My Tent on The Beach

I really hate to be that chipper, cheerful, “Look at the sunny side of life,” kinda girl.  In fact, it makes me want to flog myself for it. I’m much funnier when I’m wry and cynical.  But amazing things have been happening to me recently and I’m not sure why.  I suppose the smarter side of myself says, “Katie…what the hell? Why are you questioning it?”  But, you know, I like to live on the wild and stupid side.  So let’s dig in…

The goodness, I’m finding, is in the universal return.  Like Mars in retrograde, stuff keeps coming back to me at the right time, in the right place.  I’m making myself sick with my own giddyness about it.  “Like what?” you say, “Katie. What is mystically on the return?”

Like:

1. Chez and Patrick with whom I now share an office.  Previously I thought that would be a productive space.  Today, Patrick and I proved that it probably won’t be…academically speaking…but it was great.  My return to the sociology department is the return I was looking for.  Weird.  Couldn’t have seen that coming.

2. Katie and Andy visited on Tuesday.  For Katie, it was a return to Chicago. It was glorious.  For Andy, it was not a return, but he didn’t seem to have a horrible time, so maybe someday he will return.  Either way, though, it was wonderful.  I haven’t had that much fun in a long time…with adults who appreciate Harry Potter like I do.

3. Friday we returned to Book Club.  Another fantastic time.

4. A little bit of my zest for sociology has returned.  It feels right again when for a long time it did not.

5. I returned about 79423874 library books last week.  Literally a weight off my shoulders.  Also means…I read them.  Another weight off my shoulders.

6. Fall is returning.  This past week I literally curled up under my down blanket, had a beer (the RETURN of Goose Island Harvest Ale), and watched football.

I could go on but I’m getting nauseous.  Bottom line, the returns are so celebratory because it means I’ve been given a reprieve from waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting.  I guess I want to ask why…what changed?  Was it me? Or the Universe?  And how do I keep this table turned in my direction?

But, you know…questions are stupid right now.  I’m just going to go sleep while I can because with returns, here’s the thing: everything returns.  Even waiting.

I can’t stop eating.

“It’s crazy,” I say sitting here, having just inhaled a donut after eating a sandwich and fries for lunch.  What. the. heck.  This has been going on for two weeks and I’m starting to get concerned.

Now, before you go hurling the fat-jokes around (which is something only I do…almost no one hurls fat jokes at me anymore…which is good because I’d kick ‘em in the nuts and then twist their nose), this is a novel occasion because I’m just that hungry.

There’s no doubt, I’m an emotional eater.  This is evidenced in my “soft” exterior which, I think, clearly corresponds to my consistently high levels of stress.  I will also claim with a serious face that I have an “athletic build”…I do, because working out nets me huge American-Gladiator-like muscles.  They look cool when I’m really toned, but they’re also mammoth.  When I’m working out I go from round to square.  What I wouldn’t do to find “slim” in there somewhere.  Anyway, this tendency plus the emotional eating has always equalled “Katie shops in the plus-size section.”  (Which was completely hilarious last week when I went shopping with a friend of mine…The Lady, for those who know her…who was particularly unembarrassed by plus size shopping.  Every store she walked into she would go up to the sales person and loudly…and I mean loudly…announce “My friend needs the plus size section…No the PLUS sizes.”  It was strangely comforting that she wasn’t apologetic about it. Meanwhile, I’m like diving behind any rack I can find wheezing in her direction, “Uh, yeah, okay let’s just go…” and the salespeople were like, “Why are you shouting?”)

Anyway, what I’m not used to is the hunger.  This is functional eating that’s going on here, not emotional, and it’s just always there.  When I eat, it makes it worse. Conundrum: When I don’t eat…it’s just as bad.  AHHHH.  Of course, anyone else would find this a fantastic problem to have.  I, however, am imagining the shoe-horning that’s have to go on to get into my favorite jeans…which are, everyone together now, plus size.

I’m trying not to freak too much and just enjoy the ride.  Maybe this is justice for those three or four months last year when, because of extreme horrible stress, I just didn’t eat anything (Cruel irony there: I’m wearing the same jeans today as I did then…all of that time I could’ve been eating jelly donuts everyday).  But I’m starting to worry about things like “cholesterol” and “heart disease.”

