Living at home and why I don't understand it

A young woman I know recently grappled with a decision over her choice of colleges. She'd attended one here in Buffalo for her freshman year, but had decided that she wanted more than what was being offered. So she applied to a few other places, and, being the intelligent and accomplished student that she is, was accepted to just about all of them. Among these were three schools in Chicago.

She mulled her decision for months. Columbia? Loyola? UIC? I don't remember what her major was; I just remember feeling a sense of envy at how brightly this kid's future was shining. Chicago! Everyone who knows me knows how much I love that city and how I really do consider it my adopted hometown. The thought of being 19 and going to college there...man, how exciting! I thought it was a no-brainer, myself. She, however, had different thoughts on the matter. And her source of hesitation? Moving away from her mom.

What?

Okay, now...I love my mother as much as the next girl, but one thing I have never been able to understand is people who (a) continue to live with theirs beyond the standard 18-21 year-old stage and (b) people who freak out about having to move out of their parents' homes.

I think I was about 12 when I started fantasizing about the day I could finally pack my bags and get the hell out of that house and away from my parents. Like a prisoner doing time, I kept a mental tally on an imaginary wall, daydreaming about my eventual sweet freedom. Every time a rule was enforced, or I was grounded for some ridiculous thing, I'd curse them under my breath and flip through the Brand Names catalog picking out furniture for my future apartment. I'd think about moving to California, or Hawaii, or someplace as far as I could get. I went to my guidance counselor and asked for information on UCLA. What was her name? Mrs. Kardani I think. Anyway, I remember her telling me, "well, Sweetie, this is only junior high. Your high school will have that information." Now, of course, there was no internet, and finding information was not as easy as Googling it. And so I waited, and as soon as I got to high school I started plotting my escape for real.

My high school years were a nightmare. Now, okay, I know there are a lot of kids who had it WAY worse than I ever did. I had a roof over my head, I had three squares a day, and a guaranteed college education. What I had very little of, however, was privacy. And that's all I ever wanted. Just some privacy, and a little freedom to be myself. I wasn't asking to be allowed to stay out all hours of the night. I wasn't asking to be allowed to have boys in my bedroom. But my mother would routinely go through my things, throw away clothing she didn't like, snoop through my drawers, read my diary and my letters, and I was forbidden to lock my bedroom door. And there was no knocking. So it didn't matter what I was doing. I could be stark naked, and she could just walk right in.

"You have nothing to hide," she told me. But what she failed to understand was that it wasn't that I wanted to hide anything, I just wanted to be left the fuck alone sometimes. In my mother's defense, she was trying to ensure that I wasn't in there smoking my lungs out, but most of the time I wasn't looking for privacy to smoke; I wanted to be able to read, do homework, listen to music, draw, paint, talk on the phone, nap, or just stare off into space - alone and uninterrupted.

My dad was a tyrant, a lunatic, and generally insane. But at least he never barged in on me. He would always knock and say, "Are you decent?" At least he did one thing right.

As it turned out I didn't go to UCLA. My college choices ended up being a little closer to home, but I ultimately chose the one that was the farthest - about 500 miles away, nearly an 8-hour drive. And the sad part is, I didn't choose Franklin Pierce for its programs, or its academic reputation, or its campus life, or anything other than it was the furthest, of all my options, from my parents that I could get.

I think one of the main reasons I have to live alone and never got married or had children is because I am SO protective of my personal space, the very thought of having to share it with someone actually sends me into a panic. So to hear someone say, "Oh, I can't bear the thought of moving out of my folks' house" is so unbelievably foreign to me. I'm not knocking people who want to live at home forever; I just, from my experience and perspective, can't understand it. You mean there are people out there who like their parents so much that they actually VOLUNTARILY live with them? There are people whose parents are so non-invasive and easygoing that living with them isn't a constant source of stress and mental trauma? Damn. Even when I would come home for vacations, my mother and I would fight. It wasn't until my parents got divorced when I was 20 and my mother started living in a different place that we started getting along - for it was no longer a matter of me coming "home," but rather a visit to her apartment, where I was not an occupant, but a guest. The paradigm - and the rules - shifted at that point.

To this day she will tell me, "you are welcome in my home any time. You may stay with me as long as you like. But do not EVER think about moving in with me. It will not happen."

So if you tell me that you don't want to move out of your parents' house, or are moving back in with your parents, now you know why I'm making that face.

Sirius-ly amusing (warning: explicit)

I have Sirius/XM satellite radio in my car. I usually only listen when I'm on long drives or am bored with the selection of CDs in the car, but when I do listen I'm a little overwhelmed by all the choices. Not unlike satellite television, it's essentially 300 stations with nothing on.

Tonight, though, as I was scrolling through while stuck in Boulevard traffic among the other last-minute Halloween shoppers, I stopped when I thought I heard the woman say "Pyrex glass dildo."

Now, I don't have the best hearing in the world, so I thought, "no, that can't be right. She probably said, "Fine, let's ask Bill, though." Or something. I mean, with my hearing (or lack thereof), it's entirely possible I'd heard it wrong. So I backed up and continued listening. I hadn't heard incorrectly. It was the "OutQ" station, the LGBT channel, and it was some sort of sex show. So of course I had to listen.

