Now that I have faced the reality of my life as an unempl - I mean, a freelance writer, at least temporarily, it is now time to make some plans. My friend Lauren called me yesterday and basically brought me back to reality - time will fly if you don't get it together, and are you in or out?
She was referring to Honduras, where she is heading in January for a Spanish language immersion program . Part of my feet-dragging on a full-time job was the possibility of either going with her or doing my own venture there or in Costa Rica (I am still really itching to go to CR, so perhaps I can roll the two into one trip?).
So I'm in. Just as the thermometer hits the negatives here in Chicago, I will be heading down to tropical Honduras to perfect my shoddy Spanish skills and breathe in the exotic life of Central America. Haven't fully budgeted for it, or really signed up yet, but as GI Joe said, "Knowing is the half the battle," ... and, well, I know I want to do it.
Friday, September 30, 2005
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
people are crazy ... continued
I think I might be one of those people that welcomes strange interactions with others.
Case in point: While I was at a bar the other night, I went up the bar and was pulling out a stool when I met a woman sitting next to me. I don't remember who initiated the conversation, but she said her name was Sara, I asked if she had an 'h' at the end, and she said of course not. I laughed, and said I was also Sara without an 'h' and she screamed and said, "Yay BFF." So naturally, I was like this girl is hysterical and awesome.
Then I realized she was potentially a crazy psycho stalker or perhaps just an overeager friend. Throughout the night she kept tapping my shoulder and introducing me to all her friends. I met her roommate, her roommate's boyfriend, some other dude and that guy. At one point, I heard her holler my name from across the bar. At the end of the night, I walked outside of the bar and was standing on the sidewalk when she comes bounding out of the bar. "You're leaving? But don't you want my number? Don't you want to hang out." I don't remember how I dodged it, but somehow got away... I think it was when she said something about being unemployed and hanging out all the time that I just bailed. Yikes. (Note: One of the things I love about Chicago is how nice and outgoing people are, but seriously folks, this was a little much.)
Then, the other day Mo and I were walking down Broadway when we saw a young woman on a bike get clocked by a guy opening his Jeep door. She biffed, hit the pavement, and almost the second her Schwinn 10-speed went down did the profanities begin flying from her mouth. I am too much of a lady to repeat the things she was saying (or I just don't have the space here). Yelling at the top of her lungs, shaking her fist at the man, creating an entire scene. The man asked if she was OK (she was going maybe 0.3 miles per hour and didn't even wrinkle her pants in the fall), and kind of in shock, wandered off. She continued to scream for another few minutes, sat on the curb, still cussing. People are crazy.
Random: Today I was walking down the street with Cindy when a black SUV drove by, and the passenger rolled down his window and yelled something about me looking like Winona Ryder. Who knew?
In other news, I went to see my friend Joe's band play last night and since Mo and I got special amazing privileged all-access passes that basically meant we could do whatever we wanted and spit on people while we were doing it, we got something of a glance of the rockstar lifestyle. Besides getting to drink PBR from cans in the lunch-meat-and-sweat-smelling basement of the club, we watched the headliners from a sidestage door. The best part was looking out into crowd and seeing what they see - a massive sea of sweaty teenagers pumping their fists and singing every word. I swear one guy was crying with this they-know-my-pain look on his face. Amazing. People are crazy. (And yes, I fully understand that ten years ago, I was there.) But it's strange to me as a non-rockstar that these people who, while being amazing musicians and performers, are people. Just normal, very nice people. But from the look of the pulsating crowd, these guys were gods. What a life.
Speaking of that rockstar life, it seems massively exhausting. My friend has been on the road for months on end, working his way down a list of tour cities printed on a card on his keychain. They crash on random people's floors and drive for hours in a van. My friend Joe was married two months ago and soon after left for tour and it will be four weeks until he sees his newlywed wife again.
So it made me think about how I just don't think I could do that. I don't think I could live that life and be away from the person I love. Then I realized something. I may not perform to screaming crowds of teenagers or wonder where I am sleeping that night, but I am living away from the person I love. I understand I made my bed, but you know, they say home is where the heart is. What about if you're home is somewhere (that you chose and adore and want to be) but your heart is somewhere else, in this case half way across the damn country? I do know that it doesn't matter where you are physically... but it is massively exhausting.
Case in point: While I was at a bar the other night, I went up the bar and was pulling out a stool when I met a woman sitting next to me. I don't remember who initiated the conversation, but she said her name was Sara, I asked if she had an 'h' at the end, and she said of course not. I laughed, and said I was also Sara without an 'h' and she screamed and said, "Yay BFF." So naturally, I was like this girl is hysterical and awesome.
Then I realized she was potentially a crazy psycho stalker or perhaps just an overeager friend. Throughout the night she kept tapping my shoulder and introducing me to all her friends. I met her roommate, her roommate's boyfriend, some other dude and that guy. At one point, I heard her holler my name from across the bar. At the end of the night, I walked outside of the bar and was standing on the sidewalk when she comes bounding out of the bar. "You're leaving? But don't you want my number? Don't you want to hang out." I don't remember how I dodged it, but somehow got away... I think it was when she said something about being unemployed and hanging out all the time that I just bailed. Yikes. (Note: One of the things I love about Chicago is how nice and outgoing people are, but seriously folks, this was a little much.)
Then, the other day Mo and I were walking down Broadway when we saw a young woman on a bike get clocked by a guy opening his Jeep door. She biffed, hit the pavement, and almost the second her Schwinn 10-speed went down did the profanities begin flying from her mouth. I am too much of a lady to repeat the things she was saying (or I just don't have the space here). Yelling at the top of her lungs, shaking her fist at the man, creating an entire scene. The man asked if she was OK (she was going maybe 0.3 miles per hour and didn't even wrinkle her pants in the fall), and kind of in shock, wandered off. She continued to scream for another few minutes, sat on the curb, still cussing. People are crazy.
Random: Today I was walking down the street with Cindy when a black SUV drove by, and the passenger rolled down his window and yelled something about me looking like Winona Ryder. Who knew?
In other news, I went to see my friend Joe's band play last night and since Mo and I got special amazing privileged all-access passes that basically meant we could do whatever we wanted and spit on people while we were doing it, we got something of a glance of the rockstar lifestyle. Besides getting to drink PBR from cans in the lunch-meat-and-sweat-smelling basement of the club, we watched the headliners from a sidestage door. The best part was looking out into crowd and seeing what they see - a massive sea of sweaty teenagers pumping their fists and singing every word. I swear one guy was crying with this they-know-my-pain look on his face. Amazing. People are crazy. (And yes, I fully understand that ten years ago, I was there.) But it's strange to me as a non-rockstar that these people who, while being amazing musicians and performers, are people. Just normal, very nice people. But from the look of the pulsating crowd, these guys were gods. What a life.
Speaking of that rockstar life, it seems massively exhausting. My friend has been on the road for months on end, working his way down a list of tour cities printed on a card on his keychain. They crash on random people's floors and drive for hours in a van. My friend Joe was married two months ago and soon after left for tour and it will be four weeks until he sees his newlywed wife again.
So it made me think about how I just don't think I could do that. I don't think I could live that life and be away from the person I love. Then I realized something. I may not perform to screaming crowds of teenagers or wonder where I am sleeping that night, but I am living away from the person I love. I understand I made my bed, but you know, they say home is where the heart is. What about if you're home is somewhere (that you chose and adore and want to be) but your heart is somewhere else, in this case half way across the damn country? I do know that it doesn't matter where you are physically... but it is massively exhausting.
