Reflection

Good-bye, 2008. It was nice knowing you. I can't say that I will miss you-you were a tough-ass year. But the tough-ass years are still years that I'm breathing, and since the alternative to breathing is not breathing, i.e. being dead, than I say yes, I will take the tough-ass years, and the breathing, and the bullshit that comes with the breathing-not-being-dead thing.

This year I turned 35. This birthday really knocked me on my ass, emotionally speaking. My friend M. says that birthdays that end in "0" & "5" are prime for intense introspection, and yes, that certainly has been the case with me.

On turning 20-Yeah, I'm not a teen any more, okay? I am now an adult. Did you hear me-AN ADULT! *snort*

On turning 25- Oh my God, I have accomplished NOTHING with my life! I am failing at life! AAAAAAAAAAAANGST! *additional snort*

On turning 30-Good-bye, angst-ridden 20s! Don't let that door smack your ass on the way out! I am at the dawn of a new decade! Hello, 30s, you gorgeous time, you!

On turning 35-Damn, I can't stop the ride here, can I? I'm not a kid anymore, am I?

On my 35th birthday, I was in a cheap motel room in Indianapolis, on a quest for adventure and newness and some sense of clarity, because, seemingly without my consent, I and my needs had changed. The things that I relished several years ago I had no desire for in the here and now, and I was finding myself yearning for things that I thought I would never want, like a quiet street to walk down, someone to walk beside me down that street, and maybe, just maybe, a tiny hand in mine, one attached to a tiny creature that I was certain, for years and years, I would never, never welcome into my life.

People change. You know that, I know that. We say it when friends move on to new lives, when opposites attract, when your boss has a mid-life crisis and ditches his wife for his secretary, when the perfect couple whose wedding you danced at break apart. But who really expects the person that radically changes, I mean full 180-degree type change, to be you? And what do you do in the face of that change?

You reel, but only for a moment. Because 35 is here, time keeps moving whether you move or not, and you know that now much better than you did at 20, at 25, at 30. You reflect, you ponder, you plan.

And you hope. Because 2008 is over, and 2009 is coming. Because you've survived every single one of your mistakes and are better for having made them. Because there have been as many triumphs as mistakes and you're together enough to see that. Because the choice is hope or despair, and it is a choice, and what other choice would you make?

Not to mention that 35 looks really goddamn good on me. My hot-babeness prevails. Score.

See you next year.-C.

Happy Birthday, Dad!

I got the card out on time for this one, so don't anyone bother to leave a message for him. His head is big enough as it is.

Enjoy your dollar's worth of candy, Daddy.

-C.

On Christmas Eve's eve...

..., the day before yesterday, I found a wallet in the snow. I found a way to get it back to its owner. She was very nice and gracious. I found this unusual, because it has been my experience that honesty must be its own reward as most people do not know how to be grateful when you do something nice for them. A sad commentary on the state of humanity, yes?

She offered me money, which I initially turned down. I didn't do it for money-I did it because it was the right thing to do, and because my mom would be mad if I didn't do the right thing (see November 8th's entry for further elaboration on fear and my mom :-), and because I would like for someone to do the same for me. I'm no angel, and I'm not trying to get into heaven. I just don't want to be the kind of person I dislike; in short, a thoughtless, selfish asshole. That really is my main motivation in life, to not be an asshole, and most of the time, I like to think that I'm successful in that venture.

But this nice woman insisted that I take the money, and said "Merry Christmas" over and over. So I slipped the ten-dollar bill into my pocket, and wished her a merry Christmas, too. I went back to work, and wanted to tell my co-workers about the nice lady and the nice gesture. I reached into my pocket to examine the ten-dollar bill...

...and discovered that it was wrapped around two twenties. Fifty bucks, just for being a non-asshole.

The thing is, I'm feeling a little bad about the money. If I had known that it was that much, I would have been more adamant about not taking it. I'm not sure what I should do with it. Maybe donate it to charity? Buy a round for friends? It just seems a little weird to have profited by doing the right thing. But it's also really nice that someone appreciated the right thing being done. Doesn't happen enough in life.

"..and to all, a good night."

-C.

Simple Observation

Head count at the last party I went to:

Couple, couple, couple, couple....

...and me. Sigh.

-C.

Got a few bucks?

*Okay, folks-blatant solicitation forthcoming. You are warned*

So, a friend emailed me about a local theatre company needing money. If you have been a long-time reader of my blog (from my myspace days), you may remember my mentioning Margaret Lewis, and my esteem for her work (go hit the link to your right for the myspace blog if you need a refresher). Margaret has written some fine plays for a company called Stage Left Theatre, and I have a lot of respect for these people and the work they do. And they are currently strapped for cash.

And yes, everyone is strapped. I get it. The animal shelters are popping at the seams with relinquished pets, friends are getting laid off, my Starbucks partners are having their labor hours cut, things are tough all over. It ain't easy to try and find money for the arts when you are worried about your mortgage, your retirement, the food on your plate and the plate under your food.

But the arts are important. Crucial, even, for in times of both prosperity and strain it is through these expressions that we relieve our stress, look inward for peace, outward for guidance, and find ways to connect to one another, recognizing both the uniqueness and commonality of the human experience. Is that worth a few bucks to you? Can you scrounge a bit together to help these artists? Even if each of you out there can spare just a little, than that's more than they had a few days ago. Together, it can make all the difference in the world, both to those needing to express something, and to the audience who needs to experience that expression.

