The Best Season

Although not it's true intention, Labor Day has become the unofficial "goodbye to summer" day, and the weather in Chicago today agrees.  Most people look back on summer overcome with the general mood of those Sarah Mclachlan ASPCA commercials. I, on the other hand, think back to days when my bra was like a Slip'N Slide or when my fingers swelled to the size of bratwurst, and gladly wave goodbye.

Don't get me wrong, I love sitting on the beach, for about 10 minutes, and having my sunglasses on when I didn't have time to do my eye makeup before work. But the humidity poofs my hair, you can't walk more than 5 minutes without needing another shower, and the nice "relaxing" beaches are filled with children who repeatedly shovel sand directly on to your lap despite multiple scoldings from both you and his mother (I'm talking about you you little Air and Water Show bastard)!

I happily bid it farewell to bathing suits riding up my ass for  curling up in my Chicago Bears hoodie with a good beer and watching my favorite shows return to television. I will blissfully trade in my weird tan lines in celebration of being only one shade of my natural whiteness and gladly enjoy an evening of a cool light breeze and a hot tea on the patio.

I can't wait for the leaves to turn every friendly shade of red, brown and gold and feel them crunch below my feet as I take my boots out of retirement for another season. I'm positively giddy at the chance to cheer (most likely in vain) for the Bears from some dive bar with friends all wrapped up in jerseys and scarves.

They say that Spring is the season of love but I would have to make the case for Fall, when the air is fresh and crisp and the holidays are just around the corner. There's no big festival. event, or vacation to drag you out into the world. Everything simply slows down, and you grab your favorite blanket, person, animal (or any combination of the three) and spend an evening in, just content to be still.

Let the hibernation begin!

Balls

Are You Kidding Me?

In response to numerous people (mostly parents) about Miley Cyrus' performance on the VMA's last night:

1. If you allow YOUR young children to watch MTV and then expect it to be Hannah Montana, you're an idiot. YOU are responsible for what you and your children watch, not the media. You were not watching Sprout at 6am on a Saturday. Take some personal responsibility and use your common sense.

2. Miley Cyrus hasn't been the sparkling little Disney princess Hannah Montana in years. People change, they make mistakes,they get photographed smoking pot or awkwardly attempt to twerk with Robin Thicke. It's called growing up. Give her a break.

3. I knew a lot of you when you were her age, which is 20 by the way, and trust me, you weren't all bathed in white robes and rosary beads while respecting authority and smiling nicely.

Now, did I enjoy her performance? No. I found it awkward, without merit or rhythm and don't ever need to see a foam finger again. However it is not the media's responsibility to censor things to YOUR standards for YOUR family.

"But you don't have kids, Balls, you don't understand". No, I don't have kids, but I do have at least half a brain. I guaran-damn-tee you that when I do have kids and they are under the age of...well, late puberty... they wouldn't be watching the VMA's or any other trash found on MTV under my roof.

Don't like it? Think it may not be suitable for your 5 year old? Don't freaking watch it and go find something that actually matters to complain about.

Oh, and I forgot about one more.

4. If you were watching the VMAs instead of Breaking Bad, you're automatically someone I can't associate with. That is all.

Happy Monday,
Balls

I Quit

It's what I do.

I'm passionate, and strong willed, and I have such great drive. Unfortunately those ideas and dreams are like fireworks rather than fires lit under my ass. They aren't even like the good fireworks on the 4th of July while "God Bless America" is playing. My fireworks are like sparklers lit while listening to the sounds of children crying "look at me!".

I like to say it's part of my charm or my childlike enthusiasm for life. But it's not. It's flighty and frustrating for everyone. Myself included. I make plans and then lose enthusiasm for them by the time they come around. I make promises to friends I don't keep. I forget to return calls or texts or follow up on that lunch date with a long lost someone.

I can't even commit to things I enjoy. Writing is one of those things, volunteering is one of those things, volleyball is another and possibly the only thing in the past year I stuck to for any length of time (until my shoulder crapped out on me).

