the other 'f word' in my life.

*I’m going to use double dare swears in this post. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.*

I have a tumultuous relationship with words.  At times, they’re my best companions; in certain instances words fail me miserably.  When my chosen medium of expression decides to thwart me, its in an instance of frustration, fear or anger.

I’m talking about swearing.
Ok, more specifically about my relationship with the F word (not fat, we’ve already covered that.)

F--k. There is nothing more satisfying than letting the f bombs fly in a moment of anger.

Poor Queen Esther, she’s privy to most of my worst swearing offenses. The merge onto the Dan Ryan from 55…? Forget it, I pretty much sound like an uncensored Eminem/ Lil Wayne mash-up.  I know it’s trashy, I know it’s not polite; but there are few things more satisfying than a strategically placed f--k.  [I will not entertain the conversation on intelligence here. I get it, I’m a smart girl who can think of a million other ways to express frustration. I have, and 'fudge', 'frick', and 'oh eff' just  fall miserably flat.]

If it’s not in the car, it’s when I lose something, drop something or am just generally in a state of ‘hot mess’ [that’s a technical term.] C’mon- calling my lap top a ‘little f—ker’ is so much more satisfying than saying ‘sucker’.

Apparently, its also in poor taste to call your friends 'f—ker' or to tell them to 'f—k off'?  Relax Molly manners, I might be trashy, but  I’m kidding.

This shit is so embarrassing.

I’m ashamed that I sound like an uneducated, uncreative NASCAR fan when I talk like that.

I’m ashamed that I can really make people feel uncomfortable when I start spouting off four letter words.

I’m ashamed that in moments of anger, I lose control and all I can do is yell “f—k!” to keep from backhanding someone.

Honestly, I think the shame comes from my perception of other people’s perceptions.  Short of calling a four year old a 'motherf—ker', [seriously almost happened this summer at the YMCA]. I don’t think my language is really keeping anyone up at night.  It’s a matter of using discretion of course, but also; freeing myself from the mental prison of pining after acceptance and  fretting over other people's judgments.

Honestly, fuck that, it is No Shame November, after all.

No Shame November is the brainchild of the fabulous Kathleen Leahy [find her here].

Queen Esther, the escort.

This is my car, Queen Esther.

I'm ashamed of her.
She’s a 1997 Ford Escort. Roll up windows, manual locks, two doors… & a tape deck! She seems to be simple and smart, no frills. Truth be told, she is a regal and unassuming beauty.

Best of all she has a story. I inherited Esther from my Great Aunt Kay the summer before I went away to college. My track record with cars before Esther is shaky, with Esther it’s really a wonder they still let me drive at all. 

I inherited a plethora of treasures with her. She came with a stale cigarette smell from Aunt Kay’s USAA Golds, some crusty leaves from autumn 1999, a mini flash light, stylish cigarette burn holes in all of the seats and some rusty jumper cables that will for sure give me tetnus if I even look at them for too long.  I’d be remiss not to mention the non-working horn [safety first!], weird shaking thing that I’ve gotten completely used to, a missing right fog light and  the hood that never really closes [pretty sure that one keeps my mom up and night.]

It’s great that she was free and all, but she embarrasses the hell out of me. That bit about my poor track record with cars? Just this summer her wipers stopped working on the way home from a friends wedding in Rockford [my passengers were great, I just yelled the f word and called my dad.]

Yeah, white girl problems. I’m ashamed of my car... & I’m ashamed that I’m ashamed [does that even make sense?]

I’m ashamed that she constantly smells like a hot cigarette

I’m ashamed that the carpet looks polka dotted with coffee stains

I’m ashamed that she’s only got two doors and it’s like a throw back to discovery zone birthday parties when people have to climb in the back.

But I’m really ashamed that I live in a culture that makes me ashamed of my car. It’s responsible, it gets great gas mileage, it came at no cost to me or my parents and it enables me to work off campus and make the big bucks [that’s a blatant lie.] Granted it’s ugly and nasty- but why do I have to have the biggest, best and newest of everything?  I don’t, car included. I shouldn't have to carry shame about my car- I should hold my head high and see this jankity-jank automobile for the blessing it is, right?

