I Walk in Dark Alleys

Here's a confession of sorts: I walk in dark alleys. 

Apparently this is bad, or so my husband tells me. Alleys are simply a part of living in Chicago, thus I use them to my advantage. They may save me a whole minute sometimes. Yesterday when I got off the train, I could plainly see that the shortest and most direct route to my car was through an alley. Normally I would not even stop to consider an alternative, but something made me remember the admonishments of my dear husband, as I looked down that perfectly shortened route to my car. 

So I had to share my lack of understanding with him (for which I'm sure he's eternally grateful) I called and explained to him that it made NO sense to me to walk a longer route down a dark side street, instead of a shorter one through what looked to be an incredibly well lit alley. I mean, come on. If you were going to mug someone, wouldn't you rather do it on a dimly lit side street instead of the alley behind McDonald's which is lit up like Times Square? No, he implored me to go the long way, far from the alley. I did, but I didn't like it. Later that night when I realized I was missing some (well, most) necessary ingredients for my planned dinner, I asked Jesus if he was coming with me to the store. Which is literally a block and a half from us. You guessed it, a block and a half down the alley. So I warned him, if he didn't go, that I was going to walk straight down that dark alley to get there.

Alleys don't scare me. Sure there are cats and rats and the occasional opossum. Bums and drunks and hipsters, too. Wait, I could make a song here. Wait again, I have no musical talents. Ok, where was I?

Nothing particularly bad has ever happened to me in an alley. Once I thought I saw a dead guy, and called 911. Turned out he was just tremendously drunk. When I was a teenager, I forgot to tuck my big, gold nameplate into my shirt before walking home one night. Walking down a busy, well lit street, my chain got snatched off my neck. Street: 1, Alley: 0. Another time as a teenager, I was surrounded by a group of thugs who wanted to pound me to a pulp for reasons I never quite figured out (maybe it had to do with someone's boyfriend? Or wearing the wrong colors? Who knows, they were thugs, not Rhodes scholars. Rational thought wasn't exactly their forte) and was thankfully rescued at the last minute by a known gang member. Again, on a busy, well lit street. Street: 2, Alley 0. 

Oh, sometime around 1984ish I was in a laundromat with my mother, and some creep got naked in between the commercial size dryers and came stalking up behind me. My mother screamed and pointed, then everyone screamed and pointed, and when I turned to see what all the screaming and pointing was about, all I saw was a naked butt running out through the back door. Later, say around 1992, walking home from a school dance, admittedly dressed like a child prostitute, a scruffy old guy grabbed my arm. When he realized that he was scaring the shit out of me, he let go and backed away, and I ran as fast as my booted feet would move me. Street: 3, Alley: 0. Of all the weird and unpleasant things I can think of, not one of them ever happened in an alley.

Why are we conditioned to be so afraid of alleys anyway? They're always being associated with bad things. Back alley abortions. Alley cat. Wikipedia (my go to source to end all go tos) says, "An alley ... is a narrow lane found in urban areas, often for pedestrians." Am I not a pedestrian? In an urban area? I say we reclaim our ability, nay RIGHT, to walk in alleys! Who's with me!? 

The Dissident

Driving down lovely Logan Blvd this evening, my children somehow got on the subject of China and it's comparatively restrictive culture. They had some thoughtful discussion (sort of) and landed on the topic of the one child policy. Sometimes I forget that kids process things in a different way, and today was my reminder. Isaiah joked a little about what would have happened if we lived in China, that maybe he or Daimean would have broken the policy. When I explained that Daimean was first, so Isaiah would be "illegal", he cried out, "I can't go to China! I don't want to go to jail!" When I asked him to explain, he said he figured if second kids were illegal, they must be putting them in jail. He went further to say that we can't even visit China, because he doesn't want to go to jail. He doesn't understand why it's ok to visit with two kids, but not to have two kids if you live there, he thinks they're rounding up extra kids at the airport I guess. It's funny that he didn't even consider the parents would be to blame. Nope, they must be tossing kids in jail there. He declared his love for America then, and said he's thankful I had him here and not China.

As if that was really a decision on my part.

Of course there are other places he insists he can't visit. Japan. London. Mexico. He's always got a reason. Once, he told me he doesn't "speak Mexican." I countered with, "You don't speak American, either." We went to Chinatown for lunch, and poor Isaiah couldn't recognize a thing on the menu (in fairness, neither could I, being that it was written in Chinese, but I digress) So now he believes there's nothing in China to eat. Well, for him anyway. Last week I told him we went to an Indian restaurant for lunch, and he made a face like someone had been shot. Is there a word for someone who's afraid of any kind of ethnic foods?

Oh yeah, the word is "child." Silly me, what was I thinking?

And this is why I have a bloody nipple covered in a Star Wars band aid

After reading that, you don't even need to know the rest of the story, do you?

Meet my dog. We'll just call him Stupid. Stupid gets ridiculously aggressive and, well, stupid, when he sees other dogs outside. This means that three times a day when we walk him, we have to be extra cautious and aware of what's going on around us, and whether there are any other dogs encroaching on HIS space. Which, by the way, he defines much like they do in the Lion King. "Everything the light touches is MY kingdom." kind of thing.