And hey, some day I'm hoping to not have to work two jobs and go to school all at once, and I'll be writing more than just a blog twice a week, and if Stage Left isn't there for me to submit my scribble to, than I'm going to be up a creek. So, you see, I'm being a little selfish here in my solicitation. (Why don't you write in the "memo" line of your check that yours truly can turn a word or two, while you're at it?) :-)

Find information at www.stagelefttheatre.com

-C.

I wonder...

From the wall of A Taste of Heaven cafe/bakery:

"What if the Hokey Pokey really IS what it's all about?"

Discuss.

-C.

Finding Your Self Online

Lately, I've been acutely aware of the fantabulousness of networking websites. Are you on Facebook? MySpace? Friendster? Do you blog at Wordpress? LiveJournal? Blogger? Hell, just do a Yahoo! search on someone & chances are you'll find a little tidbit about their life. Unless, of course, they have a stupid common name like Christopher Burgess, who still owes me money in addition to being impossible to Google effectively. (Are you reading this, Chris? Do you remember how much you owe me? Well, I do, I surely do, so why don't you do a little Swiffering of your karma here & send me a check already? It's never too late to repay a debt, you know?).

Anyway.

My point is, the vastness of the World Wide Web has made it possible for me to touch base with many, many people that I would not have had the chance to otherwise. From high school through college, to my early days in Chicago, to different jobs I've held, different circles I've navigated, there are a plethora of rekindled connections, all neatly bundled up with pictures and contact info and insights into the persons that they are now. And with each new email, friend request, message in the "inbox", I find myself getting back in touch, too, with the person I was when I knew them, way back when (but not so long ago to be forgotten).

Another blessing. Another line on my "grateful" list. It just keeps getting longer and longer.

-C.

More Randomness...

10 Random Things:

1. I do not use speed dial unless I programmed the phone myself. It's a leftover neuroses from my days as a telemarketer. I dial my own numbers, every time.

2. My first moment onstage was in a Christmas play at my church. I was in second grade. My brother played a teenager learning about the meaning of Christmas, my sister was an angel (who quoted from the New Testament), and I was one of a dozen caroling children. Neither of my siblings remember this, though our father does.

3. When I like a movie, I will get the DVD and watch it over and over and over again. For example, I saw BATMAN BEGINS in the theater 3 times, and nearly 20 times on DVD at home before I got sick of it. Same with TV shows.

4. I have no tattoos, and only one piercing in each ear. I do, however, still want to streak my hair bright blue. Right before I shave it off and go bald.

5. I have a phobia about hypodermic needles, and had to force myself to touch them the first year I worked in vet medicine. Every now & again, I still stop and get a little nauseous in the middle of a blood draw.

6. I can fall asleep just about anywhere. In every class from junior high through college, on several bus and train rides in the city, at the opera, in the middle of a good book, at my night job at Kinko's 10+ years ago. The amount of caffeine in my bloodstream has made no difference in this propensity. Trust me, I've tried.

7. Ice cream is my favorite sweet, and I will eat just about any flavor that doesn't have chocolate. If I crave chocolate, it is the ultra-dark, 85% cacao, high end stuff, and that I only eat by itself. Ice cream and chocolate don't mix for me.

8. As the child of a mixed-race couple, I am mind-boggled by people who feel at home with their own "kind". I have never felt that way and have no frame of reference for that mentality whatsoever.

9. I love classical opera, but not so much contemporary musicals, the symphony, or the ballet.

10. I still believe that I can have it all. Just not all at once.

-C.

Christmas Carding

I'm getting together my list of recips for my annual Christmas card list. Last year, my plans were somewhat thwarted by my zapping my computer in an attempt to upgrade its memory. (Yes, I can draw blood on multiple species, but cannot install simple computer cards without evoking lethal channels of static electricity. It is good to remember one's place in the world.)

Anyway, I'm hitting everyone up for current addresses, etc. Getting ready to type out a letter, which I no doubt will also post here when the time comes. What pictures to paste into the document, how to approach the narrative, who to send it to and in what manner, who gets what card out of the dollar store options I've brought home. It's always such a chore, getting it all together. But it is also so fun and uber-rewarding to sit down & take stock of all the people in this world who mean so much to me.

That includes you, by the way. I'm glad you show up at this blog.

-C.

Giving Thanks

What I am grateful for:

1. Family
2. Friends
3. Pets
4. Work
5. School
6. Fortitude
7. Clarity
8. Art
9. Sustenance
10. Hope

-C.

Memorial

Joe's memorial was Saturday. There was prayer & Bible readings, Scottish bagpipes & Irish songbirds. My sister compiled a wonderful montage of photos of Joe throughout his life & put together the music. A very kind pastor talked about the celebration of life.

Then we got to a part called "A Brother's Thoughts":

For the past few weeks, I have been trying to get my thoughts together enough to make an acceptable memorial service for my big brother. Let me start by first giving my thanks to all of you present here for this service. I want to express my appreciation to Pastor Greg Ralston for his kind words and support to our entire family. I also want to express my gratitude for the support of my wife Tokuko, my daughter Regina, my son-in-law Sherman, my granddaughter Caitlin, my daughter Colleen, and the rest of our family. They provided the highest degree of what "family" truly means, both to me and my brothers' children. Thank you.

