The guy that delivered the paper today had a thick middle eastern accent and looked just below 50. His eyes were tired but he smiled at me. I'm in a red beanie, skull blouse, grey cardigan, red slacks and black knee high boots. I'm hardly the portrait of femininity. He brings in the paper cases one by one and denies my help.
"This my job." He says. "You sit and do your job. Stay warm, miss."
After he brings in the last case, he reaches in his coat pocket to pull out the electronic signature device. I roll up my sleeves and sign on the line. He thanks me.
When he looks down, he sees my inked anchor and text on my forearm peaking below my sweater and smiles. He rolls up his own sleeves to reveal his own artwork. He rubs his finger on my anchor like a little kid would and says excitedly.
"You! You like me!"
I smile. When he leaves the office he tips his hat and I wave.
I'm happy to be like a man like that.
Friday, January 31, 2014
Thursday, January 30, 2014
21. Grandfather
My grandfather was very tall but he had the kindest eyes. I remember always having this connection with him. My dad used to say the quickest way to calm me down when I was a baby was to put me in his arms.
Before my parents got divorced, we used to hold baseball games in my back yard. My mom would cook on the grill for everyone. All the older folk would sit around in these plastic chairs, drink out of solo cups and talk about the war, except my grandfather. He was always the umpire.
I was the youngest by a few years, and though I was far from shy, I was content to watch from the sidelines. That, and my big brother who was typically inclusive told me specifically I couldn't play.
"Jessie, why don't you have at bat?" my grandfather asked me.
"No, I'm too little." I replied.
"Who told you that?"
"James and the other big kids."
My grandfather was having none of that.
While he knew he could order the crew to let me play, he was a man of respect and reason, so he asked instead. They agreed to let me have one turn.
He bent behind me to help hold the bat as it was still too heavy. With a twinkle in his eye he said,
"Jessie, I bet you can get a home run."
"No I can't, Papa!" I jolted back with an attitude.
"Yes you can," he said. " I know you can."
With that, my brother threw his first pitch. Strike one. The kids quietly laughed.
Second pitch. Strike two.
"I told you she couldn't play!" my brother argued, feeling embarrassed from his friends for agreeing with the old mans request.
"They're going to laugh if I strike out again!" I whined.
"Don't focus on them," he said, "just you and the ball. Don't let jerks ruin your focus."
With that, the ball left my brother's fingers for the third pitch and I felt the bat connect to it. The ball went up and over the fence into my neighbor's yard. The kids that were laughing grew silent. My brother smiled.
I stood there in shock for a moment before my grandfather screamed for me to run. He caught his little grand baby at home plate and kissed me on the forehead after a great big hug.
He died of Parkinsons when I was 7. My dad later told me that the last thing his dad ever said to him was,
"Watch out for my little one, ok?"
Before my parents got divorced, we used to hold baseball games in my back yard. My mom would cook on the grill for everyone. All the older folk would sit around in these plastic chairs, drink out of solo cups and talk about the war, except my grandfather. He was always the umpire.
I was the youngest by a few years, and though I was far from shy, I was content to watch from the sidelines. That, and my big brother who was typically inclusive told me specifically I couldn't play.
"Jessie, why don't you have at bat?" my grandfather asked me.
"No, I'm too little." I replied.
"Who told you that?"
"James and the other big kids."
My grandfather was having none of that.
While he knew he could order the crew to let me play, he was a man of respect and reason, so he asked instead. They agreed to let me have one turn.
He bent behind me to help hold the bat as it was still too heavy. With a twinkle in his eye he said,
"Jessie, I bet you can get a home run."
"No I can't, Papa!" I jolted back with an attitude.
"Yes you can," he said. " I know you can."
With that, my brother threw his first pitch. Strike one. The kids quietly laughed.
Second pitch. Strike two.
"I told you she couldn't play!" my brother argued, feeling embarrassed from his friends for agreeing with the old mans request.
"They're going to laugh if I strike out again!" I whined.
"Don't focus on them," he said, "just you and the ball. Don't let jerks ruin your focus."
With that, the ball left my brother's fingers for the third pitch and I felt the bat connect to it. The ball went up and over the fence into my neighbor's yard. The kids that were laughing grew silent. My brother smiled.
I stood there in shock for a moment before my grandfather screamed for me to run. He caught his little grand baby at home plate and kissed me on the forehead after a great big hug.
He died of Parkinsons when I was 7. My dad later told me that the last thing his dad ever said to him was,
"Watch out for my little one, ok?"
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
20. Maggie (Hallelujah)
Maggie sings the only word she knows of a Leonard Cohen song,
"Halleluuuuja, Halleluuuuujah" over and over again into the receiver that her mother holds up to hear ear, her dark auburn ringlets laying loosely over the phone.
On the other end, her Nana smiles, least just for today. In a few months she'll be gone, but Maggie doesn't know that. She's nearly three and right now, gone is what happens to the food when you eat it and gone are the cars passing by on the street. When things are gone, they either come back or you forget.
She doesn't know everyone is eventually gone forever. She still doesn't know forever outside of cold toes in the winter, or cookies in the oven.
When she's old enough to write about what it all means, or to even come close to understanding, she'll have forgotten how sweet her nana's laugh was, or the taste of her apple pie. She won't remember the look in her father's eyes watching his own mother die, or that her mother's pregnant belly was the only thing keeping anyone going in those days.
But we'll know. And we'll remember. If I know her when she's a grown up I'll tell her that the thought of her little voice singing that song both killed and healed us. I'll talk about the scrap book that her little life is for me.
When she asks what she was doing when Franny was passing away, I'll tell her of the one day I went to visit in the hospital, and Uncle Andrew was there with us. She was pretending to be a monster, and punching everyone in their gentiles. We laughed half out of discomfort and half for all the nerves. We tried to keep spirit around a woman who knew she had maybe weeks left.
