the fine art of gift-giving

Ahhhhhhh!  It's almost over!  The shopping mayhem!  The stressed-out shoppers who can't find their last few gifts!  The angry shoppers who are mad because we don't have the item they saw in our store two weeks ago!  The impatient shoppers who hover as we wrap their gifts because they are in a hurry to finish buying the other six gifts still on their list!

And then, after Christmas Day, once all the gifts have been opened and sometimes disappointment sets in...the RETURNS!  People returning all the things they don't like!  People yelling at me because I cannot process their return without a receipt or gift receipt!  People yelling at me when I tell them the amount of their gift receipt and their SHOCK that the giver only spent $25 on them!  People yelling at me when I cannot give them cash, only store credit!

One time, I had a woman scream at me and say, 'NOW I HAVE TO SUFFER BECAUSE I CANNOT RETURN THIS ($10, year old) BAG.'

Suffer?  Really?

Ahhhhhhhh!

Don't get me wrong, I ABSOLUTELY love helping customers pick out gifts for people who are hard to buy for or those who just simply need ideas.  I love helping little kids pick out jewelry for their mom, lotions for their grandmas, sweaters and perfume and scarves and necklaces for wives, toys and books for kids, blankets for babies, hostess gifts for the party.  I love giving ideas and suggestions and wrapping their packages up beautifully and thoughtfully for them.  I love it when people put THOUGHT into things.  But I feel sooooo many people are hardened when it comes to the art of gift giving.

There's so much more than GIFTS during the holidays, but it is also a longstanding tradition and it CAN be a lot of fun.  But having seen the stress levels of shoppers the few days before Christmas each year, it's just so, so so, so...what's the word I'm looking for....MATERIALISTIC.  I know I sound like Linus but it's true.

Just breeeaaaathe people!  Breaaaaathe!  If you're stressed, give a gift card.  Wrap it in a box and put their favorite candy with it.  Give them a gift card to their favorite restaurant.  Bake them some cookies.  Just please please please, FOR PETE'S SAKE, don't take it out on the store employees if you're stressed!

It's supposed to be my day off today.  But I have to go in.  But I'm off on Christmas.  Then I go in the day after Christmas.  To be there for all the returns.  And my next day off is New Year's Day.  I know I'm not alone.  There are millions of retail workers in the same boat.

I am closing up shop at 5pm on Christmas Eve.  And I will ENJOY my 40 hours outside of work.

Happy Holidays.

BE KIND TO RETAILERS!  Especially the ones who have been screamed at but still keep a smile on their faces.

Christmaaaaas!

I've been sounding rather down lately.  I'm okay, really.  Life is just soooo damn serious sometimes!

But it's Christmas.

And for the most part, people have been rather lovely this season.  Certainly people are pissed off and frustrated at the credit card fraud and compromise limiting access to their money.  But if one is to step back and properly assess a situation, one ought to send their FURY to the evil crooks and thieves out there in the world who cause this chaotic mess.  I've dealt with thieves for a majority of my working years.  There are plenty of them.  And they ruin and disrupt this world.

Greedy fuckers.  Ugh.

At the end of the day,  I can look in the mirror and smile because I'm a good person.  And hell if anyone else cares, I know that I contribute good to my little world as I know it.

I don't know when it became so, uh, uncouth to be a GOOD person in this world.  But if there's one thing I've learned through all these chaotic holidays, it's that THIS is the time to reconnect with all the GOOD people out there in this world.  Religion and belief systems aside, goodness and kindness and brother and sisterhood is what this season is all about for me.

Merry Christmas.

Sad news stories lately.

I've been reading so many terrible news stories lately, some local and some far from my community.  But nothing saddens me more than stories of those losing their lives to mental health issues.

http://www.today.com/books/ned-vizzini-dies-32-fans-mourn-its-kind-funny-story-2D11783145





I am so touched when people can take their mental health struggles and turn it into something touching and beautiful.  'It's Kind of a Funny Story' was one of those.

So tragic.  

Money.

I hate money.

I hate money problems.


I hate that everyone around me has plenty of it and really do not know what I mean when I say I am broke.

I need to find a higher-paying job.  But I can't deal with the stress and anxiety that comes along with it.

I need a raise at my job for all the things I have taken on.

I need cheaper insurance.

I talk about all this stuff with a therapist, but I had to cancel last session because I did not have the $30 copay.  She told me next time I cancel less than 24 hours from the appointed time (I canceled 22 hours from the appointed time) that she would charge me $70 for a missed session.

I don't think some people get what being financially poor is really like.

I work so hard at finding a life balance, but the MAIN STRESSOR continues to be

$$$$$$$$$

I went to the doctor because my blood pressure is high again.  She told me to find another job because the stress is too much for me.  She told me to take a vacation.

I used to load up on Ativan with a former psychiatrist.  She told me when I get stressed to just take a break or just read a book since I worked in a bookstore.

Some people have no friggin idea.

We are going to try and move when our lease is up in spring, and there are some cheaper rents a little north.  But there is gang activity and shootings.  What's the right thing to do?

Oh well.  Guess I'll get ready to go into work on my day off again.

Being thankful.

I struggle with the holidays for several reasons.

1. I have worked retail for twenty years.  This morning I wrote out work schedules since I have no time at actual work to do paperwork.  We get slammed.  All our business happens all at once.  It can feel like pure insanity at times.  And managing employees in chaotic times can be somewhat challenging.  I feel like a football coach at times.  Choosing the best players for the right tasks.  Being on top of our game to avoid complaints and be the very best we can for a demanding public.  And the exhaustion at the end of the day!  Eek!

2.  Family.  It's still only been a year since grandmere died.  The family is scattered this year.  Parents traveled to Oklahoma for Thanksgiving on the farm.  Brothers are with friends in two different states.  Aunts are in Florida.  In-laws don't really get together much and stick to their own families.  Grandmere was the glue and heart and soul of my family time and it's just all so different now.  And I don't feel like I have my own family.  The mister and our cat.

3.  The Thanksgiving story.  I subscribe to Indian Country Today Media online and the hostility surrounding this holiday and Native Americans is rampant.  I can't say I don't blame them.  The way history works and how life is often sugar-coated to cover up atrocities and truths is horrendous.  I love a sappy Disney movie but real life isn't always like a fairy tale.  I wish there was a way to reconcile such difficulties in so many 'race-related' wars.  But I haven't found the way.

That's not to say I'm not thankful for what I have.  I am thankful for my own ethnic diversity that has made me so so aware of what the world is really like.  And I'm thankful for my eternal optimism, even in previous dark hours of depression and despair...I am thankful that I can always see a light through hard work and perseverance.  (Did I spell that right?). I am thankful for my loved ones, despite distance.  And my home.

I will leave you with this somber voice.  A poem.  Just something to think about.  I think about it.

November 19, 2013 at 5:56pm

Thank you for relocating relations, relocating their hearts, some forgetting or ashamed of their Indigenous roots.

Thank you for alcohol that now courses like blood through reservation veins.

Thank you for teaching our young, impressionable, heavily reserved minds your history and overlooking ours in reservation schools.

Thank you for Catholic boarding school surgeons painfully removing our Native tongue without anesthetic until our mouths bled English.

Thank you for that old white man in the white owned store on my rez that showed my 8 year old eyes the color of my skin as he stalked me like prey aisle-to-aisle, always a thief in his adult eyes.

Thank you for the bruises that covered my sister like war paint, painted by fists, baseball bat and a love created and mixed by your reservations, in wars she never won, dying every time.

Thank you for the U.S.D.A. approved diabetes that has stolen uncles, aunts, brothers, sisters, fathers, my mother.

Thank you for BIA and its IHS replacing our ceremonial medicine with prescribed addictions that have now stolen so many visions on the rez that it’s hard to see what comes next.

Thank you for compulsory sterilization creating and rewriting so many stories forever left broken and unfinished.

Thank you for the children starving reservations wide, left alone and staying up late, hoping their parent or parents didn’t drink or shoot up all the check.

Thank you for the alcohol related car wrecks that have turned epic poems into tragic short stories.

Thank for the tiny white crosses plunged deep like hot knives into our land and the reservation roadsides that always claim another victim from families dying a little inside every time they drive past them.

Thank you for the F.A.S. and F.A.E. babies turned high school dropouts because the Caucasian teacher from a different world was never taught enough before coming to the rez to teach.

