Boys & Breakup Songs

As I cruised northbound on I-435, severely butchering Kelly Clarkson’s “Already Gone”, a thought popped into my head in between my maneuvering and pitchy screeching. It’s occurred to me that, in all of my young years, I’ve never had a break-up that was so bad that all I wanted to do was listen to sad/angry songs and scream them out the window while I had a good cry.

Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’ve had plenty of breakups. Some hurt more than others, but none of them moved me enough to emote. The closest came in the summer of 2002. The summer I pulled a Can’t Hardly Wait and dumped my boyfriend to open up the possibility of dating college boys. After two weeks of realizing that maybe I should have waited until AFTER the summer to dumped him, I called him up, hoping to win him back.

He was having none of it.

Alone with my thoughts, I decided to listen to Jimmy Eat World’s “Bleed American” album and landed on the track “Your House.” This track had always been a point of contention between us; in the nine months that we dated, I was the only one to express love while he remained ambivalent. I played it on repeat, thinking back to that night I told him I loved him and he responded with, “already?”

Lovely way to end an evening, right?

Listening to the song made me feel disappointed, but not sullen. I was 18. I had dreams of marrying a baseball player. This would come to pass.

Breaking up with my next boyfriend went a little easier. He was terrible, so I didn’t need any Reflection music to heal my wounds. I just buried myself in the single life, enjoying my new found sexuality, playing the field until I met my (former) baseball player.

Twelve years of coupledom & he’s yet to give me a reason to belt out a sad song.

I suppose I should feel grateful for that.

But what if I’m missing out by not having my heart broken badly just once?

At this point, if I have my heart broken, it would probably devastate me.

I really wish I had gotten one out of the way.

But I am happy that it hasn’t come to that.

At seventeen

I was 17 when I watched someone die in front of my eyes for the first (and hopefully only) time.

It’s a funny thing, growing up on Chicago’s south side. You know violence- specifically gun violence- exists. You hear the faint gunshots in the distance. Sometimes you hear them even closer. You watch reports about it on the news. You read about it in the paper. You see the sketchy characters hanging out at the bus stop on the way to school. You know there’s a reason you absolutely MUST be home by the time the street lights come on. You’re extra observant in everything that you do. You don’t want to be a victim.

And yet, for all of this observation and awareness, it desensitizes us in a way. Because we expect it, it doesn’t shock us anymore. We don’t accept the violence as part of our lives, but we live with the inevitable. We don’t have the means to just pack up and leave for “something better.” So we adapt to make it another day.

I didn’t hear the gunshots that late summer night- the summer before I left for college. I’d been listening to gunshots outside my bedroom window for over a decade. If any sleep was to had, you learned to tune them out.

What did wake me up were the bright lights and the commotion. Being summer time, I slept with my window open, a screen in place to keep the bugs out but let the breeze in. The rotating red and white lights reflected off of my television and posters on my bedroom wall. I sat up in bed and heard the footsteps of my grandmother and mother moving through the house, as it was clear that they were awakened by the same commotion outside.

The three of us moved to the living room, wondering who- the what wasn’t even a question anymore.

We moved outside to the front porch, watching as paramedics tended to a wounded person on the lawn of our neighbor’s house across the street. Police officers milled around a parked car two doors down, the passenger’s and driver’s side doors open, retracing the victim’s footsteps, looking for answers. One notices us on the porch and approaches, asking if we’d seen anything. We tell him, “no,” as we didn’t even hear the shots.

Two doors down from us, windows open, and no one heard a thing. This wasn’t some issue with “snitching”; this was just our reality.

He walked away as we continued to look on, the young man across the street attempting to hold on to a life that was steadily slipping away from him with each fractured breath he took. We made small talk about nothing really, as if it were all happening someplace else, possibly on television. After fifteen minutes, we watched as the cover was placed over the victim.

We sat on the porch for another five-ten minutes before deciding to head back into the house. Sleep wouldn’t come easy for me after that; I turned on a movie channel and stared at that before finally falling asleep with the tv still on.

The next day we would learn from our neighbor that the young man who died was sitting in the car, listening to music with a friend when the gunman walked up to the driver’s side and opened fire. The victim attempted to run across the street when he was struck again, only getting as far as the neighbor’s lawn before collapsing.

He was the friend of a friend; I didn’t know him personally.

The next day was fairly routine. I woke up, had breakfast, watched tv, dressed and headed downtown to enjoy the summer day. I left for college a month later, and I carried the incident with me.

I didn’t carry the actual act of violence, per se. As I mentioned earlier, you get used to it- for better or worse. What I took with me was the realization that I was so numb to it all. I went to college in the suburbs and had a hard time adjusting to the silence. I moved to Kansas and mocked Topeka for a news headline that stated half of their ten homicides for the year went unsolved.

If only my old neighborhood could be so lucky.

But we shouldn’t have to accept violence as part of our everyday. We can be cautious and ready to fend off the unexpected without being so apathetic.

When my family first moved to the neighborhood, we had block parties and my friends and I were able to play without incident. It was liveable. And I believe it could go back to that place. But while people are still conditioning themselves to sleep through gunfire, we still have a lot of work to do.

My music, my savior

Other than my husband, the only thing propelling me through grad school and keeping me from falling into the darkest pits of despair (which would be virtually impossible since I was already in Kansas) was music. My mother, in an attempt to keep my spirits up in the best motherly way possible, would regularly send me and my younger sister (who was attending undergrad back in Illinois) iTunes cards. On a random visit back home, she presented me with a hot neon pink iPod mini on which to play the tunes that would be purchased with my iTunes cards.

This morning I decided to dig it out and shuffle play my 25 Top Plays playlist to reminisce and see if the songs mean the same thing to me now as they did five years ago.

