Month: July 2015

Meet the Parents (May 27, 2009)

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(Cue shark attack music from Jaws)….

They’re coming! And they bite. I am of course, referring to my in-laws, aka, Eddie’s parents. They will descend upon Chicago from Mumbai, India on Thursday, June 11th. Eddie’s father will be with us until the 27th, while his mother will remain for a full month, flying home on July 8th. While talks of this visit had been in the works for awhile, it was only last weekend that Eddie’s folks firmed up the dates and purchased tickets. Notice that I purposely left out any role my husband and I had in the decision making process.

As many of my regular readers know, this planned meeting leaves me in a state of agitated conflict. I love my in-laws. They invited me into their family, when by any Eastern standards, I was a dubious choice of partner for their son. I am 2.5 years older than him for starters, which I did not know until after we became engaged, is a serious trangression in Indian culture. I came to the marriage without a family name, money, nor was I, shall we say, unsoiled (read: Boop was no virgin). Now to us Westerners, these points against me might sound like standard fare, but I don’t have space enough on this blog to convey the crap Eddie’s parents had to endure socially by blessing our union. They threw us a swanky, lavish 4 day affair in Raipur, India, 30 years to the day after their own marriage, and have always treated me with a love and respect I never had from my own folks.

All that being said, it was made clear to me when I married Eddie that the bar was set high. He is the only competent son of a highly respected, wealthy and accomplished family. My husband descends from the Marastian “caste,” and although that classification system has long since been officially abolished in India, the social stigmas and privileges often carry over into present day. How do I know this? Because my mother-in-law has been all too happy to educate me about these facts ad nauseum. I am oft reminded that there have been 17 consecutive generations of happy and solid Sar**** marriages, and I had better not be the one to break tradition.

I have discussed the particular tug of war over if and when I will bear fruit on the pages of this blog in the past. This issue, above all others, has been the explosive divide. Although my in-laws and I get on very well, my reluctance to rent out my 30 year old womb to the next generation of Sar****’s has been met with decided disappointment. Nevermind that Eddie ain’t ready to be no Daddy either. I am the woman and it is my job, nee, my life’s work, to reproduce. Daughters are good, sons better still. The fact that I have entered my fourth decade without clamoring for a baby is a source of endless confusion to my new parents, though I am the first to admit they find me rather amusing and capable on the whole.

So for one month, I will be right in the line of fire. Eddie will still continue to travel four days a week for the entire length of their stay. That is non-negotiable. So for four weeks of my summer, I must balance my freelance writing and job hunting with a full-time position as chauffeur, tour guide, babysitter, chef and maid to my in-laws. This, in large degree, I am happily willing to do. Eddie’s parents have seen very little of the City and I look forward to the opprtunity to meld our two separate families into one. There will be gatherings with Jen and extended family.

But there will be times, oh so many moments, where I will be naked, without the shielding support of my husband, where my life as it is here will be dissected, held up for scrutiny. My housekeeping, cooking (or lack thereof), gym and social schedules, drinking and habits (or lack thereof) as a “traditional” wife will be evaluated and judged against the backdrop of my mother-in-law’s own perfection. She was an accomplished woman in her own right prior to marriage and child bearing: a Master’s degree holding nutritionist and college lecturer. She rarely tires of telling me that it was the easiest thing in the world to let it all go for the sake of her family life. Read between the lines and you can almost see the judgement against me as I stubbornly cling to my selfhood. She is my mother-in-law and this is her job.

I am almost, without fail, a believer in shades of gray. So while I tremble in fear of a month alone with my in-laws in the confined space of my apartment, I recognize this as an opportunity to educate them as well. Perhaps I am arrogrant or naive in my hopes that my own brand of Boop uniqueness will win them over to my side, change their minds that mine and Eddie’s marriage doesn’t fulfill its destiny until we are parents? I have reserved an extra session with my shrink each week for the duration of their visit. I joked with Dr. Trotter that my regular slot will be for discussion, and the second will be devoted to my breathing into a paper bag.

Reality (TV) Bites! (May 22, 2009)

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I like to make a good fuss, throw some bluster around now and again, just to let the world know I am watching, trying to keep it and its denizens honest. But I have been preoccupied lately with travels, grief and career movements, so some of the little things that irritate I have allowed to pass without the benefit of a good cleansing editorial. Well no more Ms. Nice Boop!

