(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
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
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.
+++++
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.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
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!
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!
Saturday, February 28, 2009
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.
Original Post
Original Post
Friday, December 19, 2008
Now, I don't claim to be an A student...
The official Fall '08 Semester Recap!
So I'm back after that intense whirlwind of cramp-inducing, junk-food and caffeine-fueled all-nighters. And it was worth it - after what I was sure was going to be a really horrendous semester, I ended up earning a 3.25. Not bad, considering I was actually saying things at midterm like, "I don't think I can do this after all" and "maybe design isn't really what I'm cut out to do," and "I should really think about trying for a promotion at Starbucks."
I'm not kidding. I was looking at throwing in the towel. I considered dropping out at one point, thinking perhaps my head wasn't in the right place and feeling like my heart had taken leave. Perhaps these things were true, but I soldiered on nonetheless, and here I sit now, staring in disbelief at my grade report and the A- next to Graphic Design, a class which had at one point made me feel doomed as a designer, a class in which I was sure I wouldn't end up with more than a C.
I have to say I was a little disappointed in the B in Advertising Design. See, when I started on this venture, it was in the interest of becoming an Advertising Designer. That, boys and girls, was what I wanted to be when I grew up, what I'd dreamed of becoming at many points throughout my life, and ultimately the reason I went back to school. Yes, I know, a B isn't anything to sniff at. I've gotten lots of Bs in my lifetime, and in fact I am pretty much a straight-B student - always have been (my cumulative hovers around a 3.3 these days). I think I just would have felt better if I'd gotten a slightly higher grade. Then again, I was pouring so much sweat into the Graphic Design stuff that maybe my Advertising work suffered in the shuffle. Well...I'd stick with that theory if it weren't for the fact that the stuff I did get great grades on in Advertising was the stuff I pulled out of my ass the morning of the due date. Go figure. I should just resign myself to the fact that if I am going to pursue a career in design I'd better get used to sleeping for 45 minutes a night on metal-frame pleather loveseats.
The A-minus in Sign Language was no surprise, and I'll be offering commentary on that one in another post (addressing my most recent audiogram and the fact that it's a really good thing I'm learning ASL), and the B-minus in Jewelry Design was pretty much what I'd expected, although the instructor's final critique surprised me. I'd made no secret of the fact that I thought he was a douchebag, and had essentially stopped showing up for class because I resented having to get up at the crack of dawn and drive to campus and then walk half a mile just to be told my designs were "too predictable and symmetrical." In the end, though, he was happy enough with my work, so I'm not complaining. I'm just glad it's over.
And now? Now I get to have a "break" wherein I scramble for the next month trying to get through the holidays, finish the new book, and get the house painted and the carpet ripped out. Alas, this is my last winter break, as next semester is my final one, so I will relish it with all I can.
And just for good measure (and because Mike asked me to), I'm including this fine photo of me "enjoying" a bowl of borscht.
(Kind of like that photo of the bunny with the pancake on its head, you know, when you don't know what else to say).
So I'm back after that intense whirlwind of cramp-inducing, junk-food and caffeine-fueled all-nighters. And it was worth it - after what I was sure was going to be a really horrendous semester, I ended up earning a 3.25. Not bad, considering I was actually saying things at midterm like, "I don't think I can do this after all" and "maybe design isn't really what I'm cut out to do," and "I should really think about trying for a promotion at Starbucks."
I'm not kidding. I was looking at throwing in the towel. I considered dropping out at one point, thinking perhaps my head wasn't in the right place and feeling like my heart had taken leave. Perhaps these things were true, but I soldiered on nonetheless, and here I sit now, staring in disbelief at my grade report and the A- next to Graphic Design, a class which had at one point made me feel doomed as a designer, a class in which I was sure I wouldn't end up with more than a C.
