. 

By the way, it's officially spring now. Time for new beginnings. 

I Vote 'No' to Proposition Dating Rule: 'No Stalk'

I superiorly wish someone could explain how exactly these bullshit rules and terms ignited regarding the infuriating and heartbreaking world we call dating. Like waiting two days to call someone after obtaining their number? What? Not taking leftovers home from a first-date dinner? Um, no. No stalking unless you're a stalker? Fat chance. And oh! Okay okay, one of my favorites: don't, under any circumstances, call a person after you have been 'dumped' by this someone, because that's desperate, and yes, stalkerish; and of course it violates one of aforementioned rules of ridiculousness. But we'll talk about the latter of these two: the ends of things. 

Before we all get happy and clear, let's review the term 'dumped'. Wow, what a racket. This is such a horseshit way to describe the end of a relationship. It implies that the one person took the other person and, quite like that wonderful image in 'Slumdog Millionaire,' hoisted this other person into a pond of straight up fecal matter (actually in the movie, the boy fell into it, he wasn't hoisted, but the image was nasty either way). Unfortunately, society doesn't account for the fact that it's not exactly easy to 'break-up' with a person, and that sometimes ending a relationship can be just as hard for the person that's ending things as it is for the person who's being ended upon, if not harder. 

For the record, I would never sling someone that I cared about into a pile of excrement, or trash, or anything that wasn't pleasant to land in. The truth is, I care deeply about the people that I date. That's because I'm not an ignorant asshole and I try to consider others; and I actually put a bit of thought into choosing my flavor of the quarter or season or year or whatever you want (Depends on how good they are in bed. I'm kidding! Kind of).

But who cares right? That's just a silly way to explain a transpiring of events: being dumped. The bigger picture is, we tend to be trapped in these stupid boxes about how we perceive what's sane 'etiquette' when we take the plunge and let another person into our intimate little lives. The other night while I was having a bar chat as I often do (being a bartender not an alcoholic), a friend said that it wasn't 'healthy' that I thought nearly every day about a guy from my past. Not healthy? What the fuck is healthy? 

Correct me if I'm wrong, but if I can say I'm happy, and kinda mean it, I think I might be kinda healthy. It's natural to think about people who have impacted our lives. Also, I imagine that typically we don't fall in love, like the real kind of in love that we can't shake, but a couple times in a lifetime. And let's not forget that I'm among one of the few hopeful (not hopeless) romantics who still abound in this depressing world. Who knows, maybe after all of the fantastical masturbation fodder this person has offered me, he'll like show up at my door out of nowhere and offer to service me in real life. Of course I mean that I think about him in a rational, concerned sense, and not (always) necessarily a sexual sense. But now the tangents are just becoming tentacles on an octopus. 

Stalker behavior, as people see it, typically in women, is when women want to stay connected to a man. So, of course, they beg and plead and message upon message and show up at doors and cry and cry some more. Why is it usually the women and not the men? I mean don't get me wrong, I'm a woman, and I'm telling you I get it: there are some crazy bitches out there. These are the types of women who need filing cabinets for their emotions. I get all of that. And men: You have to deal with them, and I am quite sorry for that. Better you than me. 

But let me step up to the plate for my gender. Nobody had an individual say in how the great power of all the lands decided to divvy up the emotions and logics. Women got the short end of the stick with emotions (because they are judged for expressing them in volatile ways) and men got fucked when it comes to needing to, well, get fucked. It's nobody's fault. Let's just all get along. Let women stalk a bit and sometimes just chalk it up to: she cares about me, and she's a complicated individual. By the way, why must men always get all machismo when another dude starts up fighting shit in public, typically around drinking? I'm here to say: that's AS big of a turn OFF as stalking. 

What men might not realize is that it sucks for women to deal with men and their inability to express emotions. Like if you feel a way about something, why not just say it in a diplomatic way? Why fucking ignore it (the problem), or ignore her (the woman who cares what you have to say)? Emotion good. Emotion part of man and of woman. Emotion don't mean any harm. I mean come on. 

Men might not have been conditioned to express emotions, lest they look like faggoty fools, but jump into the new millennium, guys. Check out what's gaining stead with the ladies: that's right fellas, a realized man. A man who isn't afraid to cry (at the very least during a break-up, fuck it's hard, how bruised must you be to avoid tears during that??), or watch an intensely love-infested movie, or articulate calmly and admit being wrong, or listen even if you don't get it, or hell, I don't know. All of it's good. Better than ignoring issues and women who challenge you altogether. Shite, again the tentacles of tangents. 

