Lil' bastard stealing my dance moves.

It’s been quite a while since I’ve penned anything for the blog at hand. In fact, it’s pushing two months now…quite a while indeed. While I’d love to say that–in that time–I’ve been studying for an adult spelling bee or learning to quilt, I have not. I’d prefer a geography bee anyway. Nor have I been reading more or painting more. If it borders on healthy, creative and/or productive, I haven’t been doing it. I did, however, give up on working out for a few weeks, develop a lasting friendship with the employees of Taco Burrito House (I changed my preferred late night burrito vendor), and invent–and accept–a challenge to spend more time horizontally…whatever you may take from that.

(Un)realistically, though, I was busy summering. It turns out that changing nouns into verbs isn’t just for the wealthy. It’s for the delusional as well. For me, summering entailed a lot of skin, liver and intestinal damage. And allegedly the lungs some, too, but you never know the lengths health insurers will go to deny coverage, so let’s leave that one out. Agreed? In witnessing the still-emerging photo documentation of my preferred season, the abuses are evident: my face growing continually closer to PBR can red with each weekend (I can easily make this comparison because rare are the photos in which one appears without the other…it makes for a pretty unexciting reversal of “Where’s Waldo”).

Of all components of Summer 2010, however, it wasn’t the tanning, the drinking, the eating or the not working out that captured its essence. It was the dancing. If there’s one thing I’m not, it’s a dancer. But shit, did I dance a lot this summer. I really hadn’t danced since my college days, when latching onto the hippie subculture in an otherwise stifling environment enabled me to perfect my off-beat gyrations to jams that lasted longer than most sitcoms. But that was ten years ago. I mean, I have all new skin cells by now. Now that’s a long time.

When dancing in Charlottesville music venues was a regular part of my college curriculum, I acknowledged–at the time–how much I loved it. I loved it so much that I came up with a theory about it (shocking, I know…it’s all theories and policies in Justinville). My take on dancing was that it served as a release. Obvious, right? More specifically, a release of all the joys we encounter on a day-to-day basis. Whether an awe-inspiring piece of artwork or a new and exciting relationship; a phenomenal meal or the anticipation of an optimistic future, we’re constantly absorbing elements of happiness, whether or not acknowledged. It’s pretty difficult to release the build-up of these experiences. Smiling and being nice to strangers has limited effects. Sometimes you have to physically shake the happiness out of your bone marrow. It works in the opposite direction, too, but the release of negative experience is scary movie watching, which I loathe. Subsequently, we won’t be discussing misery or those who manifest it in a passion for horror films. Judgment eyes.

As dancing–in my world–can only occur in times of happiness, its proliferation this summer past is a great sign. Perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised that, after a ten-year sabbatical, I had some joy stockpiled. My own little bomb shelter with shelf-upon-shelf of sunshine and lollipops, neatly arranged sequentially by expiration date.

I know what you’re thinking: with dancing skills like mine, I should invest in a good unitard, stretch out, and audition for Billy Elliot. A fair thought, but no dice. Actually, I have some sad news to share. My dancing hit a wall Labor Day weekend. It was as though a switch had been flipped, turning off my innate sense of rhythm. Okay, okay…so I’ve never really had rhythm; still, call me a Scissor Sister, because I don’t feel like dancin’. Have I cashed in my bomb shelter’s last ray of sunshine or the root beer Dum Dum I’ve been hoarding for the long Chicago winter? Or has summer officially migrated from verb back to noun? In either case, it just isn’t the same.

Perhaps, like college, this summer was simply the product of a unique time and (head) space, never to be repeated. Or, like the migration of nouns back to verbs, maybe my dancing shoes will be dusted off in 9 months or so. Or in 9 years. Who knows? Not me.

This summer was a master cleanse. No, really. The irony of routine toxicity aside, it was a period of great simplicity and release. It was summer as I remember growing up, with hot weather, close friends and endless adventures. I embraced the important, purged the irrelevant and identified the permanent. I can look back with fulfillment at some of the greatest months to-date. Better yet, I can even remember some of them.

