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Holiday (High)Light

I'm the first to admit that I'm not a Christmas person. I'm annoyed by the holidays, the carols, the nuanced way marketers like me guilt people into spending more than they should. I like my family well enough but I would also appreciate not having to pay a mark up on airfare just because it's Jesus's birthday (and it's not even his birthday - wasn't it in March?). There's the gluttony of the food, the forced interaction, the relentless march of terrible music. My personal most hated Christmas carol is, without question, the Eurythmics "Winter Wonderland".

There is one thing I do love about this time of year: the lights. I'm no Clark Griswold and have no aspirations to man a sophisticated display of my own. But string them up in a commercial setting and I'm a sucker. I'm a 34 year old woman who will make her father drive into town just so she can see a row of lit palm trees.

From today's trip to Houston's Highland Village:

Dear Diary...

A perk for being home from the holidays is the opportunity to dig through piles of your own ephemera. In my case that includes photo albums, scrapbooks and even diaries (I have two that span from 1989, when I was 14 through 1991 @ age 16). In summary, it's hilarious. I haven't laughed this hard in a long, long time.

From the end of an entry dated June 12, 1990. To set the stage, I had just gotten back from my high school's Worldfest and endured a lengthy fight with my then boyfriend. This is how I chose to unwind:

"I went home and and watched "Heathers." What an AWESOME film. It's about a really snobby clique of bitchy girls. One member (Winona Ryder) gets sick of 'em and, with her boyfriend Christian Slater's help she offs them. Cool, huh?"

From an entry dated June 18, 1990 - the first day of school after the aforementioned boyfriend broke up with me:

"I don't even want to LIVE anymore. I've become cynical and mean. Everything has lost he beauty and vitality it once knew. I dont' want to kill myself 'cause I don't know how. I just want him back, diary. I can't conceive how life will be without him."

Jesus. Drama much? Here's a clue Sunshine, your life turned out just FINE.

From an entry dated July 5, 1990. Summer vacation:

"Dear Diary. My Dad wants me to get rid of the mouse Mitzi (cat) left outside the window. I'm not going to do it because EVERY TIME I get rid of a dead mouse I feel physically ill. It's SO SICK. I told him no and I think he's really mad. Life goes on."

From an entry dated "July 10, 11 or 12", 1990:

"HE CALLED ME! HE CALLED ME! HE CALLED ME! I (heart) HIM SOOOOOOOO MUCH!"

From an entry dated August 6, 1990 re: my family's summer vacation to New Hampshire:

"Well my vacation is nearly over. Thank GOD. Here are some of the highlights. My contacts. Yep I FINALLY got new ones! My doctor looked like Mr. Sulu on Star Trek."

"My friend Nikki has been SO COOL. She's got a boyfriend and he's 34. I swear I almost died. Also her sister is no her brother. Weird eh? She took me to her parents' club and I got checked out by this really gross looking biker (It's worth noting that I had just turned 15 years old a couple of months prior). He wouldn't stop staring at my boobs!"

"I had the best time in Boston. I still (heart) it. I went to a 7 story Limited (As much as I loved Outback Red, this seems preposterous to me) and ate an excellent bagel. I also have seen 28 episodes of Star Trek since I've been back and 12 of Santa Barbara. OH! And I had this custom made tape made at Mall of New Hampshire. It's SO cool Lots of Howard Jones!"

Up Where We Belong

I can’t remember when I turned into such a miserable flyer. I used to be good on planes (I made my first intercontinental trip at age 5, on Branff) but now I hate flying like the GOP hates the public option.  Thankfully, I spent today's trip in first class where the wine might not be quality, but it is plentiful. Hooray for fermented grapes, nature’s Xanax!

Random thoughts from my flight (that I would have Tweeted had an internet connection been available):

I’m fairly sure that SNL actress Victoria Jackson is seated in the row to my left. 1:20 PM

“Borrowed” an episode of Cold Case from the interweb. The victim’s name is Nash. Like Nash Bridges? Seriously? I know it was the 90’s but CTFO. 1:37 PM

I really need to learn more about clouds. 1:40 PM

The women in front of me are playing a game of one-upmanship re: college. One went to Texas A&M and the other went to Rice. I suspect this will not end well. 1:43 PM

RE: Cold Case. It’s a skater-themed 90’s show.  Why don’t they ever include Fido Dido? Seriously, I can’t be the only person who remembers Fido Dido gear. 1:58 PM