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
no longer unemployed
Well, before you get too excited.... it's not that I got a full time job. See, I have just decided to change my perspective and embrace the life I'm living.
From now on, I am a freelance writer.
None of this "I don't have a job" business. In fact, I have kept quite busy with work.
I have started calling the three square foot space in my tiny apartment where my desk and phone are "the office." Sometimes I pretend I have a secretary and that she just called off of work today.
The next step is getting business cards, which I fully intend to do.
A freelance writer. It's actually quite liberating.
From now on, I am a freelance writer.
None of this "I don't have a job" business. In fact, I have kept quite busy with work.
I have started calling the three square foot space in my tiny apartment where my desk and phone are "the office." Sometimes I pretend I have a secretary and that she just called off of work today.
The next step is getting business cards, which I fully intend to do.
A freelance writer. It's actually quite liberating.
Monday, September 26, 2005
a half ton
I stayed up last night watching a special on TLC about a man who weighed a half of a ton. That's more than 1,000 pounds, people. He hadn't been out of his house in seven years.
When the paramedics arrived, he was just minutes from death. He was literally suffocating himself with his fat. He couldn't roll over on his back, and if he did, he would crush his lungs under the extra weight. His skin had stretched so much that he had these pockets of tissue that had gathered and were seeping fluids onto his bedsheets. I think it was called weeping tissues.... He had blood and probably fecal matter under his finger nails.
No words can describe what he looked like and how he must have been suffering.
The doctors put him on this crash diet of 1/10 of his calories (still more than I eat in a day) to get him down to a weight that was safe enough to do a stomach-stapling surgery. After a while, he was able to roll over and sit up with help.
He was married (when he was roughly 700 pounds; the marriage was never consummated), his wife would just feed him and feed him and give him whatever he wanted. One person on the show said it was bordering on assisted suicide. She said she just didn't realize how bad it had gotten. (!!)
Well I am not really sure why I am sharing this, except that I just can't stop thinking about him. It's so sad to me that there are people like that that just can't control themselves. Allegedly they don't have some hormone or something that lets them know they are full... Combine that with today's bad eating habits and lack of exercise and you have a man who weighs a half of a ton.
When the paramedics arrived, he was just minutes from death. He was literally suffocating himself with his fat. He couldn't roll over on his back, and if he did, he would crush his lungs under the extra weight. His skin had stretched so much that he had these pockets of tissue that had gathered and were seeping fluids onto his bedsheets. I think it was called weeping tissues.... He had blood and probably fecal matter under his finger nails.
No words can describe what he looked like and how he must have been suffering.
The doctors put him on this crash diet of 1/10 of his calories (still more than I eat in a day) to get him down to a weight that was safe enough to do a stomach-stapling surgery. After a while, he was able to roll over and sit up with help.
He was married (when he was roughly 700 pounds; the marriage was never consummated), his wife would just feed him and feed him and give him whatever he wanted. One person on the show said it was bordering on assisted suicide. She said she just didn't realize how bad it had gotten. (!!)
Well I am not really sure why I am sharing this, except that I just can't stop thinking about him. It's so sad to me that there are people like that that just can't control themselves. Allegedly they don't have some hormone or something that lets them know they are full... Combine that with today's bad eating habits and lack of exercise and you have a man who weighs a half of a ton.
Sunday, September 25, 2005
a year ago
I had been living in Chicago - in an apartment alone for the first time after having shared a place with my BF and a house with four college girlfriends before that - for about a week when my oven exploded.
Exploded may be a little much. Technically, it was something of an oven blast. Call it what you will, it sent me to the hospital with third degree burns on my face.
I had just gotten home from the gym and I was cooking enchiladas. As I was sauteeing veggies in a pan on the stovetop, I preheated the oven to the bake the enchiladas for a few minutes. For the record, I hate cooking. I am bad at it, it stresses me out, and I rarely did it. When it was my turn to cook, the choices were enchiladas or ... well... that's it.
A few minutes after turning on the oven, I wasn't sure it was getting warm, and like an idiot, opened the oven door and held my face close to see if it was heating up. Upon opening the door, I was met with a massive blue fireball that whooshed out at me, directly into my face.
I half-screamed, slammed the door, and patted my face down. That's right, I f-ing had to pat my damn face down. I could smell the rancid stench of burned hair. That was part of my bangs and the tips of my eyebrows and eyelashes.
I turned off the burner and oven, threw water on my face and ran to the bathroom mirror, just in time to see a thin film of skin on my nose roll up and slide off. I put a wet towel on my face - it was beginning to hurt like hell - and proceeded to panic. I called my BF, who hundreds of miles away in New York was really helpless, and I think at one point I ran downstairs and banged on the building engineer's door.
I had no idea what to do. I was alone and hurt. Finally, I called the one friend I had in Chicago, who - thank the heavens - came over immediately and drove me about three blocks to the ER. She spent the evening there with me as my face reddened and tightened and stung. She assured me it wasn't that bad and the doctors would see me soon, and even distracted me by flirting with a ER-regular in this time for a broken wrist.
The doctor kindly told me what I knew, cleaned off the burns and gave me an antibiotic cream. It could have been so much worse, we all said, and it's true. I was immensely lucky. This was my face for chrissake, where my eyes and mouth and nose and other vital things are located. That and my dashing good looks....
Just in case, I took a bunch of pictures of the burns. Minimal, I know. In fact, I realized it wasn't the burns that were so bad, it was the recurring horror of that flame jumping from my oven directly into my face.
I suppose the gas lit and the pilot light as out. Opening a door of bottled up gas, which lit from the stove flame, sent a massive but short-lived fireball into my face. Although it was a new stove, I ordered the building engineer replace it, and after threatening to sue (I was mad the management company seemed to disregard what had happened), the company finally agreed to pay my minimal doctors bills.
A week later, the thin scabs fell from my face revealing new, pink skin. But only after days of stares and feeling ugly and uncomfortable. And as a journalist, I was surprised that none of my peers asked what happened or if I had some kind of condition. I guess the newness of school and the people overrode the curiosity of a journalist...
Today, I have no scars. My hair and eyelashes and eyebrows are back, and I even laugh about the whole incident. But about two months after it happened, I tried to bake cookies and cried the entire time. I still refuse to turn on the oven and every time I leave the apartment, I check and double check that the burners are off, even if I haven't cooked anything in days.
Exploded may be a little much. Technically, it was something of an oven blast. Call it what you will, it sent me to the hospital with third degree burns on my face.
I had just gotten home from the gym and I was cooking enchiladas. As I was sauteeing veggies in a pan on the stovetop, I preheated the oven to the bake the enchiladas for a few minutes. For the record, I hate cooking. I am bad at it, it stresses me out, and I rarely did it. When it was my turn to cook, the choices were enchiladas or ... well... that's it.
A few minutes after turning on the oven, I wasn't sure it was getting warm, and like an idiot, opened the oven door and held my face close to see if it was heating up. Upon opening the door, I was met with a massive blue fireball that whooshed out at me, directly into my face.
I half-screamed, slammed the door, and patted my face down. That's right, I f-ing had to pat my damn face down. I could smell the rancid stench of burned hair. That was part of my bangs and the tips of my eyebrows and eyelashes.
