tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-72396876644813829042024-02-18T19:30:58.341-06:00Which End is Up!?An in-depth look at the life of two very different Chicago sisters as it happens. Topics are wide, language is sometimes rough, but it's their life and it's amusing. Sometimes the stories overlap, but they have their own separate adventures too!Jen Of All Tradeshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03988197670503243323noreply@blogger.comBlogger441125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7239687664481382904.post-11638358303442918572013-08-02T19:21:00.001-05:002013-08-02T19:22:29.618-05:00New Girl<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">This week, I’m pondering the implications of being the literal new girl at the office, as well as an evolving version of my personal self. No longer the serial monogamist in search of a romantic partnership to verify my lovability and human value, I have made a conscious decision to draw my self-esteem, as I wrote last week, from “multiple jobs well done.”<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">I have been on the job a full two weeks in my new position as a Marketing Manager for a major insurance brokerage, and only today did I sort out where the kitchen garbage can is located. Until now, I’ve been tossing food scraps in the waste bin under my desk, resulting in some fragrant <span class="aBn" data-term="goog_108267536" style="border-bottom-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-bottom-style: dashed; border-bottom-width: 1px; position: relative; top: -2px; z-index: 0;" tabindex="0"><span class="aQJ" style="position: relative; top: 2px; z-index: -1;">5:00 PM</span></span> aromas for my cube mates. Why then, you may be wondering, did I not ask one of my colleagues to point me in the right direction? For complicated reasons, I associate a high humiliation factor with having to articulate a question and await an answer that should be obvious. I accommodate these irrational emotions by dithering and substituting while I keep vigil, watching the kitchen (conveniently viewable from my seat) until someone reveals the answers I can’t bring myself to solicit. Just before<span class="aBn" data-term="goog_108267537" style="border-bottom-color: rgb(204, 204, 204); border-bottom-style: dashed; border-bottom-width: 1px; position: relative; top: -2px; z-index: 0;" tabindex="0"><span class="aQJ" style="position: relative; top: 2px; z-index: -1;">noon</span></span>, I watched a man pull out a rather unassuming looking, large drawer that divulged the trash receptacle.<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">This pattern of reticence has already produced several minor intrigues as I acclimate to my new professional surroundings: The Case of Locking Myself in the 17<sup>th</sup> Floor Stairwell, The Quandary of 2<sup>nd</sup> Floor Gym Entrance, and my personal favorite, The Great Working Overtime Needlessly Debacle.<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">It occurs to me that this stubbornness in requesting simple information has played a very large role in personal problems I’ve faced over the years. I certainly can’t be helped if I never ask for it, but when I find myself marooned on an island, it’s easier to self-shame for not speaking. The alternative – relying on another only to be let down, a verification that my need didn’t matter enough – cyclically repeated itself throughout an overall hellacious childhood. I learned to navigate bureaucracies on my own through trial and error, leaving myself plenty of time to rectify missteps before the final deadline. If this was inefficient, it was certainly empowering, and from a young age, I started to receive compliments from other adults regarding a preternatural level of responsibility and organization. I became addicted to this type of affirmation and my personal mantra quickly became “ I don’t need anyone. I can do this on my own.”<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">The thing was, I secretly and desperately wanted to let go sometimes. I wanted to be that kid who could call their helicopter parent to set things right. I wanted Mom and Dad to tell off the person making my life hard, without making a scene or ending up in jail (as happened more than once) throw money at the silly, juvenile jams I’d gotten myself into, let me come home when things got rough and while you’re at it Mom, could you feed me and do my laundry too? But these options were not available to my sister and I. There was no such safety net and we were forced to live by our wits way before we should have been required. My parents lived on another planet when it came to grasping adult responsibility and all you can do when the garbage piles up in your home, when the IRS seizes your family’s bank accounts and the mortgage goes into foreclosure, is plan your escape – in great detail. Survival mode can be useful in the sense that it doesn’t allow much time to slow down and think about the horrifying reality of the moment.<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">I’ll be 35 next week. I have plenty of time for assessment now. That’s what this blog, and the work I do with my therapist has been about – taking apart all the pieces of me and having a good look at them. And as I’ve stopped running myself in high octane circles, I’m able to sit still and consider that I took the same approach to many of my failed romantic partnerships. I’ve engaged with them in the same way I once interacted with my parents: “I expect you to fail me. I won’t tell you what I need because dammit, you should already know. And when I exhaust myself from doing too much, things I’d like you to help me with that my pride won’t allow me to articulate, I reserve the right to silently resent you.”<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">I’ve already implemented small changes. With my last ex, I think uttered the phrases, “Don’t go, I need you,” and “I can’t do it alone,” more times in 14 months than the previous 14 years. I gave him the chance to do right, and also the opportunity to disappoint, before I drew any conclusions. The fact that ultimately, our dynamic wasn’t compatible, is the result of fundamental differences rather than self-fulfilling prophecy. I don’t feel weaker for the metamorphosis. I am as capable as I’ve ever been, minus the fear of abandonment I’ve allowed to be mistaken for arrogance. This more balanced approach takes far less emotional toll. When I reach out for help only to have my hand slapped away, the outcome is about the other person’s limitations, not my unworthiness.<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">It’s a work in progress. I’ve shown marked improvement when it comes to big ticket issues: health concerns, the celebration of personal achievements, reaching out to a good friend when I’ve had an epically bad day. But I’m still working on the trickle down. Maybe this new girl should kickstart that process by asking where the recycling bins are located so I can get all this scrap paper out of my desk drawer….</span></span></div>
Becky Sarwatehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07712085011707609713noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7239687664481382904.post-79821792154969688292013-07-25T18:23:00.001-05:002013-07-25T18:43:10.306-05:00The Liger<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">I titled this post as such because, when I sat down to write it, I was under the mistaken impression that this animal, the offspring of a male lion and a tigress, was sterile, thus unable to mate. A quick web search revealed my error (thanks Wikipedia!) and increased my dispiritedness. The firm belief that at least one other species of red mammal existed, that did not partner or produce children, has been a source of comfort for the last week. Another entry in the diary of shattered illusions.<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">Relationship number infinity has gone kaput. Though the most recent ex and I remain in love, there were just too many challenges to weather: rushed cohabitation, unemployment, health struggles, addiction issues and the general cynicism that tends to afflict those who’ve traveled around the block more than a few times. We started hurting each other, flagrantly, unintentionally and the gray areas in between, more often than we laughed and learned.<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">Though there are many logistical issues and emotional challenges involved in the separation process, the question that’s been running through my mind most of the day is this, a variation of an age old conceit: is it better to have loved and lost multiple times than never to have loved at all? What does repeated failure to connect do to a body and spirit, and just how many times can one put themselves out there? The number must be finite, because I feel out of turns. Not because I believe myself incapable of attracting another person after some healing time; because I just don’t want to anymore.<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">This is not the grief talking. My approach here, I assure you, is purely academic. After my divorce was finalized at the end of 2011, I fell into a dangerous, life threatening depression. I dated as a method of distraction, throwing my need to be loved and accepted in almost every direction, hoping something would stick. To the surprise of no one - my loyal therapist, close friends, and somewhere fundamental within myself - these dalliances born of desperation failed uniformly. 2012 rolled around and as a New Year commitment to developing internal resources bore fruit, healthier connections with the opposite sex formed organically. I was finally on the right track and when these more salutary relationships foundered, the independence and appreciation for my own company I’d harnessed allowed me to weather the breach with much greater equanimity.<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">I am saddened by the most recent breakup. 14 months is the longest I’ve ever dated anyone without marrying them and in numerous ways, my ex is the man most suited on paper to comprise my other half. We’ve known each other for years and share the same circle of friends. He supports me in my career, nursed me through various health crises and since I’ve no desire to bear and raise children, but love the idea of a family unit, the daughter and granddaughter that came with him as lovely accessories completed a certain idea of what I want my personal life to be.<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">But as I wander through the world, I’ve come to understand the difference between the laboratory and practical application. In operation, we were two people used to having our own way with very little need to compromise. Without rings, no shared offspring to force collaboration and no financial dependence on either side, walking away was viewed as the path of least resistance. Only at our respective ages, 42 (he) and 35 (I), we’re both aware that the idea of someone better coming along is an iffy prospect. Somehow we’ve both made our peace with it. I’m in an exciting and fulfilling place in my career, and I plan to allow that to consume the bulk of my cerebral bandwidth. The self-love I experience from multiple jobs well done has turned out to be, in many respects, more uplifting than an imperfect, estranged appreciation from another living creature.<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">And it’s with all this in mind that I made the association between myself and the capable-of-mating-after-all liger. Only I understand now that the comparison was faulty to begin. Is there an animal in the kingdom capable of forming partnerships, but would rather feel successful alone than disappointed inside a coupling?<u></u><u></u></span></span></div>
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Becky Sarwatehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07712085011707609713noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7239687664481382904.post-35250731586839114672013-07-15T14:27:00.001-05:002013-07-15T14:30:38.200-05:00Florida's "Stand Your Ground" Law: Not Guilty?<div style="border: 0px; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Unless you've been hiding in a cave the last 48 hours (and given an increasingly depressing news cycle, who could blame you?), you've heard the news. Florida's George Zimmerman was acquitted of the charge of second degree murder in the February 26, 2012 shooting death of 17 year-old high school student Trayvon Martin. A six-person, all-female jury found the prosecution unable to create reasonable doubt around the self-defense argument, and this was compelling enough to return a "not guilty" verdict. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">If you spent any amount of time on Twitter over the last two days (full disclosure: I don't tweet and never will), you might be tempted to confuse "not guilty" with "innocent," but such is certainly not the case. No one, not even George Zimmerman, claims that Trayvon's young life was brought to a premature end by another's gun. No one disputes that the two men struggled during an altercation precipitated by the armed, hypervigilant chase of Zimmerman, even as 911 dispatchers cautioned him to relinquish pursuit. Not a soul contends that Martin was himself armed with more than a package of Skittles and a beverage on that fateful night.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">A nation weary of gun violence, divergent police response in relation to ethnicity, and fearful of the implications of the verdict on the safety of young black men has come largely together to bemoan a miscarriage of justice. The problem, however, is that as current Florida law stands, the verdict was right on the money. And if we wish not to open a Pandora's Box of similar tragedies, a growing gang of armed vigilantes deciding for themselves that any sort of perceived threat is license to open fire, we must focus our attention on repealing the law that begat this catastrophe. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">In the interest of unedited disclosure, I am reprinting the terms of the Florida statute ("Stand Your Ground") in full:</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Home protection; use of deadly force; presumption of fear of death or great bodily harm.—</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">(1) A person is presumed to have held a reasonable fear of imminent peril of death or great bodily harm to himself or herself or another when using defensive force that is intended or likely to cause death or great bodily harm to another if:</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">(a) The person against whom the defensive force was used was in the process of unlawfully and forcefully entering, or had unlawfully and forcibly entered, a dwelling, residence, or occupied vehicle, or if that person had removed or was attempting to remove another against that person’s will from the dwelling, residence, or occupied vehicle; and</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">(b) The person who uses defensive force knew or had reason to believe that an unlawful and forcible entry or unlawful and forcible act was occurring or had occurred.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">(2) The presumption set forth in subsection (1) does not apply if:</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">(a) The person against whom the defensive force is used has the right to be in or is a lawful resident of the dwelling, residence, or vehicle, such as an owner, lessee, or titleholder, and there is not an injunction for protection from domestic violence or a written pretrial supervision order of no contact against that person; or</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">(b) The person or persons sought to be removed is a child or grandchild, or is otherwise in the lawful custody or under the lawful guardianship of, the person against whom the defensive force is used; or</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">(c) The person who uses defensive force is engaged in an unlawful activity or is using the dwelling, residence, or occupied vehicle to further an unlawful activity; or</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">(d) The person against whom the defensive force is used is a law enforcement officer, as defined in s. 943.10(14), who enters or attempts to enter a dwelling, residence, or vehicle in the performance of his or her official duties and the officer identified himself or herself in accordance with any applicable law or the person using force knew or reasonably should have known that the person entering or attempting to enter was a law enforcement officer.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">(3) A person who is not engaged in an unlawful activity and who is attacked in any other place where he or she has a right to be has no duty to retreat and has the right to stand his or her ground and meet force with force, including deadly force if he or she reasonably believes it is necessary to do so to prevent death or great bodily harm to himself or herself or another or to prevent the commission of a forcible felony.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">(4) A person who unlawfully and by force enters or attempts to enter a person’s dwelling, residence, or occupied vehicle is presumed to be doing so with the intent to commit an unlawful act involving force or violence.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">(5) As used in this section, the term:</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">(a) “Dwelling” means a building or conveyance of any kind, including any attached porch, whether the building or conveyance is temporary or permanent, mobile or immobile, which has a roof over it, including a tent, and is designed to be occupied by people lodging therein at night.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">(b) “Residence” means a dwelling in which a person resides either temporarily or permanently or is visiting as an invited guest.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">(c) “Vehicle” means a conveyance of any kind, whether or not motorized, which is designed to transport people or property.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">If we cut through the legislative and legal jargon, what Florida's law means in absolute practice is that an armed individual need only suspect possible illegal activity in relation to another's personal property before drawing their weapon. And upon engaging the suspected perpetrator, if the investigating party feels at any time that their person or life is in jeopardy, they may proceed to open fire without the risk of prosecution.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">In other words, any lay person with a gun in the Sunshine State is deputized and fully invested with the authority to check into malfeasance, and put an end to it with no training other than the guide of gut and emotions. The surprise then, is not that Zimmerman was found "not guilty" of second degree murder, but that he was even charged in the first place. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">And indeed, local authorities initially declined to press charges before public furor erupted, rendering the possibility of doing nothing so much PR hari kari. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">And exactly who do we have to thank for the increasing prevalence of "Stand Your Ground" type laws, which now exist in some form in 24 U.S. States? The gun lobby of course, more specifically the NRA, which occupies its usual place at the intersection of Second Amendment overreach and the compromise of public safety. Permit me to quote from a March 31, 2012 <a href="http://abcnews.go.com/blogs/politics/2012/03/nra-pushed-for-stand-your-ground-laws/" style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">ABC News</a> story: "Do a quick search for 'Stand Your Ground' on the National Rifle Association’s website and the first video result features the story of a Florida man exonerated of murder charges in January 2012 under the State’s 'Stand Your Ground' law." </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">Writer Michael Ono goes on to observe: "The pro-gun group championed the passage of the original law in Florida back in 2004 and lobbied to pass similar legislation in other states, according to the Center for Public Integrity. In light of the recent controversy, the NRA has stalled its lobbying efforts in to pass the law in Alaska, according to Bloomberg News."</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;">The NRA has long been aware of the emotion of fear as a great motivator, and in most cases, the motivation is increased gun sales. When will we as a nation get wise to the truth? Though the NRA membership includes thousands of sane, law-abiding citizens who are safely in observance of their Constitutional rights, the Association's bureaucratic and lobbying arms are not reflective of these ideals. Were I a gun owner myself, I might consider it high time to withhold my annual dues until Wayne LaPierre and his ilk get out of the business of state sanctioned death as a method of increasing sales.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">George Zimmerman: "not guilty," according to strict tenets of the law maybe, but by no means innocent. The NRA and "Stand Your Ground" laws: Zimmerman's accomplices with Trayvon Martin's blood all over their hands. </span></span></div>
