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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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)

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.

real life You Got Served

Well kind of. There were no dueling dance crews - one white, one black - but at times I did feel like I was in a movie this weekend.

My best friends from home and I went to Memphis for the weekend. One of our long-time girlfriends was getting married on a riverboat on the Mississippi River, which is probably one of the greatest ideas ever. Despite the excruciating heat and the initial feeling of seasickness as the giant Memphis Queen III left the dock, the entire party - from the vows on the bow of the boat to the R&B goodness of the band - was a blast. Sure, parts of it were a logistical mess, such as us being told about two hours before the event that they had not planned for a cake cutter or plates (which they of course had but we managed to borrow a foot-long knife from the Marriott for the evening), not being able to actually hear the vows being exchanged without a mic and the bride's sister walking up to the top deck late after not being alerted that the ceremony was in fact starting. Hey it happens, but all in all, it was a stellar crowd enjoying every minute of the night.

But I digress. The boat docked about 10-ish, at which point my girlfriends and I promptly, and drunkly, chucked every last flower we had labored all day cutting, wiring and arranging in vases. We downed the last drop of our gin and tonics, loaded the car with the vases and left over cake and headed for the dance club, Plush, on Beale Street.

We walk in - all still dressed to the nines - and the two men were frisked for weapons and related contraband. I'm not sure if that made me feel good or kind of scared. Either way, we got in and ordered a few drinks and then unabashedly hit the dance floor. I quickly realized we were the only white (and multi-racial) folks in the crowd, and having had a not-so-welcoming experience in an all-black club in Birmingham, I was a little skeptical. (Picture three ladies walking on to the dance floor at Platinum, promptly clearing the place out. I'm saying people slap walked off the dance floor, with ladies throwing us eat-shit-and-die looks. Some of the men, however, loved the White Girls and bought us Long Island ice teas in massive mason jars.)

But we certainly weren't too worried about the reaction, as we danced pretty much all night. You know it's good if you get there when it's not too full and leave after the floor clears out. Well, there were a few guys there that seemed to be part of a dance crew of sorts and every once in a while they would break into these routines. It was unlike anything I have ever seen, except of course on You Got Served (act like you have never seen that movie) without the acrobatics. But these guys were so good, and crowds would gather around them.

At one point, the song Set It Off came on - a personal favorite - and I was all excited and went to dance again. Then I realized everyone was doing the same dance. Pretty much everyone in the club was moving the same way, something like the electric slide but without all the dumb hopping and cha-cha-cha. It was a sea of people, moving, and smiling and having a damn good time. Only, the white girl didn't the memo and was left standing on the sidelines wide-eyed.

Other highlights of the night include: drinking Remy Martin after some of the groom's friends bought a bottle from the bar; being filmed for some show on BET - the camera crew was taping people dancing and had a friend of mine and I say some shit like "You're watching what you're watching" or "What's on is what's you're watching" or something. There were also these two girls dancing in another area behind the bar, and they were so good we went right up to them and started dancing with them. I have literally never seen an ass do that before. I complemented her, and she said "as long as you're on beat, girl." Easier said than done, friend. So my girl bought them some tequila sunrises and we quickly departed when the women next to them rudely said "excuse me," making it apparent we were not welcome near them. That's fine. Oh and there were the gentlemen that wanted to "holla at us." One told my girl he wanted to "scratch her scalp," whatever that's supposed to mean.

The night ended back at the Comfort in where A and I found ourselves trying, with the help of the guy behind the hotel front desk, to pry into a bottle of Cabernet. He jammed a three-inch screw into the cork and struggled it out with a pair of pliers. After about 45 minutes, he was proud at the success of his project, and we were too drunk and tired to drink the wine.

my best dean face

So my dad is in this funny portrait in the School of Public Health. I think it was for an anniversary for the school and they got all the past deans and him, the current dean, together to sit for this absurd and stodgy painting, which I know just makes him gag.

