crazies,
family,
rants
1:22 PM
My mom has something against my boobs.I mean, say what you will about my character. Frown at the unladylike and awesomely sarcastic comments I throw at the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade (I'm looking at you, Boys Like Girls. Goddamn you just make it so easy with that haircut.) Glare at me across the room when I pepper my smack talk with mild curses at the annual Erin's family UNO tournament. Relegate me to stirring gravy after bemoaning my cooking skills. But do not - do NOT - insult the girls. I'm not joking. 3 days of getting my shirt tugged on to cover the barest hint of decollotage had me alarmed that some sort of reverse Electra complex was at work here. Or worse yet, that my mom was making a religious commitment to modesty in honor of the pilgrims. I was silently banned (you have no idea what my mom can convey with her eyeballs) from crossing my arms because some sort of lift & seperate action would be triggered and cleavage would be revealed, inevitably. It's taken years to get these things where I want them to be, and I won't apologize. Though blooming late is certainly responsible for this excellent personality I have, it didn't do much for the old self-esteem back in the day. So now that I'm feeling (too?) good about this issue, let's not take me down a few pegs. And, the more I witness the mind-addling side effects of menopause, the more convinced I am that it's better to abandon ship at 40. ...And that's just one of the many delightful lessons I received while at the ol' homestead for a few days. Oh Thanksgiving, you are without a doubt my least favorite holiday.
Chicago,
crazies,
CTA,
love,
musings,
petpeeves,
shame,
tip of the hat
3:00 PM
This dose of daily hell brought to you by the CTAChicago is thick with Crazy. Crazy in varieties you never imagined; Crazy you quickly learn to ignore because Crazy pulls punches and usually carries a bottle for smashing and throat cutting. So you do. You act nice and quiet and usually it leaves you alone. Because there is no way to completely avoid it here or anywhere.
The Red Line is a straight line between the extremes of the city (literally running the economic/social/cultural gammut from the cusp of senselessly wealthy Evanston to the bowels of the super impoverished southside, Murder Capital '08 and
doing a bang up job this year too) and my/several million people's primary way of getting around. So there is never a shortage of batshit insane.
Going home after work today. On the train, over my shoulder, some fool is shouting gibberish. This is usually what's happening over my shoulder, no big deal. Everyone on the train visibly slouches further, pushes their noses deeper into books, casts their eyes out windows, turns the volume up on their IPods. Because this pained, drunk man can be ignored away if we try hard enough. Then he's hitting on some poor girl. Then he's wailing, over and over, "You've never had an ooooooOOOOrgasmmm" and launching into his qualifications to provide said item. His delivery changes in degrees from flirty (ha.) to adamant to irritated to fucking pissed off. By now, the other passengers are getting restless. The girl has split. At least one old woman abandons the train at the next station. I stay turned away, pretending to read but listening and on edge in case he starts moving from his end of the car to mine. (I took about 2 months of tae kwon doe when I was 10 and I was more impressed with learning how to count in Korean than mastering a round house kick. Skipped the warnings to carry pepper spray too. Haven't figured out if I'm a pacifist or just lazy...) In any case, physical confrontation was going to end badly for me.
The anxiety in these situations is about taking action; the fear is about having to do something in front of all these strangers. Sure, part of you is worried about getting your ass kicked. But its almost taboo to consider doing something outrageous on the train, even in self-defense. It's the unspoken etiquette, and I'm not sure I've ever prescribed to something so powerful without even knowing it. I'm not proud.
A man speaks up, not eloquent, not even loud. He ignores the threats. He ignores this drunk bastard calling him "Nigger," drawling the ugly hard "rrrr" at the end of the word. He even manages to shake this same man's hand right before security comes and escorts him off the train. The man who spoke up mutters something about praying for him. And I'm not even sure I believe there's something to pray too anymore, but I'm impressed. And I'm overwhelmed with respect. And I'm ashamed. And I hate to think of where I misplaced my humanity and courage in the last few years. But today, there was a man on the train smiling quietly to himself as we rode express to Granville. I'm thinking about him, at the end of the day, not about one more amusing/pathetic/sad tantrum thrown on the El.