I have to say I was a little disappointed in the B in Advertising Design. See, when I started on this venture, it was in the interest of becoming an Advertising Designer. That, boys and girls, was what I wanted to be when I grew up, what I'd dreamed of becoming at many points throughout my life, and ultimately the reason I went back to school. Yes, I know, a B isn't anything to sniff at. I've gotten lots of Bs in my lifetime, and in fact I am pretty much a straight-B student - always have been (my cumulative hovers around a 3.3 these days). I think I just would have felt better if I'd gotten a slightly higher grade. Then again, I was pouring so much sweat into the Graphic Design stuff that maybe my Advertising work suffered in the shuffle. Well...I'd stick with that theory if it weren't for the fact that the stuff I did get great grades on in Advertising was the stuff I pulled out of my ass the morning of the due date. Go figure. I should just resign myself to the fact that if I am going to pursue a career in design I'd better get used to sleeping for 45 minutes a night on metal-frame pleather loveseats.
The A-minus in Sign Language was no surprise, and I'll be offering commentary on that one in another post (addressing my most recent audiogram and the fact that it's a really good thing I'm learning ASL), and the B-minus in Jewelry Design was pretty much what I'd expected, although the instructor's final critique surprised me. I'd made no secret of the fact that I thought he was a douchebag, and had essentially stopped showing up for class because I resented having to get up at the crack of dawn and drive to campus and then walk half a mile just to be told my designs were "too predictable and symmetrical." In the end, though, he was happy enough with my work, so I'm not complaining. I'm just glad it's over.
And now? Now I get to have a "break" wherein I scramble for the next month trying to get through the holidays, finish the new book, and get the house painted and the carpet ripped out. Alas, this is my last winter break, as next semester is my final one, so I will relish it with all I can.
And just for good measure (and because Mike asked me to), I'm including this fine photo of me "enjoying" a bowl of borscht.
(Kind of like that photo of the bunny with the pancake on its head, you know, when you don't know what else to say).
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
Coming up for air...
I know I promised all kinds of witty commentary, product reviews, x365 redux entries, and nonsensical ramblings, but the fact of the matter is I'm buried in other ventures at the moment.
So I just wanted to post very quickly and tell you all that I've not forgotten about the blog, or about you (because you are, of course, my loyal fans and I cannot forget such); I'm simply too busy right now to update. This is actually a shame, as I frequently throughout my days will see something, ponder something, read something, and think, "Oooh, I need to blog about that!"
Unfortunately, as these things go, finals are coming and I'm way behind, so the blog is just something else that's going to have to get shuffled around on the proverbial stove, relegated to the back burner for now.
See you all in a couple of weeks!
So I just wanted to post very quickly and tell you all that I've not forgotten about the blog, or about you (because you are, of course, my loyal fans and I cannot forget such); I'm simply too busy right now to update. This is actually a shame, as I frequently throughout my days will see something, ponder something, read something, and think, "Oooh, I need to blog about that!"
Unfortunately, as these things go, finals are coming and I'm way behind, so the blog is just something else that's going to have to get shuffled around on the proverbial stove, relegated to the back burner for now.
See you all in a couple of weeks!
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Japan Photos are up!
Finally! I had to whittle 810 photos down to a more manageable size (I ended up with just over 350), organize them into chronological albums, and caption them. And this, my friends, took a fair bit of time. I'm sorry for dragging my feet on it, but hopefully you'll enjoy them nonetheless!
Click HERE to see!
Click HERE to see!
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
New Project
Well...all is not lost. I've been given a new assignment by the author, and this one sounds like it won't be as labor-intensive as the last one. I will keep you all posted with new developments.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
x365 Redux: Tall Mild
You’re actually not half bad. Maybe it’s because our regular brew is a mild now, but not long ago I decided you weren’t deserving of my contempt after all, and I stopped splashing decaf in your cup.
Original Post
---
A note about the x365 Redux
As you all know (unless you are brand new to the blog), I had promised to some "redux" posts where I go back and rewrite some entries based on the present day's perspective. Not everyone will get a redux, and the blog is no longer dedicated solely to the x365 project. Not every day will have a redux entry, and their order will be random for the most part (in other words, I won't necessarily be doing the reduces in the same order the originals were posted). I will also include a link to the original post with each one as well. So, yeah. That's what that's all about. Enjoy!
