Vonnegutisms

I wanted all things to seem to make some sense,
so we could all be happy, yes, instead of tense.
And I made up lies, so they all fit nice,
and I made this sad world a paradise.


I don't know about you, but I practice a disorganized religion. I belong to an unholy disorder. We call ourselves "Our Lady of Perpetual Astonishment."


...what made being alive almost worthwhile for me, besides music, was all the saints I met, who could be anywhere. By saints, I meant people who behaved decently in a strikingly indecent society.


Joe, a young man from Pittsburgh, came up to me with one request: "Please tell me it will be okay."
"Welcome to Earth, young man," I said. "It's hot in the summer and cold in the winter. It's round and wet and crowded. At the outside, Joe, you've got about a hundred years here. There's only one rule that I know of: Goddamn it, Joe, you've got to be kind!"


~Kurt Vonnegut, A Man Without a Country

Spring Fever and the new Hendrix Commitment

Today I want to be on a beach, somewhere in the Caribbean...cold Corona in one hand and the latest Vonnegut book in the other. I keep hearing Stephen Stills at the end of Suite: Judy Blue Eyes...I canNOT get that song out of my head today.

Que linda me la traiga Cuba,
la reina de la Mar Caribe.
Cielo sol no tiene sangreahi,
y que triste que no puedo vaya,
Oh va, oh va, va.

For those who have forgotten high school Spanish, the rough translation is:

How happy it makes me to think of Cuba,
the smiles of the Caribbean Sea,
Sunny sky has no blood, and how sad that
I'm not able to go
Oh go, oh go go

OK, maybe not Cuba, but I'd settle for a bucket of sand and a fridge full of Corona on my 39-degree porch at this point. I think they call that Spring Fever.

Instead of trying to find a beach, I did something today to cure my ADD-like antsiness and also to prove that I'm not afraid of commitment. I got myself a pet. Now, keep in mind that I am aware of my limitations at this particluar junction of life. I can't afford a dog, nor do I think I have the time or space to raise one properly (yet). I pondered something very low maintenance like a goldfish or a tarantula, and then I decided on the "I am dangerously close to being 14 again" pet. I got a teddy bear hamster. Black and white. And, I named him Hendrix. After Jimi, of course. He looks like a little rocker.

While pondering my rodent options at the pet store, I asked the sales girl what kind of life expectancy the different animals had. She said a guinea pig lived about 8 to 9 years. A hamster lived about 2.

The hamster was a slam dunk.

Hendrix is a cute little thing. He's quite the cuddler, and isn't very skittish like most hamsters. He squeaks occasionally just to let me know he's alive, and I got him this nifty little Volkswagen Bug to sleep in. It's a red, shiny, plastic little VW Bug with tiny hamster-size windows and everything. So far, he seems very happy in it. God knows I've been happy living out of mine for the past few years. I'm not exactly sure how to tell if a hamster is happy, but I'm assuming he is. I think I may have seen him smile at one point, but it's hard to see him through the tinted windows.

As I proudly walked to the counter with my box o' Hendrix, I talked to a nice gentleman in line who carried a small plastic bag.

"What's in the bag?" I asked.

"Oh, it's a dead, frozen rat to feed to my snake."

Lovely. And, it truly was a dead, frozen rat. He even opened the bag, took it out, and banged it on the counter so I would get the full effect of its solid-as-a-rock consistency.

I told him to stay away from my pet or I'd call the authorities.

So, I'm now with hamster. A commitment that will last me roughly 2 years. I haven't had that long of a commitment from anything since my divorce. A man, a job, or a place of residence. A two-year commitment is a big step, but I think I'm ready.

One small hamster step, one huge step for womankind.

In a dream you are never eighty.
~Ann Sexton

Mickey vs. Goofy

Yesterday was Valentine's Day, but it was also my father's birthday. A true Aquarian, Dad decided that the best way to celebrate his 60th year on the planet is to go to the one place where everyone acts like a giddy 7-year old: Disney World.

So, my sister and I shall meet at the airport today, leaving the chilly midwest air and bulky coats behind us. We'll replace them with tank tops and sunglasses as we arrive in sunny Florida, wait in lines with America's finest, and act like immature children all in the process.