In my younger days, I used to listen to Dr. Ruth, huddled in my room with the radio under my pillow, or with the earphone in my ear (does anyone remember those primitive "ear bud" style mono earphones?) lest my parents hear what I was up to. Much of what I learned about sex I learned from Dr. Westheimer, in fact, and I can still remember as a young woman fumbling around with my boyfriend and thinking, "Oh, I remember this from Dr. Ruth!" But really the point I'm trying to make here is that I'm morbidly curious when it comes to other people's sex lives. Not people I know, though, so please don't tell me about yours, thanks.

So I'm listening to this show, and the hosts (two women) are casually and matter-of-factly dishing out advice to gay, lesbian, and straight callers alike, and not mincing words or hesitating to toss out slang in the process. They discussed proper sanitation techniques for toys (don't put latex in the dishwasher, folks - it's porous and will degrade quickly), positions when one is partially incapacitated with a broken limb (draw your own picture on that one), and demographics of their listeners (3:1 male to female - big surprise, heh). Then I listened intently as one woman explained the mechanics and logistics of the cock ring to a gay man whose partner was having, you know, issues. Man, this was WAY better than Dr. Ruth. But of course after a while my attention started to waver, so I decided to make my way up the dial.

Imagine my amusement when I discovered the very next station up was Radio Disney. Ha! From cock rings to the Jonas Brothers. Awesome. The next channel up from Disney...KidsPlace! Even funnier! But just when I thought it couldn't get any more hysterical, I clicked on to the next channel and it was...

The Catholic Channel.

Heeeee!

It was a good thing I'd gone to the bathroom at Target, because I think I would have wet myself. Man, irony rules.

Dear Insomnia

Dear Insomnia,

Look. I understand why you like to hang around. I don't do a whole lot to discourage you. I mean, I'm up at 3:45 a.m. one day and up 'til 2:00 a.m. the next. Sometimes I pull an all-nighter, although with age those have gotten fewer and farther between. Between a job that goes anywhere from 4:30 in the morning until 11:30 at night, and two classes that meet until 9:00 p.m., I'm all over the place. Then sometimes I do something silly like drink a 20-ounce Mountain Dew at 10:00 the night before I'm having surgery on my mouth. As if worrying about teeth and gum tissue being dug up and rearranged (and the cost of said procedure) weren't enough to keep me tossing and turning! You hardly needed any help with that one, did you?

*Le sigh*

Even when I try and get a full night's sleep, you're there, waiting in the wings to pounce on me before I can get to the REM stage. Almost like clockwork, you shake me awake every 3 hours. But Insomnia, you're never around when I need to be awake, are you? Nope. Where the hell are you when I'm nodding off in class, snapping at a co-worker, or nearly driving my car into a tree? You're probably taking a nap. Asshole. Oh, and hey - thanks for those dark circles under my eyes.

Not too long ago I got some painkillers from the doctor. They were the kind with an orange label, and I thought, "YAY! These will knock me out!" Then I found out that they have a potentially fatal interaction with one of my other medications. Well, you know how I'm always saying, "I'll sleep when I'm dead?" I decided to hold off on that one for a while. Insomnia: 1, Deedee: 0.

Well, I guess at least I could thank you for the many sunrises you've allowed me to see. Sunrises are beautiful, you know. I just wish I could enjoy one after a full night's sleep. Could you cut me a break one of these nights? Please?

Thanks.

Love,
*yawn*
Me.

For the love of a building, Part 2

I put off writing this entry for as long as I could, mainly because I couldn't bring myself to do it without breaking down every third sentence. My previous entry about Russell was sad enough; to write one in the same vein but closer to my heart was more than I could bear.

On August 27th, quite suddenly and unexpectedly, my friend (as well as loyal blog-watcher and frequent commenter) Mike Miller passed away. He was just 51.

What made his death even more tragic was the irony of it happening on the heels of losing Russell, the man whose post as CTRC president Mike had taken over just last year. Mike had so much to say about Russell's wake, and how beautifully it was handled and arranged, and a few short weeks later we were saying goodbye to Mike himself in the same spot. I didn't think I could cry so many tears. That little pocket-pak of Kleenex I took to the service didn't stand a chance.

I've said a lot of what I had to say about the Central Terminal in the previous post, so I won't get into that. I will say, however, that it was Mike who was instrumental in getting me involved as deeply as I am. He was the first person I talked to about becoming a volunteer, about donating materials from my job, and about my instant love for the building. He got it when I told him the building had "spoken" to me. He was the one who told me I looked like the illustration of the Bier Wench on the Oktoberfest poster and convinced me to dress up in the costume. He'd said, "Come on, dress up! You look just like her! You have the same hair, and you have the boobs for it!" I told him only he could get away with saying that, and I agreed to dress up.

Mike loved the Central Terminal more than anyone I know, and felt such a bond to the place due to it being the very thing that caused his existence in the first place (his parents met while working there together). His energy and dedication radiated onto everyone around him, and it was hard not to share in his enthusiasm, and even harder not to smile when you saw him.

Not only was Mike dedicated to the Terminal, he was dedicated to preservation in Buffalo. A founder of Broadway-Fillmore Alive and the recently appointed president of Preservation Buffalo Niagara, Mike loved this area. Mike loved a lot of things, in fact. Mike was full of love - for his family, his friends, his colleagues, his causes. "What a great guy" doesn't even begin to describe it. He was a constant and reliable source of encouragement, support, and friendship to me, and I never heard him utter an unkind word about anyone. Even those he might not have agreed with, or who had transgressed in some way, Mike could spin everything into a positive light - with a smile.

