Every Day Prelude

Getting there

2008-09-21T14:24:00.001-07:00

It's been too long since I "wrote", though this is hardly writing. Tapping isn't writing. Writing makes your middle finger calloused and your wrist a bit sore (an unfortunate side effect of making tapping your exclusive means of communicating).

I miss the written word, but it's found me since I've been in Chicago. Inching up on two months now, incidentally. Sometimes I feel robbed of the time that has passed. So much of it has been spent worrying. I had a chat with my mom yesterday about how all the worrying we do is so inconclusive; so perfectly useless. It make me mad when I do it and can't snap out of it. That's where I was at last week. My counselor and I talk about it quite a bit. She says things like "Don't be so hard on yourself" (she's just getting to know me, folks) and "You need to give these new habits some time."

I am facing a lot while I'm here that I've been delaying for many years.

It's not just being where my dad was and him not being here anymore.

It's not just having to search for grass, and planning a commute that can't really be planned (thank you, CTA).

It's much, much deeper than that. I am facing my fear of inadequacy. My fear of challenge, and subsequent failure. I am facing this under the guise of some oppressive personalities. I'm going through a lot, and honoring that.

But what's even more work is to understand that this transition is precisely what had to happen. I couldn't continue safely tiptoeing through life. Well, I could but eventually, all of my insecurities would have bubbled up and I'd have a baby on one arm, inching toward 40 and the change would be much more difficult to traverse.

And so I'm grateful. And not just because this is happening, but because I have the backdrop and landscape I've always wanted. I have a beautiful home, a unwavering husband and the safety and security of having planned well so far.

So I face the challenges, still. And will continue to do so. . . confident that I have to go through this to feel good.

Catharsis

2008-09-07T15:28:00.001-07:00

The sun and the rhythm of the train are at my back. Both are creatures of habit, same as me, and when the sun sets it's a different kind of pacing that the El takes on. . . it's slow and lazy and rippling with an underbelly. The wind is blowing today too, and there's cold air coming soon. The fallout of what was to be a ferocious storm that thankfully wasn't.

I'm sitting here basking in the warmth that comes when the breeze stops, and loving the brush of chill on the back of my neck. It's this up and down feeling of wanting a sweater and hanging on just another few breaths, showing up the chill to keep my spot in the sun's path.

I fight against urges like this all the time. It's part of what's made me sad when I've had sad moments the past month and a half. I don't like upticks in tempo, especially when I specifically asked for something lento. I'm the conductor of this here life, but I haven't been lately. . . and I can't be until I give in and go with the flow.

I am about to grow and it's going to be an amazing thing. This experience I'm having will teach me something, I just can't see past a huge pillar of negative energy that stands before me. I'm struggling to see the good instead of focusing on the good. That's disturbing. That's where I need help.

But what I do know is what happens next is the stuff that will be transformative. It will be hard, and it will hurt and I will struggle and then. . . it will be calm, and ok and breezy. With just an occasional rumble on the rickety tracks.

I really forgot what it's like to grow. Sometimes it requires a lot of self and a proactive approach and other times you're just thrust into a place, and you have to decide to bear it and prosper or stay shy and never know what could have been.

To coming out from under it all. . . and (eventually) rising above.

I'm a believer

2008-09-01T08:51:00.000-07:00

Once you realize you are in charge, things change. Something occurred to me this weekend about my role in this transition I'm undergoing. The reality is that much of it is in my control. How I respond to the force that brings negative energy, how I approach situations. . . I don't have the toolbox yet to make it 100 percent successful, but that's what the next month is about. Gathering the resources and tools I need to get going on making this transition a success for me.

It won't be easy. I can say that I lack motivation because of a bully at work, but I shouldn't be motivating for her or for anyone else. I should do it for me, and give myself the opportunity to shine. Really try my hardest, not just pretend. And reap the rewards of doing my best, my real best, which is a best I have yet to discover I think.

That's the hardest part about all of this is the self-discovery. I remember lying in bed at night growing up and my legs would hurt quite literally from growing pains. What's happening now hurts too. It's all-consuming and daunting and difficult, but I think, if looked at another way, it's a real test of my stamina and ability to weather change. Up until now, I've been less than good at both.

But I have to get good at it now because, if not at this gig, it will be at another that I'm put to the test. There will be more transitions in life. Many more. And I have to believe in myself that I can do it. For me. Not for anyone else.

Amazing what a foreign feeling that is. And so, I leave you with the high/low of this weekend. High was seeing Meredith and Pete yesterday. Good grief, we wish they lived here.

Low was the ongoing self-doubt and inability to accept this gift I've been given, to live in a great place and be with my great husband and conquer challenges I've never had to face AND be successful. I'm working on that one, but it may be a low for awhile. Patience please!

Attack

2008-08-27T16:10:00.000-07:00

My mom sent me an email this morning with the subject line "attack". Awesome. Can't wait to open that one. Much to my chagrin, a woman was assaulted last night only two blocks away outside of our local grocery store. These were all the details I had so of course I was a little shaken, but it's the "Big City". This shit happens, so to speak.

Come to find out she told two homeless people, when approached for a cigarette, that they should "Get a job." They bashed her teeth in and she's in critical condition at Northwestern Hospital.

So there's a couple things there that, for me, would never happen. I don't generally talk to homeless folk. It's not out of spite or malice or anything evil. It's just self-defense. Sadly most of the forgotten are mentally ill and any sudden movement or eye cast sideways could be a trigger. I'm not being dramatic, I'm being realistic. Engaging is tough, though it's incredibly hard to ignore the despair and destitution that sits under your nose and idles alongside you down the street.

I also never say anything derogatory. It's just not necessary. Being homeless is dehumanizing enough. I can imagine you become invisible, desperate and, to some, sub-human. It makes my stomach tighten out of the conflict of whether to help or not and whether any help is really doing any good. More than a dollar or a carton of food, I'd like to send them to a shelter, get them off drugs, give them some professional training. . . intervene on the state of affairs.

The city is an amazing and tragic place all at once. I was walking past Salvatore Ferragamo today on Michigan Ave. thinking who has the gaul to buy a $2,000 handbag. In an overt display of irony, a homeless man held a sign asking, "Money for beer, please. If you were me, you'd ask too."

Whereas in Michigan I was pleasantly, passively ignorant to dire straits, it's right here in my face every day, every block. For a reason.

Getting real

2008-08-24T18:38:00.000-07:00

I got a runner's high today, so now I kind of get it. . . there's so much going on in my brain that I needed to get next to water and breathe in semi-fresh air and be amongst the elements. I pounded the pavement and felt the pain and felt better. It's important to do this. Critical, as a matter of fact.

