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There’s something about Sunday night
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Wednesday, July 25, 2007

I'm as bad as a crow



Yes, that's me. I'm like a crow. Only my bright and shinies aren't actually bright and shiny--usually.

Mine are pens. They wink seductively at me from the mailroom office supply shelf, whispering, "Wouldn't I fit perfectly in your fingers? I'm the answer to all your ink-blotted scribblings!" And they wind up in my fingers, in my pockets, in my desk drawers at home, in my mouth as I gnaw on them pensively, thinking. (Usually thinking, "well, no one will want to use this now that it has my saliva on it; I might as well keep it . . .")

Or maybe I'm more like a squirrel. I find pens I love and store them away for emergencies. I find a pen I love, and use it to death. I have backups for my backup pens.

I can't write unless I like my pen. But I'm not terribly posh in my taste. Rollerballs make my handwriting messy. My favorite end up being the cheap ballpoints, with a firm, not too fine, line, and leaving no splotchy blobs of ink at the upswings of my loops. The right pen makes my handwriting legible, sometimes even downright romantic.

I'm married to an actor!

My baby's a real live professional actor. (Also, he's the proud owner of a continually waxed handlebar mustache.)



I've seen him in "Tartuffe," but not "The Tempest" yet. My parents and Busia have been raving about his performance as Ariel. Pretty much any time I gather with my extended family, they won't shut up about what a talented actor he is. (It really sort of gets old for me.) No, actually, I am exceedingly proud.

And now he's been offered a real role (two, actually, minor ones) at the Writers Theatre in Glencoe, in "As You Like It." He told me about the audition right after he had it (drove five hours from Door County on his day off just to audition), and it sounded like he knocked their socks off. He knew a few of the people in the room (casting directors and such), which is always a good thing. After he did his monologues, they asked if he minded doing a cold reading. This isn't something they always request--it's a good sign when they do! They gave him a part of "As You Like It," one he understudied at Alabama. After he did it, they marvelled at him being able to do it without really keeping his eyes glued to the script, and he was all, "well, I'm pretty familiar with the play . . ."

So now he has a real contract for January rehearsals, and February and March for performance! It pays a living wage and everything!

It's just about the most exciting thing that has happened lately. It's an excellent, well-respected theater, and will give him some great connections! He's getting known, at least on the audition circuit, and that can only bring wonderful things.

I'm so proud!

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Night owl

I've never been a night owl. Not even in college, when all my friends were pulling all-nighters. I was still in bed by 10 or 11. There seemed to be something exotic about it, and I was hopelessly boring--needing my good eight hours of sleep.

As I've gotten older, I realized my perfect amount of sleep is only seven, but that still doesn't turn me into a late-night bird.

Until recently. I think it's the busyness. I come home late, and catch a second wind to stay up doing the things I normally do during regular evening hours. Cleaning, preparing meals for the next day, listening to music, watching NetFlix. It seems to be the only time I have totally to myself. Ironic that I can say that, considering my summer and the apartment are all my own.

But these late hours have become special to me. I'm tired in the morning, hitting the snooze many times, but it occurred to me that no matter how much sleep I get, I am always still sleepy in the morning and reluctant to get out of bed.

Monday, July 23, 2007

Regina Spektor

Having restricted (by chance) my dating pool to music nerds (or nazis) has left me feeling somewhat insecure about my own musical tastes. Therefore, I usually refer musical suggestions to Tim and defer to him on all new music.

I think it's safe to say, though, that I am not misguided in my love of Regina Spektor. Usually it takes me a few listens to fall for an album, but I was not 30 seconds into her Begin to Hope when I was utterly smitten.

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Wednesday, July 11, 2007

Personal growth

So I am a nonconfrontational person. People can sense that, I'm sure, which leads me to get disrespected and taken advantage of quite a bit. This typically happens in the very situations where I excel: being a social worker, in which I treat people with a great deal of respect (it's not as though I believe I am automatically accorded respect because of my position or whatnot. It's more that I expect respect given should be reciprocated by at least treating me like a human being). It's always odd to me, a shock to my system, to be awarded blatant disrespect at moments like that. I never know how to deal with it in the moment because I'm so surprised, thus I think people get away with a lot more than they should. It's often hard to address rudeness and disrespect when it seems like I've been accepting the treatment for a while--thus becoming the norm.