Thank you for the reservation suicides that have killed the spirits of those left behind.

Thank you for using us as mascots, making our young ones feel uncertain in their skin and redefining honor for them by turning us into a cold, unfeeling, symbol for a sports team where drunken fans honor us by mocking us.

Thank you for leading us on to reservations with no guidebooks on how to live in your world on our land, where we are still stumbling and learning, trial by heartbreaking error, to this day.

Thank you for your stereotypical portrayal of us in film and the movies where the white men are the heroes saving the Indians despite the Native-like titles like Dances With Wolves, Thunderheart.

Thank you for stealing our land, raping it like some woman you never knew the name of, leaving her crying, traumatized, bleeding.

* * *

Thank you for razing our homeland, cutting it up into states, poorly piecing it together and shrouding us in it like a quilt infested with smallpox.

I am thankful for all of this for making me feel too fucking much.

I am thankful for all of this turning me into a clenched fist in times when words don’t hit hard enough.

I am thankful for all of this, for stirring the spirits of warriors dormant in us for centuries.

I am thankful for all of this because without it, I could never write this.

Thank you for the artillery, arrows for my bow.

Born a few centuries too late and raised on U.S.D.A. approved commodity everything, Jonathan Garfield is an enrolled Assiniboine tribal member of the Fort Peck Assiniboine and Sioux reservation in Montana. His stories document the tragedy forced on “his people” (which he loves saying ‘cause it sounds cool) that is the rez. Jonathan has been published in various Art & Literature magazines and quarterlies. His short story, “Reservation Warparties”, became a short film, adapted to a screenplay and directed by Angelique Midthunnder. The short film was featured on the program, Independent Lens, on PBS. Jonathan Garfield continues to write poetry and short stories. He is also a practicing trickster. 

Read more athttp://indiancountrytodaymedianetwork.com/2013/11/28/thanksgiving-poem-jonathan-garfield-152466

Ho Ho Ho, Who wouldn't go....

Greetings.

Somehow twenty years just slapped me in the face yesterday.  I arranged another hangout with my former high school art teacher and brought along an amazing artist, mom, dancer-turned-psychologist friend from high school senior art class to join in the fun.  We sat and yapped and drank and ate and reminisced and laughed and yapped some more for about four hours yesterday.  This particular friend struggled with a high school pregnancy when we were young and we even meandered through the first two years of higher education after that together.  Her son is now 20.  Whaaa?!  That's crazy.  We were young and confused back then and seemed so much older and wiser as we discussed days of yore.  Still battle little hang-ups and insecurities and decisions that seem to froth at the mouth with each angle we try to approach them from.  But it was all so delightful.

....but twenty years!?!?  Really!?!?!?  Twenty friggin years!?!?

Anyway.

The holidays have descended upon us yet again.   Hanukkah is Thanksgiving this year and Thanksgiving is just the start of Black Friday.  I really feel for those poor retail workers having to cut Turkey dinner early to go punch that time clock and deal with the MANIACS again this year.  Don't get me wrong...I love shopping for Christmas gifts and live on a budget and am always seeking extra discounts and ways to save.  But it's not my EVERYTHING.  Luckily, I get to sleep in til 7:45 a.m. Black Friday morning before I go figure things out in Small Business Land.  I'm thinking good thoughts.  Feeling some positive vibrations, mon.  We shall see where this year takes us.  Hopefully a little richer so I can actually get a raise for the ten added responsibilities I have taken on since taking over as manager of the boutique.

I really could use a financial break.  Really really could.

Sigh.

Starting out.

I have these ongoing struggles about what to do with my life, but I seem to have satisfied some of my more motherly instincts by managing college age and twentysomethings at the shop as they start off on their own life adventures.  I try to ingrain specific qualities in them. Whatever stepping stones they encounter as they shoot for their career and life goals, there are ALWAYS opportunities in whatever job they find themselves doing.  With THIS job, they can learn solid skills and techniques to advance and move towards their long term desires.  Every new lesson is another moment of experience to discuss in future professional interviews in their field.  I try to work with these girls individually, focusing on their background and how they could incorporate these lessons toward another one.  Am I trying to do too much?  I don't know.  Maybe the young kids could really care less.  But I'd like to think optimistically.

One of my key holders is a fashion designer, and while she gets stressed about her leadership abilities I try to encourage her in continuing the practice because it will only help her down the road as she leads her interns and assistants.  Coordinating and balancing and delegating gets easier with practice.  It's a rotating door of other employees as they each land their much desired 9-5 money-making gigs and I cannot lie and say the turnover doesn't bother me.  It does.  Tremendously so.  I sacrifice my own days off and free time to keep the operation running smoothly and cover all the shifts they don't want to do.  I know the owners appreciate what I'm doing, but I'm not always so sure the young girls do.  But hopefully the interview after interview after interview that I'm conducting will yield an assistant manager to complement my endeavors of teaching these girls life skills.

And hopefully I can actually take a vacation.  Or sign up for a French class at the Alliance Francaise.  Or take a jewelry making class.  Something to balance MY own life!

Or maybe the stress of it all will force me to find something new.  Again.

Today is my day off, and I'm feeling some creative surges of some sort.  It's my meditation.  And I need it.

beginning to see the light ...

I heard the news slowly trickle throughout the day.  Lou Reed died today.  This has always been one of my favorite songs, from the first time I heard it as I picked through old record stores:



I also have this strange connection to 'Walk on the Wild Side' as I landed in France for the first time when I was 18 and the first English I heard was this song blaring on the car radio.  It opened up a strange new world for me.  Funny how one single song can do that to ya.

I forever wonder and ponder and gaze out as life escapes us and hope the departed can feel all our love.

'How does it feeeel to be loooo-ooooved?'

??

Come dancing...

So in an effort to combat boredom and general malaise, I have been concentrating efforts on getting more active in any way I can.  Sometimes it's as simple as walking briskly a mile or two after work instead of relying on the bus.  Other times it's throwing some paint on a canvas, even if I don't have a clear vision of my next project.  I've also been immersing more in my French language studies, translating letters and sometimes just flipping to random pages in my big ass Larousse dictionnaire.

But my favorite new endeavor is DANCING.  I've been trying for months to gather some friends to go dancing with me and everyone appears to be 'too old to be out late' or 'it's a school night' or they just simply aren't interested.  So I gathered up some younger coworkers and took them to an old school club.  I stayed out dancing last night til 3:30 am!  And it felt so good!  I no longer care about 'being cool' or 'image' or being approached by pushy strangers.  I just wanted to dance, dammit.  And I found the perfect place to do so.  No inhibitions, just a crowd of people (yes, even an older crowd) who just simply love the music as I do and want to let off some steam.  Of course there are always a few assholes in the bunch who just like to go around and laugh at people but the difference now is I just don't care about those jerks anymore.  They're the weak fools with their own dumb issues and simply put: They Suck.  There were some older maniac dancers and plenty of idiots making fun of them.  I'm now that person who will go join the maniac dancers and JUST DON'T CARE.  Beat on the brat with a baseball bat, I say.

So what can I say.  I am embracing my freakiness and finding great comfort in being unique.  It's a good thing, for sure.

I am also happy to say I have been working hard on kicking myself free from several years of Ativan.  I struggled immensely for the past two months.  With the exception of one dose one week ago to alleviate insomnia and terrible dizziness, I have NOT relied on that damn pill that was WRONGLY DIAGNOSED  to me long term for the past three years.  With the help of my oldest dearest friend (who is a nurse) I am learning more about diet and essential oils.  Slowly but surely, things are turning around.

This requires a song clip, but there are so many I just don't know which one to choose.

Creepy Captcha

So I was curious about tickets for an upcoming musician's show in a few months and decided to see what seats were available.  When the Captcha test box popped up to determine if I was a computer bot or not, guess what CREEPY words popped up for me to type?

Manslaughter CSOOpera

WTF?  I ain't going to that creepy show now!

Am I paranoid?  Perhaps.  But I have a right to be.  This particular musician has a really fucking creepy little "world" surrounding him.

I am just going to laugh about it for the time being.

musical interludes

Wish I were in Paris.

http://youtu.be/uYTl1YA_uHQ

it's been twenty years....

