You Know What Really Grinds My Gears?

Chicago has some things wrong with it. All cities do, I understand that. Chicago really has problems, though. Living in this city is sort of like having Christmas dinner with that crazy uncle everybody seems to have. You love them because they are family, but they should really seek professional help. I don’t mind the political scandals, the cussing mayor, or the outrageous prices. I do, however, mind some of the people.

            The other day I was riding the train after a long day of classes. In a comatose-like state, I was content listening to the chatter of fellow train riders. The train is loud, because it is essentially a tin can, but the voices usually intertwine themselves into one large body of static that is almost peaceful, in a way.  On this night there was a change. An obnoxiously loud voice rose above the rest, demanding the attention of everybody within a twenty food radius. I turned to investigate the nonsense, and witnessed a tall African American man yelling at two smaller white females. He was trying to convince them they weren’t American. Yes, that’s right. He knew what a “true” American was, and he wasn’t about to let these two ladies exit the train without informing them of his knowledge. The discussion continued for what seemed like days, covering topics from what it meant to be black to social classes. Like the rest of the people on the train, I couldn’t rip my eyes off the debacle that had suddenly erupted. They made me angry, frustrated, and depressed all at the same time. They were unapologetic about their ignorance. I popped in my headphones and cranked the volume up, turning back around and facing the window. I could still occasionally hear a disgusting remark about how “a black man should act”, and when I looked up, their dancing reflections were in my window. Ahhh!

            These are the type of people I do not appreciate. They are the ones who made the great city of Chicago so segregated. I live in the loop, which is full of suit-wearing aristocrats who fear the south side. I’ve been to the south side and lived to tell the tale. How can somebody judge another person they met on a train, or think they understand a place because of what they hear in the media? Has anybody actually experienced the south side before swearing to never step foot there? Such outrageously beautiful things could happen if people put aside their hang-ups and tried something new. Chicago has so much to offer, so much culture. But, these things will soon fade away if people don’t want to collaborate with one another.

Positive Energy

       Since coming to college, my life has become a series of unfortunate events. From battling the CTA to flight cancellations, I’ve become a bit run down lately. However, watching a movie recently, a quote struck me: “Sometimes you see a lot more when you’re down in the mud than when you’re in your ivory tower.”  

       I suppose I needed to hear that. Now that I have experienced some very tough situations, I can understand how to better deal with things in the future. Instead of wallowing about why crappy things happen, I should accept them as they come, and learn from the experience. It sounds cliché, but in the heat of the moment it’s hard to do. I want to try to be a more positive person in these next few weeks, just for shits and giggles.  Perhaps instead of melting down, I can turn this angst I feel into something creative. I’m in art school, as it turns out, and teachers totally eat that stuff up! So here goes nothing…happy thoughts…happy thoughts…happy thoughts…

US Airlines, You Cause Me Pain

       This weekend I was supposed to fly out of the O’Hare airport to Manchester, where my brother would meet me, and we would drive home to Jericho VT. That didn’t happen. My first flight was cancelled by United Airlines, which usually isn’t a big deal. I went to my gate and asked an agent for help, who promptly reported back to me that she couldn’t help me. She said she “wasn’t working.” I thought this to be odd, since she was in uniform, sitting at a front desk, doing absolutely nothing. Bewildered, I wandered the fourteen miles to the other end of the airport, where the customer service desk was conveniently located under a life size replica of a tyrannosaurus rex. This also confused me, but I got in line. There were two representatives of United working at two separate computers, although there were at least eight other computers that could have been in use. After waiting in line for a while, I began to panic. I was listening to the representatives tell the stranded passengers ahead of me that there were no flights today. They would have to wait until tomorrow. When my turn finally came to be helped, it did nothing but further my panic. The squatty man sitting in front of me did not look enthused, and his mustache had bits of what I identified to be croissant in it. Every two minutes he would stop what he was doing completely, and sip out of a jug of McDonald’s sweet tea. I wanted to scream. He mumbled to me that there were no options for me to get to Manchester through United today, despite my desperate pleas. I informed him that my final destination was VT, and asked him politely if there was anything flying in to Burlington. He paused to suck on some sweet tea before checking the computer. He told me through his croissant-speckled mustache that there was a flight to Rhode Island, and he could book me for that. This is when I stopped being polite. I sternly told him that Rhode Island is actually in the opposite direction of where I was trying to go, and asked him how that would help me at all. I used violent hand gestures to really get my point across. Eventually, he booked me on a flight to Laguardia, where I would connect to yet another flight to bring me home. I left the desk with fiery cheeks and tears in my eyes. I only had so long with my family this weekend, and each time a flight was changed I lost valuable time. 

