September 10th - Story Club

I went to Story Club last night with Johanna.  It was the second month in a row that we'd gone, and the second month in a row that we both read stories during the open mic portion of the show.  I read about getting tattooed and Johanna read about how her family raised her like she was a boy.  Her stories are always hilarious, it's so fun to watch her.

I was really nervous at last month's reading because it was the first time I'd read anything to an audience since college, so I purposely picked a really short piece - 300 words, and went first so I wouldn't have to spend a lot of time anticipating my turn.  I read something a little longer last night - about 900 words.  I think I love Story Club; it's in the back room of a place called Uncommon Ground that features local musicians and performers, and serves locally grown and raised food.  The back room has seating for about 30 or so people, and has a really cozy feel to it.  Last winter when we were both unemployed, Angelica and I spent a lot of time there.  We'd bring our laptops to work on our writing, order fun coffee drinks that were served in bowls, and dominate the overstuffed chairs next to a fireplace in the center room.  It felt like we'd escaped Chicago for a moment and gone somewhere else, somewhere with mountains. 

What am I saying, I know I love Story Club.  I think I'm going to become a regular.

September 9th

Things you wear on your face belong to the world.

September 8th - Christina

I took a break at work today and went outside to enjoy the weather; the building I work in is over-air conditioned, which was fine when it was 95 degrees, but now it's ridiculous.  I went across the street to the park that runs along the north branch of the Chicago River, enjoying the air and the sunshine, crossing paths with cyclists, joggers, and dog-walkers.  I was about to turn back when I heard someone call my name -- it was Christina.  She's been unemployed for almost two years now, and has managed to survive it with scrappy ingenuity.  As she puts it, she works "like an immigrant," making a living babysitting, cleaning houses, and other odd jobs.  The minute she found out I'd been laid off she called me and gave me all the information I'd need on how to file an unemployment claim.  I was literally still sitting in my office, fresh out of the meeting with HR where I'd been let go.  "It will be okay," she said to me, "I know it doesn't feel like it right now, but it will."

Christina is the picture of not just surviving the economic downturn, but of moving on with her life in spite of it.  She cobbles together enough jobs to pay rent, health insurance, and other necessities, and even connected me with babysitting jobs while I was unemployed.  We used to work together on Tuesday mornings at a moms group, on the first floor of a town home that was so big I never saw the top floor in all the Tuesdays I babysat there.  The moms would arrive perfectly coiffed and made up, and I always wondered why and how that was possible.  Christina told me they dressed for each other, that she'd babysat for the mom who lived in the townhouse, and she never dressed like she did at moms group.  Christina was funny, the kids responded to her, and most importantly she knew how to work the remote control to the gigantic TV set mounted on the wall of the playroom.  At a certain point during every shift the kids would get out of control and the only thing that would calm them was a show called Fireman Sam, which details the episodic life of an animated firefighter who lives in the town of Pontypandy.  After our shift was over sometimes we'd get coffee, or make breakfast at one of our homes.  It was a rather pleasant way to spend a Tuesday morning.

We did stuff together outside of babysitting too; we went bowling once or twice, and saw The Hangover at the Webster Place Theater.  I haven't seen much of her since getting a job, although we did get together recently for breakfast.  It was nice to run into her out of the blue.  She was pushing a stroller -- her regular Wednesday babysitting job is walking distance from my work.  We spent a few minutes catching up, and when the baby in the stroller started getting fussy, we parted ways.  It put me in a much better mood to see her; I hope she's out there again next Wednesday.

September 7th - Good songs made bad, bad songs made worse

Songs that I might listen to if they came over the car radio, or perhaps while cleaning the house, that have been ruined for me since I started working at a fitness center because they have been remixed into high bpm workout songs:

"Centerfold", J. Geils Band

"Life in a Northern Town", The Dream Academy

 "Smells Like Teen Spirit", Nirvana

 "Do Ya Think I'm Sexy", Rod Stewart

Songs that were terrible to begin with, that have become even more offensive because they have been remixed into high bpm workout songs: 

"Ice, Ice, Baby", Vanilla Ice

"Am I Black or White", Michael Jackson

"I Want To Know What Love Is", Foreigner

"Loverboy", Billy Ocean

September 6th - The Rooster

There's a rooster in our neighborhood, across the alley from our house and a few doors west.  I heard him this morning as I got my bike out from the basement and rolled it through the backyard and into the alley, where I begin and end my bike commute.  That alley is like closure to me, I see it twice a day.  On garbage pickup days sometimes I have to wait for the truck to clear the alley first; other times the truck follows me.  It's Labor Day, but I went in to work anyway -- I get paid by the hour, and holidays aren't paid automatically, they come out of a bank of accumulated time used for vacation, sick days, and holidays.  I didn't want to waste 8 hours of paid time off on a holiday that I didn't have any big plans for.  Besides, I get paid overtime when I work holidays.  I worked on Memorial Day too.