Becky Sarwatehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07712085011707609713noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7239687664481382904.post-24932078239715788152013-07-10T15:06:00.000-05:002013-07-10T15:06:28.439-05:00Four Years and 60 Days
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Although the seeds began to germinate long before, the title
reflects the exact length of time it took this blogger to realize her fullest
potential. </div>
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<br /></div>
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It was May 2009, age 30, when I finally located the chutzpah
to relinquish a stable career in corporate operations to strike out as a
professional writer. Three people who knew me intimately enabled this Great
Leap Forward: my beloved sister Jenny, well acquainted with my bookishness and
passion for social issues, as well as a frustrating tendency to play it safe;
the tireless Dr. T., my longtime shrink, who patiently retrained me to believe
it ok to want for myself; and my ex-husband, who provided the financial safety
net without which I could never have considered the risk. Two of these three
people are still very large parts of my life, and while the ex is now past, I
am forever grateful to him for believing in my talent enough to temporarily
underwrite it.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Those first efforts at professional writing were low paid,
plentiful, and in retrospect, somewhat embarrassing. There wasn’t a job I
didn’t say “yes” to, and apparently, no such thing as a run-on sentence. I
stumbled upon an amazing female mentor, the Editor-in-Chief of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">StreetWise</i>, a local Chicago newspaper,
who trusted me with six feature stories that year, despite a wholesale lack of
journalism experience. She also introduced me to the accomplished ladies of the
Illinois Woman’s Press Association, an organization of communication
professionals founded in 1885. Upon joining the group, I enjoyed regular
fellowship, networking opportunities and lo and behold, state and national
awards for the urban agriculture pieces Suzanne challenged me to write.</div>
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As the demands of a nascent career expanded to include
Chicago theater criticism, a weekly political column and achingly confessional
blog, my profile began to rise, spare time began to fall and my marriage
started to unravel. My version of Sophie’s Choice became clearer: relinquish
heretofore-inexperienced professional satisfaction or the love of my life. Gut
wrenchingly, painfully, debilitatingly, I opted for the latter. To say I never
looked back would be a colossal lie. For the better part of a year after the
initial separation, my head turned in circles with alarming speed, like the possessed
child from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Exorcist. </i>Alone, broke
and panicked, I waited for someone with authority to bless me, to provide
reassurance that I hadn’t thrown it all away for nothing.</div>
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Two and a half years of progressive responsibility followed:
a temporary resume writer, an entry level web content production and project
management position at a small publishing firm, culminating in a Head Writer
role at a successful Direct Response TV marketing company. In the latter two
spots, I became a better communicator. I learned to craft marketing content
with succinct, actionable clarity (run-on sentences, never a solid sales pitch
make). I learned to edit and revise not only my own work, but that of others. I
found my voice and learned when to say “not yet,” beginning to trust my skills
and experience. I felt it slowly, in increments. Yes, I was born to do this. I
was in the right place.</div>
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Until I wasn’t. Until I found myself suddenly and
spectacularly unemployed 60 days ago and I worried that the incremental growth
of my career might come to a screeching halt. Hadn’t I spent hours reading
anecdotes and talking with talented, amazing friends who’d been out of work for
six months, a year or more? Didn’t I know a plethora of fascinating people who
struggled to have their resume viewed? I was no different from any of them, and
in many cases, far less accomplished.</div>
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I did have one advantage. After just three years of regular
membership and two years of serving on the board as the group’s Newsletter
Editor/Social Media Strategist, my fellow IWPA colleagues saw fit to elect me
as the Association’s 47<sup>th</sup> President, a stunning development I have
yet to fully comprehend. Though the work is volunteer in nature, work it
certainly is: administrative manager, cheerleader, public relations,
recruitment and retention, strategic planning. Sworn in just days after I lost
my full-time job, the IWPA promotion seemed to lend a legitimacy I struggled to
feel. I’d been vetted and verified by the vaunted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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I filed for unemployment insurance. I applied ad nauseum. I
temped. I took to the bed a couple times, unwashed, unfed, existentially
haunted. Planning is impossible for those waiting in the crosshairs. </div>
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Then yesterday: the phone call. The Human Resources
recruiter I’d been working with sounded stern and serious. Like a World War II
widow shakily opening a telegram with Earth-shattering news she can already
sense in her marrow, I braced myself to hear that I’d be the bridesmaid again.
Stoically, I uttered the one word question: “Yes?” </div>
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This time was different. I was chosen. No screw that. I’d
made it happen. Three interviews, one personality test, a nationwide background
check, written references and a credit report later, I’m the new Marketing
Manager at a multi-billion dollar, privately-held company. I’m President of the
IWPA and in late August, I’ll travel to Salt Lake City to pick up an award from
the National Federation of Press Women – Best Personal Blog of 2012. At this
very instant, I find it difficult to believe it gets any better. It was all so
worth it: the loose ends, the divorce, the ensuing depression, migraines and
cancer, the poverty, the estrangement, the obscurity, the lost health coverage,
fear and shame. </div>
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Four years and 60 days of doubt and recrimination. Four
years and 60 days of “You’ll never make it. You’ll be sorry. Who do you think
you are? How do you dare? (a voice that sounded remarkably like my own).” Four
years and 60 days of introductions, writing samples and oh so much rejection.
Four years and 60 days of growing-pain filled evolution that makes today a
brilliantly lit vindication of a neurotic 30 year-old’s wonder. “What if
there’s something else I’m meant to do?”</div>
Becky Sarwatehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07712085011707609713noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7239687664481382904.post-82572519804310352772013-06-24T13:10:00.003-05:002013-07-15T14:31:10.835-05:00Supermoon and the Stanley Cup<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_7Rgi2b56PcISoa4A518wXLt-o_4saS8mrOVWXJoF5sAxiGIcOwZ4jFYZGBavhfh215j6fPkaOZJm7S0gF6PaKgmHYiBuDzhyphenhyphen-Y3S-_IZcTaWhD8yjc_QSQtopTghxpZCAGAxj8jsJZTr/s1600/Supermoon+and+The+Stanley+Cup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="background-color: black; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: white;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_7Rgi2b56PcISoa4A518wXLt-o_4saS8mrOVWXJoF5sAxiGIcOwZ4jFYZGBavhfh215j6fPkaOZJm7S0gF6PaKgmHYiBuDzhyphenhyphen-Y3S-_IZcTaWhD8yjc_QSQtopTghxpZCAGAxj8jsJZTr/s320/Supermoon+and+The+Stanley+Cup.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></span>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">Since May 9, 2013, "normal life" has been in an extended holding pattern. That was the day that I unexpectedly lost my full-time job and embarked on an exhausting scramble for temporary solvency and long-term employment security. These two goals overlap in the slightest of ways: the former designed to supplement unemployment insurance benefits and keep my household afloat, the latter a strategic, big-picture mission intended to provide career and bottom-line satisfaction for the next five years or so. The tension between these two immediately necessary concerns has resulted in late nights temping at a digital advertising agency in downtown Chicago, while slotting in phone and face to face interviews wherever possible. I have in the past likened my daily life to that of a plate spinning act on 1970s oddity fest, <em>The Gong Show</em>, but now the analogy has never seemed more appropriate.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">The plates that I've had to let drop over the last six weeks include some serious sacred cows: the more-effective-than-antidepressants exercise routine, the bandwidth to visit my Cousin Carla and her latest arrival, my new nephew Bradley and the treasured romantic partnership, currently molting between first year infatuation and the steady, cohabiting rhythm of daily routine. Under different circumstances, today would also be a day of hitting "refresh" every five minutes on nytimes.com, awaiting a series of key decisions from the Supreme Court of the United States that relate to marriage equality, affirmative action and the college admissions process and more. Instead, I am staring at my Gmail inbox and waiting for the phone to ring, having completed the final interviewing stage with two very different, yet equally exciting companies. The fact that both of these outfits gave me a Friday deadline for determining a soul-crushing return to square one, versus a buoyant restoration of dignity, has done little to stop me from staring at the kettle. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">As I stumbled in the door last Friday afternoon, bleary-eyed and exhausted after four consecutive days of branding and advertising in front of committees with the power to render me professionally relevant again, I promised myself a break. Two days of relative normalcy where I would sleep, immerse myself in the Chicago Blackhawks' Stanley Cup run and see what all the supermoon fuss was about. The edge-of-seat freneticism would surely return Monday morning (yep).</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">Wikipedia describes the supermoon phenomenon as "the coincidence of a full moon or a new moon with the closest approach the Moon makes to the Earth on its elliptical orbit, resulting in the largest apparent size of the lunar disk as seen from Earth." I think this makes a great metaphor for the professional crossroads at which I sit. Will the specter of possibility, looming large above my head, sit with fleeting promise before retreating unmemorably back into its regular position? Or will I be able to capture and hold that energy, bigger and brighter than I was before?</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">The Stanley Cup Series offers another accessible parallel for present circumstances. For it was Summer 2010 when I last cheered the black and red on their way to an eventual championship - the last year I faced a fork in the career road. Inside a foundering marriage, underpaid and underwhelmed in a full-time position afield of my stated goals, I channeled hope into the Hawks' improbable ascent. If a team that had been so terrible for most of my life could reach this ascent, surely anything was possible.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black;"><span style="color: white;">The last time the supermoon was visible was May 2012. So here we all are again: the bright, beautiful celestial body reminding humans of their innate smallness, the upstart sports team attempting to prove that their first trophy of the decade was no fluke, and me, the struggling writer desperate for additional career path vindication. The moon left its aesthetic imprint on those who ventured outdoors, not to be seen again until late 2014. The Hawks return to Beantown for Game 6 after dominating the Bruins at home last Saturday, momentum decidedly on their side. And me? Well, even I have learned never to count myself out. </span></span></div>
Becky Sarwatehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07712085011707609713noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7239687664481382904.post-89803201954595280632013-06-13T15:14:00.000-05:002013-06-13T15:17:32.226-05:00Mad Men Season 1: The Temp<br />
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<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12pt;">Although
I have 12 years’ expertise in the fields of Corporate and Marketing
Communications, I have historically been locked out from positions where
“agency experience is preferred.” I’ve never understood this. What is
the difference, I ask you, in positioning a brand for an internal client
(your own company) versus an external one? In either scenario, failure
to get it right puts you at risk of losing the “account.” In fact I
would argue that when the client is your boss, you have a lot more at
stake, like your job and health insurance. As the character of Don
Draper likes to say, “The day you sign a client is the day you start
losing them.” At an agency, client dissatisfaction is a blow, but there
will be others.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12pt;">Officially,
I should not face this exclusion dilemma anymore. I’m heading toward
the end of my fourth week as a temporary Proofreader at a high-profile
digital advertising agency in downtown Chicago. Initially, I was only
supposed to last five days but after converting a weeklong job into half
of that time, the invitation to stay another week has been regularly
repeated.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12pt;">Of course as a rabid fan of the popular AMC drama <i>Mad Men</i>,
and gifted with a wistful imagination, I was certain this was my chance to
make like a swinging Madison Avenue power player. Visions of barking at
my “girl,” commanding “Get me Jaguar on the phone! Now!” swam in my
mind. Late morning cocktails, afternoon naps on the office couch,
exquisitely tailored suits. Oh the fun I would have – minus the constant
plumes of cigarette smoke.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12pt;">Turns
out that life at the bottom of the ad agency food chain is not the
flashy glamour fest I envisioned. While I do get the late nights at the
office and the free catered dinners that accompany after hours drudgery,
I am not exchanging witty banter with Roger Sterling, getting soused on
Old Fashioneds or engaging in blame game pissing wars with the accounts
team. I look and feel much like Peggy Olson did on that very first
episode of <i>MM – </i>nervous, ponytailed, possibly overdressed and eager for adventure, only to experience it vicariously by observing the insiders.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12pt;">At
the very least my expectations of boisterous office horseplay have come
to fruition. It is Thursday afternoon and I have witnessed all of the
following this week:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12pt;">1.<span style="font: 7pt 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12pt;">A gentleman doing a non-contextualized soft shoe atop a conference room table.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0.1pt 0in 0.1pt 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12pt;">2.<span style="font: 7pt 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12pt;">Mail cart drag races down the hallway, complete with crashes, injuries and first aid relief.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0.1pt 0in 0.1pt 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12pt;">3.<span style="font: 7pt 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12pt;">A sleep-deprived intern walking into a glass door.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0.1pt 0in 0.1pt 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12pt;">4.<span style="font: 7pt 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12pt;">Furtive office flirting replete with closed doors and hushed whispers.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12pt;">It
turns out that being an observer of chicanery, a chronicler if you
will, rather than a direct participant, suits me. I don’t know these
people and when my assignment ends, they will fade into my memory just
as I will escape their collective consciousness. I have no real stake in
the game and that permits me to let the experience wash over me,
evaporating on my skin, leaving no permanent stain. I pause. I share a
good-natured grin with other bystanders. I go back to my temporary desk.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0.1pt 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12pt;">Only an updated resume will prove I was here. </span></div>
Becky Sarwatehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07712085011707609713noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7239687664481382904.post-28238032445622818332013-06-04T09:52:00.000-05:002013-06-04T09:52:31.241-05:00The Best Blog in America?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
Four and a half years ago, in the middle of January 2009, I began my blogging career with these words:<br /><br />"I'd
like to thank my dear younger sister for letting me in on this action. I
don't know about all that 'smart one' stuff since she is the one who
got something off the ground that I have only talked ad nauseum about
doing myself. I may have the Master's in English Lit., but sometimes we
overeducated end up being the most stagnant."<br /><br />And it's true,
without that first push toward online confession from my younger sister
Jennifer, I have good reason to doubt that I would have let a closet
writer's burning ambition see the light of day. I earned a comfortable
living in those days as a manager of corporate standards, and came home
each evening to make dinner for my then-husband. I had a clearly defined
purpose that hid rather well some painful internal chafing. I was not!
