I am walking to the park on Bear Street about a half mile from my house. In my blue Eddie Bauer back pack I am carrying my roller blades and wrist guards. * I have not been on the blades since 2007 when I had a fall free trip up the lake shore in Chicago.
I blade around the park a few times…it is smaller than it appeared when I walked by it on my way home from the Nordstrom Rack. I am getting a little bored with going in circles. Maybe I should blade home? Maybe I shouldn't. Remember that time your were with Bernice and she fell...she had PT for like 6 months? I am doing pretty well. I have never fallen before. Plus, I have medical insurance. ** So, I head down Bear when I reach one problem I had not factored in when I reasoned to roll home…an intersection. Stopping has never really been forte. Crap. Ok, I can do this.
Bam! My legs slip from underneath me and fly into the air. I am falling. I am falling on my ass at the intersection of Bear and Paularino. Instinctively, I employ my guarded wrists to save me from further physical injury—the mental damage of landing on my butt and knowing that passersby are laughing at me cannot be undone. Hell, I would laugh too—falling is funny.
One car, one, at the intersection inquires if I am okay. I say yes but in truth my butt and wrists really ache. Shaken, I remove the blades and the guards and I walk home.
“Mom, I fell on my butt at an intersection on my roller blades.”
“You fell?” She asks. I think I hear her concealing a giggle—again, falling is funny.
“Yep, full on classic legs in the air ass on the ground fall.”
“Are you ok?”
“Well, my tailbone*** hurts and I think I sprained my wrist.”
“Did you have wrist guards?”
“Yes, thank God, otherwise I would be in serious trouble.”
“Where was your helmet?”
“I don’t have a helmet.”
“You need a helmet. Daddy fell on a bike ride and the last thing he remembers is the sound of his helmet skidding on the pavement.”
Always a ray of sunshine, she was right. What if it had been my head and not my ass that hit the ground first?
Truth be told, given that I am sorta injury prone I have no right rolling down a busy street. I used to blade all the time in my twenties with no thought about the dangers. No concern of harming myself.
A few months ago, I was walking down the stairs at my office and making a telephone call when my 3 inch heal caught on the step forcing me forward. I used the handrails to catch myself and re-assembled my blackberry.
That near trip had two outcomes. First, I cannot walk down the stairs and talk on the phone at the same time. Second, I am afraid of falling.
I watch children run up and down stairs—sometimes two or three at a time—free of any concern. I was like that as a child too. When did falling become scary? Given my natural low-grade anxiety, I now approach each stair with precision.
Reading Anne Marie Schlekeway’s blog Kiss My ALS this morning brought my whole anxiety into perspective. She wrote of a recent fall:
So I walked into my home and with in 5 minutes did a face plant into the carpet! Complete with rug burns on my face, under my left eye. UGH.
I felt my neck crack as I hit the ground …I hit the floor with my right knee and left cheekbone and temple and for the 1st time thought, “I wonder if it’s time for life alert?” I had had my phone in my hand so it was near me, and as I did a mental checklist feeling my body from the inside out to see if there was a serious injury…
I am blessed to have a strong, healthy body, which it would behoove me to take care of and enjoy. So I will still approach stairs with caution—just a smart thing to do—but I will not let the worry grip me in my daily activities.
Since I moved, I started a yoga class and have been researching cross-country skiing****. I might even buckle up those roller blades and tackle the safe confines of Still Water Creek Condominiums—where the smooth streets are wide and the speed limit is 20 MPH.*****
*A big shout out to Mrs. McLaughlin for buying them for me as a gift after she saw me rolling down Moulton Avenue sans wrist guards in 1994.
**The new rule of thumb is stay away from activities where that consideration is a deal breaker.
***I broke my tailbone in High School and for three months had to carry a powder blue, inflatable donut for anal discomfort. I might as well have been the annoying girl who starts her stories with, “One time at band camp….”
****Choosing that over leaning to Luge....let's not push it.
*****I will buy a helmet to be on the safe side.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Monday, September 27, 2010
The Crown That Wasn't
When I was 15 years old I wore a hat to school. During 2nd period I was called into the principle’s office. He asked me to remove my hat and when I refused due to ”hat head” I was sent home to take care of my hair. I was never certain what caused his aversion to hats.
