Misc | thesmartlychicago.com

The World According to Me

June 6, 2011 By StaceyRobinson Leave a Comment

For about five minutes, several years ago, the title on my business cards was to have been She Ra Princess of Power. Really. We were re-tooling the department, brainstorming new titles that would better describe our actual job functions. I suggested She Ra, because, well, I figured I was that all-powerful. That, and because I wanted a tiara and a sash.

Up on the white board it went. And there it stayed, until someone suggested a few more business-like titles. What stuck was Strategic Relationship Manager. Utilitarian, sure, but with little pizzazz. I told everyone the story though, of how I got to be She Ra, Princess of Power for a little while. I say all this because, deep down, I really do believe I am She Ra. Or at least that I have She Ra-like powers. Mostly. There are times when I want to shout “If you’d just do it my way, the world run so much smoother!” And by the world, I of course mean my life: if you all would just follow my rules, my world would run infinitely better.

Really. They’re not difficult rules. Here’s a sample:

If God had meant for their to be flavored coffee, God would have created flavored coffee beans. Cream is acceptable. However, if you add whipped cream, you now have a milkshake, not coffee. Even if it’s hot.

Drive-through lanes were invented for speed and convenience. They are not designed for question-and-answer hour. Seriously— when’s the last time the menu changed in any meaningful way? It’s a burger. Or chicken nuggets. Or fries. Move on. Drive through. Oh, and this doesn’t mean drive-and-then-stop-and-check-your-order or contemplate-just-how-hot-that-coffee-is. It’s hot; trust me. Put the cup in the cup-holder and drive.

Lettuce doesn’t belong on a sandwich. Ever. It is slippery. No good can ever come from a slippery sandwich.

You are not the arbiter of how fast the fast lanes on the highway should be. If you find yourself zipping along in the far left lane, happy in your three-miles-over-the-posted-speed-limit haze, oblivious that the car behind you is all but kissing your bumper, and more cars zoom past you on the right (some of whose occupants are looking decidedly annoyed, and some gesticulating madly, one finger at a time)— move over. Highway driving is a cooperative effort, people. Cooperate.

You’re not so special or so important that you cannot wait the extra two minutes and NOT block the intersection. And stop being fake-surprised when motorists with the actual right-of-way give you snarky looks. You drove into that intersection precisely so you would get caught and wouldn’t have to wait for the next one.

Regardless of ever-changing grammatical rules, irregardless is not a word. Ever. And while we’re at it— “your” is NOT the same as “you’re,” and there’s a difference between “who” and “whom.” Likewise there, their and they’re take some thought. There’s no excuse for bad grammar or bad spelling— even while texting.

I am all for your religious beliefs. Have at ‘em. Practice with all the fervor and passion and joy you can muster. Do not, however, mistake your faith for my fact. Feel free to do or not do as your God commands, but don’t legislate those thou shalts and thou shalt nots for the rest of us.

Simple rules, right? Follow them, and the world continues to spin on its axis, and I don’t spin like a mad dervish, riffing on some nefarious infraction or misstep. I can be a benevolent Princess of Power, as long as you play by the rules. My rules. It always comes back to that.

Here’s the thing though: I’d give them all up, every single one of my beloved rules, if we could all practice these:

Patience. Tolerance. Kindness. Love.

Let’s face it: we all have our own battles to fight and demons to exorcize. It costs us nothing to comfort or care. Indeed, a kind word can heal a broken heart or give hope where once there was none.

Even She Ra, in all her glorious power, can’t hold a candle to that.

Interested in reading more about the world according to Stacey? Check it out here.

Filed Under: Humor, Misc, Opinion, Uncategorized

Hotel, Motel, Holiday Inn (say WHAT?)

May 24, 2011 By Dashing Gray 1 Comment

Imagine this scenario:

It’s midnight. You’re in a new city, and you’ve spent the day exploring on foot (read: lots of walking; tired feet). Afterward, you visited a piano bar and, due to high drink costs, had only enough alcohol to make you sleepy and to coat your teeth in that oh-so-pleasant layer of scummy sugar.