(In order, according to iTunes):

1. The Rain, the Park and Other Things- The Cowsills (100+ plays)
2. 1901- Phoenix
3. Carol Brown- Flight of the Conchords
4. Rambling through the Avenues of Time- Flight of the Conchords
5. Love Like a Sunset, Pt. 2- Phoenix
6. Lost (acoustic)- Coldplay
7. More, More, More- Rachel Stevens
8. Off Broadway- Ryan Adams
9. Lisztomania- Phoenix
10. Everything is Everything- Phoenix
11. Undercover Martyn- Two Door Cinema Club
12. Touch- Natasha Bedingfield
13. A-Punk- Vampire Weekend
14. I Will Be There- Rachel Stevens
15. Brandy Alexander- Feist
16. Flashing Lights- Kanye West
17. Leaving Port- James Horner
18. Death and All His Friends- Coldplay
19. If I Ever Feel Better- Phoenix
20. Do You Want It All- Two Door Cinema Club
21. Maybe I’m Amazed- Paul McCartney & Wings
22. Fences- Phoenix
23. Starry Eyed- Ellie Goulding
24. Put You In Your Place- The Sunshine Underground
25. I Would Do Anything for You- Foster the People

Here are the things we can takeaway from this list:

• Phoenix was clearly my favorite band
• My most played song is probably one of the corniest pop songs ever released- and yet it was everything to me for a two-year period
• That one Kanye song listed is the only Kanye song I will ever admit to enjoying- and I enjoy it A LOT
• There are eight European acts listed; I clearly have not gotten past the Britpop phase from my youth

After shuffle playing them this morning, I came to these conclusions:

• Some songs have held up better than others; while it was refreshing to hear a few again after all these years, it’s clear why I stopped listening to others- I’m simply sick of them (“Fences” by Phoenix in particular). And they remind me too much of being sad. Which is weird, as very few of them are even sad songs.
• I’m shocked there isn’t more Coldplay on the list.
• The fact that there are absolutely no Beach Boys songs on this list is both surprising and upsetting. I can't imagine that I wasn't listening to any Beach Boys for those two years.
• “Flashing Lights” is still an amazing song, for better or worse.
• Even though it’s #1 on this list, “The Rain, the Park and Other Things” isn’t really one of my favorite songs. 
• Boy, I really like Pop music. Look at that list. That’s a Pop Festival waiting to happen (minus James Horner, of course).
• 10/10 would listen to this list for the rest of my life.

With this ring, I thee ruin a friendship

For the better part of the day I’ve been struggling with trying to find a topic to blog about.

Normally, something on social media (Twitter usually) would spark my interest and send me on a tangent, but today it just wasn’t happening.

So I just spent some time tweeting at Cinnabon instead.

But then I started thinking about something from my childhood and, inspired by Throwback Thursday, I’ve decided to tell you a little story about that one time I made my former best friend from the 7th grade REALLY hate me.

It all started at the End of the Year school picnic in 6th grade. During the festivities, the most popular girl in the class took it upon herself to play matchmaker and pair up the singles. Hoping to be paired with my crush, I instead found myself paired with a boy named Keith (not his real name), who was a grade lower than me.

Picture a young, scrawnier version of Chris Rock. That was Keith.

I know this was Lana’s (not her real name) way of getting a laugh at my expense (trust me- I was a big ol nerd in grade school...still am, actually). But, to everyone’s surprise, Keith and I actually hit it off- as well as middle schoolers can “hit it off”- and we dated for most of my 7th grade year.

Fast forward to a month or so before we broke up.

Keith had a habit of always promising to buy me a diamond ring. As a 7th grade girl, hearing that the boy you’re going steady with wants to give you a diamond ring is like a Disney dream come true. But I didn’t hold my breath.

Until the day he actually produced a diamond ring. The story he gave me was that his mother had given him the money to purchase the ring. It wasn’t anything spectacular. The diamond was about the size of a speck of dust, situated atop a skinny gold band. It was too big for my tiny junior high fingers, but I wore it proudly anyway.

However, when I returned home after school, my mother noticed the ring. She asked me where it came from and I had two choices: tell the truth and be forced to return it; or claim that it belonged to Amy (not her real name), the new girl who I quickly became very close friends with, and that she was just letting me borrow it- which would at least get my mother off my back long enough for me to hide the ring.

I went with the latter.

Oh, but I vastly underestimated my mother.

See, from the start, my mother suspected I was lying. As it so happened, Amy and I were supposed to have a sleepover at her house that weekend, and my mother needed to call Amy’s mom anyway to finalize plans. What’s the harm in asking about the ring during that phone call, right? Luckily for everyone (mostly me), Amy’s mother wasn’t home, so that bought me some time.

The next day at school, I explained the story to Amy and how it would work: Amy found the ring in the park and let me borrow it. Why I couldn’t just lie and say I found the ring, I don’t know. And even though she didn’t have to, she agreed.

That night, my mother successfully reached Amy’s mother and, as we discussed, Amy stuck to her story when questioned by her mother. There were threats of massive punishments if it turned out we were lying, but I was confident we would get away with it.

But then...I grew a conscious. The day before the sleepover, I felt shitty for lying to my mother and dragging my best friend into this. And for what? So I could keep a pitiful little diamond ring from a boy one grade lower? Hardly seemed worth it.

So I confessed. My mother called Amy’s mother and told her that I finally told her the truth. Needless to say, the sleepover was canceled. For my role, I was punished indefinitely (it would be lifted one random night when I phoned my mother while she was out and asked if I could watch the premier of ‘Swimming with Sharks’ on Cinemax). This was on a Thursday.

By the next morning at school- a Friday- every knew. Because, while I figured that getting my MTV taken away was harsh, whatever punishment Amy received was downright cruel by comparison. I never found out exactly what happen to her, as she wasn’t speaking to me (and rightfully so), but the popular girl, Lana, approached me, smirking, and said, “Amy got in a lot of trouble for you. What kind of friend are you?”