(This is academia, remember, where people call him Dean So-and-so and when I come around they say, Oh you must me Dean So-and-so's daughter. My dad just humbly wants to be treated like a human and called by his first name.)

So since one of my girlfriends works a few floors up, she recently took me to the conference room where this masterpiece hangs. Of course Pops would never show this off. After giggling hysterically and being generally incredulous that this is my dad, we thought it fitting to take a picture of me alongside the serious-looking academics. (Truth be told, I am unspeakably proud of him.)

This, friends, is my best dean face.

batten the hatches, Chicago

I am coming back.

Just rented a place - right across the street from my old studio. Because I am crazed and all amess due to my last-minute plans to come to DC and then my inability to decide where I want to be next, I gave up my apartment in Chicago. But luckily, I got a place nearby and can move in a couple weeks.

Even if it's for a couple months, I am so excited about returning to Chicago.

One less thing to wake me up at night.

girl crushes

A story today in the NYT prompted this post. More on my thoughts on the story later.

It happens. As a straight woman in her mid-20s I have certainly had what some call a girl crush on other women I meet. And although I sounds like a sexual thing, or a romantic love thing, it's just the excitement of meeting a new woman who is cool, funny, smart, and sometimes kind of hot.

The first time I heard the term, I was standing in the bathroom line in a bar in my hometown a couple years ago. I had met this girl who was the girlfriend of a high school friend. I remember she seemed very nice and was wearing really cute, black, pointy shoes. We chatted a little, drunkenly complemented each other on our clothes and shoes, and she said she had girl crush on me. It was super flattering and not creepy at all. I took it to mean she thought I was cute and funny and a good potential friend (although I can't say I have seen her since).

Since then I have recognized a few times when I will meet a woman, get to know her a little, and become - to use a word in the NYT article - smitten. Not in an obsessive way, or as I said before, a sexual way. It's just that there is a connection, and I really enjoy spending time with her. And as I have gotten older, those connections are a little more frequent - though most women then turn catty or competitive or a little nuts, but that's a post for another day - and stronger.

I think the article is a little misleading. The writer ledes with a scene in a bar with one woman attracted to a dark-haired dancing beauty. Right there, it makes the crush thing sound sexual. And it's not about being physically attracted - in fact, it's more like the crush develops after a certain amount of dishing or witty banter. And I can't say I have ever had such a crush that I got nervous or stammered or sweated in her presence. That makes the whole phenomenon seem silly and childish when indeed it's quite fulfilling and exciting.

and now for some good news

In the toot-my-own-horn category, I just found out that a story I pitched and wrote for my papers ran on two papers' front pages. One of them was the lead news story right under the masthead. Hard to appreciate without seeing it on the page, but it's pretty awesome.

Makes me think the headache and logistical mess of moving to DC for the summer was worth it.

just one of them days

So I am having one of those low self-esteem days. We all have 'em (though mine seem to be more frequent these days) and they are usually for silly reasons.

Here are my excuses.

Just had an interview with the Gannett recruiter... I wasn't exactly the star reporter I meant to be. Questions like "What separates you from other candidates?"
and "What is the role of a journalist?" always mess me up. When I am not feeling like the sharpest knife in the drawer, it's hard to talk up my stellar qualities. I am not even sure today why someone should hire me over one of my colleagues. And I am not confident that my best skills and attributes come across in a 20-minute chat.

Congress is out of session, but we are still reporting.... Considering I cover Capitol Hill, what, pray tell, are you writing about, you may ask. Good question. This week and last - not much of anything. I am digging around for studies, trends, unusual happenings. Then I try to see if anyone in West or North Alabama cares. I am convinced my editor thinks I am a slacker or not enterprising enough and that eats away at the competitive part of me. Boredom breeds more boredom, and slow days make me lazy, restless, anxious, and all-too-pensive.

I have no where to live and no job come Aug. 31. That keeps me up at night.

I just got my hair cut and I look something like a brunette Annie Lennox. No kidding.