Happy October.  My brother is in Europe and I am sitting back in the Midwestern United States of America arranging all his meetings with our family in France.  Mon oncle Marcel has left us, and I am so sad I was unable to see him one last time.  My family in France is half of my heart, and the distance is a little less severe with technology and international texting, but when those big life moments come up...je suis si triste.

I've been yanked by others on facebook to start coordinating our 20 year high school reunion.  I can't decide if it's something I want to do.  It might be nice to see where everyone's lives have taken them, but there are a few, well okay ONE person I do not want to see.  Stupid first boyfriend.  When I look back at high school, it was actually rather dark.  He was crazy, manic depressive, violent.  Makes me shudder to think back at certain moments.  And while it all happened over twenty friggin years ago, it took me quite some time to come to terms with those first experiences with 'love.'  So I guess as long as HE doesn't show up, I'll go.  Or not.  I just don't know.  I have the GOOD things from high school still in my life....very much alive and present and joyous.  My best girlfriends, my BFFs I think is what you call those gals....and my high school art teacher.  I get together with her every so often.  All these years later her critiques of my A-/B+ art projects live on as I sit at each canvas.  Funny how those people become part of your lives forever and ever.  Our graduating class is quite something.  Nearly 300 out of a class of 394 have expressed interest.  We are scattered across the USA and our Homecoming Queen is living in Casablanca.  A pair of high school sweethearts moved to LA after graduating and both are now retired porn stars.  Some are already grandparents.  Some are aspiring actors, housewives, veterinarians, engineers, teachers, tattoo artists, journalists, nurses and so on and so forth.  Me, I'm just me.  Shopgirl who rides lots of buses and wears her headphones as her best companion.  I dunno, we shall see where these reunion plans take us.  I guess I have a little time to think about it.

Oh, high school.  The Beastie Boys, Kurt Cobain's death, alternative music, scandalous high school news stories that made Chicago news, Madame N'est-ce Pas, red slushies and waffle fries for lunch, gossip, sharing lockers, riding the bus for an hour, running around in cornfields, first jobs at the mall, hanging out at Denny's.  Crazy that two decades have past. 

when the music fills your soul....

So I ventured out to this year's Riot Fest in Humboldt Park on Saturday.  I tried and tried to get someone to go with me, yet all I could find were former young coworkers going with tons of their BFFs to watch all the young(er) bands.  So my husband dropped me off and I went, IN THE POURING RAIN, all by myself.

And I actually had an awesome time.

I got there just in time to watch Peter Hook & the Light perform a Joy Division set.  The rain was not subsiding so I pushed my way up front (which I haven't done in years!) and thoroughly enjoyed those old songs I have always loved so well.  He sounded just like Ian Curtis singing...it was really impressive.  I can never get enough of Joy Division music.  And the feelings I got when I wandered around Manchester, UK back in the days of a Mancunian boyfriend.  Someone in the audience even held up an I (heart) MCR sign.  Great start to the day....

After the set I explored the grounds a bit.  Things were already starting to become a mud pit early on.  But once a girl scout, always a girls scout.  I was equipped with my shiny black hooded raincoat, a scarf I wore like a baboushka, and my Eiffel Tower rain boots.  There was a RIOT stage, ROCK stage, ROOTS, RISE and REBEL.  Carnival rides.  Food and beverages galore.  Circus freaks.  Punks.  Hot Topic kids.  Wandering circus performers.  Steampunk wind-up dolls.  And rain.  Buckets of rain.

I headed back up front for Bob Mould.  I have always loved everything from Husker Du to Sugar and everything in between and after.  I recently picked up his autobiography and will get around to reading it one of these days.  He was awesome.  He realized into about the fourth song that he had tons more to do in a set amount of time and so he just ripped through every song, one after the other after the other without even coming up for air.  It was awesome.

I glopped my way through the mud over to see Best Coast.  (I just made up the word glopped, as that's how it felt walking through the mudpits as they got deeper and deeper with each inch of rain that accumulated.)  Caught the tail end and the boyfriend song.  Cute.  I love those guys.

My older brother finally made it in from Milwaukee and I met up with him as Rocket From the Crypt took the stage.  I hadn't thought about them since seeing them on 120 Minutes back in the nineties.  They were a powerhouse!  And absolutely hilarious.  And they wore matching ensembles.  The crowds were starting to pick up....

Chowed on some curry fries and watched the Suicidal Tendencies....wandered around for awhile observing some of the younger bands I didn't really know much about.  It was definitely an awakening at how old I felt.  Watched AFI, surrounded by kids who were at the age in which I could potentially be the same age as their parents.

I was torn on whether or not to watch the Pixies and then head over for the Replacements.  I love the Pixies, but I was really set on watching those wacky Replacements.  The Replacements!!!  We decided to move up close for the Replacements while the Pixies performed their set.  Chowed on a $12 Polish Plate and stood in a big massive crowd for about an hour.  Couldn't really hear much Pixies except for a muted Wave of Mutilation as I stood in a big long line for the port o potties.  The adoring Replacements fans were pretty intense.  People had traveled to Chicago from all over the place to see them.  They were selling $10 foam middle fingers that spotted the crowd.  The guys took the stage after 9pm and were as amazing as you could imagine them to be.  And hilarious!  Paul Westerberg went over to the guitarist and told him to fix his fucking guitar so he didn't sound like the fucking Cure!  Or something like that.  Hahaha.  So funny.  They played stuff somewhat chronologically.  Punks to melodic, catchy tunes.  Everybody sang along.  I was beaming a big old smile by the end of the night and got on the El completely covered in mud.  I had music just roaring in my head....singing all my favorite songs from so many of my favorite musicians loudly in my own head.

I played some more music on the stereo when I got home and raved on and on to my husband about how much fun I had.  I told him every little detail and how amazing everyone sounded.  I was absolutely gushing and he just quietly turned to me and said, "I guess I just don't love music in the same way that you do."  How could anyone not be as impassioned about music as I am?  I don't know...I can't find the words for it.  But it absolutely amazes, confounds, brings me such joy and resonance.  I may have been alone in that crowd but as soon as the music starts I just don't feel even the slightest glimpse of loneliness.  I LOVE MUSIC.  What can I say...

And even a few days later, it's all still swirling around my head.

Writing frankly about depression...

I recognize the patterns of my "illness" more than I have in the past nowadays.  I just get so damn frustrated because I cannot tell what is happening organically and what are just byproducts of all these damn pills.  I had to get off one that was giving me panic attacks, but in order to do this, I had to increase my dosage on a different pill because the withdrawal symptoms were just terrible.  I've been working with doctors and have been doing everything with their supervision.  Mostly because the very last place I ever want to go is that damn hospital.  Those hospitals CAUSE PTSD!!  I am now working with my doctor to slowly taper off my bloody seroquel and it's brutal.  I've never abused street drugs but I imagine coming off of some of those things is what getting off some of these psychiatric drugs might be like.  Simultaneously, I am also trying to kick Ativan but I can't seem to go three days without popping one before bed.  Ugh.  One acquaintance even told me her old roommate had to go to rehab to get off prescribed medications.  It's ALL SO DAMN DEPRESSING!

Without even opening up about my personal experiences, my new coworkers are all taking assorted psychiatric drugs and have had all sorts of troubles and hospitalizations as well!  WHY AREN'T MORE PEOPLE TALKING ABOUT THIS STUFF?!?!

Ugh, I get so frustrated.  Part of me wants to jump in and help....volunteer...speak about my experiences...ANYTHING.  But the other part of me still can't figure out just what is RIGHT in this big mess that is the mental health field.  Do I believe in the pills?  Not at the moment.  Do I believe in psychotherapy?  Yes, to a certain extent.  But I think one needs to take a breather from it, too, at times.  I seem to have the same talk over and over again lately...to try for another pregnancy or not?  It's heavy heavy HEAVY in my heart, mind, body and soul.  I guess a 37th birthday can do that to a woman. Men are lucky that way....they can just go out and find a younger woman...

BLAH.  Anyway....

My sleep is not good.  I have crazy dreams that make me feel panicked while I'm asleep.  One is a recurring theme that I can't keep my college class schedule straight and I keep walking into the wrong lecture hall at the wrong time.  The other is a second job that I keep forgetting to go to.  Sometimes they get crazy and more crazy.  So trippy I can't even remember.  I vaguely remember one about not having a valid passport to leave the country and some office assistant was trying to expedite it for me.  I woke up thinking, "OH MY GOD!  I REALLY DO NEED TO GET A NEW PASSPORT!" and even took the next step to see what I had to do to go about getting a new one.  But I put it on the back burner because I don't have any friggin' vacation days to use and it will be a long time before I do again.