I turned off the burner and oven, threw water on my face and ran to the bathroom mirror, just in time to see a thin film of skin on my nose roll up and slide off. I put a wet towel on my face - it was beginning to hurt like hell - and proceeded to panic. I called my BF, who hundreds of miles away in New York was really helpless, and I think at one point I ran downstairs and banged on the building engineer's door.
I had no idea what to do. I was alone and hurt. Finally, I called the one friend I had in Chicago, who - thank the heavens - came over immediately and drove me about three blocks to the ER. She spent the evening there with me as my face reddened and tightened and stung. She assured me it wasn't that bad and the doctors would see me soon, and even distracted me by flirting with a ER-regular in this time for a broken wrist.
The doctor kindly told me what I knew, cleaned off the burns and gave me an antibiotic cream. It could have been so much worse, we all said, and it's true. I was immensely lucky. This was my face for chrissake, where my eyes and mouth and nose and other vital things are located. That and my dashing good looks....
Just in case, I took a bunch of pictures of the burns. Minimal, I know. In fact, I realized it wasn't the burns that were so bad, it was the recurring horror of that flame jumping from my oven directly into my face.
I suppose the gas lit and the pilot light as out. Opening a door of bottled up gas, which lit from the stove flame, sent a massive but short-lived fireball into my face. Although it was a new stove, I ordered the building engineer replace it, and after threatening to sue (I was mad the management company seemed to disregard what had happened), the company finally agreed to pay my minimal doctors bills.
A week later, the thin scabs fell from my face revealing new, pink skin. But only after days of stares and feeling ugly and uncomfortable. And as a journalist, I was surprised that none of my peers asked what happened or if I had some kind of condition. I guess the newness of school and the people overrode the curiosity of a journalist...
Today, I have no scars. My hair and eyelashes and eyebrows are back, and I even laugh about the whole incident. But about two months after it happened, I tried to bake cookies and cried the entire time. I still refuse to turn on the oven and every time I leave the apartment, I check and double check that the burners are off, even if I haven't cooked anything in days.
Saturday, September 24, 2005
we were 'those girls'
First let me say to any doubters out there, karaoke with a live band is much, much harder. There is no monitor, no speaker blaring your voice back at you, and the back-up music is loud and not exactly like what you hear when you are singing over the CD track at home.
I went to the Pontiac last night for said live band karaoke. After careful consideration about the crowd, our own singing abilities and the general mood, Mo and I selected Madonna's Borderline. Anything old Madonna is safe and always a crowd-pleaser. Many songs and many drinks later, our turn is up, and we march to the stage. Here the tragedy begins.
The bassist - who, by the way, so strangely commented that I have his eyes... what does that mean? Are we related? Is that a complement? - said they couldn't do that song, and so why (in a you-are-an-idiot-and-drunk-and-just-don't-understand-how-this-works voice) don't we just choose from the list. Um, I thought we did, dude. So I say, fine, you play whatever you want and we'll sing. We settle on Material Girl.
Meanwhile, some guy who either works there as the MC's sidekick or just loves karaoke way too much, is standing at the foot of the stage, walking us through the song, lyric by lyric. In hindsight, I am sure he was trying to be helpful, but he was just annoying and it was everything in my power not to kick him with my steel-toed cowboy boot.
Half-way through the song, we both knew we should have just jumped ship right then. It was horrid. We couldn't hear ourselves. We didn't know the words (I know there are about three words, so perhaps it was the timing that was off). We weren't cute enough to pull it off. Just drunk. And singing horribly. At one point, I look into the not-so-thrilled crowd and see a woman with her hand over her mouth making that face we have all made when faced with a karaoke tragedy. So, into the microphone I say, pointing at her, "Don't make that face! I know that face, dude! Stop it!" She promptly drops her hand and says something to the dude next to her, with a "Dang that woman is wasted and crazy!" look on her face.
Somehow, the songs finally ends and I am sure the crowd was as elated as we were. The MC takes back the mic, and says into it, "Well if they were really material girls, they would have the money to buy clothes to cover their ... "
Really? Did you just call us sluts? Allow me to pause and describe outfits. Me: short skirt, T-shirt and boots. Mo: jeans and slightly low-cut sparkley shirt. We looked dressed for church compared to some of the women there. Our reactions to the comment were vastly different. Mo blew it off and laughed. I was absolutely humiliated, insulted and fuming, made more so by the number of drinks I had had that evening.
With smoke coming from my ears, I tried - I think - to call him out on stage. He had the mic and before I knew it we were off the stage and he was introducing the next act. So instead, I just grabbed the sheet we chose the song from (to prove I am not an idiot and we HAD selected from the list), and waved in front of the face of Karaoke Cheerleader. "See! We had picked from the damn list you jerks!" He then picks up an entirely different list on the same table and shows it to me. Identical except for one thing: No Madonna. I threw the list down and yelled something to him about organizing their damn lists and not having the asshole list and the correct list.
It was certainly time to go after that.
Not only will I never do live-band karaoke again (which is a bold statement for the All-star American Karaoke Champion five years running), but I am sure I can even show my face in that bar again.
I went to the Pontiac last night for said live band karaoke. After careful consideration about the crowd, our own singing abilities and the general mood, Mo and I selected Madonna's Borderline. Anything old Madonna is safe and always a crowd-pleaser. Many songs and many drinks later, our turn is up, and we march to the stage. Here the tragedy begins.
The bassist - who, by the way, so strangely commented that I have his eyes... what does that mean? Are we related? Is that a complement? - said they couldn't do that song, and so why (in a you-are-an-idiot-and-drunk-and-just-don't-understand-how-this-works voice) don't we just choose from the list. Um, I thought we did, dude. So I say, fine, you play whatever you want and we'll sing. We settle on Material Girl.
Meanwhile, some guy who either works there as the MC's sidekick or just loves karaoke way too much, is standing at the foot of the stage, walking us through the song, lyric by lyric. In hindsight, I am sure he was trying to be helpful, but he was just annoying and it was everything in my power not to kick him with my steel-toed cowboy boot.
Half-way through the song, we both knew we should have just jumped ship right then. It was horrid. We couldn't hear ourselves. We didn't know the words (I know there are about three words, so perhaps it was the timing that was off). We weren't cute enough to pull it off. Just drunk. And singing horribly. At one point, I look into the not-so-thrilled crowd and see a woman with her hand over her mouth making that face we have all made when faced with a karaoke tragedy. So, into the microphone I say, pointing at her, "Don't make that face! I know that face, dude! Stop it!" She promptly drops her hand and says something to the dude next to her, with a "Dang that woman is wasted and crazy!" look on her face.
Somehow, the songs finally ends and I am sure the crowd was as elated as we were. The MC takes back the mic, and says into it, "Well if they were really material girls, they would have the money to buy clothes to cover their ... "
Really? Did you just call us sluts? Allow me to pause and describe outfits. Me: short skirt, T-shirt and boots. Mo: jeans and slightly low-cut sparkley shirt. We looked dressed for church compared to some of the women there. Our reactions to the comment were vastly different. Mo blew it off and laughed. I was absolutely humiliated, insulted and fuming, made more so by the number of drinks I had had that evening.
With smoke coming from my ears, I tried - I think - to call him out on stage. He had the mic and before I knew it we were off the stage and he was introducing the next act. So instead, I just grabbed the sheet we chose the song from (to prove I am not an idiot and we HAD selected from the list), and waved in front of the face of Karaoke Cheerleader. "See! We had picked from the damn list you jerks!" He then picks up an entirely different list on the same table and shows it to me. Identical except for one thing: No Madonna. I threw the list down and yelled something to him about organizing their damn lists and not having the asshole list and the correct list.
