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Menial jobs.

Sometimes, it seems like rampant selfishness is going to ruin the world. Everybody puts themselves first, which in and of itself is not a bad thing, but they seem to do so at the detriment of others. People are SO self-centered that they can’t even see beyond the exact moment in time. To counter this, I have a proposal.

factory#3 CPUEveryone should be required to work in a menial low-respect job. Not forever, but for a while – long enough to understand what it’s like.

These include:

  • Retail
  • Food service
  • Custodial work
  • Referee / Umpire
  • Secretary

After working retail during the holiday season, how many of us would continue to dig through a pile of clothing for the perfect size while leaving the rest in a shambles? How many of us would leave the fitting room overflowing with clothing we couldn’t bother to hang up?

How many of us would refuse to tip our servers for a mistake the kitchen made after waiting tables for a few months?

If we had to spend a few months picking up other people’s garbage, would we still litter and stick gum on the undersides of tables and toss cigarette butts on the ground?

Would we continue to scream at referees and umpires at our children’s games if we had once been that ref or ump?

Would we be more conscious of the work involved in putting together a mailing under someone else’s name if we had done it before? More understanding of the speed of our dictation?

People need a bit of compassion. If we can’t imagine ourselves walking a mile in someone else’s shoes, we need to actually get into those shoes and start walking. And then we’d learn that just a little civility, and a little extra work for each individual, makes the world an infinitely better place. We all just have to do our part.

<a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/yshrhara/2961461410/” title=”factory#3 CPU by yshr, on Flickr”><img src=”http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3032/2961461410_8d966e5787.jpg” width=”500″ height=”333″ alt=”factory#3 CPU” /></a>

My dead friend

The first time I heard the phrase, a new classmate just dropped it into conversation. “I used to go to that park with my dead friend.” I was startled. It seemed so blase, so callous. “My dead friend.” The dead friend didn’t even get a name.

As I got to know the classmate better, I realized that she regularly mentioned her dead friend. The cute sweater she was wearing? “I got it from my dead friend.” A particular song on the radio? “My dead friend and I went to their concert.” Every time it came up, I paused. I  never knew a proper response.

Eventually, I learned that her dead friend was named Betsy, and Betsy died in college from something horrible. Nobody dies in college from anything not horrible. It’s too young. What I didn’t know was why she always called Betsy “my dead friend”, instead of her proper name. It made me uncomfortable.

And then, one day, I understood. It all became so heartbreakingly clear.

Because I had my own dead friend.

I cannot forget my dead friend. Sometimes, it feels like she’s still alive. I want to call her and gossip about the latest Grey’s Anatomy, or complain about lackluster talent on American Idol. I want to go to Starbucks with her for her favorite vanilla lattes. She is present as a part of my life, and I don’t want to lose those memories. I want to remember her.

When she died, I spoke to my classmate. “Now, I have my own dead friend.” She nodded, sympathetically. “It’s going to suck,” she said, “a lot. And eventually, it’s going to suck a little less. But it will always suck.”

My dead friend’s name is Julie. But when I say “Julie”, a flood of horrible memories come along with all the good ones. Her long illness, the hope that she was finally recovering, and her sudden death.

Julie died two years ago, on January 27, 2009. And it still sucks. I hate that I have a dead friend. I hate that my classmate has a dead friend. But sometimes, talking about my dead friend is the only way to cope, and to keep memories alive.

So I call her “my dead friend”. I tell people I saw Wicked with my dead friend. That my dead friend visited Australia and played violin. How my dead friend was beautiful and smart and funny and wonderful. And nobody knows how to respond, unless they too have a dead friend. The ones with dead friends understand completely, and know that there’s no need to respond or react. It just is, and it just sucks.

Photo of Julie is property of Amie.

Read more from Amie on her personal site here.

Always kiss me goodnight

Our bed is a super-duper warm cuddly bed of comfort and awesomeness. It’s all cozy and covered in a down quilt and I love to bundle and burrow and turn myself into a down burrito. Plus, my husband likes to sleep with the fan on, and it makes my ears cold. So I pull the blankets up to cover my ears.

One night, I had snuggled in all cozy and pulled the covers way up before he made it to bed. He leaned over to kiss me goodnight, but found quilt instead of lips. He rolled away, seemingly giving up. The following conversation occurred.

Um, I don’t get a goodnight kiss?

I couldn’t find your lips.

Really? That’s all you tried? You didn’t even try to move the quilt!