We're all going to miss him more than words can say, and the entire Buffalo-Niagara region will forever feel his absence. The Terminal will never be the same without him walking around. I worked the train show this past weekend and without thinking, I kept looking for him in the crowd, kept waiting for him to come into the gift shop. Then I'd remember.

This blog will never feel the same, knowing he's not reading it, knowing I'll never see another comment from him. He used to tell me all the time how much he enjoyed reading it, and how he couldn't wait to read the next entry. He told me one time during a particularly stressful time in my life (and a coincidentally dry spell of writing) that I needed to "vent my spleen," and that became the title of the next entry, the very next day. Even if he didn't comment here, he'd make sure to tell me the next time he saw me. In fact, one of the last things he said to me in person was "I loved that entry about the Quirkyalones. I could totally relate." And then he said what he always said to me. "But don't worry, Deedee, you'll find someone when it's the right time. You're too fabulous to be alone."

Well, Mike...I know wherever you are you're among friends and are at peace. Because you, no matter here or hereafter, are too fabulous to be alone.

Michael J. Miller
1958-2009
You are loved and missed by many.

For the love of a building

Five years ago, my sister called me and said, "Hey, I saw in the paper that they're doing tours of the Central Terminal. We're going to go. Want to come, too?"

I replied, "What's the Central Terminal?"

She was aghast that I didn't know of it, but to be fair, I'd moved away at 18 and growing up, my experience with the East Side of Buffalo had been really limited to trips to the old Rockpile for ball games. By the time my sister started breaking in there to hang out and drink in high school in the late 80's/early 90's, I was grown up and gone out of the house, moved out of state, and more or less completely detached from any Buffalo interests. And even if I had known about it when I was a teen, chances are slim I would have actually been able to escape the iron fists of my parents long enough to actually check it out.

I went on the tour with my family, and what happened that day will forever be etched in my memory because it was so profound. As we approached the building from Memorial Drive, the tower loomed in the near distance, rising above the surrounding neighborhood. At that moment, something about it just hit me like - dare I employ a really bad pun here - a ton of bricks. I've always been interested in architecture, particularly that of the late 19th and early 20th centuries, and this Art Deco masterpiece literally took my breath away. How was it that I lived in Buffalo for the first 18 years of my life and had never even seen this building?

The approach, however, was just the beginning. After we parked and walked up to the building, we were met outside by our docent, the president of the Central Terminal Restoration Corporation, Russell Pawlak. Russell started the tour outside, explaining the history of the neighborhood (he'd grown up there) and the history of the Terminal's inception, construction, and eventual decline. I couldn't wait to get inside, and kept wishing he'd hurry up and take us in, but this guy knew his stuff, and he wasn't going to just let us loose in there until he was damn sure we knew it, too.

When we finally got inside, this is when it happened. We were treated to a brief video in the entrance, and then led into the concourse. All at once, as the concourse opened up in front of me, I was filled with a feeling, overwhelmed with a connection to this place. It was as if the building itself spoke to me and said, "I need you here. You belong here. This is your cause." I literally fell in love. Right then, right there, I knew I'd found something really special. It makes sense, really, if you think about it; both my late grandfathers were railroad engineers. Grampa Jack drove for Erie-Lackawanna, and Grampa Ed drove for Conrail. Both of them undoubtedly passed through the building many times, and it's consistent with my beliefs as a Spiritualist that they'd be hanging out in there now, or would have at least stopped by to sway me in the CTRC's direction that day. As my mom pointed out, trains and spirits are in my blood. It all came together.

Over the next five years, I would volunteer as much of my time as I could (which, as I would unfortunately discover, wasn't a whole lot between working multiple jobs and then working and going to school full time). I've been the Oktoberfest Bier Wench. I've sold merchandise. I've scraped paint. I've stacked chairs, collected trash, served hot dogs, and this year designed the poster for the anniversary. I never feel as if I could ever do enough. This is love, remember.

The CTRC is made up of an incredible group of dedicated and passionate individuals, and through the organization's efforts the building has undergone an astounding transformation. What was a dilapidated, abandoned, and largely unusable old train station has become a gorgeous work in progress on its way to restored splendor. Throughout the years and through the tireless efforts of the group, numerous events have been held there, from weddings to picnics, parties to art shows, car shows, concerts, ghost hunts, theatrical performances, festivals, and train shows.

Today, it held a wake. Russell Pawlak passed away on August 8, at the much-too-young age of 59. His untimely death comes just a year after stepping down as the CTRC's president, and though he was no longer involved, he was still close to the cause. Passion and dedication such as Russell's doesn't fade. And as I walked into the Terminal this afternoon and saw how beautifully everything was arranged, transforming the beloved building into a stop on Russell's journey to his final destination, I remembered that day five years ago, and I fell in love all over again.

Thank you, Russell. Rest in peace, and I'm sure we'll be seeing you.