RE: Cold Case. OMG SKATERZ R00L, COPS DRUL. 1/2-PIPES 4EVA! LOL! 2:03 PM

Had to store my bag in an overhead bin in coach b/c ours wasn’t opening fully. Will have to employ serious Southern charm to swim upstream upon landing. USE THE FORCE LUKE! 2:14 PM

First class cabin curtains are pulled. I’m guessing that means you don’t get to come through and use the bathroom on a loop, dude in cheesy sunglasses and wife beater. 2:27 PM

RE: Cold Case. The guy stored the body behind a fan. I get that it’s a warehouse and all but wouldn’t someone have noticed the stench when, you know, the FAN BLEW IT ALL OVER THE PLACE? 2:32 PM

Giving Vampire Dairies another shot. What’s that they say about a captive audience? 2:36 PM

Does sitting next to someone who needs wheelchair assistance mean I’m trapped and can’t get off the plane until everyone else has left? I bet it does. FML. 2:38 PM **For the record, it didn't. What took more time was getting my bag from row 5. Seat mate was probably halfway to Lafayette by then.**

Guy on Vampire Diaries looks like Ben Affleck ca. proprietor of Fashionable Male in “Mallrats.” Whose your favorite New Kid? WHOSE YOUR FAVORITE NEW KID? 2:43 PM

Another cheesy guy storms the curtains to use the first class cabin bathroom! 2:45 PM

HA HA! RE: Vampire Diaries. Dry ice fog and a raven in a graveyard! IMPENDING DOOOOOOOM! 2:48 PM

That lady’s got to be Victoria Jackson. The first class cabin attendants are spending way too much time talking to her. FYI: She drinks Corona with a lime. 2:49 PM

AGAIN! Yet another guy in a tank top making his way to the first class bathroom! Is there some chick in there giving it away? Free Ed Hardy cologne? Hair gel? 2:54 PM

OMG! It’s the guy from the gate! The one who wouldn’t go to Meemaw’s because he had to party with his friends. For the record, he’s also wearing lady’s sunglasses. I think they’re Lilly Pulitzer. Phasers set to douchebag. 2:58 PM

RE: Vampire Diaries. This soundtrack makes me want to shop at Hot Topic. 3:05 PM

Lady next to me woke up. “I was so comfortable I forgot where I was!” Bravo, Continental, bravo! 3:13 PM

Starting our final descent. Hooray! 3:22 PM

Just like the ones I used to know.

Well thank God that's over. Solstice is behind us and from here on out the days are getting longer, Sunshine. Of course, winter itself is only getting started. Witness:

People romanticize the snow, particularly around the holidays. I get it, I guess. Everything looks cleaner under a fresh blanket of white snow. And it muffles some of the noises of city living, which is nice. Etc, etc.

Nevertheless, I can't really get behind the whole love of the season. It's funny because growing up in Texas snow was a celebration of epic proportions, with all the kids in the neighborhood pooling together what fell in their yard to amass a single snowball (stored carefully in someone's freezer until August).

You'd think I'd be really into it but I'm not. I'm cranky. I want to know why the people our condo association pays to deal with the snow have yet to clear the sidewalk. My feet are still frozen and I'm worried that my flight to Texas tomorrow will be delayed.

(sigh)

Someday.

I was kicked out of my sorority.

The reasons are, as you might expect, insignificant (and hysterical in hindsight) but if I recall correctly I had just started my junior year of college (or maybe was half way through - I do remember that it was the start of a semester). The process of explicit, unceremonious rejection by people you thought you were bonded too was very difficult.

I know, I know. I sound like a total queen.

Anyway, it's been a huge chip on my shoulder for a good portion of my adult life and about three years ago I decide to make amends. Part of the equation was proving to myself that I could commit to be within an organization of women - like the aforementioned chapter - and thrive. To my surprise I found that in the Junior League, regarded where I grew up as the toniest of the tonne. But the women have been welcoming and I've learned to creep a bit further out of a well-worn shell. Yay for me being a grown-up.

What do I get for my efforts to self-actualize? Among other things, I get to hang out in this room:

Now.

When I lived - briefly - in my sorority's house I thought that was high living (nevermind that it stood in Houston's alternative lifestyle district, and transgendered women teetered down the street at all hours of the wee small hours of the morning). But this place defies explanation. It's feminine without being prissy, serene without being cold.

It's beautifully decorated and, one day, I'll have a room like this all to myself.

Wouldn't It Be Nice

I struggle with the concept of reincarnation. Part of me thinks that life is finite and when it's done, it's done - you die and that's the end of the road.

