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.
FYI,
rants,
shame
3:18 PM
Last weekend I was on a boat for six hours straight. In the hot, hot sun. Sporting six applications of SPF-whatever-was-on-board. SIX applications I tell you! And still I have the most terrible sunburn.
Not only do I have said terrible sunburn, but you can see exactly where the sun was in the sky based on the burn patterns across my body. My left half is significantly more lobsteresque than my right. The inner part of my right leg is crimson, while it is the outer part of my left leg that is burned. I have (gasp! the horror! the shame!) bright white sunglass lines blaring from each temple and across the bridge of my nose. My shoulders got the worst of it, though. Oh, how deep the red of my shoulders.
Sleeping is a treat I'm not even sure I can describe, but I'm beginning to think a Ph.D. in yoga would have been helpful in this situation. After several nights of pretending I'm a contortionist I have found that it doesn't hurt so much if my lower half rests on the side of my [relatively unscathed] right leg, while the top half of my body stays flat, my head slightly elevated so as to reduce the amount of touching between shoulders and pillows. Throw a blanket into the mix, though, and everything is just fucked.
Gentlemen: Here is yet another way in which you are genetically blessed while we ladies are built to suffer: boobs. For when one possesses boobs, it is mandated that one must don a bra if one's boobs are any sort of large or bouncy (mine are both) before going out in public. And every time I carefully, painstakingly, pull brastraps onto my shoulders I let out a yelp that makes my dog flee in terror and the cats scurry under the bed. It HURTS.
But NOW - five days post-sun exposure - the peeling has begun. And the itching. It is...severe. My skin is...patchy. In between treatments of cooling and delicious aloe vera after my shower in the morning and before bed at night, I've been slathering on Aloe Vera After Sun Lotion which is wonderfully moisturizing (despite the label blathering on about how it's actually to "prevent and protect from the drying effects of wind and cold weather" (heh? then why do you call it 'After Sun Lotion' and not 'After Wind and Cold Weather Lotion'?! Get it together, Walgreen's label peeps!)).
I wish I hadn't left my camera on the boat in Minnesota, for the photos would be too amazing to not show you all. Really, you would be astounded. But alas, I have no pictures to share. I can only leave you with the promise that I am RED and BURNED and HURTY and PEELING. And a big, fat reminder to all my fellow fair-skinned folk to make SPF 4 Frillion your new BFF and stay your asses in the shade. Learn from my mistakes!
sexy times,
shame
3:05 PM
Everyone at my office thinks I'm a kinky freak.
I was invited to a coworker's "Boudoir" shower being thrown by my boss-ladies, both hard women who I would never imagine having enjoyed sex, ever. So I was confused. This was their high class version of a bachelorette party, yes? That I could get down with. Bring on the midget porn and anal beads, the heavy drinking and scant clothing.
But I decided to play it safe. Body chocolate and bondage tape for the bride-to-be. I have to work with these people.
Fast forward to the party. The bride actually found me melting at a bus stop in the Chicago heat, clutching my now wilted and wrinkly giftwrapping job and the lusty contents therein. I was in need of strong drink after 3 bus transfers. She smiled politely and offered me a ride. We arrived at my boss's condo: very nice, clean, fancy. I was sweating balls and totally dishevelled and now completely horrified that I was doomed to hours of hanging out with people I'd already spent hours hanging out with. I added my gift to the pile forming on the table. I checked out the swag slyly. Sheets. Pillows. Cards in pastel envelopes.
Fuck me.
I buried my present amid the appropriate and clearly purchased-from-the-registry gifts. Immediately sought out a martini. Not gonna lie, it crossed my mind to just stuff that present o'mine back in my purse and leave. But a few drinks later I'd forgotten about the impending awkwardness. The hours passed and still no gift opening. Finally, I secured a ride home and rolled out early, throwing congratulations and well-wishes all over the place and certainly being more jovial than anyone there had ever seen me before. (Alcohol?)
The next morning I am of course at the office before everyone else, going about my business, when one of my bosses rolled in. She pointed at me, stonefaced, and said, "Where did you get it?"
"Whaaaa.....?" The horrors of what must have happened after my gift was unveiled begins to flash before my eyes. Wailing. Glasses shattering as they fall from scandalized hands. Children crying inconsolably.
She whispered, "The bondage tape."
Jesus Christ.
This dose of daily hell brought to you by the CTA