(screamed my buried soul) cut out for paperwork, motherhood and meal
planning. There is nothing inherently wrong with those roles and for
many women, filling them provides intense personal satisfaction, but the
farther I traveled down the path of rote domesticity, the closer I
moved to its expected tollgates, the more certain I became that I was
lost.<br /><br />Jenny knew it. And she wouldn't let me pretend otherwise.
If I were lacking in personal bravery, well then she'd start the blog,
give it a name and a theme and set me up as an administrator. No slouch a
communicator herself, she produced the first few posts - in the voice
of a harried, swamped suburban career woman, wife and mother - and
challenged me to set myself apart.<br /><br />That original blog, <a href="http://whichendisup2day.blogspot.com/2009/01/sex-and-city-vs-suburbs.html">Which End is Up!?</a>,
"An in-depth look at the life of two very different Chicago sisters as
it happens," evolved over time, eventually becoming the one-voice forum
that I secretly believe Jenny always intended it to be. Months passed
and as I gained a following, confidence and a certain amount of
prolificacy, I migrated over to the Open Salon platform where <a href="http://open.salon.com/blog/becky_boop">Contemplating the U.S. Navel</a> was born. <br /><br />Through
practice and self-discovery, I discovered a genuine passion for
deconstructing our nation's increasingly fractured and broken political
system. A long series of posts examining these themes led to
professional recruitment from <a href="http://rootspeak.org/contributors/?Becky_Sarwate">RootSpeak</a> magazine in the form of a weekly column. When RootSpeak went on hiatus, I landed at <a href="http://www.politicususa.com/author/sarwater">PoliticusUSA</a>
where I've enjoyed my largest readership to date. That first push
toward blogging from my baby sister has led to a diverse and satisfying
professional writing career that includes national awards for journalism
(the explosion of urban agriculture), newsletter editing (PenPoints,
the quarterly communication of the <a href="http://www.iwpa.org/index.htm">Illinois Woman's Press Association</a>) and theater criticism.<br /><br />And
now it is in June 2013 that I have a sense of a fledgling
communications career (because a writer can never be too comfortable or
established) coming full circle. For it is this year that the contest
judges of National Federation of Press Women have deemed this very blog
the best in the nation.<br /><br />I still can't quite process and accept
the mind-bending honor. For writing without varnish (and some in my life
might argue, too nakedly) about the triple challenges of <a href="http://open.salon.com/blog/becky_boop/2012/06/26/bald_insecurity">alopecia</a>, <a href="http://open.salon.com/blog/becky_boop/2012/04/24/americas_health_care_system_is_still_broken_part_ii">cancer</a>
and divorce in 2012, I will travel to Salt Lake City to receive a honor
the Becky of January 2009 could only experience as a daydream.<br /><br />It's
beautiful and satisfying whenever one's work is recognized by an
esteemed body, but when that work is the very lifeblood and selfhood
capsized across the screen, the victory becomes so much more gratifying -
and humbling. The award I will collect from the NFPW at the end of
August is not just a celebration of my words, it's a vindication of my
voice, my experience. The emotions and thoughts I vomit onto the
keyboard nearly every week are my most authentic self and somehow, a
conglomerate of respected peers have deemed that worthy of consumption
and acknowledgment.<br /><br />I never got into blogging with ideas of
grandeur. I always assumed that if anyone outside my immediate family
read the words, I'd already won. Blogging was therapy, a way of
wondering aloud on so many topics: "If this is how it's supposed to be,
then how come...?" <br /><br />But it now appears that the attempt to make
sense of my self and the world around me has spoken to others. When I
read this judge's feedback, I cried for that young, inexperienced 2009
self who had no idea she could use prose to speak to faceless others,
badly inept at self-expression as she'd been to that point:<br /><br />"This
writer has no problem tapping a vein and bleeding onto the page, but
she does so with humor and style. My kind of writing! Definitely worth
the prize.""Becky Sarwatehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07712085011707609713noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7239687664481382904.post-87370617483898758472013-05-21T13:18:00.000-05:002013-05-21T13:18:08.323-05:00A Weekend At the Movies<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
The <em>Great Gatsby</em> occupies a place on my Top 10 List of All-Time
Great Novels. The number assignment changes according to an assortment
of variables. For example, if I am feeling particularly frustrated with
the indefatigable dominance of patriarchal ideology, Gatsby and another
favorite, Hemingway's<em> The Sun Also Rises</em>, suffer the
consequences. While my rebellious streak can never condemn them as other
than brilliant works of literature, the books' abhorrent depictions of
female silliness and vapidity (not, to be forthright, that the male
protagonists fare much better), tend to grate with more intensity during
these moods.<br /><br />And so it was that I suspended a healthy dose of
skepticism and nurtured some genuine excitement over the release of Baz
Luhrmann's take on the F. Scott Fitzgerald classic. Luhrmann, director
of such favorites as <em>Romeo and Juliet</em> (starring Claire Danes and Leonardo DiCaprio) and <em>Moulin Rouge</em>
(Nicole Kidman and Ewan McGregor), is known for dazzling visual
spectacles and over the top musical numbers. Gatsby, a cautionary tale
of fame, delusion and excess, seemed ripe for the Aussie maestro's
cinematic touch.<br /><br />I did some investigating and discovered that the
local movie palace just two and a half blocks from my apartment
building, small, affordable and boasting a full bar (you really haven't
lived until you've seen the epic <em>Lincoln</em> on the big screen
while piss drunk), had gussied itself up with 3-D technology. But while I
took a look at the show times for the day, working up an impassioned
plea for companionship to deliver to my partner JC, my eyes fixated in
horror. Just under the listings for Gatsby, I saw it: <em>Star Trek Into Darkness</em>. Shit.<br /><br />JC
is a man of science: an avowed atheist, purveyor of logic and the man
who bored me to tears just last night with exclamations of wonder over a
formula for predicting the likelihood of random molecules generating
life. We've both got the left side of the brain working (Hey! Creative
types like logic too!), but I prefer to wallow in the intuitive,
thoughtful, subjective realms in general. But as I mentioned, I tend my
left side too and I suddenly knew with absolute certainty that there was
no way I could talk my man into visiting the Jazz Age without a quid
pro quo. I would need to travel to space: the final frontier.<br /><br />A deal was struck and we did <em>Star Trek</em> Saturday evening, the legend of Jay Gatsby on Sunday. Here's the result for which I wasn't prepared. I really, really liked <em>Into Darkness</em>.
I had made a diet-busting selection of giant popcorn, Raisenets and a
trough of fountain Cherry Coke before we settled into our seats. The
idea was that if the film bored me, the food coma would carry me through
the credits. But the backup plan proved unnecessary: solid dialogue and
character development with some really cool visuals in service of a
good story. Not much more I could have asked. Also, I like this
incarnation of sexy, struggling with his humanity Spock. Yum. <br /><br />The same, depressingly, could not be said of the much-anticipated <em>Gatsby</em>.
There was, by comparison, a curious lack of humanity. Like the titular
character himself, the film was all glitz and no substance. I was
intrigued by the Roaring 20s meets Hip-Hop soundtrack, the screen
presence of Leo and the amazingly youthful face of Tobey McGuire, but
all other elements were either too much or not enough. Too much party,
too lifeless a Daisy, too much delusion and ennui (on the part of the
filmmaker), not enough fidelity to the original narrative or respect for
the unspoken nuance. <br /><br />And so I learned an important lesson about
presumption during this weekend at the movies: don't judge the
prospective validity of art by source material prejudices. I would read <em>The Great Gatsby</em>
in Pig Latin a hundred times over before I'd touch a science fiction
tome. But literature and film are two different mediums, and after four
failed attempts from big Hollywood heavyweights, maybe it's time to
leave the cautionary tale of Jay Gatsby to print. Becky Sarwatehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07712085011707609713noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7239687664481382904.post-84508773769471687752013-05-15T10:16:00.000-05:002013-05-15T10:16:32.752-05:00I Don't: Unmarried, Ignorant Bliss<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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As many know, by the age of 33, I was a two-time loser at matrimony. The
second divorce was particularly shattering and in the fallout, I sort
of arrived at the conclusion that I wasn't entirely sure why I'd said "I
do" in the first place (or second). To be certain, love was the
motivation in both cases, but I'm not much for orthodoxy. I never looked
at marriage in the more historically traditional sense - a strategic
alliance of families, the consolidation or gain of wealth and status. <br />
<br />
I
did not require a legal union to provide me social cover or legitimize
my life choices, though I failed to understand this at the time(s).
Neither failed relationship produced a child, perhaps one of the few
decisions rendered with foresight. For all I can figure, and the
reasoning feels as weak in the present as I always sensed somewhere that
it was in the past, I married for love because well, I didn't know any
other way. It's what you were supposed to do according to the WASPy
values with which I'd been raised. The fact that these values had borne
themselves out time and again to be nefarious and illusory didn't quite
register for a young woman of age 23, and 29, searching for acceptance
and legitimacy.<br /><br />After the ink dried on the second set of divorce
papers, I vowed to hang up my wedding dress (pleather skirt and sari, in
practice) for good. I'm not bitter. For those who seem to know what to
do with it, the institution of marriage is a powerful and wonderful
phenomenon. What could be bigger than standing in front of a crowd
swearing lifelong allegiance to a mate, to feel that level of confidence
in oneself and another? But for a woman with whom permanence was always
more of an ideal than a reality, starting with derelict, absent
parentage, I've found myself far more comfortable with transitory
commitments. At the age of 34, I've reinvented myself nearly as many
times as Madonna. Though a more definite idea of who I am has begun to
coalesce in the last couple of years, I can't expect a binding
commitment from another when I have yet to bestow one on myself.<br /><br />None
of this means I have shut myself out from the opportunity to attach to
someone and grow with them. That's precisely what I am doing with JC. I
have thrown out the faulty road maps and guide books. There's no
timeline or real plan. The controlling, information gluttonous aspects
of my personality were initially uncomfortable without an answer to the
question: "Where is this going?" For the first time, I've decided to
participate in the journey, enjoy it rather than fast forward to the
conclusion. Because I've trudged on with the nagging realization that
things will not end happily in the past and where did that leave me
other than exhausted? If this show is a tragedy, I'll find out at the
end like everyone else. The mutual love and friendship are there. That's
all I need to know today. Becky Sarwatehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07712085011707609713noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7239687664481382904.post-8177707556158103352013-05-09T11:53:00.001-05:002013-05-09T11:53:09.918-05:00Keep Your Thongs & Heels<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
During the summer of 2010, I suffered a stress fracture on the
underside of my right foot, the product of overzealous running in poorly
padded shoes. The break took over a year to heal completely and as I
rehabbed, a metamorphosis that began in my late 20s completed its cycle.
Never a fan of sky-high, welt-producing footwear to begin, a full-on
conversion to sensible shoes became the new paradigm. If the shoe wasn't
hiking boot, sneaker or flip flop, color me uninterested. <br />
<br />I considered my general, lifelong aversion to the platform wedge anew as a result of the thoughtful piece <a href="http://wqebelle.blogspot.ca/2012/08/whats-with-high-heels.html?zx=85f4bb6c947747e7">What's up with high heels?</a>,
written by my friend and fellow author William Quincy Belle. In the
essay, Belle delivers scientific insight into the popularity of kitten
heels and a theory as to why both sexes are drawn to their effects on
the feminine shape. Citing the biological phenomenon of "lordosis
behavior," Belle wittily describes it as "a physical sexual posture seen
in female animals. The back is arched inward (ventral arching) which
helps to elevate the hips as an invitation to mate and as an aid in
intercourse. Yes, this shows up in the Kama Sutra but is better known on
the street as doggy style."<br /><br />It is hypothesized that that simple
act of stepping into heels creates a sexual environment - for wearer as
well as audience. With the arched posture that only a heel can foment, a
woman harnesses her powers of attraction, directly and indirectly
eliciting an aroused reaction from admiring menfolk. We can't help this
pattern we're told. It's wired into our DNA. Belle makes a rather
compelling argument.<br /><br />But how then to explain the outliers? The
ladies like myself who have generally tended to prize function over
form? When Belle circulated his post via his personal Facebook page, I
found myself participating in this brief but enlightening discussion:<br /><br /><strong>Becky Sarwate</strong>: I am immune to the apparently siren call. I never find discomfort sexy. Guess I am alone in that amongst my gender.<br /><strong><br />Friend of Belle</strong>: Right there with you Becky Sarwate... I think I can generate plenty of sexual heat w/o heels.<br /><br /><strong>Becky Sarwate</strong>: Friend, maybe we should start an awareness group. There must be more of our kind. Sexy in Sneakers!<br /><br />So
I'm wondering, are there more of us out there? Is there a small but
vibrant minority of women who reject the very notion that we have to
move through the day in pinched irritation in order to look and feel our
best? If so, where are my sisters? In my own circle, I have several
talented, educated, brilliant friends who will walk over hot coals in
rocky terrain wearing four-inch heels, women who otherwise use logic to
spin the various plates of life, as a matter of course. When queried as
to why good sense goes out the window when it comes to sartorial
aesthetics, the answer is generally some version of, "Because I look
fabulous!" But ask why again, and the speaker invariably reverts to a
defensive crouch of justifications that ring hollow, as if they've
broken the assertive control displayed in other daily spheres in order
to read from a script.<br /><br />Maybe Belle's theory is right and the lure
of heels is simple, unavoidable biology. But why then have I found
them, and their companion in shapely vexation, thong underwear, so
repellent? Yes, I hate physical discomfort but after careful
consideration, I own that my distaste is more sharp and visceral than
simple malaise. <br /><br />I bristle at the suggestion that by forgoing
the spikes, I've chosen the persona of tree-climbing tomboy, or have
given up trying to follow the rules of attraction. I enjoy an active,
diverse sex life and find nothing shameful in the declaration. Sex has
never been taboo for me, nor has it been psychologically verboten to
consider new ways to attract members of the other gender. I like to
dress thoughtfully and apply makeup with care. I just don't see the
point of primping below the kneecaps. I want my partner's gaze trained
on my eyes and mouth. I don't find feet very sexy. <br /><br />So is that
it? A desire for comfort combined with an anti-foot fetish (with all
respect to NFL coach Rex Ryan and his wife)? Perhaps another chapter in
the story of patriarchal ideology rejection that is increasingly coming
to define my life's journey?Becky Sarwatehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07712085011707609713noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7239687664481382904.post-13765089391535408032013-04-25T10:19:00.000-05:002013-04-25T10:19:23.987-05:00April 2013 Is the Cruelest Month<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
I have been struggling this month my friends. Struggling to write,
struggling to exercise. Many days I'm struggling to get out of bed,
though insomniac tossing and turning allows no comfort. It's not exactly
a state secret that I war with depression now and again. In addition to
emotional ennui's position as the cliched birthright of the author,
it's been a full frontal assault and I haven't enough weapons.<br /><br />The
weather is enough to engender a Midwestern Seasonal Affective Disorder
pandemic. I saw a Facebook status morning that neatly summed it up,
"We've having a lovely winter this spring." Keen observation of the
air's lingering chill aside, it really hasn't been lovely at all, has
it? My fellow Chicagoans will perhaps join me in observing that it isn't
often we can call in "rain" to the office. Yet last week Thursday
morning, that's just what a majority of students and workers were forced
to do. Mother Nature assailed us with up to eight inches of
precipitation in slightly above 24 hours. I have never seen such a
sustained downpour, but I was safe and warm in my apartment. The
thousands still grappling with flooded basements and ruined memories are
the source of my sorrow.<br /><br />Then we have the terrorism, ricin
letters, explosions and public executions which are becoming the stuff
of daily domestic headline. It's not Tel Aviv in 1984. It's Boston in
2013 replete with high speed chases, car jackings and robberies.