A shitty one, it seemed. Despite my attempts to patch things over between us, she went out of her way to avoid me. She wouldn’t look at me or even acknowledge my presence. She asked to have her seat moved away from mine in class and started spending time with another girl in class (who would in turn become her very best friend, even to this day).

Needless to say, our friendship was obliterated. And I was pretty upset. However, as time passed, everyone forgot about it. I became good friends with another girl in class, broke up with Keith, was back on speaking terms with Amy (by the 8th grade- it took a while to even get back to being cordial with me) and even started dating one of the popular boys- with Lana’s blessing, of course.

As for the ring, my mother took it from me and hid it away. Keith never asked for it back. And as we all scattered to different high schools in the city, I had forgotten about it.

Somewhere along the way, the ring ended up back in my possession. I never wear it; it mostly served as “food money”- when the times got tough for my husband and I, it would be the first to go to pawn.

It actually served a good, useful purpose after all these years.

Despite this one act of selfishness on my part, I definitely learned my lesson on how not to treat your friends. Ultimately, I believe that the experience has made me a better friend. The burden of what I put Amy through- and the lengths she went through to pretend I didn't exist- weighed heavily on me. Friends can be your biggest cheerleaders and protectors, but if you exploit that in any way, they can just as easily turn into your biggest enemies. And it's lonely when you don't have anyone in your corner anymore. Amy was super nice and didn't deserve any of that. No friend does.

And, to Amy, since I never formally apologized, let me just take this opportunity to say:

I survived eight years of marriage and all I got was this awesome husband

Yesterday was my 8th wedding anniversary. And for 90% of the day, everything was just shitty.

As an adult, part of me keeps forgetting that milestones don’t automatically necessitate special days. For example, I expect my birthday to be all rainbows and kitten videos, but it usually just ends up being laundry and traveling home for Thanksgiving dinner (the “joys” of having a holiday-centered birthday usually makes things that much more fun).

The past six years have not been kind to my husband and I. We joked last night that we had more bad years together than good. We married in 2007 after four years of dating. The honeymoon period ended abruptly in January 2009, when the economy went to shit and we were more concerned with the struggle to survive than enjoying that newfangled marital bliss. But, in a weird, twisted, masochistic way, it was the ultimate test of whether or not we had made a sound decision in marrying and if we’d be able to handle all of the bad crap we endured.

Spoiler alert: we made it.

Honestly, I couldn’t imagine trying to weather the storm without Halbastram. I mean, sure, I could have taken the easy way out and found that hot baseball player I always imagined myself with when I was a teenager. But I didn’t. Because I didn’t consider it as an option until now.

Dammit.

Anyway now that we’re out of the hole, we’re working harder than ever to stay afloat. And after a long day of yelling at idiot drivers during the morning & afternoon commutes and dealing with work bullshit, sometimes the best celebration is the one where you exert the least amount of effort. So we went straight to our favorite local pizzeria in our work clothes and had a pizza, some fried calamari, a couple of beers, some wine, conversation & laughs.

I guess this is growing up.

Here’s to eight years of happiness and the occasional nagging. I look forward to many more (years of nagging Halbastram, that is; I enjoy that the most).

A farewell to my adoptive state

A farewell to my adoptive state.

I don’t think it’s worth rehashing how we ended up in the geographically centered state known as Kansas, but here we are. And in a month, a five year relationship will be dust in the godforsaken two thousand mile an hour wind that greets me everyday when I step outside my door.

Oh, Kansas. When Illinois became too pricey for us, you were there. When the cost of moving and attending two years of grad school was cheaper than staying in the burbs and attending an Illinois institution of higher learning, we knew we had found our adoptive home.

Our first stop: Manhattan. We marveled at the vast nothingness that is western Kansas. So much land. So much potential. We scoffed at your food prices- how on earth did food in the heartland cost significantly more than back in Chicago? But we had to eat. And so we trudged through, knowing that upon completion of our degrees, food cost concerns would be a thing of the past.

But then something happened, Kansas. The autumn you welcomed us into your bosom is the same autumn you elected Sam Brownback to be your governor. Now, who was I to judge? Having come from the land of Fed Pen Governors, I knew a thing or two about toxic leadership. So I tried to go in with an open mind.

But you also gave us Derek Schmidt and Kris Kobach. And I don’t understand why.

Nevertheless, I figured that my time here was short, so I wouldn’t get myself wrapped up in your politics. Until your politics screwed me out of a lucrative internship.

Then I was mad. And confused. But mostly pissed the fuck off.

I realized that the government wasn’t going to do a damn thing for me, so I was on my own. I sat on the sidelines and watched as you gutted one dept’s budget to fund the budget of the very department I was supposed to be interning at. I watched as you passed silly voting laws, making it so that I’d have to wait two years before I could register to vote. I sat and watched you burn.

But we didn’t leave.

It would have been easy to throw our hands up and head back to Chicago, with our tails between our legs, and live in my mother’s basement.

But we stayed.

Despite your failings in certain areas, you made life easier for us in ways we never thought possible. I’ve met my fair share of ridiculously polite cowboys and city folk alike; I’ve taken plenty of long, relaxing drives along lush farmland; your gas prices keep my wallet happy; and your weather keeps me on my toes.

From Manhattan to Lawrence, you gave us a home when we had none left. You (sort of) fed us when we were hungry. You entertained us when we were bored. And you gave us something to vent about whenever your politics came up in conversation.

I may be leaving here far more bitter than I was when I arrived, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have any positive experiences. A Master’s degree, a federal job and now a career in my field are nothing to sneeze at. Before I came here I was driving a school bus.

You helped make me a better person, Kansas. And for that I will always be appreciative.

That being said, I can’t wait to get the fuck out of here.

Farewell, my love.