I'm just saying I find it interesting that people judge my stay-in-contact impetus (through my thoughts or through my actions) as unhealthy, 'stalker' behavior. Though frankly, I've spent a lot of time perfecting my ability to not give a fuck what other people think of me. I'm an exception to many rules. My parents have been divorced for some 27 odd years, and yet they are best friends. 

So if I want to call a guy out of nowhere, regardless of whether or not I broke up with him or he broke up with me, it's potaytoe potahtoe, who cares? We're just two people in this wacky universe, and at the end of the day, we're all starving for connection. We all die to have someone ask us how we are. If I think about someone and I want to know how they are, I don't consider these shitty dating laws, I call them (or text or email or telegram them) and ask them. What's stalkerish about that? Isn't that like, I dunno, compassionate? I ain't scared of no pesky emotions.

Of course there's a flip side to that (isn't there fucking always?), which is: unfortunately many people don't take break-ups too well. Rightly so. They suck. And to be on the receiving end of them, can tend to, let's say, suck. So good; or not so good as it would go. Anyway the past several days, I've been thinking about a guy that I was with not long ago. We dated for a few months. He was hot, but not the kind of hot that you think of in terms of a life partner. It happens. 

Anyway, this guy, we'll call him Justin, was more into me than I was into him. That happens too. And make sure you understand: I do have a seed of humility; I'm not one of those heartless bitches who takes pride in saying 'he was all up in my shit'; it happens. In fact, my heart was pummeled into tiny little fragments, like baby platelets of glass that would feel absolutely smashing to digest, not too long ago by a different guy named, um, Rex, so check mate on my ass regarding that one. 

So I got to the point where I felt it was unfair for Justin that I hem and haw about where we were. After what I had learned from having my own heart broken, I knew it was a better idea to stop seeing each other; to make it easier on me because I needed space, but also on him because I was simply being a flake, and who deserves that? 

But the problem is, feelings don't go away. So I was thinking about this Justin; three months or so have passed give or take, and I decided to call him. So I texted him and asked if I could get together with him. No response. So I called him and left him a message because a real man (or woman) will actually CALL and not simply email or text, telling him I was thinking of him and blah and blah. I said that I understood where he was, but if he should change his mind about talking to me...blah and blah. No response.

Hmm. I feel his pain, I do. I'm sorry, I want to support that break-ups are hard. But being closed off to another person, with good intentions, opening up to you, I feel, can only impact you in a negative way in the future. But c'est la vie. Some people like Justin have more of a fatalistic view on things. Some people like him hate women who break up with them, and never want to talk to them again. Fair enough. Potaytoe potahtoe. 

For my part, however, I can't imagine ever not responding to someone that I once upon a time cared about. And so this all got me to thinking. So I reached out to another one of my exes to ask how he was doing; you know, the one who smashed my heart to baby platelets of inedible glass. Don't worry I'm over it. He hasn't responded either. HA! 

Stalker behavior? Do I give a fuck? I have a good heart, and I think that's all that matters. I'm out to hurt nobody; and in the end, the only person who really has the ability to hurt us is the I in us that makes us us. I say screw rules and ill-placed little dating terms. Happy spring romance! May you not deal with many break-ups and feel a new need to stalk. 

More on screwing...and screwing the economy and marriage

And so right, I'm saying the problem is that marriage doesn't work that way. We can't just be married some seasons, and not married others. What I'm proposing--I brought the idea up to my parents; my dad laughed, probably mostly because he understood my wish; my mom simply listened, probably hoping, like she always does, that I'll just get on board with the idea of 'commitment'--is that we are only married, like on a schedule. You know, like college courses. The schedule would read MWF: 'married', or TTr: 'not married'. 

Monday, Wednesday, Friday, for instance, I'd have a husband. We'd live together. We would talk. We would laugh and share and fight and have good sex and awful sex. He'd wash my hair in the shower, I'd wish to god he didn't snore. I'd put on my fucking headphones to drown out the sound, but not be able to sleep on account of the earpeace digging into my ear while my head was pressed into the pillow. He'd wonder why I did yoga first thing in the morning. I'd wish he wasn't such a slob in the bathroom, and wonder why he didn't do the dishes as quickly as I would (meaning why does he leave them stacked up for days?). So on and so forth. 

Ah, but then, the dawn would set (or the dusk, depending on how much 'in love' we felt on any given day), and the next day would come. The 'not married' day. Say it was a Tuesday. He would go back to his cave, or apartment, or fancy condo or shack, and I would be SINGLE and alone and independent and free. Free from worrying about him. Free from confrontation. Free from having to cook for two. Free from compromise. Free from the sound of the television if I weren't the one to turn it on. Free from having our things mixed up in the closet. Free free free. Everything in the apartment mine mine mine.

