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"Take a sugar-frosted fuck"
said by Alanis Morisette's boyfriend to Parker Posey (Parkey Posey, what were you THINKING!)
"There is a knife of sadness in my heart"
said by that girl from 7th Heaven (who is actually pretty badass in this movie) to Wesley Snipes
"My friends are coming to kill you"
said by a super-cute six-year-old girl to bloody shirtless Dracula
I've just returned from the dog park. Chicago has many public dog parks, which are wonderful because dogs get to run and play and burn energy, and learn to socialize with other dogs and other people and, in general, be better animals for us all, and on top of that I always meet very nice people who teach me new things about my dog and life and other very Zen things. I LIKE hanging out in parks. I've happily paid my ever-increasing taxes to the city of Chicago (though I don't think enough of that money goes to the public school system, which is where I'd like to see my money go, although I don't really have a say in where my tax dollars go, now do I? so I donate money to CPS, which is fine, so maybe give me back some of my ever-increasing tax dollars to do so, like maybe the ones that are currently funding a war) because, among other things, I see it is paying for the creation and upkeep of public space, including parks (especially Humbolt Park, on which I live) and dog parks (especially the Wicker Park dog Park and Montrose Beach, both of which I frequent). However, I've just learned that, as of the beginning of September, everyone will have to pay to use the (public) dog parks. You'll have to purchase an annual pass to use the (public) dog parks. If you don't have one of these passes and are caught in a (public) dog park, you will have to pay a fine of up to $500.
So: city taxes, city sticker, plate sticker, zone sticker, dog registration, dog park permit.
I read that these permits are being implemented so that they ("they") can be sure that all animals in the dog parks have the proper shots. This makes sense to me. But I thought I filled out all those forms and paid to register my dog with the city to prove he had all his shots. I thought that's why all dogs were registered with the city: so we could be sure that the dogs walking our streets had been vaccinated. So, if that's why I'm doing THAT, then why am I also proving this to the park disctrict?
When we visit Christopher's family in Evanston, we can't use the dog parks because we don't have a dog park permit. There is a person who sits at the door to every dog park and checks your permit. So is that what I'm paying for? To pay the person checking my permits? Because the city already knows my dog has his shots 'cause I already paid to tell them so.
If someone can explain to me the logic of this, I'd be very happy. Perhaps I'm missing something.
(there are many political decisions being made that I'd also pose the above question to. But today is my day off, and I had a great lunch with good friends, and a lovely afternoon at the (public) dog park, and I feel far too light and joyful to be arguing politics right now)
Start commenting on my blog, dammit, because you have lots of important things to say about lots of the stuff I'm writing about, even when I'm writing about stupid stuff, 'cause you can turn stupid stuff into important stuff, like Rumplstiltskin who turns straw into gold, because you are just that magical.
In Prague, where Christopher and I lived for eight months last year, there's a fairly minimal amount of advertising (compared to the rest of the Western world, where you can't walk down the street without bombardment). I don't read Czech, so I couldn't understand the few ads there were. I could guess: the one with the attractive people drinking Fanta is for Fanta. The one with the attractive people eating yogurt is for yogurt. The one with the attractive people brushing their teeth is for toothpaste. etc. but for the most part, I grew accustomed to a life without the constancy of advertising. They didn't mean anything to me, so I tuned them out.
About six months into our stay, we flew to London to see Embedded, Tim Robbins' play about the war in Iraq. We arrived at Heathrow and got onto the Tube to get to our hotel, and the culture shock hit hardcore. There were ads EVERYWHERE: huge, brightly colored billboards, and they were all in English, so not only was I surrounded but I could also understand everything I was reading. It was total overload, like that commercial years ago for Meijer Thrifty Acres where the little old lady walks into a Meijer's, turns around and walks back out. A helpful Meijer's employee goes after her and says, "Is there a problem, ma'am?" and she says, "It's just too overwhelming." The announcer's voice went on to explain how Meijer's Thrify Acres carried every product known to man.
Interesting how I'm using an ad as a metaphor for how I feel about ads, huh?
