untitled

I don’t know why this is so hard for me. I used to be able to blubber and gush in my writing but recently I feel like I’ve got an iron rod stuck up my spine stopping me from saying all the things I’ve wanted to say. There are so many times when I’m on the edge of telling you what I feel but feel suffocated beneath the sarcasm, the eye rolls and my coy way of pretending that I’m ‘just too cool.’ What you don’t know is that I feel unworthy every time you say that you love me because I never thought anyone ever would. And that I get embarrassed when you tell me I’m beautiful because I think I have a big nose and a big forehead and no one ever asked me to prom.

I never really thought I was special and I kind of hate it when you make me feel that way (but not really). I’m not used to anyone caring and in fact it makes me feel incredibly uncomfortable. You’re kind of my perfect guy and I wish I was your perfect girl. I want to be your prefect someone but, honestly, I get exhausted because I just don’t think I can compete. Most of the time I don’t think I live up to the hype. You’re [insert name here] and I’m someone who hasn’t had a single friend come visit me in Chicago.

torture by comparison

I personally think that the worst torture is torture by comparison and yet I can't help but willingly engage in that same masochism over and over.

It was the summer between my Senior year of undergrad and my first year of grad school.

I spent that summer jealous and alone. I should have been relishing in my youth, in my beauty, in the fact that I should have been carefree. In a better world I would have had parents that congratulated me on not only graduating but also getting a scholarship to grad school. Finally, this was my moment. But I never had a graduation party or much acknowledgement that it even happened.

Instead I got a phone call forcing me home. It was the summer she tried to kill herself.

We all knew she had problems that none us could solve no matter how hard we loved her and no matter how hard we tried to be perfect. It's something that’s greater than all of us that started long before us.

I got the call and found myself in a mind numbingly drive back to Buffalo. Fucked if I knew what to do. What does a twenty-three year old do for a ten year old child who just lost a father to a drug overdose the year before and now has a mother who tried to kill herself?

Fuck.

So I made her French toast every morning. I drove her to school even though she could have taken the bus. I made sure I told her I loved her everyday even when she rolled her eyes at me. I lied to her. I told her our mother went on vacation and would be back soon. "Don't worry, it'll be ok." Even though it wasn't ok and we both knew it.

During the day when she was in school, I drove downtown to the hospital to see her. I hated her then. I hated her for stealing my summer while my classmates backpacked in Europe or interned. I hated her for making everything about her. I hated her for not knowing what I should to do. And for a minute (as awful as it sounds) I wished she had had the guts to pull it off.

She begged me for coffee while she was there. So I lied to her too. I snuck in decaf and pretended it was the real deal. "Don't worry, it'll be ok." I lied to her sister, “Don’t worry, it’ll be ok.”

I lied because I knew that as a former prom queen she’d never want anyone to know. I tried to hide it because I was embarrassed and ashamed. I lied because I couldn't bear anyone knowing.

But more importantly, I couldn't face the judgement that comes from comparison with my peers, and so I lied to myself as well.

glamorus

I've been accused of having a glamorous lifestyle - much like an obsessive compulsive is accused of being a neat freak. It's an innate falsehood. Only I'm not sure that when Fergie defined glamourous she visualized squatting above blue sludge during a turbulence patch thirty thousand feet in the air with neatly pleated pants scrunched around her ankles.

Middle seat in row 11 on Delta flight 645.

I've washed underwear in a hotel sink.

G-L-A-M-O-R-O-U-S. Glamorous.

nurse candy

At the very least I can say with almost full confidence that I have never forgotten to put pants on.

My mother has never been the Joan Cleaver type of mom I've always longed for. She never made cookies or even dinner that didn’t come in the form a combo meal straight from a drive-thru window. By the age of eight I was doing my own laundry and making my best attempts at peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. On occasion I wrote myself love notes to put into my lunches to make the other girls seep with jealousy that was barely containable within their plaid jumpers and knee socks. By then my penmanship was already at a 5th grade level and could certainly pass any handwriting analysis my classmates might employ.