I'll tell her that she was busy being just shy of three-a high note in an otherwise cold and broken song, in an otherwise cold and broken moment in a pit at the hospital.
"Halleluuuuja, Halleluuuuujah" over and over again into the receiver that her mother holds up to hear ear, her dark auburn ringlets laying loosely over the phone.
On the other end, her Nana smiles, least just for today. In a few months she'll be gone, but Maggie doesn't know that. She's nearly three and right now, gone is what happens to the food when you eat it and gone are the cars passing by on the street. When things are gone, they either come back or you forget.
She doesn't know everyone is eventually gone forever. She still doesn't know forever outside of cold toes in the winter, or cookies in the oven.
When she's old enough to write about what it all means, or to even come close to understanding, she'll have forgotten how sweet her nana's laugh was, or the taste of her apple pie. She won't remember the look in her father's eyes watching his own mother die, or that her mother's pregnant belly was the only thing keeping anyone going in those days.
But we'll know. And we'll remember. If I know her when she's a grown up I'll tell her that the thought of her little voice singing that song both killed and healed us. I'll talk about the scrap book that her little life is for me.
When she asks what she was doing when Franny was passing away, I'll tell her of the one day I went to visit in the hospital, and Uncle Andrew was there with us. She was pretending to be a monster, and punching everyone in their gentiles. We laughed half out of discomfort and half for all the nerves. We tried to keep spirit around a woman who knew she had maybe weeks left.
I'll tell her that she was busy being just shy of three-a high note in an otherwise cold and broken song, in an otherwise cold and broken moment in a pit at the hospital.
Tuesday, January 28, 2014
19. Firm Line
"But what if I do someday?" If-the one word that keeps us tethered to a false sense of anything.
"I don't love you, what what if I do some day? Then you will be gone and I will be left with a ton of regret."
We fear the unknown so much that we lose the moment. In this moment, I do not feel X, Y and Z. I cannot treat this as though I could in the future. I could do a lot of things in the future.
We could sit on the maybe until the idea is over cooked and in the end, no one wins.
So it's best to just be honest.
I don't love him. I know I don't and I know I can't or could. I wish I did. I wish there wasn't such a firm line that I could justify any drunk midnight moves trying to figure it out. I wish life gave you the luxury of having unparalleled attraction to the person that texts you every morning just for the hell of it, or remembers stupid things that you forgot you said yourself in conversations. Sometimes it does, but maybe not when you need it, and certainly not in the dead of a Midwest winter. Least not with me.
So for his sake and mine, my indecisions and addiction to ifs, I draw the line. I know better now, having learned from years of similar mistakes.
"I don't love you, what what if I do some day? Then you will be gone and I will be left with a ton of regret."
We fear the unknown so much that we lose the moment. In this moment, I do not feel X, Y and Z. I cannot treat this as though I could in the future. I could do a lot of things in the future.
We could sit on the maybe until the idea is over cooked and in the end, no one wins.
So it's best to just be honest.
I don't love him. I know I don't and I know I can't or could. I wish I did. I wish there wasn't such a firm line that I could justify any drunk midnight moves trying to figure it out. I wish life gave you the luxury of having unparalleled attraction to the person that texts you every morning just for the hell of it, or remembers stupid things that you forgot you said yourself in conversations. Sometimes it does, but maybe not when you need it, and certainly not in the dead of a Midwest winter. Least not with me.
So for his sake and mine, my indecisions and addiction to ifs, I draw the line. I know better now, having learned from years of similar mistakes.
Monday, January 27, 2014
Sunday, January 26, 2014
17. Toxic
Toxic holds out his 5th of whiskey as an olive branch but I don't take a sip. In a slurred speech he outlines all the ways in which I'm beautiful and apologizes for being such an asshole all the time.
I have two options- I can let him upstairs to my apartment where I at least know he's safe, or I can leave him on my doorstep, keys to his friend's car in hand with a high probability that he could hurt someone else. A cab has been ruled out as he refuses to go anywhere without me or the car.
Alright. My sympathy is draining but I'll take one for the team.
He staggers up my stairs using me as support. Three flights up, he attempts to slide down the banister in jest, only to fall. Drunkenly, he dangles over the railing laughing almost madly, while I use all my strength and the memory of my friend dying in a similar fashion to hoist him back over. His limp body hits the stairs, and both my neighbors below bang at their doors in protest.
I open the front door, quickly grabbing a blanket and pillow off my bed to bring it to the couch. He sways down the hallway to the kitchen to laugh in my roommates face. I am buzzed myself, but repulsed to a point of no comparison. I motion him to the living room, apologizing over the clatter of him knocking things over.
His eyes look right through me as I tell him to stay put. Once in sleep, I feel the weight shift on the other side of my bed. I ask him what he's doing and says he doesn't want to sleep alone.
Toxic promises he'll behave but I have to swat him off a few times before he finally falls asleep. I lay awake with the smell of vinegar, and the sound of his snore crackling over an otherwise quiet night.
When he wakes up, I am reading and slowly drinking my coffee. He rests his head on my shoulder, looks up at me sweetly and asks what he did last night.
I wanted to say, "Destroyed any compassion or assistance moving forward."
Instead I tell him that he has more people he should apologize to.
I have two options- I can let him upstairs to my apartment where I at least know he's safe, or I can leave him on my doorstep, keys to his friend's car in hand with a high probability that he could hurt someone else. A cab has been ruled out as he refuses to go anywhere without me or the car.
Alright. My sympathy is draining but I'll take one for the team.
He staggers up my stairs using me as support. Three flights up, he attempts to slide down the banister in jest, only to fall. Drunkenly, he dangles over the railing laughing almost madly, while I use all my strength and the memory of my friend dying in a similar fashion to hoist him back over. His limp body hits the stairs, and both my neighbors below bang at their doors in protest.
