I feel a mad shift in the universe. Ok, in my universe. I can always feel when it’s coming. Things start to feel weird. My stomach begins to hurt, my heart begins to ache, my brain becomes mush and then simply, things just explode. I go through a massive amount of heartbreak (not specifically related to boys, in a general sense) and then everything I had been worrying about for months comes together and performs nicely.

I had a similar shift a year ago. I was attempting to force the universe to comply with what I wanted. My ego wanted “the boy”, “the school”, “the job”, and “the city”. I held onto these ideals so tightly, that my world felt like a pressure cooker. Then, after coming close to the edge, I just let go. Everything shifted nicely and here I am in Chicago with the job. The boy attachment seemed to fade out of my system and the school seemed pointless.

My recent shift came as I have begun to let certain people enter my life and let others leave it. My ego has been trying to hold on, screaming to hold on actually, to people I NEED to let go of. It’s making me look like a mad woman. I feel slightly crazy lately. I’m doing un-ordinary things like, not being able so sleep and feeling a rise in stress levels. It’s hard for me to find perfection in this moment; it’s hard for me to find a sense of enlightenment when I feel out of the ordinary.

In brief moments of conscious thinking, I find a sense of release. I have to go through a series of thinking, what if I never see him again? My ego says, you will cry. What will happen if you cry? My ego says, you will be sad. What happens next? You will be upset for a while. And then? Ego thinks, you’ll eventually just start doing your thing. And after that? Ego stutters and complies, you will eventually move on.

I will eventually move on. It’s not about letting others deserve a chance to be involved in my life, because that’s the story telling side of my brain speaking. It’s about learning and moving on. Letting the next chapter unfold, because it won’t if I keep going back to the same situation over and over again: the indifference, the aloofness. It’s the same scenario that has replayed over and over for nearly 20 plus years. Here it is universe, the release, do what you please.

So, um, about last night. My friends and I decided we needed to go dancing. In the midst of trying to find the perfect club with great 80's music, we are halted by the discovery that there is a bar that has a stripper pole. Let me say this again, there is a bar with a stripper pole and yes, its for the patrons and no, it was not in some sleezy bar on the outskirts of town.

Why did I not know Five Star Bar had a stripper pole? With this discovery, and after a shot of liquid courage, I decided to test out "the pole" by trying out a couple of moves (fully clothed by the way). Here's what I learned:

1. Stripper poles have bearings. They spin. It's fast and you get dizzy.
2. Stripper poles are slicky. It's hard to get a good grip and not fall on your ass.
3. Stripper poles leave bruises on your legs. It's painful the next day.
4. Stripper poles allow men to show off some skillz. I was witness to the one handed spin with one foot tucked behind the pole and one leg out. It was magical.
5. Stripper poles take a whole lotta arm strength to pull off proper moves. My arms are sore today.
   
6. Stripper poles make you look hot. No matter what awkward move you do, somehow you look good doing it. The men were on fire last night. It was hot.
   

I have a new found respect for those pole working girls, it takes a whole lot of grace and a whole lot of strength. It should be an Olympic sport.

So, I'm going to be slacking on my blogs the next few days. My bestie from PA is in town, and I can't fully concentrate or sit down to do anything. We haven't seen eachother in a year or so, so it's catchup time. I just have a few randoms for today....

My Hair...

I realized, years ago, that when I get hit on at a bar and the guy tells me I have gorgeous hair; he is trying overly hard. Last night I was told that on a scale from 1-10 my hair was "awesome". I have absolutely horrible hair, I'm not in denial about it; nor am I being dramatic about it. I just have really uncontrollable Brillo pad type hair. It's actually been described by hair dressers as being "ethnic". It's strawberry blonde, it's course, it's massively frizzy, and we fight every morning and I use a Chi to defend my honor.

My PBS...


I have been a PBS addict since my childhood years of watching Sesame St. I have evolved, slightly, by watching episodes of Nova. It has altered my reality. Really. Recently, I have become obsessed with watching Simon Schama's: Power of Art. The last episode I watched, featuring David, was amazing. Schama's voice alone is nearly orgasmic and the show's visuals are spectacular. I've seen the painting "Death of Marat" a hundred times, never realizing the controversy behind it. Great stuff.

I've been censoring myself. I'm writing about PBS for God's sake! I'm avoiding the topic I really wanting to discuss, but I will have to save it for another day. I'm not in the right mindset. Maybe tomorrow. My apologies for being boring.

What a fantastic 4th of July weekend! Where else but in Chicago can you see people light off fireworks in the middle of the street, halting traffic for a block, where bottle rockets are shot out of apartment windows at opposing buildings, and where people climb to their rooftops to gain a 360 degree view of the city's lighted nighttime magic? God, I love this city.

On Augusta and Leavitt, a vacant neighborhood parking lot is closed off and groups of locals light off professional looking fireworks that rivals any downtown show. Why is this one better? Fireworks along the lake last a mere, 20 or so minutes, but the local Ukrainian Village show went off for more than an hour. Apparently, the recession does not apply to the villagers and their extensive amount of illegal fireworks and for that I applaud them, great show guys.

So, let me preface my amazing dining experience this last weekend by saying that I have the metabolism of a five year old, thanks to the greatest gene combination ever. So much so, that I got heckled at by a group of young girls at the beach the other weekend, calling me either Mary Kate or Ashley Olsen. Normally, I would have been offended, but hey, I'm pushing 30 so whatever ladies.