Dreams, decisions and destinies

Yesterday on Facebook I posted an update about purchasing an album I was unfamiliar with after seeing a picture of it on an Apple commercial. The commercial didn’t play an music from this particular album- it was just an actor’s voice-over describing the features of the new iPhone while a personless hand demonstrated. The picture of the album flashed briefly when the voice-over/hand reached the part about the exciting new iTunes features. I had seen the commercial enough that I had committed the name of the album to memory: Ellie Goulding, “Lights.” During my next iTunes purchase-a-thon I made sure to grab the album I didn’t even bother to preview before hitting the “purchase album” button. My reasoning was that if it was in an Apple commercial, it had to be decent. Apple is generally considered a pretty “hip” company, so I’d trust their taste in record-label-purchased taste in music.

The album turned out to be decent. Not mind-blowingly amazing, but I did get a couple of tracks out of it that I really enjoyed. So in the end it worked out, so to speak.

Recalling that instance reminded me of other life decisions I’d made because of television- some of them actually having profound, long-standing effects.

I’ve always been a dreamer: as the single blerd (black nerd) in my group of friends on Chicago’s south side, I spent a lot of time on my own, watching alternative videos on MTV, reading Goosebumps, taking the bus to the library to pick up a ship load of books, etc. I used to imagine myself as a rock star, the girlfriend of a popular baseball player, living on a farm with ten kids in Kenosha, WI (don’t ask why I chose Kenosha). As I got older I never really stopped to consider that perhaps I needed to pull myself back to earth just a little- after all, a little dreaming never hurt anyone. Except when I realized, when actually presented with the opportunity to pursue some of these dreams, how much work was involved and how, maybe, I didn’t want it as badly as I thought.

Let’s look at some examples.

• Around 2008, Halbastram and I started watching a lot of “Law and Order: Criminal Intent.” I became smitten with Det. Gorens and the idea of becoming a detective. Of course, you can’t just leapfrog to being a detective without some cop time in there first. So twice I applied to become a police officer- once in Lisle,IL, again in Olathe, KS. And twice I changed my mind right before the physical test- because I didn’t want it bad enough to be exerting energy and running and shit.
• For Christmas of 2008, I bought Halbastram the boxset of the the tv show “The West Wing” (which cost a little over $300; it is now for sale at Best Buy for about $50...ugh). I’d never seen it before but, once again, just like with Det. Gorens, I’d become enamored with the character Josh Lyman, the Deputy Chief of Staff. Now, this one is a little more complicated. Since my childhood in Chicago, I’ve actually loved all things politics. I used to sit at the kitchen table with my uncle while we watched the news and cracked jokes about Mayor Daley. When it came time to pick colleges, I applied to Truman State because they have the best Poly Sci program in the country. I didn’t know in what capacity I wanted to be involved, but politics have always been destined for my future. Some time after college (not Truman State), I started reading John Kass, a political columnist for the Chicago Tribune and loved his style so much that he became my journalistic hero. I figured that political journalism was where I wanted to be. Fast-forward to 2008-2009- after discovering Josh Lyman, Halbastram and I made the decision to go to grad school because everything around us fell apart: we lost our jobs, our home, our cars. Might as well start over. Josh Lyman still fresh in my mind, when it came time to choose a concentration, naturally I chose poly sci. Not only was it obviously my destiny, but because I made the decision right then and there that my one true goal in life was to serve as some politico’s right-hand woman. I never fancied myself a leader, and I’m generally fiercely loyal to those whose trust I’ve earned. I was going to Josh Lyman the shit out of some mayor or senator or future president. Three years and one Master’s degree later…

It’s probably not even worth mentioning the numerous cooking shows that tricked me into thinking that I knew what the hell a chicken cacciatore was and that I had any business trying to cook it.

I’m 31 now and still as much of a dreamer as I was when I was 11 or 21. I still have grand ideas about working in politics; I still fancy myself becoming a brilliant political writer like John Kass; I still can’t cook chicken cacciatore for shit.

I could scold myself for not taking life decisions more seriously, but I don’t believe our lives are supposed to be so linear. Dreaming of and wanting to do something out of the ordinary or spontaneously isn’t the problem.

it’s the courage to follow through. no matter how long it takes.

Where's my Orson Welles?

It was a little over a year ago when I had my first existential crisis.

It was a Friday night. Halbastram and I were still living in East Lawrence in a crappy two-bedroom with barely enough room for two people, let alone two people with mountains of belongings. He was still driving drunken KU students between the campus and Mass. St. bars on the weekends, so I was left to my own devices. As I usually did on those lonely nights, I had a couple of beers as I watched a whole lot of nothing on TV. I found that I needed the alcohol and the mindless entertainment to take my mind off of the fact that Halbastram was driving around drunken students who could turn into dangerous drunken idiots depending on the moon. Except this night, my mind refused to rest. And it was nothing to do with inebriated students. It was about my place in life and how slowly anything was progressing for me.

I can’t remember how exactly I ended up on Orson Welles- I wasn't watching Citizen Kane or anything with him in it- but that’s where I crash-landed. For reasons only my lubricated brain and subconscious know, I began ruminating on the fact that Mr. Welles, that wonderful man, had written, produced, directed and starred in the greatest movie in the history of the world by the time he was 26. At 26, I was busy going through a bankruptcy, a foreclosure and working a shitty retail job. And where was I at 30? Sitting in my crappy living room, drunk and still unpublished, crying about how Orson Welles had achieved so much more than me before he was my age.

Now, if this were an inspirational movie or novel, this is where my character, after hitting rock bottom, would toss that bottle aside, pull out her laptop and start making waves.

Except I’d been doing that for the better part of a decade with minimal results. I was tired of that trope because it wasn't a trope that worked in my favor.

So I did the next best thing: drunk-texted my best friend and whined about it.