The War on Stuff

Earlier this year I committed to reducing my clutter, thanks to the introduction by my sister to the show "Clean House." She was going to nominate me for the show, but I decided to take matters into my own hands first. While it might be kind of fun to have a TV show come in and document my compulsive hoarding issue and give me a new lease on life by showing me the way of the cleanly and well-organized, I didn't think I could actually wait a year for the whole process to come to fruition. I also wasn't keen on the idea that the whole world would get a bird's-eye view of my clusterfuck of a living space. It's...well, it's embarrassing. I will say, however, that watching the show has opened my eyes to one oft-forgotten fact: I am not the only one who struggles with this thing.

So...the first step, I decided, was to start purging - also known as "Operation Project Toss," sort of my own mini-version of "Clean House." This is not the first version of said operation (as you may well know if you've been a part of my life for any length of time) but it's definitely the most serious. It's a tough battle to wage, this battle against Stuff, since it requires a lot of letting go and overriding of emotions, but I entered into it with the best intentions and a fair amount of aplomb, and have spent the year fighting the good fight. The fight has since escalated into a full-blown war, complete with trenches, foxholes, and a few allies called in for reinforcement. One yard sale, a couple good-sized donations to charity, and several ebay auctions later, I’m winning. I think. But it’s a slippery slope, indeed.

It's unbelievable how much crap I've accumulated in the six-plus years I've been in this house. As someone who spent ages 18 to 32 moving every couple of years and still had the uncanny ability to accumulate junk, one can only imagine the havoc wreaked in six years. I mean, it's really astonishing.

See, I like Stuff. No - I love Stuff. I’m rather addicted to owning Stuff, in fact. However as a compulsive hoarder, I have a tendency to let the Stuff own me. It grows and reproduces. Little piles creep over to other little piles, which soon spend the night together and spawn more little piles. Soon these little piles grow up and form giant communes of piles. I don’t know what to do with all of it, and usually end up walking away in defeat, resolving to deal with it some other time as I climb over more stuff just to go to the bathroom.

My point? I have come to the conclusion that there can be no more extraneous Stuff. I’ve put a moratorium on Stuff. I have set very specific guidelines about what can and cannot come into this house. I have strict policies regarding the intake of Stuff (i.e. nothing comes in unless something goes out). In the past I have been an avid collector of Stuff, but at this point in my life, as I look toward potentially downsizing my life in a move (or just in an attempt to preserve what shred of sanity remains in my head), I have to put my foot down.

Every year my mother says, "This is going to be a lean Christmas!" Every year I respond, "That's fine, Mom. I don't want a lot of things anyway." Every year I put together a wittily-worded, graphically-enhanced list of things I want and/or need. And while it's never a particularly Stuff-heavy list, I nevertheless always end up on Christmas morning with a bunch of Stuff. Apparently my mother's idea of "lean Christmas" is different from mine. This year, she's getting a list with specific instructions, worded as gently as I know how, to knock it off with the Stuff. I understand that in my family Christmas is all about the obscene amount of gifts lining the walls and stacked to the ceiling on Christmas morning, but as I've gotten older (and as new little members are added) I take less joy in ripping open package after package, and instead derive most of my holiday cheer from sipping coffee, eating cinnamon rolls, watching snow fall, and lounging in my pajamas with my family.

But I digress. Must stop blogging and resume purging (and painting and ripping up carpet, etc). I will be back with updates as they come. In the meantime, enjoy this lovely photo of approximately 80 pounds of my boxed up, unwanted Stuff.

Even Quirkyalones get the blues

I had a conversation with an acquaintance recently about my perpetual state of singlehood, during which I explained the concept of the "Quirkyalone" to him. His argument had been, up until that point, that I didn't have to be alone, if only I'd relax a few of my "stringent" standards and requirements (which, if you know me, include such outrageous requirements as an education, a brain, and absence of offspring). After passionately explaining to him that it would be better to be alone than to back down on things that I hold important, I think it finally dawned on him that there are single women in this world who would actually prefer to be single over being coupled for the sake of being so.

The Quirkyalone, for those of you who are not familiar, is explained best by the Quirkyalone.net website:

Quirkyalones are people who enjoy being single (but are not opposed to being in a relationship) and prefer being single to dating for the sake of being in a relationship. It’s also a mindset. It’s about being present to both the wonders and possibilities in being deeply single or deeply in partnership. It’s also a mindset that recognizes the power and value of significant others, plural: our friends.

Quirkyalone is not anti-love. It is pro-love. It is not anti-dating. It is anti-compulsory dating. We tend to be romantics. We prefer to be single rather than settle. In fact, the core of quirkyalone is the inability to settle. We spend a signficant chunk of our lives single because we hold relationships to a high standard.

Are quirkyalones loners? Not necessarily. Quirkyalones often value friendship very highly. We’re often very social people. But we do value occasional solitude. Quirkyalones are often creative and need time alone to allow thoughts to fully form.

Fundamentally, quirkyalone isn’t so much about being alone as it is about connection: with yourself and others. It’s about liberating yourself from the expected road maps to discover your own. It’s about developing comfort with aloneness and recognizing that comfort is crucial to being with someone else.

The quirky in quirkyalone is really about authenticity. It’s about accepting yourself in all your quirky glory, and being fully yourself, whether you’re single or in a relationship.

The alone part is about willing to stand out from the crowd, to go to a wedding alone rather than go with a date, for example, out of social obligation. It’s about resisting the tyranny of coupledom, the prevailing notion that you must be in a relationship at all times in order to be happy.

It’s about preserving solitude in an era of hyperconnectivity so that you can be comfortable and full alone, and therefore fully present with another human being.