You might say to me: But Jinnene, it already happens this way, it's called dating, being in a committed realtionship without kids. Fine, call it what you want. But are we really committed if we're not married? And what if we want to have kids? I guess that's an entirely different topic altogether. My parents would tell me--that's where my little fantasy remains what it is: mere fantasy. To have children, we all probably agree, man AND wife need to be around MWF, TTr, and even on SaSu. That adds up to all the fucking days in the week! Good grief.

So about the economy. We talk about how shabby it is and I talk about how I'm tired of hearing about it. I'm tired of seeing everyone in this constant state of depression. I mean I understand it, but it's still, well, depressing. So what does this have to do with sex and marriage? Well I guess it doesn't have anything to do with it, other than the fact that it-the shitty economy-is a contemporary concept. It's a 'today' thing. But there's another 'today' thing, which is: there are a hell of a lot of women like me, who don't know if they need to get married and have sex all the time with one man...like...ever.

But this poses a problem. If we stop marrying because women are unsure they should keep marrying just for the sake of it, then our economy continues to tank because we're not perpetuating households and putting windfalls of cash back into the market. Furthermore, we're not bringing up responsible, educated families. The very fabric of our society: our family values, are being smashed to smitherines. And I, me, in my selfish regard to keep the TTr schedule, or the TTrSaSu schedule of being all about me me me and not all about man man sex sex compromise, am contributing to this crumbling of household.

Alas, what can be done? My dad would agree with me, and god bless him for doing so, that I or we or anyone, can't just 'couple' simply because it's good for the economy or society. We have to do what's good for us. What's good for me is holding out for true love, if it even exists. God I hope it does. In the meantime, I guess I'll keep my M-Su schedule, that is--M-Su: 'married', participating parties: me and my invisible husband called myself. Hmm, yeah, I think that's what I'll do. May our dear, frail little economy find the mend. 

Oh and by the way: now there are only 14 days until spring, and it's daylight savings time tonight. Hail hayzoose, the winter is about to shrivel up and die...or at least for another two months until next winter as it goes in Chicago. Hugs and happy flowers. 

I Love the Funny Little UPS Guy

So last week, I received a rather large package from UPS. If you're interested, it beheld a small black table I painstakingly assembled and put under a mirror in my hallway. I'm trying to be more and more 'upper-crusty suzie-homemaker' regarding my decorating capabilities. But that's neither here nor there. 

So Thursday night, it was raining really hard. I was expecting said package. I'm not sure what I was doing while I was expecting it; perhaps I was playing with my new Hello Kitty toys recently received from a slew of my students. Or writing something bizarre. WHO knows. The buzzer sounded. I ran downstairs, careful not to trip on my baggy 'lounging' pants in my excited, fumbly haste. 

'Hello,' the cute little uniformed Asian man said to me as I opened the door. 'You're Miss Foster?' 'Yep,' I said through a smile, politely taking his automated signature tablet, scrawling something on it that moderately resembled my name. But then I felt bad. The package was huge, and as he was fumbling for it, I suddenly wanted him to get out of the rain. 'Do you...want to come in...or something?' And I meant it, but not only until I actually asked it did I realize how absurd it sounded. Of course I just meant would he like to step in the entryway while we worked it (the transaction) all out. I mean the poor little man was drenched. 

But then he said something that I'll never forget. He said something that made me love UPS. He said, quite dryly: 'I could...but what would Mr. Foster say?' 

Frankly, I love anyone who makes me laugh...but it's little Asian men that make me laugh unexpectedly while it's pouring rain in winter that really get me. I love UPS, I really freakin' do. 

It's Spring--Screw the Economy

All I'm saying is: isn't the talk of our ratty economy getting tired? And fine, I'm lying in this title. It's not technically spring, I get it. But in 16 days, it will be. And what do we think about when spring rolls around? That's right: sex. Well, it's what I think about anyway. Some bar friends used to tell me that I talked so much about sex while I was bartending because I wasn't getting any. But I think in essence, I talked about it because it's sex, and it's interesting.

I just really wish I could take a poll. I wonder if people have sex less during the winter. I stayed holed up in my lair this winter. I did a lot of reading and a lot of writing, and very little sexing. I really can't say I missed it. But now I kind of do. And with this said, I don't think marriage is very practical if you ask me. If I only miss having sex during certain seasons, I'm hell fire to make shit of a wife. 

'Honey, I'm really needing it.' 

'Is that right? Stick it out until March, we'll talk then.' 

'But honey, it's like December 15th.' 

'Oh, maybe we should break up and try to get back together when I'm fired up for sex again.' 