Just covered a panel discussion on the housing boom. Riiight. The only reason I understood half of what they were talking about was because I had the lovely pleasure of covering real estate for the Prague Post. Surprisingly some of the same concepts came up, and perhaps not surprisingly, the folks today could have been speaking in Czech and I would have understood just as much.

reflections

I realized today that I have been so consumed with assimilating back into American life, keeping my head above water reporting in DC, and losing sleep over my next move that I have not given proper time to reflecting on my time in Prague.

This became clear to me when a former globalite who spent a quarter in Prague emailed me, asking how I felt about Prague in retrospect. I wrote a couple sentences about how I miss it, and she writes back this tear-jerking account of her post-Prague musings. As I read it, I felt a lump rise in my throat and it made me begin my own process of fond reflection. Her account of feeling utterly isolated but totally alive rang true for me.

Though it might not be as meaningful to those who have not spent time in Prague, I have pasted it below (slightly edited) for all to read. I also plan on beginning to articulate my own thoughts on the city one of these days...

And I have been planning and thinking of ways to get me back Europe. I
fell in love with Prague, with that area of Europe. I want to go back to Prague to work as a journalist some day, if only for a year.

I really loved that apartment, too.

I'd heard both positive and negative things about The Post from past beat reports, residency students, and people who worked at The Post (both in the past and at the time I was in Prague).
Disorder was the word that was used most often. And while my residency was a bit different, something of an experiment with online media that died after I left, I did enjoy the living experience.

And that's what I miss most. I try to explain to people this way: I was learning 24/7. At work, one thing and in English mostly. But after I got outside of the work bubble of English, I was paddling furiously to learn Czech, to learn about other people. Not through classes, but by building on what little words and verbs I'd picked up from work and then trying to get people to talk to me.

And despite being linguistically and culturally locked out for a while, I never felt more like a person in my entire life. There was this one moment where I about lost it, early in my stay. I was exiting the Muzeum station and heard a child laughing, saw a couple kissing. It hit hard that laughter was something I could understand, and that kissing was universal. Language without words.

I miss that after hours learning. I miss the shock in the shop keeper's faces when I'd build on my sentences and words. I miss the sour-faced woman at the butcher shop who always rolled her eyes at me when I'd close my eyes at her writing down the price of my ribs. I wanted to hear it and see if I could finally, finally make out the numbers she was calling out.

I miss the slower pace of life but in a city. I miss the walking. I miss the sound of the trams. I miss the rain and dew on the cobblestones in the morning, the autumnal leaves (I was there in the autumn). I miss looking out of the living room window (where I slept) at the night time skies. The tea pot in the mornings, the oven in the evenings.

So everything I'm doing right now, right now as I am making the final rounds of interviews for a few new media positions (I graduated in June and have been looking since), everything is in line with what I want to do in my life. And I hope that the skill set I'm looking to build and experience I'm gonna get will help me get back to Prague. I'm giving myself five years. I want to live in Prague again sometime in the next five years. The experience feels incomplete to me still.

And next time hopefully not as a starving student. And maybe then it'll be with someone to share it with. Because for all that I am an I-can-do-it-myself kinda girl, I realize now that I have this box of memories and nostalgia for one.

best. show. ever. ...

... besides the O.C., of course.

The show: So You Think You Can Dance.
A Fox creation, but against my better judgment and overall disgust with that network, I watched it and loved it.
Something about hundreds of contestants - dancers of all stripes ranging from Irish dance, to break dancing to interpretive (some dude "danced" with a mattress) - auditioning for the ultimate spot on who-knows-what. Not sure what the grand prize is, but the chosen ones then take classes in salsa, hip hop, contemporary, etc... Then the requisite elimination round.

Who knows (or cares) about the logistics. All Fox shows are the same - there is some activity, harsh judges saying horrible things, some tears, a few elimination rounds, more tears, more narrowing down, and then America votes.