Honestly, I am more comfortable than ever with my decision to remain
childless this month. I don't want to have to explain this broken,
deadly partisan and cruel society to anyone. We're hyperconnected yet
increasingly isolated, more mercenary than Gordon Gekko could have
imagined. And we're being led down the rabbit hole by national leaders
who cannot pass reforms approved by 90 percent of Americans, laws
designed to make purchasing an instrument of death slightly more
challenging than obtaining cold medicine<br /><br />This pungent month does
not want to stop at threatening weather and dysfunctional, destructive
events that make one assume a whimpering fetal position. Nope. On top of
the regular global warming and existential human questions, myself and
many of my loved ones have been gifted with disquieting personal
challenges. I can say for myself that my romantic partner was injured
and rushed to the hospital earlier this week in an industrial accident,
which included a total information blackout and mindless race to his
side that stopped the world for an hour (mercifully, JC is going to be
fine). I've undergone tremendous professional upheaval and today, April
25, marks the four-year anniversary of the premature death of my high
school mate, <a href="http://open.salon.com/blog/becky_boop/2010/08/17/sht_jesika_said">Jesika Thompson</a>.
My best friend lost an egregiously short 17-day battle with ovarian
cancer at the age of 30 and while we share many happy memories, none of
us who loved her will ever be the same.<br /><br />I am not trying to
justify my lethargy. It's there whether I want it or not, and honestly,
I'd prefer the distraction of the constant movement to which I'm
accustomed. By my mind and spirit are trapped under multi-ton boulders
this month and it's making it hard to breathe. <br /><br />I realize that
the simple transition to May has no direct correlation with the shift in
toxic anti-mojo I desperately desire. On behalf of myself and the
Newtown families, the Boston bombing victims and their loved ones and
everyone else facing an exhausting cluster of defiance this month, the
movement of a couple dates promises no release. But let's try it anyway,
shall we?Becky Sarwatehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07712085011707609713noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7239687664481382904.post-65383047397509608642013-04-11T13:04:00.002-05:002013-04-11T13:08:16.249-05:00What Margaret Thatcher Meant to Me<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12.0000pt; font-style: normal; mso-spacerun: 'yes';">As
an American child born in 1978, I recognize that I was not personally
impacted by the "Iron Lady's" apparently cold personality and extremely
conservative views and agenda. I cannot identify with the vindication
presently experienced by the "Battle of Orgreave" miners, a group who
appear to have ample reason to wish ill upon Thatcher's soul. While I
feel a certain level of repugnance toward a group of men who have
adopted the slogan, "I enjoy a good swim. But if someone asked me what
my favourite stroke was I'd say Maggie Thatcher's," I understand that I
haven't walked a mile in their shoes. I wasn't there when Thatcher's
anti-union reactionarism all but decimated a number of English
working-class towns, and the livelihoods that went with them.<br /><br />I
know that in my own country, I have borne witness to the rise and reign
of Reagan conservatism, a phenomenon that has stratified personal
wealth, creating a seemingly permanent underclass of hard-working,
law-abiding citizens even as corporate criminals and the top one percent
have reaped exponentially larger profit margins. I know that when my
parents came of age, the words "homelessness," "AIDS" and "crack" were
not part of the national lexicon and that in numerous ways, the
"compassionate conservatism" of George W. Bush only worsened a number of
these social crises. I am aware that Thatcher and Reagan enjoyed an
intensely warm relationship and I can only infer from anecdotal evidence
that the Average Joe has much to lament from this historical meeting of
the minds.<br /><br />But I am also a woman. And I can tell you from
personal experience that when it comes to discussing Thatcher's legacy,
that's a tough space to occupy. <br /><br />As an impressionable grade
school student and avid reader in search of role models (finding none at
home), I came across a series called <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Margaret-Thatcher-Women-Our-Time/dp/0140321608" target="_blank"><i>Women of Our Time</i></a>
in the library of my tiny Lutheran place of learning. Marketed to
children in the third to sixth grade range, the series offered abridged,
age-appropriate biographies of some of the most important, female
public figures of the day. The book devoted to the life and career of
Margaret Thatcher was the first selected and devoured. I went on to
procure every other title in my parochial school's limited holdings, and
was thus introduced to such figures as activist Winnie Mandela, painter
Grandma Moses and humanitarian Mother Teresa.<br /><br />For profound
reasons, and despite the fact that I have read thousands of novels and
biographies since that time, I have never forgotten that series, or the
first female subject I encountered. I was able to take for granted that
it was perfectly normal for a woman with Aqua Net helmet hair, a string
of pearls and a handbag to oversee the business of the second most
powerful democracy. From the vantage point of 2013, I envy my younger
self, as yet unaware that there would be presumptive lawmakers,
overreaching religious factions and male supervisors ready with a hair
trigger finger to ignore, roll back or otherwise void the advances of my
gender. <br /><br />As an impressionable third grader, the simplified
biography of Margaret Thatcher taught me that I could be a tough as
nails prime minister - or not. It was my choice and nobody else's. I
carried that self-confidence with me everywhere and used it as a blunt
instrument to protect myself when family, society and religion began to
tell me "no."<br /><br />And that's what Margaret Thatcher means to me - a
symbol, an idea, an ambition. I've progressed passed the junior lit.
phase of my academic discovery. I do not canonize Thatcher. She stood
for much that I abhor. But I cannot join in some of the hyper-liberal
celebrations of her demise. To do so would be to wrong the opened vistas
her very existence promised my younger self.</span>Becky Sarwatehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07712085011707609713noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7239687664481382904.post-70460068627881629762013-04-05T19:17:00.000-05:002013-04-05T19:17:37.167-05:00Roger and Me<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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Not since the 2008 passing of former <i>Meet the Press </i>moderator,
seasoned journalist and accomplished author Tim Russert has the death of a
celebrity or public figure hit me this hard. I am referring of course, to the
sad news of legendary film critic Roger Ebert’s expiration yesterday, following
a long and public battle with various cancers. I spent most of last evening
drinking wine and reading some of Ebert’s classic meditations on the afterlife
and the collapse of Chicago’s once grand movie palaces through sorrowful tears.
As was the case with Mr. Russert’s untimely demise, I felt bereft, quite as if
a friend or family member I knew intimately had left a gaping wound that could
only be treated by traveling backward and savoring the witty, intellectual
memories.</div>
<div class="p0">
<br /></div>
<div class="p0">
During the course of this binge, I ran into an essay Ebert wrote
for <i>The Wall Street Journal</i> in 2010. Entitled “Why I Loathe Top 10 Film
Lists,” it turns out that the man who rose to fame in part for his ability to
determine quality via rank, actually had no taste for the task. But among many
wonderful attributes the icon possessed, a sense of humor was decidedly one of
them. So it is with a purposeful mix of gratitude, respect and good-natured
ribbing that I present my parting gift to the man whose erudite musings on
film, politics, pop culture and life in general will inspire my own work for as
long as I am able to do it.</div>
<div class="p0">
<br /></div>
<div class="p0">
<br /></div>
<div class="p0">
<b>The Top 10 Things I Learned from Roger Ebert</b></div>
<div class="p0">
<br /></div>
<div class="p0" style="margin-left: .5in; text-indent: -.25in;">
1. Be a Lifelong
Student</div>
<div class="p0">
<br /></div>
<div class="p0">
Did you know that Ebert was a doctoral candidate at the University
of Chicago in the 1960s, studying English Literature, even while employed as a
general reporter for the <i>Sun-Times</i>? I didn’t until yesterday and dammit,
this little nugget only increased my respect. But beyond traditional academic
learning, the critic was a pupil of the world. Long after he lost his audible
voice, Ebert was still looking for information and answers to some of life’s
greatest mysteries. Complacency and arrogance are boring and lead to mental
stagnation. He understood this - a huge reason his work continued to connect
across a career that spanned nearly half a century.</div>
<div class="p0">
<br /></div>
<div class="p0" style="margin-left: .5in; text-indent: -.25in;">
2. Writers May Enjoy
Diverse, Satisfying Careers Without Moving To New York City or L.A.</div>
<div class="p0">
<br /></div>
<div class="p0">
Robert Ebert was born and raised in Urbana, IL, enjoyed most of his
career highlights in the Windy City and literally put Chicago on the film
criticism map. To this day, most aspiring writers are under the impression that
a stint in the traditional publishing and Hollywood scriptwriting centers is
the only way to be “seen.” Ebert did it his way and in process, collected a
Pulitzer Prize, a hit syndicated television program and millions of
enthusiastic readers. Following his example, I have cultivated a four-year
freelance theater criticism career – over 700 miles away from Broadway.</div>
<div class="p0">
<br /></div>
<div class="p0" style="margin-left: .5in; text-indent: -.25in;">
3. Late Bloomers Rock</div>
<div class="p0">
<br /></div>
<div class="p0">
I didn’t get my first period until I was almost 15 years old, kept
growing until I was 20, had my braces removed at age 31 and didn’t form a
functional adult romantic relationship until I was 33. As odd as these delayed
milestones sometimes made me feel, I was in good company. Because my hero Roger
Ebert segued into the genre that made him famous only after trying and
discarding several other journalism ventures. He also married the love of his
life, wife Chaz, at the ripe old age of 50. </div>
<div class="p0">
<br /></div>
<div class="p0" style="margin-left: .5in; text-indent: -.25in;">
4. Collaborating with
Rivals Can Be Inspiring</div>
<div class="p0" style="margin-left: .25in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="p0">
Ebert famously said that when he was originally asked to co-anchor
the popular show that eventually became <i>At the Movies</i> with his
contemporary, <i>Chicago Tribune</i> critic Gene Siskel, he had little
inclination to team up with “the most hated guy in my life.” Imagine all we
would have missed had Ebert not reconsidered. Taking a page from Abraham
Lincoln’s formula for greatness, Ebert was self-aware and gracious enough to
comprehend that butting heads with adversaries produces the need to consider
and articulate one’s viewpoint in ways that surrounding oneself with sycophants
cannot. </div>
<div class="p0">
<br /></div>
<div class="p0" style="margin-left: .5in; text-indent: -.25in;">
5. You Can Have Strong,
Divisive Opinions and Still Be Universal</div>
<div class="p0">
<br /></div>
<div class="p0">
This claim would seem to be an oxymoron in the overly politicized
and hyper partisan 21<sup>st</sup> century, but Ebert personified it. An avowed
atheist and liberal as well as a stinging pundit gifted with a turn of phrase,
the icon nonetheless engendered almost universal esteem. Film director David
Wain, a frequent target of Ebert’s negative reviews, still felt compelled to
tweet: “Roger Ebert was an ongoing inspiration (if not always a fan) to me and
I am truly, truly saddened by his loss. I will miss him." </div>
<div class="p0">
<br /></div>
<div class="p0" style="margin-left: .5in; text-indent: -.25in;">
6. Be Human First</div>
<div class="p0">
<br /></div>
<div class="p0">
While Ebert made a livelihood out of sharing his unvarnished
opinions with the masses, he was never cruel. The legend always understood that
real people stood behind a piece of work – people with thoughts, feelings and
emotions who poured themselves into a finished product, no matter how wobbly.