I haven't been to Disney in 22 years. I'm sure it's changed a lot...as I recall, Mickey always sort of creeped me out. I'm partial to Goofy. I'm a sucker for the underdog, after all. My sister has an itinerary planned, my stepsister has hers, and my father and stepmother are about to pee their pants with excitement. Because they have no grandchildren yet, they will relish in watching their 30-something collective offspring act like toddlers while riding Space Mountain. (Toddlers that plan on drinking around the world at Epcot, that is...)

I've been so busy these past few weeks, I really haven't had time to be excited, but today I truly am. Bring on the rides!

And, because I'm family oriented, I'll do my part to keep my kinfolk from getting arrested at the most magical place on earth.

Wheresoever you go, go with all your heart.
~Confucius

Do or do not. There is no try.
~Yoda

Genetic Mutations

Because I work with a bunch of geek scientists (and I've jumped on the bandwagon), we have this "Wall of Genetic Mutations" in my department. I'll miss the wall. It's been a source of both education and amusement for me. My latest contribution has been a picture of Tony Robbins.

Cy, the one-eyed kitty, is real. And, plainly put...EEWW.

http://abcnews.go.com/US/wireStory?id=1493017

A goal, a love and a dream give you total control
over your body and your life.
~ John Wayne Schlatter

And I wasn't even paid to advertise for her.

Her mom was a rocket scientist; her dad was an alcoholic traveling trailer salesman. Cool writer. Atlanta chick. Funny as hell.

http://www.hollisgillespie.com/index.htm

Security is mostly a superstition. It does not exist in nature, nor do the children of men as a whole experience it. Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright exposure. Life is a daring adventure or nothing at all.
Helen Keller

Tamales and Adulthood

I took a job the other day, and then I got a second offer. That never happens to me. So, I did what any anal-retentive, commitment-phobic girl would do. I made about a thousand lists. Pros and cons, blah blah blah. I decided on the one with the more pros. Also the one with more responsibility, more of a commute, more of a leadership role. It’s official. I’m now an adult. Next thing you know, I’ll be purchasing cookware. God help me.

When you decide to move and give your two weeks’ notice at a job, you start to notice more. I notice the people I work with more in the past week than I have for 10 months. My coworker John, the ultimate scientist-former-hippie who speaks of the old days when he wore a "Disco Sucks t-shirt with a big-ass pot leaf on it." My younger female coworker, who is an MIT grad and wicked-smart, but still asks me for dating advice on a daily basis (why she does that, I have NO clue). My boss, the always-made-up Louisiana woman who understands my cravings for Waffle House omelets and our shared past culture of southern sorority life. I’ll miss the people here, for sure.

I’m noticing the dogs I see everyday on my walk to my car. I’ve learned a lot of their names and have memorized their fuzzy faces. I’m noticing the sound of sirens throughout the city – something I’ve gotten so used to and have completely tuned out until now. Everything here in Chicago tastes better this week, like the fresh tamales at Tony’s Burrito that I will crave like crack-cocaine upon my departure. I’ll miss having a Starbucks on every single corner...and that’s no exaggeration in this city. I’ll miss Foster Beach and running on Lake Michigan. I’ll miss the Tap, our local pub. The Tap is our Cheers...

This weekend, I ran my errands as usual, then got into my car and did something I haven’t done since I moved here. I tried to get lost. I just drove with direction abandon, and took wrong turns to get lost on purpose. Much to my dismay, though, I could NOT GET LOST IN DOWNTOWN CHICAGO! I couldn’t believe it. I know my way around this city as much as any other city I’d lived in for years. I guess it really IS time to leave...

It’ll be a week of remembrance while I pack boxes and stack them neatly in my new storage-space bedroom. It’ll be a week of putting things behind me once and for all as I throw away old, sorted memories from years past. Case in point: I pitched my wedding album in our alley trash yesterday. So very liberating, indeed.

I think it was even better than the tamales...