Rather than ironing my socks with light starch or meticulously organizing my vast collection of nude and sometimes headless Barbie dolls, my mother was much more likely to wake us up at 6am for a game of Find the Bra. It was a regular occurrence for us to search the house and surrounding areas for the bra she was about to put on that morning and had somehow managed to misplace at some point in the time it took her to have her morning coffee and put on her makeup. On two separate occasions I found her bra in the freezer.

To describe my mother as unpredictable would be a gross understatement. In fact her eccentricities are so common it would be delusional to hope for any indication of the mundane. The problem is you just never know exactly what new adventure she has in store that day.

My mother has worked as a nurse in an assortment of pregnancy clinics, gyno offices, and breast treatment facilities and always carries with her an ample supply of inappropriate stories. But more importantly, her occupation in combination with her name has resulted in a witty yet descriptive nickname that my sister and I regularly exhaust: Nurse Candy.

Several weeks ago – against my better judgment – I invited a gentleman friend back home to experience all that is Buffalo, New York in February. Aside from the obvious excitement he had in venturing to a great cultural metropolis, he had little idea what to expect from Nurse Candy.

I gave her a solid four hour head start to primp herself and hide any of her penis and/or vagina diagrams she unapologetically leaves around the house before arriving. When we got there I’m not sure what was more embarrassing, the fact that she welcomed us into the house garbed in a bathrobe at 3pm or the fact that the bathrobe was untied exposing her bottomless nether region.

Unfazed by her appearance, Nurse Candy welcomed us into the house mid-robe fumble and with a hug.

the midwest

I recently started up a new project that has brought me to wholesome, God-fearing towns in Minnesota bearing colorful names like Shakopee and Minnehaha. Monday through Thursday I am trapped in Middle America hell. There are outdated hair styles, - my favorite of which belongs to Marjorie who proudly sports a bowl cut and makes no apologies for it - chain restaurants as far as the eye can see, and hallways filled with women exchanging their latest casserole recipes.

Two weeks ago I was on my way into the corporate headquarters of the world's largest agriculture producer and marketer. Because much of the mid-west operates on a farmer's schedule, I was forced to drag myself into the office well before sunrise, silently cursing the fact that I wasn't still in bed. As I walked into the lobby half-awake/half-dead, I approached what appeared to be a woman dressed in a gigantic red foam vagina. Immediately I perked up. Finally something to crack Minnesota's squeaky clean image! I had approximately ten steps of gleeful excitement that there just might be a protest or [gasp] that a meth addict had somehow stumbled into the lobby in a drug-induced rampage. I tingled anticipating the possibilities.

But just as soon as my hopes for a more thrilling Midwest were lifted, reality kicked back in. My dreams of a foam vagina were squashed as I realized she was actually dressed a tbone steak promoting a meat raffle to benefit the food kitchens for the larger Minneapolis area. I didn't end up winning the raffle, but I think I was actually more disappointed that something that had started with so many possibilities resulted in something so mundane.

Later that same day as I was making my sprint to the airport (by far my favorite activity each week), I was stuck behind a semi-truck transporting chickens on their way to slaughter. This reminded me of a discussion I had earlier about saving money by cramming more chickens into a space intended for one (let's set aside ethics on this one). But before I could get too lost in the calculations and the quality of life debate, I was jolted into a momentary panic. I was engulfed in feathers and speeding down a highway in near whiteout conditions. Windshield wipers are vital in situations like this.

That same day I decided that I am in fact a city girl.

consulting

I'm feeling like a total idiot lately and it's to the point where I almost don't even care anymore. I'm so uninterested in what I'm doing that I can't even pretend to care. I don't want to be here and I'm completely checked out. My only incentive right now is to keep my job so I don't end up homeless.

If I wasn't doing this, what would I be doing? I wish I knew the answer to that. I wish I was doing something where I felt like I was actually making a difference in someone's life or the world or a dust speck for that matter. I wish I was creating/destroying/changing something... anything!

Instead I sit in meetings for hours discussing such riveting topics as: how to submit a request form, a meeting to discuss making meetings more efficient, and what is meant by the term "complete."