Maybe I’ll just eat this here Toblerone and contemplate it for awhile.

As I sit here with my Goose Island Harvest Ale, wearing my sweatpants, and fully aware that the lows tonight might dip into the 40s (What?!), I feel that it’s time…(drumroll please)…to say a hearty thank you to the television series that got me through the summer tv doldrums.  After finishing Lost in April, I felt alone and a little cold.  What would ever see me through those lukewarm dog days of summer?  These shows did the trick.  If you haven’t watchen them yet, clear out some room on your schedule and get a-watchin’…

5. Real Housewives of New Jersey (BRAVO)
What pleasure this show provided at a time of the year when Scrubs reruns on Comedy Central look like the golden pathway to happiness.  Such drama.  And oh those accents.  And the hair.  And the boobs. And the shiny lame (say Lah-MAY, not LAYME).  This show made me long for Aqua Net.  And yet, these women have more heart than the New Yorkers or OC’ers. (I don’t even count Atlanta as credible).  Thank you Dina and Theresa and Jacqueline and Caroline.  And to Danielle…”go away.”

4. Battlestar Galactica (SCI-FI)
Jacob bought me the first season of this show on DVD, oh I don’t know, about 3 years ago. I’ve always passed on it because I never felt ready to 1) invest in a long-running show that’s 2) sci-fi. Well, Jacob, I’m an ass, because this show is awesome.  A re-working of the classic 70s tv show, it’s the perfect mix of All My Children and Star Trek.  And I’m sorry but it doesn’t get any better than Mary McDonnell and Edward James Olmos.  Brilliant.

3. Weeds (Showtime)
This is a repeat savior. I don’t get Showtime, so I have to completely cram in the DVDs and then…wait. This is exactly what I did last summer. Now I’ve picked up Season 3 and it’s like eating pixie stix: slightly disorienting, delightful, and thirst-inducing. Oh Nancy Botwin and your crazy crew.  While the show has lost a lot of the snap in the plots it used to have, it’s taken on this magical realism vibe that is just as delightful.

2. Big Love (HBO)
I have nothing but Big Love for this show. I find this VERY compelling tv packed with stars, some already legitimate (Jeanne Triplehorn, Chloe Sevigny, Bill Paxton) and some in the making (Ginnifer Goodwin, Amanda Seifried).  If you need a case study for character development, this is it.  You will get sucked into the secret world of polygamy and then feel guilty that they struggle with similar problems to yours…and you’ve been judging them all these years.  So, so interesting.

1. Burn Notice (USA)
THE scoop of the summer.  I can’t even believe I’m saying this, especially because it’s on USA for god’s sake.  But this is the snappiest, funnest show to come on tv in a long time.  Capturing the attitude of The Rockford Files and Miami Vice (yes, I said it) with the quirky characters of Get Smart and the “how’s he going to make it work?” of MacGyver, this show is sleek, clever, well-written, and funny.  It’s a slam-dunk of television formula.  Then add in the great character actors I like to call Bruce Campbell and Sharon Gless and there’s virtually nothing wrong with this show!  Except that it’s only been a summer replacement up until now.  Thankfully, they’re adding a winter season so I only have to wait a couple months.  Thank you USA.  You’ve made my summer.

And next on the Netflix cue: Dexter.  I’ve been waiting months for season 3 on DVD…now, it’s merely hours away.  Thank you. Thank you.

Oh my god…my latest look at the calendar immediately caused a minor panic.  August is very nearly over and I’m sitting here scratching my head and wondering what happened to it.  Of course, there are details that lead to it slipping so quietly into the night like, oh, the complete lack of summer here (no complaints from me) or the fact that the Cleveland Indians suck so bad this year that it’s as though baseball never even happened.  Usually I’m keenly aware of August’s presence because I’m sitting in a pool of my own sweat and talking about magic numbers.