Original Post
---
A note about the x365 Redux
As you all know (unless you are brand new to the blog), I had promised to some "redux" posts where I go back and rewrite some entries based on the present day's perspective. Not everyone will get a redux, and the blog is no longer dedicated solely to the x365 project. Not every day will have a redux entry, and their order will be random for the most part (in other words, I won't necessarily be doing the reduces in the same order the originals were posted). I will also include a link to the original post with each one as well. So, yeah. That's what that's all about. Enjoy!
Sunday, November 09, 2008
Disappointment
I don't know how else to say this. I've been removed from the book project. Fired.
Long story short - the author wasn't happy with my first round of illustrations. She wasn't happy with the revisions. And rather than try to get me to do them yet again, she pulled me off the whole thing. There will be a different project for me in the future, according to her, because I have, after all, been paid. Unfortunately, after all is said and done, I will have essentially paid her. The hours, supplies, and energy invested in the project have far outspent what I was paid in salary or any residuals I might have received.
I'm trying really, really hard right now to talk myself into believing it's not because I suck. It's that my style wasn't what she wanted. It's not a matter of technical ability, not a matter of creative talent - it's just that what I do is not what she wants.
This is the first of many lessons I am going to endure in the journey toward professional creativity. And frankly, I don't know if I can do this. A quiet career in academia might be in order, with my creative energies more suited for personal projects. As I wind down my B.F.A. pursuit I realize I'm no better at what I do now than I was three years ago. I hate to think that I'll be now saddled with more student loan debt for a degree I won't use, but...it looks like that might indeed be the case.
See, here's a little secret about your beloved Deedums that you might not know: I am truly a creature of positive reinforcement. And every time I am dealt a blow in the form of criticism, I die a little inside and my confidence shrinks. This is why my upcoming gallery hanging is giving me hives just thinking about it. This is why I've never really displayed anything I've done. And this is why getting pulled off the book is enough to make me want to crawl back into bed right now and stay there until Christmas.
And yet - here comes the second twin rearing her head - part of me wants to take these drawings, change the story line, and publish my own fucking book. I own the images, and as long as I rewrite the story, I can do with them whatever I wish. When I was in college, I wrote two children's books. Both professors urged me to publish them, telling me that the stories and the illustrations were publish-worthy. Perhaps I'll resurrect them.
But right now? I'm just going to go back to bed.
Long story short - the author wasn't happy with my first round of illustrations. She wasn't happy with the revisions. And rather than try to get me to do them yet again, she pulled me off the whole thing. There will be a different project for me in the future, according to her, because I have, after all, been paid. Unfortunately, after all is said and done, I will have essentially paid her. The hours, supplies, and energy invested in the project have far outspent what I was paid in salary or any residuals I might have received.
I'm trying really, really hard right now to talk myself into believing it's not because I suck. It's that my style wasn't what she wanted. It's not a matter of technical ability, not a matter of creative talent - it's just that what I do is not what she wants.
This is the first of many lessons I am going to endure in the journey toward professional creativity. And frankly, I don't know if I can do this. A quiet career in academia might be in order, with my creative energies more suited for personal projects. As I wind down my B.F.A. pursuit I realize I'm no better at what I do now than I was three years ago. I hate to think that I'll be now saddled with more student loan debt for a degree I won't use, but...it looks like that might indeed be the case.
See, here's a little secret about your beloved Deedums that you might not know: I am truly a creature of positive reinforcement. And every time I am dealt a blow in the form of criticism, I die a little inside and my confidence shrinks. This is why my upcoming gallery hanging is giving me hives just thinking about it. This is why I've never really displayed anything I've done. And this is why getting pulled off the book is enough to make me want to crawl back into bed right now and stay there until Christmas.
And yet - here comes the second twin rearing her head - part of me wants to take these drawings, change the story line, and publish my own fucking book. I own the images, and as long as I rewrite the story, I can do with them whatever I wish. When I was in college, I wrote two children's books. Both professors urged me to publish them, telling me that the stories and the illustrations were publish-worthy. Perhaps I'll resurrect them.
