Last night I was invited to a dock party. One of the coolest parts about living in Chicago is 24 hour access to the lakefront and knowing people with boats….or knowing people who know people with boats, in my case. The party was exactly as you might expect: a wide spread of food, a keg or two and plenty of American glory as we all came together for a celebration of patriotism, a sense of pride and the possibility of someone to waste a little time with on the dock of the bay with. As the fireworks cascaded over Navy Pier I couldn't help but feel a swell of pride. National anthems, wedding vows and K Jewelers commercials tend to do this to me on a regular basis, but I felt more that night. There was understood companionship between the bright flash of sky and the proud silent city standing behind it. The great Chicago skyline looked on as bursts of color exploded and fell to the still and cool water below it. I thought for a moment, a blurring of my past lives: from feathers and rhinestones, to murder in the Midwest. My life has been a greater voyage than many would fear to tread, and as though it were a burst from the barge of my heartstrings I was filled with a sense of gratitude for the time, place and wonder that is life for all of us
.
I have found my home in Chicago for over a year now, and while days often pass slowly, seeming to change very little from week to week, we commemorate each holiday by commemorating what we did the year before. Last year, I was invited to a BBQ at a friends house filled with relatively new faces, new friends, a story that was not yet unfolded. The You Tube sensation “Jessica’s Affirmations” was sweeping facebook. I pulled it up on my phone and asked if anyone had seen it. We all had a chuckle as we watched an adorable little girl no more than 5 stare at herself in the mirror and enthusiastically list all of the things she loved about her life. It wasn’t long until we, fueled by celebration, creativity and Bud Light , decided to create our own video parodies of what we were grateful for. Affirmations ranged from “I love my family” to “I love that I have little boobs” Never could I have imagined that this year I would actually be living at that very same house, with very dear friends and writing new pages of the story every day.
As I sat in that backyard tonight with those friends we talked about last year. We talked about years to come and growing old in a life long blossoming friendship. My friend Justin reminded me that to be an American isn’t just about money, or success or the striving for the American dream but about having the choice to. True freedom is being able to choose the life we make for ourselves. We are free to choose: who to love, where to work, what friends to keep, what decisions to make, what to eat for lunch, what shoes to buy, and even what city to live in.
A year ago I chose to make Chicago my home, to start a new chapter here and to allow fate to finish the novel, because unlike a short but brilliant display of gold or silver sparkle against a black sky, the choices we make everyday influence lasting and vibrant memories.
I surly don’t have everything I could dream of. I often feel rushed, anxious or behind in terms of my future. So many of us are looking for the perfect job, mate, apartment… sandwich… but when you really stop to think about it, most people I know are all living the American Dream because we have been given the chance to do so, and I’m certain that if we can fill ourselves with enough gratitude for what we have we can overcome or accomplish most things. Maybe this Jessica needs to be reminded of what that little Jessica said “I can do anything”, and being given the opportunity to do so, sounds like pure patriotism to me.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Forget the Fairytales
Once upon a time, it was so easy to believe in love. I was raised on the typical ABC’s of fairy tales: Someday My Prince Will Come, True Love Conquers All, and even the Tramp will come around for the right Lady. But fast forward twenty years, I’m single, living in Chicago, and striking out in the game of love worse than the Cubs. What I should have been doing was paying attention to those other fairy tales. You know, the other ones… the ones that were boring and had nothing to do with happily ever after. Like the Three Little Pigs and Little Red Riding Hood. All this time I’ve been so busy searching for my Johnny Castle, my Prince Charming, I forgot to bother to watch out for The Big Bad Wolf, and it seems these days I’m running into him all the time.
Let’s examine. For starters, that wolf really gets around. He’s definitely in more than one fairy tale: I mean if he’s not “crying Wolf” of dressed in sheep’s cloths, he’s scaring Little Red, and trying to evict the Pigs. That’s really pretty greedy, can’t he just stick to one story without thumbing his way through the entire library. Why is this character so evident, so permanent, so substantial? He’s selfish, he’s devious, he’s cunning. But in every story he seems to put everyone into some kind of charming, debonair and attractive trance. There’s something about this wolf that keeps people wanting more. Not one story ends with the main character telling him to Fuck off and throwing a drink in his face. Something about him keeps you wanting more, trusting and desiring his company. Something makes you want to get to know him. I bet you do know him….as a matter of fact, I bet you’ve dated him…
While re-reading these tales, I find myself thinking, “Come-on, how dumb is this Red, doesn’t she know what her Grandmother looks like?”, and “Really Little Pig? Straw? That’ll keep him away…” However, sad to report that in terms of Loveland, I’m no better than these dumb bitches myself. Take Red. She’s sweet, she’s kind, her Red Hood Cloak is the envy of all her friends. She’s on her way down the road of life when she comes face to face with the Wolf, but she’s so distracted trying to get where she wants to go broadcasts each and everything she “dreams of” in a relationship and continues on her way. The Wolf didn’t have to try very hard, all he had to do was show up, and now he knows everything he needs to get Red. Hes just gotta dress up and pretend to be the person she is looking for. Someone she wants, someone she trusts. Someone she has been searching for. It isn’t until she’s gotten too close that she realizes she’s about to be devoured. I find myself a lot like Red, allowing myself to be tricked into not seeing someone for who they really are but rather who we want them to be. Or even worse, full well knowing they are not that person, and then trying to change them anyways. The wolf may be cunning and smart, and know just what Red wants to hear, but she’s the one who has really already wrote the story in her mind.
She says to the Wolf: “My what big drinks we have” he replies: “The better to see you, my dear.” She says, “My, what going on in your head?” he replies “Afraid, I can’t hear you, my dear” and finally “My, what big teeth you have.” He says, “The better to tear out your heart and leave you, for some pigs in the next town.” And before you know it that Wolf is gone, on to the next one, and her only hope for survival is some lonely woodsmen who might hear her cry, if he’s not too busy shooting a Bounty add or buying a new flannel shirt.
Maybe, if we would have learned this story when we were younger, we would seen that Red should have taken some time to really get to know this Wolf, and maybe she would have decided she wasn’t that interested in his schemes, and just gone shopping for a new Pink Hood Cloak instead…. I mean who can wear Red everyday… Really?
In addition to her mistakes, these Three Little Pigs were hardly any better. They were actually worse, cause I’m sure they heard round town that this guy had a bad wrap but they still chose to play. He wasn’t even putting in as much effort as he did with Red. In that story, he pretended to be someone else. In this one, he just goes right over to the first pig’s house and says…
“Hey, I’m a wolf, and I’m going to huff and puff and blow your heart down.”, and though he tells her, he is no good, she still somehow sticks around for the second act. Building a weak boundary around her heart she allows him a second chance. This is way too easy. The wolf blows right through that little porker and devours her poor heart before she can say bacon.
Unsatisfied, that Wolf moves on to the next little pig, who, let’s be honest, is totally friends with the first little pig and really shouldn’t be messing with the Wolf because she knows exactly what he’s capable of.
She thinks to herself “He may have blown her heart away but I’m sure I’m different. I can change him” she’s smiles thinking, “I know he’s really a cuddle wolf at heart and I can’t resist finding out just how big and bad he really is for myself” …This may work for a little while, but eventually no stick or straw is going to stop that Wolf from taking exactly what he wants and moving on…
Ah, the third little Pig, smarter than those other pigs, she says “I’ve seen what you did to one and two, and I’ve got news for you…I’ll build bricks round my heart, and you’ll never get through” And she does, she puts a wall up and hides away from the Wolf. But like all the others somehow that wolf still finds a way in…he starts to get into her head, and eventually her heart, and despite her best efforts he’s found his way in. And so she does the only thing she knows how she burns him before he can burn her.
I used to think I’m like that third little Pig. That if I could build a big wall made of brick, then no Wolf would ever be able to huff and puff and blow my heart away, and it works sure, but it gets a little lonely in there. So, I let my guard down, and end up finding myself just like all the others, and no matter how many times I build the wall and take it down, it always seems to end the same.