Yesterday he saw a puppy and went apeshit. I yanked him backwards so hard that his front end came up and turned, and while his barking ass mouth was still open, he crashed into my chest on his way back down to meet mother earth. Barking dog, open mouth, big teeth, meet my right breast. Hello, nice to meet you. Hey, don't rip that nipple off! That's the abridged version of what happened.

The sensitive skin holding my lady parts together can only take so much, and quite literally ripped. Yes, he damn near ripped my nipple off. My darling husband came home shortly thereafter and administered first aid to my injury, and the fact that my ten year old picks out band aids means we have a limited selection available.

And this is why I have a bloody nipple covered in a Star Wars band aid.

Carnivores Beware

Scene: large farm, somewhere in the midwest. There's a holding pen for cows, and a long, confusing path lined with metal fences - the kind you walk through when waiting in line at an amusement park. It leads to the slaughter house.

I harness a big black and white cow, the perfect Cover Girl model of a cow which you see in commercials for cheese. Harness in place, I attempt to lead her into the maze. She won't budge. I say to her, "Come on, let's go." but she takes a step back and shakes her head. The same way my dog does, as if she's saying NO very emphatically.

I jokingly ask her, "Did you just tell me no?" and she looks right in my eyes, and almost imperceptibly she gives a small nod. I'm sure I've imagined this. I shake my head, trying to clear it, and again give her a gentle pull. Instead of moving forward, she again steps back, only this time I'm sure she's shaking her head "no."

Tentatively I ask her if she knows where we're going, and I see abject terror in her eyes. At this moment, I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that SHE KNOWS what's happening, and does not want it. She wordlessly begs for her life to be spared.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the moment I stopped being able to eat meat.

*That last part isn't true. However, I've become increasingly aware of the basic concept that an animal must die if I am to eat meat, and it's seriously starting to bother me. Honestly, I like eating meat. I do. I've got quite the moral conflict going on here.

All Aboard the Backpedal Express

Higher education is for the birds.

I've done a lot of shit talking about online universities. Like, A LOT. Now I find myself in the unfortunate position of having to consider taking that route. Damnit.

It's not as if I attend an Ivy League school, or even Big 10 for that matter. Nope, just a lowly little state university that I chose for it's low tuition and the strong reputation of their teacher training programs. *sigh* Now I'm preparing to graduate with my BA in history, and NOT my BA in education. A history degree on its own is worth just about as much as the contents of my nail polish collection. So I need to find another school which will accomodate my need to NOT pay $100K for school (because seriously, my student loans are already stacking up in a very ominous way) and the need to take classes in the evenings or weekends.

My school researching has presented me with many options. Not many FEASIBLE options, but options just the same. Today I sadly realized that Western Governors University may be the way to go. I hate it when I'm wrong. Although, in my defense, the WGU program revolves around getting you the same state certifications and licenses that Northeastern does - which is the only reason I'm considering it. You won't ever catch me saying, "Well I got my second BA from WGU!" On the contrary, all you'll hear from me - hopefully - is, "Why yes, I am a licensed teacher."

Life is short. Goals can so easily be set aside when things don't go the way we planned. Hear me now: This place is cursed, damned, and yes, your master is the devil! Oops, sorry, I went a little Louis in Interview With the Vampire there. What I meant to say was that I will not let that happen. We will not flag or fail, we will fight.... Um, was that Winston Churchill? Or was that Mel Brooks' take on Winston Churchill?

Anyway, stay tuned for the exciting adventures of moving from a shoddy state university to a shady online one!

Best Response Ever, said The Grim Reaper

So here at work, my laptop crashed late yesterday. I let one of the partners know (as my boss is out for his mother's funeral today - to which our dept sent nice flowers. But I digress...) so this morning I told her I'd see what I could do with it. WELL the damn thing is dead. Thank baby jeebus someone here plays an IT person on tv, because he was able to recover the files from my hard drive using only a bottle opener. (yes, we employ Macgyver) I then tell the boss lady that my laptop is officially dead, and I head to the kitchen to toast my bagel.

And the toaster breaks.

The CEO walks in as I'm cursing the toaster, and I told him that everything I've broken everything I touch today.

Then I spread my arms and say, "Come gimme a hug!"

Drowning

Proverbially drowning, of course. Because I can swim pretty well actually. But what I can't do is math. I'm drowning in numbers and letters (which should never go together) and arbitrary rules and stupid tricks to solve problems which are asinine in the first place.

I've realized that my inability to even understand the directions given is surely hampering my ability to learn and apply the math lessons. It's even worse than I imagined it would be. Somehow I believed that attending a math class would mean someone would, you know, teach me math. No, that's not what is occurring here. What is occurring is that I sit in class and watch a few examples, and then I get shit loads of homework that I don't know how to do. It's frustrating, infuriating, and absolutely demoralizing. I'm left getting angry with myself for not inherently knowing these things, which is ludicrous.

Fuck yo' math! My anger at being forced to take this irrelevant shit is pushing into the red now, and the stress is physically making me sick.