I open the front door, quickly grabbing a blanket and pillow off my bed to bring it to the couch. He sways down the hallway to the kitchen to laugh in my roommates face. I am buzzed myself, but repulsed to a point of no comparison. I motion him to the living room, apologizing over the clatter of him knocking things over.
His eyes look right through me as I tell him to stay put. Once in sleep, I feel the weight shift on the other side of my bed. I ask him what he's doing and says he doesn't want to sleep alone.
Toxic promises he'll behave but I have to swat him off a few times before he finally falls asleep. I lay awake with the smell of vinegar, and the sound of his snore crackling over an otherwise quiet night.
When he wakes up, I am reading and slowly drinking my coffee. He rests his head on my shoulder, looks up at me sweetly and asks what he did last night.
I wanted to say, "Destroyed any compassion or assistance moving forward."
Instead I tell him that he has more people he should apologize to.
Saturday, January 25, 2014
16. Bus Girls
I'm on the 72 headed west back to my apartment. The bus is packed but I managed to find a seat. Two girls make there way in front of me, holding on to the rubber straps on the metal railings. They're loud and curvaceous, clad in bright prints and fake lashes. At first I'm annoyed. My commute is always noisy no matter what time it is.
But there's something in the way they carry themselves. They radiate with enthusiasm, whether they're making fun of each other or speaking of how awkward public transport is. I'm half listening to my friend beside me, and half to them. I find my in to their conversation, complimenting the girl in front of me on her leather jacket. Her friend pipes in to make a joke. I engage in conversation with them for a few stops.
I doubt I'll ever see them again. Extreme weather conditions make us adjust our travel habits. Hell, anything can make you adjust your travel habits.
I hold true to my notion that anybody can be a friend, even for a moment, if you're both willing and open.
But there's something in the way they carry themselves. They radiate with enthusiasm, whether they're making fun of each other or speaking of how awkward public transport is. I'm half listening to my friend beside me, and half to them. I find my in to their conversation, complimenting the girl in front of me on her leather jacket. Her friend pipes in to make a joke. I engage in conversation with them for a few stops.
I doubt I'll ever see them again. Extreme weather conditions make us adjust our travel habits. Hell, anything can make you adjust your travel habits.
I hold true to my notion that anybody can be a friend, even for a moment, if you're both willing and open.
15. Bill
When I watch people play video games it looks like their character is doing a lot of running around on screen searching from the answer. The person at the control knows the resolution but isn't exactly sure how to get it. As a result, the character looks chaotic, making lots of static movement. When the task at hand gets resolved, it doesn't feel like success-least not to me.
That's what it feels like grieving my friend, Bill. Lots of chaos and static, some resolve, but no REAL success. I will always miss him, it will always hurt, and there's not a whole lot I can do in the process except accept the inevitable rush of tears whenever or wherever they happen and try not to let it set the tone for the rest of the day.
I woke up missing him something fierce this morning-the permanence of his death ringing like a car alarm in my head. I pulled the sheets around my head and shut my eyes tightly. I'm not exactly sure what I missed. I think it was his general presence, and his laugh above all else.
He reminds me of a time in my life where everything felt effortless. The slow rock of finger docks and the wake of ferry boats in the summer. He's tin mugs and grey wool costumes. He's Huey Lewis and the News.
He's the cry, the laugh, and the cry again. I was very lucky to have known him.
That's what it feels like grieving my friend, Bill. Lots of chaos and static, some resolve, but no REAL success. I will always miss him, it will always hurt, and there's not a whole lot I can do in the process except accept the inevitable rush of tears whenever or wherever they happen and try not to let it set the tone for the rest of the day.
I woke up missing him something fierce this morning-the permanence of his death ringing like a car alarm in my head. I pulled the sheets around my head and shut my eyes tightly. I'm not exactly sure what I missed. I think it was his general presence, and his laugh above all else.
He reminds me of a time in my life where everything felt effortless. The slow rock of finger docks and the wake of ferry boats in the summer. He's tin mugs and grey wool costumes. He's Huey Lewis and the News.
He's the cry, the laugh, and the cry again. I was very lucky to have known him.
Friday, January 24, 2014
14. Tina and Lisa
I'm eating a cookie at Lisa's kitchen table and she breezes by me, putting away cake pans from her in-home bakery,
"You have been our baby since the moment you were born, and you will always be our baby no matter how old you are." She says about her and her sister in regards to me.
Tina and Lisa are my dad's cousins and have been my primary source of maternal wisdom since my mother died. They also acted as back up whenever my mom disappeared, which was actually quite a lot. If it's true when they say that it takes a village to raise a child, the one that raised me was loud, warm, and Italian.
I have memories of making anise cookies and playing with their kids when we were all young. They were always the ones that took care of me when I was sick and always knew what to say to make me feel better about anything.
I'm eternally grateful for them in ways I'm too tired to articulate.
"Keep kicking ass-that's how you can show us you love us!"
Will do, girls. Will do.
"You have been our baby since the moment you were born, and you will always be our baby no matter how old you are." She says about her and her sister in regards to me.
Tina and Lisa are my dad's cousins and have been my primary source of maternal wisdom since my mother died. They also acted as back up whenever my mom disappeared, which was actually quite a lot. If it's true when they say that it takes a village to raise a child, the one that raised me was loud, warm, and Italian.
I have memories of making anise cookies and playing with their kids when we were all young. They were always the ones that took care of me when I was sick and always knew what to say to make me feel better about anything.
I'm eternally grateful for them in ways I'm too tired to articulate.
"Keep kicking ass-that's how you can show us you love us!"
Will do, girls. Will do.