The rooster wasn't taking the day off either; It was just me and him in the alley this morning.  It was nice to have some company.

Sunday, September 5th - Postcards of Michigan (now with improved photos!)

A selection of postcards that I found today at the Jackson Antique mall in LaGrange, IL.  Please pardon the terrible iPhone photos - only two kinda sorta came out once I emailed them to myself and tried to upload them here - the other three keep coming out upside down.  I'd work on this more but it's 11:41 - I only have 19 minutes left for today's post!  If I'm feeling less crabby about it, maybe tomorrow I'll use a real camera and make it prettier. (Update: the husband helped me fix it! Yay!)

Postmark: April 1966, Grand Rapids, MI
Card showing the interior of Finger's Restaurant, Grand Rapids, MI.
Mailed to an address in Aurora, IL
Printed text:
"Michigan's Early American Show Place"
4981 Plainefield N.E. Grand Rapids, Mich 49505
Tel 363-3836
Shown is the unique Country Store, which is only one of the many pleasant surprises in store for you along with a dining experience you will long remember.  Your Hosts - The Fingers
 Handwritten message:
Dear Mom, Dad, & Grandma;
I had the school send Sue some applications and I sent Mark some information.  I wish Doug would forget what Beth told him.  Won't be long now til youth conference.  The weather is very nice.  It reminds me of last year at youth conference.  Mickey got some crazy slides of dorm life at our dorm once.  He says they're going to be in the year book & that he's going to show them at Y.C.  I hope he's kidding.  I'll die.
Dave

Postmark: Aug 4 1927, 5pm, Oshkosh, Wis.
Text on front of card: "No. 149 View In John Ball Park, Grand Rapids, Mich."
Mailed to an address in Waupaca, Wisconsin
Handwritten message:
Dear (name unclear),
If it isn't stormy we will come Sun. morning.  Hope you are all well by now.  Papa seems a little stronger this week.
With Love,
Mother
Thur. P.M.

Identical cards showing a photo of the Upper Tahquamenon Falls, both postmarked:  Aug 15 1961, 9am, Paradise, MI.  One addressed to Mrs. Anna Mae Angus of Morris, IL; the other to Mr. and Mrs. Don Angus of Joliet, IL.  Both have handwritten messages written in green ink.
Printed text:
Upper Tahquamenon Falls
In Michigan's Upper Peninsula
White waters created by the powerful fall of water as it drops close to 40 feet from the rim of the Upper Falls of the Tahquamenon River, gives the camera enthusiast a beautiful subject for his pictures.

Handwritten message #1:
Hi Gram - having a real swell time.  So far we have really seen a lot of pretty country.  We saw these falls today.  Going on to Green Bay Wis. tomorrow.  - See you soon
Love,
Jim (your grandson)

Handwritten message #2:
This is beautiful country.  These falls are really pretty.  We enjoyed the island very much.  The kids rode bikes & Ben & I walked.  Probably get to Green Bay tomorrow.
The Angus Clan

Postmark: Aug 15 1958, Naubinway, Mich.
Mackinac Straits Bridge
Mailed to an address in Defiance, OH
Printed text: This engineering masterpiece, one of man's truly great achievements, forms a 4-lane ribbon of highway over the turbulent straits of Macinac(sic) between St. Ignace and Mackinaw City, Michigan.  Its contribution to the economy of Upper Michigan and the North Country cannot help but be significant.  The overall length makes it the longest bridge of its type in the world.  Opened in November of 1957, it carries thousands and thousands of vehicles between the two great peninsulas of Michigan.
Handwritten message:
We hope you folks are making plans to come up to the club.  This bridge is something to see - weather very good.
Love - Elsie T. Glasser

