Our Christmas Tree: One True Thing

My dad always cuts down our Christmas tree. I remember when we were kids he would go to the tree farm way out in the plains of the Midwest and hunt down a tree. Sometimes my mom would bundle us up and we’d tag along with my dad. He always wanted the tree that had this big hole in the side. It looked perfect from the front until you turned it ever so slightly and its wound stared you right in the face like a man balding from only in the back of his head. We’d protest, “NAHHHH! Oh Dad, but it has a big hole in it!” All around us rows and rows of trees stretched each way, but somehow, each year my dad would find that one, that he felt ‘needed’ a home. He’d drag it to the car tying it securely on top of our blue mini van. When we got home it took us an hour to figure out how to situate the tree just right. It was like the tree was like a gambling indebted uncle that we had to present flawlessly to the rest of the world. We’d turn the tree a hundred times, propping its empty back towards the corner. Finally we’d get it so it looked just about right. Almost like we got it from a Home Depot. We hung our ornaments on that tree-the ones from kindergarten that were falling apart and those less than lovely ones we made somewhere along the way that my mom insisted were beautiful. Then finally my dad would get on top of our kitchen stool and place the cloth angel with yellow yarned hair on top of the tree. Each year my dad brought home the ‘needy’ tree and we would shake our heads, reposition it a hundred times, decorate the tree and make it our own. Over the years though the trees came to represent many things. It was our childhood innocence as we fell asleep underneath its piny branches Christmas eve. It was the place where I discovered my parents putting all my presents instead of Santa. And later it held presents no longer really for me but for new babies and new beginnings. Now that I am 26 I look forward to going home to ‘the’ tree. In a way its one true thing that I know will be there each year. Although it is far from flawless and missing a few branches and greens, the tree is full of character, charm, and sincerity. For me, its part of what I remember as being home.

long distance relationships

Long distance relationships really suck. For many obvious reasons. But for a few slightly less apparent. Such as the following:

1. When my light bulbs burn out in my room, they seem to go unfixed.
2. I can't really know for sure that my boyfriend has shaved for the day.
3. My heating bill is higher because I have no warm body by my side.
4. Going to Chili's isn't as fun anymore.
5. There's nobody to fight over the TV with.
6. It costs approximately 8 dinners out together to pay for one plane ticket to see each others' face.
7. When I tell stories, my best audience is missing.
8. It would take me over 15 hours to drive to his house to watch a new episode of The Office.
9. I may get a flat tire because he isn't here to tell me to put air in my tires.
10. My Christmas lights fell down...AGAIN.
11. Facebook wall I miss you posts are a shock to your system: like going from eating from Whole Foods to eating at Mcdonalds. The number 2 super size just doesn't hack it.

But at least we are have free verizon to verizon connection.
Or else the relationship would really be doomed:)

wine glasses

the other night i cleaned out 16 wine glasses. some were from having a few friends over. the others my two roommates and i consumed. one thing i'm noticing in my return to chicago winter's brutality is that our little friend vino seems to be the sure fire way to get chicago residents through this hell hole home that we call our own. thank god we moved into a place with a built in wine rack.

The Balancing Act

I've been thinking about how hard it is to keep a balanced life. So I made a list of cleansing strategies:

1. Eat healthy
2. Go to the gym
3. Take a break/limit the booze
4. Keep up with new and old friends
5. See your family
6. Do well at your job and DON'T get fired (you won't be able to get another job in this economy)
7. Keep your relationship with your significant other fabulous.

I've been thinking about trying to incorporating these strategies into my life as a little test or self trial to see: will I become more balanced, spirit filled, and happier?!

It's not an easy gig being on top of life. Lets start from the top and work our way down:

1. Eating healthy is empowering. Each dip of my yogurt, tuna, and fat free cottage cheese lunch makes me feel stronger. However, its not as fun as deep dish pizza or Floyd's (the bar across the street) and its fabulous pesto sandwich. I don't actually have much time to eat at work. I'm running to the copy machine or leading a child up to the discipline office. By the time I get home at night I'm starving! which leads to dinner which leads to John and Kate plus eight. And that equals=no gym para mi. So I'm working on my healthy snacks and my hearty 8 am oatmeal and yes even cooking chicken on the stove. I mean Chipotle and I will remain friends, just not best friends.