That said, I will confess to having periodic bouts of melancholy, wistful sadness when it comes to being alone. Today being the 8th wedding anniversary of my sister and her husband, and realizing that I've not been in a "real" relationship in that entire time...well, it kind of makes me wonder what the fuck I'm doing. I guess I've always thought that if I live my life the way I want to live it, that someone special will come along and fit right in. Well, it's been eight years since my last relationship (I don't really count James, because he was a long-distance thing, and, well, it was never really a committed thing, at least not on his end) and I'm starting to think that there really is no lid for my pot.

This, dear blogwatchers, is what's got me down today.

That, and I make a mean sundae pie, and sometimes I wish I had someone to make one for. I can't make one for myself; I'll eat the whole damn thing, and then I'll just feel worse. So does anyone want one? Name yer flavor. :-)

A little pomp with a side of circumstance

Sorry about being so absent lately, but it really has been a whirlwind of insanity - albeit the good kind - around these parts.

So what's going on with me? Well...

I graduated! Well, sort of. I mean, my name was in the program as an August 2009 graduate, and I just have one last loose end to tie up before I technically earn my degree (my summer internship - more on that later). I could have walked in the ceremony if I'd wanted to, but I didn't. You might think that after everything I went through to get this degree I would have wanted to march proudly across that stage, but there was just something about getting all suited up in the regalia and going through all the pomp and circumstance for my second undergraduate degree that felt a little wrong, perhaps a little dishonest - especially considering the degree wasn't actually finished. To those who couldn't understand why I felt this way, I likened it to a middle-aged bride wearing a fancy white gown with a full train and walking down the aisle of a cathedral in front of thousands of guests for her second wedding, and doing it without a marriage license. Not necessarily wrong, but just somehow...out of whack, against tradition. And as much as I buck tradition otherwise, there are just some things I like to keep in order on a personal level.

Despair not, however. All of you who were hoping to see me in my cap and gown will get the chance to do so in a couple of years when I get my MASTERS DEGREE! I've been accepted into the graduate program for a Masters of Science in Creative Studies at Buffalo State, so I'll be heading back to the hallowed halls at the end of August. I opted to go straight in, rather than taking any kind of break. Am I worried about burning out? A little. But the course of study is so different (a lot of theory and critical/abstract thinking) from the hands-on world of design that I think it won't really matter. I'll continue to freelance (and hopefully work part-time in a design capacity) while I go to school, though, because I don't want to lose my skills as a designer. The whole idea is to use my experience as a Creative Studies major to enhance my career as a designer, so I must strike a balance somewhere. Ah, the life of a professional student.

So then...roping this back in a little, for those of you not in the know, I'm interning this summer in the art department at Artvoice. If you're in Buffalo, you know what that is. For those of you not in Buffalo, it's our free news and arts weekly paper. I do ad layout and design for them, and I must say it's a fantastic gig. I'd said a few years ago that I never wanted to do print work, but I will extract my foot from my mouth long enough to tell you how wrong I was about that. I absolutely love it. I'd love it more if I didn't have to pay almost $1500 in tuition to be doing it, but I love it nonetheless. I do that two days a week, and will continue to do so until mid-August.

When I'm done with my internship, I will officially have my B.F.A. and THEN there will be pomp and circumstance - in my backyard! Invitations forthcoming, so save August 15th on your calendar, because if you're local, you're invited!

Thanks for all your loyalty and support these last four years, everyone!

Dear Chicago

(As published on Chicago's Craigslist in the Missed Connections section):

Dear Chicago,

On this, the eve of the 6th anniversary of our parting, I have a few things I'd like to say to you. I know I haven't been back to visit you as often as I should, but I have a reason. Trust me on this, okay? You'll understand once I explain.

Chicago, I fucking miss you like I have never missed anything in my life. I miss you so much that the one time I came to visit you a few years ago, I cried almost every minute because all my visit did was remind me that I am no longer yours. Like an old lover who can no longer face her ex, it broke my heart to see you so alive, so happy, so bubbling, so...not my home anymore.

This is not to say that I'm not happy where I am now. I am, of sorts. I've met with marginal success, have been able to live within my means a little better, and have furthered my education in preparation for the day I come back to you. The best part of where I am now, really, is that I've reconnected with dear old friends and the tiny bit of family that I have left - something you weren't able to offer me. That wasn't your fault. Making friends within your area was a little difficult sometimes, but again, you just weren't stocked with people from my past, so it wasn't your fault. Toward the end there I was getting pretty bitter and unhealthy about life (you really had started to throw some shit my way), and you just didn't have the support network I needed. Everything was falling onto the shoulders of the two last friends I had there, and I didn't want to lose them, too, so...I left.

Since the day I pulled the U-haul out of the alley behind my old apartment, I have missed you. My move, while somber at the core, held a lot of promise at the time and has come with many perks. I have a lot more space where I am now, and things like parking and rush hour are cakewalks compared to what I dealt with when I lived in you. I can register my car for a fraction of what it costs in Illinois, and I don't have to carry my groceries up three flights of stairs. In fact, I don't have to carry them far at all; I park 6 feet from my front door. Off the street. I have a house with a garden and a yard and my own washer and dryer in the basement, a basement which is providing a home for all the crap I've managed to accumulate (I haven't moved since I left you, and you remember what I was like, always hoarding, purging, and moving every couple of years, so you can imagine just how much shit I've piled up by now). Heck, I even have an attached studio space! I have more room than I know what to do with! And therein, Chicago, lies the problem.