You walk into your hotel lobby to cash in on a room reservation that you’ve made ahead of time and already paid for in full.

There’s no one at the desk.

There’s also no bell to ring, so you figure you’ll just wait a few minutes until they come back from rounds, a smoke break, or whatever errand they may be doing.

About 15 minutes pass, and there’s still no sign of anyone. You start craning your neck toward the back room and calling “Hello? Hello?” in that pleading way that means you want nothing more than to just go to bed in peace.

You then notice a phone sitting in the lobby. Perhaps you can call the front desk and get it to ring in the back somewhere, where someone will pick up.

No luck. It just rings at the front desk where, as we’ve already established, no one is standing.

You try the same thing with your cell phone, yielding the same result.

At this point, it’s been about 20 minutes. This is getting weird and very frustrating. Where is everybody exactly? How is it possible that you are so close to collapsing into a comfortable bed for the night and yet so far away from it?

25 minutes have passed since you walked into the lobby. By this time, you’ve tried walking around the attached hallways, which only lead into mazes of locked guest rooms. You’ve gone in and out of the front door multiple times in hopes that some motion-activated bell would ring somewhere and get someone’s attention. You’ve called the other hotel of the same chain in town, and they said they would try to get a hold of someone. Their fruitless call also went to the staff-less front desk.

In a moment of desperation, you even screamed at the top of your lungs like you were being attacked because—let’s face it—this is an attack on your humanity.

What do you do now? Who else is even working at midnight?

I’ll tell you what I did: I called the police.

Yes, it was a ridiculous situation. Yes, the police probably have better things to do. But I was at a loss for appropriate action. I needed somewhere to sleep now. Plus, I’d already paid for this particular somewhere, so I couldn’t just up and choose a different one.

The police assured me that they would send someone over to make sure everything was ok. A few minutes later—we’re about 30 minutes in at this point—an officer walks in, and I admit with embarrassment that it was indeed me who called. He informs me that the other hotel across the parking lot (a different chain name) is actually attached, and he calls over the desk clerk from over there to see what’s going on.

The clerk says that he hasn’t seen our hotel’s employee yet tonight, and that she should have gotten in at 11. He knocks on the same door that we did—the one that employees enter to go into the back portion of the desk—and also yields no response.

So he slowly opens the door. I see his eyes pan around the room and then down to the floor. I see him give my fiancee a look, although from the angle I am standing, I can’t discern horror or annoyance specifically. The other employee enters the room and crouches down near the floor, gives a shake, then gives a significantly harder shake. Finally, there are signs of life.

The desk worker has been sleeping on the floor the whole time. Jon later tells me from his glimpse inside that she had set up a full bed for herself on the floor, complete with blankets and pillows.

I can’t hear if any words are exchanged, but the employee slowly emerges. Her hair is a mess, its short cut sticking out at countless odd angles. Her face shows no signs of remorse or panic, but rather she yawns laboriously, stretches a bit, and ruffles the back of her hair to smooth it down. In a small moment of victory for us, this ruffling actually makes her hair look worse.

The cop stands there just long enough to witness all of this, then whispers, “I’ll let you voice your complaint to her” and exits. I’m pretty sure he was trying to get out before he busted out laughing, and that he’s currently radioing in a pretty entertaining story to his cohorts.

So, finally, after she asks us if we’re “logging in” (…?) and to confirm our names—despite the the printout we handed her that lists everything in writing—we receive our keys. It is 12:40 a.m.

I sincerely doubt that this stuff happens to other people.

Filed Under: Entertainment, Humor, Misc

You Seem To Be On Fire

May 20, 2011 By Renee Cohn 3 Comments

Here’s a dirty little secret: teachers don’t like all their students. Some of them are jerks, and we wish they weren’t in our classes. We try to be compassionate, but despite our best intentions, sometimes we just give up.