And I've been striving to feel better for some time now. My approach has changed. A lot of it is due to my forever and always partner in crime, Miss Angela. You see, I'm nice. I've always been nice and truly I always will be. But there are situations in life where I have to stick up for myself and I often don't do a good job. Sometimes that's inconsequential, but with what I'm faced with right now I can't afford to roll over and take it. Oy.

I'm going to ask for what I need and tell it like it is. I am going to avoid getting angry by coaching and making sure I'm not only heard, but listened to. At the end of the day, everyone around me just wants my best. Little do some know that, to get my best, I require a little food and water. A specific kind. Good news is, I'm not afraid to share with anyone what that is.

And that's what changes tomorrow. Was the weekend still polluted with worrying and anxiety? Shit yeah. But that's my M.O. more often than not. What's different is I get to begin reaping the benefits of being assertive. Calm and assertive.

I'll keep you posted.

Bully in the China Shop

2008-08-21T18:26:00.001-07:00

Holy rollercoaster, Batman. It's no mistake that I haven't posted in weeks. I've been under a lot of stress. Invisible, toxic stress that I'm rather finished with at this point. There is one person in my new sphere that doesn't get it. She's a bully and I haven't encountered one in a long time.

I officially hit rock bottom, but as with drug addicts around the world, the rock bottom is where reality sets in. The fact that I have choices in life; in particular with my attitude, my approach. . . me, period. I'm going to need some new tools to get through this new phase, so I'll enlist some help and build up my arsenal.

I've just been protected from negativity for so long. Was able to surround myself with goodness with relative ease. The walls of the fortress were largely impenetrable and when someone did come knocking, they went away after too long.

Not now. There's one under my nose, fighting for my spirit. I can't look down or it's over. But I need to figure out how to stay focused on the path ahead. I didn't come equipped with that skill and now I have a lot of learning to do.

Friends, this will not be what defines me, this struggle between good and reasonable and somewhat evil and irrational. But it will test me and just as with anything it's up to me to pass the test or not. Either way, failure won't happen.

Day by day.

On the Same Page

2008-08-11T18:32:00.000-07:00

I can say with some certainly that part of my reason for being is to translate. Not in the traditional sense, from English to Spanish and back, for example. Rather reading and deciphering body language; staying attune to behavior and responding in such a way that I'm still good. I'm still in the clear, because I get it.

I'd say it's a talent, but I've always been a listener to things both loud and imperceptible. It bodes well for me in professional environments in particular. My boss today likened me to one of the Olympians on the U.S. Olympic team.

*waiting for laughing to subside* *seeing irony and laughing myself*

On every team, there's someone who rides the middle, grounds the rest and keeps everything in tune. I absorb dissonant sounds and sponge negativity so it ends at my feet, lying like a fallen branch. There's no room for that in my tree as it were. Turns out, other people know this, sense this, hire me for this. My boss called me an anchor today. Like the gymnast on the U.S. squad, whom the NBC announcer praised. I'm a necessary part of any ship that's otherwise powerful but needs to stop and take a rest and just sway for awhile.

I find it pretty cool that those who have known me for ten days get that about me. It was one of my dad's greatest gifts. The calm in the storm, staying the course, gently rocking. . . but safe and still. It's my hope that my influence in an otherwise tumultuous landscape of cubes can help steady the course a bit here in Chicago.

I'm supposed to be here. . . doing this.

Being still

2008-08-09T17:07:00.000-07:00

It's been a long time since I was still. Not necessarily in the physical sense, but mentally. . . just quiet in my head and my body and able to take a deep breath and just be alive and here and present and feel good.

This week was not a good one. I am not at home. Home isn't where you live it's who you live with. Marc's arrival tomorrow has been much anticipated and long overdue. I've survived but I still feel like a visitor, out of place. . . like a swatch of plaid in a sea of white linen. Exposed and vulnerable.

Maybe I'm being dramatic, but the characters in my current landscape are challenging. I came from a place where the love was exponential, especially on the job. Now, I have to work for that love. It's a bit like getting a divorce, and now I have to date again. Or so I imagine.

So I had a breakdown. It's over now. I talked it out with my new cohort Karin. She's new too. Newbies often gravitate to each other because we get it. . . that this is hard and out-of-body and, most importantly, temporary. I told her that we needed to vent together but even more than that. . . I need to hear when she's had bright spots, and I'll tell her mine. I can't get down and out. Not yet, and not here.

After all that, my mom stood by and made me good food and let me relax so that today I can sit and just be still. She helps me hit reset, and set the tone for greeting my tired, weary and a little bit sad husband tomorrow. And then we can be still together.

Getting into the groove

2008-08-06T19:08:00.000-07:00

Good things about being in Chicago.

1) My job lets me work on amazing projects. Some are top secret, but all are socially responsible, environmentally aware and extremely challenging. That's rad.
2) Walking home from work next to a beautiful park with a big ol' bean.
3) Smith & Wollensky with Mary Pat, Amanda and Chris.
4) Thai food with Dan.
5) Mom at a moment's notice.
6) More Mom at a moment's notice.

Bad things about being in Chicago.

1) Work. I mean, it's work, people.
2) Nothing to absorb the sound of thunder. It's like Beirut out there when it rains.
3) There is a Fannie Mae within 100 steps of my cube. I love chocolate. You do the math.
4) Everything costs two arms and two legs. Where's my $5 burrito bowl?
5) Strategic planning when it comes to transportation.

So see? It's pretty even, but tonight was especially great. It was breezy, warm and righteous. My walk after work led me to dinner with family and several, several drinks later, I bid them adieu, climbed in a cab and got home to a cozy place (yes, it's becoming cozy) feeling like I hit my stride. I'm up to my ears already, but I love being here. I love the sound of being busy and walking on Wabash in the morning, past the tall man with red and orange hair, crossing paths with the same mother and child.

It's becoming my neighborhood. I'm starting to get it. . . it even feels good to sleep here. That's the stuff.

So, it's weird. . .

2008-08-03T19:40:00.000-07:00

You are now entering Emily's stream of consciousness.

I'm an independent person, but even so. . . I'd rather not be alone. Though Friday and Saturday were full of other voices and plans, Sunday was a bit vacant. It's a weird thing to admit the tug and pull of being alone. It's hard to reconcile. All at once you're grateful and lamenting.

It's all temporary of course, and for that I'm lucky. Marc will be here permanently next weekend. We've got a lot of work ahead of us, and he's got some fantastic opportunities on the horizon. All in all, we're on top of the world. . . but it's this limbo that's a bit frustrating. It's interesting to me that I tend to veer toward being sad and overwhelmed, as opposed to upbeat and excited for the next adventure.