Anyhow, there were so many ads in that tube that I thought I might freak out. It was just too much. "Doesn't this defeat the purpose?" I said to Christopher. "There's so many I can't possibly focus enough to remember any of their products!" Christopher is a webdesigner, and has worked for many years in advertising. He calmly explained different theories of subliminal advertising, and told me that whether or not I THOUGHT I remembered any products, in actually they were so ingrained in my subconscious that I wouldn't be aware of them until I walked through the grocer's freezer and was like, "whoah, I TOTALLY need those frozen peas!"
"Get out some paper," he told me, "and write down all the products that you've seen in the past ten minutes."
"I'm telling you, there's too many! I don't know where to look!" I said.
"Just try," he said, and I did, because it was easier to look at my papers than at the walls (remember: I'd been without ads for six months. Imagine it!). The results were incredibly disturbing: I had listed nearly thirty things: beauty products. Food items. Corporations. New albums. Upcoming movies. TV stations. Radio stations. Clothing lines. Broadway shows. Pet food. Art galleries, and on and on.
Since I came back to the States, I try to be as conscious as possible of the effects advertisments have on me (re: AS POSSIBLE). I don't LIKE the idea of some company getting into my brain without my knowledge or permission. Plus, most of the ads I see are just bad: bad concept, bad design, bad storytelling. However (and this is where we arrive, joyously, to the point of this post), when I first saw those new Dove ads, the ones with the very real women with very real bodies in their underwear who are really beautiful, with killer skin, I went directly out to Target and bought that lotion. AND the cream (although I'm not sure of the difference between lotion and cream. Doesn't matter, that's not the point). AND the body wash. This was the very first time I've ever CONSCIOUSLY bought a product based on an advertisment. Happily, the goops work really well and I'm feeling softer, but even if they sucked I might STILL buy them because I want to support that ad campaign. I LIKE looking up at a billboard and seeing women who look like me. That makes SENSE to me.
I know it doesn't make sense to everyone. For example, the Sun-Times reporter who wrote "Really, the only time I want to see a thigh that big is in a bucket with bread crumbs on it." You're a poet, man, really. This is one of those rare instances in which I don't have to take you town for your comments 'cause they're so supremely stupid that you've dug your own grave. Good luck digging out (I'd suggest that killer scene in Kill Bill II when Uma karate chops her way out of being buried alive for some possible pointers).
Anyhow, if you work in advertising and are reading this, I'll admit that I don't know a lot about your job and the specific details you have to take into account. Target markets and statistics and power points and whatnot. I'm just one very real person who likes seeing real people, and I'll give my money to this quite happily. Especially if I feel softer. 'Cause, really, who wants to be all hard and cracked?
Yes, you know a great deal about computers. But is it necessary to make me feel stupid because I don't?
I am on hold with Apple Tech support: "All our representatives are still busy. Please continue to hold for the next available representative." The Airport Extreme Base Station (i.e. white glowing space egg that gives us wireless internet) is not working. So I have no wireless! I am currently plugged into the wall. My freedom of movement is greatly restricted. My need for instant gratification is not being satisfied instantaneously! This bothers me. Furthermore, it bothers me that I'm bothered. Is this because I remember back in the day when I had DIAL-UP internet, and before that, I didn't have internet in my HOUSE, and before that, internet didn't even EXIST. I can remember life before the internet. I remember checking movie times in the newspaper. I remember writing letters that were sent via POST. I remember World Book Encyclopedias for information and now, NOW, not only am I sitting on the floor with my laptop plugged into the wall listening to some automated dude tell me "All our representatives are still busy" over and over, I'm ALSO beginning sentences with such phrases as "Back in the day."
Have I mentioned that I'm turning thirty?
Nobody ever told us, “Don’t give the puppy rawhides.” So I’m telling you, don’t give your dog rawhides. They're not digestable. They can hurt the lining of your doggy's stomach. Here is Christopher’s discovery.
I've been having lots of conversations lately about feeling sad. No specific reasons: just sadness. Last night I got a voicemail from a friend on the West Coast: "call me, I'm feeling sad." And there's this whole "If I KNEW why I was sad, I'd fix it!" sort of thing going on and I just wish I could fix everybody. Including myself. So I looked some stuff up and read that if you put bowls of water under your bed at night, your sorrow will drown as you sleep.
So I'm coming over to your house later to put a bowl of water under your bed.
