30 Days of Gratitude: 2013 Edition (November 26, 2013)

Yes, I have seen this meme work its way across Facebook over the course of November. I thought about participating, but my brain is usually too stream-of-consciousness for that level of daily content commitment, and I refuse to violate my personal rule of one status update per day (any more than that and I run the risk of the dreaded newsfeed “block” by bored connections). So with that in mind, here’s a month’s worth of people, events and phenomena for which I am grateful over the course of 2013, all in one shot.

1.Occupying the top spot with good reason, I am grateful for April’s reconciliation with my sibling and her family. Life is a lot less funny and loving without my baby sis.

2.Toronto Mayor Rob Ford, recently described by funny man Stephen Colbert as a “possessed Cabbage Patch doll,” I thank you for two things: reminding North America that the USA does not have the monopoly on mentally challenged local politicians, and for instilling waves of nostalgia for the comedic stylings of Chris Farley.

3.Early summer period of unemployment: I salute you. Were it not for the unexpected job loss, I would not be happily ensconced as a Marketing Manager with a wonderful company in downtown Chicago.

4.I am grateful that pompholyx eczema, while challenging and painful, has thus far limited itself to my hands. In many cases, the feet are also affected, ushering in a whole new wave of debilitating restrictions.

5.Early Fall welcomed Act III with the love of my life. We’re making it work this time, applying the lessons of the past with strategic guidelines for a balanced future. That might sound more business jargon than romantic sweetness, but I’ve finally learned that hard work and commitment are every bit as important as passion. And we’re lucky enough to have that too.

6.I’m grateful that the Illinois Woman’s Press Association chose me as their 2013-2015 leader. Together we’ve grown membership by 20 percent in six months, introduced dynamic new programming and collaborations with other communications organizations. The era of siloing and membership bleed is over. This makes me proud.

7.Thank you to the rollerblading ukulele player and singer who often greets me as I alight from the Red Line stop near my apartment. The sight of you gliding in circles with perfect tune and pitch never fails to put a smile on my face.

8.I cannot stress enough how much I love my de facto stepdaughter Amber and four year-old grandbaby Chloe. I leapt right over motherhood into a full and diverse family life as unexpected as it is treasured. Our growing bond is a source of continual joy.

9.Dr. T: You with your string of pearls, pale blonde hair and Stepford Wife looks. You may not have been the ideal of how my perfect therapist should appear, but when you echo my angry “f” bombs, I never feel more understood.

10.Salt Lake City: As an atheist from an all-business metropolis, I never expected to find your exceedingly friendly locals, natural cultivation and Mormon-culture appealing, but your $4 beer and shot specials, clean streets and sincerely helpful citizens won me over.

11.Breaking Bad: Thank you for five seasons of jaw-dropping storytelling and acting. I held my breath, I cried and I was angry. You shall never be duplicated. Thank you as well for leaving the party long before you got stale.

12.Mr. Roger Ebert: Your April death provoked a sense of public loss I had not experienced since the 2008 premature passing of NBC’s Tim Russert. My sincere gratitude for your thoughtful, diverse body of work and the opportunities to bond with a father who was and remains, mostly incomprehensible.

13.Thank you soft, black doughnut cushion (February 2013 – August 2013) for making hours of sitting bearable as my poor, busted tailbone slowly healed. Thank you also for doubling as a comfy Metra train sleeping pillow. I apologize for carelessly leaving you behind in the Salt Lake City airport. I like to think you are enjoying a second life comforting the buns of another injured soul.

14.Epsom salts: I just wrote about you last week, but it bears repeating. For your affordable, diverse ability to treat and soothe so many conditions, this Bud’s for you.

15.My growing adoration for the NFL, despite its imperfections and the perennial so-so-ness of the Bears, is the reason I do not entirely succumb to Seasonal Affective Disorder each Fall.

16.The Republicans behind the late-Fall government shutdown: grazie for providing a much-needed, if temporary distraction from the abominable rollout of Obamacare.

17.President Obama: Thank you for breaking with eight years of W’s “Cowboy Diplomacy” to show the world that we are capable of talking and negotiating our way to a more peaceful world. Thank you also for being tough enough to stand up to warmongers who love to try to settle scores with bombs, yet failed to learn from the Iraq and Afghanistan examples that getting in is a lot easier than getting out.

