I was riding the Kimball line this past Friday, heading to the theatre and happened to get into a fascinating political conversation with an attractive man. I'm a firm believer that we, as a population, don't know how to communicate anymore, unless we are twittering, facebooking, my spacing, texting, etc... So, whenever I have the opportunity to actually speak with someone intelligent I like to embrace the opportunity. The conversation is irrelevant to this post, but the following is not:
Approaching my stop I told "Kimball Line Ken" that it was lovely talking to him. He then asked me if I would like to have a cup of coffee sometime and continue our conversation. I told him I would, if he didn't mind my husband coming along. He looked like I punched him and he suddenly became much less congenial and completely avoided looking me in the eyes. I had become the modern day equivalent of a leper.....a married woman.
I wear a very "non-married" looking wedding ring and band. It's an antique ruby setting and doesn't scream "I'm married". But, it's also not a catch and release mechanism designed to lure in unsuspecting men. My offense was neither intentional or planned.
In the ten years that I've been married I've had this happen only a handful of times. I have noticed that since I'm been getting myself healthy again, that I am becoming slightly interesting to the male population again. So I was genuinely bothered by the whole exchange with the "Ken" gent.
I got married, I did not; develop a third head, become an asexual being, cease being appreciative of admiring comments or glances, lose my feminine sense of wanting to be wanted or have my brain fall out of my head at the altar.
I don't know when being married became an oddity or a disease to be shunned like an H1N1 virus. Do I think I'm all that and a side of guacamole, sometimes, not often. In the moments that I don't feel that way, a simple glance from someone or an admiring comment can boost that sense that "Yes, I'm still desirable to someone who isn't legally required to desire me".
So gents....if you find any of your married lady friends appealing, don't treat them like bubble wrapped eggs in a carton....remind them that you think they are "hot snatch" (as a friend of mind would say) and you just might make their day. Do not ride off into the "L" sunset, leaving behind a woman who feels like less of a woman just because of her jewelry.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Slippers ain't shoes, pajamas ain't pants!!!
I'd like to ask a simple question of my friends, both male and female. When did slippers become shoes and pajamas become pants? I can remember using this style while living in the dorms in my less-than-coiffed college days, but people, really? I see countless folks, in my neighborhood and throughout Chicago sporting this "Glamour Don't" moment.
I attempt to live my life by a statement I once heard Joan Crawford make (I didn't actually hear her say this mind you) when asked why she bothered to dress to the nines before even going to the grocery store..."Darling" she said "you never know who you're going to meet in this town". Now, I realize, I may not meet a lot of influential people in the Albany Park neighborhood, but you just never know. You never know if the next director, casting agent, potential mate, friend, future boss etc.... is right around the corner. Now, I don't leave the house each day in a flowing Balenciaga gown, but I do attempt to style my hair, put on a face and dress nicely. I have my dress down days on the weekend, but I avoid the land of torn up sweats and greasy hats.
It's statistically proven that people who take time with their appearance and pride in the way they look, have a better outlook on life and actually score higher on the Mensa exam (okay, so the Mensa exam part was shit, but you catch my drift).
Be nicer to yourself, don't overwork your at home wear and always remember "Slippers ain't shoes, pajamas ain't pants!"
I attempt to live my life by a statement I once heard Joan Crawford make (I didn't actually hear her say this mind you) when asked why she bothered to dress to the nines before even going to the grocery store..."Darling" she said "you never know who you're going to meet in this town". Now, I realize, I may not meet a lot of influential people in the Albany Park neighborhood, but you just never know. You never know if the next director, casting agent, potential mate, friend, future boss etc.... is right around the corner. Now, I don't leave the house each day in a flowing Balenciaga gown, but I do attempt to style my hair, put on a face and dress nicely. I have my dress down days on the weekend, but I avoid the land of torn up sweats and greasy hats.
It's statistically proven that people who take time with their appearance and pride in the way they look, have a better outlook on life and actually score higher on the Mensa exam (okay, so the Mensa exam part was shit, but you catch my drift).