Regret for the things we did can be tempered by time; it is regret for the things we did not do that is inconsolable.
~Sydney J. Harris

Bohemian Beginnings

From City to Cornfield

I was a hyper kid. Always into something. My parents have pictures of me and my sister when we were really little, and she always looked so perfect. She had that Marlo Thomas, "That Girl" perfectly coifed hair. My hair was cut short from day one. There are a few pictures where I had pigtails, but that was short lived. I think my parents figured that keeping my hair short far outweighed the hassle of constantly cutting gum out of it. Looking at old pictures, I notice a continuous, distinct layer of drool on the front of my shirts, too. It was lovely. I looked like a little boy. A damn cute little boy, but a boy, nonetheless. In fact, my mother has told me that during the first year and a half of my life, so many people mistaked me for a boy that she just played along after a while. Even with the scotch-taped bows stuck on my bald head.

I suppose I’ve always had a bit of a bohemian spirit, despite my Virgoan tendency to be organized and anal-retentive. I spent my 20s married and somewhat caged, my 30s have been nomadic thus far, but now I’m realizing that I’m almost in my mid-30s, on that downhill slope to 40 (well, in 8 months, anyway). I now have the urge to do things like buy a couch and a frying pan. There’s the school of thought that living footloose and fancy-free is the fun way to go. I’ve had several married and tied-down friends tell me to continue on my nomadic path..."Have fun...you don’t have kids, you don’t have any responsibilities...just you." Then there is the conservative viewpoint, the ones from people like my father, who say, "You need a five-year plan...you need to start saving...settling...laying down roots."

Someone told me once that life isn't about geography; it's about the people within your geography.

So, I’ve decided to compromise. I’m moving back to the cornfield. I like the cornfield. It boasts acres of corn, beans, and blue-collar people with a Saks just a mere 35-minute drive away. It’s a family-oriented place. A pleasant place. It’s my home, or the closest thing to it that I’ve ever had. I believe a nice, cozy couch will be in my not-so-distant future, along with a one-woman bachelorette pad. I will live on my own, sans roommates and roommate’s furniture. I will establish semi-roots with a smaller state sales tax. But I will remain a contractor, keeping my fear of professional commitment at bay. And, I will still eat my take-out dinners standing up over the kitchen sink. Ovens be damned. I have to draw the line somewhere.

I’m leaving my beautiful, adopted city in a short week. The price I pay for the freedom I fought for. The price I pay as a contractor. I go where the work is. I go where I feel the most loved. Bohemian thinking, for sure. But so far, it’s worked well enough for me.

I told myself I’d live in the big city for a year, and I did just that (maybe a month shy). I took subways and adopted alley bums and became one with the rats on my walks home from the local Whole Foods. I gained a thicker skin and observed. I did a hell of a lot of observing. It’s an alive place. It’s truly technicolor. It’s fabulous, and I will miss it. But I won’t cry until I drive away next week, and I’ll only allow myself a 45-minute window to do so. Only until I hit the state line. :-)

"Be bold. If you're going to make an error, make a doozey, and don't be afraid to hit the ball."
– Billie Jean King

"When patterns are broken, new worlds emerge."
– Tuli Kupferberg

How about never?

Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard.
~Anne Sexton

There is no order in the world around us, we must adapt ourselves to the requirements of chaos instead. It is hard to adapt to chaos, but it can be done. I am living proof of that: It can be done.

- Kurt Vonnegut, Breakfast of Champions

Lyrical contribution for the day

One of my top 10 favorite songs.

Night lift up the shades
let in the brilliant light of morning
but steady there now
for I am weak and starving for mercy
sleep has left me alone
to carry the weight of unravelling where we went wrong
it's all I can do to hang on
to keep me from falling
into old familiar shoes

how stupid could I be
a simpleton could see
that you're no good for me
but you're the only one I see

love has made me a fool
it set me on fire and watched as I floundered
unable to speak
except to cry out and wait for your answer
but you come around in your time
speaking of fabulous places
create an oasis
dries up as soon as you're gone
you leave me here burning
in this desert without you

everything changes
everything falls apart
can't stop to feel myself losing control
but deep in my senses I know.

- Sarah McLaughlin