Years later, my sister was called into the same said principle’s office regarding the patches on her blue jeans. Denim with holes was condemned yet decorations were okay. My smart-ass sister, Rachel chose a peach (sorta flesh colored) fabric. She was accused of trying to make it look like her underwear. *
Last spring, a school district in the same county, made half a dozen (or more) students donning a shirt stating, “Save the Ta Ta’s” turn their shirts inside out as the school deemed the shirt inappropriate. These students were trying to raise awareness to Breast Cancer as one of the participants mothers had been diagnosed.** Mona Shores High School went under attack.
More recently, as in the last two weeks, the school has been in the news twice. First, they were victims of a Ponzi scheme when they—among other schools--gave an unknown, out of town investor, 3.5 Million and he disappeared. However, one cannot overlook the magnitude of their latest media related frenzy. Yep, at this moment they are receiving international attention for not letting the fore-runner in the election of Homecoming King receive his crown due to the fact that he is a transgender student.
According to the school, the students get to vote for one male and one female and his documents list him as female. Never mind that the teachers and students refer to him by male pronouns, or that at graduation he will be donning a blue (male) gown, or that he has worn a Tux to school sponsored events. In this incident he is a she.
Mona Shores, with a little forethought this could have been beneficial for you. National—if not Global—media attention for how progressive and open you are with your students. Instead, you are being lambasted on an Worldwide level. Soon you will soon be up to your eyeballs with lawsuits.
You will really miss the 3.5 million you gave to some snake oil salesman, as it will not begin to cover your legal fees.
Ta Ta girls I suggest you weigh in as your rights were also violated. I suggest you research a case called Cohen V California. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cohen_v._California
or Tinker Versus the Des Moines Independent School District http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tinker_v._Des_Moines_Independent_Community_School_District
And Oak, I too have been discriminated against about things which I have no control. I will not compare your plight to mine but I sympathize. I empathize with feeling like who—or what—you are in bad and wrong. Your story hits close to home in light of experience and geography. I also have a handful on transgender acquaintances.
Lastly, Mona Shores—and all schools—stop trying to suppress free speech—that will only lead to trouble.
Support Oak: http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=103699403028170&ref=ts#!/group.php?gid=103699403028170&ref=ts
Also, I would be remiss if I didn’t mention that the school district is being sued for constraining a three-year-old autistic child.
Let me know what you thing of this blog…
*She argues vehemently that is was not meant to look like underwear.
** Until you have a parent diagnosed with the big C—you have no idea what it is like.
Years later, my sister was called into the same said principle’s office regarding the patches on her blue jeans. Denim with holes was condemned yet decorations were okay. My smart-ass sister, Rachel chose a peach (sorta flesh colored) fabric. She was accused of trying to make it look like her underwear. *
Last spring, a school district in the same county, made half a dozen (or more) students donning a shirt stating, “Save the Ta Ta’s” turn their shirts inside out as the school deemed the shirt inappropriate. These students were trying to raise awareness to Breast Cancer as one of the participants mothers had been diagnosed.** Mona Shores High School went under attack.
More recently, as in the last two weeks, the school has been in the news twice. First, they were victims of a Ponzi scheme when they—among other schools--gave an unknown, out of town investor, 3.5 Million and he disappeared. However, one cannot overlook the magnitude of their latest media related frenzy. Yep, at this moment they are receiving international attention for not letting the fore-runner in the election of Homecoming King receive his crown due to the fact that he is a transgender student.
According to the school, the students get to vote for one male and one female and his documents list him as female. Never mind that the teachers and students refer to him by male pronouns, or that at graduation he will be donning a blue (male) gown, or that he has worn a Tux to school sponsored events. In this incident he is a she.
Mona Shores, with a little forethought this could have been beneficial for you. National—if not Global—media attention for how progressive and open you are with your students. Instead, you are being lambasted on an Worldwide level. Soon you will soon be up to your eyeballs with lawsuits.