[sigh]

I guess this is what consulting is supposed to be and why it's so difficult to define. Regardless, I think I'm over the hype.

the self hug

I don't talk a lot but I over think things... a lot... pretty much every second of the day. So much so I often get lost in my own head with little regard for what's happening around me.

I like to think about the drops of water left in the sink after washing my hands and wonder if they miss each other. Or what happens to the breath that exits one person's lungs and enters another and if it's innately altered afterward. Or if its some sort of cosmic balance that you laugh on the inhale and I snort when something is uncontrollably funny.

I have this habit that anyone who has spent more than a day with me has picked up on. I can't really explain why I do it, why I need to do it, why I breathe to do it. I'm horribly self-conscious about it and can't explain it in the slightest.

I tell people it's "the self-hug" and it is. It happens when I'm about to burst out of my body with happiness and I'm too embarrassed to say anything about it because I fear it's too strange to mention.

Would it be strange to tell you that your one gray hair makes me giddy? Or that watching a brewing pot of coffee makes me tingle in anticipation? Or that I rehearse you saying, "Give me your little paw," over and over in my head because I secretly love it?

I'm weird. I know.

[self hug]

11 dollar mark

"Thank you for flying with United today. The current temperature in Chicago is 0 degrees." Ouch.

I turned my cellphone on and within 10 seconds I received a call from my sister. While I was in mid-transit, my grandmother had died. Double blow.

I waited 30 minutes for my suitcase. I was cranky and felt horribly alone. I plopped into the next available cab, which happened to be a minivan. The cab driver was a personable Indian who had a nicer cell phone than I did. The traffic was stagnant and I knew I was locked in for the long haul. In cab situations I don't tend to be much of a talker but I kept making eye contact with him in the rear view mirror and since he led, I had nothing else to do other than follow.

Without any hesitation he proclaimed that he is the happiest he's ever been in his entire life. Although unsolicited, I felt obligated to inquire why.

"Let me tell you Miss... when I came here I was 20 years old and I had 11 dollars in my pocket. God has blessed me Miss."

He then proceeded to go into a tale that began in India where his mother would cut an apple into 12 pieces: 1 for herself, 1 for his father, 1 for his grandfather, 2 for his grandmothers (his grandfather had 2 wives) and 7 for each child. His journey brought him to America through varying odd jobs and eventually his story caught up to his present.

"So you see Miss... as long as I have more than 11 dollars in my pocket, I am blessed."

Being the ever-skeptic, I started to wonder if he was doing this to bump up his tip.

There was some brief silence that was interrupted with another story about his sister. She had married a man that had a nasty habit of chewing loudly with no consideration for anyone around him. They were at a party and people began to notice and laugh, which horribly embarrassed her. She was afraid to say something to him because her husband was not a kind man. So his advice to her was this:

"She must make him a private meal. Make him his favorite dishes and when he starts with the [smack smack smack] she must tell him that they are partners and that they are here to protect each other. And that his loud chewing draws attention not only to him but to her as well. You see Miss, you cannot bend steel with a fist. You must bend steel with slow, steady heat."

(wow)

Eventually the cabbie turned his attention to me and the current status of my love life. He advised me that, "Women here give themselves away too easily. You must make a man work to be with you, if he is to truly value you. Do not pick a partner for the physical beauty. Pick someone who can know you on this inside because it is the inner beauty where you will find happiness."

After 2 hours of sitting in traffic we finally reached my destination and I did not have enough cash to pay the cab fare in it entirety. So I told him I could tip him in cash but I would need to put the rest on my credit card. He turned to me and asked how much cash I did have and I told him, "Thirty-seven dollars."

And he replied, "Then that is all you owe me."

I insisted that I put it on my credit card and tip him in cash and he countered with, "And a million times I tell you no."

In the two hours I spent with him, this guy managed to break my skepticism and really got me thinking... What's the point in my life that I measure my life's happiness against? What's my 11 dollar mark? And will I recognize it when I surpass it?

the great thong incident of 2008

Thongs. The word alone sort of skeeves me out. It reminds me of strippers and wedgies and fills my mind with images of girls in jeans that are too tight who unapologetically walk around exposing their underwear to the world. Nonetheless, I frown upon pantie lines even more and have learned to accept thongs as a necessary evil.