On the other hand, the concept of the universe offering up second chances to those who have struggled through circumstances beyond their control is so comforting. Whatever this guy has seen in previous lives, I want to come back as him next time around:

Home Sweet Home

Long story short, the house fell through. Ultimately it’s for the best but admitting you were wrong about something that cost (so much) money has been a humbling experience and one I don’t care to repeat anytime soon.

The one thing that has changed as part of this whole experience is that my compulsion to keep my house immaculate is even worse that it was before. I can’t tolerate a messy house. No crumbs go unswept, the dishwasher is run every night and Comet and I still have a very close relationship (I scrub the sink every night before bed).

Anyway.

We’re back to city living (a lifestyle which everyone seems to thinks suits us just fine) and have spent the better part of our week reacquainting ourselves with this particular 950-ish square feet. A number of pieces were removed in an effort to stage our condo when it was on the market and today much of it made its triumphant return including an ottoman, an area rug and a number of pictures (three from our old neighborhood in New York and a poster with Luchadores). And, in the spirit of the holidays, the tree went up too:

Liberty For All

Hello, my name is Amanda and I’m a libertarian.

As a third party, libertarians are often ignored (at best) or maligned (at worst). Stereotypes run amok from the gun-toting nationalist to the obese ponytailed academician, clutching their free trade espresso and spouting how Peter Kropotkin’s vision of libertarian anarchy is the only way to right the country’s course.

The general population of libertarians, myself included, are somewhat in the middle. As many of you know I started my civic life as a Republican (I worked the ’92 convention and am the proud child of two Goldwater volunteers), but like many became disenfranchised as the party become more evangelical in its doctrine. My mother, a nurse at Planned Parenthood, taught me to believe strongly in a woman’s right to choose. I started recycling in 1988, long before city-run services offered curbside service. I couldn’t care less if you want to smoke pot, hire a hooker, or marry someone of the same sex. Why is it my business?

At the same time, spending wantonly makes me nervous as does enabling sloth. My mother was born of an immigrant who fled war with the clothes on his back and my paternal great-grandmother was widowed and left to raise 14 children alone – during the Great Depression. They worked their way from literally nothing, without the benefit of government subsidies or programs and emerged stronger from the experience. People – families – banded together, brought together by faith, vision, purpose and hope. If my family could do this, why couldn’t others?

Admittedly, these seemingly conflicted political ideologies were a weird crossroads and in the late 90's I set out to find out of there were others of my ilk. I can’t remember when, or how, I found the libertarian party but their platform was one that I finally felt comfortable with. Libertarians believe, at their core, in a "mutual respect for rights." They are deeply supportive of the concept of individual liberty as a precondition for moral and stable societies. However, as the party principles state, "We hold that all individuals have the right to exercise sole dominion over their own lives, and have the right to live in whatever manner they choose, so long as they do not forcibly interfere with the equal right of others to live in whatever manner they choose." It’s personal liberty, the ability of people to choose without government thinking they know better. I do what’s right for me and as long as I’m not infringing on your rights, I’d appreciate you leaving me the hell alone.

To this end, Libertarians want to reduce the size of government. As such, I don’t support health care reform. Should there be an option for people desirous of coverage? Sure – it’s a person’s right, if they wish, to pursue good health be that through seeing a doctor or eating carrots. But I don’t support the current plan. It’s a behemoth. I’m a bright girl and I don’t see a level of detail that makes me comfortable (three bullet points about protecting consumers, making provisions for the uninsured and reigning in costs aren’t sufficient, on a PowerPoint slide or before the halls of Congress). I don’t want to pass something just for the sake of passing something.

The congressman who shouted out during the President’s speech last night was out of line and an embarrassment to his nation, Republican, Democrat, Libertarian, Vulcan or otherwise. But his frustration was stems from a perceived mob mentality where those who don’t agree with the administration feel isolated and bullied.  Whether or not that feeling is justified I don’t know. I can both sides and am simultaneously encouraged by the interest in our political process and disheartened by the playground-style atmosphere such conversations often take on. Logging on to Facebook is hard when people are trying to shame you into supporting something you don't and using your comment threads to say how much they disagree.

I guess my point is this. Just because I don’t support the President – don’t link to Obama or update my status with my hope for a public option – on the issue of health care reform, doesn’t make me a bad person. I love my friends, I respect their opinion and hope they respect mine. It’s kind of the libertarian thing to do.