You will really miss the 3.5 million you gave to some snake oil salesman, as it will not begin to cover your legal fees.
Ta Ta girls I suggest you weigh in as your rights were also violated. I suggest you research a case called Cohen V California. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cohen_v._California
or Tinker Versus the Des Moines Independent School District http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tinker_v._Des_Moines_Independent_Community_School_District
And Oak, I too have been discriminated against about things which I have no control. I will not compare your plight to mine but I sympathize. I empathize with feeling like who—or what—you are in bad and wrong. Your story hits close to home in light of experience and geography. I also have a handful on transgender acquaintances.
Lastly, Mona Shores—and all schools—stop trying to suppress free speech—that will only lead to trouble.
Support Oak: http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=103699403028170&ref=ts#!/group.php?gid=103699403028170&ref=ts
Also, I would be remiss if I didn’t mention that the school district is being sued for constraining a three-year-old autistic child.
Let me know what you thing of this blog…
*She argues vehemently that is was not meant to look like underwear.
** Until you have a parent diagnosed with the big C—you have no idea what it is like.
There are no Accidents....
Earlier today I was chatting with a friend about the immense changes—transformations—I have had in the past three years and the incidents that allowed for them occur. Some good and some bad, yet nevertheless experiences I would not alter for anything.
Without these transformations, I would be a resigned, bitter, neurotic woman. *
I sit at my computer comfortable in my own skin. Present to life working around me. I am as happy as an Irishman in a pub.
The conversation got me reflecting on my journey in life. The very path that has me sitting at my parents’ dining room table while writing with a Red 1999 Ford Escort parked in the driveway.
People often say, “In life there are no accidents.” I believe that to be true.
In 1991, while a senior at North Muskegon High School, I entered a mentor program to work with a professional in a chosen field. I opted for theater and was assigned to Rich Oman, a professor at Muskegon Community College. I studied an array of areas and interviewed working professionals. One person was Neil Rosen, the Owner and Producer of Cherry County Playhouse. I not only learned about his job but also scheduled an interview that would lead to MY first paying theater job. ** I am certain that time I spent working at CCP during the summer of 1992 (and 4 subsequent years) shaped the course of my whole life. I went on to study theater at DePaul University, founded as the Goodman School of Drama and work at Broadway In Chicago. While employed at BIC, I met some people who facilitated my next—non-theater—career; which landed me in Orange County, California.
Rich Oman opened doors that led to my fun, exciting, sexy and incredible life
Last week, I met with Rich for lunch at Main Street Pub and Eatery in North Muskegon. The day before I had, unknowingly, sent an email to his new wife--she is the editor of a local publication where I was inquiring about being a contributing writer. The following day he sent me an email informing me that The Muskegon Chronicle is looking for theater reviewers and I should pursue that as well. I emailed the Arts Editor and she is going to give me a shot.
Victories, failures, love and heartbreak have brought me to this moment. The person I am is the sum total of all those events. At 36 years old, I have no regrets or resentments. Opportunities abound and I am unabashedly seizing them. I encourage you to do the same. Every relationship, every interaction presents a possibility.
To everyone who has contributed to me in my journey, thank you. I promise, things will only get better from here.
Can you see the road map of your life? What was the incident that put it in action? Who was the person?
*Feel free to use your imagination for the last word of that sentence.
**$100.00 a week for 40-50 hours.
Without these transformations, I would be a resigned, bitter, neurotic woman. *
I sit at my computer comfortable in my own skin. Present to life working around me. I am as happy as an Irishman in a pub.
The conversation got me reflecting on my journey in life. The very path that has me sitting at my parents’ dining room table while writing with a Red 1999 Ford Escort parked in the driveway.
People often say, “In life there are no accidents.” I believe that to be true.