Obvious, no? It should be. Teachers are people with emotions and opinions just like anyone else, but I have this teensy-little problem with self-delusion. (See my post about traveling to London.) I left my education program with the absurd conviction that I would change lives, inspire the listless, and turn even the most resistant student into a fervent, life-long English enthusiast. Yeah, right.

My first year teaching high school was a nightmare. (Later, I learned this is true for most newbies.) I was 27, looked about 18, and had absolutely no idea how to relate to teenagers. My optimism gave way to desperation as I realized my so-called “radical” teaching methods were useless without classroom management, and my classes were chaotic. Like so many other young grads before me, I wanted to be the “cool” teacher, but I wasn’t cool. I was a mess.

Evan was the first student I gave up on. He led his best friend Darnell in an ongoing plot to derail my class. They rarely showed up and when they did, they actively tried to upset me. They were totally up-front about this, grinning with satisfaction when I lost my cool. Evan and Darnell never, ever did any work, never even brought backpacks to class, and frequently interrupted me and their classmates by shouting random, rude nonsense. Sometimes they’d just hop up and walk around the classroom. Sometimes, they’d just get up and leave. I didn’t mind, because if they didn’t leave on their own, I inevitably had to kick them out. Even after they’d gone, though, restoring classroom order was nigh impossible. I breathed easier when they were absent.

Midway through the second quarter, I’d given up on my cheerful circle of desks and reinstituted regimental rows. (A useless solution.) I’d positioned Evan and Darnell on opposite sides of the room, and Evan sat front and center. (Bad idea.) One day, Evan stood and left. I didn’t expect him to return, but he did. He sat quietly at his desk for a few minutes before I smelled something burning. A thin ribbon of smoke rose from Evan’s head.

“Evan,” I said calmly, “You seem to be on fire.”

The class went insane with laughter. I quickly reassured myself the fire extinguisher still hung on the wall. Would I actually put him out if he burst into flame? No idea.

Evan stood and, with a sloth-like languor I couldn’t duplicate even if I tried, walked to the trash can. Looking straight at me, he reached deep into the pocket of his jeans and removed a smoldering cigarette, its end glowing red. Apparently, he’d shoved a still-burning cigarette into his pocket. Yeah, he was that bright. He smashed out the burning ash with his bare fingers, threw the cigarette into the trash, and, with the same impossible slowness, returned to his seat.

Naturally, I kicked him out, and later I told the principal he was no longer welcome in my classroom. Darnell didn’t return either, probably in solidarity. Fine with me. I couldn’t be sorry they were gone, but I did feel sorry for failing to reach them. They obviously needed close, personal attention and serious guidance, but I wasn’t able to give it to them.

My second year was better. I learned that logical, clear rules actually help students learn and aren’t always restrictive. I tried desperately to be fair, consistent and not lose my temper. Sometime during that year’s second quarter, I moved the desks back into a circle. For the past ten years, I’ve taught college composition. I still feel bad when I lose a student, but I realize it’s impossible to reach everybody. I know every semester there will be a student or two I just won’t like. I don’t torment myself. Instead, I try to keep a sense of humor, focus on the students who actually want my help, and remember that for every student who drives me nuts, twenty others are great.

Visit Renee Cohn at 2000 Irises

Photo by Rachel Groves

Filed Under: Humor, Misc Tagged With: students, teaching

The Worst Birthday

May 16, 2011 By Amy 4 Comments

I was deleting computer files recently. I stumbled upon a document that was immediately memorable because I remember that I had to download, print, sign, then fax the document to our real estate agent. Looking at it brought about old feelings of anger and disgust. My signature on the document gave permission for a popular television program to film our condo and use the footage in a future featured home buyers choice episode. So, you ask: Why did negative feelings surface over this little piece of paper? Well, here’s the story of what did and did not happen.

We had tried to sell our condo for ten years (okay, it was only one and a half, but it seemed longer) and the market just kept creeping closer to the outhouse every day. It stunk that bad. Our realtor called us with what we thought was FABULOUS news. The program was having a contest for a lucky couple in Chicago to win the home of their choice. Now it was time to film them and their reactions at their three favorite homes. There was only one problem. Sunday was filming day AND my birthday.

