It was only a dream...

I'm home sick today, and have been sleeping off and on between calls from the office. I could unload an entire can of pissed-offedness relating to that, but it's not worth the energy. Really though, I get more and more itchy to find myself a nice development job in the arts every day.

I have personal accountability on my mind today. It's something I've been nagging A about for a while now, and it hit me yesterday afternoon at work that most people...?

Yeah, they really don't give a shit.

Here are some rules. They're not terribly hard. We'd all do well to follow them.

If you break it, fix it.

If you can't fix it, then make amends for it.

If you can't make amends, learn and move on.

No matter what happens, a heartfelt apology goes a long way. Saying you're sorry doesn't make you look bad - ever. It shows you're willing to take responsibility.

The words, "I'm sorry" should never, ever be followed by a qualifier. Ever.

When you finish something, you should be able to look back on it and be proud of your work. Never be satisfied with 'just enough to get by'...because it's almost never enough.

If you want something, then do the work required to get it. Nobody deserves anything for free, because they are nice, or because they didn't expect things to happen the way they did.

If you are not happy, change your circumstances. If you're not willing to accept the consequences of change, then you don't really want it enough, do you?

Accept that you're going to fall down now and then, and give yourself a break. But always, always try to do better the next time.

Accept that others aren't perfect, either. Just don't waste your time with those who won't try to better the next time.

Oh, the last rule?

Remember that Christine is always particularly crabby when she is sick.

If you're telling me I look like this, maybe I should just kill myself now and get it over with. Or just add donuts back in to my daily diet, since I'll never get another date for as long as I live...

It is 45 degrees outside right now. The temperature is supposed to stay steady through the night, and then plummet like a rock throughout the day tomorrow - down to a low of -1 by the end of the night. As dreadful as that sounds, it brings an interesting prospect with it. We may have thunderstorms tomorrow afternoon.

I make no secret of my love of the rain. Even in the winter, there is something soothing about being tucked in my house, listening to the rattle of raindrops on the windows.

Even more spectacular, however, is the prospect of the snow thunderstorm. Watching lightning flash through a sea of white flakes is an amazing experience; one we don't witness nearly often enough.

The first time I ever saw such a wild storm, I was in college. So many moments from those days seem to have vanished from my memory, but this one, I think, will always remain with me. I was at the house where Mark lived with his roommates Brian and Bill (far too many memories survive from that house, I think). It was mid-winter, and late at night as we sat in the dark living room watching television. The snow had started falling hours earlier, and had coated the front sidewalk. When the thunder began rolling outside, I turned to look out the window. "Is that.....thunder?" I asked.

Mark and I peeled ourselves off the couch and went to stand on the front patio, where the flakes were falling in a frenzy. Suddenly, everything around us went blindingly white, and I began to laugh in awe. How could such a thing BE? I skipped over to stand beside the huge tree that stood in the middle of the front yard (in retrospect, not such a wise idea), and giggled until Mark grabbed me and pulled me back inside to avoid what he believed to be my impending death. He was always good about things like that, really. Whether it was assuring a cop that I was most certainly going directly home and should be spared a ticket for public intoxication, kicking Brian out of his bed so I would have a (relatively) safe place to sleep without having to drive home, or rescuing me from egotistical, testosterone-poisoned trumpet players, he always did his best to keep me out of trouble.

Sometimes, though, I wish I'd stood outside for just a little while longer. It's been fifteen years since I've seen a beautiful thundersnow...maybe tomorrow will break the streak :)

I'm back on a Jeff Buckley kick. Again, life is too short...live like you mean it.

I missed National Pie Day.

I guess I'm going to have to make my own holiday.

Any suggestions?

-Margaret Randall

Talk to me. Three words
moving with heavy feet
across the open spaces.

A signal,
or the beginning of a poem.

Talk to me. Not meaning
“How are things going?”
Not meaning
“They can’t do this to you”
(they can, they are)
not even
“What can I do to help?”

