Poor Perspectives

There was some scuttle this week among a few clients about the injustice of funds being sent abroad to Haiti when they are in need. They feel neglected, take the toll of Katrina to heart and remain hopeful that a break will come that will lessen their anxiety about opening their eyes in the morning, provided they ever closed in the first place.

This viewpoint may stir something in you; something of wishing our own poor could see the bigger picture of helping others and receiving in return. It's a poetic notion but I sense Jabbari and Karmen aren't buying it. After all, their needs are immediate too. Shelter is nebulous, food is got through any means necessary and the will to live and prosper wanes with each passing day without progress. It reads like today's script from CNN's Headline News, but it's happening here.

So what should I tell them? That these are extraordinary circumstances that require immediate action or death is certain, moreso than the devastation already endured? That among those Haitians who are surviving, there are many dying still? Everyday? That they remain closer to life, clothed and clean, even if their deepest agony is never washed away?

How do I instill the idea of global giving, the understanding that we're all connected, when Americans are inherently individualist from the time they are kindergartners? You're graded on your own merits. You advance to the next grade because you got enough points. You graduate based on your own successes and failures.

We don't raise American children in a community. Wait. We don't raise poor American children in a community. They are taught to survive, and survive alone. It's no wonder they are bitter. Global giving, fundraisers with stars and Obama's blessing are something they've been waiting on and feel they deserve. Perhaps if they, and we, understood that the betterment of someone else makes everything better it wouldn't be such a slap in the face to see money they need go overseas.

And so it is. . . me? I told them to write about it. And I may just post one of their essays on my blog. Stay tuned.

RomCom Romp

I've renewed my interest in going to see movies in the theater; watching movies at all, actually. Obviously, time is required. Cash is required. Blah. It's magical being in the theater, in the dark, consumed by a screen you can't avoid or pause at your leisure. The responsibility lies with the cast of hundreds that made the story come to life to tie a rope around your emotion and tug, tug, tug until the credits roll. You're constantly engaged, introspective and at the best times, in stitches.

Romantic comedies are always a gamble though. It's hard to get romance right, plausible, palpable. . . the whole bit. I'm not adept at figuring out why I loved "It's Complicated" so much. Maybe because I was with the Great Momini (GM), or because it was a day off; because parking is still free at the theater or because the laundry was done. Is it because of that I relaxed and enjoyed it? Doesn't seem to give Nancy Meyers and the indomitable Meryl Streep, Alec Baldwin and Steve Martin much credit does it?

No, I enjoyed it for the story. God bless the story. It's why "Up" and "Avatar" won Golden Globes. It's the damn story, just like song lyrics, that makes me lose my breath laughing and clutch my chest for a mercy I hope never comes. It's delicious.

My takeaway from the film is the grace of life, even in it's most trying moments. It's easy to imagine someone, the heroine, being graceful when surrounded by a flawless house, money for renovations and an educated, gorgeous brethren of a family. But to be able to extract that nugget when I don't necessarily have those things is the true power of writing. Being human, being flawed and vulnerable, is so intoxicating to watch on screen. It's inspiring to see a woman do it and still soldier, even for someone who hasn't grieved at the loss of a partner. . . through divorce, death or otherwise.

Charming and true, "It's Complicated" is unexpectedly brilliant. A romantic comedy that truly is romantic, without being over the top fictitious. Love.

Hungry? Honey.

Review for Meli Cafe and Juice Bar; Greektown

A Meli, a Meli, a Meli. . . it means honey in Greek, so you know Lil' Wayne might very well have considered it as inspiration for "Lollipop." Sadly, I'm not sweet over heels for this corner shop. Now with 300+ Yelp reviews, I threw a bookmark on it long ago. With a Monday day off in concert with my refusal to wait to dine, I took Ruthie there for lunch.

Parking in G-Town, if you're not eating gyros or souvlaki, is a grand pain so take the #8 or Blue and make a trip of it or just pay. We got seated right away at 11:30 a.m. on a holiday Monday, which I would say is hardly normal judging by the throngs of people who came in behind us. Nothing makes lunch more fabulous than being able to say, "Man, we got here at JUST the right time."