And I hate hate hate that this is the thing I am worried about. It strikes me as being an extremely negative, cynical, and perhaps even dangerous way to approach my work.

But I also hate my lack of assertiveness. I get seriously down on myself at times because of this (what I consider) personality "flaw." It occurs to me occasionally that my kind, gentle nature and willingness to believe the best of people should be an asset to social work! But I get hung up on the negatives.

However, I think I need to be easier on myself. Continual self-reflection, I suppose, is a good thing. And if I think more deeply about it, I guess I can see where I am taking steps towards changing (albeit small, but hey! Still growth!).

Evidenced by this: an instance of extreme rudeness, three or four consecutive interchanges where I could feel the anger emanating off of someone in waves, directed at me for a reason I couldn't fathom. Dealing with that--and her--made me feel like I was kicked in the stomach. I thought about the anxiety that would result in me addressing it, compared to the anxiety of not. I remembered in Alabama, how being treated like that without sticking up for myself would tear away at my self-esteem until I hated myself so much, I believed I was worthy of the awful treatment I received. So after the next instance of rudeness, I stopped, took a deep breath, and said, "You don't have to like me. You do have to respect me and the rules I have to uphold." It was not exactly the phrasing I had wanted, but still. I said something! I stood up for myself! And it led to a conversation that cleared the air and restored a relationship. I really do believe that this particular woman respects me more for speaking up than for cowering under her rudeness. Since then, I have felt more confident addressing necessary things with her when they come up.

It seems like a little thing, and for a lot of people, it probably is. But for me, wow. Huge. I was just so proud of myself! I never would have had the nerve to say anything like that in Alabama (aka, my first experience as a real social worker). I just have to remember that when I think I'm not growing and improving at all.

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Talking about work

So I know I'm not really supposed to talk about work. (You can't, after all, review confidentiality policies with clients a million times over without absorbing a bit of the seriousness of it.)

And I get that. It would take some serious dense-ness to reveal client info like names, etc.

But I wonder, too, if even talking in vague terms breaks the code of ethics I am professionally obligated to abide by. It makes me wonder, in extreme instances, about coping.

My coping mechanism is this: I talk to Tim. Sometimes I don't even need him to listen. I just need his physical presence beside me as I open my mouth and release all the (couched in vague, unspecific terms, of course!) pent-up stress of the day. (Because keeping it inside will kill me, and that would make me pretty ineffective at my job, right?) Then sometimes I need him to coach me. This typically occurs when something happens at work--whether it be with a client, co-worker, or supervisor--that I am unsure how to deal with. At my previous job, it was usually coaching about how to stand up for myself, because I am generally shit at doing that.

I always feel so much better, so much more confident after those talks. How could that be wrong, or unethical, when it helps me be a better person/better social worker?

But my gut will usually tell me if I've crossed a line, and I think I may have with an earlier post, venting my annoyance about a caller. I was wondering it a bit when I wrote it, but ignored that and hit "publish" anyway. It was confirmated later, though, when I suspected a classmate of mine, one whom I respect to a bothersomely worshipful degree, had found my blog. Immediately I panicked. "I don't want her to read that post!" I thought, and then the following thought was, "then I shouldn't have posted it."

So I guess I should be more circumspect.

Now all I'll say is, hypothetically, there may exist a genetically timid person who is scared of confrontation, who may have broken up an argument last night, and while not resolving the bad feelings between the arguers completely, at least may feel proud that she assertively addressed things so issues are out in the open now, instead of pretending like she did not hear the yelling.

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Thursday, July 05, 2007

Alone for the summer

I feel some guilt admitting this, but I don't really miss Tim. He's been gone nearly a month. I was dreading this summer so much, remembering how miserable I was the first two times we did the distance.

I've been so busy, really, I don't even have my own time, so it's something of a relief to have the house to myself. I come home late from the show, and zone out for a little while before going to bed. I don't have to plan and make meals because I don't really eat them regularly anymore. As much as I love living with him, I like being in the apartment by myself again. It reminds me of the four blissful years I was able to live alone. Additionally, the cats are so very needy with him gone--particularly Olivia--so I get cuddles all night long from one kitty or another.