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
13. Manager of Family Dollar
The local Family Dollar is a thing of beauty in these parts. I love it because it is the primary provider of toilet paper, shampoo, and emergency chocolate. I hate it because it's a Family Dollar halfway into the hood, which is a story in itself, but not for today and not for this blog I think.
Anyway, the manager there is a young Hispanic guy who I haven't caught the name of, but I've chit chatted with on several occasions. When he rings me up this time, I notice he's wearing an L.A Kings sweatshirt. He notices my Bruins jersey through my half opened wool coat.
"You from L.A?" I ask.
"No," he replies, "but I like the way they play the game. I've been a fan of them for 6 years or so. I'm a fan of most of the L.A teams. You from Boston?"
"Yeah, moves 6 months or so ago. My friends were worried I'd like the Blackhawks after moving here."
"I bet you hate them more! Haha!"
"I wouldn't say that, but they haven't endeared themselves to me that's for damn sure!"
We then begin this conversation about sports loyalty and just loyalty in general. We carry on until someone gets in line behind me.
I walk back into the cold with his words hanging out in my head.
"You love what you love, regardless of location or logistics. If it's real, it stays with you, you know?"
I know.
Anyway, the manager there is a young Hispanic guy who I haven't caught the name of, but I've chit chatted with on several occasions. When he rings me up this time, I notice he's wearing an L.A Kings sweatshirt. He notices my Bruins jersey through my half opened wool coat.
"You from L.A?" I ask.
"No," he replies, "but I like the way they play the game. I've been a fan of them for 6 years or so. I'm a fan of most of the L.A teams. You from Boston?"
"Yeah, moves 6 months or so ago. My friends were worried I'd like the Blackhawks after moving here."
"I bet you hate them more! Haha!"
"I wouldn't say that, but they haven't endeared themselves to me that's for damn sure!"
We then begin this conversation about sports loyalty and just loyalty in general. We carry on until someone gets in line behind me.
I walk back into the cold with his words hanging out in my head.
"You love what you love, regardless of location or logistics. If it's real, it stays with you, you know?"
I know.
12. People Watching on the Train
I'm starting to see my commute as a T.V series where the ensemble cast changes just slightly every episode- but the characters are always the same.
There are groups of girl teenager and guy teenagers: The girls are usually clad in brightly colored winter gear talking mostly about boys, gossip, and the ridiculous homework assignments they get. The boys don't say much of anything unless they're being loud trying to irritate people.
There are several homeless looking people, some are sleeping, some are quietly minding themselves, some are loudly talking to themselves about a variety of topics ranging from god to chicken sandwiches, some walk between train cars while it's moving-an action that still creeps me out, after riding the CTA hundreds of times already.
There are Loyola students and commuters, families and tourists-even this time of year. Their faces swirl by me except for the ones I recognize from seeing often.
They all go their own way, and continue their own stories.
You can be in a small town and have and endless amount of stories-even if it's just the same one told from several different perspectives.
I think that's incredible.
There are groups of girl teenager and guy teenagers: The girls are usually clad in brightly colored winter gear talking mostly about boys, gossip, and the ridiculous homework assignments they get. The boys don't say much of anything unless they're being loud trying to irritate people.
There are several homeless looking people, some are sleeping, some are quietly minding themselves, some are loudly talking to themselves about a variety of topics ranging from god to chicken sandwiches, some walk between train cars while it's moving-an action that still creeps me out, after riding the CTA hundreds of times already.
There are Loyola students and commuters, families and tourists-even this time of year. Their faces swirl by me except for the ones I recognize from seeing often.
They all go their own way, and continue their own stories.
You can be in a small town and have and endless amount of stories-even if it's just the same one told from several different perspectives.
I think that's incredible.
11. Franny
I walk into the ICU with Annie and suddenly I'm aware of how quiet everything is. Franny's room is dark with eight or so people gathered around it. She looks at me and says, "Jess, you're home. I'm so happy you made it home."
Always a mum, till the quiet end. She's bald and thin from the chemo but she still looks beautiful-not warm and lively like I'm used to, but beautiful none the less.
She would drive Annie and I to the mall when we were sixteen in a red Avalon that Annie inherited. In one such occasion around Easter, we were talking about how ridiculous Cadbury Cream Eggs were.
"It's a Cadbury fetus!" Annie joked.
Franny started giggling.
"Did you just say, 'CADBURY PENIS?!'" she asked before breaking out into raucous laughter. She had this high pitched squeak that made her cute in a motherly way.
"Imagine a Cadbury penis," she said. "Those would fly off the shelves!"
In later years, she would invite me over for the holidays after I had to work. I always had a plate full of several desert items waiting for me. When I arrived, I was always greeted with a hug and a kiss on the cheek from Franny. I felt more at home with her than most of my own kin.
When Annie texted me to let her know her mother died Monday morning, I cried for a few reasons. One being I lost my own mother two years ago, almost to the day and it reminded me of that. Another reason I cried was because I knew what Annie was going through and there isn't a whole lot I could do about it.
The third reason I cried was because Franny is irreplaceable and I'm sure the world is running out of people like that since all of them keep dying.
Always a mum, till the quiet end. She's bald and thin from the chemo but she still looks beautiful-not warm and lively like I'm used to, but beautiful none the less.
She would drive Annie and I to the mall when we were sixteen in a red Avalon that Annie inherited. In one such occasion around Easter, we were talking about how ridiculous Cadbury Cream Eggs were.
"It's a Cadbury fetus!" Annie joked.
Franny started giggling.
"Did you just say, 'CADBURY PENIS?!'" she asked before breaking out into raucous laughter. She had this high pitched squeak that made her cute in a motherly way.
"Imagine a Cadbury penis," she said. "Those would fly off the shelves!"