Sigh.  Those moments when REALITY stunts one's creative ability to escape through writing, painting and crafts are among the most sensitive.  When one's 'fuel' overcomes him or her...that's when it's most difficult.

Life is hard.  That's about all I have to say right about now.

Joyeux anniversaire....

Well I made it.  Made it to 37 years old.  Life has been nothing of what I thought it might be but it's not all that bad.  I have a roof over my head, food to eat, family and friends who love me, and a full time job.  I wish I had money to travel a bit more, didnt have to deal with depression and swallow pills everyday, and could lose all this weight I've put on, but I'm working on those things.

I was able to forget my stressors for a few days and celebrated for four days in a row!!

Day 1:  The parents drove up and we visited a new shopping center and I found some treats.  Went to the casino and enjoyed four miniature desserts at the buffet.  I sat down with my dad and gave him $1 bill to play in a quarter slot machine and he won $112!

Day 2:  The mister had the day off work and we did all our favorite things...went to the used book/music store, saw a movie, shopped and dined at Lou Malnati's aka Best Pizza in the Nation.

Day 3:  After work, dined on chicken pot pie in Wicker Park.

Day 4:  After work, sampled assorted beers and ate The Big Cheezy burger at my favorite Lincoln Square joint.  And ten minutes into our meal, a couple was seated next to us and it was my old coworker friend whom I hadn't seen in six years!  Lovely dinner together.

And voilá!  On a bien fêté!

I sometimes wish life could be more exciting or something.  But c'est la vie.  I can't always take five months off from life and wander around Paris.  But I am so glad i did just that when I could, so that on those 'boring' days i have memories to last toujours...

Impressionism, Fashion, and Modernity

I spent the most lovely afternoon at the Art Institute, hopping around to visit some of my old faves and taking a peek at the Impressionism, Paris, Fashion, etc exhibition which is going on through September.  I usually shy away from the big blockbuster shows because it's usually so crowded one can't even get close enough to read the curatorial blurbs about the artworks.  But I packed all my patience and curiosity to weave through the crowds and enjoyed it all so much.  I absolutely fell in love with this one:

http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Shop_Girl_(Tissot)

....because there is so much going on, so many stories and sights to take in every day while keepin' shop.  It makes me smile when I encounter a painting that looks back at me like a mirror of sorts.

I remember visiting a museum in Rouen while I was staying there for a few months and catching my first glimpse of the old corsets made of iron. Quelle horreur!!  What various degrees of beauty we surpass over the eras...and how do these trends even begin?  How did the corsets and bustles aesthetics come to fruition?  Did it start in an instant with one very first painting depicting this new found 'beauty' in its image?  Especially after an era of the more 'plump' and natural images of women were recreated in paintings for so many years before?  It's just amazing to me how sometimes what seems such a superficial fashion trend can depict so much more as you start to discuss and peel away the layers...

I cannot comprehend all the modern fashion trends and the rage...the sensation...that they all create.  I look at fashion magazines and see clips of the runway.  I don't always get the appeal.  And I am certain I am not alone in this thought.  My very first trip I took by myself to Paris as a teen opened my eyes to a whole new idea of expressing oneself through individual style.  I remember standing in line in Passeport Controle at Orly and Betsey Johnson was standing next to me.  I remember the Parisian girl my age directing me to the baggage claim turnstyle and her red patent leather platforms.  Fashion is such a small detail in the big grand scheme of life and all things of utmost importance....but it certainly blends together to help create an experience.

Le mois d'aout

It's the second day of August, and summer is flying by so fast.  I've been working a lot, spending a lot and walking a lot.  Actually, I'm not spending nearly as much as other people i know, but for me, it's substantial.  I purged lots of old clothes and am making room for the new.  I got a raise and a promotion, so really I ought to be smart and save save save.  But I guess it's been a while since I've been able to treat myself and so I am doing just that.

Hello green Fly London wedges!  Minnetonka fringe sandals!  Caroline Gardner reed diffuser!  Skunkfunk bag!  Orla Kiely book bag!  Thrift store books!  Criterion movies!  Oh me oh me oh my!  Can I just say that everything but the Fly Londons were deeply discounted?

I took a stroll downtown today, fighting all the crowds from that big old three-day music festival that hits Chicago each summer.  I remember when that L word festival was truly an alternative outing during the oh so alternative nineties.  My how things have changed. I was talking to a younger employee the other day about the olden days.  Haha.  It's funny that I've reached that point in my life where the youngins ask me questions about those days of yore...

I had an enjoyable day at that other three day music festival that hits Chicago each summer.  The P one. I was surprised to discover how much I thoroughly enjoyed hearing The Breeders perform the 1993 album Last Splash.  Took me back.

Happy August.

Heat wave.....

I could spend a few hours coming up with all the songs about hot hot heat floating around youtube, but I don't want any more reminders!!!  The A/C doesn't work well at the shop, my husband's car has no air, our apartment has one small bedroom unit.  I had big plans to go sunbathe in the park or near the lakefront but opted for a good old fashioned stroll through the shopping mall.  Found a new pair of yellow pants (yellow pants?!?!) and a pretty white cottony blouse.  I stayed away from the record store.  I have to stash some cash for my excursion to Pitchfork over the weekend.  It's the big bro's birthday and so I told him I'd treat him to some beer and grub.  What am I doing going to such a hip music festival?  I dunno.  I'm certainly not hip like I once was.  I don't know what happens as we age and all our coolness factors just don't seem to matter much anymore.  I suppose I still follow fashion trends to a certain extent, but walking around the mall today i was having freaky flashbacks to the nineties as every piece of clothing I picked up was an exact replica of stuff I wore in high school.  I saved some stuff I bought during my first trip to France in the nineties and I'm thinking i can recycle some of it all these years later...if I can fit in them!  Eek!

The new job is keeping me busy.  Got a raise and was told by the owners how happy they are with my work and how I stepped right into a difficult role and flew with it.  So that's good.  I'm still not rolling in the dough and wish financial stress wasn't such an intense role in my life.  But it's all about one's outlook.  What makes us happy?  What are our priorities regarding happiness?  Age old question, for sure.

Happy summer.

turquoise

I experienced a strange day today.  Still getting used to my commute two days a week to a new suburb, I've been playing around with all the different public transport routes.  And sometimes they are disastrous.  Or maybe not.  Depends how you look at it, n'est-ce pas?

I SWEAR I read the train schedule last night and saw there was a 9:48 train.  So the Mr. drives me a few miles across town to the stop and I stand at the platform and wait.  And wait.  And wait.

An elderly grandmother walks up to me, as I was the only person standing at the platform, and asks me if I've seen her granddaughter get off the last train.  It was a scorcher, and I was sitting in the shaded hut sweating like a pig while trying to fan myself.  I told her there were quite a few folks who got off the last train and wasn't too sure if her granddaughter was one of them.  She saw me sweating and asked me if I wanted to sit with her in her air-conditioned car to wait for the train.  I assured her I'd be fine (not wanting to go into the details with a complete stranger how my medication makes me sweat profusely) and she wandered off to look for her.  A few minutes later a young girl new to the city asked me if she was standing on the right platform for the outbound.  I told her yes, and that it seemed like the train was late.  She then informs me that there is not another train for over an hour.  WHA!?!?  I immediately panicked.  Of course, I check the schedule again on my phone and I had erroneously (or subconsciously?) added an extra 9:48 train in my head.  The Mr. turned back around and drove alllll the way back to pick me up and drive me to work so I wouldn't be late.  I walked with the new girl and asked her if she was going to wait for an hour at the platform.  She was unfamiliar with the area and I pointed out a nice cool coffee shop for her to wait.  She thanked me, I thanked her, and we were on our way.

As I walked down to the street again, the grandmother was still walking around with her cane looking for her granddaughter fifteen minutes later.  Some weird strange force compelled me to look a block away, across the street and pointed, "Is that her sitting over there by the diner?"  The grandmother's panic turned to surprise and I walked a few difficult steps with her to the corner and she exclaimed, 'That's her!  You found her!' and continued to thank me profusely for being there to help her.