But also, I just finished my 1-year fellowship yesterday and now I’m standing squarely in front of one year of my own making.  Yes, I have deadlines and things that I have to shoot for…but I also have nothing forcing me to do it, which is the space that little impish voice in my head needs to say things like, “I wonder what New Zealand looks like,” or “The Lost marathon is on today.”  I’ve worked hard learning how to cage that voice and I think it’ll be okay this time around…but seriously.  I hope it’ll be okay this time.

I just relish those times when I get the commentary that sounds something like, “Oh, Katie, what I wouldn’t give to have your schedule.”  Hmmm.  Yep.  For one week it’s incredible.  After that…I imagine it’s what a black hole looks like from the inside.

I’ve been going on autopilot the last couple days.  My energy is low, low, low.  I’ve been stressed out to the point that it should be called, “stressed in” (in that much like backdraft, the lack of oxygen in a burning room will first suck everything into it and then blow it to smithereens).  It’s a phase…I think the natural valley after a month of high-energy “I’m moving and it’s summer and I got Active for the Wii.”  But it’s these times when I think some of the greatest things can happen because, for whatever reason, I’ve just had to let go of my strangle-hold on everything…and have found wonders on the other side of over-management.

For instance:

1. I sang in a concert last Sunday that turned out to be one of the greatest moments of my life.

2. I realized I like the world a lot better without my IPod.

3. The Madonna della Strada Chapel in the evenings is a beautiful place to be.

4. I’m much more capable and interested in my culture special field than I previously thought.

5. A friend of mine from years gone by appeared out of nowhere and apparently is now living in Evanston.

6. House guests can make life a little more worthwhile if even for a short time.

7. Transitions don’t have to be horribly painful.

8. Everything in it’s time.

I reflect on this all the time.  For some reason, the lesson of letting go takes time to sink in.  I’ve never trusted it.  And I think that’s precisely the problem.  I’m learning…slowly.

Ooh, I don’t know if you’ve all been following the big buzz: Archie finally proposed after all these years…TO VERONICA.

'Bout time, Arch. Good for you.

That’s right.  This comic book icon that’s been all over every medium from gum wrappers to online comics finally committed…the cardinal American sin.  And people are up in arms about it.

For those unaware of the story, here it is.  It’s the classic American love triangle: Archie loves Betty, Betty plays hard to get, Veronica (the vixen) is always there to throw a wrench into an otherwise bland boy-loves-girl story. Awesome.

But here’s what’s so interesting to me about this public outcry over the fact that the Archie Gang (now well into middle age) has defied convention…that Archie actually asked the “hot, slutty” girl to marry him after all these years of pining hopelessly (and fruitlessly) over Betty.  Betty has been the ungettable get for too long.  And now that she’s finally gotten what her coy little self deserves (Archie moving on to someone who’s openly wanted him for, well, ever), we’re angry.  We feel sorry for Betty.  Because that’s not how the story ends.  What else could Betty have done but what she did…we asked her to play that role and we promised her that in the end, she’d be happy.  And now Veronica is wearing her ring.

Good, I say.  Betty totally screwed this one up.  Maybe I speak from a standpoint heavily informed by the fact that I’ve never had guys falling all over me (far from it, actually.  Usually I intimidate them…which I will never totally understand) but, I look at this story (and the countless number of real stories that look exactly the same) and I think Betty’s been an ass.  Archie’s tied himself in knots trying to get her attention and she’s been stringing him along (for, like, 15 years now).  How long does she possibly think he’s going to put up with that?!?  Seriously. It’s embarrassing for him and heartless for her.  But isn’t it interesting that we side with her when he asks Veronica because Betty’s done what every “good girl” should do…we expect her to be rewarded for playing the part of  “ideal girl.”  We’ve done Betty a disservice in leading her to believe that messing with Archie’s mind for so long is something that will be rewarded with his love and loyalty in the end.  Only if Archie’s a total idiot would that happen.

Now, I know…you’re reading this thinking, “Kate…seriously…it’s a comic book…who cares?”  This story is not a comic book.  I talk to many men who are Archie and have chosen their Betty and regret it.  Why?  Because if we take Betty at face value (and put out of our minds “the ideal girl” idea), she’s a manipulative bitch.  And there’s nothing to indicate she won’t continue to be that.  Meanwhile, Veronica (the hot, slutty girl as we’ve cast her) has done nothing but show Archie how she feels about him.  Archie is the real winner here.  He’s chosen the girl (now woman) who has given him every reason to believe she loves him…for real.  Good for you, Arch.  Nicely played.