Sigh. If only.

More on all this soon...

7:00 in the Morning: A Crack Addict and Cold Rain

A couple of my closest friends think it's hilarious that I recently took a job cleaning condos around the city. I don't know, maybe they're right. I guess it is kind of funny--the thought of me as a maid. Perhaps it's not like enough of us middle (me) or upper-middle (not me) classers don't think of people that clean as some type of servants. So that's what I've been reduced to become in this doggy-dog piece of crap economy: a servant.

I can't lie: labels and status and status through labels do nothing for me; they really never have. So if me partaking in a min wage manual labor job makes me a servant, then I guess that's what I am. It must be what I am, despite my lofty aspirations of becoming a comfortably paid writer/educator and my expensive, extensive history with higher education and degrees. Jinnene the molly maid servant.

What I laugh at regarding this job, however, is not the irony involved in the labels. No, it's that I didn't foresee that it would be perfect fodder for my writing pursuits. I mean, the women I encounter as co-workers at the tiny cleaning company are the pricelessly unlikely types to cross my path if not for this job. But you really can't understand what I mean unless I tell you.

Wednesday, 7:16 or so in the morning. It's February 11th, and it's shitty as hell outside. Rainy and cold and dank and insipid, especially when you know the entire day will consist of lugging a cheap, cumbersome vacuum cleaner, mops, a huge duffel of cleaning supplies, and a bucket with even more supplies up and down a variety of twisty, pisser staircases, or down a variety of different streets, all the while, the whipping streams of rain biting into your face as you think: By joe, my friends were freakin' right--this is hilarious: I am a servant and my life officially sucks.

But before all of that, you meet up with Audra, your partner for the day (daily cleaning teams are comprised of two people). Audra is 1/2 mexican and 1/2 black. She is overweight and has a giant, silver pierced stud protruding from her lower lip. She wears glasses and has a warm smile. You have no problems with her, yet you wouldn't exactly ask her out for drinks. You're not soul mates or anything. After all, you and she speak in completely disparate languages: she employs a vernacular that consists of saying 'mines' for 'mine,' 'dat' for 'that,' and 'husband' for 'boyfriend,' but maybe the latter is a cultural thing. Either way, you are from opposite sides of the tracks, and you don't know what you'd care to share with her.

Unfortunately for you, as it's 7:16 in the morning and you've barely gotten through 1/4 of the hazelnut coffee in your stainless thermos, Audra disagrees. You see, even though you've only known her for a couple of days, she wants to bare her soul with you. She proceeds to tell you, once you've gotten into her car upon departing the company's office in Lakeview, about how she had a 'rough' night. Turns out her 'husband' has been addicted to crack for five years. She and he have been living together in a tiny, scrapped-up studio apartment on the south side. He's been lying to her about smoking crack, and she has (unknowingly) been driving him to the sights for his drug intake, thinking these sites were places where he would work and make money to help her pay the rent.

But not so. Instead, he would use the small sum of money that he did make selling newspapers on street corners to scrap for crack tablets; Audra even spotted these tablets, or 'white pills' as she called them, in an old cigarette box while she and he fought in the street yesterday. Their fight consisted of her suspicions of what he had in the cigarette box, knowing it was crack and asking him to show her, he denying that the crack tabs were in the box, saying it was only cigarettes, and to keep out of his shit. Only after she wrestled with him, she took possession of the box, shook the box, and out into her hand, popped these 'white pills'.

She's telling you all of this, with vivid detail. You're thinking about how she would make a really fucking aces writer; that she calls up some pretty interesting details. She's not like the large majority of the population that flap the jaws incessantly, spouting out snippets of stories that are nauseatingly boring. No, Audra knows how to select her particulars, and she cooks up a good tale. But then again, you've never actually talked to the accomplice of a crack addict ever in your life; and for a second, you wonder which is more true: that you have lived a sheltered life, or that you really know how to choose your life adventures.

Either way, you're also thinking: thank GOD ALIVE that this not my life. Thank GOD ALIVE I was born into less suffering (not that Audra is suffering because she is who she is, but she sure makes less money than you ever have, and you can only imagine that to be associated, if not in love with, someone who is addicted to crack, someone who is 48 years old, by the way--to Audra's 24 years old--can only bring about its own string of suffering). One more thing you're thinking: this is going to be a long fucking day. You think this because you've only been in the car for 15 minutes, and listening to her story is exhausting.

