You Hit Snooze, You Loose

It always starts with the best of intentions. I will wake up an hour early and get a good workout in. I will shower and even wash my hair, giving myself a salon worthy blowout. Weather permitting, I will don the well meaning outfit I’ve been intending to wear to appear more chic and professional instead of acting as if casual Friday rules now apply to Tuesday through Thursday as well. Not to be confused with my ‘I’m still hungover from the weekend’ Monday outfits. I will even prepare a healthy lunch from the leftover chicken breast and grilled veggie dinner. The Potbellies lunches have done a number on both my checking account and my waistline. So today will be the day. When that alarm goes off, I will just get up.

Nine minutes. They seem like such a good idea at the time. Logically, there’s no way to get a decent nine minutes of sleep, let alone six nine minute naps in a row. Why I don’t just reset my alarm for an hour later, or get up for the time I set it for originally, I cannot seem to figure out. What I have figured out is that the number of times my weak wrist reaches over to hit the snooze alarm is usually directly proportionate to how crappy I’m going to look that day. I’m addicted to my snooze alarm. Like a boyfriend who says  “I refuse to watch anymore housewife shows” yet instinctively turns the channel to Bravo, my arm takes on a life on it’s own and all sense of reason flies out the door.

It’s a sick game I play with myself. The first three times I hit snooze, my workout goes from 30 minutes of cardio with some light weights to a set of crunches on my floor as I brush my teeth. In the next two hits, I convince myself that I can go one more day without washing my hair. The greasy look is in. And who needs to shower when Bath and Body Works makes a freesia scent so strong my grandmother in Phoenix can smell me, which is impressive considering she’s dead. My bag lunch gets the sack and the professional outfit I planned on wearing? Maybe I’ll just wait until I’m a professional.

Perhaps the worst thing about my 54 minutes of interrupted sleep is that the whole time, not only am I unable to truly fall back asleep – I usually have to go to the bathroom. So now we have two issues happening, both of which I’m trying to ignore; neither one about to go away. The title of my autobiography should be “That’s Me. Just Delaying the Inevitable”. Maybe tomorrow I’ll set my alarm an hour early to work on my first chapter.

What Do You Want To Be When You Grow Up?

When I was 9, I made an announcement to my parents that I was moving to Hollywood and becoming an actress. I also said I was going to have 10 kids and become the first female President of the United States. I guess I sort of fancied myself as the Angelina Jolie/Sarah Palin type. This wasn’t the first, or the last time, I would make declarations, sometimes just for the sheer amusement of shocking people.  Once in high school, I came home and proudly told my mother I was becoming a Jew. I went to Temple with my friend Sarah, and her dad gave me a book called “Why Be Jewish?” which I would read in the kitchen while attempting to make matzo ball soup. I eventually became Catholic again, though I did have a bit of a resurgence in college when I tried to get into the Jewish sorority.

While I was genuinely interested in learning about other religions and cultures, I’ll admit there was a part of me that was a little tickled that I might shock my devout Catholic parents. But my mother was unfazed. “I don’t care what you believe as long as you believe in something,” was all she would say. She said this again three years after I moved to LA and told her I was becoming a Scientologist, though this time I could tell I definitely shook her up a bit.

I know my mother didn’t mean she didn’t care what I believed in. She obviously wanted me to believe in something good, not become a terrorist.  Generally her response with any sort of hair-brained idea I had was to tell me to go for it. I wanted to write a letter to Reagan to change the voting age to 12 and she typed it up. When I wanted to try out for the high school softball team having never picked up a bat in my life she commented that stranger things had happened. And when I wanted to move across the country to pursue my dream of being on the silver screen, she flew me out, set me up in my apartment, and waved goodbye with a proud and hopeful smile, not the guilt-ridden hug of a mother not wanting to see her baby so far away from home.

I now find myself leaving LA-LA land and moving back to Chicago. Part of my hesitation for not making the move sooner was fear. Fear of change. Fear of looking like a failure. But it was mostly the fear of feeling like I was giving up on a dream. We all grow up dreaming about becoming doctors and teachers and astronauts. Some of us now find ourselves in those exact positions we imagined being in and some of us are on completely different paths. I would imagine a good portion of us have all had a moment of sitting at a desk or taking somebody’s order or trying to soothe a screaming child while thinking, “How did I get here?” And then there are the moments when the business you started from the ground up becomes successful or you discover a hidden talent you never knew you had or you meet the love of your life and you think, “How did I get here?”