As producer Chris Weitz said yesterday, “Rest in Peace, Roger Ebert. You were a
gentleman. Sometimes loved my movies, sometimes hated them, but you were always
fair."</div>
<div class="p0">
<br /></div>
<div class="p0" style="margin-left: .5in; text-indent: -.25in;">
7. Step Outside Your
Comfort Zone</div>
<div class="p0">
<br /></div>
<div class="p0">
If he so chose, Roger Ebert could have played it safe. As a beloved
critic and public figure, there was absolutely no reason for him to risk popular
rejection by accepting director Russ Meyer’s 1970 commission of the screenplay
for cult film <i>Beyond the Valley of the Dolls</i>. But he did it anyway, and
even though the movie was almost universally panned upon its release, Ebert
harbored no regrets. According to a report in the <i>New York Times</i>, “the
film seemed a point of pride for Mr. Ebert, who was paid $15,000 and never
tired of talking about it.”</div>
<div class="p0">
<br /></div>
<div class="p0" style="margin-left: .5in; text-indent: -.25in;">
8. Embrace Change</div>
<div class="p0">
At the time of his death, Ebert had over 800,000 Twitter followers
and was a frequent tweeter. He had an active Facebook fan page and was an avid
blogger. It is important to remember that the man was 70 years old and began
his career when “status updates” meant pulling out the electric typewriter and
mailing the finished product via USPS. Ebert, rather than running scared from
New Media, used it to share his topical musings and promote his brand, even
after cancer had deprived him of the ability to speak. By jumping into the 21<sup>st</sup>
century with both feet, Ebert was able to regain his voice.</div>
<div class="p0">
<br /></div>
<div class="p0" style="margin-left: .5in; text-indent: -.25in;">
9. Physical Challenges
Are Only Limiting As You Allow</div>
<div class="p0">
<br /></div>
<div class="p0">
See above. And there’s this: two days before his death, Ebert took
to his blog to announce a “leave of presence,” that included never-realized
plans to continue reviewing the films he loved. It seems he never got the memo
that illness and disfigurement require you to retreat and watch life happen
from the sidelines. Literally nothing short of dying could get between Ebert
and his work. </div>
<div class="p0">
<br /></div>
<div class="p0" style="margin-left: .5in; text-indent: -.25in;">
10. When You Can’t Talk
About Anything Else, There’s Always the Movies</div>
<div class="p0">
<br /></div>
<div class="p0">
There are many good reasons why it’s best to steer clear of
religion and politics as conversation topics in mixed company. But everyone has
an opinion about film and, should discourse come to a screeching halt, they’ll
be more than happy to share them.</div>
<div class="p0">
<br /></div>
<div class="p0">
On a personal note, Ebert’s annual film review anthologies offered
me a platform for connecting with a confusing father when it often seemed
impossible. Overrun by mental illness and debilitating addictions which
included gambling and hoarding, sports and a love of film were the links that
bonded my dad with a daughter desperate for common ground. </div>
Becky Sarwatehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07712085011707609713noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7239687664481382904.post-36124357531866912422013-03-27T16:06:00.000-05:002013-03-27T16:08:55.235-05:00The Spring That Wouldn’t Come<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT-2OkUdpXnDQF_STkubn-U3nXQ25yV9kIXVWdUXeEt68A_-XqmMjQxV9EqK-YB8Ya21jyjPbJ3qqm-HmEomhBOeknDRqnfpvChiUybeSQU27VZLyk8Yrt-FvQh7J7B2-VXJbxphvSQUPD/s1600/The+Spring+That+Wouldn%E2%80%99t+Come.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT-2OkUdpXnDQF_STkubn-U3nXQ25yV9kIXVWdUXeEt68A_-XqmMjQxV9EqK-YB8Ya21jyjPbJ3qqm-HmEomhBOeknDRqnfpvChiUybeSQU27VZLyk8Yrt-FvQh7J7B2-VXJbxphvSQUPD/s1600/The+Spring+That+Wouldn%E2%80%99t+Come.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
Today is March 27th. It’s a full week after the official inauguration
of spring. The sun is shining but the air temperature hasn’t risen
above 43 degrees Fahrenheit in the Windy City. It must be mentioned
that the daytime high soared to 80 degrees on St. Patrick’s Day in 2012,
a strange anomaly that took Chicago’s love for green beer to extremes. I
recall sending my boyfriend at the time out for a bottle of wine to
complement our meal of corned beef and cabbage. This was early
afternoon. He returned from a four block round-trip walk shaking his
head. If you have to step over more than one drunk in broad daylight,
hedonism has clearly won.<br />
<br />
This year, the Chi-rish were
significantly more subdued. With windy, cold conditions and the
barometer stuck in the 30s, I can personally report a more humbuggish
approach to the drinking holiday.<br />
<br />
The irascibility has yet to
wear off given spring’s stubborn refusal to approximate its normal
self. And it’s not just me. Allow me to quote recent Facebook status
updates from my circle of acquaintance:<br />
<br />
<b>“Just
because I'm giving you a shot doesn't mean I'll ever like you, cold
weather running. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you...I hate you...I.
Hate. You.”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Spring starts tomorrow, right? Right? RIGHT?!?!?!?!?!?”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Really, 19 degrees?!? Full of S***!”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Have officially reached my limit, this weather is B.S. where is spring? #overit”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Glad it's rain, not snow.”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“Mighty happy I don’t work for <a href="http://open.salon.com/content.php?cid=8287247&is_preview=1#" id="_GPLITA_3" style="text-decoration: underline;" title="Click to Continue > by Text-Enhance">Yahoo</a>! This is the second Tuesday in a row I have waited for the snow in my PJs”</b><br />
<br />
<b>“How am I supposed to start running <a href="http://open.salon.com/content.php?cid=8287247&is_preview=1#" id="_GPLITA_1" style="text-decoration: underline;" title="Click to Continue > by Text-Enhance">again</a> when winter NEVER ENDS!!!”</b><br />
<br />
And
on it goes. I must remind my gentle readers that these protests emanate
from hardened Midwesterners used to winter’s cruelty. But we’ve had
enough now. My fellow Chicagoans are angry at this tardy season to the
point of mutiny, if only we knew who to tie up and threaten. Our current
mayor, former <a href="http://open.salon.com/content.php?cid=8287247&is_preview=1#" id="_GPLITA_0" style="text-decoration: underline;" title="Click to Continue > by Text-Enhance">Obama</a>
administration Chief-of-Staff Rahm Emanuel, is accustomed to hurling
obscenities to get his way, but thus far Mother Nature seems unmoved by
our collective epithets.<br />
<br />
St. Louis
received another 11 inches of snow this past weekend. It seems prudent
to assume we’ll be wearing ski jackets to Seders, Easter dinner and
other springtime celebrations.<br />
<br />
With that dreary thought in mind, I leave you with these lyrics from the K.D. Lang song, “I Dream of Spring:”<br />
<br />
“This is world is filled with frozen lovers<br />The sheets of their beds are frightfully cold<br />And I've slept there in the snow with others<br />Yet loved no others before<br />
<br />
These cold dark places, places I've been<br />In cold dark places, I dream of spring”Becky Sarwatehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07712085011707609713noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7239687664481382904.post-69131815424274598962013-03-22T15:08:00.000-05:002013-03-22T15:21:10.233-05:00Things Fall Apart: How Chinua Achebe Opened My Eyes <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM4EcCKP8ANCpK-nA6dMvBT_zCmD5_oBKOe7DZfnYeAMCUzW7PdMbSEsR-FR77CKvhr3ZwvVx4zH4g1Rz1-F_LUXtRw4aIOBVQjI2_LTFtDRwGy_-4NOP8DIvJOjBhweab22S5I086xTeU/s1600/Things+Fall+Apart_How+Chinua+Achebe+Opened+My+Eyes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM4EcCKP8ANCpK-nA6dMvBT_zCmD5_oBKOe7DZfnYeAMCUzW7PdMbSEsR-FR77CKvhr3ZwvVx4zH4g1Rz1-F_LUXtRw4aIOBVQjI2_LTFtDRwGy_-4NOP8DIvJOjBhweab22S5I086xTeU/s320/Things+Fall+Apart_How+Chinua+Achebe+Opened+My+Eyes.jpg" width="204" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Growing up in the 1980s, it was easy to believe that the United States
was the only country in the world, or at least the only one that mattered.
During the Reagan era of total cultural insulation and paranoia, Cold War
indoctrination was barely questioned. That the Soviet
Union was a jealous, constant threat to our national security was
a given. Africa was the beneficiary of
telethons and fundraisers, not the continent from which all humanity sprung.
Think “We Are the World,” “Man in the Mirror” and the AIDS epidemic. I didn’t
even learn of Lucy the Australopithecus until I went to college.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Part of my worldly ignorance during the “Me” decade can be
blamed on a parochial Lutheran education more concerned with churning out
students who can list the books of the Old Testament rather than master geography.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But upon reflection, there was also a
pervasive national arrogance that rather discouraged intellectual curiosity
outside our borders. We had MTV, Diet Coke and we were winning the Space Race.
Why bother with anything else?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the mid-1990s, twin influences began to transform my
limited perspective. As a member of the Chicago Children’s Choir, I played,
rehearsed and traveled with a multi-cultural group of peers that afforded me
the opportunity to perform in countries as far-flung as Russia, Poland
and South Africa.
And it was as a student enrolled in Lincoln
Park High School’s
<a href="http://open.salon.com/blog/becky_boop/2012/01/15/the_ib_program_responsible_global_citizenship_is_republican">International
Baccalaureate (IB) Program</a> that I became acquainted with curriculum and
texts outside the Euro-American canon. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Junior year, as part of a World Literature class, I was introduced
to novel entitled <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Things Fall Apart</i>
by an African writer named Chinua Achebe. An Achebe obituary published today in
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The New York Times</i> provides the
following plot summary: “Set in the Ibo countryside in the late 19th century,
the novel tells the story of Okonkwo, who rises from poverty to become an
affluent farmer and village leader. But with the advent of British colonial
rule and cultural values, Okonkwo’s life is thrown into turmoil. In the end,
unable to adapt to the new status quo, he explodes in frustration, killing an
African in the employ of the British and then committing suicide.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am almost ashamed to admit that this book was the first
perspective suggesting that white imperialism might be other than a boon to the
infiltrated nation, to which I had been exposed. In the same way that primary
school education managed to juxtapose “Manifest Destiny” and studies of Native
American Culture while deftly sidestepping suggestion that one was responsible
for the annihilation of the other, so too did subversive Anglophilia ignore the
stains left by British colonialism across the globe. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was never able to bury my head in the sand again, and I am
certainly a more well-rounded individual for it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Much as the biblical Adam and Eve became
suddenly aware and humiliated by their nakedness pursuant to eating from the
Tree of Life, so too did I grow embarrassed by bilingualism in my sphere of
influence that began and ended with Spanish-language segments on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sesame
Street</i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">. </i>Achebe’s
work included a focus on the ways in which language can act as a barrier
between two cultures, or perhaps more malevolently, the ways in which
imperialist nations can leverage their tongues and customs to suppress the “other.”
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This awakening dovetailed rather perfectly with the
1980s-era social arrogance and hubris I had only recently begun to contemplate.
Those nations with a command over the English language participated in
ideological reproduction and took their place in the international hierarchy. And
by what merit had that happened? Is there any skill involved in having bigger
guns and more Bibles? The French classes which were part of my personal IB
curriculum track thus took on a new importance. I did not want to be “that”
American anymore, the one who assumed that everyone in the world worth knowing
would speak in my tongue.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Young Americans in the 21<sup>st</sup> Century take
globalization for granted. The world has been flat for as long as the Internet
and cell phones have made neighbors of us all. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The U.S. ability to set the world
agenda is no longer assumed to be part of the national birthright. Today’s youth are often enrolled in
learning institutions where white English speakers are the minority. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As a result of many influences, including
immigration, it is estimated that 20 percent of our citizens speak at least a
second language at home. And though he cannot be exclusively credited for our collectively
growing cultural awareness and evolution, Mr. Achebe, who died today at the age
of 82, is directly responsible for one woman’s removal of the “American Way” from
an unquestioned pedestal. </div>
Becky Sarwatehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07712085011707609713noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7239687664481382904.post-1201900699942720252013-03-13T15:38:00.000-05:002013-03-13T15:39:06.397-05:00Fight or Flight: Near Death Does Not Become Her<div class="pbody" id="pbody">
I consider myself a fairly street smart woman. I was born and raised
within Chicago city limits, moving across several different
neighborhoods. I wear this as a badge of pride and honor and have been
known to get mighty huffy with suburbanites who claim to be “from
Chicago,” while oftentimes living in privileged unreality an hour or
more from the city’s boundaries (you know who you are).<br />
<br />
To choose urban life is to tacitly <a href="http://open.salon.com/blog/becky_boop/2013/03/13/fight_or_flight_near_death_does_not_become_her#" id="_GPLITA_1" style="text-decoration: underline;" title="Click to Continue > by Text-Enhance">agree</a>
to occasional disturbances and harassments. It’s a trade off for the
sort of cultural instant gratification that only life in a major city
can offer. Do you want sushi at 4am? We have an app for that. Storefront
or big budget theater experience? Take your pick. Want to engage in
outdoor exercise and an automobile-free existence while enjoying a
plethora of transit options? Move to the burgh.<br />
<br />
Of course to
enjoy the benefits necessarily means accepting the disadvantages. When I
was in kindergarten, our home was burglarized (though this episode did
give birth to a triumph of positive rationalizing, when my mother
offered that perhaps our father merely took the giant-80s era,
top-loading VCR with him to work). In high <a href="http://open.salon.com/blog/becky_boop/2013/03/13/fight_or_flight_near_death_does_not_become_her#" id="_GPLITA_2" style="text-decoration: underline;" title="Click to Continue > by Text-Enhance">school</a>,
my younger sister was followed home from a CTA train ride by a nasty
creeper who was not expecting to come in contact with a protective
140-pound beast by the name of Max. The largest, dumbest, sweetest
Golden Retriever changed temperament on a dime if his girls were
threatened. Signs and property get vandalized, wailing sirens might wake
you in the wee hours and crazies are all about. Thankfully most of them
are simply eccentric rather than dangerous, a population that deserves
more empathy than fear. That’s city life. And I love it.<br />
<br />
But I
could have used Max’s snarling gate keeping when I encountered a
situation last Friday night for which I possess no paradigm. After
reunion drinks with a girlfriend I hadn’t seen for over three years, I
happily climbed into a taxi and headed home. The archetype of cab <a href="http://open.salon.com/blog/becky_boop/2013/03/13/fight_or_flight_near_death_does_not_become_her#" id="_GPLITA_0" style="text-decoration: underline;" title="Click to Continue > by Text-Enhance">driver</a>
malfeasance is the subject of much discussion as well as general
acceptance. I have regularly been subjected to erratic driving skills,
overly chatty professionals, the directionally impaired, what have you.