The beautiful thing about my best friend- My Lady- is that she’s always been supportive of me and my decisions, whether I decide to live as a housewife or work crappy retail or write the Great American Novel. She doesn't judge nor does she scold. She listens and offers advice, but never pushes. And I like to think that I am the same with her. When she moved to Hollywood to work in radio, I was beyond elated. There was never any jealousy- only sadness, because she’d be so far away from me.

So, in the midst of an existential crisis, I trusted her more than anyone else.

And, although I wasn't even sure what it was I wanted -needed- to hear at that moment, somehow she found it. The text message has been lost in the tangle of the thousands of others we've sent each other since, so while I don’t have the exact wording, her message was essentially this: that I shouldn't compare myself to Orson Welles because we’re all meant to do things differently and that we all take different paths to get there, and that I’ll get to where I’m meant to be soon enough.

Summarized as it is above, you could probably find guidance counselors and self-help gurus across the country giving the same advice for a fee. But when coming from someone who truly loves you when you’re at a ridiculous low point, it’s the difference between cracking open another bottle and choosing instead to go to bed and attempting to start again when your head's clear.

Nearing 32, I’m still unpublished, but I don’t feel sorry for myself anymore. I still find myself thinking about all that Orson Welles accomplished at a young age, but now it’s more from a place of awe than jealousy. I completed my first crappy novel and I’m constantly fine tuning it. Maybe it’ll get published this year; maybe it’ll get published when I’m 40. Or 50. As long as I keep working, I feel fine.

Why I can never quit Coldplay

I realize that Coldplay isn’t everyone’s cup of tea. Much like the Gallaghers back at the start of Oasis’ meteoric rise, and their comparisons to the Beatles, Coldplay seemed to encourage comparisons to U2 and, understandably, many U2 fans weren’t exactly on board. Others may have just found their music boring- “mom music”, for lack of a better term. And while I started out as just a casual fan (come on, Parachutes is a great album), over time I developed not necessarily a great fondness for them, but something akin to a spiritual connection with them. They inadvertently became a part of my history and, much like stupid John Mayer, despite their failings, I’ll always come back to them.

Like many people, my introduction to Coldplay came in the form of the song “Yellow.” It was the summer before freshman year of college and it was all over alternative radio. Back when CDs were still a thing, I went out and purchased Parachutes. I listened to it sporadically, but it wasn’t my favorite. A former friend was later introduced to the band by a douche named Strokey McStroke (I don’t know his real name- only that he wore a Strokes tshirt every time I saw him), and she played it non-stop, like it was her Sgt. Pepper. Luckily our friendship fizzled soon thereafter, so I no longer had to deal with her, Strokey McStroke or Parachutes.

I’d largely forgotten that Coldplay was a thing that existed until “The Scientist” came out. And I fell in love all over again. Only to forget about them again soon thereafter. Then came the great, controversial “Talk.” Another pleasant radio hit, another soon forgotten gem.

And, of course, how could we ever forget the joy that was the immensely popular “Viva La Vida?”

This is where my forever love for Coldplay begins.

As many of us may have done, I have a habit of buying an album based off of one insanely popular song and never listening to the whole album. Such was the case with “Viva La Vida” when it first arrived at my home. I played the title track and nothing else non-stop. After moving to Kansas and starting grad school, being so far away from home and knowing absolutely no one, I started randomly listening to a lot of my CDs while I studied. I found that Coldplay made for great study music because it was so...mellow, to put it nicely. Not Kenny G. mellow, but like “a cold beer after a long day of something difficult” mellow.

Anyway, over time, three albums became my constant companions in helping me cope with the loneliness of Kansas: “Alphabetical” by Phoenix; “Tourist History” by Two Door Cinema Club; and “Viva la Vida” by Coldplay. I listened to them while walking to class; eating lunch in the Union; reading in the library; writing papers 8 hrs before they’re due; driving home at 1 a.m. after visiting a friend and realizing that I had 16 hrs to have a large research paper done and didn’t have a clue as to what I was going to do; etc. These songs, these albums, these bands became my rock, my happiness. I loved “Lost” so much that I bought every alternate version available on iTunes. According to my iPod, I listened to the acoustic version over 100 times in a year.  And whenever I listen to any of these songs/albums, I think back to my time in Manhattan and don’t remember the stress of school or being poor or lack of job opportunities; I remember the times when I felt hopeful because I was never sad as long as I had my music.

We were still in grad school when Mylo Xyloto came out, and I remember wanting only that for Christmas, since we were still on a tight budget. But for some reason I didn’t connect with that one. I suppose I already made my decision with Viva La Vida and was in comparison mode: everything they make thereafter would be compared unfairly to that one album that I formed an unusual bond with. And, although it wasn’t fair, to this day I still haven’t really given the album a chance. I honestly don’t even know where the CD is today.

So that’s the long story of why I will always have an unbreakable bond with everyone’s second favorite band to hate, Coldplay. I’m just lucky that I hadn’t been in possession of a Nickelback album during that time or I would have really been in trouble.

Emily

I've been writing a series of stories about the random people I met from the interwebs back in college. Some were from MySpace, some were from various Yahoo groups. There's one in particular I'm currently writing about who, every time I think about her, makes me a little sad. Her name was Emily*. She was a bit older than me- most of the people I met were, as I just seemed to have an easier time having conversations with older individuals (no offense to my peers, but most dudes either took conversation to mean flirting and most girls would freak out that another girl would want to talk to them about, you know, whatever).

Emily and I met in a Yahoo group and we’d started up an e-friendship where we’d talk every other day about the group and how hot the moderator was and a whole lot of whatever. Emily worked as as a computer tech in Maryland* who traveled often for her company and once, when she was flying into Chicago for a training seminar, she invited me to her hotel for dinner. As a broke college student, naturally I jumped at the opportunity to dine with a complete stranger. Also, she was staying at the Hilton hotel on Michigan Ave in downtown Chicago. Pretty swanky place (hey, I’m not above touristy lodgings), so the restaurant had to be equally impressive.