It was certainly time to go after that.
Not only will I never do live-band karaoke again (which is a bold statement for the All-star American Karaoke Champion five years running), but I am sure I can even show my face in that bar again.
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
being a grown-up is the pits
OK so I have just spent the past 20 minutes taking deep breaths and trying, oh trying, to keep it all into perspective.
You may recall in my last post I was without Internet, courtesy the not-so-bright folks at RCN, who programmed my modem for a service I did not order and then, as I found out this afternoon, signed me up for a service I did order without scheduling the technician to come. So I will spare you the boring and gorey details of being royally screwed by RCN, except to say I waited for someone to come today to hook up a phone, and they did not come. Now, I am more than 80 minutes over my cell phone limit (and being charged a lovely 40 cents per minute until Saturday), and without home phone (and with a host of interviews set up for the next couple of days).
I do realize all of this is petty and silly and probably not even worth the post on my blog. But I also have come to realize that this so-called life of luxury has some hidden fees I didn't bank on. For example, since I am working from home (the good news here is that I do have a few freelance assignments), I have tons of free quiet time to contemplate stupid matters and get worked up over situations in which I am powerless. Without worthy human distractions, the Internet and phone travails are suddenly a huge, insurmountable issue that will no doubt drain me of my last pennies, turn my hair grey and up my blood pressure. I just close my eyes and I see dollar signs whizzing past. Then I open them to look around my apartment, contemplating what I might be able to see for quick cash.
(Note: I am clearly my father's daughter here. The likely truth is more that I am not headed for the poor house just yet, it's just that I am too damn frugal and get way stressed about money.)
Now, I fully understand that I made my bed, and now I have to lie in it. This is what I chose, at least for now, when I went with LEP. But I am finding I am having to worry about making ends meet, and I haven't really tailored my lifestyle accordingly.
Then at the height of my come-apart over damn RCN, I decided to walk outside, get some fresh air and put it into perspective. I am still eating. I still have a place to sleep at night. So my cell phone bill will be a solid $100 or so more this month, and I have a whopping day-long persistent headache courtesy telecommunications, but let's just reevaluate here. Worse things have happened. My needs and even most of my wants are all taken care of.
And most of all, I have not lost my home, my family or my life to a hurricane or massive flooding. I should be thanking my lucky stars that RCN has been my biggest problem in the past couple days.
I am struggling to hold on to that zen-like, carefree, roll-with-the-punches attitude that I gained from living abroad and seem to have lost in the mess of daily American life. And I guess I am adjusting to this lifestyle that lacks outside structure, regular paychecks and constant social diversions.
You may recall in my last post I was without Internet, courtesy the not-so-bright folks at RCN, who programmed my modem for a service I did not order and then, as I found out this afternoon, signed me up for a service I did order without scheduling the technician to come. So I will spare you the boring and gorey details of being royally screwed by RCN, except to say I waited for someone to come today to hook up a phone, and they did not come. Now, I am more than 80 minutes over my cell phone limit (and being charged a lovely 40 cents per minute until Saturday), and without home phone (and with a host of interviews set up for the next couple of days).
I do realize all of this is petty and silly and probably not even worth the post on my blog. But I also have come to realize that this so-called life of luxury has some hidden fees I didn't bank on. For example, since I am working from home (the good news here is that I do have a few freelance assignments), I have tons of free quiet time to contemplate stupid matters and get worked up over situations in which I am powerless. Without worthy human distractions, the Internet and phone travails are suddenly a huge, insurmountable issue that will no doubt drain me of my last pennies, turn my hair grey and up my blood pressure. I just close my eyes and I see dollar signs whizzing past. Then I open them to look around my apartment, contemplating what I might be able to see for quick cash.
(Note: I am clearly my father's daughter here. The likely truth is more that I am not headed for the poor house just yet, it's just that I am too damn frugal and get way stressed about money.)
Now, I fully understand that I made my bed, and now I have to lie in it. This is what I chose, at least for now, when I went with LEP. But I am finding I am having to worry about making ends meet, and I haven't really tailored my lifestyle accordingly.
Then at the height of my come-apart over damn RCN, I decided to walk outside, get some fresh air and put it into perspective. I am still eating. I still have a place to sleep at night. So my cell phone bill will be a solid $100 or so more this month, and I have a whopping day-long persistent headache courtesy telecommunications, but let's just reevaluate here. Worse things have happened. My needs and even most of my wants are all taken care of.
And most of all, I have not lost my home, my family or my life to a hurricane or massive flooding. I should be thanking my lucky stars that RCN has been my biggest problem in the past couple days.
I am struggling to hold on to that zen-like, carefree, roll-with-the-punches attitude that I gained from living abroad and seem to have lost in the mess of daily American life. And I guess I am adjusting to this lifestyle that lacks outside structure, regular paychecks and constant social diversions.
Saturday, September 17, 2005
life without the Internet
[Writer's note: First, let me apologize for the heavy previous post. It's never a fun topic, but I had to write about it.... And after I posted it, I realized no one would comment on that - except k.m., thanks! - and really, what does a girl have to do to get a damn comment here?!]
Living abroad changed my perspective in many ways, made me a lot less stressed about little things and more carefree, able to roll with the punches. In the Czech Republic, telecommunications are not the country's strong suit, and getting anything done - especially the smallest, most mundane things - take ages. So I learned to let go of the high-strung, everything-must-go-my-way part of myself.
Or so I thought.
I seem to have regained that part of me, and I felt it amplified this weekend.
On Friday, I called the cable company because I found they were overcharging me. A half hour later, they agree to fix it. No big deal. Then, perhaps just coincidentally, my Internet (same company) goes out. Another 40 minutes on the line (that's precious cell phone minutes too, mind you) and they say they have to send a technician out. Monday afternoon.
So this is life without the Internet. I threw a fit, got frustrated, picked fights with a few unrelated people, stressed about how I am going to get any work done and now I am sitting in the Internet cafe trying to accept my fate.
It was just part of a comedy of errors that has been my weekend so far. Frustrated, I told my friend L on the phone that I hate being a grown-up - too much damn responsibility and logistics and worries. But she reminded me that being a grown-up is the greatest: I can lay around naked all day, drink wine in the bathtub while blaring music, have beer for breakfast and generally do what I want without getting clearance. Can't argue there.
The good news is I did get a couple freelance assignments. The bad news is I am spending money faster than I am making it. And this so-called life of leisure isn't all fun and games. As you can probably see, without other things to get me out and busy, little issues like the Internet connection, the pogo-stick-jumping sound that keeps shaking me awake before 7 a.m. and the neighbor's creepy cat that initiates staring contests with me between our windows, get me all worked up. Really, I need to keep things into perspective. And maybe actually do something else with myself - volunteer, learn to knit, paint, re-read the classics from high school (I did just pick up The Sound and the Fury from the library)... things of that nature.
And in other news, I discovered yet another amazing bar in Chicago: Carrol's. It's a county western bar complete with a live band, authentically red-necky clientele and cheap beers by the pitcher. I went there last night after the Liar's Club (always a good dance party) and the bar was packed with regulars and hipsters all dancing to covers of Sweet Home Alabama and the like.