Let me tell you, I felt torn. I wanted to sell our condo so bad. I was beyond the point of desperation (or so I thought.) I dropped our home sale into every conversation, brushed up on market stats, selling trends and tips for staging and showing. I worked as hard as our realtor. When I agreed to a showing, I agreed to a perfect presentation. I also agreed to a cleaning regimen that would put Mr. Clean to shame. My house was so clean for each showing that potential buyers seemed amazed that children lived here.

The dueling voices sat on my shoulder trying to decide what to do.

Voice 1 :“It’s your birthday.”
Voice 2: “You could sell your condo today.”
Voice 1: “The housing market is dead.”
Voice 2: “You’ll still have time to enjoy your birthday.”

In the end, I chose to spend my birthday cleaning. I didn’t tell anyone because I didn’t want to jinx the results, or have people think I was crazy. I became paranoid that my cleaning wasn’t good enough. A film crew would be in my home. I contemplated vacuuming the cat to keep her from shedding that day.

I finished just minutes before our realtor arrived. I was sweaty and irritated with myself for saying yes to this slim chance that this would be our ticket out of condo hell.

Then came the waiting part. We had to stay out of the house for who knew how long. All four of us were hungry. We had plied the children with snacks until we left; afraid that lunch would a) take too long b) leave another mess to clean up and c) leave lingering cooking odors that might dissuade the couple from being interested. We hung out at the Metra train station food court, ate, and waited for the safe to return call.

I collapsed on the sofa in my clean house. I knew there would be no fancy dinner or cake to look forward to. The only signs that a film crew had been there were a few items out-of-place and some footprints in our bathtub. The worst part was that we never heard back from the program at all. Not even an air date. It all seemed like a cruel joke or a bad dream.

We did sell our condo eventually. I learned my lesson though. Birthday’s are sacred.

Filed Under: Misc, Uncategorized Tagged With: birthdays, choices, goingtogermany, life, real estate

Everything but…

May 8, 2011 By Dashing Gray 4 Comments

“I’m not saying that everything is survivable.
Just that everything except the last thing is.”

~Quentin Jacobson, Paper Towns by John Green

In speaking with a student today–an ambitious young woman who has endless creativity and enthusiasm and maturity beyond her years–I discovered that she was “sort of broken up” with her boyfriend of 6 years. He sees their recent history as her distancing herself from their relationship; she sees it as taking time out to figure out who she really is.

I commend her for this. The better you know yourself, the more ready you can be for a relationship because you are coming into it as one whole person–not a half of a person who seeks the other.

Yet she feels guilty about the whole thing. She is constantly being told by friends that she is selfish and foolish because she is not devoting enough time to “her man”–the man who, by the way, these same “friends” insist she needs to marry ASAP.

I feel for what she’s going through. It is hard to be a young woman, even in the advanced-technology, improved-womens’-rights era of today. The truth is that no matter how far women have come, people will always question us. Friends and family will want to know why we can’t just settle down already. The enormous wedding industry will tell us how we should run everything for “the big day” (consequently reminding us that there is no question about whether or not we should have said day). Womens’ magazines–I’m looking at you, Cosmo–will always focus more on men than women. All this mixed with our own fears, insecurities, and worries that we’re not doing things “right,” or that we’ll die alone.

And then there are all the choices. We live in a fast-paced, information-saturated society that is more advanced than any before it. We have access to countless ideas instantaneously and constantly–all in the palm of our hands. While the generations before were expected to take a job–with limited options, if you were female–for the rest of their lives, we have an overwhelming cornucopia of opportunities at the beginning of our careers and throughout our lives.

Yet with these opportunities comes a price. It’s a paralysis that seems to particularly affect the most ambitious and analytical of women. We see everything. We want to do everything, and we want to do it perfectly. We’ve been told since birth that we can do anything.