Back in October I was in the middle of a traveling stint between Chicago, Buffalo, NYC and back to Chicago. I refuse to travel with a suitcase that needs to be checked and so I was forced to find somewhere to do laundry along the way. A guy friend of mine with a washer/dryer at his disposal offered the solution. I washed every article of clothing I had with me and I was on my way.

[Fast forward one month]

I was out at the local bar in Buffalo after the latest Sabres victory over the Penguins. After a few beers I went to the bathroom and received a text from the aforementioned guy friend that said, "I am wearing the thong you left at my place." I brushed it off and fired a text back that said, "What?! I am assuming this is meant for someone else."

When I returned to my drinking buddies, I told them about this text and immediately I was pulled aside and informed that I left a thong in the dryer and for the past month the infamous underwear has been floating around the greater Buffalo area (or at least among my group of friends).

I was drunk, I was heated and there's no stopping me at this point. So naturally, I stormed across the bar, pushed the thong-thief and politely said, "What?! You think you're cool sh*t for showing people a thong that belongs to a girl you're NOT hooking up with?!"

His response was confusion and shock and I told him to look at his cell phone for the text that set this whole thing off. Although the text did come from his phone, the author was actually another girl at the bar, who had also been exposed to the thong.

Embarrassed, he retreated to a seat at the bar and several minutes later sent me a shot. To add to his humiliation, I told the bartender to send it back.

This story should end here. I mean how could this possibly get any worse? But it wouldn't be a good story without even more drama.

That night I brought my sister out to the bar and she got involved in trying to resolve the thong incident. During her investigation the story only got better.

The dryer where the thong was discovered was in a shared washer/dryer belonging to my friend and his neighbor in the condo above him. The neighbor, a 20-something year old with a two year old child, had been doing laundry, and discovered the thong that clearly did not belong to her. In response she placed the thong on my friend's doorknob to return the mystery underwear.

Several hours later, stumbling home from the bar, my friend saw the thong hanging on his door waiting for him. His drunken, freshman-like thought process led him to the following conclusion: my neighbor totally wants to hook up with me. It is only natural that the thong bandit then attempted to break into his neighbor's condo, thong in hand, to cash in on the invitation.

What ensued next was screaming, a threat to call the police, and severe embarrassment. Now imagine everyone at our local hang out witnessing this entire thing unfold.

Lesson learned: you should have just mailed me my f-ing thong!

10 days

[ring]

"It's now or never. We're doing this!" I said.

"I don't know. I'm nervous," she replied.

"I just clicked 'Purchase.' Now we're locked in. No excuses," I responded.

Pretty soon now we'll wake up in Nicaragua.

listen lisa

Tonight is my last night (or as far as I know) in NY for work, although I have a sinking feeling I'll be back here. Not going to lie, it's been bad speckled with awesome.

Listen Lisa -

You were the speckle. We were forced together whether we wanted to or not - destined to travel across the country each week together. You gave me perspective. You made me embrace, "Bitches get things done!"

For the first time in so long I spoke without pre-thinking it. That felt awesome. You reminded me of someone I knew so long ago.

I spilled everything to you because I just couldn't help it, and I thank you for not making me feel embarrassed, or shy, or ashamed. I thank you more for keeping it between me and you without me ever needing to ask you to.

We laughed because there was nothing else to do. You had my back and I had yours.

We've gotten lost, found our way, and became the experts. We car danced.

I worry that we'll fade apart and pray that we won't.

So listen Lisa, thank you for breaking up the awful with awesome. Let's laugh again, donkey.

Shake, shake, shake, shake, a-shake it,
mn

suspended

I used to dread the time I spent traveling. I felt as if life was moving without me while I was suspended in transit hovering thousands of miles above the earth. I wasn't making an impression on the world and I was completely cut off from everything. I couldn't help but wonder what was happening below me and wishing I was apart of it.

Now it's that suspension that I crave - for my cell phone not to ring, to not receive an email, to not be interrupted. The time I spend on a weekly basis flying between Chicago and New York is comparative to a sigh. It's an exhale from everyone and everything.