The menu is ample and everything, seriously everything, sounded good. Fresh ingredients, ample portions. I likey. Like the lovely Jelena Z., I chose the Chipotle Chicken wrap as a tip of the hat to the lunch hour though many a scramble were calling my name. It packs a punch, makes you wait to cool off and then applies an elixir of avocado. The wrap was deep. Poetic, even. And so were the potato crisps (p.s. they're chips, sir).

And hot damn the food came out fast. Everything was lickety split. As I often do with my mom, I got in a few good questions. Today was, "Where were you the day MLK got shot?" She was teaching at Cather Elementary on the West side. Shots rang out around the neighborhood. She grabbed her sister and hightailed it north as things got revolutionary, out of anger, frustration and grief. The next morning? Bullets in the chalkboard as those who mourned made gunfire in the wrong direction. Tumultuous for sure; important to remember.

It seems trite to say, but Meli wasn't memorable.

And, ack, the price. For two juice drinks, a cup of soup and two sandwiches it was over $40 with tip. That makes me sadzies. On the other hand, I will not be eating for the rest of the day, so perhaps it's worth its weight. No matter as time with moms is time well spent, and a good meal is just gravy on top of it all.

Cream Puffery

**Note: I am going to start posting my Yelp reviews here, because I know most of you don't hit up that site and I can't ask you to. Times are tough and at a premium. Without further adieu. . .

Beard Papa's Cream Puffs

"Can you say hype? I mean, who knew the Gordon's Fisherman could be repurposed for such a sweet and nifty gimmicky, trendy, puffy purpose. It's Japanese people. As a business culture they are brilliant masterminds of turning toward Americans and saying, "Look at this. It's cute, you love it, buy lots of it."

Cream puffs are not my idea of a treat. I don't sit at my desk at 3 p.m. (prime craving time) and think, I neeeeeed a cream puff. Well, shit, those days are gone because instead of trying to avoid walking past Sugar Bliss for a frosting shot when I'm itching my arm in anticipation I'm headed underground to hit up BP's.

You can't hide the fact you've eaten one of these puffs, and you certainly can't eat it on the train. No, if you get it to go (and you will) you will need to be patient and get home before you devour. They're beautifully messy, irresistibly marketed and unexpected enough that you ought bring them to any occasion. From birthdays to break-ups, celebrate with BPs. Truth."

p.s. Have my California or New York folks had these??

Going to the Chapel

Marriage was on my mind this week. Between Elizabeth Gilbert being on Oprah talking about her new book (I don't know about you, but I couldn't get through "Eat, Pray, Love" so "Committed" will remain far away from my purview), an article in Marie Claire about women needing to be less picky (hallelujah) when selecting mates and a candid conversation over margaritas with my husband I think there's a lot to talk about.

Humans are social beings. It's true. Even the most introverted among us feels better, happier if you will, with some other human energy nearby. And save a few cases (James Franco's love affair with Japanese Sex Pillows and objectum sexuals), we need to be near other humans to get to know intimacy and socialize our way to being attractive to a mate.

This will be the year of pregnancy for many of my friends, barring any complications as getting pregnant is far less elegant than naivete allowed me to believe in childhood. But I still have many single friends too. Marc and I wonder with frequency what the deal is with the women we love not finding love. I think Lori Gottlieb has a point that many women feel "entitled to the cultural ideal. Mr. Right should look a certain way, have a certain kind of job, have a sense of humor, be romantic in these ways and show it with certain gestures. Everyone has their strengths and weaknesses. Why do we always focus on the latter?" Amen. No doubt. So hard to do in practice.

And I do think most of my friends who are not in relationships would prefer to be. Though even those who are married might consider themselves lonely, I'm also no fool to know it's different when you're unattached. Staying positive is challenging and continuing your own personal growth without paying much credence to "the quest" for Mr. Right is impossible sometimes.

But is it possible that marriage, in a traditional sense, might shift again? It really was a group effort if we look back far enough in history. One man, many wives. When women didn't have the rights we do now, to work as a surgeon (god forbid) or start a business, we needed men to have financial "freedom." And those damn 1950's ideals are stuck in our heads now too. Woman near stove or vacuum, anxiously waiting for briefcase to show up to eat pot roast. The truth is, we don't need them anymore, and sperm banks are proof.