I chalk it up to being alone. And yet, of course, I'm not. My mom, family and some of my closest friends are near by (around the corner in some cases). Which is why I think it's more than just being geographically alone in this fantastic condo. . . it's the idea that it's all up to me now. There's something about this move that has elevated me to adulthood, even though my mom is closer than ever. It's the beat of the city that requires maturity. The tone of the commute and the work I do that make me straighten my back and approach things with care.

There's nothing to be taken for granted here and perhaps it's because of that (and having the ability to know better) I approach each day with resolve. It can be exhausting, sure, but in the same way I honor Michigan. . . I honor this time.

Knowing full well that I will look back months and years from now and smile at the grimace with which I approached a Sunday night alone. It's all part of this process. In that, the rhythm of transition, I take solace.

Friday is Funday

2008-08-01T14:27:00.000-07:00

And so the week comes to a close. Excitement for a beer on the roof, a night with the hubs and a long restful sleep are propelling me through these last couple of hours at my office in the sky. It’s been a good week, but not without pause and a little bit of pain. I always anticipated this transition to be nothing short of miraculous. A-ha moments left and right and the sky would open up with nothing but showers of joy.

Right.

This is tough, as there’s rarely a respite from living in the present. . .which turns out to be just as involved as living in the future. I don’t think that there’s anything terribly philosophical about what I’m going through. No need to take a deep dive into the nether regions of the brain and analyze. My body says that it’s just tough. It’s a transition. Take it slow, take it in and take advantage of all the good and opportunity around.

It’s nothing to shrug at.

So, to keep my energy up, I must dive into the culinary scene, tackle the nightlife and emerge victorious. I must gain 20 lbs. (please god, no) but at the same time, revel in my walks home and runs along the lake. Bikes will emerge from the garage and we can pedal to party around town. Mobility is everywhere. It’s vibrant. The concrete is hot and people are moving fast and it’s hard not to get energized.

Tick-tock, and so it begins. BlackBerry charged. Laptop powering down and an elevator ride down into the heat and hunger of the weekend.

Reunited

2008-07-30T20:26:00.000-07:00

Debbie and I have been friends for almost eight years. I met her in college. I met her when she was dating the love of her life, Doug, who I soon fell in love with. I moved away, but came back for her beautiful wedding, wearing satin and walking down the aisle. She's a special person in my life, no doubt.

And now we get to be together.

One of the most magical parts of our move are reunions like this. It's hardly an isolated incident. I have so many loved ones at my fingertips now I hardly know what to do and where to start with the long overdue catch-up and long awaited hugs and late night giggles. They are the friends, the family, who saw me grow up in one way or another. Be it from toddler to teenager, or from teenager to a "real person". Each time I see these special folk, I am transported back to a time when the final pages of a chapter turned. It makes me remember where I came from and simultaneously propels me to keep going.

There are special people in Chicago. My hope is that I can continue to write, as it brings me closer to them, and that my traversing the terrain of transition with only minor bumps will inspire my dear friends to do what they've been waiting to do.

Whatever it is. . . I'll be there.

Up and Down

2008-07-29T19:40:00.001-07:00

And so it goes that all transitions ride the rollercoaster rails. Tangibly, today was no different than yesterday. Many, many meetings, a venti skinny vanilla latte, a jaunt outside for a breath of fresh. . .

But every day feels different and it's all part of the adaptation process I'm convinced. So, as I've learned to do through the years (especially since my dad died), I'm embracing what comes my way. I can acknowledge that though I feel the stress bubbling up, that tomorrow will come regardless of projects getting completed. Not just that but it's a chance to approach challenging situations with a new attitude.

I'm challenged a lot here. From getting up early after sleeping little to beating the heat and stink of the rickety El platform and jockeying for a spot on the train that doesn't involve my skin touching someone else's. Put another way, it's all adjusting. Some of it's good (most of it's good) and some of it is just plain annoyance, frustration and fear of having to change.

That said, far be it for me to every say no to a good challenge. And so Wednesday awaits.

Even Better Than. . .

2008-07-28T19:43:00.000-07:00

What a day. Following my requisite horrible-night-before-big-day sleeping habits, I didn't exactly awake bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for the first day at the new job. Nonetheless, full of excitement and anticipation, I walked to the Roosevelt El stop, hopped on the Green Line and was at my desk 30 minutes after embarking for a joyous inauguration.

Sticky with the humidity of summer in Chicago, I landed safely at this new home of mine and was greeted with smiles and an anticipation that mirrored my sentiments. Positive vibes flowed everywhere and once we got beyond the W-4's, I began to see my new role take shape. Friends, this was a good choice. The reaffirmation I felt throughout the day and deep into my gut made me feel so full. The expectations are realistic; they want to me to succeed, not be thrown into an abyss of new passwords, admins, perks and portals. Support rallied around me on everything from IT (the best guys) to a lovely lunch by the Chicago River. There will never be another team like the one I left, but this one is exceptional still.

My supervisor told me I don't need to dazzle. I already did. That's why they hired me. Their excitement at having me and my leadership style around was equal to mine for what's next. The work will be good. So meaty and focused; so me.

It was worth the wait to get to this place. Serendipity has befallen, and I'm reveling. My walk home from work wasn't brisk, but it was refreshing and warm. I broke away from the crowds quickly, walking paralel to the green lawn of Grant Park. People danced in fountains, sat on the steps of the Art Institute and suits walked bulldogs and greyhounds in and around trees. There's such a feeling of relief at quitting time in the city. A chance to take the after hours by storm. . . make the most of the sunshine that will be so missed when lake effect comes to town.

Very tired, so fulfilled, and still so eager to see what happens next. Even a week later, it still feels like every day is my birthday.

Traffic

2008-07-27T18:40:00.001-07:00

Usually, a Sunday in Chicago ends early. Marc and I pack up our suitcases after lunch, load up the car and begin the long, very straight, and thus arduous, trek back to Royal Oak. We equally lament the voyage and the day that comes next.

Today, this Sunday of mine, is a special one. The sun has set, the lights are dim. . . and I'm still here. That's because Chicago is now, finally, home. With the dim sounds of horns and clackety-clack tracks in the background, feelings evolve to excitement and anticipation, replacing some great sadness and anxiety. It's an odd thing to want something for so long and finally have it under your feet, ringing in your ears and blowing through your fingers walking on the lakefront.

I'm home, but it's not the same as when I left. It's concrete and crowded. It's bustling and beautiful. It's a big city, full of opportunity and adventure that I will get to experience with my beloved, my mom and dear family and friends. . . it holds memories I can't wait to document and stories I will tell for a lifetime. This humbling transition of mine is unlike any other. It is here I will put down roots.