Do it, that’s all.
Please.
No more questions, no more
knowledgeable statements.

Three words. Begin a poem. Take your life
and use it.

Just wow.

He was far too beautiful to die.

The great, tragic, bizarre life of Chess Grandmaster Bobby Fischer has come to an end. I've never been sure quite what to make of him, besides the fact that he was a horrible genius whose inspiration was only exceeded by his desperation.

In honor of his death, I spent some time today listening to one of my favorite old musicals - Chess, by Benny Andersson & Bjorn Ulvaeus (yes, of Abba fame). Unfortunately, this work was also rather tragic - the concept album was completely bastardized by the time it hit the stage. In its own way, it was a sadly appropriate evolution for a piece inspired by the paranoid, tortured life of Mr. Fischer.

Dark and thoughtful, Chess tells the tale of genius gone wrong, egos that consumed all that lay in their paths, and the loves that were strangled by them.


How can I love you so much,
yet make no move?
I pray the days and nights
in their aimless, weary procession
soon overwhelm my sad obsession.

You and I, we've seen it all
chasing our hearts desires.
But we go on pretending
stories like ours have happy endings...

Rest in peace, Mr. Fischer. Here's hoping your happiness will come after the ending.

Just because I may not see him for a while, that doesn't mean he won't always be there for me. I'm getting a little choked up...

And you all scoffed when I spoke of the depth of our love. You can apologize the next time I see you. Twice.

Click

About ten years ago, I remember finding a book on the coffee table called, "Do What You Love, the Money Will Follow". My husband had picked it up, and it looked an interesting philosophy.

I, of course, never read it.

The concept, however, did stick in the back of my head, and now I sort of wish I'd read a bit more of it.

As time has gone by, I've spent more of my energy doing what I love, and the things in which I excel. I'm a problem-solver and a challenge-seeker. I'm an artist and a charmer. I am passionate and relationship-oriented. I am a schmooze, in the best possible way.

Having recently stumbled back in the direction of the arts, I find myself with a career goal for the first time in a very log time. I am planning, I am formulating. I am laying the foundation to return full-time to the creative world. I have finally come to realize that I can bring the structure of the left-brain world into a right-brain environment, and find a place where both sides converge into a comfort-zone. If I play my cards right, I will find myself in my own sweet spot.

Over the last few months, an intriguing opportunity has come about. An artist friend of mine is in the early stages of making an independent film. He is intelligent, driven, talented, and savvy. (This is the place where he would say, "Don't forget good-looking! I'm totally hot.") He is putting all of the pieces together in an organized, methodical way, and I am sure the venture will be successful.

The entire creative team for the movie is in place. From casting agents and acting talent to camera-men and colorists, he has his people lined up to do some amazing, innovative things. He is, however, missing one vital piece in his puzzle.

He's not as financially adept as he would like to be.

Bankers, attorneys, accountants, insurance agents...they speak a language that is completely different from that spoken in the arts. They are all about money, and how to make as much of it as possible. As much as I like most of my counterparts in the financial world, I must admit that greed is one of their primary motivations.

My friend needs someone who understands how to work with the finance people. He needs a team-member with whom he can consult, to manage the relationships between the left-brain people and the right-brain people. He needs someone who can go back and forth between the artistic needs and the financial requirements, and keep a balance between them.

He needs me.

So I have agreed to join the team as his consultant, and work with his group to enable the artists to continue doing what they do best - making art. I will keep the money-people in line, and play the translator as needed. I'll make great connections, learn some really cool stuff, and (if the movie makes money, which I have a feeling it will) receive a percentage of the profits when all is said and done.

I'm going to be doing what I love.

And you know what? It doesn't really matter if the money follows or not.

I was politely informed by ms peas this morning that my blog has gotten a bit too dark. I am, therefore, bound to try to be funny (I think).

We will, therefore, pull out the great random conversations of the week.