In later years, she would invite me over for the holidays after I had to work. I always had a plate full of several desert items waiting for me. When I arrived, I was always greeted with a hug and a kiss on the cheek from Franny. I felt more at home with her than most of my own kin.
When Annie texted me to let her know her mother died Monday morning, I cried for a few reasons. One being I lost my own mother two years ago, almost to the day and it reminded me of that. Another reason I cried was because I knew what Annie was going through and there isn't a whole lot I could do about it.
The third reason I cried was because Franny is irreplaceable and I'm sure the world is running out of people like that since all of them keep dying.
Sunday, January 19, 2014
10. Guy That Owns The Pint
So tonight's a 2-fer? Is that how I type this term?
Anyway, I'm INCREDIBLY lazy (see last post) so this is going to be less of a story and more of a shout out.
Shout out to the guy that owns The Pint in Wicker Park. You saw me there, clad in my Chris Kelly Bruins jersey, and instead of giving me sass like I expected you too, you told the bartender to have my next drink on the house. Why? Because I was by myself given that the friends that were supposed to meet me there don't like hockey and took their sweet and precious, and I was "badass" (your word, not mine) enough to wear my jersey in public after the 17 seconds in the final that won the Hawks the Stanley Cup.
I am not being sarcastic when I say that you sir, are a gentleman.
Anyway, I'm INCREDIBLY lazy (see last post) so this is going to be less of a story and more of a shout out.
Shout out to the guy that owns The Pint in Wicker Park. You saw me there, clad in my Chris Kelly Bruins jersey, and instead of giving me sass like I expected you too, you told the bartender to have my next drink on the house. Why? Because I was by myself given that the friends that were supposed to meet me there don't like hockey and took their sweet and precious, and I was "badass" (your word, not mine) enough to wear my jersey in public after the 17 seconds in the final that won the Hawks the Stanley Cup.
I am not being sarcastic when I say that you sir, are a gentleman.
All that said, to anyone in Chicago reading this, you are more than welcome to talk about the only 17 seconds of hockey you've ever watched provided you buy me a drink.
9. Patrick/ Lazy Bones
I just want to preface this post by saying there is no excuse for why I didn't post yesterday. I was writing all day, but it wasn't about a specific person. I should have taken a break to write this post, but instead I was lazy. In honor of my laziness.. "Lazy Bones!"
I don't like Leon Redbone and I really, REALLY hate this song, but my friend Patrick loves it. He was the one that introduced me to it, and the moment I heard it, my face twisted.
"What's a matter, Darlin? Not a Redbone fan?" he asked.
"Not sure what it is, but I fucking hate this song."
I think he secretly loved that I hated it.
When the Thirsty Scholar crew would stumble back to Patrick's for a few more rounds he'd holler at me from a few feet behind.
"Hey Darlin! Hey Darlin! LAAAAAAAAAAAZZZZYYYY BOOOONNNEEESSS..SLEEEEEPIN IN THE SUNNNN!!!!"
An act of which was promptly met with a, "FUCK YOU PATRICK!" and a playful punch to his sternum.
There's a line that Ed Helms' character in the office says, something like, "I wish I knew these were the good ol days. I would have enjoyed them more."
I feel that way about that crew and that summer. We all split up after that and I was too caught up in my own drama to realize how wonderful those days were while I was living them, or how much of a gem Patrick really was. He moved to the Berkshires with his girlfriend and hardly talks to anyone but her anymore. Our friend even had a hard time reaching him to ask him to be a groomsman in his wedding.
Rest assured though-one of us will request that song at that reception. I'll suffer through it. It'll be worth the memory.
I don't like Leon Redbone and I really, REALLY hate this song, but my friend Patrick loves it. He was the one that introduced me to it, and the moment I heard it, my face twisted.
"What's a matter, Darlin? Not a Redbone fan?" he asked.
"Not sure what it is, but I fucking hate this song."
I think he secretly loved that I hated it.
When the Thirsty Scholar crew would stumble back to Patrick's for a few more rounds he'd holler at me from a few feet behind.
"Hey Darlin! Hey Darlin! LAAAAAAAAAAAZZZZYYYY BOOOONNNEEESSS..SLEEEEEPIN IN THE SUNNNN!!!!"
An act of which was promptly met with a, "FUCK YOU PATRICK!" and a playful punch to his sternum.
There's a line that Ed Helms' character in the office says, something like, "I wish I knew these were the good ol days. I would have enjoyed them more."
I feel that way about that crew and that summer. We all split up after that and I was too caught up in my own drama to realize how wonderful those days were while I was living them, or how much of a gem Patrick really was. He moved to the Berkshires with his girlfriend and hardly talks to anyone but her anymore. Our friend even had a hard time reaching him to ask him to be a groomsman in his wedding.
Rest assured though-one of us will request that song at that reception. I'll suffer through it. It'll be worth the memory.
Friday, January 17, 2014
8. Cecilia
Cecilia is a coworker of mine and the mother of two two boys- one being two years old and the other being 5 months. A woman constantly in the know, and one who strives for self improvement, I'm always impressed with the way she handles her small legion of men.
At work the other day she told me the story of how she deals with her toddler's temper tantrums.
"It's not a cure-all," she said, "but it helps break up the crazy if only for a moment."
She went on to say that when her son gets a little crazy she tells him to take a deep breath and say, "Namaste."
I promise you, it is way funnier when she tells the story. All I can picture is her son all worked up and upon his mother's instruction stops in his tracks and with the high pitch baby voice, takes a deep breath and says, "Namaste, Mama."
Cutest thing ever? Yes. Parenting win? Absolutely.
Readers with children, take note!
At work the other day she told me the story of how she deals with her toddler's temper tantrums.
"It's not a cure-all," she said, "but it helps break up the crazy if only for a moment."