But let me first pay homage to the many things I've left in the name of this voyage. The transition has not been without tears of all sorts but mostly shed to honor what I leave behind: dear friends (sisters, really), an incredible job I loved so much I wanted to stay through the hardships, our apartment ("our" being the operative word), reliable Chinese, Lebanese and Mexican outposts (the best whole lentil soup around at Grape Leaves). I will miss all of these things as a new reality forms. But I weave them intimately into my life, carefully sewing lessons learned next to loves gained and life's biggest loss. It all happened in Michigan.

Michigan is where I grew up. It's where I found my own way, before finding Marc and building our way. I will always be fond of the Mile roads, Eminem, Coney Islands and "up north." Thank you, all of you (and you know who you are), who helped me evolve as both passive observers and conscious actors. Without you, I wouldn't have the confidence and drive to do what I had to do. And so it begins. . . again.

It was only connecting

2007-08-06T18:02:00.000-07:00

I may or may not have a friend having an affair. No, she's not sleeping with anyone. She's telling him about the men before, the pain after and the toil of finding someone to bed, someone to wed. She's sharing philosophy and faith, carefully peeling back the layers of her reservations to expose herself.

But she's not naked. She's completely clothed, even though her heart wants to leap out of her chest and find a home tucked safely near his. I don't even think they want to have sex. They just want to exchange nothings and everythings and carry on with limitations.

I'm told that's part of the fun.

He looks at her like a woman. Not a wife, not a mother. . . a woman with ambition. I get it. I really do. There comes a point where the work of a marriage is no longer fun in its minutiae. When it really does become minutiae. But fantasy is reckless, I tell her. What's in it for you? Does it keep you full longer than the brief encounter? Does it rock your world when you're hungover and bloated or on your knees scrubbing the floor?

You can't fall back on fantasy. It's not there for you when you transition.

Just be mindful, missy. Be mindful.

The eve

2007-07-22T19:30:00.000-07:00

Sunday nights are tough. This is nothing new. My brain runs a constant monologue of woulda, coulda, shouldas about the weekend; about my life. Friends who have come 'round these parts of late will know that I'm in an introspective valley, feeling thoughtful and a bit out of place. I get angry at myself more these days, ignoring the obvious advice to stop comparing myself to others and understanding that it is what it is, this life I lead.

Sunday nights, my head flops onto the pillow with a deep sigh. Is it a beginning or an end, this night before we return to our desks? What Monday brings is what the weekend hides behind a leisurely read of the New York Times, a long walk with the one you love where the quality of conversation is unrivaled. Reality goes unnoticed because you sleep with the windows open and you sleep long and hard. You choose to be stirred and then only to make an omelette, start off on a bike ride, let your heavy thoughts, future thoughts, fall to your toes.

I want to take back Sunday nights. To be outside of myself a bit more and find the rhythm of the week's preparation less demanding. I want to be thankful for having an evening where I happen to notice the summer sunset and fall asleep, without commotion, with quiet confidence that Monday is going to be just fine. A lot like Sunday in fact.

The Trio

2007-06-08T20:53:00.000-07:00

I've always been in a family of three. My parents had just one little. And they ("they" being behavioral psychologists) say only children often find themselves in the company of the oldest, when it comes to vows and commitment. So my husband fit the profile. That's the only reason I married him. That and his lustrous hair. *snicker*

My mom and I shared a few tears over our martinis tonight. Not sobbing, mascara-running messes of tears. Just gratitude liquefied. You see, even though my dad died almost three years ago, she's grateful. She realizes how lucky her life was and is and how recalling the sorrow of losing a life partner is omnipresent enough that wallowing is counter-productive. I know it almost sounds too logical, but it's her way.

I don't think about my dad much. I don't feel guilty about it either, because that's how it's supposed to be. I'm grateful because, as I approach 30, I know what my mom has realized to be true. And I know it now.

I'm still part of a trio. It's just evolved to include an oldest, with the biggest of hearts. . . and hair to be envied.

Mobility

2007-06-03T17:22:00.000-07:00

The mystique of urban living is romantic in its mobility. If you want an ice cream cone, a shirt pressed or a new bauble for a party on Saturday night, everything is within a brisk walk to the destination or at least to the public transport that will take you there. I used to think Michigan, unless you lived on the strip of bacchanalia in Birmingham, Ann Arbor or Royal Oak, was void of these opportunities. Marc and I discovered otherwise.

We bought a shopping cart. We will walk 10 minutes to Meijer. (10 minutes! Though I abhor the layout of Meijer. It's far too close to Wal-Mart in layout and florescence and I like my salespeople with teeth. Call me a snob. I know you did.) We will cart home our wares and find great satisfaction in knowing we're on foot together and leaving our polluters at home to wait out the weekend until Monday when we have to climb in, turn the ignition and sit in traffic.

Walking is liberating. It's simple. It's unavoidable for some things (walking to the printer, walking to the bathroom, walking to the fridge). But we've avoided it for so long when it's been right under our, well, feet.

Embracing walking. . .

Just tell me which way you like it. . .

2007-03-11T18:12:00.001-07:00

Justin Timberlake is having the year. Actually, I should say THE year. Positive press abounds, his album is fantastic by all accounts (not just screaming tweens, but critics and middle aged men alike), he is sleeping with the hottest women in H'Wood and, and, and. . . well, it's just stellar.

My friend and I ventured out to his FutureSex/LoveSounds concert last night. We sat down just as he got up to get down, as they say. Wow. The boy can move, groove, sing, play (guitar and piano) and the whole production puts it easily in the top five concerts I've never seen.

My friend remarked that she wondered where he would be when we're, say, 40. Will he lust for peanut butter and banana sandwiches and get chubby and leave us too soon? Or will his talent continue to stay relevant even as his hair grays?

Either way, boy is in his prime. Undeniably. It was a super treat to watch. Yum, yum.

Alpha dudes

2007-03-07T20:38:00.000-08:00

Normally, when the work day ends, my desire to interact, much less engage, with other human beings is non-existent. Tonight, however, I encountered a large Canadian man. An alpha man. And he taught me, and other eager women, how to work with men like him. You know, the men in our corner offices. . . the men with Breitling watches and Bentleys to boot. Because if you're not working for yourself, you're probably working for one of them. Or at least a junior alpha working toward this status. . .

I love when motivational speakers are actually motivating. This Canadian was that and more, as I checked my watch once. . . and at 9:30. He's 33, sold his company for tens of millions of dollars and now coaches women how to succeed (and actually stay) in the board room. It's always fun to hear how the other side thinks (think Venus and Mars). No news flash here that, even in business, men think simply (and succinctly). . . and some of the tips prove this so.

In business, women should. . .