Postmark: Aug 29, 1961 Mackinaw City, MI
Mackinac Straits Bridge
Mailed to an address in Aurora, IL
Printed text: connecting the upper and lower peninsulas of Michigan was opened for traffic on Nov. 1st, 1957.  It is the world's longest and most expensive suspension bridge, the length being almost 5 miles.  The towers are 752 ft. high, of which 552 ft. are above water.  Clearance at the center is 150 ft.  It carries 4 lanes of traffic which are regulated by signals operated from a control system at headquarters in St. Ignace.
Handwritten message:
Hi
Arrived up here today at 10:00 A.M.  Left yesterday and took a couple tours in two different cities.  Had a real cute cabin last night at Big Rapids.  Sure is pretty here.  Will see you soon.
Love,
Caryl Art & All

September 4th - The Tattoo

To the casual observer it might have looked like we were staging an old timey pinup photo.  I held the ends of my skirt up to to my waist while the tattooist squatted on his haunches, chin in hand, and stared intently at my legs to make sure the stencil on my right thigh lined up with the already existing tattoo on my left.  I wore bike shorts under my skirt (or "modesty pants" as I referred to them that night) and pushed the leg holes up to the top of my thighs, but still -- it looked kinda dirty.  There's a clear view from the street, a straight shot to the back of the shop where the tattooing is done, and any passersby could easily have looked into the picture window and seen us in our little moment, like some kind of erotic advent calendar scene.  I was a little embarrassed; fortunately, the tattooist wasn't looking at my face.

I know him -- the tattooist; he's a friend and colleague of my husband, but somehow this didn't dissipate my sense of humiliation.  If anything, it amplified it.  My husband's friend and colleague was at this very moment staring at my naked thighs.   I'd talked about getting this tattoo for months, maybe longer, and finally made the appointment a few weeks ago via an exchange of email messages on facebook.  M has a thing about not tattooing me -- he says if he had to look at his own work on me he'd only ever find the flaws in it.  As a result, I have very few tattoos; one, to be exact. 

The stencil properly positioned, I climbed onto the massage table that had been set up for this purpose, and lay supine, my back and head propped up at an angle as if I were a grande dame stretched out on a fainting couch.  "Are you nervous?" he asked, "yeah," I said.

The first and only other time I got tattooed, I held onto the chair-back so ferociously that my arms and back ached afterward.  I don't know if it was knowledge of what lay in store, but I was able to relax this time, folding my hands on my stomach or tucking them under my head, elbows splayed out.  With my free leg I alternated between pulling my foot in closer, making a triangle, and leaving it sticking straight out.  It took about an hour and a half, same as last time, and while I started to get a little punchy towards the end, (at about an hour and fifteen minutes I told my husband, in a whisper: "make him stop", and said things like "that's not a very nice thing to do to someone" to the tattooist) it wasn't nearly as uncomfortable as I expected. 

At four a.m. I woke up with the bedsheets stuck to my leg; I'd peeled off the bandage in a half-sleep because the tape adhering it to me was bothersome.  I gently freed myself from the bed and got up to look for the Aquaphor in the medicine cabinet, a healing ointment that we always keep around for this purpose.  I couldn't find it, and began to feel woozy and oddly panicked.  After a moment I located it, and started dabbing the stuff onto my new tattoo.  Every time my fingers made contact with it, a little wave of nausea passed over me.  Maybe it was the four mixed drinks I drank with Angelica after getting tattooed (my limit is 3 of anything, I'm a cheap date), or maybe it was my weak stomach for blood or anything resembling it, but I began to see swirls of colored dots in my field of vision.  I sat on top of the toilet for a moment, and when it passed, got up to make my way back to bed.  I made it as far as the threshold of the bathroom when the swirls came back, little demons filling the space in front of my eyes, and I knew I couldn't make it as far as the bedroom.  I kneeled to the floor right where I was, and yelled "dammitdammitdammitdammit!"

This caused my husband to come running.  Our conversation went something like this:
"What's wrong?"
"I don't know, I feel weird."
"What kind of weird?"
"I'm dizzy."
I began hyperventilating, and my husband ushered me closer to the toilet.

And then, just like that, it passed.  My breathing returned to normal, M covered my thigh in saran wrap, and we went back to bed.

I spent most of today lazing around; having a new tattoo is a great excuse for that.  And now I'll have "matching" legs -- it's bothered me ever since I got the first one that there was nothing to balance it out on the other side.  Even my niece, one year old at the time, and exactly the right height to inspect my thighs, had looked at the tattooed leg, then toddled her way over to the other one to see what was there.  "I know," I said to her, "there should be something on the other one too."