Many of you might wonder why I bother to allow myself to become enraged by the likes of my TV set in the first place. There are, after all, so many urgent and serious things going on, and perhaps Boop, your first mistake might be in letting anything like unscripted entertainment ruin your week? And while we’re at it, um, who cares? Well I do, and in order to fully account for my enthusiasm for reality television, allow me to plagiarize my own email, sent to my friends Tim and Diane yesterday, as we debated the merits of Patti Blagojevich’s contestantship on the upcoming NBC summer show, “I’m a Celebrity…Get me Outta Here!”

“I will lay my cards out on the table. I love a lot of reality TV. I am a voyeur and am fascinated by the depths of humanity many people will plumb in the name of money and fame, no matter how slight or inauspicious. This is why I relish the idea of Blago or Patti on a reality TV show. They are a cautionary tale about political figures who wallow in the mire of their own bombast. I am beyond excited because it appears they have learned nothing from their fall from grace and are willing to pimp themselves out for as long as possible. Call my eagerness for this show my study in culutral anthropology. But seriously, the other castmates are promising too: Janice Dicksinson, Heidi and Spencer, Sanjaya. The premise of the show is that they are dropped in the jungle and America gets to devise tortures for them as it plays out on national TV. I know what I said before about Americans being dumb, ignorant sheep, but this opportunity is Christmas in July people! It’s sick, admittedly. But people enjoy plenty of other sick things too, like watching people beat the shit out of each other, so I feel no shame.”

And there you have it. My story is that I enjoy the world of reality television for the human character examination it offers, and I am sticking to it. However, the purpose of this post is not to defend my trashy adoration for this type of entertianment. No sir. My rage is pointedly directed at two shows who produced their season finales this week, ABC’s Dancing with the Stars, and Fox’s ratings stalwart, American Idol.

Both of these programs contain an at-home audience voting element, as you are likely aware. The philsophy is that by letting the people choose, the winners of these talent competitions will be representative of the nation, the entire nation, not just the 12 year old girls who beg their parents to allow them to dial in multiple times with their spanking new Cricket phones.

Overall, I am a great believer and champion of the democratic process, a belief strengthened by America’s “getting it right” during last Fall’s presidential election. So this week, I gamely assumed my position on the couch and prepared to witness the foregone conclusion of Gilles’ walking away with the Mirrorball trophy on DWTS. Likewise, I sat with a box of kleenex next to me as I prepared to weep the tears of joy I knew would come once Adam was finally announced the winner of AI. But instead, my loyal season viewership was rewarded with…

Shawn and Kris? To quote Kyle’s Mom on South Park: “Wha, wha, what?”

Shawn, 17 and spunky, an Olympic medalist in gymnastics, was no doubt without talent. But compared to the tour de force of smoldering sexiness and raw skill that was Gilles? No, I say! Likewise, Kris Allen is 23, adorable and may have a future in music. But are we to believe he was more deserving than the Freddy Mercury channeling rock God that is Adam Lambert? As Whitney Houston once memorably uttered on another classic reality gem, Being Bobby Brown, “Hell to the naw!”

What happened America? We thirty, forty, fifty and other somethings watch TV too. Why do we let the young tweens make our decisions for us? Is there some sort of social shame attached to picking up the phone and spending $1.99 to protect what is right? There must be, because I didn’t vote either. Curses!

I have been disappointed with the outcome of Dancing with the Stars before, and may be so again, but I am willing to give it another chance next season, because 50% of the final decision comes from the scores of judges Bruno, Carrie and Len. I am aware that the audience for DWTS skews older, so I am willing to write off this hideous injustice as a fluke unless I am proven wrong in the Fall. But AI? we are done. I mean it this time.

It was bad enough in Season 5 when I had to wave goodbye to the far superior Chris Daughtry and Elliot Yamin in favor of Katherine McPhee and Taylor Hicks. Seriously? Does anyone know if those yahoos are even still breathing? To go back a couple seasons earlier, I was incensed with Ruben over Clay, the criminally early exit of Jennifer Hudson, and two seasons ago, the ageist dismissal of Melinda Doolittle. I had threatened to remove American Idol from my DVR schedule before, only to return sheepishly later. I will not do so this time. Do you hear me Eddie? No Adam Lambert as Idol, no Boop as viewer.