On a more sobering note, my friend E and I met this guy there who had just returned from Iraq where he spent a year. For someone who did not grow up in a military family and has no direct ties to the war, it was sobering to say the least. At one point, he looked at us and said, "You guys have no idea." And he was right. We will never have any idea. This kid - he was 24 - spent a year in Hell where he watched friends die and, in his words, spent every minute not knowing if he was going to live or die. He said the media has been getting it all wrong (he claimed they did find some evidence of weapons of mass destruction) and that no one knows the real work they are doing, rebuilding schools and setting up water and electricity. Those stories don't make the paper, he said, and the ones that do are wrong.
I don't doubt that, and his words didn't change how I feel about this mess of a war, but it was humbling to hear him talk about it. He still supports the war, thinks we should stay and even add more troops (he would return in a heartbeat), which I am both completely baffled by and disagree with, but respect. Because we have no idea. I will never fully understand what is happening over there.
Living abroad changed my perspective in many ways, made me a lot less stressed about little things and more carefree, able to roll with the punches. In the Czech Republic, telecommunications are not the country's strong suit, and getting anything done - especially the smallest, most mundane things - take ages. So I learned to let go of the high-strung, everything-must-go-my-way part of myself.
Or so I thought.
I seem to have regained that part of me, and I felt it amplified this weekend.
On Friday, I called the cable company because I found they were overcharging me. A half hour later, they agree to fix it. No big deal. Then, perhaps just coincidentally, my Internet (same company) goes out. Another 40 minutes on the line (that's precious cell phone minutes too, mind you) and they say they have to send a technician out. Monday afternoon.
So this is life without the Internet. I threw a fit, got frustrated, picked fights with a few unrelated people, stressed about how I am going to get any work done and now I am sitting in the Internet cafe trying to accept my fate.
It was just part of a comedy of errors that has been my weekend so far. Frustrated, I told my friend L on the phone that I hate being a grown-up - too much damn responsibility and logistics and worries. But she reminded me that being a grown-up is the greatest: I can lay around naked all day, drink wine in the bathtub while blaring music, have beer for breakfast and generally do what I want without getting clearance. Can't argue there.
The good news is I did get a couple freelance assignments. The bad news is I am spending money faster than I am making it. And this so-called life of leisure isn't all fun and games. As you can probably see, without other things to get me out and busy, little issues like the Internet connection, the pogo-stick-jumping sound that keeps shaking me awake before 7 a.m. and the neighbor's creepy cat that initiates staring contests with me between our windows, get me all worked up. Really, I need to keep things into perspective. And maybe actually do something else with myself - volunteer, learn to knit, paint, re-read the classics from high school (I did just pick up The Sound and the Fury from the library)... things of that nature.
And in other news, I discovered yet another amazing bar in Chicago: Carrol's. It's a county western bar complete with a live band, authentically red-necky clientele and cheap beers by the pitcher. I went there last night after the Liar's Club (always a good dance party) and the bar was packed with regulars and hipsters all dancing to covers of Sweet Home Alabama and the like.
On a more sobering note, my friend E and I met this guy there who had just returned from Iraq where he spent a year. For someone who did not grow up in a military family and has no direct ties to the war, it was sobering to say the least. At one point, he looked at us and said, "You guys have no idea." And he was right. We will never have any idea. This kid - he was 24 - spent a year in Hell where he watched friends die and, in his words, spent every minute not knowing if he was going to live or die. He said the media has been getting it all wrong (he claimed they did find some evidence of weapons of mass destruction) and that no one knows the real work they are doing, rebuilding schools and setting up water and electricity. Those stories don't make the paper, he said, and the ones that do are wrong.
I don't doubt that, and his words didn't change how I feel about this mess of a war, but it was humbling to hear him talk about it. He still supports the war, thinks we should stay and even add more troops (he would return in a heartbeat), which I am both completely baffled by and disagree with, but respect. Because we have no idea. I will never fully understand what is happening over there.
Thursday, September 15, 2005
caution: this one is (more) personal
The October issue of Vanity Fair (the one with the hot picture of Paris Hilton on the cover) has a memoir by writer Marjorie Williams who battled liver cancer for more than three years. She died at 47, with two young children, 12 and 9.
Williams recounts the symptoms that brought her to the doctor, the diagnosis, the range of concern, callous, fear and gloom from doctors and nurses, the unyielding support of her husband - who she said took care of the living part while she focused on preparing to die, and her own fight with and acceptance of this disease.
As someone who lost her own mother to cancer when I was 11 and she only about 40, Williams' words offered a glimpse into some of the thoughts I imagine my mother having when she was sick. And some of the questions Williams asks have come from my own lips at times. The story also made me think of one of my best friends who recently lost her mother to cancer, and the all-too-many young people I have met who have suffered similar fates.
Williams writes of her "lesser fears" of what will happen after she dies:
"That no one will ever really brush [my daughter]'s fine, long hair all the way through.... That no one will ever put up the curtains in my dining room, the way I've been meaning to for the last three years."
And the deeper ones, which rang so true for me:
"Who will talk to my darling girl when she gets her period? Will my son sustain that sweet enthusiasm he seems to beam most often at me? There are days I can't look at them - literally not a single time - without wondering what it will do to them to grow up without a mother. What if they can't remember what I was like? What if they remember, and grieve, all the time? What if they don't?"
And a passage that really brought my mother's face to my mind:
"But from almost the first instant, my terror and grief were tinged with an odd relief. I was so lucky, I thought, that this was happening to me as late as 43, not in my 30s or my 20s. If I died soon there would be some things I'd regret not having done, and I would feel fathomless anguish at leaving my children so young. But I had a powerful sense that, for my own part, I had had every chance to flourish. I had a loving marriage. I'd known the sweet, rock-breaking, irreplaceable labor of parenthood, and would leave two marvelous being in my place. I had known rapture, adventure, and rest."
Anyway, the story is poignant and well-written and heart-wrenching, and would likely be so for anyone who has suffered loss. I think today of my mother, who, from what I know, did get to live a full life as a mother, wife, poet, best friend, "bull in a china shop." And though not a day goes by without me wishing she were still alive, I take comfort in knowing that I have become what she taught me to be, and that she is indeed all around me.
Williams recounts the symptoms that brought her to the doctor, the diagnosis, the range of concern, callous, fear and gloom from doctors and nurses, the unyielding support of her husband - who she said took care of the living part while she focused on preparing to die, and her own fight with and acceptance of this disease.
As someone who lost her own mother to cancer when I was 11 and she only about 40, Williams' words offered a glimpse into some of the thoughts I imagine my mother having when she was sick. And some of the questions Williams asks have come from my own lips at times. The story also made me think of one of my best friends who recently lost her mother to cancer, and the all-too-many young people I have met who have suffered similar fates.
Williams writes of her "lesser fears" of what will happen after she dies:
"That no one will ever really brush [my daughter]'s fine, long hair all the way through.... That no one will ever put up the curtains in my dining room, the way I've been meaning to for the last three years."
And the deeper ones, which rang so true for me:
"Who will talk to my darling girl when she gets her period? Will my son sustain that sweet enthusiasm he seems to beam most often at me? There are days I can't look at them - literally not a single time - without wondering what it will do to them to grow up without a mother. What if they can't remember what I was like? What if they remember, and grieve, all the time? What if they don't?"
And a passage that really brought my mother's face to my mind:
"But from almost the first instant, my terror and grief were tinged with an odd relief. I was so lucky, I thought, that this was happening to me as late as 43, not in my 30s or my 20s. If I died soon there would be some things I'd regret not having done, and I would feel fathomless anguish at leaving my children so young. But I had a powerful sense that, for my own part, I had had every chance to flourish. I had a loving marriage. I'd known the sweet, rock-breaking, irreplaceable labor of parenthood, and would leave two marvelous being in my place. I had known rapture, adventure, and rest."