So, while it may be a muggy day in late September, it is nonetheless time to put Summer 2010 to bed. It was a great run, but I’m ready for what’s next, which hopefully includes at least a pinch of health, creativity and productivity. With that in mind, take a cue from Kylie and “Get Out Of My Way.”

I took a solo road trip to Ohio a few weekends ago. And when I say solo, I mean solo…not even my bulldog daughter was invited on this road trip. Dodging out of work a few hours early, I navigated swarms of Cubs fans, rented a Chevy Impala (as if my graying wig and collection of elbow-patched attire wasn’t enough…thanks, Hertz), and got the hell out of Dodge. Keeping it simple, I had a small bag of clothing and unearthed a giant book of CDs (remember those!?) that was embalmed and buried circa 2002. It was destined to be a good road trip, even if not a good weekend (another story altogether).

In the mad dash I was making to beat Friday traffic, I failed to remember one thing–there is no beating Chicago traffic. Thirty minutes later, I found myself weaving through downtown, following detour signs leading to more detour signs. When I the highway finally found me, it took the duration of Talk of the Nation and Science Friday on NPR to finally see the bustling metropolis of Gary, Indiana. Say what?

Traffic eventually picked up and I made my trek to Ohio, which looks a lot like Gary, Indiana incidentally. I had never made the comparison, but fits.  As I drove through the tiny town my brother calls home, I was struck by two images–a house displaying a Confederate flag from its porch and a pickup truck with a bumper sticker that read “Obama Sucks.”  Two things: 1. The last I checked, Ohio was a free state during the Civil War.  2. Perhaps bumper sticker wit is in a recession of its own, but that message seems rather void of personality, doesn’t it?

It was at this point that I realized the theme of not only my weekend, but my life of late: Patience.

Thinking about my day-to-day life in the city (via the lens of trying to get out of Chicago), physical patience is a huge component. From not freaking out on overly-crowded trains and buses to biting my tongue when the couple ahead of me in the grocery store check-out waits until their order is fully bagged to whip out a checkbook (why not cart around you ink well and quill while you’re at it!?…You’re only in your 30s, for chrissake!), city life requires a ton of patience. It’s an obvious byproduct of fitting so many people into such a small space. It’s undeniably physical patience.

Small town patience is an entirely different beast, however. I know this well, as I worked in the field for 18 years or so. Back woods living–if you have an intellectual or empathetic bone in your body (or all of your teeth, for that matter)–requires unimaginable amounts of mental patience. Rationalizing others’ ignorance and bigotry without recommending state-wide sterilization is a virtue. As is not calling Child Protective Services when you see the “food” that parents feed their children and accepting “Mountain Dew Mouth” as a real medical condition.

Overall, my weekend trip to the buckeye state cast a light on my preference for physical patience. I will take a physically uncomfortable environment that supports liberal-minded diversity over geographic space any day.  Mental claustrophobia? No, thank you, I like mine physical. Trees are nice, but new ideas are nicer.

So thank you, Ohio. Thank you for first teaching me and then reminding me of how to be patient. And thank you cities of the world–San Francisco and Chicago in particular–for teaching me (and often reminding me) how to be patient without being complacent.

Jasper Johns, Flag (1954-55)

In third grade, my class did a project in which each student studied a state. Mine was New York. I was born in New York and–living in Virginia at the time–that was a very cool thing. Take that, Robert E. Lee.

Part of the project entailed an artistic re-creation of the state flag, or so I remember. In all likelihood, I had simply envisioned my project exuding grandeur (symbolized by an impeccably drafted state flag) and wouldn’t settle for anything less. The teacher would make a big deal over how wonderful my flag looked and how it really made my research on New York State rise above my classmates’ attempts at Vermont and Kentucky. Yes, I was that student. Apologies to those I stepped on along the way.