But right now? I'm just going to go back to bed.
Friday, November 07, 2008
The Smarties House
I took advantage of the nice weather today and took down my Halloween decorations. It was a bittersweet moment, because I really, really like Halloween, and it also reminded me that we're now a week into November, which only serves to cause me to freak out over the rapid passage of time. But while I was tearing down fake webs and packing away purple lights and plastic skulls, I started reflecting on some stuff.
I had a good turnout on Halloween this year. I don’t know if it was because Halloween fell on a Friday night or if it was because word is finally getting out that people actually live on my street (there are only six houses on it, and if you blink while driving past, you’ll miss it), but I actually ran out of candy this year. Naturally, I’d helped myself to some of it beforehand, but I was still looking forward to having some left over. It was good candy! I always give out good candy, and this is why:
Halloween has traditionally been my favorite holiday (after Christmas, of course). From the time I was born until my 12th birthday or so, my mother would browse the patterns in the fabric store, and whip up some elaborate costume that would put all the other mothers to shame. No store-bought masks here, no cheap plastic capes. No pre-fab, pre-packaged ensembles for me. Everything was sewn and tailored to size, and my makeup was applied with fastidious attention to detail. I was amazed at some of the stuff she would come up with.
I can’t sew to save my life – never could – but I am a creative, so at least I know where my crafty genes came from. They certainly didn’t come from my father who, despite his best efforts to appear handy, was not exactly Bob Vila. On Halloween, his job was to take us out trick-or-treating while my mother handed out the candy at our house.
If there was one thing you didn’t want to be on Halloween, it was the house that gave out shitty candy. I grew up in such a house. As if my childhood weren’t already fraught with bullying and relentless teasing by every kid in existence, I was forced to endure the stigma of being a resident of the ”Smarties House.” Every street has one, as well as the “Bit-O-Honey House,” the “Stale Gumball House,” and the worst offender of all, the “Religious Tract House.” In fact I think the Smarties people are only one step above the “Are You SAVED?” whack-jobs. I mean, come on. Kids are coming to your door dressed as goblins and hobos and Star Wars characters with bags bursting at the seams with stuff that’s going to wind them up and drive their parents crazy later, and you’re going to drop a folded piece of paper in their bag? And a folded piece of paper that tells them they’re going to hell for crimes such as…gluttony? Then the next house drops in a narrow little tube of compressed sugar pellets that taste like sweetened colored chalk…it’s really enough to drive a kid off the edge. Or at least enough to give the offspring of said house a beatdown on the bus the next day.
Surely it needs no explanation, but look: nobody likes Smarties. Nobody. Anyone who says they do is lying, and is more than likely a sugar addict who has a stash of old Smarties in the cupboard for those emergencies when no other sugar is available. Much like an alcoholic will drink mouthwash to get a buzz on in his most desperate moments, so will a sugar junkie eat Smarties at his lowest point.
Smarties are nasty. Smarties are cheap. And Smarties are made of God-knows-what. In this day and age, they’re probably made, like everything else, with Melamine. But on second thought, they’re probably not even made anymore. The Smarties being sold today are probably the same Smarties that my mother bought in 1979, dusted off a little and repackaged to look fresh.
“But Mom, you DON’T understand!” I would wail as I watched her bust out the big bag of Smarties every year. “I’m gonna get killed!”
She’d flash her trademark look of disdain and disbelief, roll her eyes, and say, “Did you get killed last year? Or the year before that? Or any of the years before that? No? Then knock it off. Smarties are all we can afford.”
I wanted to call bullshit on this so many times, since how much more expensive could the good stuff be? I mean, if the Rudnickis with their nine kids and rusted-out 1966 Dart Swinger could afford to give out bite-size Snickers, then how was it we couldn’t afford to give out at least Mallo Cups or something? What about Tootsie Rolls? They weren’t chocolate, but at least they were flavored like chocolate, so they were still higher on the candy chain than fucking Smarties. It didn’t matter; arguing with the woman was pointless, as I would discover over the eighteen years I lived under her roof. And yes, I did consider that maybe we couldn't afford better candy because all our money went to making those awesome costumes, but we often recycled the costumes, since my sister could usually fit into something I'd worn a few years prior, so technically my mother was only making one costume most years. And then when we got older and started making our own costumes out of thrift-store finds and old sporting goods, there was virtually no money coming out of the candy fund for them. So I stand my ground in proclaiming my mother's statement total baloney.