But, if we really had paid attention to these stories when we were younger, would we be any better? Would we learn to be choosey with who we give our heart to? Or would be make the same mistakes all over again? It’s easy to want to hibernate and not let anyone into our house of bricks. But, I still have to believe that at some point there won’t be a Wolf at the door and we will find someone who wants to build the house with us. And though we are never going to find him sitting by the fire with the door locked, maybe we shouldn’t just go around serving our hearts on a silver platter either. Maybe we can try a little harder to recognize that Wolf, even if he is in sheep’s clothing. And not Cry Wolf, over every guy we think is the one. And spend a little more time working on ourselves and loving number one, instead of searching for him. Maybe then after a while we will be smarter than Red, and we can head out in our Pink Riding Hood and spend our time with Grandma and the people who really matter. I’m no one to take advice from, I have no idea what I’m doing myself, but I think for everyone, building your own happy ending may be the real answer to happily ever after, and everything else is just… well…hogwash.
Let’s examine. For starters, that wolf really gets around. He’s definitely in more than one fairy tale: I mean if he’s not “crying Wolf” of dressed in sheep’s cloths, he’s scaring Little Red, and trying to evict the Pigs. That’s really pretty greedy, can’t he just stick to one story without thumbing his way through the entire library. Why is this character so evident, so permanent, so substantial? He’s selfish, he’s devious, he’s cunning. But in every story he seems to put everyone into some kind of charming, debonair and attractive trance. There’s something about this wolf that keeps people wanting more. Not one story ends with the main character telling him to Fuck off and throwing a drink in his face. Something about him keeps you wanting more, trusting and desiring his company. Something makes you want to get to know him. I bet you do know him….as a matter of fact, I bet you’ve dated him…
While re-reading these tales, I find myself thinking, “Come-on, how dumb is this Red, doesn’t she know what her Grandmother looks like?”, and “Really Little Pig? Straw? That’ll keep him away…” However, sad to report that in terms of Loveland, I’m no better than these dumb bitches myself. Take Red. She’s sweet, she’s kind, her Red Hood Cloak is the envy of all her friends. She’s on her way down the road of life when she comes face to face with the Wolf, but she’s so distracted trying to get where she wants to go broadcasts each and everything she “dreams of” in a relationship and continues on her way. The Wolf didn’t have to try very hard, all he had to do was show up, and now he knows everything he needs to get Red. Hes just gotta dress up and pretend to be the person she is looking for. Someone she wants, someone she trusts. Someone she has been searching for. It isn’t until she’s gotten too close that she realizes she’s about to be devoured. I find myself a lot like Red, allowing myself to be tricked into not seeing someone for who they really are but rather who we want them to be. Or even worse, full well knowing they are not that person, and then trying to change them anyways. The wolf may be cunning and smart, and know just what Red wants to hear, but she’s the one who has really already wrote the story in her mind.
She says to the Wolf: “My what big drinks we have” he replies: “The better to see you, my dear.” She says, “My, what going on in your head?” he replies “Afraid, I can’t hear you, my dear” and finally “My, what big teeth you have.” He says, “The better to tear out your heart and leave you, for some pigs in the next town.” And before you know it that Wolf is gone, on to the next one, and her only hope for survival is some lonely woodsmen who might hear her cry, if he’s not too busy shooting a Bounty add or buying a new flannel shirt.
Maybe, if we would have learned this story when we were younger, we would seen that Red should have taken some time to really get to know this Wolf, and maybe she would have decided she wasn’t that interested in his schemes, and just gone shopping for a new Pink Hood Cloak instead…. I mean who can wear Red everyday… Really?
In addition to her mistakes, these Three Little Pigs were hardly any better. They were actually worse, cause I’m sure they heard round town that this guy had a bad wrap but they still chose to play. He wasn’t even putting in as much effort as he did with Red. In that story, he pretended to be someone else. In this one, he just goes right over to the first pig’s house and says…
“Hey, I’m a wolf, and I’m going to huff and puff and blow your heart down.”, and though he tells her, he is no good, she still somehow sticks around for the second act. Building a weak boundary around her heart she allows him a second chance. This is way too easy. The wolf blows right through that little porker and devours her poor heart before she can say bacon.
Unsatisfied, that Wolf moves on to the next little pig, who, let’s be honest, is totally friends with the first little pig and really shouldn’t be messing with the Wolf because she knows exactly what he’s capable of.
She thinks to herself “He may have blown her heart away but I’m sure I’m different. I can change him” she’s smiles thinking, “I know he’s really a cuddle wolf at heart and I can’t resist finding out just how big and bad he really is for myself” …This may work for a little while, but eventually no stick or straw is going to stop that Wolf from taking exactly what he wants and moving on…
Ah, the third little Pig, smarter than those other pigs, she says “I’ve seen what you did to one and two, and I’ve got news for you…I’ll build bricks round my heart, and you’ll never get through” And she does, she puts a wall up and hides away from the Wolf. But like all the others somehow that wolf still finds a way in…he starts to get into her head, and eventually her heart, and despite her best efforts he’s found his way in. And so she does the only thing she knows how she burns him before he can burn her.
I used to think I’m like that third little Pig. That if I could build a big wall made of brick, then no Wolf would ever be able to huff and puff and blow my heart away, and it works sure, but it gets a little lonely in there. So, I let my guard down, and end up finding myself just like all the others, and no matter how many times I build the wall and take it down, it always seems to end the same.
But, if we really had paid attention to these stories when we were younger, would we be any better? Would we learn to be choosey with who we give our heart to? Or would be make the same mistakes all over again? It’s easy to want to hibernate and not let anyone into our house of bricks. But, I still have to believe that at some point there won’t be a Wolf at the door and we will find someone who wants to build the house with us. And though we are never going to find him sitting by the fire with the door locked, maybe we shouldn’t just go around serving our hearts on a silver platter either. Maybe we can try a little harder to recognize that Wolf, even if he is in sheep’s clothing. And not Cry Wolf, over every guy we think is the one. And spend a little more time working on ourselves and loving number one, instead of searching for him. Maybe then after a while we will be smarter than Red, and we can head out in our Pink Riding Hood and spend our time with Grandma and the people who really matter. I’m no one to take advice from, I have no idea what I’m doing myself, but I think for everyone, building your own happy ending may be the real answer to happily ever after, and everything else is just… well…hogwash.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Driving Me Crazy
My whole life, I’ve been striving to live my dreams. However, lately its been in a much more literal sense. You see, I’ve become a bit of a troubled sleeper. Night after night, I keep having the same strange reoccurring dream. During this gorgeous Chicago fall, when the windows are meant to be open, and the sound of rain is a common, it seems sack religious to be tossing and turning perfect nights of sleep time away. There’s a smoky coolness in the air, that makes me want to burrow under my Pepto-Bismol sheets, and drift into a serendipitous dreamland. I give myself the talk each night as I lie there listening to the hum of my ceiling fan. Ok so maybe tonight I’ll dream of Ryan Renold’s proposing to me on a moonlit cruise with his grandmothers princess cut diamond in a pave setting and a bouquet of rare tiger lillys from South Africa. No, already dreamt that…Maybe I’ll stick with the old standby: I’ll dream of the day my credit card had no limit and I bought the entire shoe room at Von Maur…Eh no… pretty much have already done that and that’s not working out so well with the old checkbook… hmmm …..well? what about the one where that cute cabaña boy strums the ukulele and feeds me grilled cheese sandwiches and Mac and cheese while my body mystically looses 10 lbs…oh yea I like that one. Ok…ready…set…cabana boy…cabana boy…cabana boy…but like most everything in life…once I begin slowly drifting away I am no longer in control of my dreams and again and again I find myself without Ryan Renolds, or my shoes, and no grilled cheese sandwiches…but rather on a road in a car with people yelling at me to hurry up and drive.
It always starts the same: I’m in a car and someone is urging me to drive it. Not just like, “hey wanna drive today” but more like “C’mon Jessica!!! Drive the freaking car!!!!” The people, the places and the car is always changing…though I do believe the car is usually made by General Motors ( :) Test drive the new Chevy Volt, America’s first all electric car!) uh sorry what was I saying…Anyways, I end up trying desperately to drive the car from the back seat or passengers seat. It never works well and there’s always this feeling of controlled helplessness, like I know I need to just jump into the drivers seat, but I never do and I cant seem to make myself no matter how bad my vision of the road is, or how much I want to please the person in the car.