Of course, this isn’t the end of this story.  Archie Comics has already said there’s 5 issues left, which means they’ll totally bow to the crush of complaints from readers wanting the Fairytale Ending.  Veronica will be left heartbroken, (“As every slut deserves,” we’ll say) and Betty will be featured on the next episode of Bridezillas and we’ll all clap Archie on the back and given him that hang-dog, “Man…what are you getting yourself into?” look of satisfaction.  Because that’s how the story should end.

It’s a sad day for the girl next door…not because she didn’t get the proposal. It’s because she’ll never learn that what’s she’s doing is anything but “cute” and “coquettish.”  It’s actually kind of gross.  And we’ve all asked her to be that.

When I moved a month or so ago, I never knew just how much riding Metra in Chicago really is the way to fly.  Now I’m stuck with riding CTA (bus, train…it really doesn’t matter.  It’s all just as traumatic) for a little under an hour one way and while there are days I can wax quixotic about being an urban dweller riding the bus, there are days like today…during which little lessons about the nature of humans hit home hard.  Allow me to share:

1. Bluetooth technology and the senior set should never be introduced to each other. I sat next to a lady this morning who was proudly donning a bluetooth headset.  It looked incongruous.  And then she got a phone call…which anyone in either the 773- or 312- area codes could hear as clear as crystal.  Apparently mystified by the fact that there was no microphone directly in front of her mouth, she shouted to ensure the sound would travel up her cheek to her little blue, blinking earpiece.  This went on for 25 minutes.  I now am very aware with what Irene is doing today and that it involves baking. Awesome.

2. Cuddling up to those two strangers is a delicate game. I love seats on a bus.  Believe me, I’m aware that I’ve got a little junk in the trunk so to speak.  I do enough squats to ensure some measure of firmness but I also eat enough croissants to keep things moderately sized back there.  But bus seats are built for a human butt that just simply does not exist.  The teeniest of people sit down and overlap.  This overlapiture (or is it overlapitude?) means that I’m forced to be physically closer to people I want to remain perfect strangers than those I’ve known for decades.  Thus, when choosing a seat, you have to play the odds.  And we’ve all been there when people see us coming and you know they’re thinking, “Aw, hell…she’s gonna sit next to me…yup…there goes my space…now this is uncomfortable.” We’re all sorry.  Get over it.

3. Babies on the bus go ’round and ’round. Holy lord, the amount of accessories required to squire a baby around town is nothing short of astonishing.  There are car seats, foldable strollers, non-folding strollers, no less than 3 bags full of baby-related needs, and the baby-squiring assistant (a secondary adult brought into the fray with the express purpose of wrangling the accessories).  While I don’t have kids and must, on a fundamental level, not understand the need for all of this, it might be legit.  What makes me scratch my head is hauling all of that onto the bus to go 4 blocks. What the hell?  It takes longer to get the stuff on there than it does to ride.  Let’s not discuss the alighting process.

4. The panic associated with letting the driver know a stop is coming up captivates me. I ride the 147 here in town which goes straight up Michigan Avenue.  The bus stops at every corner. Always.  Without fail.  So why otherwise sloth-like slugs of people pull that cord with 274 pounds of torque I will never understand.  You’re not gonna miss your stop.  Just chill.

As always, there’s more.  But why concern myself with them now?  I’ll just re-live it in about 4 hours…through the Cubs game traffic…awesome.  Can’t wait.

One of my favorite little mysteries of life involves getting smacked in the proverbial face by the answer that you’ve been waiting on for awhile.  I’ve been laboring over coming up with something to say in these special fields that I’m working on and it’s been annoying and exhausting.  All of these little snippets of things roaming around peripatetically in my head with no connections.  The picture on paper is even worse.  Excruciatingly slow writing progress.