But this time, several minutes into my ride, I became aware that this
driver had no intention of taking me home – perhaps not ever.<br />
<br />
I
admit that I was distracted and slightly intoxicated, but as I said, I
know my way around. Thus it didn’t take long to become aware that the
driver’s route was circuitous at best. Initially I suspected that I was
merely the target of a cabbie trying to make a few extra bucks, but upon
voicing my concern with our path, I was greeted with a snarl. The
driver pulled over and as I sat perplexed, he turned around to lunge at
me. That’s when I knew it was time to exit the vehicle.<br />
<br />
I took
off running down a major Chicago thoroughfare and momentarily looked
over my shoulder to see the driver continuing to give foot chase. He
overtook me and grabbed my right shoulder as I started to scream:
“Somebody please help me! Call the police!” It was quite honestly the
first time I felt a genuine threat on my life from another human.
Fortunately, as it was a busy street just before midnight, a man emerged
from a liquor store and seeing my distress, shouted the driver away.
Panting, I recounted the horror of the last couple minutes (it seemed
that long but probably wasn’t) and my Good Samaritan said he would wait
with me until the police arrived. He had actually witnessed the shoulder
grab and may have been required to give a statement. Upon reflection, I
can’t say for certain that the call to the police was ever placed.<br />
<br />
And
that became important to me as well as another passerby who stopped to
learn the cause of the fuss. As the three of us were chatting and I was
still taking deep breaths, the cabbie elected to make one last go of
stuffing me back into his vehicle. After turning around, he screeched
the taxi to a halt at the intersection where we stood and got out of the
car again. At that point, the Good Samaritan placed his body between my
attacker and I…..then he pulled a huge knife seemingly out of thin air,
slashing the assailant’s front tire while uttering a hideous racial
slur.<br />
<br />
(Fade to black as Becky’s mind snaps).<br />
<br />
I squealed, “Why did you do that?” The Good Samaritan (who no longer appeared so benign) retorted with a sneering, “Why do you care? Just run.”<br />
<br />
And
I did. Over a mile all the way back to my apartment. I raced with tears
of shock, shame and fear in my eyes, as fast as I could, angling for
the small nook of safety that my living space represented in that
moment. I ran without thought until I finally shut and locked the doors
behind me. Then I broke completely. My partner unreachable at the time, I
called two married friends who happened to be awake and willing to talk
me through delirious, incoherent downloading. For mystifying reasons,
it was imperative that someone more together than I confirm that I had
done right with my flight, rather than waiting for police who might
never have come. Because after all, I am a Midwestern woman raised on
Protestant values. The appearance of wrongdoing is every bit as
traumatic as an actual faux pas.<br />
<br />
The husband, a trained
military assassin and Jiu Jitsu black belt, assured me that I had no
reason to believe anyone on that scene had my personal safety in mind.
Obeying the automatic response of my body had been sound.<br />
<br />
As I
said, I had no paradigm accessible that could help me process what had
happened. Violent predators I understand, but bloodthirsty “heroes” with
their own racial axes to grind are less familiar territory. There was
no clear picture anymore of the victims and villains. I needed assertive
ideas of right and wrong like I needed oxygen.<br />
<br />
The cabbie was a maniac and needed to be locked away, but does that make a hate crime the warranted response? Was
my rescuer just out looking for an excuse to fight? Was I blameless for
fleeing the scene? The two men may well have killed each other after I
turned and ran. Did that make me complicit in whatever followed? In this
instance, ignorance is not bliss. It’s psychological torture. </div>
Becky Sarwatehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07712085011707609713noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7239687664481382904.post-89505331752022862382013-03-01T14:46:00.001-06:002013-03-01T15:36:11.141-06:00Let’s Do It Like They Do on the Discovery Channel<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9a1JdIC4aoiy__692PypIMeQDW1IB8jcXFWypHTVVSVbwUhea_2wYJdgF1vlI1q_2kMBMLvCTwUCF-eF6Mhj1CecdaO6lU9yRPAC4VxrFEPuFlBWvDnBvnyAHZj78PK9_hniUQQvs5Y5r/s1600/Scared+Panda.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9a1JdIC4aoiy__692PypIMeQDW1IB8jcXFWypHTVVSVbwUhea_2wYJdgF1vlI1q_2kMBMLvCTwUCF-eF6Mhj1CecdaO6lU9yRPAC4VxrFEPuFlBWvDnBvnyAHZj78PK9_hniUQQvs5Y5r/s320/Scared+Panda.jpg" width="257" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Although I work in a creative field, one of the personal
attributes that instills the greatest amount of pride is the ability to think
logically and rationally. Although knee-jerk instinct is often emotional or
sentimental, I am proud of the fact that I am usually able to take a step back
and evaluate the potential short and long-term effects of a decision.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yeah, but all of that good sense goes right out the window
when we’re talking about anything involving a trip to the doctor’s office. Stop
me if you’ve heard this one before: a young mother takes her 5 year-old
daughter for booster shots right before the start of the kindergarten school
year. The mother’s 3 year-old daughter needs a shot too and comes along for the
outing. The mother has chosen a Catholic charity as the vendor for the
immunizations as the family is on a tight budget. The nun in full habit (this
was the early 1980s) who has been assigned to the little girls decides to start
with the younger one, surmising that she may be the more scared patient. She
whips out her air gun and gently walks the toddler through the procedure before
the injection. The 3 year-old barely moves and doesn’t make a sound. The
perfect disciple.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The 5 year-old witnessing this exchange decides that,
despite her sister’s fortitude, she wants nothing to do with what’s coming and
takes off at a full bore run. Cue Hollywood-style chase scene with mother and a
pack of nuns hitching up their skirts in hot pursuit of the runaway
kindergartner. Our heroine manages to evade the villains for long one stretch
of hallway and a full flight of stairs before being snatched by her angry and
embarrassed parent. With mom virtually sitting on top of the hysterical child
while clucking Sisters lament the little one’s irrationality, the nuns finally
manage to disperse the inoculation.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I will leave it to the reader to decide which child was me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This anecdote was chosen for its physical comedy as well as
to drive home the point that not much has changed. Several years ago my
ex-husband Eddie drove me to the emergency room to seek help for a violent
gastrointestinal infection. The IV inserted into my arm dispensed necessary
electrolytes as well as antibiotics that would immediately start to attack the
bacteria. In principle, I understood this. In practice, the unnatural feel of a
tube extending from my arm won and it was only by calling in nurses with
restraints that the IV was permitted to continue its work. If you think I bore
Eddie’s traitorous behavior with silent resignation, then you haven’t been
following this post. I am the nightmare, worst case scenario patient about
which medical students are warned.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tomorrow morning, bright and early, I am to undergo to CT
scan with contrast in an attempt to identify the underlying causes of a
chronic, cluster <a href="http://open.salon.com/blog/becky_boop/2013/02/07/migraine_season">migraine
condition</a> that has grown persistently more acute and resistant to
treatment. I have scheduled the procedure first thing in the morning so as to
decrease the amount of time I have to overthink, perhaps even flee the scene,
before the doctors can do their work. This strategy will in no way prevent me
from spending a sleepless night imagining all sorts of innovative horrors that
cannot possibly live up to the hype, but this is the best I can do to work
around an absurd and delirious self that I barely recognize. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When it comes to enduring emotional trauma, I am a veritable
Odysseus with a seemingly endless capacity to pick myself up and move forward.
Yet the idea of a pinprick elicits foolish hysterics of which I would otherwise
be ashamed, if I weren’t too busy dropping banana peels while bolting out the
door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pity the long-suffering partner who has volunteered to
escort (perp walk) me to this appointment. Neither one of us has had much time
to consider the actual possibility that the CT scan will reveal a larger
problem, busy as JC has been deflecting my attempts to evade the whole
experience. So manipulative has this baser self been this week that, well aware
groundless emotional appeals will fall upon my partner’s scientific-minded deaf
ears, she has resorted to more logical-sounding budgetary concerns. As we know <a href="http://open.salon.com/blog/becky_boop/2012/04/24/americas_health_care_system_is_still_broken_part_ii">America’s
health care delivery system</a> sucks, and even with a “Cadillac” insurance
plan, the CT scan will still run upward of $1,000 dollars I don’t have. JC
says this is why God made credit cards (an avowed atheist, this retort is an
obvious dig at my willingness to grasp any straw to avoid the scan –
harrumph!). </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have worked for years in therapy sessions, through writing
and silent contemplation to attempt to understand and overcome this situational
Dissociative Identity Disorder – to no avail. A simple comprehension that the
CT scan is a pathway to unlocking a year’s worth of on and off pain and misery
is not enough to calm Crazy Becky, or dissuade her from concocting ever more desperate
plans. As calmly as I sit here analyzing and disavowing her refusal to engage
reality, I also understand that when the moment comes, all bets are off.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why is rational self-control so difficult, especially for a
grown woman in possession of her faculties, completely aware that the actual
discomfort of the scan cannot outlast the torture she inflicts on herself and
others? Just a drop of fortitude would expedite everything for everybody. I
hate Crazy Becky just as much as everyone else does. But she takes control at
the mere smell of hospital antiseptic. It’s at moments like this that it
becomes starkly clear when all is said and done, I am not the cosmopolitan
thinker I imagine. I’m just a dumb animal obeying a carnal flight or fight
response, a lemming going over the cliff, unable to understand she’s running toward
her own, avoidable misery.</div>
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<![endif]-->Becky Sarwatehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07712085011707609713noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7239687664481382904.post-82758738507218814462013-02-22T13:20:00.004-06:002013-02-22T13:20:49.709-06:00My Life as a StepGILF<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLjU5KzxTxEP4bnTns-l_TPO2TFVv6QmPiymMDrTNcwF7KtQRcwlFtPHIzEHmL8IbaUqmtesL7MLIT00LQh9MP-gHZP91h7CLMFKMd_qxWDCQFqdaxISpHQNb1J2TdBAtcQrspVcgsPgQ2/s1600/My+Life+as+a+StepGILF.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLjU5KzxTxEP4bnTns-l_TPO2TFVv6QmPiymMDrTNcwF7KtQRcwlFtPHIzEHmL8IbaUqmtesL7MLIT00LQh9MP-gHZP91h7CLMFKMd_qxWDCQFqdaxISpHQNb1J2TdBAtcQrspVcgsPgQ2/s320/My+Life+as+a+StepGILF.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
As many of my friends, family and readers know, I made the decision
somewhere along the way to bypass motherhood. A large piece of that
resolution stems from a childhood and young adult years spent as the
caretaker of several key people in my life: parents, maternal
grandparents, younger sister and to a more brief degree, oldest niece.
There is a certain amount of resentment involved in being the forced
custodian of adults who really should have been looking after me and my
sibling, but we all have our juvenile crosses to bear and that was one
of mine. Nevertheless, having to think strategically about the safety
and security of others, before I was really ready for the job, left an
aversion to the responsibility that comes with shepherding a child from
womb to world.<br />
<br />There are certainly other factors that influenced the resolve: a sustained and deep-seated fear of the birthing process (that <em>Miracle of Life</em> video in my high <a href="http://open.salon.com/blog/becky_boop/2013/02/22/my_life_as_a_stepgilf#" id="_GPLITA_1" style="text-decoration: underline;" title="Click to Continue > by Text-Enhance">school</a>
health class was no help at all), the selection of romantic partners
during prime childbearing years who lacked the maturity to function as
successful co-parents, and yes, I will admit it, the recognition of
selfishness on a grand scale. It took me 29 years to finish my formal
education, 30 to figure out what I had to do to earn my bread, 32 to
actually start developing said career and nearly 34 years to find a man I
could trust to do right by me and any child we might create. That’s a
late start certainly, but compounding the ticking of the biological
clock is a realized preference for my career and personal life over the
24/7 demands of motherhood.<br /><br />I am a happy and devoted aunt to the
children in my circle. My oldest niece and I share happy memories of
sleepovers, trips to McDonald’s and many other activities throughout the
years. She has also experienced the shame of enduring my tears of pride
as she competed in beauty pageants, karate tournaments and school
plays. First question when Aunt Becky is invited to an event: “Is she
going to cry again?”<br /><br />But I digress. Two paragraphs ago, and
sprinkled throughout other written posts, are mentions of a special man
with whom I entered into a committed relationship nearly 10 months ago.
In March we will begin the process of looking for a new <a href="http://open.salon.com/blog/becky_boop/2013/02/22/my_life_as_a_stepgilf#" id="_GPLITA_0" style="text-decoration: underline;" title="Click to Continue > by Text-Enhance">apartment</a>
– the first home we will share together. In ways too numerous to detail
here, JC is the one. A lifetime pattern of self-doubt and second
guessing has been completely upended by this alliance. As sure as I know
the sun will keep rising, Taylor Swift can’t sing live and the U.S.
Congress will leverage its inertia to run the nation into the ground, I
know that my future lies with this man. How do I know? I just do. I
don’t need to wonder – and that’s freaking refreshing.<br /><br />Of many
elements from our growing love and companionship to treasure, one in
particular stands out today. Planning a life with JC involves immersing
myself in the worlds of the two other most important people in his
existence: his 22 year-old daughter and three year-old granddaughter.
That’s right. For all intents and purposes, I am a stepmother and
stepgrandmother. <br /><br />JC’s daughter is a grown adult with a full and
demanding life. She also has a mother with whom she enjoys a very close
relationship. Our association thus far has been quite warm and open, and
in time I hope that she’ll be able to look upon me as a trusted
friend/older sister figure.<br /><br />Ah but the little adorable
granddaughter! I met her early last summer and I am pleased to report
that it was mutual love at first sight. Precocious, loving and
impossibly cute, I was responding to calls of “Grandma Becka!” before
the first weekend of our acquaintance was out. I might also add she came
up with that moniker of her own accord. <br /><br />At first I reveled in
the perverse delight of walking down the street, a 34 year-old white
woman holding the hand of a small mixed-race darling who unironically
addressed me as “Grandma.” But as the relationship grew, I found the
role of granny to be rather a natural fit. I skipped right over the less
glamorous aspects of parenthood (rule setter, disciplinarian, moral
role model) to the fabulous privileges of grandparentdom. I never say
“no” when I can possibly say “yes.” I coddle, spoil and indulge with the
best of them. I think “Grandma Becka” is the role I was born to play.<br /><br />As
JC and I plan an out-of-state road trip this weekend to visit the
girls, it occurs to me that circumstances have required me to walk
unconventional and circuitous routes where interpersonal relationships
are concerned. I have been the parent where I should have been allowed
to be the dependent. I have been the mother where I might have preferred
to be the sister (through no fault of my sibling). I’ve been the
divorcee where I would have much rather remained the devoted wife. But
this time idiosyncratic situations have yielded wonderful results.