Ok take it easy Freud, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that this is clearly a metaphor for feeling like I’m not “in the drivers seat of my own life”. But that can’t possibly be true…and quite frankly…I blame Chicago.
The Second City is famous for its public transit system. And upon the ending of my 2 year lease with Ford. I find myself in the strange situation of not having my own car for the first time since I was 19 years old, which is especially weird because my job is to promote and talk about cars. I guess it’s a blessing and a curse at the same time. For starters parking is a nightmare in my neighborhood, and most of the places I frequent, I can walk or take the train. Not having a car is cheaper, less messy, better for the environment and good exercise. But there is a sense of independence that feels lost. Nothing is like your own car, with your music, and your time to think, or make calls or sing at the top of your lungs….whatever. When I get into a cab its just not the same. I try to make it my own for the short time that I’m passengering along. I immediately roll down the windows. I wanna feel the wind in my hair, I wanna gaze at the world going by. I wanna hear the perfect song, at the perfect moment, while stopped at a red light when the sun is setting in the rearview. Sure like most things in my life, maybe my expectations are a little high. But while most people drive their cars everyday, riding in a car is less frequent for me, so what’s wrong with wanting it to be the destiny of car rides every time? And this is what’s wrong with my subconscious.
It all leads back to the other day. Like most of my life fantasies where I am Holly Golightly, having breakfast at Tiffany’s. The reality is I am Jessica Reschke skipping breakfast and desperately trying to hail a cab on Broadway to make it to work on time because I snoozed away most of my morning get ready time away. After hailing for 10 minutes and seriously contemplating the cliché of showing some leg, or something else, a yellow cab rounds the corner, and his light is on. I jump in.
So not my dream ride. The driver is on his cell phone speaking another language, and the sun is hidden behind several clouds. Lakeshore drive is a parking lot. Talk radio is on, with people arguing about politics. And there is an old Italian beef wrapper from Portillo's sliding dangerously close to my new black, peep toe, Chinese Laundry ankle boots. I ride along staring at the meter wondering if I should really let it go above 8 dollars for an additional 200 feet. I mean these boots are new, with a 4 inch heel…and it looks like it might start raining at any second….And I totally forgot my umbrella because I’m using my little white Guess purse that I bought in Vegas when I still had my favorite store: Ross, and money, and getting caught in the rain was as rare as getting a bouquet of pink roses for absolutely no reason….Then just when I’ve reached the threshold of crazy, the cab comes to a halt, the driver taps the meter and that magical 50 cents adds to the total. On a very serious side note: Why do they do that anyways?…Can’t that meter just be honest about how much its going to charge you?…Why does it have to add on money at the end when your getting out?…its so annoying! Reminds me of that sneaky bitch: Sales Tax. I mean like the other day I was scarf shopping and I said to myself: “Hey! This scarf costs 48 dollars”… and I think, “well lets look at the facts here…it’s a nice scarf for under 50 bucks…I’m sure I’ll use it a lot… I am in the Midwest now, and it matches my black trench and my puffy winter coat, and my new CL boots (previously mentioned) but most importantly, I’m sure it will look stunning when what’s his name asks me to go on one of those horse drawn carriages downtown and THIS VERY SCARF is dancing in the light fall breeze with my perfect curls of gold, under a moonlit sky, while the orange and red leaves begin falling…sigh…yes…sold…. I go to pay, still in a daze, and then that sneaky Tax jumps on. As the sales girl is swiping my card I realize “OMG I just spend over 50 bucks on a friggin scarf?! And I don’t even have a date this week?! Ugh! gonna be stove top and ramen noodles for the rest of my life!” ….but I digress
So anyways back to the moment… the cabby says “8.44” and that’s when I look in my glam pink sparkly wallet to realize I spent my last wad cash on the new Glamour and some Hagen Daz yesterday on an emergency, late night CVS run. “Damn it!” I say unconsciously aloud. Why didn’t I hang onto my cash for something more important than a magazine and ice cream…I mean I don’t even like J Lo that much and ice cream between the hours of 12 and 8 am is completely inappropriate- everyone knows that! Ugh! Damn it! Damn it! Damn it! Well it looks like there’s only one thing to do… As if in slow motion, I look him in the eye, and in my best Dr. diagnosing a sick patient voice, I am forced to say the one thing dreaded by every and all Cab drivers. “I’m sorry, I only have my debit card.”
And then that’s when he gives me the look. You know…the look, the look that says: “OK lady, why did you even hail me if you knew you didn’t have any cash…you kids today with your debiting, just swiping away all your directly deposited monies…I’m going to hold this transaction until Oct 5 when your rent check has just cleared, and on that day I hope this 8.44 or whatever your total is after you tip me overdraws your account…and its probably not even worth the tip your going to give, and now the IRS is going to get 70 percent of this tip rather than me pocketing the whole thing all because you had to eat Cookies and Cream and read about the 10 signs He’s Not Going to Call…Man, I should have taken the long way”
So maybe he’s not thinking exactly that….but something along those lines is defiantly happening, and its all quiet and serious, and all you can hear is faint dial up of the credit card machine, while he sits there pondering the possibility of my card declining…and I’m holding my breath praying it doesn’t, and then finally the obnoxious strumming of the receipt printing. Sigh its almost over…I awkwardly take the small white paper and as I sign it I make some bad joke about the weather being as bad as the Cubs, to which I get no response. I add a generous tip and bolt out the curbside door as fast as my peep toes will carry me.
This experience on a day to day will give anyone nightmares. Someone really should warn people about the dangers of cab fare lockdown. Who knew it could be so scary to be chauffeured. There are no Tony Danzas out there anymore, ya know? Its rough in the city! This is a serious issue effecting people of the Chicagoland area, day and night. Waking and for some even dreaming. Something has got to be done. I’ll call Mayor Daley in the morning and suggest ATMS in Cabs. That way this mess can be avoided, and I can apply my lipstick properly at the little mirror on the upper right hand corner. Still shaken by the expierence and clutching new black scarf I make my way down the street to work. Maybe tomorrow I will remember to have some cash on me…or I can always wear my flats and walk to work… I catch a glimpse of myself in a shop window. Love those boots…ummm maybe not. Smiling I decide: tomorrow I will buy some extra strength Tylenol PM and call Mayor Daley.
Some things in life are just worth the struggle
It always starts the same: I’m in a car and someone is urging me to drive it. Not just like, “hey wanna drive today” but more like “C’mon Jessica!!! Drive the freaking car!!!!” The people, the places and the car is always changing…though I do believe the car is usually made by General Motors ( :) Test drive the new Chevy Volt, America’s first all electric car!) uh sorry what was I saying…Anyways, I end up trying desperately to drive the car from the back seat or passengers seat. It never works well and there’s always this feeling of controlled helplessness, like I know I need to just jump into the drivers seat, but I never do and I cant seem to make myself no matter how bad my vision of the road is, or how much I want to please the person in the car.
Ok take it easy Freud, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that this is clearly a metaphor for feeling like I’m not “in the drivers seat of my own life”. But that can’t possibly be true…and quite frankly…I blame Chicago.
The Second City is famous for its public transit system. And upon the ending of my 2 year lease with Ford. I find myself in the strange situation of not having my own car for the first time since I was 19 years old, which is especially weird because my job is to promote and talk about cars. I guess it’s a blessing and a curse at the same time. For starters parking is a nightmare in my neighborhood, and most of the places I frequent, I can walk or take the train. Not having a car is cheaper, less messy, better for the environment and good exercise. But there is a sense of independence that feels lost. Nothing is like your own car, with your music, and your time to think, or make calls or sing at the top of your lungs….whatever. When I get into a cab its just not the same. I try to make it my own for the short time that I’m passengering along. I immediately roll down the windows. I wanna feel the wind in my hair, I wanna gaze at the world going by. I wanna hear the perfect song, at the perfect moment, while stopped at a red light when the sun is setting in the rearview. Sure like most things in my life, maybe my expectations are a little high. But while most people drive their cars everyday, riding in a car is less frequent for me, so what’s wrong with wanting it to be the destiny of car rides every time? And this is what’s wrong with my subconscious.
It all leads back to the other day. Like most of my life fantasies where I am Holly Golightly, having breakfast at Tiffany’s. The reality is I am Jessica Reschke skipping breakfast and desperately trying to hail a cab on Broadway to make it to work on time because I snoozed away most of my morning get ready time away. After hailing for 10 minutes and seriously contemplating the cliché of showing some leg, or something else, a yellow cab rounds the corner, and his light is on. I jump in.