But the paralyzing truth is that we can’t. There are still barriers in our lives, in ourselves, and in society that keeps us from doing everything we want to do.

Once, there was the metaphorical path in the yellow wood. A path, and an elusive second option. Today, there is a multi-lane freeway in those same woods. They’ve ripped down the trees and radiated roads out in all directions. And as we stand at the center of all those roads, looking out further than we ever could before, we realize that eventually, we’ve got to pick one. Because we have to move forward in our lives. Because not picking one really isn’t living. Because we’re ambitious and we want to grow.

But we stand in those woods for a long time, struggling to choose our path. We eventually realize that, in opening some doors, we close others. We can’t do anything because we want to do everything. We’re meticulously hand-crafting the lives we want for ourselves, but there are too many question marks.

But that doesn’t mean that life isn’t worth the journey, even when saying “yes” is more terrifying than saying “no.” Because, dear student, there are countless choices out there. We can read and research forever. We can take in countless facts and advice, but eventually we must act. And when we act, things may not turn out the way we had hoped. But they will be real. We will be moving forward in the highway of life, and new exits and opportunities will pop up along the way.

And the truth is, not everything is survivable.

Just everything but the last thing.

Filed Under: Misc, Motivate, Nostalgia, Relationships, Spirituality

Smiling at Strangers

May 4, 2011 By Renee Cohn 8 Comments

At 21, with just $600 in my pocket and the full wind of naïve bravado at my back, I moved to London alone. This dumb fearlessness served me quite well in London, but not without cost. London aged me, taught me fear, and gave shape to my own limitations in a way I’ve been working to undo ever since.

One night, about 11 pm, I was walking the 2 ½ miles from SoHo back to the hotel in Paddington where I lived and worked, when I was approached by an elderly man. I walked the same route several times a week, and by then I knew to be alert and careful: walk purposefully, head up, never make eye contact. Never, ever smile at strangers. Aside from the plentiful homeless, no one ever said a word to me on the street. I was justifiably leery when the man stopped me, but he only handed me a bloom – just the bloom – of a small red carnation and said “Cheer up, love, night’s still young.” Then he smiled and continued on his way. I cradled that flower in my hand all the way back to my tiny room. I hoped it would live for a while, but you know it didn’t.

As soon as the man spoke to me, I realized I’d been walking about London for months with a fierce, cold expression on my face. This ferocity ran so counter to my ordinary cheerful, friendly nature that it disturbed me. I had to consider if my love of London was really worth such a sacrifice.

This transformation began as soon as I arrived in London. Fresh off the airplane, I settled into a window seat on the Tube with my considerable luggage flowered around me. I donned my earphones and cued up my portable CD player (cutting edge technology in 1994.) A man took the seat across from me. As he sat down, I looked up and smiled – just a polite “hello” smile. He smiled back, and I looked out the window.

A moment later, he tapped my arm and smiled at me again – a huge, inviting grin. I smiled weakly, nodded, and pointedly went back to looking out the window. A few minutes later he tapped me yet again and smiled. This time I didn’t respond, but I knew he was staring at me, grinning like an idiot. I hoped he would get off the train soon. Then he touched my knee. I frowned and shoved his hand away.

I resigned myself to hauling my luggage off at the next stop to wait for the next train. When we slowed for the station, I stood up, but he stood too. Then he leaned down and kissed my cheek. I was too astonished to react. I just stood there, horrified, frozen. Finally, another man realized what was happening. He shouted “Hey!” and loverboy dashed off. This was the moment I realized I might have gotten in over my head.

You would think I’d have learned my lesson after that, but I didn’t. All over London, men reacted very differently to me than any American man ever had. While, thank God, no one else ever touched me, I’m not used to drawing strangers’ attention, and it took me far too long to figure out what I was doing wrong. I was smiling at strangers.

Perhaps I overcompensated then, disconnecting from others completely in exchange for an imagined invisibility. The old man made me realize I wasn’t invisible at all – just afraid and angry: angry at myself for having been naïve, angry at the world for being dangerous for women. I wanted independence so badly that I fooled myself into believing I was invincible, and when I realized that wasn’t true, I mourned.