2. The gym. WEll, I have a little love hate relationship with my Bally's Total Fitness. They basically own you, and you end up signing away for some god awful 2 in a half yr membership without realizing it. Then if you try to cancel, the customer service guy, with his sweet talking voice, reminds you that its a healthy thing to be part of the gym and don't you want to keep your heart happy with you? Well of course! You end up hanging up and practically signing up for another couple years by the end of that phone call. Its not that I hate the gym. I just rather go for a five mile run outside. But the reality is: I live in Chicago again. And there is no way I'm running in 15 degree weather. So here I am biking away, signing up for classes, hoping on the treadmill. And you know what. It does feel damn good. I try to remind myself of that as I leave the gym after my work out. I close my eyes, and say, this feels damn good. Then after my 10 hour day is over the following day, and I'm getting into my car, I say to myself, 'remember that damn good feeling' Sometimes I do so distinctly! and other times I don't. That is until my roommate is blowing up my phone and reminding me our spinning class is in thirty minutes. So off I go into the vicious cycle of love/hate with my pumping heart along the way.

3. Booze. Oh how good it feels to pour a couple glasses of Vino on a cold Chicago night. I cuddle up on my couch with my roommates and we get all toasty with red wine. Or we trek, ALL the way across the street to Floyd's where we sit in booths with the juke box ringing in our ears and drink crappy PBR but it goes down like water. I've been to about 8 weddings in the last six months and so I'll contribute my desire to 'throwing it back' to all those open bar experiences. I was spoiled. I will also contribute this desire to the cold winter I've returned back to. How can I not want a warm glass of pinot noir? How?! With those two factors plus the reality is I teach urban children all day, I'm practically destined to drink a cerveza. However, last week I said, slow down missy! The hangovers aren't quite as forgiving and running on that treadmill isn't quite as easy after last evening. So I'm becoming a picker drinker now. I pick the days that I rather just be friends with my diet dr pepper and its just the right thing to do. I guess its all a balancing act, when to let go, when to hold back, but I'm learning day by day!

4 & 5 Keeping up with People:

Well I have facebook so that's easy:)
Its important to do the texting, gmailing, facebooking, calling, messanging and sometimes...oh yes sometimes real interacting with real friends and family. Even if the others seem so much easier:)

6: Keep your job:

My boyfriend lost his job due to this economy. I have been experiencing his life second hand of course, but honestly people, the economy sucks keep your JOB! keep it close, keep it tight, wake up, jump out of bed (not literally please) and be thankful for your job. I'm working on that. I get up and stumble to my shower and as I'm trying to find a matching outfit, I think yes YES WE CAN! By the time I get a dunkin' donuts hot tea, I'm actually almost convinced and its only 7:30! Having a job is important and I'm bound to appreciate it; even if my students drive me to #3.:)

7: significant others:

Its the people we love that we take for granted the most. So every now and then I have to remind myself: time to send him a blue mountain card, do something different and fabulous and when your sig. other has a birthday attempt to bake a cake. Even if it ends up coming out of a box. At the end of the day, #7 is the balance beam for 1,2, 3, 4, 5, and 6.


Here's to our endless journey to knowing when to stay inside and outside the lines.