So not my dream ride. The driver is on his cell phone speaking another language, and the sun is hidden behind several clouds. Lakeshore drive is a parking lot. Talk radio is on, with people arguing about politics. And there is an old Italian beef wrapper from Portillo's sliding dangerously close to my new black, peep toe, Chinese Laundry ankle boots. I ride along staring at the meter wondering if I should really let it go above 8 dollars for an additional 200 feet. I mean these boots are new, with a 4 inch heel…and it looks like it might start raining at any second….And I totally forgot my umbrella because I’m using my little white Guess purse that I bought in Vegas when I still had my favorite store: Ross, and money, and getting caught in the rain was as rare as getting a bouquet of pink roses for absolutely no reason….Then just when I’ve reached the threshold of crazy, the cab comes to a halt, the driver taps the meter and that magical 50 cents adds to the total. On a very serious side note: Why do they do that anyways?…Can’t that meter just be honest about how much its going to charge you?…Why does it have to add on money at the end when your getting out?…its so annoying! Reminds me of that sneaky bitch: Sales Tax. I mean like the other day I was scarf shopping and I said to myself: “Hey! This scarf costs 48 dollars”… and I think, “well lets look at the facts here…it’s a nice scarf for under 50 bucks…I’m sure I’ll use it a lot… I am in the Midwest now, and it matches my black trench and my puffy winter coat, and my new CL boots (previously mentioned) but most importantly, I’m sure it will look stunning when what’s his name asks me to go on one of those horse drawn carriages downtown and THIS VERY SCARF is dancing in the light fall breeze with my perfect curls of gold, under a moonlit sky, while the orange and red leaves begin falling…sigh…yes…sold…. I go to pay, still in a daze, and then that sneaky Tax jumps on. As the sales girl is swiping my card I realize “OMG I just spend over 50 bucks on a friggin scarf?! And I don’t even have a date this week?! Ugh! gonna be stove top and ramen noodles for the rest of my life!” ….but I digress
So anyways back to the moment… the cabby says “8.44” and that’s when I look in my glam pink sparkly wallet to realize I spent my last wad cash on the new Glamour and some Hagen Daz yesterday on an emergency, late night CVS run. “Damn it!” I say unconsciously aloud. Why didn’t I hang onto my cash for something more important than a magazine and ice cream…I mean I don’t even like J Lo that much and ice cream between the hours of 12 and 8 am is completely inappropriate- everyone knows that! Ugh! Damn it! Damn it! Damn it! Well it looks like there’s only one thing to do… As if in slow motion, I look him in the eye, and in my best Dr. diagnosing a sick patient voice, I am forced to say the one thing dreaded by every and all Cab drivers. “I’m sorry, I only have my debit card.”
And then that’s when he gives me the look. You know…the look, the look that says: “OK lady, why did you even hail me if you knew you didn’t have any cash…you kids today with your debiting, just swiping away all your directly deposited monies…I’m going to hold this transaction until Oct 5 when your rent check has just cleared, and on that day I hope this 8.44 or whatever your total is after you tip me overdraws your account…and its probably not even worth the tip your going to give, and now the IRS is going to get 70 percent of this tip rather than me pocketing the whole thing all because you had to eat Cookies and Cream and read about the 10 signs He’s Not Going to Call…Man, I should have taken the long way”
So maybe he’s not thinking exactly that….but something along those lines is defiantly happening, and its all quiet and serious, and all you can hear is faint dial up of the credit card machine, while he sits there pondering the possibility of my card declining…and I’m holding my breath praying it doesn’t, and then finally the obnoxious strumming of the receipt printing. Sigh its almost over…I awkwardly take the small white paper and as I sign it I make some bad joke about the weather being as bad as the Cubs, to which I get no response. I add a generous tip and bolt out the curbside door as fast as my peep toes will carry me.
This experience on a day to day will give anyone nightmares. Someone really should warn people about the dangers of cab fare lockdown. Who knew it could be so scary to be chauffeured. There are no Tony Danzas out there anymore, ya know? Its rough in the city! This is a serious issue effecting people of the Chicagoland area, day and night. Waking and for some even dreaming. Something has got to be done. I’ll call Mayor Daley in the morning and suggest ATMS in Cabs. That way this mess can be avoided, and I can apply my lipstick properly at the little mirror on the upper right hand corner. Still shaken by the expierence and clutching new black scarf I make my way down the street to work. Maybe tomorrow I will remember to have some cash on me…or I can always wear my flats and walk to work… I catch a glimpse of myself in a shop window. Love those boots…ummm maybe not. Smiling I decide: tomorrow I will buy some extra strength Tylenol PM and call Mayor Daley.
Some things in life are just worth the struggle
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Back on the Shelf
This is for any and every girl that has ever been single.
Maybe its because I myself am back out there again, but it seems I cant go anywhere without hearing talk about how lame guys are lately…and well ladies, I hate to say it, but…yes, most men in their 20s and some 30s, are just that. And before you write me off as a man hating crazy pants… hear me out. Guys today are kinda lame and its mostly because they can be. Technology and the women’s revolution have been huge strides in the last 20 years of life for us gals, but how far are they really setting us back in the world of dating?
When my mom was dating my dad it was so much easier. She gave him her number sure, but if she decided to go out, and he called, that phone would just ring. There was no answering machine to pick up a late night call. No cell phone to get a hold of her or less effort still…send her a text. No email. No facebook. I am 100 percent guilty of this, but tell me ladies, just how are we supposed to keep the mystery about us when any man can simply turn on his computer, or phone and by reading your tweets, your posts and your status updates know exactly what your up to…I mean no offense, but how easy is it to be a guy dating these days? I bet when my dad called my mom and she wasn’t there he spent a minute wondering where she was, and thought about how he could see her again.
Evolution states that as time goes on people and animals adapt to situations which sustain life more efficiently. Have we as people really evolved into a loveless culture? What happened to the days of throwing rocks at the window? Of romance? Of dating verses “hanging out” with someone? Where for art thou Romeo?…umm honestly probably at the corner bar shooting shots of Jameson and trying out his A game on a 21 year old.
Stand by for a text around 2:15 am on his way out of Taco Bell wondering “what’s up”…yes, it happens and we all know it happens (and sometimes after a really great night with the girls… we do it too) And sure, you can wait around for a white knight, or someone to sweep you off your feet…but ladies, why are we waiting for anything at all?
I say, quit waiting for John Cusak to come and hold that boom box outside your window,( I know him and trust, its never gonna happen.) That ship sailed in the late 80’s. There may have still been a sparkle of a chance in those days that people still believed in romance, but sadly, these days most people use ear buds with their I pods, and lurking outside your window, used to be called Chivalry is now known as Stalking. However, I will give kudos to Peter Gabrielle. That song is amazing, and will always be amazing.
So what do we do then? How about its time we start thinking about what we want. Maybe we should approach dating the way we approach shoe shopping…try on lots of men, until you find the right one.
Think about when your in the store, and your wandering through the aisle and then suddenly as if God himself had brought them from heaven you gaze upon the most delicious pair of peep toe stiletto platforms you have ever seen. You get a little excited as you dash over to them. Holding them in your hand you want nothing more than to take them home that very night, to have them forever to wear them everyday. Your mind starts reeling, you find it hard to concentrate. You simply have to try them on, and possibly max out your credit card to buy them. “Can I try these on?” you squeal to the sales girl. In that moment, wild horses, this month’s rent, or double chocolate cupcakes could not pull you away from those shoes. As she heads into the back room, the minutes feel like hours…your antsy, your dizzy, you feel intoxicated by the smell of patent leather. Why is she taking so long? Where is she? And then, you get that sinking feeling in your stomach: What if they don’t have them? What if they don’t fit? You rationalize, you tell yourself that’s impossible. You hang on to every shred of hope that she will reappear soon. And just when you feel as though you might die and can’t wait another moment, there she is…empty handed, with a disgruntled look on her face. “I’m sorry, I don’t have your size”, she says. And for a second your heart breaks, and you feel a little crushed but I’m willing to bet, in all your disappointment within a few minutes you will be looking over the shelves again for a new pair, or better yet going to a new store.