Most of the people here knew my brother as George---not me. He has been and forever will be known to me and my family as "Joe". Joe was born Nov 4, 1931, the first-born of the family. He had it pretty good for the first 6 years, than our sister Mary Jean came along. Then 2 years later, his life changed forever!! The "baby" of the family, his little brother, was born. THAT'S ME!! No more going out to play with his friends----he had to watch "the baby", or else take "the baby" with him!

Joe was a story-teller and I know many of you have heard a lot of stories about him and me. No one could tell a tale like him. Believe me, they were all true! Most of the stories ended with him getting a spanking from Mom, because in Mom's eyes, the "baby" could do no wrong! (THAT'S ME AGAIN!)

We had what I would call a special brother to brother relationship. We were there for each other on many different occasions. Even though I was gone from New York, spending 20 years in the Navy before settling here in the Springs, we knew we could count on each other for whatever assistance was needed. As an example, my wife became pregnant with our first child in Dec 1965. Since I was deploying to Vietnam for an unspecified time, I called Joe in New York and asked if he could care for her while I was gone. Understand, my wife was from Japan and they had not met yet. Without hesitation, Joe said "Of course I'll take care of her. That's what brothers are for." I took my wife to New York, introduced her to her brother-in-law and left. I returned to New York in Oct 1966 and met my 2-month son for the first time. "That's what brothers are for".

In 1998, Joe called me. He had entered into a disastrous second marriage and he found himself alone, saddened and just about to give up on life itself. He said "Tommy, I need you." I immediately went to New York. We talked for 3 or 4 days...that's all we did was talk. I convinced him he should relocate to Colorado Springs, where he could live with me and my wife and our family. He agreed, and in May 1999, he became a member of our household. After all, "That's what brothers are for."

For the past 9 1/2 years, we were together almost every day. Joe got involved in meeting some fantastic people here and truly enjoyed his new life (except he continued to rout for the Buffalo Bills and not the Broncos!)

As much as I truly believe that Joe is in a better place, with his beloved wife Regina, our Mother and Sister, I still am feeling a deep loss. Joe was my hero when I was growing up, and although his passing was rapid, he showed an uncommon sense of pride, dignity and class.

"Big brother, thank you for who you were. I love you and miss you. We'll be together one day. Put the coffee pot on."

-C.

The Crime of Surviving

I just read a very depressing article in The New Yorker about a 90-year-old woman who tried to kill herself when her home was foreclosed upon. I'm filing it away with a depressing article in Harper's from 2 years ago about a woman in her 80s who had to glue her own dentures together because Medicare doesn't cover the replacing of dentures even though she cannot eat solid food without them. And another one that I saved but couldn't finish reading (from the Chicago Tribune) on elder abuse in nursing homes.

These people were not deadbeats. They were hardworking people who lived good lives, raised good kids, paid their bills, and expected better from the systems that they contributed to for years. What is wrong with us? Why does the richest nation in the world take such shoddy care of its elders? Forget talking about the economic downturn; these problems have been here for decades, and it is reprehensible. Why do we punish our own people when they have the audacity to survive?

And what exactly can I do in light of all of this? I'll have to get back to you on that.

-C.

Same Life, but Not

There has been a dramatic shift in my psyche since my trip to Colorado. Would you all think me terrible if I said here that it was one of the best trips of my life? Yes, I went back to say good-bye to my cancer-riddled uncle, who died while I was there (and, if anybody is up for the story, Joe chose the right time to leave to the very hour. The very rightest hour to go. Bless you, Joe, and thanks.). It was painful and exhausting and I smoked and stopped exercising and had a headache that lasted 2 weeks. (See blog entry entitled "Joe" for more on this grief). But I found a clarity that has been missing from my life for years. It's not easy to elaborate on here. Next to impossible, really. I'll just say that I look at my life now, and it is much the same. Same people, same environs, same aspirations, same challenges. And the same me-same body, same heart, same mind, same hands.

Same life, but a very different living. Does that make any sense? My living of my life is different. Beautifully so, and it is such a blessing that I nearly feel guilty for taking the good that came with the bad.

Nearly, but not quite. Certainly not enough to deny myself any good that is offered me, however it offers itself.

-C.

Random Thoughts

#1- Guthrie's Tavern on Addison is one of my favorite Chicago haunts. They have board games (Yahtzee!). They have delivery menus from a couple of dozen nearby restaurants & don't care if you order out. They don't care if you bring in chicken wings from the nearby Jewel instead of ordering out. They have cheese sticks & mini-pizzas on site if you don't want to order out or go to Jewel. And today they introduced me to Beamish genuine Irish stout, which is brewed in Cork, Ireland & is almost as good as Guinness (I cannot say better because that would be blasphemy). Love Guthrie's.

#2-Southport Lanes & Billiards is another great place. They have many pool tables, which is fun even though I suck at pool. They serve Guinness on draft and breaded & deep-fried green beans which is just a freakin' genius idea because they taste amazing especially when you are craving cigarettes and will not smoke. Not to mention being able to kid yourself into thinking that at least you are eating veggies.

#3-In trying economic times, it is good to be a lightweight (in drinking terms). I have had two beers and am ready for bed. I don't get bragging rights but I have more cash left in my pocket than the hardcore drinkers that have to down 4 or 5 to relax. And no hangover. So there.