DC: 2007 Story: My sister's black jeep

My sister has this black jeep. My dad advised her not to buy it, because they get stolen pretty easily. But hey. She looks good driving around in that jeep. It suited her well, so she bought it while living in Denver. Ellen has lived in DC now for a few years and every morning when she walks out to her car two thoughts cross her mind. 1. Will my car be there? 2. If it is there, will my car’s windows be broken? That’s city living people. I guess it makes us all a little rough around the edges but keeps us real. People in this city love to break into or steal my sister’s jeep. I don’t know if its just bad luck or they like to pick on Ellen over and over. A few months ago she came out to find her jeep was gone. A few kids came and took it for a joy ride. Then they left it to have the cops come find the car. They didn’t take anything but a couple pieces of juicy fruit. I mean at least that was considerate of joy riders. My sister did have some good Cds and a sweet pair of sunglasses at the time in her car. So that made her a little less mad-their thoughtfulness of sorts. One day a month or so after that event she comes outside to find someone came and smashed her little side back window. Now she is pissed. I mean its raining slightly and that little back window is going to cost a few hundred dollars to get fixed. Not only that but it’s the crack of dawn and she has to go into work with little sleep to deliver a baby. It is a moment of bad karma with the world. Swearing she gets in her car and tapes the back window with a plastic bag. She almost felt like leaving a little note. Hello stranger. Please stop breaking into my car. Stop taking it for joy rides. Honestly, I don’t mean to be rude but its getting old. Thank you. I told her most people aren’t as rational as her and the note probably wouldn’t work. She left the car like that for a couple weeks as a gesture toward bad luck. Sometimes its good to just be mad at the world and how things happen. Just for a few days. Then you get out your citicard and get a new back window. Well a week after she is riding around with her little black garbage bag taped to her window she comes to find that someone has gently pried the tape off. Someone has been in her car. She searches the car carefully. Things seem in place. I mean its not like she’s keeping much in there anyway. I mean get wise right. But she knows someone has been in there. She has a sixth sense about it these days. Ellen then notices her gym shoes under her seat have been pulled out. In them she had a new pair of white gym socks. They are gone. And in their place are a pair of OLD brown dirty gym socks. They are resting inside her shoe-folded carefully. She knows it must be a homeless man looking for a fresh pair of socks. He has the decency to try to make a trade of sorts but leaving his old pair behind. Seeing this she’s almost not mad, she kind of wants to leave a new note: Sock Taker, If you want me to get a eight pack of white new socks for you. I will. Just let me know where I can drop them off. Its like can’t we all make a pact with each other.
A way to make better karma in this crazy place. Getting in her car, she pulls away, the black garbage bag flapping in the air as she goes.

The Family to Which I Belong: A childhood story

A Childhood Story

I grew up in a family of five. I had this friend who lived across the street. She grew up in a family of four. They were a lot like us and very different from my family. We ran around our neighborhood with bare feet, our moms let us stay out late to play night games in the summer, we had good Catholic values, and we both had boy hair cuts as little kids. There were some things that were a little different. Molly had air conditioning and I didn’t. Molly had cupboards of snacks. Especially fruit roll-ups. And her mom baked with her. It wasn’t that my mom didn’t bake with me; it was that she had a lot of other stuff going on. I was the youngest in my family and my mom was rushing everyone to and from every which way. There were a lot of moms like Molly’s in my neighborhood. They baked and puffy painted their kids names on sweatshirts. They were the ones who came on all the field trips and organized the book fairs. In ways I think I wanted that. I was young and unaware that my mother was not a mould and now looking back I loved that she didn’t conform to all the expectations of my hometown. She was a journalist, a mother, an activist for the Catholic Church; she was many things other than just my mother. Of course this is hard to understand as a little kid. Until you are an adult and respect the importance of trying to hold onto yourself.

This one day I went across the street to see if Molly could play. I rang her bell and she came sliding down the hall in her slippery soccer socks. “Do you want to play dolls?” I asked.
“I can’t today,” she replied effortlessly. “My mom and I are baking a double chocolate cake.”
I could feel the cold air spilling through the screen door. Oh how I longed to go inside her house! At least for the cold air if for nothing else! I sighed and shrugged, “OK,” and I skipped away. I sat down on my back step and thought about how mad I was at Molly whipping up batter with her mom. My mom was probably working her part time job. My eye lids flapped furiously like a pair of angry birds. Then and there I decided I would make my own cake!