The show reawakened my desire to become a professional dancer. Lack of skills or baseline talent aside, that is what I sometimes think I am truly meant to do. And if I hadn't already committed to being a reporter, I just might have done it....

too much moving around

On an evening walk in my neighborhood yesterday - in DC, don't forget - I walked by a sign advertising a new condo building planned for an empty lot. The sign read Lincoln Park condos. My first reaction was - Lincoln Park? Are they confused? This is North Capitol Hill - a far cry from the posh lakefront neighborhood of Lincoln Park. And just because you dress it up with a name like Lincoln Park it's won't stop being the ghetto.

Then I realized I don't live in Chicago, where the other Lincoln Park neighborhood is. Oops. I guess I have been moving around too much in the past year. I don't even remember where I live.

Also of interest during my little jaunt:

In a small yard in front of a rowhouse, my neighbor has planted, alongside the lush greenery and pansies, a dirty bouquet of silk yellow roses. Silk. Fake roses. Planted into the ground right next to the bushes.

In other news, I learned a priceless laundry lesson last night. After turning my only white shirt light blue (this is why I shy from wearing white), I promptly called my father. I realize I moved away from home nearly a decade ago (yikes) but sometimes you just need to call in the experts. He passed me on to my step-mother, who then referred me to her mother.

So I called who I guess you could call my step-grandmother, who is an ultra-Southern, God-fearing, Republican wife of a former minister. If anyone knows laundry, she does. In the thickest, kindest, most bourgeois (as opposed to rednecky) Southern accent, she instructs me to fill the washer with water, half-cup of bleach and detergent.

"Then you let it churn a little, and put your garment in and let it soak over night," she tells me. "Then run the wash again in the morning. I do this every week with all my whites."

It worked. This woman knows her laundry.

musings on DC living

People don't seem to understand why I don't love DC. Most folks - whether they have lived here or not - seem to love this place. It occurred to me this weekend why they love it and I don't, and I think a lot of it has to do with the fact that they haven't lived in the DC I have lived in.

I shared a cab home Saturday night with a guy who was heading to Capitol Hill but lived in Alexandria. He worked at the US Patent and Trademark Office, and since I used to cover the USPTO for a technology pub, I was interested in what he did and what his career plans were. We chatted for a bit, and then he stopped and said: "This is why I love DC. Only here can you have a conversation like this riding home from the bar at 2 in the morning."

I will give him that. I had spent the evening at a bar where walking to the bathroom I overheard the phrase "profit margin" or some shit.

Then somehow we came back to how I live in a shady neighborhood, once again verified by my cab driver. I agreed with my backseat partner that only in DC do you find such a civic-minded, driven group of young people - but, I argued, also only here do you have such a stark dichotomy of class and race. Well-to-do, educated, affluent people sharing the city with the destitute, disaffected, isolated, angry. There seems to be little middle ground and these two opposite ends of the spectrum fuel the city's tension.

One night I ride home in a cab talking about patent fees. The night before I take the bus, listening to a man holler out nonsense like "Everybody in the bus say 'I love ya.' I love ya!" and "If you man, be a man; if you a mouse, stay in the house."

I told the guy riding with me that I actually like living in this neighborhood, that it gives me a small picture in another world and teaches me so much about race, class, politics, crime. He agreed, and said he was a minority in his apartment building in Alexandria, that there were people from all over the world, particularly Africa.

But it's different. And the cab driver articulated it the best. And his assessment seemed to sum up how many people can live in a different DC.

He said: "No, I live in Alexandria, and I am one of those people. But we are different. These people from other countries are here because they chose to be here and they are working hard or studying or making a better life. The people in this [North Capitol Hill] neighborhood are Americans. They are stuck here, and they are poor and angry and killing each other."

It's true. And my argument is that many people don't experience the latter. They may know about it - the crime rate is hard to ignore anywhere in the city - but they don't go home to it or wake up in the middle of the night to it or fear the bus ride home because of it. They experience the affluent, educated residents; the fun bars and great restaurants filled with like-minded people. They even see the racial diversity and feel the vibes of an international city. But they are missing something. They are missing what I think is the other part of the real DC. They are missing the elements that make me both love and hate this city.