The Bar Method (May 20, 2009)

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Since Thursday, April 16th, I have put on 6 pounds. I am typically very mindful of my exercise and diet habits. Jen was gifted with the metabolism and body type of our father, which allows her to pop out children after a 9 month diet of cheesesticks and couch surfing, only to regain her original figure approximately 10 days after bearing her fruit. I am not so lucky. I take after the pear-shaped, bottom heavy body type of our mother. Unfortunately, this means that if I experience a bad few days – no time for exercise and food consumed with abandon, I am going to pack on a few.

I left for Israel about a month ago, and freely admit that I “let myself go” while with my friends. It’s a constant struggle to balance my routines and neuroses with allowing myself to enjoy new experiences fully. So I put it all aside for the nine days I traveled, working out sparsely and sampling the cuisine everywhere I went, without too much worry about my waistline. It was a happy time. But then I came home to the news that Jesika had passed, and I am not too disingenuous to declare that I embarked on three full weeks of emotional eating. My exercise schedule was back on track, but every bit of sweat I poured forth was almost immediately undone by late night cookies, Indian food buffets, and the like. I had felt pretty good about myself while swimming in the Mediterranean Sea. But all of the sudden, on top of grieving for my friend and worrying about the next phase of career, I had a nice case of self-loathing and poor body image to add as the cherries on top of my sundae of misery.

I was sort of getting fed up with myself last week, but after a weekend spent gorging on carne asada at my friend Wyatt’s BBQ (coupled with a dessert feast of vanilla coconut cupcakes), I decided to put my foot down. I met my trainer, Rob, on Monday, who I see twice a week. He has been on me about my diet for awhile. Not because he thinks I am overweight; because I whine about not being able to shed those last 5 pounds (which have now become 10) without the discipline required to ignore all four desserts when I finish my Indian buffet lunch with Eddie. I told Rob I was ill with this cycle of hard work followed by guilt, and was ready to put myself back on the path to summertime hotness.

Goodbye garbage food, hello low carb/high protein meal plan. It isn’t easy, but I am determined. And I remain as serious about reaching new fitness heights. On Tuesday morning, I was up with the sun at 5:30 AM. Weeks ago, my good friend Diane had sent me a coupon for a free workout at this studio called the Bar Method, located at Belmont and Sheffield on the North Side. The class focuses on micro movements, influenced by ballet. I do some light ballet in my own home workout programs, so figured it would be tough, but certainly doable for a fitness maestro such as myself.

I have long known, especially in my case, that arrogance leads to a heavy fall. Yesterday morning was no different. I reported to the Bar Method at 6:45 AM, bottle of Gatorade G2 in hand, ready to sweat. All of my classmates were women, of all ages, shapes and sizes, and I felt my confidence build. I was given a tour of the studio and its amenities, which were both comfortable and lush. I actually began to wonder if this little session was going to be enough for me.

I entered Studio A promptly at 7:00 AM, and immediately began to panic. There was no light warmup. We went immediately into some intense sets with varying handweights. The instructor was about 5’1″ to my 5’8″, and probably weighed 95 pounds with dumbells tied around her ankles. She demonstrated each and every move with utmost grace. I have never felt such a clod in my life as I huffed and puffed, wheezed and collapsed red faced at the end of each pose. How in the world can such tiny movements cause my arms and legs to tremble like a detoxing crackhead? The only thing that kept me from bursting into tears of pain was looking around the room to see most of the other women writhing in the same agony.

As I told Eddie about the experience that night, he assumed I would never return, because to the logical male mind, it is easy to wonder why anyone would choose this form of torture again. I told him I couldn’t wait until next time. The extra 6 pounds I am carrying: you have been put on notice. Don’t eff with the Bar Method.

The Hustle (May 18, 2009)

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Not that I am complaining, because I realize how lucky I am to have the time, will and support to pursue my dreams, but man, independent contracting sure is tiring. Not so much the work itself, although it is a challenge to quickly get yourself up to speed on a given topic so that you can write about it is a manner that sounds informed and authoritative. The part that wears one out is the endless game of cat and mouse: the moment you finish a piece and get reimbursed for it, you are onto the next one. No time to breathe. In between, you are looking through the want ads for full-time, part-time, and yet still more freelance work. It never ends. However that is the nature of the beast, what I signed for, and, as a competitive person, I relish the idea of having to sell and prove myself over and over.