Last night, we saw The Island. It posed a lot of a really big questions (cloning, killing, the human soul et all) that it didn't address because it was too busy with all the ass-kicking, much of which involved Scarlett Johanssen in tight pants hanging from large falling objects. This was totally fine with me, not only because I'm a fan of the ass-kicking but also because I'd rather putz away on these questions myself than have Michael Bay give me any sort of answers. Which would distract from the ass-kicking.
Lots of my girlfriends are either A. going through very horrible break-ups of long-term relationships, involving much borderline psychotic behavior including (but not limited to):
The ex showing up at my readings and asking, nonchalantly, if she’s coming
The ex telling her she needs to lose weight (and she, for the record, is stunningly beautiful and tall and thin and muscled)
The ex going into her house when she’s not there and then calling nineteen times to accuse her of sleeping around because her toilet seat is up (?)
or B. in the midst of mind-numbing dating, where many phone calls need to be made to your girlfriends at odd hours because:
He didn’t call (ala the Macy Gray classic: “We Had Such a Good Time, Hey! Why Didn’t You Call Me? I Thought I’d See You Again!”)
He said that, although you’re real cool and all, he doesn’t want a committed relationship, and then two weeks later he’s moving in with his new girlfriend and he just, like, wants you to hear it from him
He won’t hold her hand in public, obviously a clear sign of forthcoming downfall
The result of all this is as follows:
Multiple meetings of girls in bars to discuss/commiserate/empathize with the above events. Voices are raised. Shots are shot. The sentence, “I went through the same thing with (insert name) … ” is repeated again and again. Everyone feels better at the end of the night, but not so the next morning, and by the next evening everyone has to meet again because there’s something about the dark that makes you more lonely. Makes you need your girlfriends. Your shots. Your “I went through the same thing with (insert name)”’s.
There will be, we’ve decided, one great list. Names and addresses will be put onto this list (each girl can go back one decade), and there will be one grandiose evening of girls in cute pants hanging out of car windows throwing eggs at the homes of every name on that list. One friend pointed out that the list could start locally but would eventually have to go National: “I’ve gotta egg somebody in New Orleans,” she said, which brought forth greater geographical dimensions (also, a slush fund has been started. For eggs)
“Don't let him go!” everyone tells me, in reference to Christopher. "Hang on to THAT one!" and I imagine wrapping my arms around his leg, not letting him leave the house. He is standing by the front door, all suited up for work (khakis, button-up, computer bag slung over his back), and I am laying on the floor latched onto his pant-leg. “I’m hanging on to you!” I cry, and he opens the door and walks into the hall and drags me. After a moment, he realizes this won’t work (we live on the third floor, and he can’t take me down the stairs). He kneels down, takes my face between his hands very tenderly and says, “I’m not leaving, Megan. I’m just going to work,” and I hold tighter and wonder how I turned into this girl.
Last Friday, a tragic car accident resulted in the deaths of three Chicago musicians: John Glick of the Returnables, Michael Dalquist of Silkworm, and Doug Meis of the Dials and Exo. Please join me in keeping these guys and their families in your hearts and minds. You can offer condolences at the bands’ websites, or, if you knew any of these guys, there are memorial services this week and upcoming memorial concerts in the works (gapers block can give you contact information here).
If you ever saw me read at Schuba’s with vocalist Julie Korman, you would be familiar with Exo—who we’ve opened for a few times—and therefore Doug, their drummer. He was a close friend of Julie and her family, and I was lucky enough to know him and his wonderful, gentle spirit.
Right now there’s nothing but shock, not just for these untimely deaths, but the manner in how they happened.
The guys were driving back to work after lunch. They were stopped at a red light. They were purposely hit head-on by a twenty-three year old girl driving seventy miles an hour, who rammed their car in an attempt to end her own life. All three guys died: the girl is fine.
I don’t know where to begin with this one, so instead, I’ll end: if you’re going through something painful, please please please talk to someone. Talk to a friend, a family member, your co-worker, your teacher, your pastor, someone you’re comfortable with even if you’re scared in the moment. If you feel totally alone, here are some phone numbers of places you can get help. Please take care of yourselves. Please keep in mind that a desperate action does not only affect the person committing that action: it affects families, communities, and, in this case, very innocent bystanders whose lives were cut too short too soon.
I don’t mean to sound all public service announcement.
But this grief could have been avoided.