And it was.

We met on a Tuesday evening in the lobby, Emily appearing to be exactly as she described herself in the group: she was a short (about 5’1), full-figured blonde with an infectious smile. Dressed in her business clothes from the day, she gave me a rather warm hug before leading the way to the dining room. We made small talk: she asked me about my commute in from Naperville, I asked her about how she was liking Chicago so far and if she would get to do anything fun while she was in town. After we were seated, and I was reassured that I could order whatever I liked, she started discussing how, as much as she liked Chicago, she really missed her boyfriend. She then began to tell me a story that’s stuck with me for 10+yrs.

Emily was seeing a married man- who was also sick, sort of. He was slowly losing his eyesight, so in addition to the physical affair they shared, Emily also served as his nurse & caretaker- his own Clara Barton. Emily told me that caring for him was almost becoming her second full-time job. She wanted to feel bad about what she was doing, but she felt too connected to him because he needed her. She explained that despite his health, his wife didn’t realize that he still had other needs as well, and that’s where Emily came in. She discussed her frustration over the fact that he had made it clear that divorcing his wife was not an option, as she did still care for and love him when Emily wasn’t around; he couldn’t be that cruel to her. And yet, Emily couldn’t let go either. And it was driving her mad how much she actually loved everything about this man. She couldn’t wait to wrap up the trip so that she could start making plans to see him again. In an attempt to brighten the mood she talked about how, despite his failing eyesight, he was still adept at bondage and rope play and that’s one of the things that ties them together even more (pun very much intended by me).

On the whole, Emily seemed sad. But I couldn’t tell if it was because she had found the perfect man who could never 100% be hers, or if she felt defeated because she couldn’t break free from her feelings for him. She steered the conversation in a different direction afterwards, more cheerful conversation about our group, her travels, my relationship with Halbastram. The rest of the dinner went smoothly, although I never stopped thinking about everything she had told me.

After dinner she drove me up to Rogers Park to Halbastram’s apartment and gave me another warm hug, expressing how much she enjoyed meeting me and dinner and how she hopes to have better news for me when she returned to Maryland. And she drove off.

The last time I heard from Emily, she told me that her and the boyfriend were making plans to move in together, as she had finally convinced him to make their thing exclusive. She never mentioned “divorce” and I never asked. But she seemed very excited.

I never heard from her again after that. And I always wondered if it ever worked out in the end for her, in any regard: did he finally leave his wife completely and stay with Emily? did Emily finally break free from her feelings and find someone new? It’s bothered me for years that I never found closure on that story. I realize that feeling sympathy for “homewreckers” is an unpopular opinion, but Emily seemed like a genuinely nice, warm and loving person who just happened to find what she was looking for in an unavailable person.

Wherever you are, Emily, I hope you’re well. And happy.

*come on, man...you know the drill: all names changed

The No Judgement Zone

“I was pretty irresponsible back in the early MySpace days. I’m pretty sure that there are semi-nude pictures of me floating around somewhere out in cyberspace.”

“So, what was your MySpace profile name again?”

-A recent conversation with a friend
_____________________________________________

MySpace was a pretty weird place for me. I met some interesting, normal people; some regular normal people; and some interesting abby-normal people. This blog will be about someone from the latter category.

One of the many groups I belonged to was a group for Chicagoans to talk about, well, Chicago...stuff. It really had no rhyme or reason except to serve as a platform for Chicagoans (and our suburban counterparts) to argue all day, everyday. Of the people I’ve connected with from the group, I’d only physically met two. One invited Halbastram & I to his birthday party on the northside; the other was interested in my friendship because we both shared an interest in being peculiar. And he knew that I operated under a “No Judgement” rule when we hung out, so he was more than welcome to be himself 100% around me.

Paul* was a tall drink of goofy-yet handsome- nerd with adorable quirks. He was a few years older than me- maybe 10- and worked as a reporter for a local Chicago news radio station (intentionally vague as fuck, as to protect his identity). I’m going to be honest: our correspondence started out of mutual attraction. But as I had just started dating Halbastram and was still gathering the feels for him, I didn’t want to mess things up by trying to pursue something with Paul. So we just settled into a comfortable e-friendship.

A month into our virtual friendship we finally made the decision to grab dinner together. After the success of that first dinner, Paul would regularly make the drive to Naperville following his radio shift (he worked overnights, so it was always pretty early in the morning) to have breakfast with me at Denny’s. Sometimes after breakfast we’d sit in my dorm while my roommate was out and discuss the Simpsons; other times he would ask me to paint his toenails (also while my roommate was out; he wasn’t exactly comfortable with her knowing his secrets). He didn’t mind driving out to see me and then ferrying me back to the city so that I could see Halbastram. He’d share gossip with me about Chicago media figures he’d met and worked with; I’d complain about how my college experience was largely unfulfilling. When I could manage it, I’d stay up and chat with him on Yahoo Instant Messenger during his shift and listen to his reports on the radio.

He basically came as close to my ideal male best friend as I would ever get.

I wish I could remember how or why exactly our friendship ended. We spent so much time talking and hanging out that it’s hard to believe that it only lasted a few months. Somewhere along the way, as I started to get more serious about Halbastram and more involved with school groups and my coursework, we just started losing touch. He stopped coming out to visit and we stopped chatting on the interwebs. I could go the conceited route and say that perhaps he wanted more out of the friendship than I was willing to give and so he backed off. Except he knew all about Halbastram and even talked about meeting him someday. He genuinely seemed okay about our relationship and gave no indication otherwise.

Last I checked (back in 2005...yikes), he still worked for the radio station. Maybe he met a girl (or guy) who lived closer and was cooler than me? Maybe I said or did something that offended him in some way? Who knows. But it’s become clear to me that our friendship, as short lived as it was, had a profound effect on me, as the general idea became the basis of the one and only novel I have ever completed.