Be nicer to yourself, don't overwork your at home wear and always remember "Slippers ain't shoes, pajamas ain't pants!"
Saturday, April 25, 2009
I'm better off?!? 3/10/2009
Here I sit at the unemployment office with the number 92. I have been here since 9:20 a.m. and it is now 11:50. Number 49 has just been called....I think I'll be here awhile. I stare around me, at the faces of my fellow comrades in arms trying to find our way out of the wilderness of a Post Bush Era. Let me say this now and clearly; I work hard, I am intelligent, I am proud of contributing to a workforce and community. So, I ask you, objectively, why am I sitting here? Anyone?
The reception desk is helmed by a pleasant looking man (yes, just one) who looks like he would prefer to be anywhere, including an uninhabitable planet, rather than here. I watch him attempt to direct and guide people and briefly feel much more happy. It dawns on me, for whatever situation I am in, I believe I am much better off than the lone receptionist. (I wonder, briefly, if there's a black market at the unemployment office for selling numbers 1-20. *note to self, find out if this is illegal.)
I try to read, blocking out the surrounding noise and give this up after a few minutes. Twiddling my thumbs, I wait out the seconds until I hear 92 called at 3:20 p.m. I walk, or technically sprint, to the desk with my letter to discover why my unemployment is being held up. Apparently the computer system lists me as having a new dependent each week, even though I am childless, unable to have children and keep pressing "no dependents" on the enrollment phone call each week. By my calculation, I should have at least 5 children by now, according to the I.D.E.S., (Illinois Department of Employment Security-as they prefer to be called). A child a week is quite a neat trick when you think about it and would probably prove profitable if it was true.
I leave after a 3 minute consultation and a brief computer correction, feeling more tired than I have a right to for sitting all day.
Here's the thing. For all of my bitching, the trip was well spent. I watched families come and go, for six hours, most of them with children to care for. I watched people who were working in their jobs, that clearly didn't want to be working in them. I watched laid off workers, struggling to get their unemployment benefits paid, while their previous employer contested it.
I had, no children to worry about, no job to dislike, and a generous former employer who was paying severance and allowing unemployment at the same time.
You think you have it bad....spend an afternoon at the unemployment office, excuse me, I.D.E.S, that's what they prefer.
The reception desk is helmed by a pleasant looking man (yes, just one) who looks like he would prefer to be anywhere, including an uninhabitable planet, rather than here. I watch him attempt to direct and guide people and briefly feel much more happy. It dawns on me, for whatever situation I am in, I believe I am much better off than the lone receptionist. (I wonder, briefly, if there's a black market at the unemployment office for selling numbers 1-20. *note to self, find out if this is illegal.)
I try to read, blocking out the surrounding noise and give this up after a few minutes. Twiddling my thumbs, I wait out the seconds until I hear 92 called at 3:20 p.m. I walk, or technically sprint, to the desk with my letter to discover why my unemployment is being held up. Apparently the computer system lists me as having a new dependent each week, even though I am childless, unable to have children and keep pressing "no dependents" on the enrollment phone call each week. By my calculation, I should have at least 5 children by now, according to the I.D.E.S., (Illinois Department of Employment Security-as they prefer to be called). A child a week is quite a neat trick when you think about it and would probably prove profitable if it was true.
I leave after a 3 minute consultation and a brief computer correction, feeling more tired than I have a right to for sitting all day.
Here's the thing. For all of my bitching, the trip was well spent. I watched families come and go, for six hours, most of them with children to care for. I watched people who were working in their jobs, that clearly didn't want to be working in them. I watched laid off workers, struggling to get their unemployment benefits paid, while their previous employer contested it.
I had, no children to worry about, no job to dislike, and a generous former employer who was paying severance and allowing unemployment at the same time.
You think you have it bad....spend an afternoon at the unemployment office, excuse me, I.D.E.S, that's what they prefer.
Bad Day - 1/29/09
I have learned to mark my days as follows:
"Today was a good day"....."Today was a bad day".