18.I regret the coming conclusion to PBS’s Downton Abbey, but am grateful for the modern-day Austen void this society drama has filled.

19.Red wine: You’ll be on this list every year, you angel/devil, you.

20.The Boston Marathon bombing was tragic, frightening and a terrible blow to the assumed security of community events, but it taught the nation a couple of critical lessons: don’t assume Islamic terrorists are brown-skinned folks from distant lands and most of all, DON’T mess with the Boston PD.

21.Pope Francis: Like I said I am an atheist, but I am a huge fan of the compassion, good sense and humility you’ve unleashed on the Vatican thus far. There may be hope for a modern, relevant Catholic Church yet. I still can’t believe you made it through the Conclave given your radical ideas about poverty and tolerance, but I’m glad you did.

22.Not a fan of Edward Snowden, but I’m grateful for the public conversations about privacy and surveillance his shenanigans invited. It can easily be argued that we would not be having them otherwise.

23.Paul Krugman: For keeping Keynesian economics alive and mainstream and for standing up to destructive austerians and “deficit scolds” on the regular. Your brilliance, approachability and determination demonstrate why they don’t hand out Nobel Prizes to just anybody.

24.I thank the National Federation of Press Women for seeing fit to bestow my second first place national writing award in four years. The fact that my 2013 prize was for last year’s work on this very blog makes the victory that much sweeter. This page is me.

25.I am grateful for my diverse, eclectic neighborhood of Rogers Park, and the multi-faceted benefits of lakefront living.

26.Zipcar: Thanks to your affordable membership prices and pickup location plentifulness, I don’t miss vehicle ownership one whit and shall never purchase an automobile again.

27.I don’t know whose decision at CNN it was to allow Newt Gingrinch to assault the airwaves on a weekday basis, but thank you. I now have a place to channel my sweaty hate whilst running on the treadmill.

28.Much love to PK and his painful, awful craniofacial massage techniques that have helped the Great Migraine Crisis of 2012 seem like a distant memory.

29.Wendy Davis: Your June, 11-hour filibuster badassery in the Texas Senate may not have killed the State’s assault on abortion rights, but your honey badger determination announced a new leader for women’s issues – and spiked sales of pink sneakers.

30.Last but not least, I am grateful that I have been given another year on this planet upon which to reflect.

The Oddly Liberal Racism of the 21st Century (July 5, 2010)

racism-down-under

I am noticing a rather disturbing social pattern of late. After a mid-90s low in popularity due to the rules of political correctness, people seem to be more comfortable with airing their prejudices again. While the long running PC fad inevitably had a McCarthy-esque dark side to it, I personally appreciated the fact that its power generally made it uncool to be a bigot. Attributable to a network of causes, not the least of which is finding ourselves at an epoch in history where almost nobody is trustworthy, people appear more relaxed about sharing their sinister impressions of you and your ilk – with all the subtly of a hand grenade.

I live in Chicago, a City never famed for its racial tolerance. And yet, our downtown streets are such a melting pot that one hopes for a more colorblind progression. I know that I attended public high school in the Lincoln Park neighborhood, and shared class space with almost every known ethnic group. This not only enriched my high school experience in ways I am only beginning to appreciate, but it prepared me to follow events from and of the rest of the world. My young life growing up in the City made me a better listener and learner.

But it seems not everyone in Chicago is capable of expanding their mind and being part of an increasingly global future. Some folks would rather wallow in stagnation, clinging to ethnic stereotypes and rote expectations. This is their choice. It’s unfortunate when that choice comes crashing into someone’s else’s unassuming reality. I suppose as long as there are people, there will always be ignorance. Normally, I don’t let an isolated stupid comment break my stride. But the pile-up of thoughtless and/or dangerous remarks that have been lobbed at either myself or other important people in my sphere of late has my dander up.

Last Thursday at work, we held a meeting with a volunteer technology resource, who worked on a membership mapping project for my non-profit employer. This man, it would not otherwise occur to me to note, was white, roughly 65 or so, a recent retiree. He is the adopted father of three grown children with his longtime spouse, which I found rather wonderful. I proceeded to share that I was childless but had not ruled out adoption one day myself. I indicated that this imaginary child would likely be of Indian birth, given that I am married to a man of Indian origin. I honestly believed I might be making a connection with this man, until he stopped me dead in my tracks with the following “facetious” question: “Were you bought at auction? Because you know how those Indian men love white women.”