Anyway, the story is poignant and well-written and heart-wrenching, and would likely be so for anyone who has suffered loss. I think today of my mother, who, from what I know, did get to live a full life as a mother, wife, poet, best friend, "bull in a china shop." And though not a day goes by without me wishing she were still alive, I take comfort in knowing that I have become what she taught me to be, and that she is indeed all around me.
Monday, September 12, 2005
Monday
7 a.m. - Woke up to some random loud-ass jackhammer construction sound in my apartment building. No worries. Turned on Today's show and brewed some coffee.
9 - 10:30 a.m. - Tooled around on the Internet sending emails, reading friends' blogs and looking for freelance gigs.
10:30 a.m. - Wandered aimlessly to TJMaxx until got a call from Kirsten summoning me to the beach.
1 p.m. - Went to the beach, stopping at the lakeside restaurant for the strongest margarita ever (c'mon it was after noon!) and a non-booze-absorbing salad.
2 - 4 p.m. - Laid around at beach. Nap interrupted by Chicago Fire Department and police action and a crowd rushing over to the rocky ledge. Rumors circulate about a man lying face down or maybe he was naked or maybe he jumped. Started feeling really bad. Couldn't find any information on the incident later.
4:30 - 6:30 p.m. - Sat outside at a tavern near Kirsten's drinking The Coldest Beer(s) in Chicago. Nice.
Tomorrow, I find freelance work. I swear. Oh and health insurance, too.
Clearly, I have chosen LEP [Life Experiences Plan], version I or II - that decision is for a later time. Had editor/mentor/friend Ron email me this advice "go with your heart" (Shit, Ron if it were that clear, I wouldn't be panicking!) But he was encouraging about taking my time and said 6 months or so won't hurt. He also said to keep my mind open in the mean time and not to close any doors. So, it's settled.
9 - 10:30 a.m. - Tooled around on the Internet sending emails, reading friends' blogs and looking for freelance gigs.
10:30 a.m. - Wandered aimlessly to TJMaxx until got a call from Kirsten summoning me to the beach.
1 p.m. - Went to the beach, stopping at the lakeside restaurant for the strongest margarita ever (c'mon it was after noon!) and a non-booze-absorbing salad.
2 - 4 p.m. - Laid around at beach. Nap interrupted by Chicago Fire Department and police action and a crowd rushing over to the rocky ledge. Rumors circulate about a man lying face down or maybe he was naked or maybe he jumped. Started feeling really bad. Couldn't find any information on the incident later.
4:30 - 6:30 p.m. - Sat outside at a tavern near Kirsten's drinking The Coldest Beer(s) in Chicago. Nice.
Tomorrow, I find freelance work. I swear. Oh and health insurance, too.
Clearly, I have chosen LEP [Life Experiences Plan], version I or II - that decision is for a later time. Had editor/mentor/friend Ron email me this advice "go with your heart" (Shit, Ron if it were that clear, I wouldn't be panicking!) But he was encouraging about taking my time and said 6 months or so won't hurt. He also said to keep my mind open in the mean time and not to close any doors. So, it's settled.
just another night at the Roller Derby
I attended my first Roller Derby last night.
Picture two teams of mean, tattooed, punk girls with names like Dee Stroya, Sharon Needles and Juanna Rumble skating around a circle, pushing, elbowing and body-slamming each other. I first thought it resembled WWF wrestling with the exaggerated personas and staged violence, until I saw one skater drag another down by reaching up and grabbing her skate - then throwing a punch at her when she was down. I realized these women are tough, a little scary, and certainly having a blast.
The rules are easy enough for a newcomer (myself) to follow and get into. The whistle blows, and the pack of skaters begins slowly moving around the track. A second whistle blows and a skater from each team, known as the jammers, then take off, skating - or trying to skate - through the pack once; then on the second time around they get a point for each opposing skater they pass. Throw in some pushing, blocking, and lots of falls and slides and you've got Roller Derby. Last night there were two games, with four teams total on the Windy City Rollers league.
I was hooked. The undefeated Hells Belles barely held on to their title against the Manic Attackers in a neck-and-neck action-packed game, and the Fury took a severe beating from the Double Crossers.
It drew a huge crowd at the Congress Theater, with people drinking beer from cans, holding "Manic Attackers" signs and yelling things like "Get a body bag" when a girl would go down. There were relay games for audience members to win prizes at half time, a long table of judges for the game and even an announcer dressed in a dark suit. And of course, a team of medics waiting on the sidelines.
Talking to a bartender at a bar later that night, he said he knows some of these women, and they are teachers and cocktail waitresses and normal women with a kick-ass hobby. And looking into it today, I found there are dozens of leagues all over the country, each complete with clever mean-girl personas and sexy derby uniforms.
In Chicago, they play the second Sunday of each month, and the championships are in November. I think I'm rooting for the Hells Belles.
Picture two teams of mean, tattooed, punk girls with names like Dee Stroya, Sharon Needles and Juanna Rumble skating around a circle, pushing, elbowing and body-slamming each other. I first thought it resembled WWF wrestling with the exaggerated personas and staged violence, until I saw one skater drag another down by reaching up and grabbing her skate - then throwing a punch at her when she was down. I realized these women are tough, a little scary, and certainly having a blast.
The rules are easy enough for a newcomer (myself) to follow and get into. The whistle blows, and the pack of skaters begins slowly moving around the track. A second whistle blows and a skater from each team, known as the jammers, then take off, skating - or trying to skate - through the pack once; then on the second time around they get a point for each opposing skater they pass. Throw in some pushing, blocking, and lots of falls and slides and you've got Roller Derby. Last night there were two games, with four teams total on the Windy City Rollers league.
I was hooked. The undefeated Hells Belles barely held on to their title against the Manic Attackers in a neck-and-neck action-packed game, and the Fury took a severe beating from the Double Crossers.
It drew a huge crowd at the Congress Theater, with people drinking beer from cans, holding "Manic Attackers" signs and yelling things like "Get a body bag" when a girl would go down. There were relay games for audience members to win prizes at half time, a long table of judges for the game and even an announcer dressed in a dark suit. And of course, a team of medics waiting on the sidelines.
Talking to a bartender at a bar later that night, he said he knows some of these women, and they are teachers and cocktail waitresses and normal women with a kick-ass hobby. And looking into it today, I found there are dozens of leagues all over the country, each complete with clever mean-girl personas and sexy derby uniforms.
In Chicago, they play the second Sunday of each month, and the championships are in November. I think I'm rooting for the Hells Belles.
Friday, September 09, 2005
a woman of leisure
Without a job or any substantial plans for the near future, I am certainly living the life of leisure. This morning I woke up, read for a couple hours, had some cereal, went to a spinning class.... I am contemplating a nap.
So, I have given myself until Monday to make a plan. Without a deadline, I fear that I will become all too comfortable with this lifestyle. And for those who know me, making decisions is not my forte.
Here are the potential plans on the table, in no particular order: (For those that actually read my blog, I welcome votes, amendments and suggestions.)
1. The Responsible Plan -- Come Monday morning, I will hit the pavement in search of a steady newspaper job anywhere in the country, complete with health insurance and 401 K. I would then get said job and move, hopefully soon.