For eight years, I waited tables at the Bongo Room in Wicker Park (which has the greatest food in this city. FYI: don't go on a weekend). I covered all school loans, built up the IRA, bought really hot shoes, got tons of material, learned a thing or two about dealing with people and made lifelong friends who, with my family living far away, function as my family here. I'm now in the fortunate position of supporting myself from teaching alone, and haven't worked there for a year; however, Molly is abroad for six weeks and I am picking up her shifts while on summer break. I started back yesterday, and am very proud to report that I still make a fucking good cappuccino.
Thank you very much
The puppy just ran full-force into a cactus.
Yes, I did musical theater in high school.
Yes, sometimes, when I'm alone, I play songs from musicals really loud.
Yes, I sing aloud.
Loudly.
If you also do this, in your most secret private moments, I'd like to suggest Defying Gravity from the Wicked soundtrack.
I am a hair-twister. Anyone will tell you that: my students, who point it out in class. My hairdresser, who sighs very strenuously every eight weeks. Most of all, Christopher and our friend Jeff. The three of us go to movies a lot (yes, we saw War of the Worlds. Yes, it was awesome. I feel really bad about that, 'cause I wanted to sign the 10,000 person-strong online petition about protesting the movie because of what Tom Cruise said about Brooke Shields. Also, he's just annoying lately. But I still went to see it and it was awesome and I feel mildly guilty in the same way I do if I need a cup of coffee and BAM there's a Starbucks [which is actually more because I think their coffee tastes really burnt than I do my whole Trying Not to Support Big Corporations thing] but at the end of the day, let's all just lighten up, shall we?) and I sit between the two of them (I hold the popcorn) and once the movie starts, I twist my hair. On the right side. And then whichever guy is on my right will gently take my hand and put it in my lap. So then I twist the left. And then the guy on that side will move my hand. And this goes on and on, and I'm unconscious of it, and they've conspired together on this, and it's surprising that I'm not yet bald. But the point is, I've been hanging out with my cousin Aaron and he ALSO TWISTS HIS HAIR! Can I blame genetics for this one?
Those are not bad odds, considering the combined total of readers of this blog is something like eight. Mostly it’s a place where I clear my head, ask questions and blow off steam, so I appreciate those three emails because I always forget that anyone’s interested in my steam. It’s such a different world than the day to day of classrooms and conferences, etc. where I know I’m contributing and can actively see the results, but at the same time am more aware of and careful of how I present whatever I’m presenting (for example, the paper I presented at the Writing in Education Conference last month in London was not delivered in the rambling, what-the-hell speech of this blog. Nor do I blog in my “the results of this study indicate the learning curve which overall represents the … “ etc. voice). Audience awareness, let’s say. Here, in my journal, I babble away: the guy selling ice cream in my front yard (his name is Chet, and he has two little kids who are very adorable and chocolate-covered), something silly I learned or imagined, something that made me mad, ways I wish I’d responded in a given moment but didn’t think of until just now (which happens all the time. I go to sleep delivering very poignant, dramatic monologues I’m not near intelligent enough to have constructed on the spot) and when the next reading is, etc. It’s nice to have that break from my constant—as if here I’m writing while sleeping and all the rest of the time I’m running around awake. Anyhow, thanks for those three emails. Here’s the answer:
Reasons why I haven’t posted in so long
1. I spent a wonderful, wonderful two weeks with my father. He and my stepmother live on an island in Alaska, so I see them waaay less than I’d like to. They flew in on the 2d (note to those three emailers: that was the date of my last post. So now you’ll forgive me, ‘cause when Dad’s in town, I make everything stop. Trains stop running, traffic lights burn out, people are frozen on street corners waiting for his return flight out of O’Hare to depart so that life may continue as usual), and we spent a week doing Chicago-y things: dinners out, Margaritas, shopping, Wicked (Ana Gasteyer of the Topless Martha Stewart Saturday Night Live played Elphaba!), coffee, dog parks. On Kodiak (where Dad and Marilyn live), we do Alaska’y things: catch wild salmon on the ocean, whale-watch, hike, visit bison, watch for Bald Eagles, sleep in ‘cause it’s dark (in the winter) or get up early ‘cause it’s bright (in the summer). Whichever place we’re all at, I love hanging out with my dad. And getting to know Mar (who I love. She’s the bee’s knees. She’s fun and kind and beautiful, and is patient with me, and treats me as a daughter, and inspires me to think about my spirituality. This, I think, is because she listens). And having Dad get to know Christopher (who I love. He’s the greatest thing on the entire planet. I had a freak-out yesterday, about something silly, and he kept saying, “So what REALLY is this about?” like five thousand times until I moved past the silly excuses into the real stuff. Plus he’s super-hot, and I am the luckiest girl ever. My dad and my boyfriend and my stepmother are all great and we all get along (insert Brady Bunch theme song) and love each other and drink beer and laugh and play Euchre HooRAY!