       While waiting for my new flight, all I could think about was how I should have already been in the air. I finally boarded the Laguardia flight, and was delighted to find that I was in front of a screaming baby. I ignored this fact and tried to focus on the positive: I was finally going home! Once all the passengers were boarded, the captain came on the speaker to tell us that Laguardia airport had a complete ground stop due to the weather. He gave us updates every 30 minutes, that weren’t really updates at all. He just kept telling us the same information while using different vocabulary. After about an hour of being assaulted from behind by a demon in infant form, I got a call from United Airlines. A pre recorded robotic voice told me that my connecting flight in Laguardia had been cancelled. I dropped my phone and put my face in my hands. I began to silently weep, wondering why the Lord Almighty wouldn’t allow me the simple task of flying home. I called both my parents, informed them of my predicament, and got off the plane. The walk out of the airport was traumatic. I was angry, distraught, and blubbering on the phone to my mom. I braced my hands against a wall and began to hyperventilate, leaving all maturity behind. I couldn’t quite catch my breathe, but was somehow still able to heave swear words into the phone. To people passing, I must have looked like I had received news of a death, or some other life changing tragedy. In reality, I was just sleep deprived and frustrated. I had spent nine hours in an airport waiting to go home only to be told that I couldn’t. I had dealt with dehydrated customer service representatives with a hankering for sweet tea, and agents who decided that they didn’t seem to understand that by coming to work, they’re obligated to do their job.

            On the hour train ride home, I caught a glimpse of myself in the smudged window. My eyes were swollen and purple from salty tears, and my mouth was wrenched into a horrifying frown. I thought about how I could have handled the situation better…but sometimes it’s just easier to pout. 

Taken For Granted...

Since coming to college, there have been a few things I've had to learn are no longer guaranteed. This is my list:

1. Being able to afford name brand tampons-the kind with the plastic applicators!
2. Water from a fridge. Chicago sink water smells like fried eggs left in the pan for a week.
3. A toaster. Oh bread, how I long to toast you to perfection. Your crispy crunch in the morning is dearly missed.
4. Being able to have complete silence without the use of ear plugs. Although it is nice to be included in conversations, I don't want to feel like I'm a part of the one across the hall. Or out the window. Please people, respect the "quiet hours".
5. Driving my car. Which is actually an SUV, so if I feel the sudden urge to drive over curbs and smart cars, I am granted the opportunity to do so.
6. A (badly) home cooked meal prepared by the loving hands of Pat Simmons. They usually consist of ingredients from a can or box, although they're still nice to have.
7. Having a place to cry in privacy. Seriously. Having to pretend I'm asleep (face down) when my roommate walks in is no fun.
8. A shower with a built in bath tub. It makes it easier to shave my legs when I don't have to press my ass against the shower wall for support.
9. Being able to watch TV at 4 in the morning. I do not, simply cannot, sleep. This results in many hours of infomercial and reality television viewing. However, my roommate is a light sleeper, so I'm unable to blast the TV when the shake weight commercial comes on.
10. Being able to burn candles without the threat of an R.A. telling me "no open flames". I simply cannot live without the scent of sage grass and lemon...I'll become irritable and grumpy...so for the love of god let me burn my candles!
11. A dishwasher. This simple machine eliminates the task of having to stare at the cake residue on my plates wondering why I allow myself to eat so many trans fats, and scrubbing it off with a sponge. 
12. Milk magically appearing in the fridge. My father from this point on shall be dubbed "Dan Dan The Milk Man" because he possesses the competency to go out and buy more milk when the current carton is getting low. I, on the other hand, do not. I lack the ability to judge approximately how much milk I consume on a day to day basis, and therefore have been eating my cereal dry for the past week. Delicious!
13. Vermont Foliage. Chicago, while certainly colorful in other ways, doesn't have beautiful landscapes overflowing with red, green, yellow, and orange. 
14. Blaming a mess on the dogs/Making said dogs eat dropped food. When I spill shit on my floor, which conveniently is carpet, I have to pick it up.
15. My mom's hugs. While her forte may not be cooking, she can give fantastic hugs! Plus, we are a perfect match in terms of hug compatibility. We are around the same height (really fucking tall) so when I go in for a hug, I know her face won't be all up in my goodies, down by my belly button, or otherwise misplaced. 