You contained me. You kept me in check. Nothing could get so out of hand when I lived in those little apartments. My weight stayed down thanks to those sojourns to the grocery store and back, from those metabolism-raising trips to Bubbleland, from those "fuck this traffic" bike rides to work. I couldn't ever accumulate too much crap because there was only so much room, even with a storage locker in the basement. Now, I'm like a goldfish placed in a huge pond. I just keep expanding to fill the space.

But that's the least of my worries. Because you see, while my girth and my useless collection of possessions and ephemera keep growing, my love life shrinks. Well, maybe not shrink so much as never existed here in the first place. Why? It could be because I'm fat and miserable, sure, but I'm pretty convinced, Chicago, it's because where I live now is not filled with progressive, forward-thinking, educated single males like you are. In fact it's devoid of them. See, whereas I could spin around on any number of your crowded streets with my eyes closed and run an 80% chance of pointing to someone who fits the 30-45, child-free, educated demographic, it's a completely different story here. Here, I run about a .8 chance, if that. More than likely the odds are in my favor that I'm going to wind up pointing to (a) a bar filled with nubile and entitled co-eds, (b) a sedan containing a married father of three who's on his way to pick up his mistress, (c) a single dad schlepping off to his second-shift warehouse job to make the child support payment, or (d) a homeless guy. On the rare chance I do find one that's single, he drops me like a hot potato when he figures out that I'm old meat who's never gonna oblige him with loin-fruit. Or he's a flake with commitment issues who's still single because he lived at home until he was 30 and has yet to find his replacement mom. More than that, where I live now sports a mind-blowing shortage of men with any kind of taste in food, clothing, or music. My perfect date is an afternoon wandering a museum followed by a Thai dinner and - if things go well - a nightcap over some original live music. Not here. Now, please don't get me wrong, Chicago, I live in an area that boasts a great arts and music scene - it's just impossible to find a man who enjoys these things as much as I do. Single dudes here are all about pepperoni, cheap beer, football, and cover bands. And I, unfortunately, have become all about my cats.

*sigh*

But I digress.

I miss your giant burritos at 4:00 a.m. I miss flying directly to anywhere in the world. I miss not having to drive if I don't feel like it. I miss the elote cart and his wonky little horn, the jingle of the Good Humor truck, and the United Nations buffet of dinner choices, especially Ethiopian food. I miss taking the bus and not feeling like a degenerate. I miss Green River and Swedish Flops and bean pies. I miss real baseball. I miss old, authentic, re-mantled Irish pubs. I miss walking down the street and having people actually be walking with me. I miss drivers who know how to navigate buses and cyclists at the same time. I miss the Trib crossword. I miss broasted chicken. I miss the rattle of the El. I miss the smell of Lake Michigan as it comes to life in early summer. I miss hailing a cab with the flick of a wrist. I miss the beach. I miss the skyline and how it rose up all important-looking yet friendly and welcoming from the flatness around it. It never failed, in all nine years I lived there, to take my breath away.

There is much I don't miss, of course, like the traffic, and the insanely cold winters and equally brutal summers, and the crime, and the expense, and the parking. But these are sacrifices I willingly made, hassles I put up with in order to be a proud denizen of Chicagoland.

But sometimes I wonder if I miss you, or miss the life I wanted to have with you. Toward the end there, it was bad, remember? I couldn't find a job anywhere within 50 miles of you. I had no more friends. Even if I did, I didn't have any money to do anything with them. Things got ugly. I hit bottom. I had to go.

Do I regret moving? Sometimes. When I look into the faces of the people who are happy to have me here where I am now, who are glad to spend time with me, who understand me and cheer me on and support me as only my friends can...no. I do not regret it. But when I think about what could have been with you...yes. I do.

So I'll tell you what, Chicago. I'll come back. I actually never doubted in my mind that would be back, it's just taking longer than I thought it would. Things will be different next time. I'll be older, wiser, and a little more relaxed. Hopefully I'll be a little wealthier, too, because my days of living in the ghetto are behind me, I'm afraid. I'll have to downsize and learn how to live on less, but that's okay. My only request is that you have a sunny apartment and a smart guy who likes Ethiopian food in my near future.

All my love,
Me

The road to hell is paved with insurance claims

WARNING: This (very long) post contains some rather graphic, albeit humorously pathetic, material. If you're short on time, or averse to bathroom references, bodily functions, or negativity against the franchise that is the American Health Care Machine, you might want to skip this one.

+++++

Remember last year when I landed in the hospital for four days with the mother of all asthma attacks? I drove myself to the ER that time, as I'd done twice before during such incidents.

Last week, however, I didn't even have time to do that. About five minutes into what I thought was "routine" tightness in my chest resulting from any number of possible environmental and/or physical triggers (can't say for sure which one), I was on my front porch, gasping for air, and begging the 911 operator to send an ambulance. The operator was having trouble understanding me (more on that later), and at that point I thought to myself, "this is it. This is the story that everyone reads about in the paper, the asthmatic who had an attack, didn't get attention in time, and died." The very thought was enough to send me into bodily-function failure, and I, well, I crapped myself. As if standing on my porch, leaning over the railing, shaking, and hoarsely shouting "HURRY!" weren't enough, I had to do it with a full diaper, too. Lovely.