Though I never asked for or planned it, I am now a de facto stepmother
and grandmother…and I’m overjoyed. Becky Sarwatehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07712085011707609713noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7239687664481382904.post-80746529598894576752013-02-14T12:05:00.000-06:002013-02-14T12:45:55.392-06:00The Valentine's Day KISS Principle<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_LnfhVuWJj5yrzN8oX9QoitX-7PoyRH38oTf8V-o7tIY8lhN27qx5CX3hia5ImQYnpxAPKGo3DOhvqjXzaz8EA8Fc61I0S1-LtKyb48pJ1bI424wWDDrdI4PQjnl06HWKyT6dGwaZnO7O/s1600/The+Valentine%27s+Day+KISS+Principle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_LnfhVuWJj5yrzN8oX9QoitX-7PoyRH38oTf8V-o7tIY8lhN27qx5CX3hia5ImQYnpxAPKGo3DOhvqjXzaz8EA8Fc61I0S1-LtKyb48pJ1bI424wWDDrdI4PQjnl06HWKyT6dGwaZnO7O/s1600/The+Valentine's+Day+KISS+Principle.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<div align="left">
It's 11:00 am on the morning of Valentine's Day 2013.
Thus far I have suffered a nocturnal bite to the nose from my partner JC
(an odd manifestation of some interesting dream) and have had bloodwork
done to verify the proper function of my kidneys. Hardly the stuff of
traditional romance, yet I've never felt happier or more loved than I do
this Thursday.</div>
<div align="left">
<br />
The story of my life so far has
taken some unbelievable and heartbreaking turns, yet this is the year I
finally feel as though I'm coming into my own. No longer a confused
stranger struggling to integrate my consciousness with the maps and
scripts presented in girlhood, I reflect a confidence and security that I
long believed impossible. Some of this evolution can be attributed to
hard, painful personal and professional choices that brought me to the
brink of what I thought I could survive. Other parts are owing to years
of intensive psychotherapy with a trusted professional. The rest is
self-reflection and the clarity of perspective that comes from silencing
old, destructive voices. The dependable love of a man who really sees
me and still likes the view certainly doesn't hurt.</div>
<div align="left">
<br />
St.
Valentine's Day, from the traditional perspective of American
consumerism, is a manufactured event with a definite marketing message:
to love means to spend. It is only by lavishing trinkets, candies and
expensive dinners in crowded restaurants upon our nearest and dearest
that we can show the appreciation we are too busy or lazy to express the
other 364 days of the year. But this year feels different and it's not
just internally. Friends, colleagues and unknowns alike appear to be,
for lack of a batter word, more grateful. Are the root causes grand and
general, a sort of collective relief that we're all still here despite
the lingering effects of the Great Recession, the paralyzed toxicity of
the nation's governing processes and a post-9/11 awareness that our
lives are no longer insulated from what happens "over there?" In an era
of so many big, complex challenges that start from the moment we open
our eyes each morning, is it that much easier to notice and appreciate
the small things?</div>
<div align="left">
<br />
Whatever the dynamics, I've
experienced no small amount of satisfaction today reading open
expressions of love from corners often regarded as cynical and jaded.
It's like an unwritten resolution was passed that, at least for today
dammit, we're going to experience joy in the connections, labor and
hobbies that make struggling tolerable. There's something poetic in
that. </div>
<div align="left">
<br />
My contribution is to suspend examining
the titular U.S. Navel of my personal blog and keep it simple. I love
my life as it is today. I love my career and the direction in which it's
traveling. I love my partner, the one who nourishes my body, mind and
soul. I adore the friendships I have built and the reciprocal delights
of those strong bonds. I cherish my family, diverse, untraditional and
thus, completely perfect. There will be plenty of time for overthinking
and strategizing tomorrow and the days to come. Today is about gratitude
for where I am and what I experience - in this moment. </div>
Becky Sarwatehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07712085011707609713noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7239687664481382904.post-34487097639898548602013-02-07T15:39:00.001-06:002013-02-07T15:39:58.445-06:00Migraine Season<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSYeKeai0ReYucTbTIPcdKbNJqpLKimuSglFeEKp7qmVbvVRMQszVtShU4UdZIJ7TfTuKyXz4-V-TJsQkWbXFpiCawObrvz8moMNN4NLuyHWdfyZMtkt8vIpHiiZWZu8HC7C3zEbo9h3z0/s1600/Migraine+Season.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSYeKeai0ReYucTbTIPcdKbNJqpLKimuSglFeEKp7qmVbvVRMQszVtShU4UdZIJ7TfTuKyXz4-V-TJsQkWbXFpiCawObrvz8moMNN4NLuyHWdfyZMtkt8vIpHiiZWZu8HC7C3zEbo9h3z0/s1600/Migraine+Season.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
This is the kind of winter that migraine sufferers dread. Take last week
for example. Here in Chicago the temperature touched 61 degrees on
Tuesday, the warmth punctuated by springlike showers. By Thursday
morning, the mercury stopped climbing at 10 degrees with brutal winds
and icy road conditions.<br /><br />Remember when the El Nino weather
pattern was the subject of much news coverage back in 1997 and 1998?
Well as a native Chicagoan, I never saw what the fuss was about. It's El
Nino here all year-round. Many times we cycle the four seasons all in
the same Windy City day. As a child and young adult, the varying climate
was either a fun adventure or a wardrobe challenge, but as I enter my
mid-30s, in peak mental condition, but somewhat hobbled physically, the
volatile elements have a similar effect on my temperament.<br /><br />Back
in November of 2012, on Election Day to be precise, I fractured my
coccyx and sacrum in a bad judgment call involving L'il Red, a yellow
light and an SUV. As an avid gym goer and infamous pain intolerant, the
long recovery of this injury, aggravated by the bipolar nature of a
Chicago winter, has left me rather short on patience - with myself and
others. Midsummer last year I was also diagnosed with a debilitating
cluster migraine condition that has been stubbornly difficult to
regulate. The worst fate for a control freak is the body's capricious
tendency to dive into a tailspin of throbbing pain and nausea that can
endure for days. In the worst moments of these episodes, I cannot talk
or write. The ability to communicate, an attribute I value so highly,
drowns in suicidal levels of painful inertia. To look at my scientific,
solutions-oriented partner in the eyes and see a helplessness I can't
comfort may be the cruelest turn of all.<br /><br />As I sit here typing
these words, it's a manageable 32 degrees outside but freezing rain has
been dropping in sheets since the middle of the night. I know this
because I awoke with a dull pressure ache in my sinuses when the
downpour began. My physician, the eminently patient and kind Dr. Gong,
has theorized that the parts of my brain which trigger a migraine don't
seem to know how or when to shut themselves off. This could explain why
the headaches can last for days and are immune to all the usual
remedies. My brain just ignores what's good for it. Wouldn't be the
first time.<br /><br />Throughout two years of recovery and convalescence,
which began in early 2011 when I said goodbye to my ex-husband and our
broken marriage, I was warned about the mind-body continuum. While I was
in survival mode, on constant high alert, the ability to function
without food, sleep or emotional balance was a phenomenon to be taken
for granted. It was only paradoxically as I began to relax and morph
into the new, less self-defeating person I am on the inside that the
body started to give way: a battle with cervical cancer, the cluster
migraines, alopecia, insomnia. If my psyche is in large degree healed,
why can't my body get with the program? It seems it feels the need to
follow the arc of this typical Chicago winter: up, down, all-around and
completely outside my jurisdiction.
Becky Sarwatehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07712085011707609713noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7239687664481382904.post-31002390984959137762013-01-23T15:43:00.000-06:002013-01-23T15:49:04.407-06:00Postcards from the Egg<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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During the summer of 1995, the season before my senior year of high
school, my mother Gloria, younger sister Jenny and I embarked on a
two-week long road trip in mom’s spanking new Geo Metro (the white,
bullet-shaped, manual transmission vehicle that later became known as
“The Egg”). The Egg enjoyed relatively solid gas mileage, a reflection
of Gloria’s commitment to stretching the one-income budget of a RN with
two teenage daughters as far as it could go. In these heady days before
Mapquest and Google Earth, I set up our collegiate campus tour itinerary
with little more than then help of a road atlas and a <a href="http://open.salon.com/blog/becky_boop/2013/01/23/postcards_from_the_egg#" id="_GPLITA_2" style="text-decoration: underline;" title="Click to Continue > by Text-Enhance">Red Roof Inn</a> location directory. We three women packed The Egg as full of snacks and luggage as we could and hit the open road.<br />
<br />
On
a quest to find the institution of higher learning that I planned to
call home for the next four years, our stops included many exciting
places Jenny and I had either never been, or couldn’t recall: my younger
sister’s birthplace in Hopewell, Virginia, sections of Ohio,
Pennsylvania and New Jersey, and of course the grand dames of
Northeastern cultural ideology, Boston and New York. Many hours of
traveling music were audited, adventurous meals were consumed and
winding, digressive conversations were enjoyed.<br />
<br />
But a lesser
known piece of family historical data is that there was one state we
planned to visit, yet did not – Maine. Though my sibling and I were
dying to check out some of the area’s plentiful liberal arts colleges,
and despite a lifelong devotion to seafood, we cut our trip short by
three days to return to Chicago that much faster. At the time, Jenny and
I offered an unbearable absence from our then-boyfriends as the reason
for the abbreviated journey, but the truth was much darker and more
potentially damaging to our mother’s ego: we simply could not endure
another night of her epic <a href="http://open.salon.com/blog/becky_boop/2013/01/23/postcards_from_the_egg#" id="_GPLITA_0" style="text-decoration: underline;" title="Click to Continue > by Text-Enhance">snoring</a>.<br />
<br />
Yes
it’s true, Gloria was a storied log sawer, producing the kind of deep
throated, rumbling commotion that my old Italian grandmother proclaimed
would “wake the dead.” I have never been ever to prove this
scientifically, but have hypothesized that our mother’s three to four
pack a day smoking habit was not an asset in this regard (nor many
others). The weirdest part was, despite a long career as a health
professional, Gloria expressed little concern about her snoring, as it
pertained to her own health or the mental faculties of those around her.
Hell her estranged husband, our father Gregg, was nearly as bad. Both
deep, sound sleepers, Gregg’s multiple broken noses as a young boy
growing up on the baseball diamond, and Gloria’s fondness for smoky
treats left Jenny and I pleased that our shared bedroom was far away
from their loud, labored breathing.<br />
<br />
But within the confines of a
shared motel room, there is nowhere to hide. With a mixture of fondness
and misery, I recall Jenny and I trying to bed down in hotel bathrooms,
The Egg and when all attempts a peaceful rest failed, hatching
semi-serious murder plots in the pre-dawn hours. Ultimately, after 11
straight nights of piss poor rest, we begged Gloria to drive us back
home to the comforting land of separate bedroom doors. She acquiesced but
it took her weeks to forgive our “selfishness,” longer before she could
mention the trip to sympathetic friends without watery eyes<br />
<br />
As an
adult, and in part a response to this hellaciously under-rested
excursion, I vowed to find myself a partner who neither a) smoked nor b)
snored.<br />
<br />
What is that they say about the best of intentions? I’ll
have to consult with Dr. Freud on this one but for whatever reason,
nearly every single one of my companions has been a chain smoker with a
penchant for shaking the earth with nocturnal rumblings. <br />
<br />
That’s
no different with my current, and if all goes to plan, final squeeze,
the hilarious, wonderful, infuriating, and idiosyncratic JC. The recent
turn in Chicago weather toward the bitterly cold has left a thirst in
the air that no humidifier seems to quench (we tried), bringing out my
smoking lover’s most disruptive sleeping behaviors.<br />
<br />
But unlike my
teen years, I cannot run to the bathroom with a quilt, nor sleep in the
car (we don’t have one) and even if I thought I could get away with the
crime and the idea is sometimes tempting, I can’t kill JC. I love and
need him too much.<br />
<br />
So instead my small studio <a href="http://open.salon.com/blog/becky_boop/2013/01/23/postcards_from_the_egg#" id="_GPLITA_1" style="text-decoration: underline;" title="Click to Continue > by Text-Enhance">apartment</a>
is awash in accoutrements procured by my beloved in an attempt to
restore nighttime harmony to our space: ear plugs, nose guards, mouth
guards, breathing strips, headphones. <br />
<br />
I couldn’t get away from
my mother fast enough but as I hear my own repetitive, quiet and patient
pleadings with JC to “Honey, please turn over,” followed by the
whispered and sincere “I’m sorry baby, I love you,” I realize we have
weapons in our arsenal one doesn’t normally associate with battle:
commitment, self-awareness and unconditional affection. Becky Sarwatehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07712085011707609713noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7239687664481382904.post-79333333253354207102013-01-15T15:03:00.001-06:002013-01-15T15:06:08.517-06:00The Becky Book<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<b>"Don't drink my wine! You're not choking anymore!"</b><br />
<br />
This
is the latest entry in JC's new project, a handwritten collection of
non sequiturs and utterances taken out of context that my comedy
terrorist partner ultimately believes to be an accurate reflection of my
character. For better or worse, I have inherited a reputation as a
straight shooter with good intentions, who could nonetheless benefit
from the installation of a weigh station between the neurons and pie
hole. <br />
<b><br />"I think I love Eminem because he reminds me so much of me."</b><br />
<br />
It
was last weekend that JC fell in love with 1990s-era retail sensation,
the dollar store. Don't ask me how a 41 year-old man from Fort Wayne,
Indiana managed to sidestep this cultural rite of passage. I told him
the story just last evening of my parents' routine bribe of a $5
spending allowance on days when my sister and I were particularly
well-behaved while running a particular errand (a visit to an insurance
office, a utility payment or GOD FORBID a trip to a home improvement
store). $5 in dollar store cash, then and now, is a veritable fortune to
a young teenager looking to accumulate. Somehow JC had overlooked this
unusually trippy place, composed of equal parts close-out cosmetics,
snack food, housewares and seasonal merchandise.<br />
<b><br />"If I didn't have Botox, I'd give you such a stink eye!"</b><br />
<br />
Eight
months ago, when our relationship began after years of disinterested
acquaintance (on my part anyway), JC first issued a facetious threat to
begin jotting down the idiosyncratic dispatches that seemed to
accumulate in his presence. If there is any truth behind the idea that
the formation of close bonds leads to increased silliness, then JC and I
are a perfect case study. However, I dismissed these warnings as the
affectionate bluff of one peculiarly enamored with gibberish - until he
returned from the dollar store with a mini notebook bearing the
following title page: The Becky Book.<br />
<br />
<b>"You don't like Sally Field?! I should break this wine glass over your head."</b><br />
<br />
Frankly,
I underestimated the enthusiasm with which beloved friends of mine
would serve as willing accomplices in the compilation of this material.