So why is it such an ideal? Why do we want it? Again to quote Gottlieb, "We want this soul communion, an almost therapeutic relationship instead of a working partnership. And we think we're perfect because our friends sit around and tell us we are. We're one another's Yes Women. Which does nothing to help us suss out how we might be better partners."

Honesty in friendship is a certain truth. But honesty with yourself is paramount. It's one of the reasons I am such a huge fan of therapy because whether you've been avoiding confrontation or just ignorant to the need for growth, it's impossible to avoid. That challenge is what I'm so intent on for myself and all my gal pals. Head toward the work, not away from it, and evolve.

Because guess what? A whole person is one super sexy individual. And one who will be more open to those who also have work to do. After all, it doesn't get easier when you fall in love. . . though some would argue it's better.

Zen Out

There was much discussion this weekend of the multitude and magnitude of things that need to be done. The perceived need, of course, is largely self-inflicted. Truth be told, if we don't re-do the fireplace or rip up the carpeting the world will not shift on its axis. This is truth.

A year or so ago, I grappled with crippling depression and anxiety. I can speak from experience that this feeling is unthinkably awful. No one can see that you're struggling with moving the mental train forward just one track but you are. . . and each decision is seemingly mortal. Medication helped me. Talk therapy really helped me. I'm ok now, but the anxiety that I felt then raises a small finger from time to time. I'm just better and feeling it coming and coping.

Owning a home is obviously anxiety-inducing for anyone. With school starting this week (three classes), group therapy one night a week and weekends that will spent studying and reading and resting well. . . I see the time ticking backward down to zero. I feel anxious, but I also feel challenged. It's become important now more than ever than I find some zen. Zen to me is doing less and doing less for me is sometimes unfathomable. I told Marc I wake up and literally count back from midnight to figure out how the day will work. The perfect day.

The totally unobtainable perfect day that perpetually leaves me disappointed.

Oh my.

Writing has always been calm for me. And so it goes. But so has music. And not just background-while-cleaning or muting-traffic-beeps music, but really listening to music. For me, it's the lyrics and poetry and lilt and lull of the words. I'm getting to know The Avett Brothers, thanks to our cousins Amie and Andy. There's something palpable about the right song and the right time. I remember this about choosing our processional and first dance songs for our wedding.

So this week, it seems appropriate to share the words from "Head Full of Doubt/Road Full of Promise" and ask, what song is speaking to you right now?

There's a darkness upon me that's flooded in light
In the fine print they tell me what's wrong and what's right
And it comes in black and it comes in white
And I'm frightened by those who don't see it

When nothing is old, deserved or expected
And your life doesn't change by the man that's elected
If you're loved by someone you're never rejected
Decide what to be and go be it.

There was a dream
One day I could see it
Like a bird in a cage a broke in and demanded that somebody free it
And there was a kid, with a head full of doubt
So I scream till I die and don't ask for those bad thoughts to find me out

There's a darkness upon you that's flooded in light
In the fine print they tell you what's wrong and what's right
And it flies by day and it flies by night
And I'm frightened by those who don't see it

Cocoon

Surrounded by Kleenex (though blowing my nose is strictly forbidden), bottles of pills and bouncing back and forth between "Jersey Shore" and Food Network Challenge is starting to, well, get to a girl's head. And my head is full of all sorts of technicolor tensions. I'm getting antsy for normal.

It does help to be surrounding by cuddlies. My sister is at my feet, curled in triangle after flying half way across the world. So long Malawi! Marc has gone to pick up pizza because my appetite has reemerged (damn) and voila. . . Friday night is upon us. It bears mentioning my favorite someecard of 2009 boasting the headline: "I'd consider going out tonight if I wasn't so tired from thinking about how to get out of going out tonight." Of course I'm not even considering going out, but it does bear mentioning that home is so much sweeter when you own the home you're in and begin to really make permanent those indentations in a favorite leather chair or arrangement of side tables so that ice cold Coke is within reach.

Oh listen. . . she's snoring. Light the fireplace, pass me a slice and color me grateful for the little things.

The Great Momini

Photo courtesy of Miriam Doan (www.miriamdoan.com)

My mom looked a hot mess when she picked me up for my surgery appointment yesterday. Bags under the eyes, unkempt hair, weary demeanor. "I couldn't sleep worrying about you. I can't help it. I'm a mom."