Sorry. I couldn’t find them.

Some people say that there ain’t no mountain high enough, ain’t no river low enough, ain’t no valley wide enough to keep me from kissing your face. And yet, a little old quilt stops you? (oh, did I mention I was singing? I might have been.)

At this point, I’m just getting stunned silence from him. So I continued.

SOME PEOPLE would walk five. hun. dred. miles and then would walk five hun dred more just to kiss people they love. But noooooo, you couldn’t even move a quilt! (yeah, I was singing that too. He started laughing.)

DA DA DADA!

DA DA DADA!

DADA DUNDUNDIDDLE DUNDIDDLE DUNDIDDLE DUNDUNDAAAAAHHHH

HUSBAND. You’d better DA DA DADA with me! Or I’ll find more songs to shame you. DA DA DADA!

DA DA HAHA

DA DA DADA!

HA HA HAHA

(together) DADA DUNDUNDIDDLE DUNDIDDLE DUNDIDDLE DUNDUNDAAAAAHHHH

And then we each got our goodnight kiss. All was well. Who knew my singing was so lovely as to shame him into joining in? Or that he loves me enough to humor me with his equally lovely singing?

Of course, about fifteen minutes later, during which we’d both been trying, unsuccessfully, to fall asleep, there came a peep from my side of the bed.

SOME people would never give you up, never let you down, never run around or give up on kissing you goodnight to hurt you.

I’m telling you, he’s lucky to have me.

Photo is property of the author

Read more from Amie on her personal site here.

Outrageous

A lot of people are outraged over the TSA’s new Scylla/Charybdis policy (for those of you less schooled in the Homeric classics, the modern term is Rock/Hard Place, even though Charybdis was a whirlpool monster thingy and not at all a “hard place”) where the damned-if-you-do choose to have naked pictures taken of them and the damned-if-you-don’t get to third base with a stranger. Good times.

I, personally, am not outraged over the whole thing. I’m certainly not okay with it – it’s a huge waste of time and money, and is utterly ineffective at making anybody actually safer. But I’m not outraged. I’m glad other people are, and I will never ever tell them to stop being outraged over it, though many people seem to be doing just that. But I’m not outraged.

There is only so much room for outrage in a functioning person, to be honest. I can’t spend my entire life being outraged over every little thing. First, it takes up too much energy that is better spent living. More importantly, if you are outraged over everything, how will people be able to tell which times are the most important? Basically, if you’re angry about everything, you’re also truly angry about nothing.

My outrage lies elsewhere. I am full of outrage, directed at tons of different sources.

I am outraged that consenting adults are not allowed to enter into the legal relationships they wish to enter.

I am outraged that our government (elected by us) and our free press (supposed to keep our government accountable) keep lying to us, all the time.

I am outraged that our country and many of our states kill people who commit crimes.

I am outraged that we haven’t figured out a way to rehabilitate people and allow people who did wrong to safely reenter society, free from stigma.

I am outraged that capable members of our armed forces are being discharged, even if they didn’t tell.

I am outraged that somewhere along the line, education became a liability and science is disregarded in favor of fairy tales.

I am outraged by prejudice and how pervasive it seems. I am especially outraged by anyone who insists that prejudice is no longer a problem (or never was).

I am outraged people go to bed every night without enough to eat or a safe place to sleep. I am outraged that children are beaten and molested. I am outraged that nobody seems to care any time of year except now. I am outraged that schools aren’t safe or useful, that parents don’t help the schools anymore. I am outraged that our literacy rate is declining.

I am outraged that children are blamed and punished for their parents’ crimes.

I am outraged that women are treated as incapable of making intelligent decisions about their own lives.

I am outraged that religious people use their faith to do harm to others, whether with good intentions or not.

But outrage is exhausting. And it is easy for me — siting here at my computer in a warm building after a full night’s sleep with a full stomach and a paying job and health insurance (and dental and vision) and a legal federally-recognized marriage and voting rights and no worries about where my next meal is coming from or what I’ll be forced to do to sleep safely — to forget my outrage and continue in complacency.

But without outrage, nothing will ever progress. And that would be the biggest outrage of all.

Public domain image.

Read more from Amie on her personal site here.

Awareness is dumb. Try action.

About a year ago, somebody sent me a message on Facebook. “Change your Facebook status to the color of the bra you are wearing to raise awareness for breast cancer. Forward this to all your women friends, but DON’T TELL ANY MEN WHAT YOU ARE DOING.”