2. The Life Experiences Plan (a.k.a. the Delayed Responsibility Plan) -- Here I would stay in lovely Chicago for a couple months, freelance writing as much as possible and generally having fun. Then in, say, November, I would jet-set off to Costa Rica for a Spanish immersion program for a month. RP would likely follow, as a job is inevitable, and this plan is also contingent on my finances and how much freelancing will keep me afloat. I would also have to suck it up and get health insurance.
3. The Life Experiences Plan II -- This is a version of the previous plan, but the delay would be longer, and the Central American excursion would be in January so I could accompany a friend there. This would mean more freelancing, and then eventually revisiting RP. Also to take into account is the fact that when I return, though I will be freshly fluent in Spanish, student loans will be knocking on my door.
So, I have given myself until Monday to make a plan. Without a deadline, I fear that I will become all too comfortable with this lifestyle. And for those who know me, making decisions is not my forte.
Here are the potential plans on the table, in no particular order: (For those that actually read my blog, I welcome votes, amendments and suggestions.)
1. The Responsible Plan -- Come Monday morning, I will hit the pavement in search of a steady newspaper job anywhere in the country, complete with health insurance and 401 K. I would then get said job and move, hopefully soon.
2. The Life Experiences Plan (a.k.a. the Delayed Responsibility Plan) -- Here I would stay in lovely Chicago for a couple months, freelance writing as much as possible and generally having fun. Then in, say, November, I would jet-set off to Costa Rica for a Spanish immersion program for a month. RP would likely follow, as a job is inevitable, and this plan is also contingent on my finances and how much freelancing will keep me afloat. I would also have to suck it up and get health insurance.
3. The Life Experiences Plan II -- This is a version of the previous plan, but the delay would be longer, and the Central American excursion would be in January so I could accompany a friend there. This would mean more freelancing, and then eventually revisiting RP. Also to take into account is the fact that when I return, though I will be freshly fluent in Spanish, student loans will be knocking on my door.
Thursday, September 08, 2005
a few pictures to keep you interested
I appreciate that I tend to be a little text-heavy on the ol' blog (scroll down 'cause there are two brand-spankin' new entries after this one), so here are a couple pictures from last weekend. I spent it in NYC, celebrating my birthday with some college buddies.
This is Ash and I sipping our lychee martinis. Yum.
Spontaneous dance party in the bar with random wasted friend-of-a-friend.
And finally this is Ashley after she crushed a ladybug with her glass of screwdriver. The next one is of her cheering after she saw that tough bug come back to life and crawl again.
This is Ash and I sipping our lychee martinis. Yum.
Spontaneous dance party in the bar with random wasted friend-of-a-friend.
And finally this is Ashley after she crushed a ladybug with her glass of screwdriver. The next one is of her cheering after she saw that tough bug come back to life and crawl again.
another end of another era
At the end of August, I finished grad school. Dang. The year flew by, and now I have moved again and am jobless, left to blog a lot and reflect on what I chose to do for the last year.
Was it worth it?
I met with a financial aid person this morning to find out just how much I will be writing a check for each month for the next ten years. It hurts a little. So financially, I can't yet answer the question of whether it was worth it.
Professionally, that will be tough too, as I don't yet have a sweet job to show for it. But I do know that I got to report on things that would have likely taken me years to do and I got great clips. In Chicago, I wrote about women's issues (yawn, I know, but I reached out into minority and health issues) and telecom (c'mon, wake up, it wasn't that boring... In fact, I got a strong background for business writing should I decide to do that one day.)
Then onto Prague. There, I struggled personally and professionally, trying to fit into a city where I didn't speak the language and didn't fully understand the intricacies of the culture. I went to interviews where my source claimed to speak English and then couldn't understand any of my questions. I covered stories with sources that were skeptical of the press and wanted to guide me on how to do the story. Everything that would take a day in the States took three. But I learned aggressiveness and bravery and determination I am not sure I would have gotten staying the States. I forced myself to explore, take day trips, order meat from the clerk at the grocery store, and call people for stories not know just what I would hear on the other end.
Spending the summer in DC turned out to be the perfect capstone to the year. I covered some really neat stories - rural broadband, rising obesity rates, CAFTA, a pork-filled transportation bill - with some interesting sources - of note was Twinkle Cavinaugh, the state GOP chair. I landed several front page stories, and successfully covered Capitol Hill for my Alabama audience.
I also made some good friends along the way at Medill. Although I often felt like much of an outsider, not quite fully in the loop, I feel lucky to have spent the time with these folks. (Granted, there were a couple folks that I wanted to punch in the face on a regular basis, but you can't get along with everyone, right?) However, answering whether it was worth it personally is perhaps the hardest question (knowing full well, though, that going back to school wasn't intended to be a social adventure but an academic one). Medill felt like high school. At Medill High there is peer pressure, gossip, hook-ups, competition and a lot of who-am-I, what-do-I-want-with-my-life questions. I got caught up in a lot of that, losing sight of myself in many ways, which I had worked so hard for coming out of real high school ten years ago. Toward the end and even a little now, I find that my mind is all over the place, I don't feel as comfortable in my own skin or as sure of the decisions I am making. The uncertainties filtered into my life outside of Medill, leading to even more confusion and angst.
Even just a few days after leaving Medill, my head began to feel clearer and I am beginning to put it all into perspective.
Things I have to remember: I am the only one who can make me happy, and what works for some won't necessarily work for me. People will always judge you, your career, your writing and even your look, but you have to be comfortable with who you are and make choices for you, not them.
I guess that is a roundabout explanation, and I don't think I have really answered the question. I do know that I do not regret going back to school and I learned so much and grew so much personally and professionally. I am sad it's over, a little sad to know I may never see some of these folks again in my life, and very anxious about my next step.
I ripped this photo from a fellow Medillian's blog. (Frosty) It's a good one, and shows a handful of the folks who shared the blood, sweat and tears - or maybe beer, sweat and tears? just beer? - of Medill. (And a shout out to the ladies of The Island, pictured here, one of whom just joined the world of blogging with her own)
Was it worth it?
I met with a financial aid person this morning to find out just how much I will be writing a check for each month for the next ten years. It hurts a little. So financially, I can't yet answer the question of whether it was worth it.
Professionally, that will be tough too, as I don't yet have a sweet job to show for it. But I do know that I got to report on things that would have likely taken me years to do and I got great clips. In Chicago, I wrote about women's issues (yawn, I know, but I reached out into minority and health issues) and telecom (c'mon, wake up, it wasn't that boring... In fact, I got a strong background for business writing should I decide to do that one day.)
Then onto Prague. There, I struggled personally and professionally, trying to fit into a city where I didn't speak the language and didn't fully understand the intricacies of the culture. I went to interviews where my source claimed to speak English and then couldn't understand any of my questions. I covered stories with sources that were skeptical of the press and wanted to guide me on how to do the story. Everything that would take a day in the States took three. But I learned aggressiveness and bravery and determination I am not sure I would have gotten staying the States. I forced myself to explore, take day trips, order meat from the clerk at the grocery store, and call people for stories not know just what I would hear on the other end.
Spending the summer in DC turned out to be the perfect capstone to the year. I covered some really neat stories - rural broadband, rising obesity rates, CAFTA, a pork-filled transportation bill - with some interesting sources - of note was Twinkle Cavinaugh, the state GOP chair. I landed several front page stories, and successfully covered Capitol Hill for my Alabama audience.