102 days and 7 hours ago those sentiments (pro or con) carried an entirely different meaning for me. Having a bad day could possibly mean disagreeing with my boss, overdrawing my bank account, miscommunication with my husband or facing a traffic jam on 90-94 West. These days, having a bad day means the carefully constructed veneer, that fluffy and safe insulation, which comes with the generous gift of distance, is removed. In the first ticks of the clock, the first few seconds of the curtain dropping on the debut of a bad day I see the following set before me. A beautiful boy, always a boy to me, laying attached to artificial life. I see clearly, myself, standing to the left side of his bed, holding his hand and kissing him on his temple, still unbruised and soft, murmuring " who will miss me now Nick?" Everything about him still held warmth and color and made it almost impossible to pry yourself away from his side. The warmth is the devil that tricks you into believing, believing for a moment that the possibility of a way out of the hell you are in is plausible. I have become a seeker of cold, to avoid remembering the hope and beauty that warmth can hold. I don't remember leaving the hospital, getting into my car or driving back to my parents house. I know I got there, I just really do not remember the journey. I do remember staring, for hours, at the walls in my parent's living room and thinking, what now? How does this all work? I've been to the funeral of a father, a grandmother, a grandfather, an uncle and great aunts and uncles, but nothing prepares you for losing a younger member of your family, a nephew who has always filled the roll of little brother. How do you find solace, meaning, consolation or motivation to even care about searching for anything that would come close to making sense? I find anger, hidden in pockets of my heart, for the people that live because of him. Are they worthy of the gift they have received? Do they appreciate the sacrifice and life lost to allow them to celebrate another day? Did their families say a prayer for our family at Christmas? And then I am ashamed at myself because the sacrifice was not mine to make and is therefore not mine to question. I was raised "right" as they say. I was raised to believe in a god that has infinite wonder, wisdom and reasoning that surpasses any mortal understanding.......but today I do not care.
Today was a bad day. I remembered and I unraveled.
"Today was a good day"....."Today was a bad day".
102 days and 7 hours ago those sentiments (pro or con) carried an entirely different meaning for me. Having a bad day could possibly mean disagreeing with my boss, overdrawing my bank account, miscommunication with my husband or facing a traffic jam on 90-94 West. These days, having a bad day means the carefully constructed veneer, that fluffy and safe insulation, which comes with the generous gift of distance, is removed. In the first ticks of the clock, the first few seconds of the curtain dropping on the debut of a bad day I see the following set before me. A beautiful boy, always a boy to me, laying attached to artificial life. I see clearly, myself, standing to the left side of his bed, holding his hand and kissing him on his temple, still unbruised and soft, murmuring " who will miss me now Nick?" Everything about him still held warmth and color and made it almost impossible to pry yourself away from his side. The warmth is the devil that tricks you into believing, believing for a moment that the possibility of a way out of the hell you are in is plausible. I have become a seeker of cold, to avoid remembering the hope and beauty that warmth can hold. I don't remember leaving the hospital, getting into my car or driving back to my parents house. I know I got there, I just really do not remember the journey. I do remember staring, for hours, at the walls in my parent's living room and thinking, what now? How does this all work? I've been to the funeral of a father, a grandmother, a grandfather, an uncle and great aunts and uncles, but nothing prepares you for losing a younger member of your family, a nephew who has always filled the roll of little brother. How do you find solace, meaning, consolation or motivation to even care about searching for anything that would come close to making sense? I find anger, hidden in pockets of my heart, for the people that live because of him. Are they worthy of the gift they have received? Do they appreciate the sacrifice and life lost to allow them to celebrate another day? Did their families say a prayer for our family at Christmas? And then I am ashamed at myself because the sacrifice was not mine to make and is therefore not mine to question. I was raised "right" as they say. I was raised to believe in a god that has infinite wonder, wisdom and reasoning that surpasses any mortal understanding.......but today I do not care.
Today was a bad day. I remembered and I unraveled.
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