A and I, hanging out tonight...

A- "Man, that was awesome crack!" (after cracking his back while sitting on the couch)
Me- "And here I thought I could put off rehab for at least another five years."
A - "Hey, I can quit any time."

Text message conversation with M this morning (at, um, 6:14 am, kinda)...

Me- I really don't get you morning people. At all. Ever. The end.
M (7:49 am)- very nice...a text from you complaining about 'early birds' that actually woke me up!
Me- Wow, I really am a bitch.

an IM conversation with peas after work yesterday...

Me- "Just got home from Portillo's...yum!! Also got my new glasses. Yay!"
peas- "WHAT?? PORTILLOS???? YOU SKANK BITCH FROM HELL"
peas- "I mean hi, how are you?"
A (enters room, reads screen) - "Man, that woman is funny. And yet so mean. It's like chocolate and peanut butter, they go together perfectly!"

at work this afternoon...

D- "Where have you been lately?"
Me- "Out. Client meetings constantly. I'm exhausted."
D- "Well, maybe if you weren't sleeping with all of them, you'd have more energy."
F- "Right. So then she could sleep with us, too!"
Me- "And this, my friends, is why I still come here every day."
F- "Hey, remember the first rule of office flirting. It's only sexual harassment if you don't enjoy it."
Me- "If you leave a puddle, I'm leaving NOW."
D- "Damn it man, don't ruin it for the rest of us!"
Me- "I swear, this is like flirt-fight club. Without the fun parts."

at a client meeting this morning...

Client- "C, I meant to ask you. Do I need to do that thing we talked about?"
Me- "Hm. You mean the thing, at the place, with the people and the stuff?"
Client- "Um, yes. I suppose so."
Me- "No, I took care of it. You're all set."
Client- "That's good, because my brain just leaked out of my ear."
Me- "Yeah, I tend to have that effect on people."
Client- "God help the person who speaks your language, my dear."
Me- "No, God prefers to stay out of it."
Client- "Good plan. Want a cookie?"

Life is too short. Remember to stop and appreciate the funny :)

My chest hurts, I have a splitting headache, the really cool meeting I had today was canceled, and everyone in the whole world is stupid.

I am therefore feeling very mean at the moment.

In lieu of saying all of the snarky, horrible things to the people that pissed me off today, I'm writing them here. For the record, my mother never taught me any rules about what to do if I can't write anything nice...

So if you're reading this, I hate you. Don't take it personally - I hate everyone today. Just be glad you're not one of the people below.

To the idiot who took up three parking spaces in the garage this morning so nobody would ding his BMW -
I hope a piano falls out of an airplane and crashes through three layers of concrete before landing directly in your driver's seat. As a matter of fact, I hope it happens twice, just for good measure.

To the absolute moron who held up my orange juice purchase for ten minutes in the convenience store in Union Station because he had to return the $1.72 granola bar he just put on his credit card, as he needed that money in his account for something else-
You go to hell. You go to hell and you die.

To the woman who canceled my meeting with one of the premier arts organizations in Chicago this morning so she could attend an event where she may end up on tv (and then had the balls to send me the video that's going to appear on four different newscasts tonight)-
Fuck off and die in a fire. I mean that in the nicest possible way. Which still isn't very nice.

To the 20-something blonde, skinny bimbo wearing 4-inch spike heels in the office today...who couldn't figure out how to take a proper step in them without tripping or shuffling her feet like a drunk-
You are a miserable tramp. If you can't walk in them, don't frickin wear them. You are officially no longer pretty, and are also too dumb to live.

To the three men over 6' tall I went to lunch with who insisted on walking as fast as possible for five blocks because they didn't wear coats and were cold-
I can walk in heels. I am, however, 5'2", and making me run in them to keep up with you is not very gentlemanly. Choosing not to wear a coat when it's 30 degrees outside isn't macho - it's infantile. Grow up, or I'm going to make you wear mittens.