Give me a cramped airplane seat and my iPod. Give me a single serving friend in the aisle seat to my left.

[sigh]

loser

My working theory is that we're all losers desperately trying to hide it. We could be losers because of a hobby, or because of an off-center sense of humor, or because of our history, or because of natural social awkwardness.

We all try and hide our loserness. Desperately attempting to be cooler than next guy. And we're lucky in life we can find a handful of people who won't mind the loser. So here it is.

(Finally a chance to list!)

I am a loser because:

1. I secretly love databases - they make sense when there is none.
2. I pretend not to care when really I'm a romantic.
3. My favorite food will always be chicken fingers.
4. I know how to knit - no excuse for this one.
5. I learned to play the guitar in my church's rock band. Rockin' it for Jesus!
6. My mother suffers from manic depression and my step-father was an alcoholic who over-dosed on drugs.
7. There's nothing better than the smell of gasoline.
8. I've cried to my share of Lifetime movies.
9. I wish I grew up to be a rockstar. I sing in my livingroom and pretend it sounds good.
10. I believe in the power of soundtracks and often think my iPod is the backdrop to my own personal movie.
11. Shoes are my guilty pleasure.
12. My father doesn't recognize me as his daughter.
13. I dance alone in my livingroom on a regular basis.
14. I always wish I was something more.

the wallets

It's a given that women in IT are sparse, and in being one of the few, I occasionally find myself mixed in with a group I call the Wallets.

At around 9pm last night I found myself at a dimly lit round table at The Old Homestead Steak House in Manhattan with 10 senior managers and senior executives - all of which were men. From a distance the scene may have looked like a semi-official business dinner as we engaged in serious conversation and they continuously consulted their Blackberrys.

As the only female and by far the lowest ranking member of the group, I was clearly an outsider catching a glimpse in. I think the natural reaction to being placed in such a situation would be severe discomfort and a tendency to retreat from conversation. But something I discovered along the way is how very little the men I was sitting with have changed from the nerds I knew in school. Conversation topics have transitioned from computer specs and cartoons to project bids and stock portfolios. But what hasn't changed is the underlying context of these conversations. It's status. It's knowing whose penis is bigger than the next guy's. It's proving to the rest of the room that you're better, richer, smarter, whatever.

My role in the boy's club is an easy one - to remind them of the insecure nerd they really are and to knock them down a notch. The fact that I'm a girl gives me a safety net.

After dinner and a few bottles of wine, a nightclub seemed like the most appropriate destination. Table and bottle service of course. Here's to you boys!

the jig is up

It's those moments when you have the perfect crowd-stopping, silence-invoking thing to say mapped out in your mind when the words become trapped in a net somewhere in the back of your throat. It's when you have an entire speech formulated that is just the right mixture of powerful and strong without becoming too emotional that somehow becomes frozen at the sight of your target.

I find myself brewing over these words, precisely choosing each one knowing full well that I won't ever say them. I'll spend my morning commute, my daily shower, my nights meticulously editing and revising. Even five minutes after writing this, I'll come up with something better. This is what I'll never have the courage to say.

You humiliated me. You humiliated me with such ease and comfort it almost seemed routine. I pretend to be fine but that's all I am doing - pretending. I'm not even sure if I am pretending for your sake or mine anymore.

To say that I hate you would be too easy. I am disappointed in you and what you turned out to be, but even worse I am disappointed in myself for choosing to ignore it for so long. I got lost in what you could be so much so that I became blind to what you are.

I became that girl who ignores the obvious when it is staring her in the face. You made me that girl and I allowed you to.

I cannot change you or what you have done. I can only change the open door I've held for you. I will no longer waste another night on you. I won't wait for your calls or search for meaning when there is none. And perhaps you won't even notice but at the very least I'll know that I deserve more than what little you have to offer. At the very least soon I'll be fine and soon I won't even remember you.

The jig is up. I'm onto you.

tAnkAh, mexico

The seven of us arrived in Mexico pale, clueless, and in severe need of a drink. We had a skeletal game plan in mind: get ourselves to Mexico, drive two hours in a foreign country to a beach house none of us had seen, load up on food and drinks somewhere along the way, park it on the beach, make it out alive.