I made the promise to myself almost a year ago to do a list of 30 things before I turned 30. I didn't even go back before starting this post to see how many I actually completed and I'm not going to fool myself into adding one more and making it a 31 things to do before I turn 31. I'm just going to let it be.

There is no major revelation coming at the end of this post. No big Ah Ha!  moment. Just a post to inspire myself, or guilt myself, into being a better person. A long rambling list of nothingness lighting a sparkler and hoping it becomes the fuse to some amazing fireworks.

Goodnight and wish me luck!

Balls

Bringing Sexy Back

Over the past few weeks I've been attempting to get my life in order. I'm back on Weight Watchers after gaining a ridiculous amount of my weight back during the holidays, I'm taking my grant writing certificate class, and I've taken some dance classes in an  attempt to get my sexy back. (I lost it a while ago and it hasn't been taking my calls).

First it was pole dancing which, if you read my previous post, you know did not go well. Then it was  a Zumba and a Latin Groove class. I grew up in New Mexico, salsa is in my blood and on my chips. How hard could it be? Well let's just say I wasn't exactly Elaine from Seinfeld, but I was no Channing Tatum either.

MMMMM....Channing Tatum....

What was I talking about?

Oh yeah, so I've been taking classes, kicking asses and just generally rocking 2013 so far. Part of this was to join a volleyball team. I played in middle school and high school and gave it up in college because I wanted to focus on acting; which I then gave up to save the world by working for zero money at a nonprofit. Smart.

I've missed volleyball, and I'm good at it. Those of you who know me know I don't compliment myself, nor do I appreciate it when others do, so for me to say I'm good at volleyball is kind of big deal. It's the truth. It's been 12 years since I played it competitively and this is the first time I've joined an intermediate team rather than a recreational level team. I wish I had done it sooner because it feels damn good. It's good volleyball and it's challenging. It's not like it was then, because those spandex just don't fit like they used to, but it is making me feel great.

I have never felt sexier. I've been wasting my time dancing and losing weight and all these other things that are not me. Sure they are fun, and I'll continue to do them, but I forgot what an amazing feeling it is to block a strong hitter, or serve so hard that no one could return it. I had somehow blocked out how amazing it feels to walk home with a layer of skin missing off of my knees, and my arms bright red. I cannot accurately describe the feeling inside of my during a volleyball game. I feel powerful, in my element, and that is sexy.

I guess the whole point of this post (other than looking at Channing Tatum... go ahead, scroll up and take another gander...I'll wait...) is just to inspire others to find their sexy in something they are good at and find pleasure in. I plan to continue playing volleyball, and with any luck I may just get close to being as good as I once was but in the mean time I'm off to ice my knees, because I'm old.

Balls

Beginning to Feel a Lot Like Christmas

When you're little, Christmas brings a month of perfect moments. The presents, the magic of Santa and all those elves and reindeer, the smiles on all the adults faces whose lives revolve completely around you for that one day; it's fantastic. You can hardly sleep the night before, as you hear every creak the house makes, and you're sure it's HIM. You rush into your parents room earlier than you'll ever want to get up for school, or any other day, and jump on their bed and scream until they wake up and take you to open the presents. There are more than you remember, and the stockings are full. The smell of cinnamon rolls fills the air (at least in my house) and you begin the day. It's perfect.

Then as you grow up the magic begins to fade away. Your parents become flawed liars as you discover that they're human. Even worse, you discover that you're human, and have somehow grown up.

Responsibilities set in and weigh all the magic right out of the season. Instead of wondering what Santa is bringing and whether or not you were a good little boy or girl, you worry about who is on "gift giving levels" of friendship, what to get your dad, and how you're going to afford all of this stuff that you had to fight thousands of other crazed shoppers for downtown. You worry about booking flights across country to visit your family and catching up on work before you take time off. If you're not careful, you may lose the magic all together.

But, at least for me, there is always that one moment, when my nose is flushed red and I'm bundled up walking downtown. It's right as I'm walking home from work, it's beginning to get dark, and all the lights on State Street have come on. There are hundreds of people shuffling through the streets surrounding me, trying to shop, get home, or just trying to get indoors. All of a sudden the flakes start to float down, and the world becomes silent. Everything is perfect.