So as I begin my new adventure, I’m starting to develop new dreams.  Just because one didn’t quite go the way I planned doesn’t mean I need to wake up every day not believing in something. After all, part of life is going after goals and having something to look forward to even if it doesn’t turn out as you hoped. Who knows? Maybe in the pursuit of another, I’ll end up on Broadway or in the White House. The only thing I know for certain is that I did not fail, I did not give up, and that same proud and hopeful smile that left me in California 9 years ago is waiting to welcome me home. 

Irish Schmirish!

I’m Irish. Everyone knows this about me. If you asked any one of my friends to describe me, they would probably use the word Irish. A lot of those friends are Irish. As a matter of fact, a lot of people are Irish so this doesn’t make me special.  It’s like saying I have brown hair. My friends just happen to think I have realllllly brown hair.

My heritage was made known to me at a very early age. It’s a bit hard to miss the fact that everything in my house is green and you’d be hard pressed to find a room without an Irish flag or Gaelic blessing on the wall.  We used to go as a family to Gaelic Park and Emerald Society events where we would have shamrocks and pots of gold painted on our faces. The South Side parade was the best, celebrating with the Daleys and watching all the adults laughing just a little too loud and trying to figure out why they seemed to be having so much more fun than us kids. My mother would make us outfits on St. Patrick’s Day, complete with green tights, and I would proudly march around school.  At lunch, I pulled out my green sandwich, green apple, green milk, and the green cookies I had found that morning after I followed the leprechaun footprints leading me from my bed down to the kitchen table. I have very vivid memories of my grandmother singing me Irish lullabies. I remember the sound of her soothing voice and how she always sang with such joy that you would never have known that it was the 4000^th time I had refused to go to go to sleep until I heard “My Wild Irish Rose”.  She made an Irish soda bread that melted in your mouth. While my mother never sang me the lullabies after my grandmother passed away (this was agreed upon by both of us due to her “performance anxiety”) she still makes that same soda bread and it’s just as delectable. One year, our family was featured in the town paper for our traditional Irish meal which really wasn’t that difficult to pull off seeing as it consisted of just boiling everything in the house.

I’ve always wondered what would happen if one day someone told us that we had been wrong all along - there had been a big mistake on Ellis Island and we were, in fact, the Killackantonios. My brother, after all, is Vietnamese and it never really occurred to me until I was much older that “technically” he wasn’t Irish (at least not as far as we can tell). Yet he dons the same sense of pride in our name, the same celebration for the holiday, and the same joy for the heritage as all of us. There is no difference. So, what does being Irish, or any ethnicity for that matter, really mean?

As I got older and went off to college, being Irish became more about the drinking and expressing my pride became more about betting any guy in the bar that I could drink him under the table.  So when my dad called me one day and asked me to participate in the St. Patrick’s Day Queen’s contest, I laughed it off. However, it’s always been pretty easy to talk me into doing anything where I get to be the center of attention. Throw into that a potential for a free trip to Ireland and loads of other prizes, it was a pretty easy sell. So a month later, I ventured to the city with my dear dad, preparing to walk around plumber’s hall for the next 8 hours with a good girl grin plastered on my face.

It had been a long day and the rounds of the contest were getting smaller and smaller but I was still hanging in there. It came to the part where we had a moment to speak to the judges. I sauntered over preparing to charm the pants off of them and was asked, “So what made you decide to do the contest?” Right before I started to answer with my canned response, I looked up in the crowd and saw my dad. Happy couldn’t even begin to describe the look I saw on his face. Through all my years of recitals and graduations and good report cards, I had never seen him look just so…happy. And for some reason it made me tear up. So I looked at the lady, holding back a little bit of a cry, and said,”I don’t know. I guess I just wanted to hang out with my dad.”

To me, being Irish means far more than the roots of our family tree that my parents have been tracing for years. More than the traditions in our home and similiarities of our freckles and green eyes. And yes, even more than getting to the bar at 9 am on St Paddy's Day to get plenty of hours of Guinness drinking in. It's a reminder of a time when my family was just together. It wasn't about obligation or giving gifts or celebrating someone's success but we were together and that was all that needed to be celebrated. And today I celebrate them and the Irish in all of us. Slainte!