For what it’s worth, Esther has served me well. She’s traversed the Midwest [shout out to Iowa City, Milwalkee and Grand Rapids] and she’s even made it into the south [Oklahoma City],  I’m planning on making a foray into internataional travel by taking her to Toronto [I’m nuts?!]  This car has been around. She’s taken me everywhere. She has moved me in and out of dorms and apartments for the last four years. She has provided the venue for more than a few late night talks and some pretty big decisions. She drove me out of my parents drive way the first time the word divorce crept into our lives. She took me to the hospital every day my dad was sick the following year, and I realized what being his daughter means now. She drove me to and from my first two-part, divorced Christmas dinner. She doesn’t talk back when I yell or when I cry. She’s pretty reliable. I kind of like her.

That's me & Esther.

No Shame November is the brainchild of the fabulous Kathleen Leahy [find her here].

on being southside irish

 I probably shouldn’t say this out-loud, but…

Sometimes I’m embarrassed about where I come from.

I’m southside irish…  and it's complicated.
I call the front room a fronch room. In my mind, St. Patrick’s Day is a national holiday. I thought it was normal to drink after funerals. I have a When Irish Eyes are Smiling jewelry box, and too much kiss me I’m Irish pride wear. It’s nuts.
Basically, I was taught to be proud.
Of what, you ask? Well, sit down pal, let me tell you...

Special occasions in my family are marked by a few constants, mashed potatoes, turnips, rolls from Beverly Woods and more bottled Miller Lite than I’m comfortable admitting. My mom grew up hearing nuns woefully say, kids that don’t go to Catholic school, “their mothers don’t love them.” [I wish I was kidding, & I know mama KB don’t lie]. My dad is one of seven, and grew up in Beverly (pardon me, Chicago’s Historic Beverly Community). Both of them have had roughly the same social circles since they were six. Everyone knows each other, I've joked that, "it's four degrees of separation on the south side" [its like that Kevin Bacon game, see what I did there?]

I’m from this alternate Irish-Catholic universe.

So what am I so ashamed of?

I’m ashamed that when I study white flight and urban oppression I see faces that look just like mine.

I’m ashamed that I can’t be honest about my family sometimes because, other people “just won’t get it”
(you mean it's not normal to start drinking with your family at your high school graduation party?)

I’m ashamed that I don’t flinch when I hear racial slurs because, that’s just “how it is”

I’m ashamed to call this insular and at times, toxic culture my own.

When I say I grew up Southside-Irish [the Catholic is implied], I think the meaning is lost on people.

It's pretty much a given you don't leave Chicago, you raise your kids near your parents and replicate your childhood experiences. and that’s beautiful. I’m not denying the richness of a tight-knit, cultural community; but it can be suffocating. Everyone knows everyone else’s business and they’re knee deep in it. There’s little room for change how I grew up. Imagine how my mother felt when I told her I didn't call myself a Catholic anymore [there was some exchange about purgatory, but that’s for another day.] 

I had to run far, far away to figure out who I was [more on that later]

Again, No Shame November is certainly getting personal. That was kind of embarrassing for me.

Cultural Experience for the day. Watch this
[the video is total crap, but that song is like summation of my childhood.]

No Shame November is the brainchild of the fabulous Kathleen Leahy [find her here].

No shame… I’m a fat girl.

I did it. I really did. I used the F word. fat. Fat. FAT.

Truth is you’re not going to see me on a TLC special about real life obesity, nor am I “a biscuit shy of 400” (a favorite amongst my mother’s coworkers), but I’m not thin.  My pant size is larger than my shoe size, and in the spirit of honesty- it’s in the double digits. That said, [I’m going to be single for the rest of my life!]…

**cut to disclaimer** Maybe this is getting weird for you. Maybe you’re thinking I’m getting a little too personal, a little too soon. Listen pal, this is No Shame November. I’m not always going to write posts worthy of  17 Magazine. I’m warming up, stick with me. That said, in a quest for less shame, I’m confronting body issues head on. If you’ve got issues with mine, maybe you should check yours?**

It’s an incredibly weird juxtaposition of feelings for me. 