In 1991, while a senior at North Muskegon High School, I entered a mentor program to work with a professional in a chosen field. I opted for theater and was assigned to Rich Oman, a professor at Muskegon Community College. I studied an array of areas and interviewed working professionals. One person was Neil Rosen, the Owner and Producer of Cherry County Playhouse. I not only learned about his job but also scheduled an interview that would lead to MY first paying theater job. ** I am certain that time I spent working at CCP during the summer of 1992 (and 4 subsequent years) shaped the course of my whole life. I went on to study theater at DePaul University, founded as the Goodman School of Drama and work at Broadway In Chicago. While employed at BIC, I met some people who facilitated my next—non-theater—career; which landed me in Orange County, California.
Rich Oman opened doors that led to my fun, exciting, sexy and incredible life
Last week, I met with Rich for lunch at Main Street Pub and Eatery in North Muskegon. The day before I had, unknowingly, sent an email to his new wife--she is the editor of a local publication where I was inquiring about being a contributing writer. The following day he sent me an email informing me that The Muskegon Chronicle is looking for theater reviewers and I should pursue that as well. I emailed the Arts Editor and she is going to give me a shot.
Victories, failures, love and heartbreak have brought me to this moment. The person I am is the sum total of all those events. At 36 years old, I have no regrets or resentments. Opportunities abound and I am unabashedly seizing them. I encourage you to do the same. Every relationship, every interaction presents a possibility.
To everyone who has contributed to me in my journey, thank you. I promise, things will only get better from here.
Can you see the road map of your life? What was the incident that put it in action? Who was the person?
*Feel free to use your imagination for the last word of that sentence.
**$100.00 a week for 40-50 hours.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Peace out OC
I am about two weeks late writing this blog but, alas, better late than never. As I write this I am sitting in my parents condo—currently my home.
Peace out OC….
Leaving you is bitter sweet. I dwelled behind the Orange Curtain for One year and 298 days; most of the time feeling like a stranger in a strange land. I never embraced your ways or gave you my heart fully. When my plane took off on November 15, 2008, I had no intention of making you home. You were a means to an end in forwarding my career and a pathway to a promotion back to the Midwest.
Try as I might to hide my heart from you; somehow, a piece of it remains in So Cal. True, I abandoned my Peggy Sawyer* like optimism and advancement ambitions. Yet, the moment that I stopped pursing that which drove me to Coast Mesa is the moment our courtship began. I not only no longer loathed you but also began to like you. My disgust dissipated and an adventure began.
I spent months exploring your charms in Old Town San Diego, The Huntington Library, the Sprekles Organ, the Tide Swells in Laguna Beach and Hotel Del. I, gasp, made friends with your inhabitants. People I am certain will be in my life, if only through the occasional Facebook interaction, forever.
Not only did I explore your state…I explored myself. What did I want to do next? Where did I want to do it? If I am not my job, who am I? I participated in Pax Courses and inquired into my best feminine self.
I had fun, found peace and was happy.
People would ask, “You are such a California Girl now, how can you go back to the Midwest.” I am not a West Coast, Midwest or East Coast Girl. I am me, Alyssa Dyksterhouse.
On my way to my Doctors appointment this morning I heard my summer theme song—Katy Perry’s California Gurls. My sun kissed skin is still so hot it will melt your Popsicle. I am undeniable. I am fine, fresh and fierce—I got in on lock.
One week into my relocation, I am more certain that I made the best choice for me. I am creating opportunities and building on what I started in California.
Peace out OC….you bought me peace.
* The lead Character in the Musical 42nd Street--a nervous but enthusiastic new chorus girl from out of town
Peace out OC….
Leaving you is bitter sweet. I dwelled behind the Orange Curtain for One year and 298 days; most of the time feeling like a stranger in a strange land. I never embraced your ways or gave you my heart fully. When my plane took off on November 15, 2008, I had no intention of making you home. You were a means to an end in forwarding my career and a pathway to a promotion back to the Midwest.
Try as I might to hide my heart from you; somehow, a piece of it remains in So Cal. True, I abandoned my Peggy Sawyer* like optimism and advancement ambitions. Yet, the moment that I stopped pursing that which drove me to Coast Mesa is the moment our courtship began. I not only no longer loathed you but also began to like you. My disgust dissipated and an adventure began.