A neighbor on the next street heard my cries and shouted over the fence asking if I needed help. Now, all right, I don't mean to look a gift horse in the mouth, and I'm certain that under the circumstances he simply misjudged, but honestly - you have a neighbor who is desperately gasping for air and panting "asthma....help...hurry..." into a phone while hanging over a railing...I think it's pretty obvious she needs help. And if that weren't enough, he called 911 (who had, by this time, figured out what I was saying and dispatched the ambulance) and told them I looked to be "about 45" and then also misinterpreted the situation as some sort of domestic dispute, which is why, as I later found out, the police showed up. Wow. Scratch that guy off the summer BBQ party list.

So...I suppose I should back up a bit and tell the story from the beginning, to shed just a little more light on things. About 10 minutes after I got home from work, I started feeling tight in my chest. I took a hit off my inhaler and went on my way. After a few minutes I was feeling even worse, so I sat down to give myself a nebulizer treatment. After that was done, I still felt no relief. I took another hit off the inhaler and started worrying that this was going to grow up to be an exacerbation. I thought some fresh air might help, so I went outside. Within 30 seconds I felt as if my lungs were made of wood, and it became clear that I needed medical attention. I started feeling dizzy and out of control. I came back inside, grabbed my phone and my wallet, and went back outside and called 911. This is the moment at which I thought I was going to die...

"911, what's your emergency?"
"Asthma...help...asthma...help..."
"You're having trouble breathing, ma'am?"
"YES! Asthma! Attack!"
"Ma'am what is your address?"
"Eight....teen..."
"Eight, what street?"
"No! Eight...teen...Hoyer"

Now, "Hoyer" came out more like a loud whisper, which is all I could get out at that point. If I tried to talk any louder, it was even more broken and incomprehensible. So "Hoyer" came out like "HOE...Yer."

The operator didn't understand. She kept telling me to speak up, I kept telling her I couldn't. Had this woman (a) never taken a call from an asthma patient before and (b) not familiarized herself with the streets of Buffalo? In all fairness, my street is tiny, but when you're dying and someone is prolonging the agony, you tend to not cut them so much slack. We went through just about every word that rhymes with "Hoyer" - even with me spelling it out - until she finally got it, and by the end I was barking, "HURRY! PLEASE HURRY!"

Insert neighbor guy here.

After calling 911 as well, the guy came over with his dog. I cried out, "OH NO!" which prompted him to say, "Oh, don't worry, she won't hurt you!" I didn't have the breath or the energy (or the desire) to explain to him that my interjection was not due to a fear of his little dog, but rather because at that very moment, I lost control of my bodily functions, and didn't want him to come near me. And since I'd never met this guy before, even if I could talk I didn't really feel comfortable saying, "Hi, how are ya? My name's Deedee. Your dog is cute, and I would pet her if it weren't for the fact that I can't breathe, can't move, and I just crapped my pants." Sure, it'd make for some great storytelling in the future, but not exactly how I wanted to waste what little air I was able to take in.

I'm really being hard on this guy, I know, but when you hear what he said to me next, you'll completely understand.

"You're about 45, is that right? Because that's what I told them."

Yes, yes, I know. It was chaotic. I was in the throes of an attack. He was across the street. I was bent over and he couldn't see my face. And everyone knows that all fat women are about 45.

I just looked at him and said, "I'm 37" in a voice that more or less sounded like my head might start rotating. He stepped back. Where the hell was that god damned ambulance??

As I started to fade out, I heard the sirens. A firetruck and a police car were the first to arrive. What the hell? My house wasn't on fire, my fucking lungs were. The firemen ran up on the porch and put an oxygen mask on me. This was NOT a good idea. When you have an asthma attack, you feel as if you're suffocating -- because you are. There is no air moving through, in or out. The LAST thing you want is something on your face. Normally in the hospital they put a cannula under your nose, but I guess it's different in on-the-go situations. So I started to panic some more, clutching and pulling and scratching at the mask. There were faces. Lots of faces. And voices. I handed someone my wallet. I started to cry. I begged them to help me. I told them I couldn't breathe. They told me I could, but that I had to calm down for it to happen. I heard someone say, "You're breathing, ma'am, you ARE breathing, you're just not doing it well. Hang in there, hang on..." and two men picked me up under my armpits and put me on a stretcher. In the upright-seated position I felt like I had a three-ton weight crushing my chest, and I panicked again. "Icantbreatheicantbreatheohmygodicantbreathe..."

Every bump felt like another blow to my chest, and when they lifted me up into the ambulance, the only thing that kept me from believing I was going to die was the face of the paramedic waiting inside. I was glad it was a woman. I was already full of injury and insult; I didn't need more self-consciousness heaped on top of that. I was immediately stuck with an IV full of steroids and someone put a nebulizer mouthpiece between my lips. I breathed rapidly, watching the long puffs of steam curl out from the other side. Inoutinoutinoutinout...