I was no more than nine and had no clue how to embark on such a task. I got out a big zip block bag and opened our cabinet. I grabbed some flour, sugar, baking soda, a few eggs, a splash of milk, and some chocolate chips. I poured it all in the bag. I dug my hand in our utensil draw and got out a big wooden spoon. Then I collapsed on the back step, the big bag pulling at my arms, and began stirring the glop together. I could feel the tears resting in the back of my eyes, but I quickly pushed them away in anger. I didn’t need a mom to bake cakes and puffy paint bows for my hair, I thought. I poured the mystery soup into a pan and put it in the oven.

Turning the dial, the oven began heating up. I knelt and stared at it. The kitchen began filling with a strange aroma-not burnt, but not flavorful. Suddenly, my older sister came through the door and saw me staring at the oven door. “What are you doing?!” she screamed. She flipped open the oven door quickly pushing me out of the way. Ellen grabbed oven mitts and whipped the pan onto the stove top. “What were you thinking baking all by yourself??!” I began crying then and said, “I just wanted to bake a cake too…like Molly.” She looked at me, her skinny brown boy hair cutted sister with wide blue eyes staring at her; glop all over the front of my rainbow sleeveless shirt. “Just because her mom bakes a cake with her doesn’t mean she is a better mom. If you want to bake a cake just ask next time.” She sighed and a smirk rolled onto her face. She handed me a fork and we took a bite of the half baked creation on the back step. It was disgusting. We spit it out in the grass and began laughing.

My mom then burst through the door with groceries and Little Ceaser’s pizza. We screamed with excitement and tore the pizza lid off. She looked at the destroyed kitchen, looked at me, then my sister. “I won’t even ask what happened here!” We burst out laughing then, my tears dried, and burned our tongues as we bit into a piece of pizza. Childhood is like that. We want our neighbor’s lives, until later, we look back and see how much we truly were destined to be born into the very family that is our own.

Obama for President.

I have been feeling like a grown up more than ever. With my boyfriend searching for an architect job in a terrible economy, living in a city with the highest sales tax, and high gas prices (unless I want to pump around the neighborhood I work...which I did once and would not recommend), I am beginning to feel the effects of adulthood. You can feel the tension in the air which is something I've never experienced before. Everyone looks stressed, just walking down the street, you can see it, painted over their faces. Distraught. Worried.

So this election was pretty important. I think our country could use a little more spirit these days-a new found soul to help us get our beat back. The night of the election my sister and I went with 100,000 other people down to Grant Park. The city of Chicago was lit up and glowing. The line to get in stretched for miles down the closed city streets. We stood in line hoping to inch up, to get closer, to be part of what many of us had been waiting for so long. Cells phone stuck to people's ears trying to keep up with which way each state would go. We finally go in and we began to run. There ahead was Grant Park and CNN screen was blaring through the air. Finally we reached the grassy field and we stood and looked around. I was surrounded by a sea of people. Black people, White People, Asian, Indian, those who spoke English, Spanish, French, or other, rich, poor, middle class, homeless, almost homeless, young, middle aged, old, freshly born. Here we stood together and there was this sense of anticipation on every one's faces. Like when I a kid and would wait at my front door at 6:15 each night anticipating that moment-when my dad would turn down the corner from the bus and home from work. I knew he would come, but every night I had this tiny moment, like maybe he wouldn't. And tonight, it felt like that. Like we expected something good, but yet knowing it something could happen.


I stood in my high heeled boots for five hours, and I expected to stand out for many more. I couldn't help but think about the way my mom would describe how she felt when JFK became president. And although Obama is his own being, in ways for the first time I identified with my mom. I wanted him to win so badly, for me, for my students, for our country. For those kids who will now know that an African American can be president, or that it doesn't matter what your race/gender but rather who is most qualified and entrusted, to those who can restore trust in our nation's leader, to Europeans and other countries who can restore faith in the U.S.'s ability to change and learn from our mistakes, and to those who need to regain hope in themselves and what America can offer.