So off into the dusk I would trundle with my giant plastic handle-bag and my elaborate home-made costume, cursing my mother under my breath, and praying that Scott Oxendine and his posse would go easy on me this year. Anyone who’s ever disputed that whole “sins of thy fathers” stuff was never a chunky, pig-nosed loser whose mother who gave out Smarties on Halloween, because they would understand the validity of that statement, and how the sin of my mother’s Smarties distribution would be visited upon me many times over by way of lunchbox keep-away, hat-snatching, and other bullying tactics of your average 10-year-old.
I would come home from trick-or-treating and dump my bag out in the middle of the living room. My sister and I would trade each other for stuff we liked more, and my parents would casually pick through the pile looking for razor blades, pins, and hits of acid mixed in with the Reeses’ cups and Kit-Kats and mini-pamphlets adorned with photos of clouds being pierced by sunbeams. Occasionally they’d find a piece of candy that was open – more likely the result of having 30 pounds of pressure applied from the other candy in the bag than a nefariously-placed instrument of torture. But no razor blades, which was actually kind of disappointing. I could have used a razor-infused Milky Way on the bus.
We had various things we liked to do with the candy we didn’t want. Sometimes my dad would take the gumballs or the caramels, and my mom would always take the Sugar Daddies. One year my sister and I made an entire chain of Bit-O-Honeys and Mary Jane Candies by pressing them together end-to-end and stuck it around the perimeter of our bedroom, much to my mother’s chagrin (we never imagined it would take the paint off when we took it down). But after all was said and done, you can take a wild guess where our Smarties ended up.
Trick or Treat!
I had a good turnout on Halloween this year. I don’t know if it was because Halloween fell on a Friday night or if it was because word is finally getting out that people actually live on my street (there are only six houses on it, and if you blink while driving past, you’ll miss it), but I actually ran out of candy this year. Naturally, I’d helped myself to some of it beforehand, but I was still looking forward to having some left over. It was good candy! I always give out good candy, and this is why:
Halloween has traditionally been my favorite holiday (after Christmas, of course). From the time I was born until my 12th birthday or so, my mother would browse the patterns in the fabric store, and whip up some elaborate costume that would put all the other mothers to shame. No store-bought masks here, no cheap plastic capes. No pre-fab, pre-packaged ensembles for me. Everything was sewn and tailored to size, and my makeup was applied with fastidious attention to detail. I was amazed at some of the stuff she would come up with.
I can’t sew to save my life – never could – but I am a creative, so at least I know where my crafty genes came from. They certainly didn’t come from my father who, despite his best efforts to appear handy, was not exactly Bob Vila. On Halloween, his job was to take us out trick-or-treating while my mother handed out the candy at our house.
If there was one thing you didn’t want to be on Halloween, it was the house that gave out shitty candy. I grew up in such a house. As if my childhood weren’t already fraught with bullying and relentless teasing by every kid in existence, I was forced to endure the stigma of being a resident of the ”Smarties House.” Every street has one, as well as the “Bit-O-Honey House,” the “Stale Gumball House,” and the worst offender of all, the “Religious Tract House.” In fact I think the Smarties people are only one step above the “Are You SAVED?” whack-jobs. I mean, come on. Kids are coming to your door dressed as goblins and hobos and Star Wars characters with bags bursting at the seams with stuff that’s going to wind them up and drive their parents crazy later, and you’re going to drop a folded piece of paper in their bag? And a folded piece of paper that tells them they’re going to hell for crimes such as…gluttony? Then the next house drops in a narrow little tube of compressed sugar pellets that taste like sweetened colored chalk…it’s really enough to drive a kid off the edge. Or at least enough to give the offspring of said house a beatdown on the bus the next day.