#4-My friend Mark is a very talented writer, very funny. You should visit his Wordlustitude blog (wordlust.blogspot.com), hit the links to his online columns (so that he can stay employed)and also buy his book. I am saying this because it is true & not because he bought the last round & the fried green beans. Thanks, buddy, by the way.

#5-There are more random thoughts but I do have to go to bed so that I can hit my snooze button the requisite dozen times before getting up, tripping over a cat bed, & going to work. More puppies & kitties will need me in the morning, and maybe a turtle, guinea pig, ferret, rabbit, rat, iguana (I love them even though they are mean, or maybe because), hamster, or bearded dragon.

But please, no birds. Birds freak me out.

-C.

Thanks, Guys!

A big sloppy kiss in thanks to everyone who wished my mom a happy birthday. (Except for you, poetry-writing boy. Buy her pearls? You're supposed to help get me out of trouble, not deeper in. See if I give you any more discounted coffee...).

In addition to helping make my mom's birthday special, we also succeeded in exercising one of the many tasks that I manage not to shirk, which is to embarrass my poor mother with my wacky-crazy daughterness as often and as thoroughly as possible. Somehow, I find myself never too distracted to do that. I've embarrassed my mother in her home, in cars, in parking lots, in front of strangers, friends, family; on planes, at schools (remember Mrs. Harris?), in numerous department stores, at least 3 different shopping malls, on 2 continents; in print, picture, and video. Now, I've done so in cyberspace! Isn't technology a marvel?

Happy birthday, Mom! I'm so glad you were born; aren't you glad I was?

aishite imasu.

-C.

Here is another reason why I am a jerk:

Today is my mother's birthday. I am not allowed to tell you how old she is. I would love to, because my mom looks around 10-15 years younger than she is, and hell, I think she should brag. But she is modest and doesn't want people in her business, so I will not tell you here how old she turns today.

Why not just go ahead & post her age, you ask? That's easy-I am afraid of my mother. She is 4 foot 11ish, about 96 pounds, and I am afraid of making her angry. I will use words like "fuck" & "asshole" with gleeful abandon, but I will not post my mother's age on this blog because I do not make my mother that angry without suffering her wrath. Those of you who scoff-you live in ignorance. Those of you who are gravely nodding know my mother (or a mother like her), know me (or are like me), and accept my humility without question. Good for you; it means that your eyes and brains work well.

Today is my mother's birthday, and I forgot to send her a card. I called in a tearful apology, and she has forgiven my slight, but I do not forgive myself. Not yet. Am I being too hard on myself? M. has said yes, my sister said yes, Kat would say yes, many would say yes. I do not. I allowed my stressful week (month?) to distract me from a very important responsiblity, which is to remember my mom on her special day. She doesn't want jewelry, she doesn't eat candy, she's not big on fancy wrappings or grand gestures. My mom (like most moms) just wants to be remembered, to get a simple card (on time!!!!), and have it left at that. Not much to ask, but too much for stressed-out C. to deliver, and this is unacceptable. This is another reason why I am a jerk, and I must address that and will.

So I am calling upon you, loyal audience, to help me make my amends. Anyone, everyone, who is reading this blog, I need you to leave a comment wishing my mother a happy birthday. Allow your voice to make up for my thoughtlessness. Even if you know my mother & wished her a happy birthday on your own. Even if you don't know my mother except through me. Even if you have no idea who I am, much less who my mother is, but stumbled on this blog just for a way to pass the time, or goof off at work, or as a stop to your porn site-WHATEVER!!! If you are reading this, post a comment saying:

"Happy Birthday, Tokuko!"

Do it, please. Do it now. It will take 2 minutes, and don't forget to check your spelling. Me & mine are fussy about spelling. Thanks.

-C.

I am also an enormous jerk...

...and that is not the word I wanted to use here, but my dad did ask me to clean up the language, and as I've put a card or two of his late in the mail (in the past, thank you!), I figured that I could help make it up to him with a curse-free blog entry. You're welcome, Dad; hope you like it.

But I really am a jerk (insert foul language of your choosing here). I have had a busy week. The job demands at a vet practice can be rough. Little things that irk me become giant things that infuriate me when there are busy exam room doors, admits, anesthetics, treatments, all with a skeleton crew. Furry patients sometimes do not want to cooperate; fragile veins sometimes don't, either. Put a fragile vein into an angry furry beast & you have a flustered vet tech wannabe who starts to question every single one of her skills despite previous success. My lower back is screaming; my feet are, too. My right knee joined in the bitter chorus today, just to remind me that I am not a kid anymore, and that the physicality of pup-and-kit wrangling is tougher now than it was before, and bound to get tougher still as time stops for no man, beast, or stunning brunette with a Peter Pan complex.

I have some new scars-one actually looks like a zipper down the inside of my left forearm. I've never been into tattoos (having a father with a dozen of them takes away from their mystique), but I've been looking at my scars from vet medicine and thinking that I might just tattoo the names of the offending patient next to each one. Hey, if Walter's bite mark (Walter!) or Scout's claw marks are embedded into my skin for life, why not a stylized version of their names to go with them? Or maybe a paw pad? Or a smiling canine face (is he smiling? Or snarling?)? Mmm, must ponder.

What was my point? Oh, yeah, the jerk thing.