The problem was that my artistic rendering of Lady Liberty or whatever Greek ladies adorn the New York flag was not up to my own standards. And I freaked. If there’s one thing I can own, it’s when I make something that looks/tastes/smells (yup…you know what I mean by smells) awful. Even at age 8, I knew that the only state this flag was representing was a state of panic.

Luckily, I have a father who was obsessive–but not neurotic per say–about education. If I was studying George Washington in school, we’d go to Mount Vernon that weekend (not that it was all that far…we lived in Virginia, after all…but we were po’, which makes it more meaningful). If I wanted to be in band, we’d figure out a way to get a saxophone. Life was good like that. But back to New York. My dad stayed up late into the night drawing those Greek bitches for me. How long it took him, I have no idea. I was fast asleep. All I know is that I went to sleep with Lady Letdown and woke up to Lady Luck, because my flag looked amazing. In case I didn’t do so then, thanks Dad.

The byproduct of my gut-wrenching experience with the New York State flag made me realize something. I like simple flags. When I think about Jasper Johns’ paintings of the American flag, for instance, I become exhausted. I mean, do we really need all fifty stars on there? That’s a lot of work. Look at California’s flag; it has a bear on it. I don’t remember being good at drawing bears when I was a kid. Fish? Yeah, I could draw a mean fish, but a bear? That’s a tall order.

What this boils down to is that I should live in Japan. A nice red circle on a white background. And I love sushi. Done and done.

The ideas of flags, simplicity and parents doing their child’s homework make me think about “flags” in another sense–the kind that are cautionary. References to “red flags” pour out of my mouth like wine pours in (and that’s a lot). Whether in friendships, relationships, jobs or seat stains on public transportation, red flags are those ubiquitous indications that things just aren’t right. They can be slight or monumental, direct or obscure. The fact is, though, that they’re important. And symbolic. Sort of like a real flag.

For the longest time, all flags were red flags, or deal breakers for me. They would cause me to hastily end things, whether (again) a friendship, a relationship or a job. If things were feeling off, I was out. Then, over time, things changed. That artificial, obnoxious-doesn’t-begin-to-describe-it word, “sticktuitiveness,” comes to mind. Thanks but no thanks to the teacher who planted that seed of vile faux-cabulary that I can’t seem to shake. Regardless, red flags don’t seem to burn as hot as they once did. Perhaps it comes with age, similar to theories that time feels like it goes by faster as we get older because it becomes a smaller and smaller fraction of our  total lifetime. After so many red flags, I think my vision may be fading.

My red flag reexamination has proven a good thing. A healthy thing. While it has the potential to bite me, I’d rather be open, patient and understanding (within reason, obviously) than callous and fearful. My new outlook on flags is that they’re still popping up all around me, but their color isn’t evident at first. It’s like the terrorism threats at the airport. Flags can be yellow or orange or, sometimes, red. Sometimes they’re complicated, like New York and sometimes they’re simple, like Japan. The trick is to resist assigning them their color prematurely. And to refrain from underestimating your drawing abilities.

Life is full of flags; full of hints and warnings. We’re lucky to have them. But sometimes we need to color-correct them and other times we need to disavow them altogether. On the flip side, there are some that ought to be heeded. We’d be silly not to. It’s a fine line indeed.

While flag-burning may be protected under the First Amendment, we can really only protect ourselves from being burned by them.

Exhibit A

I mean, what did we ever do before email? Can you imagine Mad Men-style offices with typewriters? A legitimate use for United States Post Office? No way. It’s simply unfathomable. Email has changed everything.

Besides its mere existence, it’s also interesting to consider email’s evolution. I remember my first ever email address. Correction: I don’t actually remember it because it was through my high school and it had a ton of numbers in it and the domain had approximately fourteen words, all separated by periods. Weird. At any rate, did you know that people–once upon a time–would fax each other cartoons, jokes, etc. the way that people later began forwarding emails? Again: weird.