2. We (dad, Marilyn, Christopher and I) attended our family reunion in Michigan. Every five years, all (A hundred? Two?) the Stielstras come together near the homestead my great grandparents built when they immigrated from the Netherlands. We have cookouts, and bonfires, and sand-castle building competitions (we lost to my second cousins David, Tim and Tad, who crafted a very intricate Mt. Rushmore with mermaid fins coming from each president’s head. Mt. Rushmaid. We’d—what’s the verb?—concocted, via Christopher’s direction, a giant sand-worm creature, with eyes and teeth, eating a castle which I thought looked gothic but others said was vaguely birthday-cake-ish. We did get a special nod for “Best Multi-Media Castle” because Marilyn, using her special magic with children (this comes from years as a kindergarten teacher and summer missionary work with kids in Guatamala), wrangled up all the little kids on the beach (imagine multiple seven-year-olds in bright bathing suits, noses striped with sunblock), lined them up and coached them to, as the judge (my Great Aunt Ang) passed our sand-creature/birthday cake, scream out, “OH NO! The Sand Worm is eating the castle!” and then fall down in mock faint which was perhaps the cutest thing I’ve seen in my whole life) but mostly, it’s about getting to know one another, and keeping alive this very unique gift we’ve got. My own branch of the family—my dad’s brothers and sisters, their kids, their kids’ kids—are all very connected, but this reunion is about something greater: community. However different our lives, our beliefs, our choices, we come from the same place—Nick and Kate Stielstra—and there is a love and respect there that I’m only beginning to understand. “I’m Pete’s grand-daughter, Darc’s daughter Megan,” I’d say, and then I’d meet Bill’s son, John, and his kids, and so on down the line. When I was younger, it was more difficult: when you’re fifteen, twenty, twenty-five, you have other things on you mind (in my case: getting into college, scholarships to college, grad school, my students, my work, and—yes—boys) than connecting with your past, your faith, your family. Taking the whole of all these experiences and understanding what they mean to you.
My goodness, the closer I get to thirty, the more I wax philosophical. What’ll HAPPEN to me on August 11th? Will I get a corduroy jacket with elbow patches and a cigar? I actually HAD a professor with elbow patches and a cigar. In Boston. I thought he was very philosophical indeed). ANYHOW, what I’m trying to say is that, in learning about my family, I learned a great deal about myself.
I should note here that Christopher did an EXCELLENT job. Christopher met some two hundred of my relatives in five days, and not only did he respond remarkably well to all drilling (where are you from/where do you work/where will you be in five years/etc.) but he LIKED everybody. He had FUN. He got his very own Stielstra Family Reunion 2005 T-Shirt. AND he won Stielstra Family Reunion 2005 Nose-Flute competition. For which he played the entire Blue Danube Waltz INCLUDING the high notes. It’s now written in history: “Pete’s grand-daughter Darc’s daughter Megan has found herself a FINE boy and didja hear his Blue Danube? Boy’s got a GIFT!”