You think this again (that you're exhausted) after Audra turns to you and says: 'See, Ja-neen, I rilly think of you as ma friend...because you listenin ta me rot now. Yeah...you ma friend.' She's nearly in tears. She doesn't know what she will do because she just kicked the 48-year-old crack addict out of her tiny tattered studio, and then he broke in in the middle of the night. And she kicked him out again, but she doesn't feel safe; she thinks he'll steal her things, or bring dangerous people around. And on top of this: she loves him and she's heartbroken. How could she not see that he was using? Jesus Christ.

That's what happening with her. But you're thinking: Fuck, I hope she doesn't ask me for my phone number before the end of the day. And that thought, that you feel that way, that you don't want to be her friend, depresses the hell out of you. Still, you keep your cool and do your best to give her advice. You're parked on Harrison street in Audra's black Pontiac Sunbird or whatever the shit it is. It's raining like hell and you really don't want to clean; you barely slept a wink last night thinking about your own problems (who knows what they are). It's raining and you're telling Audra that she should disassociate herself completely from the addict. You say that he won't learn anything if she continues to offer him a pillar for support. He will never learn to clean up if he doesn't figure it out for himself. And furthermore, she's only hurting herself by allowing him to pull her down.

You can't believe this. Again, your friends were right: how hilarious. And reader, you might not see the humor in this. It's certainly not funny that there are people out there who love users. For god's sake, who hasn't cared about someone who has had a drug problem? But oddly enough, a crack addiction, at least to you, seems like such a high grade of rock bottom (ironic choice of words), if only because of its highly addictive, not to mention physically damaging, nature.

Eventually, as you consult the red numbers of Audra's digital clock, you tell yourself what you have told yourself many many times since you started this job: it's just a job. One day, you will be writing what you love and teaching what you love to people who care (much like you do already, but now it's only part time, and you wish you could do it full time). Right now, you need this gig. But later, one day, you might have some beautiful condo (not unlike the ones you clean), and you'll be free of these bullshit min wage jobs that consist of cleaning toilets and inhaling noxious chemicals and having chats on crack. One day. One day not too far in the future. But for now, the goal is to pay your bills. And you will. But first, you need to work. And that's what you're about to go do.

And the Award Does Not Go to: Mr. Douche

Previously, in Satoko's article, I mentioned the term 'douche bag'. I don't know what the literary protocol is on that term; that is, do we write it as two words or what? But now I'm just being neurotic, so we'll move on. 

So right, I described this guy who I dated for a second as such. A 'douche bag'. But this morning, as I was delivered from the world of sleep to awake, I realized that perhaps it could be useful for future endeavors if I try to become more sensitive as a writer. So I'll define the term 'douche bag'. 

A 'douche bag', or 'DB' as some like to call it, is typically a guy, if not always. He's usually someone who thinks, like the 'tweetle-dees' (another loose term I cooked up to replace 'douche bag') at my bar last night, that diamonds are important--and that knowing about them is important--only because women like them; only because they have great monetary value; only because they represent a certain level of status. For instance: if you see a woman with a giant, obnoxious rock on her finger, you automatically assume that she has a husband who has a lot of money (regardless of whether or not he got that money legally). Or you assume he's a douche bag, or a sentimental douche bag, because he saved for years of his life to give this diamond to a girl who will end up leaving him in a couple short years. But now we're deviating from the point.

A douche bag is someone who, like my aforementioned date, thinks that he understands people. He thinks he knows the most important things about the world. And fine, in his own, individual reality, I suppose he does. But he doesn't, oops. He's someone who thinks people at bars or restaurants want to hear what he's saying, even though they've never seen him in their lives. In truth, they simply want to have a drama-free evening out with their significant others, or close friends. 

Douche bags typically like to make money for the sake of doing it. For instance, I'm sorry to say, but while bartending at Whiskey Blue for years of my life, which is situated in Chicago a mere set of steps from the notorious Board of Trade, I have served countless traders. And from where I was sitting (or standing, as it would go), many (and a painful amount of many, like so many it was more close to MOST) traders are douche bags. My dad would agree. If only because they make more money than they need to make, and it fucks up the economy. Right on, dad. I love you.

Douche bags don't really take a look at themselves. I know this is how a lot of us are. And I understand that it's scary; scary as fucking hell, to really delve into your soul and see what you are. To try to find meaning in life's events, or people's actions, especially if they're you're own. But if we're interested in trying to make the world better, I don't see that we have another choice. Unfortunately, many of the douche bags will never see this. It's sad. But now I'm moving onto another topic.

The thing is, at the time of these dates with Steve we'll call him, I knew he was what I would call a douche bag. I mean for Christ's sake, the dude was wasted and I had hardly had a drink. What was he trying to prove? Or hide? Or was he just an alcoholic? If so, that's another story entirely. Douche bags can tend to be tacky on dates, that's another thing. They also can tend to assume that the women they are with actually want to sleep with them, if only because they are so stuck on themselves, they can't see it any other way.