This adventure was one that I happened to stumble into during a last minute trip home to Buffalo. Over several rounds of drinks the plan unfolded. Less than a week later I solidified my drunken promise and purchased an airline ticket and incredibly enough it all went off flawlessly. My only complaint would be that it ended too quickly.

During this time, I was forced to leave everything behind whether I wanted to or not. There was no Internet and no cell phone reception and I am endlessly thankful for that.

I spent this trip with a group of people who put me back in touch with where I come from, who celebrate the Buffalo long A, who are not above eating hot dogs meal after meal. They reminded me that a work deadline is not life or death and in the larger picture there are infinitely more important things.

We kept ourselves busy alternating between the beach, the private pool, grilling, snorkeling in a cenote, seeing the Mayan ruins at Tulum, drinking, and of course laughing until it hurt.

numb

I am exhausted. I am exhausted from my job. I am even more exhausted from complaining about it. I am frustrated.

I can't remember the last time I had an entire, full day off. I have dreams (more like nightmares) about legacy systems, databases, and deadlines. I had my first panic attack since grad school.

I am tired of trying when trying has gotten me nowhere.

The exhaustion has led to apathy and apathy has unfolded a numbed, detached version of myself.

I do not like myself much these days.

Tomorrow will be better. I need to get back to who I used to be.

another year older

Ever since my sister and I stumbled into Friar Tuck, a dive bar located on the corner of my street, on her birthday last December I've had only one goal in mind for my birthday:
a shot of Jaegar from an inflatable sheep's butt.

Mission accomplished.

Since my birthday happened to fall on a Tuesday this year, I didn't have anything lined up and it had almost slipped my mind, mainly because of the long hours and countless weekends I had been working. In all honesty, sleep would have been a much appreciated birthday present. But then again, who has time for sleep these days?

It seems like the best days tend to be the ones completely unplanned and unexpected, and my birthday happened to fall perfectly into this.

Birthday highlights include:

Cubs game with the work crew

The long anticipated shot from a sheep's butt









The perfect Sunday fun day outfit compliments of my sister and F.

Miner's Lung

According to the legend of The Bro, the bro arises each morning to a half-naked girl in his bed and has one demand - A Miner's Lung immediately. And if that morning's half-naked girl doesn't know how to whip up one of these bad boys, the bro will not be happy, and no one wants to see the bro unhappy.

Miner's Lung:
1 Guinness Beer
3 shots of vodka

On occasion, the bro has been known to ask for a double.

We first stumbled upon the Miner's Lung several weeks ago at Poag Mahone's - an Irish bar conveniently located just down the street from the office. Over a round or eight, the description of the Miner's Lung on the menu became repulsively intriguing and eventually made its way into the bro folklore that developed around the office.

This past Friday was Cordin's last day on the project and it was only appropriate that we sent him off in true bro fashion - a round of Miner's Lungs. Things got blurry from that point on.

Miner's Lung virgins:














First glorious sip:














Miner's Lung Conquered:















I feel refreshed just thinking about it.

nyc

I think New York City is one of those places that can be strikingly different each time you visit it, and I have yet to disprove this theory wrong. NYC is beautiful and ugly; black, white and all kinds of shades of gray. I love it and I hate it. It's everything in the world all squashed and mashed together into a giant children's finger painting. This past weekend I found a new New York City.

Lesson learned on this visit: it's important to pack casual-wear on business trips. Otherwise you'll have to resort to the gift shop next to the hotel to supply your weekend-wear (see photo to the right). Playing the role of Tammy tourist, I got to visit: the Empire State building, see Avenue Q on Broadway, St. Patrick's Cathedral, the Brooklyn Bridge, SoHo, Chinatown, and (to appease my sister) Serendipity. Other highlights included the best meal of my life compliments of Mary and the Aqua Grill and Asian invasion night with Naerim.

But aside from the typical tourist attractions, you're bound to stumble upon a secret little nook. And the one we happened to find was Joe's Shanghai on Pell St. in Chinatown. It's noisy, confusing, has community-style seating and is cash only. Ask for the dumplings.