I spent months exploring your charms in Old Town San Diego, The Huntington Library, the Sprekles Organ, the Tide Swells in Laguna Beach and Hotel Del. I, gasp, made friends with your inhabitants. People I am certain will be in my life, if only through the occasional Facebook interaction, forever.
Not only did I explore your state…I explored myself. What did I want to do next? Where did I want to do it? If I am not my job, who am I? I participated in Pax Courses and inquired into my best feminine self.
I had fun, found peace and was happy.
People would ask, “You are such a California Girl now, how can you go back to the Midwest.” I am not a West Coast, Midwest or East Coast Girl. I am me, Alyssa Dyksterhouse.
On my way to my Doctors appointment this morning I heard my summer theme song—Katy Perry’s California Gurls. My sun kissed skin is still so hot it will melt your Popsicle. I am undeniable. I am fine, fresh and fierce—I got in on lock.
One week into my relocation, I am more certain that I made the best choice for me. I am creating opportunities and building on what I started in California.
Peace out OC….you bought me peace.
* The lead Character in the Musical 42nd Street--a nervous but enthusiastic new chorus girl from out of town
Monday, September 20, 2010
The Tenth Circle of Hell
According to Wikipedia:
Allegorically, the Inferno represents the Christian soul seeing sin for what it really is, and the three beasts represent three types of sin: the self-indulgent, the violent, and the malicious.[12] These three types of sin also provide the three main divisions of Dante's Hell: Upper Hell (the first 5 Circles) for the self-indulgent sins; Circles 6 and 7 for the violent sins; and Circles 8 and 9 for the malicious sins.
I am certain if Dante were to be living in modern times he would have included a 10th circle—Meijer in Fruitport on a Saturday afternoon.
Meijer, founded in Grand Rapids, Michigan in 1934, is a regional superstore thought to be the original big box. In fact, at one point it’s official name was Meijer Thrifty Acres. Indeed, at 2:00 in the morning one can purchase a live lobster, jumper cables, a DVD and some Swedish Fish in bulk. I have spent many hours entertaining myself in aisles of that store.
Saturday afternoon, I ventured out to do some grocery shopping. Soon after I entered the store I began to wonder if my mom didn’t warn me as some sort of punishment.
Three words sum up the experience. Hell on Earth.
I now understand why there is a waiting period for Guns as I may have gone to the hunting aisle, purchased one and opened fire.
People seem to think grocery shopping is a group activity. In almost every aisle a family of four would stop—in such a manner than no one can get around—and have a debate on what kind of potato chips to buy.
I suggest steel toe boots if one must go to the Fruitport Meijer on a Saturday. The store is full of people who are asleep at the cart.
I found it easier to navigate my way through the aisles with healthier or ethnic food as they were like ghost towns while the soda and cookie aisle should be avoided at all costs. Really, I think the town of Fruitport keeps the soft drink industry in business. The produce aisle is pretty open too.
If at all possible limit the items you purchase as 75% of all the shoppers had enough items in their cart to feed a small Asian family for a month.
Before I exited the store, I stopped at the Chase Bank to open an account. When I told the banker to be sure to attach a savings account he replied, “You clearly are not from around here. No one here saves.”
Signing out on my first blog from Fruitport. Sorry no pictures but I was in the trenches.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Meijers
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Thievery on the Southwest Chief
I am en route from California to Michigan via Amtrak. An avid train rider I am used to the delays encountered on riding the Pere Marquette from Chicago to Holland. One could bet that train will be late for any number of reasons. My favorite was the time we clipped the tail end of a garbage truck. Heading back the day after Christmas, I had to call my boss to let him know I was going to be late while we waited for the trash to be taken of the tracks.
The Southwest Chief, Train Number Four, is running right on time despite the 20 minutes we spent last night filling a police report in Needles, California. Around 12:45 AM I went to the bathroom; upon return to my seat I saw a young man scanning the overhead bins with the light of his cell phone. I looked down to discover my laptop was missing. As I passed from car 13 to car 12 I found two more individuals who were missing items. A woman then informed me that she saw the punk riffling through her bag as well as investigating my red bag (my ultra heavy cooler).
We headed from car 12 to car 11 to car 10 looking for an Amtrak employ. We locate two sitting in the employee quarters in car 1.