I'm immediately transported back to the magic of being young, and full of life. I stick my tongue out and close my eyes and just smile as I walk. All those people shuffling by don't seem to notice, but I do, and it makes me feel special, and warm, and completely happy. Because in that moment, I'm 10 years old, standing in my front yard in New Mexico in my teal green snow pants with my little sister, and my parents, and the neighborhood kids, and we're freezing but throwing snow balls and anxiously awaiting hot chocolate and dry clothes. We'll file inside at dark and my dad will try to light a fire. It will end up filling the house with smoke, and we'll all laugh at him, because it's three against one and that's what we do.

It's a perfect moment. And it brings back the hope, and the magic, and the warmth of the season that we all remember and spend the rest of our lives chasing. It makes everything feel new and quiet, and the stress floats down through the gutters along with those perfect white flakes and I take a deep breath, thankful I'm alive, and for everything I have.

It's my hope this Christmas season (and Hanukkah, and Kwanzaa seasons too) that you find your perfect moment and be in it. Remember your inner child and let him or her enjoy the moment in a way you've forgotten. Wholly, uninhibitedly, and fearlessly.

With Love and Hope,
Balls

#24 Pole Work

My adventurous friend Jessica and I both shaved our legs, left them unlotioned, and put on our short shorts today for a day of awkwardness. It was hard, I was ungraceful and somewhat unsexy (I mean, you can't take away all the sexy in just one hour) and my legs are bruised and sore from squeezing/banging into the pole. It was so much fun!

First we took pictures on the pole:

 

 Jess tried to hold on for dear life.

 

I just tried to look as fun as possible, hiding my nerves and uncertainty.

 

We had a really fun instructor named Kristen and she clearly had ballet training because she kept using the word plie and looked entirely too graceful on her pole. We danced to Rihanna's "Diamonds" and I tried my best to keep up.

 

Without any dance training and even though I have rhythm in general, a choreographed dance routine is hard work. Even harder when you're trying to look sexy, hold a pole, and try not to get dizzy!

 

In the end, I learned one trick and a couple spins. The trick never really worked out for me. But for your viewing and judging pleasure, I present to you, my attempt at a spin:

 

 

I'm one more item checked off, a little sore, and ready for Africa! I'll talk to you all in December.

 

Happy Thanksgiving, Friends!

Balls



#25 in the 30 by 30

Cross this off my list!

Thanks to the support of my donors, and my friend Sharday (pictured - and I hope that's okay) I was able to climb 103 flights of stairs (that's over 2,000 stairs total) to the skydeck floor of the Sears (refuse to call it Willis) Tower.

I'm actually surprised that my legs feel fine today. A little tired but definitely not anything close to what I expected. The climb wasn't even really that hard on my legs, it was hard on my lungs. The air was so dry in the stairwell, and so hot, that my lungs were burning very early on. The heat and dry air also sapped all moisture from my body by floor 30 and I got a dehydration headache. This caused me to stop more often than I would have liked and definitely hurt my time. But I finished in a respectable 47:38.

Sharday and I then went to lunch where I ate entirely too much bread. It was great.

Thanks again to all your encouraging words, and donations to make this possible!

Balls

Everything is Just Fine

So maybe, just maybe, people read my blog and think I'm an angry person. Apparently my mother is one of these people. Here's that conversation (and don't judge me, I couldn't get the proper format for dialogue in this program):

 

"Hey mom, I love you so much. Did you read my latest blog post? I hope it's to your liking. I     

really only ever want to make you proud of me."

"I did, and I hate it. You seem so bitter and unhappy all the time. Why are you so angry? Why can't you be happy, and decent, and wonderful like my other daughter, who gave me my beautiful granddaughter who can also do no wrong in my eyes? Then maybe I'd buy you a horse, or put in a pool for you."
 

Perhaps that's not how it really went; and perhaps someday I will get over the fact that my sister had a pony when we were little, or that my parents just put in a pool for my niece. Stranger things have happened.

But you get the point - I have a penchant for exaggeration.