And sure, shoes don’t cuddle with you on the couch, or send you flowers on your birthday. But the feeling is the same, of loving something so much, you simply can’t live without it. And that’s how it feels to be infatuated with a guy. There’s a lot of potential and promise in the beginning, but it doesn’t always end up working out in the end. But the thing about mules, verses men is: the wrong pair doesn’t really hurt, or make you feel bad about yourself. It doesn’t make you question your judgment, or wish they would fit you better. When the sales girl tells you they are unavailable, or they don’t fit you right, you sigh… smile and keep on looking with feverish optimism.
Why then, are we so quick to put a wrong pair back on the shelf without batting an eyelash, but we spend days obsessing over a man who was most likely so wrong for us we should probably have never taken him out of the box to begin with. Why aren’t we just as quick to move on, as in the shoe store? We know we deserve better, we know they should be a perfect fit, or better yet, even available. We know what we are looking for. We ladies, are not needy pathetic losers, we actually do know how to play the game. We know how to catch a man, to keep him guessing, to be mysterious, aloof and attractive, but sometimes its just not the right timing. Would you expect to find strappy white sandals on sale in January? No. So stop expecting love is gonna be any easier, because as much as you might want them you should probably just enjoy the Uggs on display and wait for spring thaw when the timing is right. If every pair you tried fit, finding the perfect pair wouldn’t be very special.
And every now and then, you will find the perfect pair. The ones you were destined to be with. They will fit great, they will look great. They make you feel sexier, stronger and smarter. And your already awesome life will be a little brighter. Shouldn’t we be looking for the same thing in a guy? If there was a dreamy pair of pink pumps that just weren’t right for me, Id want them to be back out there for some other girl to find them. Instead of buying them or hanging on to the thought of them. So the same for dating. If he doesn’t make you feel sexier, stronger, smarter or brighten your world, move on…put him back on that shelf.
Because, out there, there is a pair of shoes and someone who will be your “sole”mate. Maybe even more than one. I’ve had a lot of great men in my past, and well you should see my closet.
So don’t give up hope girls, don’t waste anymore time. And, if our generation really is evolving to be loveless, I say keep looking for that special pair, discarding the wrong ones along the way, and if your going to wear your heart on your sleeve, just make sure your shoes match.
Maybe its because I myself am back out there again, but it seems I cant go anywhere without hearing talk about how lame guys are lately…and well ladies, I hate to say it, but…yes, most men in their 20s and some 30s, are just that. And before you write me off as a man hating crazy pants… hear me out. Guys today are kinda lame and its mostly because they can be. Technology and the women’s revolution have been huge strides in the last 20 years of life for us gals, but how far are they really setting us back in the world of dating?
When my mom was dating my dad it was so much easier. She gave him her number sure, but if she decided to go out, and he called, that phone would just ring. There was no answering machine to pick up a late night call. No cell phone to get a hold of her or less effort still…send her a text. No email. No facebook. I am 100 percent guilty of this, but tell me ladies, just how are we supposed to keep the mystery about us when any man can simply turn on his computer, or phone and by reading your tweets, your posts and your status updates know exactly what your up to…I mean no offense, but how easy is it to be a guy dating these days? I bet when my dad called my mom and she wasn’t there he spent a minute wondering where she was, and thought about how he could see her again.
Evolution states that as time goes on people and animals adapt to situations which sustain life more efficiently. Have we as people really evolved into a loveless culture? What happened to the days of throwing rocks at the window? Of romance? Of dating verses “hanging out” with someone? Where for art thou Romeo?…umm honestly probably at the corner bar shooting shots of Jameson and trying out his A game on a 21 year old.
Stand by for a text around 2:15 am on his way out of Taco Bell wondering “what’s up”…yes, it happens and we all know it happens (and sometimes after a really great night with the girls… we do it too) And sure, you can wait around for a white knight, or someone to sweep you off your feet…but ladies, why are we waiting for anything at all?
I say, quit waiting for John Cusak to come and hold that boom box outside your window,( I know him and trust, its never gonna happen.) That ship sailed in the late 80’s. There may have still been a sparkle of a chance in those days that people still believed in romance, but sadly, these days most people use ear buds with their I pods, and lurking outside your window, used to be called Chivalry is now known as Stalking. However, I will give kudos to Peter Gabrielle. That song is amazing, and will always be amazing.
So what do we do then? How about its time we start thinking about what we want. Maybe we should approach dating the way we approach shoe shopping…try on lots of men, until you find the right one.
Think about when your in the store, and your wandering through the aisle and then suddenly as if God himself had brought them from heaven you gaze upon the most delicious pair of peep toe stiletto platforms you have ever seen. You get a little excited as you dash over to them. Holding them in your hand you want nothing more than to take them home that very night, to have them forever to wear them everyday. Your mind starts reeling, you find it hard to concentrate. You simply have to try them on, and possibly max out your credit card to buy them. “Can I try these on?” you squeal to the sales girl. In that moment, wild horses, this month’s rent, or double chocolate cupcakes could not pull you away from those shoes. As she heads into the back room, the minutes feel like hours…your antsy, your dizzy, you feel intoxicated by the smell of patent leather. Why is she taking so long? Where is she? And then, you get that sinking feeling in your stomach: What if they don’t have them? What if they don’t fit? You rationalize, you tell yourself that’s impossible. You hang on to every shred of hope that she will reappear soon. And just when you feel as though you might die and can’t wait another moment, there she is…empty handed, with a disgruntled look on her face. “I’m sorry, I don’t have your size”, she says. And for a second your heart breaks, and you feel a little crushed but I’m willing to bet, in all your disappointment within a few minutes you will be looking over the shelves again for a new pair, or better yet going to a new store.
And sure, shoes don’t cuddle with you on the couch, or send you flowers on your birthday. But the feeling is the same, of loving something so much, you simply can’t live without it. And that’s how it feels to be infatuated with a guy. There’s a lot of potential and promise in the beginning, but it doesn’t always end up working out in the end. But the thing about mules, verses men is: the wrong pair doesn’t really hurt, or make you feel bad about yourself. It doesn’t make you question your judgment, or wish they would fit you better. When the sales girl tells you they are unavailable, or they don’t fit you right, you sigh… smile and keep on looking with feverish optimism.
Why then, are we so quick to put a wrong pair back on the shelf without batting an eyelash, but we spend days obsessing over a man who was most likely so wrong for us we should probably have never taken him out of the box to begin with. Why aren’t we just as quick to move on, as in the shoe store? We know we deserve better, we know they should be a perfect fit, or better yet, even available. We know what we are looking for. We ladies, are not needy pathetic losers, we actually do know how to play the game. We know how to catch a man, to keep him guessing, to be mysterious, aloof and attractive, but sometimes its just not the right timing. Would you expect to find strappy white sandals on sale in January? No. So stop expecting love is gonna be any easier, because as much as you might want them you should probably just enjoy the Uggs on display and wait for spring thaw when the timing is right. If every pair you tried fit, finding the perfect pair wouldn’t be very special.
And every now and then, you will find the perfect pair. The ones you were destined to be with. They will fit great, they will look great. They make you feel sexier, stronger and smarter. And your already awesome life will be a little brighter. Shouldn’t we be looking for the same thing in a guy? If there was a dreamy pair of pink pumps that just weren’t right for me, Id want them to be back out there for some other girl to find them. Instead of buying them or hanging on to the thought of them. So the same for dating. If he doesn’t make you feel sexier, stronger, smarter or brighten your world, move on…put him back on that shelf.
Because, out there, there is a pair of shoes and someone who will be your “sole”mate. Maybe even more than one. I’ve had a lot of great men in my past, and well you should see my closet.