Cloudy With A Chance of Perspective

I love natural disaster movies. I know this may sound weird. It’s not that I enjoy watching people die, I enjoy watching them try to escape death. There’s something about witnessing a force that is so beyond our control that makes it a much more satisfactory ‘feel-good’ flick for me than a Julie Roberts movie. I mean, which is more likely to put your troubles into perspective? A city being infiltrated by a thick flow of scorching lava; or a hooker with a heart of gold? A galactic meteor hurling towards Earth in the next 4 days, or a famous Hollywood actress falling in love with a common British chap? While I do enjoy my share of cheesy movies, there’s nothing that can quite match the excitement I get from watching the imminent danger of the world (or even a small town) coming to an end and defeating it. Although my mother has always said, “If you were ever in a real tornado, I think the last word you would use to describe it is ‘exciting’”.

My mom did us a disservice in a way by making us feel safe during harsh weather conditions. With so many of us having band practice and dance lessons and play dates, sometimes it seemed that bad weather was one of the few times we were all home. I remember one specific tornado. My sister and I shared a room and there was a period of time we were messier than our brothers who roomed downstairs. My mom was convinced that she had really messed up raising us “two pigs” and one night she just let us have it. Our things were thrown into the middle of the room and after a lecture (a nice way of saying she yelled and thrashed about our room for 20 minutes as we stood there shaking) she ended with the famous, “And you’re not coming out of here until this place is spotless!” and proceeded to slam the bedroom door. A moment like this could not have been timed better if you tried because the minute that door shut behind her, a tornado siren went off. Bridget and I just stared at each other, too terrified to move. Not necessarily because of the tornado, but because we had just been specifically told not to come out of our room by Mephistopheles. Well mom must have taken a brief second to compose herself because not more than 2 seconds later that door flew open like the gates of heaven and she said in her nicest June Cleaver voice, “On second thought, why don’t you ladies go down to the basement?”

Forces beyond our control are not only capable of changing our planet and wiping us all out, but they also have the magical ability of changing Bridget and I from pigs into ladies and transforming my mom from Sigourney Weaver in Ghostbusters in search of the Keymaster to Mrs. Doubtfire,  appreciating every moment and using every ounce of imagination to bring smiles to her kid’s faces. My family had so much fun in that basement, we were almost sad when it was time to come out. To this day, every time I start to see the sky turn a little green or read the scrolling text weather warnings running along the bottom of my television screen, I am oddly warm and fuzzy inside. I have felt one earthquake since being in California but, unfortunately, the last place you want to go during one of those is the basement and you're lucky if you can even find one. You also don't see those coming so you don't really get the satisfaction of intense build up followed by a the success of making it through the battle. Maybe this is why I find it silly when I hear people say “Chicago’s my favorite city in the world but I’d never move there because of the weather”. I think the weather has a way of bringing people together, and not just families. Strangers on the street who help move each others cars or the teenager who helps his elderly neighbor shovel her driveway.  Because it's us against it, not each other. 

Whenever I would stress out about an upcoming test or performance, my mother wouldn’t tell me not to worry. Instead she would say that if I’m going to worry, I might as well chose to worry about the things which I have control over. I can control whether or not I study or whether or not I practice, but I can’t control what questions are asked or what the audience had for lunch that day that might put them in a bad mood. This is why when I feel stressed or have a bit of the blues, nothing makes me snap out of it quicker than grilled cheese and tomato soup, followed by a medley of "Twister", "The Day After Tomorrow" and "Deep Impact" (Deep Impact over Armageddon only because of the special effects but I do agree the love story is bogus and Steve Buscemi should be in it). And while it's not really natural, "Titanic" is always a colossal way to end the night and really lift your spirits. 

           

There’s something to be said about things that are so much bigger than us. Whether you’re religious or not, watching an extreme weather condition is a reminder that we could all -  that this could all - be gone at any time and we should appreciate the moments we have. Natural disasters can be and have been absolutely devastating so my intent is not to be insensitive, but rather to point out the wonder. Hearing about this Chicago blizzard right now makes me want nothing more than to be in the basement with my family  playing board games and trying to keep warm while hearing my dad complain about shoveling and smelling my mom making something yummy. Instead, I got the damn sun in my eyes, sand stuck in every crevice of my body, my margarita's melting, and I haven't seen a waitor for 20 minutes. 

What's that I was saying about perspective?

Speak For Yourself!