To the dickhead I was stuck behind on the Kennedy this afternoon who insisted on driving 52 mph in the express lanes-
I hope that piano ricochets off the BMW and crashes through your windshield. While I'm watching. So I can point and laugh. And take video that will show up on four tv stations tonight.

To the 'friend' who calls me every Friday afternoon to tell me that our kids are talking about a sleepover again, and ask if I can take her son for the night-
My kid doesn't like your kid THAT much. And I'm starting to not like you at all. Do you really think I can't tell when you make shit up? If start yelling, "BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP!" like a bad lie detector every time you open your mouth, will you be offended? Good.

To you, reading this-
Bite me. Seriously.

p.s. - See? Next time you wonder why I'm quiet and look grouchy, you won't ask. Especially if I have a piano handy.

p.p.s. - Sleepover-monger-mom-friend just called again. I didn't answer. I am going to make her sweat for an hour or so while I go pull legs off of kittens or something.

p.p.p.s. - Shut up. I know you love me anyway.

p.p.p.p.s. - You do too, you liar.

...but I honestly giggle every time I watch Chad Vader. I can't help it.

I miss you.
Not so much the you that isn't here now.
More the you that wasn't here before
and the you that was here before that.

But most of all
I miss the you that was there when I was, too.
Or maybe
just maybe
I miss the me that was with you
when the there became here
and the here became there
and the when wasn't so entangled
with the why.

The low clouds were tumbling across the downtown skyline today, threatening to bring rain in on the gusty winds. It was a gray, gloomy, blustery day - but it was sixty-five degrees as I stopped on the plaza overlooking the river.

It almost smelled like spring.

Last week, it was five below zero. Any exposed skin was immediately shocked into stinging agony upon stepping outside. The wind bit fiercely into the lungs with each breath, and everyone shrugged as far down as possible into their thickest coats to preserve precious body heat. It was bitterly cold, even for Chicago in January.

Today, though, I left my suit jacket in the office when leaving for lunch. Even in a thin white dress shirt, the air felt warm, fresh, and clean. I stood alongside the river, listening to the street musicians that had come out of hiding for the day...the saxophonist behind me was taking his best shot at Take Five. I think it turned out to be in six, but it didn't matter. The city had come back to life, just for today.

As the wind whipped my hopelessly tangling hair into my eyes, I raised my face to the sky. I half-expected raindrops against my cheeks, but felt only the sweet warmth of the air blowing in off the lake. For a very long time, I stood sipping my coffee and listening to the city as it savored the brief respite from the grip of winter.

I wished for a few more moments.

I wished for spring.

I wished for rain.

I wished for...

courage.

And tonight....tonight it rains.

The other night, I decided to set A up with Yahoo Instant Messenger on his laptop. I had a few reasons - first and foremost, I could set it so that it signs him in automatically every time he accesses the internet. This means I can always see when he's online. Second, he has a tendency to hang out in his room reading video game FAQ's, and I hate having to yell up the stairs for him. Third, I could add his dad to his list, and they'd have another way of communicating. It's all good, right?

For the sake of the safety police, I also set it so that he can't get messages from anyone who is not on his messenger list - preventing random strangers from talking to him. I also check his browser history regularly, just to make sure he's not doing anything stupid online. He's eleven - need I say more?

So anyway, a couple of days ago, after watching our evening Seinfeld reruns (it's been pretty good lately -they've been showing the ones with Babu Bhatt and Elaine knocking Ping, the Chinese delivery guy, off his bike), A went up to his bedroom to hang out. He was on his laptop, and bouncing up and down on the bed. I'm not sure how one does those things simultaneously, but I guess perhaps I'm just too old to understand.

Let there be no question why I love this child more than life itself.