And then, yesterday, it hit me.  Like a friggin’ ton of bricks.  There it was, unfolding in front of me, much like the path of the most perfect putt does to Junuh in The Legend of Bagger Vance. I saw my way home.  I saw the end and I saw the path.  Finally those pieces clicked into place.  And instinctually I cried at the sheer simple beauty of it.  And out of a profound sense of relief.  (Which was short-lived when I realized that I was crying in a semi-private forum…ah well…it was in the moment.)

I’m tempted to just sit and think about the process.  How did it happen?  Why yesterday? But, I just can’t now.  I’ll never know the answers to that question.  It was, in fact, a simple gift.  Simple in presentation in that it was there one minute when it hadn’t been the previous minute. Simple in that it found me in the quiet and stillness.  Simple in that I was at ease.

Inspiration is funny.  Everything we know about working hard, challenging ourselves, making strides…it all seems pointless when true inspiration strikes.  It’s elusive both in its presence and absence.  But not ever without notice.  These kinds of deep breaths feel very good.

And I’m proud to announce that I think I have a muse.  That’s surprising too.  My muse looks nothing like the ones in Greek mythology.  I want to be able to use the word “diaphanous” in muse-talk.  I just can’t even imagine that…but it does make me laugh, so I guess that’s something.

Hooray for revelation.  Today is a whole new day.

Well, it was bound to come out eventually.  I go to church.  A lot.  It’s kind of funny how it happens.  I’m not naturally inclined to go as often as I do but because of my involvement in church music, I end up sitting through a lot of masses.  How many?  For the past three weekends I’ve been to no less than 4 masses per weekend. This situation is completely typical for professional musicians who earn their livelihood singing or playing or directing or…whatever.  (When I mentioned it’s been a lot of Church to Steve, the director at Loyola, he was like, “Yeah…I’ve been doing this every Saturday since I was 14.”  When I said the same the to Paul at Mt. Carmel his response was basically “Pfffff.”  He’s been doing this every weekend for…well, a long time.)

And in all of these masses what I’ve realized is I’m listening to horrific homilies.  That doesn’t mean every one.  Some are way better (thank you Jesuits in general) than others (I’ll point no fingers but I have a couple folks specifically in mind).  But in general, the preaching that I’ve heard in the Catholic church around here is piss poor.  I’m actually educated in Theology to a point and over-educated in philosophy and sociology…and I’ll tell you, the flock is being misled by the misinterpretation and mis-appropriation of gospel messages.  Frankly, I’m starting to find it disgusting.

It’s hard to choke down homilies that are clearly used for political or personal gain while watching everyone in the congregation doing the polite “the priest is talking” nod.  I can’t stand the choice to abjectly ignore the “social gospel” (sorry people, but Jesus was the first socialist) in favor of pushing asinine institutional regulations without any nod toward critical thinking or application in one’s life. (Does wearing shorts to church really mean your eternal soul is in question?  If it does, I’m coming to realize I’ve been barking up the wrong tree for a long time.)  There’s a difference between preaching and pontificating.  We’re getting too much of the latter confused for the former.

Of course, there’s a clear solution to this problem.  All of these frantic homilies (if they’ve been thought about for more than 12 seconds or not stolen off of  “homilies.com”), flush with pleading and prodding about tithing (Catholics are particularly good at hiding this notion around the phrase “put it in the collection basket”…) and literal re-investment in the church (like, the money kind) come from men who needed the power the Church could promise them in this role.  And now that the institution in this country is seriously changing, laity are treating it differently, and becoming very savvy at reading the signs of the times themselves (which was once the purview of church), the power is dwindling.  And these insecure men parading around with their fake power are starting to get desperate. (This isn’t about gender slander…if women could be priests, women would be doing this too…actually probably more vindictively).

The solution to the preaching problem is finding people outside of the institutional structure who are still invested in the message of the gospel and not as a business.  Nuns (technically religious sisters) are writing up a storm and, whether I agree or disagree with their points, they’re pastoral.  They have Jesus’ words and intentions at heart.  They understand figurative imagery and language and have imaginations that expand the bounds of the possibilities.  A lot of men’s religious orders are doing this too.