So that brings me to my next point. Douche bags think a lot about themselves. A shit load. But people don't like people who think about themselves and only themselves. It demonstrates a level of ignorance and lack of compassion. These people cannot be trusted, like many politicians, because they are not really thinking of the interest of the common man. It makes me nauseous and sad. And I said in Satoko's (god bless her) article that it depressed me to see 'Steve' last night; doing so reminded me of the number of douche bags out there. 

Still, I hope for the best for Steve and for other douche bags. Maybe one day they will see the light and stop doing things that are void of great meaning when considering the bigger picture. Maybe not. Either way, I'm infinitely grateful to have been born a woman, and not a douche bagette. Douche bagettes exist too, but that's another article. Anyhoos, I just didn't want you to assess that I wasn't a conscientious writer. I mean it's not like I called Steve a douche bag for no reason. 

Satoko Minagawa is My Valentine

Before I get started here, might I just say: I really don't see what the appeal of a diamond is. As we roll into that crusty hallmark holiday people know as Valentine's Day, I hear about these things more than I'd like to acknowledge. Tonight I am bartending at the swank spot that I occasionally do, and these two tweetle-dees at the bar are fawning over my dear friend's wedding ring (she's sitting there keeping me company). She continues to mention how in several years, she's going to get it upgraded. My question is: who the fuck cares?

That's A. B is: why is one of these tweetle-dees a guy that I just happened to date for a second several months ago? That's right, we ran into each other tonight. He showed up out of nowhere, just when I took comfort in the fact that I would never see him again. 

It made me feel dirty and depressed to see him. Partially because of the flippant nature in how our stupid interlude ended after a couple of over-drunk dates (over-drunk only on the part of him, which makes it even more depressing. 'Hey babe, I'm too drunk to be hot and sexy, but you know you want it.' Right. 'Actually dude, you're a douche bag, and I'd rather lick the dust off my shoes.'). Sigh. And partially because I ended up having sex with him. It was that kind of one-time-and-one-time-only sex where it's over before it begins because it's so awkward and insignificant and lame and fast and regrettable. But that's neither here nor there.

So here they are, looking at her ring and talking about how much it's worth and what she'll do to get it upgraded and blah blah blahbety blah. This is when I started thinking of those stupid advertisements I've been seeing on tv that run to the tune of: 'Love your loved one too much not to show it? Why not give her a diamond?' I feel nauseous even writing this. And no, I'm not a hater because I am single. Actually, I'm pleased as punch to be single. Maybe that's why I usually drop the men I date like hot pototoes--because after a couple dates, they start to make me feel like the world is closing in on me. 

And so you can imagine how much I love Valentine's Day. But the truth is, I'm not such a Valentine's scrooge. I think it's cute how there's pink and red hearts in all the retail store windows; and people are not only talking about diamonds, but they're also talking about what they're going to do with their loved ones; where they will go to dinner and such. It's actually quite refreshing: the thoughts of entertainment and love in this god-forsaken economy. But I did set out to talk about diamonds, didn't I? 

I did, but I don't care about diamonds. So let's talk about something that I do care about. I care about Hello Kitty. A lot. Over the years, people who are important to me have come to understand my fixation on the Japanese icon, and as a result, have gotten me all kinds of paraphernalia; from t-shirts to toasters to miniature picture frame magnets to ballet-slipper wall hangings to sugar dishes to compact mirror sets from when I was eight years old...and the list goes on. My favorite most recent Hello Kitty acquisition is a rubbery pen (a girl's true best friend, not some fucking diamond) with a little charm on the end of it and, oh of course, a tiny little diamond etched in the charm. Brilliant. 

So could Hello Kitty be my valentine? Sure, she deserves it. She has brought me so much joy over the last twenty to twenty-five years. But really, if I had to say who my real valentine would be, it would be Satoko Minagawa. She was this beautiful, gentle, silky black-haired Japanese girl from my first grade class in Ann Arbor, Michigan. She was my best friend, and she didn't speak much English, but I loved her. She had me over after school and she taught me to play piano and her mom would make me this delicious Japanese soup. And she gave me Hello Kitty pencils. 

I haven't spoken to Satoko in over two decades, but I will never forget her. I wonder if she is in Japan right now. I wonder if she is talking with her husband about diamonds. I'll bet she doesn't even want one, or ever has, for (Japanese) Valentine's Day. I'll bet she still collects Hello Kitty. I sure do. I will forever. If I could send my old friend a telegram, I think I'd ask her to be my valentine. It would probably be on pink Hello Kitty paper. She would respond: 'sure...yes' on a different-colored Hello Kitty paper. And then I would sigh and say to myself: 'Satoko Minagawa is my valentine.' With her, who needs a diamond? 