1. Not take things personally. Ever.
2. Speak in terms of goals. . . not process.

Neither of these tips are new. I've gradually molded myself into a communicator who takes this approach, and more, as I approach my own alpha. I don't aspire to have a Bentley, or even a BMW. . .

My Emily Alpha persona looks something like this: daily challenges, feeding young practitioners with motivation and the fuel for confidence, giving what I can to assist those who have little and being a good wife and a good daughter.

That's all the alpha I need. . . oh, did I mention a beach house in Christchurch, NZ? Ex-pats, here we come.

Funny is sexy

2007-03-06T19:04:00.000-08:00

I often discuss, with a particular friend of mine, the hotness of a funny man.

The irony, of course, is that these funny men are not often the high school quarterback. . . the dude. But who really wants one of those? Dudes beget OLD high school quarterbacks who probably, unabashedly, house their letterman jacket in the garage in a vacuum-sealed bag next to the cyrogenic cube that holds their class ring. You dig? Sorry, folks. We're talking in stereotypes today.

But those dudes * insert long frustrated sigh at their existence* have never quite had an appeal to me and my friends. Not one of us settled down with a dude, though we've dated them for sport.

Do dudes even settle down?

The point is. . . Jim Gaffigan? The hotness. Stephen Colbert? I argue not as hot as J. Stewart. . . but his cranium has potential to push him foward in crush factor. Conan O'Brien? Yes, please. I'd love a date with any of these men, provide circumstances such as being single, living in Hollywood or NYC and having access to agents yielded themselves to me.

Obviously, Marc is the ultimate dream combination of all of these bo-hunks. I won't even denote that as a disclaimer. It's just plain fact.

I must say, however, Leonardo DiCaprio has grown on me. I think it's the scruff. . . and to coin a phrase from a dude I encounter daily and can't avoid, "The dude can act."

Except, Leo's so not a dude. . .

Future focus

2007-02-18T16:57:00.000-08:00

Find your passion! Make it work for you!

Just like everyone else, I have now heard about "The Secret." No, I won't spend $40 to buy the DVD, but there are resonating mantras that I've are true but my brain hadn't yet assigned a catch phrase for. . .

In particular, "nothing new can come into your life without being grateful for what you have now." Ain't that the truth.

I've also been thinking about passion, having passion, finding passion. . . what is it I want to do? Is it as far out of reach as it sometimes seems? Am I doing something, every day, to realize that vision? Defining it is the hardest part, but I've got the characteristics listed in my head. My career must involve communicating, planning and counseling.

Here comes the bride?

Interweb

2007-02-17T07:00:00.000-08:00

There are few things I love more than the Internet. I can spend hours surfing, reading, learning, forwarding and absorbing. I like to find links to sites my friends would enjoy. I like to comment on blogs I've never read and get familiar with magazines you can't buy at Borders.

Most of all, I love finding new music. It's a quest. This month, I'm into Carrie Rodriguez and Young Love. Marc will tell you that I bludgeon a song to death (as in listen to it over, and over, and over) before moving on to a new favorite. I can't explain why a song is good, even though I was an "accomplished" flutist and know a bit about major, minor, treble and bass. I need a Web site that can find a pigeon hole for me, because I hate saying, "I like everything. . . except death metal." I don't think I'll lose many friends there. Why are those young men so angry?

Over a dinner of pierogi and Polish vodka a couple of weeks ago, a lovely friend of a friend introduced me to Andrew Bird. "He whistles," she said. And now, I like Mr. Bird. Tweet, tweet.

I also like discovering music that's been around a really, really long time. I liked the Black Eyed Peas before Fergie wet herself. But, I'm just coming around to the Dixie Chicks. Me and the rest of free-thinking America.

Here's to buying 99 cent songs and subscribing to Rolling Stone to read it in front of our computer. . . so I can hear what I'm reading (because a music magazine seems a little. . . counter intuitive?).

Alternative

2007-02-15T18:27:00.000-08:00

I don't like words like "alternative" or "minority," in reference to sweeping generalizations of a culture or movement. Think, "alternative lifestyle."

Think, alternative medicine.

Mary Pat is my favorite aunt. She's got energy for weeks and a zest for good food, strong drinks and her family. She used to smoke. She quit. . . and acupuncture, along with her steadfastness, helped it happen.

Acupunture has been around for thousands of years. The land that brought us dim sum and paper trusts its techniques. And now, Oprah has endorsed it. That's the golden ticket. And I'm going to try it, though I'm not sure for what. . .

I'm into alternatives. I like choices. Peppermint tea makes my stomach feel good; apricots and oatmeal make for a good deposit in the toity; and rinsing my nose with salt water made my headaches go away.

To me, having a baker's dozen worth of prescriptions in my name ought be the alternative to trying the good stuff outside. To quote Smokey from Friday, "It's from the Earth. God put this here for me and you."

Nevermind the clandestine reference. And doesn't it seem that our Chinese friends live to be so ripely old?

Take my picture

2007-02-14T20:36:00.000-08:00

Marc and I are staying up way too late these days, but tonight it was to talk about photographs. . .

I always thought our catalog of prints was an inaccurate reflection of our lives. Just as my dad used to say to my Granny, "You only remember the bad things," (in jest, folks. . . no therapy needed), our photos capture only the good times. There's rarely an occasion where we aren't smiling; where there isn't celebration or a coy tilt of the head or lip pucker. (We are such hams, aren't we?)

There's nothing wrong with this, of course. It just is. . .

When we visited Annie's exhibit at the Detroit Institute of Arts, it struck me that her photos are powerful because they are legendary, first; but part of that status comes from her ability to capture a real moment. Of course, subjects aren't caught off guard. . . B.B. King knew she was in the front row at his gig.

But, their faces suggest otherwise. Like they just let her be, and got back to it. . . which must be the highest complement a good photographer can receive. That their subject would let them capture how they see themselves.

... like you give a damn.

2006-11-19T08:25:00.000-08:00

Marc and I subscribe to a lot of magazines. Probably nearly a dozen between the two of us. Few compel me, so subscriptions run out and then I find new favorites.

I have a new favorite. GOOD Magazine.

I can't remember where I heard about it, but I knew I liked it when the Web site told me "100 percent of your subscription goes to a charity of your choice." Nice.

The first issue is fantastic. Great photos, satire, non-fiction and education. We've just come back from the other side of the world, where we read and watched the news more than we do here (sad...). We are aware of what the world thinks of our politics... and of us: Americans. Used to be the two could be separated (maybe back in 1968), but not now. And it isn't ALL Bush's fault.

Anyway, there's a story about that... Pew research about how we perceive ourselves and how other countries perceive us. Ironically, McDonald's is most popular in France (second to here, obviously). And yet, no other country despises us more.