I believe Obama will put some life back into the soul of this nation. I know he will make mistakes and things will not magically change overnight. But for me, he is the person I trust to turn things around. As I reflected, suddenly there it was, the announcement, he had won. I stared around me as the crowd cheered and screamed. I could hardly believe my eyes. It happened so fast and my heart lifted. The crowd was wild with joy, but in such a mellow and peaceful way. We sang and high-fived and awaited Obama to come out on stage. Finally there he was before us greeting us and as we listened to his words I knew that yes, yes we can.


We drifted home that night with the city streets closed to the waves of people trying to make it home. To those we may have voted McCain or those we voted Obama, the point is we are one country and we can unify. It was late and I had to be up soon for work, and as I sat on the El awaiting my Western stop, exhaustion rested under my eyes. It was one of the first times I felt so happy to feel so exhausted. I looked out at the city lights and awaited home.

The View from the Top, A childhood story

February 5, 2007

I grew up in a family of five kids. It was pretty chaotic to put it simply. I had three older brothers and a sister. My parents say I wasn’t an accident. My mom says, ‘No, I secretly planned for you.” My mother is Irish Catholic and thus nothing is an ‘accident.’ But let’s just say I was the bonus baby. Raising that many kids can be kind of tricky. I mean especially with three boys. Once they hit middle school they wouldn’t stop eating. My mom would cook us one of her five token meals and twenty minutes after dinner they’d be poking their heads in the fridge looking for more food. One night my mom got so annoyed, that she went out to the garage and got a big thing of black duct tape and duct taped the fridge shut. I come strolling in for some cookies&cream ice cream and our fridge looked like it was held hostage. My mom sat there with a smirk on her face and the tape dangling on her wrist.

During my childhood, I rode the same blue bike every other sibling rode. I had no idea what cable was until college. I got my sister’s hand me downs and until I was late into my high school years, I never knew the satisfaction of having a second slice of pizza. My sister and I spent our years trying to kick each other out of the bedroom we shared. We marked our territory with tape, we threw each other’s stuff out in the hall, I tried to build a wall with blankets. Once I moved into the basement for three days. Then I realized cobwebs and no heat turned out to be more obnoxious than living with her. But it was entertaining and memorable.

Despite the chaos, my family valued family road trips. We had this blue station wagon. The night before a trip he would load the car with food coolers and snacks. My dad drove the speed limit and when he said we were getting on the road at five am he wasn’t kidding. So this one year we decided we were going to drive from Chicago to California for my aunt’s wedding. It was a long drive, so my parents planned we’d take over two weeks to get there and back. My dad made us stop at every national park along the way. Most of my childhood pictures are made up of me and my sister or brother standing in front of a historic monument, museum, or national park welcome sign. We stayed at motels with swimming pools that sat right up against the highway, we camped in the middle of the desert, we ate soggy sandwiches for days on end and I learned to sleep with my feet pressed against my sister’s cheek. As the days went on we started to realize seven people in one car was a bit much. I’m shocked my mom let my dad put her through this hell. Once the snacks ran out and you’ve visited a few dozen museums you start to get grumpy. I was starting to think California didn’t exist. I mean my dad showed me the map, but I was skeptical that he knew how to get there. I mean as a seven, and I wondered, how do parents just ‘know’ which roads to take? It was far too amazing and complex for me to understand. So as the trip went on we started fighting. My brothers wouldn’t stop pushing me around and taking up my space. It’s was really hot, and I was sick of that wind blowing my hair in my face. One afternoon, everyone was complaining and this whole wedding thing was starting to seem like a really bad idea. My mom was digging around and suddenly she pops in the soundtrack tape to Good morning Vietnam. Suddenly everyone is belting out the music. My mom loves to sing loud-you should see her in church, and my dad is just happy everyone isn’t jumping out the window. We spent the last few days listening to that soundtrack on repeat. It was one of the only things my entire family would ever agree upon. We eventually made it to my aunts wedding. My brother and I accidentally spilled grape juice on her white bedspread. That’s all I really remember. Trying to hide the bedspread in her closet and running out back to stuff our faces with the free buffet. That’s the thing about being a kid. You remember these glimpses of your childhood. It’s those insignificant small moments that you take into adulthood. I still can sing the lyrics to those songs. We lost that tape for years. One Christmas I found it in an old box. We cranked it up and everyone busted out laughing. I remember on the way home from California, my dad brought us to the Grand Canyon. I was only about seven years old at the time, but I remember it distinctly. All seven of us stood on the edge looking over at this massive hole in the earth. We stood there side by side in silence. Then I looked up at my mom and said, “Mom is this where God lives?” She started laughing and said, “No, why?” “Because it’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.” My brother hit me on the back of the head and we all piled back in the car. We started to pull away and as we turned back onto the road I caught my dad looking at me in the rear view mirror. It was this look- like I was his most purposeful decision in his life. I dug into the cooler for a cherry coke and climbed over to the front seat. I squeezed between my mom and dad and as the dust swept up behind us, we drove home.