Be Happy and Gay

Along with the swearing off of stagnant full time working-for-some-asshole corporate jobs, comes certain ups and downs. The ups would be: not working for some other asshole all day every day, added variety in life, an absence of oppressive, fluorescent lights beating down on you and boring into your soul as you pretend to care about what you're doing, and--one of my favorites--constantly being on a new adventure. 

Of course, some would view the latter of this list as one of the downs, and would word that concept as no adventure, but something closer to 'having an unstable income, never knowing where your next paycheck will will be,' or 'being forced to do manual work.' But I don't mind manual labor, I've come to find. I didn't know it was true, but it turns out it is.

In fact, I was thinking about this very concept as I was walking to the bank yesterday, a most blustery of days. I considered a book I recently finished reading: 'Dry,' by Augusten Burroughs. This book chronicles the author's travails through alcoholism, and then rehab, and then reentering the world upon completion of rehab. In the meantime, he is a well-paid advertising copywriter in Manhattan. At one point in the book, when mused by his coworker that advertising is far from glamorous or fulfilling, Burroughs says something to the effect of, 'it beats manual labor.' And the coworker replies that this is true if you're willing to hand over your dignity. And the author says that he doesn't have dignity, and he never did. And that made me think.

Because dignity, or integrity as I say, is the most important thing of all things. And so months ago I quit my part time job as a bartender where, even working part time, I was bringing in more money than I needed. I quit because I was required to wear a provocative uniform which made strange alcoholic businessmen eye me in weird ways and stare and ask me to get them a cognac, knowing full well that I would have to get on a step ladder--wearing a very short skirt--to retrieve the bottle (the cognacs in this particular bar were kept on the fourth shelf, some ten feet from the ground). I quit because I was tired of dealing with alcoholics, and I was tired of being hit on arbitrarily as an object, like I was trading my body and integrity for money.

And of course I'm more blessed than many. I have pursued a master's degree, and as a result I teach writing courses to college students, which I love. But I also have to pay my bills, and teaching part time doesn't cut it. So to replace my bar money in an economy where options are closer to nil, I took a job for a cleaning service; I clean the condos of yuppy people around the city who still have options perhaps because they are working these I-work-for-some-other-asshole-under-the-fluorescent-lights jobs. Who knows if they have integrity. Who even knows if they could say themselves.

Well anyway, as a perk for working this adventurous maid job, I meet people (coworkers) who belong in a lower socioeconomic bracket than I do. They are uneducated and living on food stamps and involving in work so that they can get 'Section 8' funds from the government to pay for their dilapidated apartments (I'm assuming, at least more dilapidated than my nice enough Lakeview apartment) to shelter the children they could not afford to have (shit, I am not really judging, I promise). 

In so doing, you know, working with these people of a lower socioeconomic caliber, I have conversations with them while we are driving to the next condo. The other day, I was talking to Maureen, who is sweet as pie, has a southern twang, though I am not sure if she is from the south, and says things like 'the dog-gone thing,' and does things like put a sign on a horrible dent to the front right quarter-panel of her beat up '93 Oldsmobile that reads: OUCH. I mean the lady is a card, and I'm glad to know her, if for no other reason than she makes me feel real, more real than I already feel. 

But Maureen is uneducated. And so she thinks that to be gay is a choice. Augusten Burroughs, author of the aforementioned book, might disagree, as he himself is gay. A gay ad man who claims to not have dignity. (I'm sure that was sarcasm in part.) But while I was reading his book, I couldn't help but think: I don't relate to how gays must feel. After all, I am not gay. I am the type of person that goes to bed dreaming up the most exciting fantasy I can conjure of how a hot man can lift up my skirt and give it to me passionately in some dark club or something. My whole life has been about the obsession and reflection over heterosexual romance. Gay romance perplexes the hell out of me, and frankly, doesn't seem natural. 

But I am absolutely not like Maureen. The other day, we are heading north on Sheridan and she squeals, about these gay men whose condos we clean: "Hell, I don't know if they're together or not. I'm so sick and tired of everyone saying you're gay because you're born that way. Gimme a break! It's a choice and that's that. Gays say 'I can't help it, I'm gay,' but no! You make a choice! You know? Don't you think?" she turns her head to me. 