So don’t give up hope girls, don’t waste anymore time. And, if our generation really is evolving to be loveless, I say keep looking for that special pair, discarding the wrong ones along the way, and if your going to wear your heart on your sleeve, just make sure your shoes match.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Total Eclipse of the Heart
It was the 4th inning, the Cubs were up against the Cards, the sun had set slowly upon a full field of delighted fans, and in between pouring Margaritas and Old Style I took a moment to notice the most perfectly round, huge, golden moon, I have ever seen. It was smiling down at me from just over right field. One of my favorite Chicago moments thus far, and I was sharing it with 40,000, of my newest friends. I looked out into the crowd. I began to wonder about the people in the stands. Each person having a different plan, a different day, different ideas, different beliefs, as diverse as you can imagine…(there may have even been a few Sox fans out there!) No matter what was happening in each person’s life, something had lead them to Wrigley Field that night, something had brought us all together under the luminous glow of a gorgeous harvest moon. Looking up at it, I immediately thought: “ahhh, it’s a full moon, no wonder everything today has been crazy.” We experience this universal anomaly once a month. My mom used to work in the ER, and she always said it was always busy on full moon nights. Werewolves come out, people can come back from the dead, and supposedly for one night everything goes topsy turvy.
And then, by the smell of fresh Bison hot dogs, and criss crossedly cut grass, it occurred to me: Could I possibly be in the full moon of my lifetime?
The universe is always changing, waxing and waning. People are being born, growing old, graduating high school, having their first kiss, first child, last piece of chocolate cake before a beginning a diet, finding a new job, moving to a new city, feeling special, alive and vibrant….and much like a really good sale, these euphoric moments tend to come quickly, burn brightly and only stay for a limited time. Why then are we so surprised when everything in our lives suddenly begins to wane in a direction we weren’t anticipating. People say everything happens for a reason. And I might just be the biggest believer in destiny there could ever be, but maybe its not just destiny, because maybe its more than that…. You can’t believe in destiny if you don’t believe in yourself. Because at the end of the day, you can easily say everything happens for a reason, but if you don’t trust your own heart that the decisions you have made which have curved your path, then believing in destiny is like when you were 7, and you used to will the ice cream man to come into your neighborhood on a hot day in the summer with your friends. Sure he might show up, but no amount of you wishing it, would have really made it true…unless it was on his route to begin with. But, maybe if could have just had fun, lived in the moment, chased that cute neighbor boy around the block on your bike, and ran through the sprinkler a time or two, you may have forgotten you even wanted ice cream to begin with, or maybe your mom would have surprised you with it. That’s the thing when your not expecting it, you somehow get everything you ever wanted.
Its been a little while since I last wrote, and its no secret, things in my life have been changing for a while…a lot of new beginnings: moving across the country, finding a new job, new friends, new favorite shoe store…and with them comes some endings: ending a relationship, missing my Vegas network, and feeling slightly out of place in my new life, but I’ve come to realize this is just the full moon. When, things are slightly crazy and unexpected. However its these times when the most spontaneous and wonderful moments can sneak up on you. It’s the time when mom brings home ice cream sandwiches. It’s the time to re connect with old friends, past lovers, and make room for new experiences, new people, new beginnings.
I think about that moon now, and how beautiful something that symbolizes so much uncertainty can really be. And uncertainty is really just fear taking over. Take the fear out and all you have is is a bright glowing ball of hope. By the end of the game, the Cubs had lost, but I didn’t feel lost anymore, and as I untapped the kegs and restocked the coolers I decided I’m going to embrace this new full moon of my life. I’m going to allow the tides to pull me where they may, and eventually I am confident that if I trust my heart to be the eclipse which guides me, I’ll eventually find a crescent of the life I’ve been dreaming of.
And then, by the smell of fresh Bison hot dogs, and criss crossedly cut grass, it occurred to me: Could I possibly be in the full moon of my lifetime?
The universe is always changing, waxing and waning. People are being born, growing old, graduating high school, having their first kiss, first child, last piece of chocolate cake before a beginning a diet, finding a new job, moving to a new city, feeling special, alive and vibrant….and much like a really good sale, these euphoric moments tend to come quickly, burn brightly and only stay for a limited time. Why then are we so surprised when everything in our lives suddenly begins to wane in a direction we weren’t anticipating. People say everything happens for a reason. And I might just be the biggest believer in destiny there could ever be, but maybe its not just destiny, because maybe its more than that…. You can’t believe in destiny if you don’t believe in yourself. Because at the end of the day, you can easily say everything happens for a reason, but if you don’t trust your own heart that the decisions you have made which have curved your path, then believing in destiny is like when you were 7, and you used to will the ice cream man to come into your neighborhood on a hot day in the summer with your friends. Sure he might show up, but no amount of you wishing it, would have really made it true…unless it was on his route to begin with. But, maybe if could have just had fun, lived in the moment, chased that cute neighbor boy around the block on your bike, and ran through the sprinkler a time or two, you may have forgotten you even wanted ice cream to begin with, or maybe your mom would have surprised you with it. That’s the thing when your not expecting it, you somehow get everything you ever wanted.
Its been a little while since I last wrote, and its no secret, things in my life have been changing for a while…a lot of new beginnings: moving across the country, finding a new job, new friends, new favorite shoe store…and with them comes some endings: ending a relationship, missing my Vegas network, and feeling slightly out of place in my new life, but I’ve come to realize this is just the full moon. When, things are slightly crazy and unexpected. However its these times when the most spontaneous and wonderful moments can sneak up on you. It’s the time when mom brings home ice cream sandwiches. It’s the time to re connect with old friends, past lovers, and make room for new experiences, new people, new beginnings.
I think about that moon now, and how beautiful something that symbolizes so much uncertainty can really be. And uncertainty is really just fear taking over. Take the fear out and all you have is is a bright glowing ball of hope. By the end of the game, the Cubs had lost, but I didn’t feel lost anymore, and as I untapped the kegs and restocked the coolers I decided I’m going to embrace this new full moon of my life. I’m going to allow the tides to pull me where they may, and eventually I am confident that if I trust my heart to be the eclipse which guides me, I’ll eventually find a crescent of the life I’ve been dreaming of.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Apparel Opinions
Everything you will ever need to know, you can learn from your wardrobe. It’s true, who needs astrology, tarot cards or the local telephone psychic. The keys to our future, our past and what’s cookin next Tuesday is hanging merely footsteps from where we eat, sleep and breathe daily. I came upon this revelation while on a desperately urgent shopping mission earlier today. I set out to explore my new neighborhood. After just barely moving into my shoe box studio, I decided it was time to take a break from the boxes and head out into the sunshine. I began my walk in the general direction of a Marshalls I had spotted the other day while on the bus. I felt the sweet summer-like sun pouring down on me and the smell of freshly grilled hamburgers wafting by in a light spring breeze. I allowed myself to become distracted by the variety of Chicagoans commuting by me on the busy streets of Lakeview. Some people were in suits, some were in jeans and several were in some variety of work out attire. I think you are more likely to get hit by a runner than bit by a mosquito in the city. Which is all news to me because in Vegas you’d melt on a outdoor run, and mosquitoes don’t exists.
In any case, some of the ladies who caught my eye where wearing baggy cotton dresses and Grecian type sandals. They had oversized sunglasses, and hats, scarves and rings up the ying yang. If I had to tie them all together I would commend all of their excellent ability to accessorize. I looked down at my frilly black skirt and low cut pink tank top. This was the type of outfit I’d typically worn a lot in Vegas. It was perfect for hot summer days and running errands, but suddenly I felt like a little Debbie Ho Ho on a buffet of crème Brule, and Tiramisu.. Noting my newfound need for some Chicago style I found my way to Marshall’s, TJ Max and a few Clark street boutiques. I sought out a way to coin my very own urban flair. I was going for some sort of bohemian composition which included well executed accessories who would be both stylish and functional…(see my prior article about stilettos)
It wasn’t terribly long until I had saved 10 percent by opening a new credit card, made my purchase and left the store with a fantastic retail buzz and entirely too many bags to carry. Must remember I can’t load it all in the back of my SUV here! Must remember purchases need to be carried, ugh. Being a dancer has blessed me with great balance, lucky for me I found a way to juggle my treasures while setting out on my six block walk home. Just as I was making my way out the door my phone began to sing. Cheryl Lynn in the middle of letting me know it’s “got to be real” when I answered. Cherished, daily call from mom. I stopped to put in my headphones. I may be a bit behind the times but I just realized they actually double as a headset to my Iphone and when you talk normal people can actually hear you, without having to lift the phone to your mouth! Weee Technology.