So, there is a Chicago-based writer with whom I am vaguely acquainted. I saw her perform at my first poetry slam at the Green Mill Lounge on my 30th birthday. She was fantastic. I saw her again when I went to another slam a couple of years later. We spoke briefly, and I was intrigued by her confidence, her talent. I would love to see her perform again, and I would love the chance to let her know that I admire her work.

I may not get that chance. I've recently found out that this very gifted woman, newly married, younger than me, is in the hospital. She had her large intestine removed as it was irreparably diseased. Her post-op experience has been described to me, and it is too horrifying to repeat here, or maybe anywhere. To make things worse, complications have developed, in the form of infections, blood clots, inert internal structures. Yet, through all of it, this person has maintained such a sense of optimism & strength that I can only stand in awe of her.

In awe, and greatly ashamed. Ashamed that I allow minor stresses to give rise to temper tantrums. Ashamed that I complain of joint pain when my intestines function fine even when I throw junk food at them. Ashamed that I cannot find a moment in a hectic day to be grateful that I made it to the age of 35 with the only scars on my skin having come from working in a profession that I love, not from withering disease or major invasive surgery. Maybe I will have another bad day tomorrow, maybe I will not be able to hit a vein, maybe a thousand little things will get me going because I haven't yet figured out how to balance my passion against my ego. But I'll be able to get up from my bed, eat a breakfast of solid food, swallow without agony, and go to the bathroom without waiting for 4-6 months to heal.

Fuck it. Sorry, Dad, but your curse-free blog entry/present will have to wait. It's time to call it like it is: I am an enormous asshole.

-C.

I am a proud American....

...and no, this is not a post about the results of the election. I said that I would rarely, if ever, debate or discuss my political leanings in this forum. (Go find me on Facebook for that!).

I am a proud American who demonstrated her pride by voting. And today, in record numbers, across lines of race, gender, religion, sexual orientation, socio-economic status, and nation of origin, so very many of my fellow Americans demonstrated that same pride. While we may not agree on right versus left, red versus blue, or the CU-Buffs versus the CSU-Rams, our ballots, be they paper, electronic, absentee, early, mail-in, write-in, fill-in-the-blank-in, whatever, have been taken. Counted. Heard. Together.

Starbucks, where I hold a second job, today offered a free cup of coffee to anyone who voted. Two days ago I was frustrated because of an off-the-cuff comment about bothering to vote. But today I poured out free coffee & heard stories from young first-time voters, naturalized citizens who voted, cops & dog-walkers & teachers & musicians who voted. A girl I worked with drove to Indiana this morning to vote in her home state, then made it back to Addison Street in time to pour out free coffee next to me. I learned about an old woman who voted for the first time in her life because she finally, blessedly, felt like her voice might matter. I will always be irritated by the "why bother?" crowd, but today my green apron job afforded me the opportunity to recognize the greater number of the "I bother" crowd. So many cups of coffee. So many who bother.

Thank you, my fellow proud Americans. Thank you for showing me your faces and your voting receipts, and for telling me your stories. I hope you enjoyed that coffee. I hope you know that when I wished you a nice day that I meant it with all of my heart. I hope that, regardless of how any of us feel about the outcome of this or any election, that we can come together as a common people to work towards bettering the nation for which we showed our affection and our allegiance. Maybe over coffee.

And...go Rams!!!!!

-C.

Why I Bother

*-Warning! Tall mouthy woman on soapbox ahead-*

So, I was talking about voting, specifically my voting, more specifically, my 2.5 hour wait in line for early voting. I wasn't talking about my politically leanings, just the process of the act of voting. I rarely debate my leanings, and you will likely never see me do so here. People believe what they believe and act accordingly, as do I.

Someone said, in reaction to my hours-long wait, "Why bother?"

Grrrrrrrrrrr.

So here is my response:

I bother because many generations of my family have served in the U.S. military, up through and including the Revolutionary War; their sacrifices are branded into my DNA, and I honor them. I bother because people like Susan B. Anthony, Elizabeth Cady Stanton, and Sojourner Truth didn't have the opportunity to vote when they were my age, and I honor them. I bother because in 1917 a woman named Alice Paul went on a hunger strike for weeks to bring attention to women's suffrage, and I honor her. I bother because in 1963, 3 men named Chaney, Schwerner, & Goodman were murdered in their quest to bring equality to voting, and I honor them. I bother because in 1989 I saw, on TV, a Chinese citizen stand in front of a tank in a failing effort to bring democracy to his people, and I honor him. I bother because today, in places like Saudi Arabia and Vatican City, women are not permitted to vote at all, and I am certain that they would relish standing in line for mere hours to do what I take for granted, and by standing in that line and casting my ballot, I honor them.

I'm not here to promote a platform, or a party, or a person. I don't give a damn what most people think; conversely, I don't expect most people to give a damn about what I think. I just want people to bother. Please. Even though the system is flawed. Even if you think it doesn't make a difference in the grand scheme of things. Even if a 2.5 hour wait seems like so much time out of your day.

Just bother.

-C.