But I don't want to have this conversation with Maureen. While reading the memoir of Burroughs had me feeling detached and uninterested much of the time, I still respect what he must have gone through, what all gay people must go through, just as a result of being gay, of discrimination and looks and hatred and--in the worst of cases--violence. It makes me cringe, the lack of compassion of it all, and not least of all on Maureen's part. So quietly, I say: 'I don't think it's a choice. Many gay people probably deal with a lot of suffering, and feel alienated; I don't think if a lot of them had the choice, they would choose to be gay.' And then I'm grateful for Doreen's ADHD because she says, 'Well there it is!' indicating the building inside which we are to find the next cleaning project. 

But later that day, I feel sad. Not only sad for Maureen or for Burroughs (who's autobiographical account is about his struggle as an alcoholic as opposed to as a homosexual), but for the world. Why do we have to harbor such hatred for others? Can't we just accept others as they are, and not judge them? Oh I don't know. I don't have the answers. I guess this is why I teach: because I want to try to enlighten people like Doreen who just are not aware. And I want to help other people believe that we can all be happy, whether we are gay or straight or working at a job that falls far below the perfection line. 

I never told you the downs of swearing off these fluorescent-light jobs: come to think of it, there aren't any downs. Without them, I'm much happier...and much gayer. 

What's Wrong with Getting Personal?

These days, it seems that trends only last a few hours. What, with the advent of each new technological 'gem': ipods that get smaller and more colorful by the week, cellular phones injected with so many whistles they can now microwave food, houseplants that take photographs, and the list goes on. And as a society, in part due to these plush, techie pillows, we have become fickle. Our attention diverts to the next hot thing quickly. We care less and less about an object in front of us. We don't have time for long-winded anything. This, sadly, includes conversations with people. 

Less than a couple years ago, I discovered text messaging. I was late for that fad, as I typically am with trended fare. But once I came to and saw the light of the the text message's beauty, I was hooked. I texted all my friends. I lavished in opportunities to meet people and put their numbers in my phone, if only I could text them. I took more time than I would ever admit to construct my messages just so, particularly if sent to men I was attracted to. I called my provider and opted for the unlimited package. I played games that people ridiculously play, whereby they 'pretend' they are busier than they are, and sit on messages for hours or days, just to appear to be 'aloof' or 'unavailable'. Why anyone would do this, I have no idea; I'm certainly not sure why I did.

But to be sure, I did. I became part of the text culture. And eventually, texting became an obsession, until it led to utter frustration. What did this text mean from he or she (usually he, as men tend to get under my skin more than women; I'm heterosexual and sexual, go figure). Why would he take so long to write back? Why didn't he write back? Why did he say that and nothing else? Why can't we sit here for hours and text each other back and forth? Why why why? 

Certain nights, I distinctly recall sitting on my favorite red, plaid chair in my apartment, staring back and forth between my laptop screen, and my cellular. Why doesn't anyone write? Why didn't he (whoever he happened to be at the time) write back? It was a sickness, I finally realized. And furthermore, despite the fact that I'm a writer, with a passion for expression through written words (probably what drew me into texting in the first place), such a sickness well, sickened me. 

Through text messaging (first it was emails, and now in ways, it's still emails), we have been overtaken by a preoccupation with brevity. We don't explore what's in our souls. We think: 'I don't feel like calling him/her back, why not shoot a text?' But even worse, we think: 'Why even bother to text, it's just a text?' It's sad, very sad. 

Because at times, the older I get and the more I realize how precious life is, the more I crave a good vis-a-vis talk. The more I miss times when, as in college or high school, I would talk on the phone for hours of the night. I would laugh and squeal and delight in the inflections of the voice on the other line. I felt connected. But though text messages are forms of communication, we have gone to the extreme (as we often do), and have replaced such ability to be short and to the point for a good phone chat, or a drink maybe, or dinner. 

We're not like Anna Karenin in Tolstoy's 'Anna Karenina'. If she longed to see her lover, Vronsky, she would send him a letter (long hand, imagine!) and plea for him to come to her (in person). What happened to such intimacy? The text message is so informal and its contents so ambiguous and slippery and lifeless. I prefer something I can sink my teeth into. A hug, a smile over two coffees, my family at the dinner table, or cooing on an L-shaped couch over the newest baby in our clan. These are things that matter. Text messages, for me, I'm happy to say, have become 'passe'. Yes, it's true. I'm on to the next big thing. 

Next time I meet someone interesting, I won't ask him for his cell number, and in a giddy way, add it into my phone right in front of his eyes, telling him I'll call the number so that he will have me in his phone too. No no no. Instead, I think I might say: 'Can I have your street address?' Maybe I'll send him a letter by the ink of my favorite pen, and invite him out to a Sunday brunch. 

May the text get sick and die.