Starbucks Rant

A rant piece from a fiction class I'm currently taking...

“Whipped cream on top maam?”

“Oh yes please, but skim milk if you don’t mind.” This is a phenomenon sweeping America’s Starbucks. People are ordering the largest, most sugar filled drinks with more sugar topping, only to ask for skim milk. This is insanity! If you order sugar and sugar with sugar on top, I think you can handle two percent milk. It’s frightening how little some people know about nutrition. Just because a cheese Danish is made with whole wheat breading doesn’t make it any less of a cheese Danish.

     A Starbucks bustling with blackberry and caffeine addicted customers sits on a loud Chicago corner. A woman, dressed in sling back heels, and tight pencil skirt, and a white blouse enters through the revolving door. With shoulders back and chest out, she clickety clacks her way into line. She chooses a fruit cup from the glass case, daintily grasping it with long, slender fingers. After selecting her highly nutritious meal, she orders her drink. “White chocolate cappuccino, whipped cream on top, fourteen shots of espresso, and please use skim milk-I’m watching my weight.” She flashes her bleached white smile, and the barista is momentarily blinded. He then asks her what size she would like, to which she replies, “Oh, none of your sizes are large enough, just pour it in there, if you would.” She points to an industrial size mixing bowl with those same slender fingers. The barista turns and begins the laborious process of making the nuclear sugar bomb. He scrambles to fit all the caffeine and sugar into the mixing bowl, beginning to sweat. His shoes squeak on the floor as he races from one end of the store to the other, trying to find a straw big enough for the woman’s super sized drink. He finally stops at the sink, and rips the hosing from underneath. He plops the hose into the steaming concoction, and grunts as he walks it over to the expectant woman. He places it on the counter with a metallic bang, and rings her up. “That’ll be forty-two fifty, maam.” The woman slides a smooth leather wallet out of her purse, which is approximately twenty times bigger than her body. Her bondy fingers flick through the bills until she decided on a crisp one hundred.

     As the woman walks out of the Starbucks, she hardly notices hitting others in the head with her enormous purse, resulting in concussions. She places her plump, blood red lips around the hose that is her straw, and tastes the morning’s first drink. It is exquisite! She can actually feel the sugar granules scrape across her tongue! Her pupil’s dilate as the caffeine rushes to her head, and she is once again normal.

     Why is this happening in our country? We have education systems in place to prevent this foolishness! Even so, people continue to make irrational choices, wreaking havoc on their bodies. Most Americans cannot even think, much less function, without their first Olympic pool sized coffee. It’s an addiction in the truest form. The public looks down on users of drugs, yet they are the same. If coffee was outlawed, I guarantee business men and women would use their four oh one K’s to finance a caffeine distribution system. Beans and grounds would be smuggled by coffee cartels and riots would break out in the streets. Women once wearing pencil skirts would flood the streets pan handling for change, because they ruined their lives in the crazed search for coffee. Similar to the prohibition, citizens would try to brew their own in bathtubs. Bootleggers would now be known as Jimmy Choo leggers, and they would lead the coffee protesters on marches. The United States would simply collapse. So, instead of having the cup of coffee in the morning, perhaps choose an apple, or a piece of toast. 

Baby's First Blog

So, it happened. I finally made a blog. Being the written word purist that I am, I never thought this day would come. I despise the kindle, and have a dreadful feeling about the direction that journalism is headed in. To me, there is nothing quite like having a book (made out of paper) in your hands. The relationship between an author and his or her reader is compromised when the piece is slapped on a computer screen...or a kindle...or an ipad...or whatever the hell Steve Jobs comes out with next. I feel like the only person outside of a geriatric unit still reading news papers. I'm saddened by the fact that the public only wants bare bones information anymore. Why doesn't anybody make time to read more than a headline? Journalism used to be about the story; now it's about fitting facts into 140 characters or less. In order to make it into the big leagues as a writer, people have to know your name. You must have a twitter, email, blog, and a smartphone to check all three while on the go.
    I suppose I've gotten tired of fighting society's natural flow on this one, so here we are. It's not all bad-the advice all writers get is to never stop writing. Having this blog will allow me to write...even if nobody is reading.