3. It’s hot. It’s hot and that makes me lethargic and sweaty and crabby.
4. Am reading like crazy: They Marched Into the Sunlight by David Maraniss, How to Breathe Underwater by Julie Orringer, and Anna Karenina (again. I just finished Love and Hatred, a biography of Leo and Sonia Tolstoy that included all sorts of their journal entries about each other, and I went back through the book to figure out what real-life events he fictionalized for the novel [lots!]. Makes me want to look back over my work and see what actually happened and what actually didn’t, and I wonder, would I even recognize it at this point? That’s the fascinating thing about fiction. How, as O’Brien says, the story truth is sometimes truer than the happening truth)
5. Last Tuesday to Ravinia to see Lyle Lovett, one of my favorite musicians on the planet. If you haven’t been to Ravinia, A. you should, it’s a BLAST and B. it’s an outdoor music venue outside of Chicago, with inexpensive lawn tickets, and you and five-to-fifty of your closest friends pack blankets and picnics and wine. There are speakers everywhere, so you lie in the grass and listen to the music (everything from the Symphony to the Gypsy Kings, Shawn Colvin, Ben Folds … check their website, which I’m too hot/lethargic/sweaty/crabby to link you to right now). At the moment Lyle took the stage (“Lyle! Lyle! Lyle!”), it rained. Faucet-style. And the night was very warm, and everyone stayed, and danced, and soaked, and (if you’re a Lyle fan, also) he did ‘That’s Right You’re Not from Texas’, and ‘She’s Hot to Go She’s Ready’, and … whatever that one is where he sings: “I make my bed/where I lay my head/I wish I heard what she just said,” and, my favorite, ‘Church’, with the fabulous gospel singers, that my dad and I sang when I was a kid. And it was so great, and sort of nostalgic, to be dancing in the rain with my dad to that song. He always played gospel for me: Aretha’s Amazing Grace album, and Sweet Honey in the Rock.
6. We’ve been hanging out at the glorious, genius place which is the Montrose Dog Beach, where five hundred (I can hear Christopher telling me I’m exaggerating numbers again. Which is true. Of course) dogs play in Lake Michigan, and dig in the sand, and run around in circles, and my puppy is in happy-doggy-heaven and then sleeps for three days (flat on his back with his paws in the air, which KILLS me)
7. Working crazy hours, but that’s nothing new.
8. Surprise Birthday parties. Everyone has a birthday this month: Wednesday was for Jeremy, and everyone met up at the Hidden Cove on Lincoln. Have you been to the Hidden Cove on Lincoln? It’s a dive, but one of those rare super-cool dives. A dive with ambience, let’s say. And an extensive karaoke menu. I’m proud to report that Christopher karaoked for his very fast time: that Proclaimers’ “I would walk five hundred miles” heavy accented song, with Jer doing the harmonies. They were SUPURB. I, unfortunately, wasn’t able to karaoke ‘cause in the very first round some other girl did my (insert air=quotes here) “signature” song (Total Eclipse of the Heart by Ms. Bonnie Tyler). Thursday night was for Gina, at Maggiono’s downtown, where I’ve never been but transported me straight back to the year I lived in Italy: big giant ballroom-y dining hall, everyone eating in parties of seven and eight, huge amounts of people enjoying good food and time together, and good food, and lots and lots of lots of good food, and it was great. Gina taught Kat and I the L language: where you add l’s after every vowel in every word, like this: Melgaln, youl beeln tall-kiln alnd tall-kiln aln nolt sawl-ilng mulch olf (oulve?) all-nall-thill-ng. She’s really good at it. I’m not. During the toast, we went around the table and everyone said something they loved about Gina, and it was a truly beautiful moment, and I felt very lucky to have such amazing people in my life.
9. I always say this DH Lawrence line in classes: I don’t know what I think until I see what I say. I’m reading over this entry right now, and noticing that the past two weeks have been pretty amazing. Maybe it’s like, “Megan, you need to clear through all this clog in your head because in a few weeks you’ll be a full-fledged adult. You need to think about the important stuff. Christopher. Your family. Your friends. Your students. Your writing. You need to consider all these things very carefully and come to some permanent decision that you’ll keep until you die because you’ve had enough time to work through bullshit and, come August 11th, everything will make sense." Except, when I go back to my journal when I was twenty (yes, I’ve got them. I’ve kept a journal pretty religiously since I was fifteen. Yes, the early ones are very boring. Yes, they are self-indulgent. Maybe the current ones are, also, but it’s always been the place I’ve worked thrins through, both for my person and my writing. Until this past spring (and this blog), they’ve been a very personal, My Eyes Only kinda thing. I’m still trying to figure out if the switch to blog was a wise decision. Time will tell) they say the same thing.
10. Does it sound like I’m freaked out to turn thirty? I’m really not: every year has been better than the last (or so my journals tell me) and I’m excited to see what happens next. I did that story about speed dating and poked fun at myself turning thirty, and then I got all reflective about turning thirty, and maybe now I’ll just shut up and turn thirty.
And get a really hot Diane Von Fursterburg and a martini.