…Because nothing says “awareness” like “secret”.

This year, it was changed up to suggest that women should update their status to say where they like to keep their purse. Except they should make it say “I like it __________” and nothing else, and again, secret from the menfolk.

Most recently, someone determined that we could all raise awareness for child abuse by changing our profile pictures to a cartoon we liked as children. Suddenly, my feed is full of Mickey Mouse and Charlie Brown. Sure, it’s better than a MySpace-style picture of yourself from a camera that you’re holding high above your head, but not much.

I have two major issues with these campaigns. First off, if you don’t get the message about why people are changing their status or picture, it does nothing for awareness. I noticed after the bra color debacle that many men were very curious about what the colors were for – so I changed my status to suggest that people donate money to a breast cancer organization rather than putting up the color of their bra in secret. Of course, I was promptly chastised by a female friend for letting men in on the secret. So much for awareness.

My second problem, and the much bigger problem in my estimation, is that awareness is meaningless. Sure, we’re all AWARE that breast cancer exists, that it’s probably not much fun to have, and that it kills people. We’re all aware that some children get abused. But so what? Big freaking deal. I’m also aware that it’s cold in Chicago in December.

Awareness does nothing. Being aware of a problem is not at all the same as creating a solution. So while we can all wear a pink ribbon for the month of October, or a yellow plastic bracelet, or plaster bumper stickers all over our cars, the problems still exist. There is still cancer. Children still get abused. All you’ve done is reminded us for a minute or two that it happens.

Instead of being aware, why not do something? I know it takes quite a bit more work than googling pictures of Mickey Mouse and changing your profile picture. It might cost a little money or time. But why not give some money or some time to a cause you care about? I promise there is one out there for you. Be part of the solution.

Image property of Amie.

Read more from Amie on her personal site here.

Uniform

I enjoy the anonymity of the Loop.

It’s nice to be able to blend into the crowd. In the winter, I’m one of thousands roaming around in leather boots, dress pants, a knee-length black wool peacoat, and leather driving gloves. In slightly warmer weather, I’m one of thousands roaming around in power heels, dress pants, and a knee-length khaki belted trench. This “uniform” allows me to disappear, melting away. And some days, that is all I want: to walk out of work and be gone.

It’s not just the denizens of the Loop who wear the uniform. The same colors echo all around. Dark black buildings with strong corners rise above the matching men with their black coats and strong shoulders. Charcoal gray wool pants cross salt-stained asphalt streets. Sidewalks blend with khaki, while concrete buildings complement camel.

Through the holidays, bits of color pop from display windows and new scarves. As winter wears on, the colors become more muted, less noticeable. The fresh snow turns gray and crusty, pants and shoes get stained in the same manner. Repeated washings cause clothes to fade while the fresh pine needles covering flower beds dry out.

Eventually we will break out of this dark dismal uniform. Spring will come, bringing tulips and daffodils, and colored clothing will reappear. Until then, I melt away, anonymous as the city itself. One of a million matching columns of black and gray and khaki, surrounded by taller corresponding columns.

Photo from Fantasia 2000 ©Disney.

If you want more Amie, seek her here.

It’s too early for Christmas

The rules of the holidays are simple and finite, much like the rules of basic hair care. The ammonium thyglocylate will deactivate in water, and Christmas does not start until after Thanksgiving, at the very earliest.

Christmas is on December 25. Jesus is not the reason for the season. The tilt of the Earth’s axis as it orbits the sun creates this miserable period of time when days in Illinois last barely 7 hours. Incidentally, Jesus wasn’t even born in Winter. Lambs are sheep in Winter, and every Christmas play ever will remind you that there were lambs when he was born. But we commemorate his birthday around the solstice because it’s all the better to convert you that way, my dear.  The only Jesus-related season is Advent. (Okay, and Lent, but that’s not for a few more months)

This year, Advent begins on Sunday, November 28. Advent is a time for the Church (which I use to refer to all Christians of all denominations) to prepare for Jesus’ birth.  If the Advent season provides all Christians, everywhere, on the whole entire planet enough time to prepare for the birth of Jesus, than it should give America enough time to prepare to give each other a ridiculous amount of presents! Why do we give so many presents anyway? Because .. um.. 12 days after Jesus was born.. some dudes came from Persia with some stuff for him? (Shhh, it’s not because we’re greedy)

As a side note, I think the Orthodox folks have it right, with the presents at the Epiphany.