Surely it needs no explanation, but look: nobody likes Smarties. Nobody. Anyone who says they do is lying, and is more than likely a sugar addict who has a stash of old Smarties in the cupboard for those emergencies when no other sugar is available. Much like an alcoholic will drink mouthwash to get a buzz on in his most desperate moments, so will a sugar junkie eat Smarties at his lowest point.
Smarties are nasty. Smarties are cheap. And Smarties are made of God-knows-what. In this day and age, they’re probably made, like everything else, with Melamine. But on second thought, they’re probably not even made anymore. The Smarties being sold today are probably the same Smarties that my mother bought in 1979, dusted off a little and repackaged to look fresh.
“But Mom, you DON’T understand!” I would wail as I watched her bust out the big bag of Smarties every year. “I’m gonna get killed!”
She’d flash her trademark look of disdain and disbelief, roll her eyes, and say, “Did you get killed last year? Or the year before that? Or any of the years before that? No? Then knock it off. Smarties are all we can afford.”
I wanted to call bullshit on this so many times, since how much more expensive could the good stuff be? I mean, if the Rudnickis with their nine kids and rusted-out 1966 Dart Swinger could afford to give out bite-size Snickers, then how was it we couldn’t afford to give out at least Mallo Cups or something? What about Tootsie Rolls? They weren’t chocolate, but at least they were flavored like chocolate, so they were still higher on the candy chain than fucking Smarties. It didn’t matter; arguing with the woman was pointless, as I would discover over the eighteen years I lived under her roof. And yes, I did consider that maybe we couldn't afford better candy because all our money went to making those awesome costumes, but we often recycled the costumes, since my sister could usually fit into something I'd worn a few years prior, so technically my mother was only making one costume most years. And then when we got older and started making our own costumes out of thrift-store finds and old sporting goods, there was virtually no money coming out of the candy fund for them. So I stand my ground in proclaiming my mother's statement total baloney.
So off into the dusk I would trundle with my giant plastic handle-bag and my elaborate home-made costume, cursing my mother under my breath, and praying that Scott Oxendine and his posse would go easy on me this year. Anyone who’s ever disputed that whole “sins of thy fathers” stuff was never a chunky, pig-nosed loser whose mother who gave out Smarties on Halloween, because they would understand the validity of that statement, and how the sin of my mother’s Smarties distribution would be visited upon me many times over by way of lunchbox keep-away, hat-snatching, and other bullying tactics of your average 10-year-old.
I would come home from trick-or-treating and dump my bag out in the middle of the living room. My sister and I would trade each other for stuff we liked more, and my parents would casually pick through the pile looking for razor blades, pins, and hits of acid mixed in with the Reeses’ cups and Kit-Kats and mini-pamphlets adorned with photos of clouds being pierced by sunbeams. Occasionally they’d find a piece of candy that was open – more likely the result of having 30 pounds of pressure applied from the other candy in the bag than a nefariously-placed instrument of torture. But no razor blades, which was actually kind of disappointing. I could have used a razor-infused Milky Way on the bus.
We had various things we liked to do with the candy we didn’t want. Sometimes my dad would take the gumballs or the caramels, and my mom would always take the Sugar Daddies. One year my sister and I made an entire chain of Bit-O-Honeys and Mary Jane Candies by pressing them together end-to-end and stuck it around the perimeter of our bedroom, much to my mother’s chagrin (we never imagined it would take the paint off when we took it down). But after all was said and done, you can take a wild guess where our Smarties ended up.
Trick or Treat!
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
What now?
Well, I will say this: lots of folks got left out.
Maybe it's Facebook and the sudden mass convergence upon my life lately by people I'd all but forgotten that made me realize this, or perhaps it was my impulsive nature that caused me to write posts about random strangers with ugly babies and rude cashiers instead of randomly remembered high-school acquaintances and childhood friends, I don't know. But the whole idea of the x365 was to write about individuals who were memorable in some way - whether that memory was a result of a fleeting slight against my intelligence by some nameless asshole, or a lifelong resonating influence by a teacher who gave me the chance I needed.