“There is a thief on the train.”
“How do you know?”
“He stole my backpack with my laptop, my girlfriends camera and her—pointing to me--laptop. He has been walking back and forth all night.”
“I don’t know what we can do about it?”
“Find him and ask him questions.”
“Do you know who it is?”
“The kid with all the tattoos.
“And piercings?”
“Yes, that is him.”
“He is getting off at the Needles stop. That is in ten minutes. The best we can do is to watch and see what he takes off the train with him.”
I might want to mention that one of the kids who was with me, a 19-year-old, apologized for bothering them.
Taking matters into our own hands we set out to search high and low for our missing items.*
I went back to ask the staff to turn the lights on so we could look, they declined as to not wake up all the passengers. My retort, “I know this does not happen often but you are not handling this sufficiently.
I pass the suspect who stops me and says, “Did someone steal something from you because someone stole my laptop and my camera and they think I did it.”
“You have been wondering up and down the train all night.”
By this time another passenger is missing his video camera and laptop.
I head back through the train. The conductors have located a few of the items but not my laptop. I follow one of the Amtrak “police” and the perp to the bathroom. He opens his hard cased mustard yellow suitcase and I see it. I see my laptop.
“There it is.”
He maneuvers his belongings to hide it.
“Your laptop is not in my bag.”
“It is under your clothes.”
The conductor leans down and hands me my computer and I look him in the eye and say, “You are a Mother Fucker.”
Mr. Amtrak adds, “You are in big trouble.”
The train arrives to Needles and the delinquent runs to his Grandma, “They are saying I stole things but I am being framed.” To us, “I swear on my brother’s life…on my dead cousin’s life. I didn’t do this. You gotta believe me.”
One girl cannot find her camera so we ask him to open his suitcase again. He opens the suitcase. After five minutes, WHILE WE ARE WAITING FOR THE COPS, he and his Grandma start walking off. We follow.
His Grandma turns around, “There isn’t anything in his bag.”
Ok, so that statement is telling. If she thought he was innocent she would have said, “My grandson is not a thief.” Basically she is saying, “You cannot prove anything.”
Luckily, Needles finest arrived at that moment.
I need to interrupt this story to tell you about the crowd at the Needles Train Depot at 1:00 AM. One word, COPS. I wanted to ask Needles Finest if they filmed COPS here.
Also, a word about Jessie James. He was wearing a slightly slanted “Yo” hat and we think uses either Crystal Meth or Heroin.
The officer gets out of his car when dickwad says, “There were two black dudes going up and down the aisle, maybe they framed me.” Oh, yeah blame it on the African Americans, douche bag.
Grandma pipes in, again, “He doesn’t have anything in his bag.”
The police sent us away put him in the car and took are reports.
This is actually the reader’s digest version of the story.
Happily, after the last camera was dug out of the bathroom trash, all items are returned in to the proper owners.
*I was smart enough to buy traveler's insurance.
The Southwest Chief, Train Number Four, is running right on time despite the 20 minutes we spent last night filling a police report in Needles, California. Around 12:45 AM I went to the bathroom; upon return to my seat I saw a young man scanning the overhead bins with the light of his cell phone. I looked down to discover my laptop was missing. As I passed from car 13 to car 12 I found two more individuals who were missing items. A woman then informed me that she saw the punk riffling through her bag as well as investigating my red bag (my ultra heavy cooler).
We headed from car 12 to car 11 to car 10 looking for an Amtrak employ. We locate two sitting in the employee quarters in car 1.
“There is a thief on the train.”
“How do you know?”
“He stole my backpack with my laptop, my girlfriends camera and her—pointing to me--laptop. He has been walking back and forth all night.”
“I don’t know what we can do about it?”
“Find him and ask him questions.”
“Do you know who it is?”
“The kid with all the tattoos.
“And piercings?”
“Yes, that is him.”
“He is getting off at the Needles stop. That is in ten minutes. The best we can do is to watch and see what he takes off the train with him.”
I might want to mention that one of the kids who was with me, a 19-year-old, apologized for bothering them.