So somehow it was a little slab of destiny or whathaveyou that guided me there to that platform at that particular time.  I ended up getting to work with fifteen minutes to spare, just enough time to slam down an iced mocha, but broke two fingernails within minutes of being there.  Weird.  And it was busy busy buzzing all day so the day fleeeew by...

But the commute home was a two-hour one.  I came home to stare at the canvas I painted turquoise yesterday.  I was trying to watch a documentary about autism that I picked up at the library but for some reason I kept looking over at that turquoise I painted yesterday.  What is it about that color that grabs me?  I'm sure any qualified color theorist would have a quick answer.  But I stared at it for so long that I am having trouble picking up another color to complete the third part of a five-piece set I have been working on.  I dunno.  I guess the right time will appear again and I will just know when to continue on...

beginning again...

And so the changes continue as I step into my new roles.  "Retail is retail," is what a coworker stated last week, and while this is true, it still takes some getting used to whenever you take on a new line of sales.  Going from books and multimedia to fashion is a HUGE change.  Conversations are different, opinion matters, sharing somewhat superficial thoughts about accesorizing a dress is a completely different realm than books.  But it's not bad.  It's easier.  Not that 'easy' is something I was striving for...in fact, one full week in and I'm worried if I will be able to stick with the new gig long-term.  But one thing is for CERTAIN: I am SO happy I am not sitting at home collecting unemployment.  That would have driven me CRAZY and my stress levels would be over the sun, moon and stars and even BEYOND.

My last day at the bookstore was bittersweet.  I will most certainly miss it.  I was given a chocolate cake with french script.  It read:

Quel dommage!
Le depart de Nikki
Nous vous manquerons
Bon au revoir notre amie
a bientot

It was a sweet tribute.  And we went for a few drinks after work for a lovely sendoff.  Such good good memories I will have.

And so this week has felt somewhat adventurous.  I've been exploring new public transport routes and learning a new suburb's ins and outs.  And i actually love the fact that I will be splitting my time between two stores.  It's a nice variety.  So we shall see  My new schedule is strange and it doesn't do much for my social life NOR my marriage.  But again, I am relieved to have a job and not be sitting around chewing my fingernails looking for work.

I borrowed The Life and Times of Frida Kahlo again from the library.  And I was feeling motivated, if not only for a second, to try and make art from this thing that I call my life.  Especially as I move forward with this change. 

On verra, mes amis.  On verra.

once in a lifetime...

I feel like I am living in a movie.  The ending is near, but it's been a rather anticlimactic plot.  Like one of those odd sort of foreign films that don't really go anywhere but the viewer is still somehow entertained and mesmerized.  On Saturday,

FIN

and the credits will roll.

I have enjoyed my eight years in a bookstore, and with my departure I take along great stories and characters and memories.  New adventures await, 'tis true, but nothing could ever replace the ambiance of a building stocked high with MUSIC and MOVIES and BOOKS and COFFEE and GIFTS.  I wonder which customers really will come see me at the new gig, and which customers will I never see again?  I am savoring every moment of this last week...every ride on the train...every research request to determine what the customer is thinking of...every exchange...everything.  Oh, I could write a book, and yes, you may reply, why don't you?

I'll figure it out someday, someway.

Workin' workin' workin'

Whew!  Just finished a nine day work stretch.  How the hell did I work three jobs AND take classes in the 90s?  I dunno.  Funny how age just suddenly creeps up on us like it does.

As of today, I have eight more shifts at the bookstore.  I have nearly been in tears saying goodbye to people.  And I am sure as the last days continue some real tears will indeed be shed.  I have been so comfortable in my position, like it was something that suited me so well.  I am sad.  It's a very bittersweet farewell.

I have been starting up the new gig and learning all the ropes.  I am hanging my head in sadness as vacation becomes some elusive thing.  And a pay cut.  And expensive health insurance.  I have already reworked my new budget and it's sad.  Thank God for free events.  (Sharon Van Etten was awesome Monday night!)

I am hoping a creative surge hits again.  Working like this sucks the life out of me....

Beginnings and endings...

I have 11 shifts left in the bookstore and have already begun my new role in fashion.  Once a shopgirl, always a shopgirl, but going from Criterion movie conversations to accessorizing are completely different worlds.  It's an adjustment, for sure.  But I am hopeful it will be a welcome change.

I am sad about leaving the bookstore realm, and especially sad to leave behind the colorful cast of characters that have been my customers and have become my friends.  I am going to miss the snobby classical customers who are repeatedly impressed that I can spell Haydn and Rachmaninov.  I am going to miss Alan the jazz enthusiast who tells me about all the latest government conspiracy theories.  I am going to miss Betty who thinks I am a GENIUS when I can google the cause of death of all her favorite old actors.  I will miss Andrew and his penchant for softcore gay male porn that he hides from his mom.  And my train enthusiast customer who asks me if I'm still taking the trains every Saturday night.  It's going to be a different world.  My only hope is that my next collection of customers is just as endearing.

Parting is such sweet sorrow.  Tear.

the cost of a compliment

So I don't talk about it much to anyone at all, but I have been seeing a therapist for the last two years.  I have gone through all kinds of phases reconciling the value of therapy, but I would definitely say it has helped me.  The extent of my discussion about it before this interweb blog posting is to jokingly call the Mr. when I get home and exclaim, "I'm home from therapy and I'm alllllll healed!" 

I was assigned a therapist after my first hospitalization for bipolar depression (or whatever they labeled it at that time) back in 2003.  I complied and attended each session, even though I felt worse every time I left the office.  I did so for a few months, and was completely turned off after being assigned a homework type of assignment where I was to present a visual display of my support system.  Man, I spent hours on it, and ended up with a really organized sort of family-tree-looking diagram detailing all of my friends and family at the time and what each person represented to me as far as support.  Anxious to discuss it at my next session, I sat through what felt like 30 minutes of scolding and not even a small mention of the aforementioned assignment.  Time was up, so I brought it up.  The therapist looked at it for two seconds and humored me with, "Oh wow!  Look how organized you are!  Good girl! (or something to that effect)"  And that was it.  I didn't show up for my next appointment and didn't even call her back after she left me a scathing message for my absence.

But I gave it another go 8 years later, after finishing up an outpatient therapy session and being advised by a therapist there that he didn't see the 'schizoaffective disorder' that the psychiatrist at the time was labeling me and gave me a list of therapists to try.  I called a few, and I can't for the life of me remember what made me decide to choose the one I did.  But I gave it a go, and I have been attending every two weeks for the past two years now.  Tonight, she summarized our two years with a compliment that has calmed me.  She looked back at where I was two years ago, jacked up on all kinds of pills that made me sicker, merely existing and shuffling through life, sleeping all the damn time, etc.  And presented me with present day:

-I have become my own advocate dealing with psychiatrists and actually got them to listen to my requests regarding some of the horrendous side effects.  I now have a life as a result.

-I have bounced back from the rejection of a bad job review in what can sometimes be a harsh corporate world and have developed new skills to bring forth more opportunities (one of which I am starting TOMORROW.)

-I have quit smoking.

-I have properly grieved for the loss of loved ones.

-I have let go of the past and learned to look further into the future than ever before.

-And most importantly, I learned that I have worth, reasons to be confident, intelligence and was even told I have gifts.

I may still struggle a bit as far as the career goes, but I have come a looooong way.

New job tomorrow!

Ok, so crisis not averted...

Ugh.

So health insurance through the Mr.'s job is going to cost us $440 a month.  Well, NEWSFLASH!!!  WE DON'T HAVE AN EXTRA $400 A MONTH!!!  Yes, I will be getting a few weeks severance pay, but it will only cover a few months.  I have agreed to start my new job on my days off from my current job for the next month.  And so I am preparing myself for the possibility of working two jobs like I always used to do.  The Mr. and I already don't see much of each other, so I reckon this will continue until that new and improved, um, LIFE finally decides to settle into existence.

I know there are MANY suffering much worse circumstances than me.  I don't even want to get into suffering and coping strategies.  I watch the coverage of those affected by the recent tornadoes in Oklahoma and feel lousy for even mentioning my dilemmas.  But dilemma after dilemma with very few breaks or 'luck' is something difficult to endure.  Life isn't easy, and nobody ever told me it would be, but man oh man.  I sure wish life were 'easy' sometimes.