I still miss my stupid moxie, the beautiful illusion that I could do anything at all – the same necessary, optimistic lie we still teach our daughters. I would get on that plane to London again in a heartbeat, but if I did so now, I would have to take my fear with me. Heavy luggage indeed.

Painting by John Singer Sargent

There’s more by Renee Cohn at 2000Irises.

Filed Under: Misc Tagged With: independence, london, women

Why Grad School Ruined My Life (and Made Me Fat)

May 2, 2011 By Dashing Gray 4 Comments

I know, I know. A higher education is supposed to open doors. More degrees = more opportunities, and all that. And since I am someone who in fact works in higher education, I must believe in it, right?

The answer is yes it does, and yes I do. I definitely wouldn’t be where I am if it weren’t for my master’s degree, and the fact that I have one at all is a great point of personal pride.

But tell that to the 15 extra pounds I packed on—and still haven’t lost—in year one of grad school.

Grad school, though great for intellectual development, is not exactly the prime place to optimize one’s girlish figure. Major stress + no free time + a billion late-night caramel lattes is not a good combination. Oh, the love-hate, addictive relationship I have with those lattes.

And then there’s the actual content of those grad-school classes. Grad programs, particularly those for Higher Education, are all about sensitivity to diversity and personal identity development, so most classes become sociological debates. Combine two years of this as a full-time student with a year of GA-ship in the Women’s Center, and you develop this near-constant, uber-feminist, damn-the-man, “what do you mean when you say ‘gay’?” mental feed that is very hard to turn off. Super Bowl beer commercials aren’t advertisements, but the misogynistic media oppressing women (and what does that body wash commercial say about men’s identity development?). Pop culture vampire movies are blatant demonstrations of white privilege. And can you believe the lies that Disney sold us as children?

You want to see my inner social-justice crusader go ape? Try suggesting to this 20-something, master’s-holding, recently engaged (after much related overanalyzing) individual that it’s selfish for a woman not to have children.

Yes, life was much simpler—albeit suckier—before grad school. When you’ve been constantly exposed to those kinds of debates, it’s really hard to just turn them off. I overanalyze everything. And you, dear reader, usually get a taste of that inner insanity in this blog.

The latte habit isn’t easy to kick, either.

Filed Under: Humor, Misc, Opinion, Politics

In Defense of Home

April 22, 2011 By Dashing Gray 7 Comments

I live in the far-west suburbs. Or rather, I live in a semi-rural area that most “true Chicagoans” would probably equate to shoe gum in the hierarchy of suburban prestige (assuming they were willing to admit that any suburb deserved any prestige, or that where I live even qualifies as a suburb). Nonetheless, it is more modernized and populated than most people give it credit for, and I generally find things here to be pretty satisfactory.

It seems that most people who live in Chicago proper are vehemently passionate about their lifestyle choice and are willing to engage in a heated debate about it with anyone who will listen. I don’t exactly mind this; it is good to show pride in where one is from. Maybe Chicagoans have always been this way because they incorrectly interpret “the Second City,” as an insult from New York, Chicago’s older and even more prestigious sibling. Or maybe it is because the most vehement people I know on this subject are from extremely small towns themselves—far smaller than where I live now—and are desperately trying to shuck off those past identities in an attempt to urbanize and modernize.

No, I don’t necessarily mind this ferocity because we should all be ambassadors to our hometowns; if we won’t defend where we live, who will? However, I do not apprciate the flak I’ve been receiving from these very city folk for my choice of homestead. Their arguments are always a “top this,” an “either-or.” They come out along the lines of “I love Chicago. It’s great. Too bad where you live sucks. I bet you wished you lived in Chicago.” I mean, not in so many words, but you get the point. This will not stand.