Even the older demographic has gotten into the email, which is kind of cool (maybe). I always imagine those Hughes Net commercials appealing to the old, retired couple that live in the country. It’s probably because the demonstration of download speed is a picture of a little girl with a balloon or something, which obviously appeals to grandparents. The old folks are suckers for anything grandchild related…we all know that.

My grandmother is no sucker, but she is one such computer proficient senior. She’ll check in with me from time to time, laying the “why do I never hear from you?” guilt on thick. It’s cool, though, and very much deserved. These emails are nice. I picture her making her once-a-day trip to her desk, turning on the computer and waiting, patiently, for the screeching sounds of dial-up to get her online. Don’t ask me why, but I just assume everyone over age 55 has dial-up internet. I balme it on the Hughes Net commercials, so feel free to correct me if I’m wrong.

Anyway, it’s pretty cool that the internet really is universal. What’s not cool, however, is how not everyone uses it in the same way. [Dramatic sigh.]

Enter Exhibit A, pictured above. These are a sampling of forwards from my Grammie. As you’ll see from the dates and the unread messages, I stopped opening her forwards sometime around June 2008. The gap in chronology points to the fact that I have deleted most of them as they arrive. Perhaps I should feel guilty about this. I actually do, but have perfected the squashing of that pesky “guilt” emotion as soon as it rears its needy head.

The truth is that I don’t feel I even need to open these forwards, as I know, from subject alone, what to expect. Or so I imagine. Let’s run down a few of these, shall we?

“FW: I love my attorney!” = Some cliche take on attorneys being sleazy, unethical thiefs.

“FW: Zip Lok Bags…….Tip of the Week…….” = Something I would potentially be interested in but am too distracted by whether or not “Lok” is the correct spelling to pursue. And the over-use of ellipse–it’s all too much for me.

“FW: All God’s critters” = There is no fucking way I’m opening this.

“FW: Cabbies” = Something racist.

“FW: Impaled by a Taliban RPG” = Something racist and right-winged (or is that redundant?).

“FW: WARNING…..809″ = If you get a call from this area code DO NOT answer it or that grandchild in the picture with a balloon will be killed. Instantly.

“FW: Please read quietly and send it on its journey” = Cyber spirituality is creepier than that guy in makeup singing to JonBenet Ramseys on TLC’s “Little Miss Perfect”.

Grammie, we’ve always had a unique relationship of respect whereby we can be honest with each other when no one else is. Let the humor I find in your email forwards continue that wonderful dynamic…so keep ‘em coming; I even started a separate email folder for them, just for shits & giggles.

I love you! (And I’m still in your will after this, right?)

There’s little doubt that I’ve taken a…uhhh…sabbatical from writing. It’s been more than a month since dedicating any time to pursuits other than working and consuming every conceivable food and beverage product. But the time has come to get back to the basics. And by basics, I mean communicating my criticism of people, places and things on the most public of platforms that I have access to. No, not my too-popular-for-her-own-good dog, my blog.

While my overall consumption problem is epic, that’s nothing new. The greater reason behind my recently dried-up ink well is my new job. That’s right, people. A new job. NPR should come get their sound byte because my months of looking finally led to something pretty damn good. The Tide of Terrible has turned; if not for the entire country, at least for this Natalean life. All Things Considered, you have my number.

The rewards of stable and challenging employment are obvious; the process of getting here, however, was arduous. Searching, applying and interviewing for a new job proved a nerve-racking mind-fuck and, because of this, directly parallels my dating life.

It’s seldom discussed, but nonetheless true: the processes of interviewing and dating are one and the same.

From initially putting yourself out there and exposing your vulnerabilities to making the ballsy move of applying or approaching a potential match, interviewing is dating and dating is interviewing. By this standard, jobs are relationships. And relationships? They’re work. Makes a frightening amount of sense, doesn’t it? I think so, too.