Last Saturday, JC and I were on a double date with my chum of 20 years
and his partner. More than once I leaned in to hear my high school
comrade highlighting a bon mot that JC may have missed over the din of
the jukebox.<br />
<br />
<b>"There might be sugary stuff in meth."</b><br />
<br />
My
lover's ultimate plans for this anthology remain a mystery. Also
mysterious is the reaction that the awareness of The Becky Book
produces in me. Far from eliciting a conscious effort toward
self-censorship, I feel empowered by its existence, emboldened to speak
my mind, unencumbered by a self-consciousness that in the past often
materialized as standoffishness. I knew very well that weird shit just
seemed to tumble from my mouth without warning. But it took someone's
appreciation of my particular brand of randomness, a concerted
chronicling of verbal oddities, to make me look at it in a different
way. In a predictable, Klout score-regulated society, I am unscripted
and he loves me for it. Maybe, just maybe a trait I long considered a
liability turned out to be an asset.<br />
<br />
<b>"I love you, dummy."</b><br />
<br />
I
don't worry about this odd collection of my intellectual property.
Paranoid by nature, I cannot consider JC's curated chitchat a threat. I
am able to see The Becky Book for what it is: a record, a one-sided time
capsule of personal incongruity that has confused and alienated many,
yet finally stumbled upon its perfect audience. Becky Sarwatehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07712085011707609713noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7239687664481382904.post-35309521928620427012013-01-08T15:34:00.000-06:002013-01-08T15:34:43.571-06:00Fiscal Sniff<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
Last year I began writing a weekly political column for online liberal magazine, <a href="http://www.politicususa.com/author/sarwater">PoliticusUSA.com</a>.
Given the gift of a regular outlet for Washington thoughts and musings,
I began to recast the mission of this blog as a means of sharing my
personal story, a story in which I figure as a central character but am
by no means mistress of ceremony. In the process of deconstructing and
examining personal foibles, tics and trials, the goal is to arrive at a
more holistic understanding of the self, with a loftier promise of
making educated, well-considered moves that will sustain or augment
mental, physical and spiritual health. <br />
<br />This self-involved introduction is offered by way of placing a forthcoming rant into context. <br /><br />Though
I strenuously seek to separate roles and personalities that are best
kept compartmentalized in the interest of efficiency, life, as we all
know, has a habit of defying our attempts at organization. And so it is
that until this morning, my political self was left completely paralyzed
by the disgusting gamesmanship and ultimately pathetic resolution to
the year-end "fiscal cliff" crisis. For two full weeks, I was rendered
unable to put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard if you will), to
produce thoughts - coherent or otherwise. <br /><br />Allow me to quote some of my own Facebook comments, dated January 2, 2013 in an attempt to account for this malaise:<br /><br />"I
loathe the treasonous House Republicans. I loathe that Congress
manufactured this crisis in the first place 18 months ago, then waited
until the last possible second to reach a deal that does nothing to
solve our long-term financial problems. I loathe that for all intents
and purposes, the Bush tax cuts have been codified for all eternity. I
loathe that the wealthy class has been redefined and insulated while
regular stiffs like you and I will lose more take home pay. I don't care
that the House GOP 'looks bad' in all of this. I am approaching a
resentment level that demands nothing short of a public hanging for the
way this half-wit, wackadoo minority has been able to hold every
initiative, so matter how small or crucial, hostage. General public
opinion and the voice of the electorate has been silenced. Our process
is a mockery and it's hard to envision a real way out at this point.<br /><br />If
we had done nothing at all, the threshold for tax increases on the
wealthiest Americans would have stayed at $250,000, rather than the
final $400,000. But the tradeoff would have been deep and immediate
spending cuts that would undoubtedly have plunged this still wobbly
recession back in the direction from which it's struggling to escape.
The House GOP knew this and in the end, strong-armed the 400k mark, at
which I must add, they remain dissatisfied (because nothing short of 0
taxes assuages this nutty group). These 'concerned citizens' were so
worried about our long-term fiscal health that they were willing, for
the second time in two years, to display us to the world as a nation
that does not know how to address its own problems. They win. Again.
Meanwhile discussions about spending cuts are temporarily off the table,
but I will be the unpopular liberal who actually admits that we need
structural solutions to entitlement programs like Medicare and Social
Security and a realignment of our defense budget. But do you think this
group of charlatans is going to be able to come up with anything like a
sensible plan? I do not lay the blame at Obama's feet. He is not able to
pass legislation singlehandedly. The hypocrisy is fucking disgusting,
pardon my French. These clowns didn't veto a single spending bill under
Dubya, a huge part of why we're here (the other part being the economic
meltdown that Dubya's policies wrought) and yet somehow we and the media
have allowed this to be framed as the inevitable outcome of tax and
spend liberal policy. It's truly sickening."<br /><br />I can't say that my
sentiments differ substantially today than they did when I wrote those
words a week ago. And I find myself wondering: if Congressional games
have the comprehensive power to disgust and disillusion writers like
myself, who follow political developments for a living and nurture a
genuine passion for American democracy, what is the effect on those
outside the political circle, particularly individuals and families
struggling to hold onto homes and jobs, terribly concerned with
immediate survival and the future solvency? Have they, out of necessity,
long ago relegated the lethargic legislative process of our leaders to
white noise? Or perhaps a more pertinent question might be: is this
exactly what today's elected officials are counting on?Becky Sarwatehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07712085011707609713noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7239687664481382904.post-37221336731479172152012-12-26T22:35:00.000-06:002012-12-26T22:35:04.883-06:00I'd Like to Buy the World a Coke Zero<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
In 2003, at the age of 25, I had to admit that I often struggled
mightily to catch my breath after climbing just one flight of stairs. I
had no cardiovascular strength of which to speak and everytime I looked
in the mirror, I saw an image reflected of my obese, chain-smoking
mother Gloria, who at 40 years of age looked not a day under 50. It was a
frightening counter-example to the kind of healthy, vibrant adult life I
wanted to live and I vowed to turn things around. I adopted the faddish
but successful Atkins diet to kick start what would eventually turn out
to be a 60-pound weight loss. I also began exercising, slowly at first,
not much more than a little yoga and the occasional treadmill sprint,
but it was enough. In the ensuing months I lost the weight and have kept
it off for nine years.<br /><br />One of the greatest challenges I faced
after the end of the Atkins-era was a wholesale lack of knowledge of how
to eat properly. I was a child of the 80s, raised by busy working
parents on a steady diet of convenience foods: Dunkin' Donuts for
weekend breakfasts, white bread bologna sandwiches with sugary juice
boxes for lunch, and McDonald's for dinner. Soda was served in cans all
day and snacks usually involved some form of potato chip or the
now-defunct Jell-O Pudding Pops. I never met a carb I didn't adore, knew
naught of portion control and if my sister and I were bored, a trip to
the fridge or pantry usually followed.<br /><br />The twin influences of
determination and a temporary job processing conference registrations at
the American Dietetic Association, commenced a long overdue education
of the ins and outs of a sensible meal plan. One of the first, yet
toughest things to relinquish, was a long-treasured adoration for soda
pop, more specifically Dr. Pepper, Strawberry Crush and my old friend
Coca-Cola Classic. One of the first rules of a weight loss plan: don't
drink your calories. And the calories of my favorite sodas are as empty
as they come. More than once I was given the advice to simply switch to
diet. But why would I do that? I drank soda because it tasted GOOD and
Diet Coke, that chemically-developed can of nastiness, never held any
appeal. Thus I resigned myself to a carbonated beverage-free life,
chalking it up to a necessary health sacrifice. <br /><br />And then in
2007, it happened: Coke Zero. Fully of the opinion that this impostor
was just another shitty variation of the same Diet Coke I'd been
rejecting for years, I had Zero interest (Get it? Ha!) in sampling the
new product. I was further turned off when I came across the following
information on Wikipedia:<br /><br />"Coca-Cola Zero or Coke Zero is a
product of the Coca-Cola Company. It is a low-calorie variation of
Coca-Cola specifically marketed to men, who were shown to associate
'diet' drinks with women."<br /><br />Bah! There's nothing that turns me off
faster than sexist marketing and I managed to go nearly five full years
without being pulled in by Zero's siren call, its claims to taste
almost exactly like its parent product. How could this be? If I could
enjoy the taste of Coca-Cola Classic without sacrificing flavor or
adding inches to my waistline then why, by cracky, had the company
waited so long? Fool me once New Coke (1986), shame on you. Fool me
twice....<br /><br />And what I'm dealing with now is a full-blown Coke Zero
addiction. I have never been able to drink coffee (a writer who drinks
no coffee nor smokes cigarettes? Clearly I am up to no good) as it makes
me feel dizzy and nauseous. I was more than used to dealing with high
school all-night study sessions or morning commutes au naturel. Yet
suddenly I could not board the daily train to the office without a
12-ounce bottle in hand.<br /><br />But here's the rub. Although I have come
to adore Coke Zero, to depend on the caffeine jolt that it provides my
34 year-old body, I know the absence of calories hardly makes the
beverage GOOD for me. If I wanted to identify most of the ingredients
listed on the back of the package, I'd need to consult my chemist
boyfriend for a little help. My friend and fitness trainer Rob has
absolutely savaged me for buying into the hype. Dammit, the hype is
tasty!<br /><br />So what's a girl to do? Can I go back to the woman I was,
an imbiber of tap water and unsweetened iced tea (or at least I was
until I discovered Splenda, but that's another obsessive food post for
another time)? Now that I have been to the top of Coke Zero mountain, am
I capable of complacently return to the valley of hydrating liquids
with no additives? There seems to be Zero chance. Becky Sarwatehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07712085011707609713noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7239687664481382904.post-12170158242789392322012-12-12T14:53:00.000-06:002012-12-12T14:53:08.613-06:00Seasonal Attitude Disorder<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRPjXmFeH0CwisTKJvXlA9s0bQPESkiS02ok5_qnxxa7Nfhp3AeFMfx72dk2d4FIVcy2e_iKdPNXHKlIKK-XGHEMegKcE-ywG-lfXm86IrScWtuboc4oKKxp3t2KcQhTpn3uw7JgMkH6b6/s1600/Seasonal+Attitude+Disorder.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRPjXmFeH0CwisTKJvXlA9s0bQPESkiS02ok5_qnxxa7Nfhp3AeFMfx72dk2d4FIVcy2e_iKdPNXHKlIKK-XGHEMegKcE-ywG-lfXm86IrScWtuboc4oKKxp3t2KcQhTpn3uw7JgMkH6b6/s320/Seasonal+Attitude+Disorder.jpg" width="248" /></a><br />
I am really trying to be enthusiastic about the holidays this year. On November 30, 2011 Eddie and I signed our final divorce papers and I was just emerging from a bout with cervical cancer. The complicated and conflicting emotions involved included being grateful for my life while wondering what on earth I was going to do with the rest of it. I was at a loss and that pretty much sapped my close-of-2011 energy. I was lonely, depressed, afraid and reclusive. I sat out December altogether and spent a low-key New Year's Eve with close friends.<br /><br />2012 has had its ups and downs but by and large, I am healthier and more whole than I can ever remember. The cancer is in remission, memories of an unhappy marriage began to recede and occupy their rightful, proportionate place. I grew professionally as I settled into a day job as the head writer for a housewares company, formulated new and interesting friendships, even took a couple shots at romance again. As the record currently stands, these forays into attachment did not end happily, but there was a time I believed I could never risk my heart. So there's a simple pride in having put myself out there. <br /><br />More than five weeks ago, as regular readers of this blog are aware, L'il Red (my beloved bike) and I were involved in a somewhat hellacious accident involving an unwise yellow-light decision and a moving SUV. I was thrown from the bicycle, landing squarely on my tailbone and sacrum (the base of the spine) in the process. Both of these bones are fractured but despite the weeks of discomfort behind me as well as the months of recovery ahead, I know it could have been much worse.<br /><br />And dammit, I like to think of myself as a tough gal but continuous pain, drug side effects and the limiting of my range of motion are conspiring to upend this self-image. I hurt without medication. I struggle to eat and sleep when taking it. And no matter the state of physical discomfort, the holiday season is here to make me feel more pathetic and alone than I might otherwise. It's frustrating because I was bloody determined not to be a humbug this year. <br /><br />I have a pre-lit Christmas tree in my living room, a gift from the most recent boyfriend. When I find myself in the throes of pain, or sleepless from its relief, I turn on the four foot tall symbol of holiday cheer. Admittedly is is tougher to scowl when surrounded by glittering lights, but this kind of reminds me of those lamps doctors recommend to patients with Seasonal Affective Disorder. The light takes the edge off but it's no real substitute for the sun you know? Likewise the flickering tannenbaum brings a fleeting comfort but it doesn't replace the real sense of belonging, togetherness and celebration that the holiday season portends, and for which I yearn.<br /><br />I'm writing about these feelings because I wish to master them. Know thine enemy and all that. I feel myself slipping into the usual Christmas despondency and the hope is that by recognizing it, I can hold it at bay. Growing up the eldest child of abusive and neglectful parents, the 12 Days of Christmas usually involved a rundown of why I didn't deserve the blessings bestowed and what I had done to disappoint my progenitors throughout the calendar year. I am 34 years-old now. I don't need or deserve to hear these voices this year - from my lips or anyone else's. Becky Sarwatehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07712085011707609713noreply@blogger.com0