She went on to say that when her son gets a little crazy she tells him to take a deep breath and say, "Namaste."
I promise you, it is way funnier when she tells the story. All I can picture is her son all worked up and upon his mother's instruction stops in his tracks and with the high pitch baby voice, takes a deep breath and says, "Namaste, Mama."
Cutest thing ever? Yes. Parenting win? Absolutely.
Readers with children, take note!
Thursday, January 16, 2014
7. Kate
I met Kate through Twitter, randomly on accident, her being friends with a guy I used to date. In an odd turn of events, through favorited tweets and confessions over GChat, she's become almost a better friend than the guy even still is.
I try to hold fast to this belief that if you're open to the possibilities, the universe gives you what you need. Kate and I were both in massive transitions when we began talking. In a time when we both needed someone to be sincere and honest, that's what we found in each other. It was slow at first, with many conversations starting with an, "Is it weird if I feel this way.." Quickly it grew to bouncing ideas off each other rapid fire, and critiques of each other's writing. I've found that while we're completely different people, we are both deeply and openly emotional, a trait that connects us despite our differences.
You know that feeling you get where you're overwhelmed to the point where you think you're going completely crazy and you don't know what to do? You get it, and likewise, I got you.
I try to hold fast to this belief that if you're open to the possibilities, the universe gives you what you need. Kate and I were both in massive transitions when we began talking. In a time when we both needed someone to be sincere and honest, that's what we found in each other. It was slow at first, with many conversations starting with an, "Is it weird if I feel this way.." Quickly it grew to bouncing ideas off each other rapid fire, and critiques of each other's writing. I've found that while we're completely different people, we are both deeply and openly emotional, a trait that connects us despite our differences.
You know that feeling you get where you're overwhelmed to the point where you think you're going completely crazy and you don't know what to do? You get it, and likewise, I got you.
Wednesday, January 15, 2014
6. CTA Bus Driver
Yesterday, I get out off the Clyborn Red Line terminal right as the bus home is about to leave the stop. It's cold out, somewhere in the high teens low twenties. I make it across the street to where the bus is stopped about 2 cars ahead of the actual stop at the light. I knock on the door and the driver points to the next stop which is about 1/8 of a mile down the road.
Now I understand that he doesn't have to let me on at a non stop, but it's freezing out and you think he'd have some type of compassion, but he doesn't. So I attempt to run the 8th of a mile to the next stop, but he beats me to it and keeps going. If you're going to motion me to the next stop at least wait the minute while I catch up, right?
Now I understand that he doesn't have to let me on at a non stop, but it's freezing out and you think he'd have some type of compassion, but he doesn't. So I attempt to run the 8th of a mile to the next stop, but he beats me to it and keeps going. If you're going to motion me to the next stop at least wait the minute while I catch up, right?
I'm out of breath and the cold causes my heart to hurt. I give the bus the finger and a big ol' Bostonian, "FAHK YOU AHSSHOLE!" as I watch it pull away. I walk to the closest stop and wait the 8 minutes for the next bus. (Usually it's 20 minutes. I'm grateful it was quicker.)
I am tempted to tell the bus driver of the one I actually get on but I know she doesn't want to hear it, so I keep quiet.
Today I get out of the Clyborn terminal to go home and wait for the bus. Who pulls up but that jerk bus driver. I tap my Ventra pass on the touch pad, try to look him in the eyes to say thank you, but my gratitude and my gaze both go unanswered.
I thank him getting off the bus too. He did his job. He got me home safely. As for his attitude, well that's his problem and I'll let it stay that way.
I am tempted to tell the bus driver of the one I actually get on but I know she doesn't want to hear it, so I keep quiet.
Today I get out of the Clyborn terminal to go home and wait for the bus. Who pulls up but that jerk bus driver. I tap my Ventra pass on the touch pad, try to look him in the eyes to say thank you, but my gratitude and my gaze both go unanswered.
I thank him getting off the bus too. He did his job. He got me home safely. As for his attitude, well that's his problem and I'll let it stay that way.
Tuesday, January 14, 2014
5. Maeve
Disclaimer: As an administrative assistant/ customer service rep for a small, Midwest food company, I talk to quite a few people from all walks of life. While I chose to keep details of my work life private, every now and then something exceptional happens that I can't keep in. In this case, that something exceptional was a woman named *Maeve.
At first she calls to thank the company for making such a wonderful food item. I get a 100 of these calls a week and while I'm grateful for them, they've all started to run together after a while. I expected this call to go the same as they always do- a greeting, the excited statement of gratitude for our product, some banter and then a hangup, but not Maeve.
Something about her voice tells me she's got more to talk about, and she does. From her weight loss since being on disability after working at the same company for over 30 years, to her lost cats, and the structure issues of her home she's lived in forever. She needed to let it out and I'm happy to comply.
"I've had it rough the past year, Darlin." She says to me in the subtle, slightly country twang I've noticed in people from Indiana and Ohio. "But I have a couple things that keep me going. I got my go-to food your company and my doggie. I'm grateful for the roof over my head and the people I call family, be them friends or actual family. You only need two things in this world-your go-to cure in times of grief, and the thing that keeps you goin. Do you have those things, Darlin?"
"I do," I reply, "My morning coffee and my writing."
"Atta girl!" she says. "Both great things!"
Our conversation continues and she's got a lot to say. I give minimal information about myself as your are taught to when dealing with the general public, but I'm all ears. She sounds like a cup of tea on rural roads. She looks like the same missing teeth of my mother and the saltiness of a blue collar woman. She was probably once a pub but is now a kitchen. She's this little piece of honestly I've been starved for because there's not nearly enough of it here.
And I'm dying to tell her my story as well.I want to tell her that I'm well versed in people with much higher means and they have no idea what this life is about, but she does. She can handle an awful hand better than any pro card player and she wears it, least by her conversation, like a dress somewhere between outdated and vintage-either way before or way ahead of her time.