I don't know what it will be like once the play is over. It's what's occupying most of my time outside of work. Finally I'll have some evenings to just lay on the couch and stare at the ceiling, doing nothing and loving it.

Even though I have no free time whatsoever, I'm also doing more socializing than I used to. The friends I made in school are now friends I don't feel like I have to qualify by saying "school friends." And when there are things to do, invitations to accept, it always feels like such a luxury to be able to turn them down to settle in at home. (Very different than when settling in at home is the only option.)

The only problem is that when I'm running at full throttle, every now and then, I feel this twinge, an empty ache inside. I've identified it as barely hanging on--that when the frenetic pace of life slows, I'll have nothing tangible to hold onto, because then it will occur to me that I am by myself, and the person I usually curl up to and get my peace from is away.

Wednesday, July 04, 2007

Mary of the underpass

At a Kennedy expressway underpass, the one at Fullerton, there's a shrine against one wall to the Virgin Mary. I didn't know why until Tim explained that someone thought they could see an image of Mary in the waterstains. I bike past it daily, but didn't think to look more closely until tonight, when I saw three people standing at it.

I could see her. There was a ghostly pattern there that, given the suggestion of a face, was clearly visible.

I have always loved the idea of Mary. I love that in all the male-dominated spirituality that's out there, she has such a devoted following.

And I love roadside shrines. Handmade shrines have always been special to me. They're a place to lay tangible mementos of your spirituality, and a place to collect and center your thoughts. Far removed from gold-encrusted cathedrals, they are accessible to commonfolk, indeed, created and cared for by them.

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July 4th

"Gorey Stories" opened tonight, and I was disappointed by the timing. Running until 9:30, we missed almost all of the fireworks set off from Navy Pier. Disappointed because in all my many years in Chicago, I've actually never seen them, and this year I was right at the lake doing the show.

I had forgotten, though, that sometimes the civilian fireworks are just as spectacular as the city's. Biking home, west on Fullerton, the night spread out before me as a sparkling jewel. The last mile home was particularly livid. I biked through a fug of gunpowder and falling embers, and nearly hit a few parked cars as I swerved on my ride, watching the sky.

I love how into the holiday this city is, though given the high density of undocumented immigrants in my neighborhood, I suspect the fiery celebrations are more for a love of pretty explosives rather than the history of this country.

This time last year, I was also sitting under a shower of fireworks, but at a Biscuits game in Montgomery. As soon as the last play was completed, every light in the stadium was cut, and music started up as the pyrotechnics blasted. For a good ten minutes or so, the sky lit up. Finally, "Sweet Home Alabama" was played, and the crowd went wild for the finale. Tim and I grinned at each other, deliriously happy to be in that spot at that moment.

And forever since then, that song makes me happy. It reminds me of a time when I felt like part of a community. I felt like I was an Alabamian, like that sweet home was my home. For a little while, it was.

And I love that now any time I see fireworks, that's what I'll think of.

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Tuesday, July 03, 2007

Corridor of smells

Sometimes I think I could ride through Chicago with my eyes closed, still knowing exactly where I am based on the smells.

I bike to work via Elston, an industrial diagonal that's quieter than expected during rush hour. It cuts through factories along the interstate and Metra lines. Within the first few blocks on my route, I pass Home Depot. Sometimes if they're busy, the fresh scent of sawdust will waft out to the street. A few blocks later, Dunkin Donuts' sugar and Popeyes' oil compete for air space.

The Metra has a stop at Ashland and Elston, and squealing brakes burn metal. At North, Stanley's fruit stand spills out onto the sidewalk. Last week the ground was littered with pineapple cores and rinds.

Further south, after Elston runs into Milwaukee, I pass the Matchbox, Chicago's smallest bar and the scene of frequent hijinks in my early twenties. And it's clear that, though I have moved on to more sober pursuits, there were many behind to take my place.

Somewhere in the area is a bread factory, but only my nose knows where.

I've reached River North by the time I start smelling chocolate, slightly burnt, like you'd smell from hot cocoa. Blommer's Chocolate Factory is where I leave the diagonal and plunge into Loop traffic, the frentic pace causing me to lose touch with smells and focus solely on watching for impatient morning drivers so I don't get hit.

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