I also made some good friends along the way at Medill. Although I often felt like much of an outsider, not quite fully in the loop, I feel lucky to have spent the time with these folks. (Granted, there were a couple folks that I wanted to punch in the face on a regular basis, but you can't get along with everyone, right?) However, answering whether it was worth it personally is perhaps the hardest question (knowing full well, though, that going back to school wasn't intended to be a social adventure but an academic one). Medill felt like high school. At Medill High there is peer pressure, gossip, hook-ups, competition and a lot of who-am-I, what-do-I-want-with-my-life questions. I got caught up in a lot of that, losing sight of myself in many ways, which I had worked so hard for coming out of real high school ten years ago. Toward the end and even a little now, I find that my mind is all over the place, I don't feel as comfortable in my own skin or as sure of the decisions I am making. The uncertainties filtered into my life outside of Medill, leading to even more confusion and angst.
Even just a few days after leaving Medill, my head began to feel clearer and I am beginning to put it all into perspective.
Things I have to remember: I am the only one who can make me happy, and what works for some won't necessarily work for me. People will always judge you, your career, your writing and even your look, but you have to be comfortable with who you are and make choices for you, not them.
I guess that is a roundabout explanation, and I don't think I have really answered the question. I do know that I do not regret going back to school and I learned so much and grew so much personally and professionally. I am sad it's over, a little sad to know I may never see some of these folks again in my life, and very anxious about my next step.
I ripped this photo from a fellow Medillian's blog. (Frosty) It's a good one, and shows a handful of the folks who shared the blood, sweat and tears - or maybe beer, sweat and tears? just beer? - of Medill. (And a shout out to the ladies of The Island, pictured here, one of whom just joined the world of blogging with her own)
a word on New Orleans
It's been a while since I have written, and so much has happened, I do not know where to begin. But I don't feel right writing anything about myself without a slice of my thoughts on New Orleans.
I am so angry, sad and frustrated about the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, and these feelings well up when I see the images on the television, read the horror stories and open debate with anyone willing to bat the issues around.
Here are some of my thoughts, disjointed as they may be.
This shouldn't have happened. This many people shouldn't have been left behind, overlooked, unaccounted for when the storm hit and when the flooding began days later. I understand there will be plenty of time to see what went wrong, but my guess is so many things were wrong on so many levels.
The state government didn't do enough to make sure these people had the means to evacuate. There was not a strong plan in place - which, by the way, is inexcusable this long after Sept. 11 and in a city that pretty much knew this was going to happen eventually.
That said, I do appreciate that you don't build for the worst case scenario. You build (you being the Army Corps of Engineers in this case) for probable scenarios. Money doesn't permit us to prepare for the worst, and the worst will change the second a disaster happens. So they knew the levees were likely not up for handling a storm like this. But here is where there should have been some plan, some way to deal with the possibility of such a disaster.
Then, the feds took their time getting down there to rescue people. Why? Perhaps because the National Guard are halfway across the world fighting George Bush's absurd war in Iraq. Perhaps because the people were those that we as a country have so readily ignored anyway - poor and black.
There is no escaping that this is a class story. The people who could not get out, and perhaps that did not want to leave behind the homes they have lived in all their lives with the possessions they worked so hard to get, were at the bottom of the economic ladder. They didn't have the gassed up SUV in the driveway ready to pack and cruise up to relatives' houses farther North. They couldn't leave and many didn't want to.
But in America, it's rarely a class issue without being a race issue. Who knows whether the feds would have responded quicker if the Superdome had been packed with white people. The fact is it wasn't. In a city that is mostly black, and the blacks are mostly poor, the reality was they were the ones who were trapped and dying. And our federal government were the ones slow to help.
Here are just a few things that make my blood boil and bring tears to my eyes with this story:
- Barbara Bush's comment that many of the people sheltered at the Houston Astrodome were poor folks who had nothing before and are better off here than there.
- Michael Brown as the head of FEMA. Who the fuck thought for a second that he was qualified for the job with a resume that recently had him heading some Arabian Horse association? Oh, right, Bush did. Because he was a friend of a friend, no doubt.
- Bush failing to visit the Superdome on his first visit there. He has no idea the devastation. The day after Sept. 11, he was standing on a mound at Ground Zero. Where is he when there is a greater loss of life and land but there isn't an enemy to shake his fist at?
- The thought that an entire city was destroyed; entire communities that were built around this city with a social fabric stretching decades are now dispersed across the country, never to be reconnected in the same way again.
I know all these thoughts aren't new. We have been yelling and crying over it for more than a week. I just wanted to give my two cents. As someone who grew up in Alabama, the poor black South was indirectly an influencing piece of my childhood and a part of me now that I find myself feeling strong connections to.
I am so angry, sad and frustrated about the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, and these feelings well up when I see the images on the television, read the horror stories and open debate with anyone willing to bat the issues around.
Here are some of my thoughts, disjointed as they may be.
This shouldn't have happened. This many people shouldn't have been left behind, overlooked, unaccounted for when the storm hit and when the flooding began days later. I understand there will be plenty of time to see what went wrong, but my guess is so many things were wrong on so many levels.
The state government didn't do enough to make sure these people had the means to evacuate. There was not a strong plan in place - which, by the way, is inexcusable this long after Sept. 11 and in a city that pretty much knew this was going to happen eventually.
That said, I do appreciate that you don't build for the worst case scenario. You build (you being the Army Corps of Engineers in this case) for probable scenarios. Money doesn't permit us to prepare for the worst, and the worst will change the second a disaster happens. So they knew the levees were likely not up for handling a storm like this. But here is where there should have been some plan, some way to deal with the possibility of such a disaster.
Then, the feds took their time getting down there to rescue people. Why? Perhaps because the National Guard are halfway across the world fighting George Bush's absurd war in Iraq. Perhaps because the people were those that we as a country have so readily ignored anyway - poor and black.
There is no escaping that this is a class story. The people who could not get out, and perhaps that did not want to leave behind the homes they have lived in all their lives with the possessions they worked so hard to get, were at the bottom of the economic ladder. They didn't have the gassed up SUV in the driveway ready to pack and cruise up to relatives' houses farther North. They couldn't leave and many didn't want to.
But in America, it's rarely a class issue without being a race issue. Who knows whether the feds would have responded quicker if the Superdome had been packed with white people. The fact is it wasn't. In a city that is mostly black, and the blacks are mostly poor, the reality was they were the ones who were trapped and dying. And our federal government were the ones slow to help.
Here are just a few things that make my blood boil and bring tears to my eyes with this story:
- Barbara Bush's comment that many of the people sheltered at the Houston Astrodome were poor folks who had nothing before and are better off here than there.
- Michael Brown as the head of FEMA. Who the fuck thought for a second that he was qualified for the job with a resume that recently had him heading some Arabian Horse association? Oh, right, Bush did. Because he was a friend of a friend, no doubt.
- Bush failing to visit the Superdome on his first visit there. He has no idea the devastation. The day after Sept. 11, he was standing on a mound at Ground Zero. Where is he when there is a greater loss of life and land but there isn't an enemy to shake his fist at?
- The thought that an entire city was destroyed; entire communities that were built around this city with a social fabric stretching decades are now dispersed across the country, never to be reconnected in the same way again.
I know all these thoughts aren't new. We have been yelling and crying over it for more than a week. I just wanted to give my two cents. As someone who grew up in Alabama, the poor black South was indirectly an influencing piece of my childhood and a part of me now that I find myself feeling strong connections to.
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