I want her to know that she is probably the kindest person who is not in my immediate circle that I will have the pleasure of speaking to for weeks.
"I can hear in the way you're trying to hide the inflections of your voice, that you haven't walked a pretty road either, darlin." She says to me. "But you have this sweetness about ya, that's why I felt the need to keep talkin. You keep that, ya hear? You fight tooth and nail for it, with your life if you got to."
And I will Maeve, if not for me than certainly for you, because you reminded me that my sweetness is something worth keeping- even in a dark city of strangers.
*Named changed to protect her identity.
At first she calls to thank the company for making such a wonderful food item. I get a 100 of these calls a week and while I'm grateful for them, they've all started to run together after a while. I expected this call to go the same as they always do- a greeting, the excited statement of gratitude for our product, some banter and then a hangup, but not Maeve.
Something about her voice tells me she's got more to talk about, and she does. From her weight loss since being on disability after working at the same company for over 30 years, to her lost cats, and the structure issues of her home she's lived in forever. She needed to let it out and I'm happy to comply.
"I've had it rough the past year, Darlin." She says to me in the subtle, slightly country twang I've noticed in people from Indiana and Ohio. "But I have a couple things that keep me going. I got my go-to food your company and my doggie. I'm grateful for the roof over my head and the people I call family, be them friends or actual family. You only need two things in this world-your go-to cure in times of grief, and the thing that keeps you goin. Do you have those things, Darlin?"
"I do," I reply, "My morning coffee and my writing."
"Atta girl!" she says. "Both great things!"
Our conversation continues and she's got a lot to say. I give minimal information about myself as your are taught to when dealing with the general public, but I'm all ears. She sounds like a cup of tea on rural roads. She looks like the same missing teeth of my mother and the saltiness of a blue collar woman. She was probably once a pub but is now a kitchen. She's this little piece of honestly I've been starved for because there's not nearly enough of it here.
And I'm dying to tell her my story as well.I want to tell her that I'm well versed in people with much higher means and they have no idea what this life is about, but she does. She can handle an awful hand better than any pro card player and she wears it, least by her conversation, like a dress somewhere between outdated and vintage-either way before or way ahead of her time.
I want her to know that she is probably the kindest person who is not in my immediate circle that I will have the pleasure of speaking to for weeks.
"I can hear in the way you're trying to hide the inflections of your voice, that you haven't walked a pretty road either, darlin." She says to me. "But you have this sweetness about ya, that's why I felt the need to keep talkin. You keep that, ya hear? You fight tooth and nail for it, with your life if you got to."
And I will Maeve, if not for me than certainly for you, because you reminded me that my sweetness is something worth keeping- even in a dark city of strangers.
*Named changed to protect her identity.
Monday, January 13, 2014
4. Dad
He's in the driver's side bobbing his head along to some classic rock song on the radio. I had to remind him to buckle up. His two toned Chevy Silverado fits him to a T- strong, efficient, tall, and kept up.
I've grown several feet since my earliest memory of him, but I still feel really small. At 6'3 with a loud booming voice, my dad's stoicism can carry a crowd long before they realize he's in the room.
"The men you always date have soft hands." he says.
I tell him they don't make em like they used to.
In many ways I am his reflection, from the perpetual dark circles under our eyes to our ability to do some hard labor and fancy up in no time at all. I inherited his presence but not his intelligence. I inherited his temper but lack his inability to communicate.
Still, there are moments, even as I inch closer to my 30's, where I all I need is to curl up in a ball next to him on the couch and watch hockey.
And like the first day of kindergarten when I was 5, I still cry when I say goodbye to him when I won't see him for a while.
I've grown several feet since my earliest memory of him, but I still feel really small. At 6'3 with a loud booming voice, my dad's stoicism can carry a crowd long before they realize he's in the room.
"The men you always date have soft hands." he says.
I tell him they don't make em like they used to.
In many ways I am his reflection, from the perpetual dark circles under our eyes to our ability to do some hard labor and fancy up in no time at all. I inherited his presence but not his intelligence. I inherited his temper but lack his inability to communicate.
Still, there are moments, even as I inch closer to my 30's, where I all I need is to curl up in a ball next to him on the couch and watch hockey.
And like the first day of kindergarten when I was 5, I still cry when I say goodbye to him when I won't see him for a while.
Sunday, January 12, 2014
3. Little One- For Gia
Gia motioned her arms up above her head and brought her wrists down.
"She's my little T-Rex baby!" my sister said, laughing.
"Looks more like 'Thriller' to me!" I giggled back.
Peanut. Nugget. Little One.
I finally met her about one month into her life after a long car ride from Chicago. I'm tired and mildly delirious from 18 hours on the road. She's delicate in that she still needs her neck to be supported but strong in the way her small grip is big enough to hold fast to my finger. Her eyes are newborn blue and she looks exactly like both her parents given the light. I doze off holding her and she responds by snuggling into me.
I chose a quiet night over New Years fuckery. I must be getting older.
Sometimes I daydream about parts of her life I'll get to see- family parties where I'll bring her books just because, teaching her to cook things like pancakes and tacos, trips to the aquarium and museums around Boston. Given my current distance, one that is likely permanent, I might always be an enigma to her. I might not be the favorite aunt, but I could be sweet and maybe memorable, like going out for for ice cream at the place where you get to meet the cows versus having it after dinner with mom and dad back at home.
Back in the moment, I think about the little one I hardly know who I love so much. Of all the things I hope for you, I hope you find your joy quickly and stay brave enough to really swim in it. I hope you retain your mom's vibrant sense of humor and your dad's calmness. I hope you really appreciate how soft you made your Papa because I promise you he was NEVER like that growing up. I hope you have enough loss to build your character but enough gain to consistently believe in yourself.