The Rule of the Holiday is that Christmas preparation should begin with Advent, not with Thanksgiving. This is right and proper. Thanksgiving is an arbitrary day (more or less) based upon when November starts. It has no relation whatsoever to Christmas. Advent exists solely and entirely for Christmas. This is how it should be.

That said, generally speaking December 1 is a decent beginning date for decorations and music and all the other random Christmas paraphernalia that worms its way into our lives this time of year. Once it is actually the month of Christmas, you can start to observe it. When holidays take place late in a month, there is no need to take any notice of their existence until that month (I’m lookin’ at YOU, Halloween!!).

So. All-Christmas-All-The-Time radio stations – cut it out! Crazy Mall Santa – go away! Blinking Lights and Icicle Lights and Net Lights and All Other Lights – TURN OFF. You’re all too early. Chill a minute or two.

Honestly, dragging celebrations out make them less special. Think of your best friend who lives far, far away from you. If you saw that person every day, would you appreciate him/her as much as you do when you see them now? Probably not. Give the incessant holiday cheer a break, and honor it a little bit more. Wait. It makes the final thing much better.

The evil startle reflex

Halloween is a rough time of year. The hassle of finding the perfect costume, the temptation of eating all the candy long before trick-or-treaters show up at my door, getting pumpkin goop (that’s the technical term, isn’t it?) out of my hair. Don’t get me wrong- I like Halloween, I’m just not sure the work is worth it for a single night of revelry.

Sure, America wants me to believe in things like “Halloweekends” and the 13 Nights of Halloween or whatever. But the problem is, these things are not fun for me. I mean, I went to a “Haunted Corn Maze” one year. I wandered around like a big spoilsport pointing out every person who was paid to hide in the corn and jump out to scare me long before they had a chance to move. “I see you over there! Don’t even bother.” “Scare fail!” I’m too cynical for fake scares.

Or so I pretend.

The true story is that I’m a startler.

I am jumpy. It takes only the tiniest unexpected thing to make me jump ten feet into the air, completely out of my skin. After I startle, I’m tense and on edge for a looooong time after. It doesn’t even have to be something scary to startle me.

For example, my husband is not allowed to lie facing me at night with his arm straight out under his pillow. Because IF his fingers dangle down and touch the top of my head, I jump and scream and spend hours worrying about a scary bug in my hair. He can’t sneak up behind me to kiss the back of my shoulder because I jump and scream and whip around and punch him.

The startling means I can’t watch scary movies. Say I’m watching a movie where Nancy Drew is wandering through a sun-dappled meadow with her magnifying glass looking for clues, and her boyfriend Ned comes up nearby and steps on a twig. I jump ten feet. And that’s not even scary.

I know every word in The Lion King. I know the story forwards and back. And yet, every single time I watch it, I jump when Scar’s paw comes out of nowhere to crush that little mouse. Even though I know it’s coming, down to the exact second it happens. Again, that’s not even scary, but I startle like crazy.

So when a scary movie is on, I’m not about to torture myself by sitting around and waiting for that moment when I will be startled. Especially since the people doing sound for horror movies caught on and make scary music when nothing bad happens (me: tense) and then have scary stuff happen with no music (me: tense). Sitting around for two hours just WAITING to jump in fear? No thank you.

As a result, I’ve never seen a single Friday the 13th. I’ve never seen Nightmare on Elm Street. I haven’t seen The Blair Witch Project or Paranormal Activity or Psycho or The Shining. Not Rosemary’s Baby, the Exorcist, or Halloween.

Some people think this means I can never truly experience or enjoy this time of year. To those people, I say “Poo.” I’ll be at home watching the Rocky Horror Picture Show and Hocus Pocus. I might even read some Stephen King. I’ll definitely eat a ton of candy. But I’m not subjecting myself to the Evil Startle Reflex.

And I’m just fine with that.

Melted moments

I was a dancer when I was younger. Starting in elementary school, I took ballet lessons at my hometown studio. In 6th grade I added jazz dance to my weekly schedule. In 10th grade, I dropped ballet and added tap. Kept dancing with the same instructor at her studio until I started college.