I have always had a difficult time complaining about a service. At a restaurant: “I asked for medium and I think this is a little rarrr….you know what? It’s fine. Never mind” and then I don’t eat it. Getting my make-up done: “It’s beautiful. I love it” and then I wash my face. Having my house cleaned: “It looks great. Thank you so much” and then I clean everything myself (note: I’m fully aware I should be cleaning my house myself anyway but every once in a while I treat myself to a professional.) I feel as though a service, even if you pay for it, is like a gift and I don’t want to make the giver feel bad. How often have we received a present we hate but pretend to love it. You don’t look at the person and say, ”Wow….I really hate this.” It’s also partly because I think I’m not very strong about communicating what it is I want because I don’t like to seem demanding. And I know exactly when it started.

All I wanted when I was 9 years old was to have the Debbie Gibson “windblown” haircut that was on the cover of her “Electric Youth” album. I found an advertisement for the album in a magazine and promptly tore it out and showed my mom. Two days later, I was sitting in Fantastic Sam’s ready to be beautified. When they called my name to go to the chair, I handed the photo to my mom and asked her to show it to the lady. “You’re a big girl,” she said. “You’re perfectly capable of telling her what you want.” Sheepishly, I handed her the picture and half-pointed at Debbie. She took it, looked back at me and said, “Are you sure this is what you want?”. I looked at my mom who gave me the ‘why are you looking at me?” look, and nodded my head at the woman.

I managed some idle chit chat about the happenings of the fourth grade and watched the hair fall. I was so excited about the prize I was going to get when I put all the fallen hair in the Fantastic Sam magic box, I stopped paying attention to what was happening. It wasn't looking quite like the picture but I hadn’t been styled yet. There was a moment, however, when I realized that something had gone horribly wrong. My excitement soon turned into a nervous stomach as I began to piece together what was going down. I looked again at the picture on my lap. Next to the advertisement for “Electric Youth” was also an advertisement for “Married With Children”. The hairdresser wheeled me around for the grand unveiling, and staring back at me in the mirror was a 9-year old version of Peg Bundy.

My mother’s eyes were wide in amazement (and amusement) as I was escorted back to her. “Is this what you wanted?” she asked. I nodded, trying to hold back the tears. “You’re sure?” she reinforced, giving me the chance to fix it. I pulled it together and said to the nice lady, “Thank you very much. It’s just what I wanted.” And proceeded to cry the entire car ride home. My sweet mother, who was trying to be sympathetic, couldn’t stop laughing at me. “Well Kate,” she said, “I guess you just need to be a little clearer about what you want.” Hearing her retell the story to my dad through fits of giggles didn't make it any better. But then she combed it out and put a headband in and I began to look somewhat normal again. And then Dad took me to Colonial Café for a sundae and all was well in the world. While I still have issues to this day expressing my dissatisfaction, that was the day I discovered that a bad haircut isn't going to kill you and that ice cream truly does make everything better.

Home For the Holidays!!!!

Twas the night before Christmas

And all through the house

Not a creature was stirring

Except for my dad turning my heat back down to 65 degrees.

We’ve been going back and forth since yesterday. I realize I’m in Los Angeles but my house gets chilly so if I’m going to turn on the heat – I’m going to turn on the heat; a reasonable 78 degrees.  65 degrees is not heat.

Air conditioning and heat were always a hot commodity in our house. Spring was about the only time of year I didn’t hear my dad yelling, “Shut the door!” morning, noon, and night. Summer was especially stressful with all of us running in and out of the house with all the neighbor kids. Not only did his “Shut the door”s increase ten-fold, he had to keep up with the “Take off your shoes!”, “Slow down ya little rugrats” and“Is that water in my house?!” It’s no wonder my dad always walks around with a look on his face like something is about to break.

So when I woke up this morning freezing and saw that he had snuck out in the middle of the night and turned it down yet again, I calmly explained to him that I’d rather have the heat off entirely than down that low. He didn’t seem to be listening as he was too busy inspecting the locks on my windows and responded by giving me a lecture about how many candles I had around my house and what a danger it was.

My mother used to read us a children’s book when we were younger called, “I Love You Forever”. The mother would say to her son at various stages in his life (birth, being sent to school, graduation, wedding day):

I love you forever

I like you for always

As long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be.