I kept trying to sign to the paramedic, hoping she knew ASL, because it would have made communication a little easier. Between the fact that my normally bad hearing was made worse by the stress and the background noise, and having a mouthpiece firmly clamped in my teeth, communication wasn't going well. Eventually I was able to breathe well enough to take the mouthpiece out and answer her questions. Within fifteen minutes I was pumped full of steroids and breathing well enough that I could say full sentences, refuse a ride to the hospital, and apologize for pooping my pants (which, mercifully, the ambulance staff dismissed as something they see all the time). And in half an hour I was laughing and cracking jokes. (Come on now, did you really think I could sit in an ambulance after a near-death experience with shorts full of shit and NOT find some humor in it? If you did, then you don't know me very well).

After close to an hour, my peak flows were back up and I could breathe again, and I was exhausted. They let me out, and I went back into the house. Crisis averted, my life spared. But instead of feeling relieved, I felt angry. Betrayed. Gypped. I should have gone to the hospital, but you know what stopped me? Partly, it was my messy house and my pets. I didn't want to leave them for an unknown amount of time with no caregiver. I had one rat, in fact, who was dying. I couldn't leave her. I didn't want to subject someone to navigating the minefield of my mess. I didn't want to arrive at the hospital in poopy pants. I didn't want to miss school or work. It's the end of the semester, and I'd never catch up if I missed any classes.

But mainly, I didn't want to go because I didn't have the money. I'm still paying off last year's hospital bills, and with my summer tuition and possible graduate school looming in the near future, I simply couldn't afford another several thousand dollars. I do have health insurance, but it only covers so much. And this is what pissed me off.

Here it is, people:

There is something fundamentally wrong with a country that makes its citizens choose between their credit ratings and their lives.

If you've ever seen Michael Moore's "Sicko," then you know. And even if you hate Mr. Moore, even if you think he's an egotistical spin doctor with an agenda, you cannot deny there is truth to his mission. I have lived it, over and over again. I have scrimped and pinched for it. I have ruined my credit rating with it, I have filed bankruptcy against it, and I have subsisted on ramen noodles in its name.

This. Is. Wrong.

Now I'm sitting here, battling the side effects of the medication that keeps me breathing, and wondering where the vicious cycle ends. Does it end when I get better insurance? When the privatization of health care ends? When I make more money? When it finally gets to be too much and the ambulance doesn't get there fast enough? Or when I claw my own eyes out while climbing the walls hopped up on corticosteroids? When?

I didn't want to turn this into a political entry, honestly, but the more I think about this, the more I realize that I am just one in MILLIONS who has to face choices like this EVERY DAY, it makes me livid. It makes me want to do something. It makes me angry, and it makes me ashamed to be an American. I'm not saying I'd want to live anywhere else (if only Ireland didn't have that pesky left-side driving weirdness...) but it breaks my heart that I live in a place where people are forced to choose between money and life on a regular basis. And I just can't believe that more people aren't up in arms about this.

We should be revolting! CEOs of the health insurance companies are the new tea. Throw them overboard! Hope that they can't swim, and then tell them they need to cough up a year's salary in order to buy the little Styrofoam ring that will save their lives. Fuck them!

There is most certainly a special layer of hell reserved for the health insurance folks, and I take comfort in believing that these assholes will be eternally subjected to every single illness they have ever forced the "little people" to live with (and die from), and will be made to do nothing but decipher claim forms forever and beyond while they struggle to breathe through acrid hell-fire smoke, waiting for the ambulance that will never get there in time.

But in the meantime, I sit here stewing, wondering what I can do, trying not to let the anger overshadow my joy and relief at having made it through my experience with nothing more than a few scars on my lungs and a dramatic story to tell.

I just hope my luck doesn't run out.

It's not over 'til it's over...and God only knows when that'll be.

I know - it's been a long, long time since I laid any type down on Planet Deedums. You all know, though, that I've been preoccupied with other things, and hopefully you still love me. If the turnout at my show was any indication, I've got a wonderfully diverse and fabulous group of folks in my life who, at the very least, like me.

So. The show is over. I'm really surprised at how well I managed to pull it all off, particularly the reception (especially considering the formidable list of obstacles preceding it), but I had a good deal of help and support from my family and friends. At the end of the reception, I had planned to go home, have myself a hearty, deep-cleansing cry, and sleep off the remnants of the nerve-soothing wine. It didn't quite happen that way, though. I ended up stopping by a friend's reception elsewhere in town because I had enough time to do so, after which I went and got myself a cup of coffee and a snack. (I heard, by the way, that the food at my show was excellent. I was too busy trying to manipulate a glass of wine, hugs, and handshakes with my hands to hold a plate, and too busy running my mouth to actually put anything in it).

When I got home, I kicked off my 4-inch heels, which had become instruments of torture at that point (my feet STILL hurt), wiggled out of my fancy dress, put on my sweats, and sat on the sofa. I waited for the tears to come, for the release of many weeks of hard work and anxiety through my eyelids, but they didn't show. I think the real torrent will come when I finally have that diploma in my hand.

Before I can have that, though, I have to get through the next two weeks of classes, during which I also need to secure an internship, wait for the grad school decision letter, and learn Flash Animation, which I am convinced was invented for the sole purpose of making my life a living hell.

That said, I can't guarantee it won't be another four months before the next post, but I will certainly try to keep everyone updated on the goings-on here. And thanks to everyone who came out to Impact - it meant the world to me!

x365 Redux: Bonita

You’re gone too soon, the sweet voice silenced, but no one who ever knew you will ever forget you. It didn’t matter if we knew you for a day or a lifetime; you will be missed dearly.

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