Wherever you are, Paul, Tiny Elvis is thinking about you & those purple toes. And there’s always a spot for you in the No Judgement Zone.

*name as been changed because obviously.

Yeah, words do hurt.

In the 7th grade I used to do a lot of charity work as part of my Catholic school’s after school club. One particular Tuesday (always on Tuesdays), we went to a church across town to help out in a soup kitchen. It was something I had done many times before with my friends and had either positive or neutral experiences with. Sometimes the people we fed were very gracious and talkative; other times they just took their food and went on their way, which was also fine. We were there to provide a humble service, not receive praise. However, this one particular Tuesday stuck out as the most negative experience I’ve ever had in my charity work, and it has followed me to this day…

So it’s after school and my friends (all girls) and I are serving food. We’re halfway done with our two-hour shift and for the most part it’s been fairly normal: some conversation, middle school girl laugh sessions, serious reflection during prayer...the usual. I’m serving food to this one guy in particular and, before he walks away, I smile at him and he responds, “wow, you’ve got terrible skin! You’re gonna hafta wear a lot of makeup when you get older!”

Two things: first, yes, I come from a family where bad skin is hereditary. My father struggled with acne, his sister (my aunt) struggled, and so on. It’s a part of my life that I was more or less blessed with. So I was well aware of my skin issues. Second, did I mention I was a middle school girl at this point? Could there be anything more damaging to a middle school girl struggling with puberty run rampant than having a grown man tell her how hideous she looks? I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. My friends, of course, told me to ignore him and somehow I managed to get through the rest of the service, while silently cursing him (inside the church no less).

If my luck with dating and my 12 year relationship with Halbastram is any indication, I’ve done fairly well in the face department (not a supermodel but not whatever gross abomination that dude thought I was going to turn into). However, like most people, I do have my self-conscious moments. Even though it took me a long time to (sort of) force that guy’s hateful assessment out of my mind, I still found myself remembering his words whenever I was having particularly bad breakouts or scarring. But I was never big on going the full-face makeup route, so I just learned to deal with it. A little mascara here, a touch of lipstick there & I’m out the door. When I’m away from a mirror, I can forget him.

Which brings me to today. I was tooling around on BuzzFeed and found an article about women who give tutorials on using makeup to cover-up bad acne and scarring. The women all suffered from bad skin problems like myself and had clearly found ways to make the best of it. I found one video in particular especially helpful, as the presenter had the same skin tone and scarring problem as myself and saved the link to watch the whole video later. And as I was writing down the products she uses and the cost (SO MUCH $$), I found myself stopping and realizing that I was wanting to do exactly what that jerkstore predicted all those years ago: I was planning on spending a mint to use no less than seven different products on my face to cover up a lifetime of acne scars. Then I started to feel self conscious again: did I really have that much of a problem with my face? No, it’s not even about that. As much as I want to try these new techniques, I am struggling with not wanting to play into his awful prediction. I could try to convince myself that I’m doing this for me and my happiness, but truthfully his words will always be in the back of my mind.

It’s upsetting that a stranger’s word have impacted my life this much, but you know what? I’ve had this face for twenty additional years since he came along. I can choose to go bare (as I’ve done for the better part of twenty years), or I can choose to go full-face glam. I’m not trying to win any beauty pageants and I’m sure as shit not trying to appease some dude from the soup kitchen. I’ll deal, whatever my choice may be. Because my life will go on, as it always has.

Bottom line: watch what the fuck you say to people, yeah? Even the most cynical of us have fucking feelings. I couldn’t say this in the 7th grade, but it feels good now: hey, fuck you guy.

(I know this probably goes against everything I ever learned about forgiveness and turn the other cheek and whatever, but, you know...hurt feelings.)

Adventures in pre-packaged underwear shopping

I get why people shop at Wal-Mart. Everyone likes to save a buck here and there and sometimes you just don’t give a shit that society mocks those who shop at certain establishments; when the money is tight, keeping up appearances is the least of your concerns. Even I used to frequent the Wal-Mart during my time in Grad School, when I was lucky if I could even afford a box of cheap pasta to feed my family. Over time, though, Target became my primary shopping destination because Target is just so wonderful. While it’s easy to point to the unfair and lackluster business practices of the Wal-Mart corporation, my beef is with a certain caliber of customer. It’s nothing to do with the way they dress or their income bracket. It’s more to do with the behavioral traits of certain shoppers. And while I get that this type of behavior isn’t limited to the Wal-Mart corporation, as I experienced it while working at Big Lots, I seem to encounter this every.freaking.time. I go into one of their stores.

Seriously, people, do you not know what size underwear you wear?

The great thing about brands such as Fruit of the Loom and Hanes is that they offer comfortable bulk undergarments on the cheap for those of us who aren’t in the market for V.S. or La Perla. The caveat to this saving is that the undergarments come pre-packaged in 3- or 5-packs, with the size indicated on the upper right hand corner. If a simple letter is too confusing for you, they also offer an explanation of the sizing on the back of the packaging. So if you know your waist size, you’re good to go. However, there is a percentage of the population out there for whom those two options are simply not enough and have worked it out in their brains that it is perfectly acceptable to just rip open an entire package of underpants, take one out, start pawing at it with their gross hands, decide that they aren't interested, stuff it back into the package they so nicely destroyed and then put it back on the shelves.

You know what? With the internet and the smart phones, there’s no excuse for anyone to not know what boyshorts, bikinis, high-waists, high-cuts or hiphuggers look like. And if you can’t decide whether Large is your size just from the wording on the packaging, taking the underwear out and holding it up to your FACE (where your ass is not located...I think…) certainly will not help. And what makes you think that ANYONE would want that pre-fondled package of underpants that you destroyed? You don’t think- and that’s the problem. And that makes it all the more difficult for people like myself, who aren't devoid of common sense, when I go shopping for underpants, because I have to carefully inspect each package to make sure it’s never been opened (because I know some of the better retailers roll them up all professional-like and stuff them back in and slap a piece of tape on the back flap and call it a day...you’re not tricking me).