So, in defense of home, here’s my top-10 list:

I am a 20-something who not only lives in more than 300 square feet of space, but who also owns it. I don’t have to worry about leaky windows and dangerous electrical from the turn of the century because my building was built in 2004.
I don’t have to work two jobs to maintain my standard of living, which in turn provides me with the time to enjoy where I live.
I can hop in the car—without going outside—whenever I want and drive it to the location of my choice. Once I arrive, I can park there. My car is waiting for me upon my return, and the trip doesn’t smell like urine. My beloved garage protects my car from snow, and gas is as affordable as it’s ever going to be.
Free corn, anyone?
There’s a local place where I can buy mixed drinks for less than $5 regularly, and there’s no cover charge or coat fee. Similarly, I can afford to eat out regularly. Too regularly, probably.
I can go to any restaurant/club around whenever I want—and actually get in.
No random roommates.
I can walk down the street without being hassled for money.
I don’t pay the highest sales tax in the country.
There are actually trees here. And grass. And bike trails. And you can actually use them because a billion other people aren’t also there getting their weekly dosage of nature.

And, might I add, that the big-city benefits are a train ride away?

So there you go: why where I live is worth it. No, I probably won’t live here forever. No it’s not my ideal place. But it’s a pretty great start. You should come visit sometime—and hey, enjoy some roasted corn while you’re here.

Filed Under: Misc, Nostalgia, Opinion

A More Learned Faux Trixie

April 19, 2011 By Faux Trixie 14 Comments

I recently turned 30. From what I hear, it’s all downhill from here. I feel like the one truly fun decade of my life has passed me by so quickly, and I didn’t take full advantage because I was busy being a serious student and furthering my career. However, now that I’m older, I look back and realized I’ve learned a few lessons. I don’t know how serious or pragmatic or valuable they are, but if I could sit with my 20-year old self over a cup of coffee, I’d let her know this:

You look better tan. Stop trying to pull of that pasty, pale look. It doesn’t look good on you. Always be tan. You’ll feel better about yourself in pictures later.

You also look better brunette. I know, I know. You’re naturally blond, and you embrace it. However, think about changing your hair color before age 27. Also, those red streaks? They make you look more like a porn star than a lawyer.

Your dream is to live in the city? Move to a big condo overlooking beautiful downtown Chicago? City living is not really all it’s cracked up to be. Also, we don’t have a trust fund and you’ll never make enough to have a penthouse in the sky, so stop believing that you’ll be listening to Frank Sinatra and drinking a martini from your leather couch. You’ll be in an old apartment in Andersonville with no view, a hand-me-down couch, and a glass of cheap Lambrusco.

You’re never going to be rail thin, but you’ll look good, even with a little meat on your bones. Don’t sacrifice every burrito, piece of cake, fancy cocktail, or decadent meal to lose 8 ounces. This is why God created the empire waist.

Stop piercing your eyebrow. The piercer lied to you. It will leave a scar, and for the rest of your life, people will ask you what happened, wherein you will have to explain your wild streak in college.

Mom and Dad aren’t so bad. You’re just being kind of a jerk all the time.

Your friends will get married before you. Don’t freak out. It’s not that big of a deal. You’ll find someone eventually. And, by the time you get married, you’ll be so old that a big traditional wedding will no longer be acceptable and you’ll have to do a destination wedding. BONUS: Vacation!

Take more vacations. Your bosses don’t care as much as they think you do that you’re not in the office.

Stop smoking. For the love of GOD, stop before it is incredibly hard to do so, and you’re waking up every night hacking up a lung.

You and your college boyfriend are going to break up. That is a fact. You’re going to freak out a little when you find out that he’s engaged. Just remember, it was not at all meant to be.

Take better care of your car.

You always do whatever is easiest for you. Every once in awhile, try something that challenges you. Don’t worry, you won’t always fail. Sometimes, you’ll actually succeed.

You will be extremely belligerent and generally unpleasant to be around when drinking until age 28 or so, when you’ll become fun after a few cocktails. Lay off hitting the sauce too hard until that time.