I've explored my relationship with Ruthie a lot of late, especially as I look to Marc and his relationship with his parents and my friends' discussions of how their parents are eager for them to wed, have babies, come home for the holidays or just take better care of themselves. Family dynamics are fascinating to me, especially since mine have always seemed so simple. I've discovered recently that it's precisely because my mom didn't ask me to move home, or beg and plead and insist, that we did. That we wanted to. That we couldn't wait to be back and have Sunday dinners or Saturday lunches or anything in between.

Calling my mom is like a reflex, like startling awake after a nightmare or throwing a hand across the chest of a car passenger when you've braked too hard. It can't be helped. When she was admitted for triple bypass surgery in October, reflexes went into overdrive. I didn't know how to tell her that she had to fight this and fight it hard because I need her around. For a long time. Sometimes I don't understand how she can be so generous, thoughtful, strong and magnetic all at once. I saw her weak and sad and vulnerable and still she was The Great Momini, even more so for being human?

I wanted her with me yesterday because there's this reflex of calm from having her near. There's just no other place she should be than close to me. And that's final.

So Long Sinus Infections!

I had sinus surgery today. After years of chronic sinusitis and a severely deviated septum, I'm finally done with it, optimistic for the recovery and relief. For the moment, I'm high on Vicodin and packed with gauze but it only gets better from here. Sudsly is gone (we affectionally called him Allergen Heap, after one of our favorite female lyricists), the house is vacuumed with mighty HEPA-ness and I absolutely can't wait to get back what I started not to realize I was missing. . . a day without Excedrin. "Boo" for endoscopic surgery and a whole day at the facility and dull pain but "hooray" for everything else. According to the surgeon, two of my paranasal sinus cavities were righteously infected. You're telling me, doc.

What is astounding to me is how many people suffer with sinus problems. And I mean like lay in bed and beg for mercy suffer. Anything literally "in your head" is a horrible kind of pain. Once I told the world that I was going under, many folks expressed interest in the procedure, side effects, discomfort (one woman thought they broke your nose to do it) and overall process so they too could consider it. Folks, you have a sister in this. . . and hopefully a success story too!

10

Will there ever be a decade quite like this one? The aughts were naturally the most eventful so far, riddled with sorrow and joy and triumph. Some things I'll never forget, in absolutely no particular order:

1. My dad died. Mentally first, then physically. I asked my mom if she thought he would be proud of me for making my career switch. Turns out he was proud of me no matter what.
2. I graduated college, and began my master's degree. Graduated college? Really? That seems untouchable now. Impossible that I slept in bunk beds and had boys climb in my window on the first floor of Andreen.
3. I met, moved in with AND got married to my best friend. He gives me the credit for giving him the courage to pursue me. Everyday I'm reminded of the reasons we chose each other.
4. I moved away from home and back home. Sweet home.**
5. We bought our first house. We thought we wanted a yard, a basement and our own walls but lo and behold we're in love with Wabash.
6. I love what I do. It's tiring in ways I never imagined, and pays a hell of a lot less. . . but I love it. I can't say that I could do it without my husband's support. Or rather I could, but it would require more sacrifice (i.e. living at home, sharing an apartment, letting go of my car).

7. I found friendship with my mom. As those "in the club" know, amazing transitions happen in relationships after death. It isn't without my dad's passing that I would have this closeness with Ruthie. We were a family of three and stay a family of three, as I often say.

I plan to write a post on each of these, and uncover more too. I encourage you to reflect on the past decade. If you lament being single, lackluster in a job, overweight (me! me!) it is helpful to see what greatness you have achieved. I promise you that if you can't make a list on your own, I can do it for you. Consider it a challenge.

** Marc took the above photo from the top of the John Hancock building, almost exactly one year ago today.

Would This Be a Good Status?

It went through my head all the time, and then the emails asking if something was wrong started almost immediately. "Did you defriend me? I thought we were cool?" or "Is everything ok? I saw you weren't online anymore?"

It happened quickly, with one keystroke on a random Sunday. I didn't deactivate, I deleted. And it was entirely and completely necessary. As I've hearkened to many concerned compatriots, it was as though I broke up with an addict boyfriend who depleted me of resources needed to survive, namely time.