Choosing Your Battle

I'm sitting at my bistro table eating steak tacos from a place under the Addison Red Line station called "El Burrito". I'm pretty certain that the beans have real lard in them. It's a coronary in a to-go box, but I promised myself (after a half-hearted attempt at healthy eating last week) that I could eat whatever I wanted as long as I didn't smoke. So I'm gorging on lots of cheese, Doritos (Sweet Spicy Chili-it rocks!), scones & muffins, and various dirt-cheap Mexican food in large quantities. Oh, and the Starbucks' new hot chocolate. Four different kinds of cocoa mixed into what is essentially half-and-half, steamed to perfection, topped with real whipped cream & caramel sauce. I don't even like hot chocolate that much, but, really, it's any excuse to over-indulge in the one vice whilst I fend off the other.

This will not last long. The cravings will subside, and my pants will start arguing with my waist & thighs, and who wants their pants to lose an argument? I'm penciling in some workout time this week (now that I'm cough-free), and I'll be back to being my previously trying-for-a-healthy-lifestyle persona soon enough.

But in the meantime, there are all manner of affordable fatty & sugary foods at the ready. What did my old doctor say? That I would have to put on 100 pounds as a non-smoker to match the health risks of smoking at a lean weight? Quite the margin of error, don't you think?

-C.

Duty & Perspective

It took waiting in line for 2 & 1/2 hours, and my feet & back are screaming bloody murder at me, but I voted. Some schlub ahead of me couldn't; not older than maybe 22, he was registered in another state & didn't realize that early voting was not absentee. The lady behind me felt bad for him, and wondered aloud why couldn't they figure out a way to let him vote anyway since he had waited so long. I turned to her and said:

"If he had spent five minutes on the Internet, he would have gotten all the information he needed and saved himself some time."

With duty & privilege come responsibility, kid. It's a lesson I hope you do not need to learn again. Don't know in which state you are, in fact, registered to vote, but maybe if you start walking now you'll get there by Tuesday? Good luck, and see you next election.

I had some lovely conversation with a lady named Mary. She chatted about how excited she was to see so many people come out to vote (as was I, as I always am), about her recently deceased nephew, who passed away "too young" at the age of 74 (Mary is in her 90s), and about how it was very important to examine all sides of the issues. It's all about looking at different things from many different perspectives, and then being able to make up your mind. I heartily, smilingly, agreed.

We passed a lot of book shelves as we waited in line (this was at a Chicago Public Library branch in Edgewater), and Mary kept pointing out this, and that, and the other. She stopped at the Harry Potter series, took one in her hands, and asked me if I had ever read any of them. I told her that I had not.

"I haven't, either. I heard that a lot of churches were very upset about these books. I think they were concerned about corrupting impressionable children, steering them away from God."

I pondered for a moment, and replied, "Well, maybe the author just wants to show people a different perspective."

She laughed. A few minutes later, Mary looked at her watch and said that she had to leave without voting to make an evening appointment. She figures that if she sets her alarm early on Tuesday, she'll be able to vote at her regular polling place. I wished her luck.

"To you, too" She paused. "And you've got great perspective."

Don't I, though?

-C.

Hacking

No, not into computers. I mean hacking up phlegm. Gobs & gobs of brown & gray-tinged phlegm. You see, folks, when you quit smoking, it is common to develop some uncomfortable upper-respiratory ailments, like the sniffles and/or mild cough. It's a good sign, according to the vast amounts of smoking cessation literature that I've read over the past ten years. It means that your body is getting a chance to clear the nastiness out of its system, giving itself a chance to heal & thrive.

This morning I woke myself up with coughing. You all know how very much it takes to wake me up, right? Then came the phlegm. If I didn't think you all would stop reading my blog I'd upload a pic or two just because I myself cannot believe what came out through my throat. Then came an embarrassing call to my workplace, letting them know that I needed to take a sick day (unpaid, because I used all my time up in Colorado) due to my NOT smoking after having smoked 2 packs a day (no typo there!) for 10 days after having NOT smoked for nearly 2 years. They were not amused; neither am I.

I called my doctor, just to be safe, and hey, this is why I have insurance after all and there is no co-pay in a phone call:

Dr: Is it green?

C.: No, just brown or grayish.

Dr: So no infection. Not pink-tinged, right? That would mean blood.

C.: No, not pink. No fancy colors, just the neutrals. My ribs are kinda sore, but I think that's from the hacking.

Dr: That's all normal, considering. I can fax a scrip for Tylenol with codeine, if you want it. Otherwise you have to ride it out.

Then I got a five minute lecture about not smoking. And I had to sit and listen to it, submissive and humbled. What else could I do?

I feel better this afternoon. Hopefully that was the worst of it. I turned down the pumped-up Tylenol. I think I'd be better to remember my rib pain, and the hacking, and the thankfully not-pink-tinged phlegm. I want these sensations fully in mind the next time I think I can have JUST ONE CIGARETTE! Because there is NO such thing with me! Fuck.

-C.

Like I've ever been normal...

...but I am getting back to some semblance of it. I'm not smoking; the patch is helping with that. I went so long without cigarettes that even when I crave one, I'm reminded that breathing freely is normal for me now. Drinking coffee without a cigarette? Normal. Taking a break without a cigarette? Normal. Typing a blog without a cigarette? Normal. It's all good.

I spent the day watching movies (No Country for Old Men is brilliant!), doing some laundry, running a few errands, eating too much cheese (cheese-the main reason I will not go vegan), and prepping for another busy week. And just basking in getting back to feeling like myself. Maybe even a better version of myself, because that's what extreme experiences can do for you. Give you an opportunity to morph into a better & stronger you. If you don't let it tear you apart.