I have been holding things together for a very long time.

Success!

Yay!  Crisis averted.  Well, not quite yet.  But getting there.  I have accepted a new position with a small family-owned business.  And I am feeling such mega relief from the fact that I will NOT have to endure what I hear are horrors down at the unemployment office.

Whew!

I will indeed miss the conversations that come with working in a bookstore, but I suppose ANY kind of conversation can come up when your CUSTOMERS become your FRIENDS.  And I hope that my old customers will come in and be my new customers. 

Sadly, I have to say, this line from the job offer stands alone in NEON FLASHING LIGHTS for me:

"We could definitely use someone of your stature to help run our business."

As I mentioned elsewhere, this FINALLY made me feel like an adult!  Who knew when I started selling shoes at age 16 that I would still be a shopgirl TWENTY YEARS LATER!!!

Who knew....

States of transition...

This week marks the beginning of the six week period I have left on my current job.  I am frazzled and cannot concentrate on anything but my job search.  I tried to sit down and watch Shoot the Piano Player last night, but I couldn't concentrate.  Even on a French film, which usually has me glued to the subtitles as I train my brain to notice new phrases to memorize. 

I have applied to anything that sounds remotely interesting.  I have no problem continuing my position as a shopgirl, as long as it's something I can get behind and actually enjoy selling and speaking about.  Washers and dryers--no.  Underwear--no.  But something that is creative and inventive and interesting and somehow beautiful.  I have also applied to office jobs, even though I know my twenty years of retail background does not appeal to hiring managers in a clerical setting.  I have even applied for entry-level positions in the field of mental health.  And museums.  And cute boutiques.  And record stores.

I'm in a strange limbo...squeezing in all my doctors appointments and hoarding my prescriptions while I still have health insurance.  I have prepared myself for the unexpected--that of not having health coverage.  I will probably have to forfeit my therapy sessions, which have helped me to gain confidence and be assured that I will NOT end up in one of those god awful hospitals again.  I jotted down some support group information and I am thinking about trying my first session in another week.  How I wish I had a supporter to accompany me.  Navigating the realms of mental health can be frightening.  You just never know what kind of personality you're going to encounter, or if you are on the verge of experiencing something entirely too negative to be a strive toward recovery.

So many things to juggle.

And if nothing lines up in time for my position to end, what if I don't qualify for unemployment?  I am so nervous I have invested in some bottles of wine to keep my anxiety to a minimum.

My Bumbling Job Hunt

So it's been a few days since receiving the news that I am being laid off in six weeks.  My emotions have run rampant across the board....sadness, anxious, anger, frustration, depression, fear and pessimistic.  Basically, everything you learned in college about How To Find A Job is completely obsolete.  One can no longer walk into a place of business and ask to speak to the manager.  There are Affirmative Action regulations involved in the recruiting process and most places can't even speak to you.  Calling the HR to inquire about your resume submission is no longer acceptable as the applicants have probably quadrupled in size since the dawn of internet job applications.  I have been relaxing with a glass of wine each night as I sit down to my computer to type away my job prayers after each eight hour shift and two hour commute at the current job.

I am trying to navigate my way through LinkedIn, only to find that my heartfelt hello message accompanying my connection request to former colleagues is shoved away into an e-file of lost messages as I see the former colleague has over 500 connections and OBVIOUSLY doesn't have time to shoot back a quick hello to me.  Or I guess I should have been participating in this LinkedIn game all these years.  And there is a part of me that cannot help but think some of my former directors, while giving me big bear hugs when they see me in person, have all avoidance when it comes to connecting to me professionally after bearing witness to my various medical leaves mandated by psychiatrists.  I feel like I have a big black X through my name in any organization that shares an affiliation with these former colleagues.  Discrimination?  Yes.  But nothing that I could ever prove in any way.  But I tell you what, it makes me A-N-G-R-Y and makes me think I ought to pack up and move to a land where nobody knows me.

And so I am putting one foot in front of the other as I strive for something that suits me best.  I know a lot about music...a lot about movies....a fine taste for interesting and artful wares...a supporter of arts, culture and education....an awesome force of genuine, sweet, old-fashioned customer service...a smile...prompt....a hard-worker...patient...fair...firm....creative....passionate shopgirl with so much to offer.  Now how do I roll that all up into one fine package for the next hiring manager I encounter?

I am squeezing in all my doctor's appointments in the event that I won't be able to afford health insurance, which, sadly, is highly likely.  I also need to stock up on cheap red wine to get me through these days.  There's a liquor store right by my psychiatrist's office.  Think he'd hear my bottles rattling in my recycled wine tote as I ask him for a year of Seroquel and Ativan?  Do you think he'll be concerned??

I have an interview tomorrow with a boutique.  I have prepared my ensemble and organized my portfolio.  However, my finest Ann Taylor tunic has a loose hem which I have no way to fix except with thin slices of packing tape.  Will this make me or break me?

low blows

Well, my vacation was great.  While it lasted.  Texas is an enormous place filled with so much history and culture and fantastic sites to see.  And great record stores.  And great food.  And there is just so much about the South that I love!  Strangers smile at one another on the streets.  Everything is 'Yes, ma'am.' and 'Yes, sir.'  But the highlight of my trip was seeing my dear grandpa Louis.  He is 92 and my last surviving grandparent.

Work, however, was disastrous today.  After a 2 hour morning management meeting, I was called into the office at 10am and was informed that I am being laid off.  My last day is June 15th.  I was offered a very small severance package, or a transfer into a heavy sales position at a larger location.  WORST FIRST DAY BACK FROM VACATION EVER!!!!!!  My emotions were across the board all day today, and still are at this moment.  The thought of messy unemployment procedures and expensive COBRA insurance and my $900/month prescription gives me terrible anxiety.  My stomach has been in knots.

Needless to say, I poured myself some wine tonight.

Terrible terrible day.

Howdy from Texas...

Oh Lordy, Lordy.  I have done my fair share of supporting independent record stores over the past few days.  My brother, mother and I have been driving around Texas supporting local businesses as far as the eye can see.  We hit Cactus Records in Houston, Waterloo Records in Austin, Superflys Lone Star Music and Hastings in San Marcos and there will be more.  So far, I've picked up Wavves, Big E's Lone Star Record Hop compilation of today's best Texas Rockabilly, Rock Rock Rock French Rock 1956-1959, Wayne Hancock, used Jesus & Mary Chain, Jim White, Peter Tosh, an old Love and Rockets, Chill Arabia. Richard Ashcroft, France compilation, Paul Weller, Los Amigos Invisibles, and Los Straitjackets.  Whew!  We hung out at Gruene Hall, have wandered Austin and all bought Have A Willie Nice Day Willie Nelson t-shirts, ate lots of BBQ and are now headed down to the Gulf of Mexico to visit my dear grandpa.  Time always flies by so quickly on these trips.   Sniff!

The 25 children of Quanah Parker

Around the time this book, Empire of the Summer Moon, came out, something strange was unfolding in my mother's quest to learn more about her family blood lines.  She was adopted in Oklahoma in 1950 after her birth mother, unwed and afraid and alone, gave her over to my grandma Beth to raise.  We knew only a little bit about mom's birth mother....that she was part Indian, had reddish hair and was a nursing student alongside Grandma Beth, who was one of the instructors.  Nothing much was known about my mom's birth father, except that he was supposedly Indian and he was a musician.

So as everything in the information age percolates with each year, my mom turned to the internet in the 2000s and put a brief posting on an Oklahoma adoption board with what little information she had about her birth mother, leaving an email if anyone had any more information.  In about 2006, a random man stumbled upon my mom's message and knew exactly whom my mom was looking for.  It was his aunt.  Of course, nobody knew about this hidden pregnancy, and when the birth mother was approached about it, she flatly denied ever such thing happened.  She laughed, we were told, and exclaimed, "I never had a child out of wedlock!"  So my mom, understandably let down, didn't pursue it any further.