Can't hack teaching for one day? really?!?

To Whom It May Concern,

Nobody said teaching would be easy. I mean every week I deal with my urban teaching stress in one or more of the following ways:

cry a little, watch another piece of my hair go gray (yes I'm only 26), drink a couple glasses of wine, want to scream, point out yet another wrinkle forming under my eye lids, or else I go to bed early. But do I get up each day. Yes, yes I do. Why because I can't help but love those little rugrats and believe in what I do.

What I don't understand are the teachers who quit in the middle of the school year. There are a million reasons on earth to quit. Trust me, I think about them sometimes at 6:30 on a Monday morning when I don't want to get up. I know the reasons, but that doesn't make it OK.

Then there are the teachers who quit after ONE DAY! My students are on their third special teacher. The second one quit after one day. She passed me in the hall at the end of the day and said, "It sure was one HELL of a day." I mean yeah, the kids are used to being left. So they will give any incoming teachers a hard time. They know which teachers they can give a run for their money, and honestly they don't trust that most of us will stick around. So yes, its a little hellish at first. These kids are tough and you have to hit the ground running, especially if you are coming into the school mid year.

So when this new teacher passed me by, I gave her a thumbs up and wrote down my room number. I said don't worry. come by and I'll help you. I mean its common sense. Go home. Eat some soul food. Get in your sweats and go to bed early. I mean set your alarm of course, because you HAVE to get back up and come back.

I mean the kids are waiting. So the lady doesn't come back the next day. I can't believe it. My children can't believe it. Now they have a sub and fill out the same worksheets they filled out with every other sub.

Nothing is ever easy without hard work, but seriously, future urban teachers, please ask yourself, 'can I HACK it?' before applying.

In the end it will benefit all of us.
Thanks.

Chicago Marathon: For All? or For some?

Yesterday I went to the Chicago Marathon. It brought back the blissful memory of my own marathon experience years back with two good friends of mine.

So we go to watch my friend's co-worker run the race. We told her we would run a couple miles in support and good cheer. At mile 16, she passes by and we jump in along side of her.

I will say, the heat was beating down and it was a hard day for a long run. We ended up running nine miles with this friend. She was tired and needed some extra support.

As I ran among these packs of people, although a fraud in the race, I couldn't help but feel motivated by the spirit of it all. The feeling of doing something monumental, challenging, even a little crazy.

Until I looked around.

All around me people were walking and walking....

....

and walking.

Some were walking so much they weren't even breaking a sweat anymore. Then I began to notice the people who were trying to keep up their pace. They were staggering in and out trying to get past the walkers. What startled me more was that some people were wearing those pace signs on the back of their shirts. You know those signs that tell you 4:45 in order to re-assure runners, in moments of (near) insanity, that yes, yes you are on pace and will maybe, just maybe make your goal. Seeing these pacer runners ahead of you keeps one focused on the prize ahead. Right?

Well sometimes.

What I saw instead, in many cases, was that the 4:00, 4:45, even 5:30 pacers were ALL TOGETHER!?

sigh.