As we all know, the worst–and I mean worst–part about both of these endeavors is the unexplained ending. The out-of-the-blue Houdinis; the ending because one party simply forfeits their appearance. “Things were going so well,” you think in disbelief after the second or–worse yet–third interview/date. Guess not. And here’s the hard part: accepting that it’s over and stop facebook stalking. They’ve moved on and the job posting isn’t on craigslist anymore. They both went with another candidate.

There’s a special place in hell for employers who don’t follow up with job candidates. That placeholder becomes increasingly cemented with additional interviews. Snub me after one interview? Fine. Spend eternity on an overcrowded city bus. Have fun. After three interviews? You’re so spending your next life as Kirstie Alley. Makes the bus look pret-ty nice, doesn’t it?

And with dating? The Houdinis? Well, I’m not all-too-familiar with how libel works and my bestie is a patent attorney, not a litigator, so I should probably leave that one alone. Consider yourselves lucky.

Having now completed this process (the job hunt, that is), there’s a peace that comes over me when craigslist is no longer in my web browser history. Career Builder is one less site I feel compelled to stalk each day. I can focus on other things, like when Bethenny Frankel’s baby is due.

The search for new professional opportunities also lends itself to some rather heavy self-reflection. Looking back at my work history, I realize that I’ve opted out of some pretty great opportunities with some great companies (and some very not great ones…*ahem*). The great ones would never have revealed themselves–even in hindsight–without the juxtaposition of the unsavory. They’re the ones I probably shouldn’t have given up on so quickly; the ones I should have realized, at the time, how good for me they really were.

Like I said, it’s seldom discussed, but nonetheless true: jobs and relationships are one and the same.

In the true spirit of life’s cyclical nature, I find myself revisiting a theme of years gone by. A few Chicago summers ago, some friends and I found ourselves in a rut. It was the rut of routine. We saw the same people, frequented the same places, and bitched about the same enduring themes. The solution to breaking this rut was more of a challenge. It went by the name of “ballsy moves” (pronounced ball-zy, for the virtuosos amongst us).

The gist of ballsy moves is putting one’s self out there. Putting dignity aside. Taking risks. Not risky risks, but risks with your pride. Approaching a stranger. Introducing yourself to someone out of your league. Going old-school and buying a drink for someone (this time, without roofying it).

To ensure that the Ballsy Moves, v.2008 took form, there were a few simple rules:

1. Each participant must make a minimum of two ballsy moves per week.
2. There must be a witness for each ballsy move, to vouch for its occurrence.

Of the three of us enrolled in this program of my shameless mind, the scoring of ballsy moves unfolded as follows:

Lonika, 0.
Jonah, 1.
Justin, 283.

What can I say? I took pride in my idea. Possibly too much so, but pride nonetheless.

There’s no doubt that ballsy moves was a schtick reflecting my boredom; still, I believe that there continue to be some valuable lessons in this exercise of the “awww, the hell with it.” If nothing else, it resulted in some great stories about Chicago characters summarized by their most memorable characteristic. Ask me about Class Ring sometime…I assure you, it’s a good story.

While I can’t claim that ballsy moves resulted in any tangible life benefits, it was undeniably a summer of realizations. Among them, that you can’t wait for life to happen. In that fine line between letting life find you and going on the hunt for it, I’d rather hold the compass than follow the leader. If “leagues” really do exist, I’d rather draft people to mine than be convinced of theirs. And, of all the harsh truths to be learned in life, I’d rather uncover them now than spend my days sweeping them under Ikea rugs.

The essence of ballsy moves has little to do with the moves themselves. It has more to do with movement in general. Change can only come with movement and while it sometimes requires approaching something new, it often calls for rejecting something old.

So, while it’s going on two years and countless ballsy moves later (I stopped counting mine some time ago), I’m happy to announce that—for one of us— the score has changed.

One of us has made our first (known) ballsy move. Better late than never, right?

Now let’s just hope he doesn’t wear a class ring.