Feeling totally cool and citified, with my phone in my purse, my headphones on and shopping bags balanced in both hands, I continued my Broadway block walk. Mom and I were discussing Pam Anderson’s talents on Dancing With the Stars when the most embarrassing and horrific Chicago experience I’ve had since moving here snuck up on me, like a teenager coming home a hour after curfew. That light breeze which only a hour ago had happily sent heavenly hamburger smells my way was now back, but with vengeance! In a Marilyn Monroe-esque moment my skirt whisked up almost turning inside out, giving any passerby a prime view of my thong! Yes, thong! And not even a sassy cute “Victoria’s Secret special occasion thong”, a “I bought this from Target for comfy days”, cotton, faded, 3 year old pokadot thong. Why oh why hadn’t I chosen full butted underwear today. What was it about my frilly skirt that demanded no panty lines?!
I grasped to pull it down but I couldn’t keep my balance and dropped one of the shopping bags. It so conveniently fell between my legs causing me to trip over it nearly cascade to the cracked sidewalk in front of me. All the while learning Pam Anderson was kicked off DWTS?! Oh! The Horror. I found my composure, put one bag in front and one behind and desperately tried to keep my skirt down for the rest of the block. From the look of a passing biker I’m guessing he saw more than the landscape that day. I bid mom bye for now and walked in tiny Geisha like steps until I could find an alley which could block the killer breeze. Someone should have warned me about wearing a little skirt with a little thong in the windy city! It must have taken me an extra 20 minutes to get home because I was constantly at battle with the wind, the bags and my purse and my pride. I was overjoyed to arrive at my building and begged the friendly mailman to buzz me in because I didn’t have a free hand to dig for my keys.
After I had calmed down a bit I began to unpack again. I looked at my purchases. At the time I was buying them I decided I had to have them because they were “so Chicago”, but in the blur of my mountains of clothes I realized they looked like other things I already have. It may be a problem when you have too many clothes to realize you just bought something that is similar to something which is sitting in a drawer with the tag still on. And that’s when it dawned on me…I have to make my accessories more accessible! How can I ever expect to achieve the outfit I’m looking for when I can’t see all of my options clearly in front of me. This got me thinking sorting your closet is a lot like sorting your life. We can look at other people wanting to be just like them, not realizing the tools we need reside at home with us. We may neglect them or put them aside because they are buried and we can’t clearly see them all as options. We tear ourselves down, thinking we aren’t good enough, or smart enough to excel in our: careers, love lives and relationships. We look for examples in other people and strive to copy their coping styles. But its at home buried deep within ourselves where we can just make a small change or two to make a huge impact. Maybe its not really a new outfit we need but a new perspective. Think about what a scarf and some earrings can do for a otherwise boring V neck. I love earrings! I just got my ears pierced 2 years ago, (weird right?) so earrings are always my go to glam to spruce up an ensemble. Just the same way we should feature the accessories within ourselves we enjoy, the ones that look best on us and make us feel special.
With my lady friendly tool kit, I decide to unscrew all the closet doors in my apartment and send them to the maintenance man. I take a long look at the wardrobe I’ve spent years building. Now it feels like home. With a smile I realize, I can already tell how much more open, clean and free it is. I should probably return those clothes, after all I could use that money for groceries or rent, or to take care of the mountain of unpaid parking tickets I owe the city, after merely weeks here in town. Maybe it is true. Maybe the closet’s really got it! All we have to do is accessorize the outfit we’ve been given and stop worrying so much about fitting into someone else’s clothes.
I decide to head back to the store with my purchases first thing tomorrow morning…or maybe the afternoon…or….well hopefully I’ll get around to it :)
In any case, some of the ladies who caught my eye where wearing baggy cotton dresses and Grecian type sandals. They had oversized sunglasses, and hats, scarves and rings up the ying yang. If I had to tie them all together I would commend all of their excellent ability to accessorize. I looked down at my frilly black skirt and low cut pink tank top. This was the type of outfit I’d typically worn a lot in Vegas. It was perfect for hot summer days and running errands, but suddenly I felt like a little Debbie Ho Ho on a buffet of crème Brule, and Tiramisu.. Noting my newfound need for some Chicago style I found my way to Marshall’s, TJ Max and a few Clark street boutiques. I sought out a way to coin my very own urban flair. I was going for some sort of bohemian composition which included well executed accessories who would be both stylish and functional…(see my prior article about stilettos)
It wasn’t terribly long until I had saved 10 percent by opening a new credit card, made my purchase and left the store with a fantastic retail buzz and entirely too many bags to carry. Must remember I can’t load it all in the back of my SUV here! Must remember purchases need to be carried, ugh. Being a dancer has blessed me with great balance, lucky for me I found a way to juggle my treasures while setting out on my six block walk home. Just as I was making my way out the door my phone began to sing. Cheryl Lynn in the middle of letting me know it’s “got to be real” when I answered. Cherished, daily call from mom. I stopped to put in my headphones. I may be a bit behind the times but I just realized they actually double as a headset to my Iphone and when you talk normal people can actually hear you, without having to lift the phone to your mouth! Weee Technology.
Feeling totally cool and citified, with my phone in my purse, my headphones on and shopping bags balanced in both hands, I continued my Broadway block walk. Mom and I were discussing Pam Anderson’s talents on Dancing With the Stars when the most embarrassing and horrific Chicago experience I’ve had since moving here snuck up on me, like a teenager coming home a hour after curfew. That light breeze which only a hour ago had happily sent heavenly hamburger smells my way was now back, but with vengeance! In a Marilyn Monroe-esque moment my skirt whisked up almost turning inside out, giving any passerby a prime view of my thong! Yes, thong! And not even a sassy cute “Victoria’s Secret special occasion thong”, a “I bought this from Target for comfy days”, cotton, faded, 3 year old pokadot thong. Why oh why hadn’t I chosen full butted underwear today. What was it about my frilly skirt that demanded no panty lines?!
I grasped to pull it down but I couldn’t keep my balance and dropped one of the shopping bags. It so conveniently fell between my legs causing me to trip over it nearly cascade to the cracked sidewalk in front of me. All the while learning Pam Anderson was kicked off DWTS?! Oh! The Horror. I found my composure, put one bag in front and one behind and desperately tried to keep my skirt down for the rest of the block. From the look of a passing biker I’m guessing he saw more than the landscape that day. I bid mom bye for now and walked in tiny Geisha like steps until I could find an alley which could block the killer breeze. Someone should have warned me about wearing a little skirt with a little thong in the windy city! It must have taken me an extra 20 minutes to get home because I was constantly at battle with the wind, the bags and my purse and my pride. I was overjoyed to arrive at my building and begged the friendly mailman to buzz me in because I didn’t have a free hand to dig for my keys.
After I had calmed down a bit I began to unpack again. I looked at my purchases. At the time I was buying them I decided I had to have them because they were “so Chicago”, but in the blur of my mountains of clothes I realized they looked like other things I already have. It may be a problem when you have too many clothes to realize you just bought something that is similar to something which is sitting in a drawer with the tag still on. And that’s when it dawned on me…I have to make my accessories more accessible! How can I ever expect to achieve the outfit I’m looking for when I can’t see all of my options clearly in front of me. This got me thinking sorting your closet is a lot like sorting your life. We can look at other people wanting to be just like them, not realizing the tools we need reside at home with us. We may neglect them or put them aside because they are buried and we can’t clearly see them all as options. We tear ourselves down, thinking we aren’t good enough, or smart enough to excel in our: careers, love lives and relationships. We look for examples in other people and strive to copy their coping styles. But its at home buried deep within ourselves where we can just make a small change or two to make a huge impact. Maybe its not really a new outfit we need but a new perspective. Think about what a scarf and some earrings can do for a otherwise boring V neck. I love earrings! I just got my ears pierced 2 years ago, (weird right?) so earrings are always my go to glam to spruce up an ensemble. Just the same way we should feature the accessories within ourselves we enjoy, the ones that look best on us and make us feel special.
With my lady friendly tool kit, I decide to unscrew all the closet doors in my apartment and send them to the maintenance man. I take a long look at the wardrobe I’ve spent years building. Now it feels like home. With a smile I realize, I can already tell how much more open, clean and free it is. I should probably return those clothes, after all I could use that money for groceries or rent, or to take care of the mountain of unpaid parking tickets I owe the city, after merely weeks here in town. Maybe it is true. Maybe the closet’s really got it! All we have to do is accessorize the outfit we’ve been given and stop worrying so much about fitting into someone else’s clothes.