And I choose the former, thank you very much.

I'm going to make some tea, finish folding my socks, gather my thoughts on getting through my week. Oh, yeah, and the dishes. Gotta do the dishes...

-C.

Joe

It is late; I've just showered. I haven't showered in several days, since I left Colorado Springs, and I'm not sure why. Maybe it was too much work; maybe I wasn't ready to wash the scent of my mother's house from my skin. But, like eating and drinking and sleeping, it is necessary to be clean. Now I just have to get to the sleeping part. Damn, I'm tired; if I am so tired, why can't I sleep?

I'm so glad and so grateful that I made it out to say goodbye and support (and be supported by) my family. I didn't know my cousins, Joe's kids, until this week. I was worried that it would be weird to have strangers in my mother's house, until I realized, at our first embrace, that there were no strangers among us. This was FAMILY; did I mention that I love my family? God, I do, and how much and for great reason. My family, my family, my family. Every word that comes from my mouth, my hands will be in honor and in praise of them. I love my family and my family loves me. Say it again, C., say it until no more breath passes through your lips. I love my family, I love them, I love them, I love them. Forever and always, my blood, my clan, my family.

I met Joe for the first time (that I recall) when I was six. My grandmother had passed. I was young and had few memories of my grandma; she seemed to be unhappy all of the time and I was glad because she was now with the God she so fervently adored. Even at six years of age, this I knew. But my Uncle Joe came out for the funeral and he was the funniest person I had ever met. He was 6 foot 3 and 220 pounds, even bigger than my big dad! I figured that older siblings were always bigger than the younger ones, just as my older brother and sister where bigger than me. That theory was shot down years later when I sprang up past my "big" sister who stopped growing at 5 foot 3. But that logic of bigness made sense at six.

Joe, when I was six, could roll his whole eye into the back of his head and "see" inside his brain. He got me to try it. I couldn't do it; I would roll back my eyes and only see darkness. He laughed and said keep trying. I tried for years after.

I saw Joe again when I was sixteen. My brother was graduating from the Academy, and Joe was coming to meet us all there. He got to the rented house while I was showering, and asked where I was. He settled into a lawn chair with my mom & dad & sister, and in a few minutes I came bounding downstairs, all 5 foot 10 of me, no longer six years old, now a young woman wearing a heavy metal t-shirt with wet hair wrapped in a towel. He turned around and his eyes bugged out of his head. This is Tommy's baby? Jesus! She's huge! I walked up to him and he stood up, still taller than me but considerably closer to my eye level than 10 years prior. "Hello, Stretch!", he said in a deep growly voice that sounded so much like my dad's. I don't think he ever called me by my first name after that. I was Stretch. I am still Stretch.

He sang karaoke at my sister's first wedding. I made him, my dad, and my brother sing "Duke of Earl". They fumbled the lyrics until Dad hit the end with an amazing and hilarious falsetto. Dad was one of the few who could make Joe laugh out loud; the rest of us, we are amateurs. We all cracked up. We've got it on tape; when I'm ready I want to watch it some time, and laugh and cry and swim in memories. I'll watch it when I can swim, and not drown.

He watched me & my sister try rollerblading in a park in Colorado. He called me "the mad stork", then all 5 foot 11 1/4" of me, arms and legs akimbo, trying to keep balanced and upright. I fell hard on my butt, and had an enormous bruise in that softest part of me. I dropped my pants and showed Joe. He laughed, and I laughed with him, even though it hurt like hell. I bet he told that story to any number of his friends, and laughed at his tall, lanky (at the time), uncoordinated niece. That's my niece, Stretch. Yeah, that her name! The mad stork! On rollerblades! I still have those blades, and maybe I'll go out and bruise my butt again. I'll laugh, and think of Joe.

So many stories. No one told a story like Joe. He had presence, a booming voice, his timing perfect, his punchlines spot-on. "The Black Commando". I can't tell that story because I can't do it justice. I'll bust up and fumble and never get it as right as Joe did. We've got that on tape, too. We'll watch it and cherish it and laugh through our tears. Think of something that makes you burst out laughing every single time you remember it, and you will know my Uncle Joe.

I thought that Joe was so funny, but I didn't realize for a long time that laughter hid so much pain. Losing his wife so early, and so tragically. Surviving when she didn't-it must have torn him up inside. Surviving his sister; losing touch with her children. Trying to be mother & father to three kids who had NO memory of a beautiful mother who smiled all of the time, and now only existed in pictures. The travesty of his marriage to his second wife. Limping heartbroken to a haven, my parents' home in Colorado, needing to be near his baby brother and Japanese sister, needing so much for someone who knew and loved him to take care of him while he rebuilt his life at the age of 68.

How can someone with so much pain be so funny? I know now why. Because you HAVE to laugh!!! YOU MUST!!! Laughter in not optional-it is NECESSARY! Laughter is SURVIVAL, as much so as eating and breathing and sleeping. If you cannot laugh, and laugh at yourself most of all, then please stay away from me and mine. We have no time for you, for time is precious to us. And we will laugh. We may cry and tear our clothes and howl through our grief, skipping showers and walking around in each other's clothes and trying hard not to puke up our food, but we will laugh at the same time. Go ahead, think us crazy. We are, and we are crazy and tired and grieving, and laughing, laughing, laughing. Laughing like the fools that we are, but we are in on the joke, my clan is, and we don't fight the joke, we just laugh. Laugh, laugh, laugh, laugh, laugh.