I urge you to subscribe to this publication. You'll only get it a few times a year, and you'll want it monthly. It's good for your brain and you owe it to yourself.

That and keep The Daily Show on your TiVo. As Rolling Stone says, Stewart and Colbert could be the leading "journalists" of our generation.

Big money, no whammies

2006-07-01T10:18:00.000-07:00

Saturdays serve many purposes. In the Drake household, we make a list, check it twice and head out to Farmer Jack (only after crusing the adopt-a-pet display at Petco... I know, jealous?). I love grocery shopping. There is something tremendously satisfying about a full fridge with endless possibilities. Or at least having Doritos on hand.

So, Marc takes to bagging, and also parceling up our groceries (ha!), and I spy a lottery machine. You know, the kind you put in a dollar, grab a coin and get to scratching lottery machine. Marc goes for the Dollar Grills and I bought a Moolah Mania. People, we won $20 bucks. That's like, four boxes of cat litter, three cases of Mike's Hard Lemonade, one bag of frozen shrimp... do you see what I'm getting at here?

I've thrown pennies on the ground before. Like, emptied my wallet onto the street to and watched them roll away to the gutter. I will still do that, but the lowly single has endeared itself. The Drakes are officially a for-profit business.

What does LA stand for?

2006-06-29T17:28:00.000-07:00

I just got back from a trip to Los Angeles. It's a strange place, as I think we're all aware. There is beauty in the avocado tree in Dana's backyard and her second-to-none guacamole, but there's also sparkling sun that lends itself to a land where even if you're homeless and destitute, you're rarely getting rained on.

The trouble is, there's a feeling of squallor even among those with shelter and four wheels. Among the creatives, there's the palpable questioning of, "What's my next gig?" There are actors working three or four jobs, none of them during the day (so they can go to call backs if needed), and wearing themselves out. But there are also businessmen driving for hours in traffic to get to a high rise miles from the ocean.

Where does the stamina come from? What keeps the artistic motion picture and musician folk in LA happy? Where's the beauty if you're not on the beach in Malibu or in the vineyards of Santa Barbara?

I sat next to the woman pictured on the flight home last night. Here name is Cassie and she was #1 on MTV's TRL yesterday. Today she's number 2. She's "made it" and no one I talked to even knew who she was.

I struggle with LA. Unless, of course, I'm spending time with the Dana. Then all is right in the world.

Come talk to me

2006-06-13T18:19:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I wonder what finally gave me the courage to say what I'm thinking; to get off on speaking up; to pass the cajones and hold the sugar. It's not about rude vs. polite. I just like to be honest and get honest in return. There's no other way for me.

But I know so few people like this... I even get the feeling some of my closest friends are holding back sometimes. I fail to see how opening the door for discussion, however terrifying, is worse than bottling frustration and truth. I get a lot of "It's not that easy..." Of course it isn't. But I bet if you try it, you'll like it. The truth has amazing liberation to offer. Ladies, it's like losing weight. Seriously... same high.

I've been on a Summer Love kick. Not in a gross Grease kind of way... but being cognizant that May and June often bring some revelations to my single pals (e.g. "I'm better off without him," or "I really wish she was into me") and spice up those who have been kicking it much longer.

I've been observing relationships around me develop, cease and stagnate. There's giddiness, there's sadness, apprehension, elation. The relationships that will do more than survive will be those that catch wind of the sweet scent of truth and carry it with them throughout the heat and opportunity summer provides.

It's a time for hammocks, windows down, bass up and being honest. With yourself first and foremost. Then call me, and we'll grab a martini.

Conference X in Hotel Y

2006-05-17T17:19:00.000-07:00

When I started this thing I call a career a mere five years ago I was hungry for remote assignments. Within the first two months as a PR professional, I was rumbling along asphalt in Montana (behind the wheel of a Bullitt Mustang, I might add) and shortly thereafter, cruising with the top down in Toronto. I still remember the feather top beds at the Crowne Plaza, and my first experience with tuna tartare. It was different then.

You know how this story ends. Traveling for work has lost it's mystique. Airports make me cringe. Flying on the aisle... flying perched against the window... flying while reclined. It all sucks, and I know you can relate. This week, traveling to the OC sounded great on paper. We were steps from Huntington Beach, Balboa Island, Santa Ana and other backdrops for paparazzi in US Weekly. Meanwhile, the trip was little more than a detailed survey of the Marriott Costa Mesa Ballroom which looks just as mauve and giant-leaf-wall-to-wall-carpeting gross as the past four I've been in. Lately, I have visions of the crystal chandeliers that hang above our heads coming to a crashing fall... or at least have a couple small talking Macaws perched within the fractals it creates crowing something like "You're making rich people richer" or "No one is listening." Something really obnoxious.

I find it makes home all the sweeter. I can't wait to get back to my couch, my man, my cereal... even work at my office (moreso the people than anything).

But it did get me started on "In Cold Blood." As Mere can attest, I'm in for wild ride... and a trip to Blockbuster to see Hoffman do it up in honor of the venerable Harper Lee. I'm reading, people. I thank work travel for that.

Making sense of it

2006-05-08T17:29:00.000-07:00

I've liked rap and hip-hop for as long as I can remember. What I always liked about it was the beat. I'm a rhythm kind of person, far more than I pay attention to any of the lyrics (which most of my friends would find odd, no doubt). It just so happens I reserve that contemplation for my favorite female vocalists. They seem to say more of what I'm thinking and feeling anyway.

Keeping this in mind, I started listening, really listening, to some of my favorite groove songs lately and soon discovered why not paying attention to the lyrics allows for some ignorance and, more importantly, continued enjoyment of the hooks I love so much.

Here's an example:

"Some girls they act retarded
Some girls are bout it bout it
I'm lookin for a girl that will do whatever the fuck
I say everyday she be givin it up." -- Eminem/Nate Dogg, "Shake That"

I don't like what this says. There's nothing endearing or emotional or provocative about it. I don't have a great case to make for why I like this song, except I know I'm a feminist that has a good sense of humor.

Even if what they spout isn't "right," it's probably true. What man doesn't want a woman who 'gives it up' daily? I know that just as much as I know that there are men who listen to it and sing it and pound on their chests and prophesize about their coolness. If it helps them feel confidant, fine. At the end of the day, you just gotta love a woman right, thug or not.

I reconcile knowing that I listen to hip hop for the beats (sometimes so much, I learn the words). I've concluded it might be true that I'm more of a fan of the mixmaster on the soundboards than the artists themselves. An infectious beat just can't be ignored.

Either way, how do you reconcile?