I couldn't help but think about this whole marathon business. Is it getting out of hand? I am not your worlds fastest runner, at all, and yes people my legs hurt today. After nine miles (spontaneous however). BUT. When I ran the marathon I trained...for five months. I didn't walk. At all. Did I qualify for Boston, no.
But that is not my point.

My point is, is this marathon getting out of hand? Is it a lofty goal that everyone puts on their life to do check list so they can say they did it? It seems to me a marathon is becoming something everyone feels they have to do, like going to prom.

Or maybe-if they don't-they will really, really regret it. But is it for everyone?

At one point, my roommate and I thought...Should there be a walking lane at the marathon? Would this help the chaotic mess of 40,000 people running 26.2 miles?
But then I thought,

It is a marathon.

Train and Run. And those who WEAR pacers...well for the love of God, keep the pace.

I can't help but think many of the 40,000 out there slacked on their week day work outs, never completed that 20 mile run before tapering, or worse yet, maybe drank a little too much the night before. I think simply if you are going to run the marathon know what you are getting yourself into. Because the fact is, there is no walking lane, and yes, there are other runners trying to get by.

MS O!! MS O!! let me explain about my homework...

Homework Excuses:

-It IS done, but it's sitting on my bed.

-I didn't do my homework over the weekend, because I had SO many CHORES to do for my mom, like making a run to Burger King.

-I didn't really do my homework, because I didn't get it, so instead on my math page I filled in the following numbers 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 backwards. Wow, Ms. O, you noticed huh?!

-My journal entry IS written, It's just written sideways in yellow pen on a half torn piece of paper. It counts right?

-I DID do my home-work, but I lost my folder on my way to school. But somewhere, wherever it is, its done in there.

-I didn't finish my homework because my mom said you give us too much, and we have don't have time to relax and watch TV.

-My journal is completed, but I took up the first half page with the following greeting:
DEAR MS. O,

-Sorry, but at my old school, we watched movies. We never got homework.

and then there is the one charming child, that says,

-Tonight can you give me more? :)




-

to the jerk who stole my mum

Dear Asshole who stole my mum,

I live on a busy street in Bucktown and decided last weekend I would be a little 'domestic' and put a purple, darling mum on me and my roommates' front porch. I was at a little pumpkin patch last weekend with my nieces and nephews. They were running through corn mazes and poking their hands through the fences of the animal farm. I was hung over, 26 can't shake it like my college years, and I trailed behind the kids laughter and shrieks.

Suddenly before my eyes I saw it. Rows and rows of mums. All in dazzling colors-yellow, pink, orange, white, and purple. I couldn't help but wonder, should I buy a mum? Should I become one of those people who buys holiday or season decor and feels unusually satisfied by its presence in my home. I barely kept up with household chores such as taking the trash out or folding my laundry. Now in my new apartment, I decided, I would become one of those warm and fuzzy people who hang stupid wreaths out on the door, throw up the Christmas lights, and even buy Halloween candy, although I know not a soul will probably come by.

Then I saw it-my purple delightful mum. I picked it up and examined it from all sides. My family gave me the thumbs up and I took it home. I set it up ten steps from the sidewalk right by the door and stepped back and felt proud of myself. In a way, I felt, I was enhancing Armitage Avenue.

Then one week later, a jerk stole my mum.

I found out today. I opened the door this morning to water my mum. I look down and its F-ING gone. Some dude walked by my two flat and thought, 'look at that charming mum, lets steal it.' Then they walked up my ten steps, right by my family room window mind you! and hoisted the plant. Then looking quickly to either direction, ran down the steps and around the corner. I would like to know who took my mum and I hope I catch you. You Chicago punks. Here I am trying to add a little spice and warmth to this city. I mean the economy sucks and a little plant may brighten up the city street. And you, stealer, decided it was ok to just come up on my porch and take my plant. Christmas is right around the corner, and no, I am not beaten down by you. I will put out Christmas decor, and yes I will wait for you.