Dramatic? Yes. But it was for me. Quitting Facebook was symbolic of my "less should, more want" (LSMW) philosophy. It had become another thing I had to do, or should do, before I went to bed, before I brushed my teeth, before I got to work, before I got home and no, not everyone takes it to this extreme. I envy my husband for using his CTA commute to update his status and engage, not a minute more.

But inherent to my first 30 years was a desire to connect, and I thrive on contact with others. I get a lot out of reading about someone's failed pot roast and commenting that I ruined a porterhouse just the same or I know the remedy for what ails them. It made me feel important, validated my role in the larger world and provided a bullet point under my definition of "success."

But the time suck was painstaking, and the hours clocked by without a care and none of my wants were getting anywhere near the top of the "to do" list and so. . . delete.

I had an itch on New Year's Day. Create a profile again. Add all the revelers I had met the night before. Connect, connect, connect. It was exactly the same feeling for me as resisting a cupcake in a window. Keep walking, keeping thinking and move on. . . because I'm getting more of my wants met from within (with plenty of hurdles along the way). I don't need it for sure.

But I don't even want it anymore.

*Disclaimer - This is in no way meant to offend anyone who still loves Facebook. I mean, I still do. I mourn it daily and allow myself to check my husband's once in awhile. I can't handle missing baby photos or updates from Africa. But I think of it like having a Snackwell instead of an Oreo. Just a taste, fewer calories and no commitment. I'm still me, after all.

Desperate for a Voice

I warned you not all posts will fall under a philosophical category. I want to talk about Chicago too. Career musings. Relationship happenings. General observations.

Do I have your permission?

I think my friend Nikki does it best in terms of documenting over at her blog, but the city is grand. Even though my iPhone and bus pass have been stolen out from under my savvy self in the past three months, I ignore the inconvenience. Rather, I've become a bit obsessed with the "under belly." Truth is, ignorance is rampant among many Chicagoans. A large percentage of the population identifies "The Bean," Willis Tower and Magnificent Mile as hallmarks of the city.

But one of the beautiful consequences of working in social services is you can't be ignorant to so much of what the city really is.

I had three young men promise to hunt down whomever took my phone, the same young men who make me cry because they want to succeed so badly and have every reason not to bother. It makes me less angry that my things being stolen cost nearly $400 because the under belly is so under served.

I mentioned the circumstance to Jada, one of my favorites, a young woman who went through "the system", mother of one and daughter to a heroin addict, that "these are tough times, people are desperate." In fact, she is desperate. For child care so her son isn't surrounded by drugs all day and for a full-time job so she can save for a house. For time to go to school so she can fulfill her dream of being a rehab counselor. For warmth because she is the prey of a slumlord who turns on the heat when she feels like it.

But she said to me, "No one should be desperate enough to take from someone who is trying to help us. That's why people hate us."

Many Chicagoans are desperate. For dollars, for clothes, for food. The New York Times profiled the growing reliance on food stamps as the sole source of support for many families in this country. Of course, on the theme of ignorance, the Republican's comments are maddening. On the other hand, I thank Jason DeParle for giving what I think under served Chicagoans are most desperate for. . . a voice.

Embrace the Want

Although I'm not about to commit to writing posts that conform to one topic, my slogan of 2010 (thanks to group therapy at the Awakening Center) is "less should, more want." Before break, we discussed the confines, parameters and implications of the following words:

should
want
need
deserve

Should was a cinder block. Cumbersome. Want felt completely foreign, shameful. A wistful vapor. Need, on the other hand, is completely entitled. Needs are scarce and therefore to be heard when voiced. And deserve? Well, I think I have deserve all wrong. In my head it goes, "After a hard day, I deserve to eat a pizza." That's right, a whole pizza. Not just a slice. I don't "deserve" this; not in the slightest.

And so yes, we should have gone to Kalamazoo for Christmas. I should have gone to Costco on Saturday. I should read more novels and call more friends.

But I'm finding that, if I clear out the shoulds, the "forbidden" wants bubble to the surface. And the wants is what makes me joyful and inspired. I'm encouraged that my New Year is not kicked off my resolutions, though I think most of us have grown out of that ideal. Rather a philosophy. I think of it as a mental check to make throughout the day. I had to go to work today, non-negotiable, but what do I want to do now?

Well, I want to write more. Writing keeps me alive and engaged. Connected to the want. And so it goes. . .

Embrace the want.