I decide to head back to the store with my purchases first thing tomorrow morning…or maybe the afternoon…or….well hopefully I’ll get around to it :)
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Stilett-NO's
So apparently, in Chicago, people occupy more than enough time doing this strange and screwball thing: It’s called walking. No seriously, they walk everywhere. I mean everywhere. It wasn’t long ago, in Vegas, that I was spending my days in Spin class: riding miles upon miles week after week. I’d perch there: sweating and laboring in a calm, confined room to the beat of Tina Turner. As she’d sing “Rollin on the River”, I would push the pedals faster til my lungs were burning, and I was mesmerized by the sight of my large quads shaking in the mirror; all along envisioning the thought of my miniscule, rhinestone G string. It may have been just a strand of sparkles, but it taunted me, and haunted me to the point of keeping me in the gym daily. You see, like a scorned woman…a showgirl’s G strings is: unforgiving, cruel and literally not willing to budge and inch. So, exhaustedly, I’d run, spin, and step my way through my work week, then hop in my car and drive wherever it was I needed to go. But here, folks use walking as a mode of transportation!!! Can you believe it? Walking actually has a purpose aside from the gym?!
Let me begin by saying, Carrie Bradshaw is a damn liar! Yea… I watched Sex and the City for years, dreaming of the day when I would be a single girl in the City. I imagined myself trotting down Broadway at 12:30 pm, on a lunch date with my very own Mr. Big; all the while looking spectacularly snazzy. Sure, I’d be wearing ballet pink stilettos, and a matching pink lace A line dress with an 4 layer tulle skirt and boning to make my waist look: sport’s illustrated swimsuit model: small. My hair would be in long blonde extension-esque waves, and my eye lashes ceremoniously arched towards the heavens dripping in heavy black Dior Runway mascara. Hand bag would be: a compact Coach clutch, and I’d be sporting a MAC lipstick that was a rouge color: matte, but shiny enough to tie the entire ensemble together. (by the way: if you didn’t get any of that, STOP reading, you are NOT my target audience!)
However, now living in the big city, with my personal, Mr. Big, I have decided that the writers of that show must have been seriously smoking crack, or just seriously delusional because NO ONE could survive a walk down Broadway, or any street for that matter in 4 inch stilettos. It hurts my heart to say this: but it is virtually impossible to sport anything even moderately fashionable for a long walk in the city. I guess there are a few exceptions: maybe you are, A: newly giddy in love, or B: 5 of Bull Eh Dia’s famous sangrias deep. And either way, you will have the same exact consequent pain as any normal person, but you will be either A: strung out on the idea of Mr. Right, or B: just plain strung out. In any case, the blisters will still be there in the morning.
Which is why, I feel need to declare: I have found a new love in the city: The CTA: otherwise known as the Chicago Transit Authority. Speedy, shiny, never stoppin, always poppin trains that run around town unconditionally. Unlike a man, this train will always show up, and tell you where things are headed. It will be dependable, there for you, and only slightly messy. It will never ask you to get into its Audi after one two many showoff Gin and Tonic’s. It will always see you home at the end of the day, and allow you the opportunity to meet new interesting people in your neighborhood. My girlfriend, Jen swears by the 8 am Brown line, she says all the “hot ones” have to be to work by 9. Those are the kind, she says that: “actually get up, take their job seriously and wear suits.” I can only imagine the playground that awaits a single girl, where she may start every workday by practicing some good old fashioned eye sex with average, ambitious and somewhat beautiful commuters . In addition, the CTA or “L” as the locals call it, will allow you to wear your most glam attire, while transporting you to your “destiny-ation” in a quarter of the time. All you have to do is purchase a small card: similar to a Visa. Lets face it, we ladies are familiar with plastic! You slip it in a gate and in seconds you have just bought yourself a one way ride for a mere $2.25. That’s better than a 75 % off sale on Memorial Day! Cabs are a waste of time and often smell like “new car smell”, which really doesn’t smell like anything; or anything good for that matter. Show me an air freshener that smells like first date jitters or, new bikini in Cabo and I’ll gladly pay the $10.00 per 5 block fare.
Easier though, imagine yourself: strutting up a few: cold, hard, steel stairs to a plank looking plateau, or as we divas like to call it: RUNWAY, where every single investment banker, sales whiz, wannabe actor/tress and jealous local Chicagoan can witness you in all your glory, and that perfect pair of: celestial, deeply coveted and scarcely ever urbanly seen 4 inch shoes!
Therefore, lately, I’ve come to realize: home may be the place where you lay your stilettos, but it’s the walk, or the ride, that makes all the difference…and some girls follow all the rules, and other girls find ways to bend them…at least far enough to never stop wearing really cute shoes.
Let me begin by saying, Carrie Bradshaw is a damn liar! Yea… I watched Sex and the City for years, dreaming of the day when I would be a single girl in the City. I imagined myself trotting down Broadway at 12:30 pm, on a lunch date with my very own Mr. Big; all the while looking spectacularly snazzy. Sure, I’d be wearing ballet pink stilettos, and a matching pink lace A line dress with an 4 layer tulle skirt and boning to make my waist look: sport’s illustrated swimsuit model: small. My hair would be in long blonde extension-esque waves, and my eye lashes ceremoniously arched towards the heavens dripping in heavy black Dior Runway mascara. Hand bag would be: a compact Coach clutch, and I’d be sporting a MAC lipstick that was a rouge color: matte, but shiny enough to tie the entire ensemble together. (by the way: if you didn’t get any of that, STOP reading, you are NOT my target audience!)
However, now living in the big city, with my personal, Mr. Big, I have decided that the writers of that show must have been seriously smoking crack, or just seriously delusional because NO ONE could survive a walk down Broadway, or any street for that matter in 4 inch stilettos. It hurts my heart to say this: but it is virtually impossible to sport anything even moderately fashionable for a long walk in the city. I guess there are a few exceptions: maybe you are, A: newly giddy in love, or B: 5 of Bull Eh Dia’s famous sangrias deep. And either way, you will have the same exact consequent pain as any normal person, but you will be either A: strung out on the idea of Mr. Right, or B: just plain strung out. In any case, the blisters will still be there in the morning.
Which is why, I feel need to declare: I have found a new love in the city: The CTA: otherwise known as the Chicago Transit Authority. Speedy, shiny, never stoppin, always poppin trains that run around town unconditionally. Unlike a man, this train will always show up, and tell you where things are headed. It will be dependable, there for you, and only slightly messy. It will never ask you to get into its Audi after one two many showoff Gin and Tonic’s. It will always see you home at the end of the day, and allow you the opportunity to meet new interesting people in your neighborhood. My girlfriend, Jen swears by the 8 am Brown line, she says all the “hot ones” have to be to work by 9. Those are the kind, she says that: “actually get up, take their job seriously and wear suits.” I can only imagine the playground that awaits a single girl, where she may start every workday by practicing some good old fashioned eye sex with average, ambitious and somewhat beautiful commuters . In addition, the CTA or “L” as the locals call it, will allow you to wear your most glam attire, while transporting you to your “destiny-ation” in a quarter of the time. All you have to do is purchase a small card: similar to a Visa. Lets face it, we ladies are familiar with plastic! You slip it in a gate and in seconds you have just bought yourself a one way ride for a mere $2.25. That’s better than a 75 % off sale on Memorial Day! Cabs are a waste of time and often smell like “new car smell”, which really doesn’t smell like anything; or anything good for that matter. Show me an air freshener that smells like first date jitters or, new bikini in Cabo and I’ll gladly pay the $10.00 per 5 block fare.
Easier though, imagine yourself: strutting up a few: cold, hard, steel stairs to a plank looking plateau, or as we divas like to call it: RUNWAY, where every single investment banker, sales whiz, wannabe actor/tress and jealous local Chicagoan can witness you in all your glory, and that perfect pair of: celestial, deeply coveted and scarcely ever urbanly seen 4 inch shoes!
Therefore, lately, I’ve come to realize: home may be the place where you lay your stilettos, but it’s the walk, or the ride, that makes all the difference…and some girls follow all the rules, and other girls find ways to bend them…at least far enough to never stop wearing really cute shoes.
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