Quite honestly, I have very few regrets about this past year (in terms of my blog entries, anyway). Oh sure, I wonder from time to time if I shouldn't have included every former boss, or more former co-workers, or every employee, or Barack Obama ...but the fact is, I didn't. That's the trouble with a project like this - there are only 365 days in a year, and I've met way more than 365 people in the last 37 years.
So. What's next? Well, over the last year some things have changed. There are a number of posts about folks which, if I'd chosen to write them today, would be written differently. So for a little while I'll be peppering in some "x365 redux" posts among my regular musings. So look for those, as well as some new stories and commentary on stuff I find annoying, confusing, or just plain weird (Budweiser-Clamato Cocktail in a Can comes to mind).
I've missed "regular" blogging. And it's not that I didn't want to blog like a regular human being, it's that the x365 project sort of sapped what little creative energy I had left between school, freelancing, and trying to piece together a semi-clean outfit from the bedroom floor.
I hope you've all enjoyed my participation in the x365 experiment, and hope you'll continue to be regular visitors on Planet Deedums. And if you didn't make the list, again...I'm sorry.
With much love,
Deedee
Maybe it's Facebook and the sudden mass convergence upon my life lately by people I'd all but forgotten that made me realize this, or perhaps it was my impulsive nature that caused me to write posts about random strangers with ugly babies and rude cashiers instead of randomly remembered high-school acquaintances and childhood friends, I don't know. But the whole idea of the x365 was to write about individuals who were memorable in some way - whether that memory was a result of a fleeting slight against my intelligence by some nameless asshole, or a lifelong resonating influence by a teacher who gave me the chance I needed.
Quite honestly, I have very few regrets about this past year (in terms of my blog entries, anyway). Oh sure, I wonder from time to time if I shouldn't have included every former boss, or more former co-workers, or every employee, or Barack Obama ...but the fact is, I didn't. That's the trouble with a project like this - there are only 365 days in a year, and I've met way more than 365 people in the last 37 years.
So. What's next? Well, over the last year some things have changed. There are a number of posts about folks which, if I'd chosen to write them today, would be written differently. So for a little while I'll be peppering in some "x365 redux" posts among my regular musings. So look for those, as well as some new stories and commentary on stuff I find annoying, confusing, or just plain weird (Budweiser-Clamato Cocktail in a Can comes to mind).
I've missed "regular" blogging. And it's not that I didn't want to blog like a regular human being, it's that the x365 project sort of sapped what little creative energy I had left between school, freelancing, and trying to piece together a semi-clean outfit from the bedroom floor.
I hope you've all enjoyed my participation in the x365 experiment, and hope you'll continue to be regular visitors on Planet Deedums. And if you didn't make the list, again...I'm sorry.
With much love,
Deedee
David Sedaris
365x365
The first time I met you was in a cozy Chicago bookstore with a handful of people. The second time was in an arena with hundreds of fans. Your fame is well-deserved, and you’re an enormous inspiration.
The first time I met you was in a cozy Chicago bookstore with a handful of people. The second time was in an arena with hundreds of fans. Your fame is well-deserved, and you’re an enormous inspiration.
Tuesday, November 04, 2008
Monday, November 03, 2008
Sunday, November 02, 2008
P.J. at Nietzsche's
362x365
There's something oddly comforting and delightful about a bar doorman who hugs his regular patrons. There’s something really devastating about finding out that doorman is fighting cancer. Fight the good fight, my man. We need you back.
There's something oddly comforting and delightful about a bar doorman who hugs his regular patrons. There’s something really devastating about finding out that doorman is fighting cancer. Fight the good fight, my man. We need you back.
Saturday, November 01, 2008
Shirley D.
361x365
You hated the thought of me living on cheese sandwiches all summer, so you invited me into your home. I got to be part of a family where fear didn’t run the show, and it was awesome.
You hated the thought of me living on cheese sandwiches all summer, so you invited me into your home. I got to be part of a family where fear didn’t run the show, and it was awesome.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Thursday, October 30, 2008
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