There are days I look in the mirror and think, “wow, LB you are truly fabulous.”

There are other days I look in the mirror and think, “wow, you sure have been putting on the LBs.”

This is real life.

I suppose it shouldn’t define me like it does, and I’m ashamed to say it, but sometimes I view being a big a girl as qualifications for being  a second class citizen. Wow. No Shame November- up close and personal.

I’m ashamed that I can easily spend a half hour looking at the mirror and poking every ounce of white flesh I wish wasn’t there.

I’m ashamed that I cried the last time I bought jeans.

I’m ashamed that I can dwell in a state of mind that says “no, you can’t…. because you don’t look like them.”

Maybe I’m ashamed because I feel like people look at me and think…

Treadmill.
Salad Bar.
…almost attractive?

I’m not going to live my life as an “almost” anything.  I’m not ashamed to say that, for me, the good days outweigh the bad ones, and I know that life is more than skin deep. I’m aware that beauty is much more than the tag on my jeggings (don’t hate) and is comprised of who I am when I look in the mirror but also when I open my mouth.

…and so, no more shame. I am who I am. It’s my job to be healthy and happy, not to be the ideal I created in my head when I was 16 years old…

Que the song “Video” by India.Arie http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mq86e4Fhja0&ob=av2e

No Shame November

This November (that’s this month.)  I’m taking on a bit of a challenge. Joining forces with one of the souls that is dearest to me, I am being shameless this November.

"Dear Public,

Today is the beginning of a project I intend to devote a good amount of time to over the next thirty days. I’m calling it No Shame November. I like to shave, and I would like to be less self-conscious, so I think this is a good alternative to your usual cold-weather challenges.

Everyday, I am going to write about one thing that did/does make me uncomfortable, embarrassed, or otherwise “shamed.” On certain occasions, I will face this fear head on in order to prove something to myself… and hopefully provide a little entertainment along the way.

It’s going to get interesting, folks. Stay tuned. Tonight’s entry will be on mediating conflict"

No Shame November is the brain child of the brilliantly talented Kathleen Leahy. This post was originally published here, http://kathleenleahy.tumblr.com/.

why i... kind of hate macs.

it's no secret i hate hipsters.
Maybe's its the glasses for fashion (i was five years old when i first became a four-eyes), perhaps its the pretentiousness required of them. Maybe its the fact that most of them live off the blue line.

...or is it that they all have macs?

That can't be it. errbody and their mother (really) is all about Apple.... and let's be honest, i'm so over that.

Remember when macs were something that were ancient, rotting machines in the back of public school classrooms (shout out to Kirby School!)? Then they were regarded as annoying, frustrating and decidedly unhip. My, how the times have changed. My view on these machines hasn't changed a bit, but seems everyone else's has.I've heard all the arguments, they don't get viruses, the picture stuff is better. Whatever, you want apps and a garage band, shmeh, shmeh, shmeh. I just want to right-click.

So the bottom line is this, I hate macs on principle. Whether or not they are superior machines remains to be seen.... and that's why... Steve Jobs stepped down?

why i... often waste time doing completely pointless things

This is one of those, wish-i-had-a-better answer types of things.
The truth is,
I
 just
   don't
         know.

I do know, however, that I am damn good at rationalizing the importance of time wasting, and even conning myself into believing that I haven't wasted time. "I have been going crazy all week", "I really haven't done anything mindless all day", I should read these goofy blogs, "I just need a laugh."

Lies, lies and more lies. My life is like a permanent vacation. I'm a 21 year old college student who is completely living the dream. Living in the city for the summer, working a day camp for pre schoolers- my days are hardly stressful; in fact they're stress free. Snack time, pool time, making sure everyone's blankets and stuffies are accounted for- if that's not mindless i'm not sure what is.

all of that aside, there is something so enjoyable about wasting time. If you've got time to waste there are few things more satisfying than pure and simple doing nothing. Watching you tube videos, reading magazines, or just plain old facebook creeping.

so that's it. that's why. I waste time doing nothing because i can. because i like it. because i have no real responsibilities yet, and they're coming- but in the mean time... time's a wastin' and i love it.