Over the Rainbow

I spent the better part of my day packing up books and spiriting the filled tote bins to our storage unit.  All this is in anticipation of the painter coming next week, the carpet cleaner I’d like to rent from Home Depot on Friday and then the realtors I’m hoping will jump at the chance to list our condo the following Monday morning.

As many of you know, Dennis and I have decided to build a house out in the middle of nowhere and I couldn’t be more delighted. The air is clean. Neighbors do things like wave at you when you drive buy. I’ll actually be able to find a Girl Scout to procure Samoas from this time next year, assuming all goes well. 

Friends and family have long endured my lamentations about city living, and my desire to head for the hills. After living in cities for the better part of the last 15 years, I’ve seen the light at the end of the tunnel. Of course, before moving we’ll need to sell our condo and this is proving stressful (as a co-worker pointed out yesterday, “Well it is the one thing you have no control over and you don’t exactly thrive in those situations.”). I posted a question to Trulia earlier about the state of the Chicago market and became so stressed out at the prospect of an unfavorable answer that I deleted the post.

I’ve worked hard to manage my expectations and have always felt that purchasing this property was a wise decision - I think it’s retained it’s value and the price we’re hoping to sell at (including parking and maybe either a year’s worth of assessments or cash towards closing) is pretty reasonable. I keep reminding myself we bought this place because we wanted a place to live, not an investment and it's the same reason that we're building the house. There's a difference between making a stupid choice and a courageous one. While the market is certainly challenging life doesn't stop and to wring you hands as time marches on would be a foolish mistake.

Nevertheless I find myself sitting on the sofa, worried and nervous. I’m ready for this change, excited for this change but I can’t help but thinking there’s another shoe that’s going to drop. What good is reading about how to paint your garage floor when you may end up losing your construction deposit because some slack ass realtor can’t pull their weight and market your condo?

We’re heading out there tomorrow to sign over earnest money (which will involve reading a contract). If you keep your fingers crossed, I’ll use my lucky pen. In the meantime I’m fixing myself a stiff drink and already planning to put this in my new home office.

 

It's not you, it's me.

When I was little, I lived in Antwerp and London and Houston and Frankfurt. At 18 I high-tailed it from West Houston to various locales inside the Loop. Shortly before my 24th birthday, I picked up and moved to Manhattan. Dennis and I have lived in Chicago for 6 years.

A great deal of my life has been spent living in apartments, riding subways and scurrying amongst the shadows cast by skyscrapers on sunny days but to say I’m a city gal would be a gross understatement. My heart belongs to suburbia. 

Maybe it’s because as a little kid – unable to get her grubby mitts on simple pleasures like Pop Tarts and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups – I romanticized the big-box American experience. Visiting my grandparents in New Hampshire was nothing short of sublime (The mall! Burger King! KMart!) and when we finally moved back stateside in 1984, I was absolutely over the moon. Suddenly not only did we have a yard, we had a cul-de-sac that openly embraced things like an annual Christmas party, playing baseball in the spring and pooling money to buy an excess of fireworks on the fourth of July.

Anyway, as I stand happily at the brink of middle age, spending my hard-earned bonus on having our condo painted and a storage unit I can’t pretend to be upset as we prepare to put our wee slice of Chicago on the market. We’re heading for the hills. BFE here we come. I obsess about decorating a formal living room I don't yet have. I'm researching how to till soil. I fantasize about the day where I can buy paper towels at Costco and actually have a place to store the 12 rolls I'm not using. I don't particularly care that it's probably the worst real estate market in American history; I'm ready to go.

I laid in bed last night (after a particularly traumatic episode of “Little Miss Perfect” on We. Sidenote: why the recent surge in child beauty pageant shows?) contemplating the change. Friends of ours will surely bemoan our decision – how could you leave the city? The restaurants? The rat-tat-tat jazz-driven rhythm of scurrying across boulevards in the hopes of dashing into charming shops in a mid-summer rain?

Fact of the matter is, to quote R.E.O. Speedwagon, it’s time for me (us) to fly. The city is like the bad boyfriend who promises he’s going to change and never does. Eventually you come to your senses and realize that you deserve better than an overgrown frat boy neighbor who likes watching “24” at a volume better suited for an amphitheater, a parking garage that costs more per month than your actual car payment and paying 10.25% sales tax because the county can’t get its act together.

Fare the well, urban living. We’ve had a good run, but I’m ready to move on. It’s not you, it’s me. I know you’ll find someone out there – someone who can give you something I never could. I wish you nothing but happiness. Know that the time we spent together will always mean something to me, but I can’t pretend to love you anymore.