Accompaniment

2006-05-07T15:05:00.000-07:00

Maybe because I was in such a great mood, I decided to take the walk with my Dad. We went to Cranbrook, albeit he was in a Ziploc bag and I stood erect and in tact. Perhaps because I'm smiling with the sun today, I allowed myself to have the conversation we did and ignore that it was a monologue.

I needed some advice from him... and even though he's dead, he can help me talk it through just by encouraging me through vespers that I know the right answer. I didn't sprinkle him anywhere in particular, because there was nothing eventful about the day. It was just a day where I needed someone to listen. He's still really good at that.

He's been a lot of places this week. Joe helped me whisper his remains while roaring down the track in a Miata. Marc brought him to where the Indianapolis Speedway comes full circle, on the original bricks. He'll be happy there, inhaling the smell of exhaust and torched brakes.

Knowing he's everywhere and nowhere provides inexplicable comfort. His physical dispersement is akin to his profession: mentoring aimless students with lessons that traverse beyond the blackboard and into their homes so that they might be a better father, son or husband.

And he'll do the same for my kids, some day... with me as the proud vessel.

Float on, Dad.

In need of bass

2006-05-06T19:37:00.000-07:00

First, I must apologize for my abysmal participation in the blogosphere. I didn't get any hate mail, so that assures me no one is reading anyway *wink*.

I was in a mood yesterday. This mood comes ever so rarely, but when its tsunami crests the horizon of the fabled Good Times Ocean, resistance is futile. And so it was that 5 o'clock rolled around and I was in need of booze. Not just a glass of vino, but alcohol with maximum proof... and lots of it. I was also in need of connecting with my soul through the music genre of the same name. I needed to hear TI, Tribe and Talib. I needed bass. I needed to get silly.

Anyone who knows me will tell you that I talk a lot of game when it comes to "going out." Bars and booze sound really fun for a heartbeat, and then my focus takes a sharp turn in favor of lounging... at home... in my pajamas. Work is hard, planning a wedding is challenging, traveling is getting on my nerves (as is just about everyone I encounter) and last night, I reached the threshold.

So a half dozen vodka tonics, Lemon Drop shots, throbbing hip hop beats and two coworker conspirators later, I found myself still awake at 4 a.m. and giddy at the fact that even after 26 years, I can hang. You might call it lame, but I say that in these days where time and self-indulgence are at a premium, cutting loose is a huge accomplishment.

Special skol to Hope and Kevin. Bless you both with the holy water of hydration. And cheers, faithful readers. Might I just add, my bachelorette party is going to be off the chain.

Photo: Since we're fools, I take you back to '02 and my two favorite menz. Do the Dew, only if there's Popov around to chase it with. Good judgment be gone!

Where's the Feng to my Shui?

2006-04-10T18:05:00.000-07:00

Mmmm... chinese food.

Days, months and soon-to-be one year has gone by without me finishing a book. A Million Little Pieces doesn't count, because Oprah made me read it, though the controversy makes me glad I did. I'm more than a little disappointed in my affinity toward glowing screens as opposed to once-pulp pages that are the basis of some of life's biggest lessons. I have shelves of books that looked great at Borders and now are orphans of neglect and a showcase of someone who would otherwise be literary.

But I'm a poser. I realize I'm busy. I realize that I have a man to love and friends to see. But, right here, right now, I'm committing to reading before bed... a couple nights a week. It's just like exercising. Saying I'll do it every day can only lead to disappointment. But surely I can get through To Kill A Mockingbird, a book I've closed and opened countless times.

I think I'm just looking for zen. A quiet place. For Marc, it's running. My girlfriend Angela exercises. But my mom is a reader, and perhaps that's why I gravitate... or perhaps this blog is like a goblet of Sauvignon Blanc: takes the edge off and makes it easier to go to sleep.

Keep me honest. And tell me where you find the space inbetween.

Sidebar: When did I go from being organized to "scatterbrained?" Is this a wedding side effect? Will taking Ambien help? Bottoms up! ;)

Photo: Marc and Chihuly.

Foodie

2006-04-03T17:01:00.000-07:00

I like to cook. Finally. Honest, I thought I would never have the talent or desire to wield a sauce pan and turn the dial on the oven but it came at long last. My mom's cooking is divine. She works a clove of garlic like nobody's business (Her salad dressing is worthy of knighthood. Sir Vinaigrette.). Most of it is digging on my table mates saying, "Sheeit, this be tastin' good!"

This food obsession manifests itself in my addiction to kitchen utensils. I'm no purist, and while there's no need for a George Foreman, I do not shun my sweet pair of garlic presses. Marc and I registered a couple of weekends ago and I frothed at the knife display. His folks bought us a santoku knife for Christmas and I about wet myself with glee. If you haven't sliced through an heirloom tomato with a good knife, you haven't lived. Chop, chop, chop.

I also obsess over the Food Network. Ina Garten aka Barefood Contessa is my hero. Mostly because it looks like she eats what she makes (things with cream and butter... and cheese), just like I do. If you have no one with whom to share you haute cuisine, look no further.

What's your specialty?

Photo: Marc prepares to shove sushi down the gullet. Sushi in MI? Cafe Sushi in Troy. Sushi in Chi? Kamehachi on Clark.

Net-work

2006-04-01T09:22:00.000-08:00

I'm sick today. Bollocks. So I'm at home being flat-bottomed in front of one of two screens. Mac wins today. I've been seduced (after months of courting by various suitors) to join MySpace. Meredith put me over the edge. I've been on Friendster for awhile and found it mildly entertaining. One of my "friends" from high school actually declined me request to reconnect with her. I must have been a queen bitch back then.

I'm completely overwhelmed by MySpace, but far be it for me to not get onboard with a fad. My profile will remain straightforward and vanilla so as to counteract what my friends will eventually bludgeon me with (thankfully). That is to say their musings on poop, farts, masturbating and some combination of all three. They will come in droves. So, should a prospective employer get savvy and go a-searchin' for me on these "networking" (aka hooking up, gossip and popularity contest) Web sites I might be rendered unemployable. Then again, maybe they will be comforted in knowing they can crop dust and clog the toilet and come to me for guidance on constipation. Try pigeon-holing that trait on a resume, people. This is why MySpace is important. It brags about you in only ways your dearest friends can.

Picture: Suds (aka Bean, Rotisserie, Chubba, Bubsy) feels my vibe. Laze on, Suds.

Memory Bank

2006-03-30T16:29:00.000-08:00

I've returned from my first trip to Europe (London to be specific) weary and under the weather (pun associated with photo is fully intended). But, I don't give a damn. Everything about the jaunt was unique, quaint and sensory. The flight was the longest I've been on, the public transportation was the most efficient I've used (though the D.C. Metro ain't bad), and the people were genuinely interested in me... an American a little ashamed to be associated with our current state of foreign affairs. We stayed with two of our most favorite people who always impress me with their zeal for challenge and passion for newness. Meredith and Pete are lucky. Shit... Marc and I are lucky.