I wish I could find this stuff at church.  I’ll still go because of the music and the community.  But I think it’s interesting that to find what I need spiritually…I’ve turned to the blogosphere.  And I’m one of the very faithful.

I’m not sure whether I should be surprised or not.  I’m fairly convinced, though, that my guilt response is deeply embedded.  Thank god for the guilt.  It reminds me of who I am.

I’m not sure why, but I clearly woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. Perhaps it was the dream that I was mucking through swampland in India (is there such a thing?) and I was deeply concerned that it was going to ruin my socks or the fact that I didn’t get to sleep until 2:15 am. Whatever it was, I woke up this morning feeling completely inadequate it every facet of my life. So, I need to rant to expel the annoyance and move on.

I Hate It When:

1. People set up their sprinklers so that no matter what, sidewalk travelers will get wet. Especially bad when it’s the Jesuits. I feel like they should know better. You know, care for others and all.

2. The “new guy” at Metropolis has been training for 3 weeks now and seems to be getting incrementally slower. How does that happen? Is he Benjamin Button the cash-register version?

2a. Patrons at Metropolis order like this: “Iwant…uhmmmmm…a small coffee. Room? Yes, room. And do you have donuts (next to the freakishly large display of donuts)? Ok, I’ll take one of those. Which one? Uhhhhmmmmm, is there a chocolate one? Yes? Good. And do you have scones today? And I’ll take one of those pies? What are those pies? What? Did you say broccoli? I can’t hear you?…” Oh. for. the. love. of. god. Just order something and MOVE ON.

3. I can’t find anything suitable to wear. All of my clothes feel like they don’t fit even though they do, none of them match, and they all look horrible on me and I wonder why I bought any of them. Tomorrow, of course, everything will be fine.

4. You walk with a “group” on the sidewalk that becomes like your little racing bunch because you’re all walking the same speed and can’t get away from each other. The anger derived is directly proportional to the length of time you have to deal with these 3 people that you can’t seem to pass no matter what you try and who will not pass you. Ugh. Sidewalk etiquette is not what it used to be.

5. I’ve been waiting for Amazon to deliver a book which I just realized I never ordered. Nice.

6. Everyone around me seems inordinately chipper. Here, take half of my dark cloud and let’s be edgy together.

7. I hear the word “Wait.” This, I’m realizing right at this moment, is a function of unstructured time. I need to fix this one and tout suite. It’s starting to nibble away at my soul.

8. I have to deal with Loyola Library. I’m not sure why it’s even called a library as they almost NEVER have the books I need. What are in all of those stacks?  I think it’s just recycled covers of books no longer in existence filled with packing peanuts.  It’s like the Fraggle Rock of the biblio-world without the frivolous musical rumpus.  And, inevitably, for the book I need which is sure to be obscure and checked out once every 10 years, some other fucker around here has it checked out indefinitely! Why are you reading Bordieu’s “The Rules of Art” and why will it take you the next 18 months to do it?  GIVE IT BACK,  NERD.This is exactly why, when they do have them, I keep them relatively forever. It’s like a found treasure. I just can’t let it go. (Thus, I make another nerd rant about me having the obscure book…it’s an ugly cycle, Loyola.  Let’s make it stop.)

9. The “check engine” light comes on in the car. This was the beginning of the end for my good humor for sure. Two days I’ve been stewing about this one. I have to let it go.

10. My flip-flops are getting worn. They used to be cushy and comfortable. Now they’re like two oak planks strapped to my toes with a lovely striped band.  My ankles used the “f word” the other day.  It was a scene. But it’s too late in the summer to get a good replacement pair. Oh, my troubles run deep and wide as a glacial crevasse, don’t they?

You know, I started using these detoxifying patches a couple nights ago. You stick ‘em to the soles of your feet when you sleep and, supposedly, they draw out toxins. It’s a science experiment I’ve undertaken. I’m not sure they’re working, although my skin is super clear(er) (this is a relative measure as “red” will always be a complexion descriptor for me) and, despite my anger, I have a lot more energy…noticeably more. What I’m wondering is if they’re drawing out decades of pent up vitriol. They apparently only work on internal organs.

Do you think the liver stores vitriol?