Taking matters into our own hands we set out to search high and low for our missing items.*
I went back to ask the staff to turn the lights on so we could look, they declined as to not wake up all the passengers. My retort, “I know this does not happen often but you are not handling this sufficiently.
I pass the suspect who stops me and says, “Did someone steal something from you because someone stole my laptop and my camera and they think I did it.”
“You have been wondering up and down the train all night.”
By this time another passenger is missing his video camera and laptop.
I head back through the train. The conductors have located a few of the items but not my laptop. I follow one of the Amtrak “police” and the perp to the bathroom. He opens his hard cased mustard yellow suitcase and I see it. I see my laptop.
“There it is.”
He maneuvers his belongings to hide it.
“Your laptop is not in my bag.”
“It is under your clothes.”
The conductor leans down and hands me my computer and I look him in the eye and say, “You are a Mother Fucker.”
Mr. Amtrak adds, “You are in big trouble.”
The train arrives to Needles and the delinquent runs to his Grandma, “They are saying I stole things but I am being framed.” To us, “I swear on my brother’s life…on my dead cousin’s life. I didn’t do this. You gotta believe me.”
One girl cannot find her camera so we ask him to open his suitcase again. He opens the suitcase. After five minutes, WHILE WE ARE WAITING FOR THE COPS, he and his Grandma start walking off. We follow.
His Grandma turns around, “There isn’t anything in his bag.”
Ok, so that statement is telling. If she thought he was innocent she would have said, “My grandson is not a thief.” Basically she is saying, “You cannot prove anything.”
Luckily, Needles finest arrived at that moment.
I need to interrupt this story to tell you about the crowd at the Needles Train Depot at 1:00 AM. One word, COPS. I wanted to ask Needles Finest if they filmed COPS here.
Also, a word about Jessie James. He was wearing a slightly slanted “Yo” hat and we think uses either Crystal Meth or Heroin.
The officer gets out of his car when dickwad says, “There were two black dudes going up and down the aisle, maybe they framed me.” Oh, yeah blame it on the African Americans, douche bag.
Grandma pipes in, again, “He doesn’t have anything in his bag.”
The police sent us away put him in the car and took are reports.
This is actually the reader’s digest version of the story.
Happily, after the last camera was dug out of the bathroom trash, all items are returned in to the proper owners.
*I was smart enough to buy traveler's insurance.
Friday, September 3, 2010
Fruitport, Which is Right next to Ferrysberg
A few weeks ago I went on an impromptu trip to Chicago. Staying with my friend Kate on the Northside in Portage Park, I took the Milwaukee bus downtown. Passing through Wicker Park I started nostalgically thinking about my 14 years living in Chicago. During that time I had 100 lifetimes being a student, a receptionist, a student worker, which led me to the question, “What is my newest life in Chicago going to look like? Is it possible to go home again?”
The person who boarded American Airlines to SNA on November 15, 2008 is not returning to Chicago. The entitled, superior, perfect Alyssa no longer exists. Moving to California where I knew no one was the first step in a self-discovery. Leaving my job in March, about the same time I began this blog, a drive into the pool of the unknown. In the early days I was lost as to what to do next and how to do it? Nothing was the same.
In the past five months, I have traveled, made friends, tried new things, taken courses and for the first time in a long time everything about my life works. Concerned to interrupt anything with a gnawing fear that moving to Chicago wasn’t a good idea I have been putting off moving. I miss my people terribly but am more committed to my life working and the difference I can make for others when it does.
I even considered, at the suggestion of my Illinois dwelling boyfriend, staying in California. Smart enough to know that it might just be something I am doing because I feel I should and concerned about my happiness. In the end I chose to move, as the distance is too much—I hate missing weddings and funerals and birthday celebrations.
After my visit, I was no more certain—and perhaps less—that moving back to Chicago was the best idea. The cost of living is high especially given that I do not have a job. They have a water bottle tax! I want to focus on writing a book and the city has many distractions. Even my visit to my former neighborhood pub proved bankrupt.
