amandicon

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.

Adventures in Shame: My iPod

Over yonder @ Jennsylvania, Jenn was kind enough to share a cheesy play list with her readers and encouraged us readers to the same. In the spirit of self-disclosure and healing, I offer my premium cheese play list. For those that know me, this will come as no surprise.

In the interest of variety, I have stripped out the requisite tracks by Wham.

“Barbie Girl” – Aqua: Did this come out when I was in college? I don’t know, but I remember listening to this or something like it when I was bumming free tanning bed upgrades from a pal who worked at the local salon, the hysterically named Darque Tan. Never managed to score that free bottle of optimizer lotion though.

“Womanizer” – Britney Spears: Years ago, in the early days of her relationship with K-Fed, my friend Dawn and I mapped out the trajectory of her career. I’m still waiting on the country album, but have otherwise been dead on.

“The Rhythm of the Night” – Corona: For those smart enough to constrain their class schedules to Monday – Thursday, Fridays at the sorority house usually began with Bath and Body Works lotion and Days of Our Lives. By the early afternoon, we’d begin the ritual of preening for the fraternity party du jour. This song was inevitably playing on the radio while we were on route to Contempo.

“Dancing in the Sheets” – Shalimar: As a 9 year old, I sang this out loud in the back of a car on a family road trip. That was the point where my parents took my Footloose tape away.

“Do You Wanna Touch Me (Oh Yeah)” – Joan Jett: Last week I was at a Junior League event and there was, no lie, a woman pole dancing (promoting a lady’s fitness studio here in Chicago). Pole. Dancing. Me, if I were to ever choreograph a routine that had me suspended on a piece of metal tubing, legs akimbo, this would be a first choice.

“I Tried” – Geto Boyz:  You know if Geto Boy Bushwick Bill, a little person who grew up in a tough environment, can survive a self-inflicted gunshot to the eye I really have very little to bitch about. 

“Hangin’ Tough” – NKOTB: I was relentless in my devotion to this band but had enough foresight to put my BOP/Super Teen encrusted poster shrine to them on the back of my bedroom door.

“I Beg Your Pardon” – Kon Kan: I remember dancing to this song after having way, way, way too much to drink. There were strobe lights, I know that much.

“C’mon Ride It (The Train)” – The Quad City DJs: I used to roller blade and, sadly, used to roller blade wearing a unitard. This was on that mix tape which was ultimately destroyed when I wiped out, went ass over tea kettle and landed on my walkman.

“Come and Get Your Love” – Real McCoy: Inexplicably reminds me of Donna and Kelly at the Peach Pit, and how much I hoped Brenda would take a machete to them both.

 “I’m Free (Heaven Helps the Man)” – Kenny Loggins: For those times where you need to thrash around an empty warehouse in tight jeans and a short-sleeved sweatshirt.

“The Warrior” – Scandal: Occasionally I would get my parents to let me listen to Top 40 radio on the way to school. This would always play on the long drive to the magnate school I attended (briefly) in Wichita. I actually cheated to get in, copying all my math answers from my neighbor. You know, I still haven’t ever used algebra.

“Word Up” – Cameo: I only just realized it, but Cameo sounds remarkably like Urkel.

“Good Vibrations” – Marky Mark & the Funky Bunch:  Is it just me or the notion of a bicep curling underwear model rapping really, really funny?

 “You Make Me Feel” – Book of Love: Makes me Jones for an Outback Red Henley shirt and matching scrunchy socks. Fun fact: For years, I thought the lead singer for Book of Love was actually the actress who played Terri in “Just One of the Guys.”

“Don’t Go” – Yaz: I’m  hoping desperately that, before the first season is over, RuPaul makes his “Drag Race” queens lip synch this song.

“Everybody Have Fun Tonight” – Wang Chung: When bad names happen to good bands.

Back to the Drawing Board

Last night I found myself watching an excellent documentary on the font Helvetica. The film, which explored the history of the font, its role in contemporary design and the artistic responses to its (perceived) over use was fascinating but it was the segment on how the systematic styling of the actual letters - the uniform, almost scientific spacing between them, the consistency of the curvature – created enough routine to provide the brain with a sense of comfort.  

Some designers hold the opinion that this is to the ultimate detriment of society, that it cultivates this embrace of the status quo and that the utilitarian appearance is both uninteresting and even indicative of corporate oppression. I guess, rather predictably, I tend to disagree. The child of a process-loving engineer, routine and discipline were personal qualities to be aspired to. Growing up bouncing around Europe I had a natural appreciation for simplicity, tradition and history (as it happens, the Belgians, Dutch and Germans are big fans of Helvetica so perhaps I have an ingrained bias).