Being able to travel is a gift. Everyone is entitled to it and should find a way to make it so. I am baffled by how many people I encounter that have the ways and the means to cross state lines and haven't found the "time" to get out of dodge. To me, travel is motivating. Depending on where I go, it can be a reminder that I've got it made or that I've got a long way to go. The trip to London was inspiring. Our friends inspire me. Londoners I met who speak five languages and have traveled to the depths of Third World countries inspire me.

When my dad was dying, he didn't find solace in knowing God awaited him or that he would reunite spiritually with those who had since passed. He found his peace in memories... of road trips out West, cruising around the Caribbean and sampling the best scallops in the world on Prince Edward Island. It wasn't necessarily the dossier of his travels that provided comfort, but who stood by his side when he recalled the experiences. For him, our last trip to Frisco, CO in the mid-90's marked my starting high school and our first horseback ride together where we galloped along the edges of mountains and literally kicked up our heels. Recalling these short films in his memory made him know his own fullness.

And he can know that he inspired me to add roaming the streets of Notting Hill to my repertoire when the time comes.

Eating Chicken Fingers Alone

2006-03-23T16:06:00.000-08:00

Ok, no doubt about it... Adriana, Gizelle, Karolina. They're gorgeous. Literally, statuesque and exquisite women. I appreciate their beauty as much as my male friends do. Edible, no doubt. But, I'm more than a little concerned about raising a daughter in a world that might appreciate them too much. I'm scared about how our self-confidence as women is dwindling and how all of my beautiful friends, meaning all of my friends, pick themselves apart. You're kidding yourself if these juicy images aren't a part of it. I like to look at pretty "things" too, including Taye and Vin. But, I want to see some reality on the front of the magazines I buy outside of those geared at "heavy" people other than O Magazine because, let's face it, I'm a little over Oprah.

Listen up, dudes. It's not just women who should be up in arms. Men in the market for relationships carry the responsibility, save for lesbians, of learning to love someone who may not love themselves... and making them believe that you don't give a damn about fat dimples and "muffin tops."

And while I'm at it, I issue a call to all of the women who read this to cut out the damsel in distress routine, stop laughing at Kellie Pickler (ok, I'll lighten up a little) and worst of all, stick up for yourself. Settling is horse shit. Worse yet, horse diarrhea. I've had enough of it. You're setting us all back 40 years when that crap was expected. Woman up and make our feminist mothers proud.

Picture: If you haven't seen this movie, get it on your Netflix and watch it with a real woman. I have several I can recommend :)

Stuff I Can't Do

2006-03-22T18:08:00.000-08:00

I am in awe, on a regular basis, by people who can do things I can't. I don't mean like run a 100 yard dash in less than 10 seconds or eat a 38 oz. steak. I mean people like my fiance Marc, who run marathons, and his friend (and now mine) Dana Kowalski... who made a friggin' movie, starring Mayim Bialik, our dear "Blossom" dame from the days when sitcoms were good. Dana is an example of why, even when I think I have plenty of friends, there's always room for more. The older I get, the fewer I have, but then I get to know someone like her and the circle expands. It's a beautiful thing. Go see "Kalamazoo?"

The Underground

2006-03-22T10:07:00.000-08:00

I eat lunch in the kitchen at our office. It's a mixed bag, but when you get the right nuts involved, the conversation is ridiculous. Today we were talking about Mt. Pleasant, Mich. (don't confuse it with Switzerland people... it is neither on or near a mountain nor "pleasant" in the sense of how John Legend and apple pie are pleasant). The hamlet somewhere in the middle of the state never quite hits the mark on its culture forays. For example, they have a mexican eatery called Taco Boy. That's the best the owners could come up with. They thought about Taco Palace or Taco Dome, but Boy really said what they wanted to convey. Which is what? Mexican pedophilia? Gender-biased quesadillas? Missing the mark.

But my pals at the office get it right so many ways, mostly by beating my productivity into the ground with a giggle stick. I'm thankful for this oasis of inside joke-dom. Whether it's cutting and huffing or the ticks of our coworkers, "The Underground" is a sacred place: it's easy to get in, but "replying all" will get you out. Auf Wiedersehen. You've been warned.

Picture: Hopus, Teach and I taking Bailey family ties up a notch at Detroit Rocks 2006.

What It's All About

2006-03-21T15:00:00.000-08:00

I'm starting this blog in an effort to stop time from flying. The older I get, the faster it goes and I'm tired of letting days go by without considering something new and engaging through witty, thoughtful banter with my very smart friends.

I know you feel this too. My dad died the day Bush won (again), I'm getting married in six months and I've got shit on my mind. Today, it's my mortality and tonight it's my love of macaroni and cheese (and my quest for the best in a box). Yesterday, it was daydreaming about our upcoming trip of a lifetime.

You see, it's a sliding scale at Every Day Prelude. My mom always says every decision you make effects the rest of your life. Yes, it feels weighty, but it's also the inspiration for EDP. When you hit the afternoon wall at work, come here to laugh/rant/think and maybe tomorrow will turn out differently. Worth a try...

Spring Schming

2006-03-21T14:50:00.000-08:00

Who pauses to reflect on the coming of spring? Provincial English poets? Check. Meteorologists with toupes? Check. But me? Hardly (though I could stand to see a bud or two on our forlorn trees). I'm nestled under down this morning and the sun is starting to rise and I decide not to work out and it's one of those days you just know you will need a) Excedrin b) a long lunch hour c) to accept your lack of productivity. And then it hits, as it has been known to happen. I'm going to die. As my friend Kevin says, it's the only guarantee. But what if it comes too soon?

Being conscious of my mortality, especially in a culture that wants to "beat" death, is a catch 22. On the one hand, being aware of the fact I will die makes worrying about spinach that has spoiled or the fact that I ate two cookies at lunch today (the size of a baby's head) a tidge trivial. On the other hand, being conscious of the fact I'm going to die (some day) makes me anxious and analytical. So, am I lucky? Or am I cursed? One thing I know is I'm not alone. When I told several people about this today, some said "Oh yeah, I feel that at least twice a week." Others were slightly aghast, but then went "hmmm..." as well. Another coached me that spending even a second too long in contemplation is wasting time, and he's probably right.

How often do you think about it? Do you talk about it with people? Is it morbid? Is it healthy?

Picture: My dad circa... well, I was a wee thing. He's a looker ain't he? And he'd probably hate that I contemplate this post, but I just gotta.