My future in Chicago is predictable…I will be so worried about survival that my anxiety will drive me to some job at which I am underemployed hence my life will stop working and I will cease writing.
Therefore, I am moving home. Muskegon County. The Skee. I will be living in my parents basement bedroom suit in Fruitport Michigan—that is right next to Ferrysburg, no joke. I a 36 years old and I think this is the most adult thing I can do. I will be able to save money and focus on the things I would do if not anxious about, and scared of, being homeless and hungry.
Those of you concerned about fodder for my blog, you have never been to The Skee. When I was 32 years old, a grocery store clerk once questioned if she could sell me Rolling Rock because my license was from Illinois and she wasn’t sure if they “accepted” out of state ID. My mom frequently drops her wine in the check out lane at Meijers. Don’t worry I never blog about people I like without their permission. Fruitport, which is right next to Ferrysburg.
Those of you concerned about my “pool time” one of my BFFs from high school has a pool and lives on a lake (yes, you can see across it). She has offered to be my sidekick and wear a cape. Be the Glinda to my Elphaba….ok, maybe more like the Wonder Twins.
Those of you concerned about the title of this blog….it is also a play on OCD and ADD which I will have regardless of what county I reside.
Moving back to a town I couldn’t wait to get away from gives me great peace of mind. What would have been an indication of failure as an adult is now a blessing.
Would you ever move home? What do you think about a roommate, your dad, who cooks for you?
Oh and Mom, we need to work out the caf/decaf issue on the Painted Black.
The person who boarded American Airlines to SNA on November 15, 2008 is not returning to Chicago. The entitled, superior, perfect Alyssa no longer exists. Moving to California where I knew no one was the first step in a self-discovery. Leaving my job in March, about the same time I began this blog, a drive into the pool of the unknown. In the early days I was lost as to what to do next and how to do it? Nothing was the same.
In the past five months, I have traveled, made friends, tried new things, taken courses and for the first time in a long time everything about my life works. Concerned to interrupt anything with a gnawing fear that moving to Chicago wasn’t a good idea I have been putting off moving. I miss my people terribly but am more committed to my life working and the difference I can make for others when it does.
I even considered, at the suggestion of my Illinois dwelling boyfriend, staying in California. Smart enough to know that it might just be something I am doing because I feel I should and concerned about my happiness. In the end I chose to move, as the distance is too much—I hate missing weddings and funerals and birthday celebrations.
After my visit, I was no more certain—and perhaps less—that moving back to Chicago was the best idea. The cost of living is high especially given that I do not have a job. They have a water bottle tax! I want to focus on writing a book and the city has many distractions. Even my visit to my former neighborhood pub proved bankrupt.
My future in Chicago is predictable…I will be so worried about survival that my anxiety will drive me to some job at which I am underemployed hence my life will stop working and I will cease writing.
Therefore, I am moving home. Muskegon County. The Skee. I will be living in my parents basement bedroom suit in Fruitport Michigan—that is right next to Ferrysburg, no joke. I a 36 years old and I think this is the most adult thing I can do. I will be able to save money and focus on the things I would do if not anxious about, and scared of, being homeless and hungry.
Those of you concerned about fodder for my blog, you have never been to The Skee. When I was 32 years old, a grocery store clerk once questioned if she could sell me Rolling Rock because my license was from Illinois and she wasn’t sure if they “accepted” out of state ID. My mom frequently drops her wine in the check out lane at Meijers. Don’t worry I never blog about people I like without their permission. Fruitport, which is right next to Ferrysburg.
Those of you concerned about my “pool time” one of my BFFs from high school has a pool and lives on a lake (yes, you can see across it). She has offered to be my sidekick and wear a cape. Be the Glinda to my Elphaba….ok, maybe more like the Wonder Twins.
Those of you concerned about the title of this blog….it is also a play on OCD and ADD which I will have regardless of what county I reside.
Moving back to a town I couldn’t wait to get away from gives me great peace of mind. What would have been an indication of failure as an adult is now a blessing.
Would you ever move home? What do you think about a roommate, your dad, who cooks for you?
Oh and Mom, we need to work out the caf/decaf issue on the Painted Black.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