Learn which angle of your face looks best in pictures. You’ll thank me when you don’t have 90 bazillion pictures of you looking horrible.

Don’t sign up for that credit card. It’s a just a bad idea. You’ll max it out and then be paying it off for the rest of your life. Also, learn how to budget. Sure, that designer shirt is cute now, but you’ll wear it twice. Do you really need it?

Someone will convince you at age 26 that you should get a tattoo of the scales of justice after you are sworn into the bar. Seriously stop and consider that choice before moving forward.

Your best asset is your sense of humor and outgoing personality. You’re never going to be the hot girl. Stop trying to be and use those assets you do have to your advantage more.

Not everyone is going to like you, and you’re not going to like everyone. That’s perfectly fine. Just learn to accept that some people are clearly not as awesome as you and move on. You’ll waste way too much time and energy trying to change their minds or exacting your revenge. It’s not worth it.

I can’t wait to see what my 40-year old self has to say to me in ten years. Just kidding; yes I can. Please pass by slowly, 30s.

Re-posted from the Faux Trixie’s personal site, which you can access here.

Photo used with permission from “irisb477″

Filed Under: Humor, Misc, Nostalgia

Enchanté

April 15, 2011 By Dashing Gray 6 Comments

The French have this word. Enchanté. It’s a word you say after an introduction, meaning “nice to meet you.” It’s a nice word, a friendly one. I would love for English to pick it up.

Anyway, any proper introduction requires some background. Back story, if you will. Something along the lines of “Steve, meet Anna. Anna works with me.” This tells you a bit about how our metaphorical Steve knows Anna and alerts you to remember that she must be the one he’s been talking about…

These introductions may be brief, but they inform us about our worlds and how things piece together. We like to have such information when we’re trying to make sense of things. It helps us feel a bit more comfortable–and I’d love for us all to be friends. So let me start at the beginning. To introduce myself.

Hello.

Nice to meet you.

I’m new here. My name here is Dashing Gray. I’m a 20-something introvert in an extroverted world, but I hide it well–sometimes. I work in higher education and enjoy it most of the time, but students occasionally leave me wondering “Higher than what?”

Grad school taught me to question society and overanalyze everything. Even so, I’ve stumbled into a lovely interracial relationship that has blossomed into an even lovelier engagement. The wedding and marriage in general are frequent writing topics, as harshest feminist rants tend to surface in conjunction with conversations about dyed shoes and monogrammed napkins.

My name, Dashing Gray, is a combination of two different but similar ideas.

The dashing part—besides a nod to stunning good looks everywhere—is based on the poem “The Dash” by Linda Ellis and Mac Anderson. The gist is that, on one’s tombstone, there is a date of birth and a date of death, but the important part is the dash between:

For it matters not,
how much we own,
the cars….the house….the cash.
What matters is how we live and love—
and how we spend our dash.

It’s a good reminder to us all about the nature of life. And its fleeting-ness. And all of that. But you know the story.

Dashing is also a commentary on my often-hectic lifestyle. Good hectic, most of the time. I like things that way.

And then there’s the gray part. That comes from this song, “Beauty of Gray” by the band Live. The whole song talks about how we’re really not all that different from each other, which is something I learned the slow way in the five years I spent in an interracial relationship that eventually blossomed into an engagement. (to the tune of “finally” from plenty of outsiders. More on that eventually). My fiancée and I come from vastly different backgrounds on paper, but we’re alike in many ways. The song says:

This is not a black and white world
To be alive
I say that the colors must swirl
And I believe
That maybe today
We will all get to appreciate
The Beauty of Gray

This very grayness is why I write. It’s all about the ambiguity, the confusion, the lines–sometimes desired, sometimes imagined, sometimes fought–that we live with, or near, or in spite of that shape our lives. Lines that, despite how real they seem, don’t actually exist. Real life is the gray. And I’m slowly learning that it can be beautiful.

So enchanté. Nice to meet you! I hope to see you around. Maybe we can explore the gray together?

Filed Under: Misc