Most of all, I hope you understand what you're capable of, and in the event you forget, you have quite the fun little family to fall back on and while your crazy Aunt Jess may be far away, you are never far from the top of her mind.
"She's my little T-Rex baby!" my sister said, laughing.
"Looks more like 'Thriller' to me!" I giggled back.
Peanut. Nugget. Little One.
I finally met her about one month into her life after a long car ride from Chicago. I'm tired and mildly delirious from 18 hours on the road. She's delicate in that she still needs her neck to be supported but strong in the way her small grip is big enough to hold fast to my finger. Her eyes are newborn blue and she looks exactly like both her parents given the light. I doze off holding her and she responds by snuggling into me.
I chose a quiet night over New Years fuckery. I must be getting older.
Sometimes I daydream about parts of her life I'll get to see- family parties where I'll bring her books just because, teaching her to cook things like pancakes and tacos, trips to the aquarium and museums around Boston. Given my current distance, one that is likely permanent, I might always be an enigma to her. I might not be the favorite aunt, but I could be sweet and maybe memorable, like going out for for ice cream at the place where you get to meet the cows versus having it after dinner with mom and dad back at home.
Back in the moment, I think about the little one I hardly know who I love so much. Of all the things I hope for you, I hope you find your joy quickly and stay brave enough to really swim in it. I hope you retain your mom's vibrant sense of humor and your dad's calmness. I hope you really appreciate how soft you made your Papa because I promise you he was NEVER like that growing up. I hope you have enough loss to build your character but enough gain to consistently believe in yourself.
Most of all, I hope you understand what you're capable of, and in the event you forget, you have quite the fun little family to fall back on and while your crazy Aunt Jess may be far away, you are never far from the top of her mind.
Saturday, January 11, 2014
2. Cherie
"I'll have a tall order of the wine. Make that two!" She'll say cheerfully through a wide brimmed smile.
I met Cherie when we both worked for a private jet brokerage and she quickly became my "work mom."
She never had kids of her own simply because she did not want them, and ended several relationships as a result. I find it rare when you meet someone as sweet as they are firm with their beliefs. She didn't lack nurture however. She's always been surrounded by a gaggle of dogs she calls her babies, and has fostered many lost youngins like myself along the way.
To me she is proof that even after an influx of men, financial challenges, moves, deaths, you name it- you can still be happy.
Find your thing and go for it. Hers is her pets, mine is my writing.
She helped me feel human during the death of my mother, and simplified my early twenties crazy.
"So this is normal?" I asked her over break room coffee one day.
"It is and you are certainly not alone. You are never alone in this world, even when it feels like you are, unless you want to be."
I met Cherie when we both worked for a private jet brokerage and she quickly became my "work mom."
She never had kids of her own simply because she did not want them, and ended several relationships as a result. I find it rare when you meet someone as sweet as they are firm with their beliefs. She didn't lack nurture however. She's always been surrounded by a gaggle of dogs she calls her babies, and has fostered many lost youngins like myself along the way.
To me she is proof that even after an influx of men, financial challenges, moves, deaths, you name it- you can still be happy.
Find your thing and go for it. Hers is her pets, mine is my writing.
She helped me feel human during the death of my mother, and simplified my early twenties crazy.
"So this is normal?" I asked her over break room coffee one day.
"It is and you are certainly not alone. You are never alone in this world, even when it feels like you are, unless you want to be."
Friday, January 10, 2014
1. Ramon
I see him on my second bus of the morning every so often. .He's always smiling, talking to a variety of different people I assume are his friends. From afar he is pleasant, but we never spoke until today.
We're outside waiting for the bus when he comments on my rain boots. "I love your shoes!" he says, right away as he sees me. "I'm used to seeing everyone head to toe in black so it's refreshing to see someone wear color. I thank him, accepting the compliment and we begin a conversation about the weather.
Small talk I suppose, but it's been record breakingly cold in Chicago until today.
We board the bus once it arrives. We are of the first people on and he asks to sit next to me.
We continue our talk about the weather and I speak about how it made my roadtrip to and from Boston disastrous. He's sparse with the details of his own life so I find it interesting on his choice of attire. Head to toe in white, always, every single time I see him. I find out he lives near me and that he was born and raised in Chicago. I can't tell his age but he looks pretty young with black wavy hair and a virtually wrinkle-less face.
We are employed a bus stop away from one another and I am grateful in part because the conversation was growing forced towards the end.
He gets off the bus and shakes my hand after asking my name.
"It was a pleasure to meet you, Jess. My name is Ramon. I'll see you around."
It's a shame that the nicest people in this city are strangers, and often they stay nice until they stop being strangers.
We're outside waiting for the bus when he comments on my rain boots. "I love your shoes!" he says, right away as he sees me. "I'm used to seeing everyone head to toe in black so it's refreshing to see someone wear color. I thank him, accepting the compliment and we begin a conversation about the weather.
Small talk I suppose, but it's been record breakingly cold in Chicago until today.
We board the bus once it arrives. We are of the first people on and he asks to sit next to me.
We continue our talk about the weather and I speak about how it made my roadtrip to and from Boston disastrous. He's sparse with the details of his own life so I find it interesting on his choice of attire. Head to toe in white, always, every single time I see him. I find out he lives near me and that he was born and raised in Chicago. I can't tell his age but he looks pretty young with black wavy hair and a virtually wrinkle-less face.
We are employed a bus stop away from one another and I am grateful in part because the conversation was growing forced towards the end.
He gets off the bus and shakes my hand after asking my name.
"It was a pleasure to meet you, Jess. My name is Ramon. I'll see you around."
It's a shame that the nicest people in this city are strangers, and often they stay nice until they stop being strangers.
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