C : I see you.
A: no you don't
C: yuh-huh
A: nu-uh stalker
C: hahahahahahaha
A: yeah yea keep laughing
C: put some pants on, jeez.
C: I see London, I see France.
A: i'm wearing them
C: I hear you, too.
C: Mr. Squeaky Bed
A: what did i say, stalker
C: you WISH I was a stalker.
A: right, you're worse
C: or at least a stalker with pie.
A: pie
C: right. I'm a stalker without pie.
A: noooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
A: pie
A: poie
C: serves you right, you little demon.
A: gimme pie
C: you pieless demon.
A: meat pie
C: no pie for you. come back one year!
A: ok
A: ping
C: just don't run into me on my bike.
A: you bad lady, very very bad lady
A: I'm still wearing pants
C: and I'm still eating pie without you
C: this pie is awesome.
C: ooops
C: now it's gone
C: sorry.
C: I even ate the fork and plate, it was so good
A: I just found pie.
A: it was in my pants pocket
C: that's it. back to Pakistan with you.
A: i love you
C: I love you too. Now go get me some more pie.

I was on my way to the little family New Year celebration, driving up to see my son and his dad (yes, we still do a lot of family things together. Yes, I know most divorced people don't do that. Call me crazy, but it works for us). Without even realizing that it was the time of year to make resolutions, something of the sort formed in my head. I will, however, give it a term other than resolution, as it's nowhere near the standard, "I'm going to lose 20 pounds and spend money more wisely" kind of crap.

What do I intend to do this year?

To put it bluntly, I want to start getting this huge stick out of my ass.

I was talking to M about it last night, trying to put it into words. M is quite good at making me quantify things. He's awesome like that. I didn't have it completely formulated then, but I'm getting closer. It's going to take some work before it gets to the manifestation phase.

Here's the thing. I have spent the last several years building credibility. Let's be honest...I haven't always been the most sensible person in the world. I think one or two of you could come up with some pretty good stories about the legendary Christine-flightiness, but I'll ask you to politely keep them to yourselves. They are there, and I remember them all quite well.

So when I found myself in the position of being a divorced parent, it was scary. How was I going to provide a good example for my boy? How could I support our little family, make something of myself, and be a productive member of society that bucked the stereotype of the single mom?

By working my ass off, that's how.

I focused on my career, and on being a decent parent. I drilled down to the details that had previously been of little matter to me. I obsessed about paying my bills on time, making sure that A's homework was done every night, and leaving no stone unturned at work in order to advance my career. I took my biggest weakness - my laziness - and fought it with every bit of strength that I had.

In the last eight years, I have brought my boy to the brink of puberty as a decent, respectable young man. At work, I became the youngest person in my local group by fifteen years (and the youngest female department/company-wide by over five years) to hold an officer title, then pushed things over the edge to head up my own line of business. I own my own house, which I have been renovating constantly to turn into a comfortable home. I have won my way back into the arts, and made incredible connections and friendships.

You know what, though? I have spent very little time enjoying any of it. The fear of failing, of never being enough, has lingered with me. I micromanage far too much, and don't take enough time to look at the big picture of how great my life really is.

So it's time. Time to stop being afraid. Time to stop worrying that the slightest setback will mean I'm not successful. Time to laugh, time to have fun. Time to enjoy everything I have built.

Does this mean I'm going to stop working so hard? Pfffft. No way. It just means that I'm going to try not going to live in the little box anymore. I'm not planning to push myself to exhaustion and illness to prove something to the world. I don't intend to worry about everything, all of the time.

I want to give myself a little credit, and feel free. I am, in fact, a passionate, fun-loving person. I've been suppressing that too much, for too long...it's time to let my guard down and try to have, as I said to M, a calmer mind. Life is too short to have that kind of stick up my ass every day.

So this isn't a resolution. Resolutions are too cliché, and I hate them. It is, again, a realization. It isn't some huge life change...it's simply an attempt to take a different view of what's already there. I want to have more fun. I want to be more fun. I want to live, and love living.

Because love is what it's all about, no?