This book culminates with the son rephrasing this to his mother on her deathbed but instead of saying 'baby' says 'mommy'. Touching, though a little creepy when you’re 4. But I think this a good bedtime story for grown adults who aren’t used to having their parents visit them during the holidays. Because no matter how old we get, we are always our parents’ children.

As he put on his shoes to go check the oil in my car which I had told him was fine no less than 20 times, I asked:

“Am I old enough yet to say ‘my house, my rules?”

Without hesitation or even looking my direction he replied, “Nope” and walked out the door.

Ahhhh, Merry Christmas Daddy. I hope I’m never too old to call you Daddy.

You Need To Be Held Accountable For Your Actions

Funny thing happened yesterday. I got pulled over.

The first time I ever got pulled over I was driving home from Champaign, Il to Downers Grove and made the mistake of listening to Journey on the 55. I got so lost in Steve Perry's titillating voice I was apparently going 90 miles an hour. As if the ticket wasn't bad enough I was then accused of being high because I hadn't noticed that the t-shirt I had grabbed off the floor actually belonged to my boyfriend and had a big marijuana leaf plastered across the front. Right underneath it said "Phour-Twenty". Having never done a drug in my life, I swore on everyone's grave and their mother's that I had no idea what that meant. It was the truth. When he threatened to take my license I cried and begged him not to as the reason I was speeding was that I was trying to catch a flight to Mexico. This did not help my case. Somehow he let me go and I had my day in court. Pleaded one hundred percent guilty and learned my lesson. You don't speed.

The second time was about 3 months ago. In the midst of moving, I had lost some mail and also my reminder to renew my registration on my car. I also might have blown through a crosswalk right next to the kind police officer's car who decided to let that part slide. I hadn't been pulled over in almost 12 years and I was so nervous - I just starting throwing everything in my glove compartment at him hoping it was whatever he was asking for. "No ma'am I do not need a map of California or a receipt from your last oil change. Just your insurance." I learned my lesson. It is my responsibility to remember to renew my registration, not the city's.

I received a $35  ticket in the mail and was asked to send it back with proof of registration. Only problem was I hadn't received my new sticker and the ticket was due in 30 days. I called the DMV and found out there was nothing I could do to expedite the process. I called the courthouse and was never able to reach a human being. So, being the naive person that I am, sent my check with a nice little note that read:

Dear Courthouse,
I haven't received my new registration in the mail but I didn't want to be late in paying my ticket. I'll send it off as soon as it comes. Let me know if you need anything else!


I might as well have sprayed it with perfume. Imagine my shock when I opened up a letter back from them 2 weeks ago with a $900 ticket!!!!! This just wasn't right. I hadn't ignored it! I tried to rectify the situation, granted my approach was that of a 9 year old. So I called and called and tried to bypass voicemails and robots and left messages for anyone who would listen and decided my only option was to schedule a court date. I was not backing down on this.

Which brings us back to yesterday. Officer Alvarez was finishing up writing my warning for yet another traffic rule I was unaware of (different day/different blog) and I said "Hey, can I ask you a question?" and proceeded to tell her my story.

"Yeah," she laughed. "I noticed when I ran your license that there's a warrant."
I froze. "A warrant?" She nodded.
"Like for my arrest?"
She chuckled again. "Well technically, yes."
"Who would want to arrest me?" Now I was laughing. "I pay all my parking tickets! I don't do drugs! I don't rob banks! I vote! I serve jury duty! "
I was rambling on and on about how I never break the law and how much I respect those in her position and what a responsible person I tried to be as Officer Alvarez was doubled over in hysterics at my window. I was also laughing and crying. Mostly because her fly had been down this entire conversation and I had been debating whether or not to tell her but now I was afraid she was going to arrest me.
"So I'm like....wanted?!?!" I asked her with wide eyes.

After we both finally caught our breath, she gave me some helpful, though still very unclear, advice as to what I could do. She was pretty much telling me to pay it. I drove away feeling like a woman on the run. But I learned my lesson. That my parents raised a moron. And a good citizen.

So please realize that if you hear I've been arrested it is purely because of principle. And also partly because I'm confused as to how the system works and not used to being in trouble with the law. I will and have paid tickets that I accept responsibility for. But if I went out of my way to do the right thing and feel it is unfair....well, that deserves a little bit of a fight, no? But like mom used to say, "Well, sometimes life isn't fair Kate." We shall see.

To Be Continued....