Anyway, the whole thing got me thinking about the need for rhythm in life – that an existence based in structure (whether based on values, goals, whatever) often creates the efficiencies opportunity. Somehow I’ve always understood that and valued it, even in the halcyon days/years I don’t really remember.  The times where I’ve felt lost or - to use the more dramatic term adrift - it’s because I don’t have a plan. Generally speaking the longer it goes on the more it bums me out.

This morning finds me drinking tea, listening to Yo La Tengo and feeling very much like I’m treading water, lacking the vision and diligence to move forward creatively. Specifically, I’ve started thinking about how this affects my productivity with regards to writing – the fact of the matter is I don’t write with the same frequency or level of quality that I used to (this is not to say blogging about “America’s Next Top Model” is rocket science; it’s not). Microblogging tools like Twitter or even Facebook updates are fulfilling in that they’ve allowed me to stay connected to friends far and wide, but I’m not sure that ultimately it’s enough.  What do I write about? What do I say? 

Even if it doesn’t matter to anyone but me, I’ve grown tired of feeling incapable of doing more.  I miss writing and writing misses me. I haven’t even logged into a blog (that I’ve had for five years) since last fall.

Articulating all of this, which I’ve done periodically over the years, is probably as good a start as any right?

 

 

Waxing Nostalgic

A college friend of mine recently posted that she had recently reconnected with a friend who “likely remembers me as a thin, hard drinking, meticulously maintained (nails, brows and hair every six weeks, ladies!) social butterfly that I am sitting here in my PJs with wet hair thinking about nursing the baby, going to Weight Watchers and purchasing and monogramming kindergarten supplies.  Good God, what happened?”

Because, I am in fact, that kind of gal, I’m going to assume she’s talking about me.

Mysteriously, I went from being the gym rat who used to frequent her (now) husband’s tanning salon usually decked out in some meticulously put together, size 2 Ann Taylor ensemble in her shiny red car before complaining about a salad that was inevitably too filling. Quelle horreur.

Facebook is a unique experience, allowing you to connect with people who have known you in all of life’s various incarnations. In my particular circumstance:

• Qbert loving nerd who cut Corey Feldman pictures out of BOP! while listening to Huey Lewis and the News on her bedroom floor
• Globe-trotting, hair metal loving drama queen who mysteriously thought spandex dresses and over-the-knee boots were an appropriate choice for everyday high school wear. I did not go to Hooker Central High School either.
• Speech and debate obsessed honors student who actually read the Christian Science Monitor daily and took herself way too seriously

And then the aforementioned stint as a failed sorority girl (a complicated situation that to this day gives me nightmares to the point where I'm considering paying a decades old bill that's long since fallen off my credit report).

I will gleefully answer her question as to what happened. We grew up and are, despite the added responsibilities of adulthood, presumably far happier than we were sitting on the back steps of the sorority house smoking cigarettes.

If it’s any consolation, I’m wearing a shirt with bleach spots and pants with an elastic waistband. Parts of my anatomy are now only perky through virtue of under wire and pulling the straps too tight. I am so laughably out of shape, that I had to take 5 Advil to cure a headache resulting from a well-intentioned game of tennis (note: I’m much better at PlayStation Tennis than the real thing) and decided to sleep it off instead of blow drying my hair straight. My sun allergy has resulted in a laughable rash on both arms.

Dinner was a Diet Coke and a handful of Fritos.

I finally broke down and went to the spa last week because months of trying to save money with Sally Hansen’s home waxing kit left me with eyebrows the shape of sperm. The 70-hours of work on my plate will render me unable to get a pedicure so I’ll spend yet another week with hobbit feet or will embark on trying to do it myself (a scenario that will likely involve me cutting something I shouldn’t, spilling nail polish on the Pergo and at least two Band Aids). Thank Jesus for the closed toe shoe.

And at the risk of sounding all Dr. Phil, I’m weirdly ok with it. Deep down, I hope she is too. She certainly doesn't need me to tell her she has a wonderful family and a successful career she should be proud of. Brows can always be waxed, nails can always be done but living life in the now is a fleeting chance you'll miss if you blink. Should she want to escape for a self-indulgent weekend of girly debauchery our guest room is always open. I could use the excuse.

PS: Monogrammed school supplies are a necessity. How else is darling princess going to tell her stuff away from the other riff-raff? :)