Ha, frickin’ ha. It is only because I was in the workplace and he was a volunteer that I held back. As it stood, I simply clammed up, seething with red faced indignance. I hated that sense of situational powerlessness.

I took to my Facebook page with a brief status update about this encounter and was appalled by the density of replies I received, detailing similar recent incidents:

From my sister Jen:

“I had some guy at 7-11 question my relation to [my 10 year-old niece] yesterday because ‘she looks Indian.’ Lucky for him he was also Indian, but I still thought it was quite rude.”

I replied to Jen that this man’s being Indian was indeed zero excuse for his impertinence.

From my friend Heidi, married to a Japanese-American man, and mother to adorable twin daughters:

“I had a [Caucasian] lady at Restoration Hardware ask me where the ladies were from….[My husband] wasn’t with me though, so maybe I can excuse her?”

I believe this question mark paradoxically answers the inquiry. No reprieve at all. Heidi’s girls, second generation Americans, were born right here in Chicago, not that its any of this woman’s business.

My husband works with a culturally diverse IT team at his place of employment, and he reported that the most racist and incendiary co-workers around were his two fellow Hindu Indians. One went so far recently as to start an ugly (and demonstrably untrue) rumor that one of his Muslim superiors refused to notice or promote anyone who was not a fellow “mullah.” Despicable, ugly and unprofessional words.

I suppose if there is any silver lining to this dark cloud of ignorance, it is that the intolerant are becoming more diverse in their slanderous makeup. Casually tossing about racial epithets used to be the exclusive domain of white people, at least in public. I am all for equality and liberation across classes, but I mourn the idea that this empowerment must come with the security to spread inharmonious, hurtful dogma.

Facebook is No Longer my Happy Place (May 18, 2010)

Facebook

I am often the last to jump on any new technology bandwagon. In fact I sat out most of the 90s – no pagers, AOL or the first onslaught of the DVD entertainment format for me. As I enjoyed a prolonged era of landlines, freedom from wireless communications and good old VHS tapes, I figured I had all I needed. If anyone wanted to talk me that badly, well they could just wait until I got home.

And yet look at the Crackberry addicted, constantly stimulated mess I have become. I watch almost all my TV via the wonders of commercial-free DVR. I blog, I Twitter (for work anyway), and I cannot seem to drag myself away from my PC for any longer than 30 straight minutes without fearing, deep in my bones, that I am missing important intelligence. Lindsay Lohan is unleashing her drunken fury on Cannes people!

One phenomenon I was eager to sign up for right away, in 2006, was my own Facebook profile. You may be thinking to yourself, “old news Boop, so what?” Well lambs, I will tell you. Facebook opened a whole new world for me – reconnecting with people I literally hadn’t thought of in years, folks I presumed had passed out of my life like the proverbial ship. Social networking in this fashion has been an invaluable gift.

So too has been the much discussed Facebook status. Twitter fans may hate me for saying this, but I look at “tweets” as little more than the red headed, second cousin of the groundbreaking status. In nearly as many characters as I want, I begin each day with a little dose of artistic expression (or complaint). I have come to rely on this as sort of a litmus test reflection of where I am in that moment of history. Periodically I revisit my old status updates and it’s like catching up with an old friend – only it’s me. For me, it is journaling in microcosm.

It may sound like a paradox, but I would argue that I am never more “myself,” with such a keen sense of abandon, a flagrant departure from worrying about how I’ll be received, than I am when I update my status each morning. Before I have given myself time to wipe the sleep from my eyes, I shoot from the hip and see what comes out. Need it even be said that oftentimes, my status update contains one or more of the following: not-safe-for-work language, hangover laments, or declarations of opinion about “alternative” issues (being purposely vague there)? I do have some Facebook friends that I often hope will avert their eyes – for example the parents of school mates – but in general I trust my Facebook community to know me and look the other way.

It is often said, by now a cliché, that “everyone is on Facebook.” This appears to be true, and the phenomenon has gone global. I have pals in England, Germany, Israel, and very recently, India.

It is inside the boundaries of this last ancient land that my current predicament lies. For you see, I received an email from my in-laws yesterday afternoon that instantly froze the blood in my veins. Mummy and Papa are about to go viral and start a Facebook account.

Shit.