But my mom's new-found cousin did anything but shun her.  He connected her with other relatives and told her that her birth mother is from the line of Parkers made famous by Quanah, the half-breed Comanche chief, and his white mother Cynthia Ann Parker and her stand-out story of native captivity in American history. You know, the story The Searchers is based on:



Weird, right?  So a customer came in looking for The Searchers DVD.  I located it for him and asked if he's read the new book out on the Searchers.  He says he has, and that he and his wife are just fascinated by this story!  I asked him if he read Empire of the Summer Moon.  He says he has, and that his wife is currently reading it, too.  He just can't get over what a neat story it is.  And so I decided to tell him my strange new news, that I recently found out I am a descendent of Quanah Parker.  That I am just now slowly learning more about it.  He was so enraptured by this story of American history and he immediately became infatuated with my connection to it and asked me a few questions.  I explained what little I could, and reminded him that Quanah had at least 25 children by a number of wives.  But he thanked me and I wished him well.

Apparently, his wife came in looking for Quanah Parker's great great great granddaughter the next day.  Um, if she meant me, it was my day off.

It truly is an interesting discovery, as are so many of our rich family tapestries we continue to weave with each generation.  Sadly, my mom received word that her birth mother has passed away.  Their connection was never realized.  It's heart-breaking to me that a woman held on to her values of 1950 and denied the existence of a baby she carried in her womb for nine months.  How can a woman simply block that from her consciousness?  How could she just forget?  What was her story?  Who was my mom's birth father?  So many unanswered questions which will remain dormant for eternity.

Family histories can be as convoluted and twisted as our nation's own history can be.  I feel proud to be part Native American.  I just wish there was a way to celebrate it more, in a more communal fashion.  In a place where I would be accepted.

No wonder my mom has always liked that Half-Breed song by Cher.  

Divisionism

I haven't seen all of Woody Allen's films, but I am slowly catching up thanks to my local library.  I have absolutely fallen in love with Purple Rose of Cairo and it's crazy descent in breaking the fourth wall.  We live in such a silly time of celebrity and illusion and this film from the eighties makes us think about it all over again decades later.  So much fun and whimsy in this one:




(RIP)

I am someone who definitely gets lost in movies, books, plays, even a song from time to time.    My life is so ordinary and mundane and anything that allows my imagination to soar brings me such extreme joy.  There have been times where imagination has gotten the best of me and I can't even begin to describe those times in simple unsung English.  But when healthy doses of imagination curtail sadness...well, those are some pretty powerful sentiments.  Harnessing imagination is an art in and of itself, and as I continue to write and create stuff of my own I seek this type of knowledge and ability.  I want to be that adventurous writer.  It's in me....buried somewhere beneath the medication I take...

Have you ever been thrown into a moment of surreality that somehow similarly breaks the fourth wall? I can think of a few instances in my life where imagination and reality have been blurred.  One happened at a concert many, many years ago, when its star approached me in a crowded audience.  (I'd drop his name if this weren't the big bad internet and I knew fanatical fans of his keep his name locked down on widespread google alerts.  They can be pretty scary...)  As the spotlight followed him and he moved closer and closer to me over in the corner, I remember looking down at my feet, as if I needed to firmly plant my feet on the ground.  I guess he wanted me to jump up onstage and dance around and put on a show for him and everybody else in that crowded theatre.  I guess that's what he expected.  But that wasn't (and still isn't!) my personality and so I think I might have embarrassed him or something by rejecting such an advance.  The whole incident only lasted half the length of a song, yet here I sit all these years later reminiscing about it and the impact it had on how I view and accept my confidence, or lack thereof I guess I should say.  I once told a therapist about the incident and she turned it into something sexual about it being my first big sexual encounter and yada yada yada.  But it was more than just that.  It was a reality-infused swan dive (or cannonball depending on how you view it) into the imagination.  And how we perceive stage folk and their glittery shining hologram-like suits.  And how so very different 'celebrity' and 'real folk' can be.  A curator once suggested the term 'divisionism.'  Like there is a great big wall dividing our worlds...

Interesting stuff to ponder.

random acts of kindness, etc.

I survived April Fools Day unscathed.  WXRT got me last year good with that ELO brunch business.  D'oh!  I was really looking forward to an Electric Light Brunch every Sunday after Breakfast with the Beatles.  I had a nice chuckle, though, over the email from Redbox advertising the launch of new lunch meat dispensers and also the maxi tube dress offer from Urban Outfitters.  It didn't have a place to free one's arms and they were kept under wraps under the dress.  Silliness.  I wonder how many folks fell for it?

A young lady approached me at work today and said, "I just wanted to give this to you and say thanks."  It was a little card.  I thanked her and she smiled and walked away.  I opened it, and it was a bouquet of Hallmark flowers that said "Thank you" and inside was a handwritten note that read, "Thank you for your service!  You are appreciated!"  There was no signature and I did not recognize the girl who handed it to me.  It was rather sweet, actually.  A random act of kindness that I will be sure to pay forward somehow.  I do wonder what the story is behind it, though.  Hmmmm.

I am missing a friend DJing at a local bar tonight.  The thought of sitting in a bar right now sounds so dreadful to me.  Will I ever shake this funk of being a homebody?

On a far-out stretched note, I have been listening to this song again recently.  I think it may just be the most perfect rock-n-roll delivery.  Optimism, fun chord changes, and an explosively positive ending chorus:

'How does it feeeeeel to be loooooo-ooooo-oooooved?
How does it feeel to beeee looooo-oooo-ooooooved?'



Perfection.

here comes peter cottontail...

The countdown to vacation begins and it can't get here soon enough.  Sometimes a break from it all is the only prescription for doledrum.  I have been congested all week due to the weather, a cold, allergies, whathaveyou and irritability got the best of me when a small song research project for a lazy (and-in-a-hurry) customer resulted not in a sale, but a "oh wow-how did you find that? can you write that down so I can get it at the library?"  So rude!  That's like not leaving a tip for your server.  I wanted to clobber her or at least poke a pin to her plastic surgery face or something of this nature.  So uncharacteristic of me but it's true!  19 days til vacation!

I watched the film Italian For Beginners and it was a delightful jaunt down memory lane to my own personal recollection of taking Italian classes in college.  It was a low-budget funny camera swirling of hardships and life stories bringing together an eclectic group of characters and all the romantic hiccups that followed.  I took Italian at 8am for a semester in 1997 alongside a global group of music majors all learning to perfect their Verdi and Puccini.  Strange things transpired with a flirty Italian teacher named Franco and the melodramatic cancellation of our celebratory "arrivederci" dinner at the finale of the class.  Ah, the stuff quirky foreign films are made of.  I think I may go on an Italian film binge soon...

Keeping up with my brother in NYC this Easter weekend, he led my radar to Testament of Mary and I'm anxious to download the e-book at work tomorrow and later discuss his viewing of the play he watched tonight.  I've always felt an affinity for the subject, in ways which words cannot convey, and I am eager to be thought-provoked.   To be continued...

I wish you a Joyeuses Paques.  Peace....

printemps...the first day...

I ran a few errands this March Chicago morning.  Bundled up in my down-filled coat and hat and gloves and insulated Merrell boots.  On the first day of spring.  Part of being a Chicagoan is talking about the weather all the time with strangers.  Seriously.  Especially as everyone shivers together at a bus stop.  It frustrates us so, but we are all so inclined to keep on complaining about it and bonding over the overall discomfort.

But good news--tickets to Tejas are booked for mid April!  Eighty degrees, here I come!  I used to spend every summer in Texas visiting grandparents so I always feel a little smile coming on every time I get on that plane or in the backseat of my parent's car.  My dear grandfather Tex is still going strong and I need to spend some quality time with him.  He's always complained about my life choices--about my decision to NOT get a driver's license even though he gave me his old car, about my decision to leave college with only an A.A. in French, about various career choices and extended travel jaunts I've made.  But he's proud of my work at the bookstore and says it's my 'best job yet.'  I know it's not the most glamorous of positions nor do I have the drive to move up the corporate ladder, but it suits me.  I know my bosses expect me to gain more skills and take on more responsibility, but my anxiety prevents me from doing so.  I suffer from anxiety, extreme at times, and it hinders me.  I wish there were a way to effectively communicate this in my next review...especially to prevent being slammed and criticized for not advancing.  Why don't people understand that some people are comfortable and will continue to do well in a mid-level management job...that not everyone MUST move up and up and up until they are the leader supreme?  It's not that I'm unmotivated...that's not it at all.  I'm just more comfortable with a small team to lead in a specialty department that I love so well.  Anyway, I am very much looking forward to a week's vacation and escape from all the politics.  Beaches, family, Austin, Snoopy's in Corpus, Benjamin's Surf Shop, San Antonio, talking to Grandpa...it will be fantastic.