Here’s a helpful tip: are you wearing underpants while shopping (PLEASE SAY YES)? Do you have the vaguest idea what size they are? Good, now GET THAT SIZE. If you’re unsure of the cut or style, they have INDIVIDUAL pairs of underpants hanging on racks less than 10 feet away. GO LOOK AT THOSE. Come on, man. I know that it’s easy to not care about something because it’s “not my store” or “they’ll make money anyway” or, the classic, “I don’t give a shit.” You know who does give a shit? Society. Don’t you want to be a member of society? Of course you do. By destroying the pre-packaged underpants and getting your cooties all over them, you’re playing right into the hands of the people who think that Wal-Mart is low rent and mock those who cross its path. Don’t be a stereotype. Cut that shit out.

Apartment Hunting: It Gets Better After the Millionth Time

Apartment hunting: it gets better after the millionth time. At least, that’s what I’m trying to trick myself into thinking. While it’s all fun and games being shown vast, luxurious spaces and imagining how your life can fit right in-where you’ll curl up with your favorite book, how you’ll wake up every Saturday morning for coffee and toast with a crossword at the kitchen island, the maroon velvet curtains you’ll put up in the second bedroom that will double as your office/writing space-the realization that you’ll have to move all of your already-acquired crap into yet another apartment suddenly makes your crummy two-bedroom, right above the neighbors you so lovingly call The Door Slammers, seem like a stay at the Waldorf Astoria. And if it were possible, you’d just as soon stay put, at least until you can save up the money to hire some burly men to do all the work for you.

But alas, we don’t get that luxury. Kansas City expects us to be settled down with full K.C. residency by the end of July and moving all of our crap is inevitable. Fortunately (for better or worse), because we haven’t even been in our current apartment for a year yet, there are still plenty of boxes that have yet to be unpacked. Although time isn’t completely to blame for our lack of unpacking- we simply don’t have the space to unpack everything. That’s just how much crap we’ve accumulated: books, comics, cds, old clothes that should have been dropped off at Goodwill years ago, etc. We’re not junky and we’re not necessarily hoarders. We just never realized how much crap we had until it was time to downsize at the start of the recession and we were forced to move out of our condo.

But back to the move. We've begun our search, which is, suffice it to say, going much better than searches in the past, as we now have the freedom to widen our prospects. There was a damn-near perfect apartment in the downtown area right across the street from the main branch of the public library. But it was without a balcony and balconies have become very important in saving my marriage, as Halbastram and I make it a point to take time out to sit and have a drink and a smoke on nice evenings and talk about whatever. Plus, every now and then the stupid cat likes to get outside and enjoy the “fresh” air, and I’m not even going to entertain the notion of leashing my lazy asshole of a cat, so that apartment is out.

Another apartment we looked at is in the middle of one of the more hip neighborhoods in K.C., with bars, restaurants, grocery stores and tattoo shops all within walking distance. After living in largely isolated places for the last five years, where I’d have to get into my car whenever I wanted a snack, this place is perfect. The only downside: because it is the “hip” part of town, there will be plenty of fresh-faced 20-somethings looking to have a good time, which works for me, except now that we’re on the road to fertility, I have to start thinking beyond my own selfish living arrangements. Not that you have to live in Boringland in order to start/raise a family, but a cramped apartment complex probably isn't the best choice, considering that we don’t even have space for our stuff, let alone another human being.

And a lazy asshole cat.

Then there’s one last apartment complex, which we’ll call Rip-Off City, that basically wants you to pay a king’s ransom in fees before you even make your first rent payment, all because it’s located near the university. And, as I've learned in five years living in two separate college towns, businesses love to rip students off any and every way they can, even if non-students get caught up in their fuckery as well- them’s the breaks. Despite the fact that it’s in a perfect location within walking distance of the art museum and the shopping district, they can bite my shiny metal ass.

As it is only February, we have a few months ahead of us before he have to make a commitment. And while it would be nice to have a cool apartment in the cool part of town across the street from the library or up the street from the hottest bar in town and a stone’s throw away from the museum, what I really want more than anything is a home that I can plant my roots in for a while, be it a house, condo or apartment. I’m looking for a final sense of stability and normalcy. And I know that I’ll find it somewhere in K.C. Eventually.

Hopefully by July, though. Because I got schedules.

My 2015

I'll keep this short and sweet (and a tad sour):

A few days before my 31st birthday I asked if turning a year older, if actually being in my 30s would feel any differently that just being 30. And I was told that it would feel different. Naturally I was skeptic; not just because I didn't believe that one year would make that much of a difference. But because I felt like I’d been the same person for a majority of my 20s, up to my 30s.

And while I didn't feel a magical difference the minute the clock struck midnight on my 31st, I have started to notice gradual changes I've made in my life since then- some important, some silly and superficial, but necessary all the same. I've cut ties, made adjustments, reevaluated my priorities, and stopped giving a shit how boring my life is compared to my contemporaries. If I spend my Friday night catching up on some historical fiction instead of clubbing or bar-hopping or running the streets, so be it. It’s exhausting trying to keep up with everyone else’s life instead of just focusing on my own. That’s not to say that I’m not interested in what people do- I still want to hear your stories and see your pictures because human connections are still important to me. But while I’m happy that you took an amazing vacation, I’m equally as happy that I made a decent attempt at teriyaki baked cod last night. Such is the nature of my life. I've slowed down a bit. And I’m ok with that.

This is the year of laying down roots: having babies, building houses, starting new careers. It’s time to get my fucking adulthood started. And I feel that now- I’m ready.