Every year, in May, we put on a recital. The first year, my costume was for a hoedown number. I wore a jean skirt with red sequined bows, a white t-shirt, and a red bandanna around my neck. I was angry that I didn’t look like a real ballerina. The next year I got my wish – we were Cotton Candy, complete with pink poufy tutus. Of course, by then, I was SO over pink. Over the years we were fish, Indian maidens, and gypsies complete with tambourines. The Disney year I had a genie suit for Friend Like Me, and a fabulous Jasmine outfit for A Whole New World. In high school, we danced to Janet Jackson’s If in punky black hotpants, and to One Night Only from Dreamgirls in short sparkly silver halter dresses. The costumers botched our outfits one year and made us look like the Jolly Green Giant. The costumes had a SUPER loose green top that would have fallen off (only a smidge inappropriate for high school girls), so we rushed to the costume place for custom fittings at the last minute.

I started wearing stage makeup for the recital at 6. Stage lights wash you out. If you don’t wear more makeup than a hooker, the audience can’t see your face. You’re just a blur, with no defined features. I blame this for my lasting aversion to foundation and blush.

The recital ended with the Grand Finale featuring everyone who was old enough wearing whatever costume they had on last. We grabbed sparkly top hats backstage before rushing out and doing some kicks. The Grand Finale was fun, but my favorite was the yearly penultimate number: the grand tap finale. The senior tap class would do its dance, and then huddle up in a circle. After the huddle, we broke into the Audition from 42nd Street. It took forever to learn, and I still have it memorized. Not that I could DO it…

After the recital, all the dancers would meet up in the foyer outside the auditorium with our families. When we were young, we didn’t even change out of our costumes. As we got older, we would change to jeans and a t-shirt, or in high school, to a cute dress. Then all the dance families, en masse, headed out for ice cream.

Ice cream was always at Melting Moments, an independent homemade ice cream shop. Always. All the dance families would have a scoop or two in a fresh waffle cone. We would congratulate each other on our dancing, share jokes, and meet our friends’ families. Then we’d scatter for the summer, not to reconvene until fall.

Melting Moments closed a few months ago, after over 25 years in business.

My dance instructor retired, and sold her studio. The buyer renamed it and changed locations a few years ago.

They will be missed. But never forgotten.

What animal am I?

Job interviews terrify me. Especially interviews for jobs that I really, really want, like the one coming up in a few weeks. I haven’t gone on an interview in over a year, and I’ve certainly never interviewed for a job of this caliber before. I think a little nervousness is probably a good thing: keeps me sharp and motivated to do well. Preparation is difficult.

I’ve always heard horror stories about interviewing at bigger law firms. A group of attorneys stare you down and grill you on your transcript, why you took the classes you did, why you got an A- instead of an A. They question you on your writing sample in the minutest details. They ask insane questions like, “If you were a tree, what sort of tree would you be and why?”

I don’t know if there is a right answer to the tree question. I’m sure everybody wants a tough tree, but should it have deep roots, like an oak? Quickly regrow after being chopped down like bamboo? Survive harsh conditions like a cactus? Is a cactus even a tree?

Bend in the wind but not break like a palm tree? Drop coconuts on heads like a palm tree? Never stop growing like a white pine? Multi-task like an olive tree that produces olives, wood, and olive oil? Be sticky and sweet like a maple? Hold all sorts of things together like a mangrove? Think outside the box and be a shrubbery? That looks nice and isn’t too expensive? Ugh.

Worse than the tree question is the animal question. It’s so cliché to be a lion or wolf. Everybody wants to be king of the jungle, right? Forget it. If I have to be an animal, I want to be a giant squid. I could crush a submarine. Although I have it on pretty good authority that giant squids in real life don’t actually crush submarines; they only do in Jules Verne.

All I know is that I am not a pack animal. I hate group projects. This isn’t the sort of thing to trumpet on a job interview.

My husband suggested a rhinoceros. I wondered if he was calling me fat. No, he assured me, he meant that when it has work to do, a rhino just puts its head down and powers through. “AND GORES PEOPLE IN THE STOMACH!” I exclaimed. Which was not what he was going for.

His next suggestion was even more useless. “Be a black mamba. Small but deadly!”

Sure, honey, and then my interviewer will just think I spent too much time watching Kill Bill and not enough time imagining what animal I should be. And now the little tune Daryl Hannah whistles is stuck in my head.

I could be a dinosaur! Triceratops. Same reasoning as the rhino, but way cooler. Except now scientists are saying triceratops might not have been real. Wanting to be a triceratops is analogous to answering a question about which planet I’d be with Pluto- kids like it, it’s a sentimental favorite, but it lost its license to be a planet. THAT won’t get me a law job.

I think I’ll stick with a giant squid. A Jules Verne sub-crushing giant squid. If that doesn’t get me hired, I don’t know what will.

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