I picked up more movies at the library.  Mongol, Tideland, The Crazy Stranger.  I talk about movies and music and books a lot at work and can give pretty decent recommendations when asked.  But as far as writing reviews for these things, I dunno.  I can appreciate many creative undertakings--these art-makers can do things I can never imagine myself accomplishing.  They have discipline and skill.  While some works I appreciate more than others, I just feel a little funny about being a critic.  I have too much respect for creative folk.  These are the people who can make magic happen.  All of these works enrich my life in some strange, fantastic way...

Frozen through and through

Ah!  Eeh!  Achoo!

This time last year it was eighty degrees!  Eighty degrees!  It's craziness!  Wind chill today was about 10 degrees.  Ten degrees!  Oh when winter lingers like this it makes everyone more and more crabby as each frozen day continues...

My world of books and movies and music is keeping me company.  Picked up the new David Bowie. Three cheap Miramax movies: Malena, Italian for Beginners, and Map of the Human Heart.  Went to see Stoker, complete with Korean subtitles.  Watched The Painted Veil.  Reading American Heiress and The Marriage Plot.  How does my brain handle all this at once?  I dunno, but I love it.  And tomorrow I will run off for my Wednesday library jaunt and pick up more more more!

Maybe I should write helpful reviews for all this stuff.  Perhaps someday.

Other than that, my current pleasure is helping customers who think I'm a GENIUS when I google an answer for them.  I oughtta change my name badge to Nikkipedia.

jacques dutronc and the bolan boogie

I spent the evening with a not-so-good Redbox movie while re-reading my recent mail and letters from my family in France.  Nothing better than handwritten letters.  In a foreign language.  With accents aigus and everything.  Since ma grandmere passed away in November 2012, I have been missing all things French now more than ever.  (Why won't the airfare come down?)  Elle etait ma source d'inspiration de toute ma vie.  She came to me in a dream a few weeks back and told me she's doing fine...and that she loved all the flowers...

J'aime les fleurs aussi.



and the bolan boogie...

Rainy days.

Another day of scanning, sorting, shelving and alphabetizing.  Very quiet.  My clothing was entertaining us all.  I wore an old top I had forgotten in my closet.  It was a black, mock turtleneck with silver asymmetrical buttons and two front pockets.  (Sorry, no photos.). But I resembled a sort of sci-fi orderly.  Or a sci-fi dentist.  So funny.  I had planned to bust out my blue suede Doc Martens boots from the late nineties, but it was raining and I didn't want to risk the raindrops on my blue suede.  I bet you wouldn't risk it either if you saw them.

A group of special needs students stopped in today and I helped some of them find the latest Glee CDs.  One of the students kept reciting a line from a movie over and over and over again.  I can't quite place which movie but it was darling.  Except he kept repeating shhhhh---and I was worried the word 'shit' could have come out of his mouth and didn't want the little kids to hear it.  But crisis averted.  No 'shit' was said.

And so the rain continues to drizzle sporadically.  I hid under my bright yellow umbrella and not a drop fell on little ol' me.

kapow

It was anything but an extraordinary day.  The snow outside is melting, the winter shuffles are being replaced by warmer weather and a spring in everyone's step.  It's such an odd sensation....when things start shifting...when winter lifts again and rejuvenation begins again.  I often wonder how I'd fare living in a climate that does not have such drastic changes in the seasons.

I helped about ten customers over an eight hour period....so painstakingly slow.  I alphabetized the hell outta things today.  I got on my train home, delayed by approximately seven minutes, read a little of Sarah Silverman's book on my e-reader, and shoved approximately twelve Trader Joe's Dark Chocolate Nibs in my mouth (at one calorie each) and chased them down with some raw almonds.  I descended the train thirty six minutes later and walked to the bus stop.  After a few pit stops I finally made it home and chowed on pizza and watched Some Like It Hot.  Like I said, anything but an extraordinary day.

The Mister and I had a brief discussion about writing.  He told me I need to write with direction.  That I can't just sit here and type some words.  I brought up the conversation by reminiscing about those first few spring days where I pack a lunch and my notebook and find a quiet spot in a park downtown and write and write and write.  I have journals upon journals shoved with words and brief ideas but they don't seem to catapult themselves into constructed works of written art for submission.  And I know there are a million blogs floating around with the same aimless feel, but for right now, as I get back into the swing of things after a few years of a lowered mental state....this is all I gots.

Voici une chanson pour cette journee:

one day at a time

As I adjust to new dosages and the elimination of certain medications, I find a bit of fear and anxiety about relapsing again.  I have the care of a regular therapist and have good communication with my new psychiatrist, but when I have those sleepless nights and odd lucid dreams...I feel that sensation of deja-vu all over again.  The minutes and hours when my sleep is disturbed is when the 'sensation' starts all over again.  No sleep = relapse.  Mania.  Psychosis.  Anxiety.  Fear.  And it's damn scary.

I want to participate in life again.  Try another art piece and maybe even try showing it to people again.  Write something and read it aloud to a group of others.  I need the exchange to occur, so that I am reminded that I am no longer alone in this big bad world.  I will get there one day.  When that might be, I have no clue.

I need to find my funny bone again.  I used to be damn funny and was always able to laugh at myself.  Even had the ability to laugh at my mental health journeys.  I would think those things would come back again as I get older and become more comfortable in my own skin again.  But it's another freakin' journey.  Journey after journey after journey.  So many journeys yet why do I still feel like I need another vacation?  Are we there yet?

The bookstore is a good place to work.  I've gathered loyal customers who have become friends.  We talk about books and films and music and all the art that gives us hope and solace and fantastic things to ponder.  And I couldn't ask for better conversations in a day's work.  For that I feel quite lucky.  Certainly there are the politics of a workplace which can become hard to endure on the difficult days, but the good outweigh the bad.  At least for now...

There is also the mess that comes with previous medical leaves and the bosses' lack of understanding of what is entailed in a 'mental health leave.'  But perhaps the more people talk about it and share and listen and understand, the further grasp we gain on what it means to RECOVER. Support is key.  Support all around.  Even at the workplace.

Especially at the workplace.

The season will be changing again soon, and with it, I will see the sun shine again.

Now if only someone had a good joke to share.  I need a good hearty laugh to get goin'....

climbing out of winter and more

greetings earthlings.

i am slowly rebuilding my world after the collapse that sometimes occurs with mental illness.  tired of hunting down my psychiatrist every time i need a refill on something, i have turned over a new leaf and found a new pusher.  it's a very daunting task....to go through one's entire mental health & subsequent life story all over again and answer all the same tired questions again.  but i did it.  and after four visits now, it's going well.  i have gone from four psychiatric pills to two.  and with some hard work and persistence, i hope to rid myself of anxiety through better health and exercise and discontinue my Ativan.

the life of pills, doctor visits, therapist talks and sleep can become a tiresome one really quickly.  i have lived on such a routine since my last hospitalization almost three years ago, just trying with all my might to feel like a regular girl again.  there was a year or two where i had to be in bed by 8:30 pm or else i couldn't function properly the next day.  but i write with GLEE that things are all changing.

as far as writing practices go, i have kept up a weekly journal of activities and thoughts.  but i have still not made progress on my chef d'oeuvre and don't know that i ever will.  i so badly want to expel the stories from my system and take on a whole new deliverance of cleansing and happiness again.  i just finished 'Brain on Fire' by Suzanne Cahallan and was impressed at her ability to construct a pensive narrative on her 'month of madness' as she battled an auto-immune disease of the brain.  mimicking schizophrenia, she experienced mania, delusions, voices in the tv, hallucinations, all of the things that i faced in my heightened moments.  it was an interesting diagnosis she was given.  i've often wondered if there was something more than 'bipolar' or 'schizoaffective' or 'depression with psychosis' or whatever the diagnosis du jour was in my case.  there is still so much more to learn about the brain and i'm not done sleuthing to uncover its many mysteries.

and on that note, i promise to myself right now (and whomever finds this post on the interwebs) that i am back to write all about it and more again.  there is so much mystery to unveil in our lives.