I'm a happy, loving, wonderful person who loves my life and family and friends and dog and on and on, I just love to exaggerate. Couple that with a low bull shit tolerance, and outspoken nature and this makes me seem a little angry sometimes; but I'm not... I swear... everything in life is great... honest...So lay off, mom!

Sheesh.

The Death of Common Decency

Let me start this post off by saying I love Chicago. I love the big city. I love that there is always something interesting going on; I appreciate that even if I'm just sitting on my couch with Oreo. Hey, at least I have the option! I love the diverse neighborhoods filled with interesting people, and cultural learning opportunities.

But there is one group of Chicagoans I absolutely hate.

I'm talking, of course, about fellow El riders. For those of you not in the know, the "El" is the train portion of Chicago's public transportation nightmare. It is shortened from the word "elevated", because most of the lines are, in fact, elevated (rather than underground like the subway of New York). These people come in every race, shape, creed, color and scent known to man, and they all deserve to be pushed right off the platform.

Never mind the fact that I am forced to sit, or more likely stand, somewhere I know someone has urinated or defecated at one point or another. Never mind the guy walking up and down the aisles preaching about Jesus and trying to save me. Ignore the Native American guy who is (stereotypically) drunk and yelling "white man" in my ear and going on about how I stole his land and raped his women (true story, folks). These things I can chalk up to inadequate mental health resources and/or the state of the economy. I feel empathy and patience for these people.

The people I am talking about are the four business men, of about 30 years of age who stepped directly in front of me as I patiently waited for people to exit the train this morning. They pushed passed those exiting, in front of me, and took the last little space on that particular car. I'm talking about the guy who makes his business call right next to me on my morning commute, obnoxiously yelling about whether to buy or sell, and laughing like a jackass. (Doesn't he know that the rush hour commutes are to be silent? It's an unspoken rule, people!). I'm also talking about the able bodied people who sit in their seats by the door, ignoring the pregnant or elderly person who they just saw get on the train. I'm speaking directly to the guys who sit, with their legs in a wide V formation, taking up half my seat as if to show the world how large their testicles are.

These people, my fellow Chicagoans, who suffer not from mental health issues, or poor hygiene due to lack of adequate housing; suffer from the greatest disease plaguing man and woman kind today. It's a lack of common courtesy. I see it every day, so many times a day doors are not held for me, I am cut off, and I am forced to listen to other peoples music and conversations about herpes.

Every day I fight the battle in my head about whether to do what is courteous, and continue trying to lead by example and being utterly frustrated with life, or to become the same selfish and ignorant asshole I am surrounded by.  I feel myself losing this battle a little more each day.

If you can't beat them, join them, right?

One Away

I was sitting on the train yesterday, having just had all these conversations with friends who are adding to their families, or getting married, or working their dreams jobs, and I was having a sad/contemplative moment. I look up and see a cute guy (one whom I've never seen since I was taking an earlier train that day). We made eye contact so I smiled briefly and looked away, out the window, blushing. Let me stop right there and address the skeptical look on your face. I am shy. I am loud and obnoxious and outgoing, but when it comes to attractive men, I am socially awkward, blushy and ridiculous.

As I looked out the window contemplating my utter lack of charm, I thought about how comfortable I am in my new (slimmer) life, and how I want to be moving forward and start thinking about adding people to it. Let me say that I'm happy in my life and perfectly content to be single, but I'm no spring chicken (as they would say seventy years ago) and I need to start being a little more pushy in getting myself out in the world if I want things to change.

I had never seen this cute guy before, but I had never taken this train before. I suddenly had an epiphany that all it takes is one moment to change your life. In the past few years this has manifested in a negative way. There have been moments when things change in an instant and they've all been bad. But this doesn't have to be the case. It dawned on me that life can be changed for the better in an instant too. Maybe that smile could have turned in to a conversation, and a date and on and on. Maybe (as was this case) it was just a nice moment and nothing more.

I spend so much time on the same trains, and in the same bars, going to the same events with the same people, and obviously it's not moving me forward (surprising that hanging out with all married/attached friends isn't helping me in my relationship search, huh?!). My routine makes me feel like I'm so far away from my future; but really I'm just one change away from everything I've dreamed.

So what can I change today?