Anyway.... this inability to store fat has allowed me the blessing of being able to eat the the greatest creation EVA... Small Bar's gift to all the carnivores out there [divert your eyes vegans]. It's the burger that should be called the triple bypass surgery... it's got meat, it's got a fried egg, and yes, lots of bacon. Forget the onions, lettuce, and tomatoes they add to your plate, because really? It just spoils the meaty goodness. Top it off with their endless selection of beer [I get Three Floyds Gumballhead], and a side of sweet potato fries. Thanks Mom, thanks Dad... couldn't have done this without you. ::tear::

I admit it. Don't judge me. I'm a little ashamed, since I am the girl who openly fears all things domestically related, like marriage. I enjoy watching the Bachelorette. In fact, I never miss an episode.

I have never gotten into the show until this season. Why am I glued to my TV on Monday nights? It's because this time, it's like watching a train wreck and you just can't seem to pull your eyes away from what you know is going to occur.... she's gonna fall for the bad boy and I'm gonna be screaming "you stupid girl" into my pillow [neighbors may get a little worried if the screams are not buffered].

She makes the common mistake that every girl makes, or has made. The mistake is wanting "That Guy". He's the guy who is aloof, [I'm referring to Wes, if it's not obvious] who is indifferent, who shows restraint, who can't really give himself completely to her. She's the girl who wants to believe that she can change him and make him fall for her. Um, sweetie, ummm hi, it's not happenin'.

It's annoying, and maybe it's because I've been there. I see the neediness in her body language, it even seeps out of her pores. He is the boy that has made her cry. He is the boy that tells her, not in words but in actions, I'm taken. He is the boy that says, my life and my career will always come first. Yet, he is the boy that still gets the damn rose.

I continue to watch as poor naive Bachelorette girl, who came looking for love, lets all of these sweet perfect GOOD guys slip through her fingers as she holds on in hope that the bad boy will change his ways. He won't, not for you anyway.

When you date a few of these naughty men, that I have described above, you begin to alter your idea of what you are looking for. For me, I want my bff that just happens to be my bf, who I just happen to be sharing my bed with (if you catch my drift). It's that simple. Your bff is not going to toy with your emotions, is not going to hide things from you, and is not going to keep himself from you. My Mom once told me that your boyfriend, fiance or husband, should go above and beyond what your best girlfriend would do. My gf's are pretty amazing, my standards are pretty high. I hope you raise yours, beautiful Jillian.

On a very personal note.... my bestie is leaving me for the great cornfields of Iowa. That's right, she is heading back home where life is much simpler. It's a land full of unending parking spots, a place where you don't need a permit to own a car, or a dog for that matter. You can see the stars at night. It's a place where you aren't fighting over what you think are limited resources like success and money, or even to be heard [because you feel like your voice is being drowned out by the six million other people who just want to be noticed]. When I think of Iowa, I think about freedom. It's appealing, and I don't blame her for wanting to move back.

I think it's the hippie in me that has become disenchanted by my time spent here in the city. I miss things like having a garden; I'm surrounded by concrete. The most torturous thing for me is to look out my little window and see that my neighbor has enclosed a vast jungle for their own private amusement. It's like their little secret, and I'm annoyed by it.

Another part of me wants a cottage out in the middle of nowhere so badly that I can hardly stand it. I have designed this little cottage over and over in my head. It's a green cottage, obviously, (hippie, you know) and it sits on a large semi-wooded acreage. I have neighbors, but they live far enough way so that can't see me taking a shower in my "outside shower room". I have way too much free time.

I'm jealous of my bff, insanely jealous. I'm awfully sad too. It's gonna be ouchy when she finally packs up her belongings and drives away in the Honda. Everyone is already panicking for me, and asking me "what are you going to do?" (since we have been pretty un-separable). My answer, is of course, I'll be fine. These last few years I've learned some valuable (and often harsh) lessons in non-attachment. Not in the cold-hearted sense, but in the sense that I know nothing lasts forever. I've learned relationships with anyone or anything always end, always. People move on whether through choice or not, and your life is replaced with others who do the same. It's actually quite relieving to realize this. It never lessens the pain, however, but it makes it much more tolerable.

I haven't really written anything in a week or so. I'm kind of disappointed in myself. I have this amazing writing room I created. I made it all inspiring and intimidating at the same time. It has one of those big wooden desk's with a big wooden captain's chair. Tall book shelves filled with all the great classic Literature that leaves you feeling like less of a writer in comparison. I even have the dog who curls up at your feet while you write, how great is that?

For the first few days after the room was created, I could have lived in there. I didn't want to emerge. I felt like Poe when he would lock himself in a cellar and get drunk and write like a mad man, except I had less wine, more pretty stuff around me and I also have a computer. I wrote some really great stuff. Lately, I've been writing some really great amazing crap. I've learned that most of the things you write on a daily basis is nothing but muck, and sometimes you have to sift through it until something rare and great emerges. I put emphasis on the rare.

In the meantime, I have turned my writing room into a reading room. I picked up "Nothing Special" by Charlotte Joko Beck during my state of writer's block. In the week I've had it, I've read it three times. There has only been three books, in the nonfiction category, that I have read in my lifetime that have altered my existence, my reality, my consciousness, this is one of them.

I really can't honestly give an accurate summary, because the message is too entirely complicated (but also not so complicated) to put in words. Joko herself tells us that in her writing, living a Zen life is something that you can't really define or summarize or even give accurate guidance on how to achieve. Also, once you make enlightenment your goal or chase after it, it is an illusion. While that is difficult to contemplate for most people, she offers us a great chapter called "Dorothy and the Door", which gives a metaphorical look on how to practice, or essentially how not to practice.

All in all, it was a great book. Hey, maybe this non-writing thing will help me to become a zen master? Oh crap, that's already trying to achieve something, which is outside of the zen practice. I must repeat, "I am perfect as I am, perfect as I am, perfect as...".