I have viewed the Book as the one place, outside the confines of this blog, where I do not have to censor myself. That is all about to come to a crashing halt. Because here is the conundrum of Facebook etiquette: one has the absolute freedom to decline or accept any friend request, but as we all know, the psychological costs of doing so can be too much to bear. This got me thinking: am I really as free on the Book as I think I am?

My in-laws are well aware that I am not mainstream. They are aware of it as I say, but that doesn’t mean they want to actively think about it. From the safety of Mumbai, I can be comfortably viewed as a loving and supportive wife (which I am), without the other R-rated fun that makes me a unique brand of wingnut. That delicate balance is about to come crashing down. How do I get them to understand that befriending me through social networking will ultimately make all of us less happy?

So now instead of enjoying my footloose and fancy free Facebook joie de vivre, I am considering the possibility of edits. I cannot tell you people how many hours “scrubbing” my profile might take. It’s not like I am a porn star or gangster, but I am cringing already at the high volume of drunken photos, ex-boyfriend pictorials and inappropriate commentary they will encounter. And yes, to answer your pertinent and preemptory questions, I WILL hear about it. Yet I cannot decline to befriend them. They would be crushed and I truly do love my in-laws. So what to do?

With one email sentence, I feel like I fell from the sky, confronted with the possibility of acting as my own thought police. This is not an appetizing prospect. It’s enough to make me wish it were 1996 again. I am going to retreat into the fetal position clutching my Steel Magnolias video.

The Sky Falls (Literally) on the Old School (November 5, 2009)

Nanni_Poppa House

Jen and I have had an interesting day. About 3:00 this afternoon, I received a FaceBook message from an old grade school pal by the name of Barry Burman (the erstwhile Brad as he wished to be called at Pilgrim Lutheran Grade School). Barry is kind of a dorky name (I kid!). Has anyone read or heard this new story today?

http://www.chicagobreakingnews.com/2009/11/mysterious-ice-slams-into-north-side-home.html

The house above and to the right is the unfortunate home slammed with the errant refuse. Guess what dwelling this is? The abode of the maternal grandparents of your very own Boop and Jen. Excuse me, WTF?! What kind of weird karmic fuckery is this?

Most people are quite familiar with their grandparents homes, no doubt, but it is not an exaggeration to state that Jen and I lived here for 16 years. With two working parents who lived on the Northwest Side, and our grade school a mere block and a half from Nanni and Poppa’s house at 4242 N. Wolcott, we spent far more time in Ravenswood that we ever did in our home neighborhood (which in truth, I am not even sure the name). And what a bumping block the 4200 block of Wolcott was back in the day. Yes, I am about to go all retro on your asses. But it must be said: we Pilgrim kids who lived on that street were a bunch of bad mamma jammas.

Take for example, the time myself, Jen and Becky Jo Lauderdale from across the street (a little white blond pipsqueak of a thing) choreographed our own dance, complete with cartwheels and pelvic thrusts, to the Salt and Pepa classic, “Push It.” Or the 25,000 games of tag we played with Becky Jo, J.B. from next door, and two out of the three Burman boys from down the street. My first “french”kiss occured on that block (with Latin hottie Martin Aramburu – seriously, meow!). Jen got hit by a bike once right in front of the house, on the sidewalk, as my humongous Poppa, all 420 pounds, former ball turret gunner of him, put down his fly swatter and glass of homemade sweet tea (a most unusual turn of events) to cuss out the little “son of a bitch” who hit his granddaughter. Too many good times people.

So I can’t tell you the flashbacks I endured, and I know Jen went through the same, as we looked at the smoldering wreckage of our grandparents’ roof. True it has been 10 years since either of them lived there. They were renters and Poppa, with his morbid obesity, passed away in 1994. There was never, mark my words, a finer man. In fact I owe it to him to write more on that another time. Nanni moved into a retirement home in 1999 and died there. But even after the long passage of time, it was like stepping right back into the mid 80s when I clicked that hyperlink today. Jen and I are sitting side by side on those unmistakably tall steps that led to Nanni and Poppa’s second floor apartment. Then we were running down those same steps as fast as our little legs would carry us to overtake the ice cream truck. We rarely missed.

Thankfully, the current families who live there were unharmed. The roof will be patched up and life will go on. They will likely sue some airline or another. But for two little girls at heart today, a random news oddity literally hit too close to home.