On a daily basis, I comb through VirtualVocations.com and Craig’s List for freelance gigs. Then I am onto Monster and CareerBuilder for part-time and full-time writing work. It is important not to leave any of these four stones unturned. While it is true that Monster and CareerBuilder often overlap, the same cannot be said for Virtual Vocations or Craig’s List. I have to tip my hat to two women in my family, my A.D. and Jen, for bringing me up to speed on these venues in the Twitter age. The last time I was on the market for anything for a very brief period late in 2007. The career development landscape has apparently changed a good deal in 24 months.

So anyway, I have this image of myself, when I respond to the freelance writing gig posts, as a scalper selling premium seats outside Wrigley Field on game day. However instead of waving my product in the air repeating, “Tickets! Who needs tickets?,” I exchange the stubs for a copy of my resume, and my recent writing sample from StreetWise. Then I email blast each requestor with my information, as though they are so many sports fans parading down the sidewalk, offerring up my wares for bargain basement prices. It’s as though the game starts in 20 minutes and you can either accept the $15 bucks apiece being offerred to you by the father and his son, mitts in hand, or go home empty handed. To mix in yet another metaphor, every day is another episode of Let’s Make a Deal in my world. Do I respond to one of the endless requests for writers on short projects that entail no pay? Or do I hold out hope that those with some money in their budgets will like what they see from me?

I am an admitted control freak, though I have been trying to rehabilitate myself for the last nine months and counting. I am used to having things just so, and in the past, any threat to my equilibrium would keep me up all night. So what in the world am I doing venturing into freelance, with its hit and miss, stops and starts, and complete lack of security?

Answer: I am finally living.

Reunion (May 15, 2009)

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This afternoon was very painful, but a necessary step in the recovery process. After Jesika passed on April 25th, her live-in love Kevin and I had discussed paying a visit to the cemetary in Lemont, IL where she now lays resting peacefully. I had purposely skipped the part of her official funeral where she was lowered into the ground, for reasons I am not yet ready to share. But I always knew I had to go back one day, if only for the closure, the finality. Today was that day.

It is another windy, rainy Spring in Chicago, a setting to match the mood of Kevin and I as we undertook our journey. We met at the apartment he once shared with Jesika, a place I had not returned to since I last spoke to Jesika in person on April 10th. There was nothing much left in the space that Kevin must vacate by June 5th, to remind you that a vibrant, hilarious and energetic woman once lived there. Not for the first time, I found it hard to connect with my friend and her memory inside four walls, whereas she has been very much alive in my mind.

During the long drive to Lemont, Kevin and I told funny stories and shared memories. In particular, I treasure the tale of how he and Jesika finally came to be a couple after years of “will they or won’t they?” friendship. Apparently, they were the Ross and Rachel of Ohio, where they both attended law school. When we arrived at the cemetary however, the weight of our mission began to set in.

I had just come from a series of job interviews, so was not exactly sensibly dressed to wade through a slew of mud puddles, soft and thick after several days worth of spring showers. I wore brand new silver pants, no coat and black spiked heels. Kevin and I, in our unfamiliarity with the place, spent some time looking for the right spot, inspecting a number of headstones before we realized we had passed Jesika’s marker several times already. We both looked at each other and took a moment to recognize that Jesika was somewhere laughing her ass off at the sight of the two of us, in a frenetic downpour, slogging through the mud, me sinking a good five inches with every step, black splatters all over my prized new pants. For a moment, I seriously considered dumping both the shoes as well as the pants. By this time, they were sloshed with rain, just weighing me down. However, I wisely concluded that this was neither the time nor the place to be served with a ticket for public indecency, no matter how hilarious Jesika would have found that as well.

We stood at Jesika’s side as the rain fell along with our tears. Both Kevin and I said what we came to say, supporting each other as we got the words out. I will not share what those words were, as that is private moment that will forever bond Kevin and I. It was awful, painful, emotional and for a few seconds, I wasn’t sure I had the strength to finish what we came to do, but we did. And I am glad. I definitely felt Jesika’s presence, and though the scabs on my heart feel ripped open all over again, the knowledge that there’s a place I can go to spend time with Jesika, to feel her laughter still with me, is of infinite comfort.