I'm going to go to bed. I will think of my Uncle Joe, and how he is dancing with his beloved first wife, his true wife; they are reunited at last, and they are laughing. Tomorrow I will tell a funny story at work. Not "The Black Commando", because that is Joe's story to tell everyone in heaven, and they are laughing. As much as I know that I'm sitting at my laptop, smoking a cigarette (yes, sadly), feeling the cold wind leaking through my windows, I know that somewhere, right now, my Uncle Joe is making some else who is gone from our world laugh in theirs. But I will pick a funny story of my own to tell. (How about the time you drank too much tequila, C., and you woke up trapped under your bed? That's a good one.) Maybe that one, or another, or maybe something I hear on the radio or read in the paper. And we will laugh, and in doing so, my Uncle Joe will be honored. And he will be laughing.

And flipping me the bird, because that is Joe.

-C. ("Stretch")

Back to the Business of Living...

I am back in Chicago. I'm tired; mentally, physically, emotionally. Just totally drained. And yet, oddly refreshed.

It's tough to explain, and almost impossible to do so in the context of a public blog. I just know that I love my family, my family loves me, and our clan can tackle anything life throws at us as long as we tackle it together.

And I'm not used to saying "we".

I have to go to work tomorrow. I hope that I can get through my day well. I will ask for help more often than I usually do. I want for as little sorrow to come through the front door as I am pouring out plenty enough from my heart and have no desire for that river to become an ocean. I also know that should the sorrow pour out, that I can rise to the occasion as I have done before and emerge victorious because I have finally figured out who I am, what I am capable of, and what I want to be.

And in case you didn't notice, I said "I am back in Chicago", not "I am back home".

-C.

Rest In Peace

At 2:55 p.m., MST, George Francis McLuckie, Jr. passed from this earth. He died as he wanted, with warmth and dignity and, most of all, surrounded by love.

Rest in peace, Uncle Joe. And stop flipping me off from heaven already.

-C. (aka "Stretch")

Joy and Pain

I've been in Colorado for 4 days. I don't think I fully understood what my Uncle Joe meant to me, and to so many people that I love, until this week. At least I figured that out in time to say my goodbyes.

Death can do more than take away a life. It can tear apart a person's heart, cripple them emotionally. It can bring out the worst in people, allowing pettiness and resentment to choke out their humanity, leaving husks behind.

And death can bring people together, draw out the best of their character, shed light on their strengths and vulnerabilities, and have them rise as a phoenix from the ashes of the departed.

And that's my family.

-C.

Sunset

I'm getting ready to head out to Colorado this week, to say a final goodbye to my father's brother George. It's difficult for me to be articulate and relevent during emotionally turbulent times like this. I've been forced to confront my own feelings about illness and mortality in the last 6 years that I've worked in vet medicine, but that being the case, I still find myself not feeling particularly strong, or prepared. Mostly, I feel just truly humble, knowing that regardless of the circumstance we all must submit to the force of nature that eventually demands our breath and blood. There is no getting around that reality.

And if you don't die, you have to watch your loved ones do it. There is just no getting around that, either.

-C.

Sweater Season

Oh, lovely autumn! I'm sitting at my little bistro-style table, staring out of my window at the little bit of Lake Michigan that comes into view (not a a panoramic view by any means-you kinda have to crane the neck a bit to see water), getting ready to brew a second cup of Kenya coffee. It is sweater weather, cooler than the sweltering humidity of summer (though this past one was possibly the mildest I've dealt with in Chicago). The days bring with them the possibility that it may be a little warmer, or a little cooler, a sunny day or a rainy one. I love that about autumn-the reprieve from the heat, and the variety in temperature, precipitation, cloud coverage. I love the changing of the leaves. Back-to-school sales on supplies (the writer in me loves shopping for just the right pad of paper, the perfect clicky-pen). The fall harvest with its apples and winter squashes and pumpkin flavors galore. Pumpkin bread, pumpkin pie, pumpkin muffins, pumpkin pancakes, pumpkin spice lattes, even. Not to mention the breaking out of jeans and sweaters, the best of comfort clothes. Fall is simply my favorite time of year. Hope you're enjoying it, too.

-C.

my retinas feel seared...

I just watched a video on YouTube of Celine Dion singing AC/DC's "You Shook Me All Night Long". Is that even legal?

I've spent the week benched because of an ankle injury. I actually missed working out. Yes, my name is Colleen, I am a NON SMOKER who is in bed by 9:30 p.m., eats HEALTHY and WORKS OUT. These are not typos. Hey, I guess if Celine can sing heavy metal, all things are possible.

-C.

Quick Update

Hey, all!-

So I started a new blog just in time for my semester to open and I'm not able to add much to it at the moment because I'm in full on freak-out mode due to a certain "pass/fail" policy in one of my classes. There was supposed to be a whole bit here about the beginning of fall & the difference between college at college-age and college at this end of 30 and an observation on my ability to succeed being related to when I choose to panic. But all I can manage is a few words here to say that I'm here, busy as all get-out, and determined to keep up.

But that means fewer words here, fewer towards my writing aspirations, and less social time all around. Thems the breaks.

New Blog

New blog, new photo, same ol' me. Check back soon.