St. Sophia

Scott studied the stained glass window in the chapel.  The hundred-year-old painted faces of St. Sophia and her three murdered daughters stared back at him impassively.  Amazing that the painted glass could have such brilliant color and realistic pictures over a hundred years after it was first created.  Since he had a few hours between his classes, he had decided to explore the historic campus and take some pictures to send to his parents.  First up was the soaring red-brick main building and its Italianate chapel.  Although Scott wasn't Catholic like the College of St. Sophia was, he had heard that the chapel was stunning, and he was here to see it himself and take some pictures.

"Photography's not allowed with a flash," said a female voice behind him.

Seduced by the Stage

I love performance.  Watching it, reviewing it, discussing it, doing it.  I was in The Vagina Monologues for four years in undergrad, and I love the theater, concerts, dance shows, and spoken word.  Nowadays, I've gotten into the spoken word scene.  After a scary creative dry spell for nearly a year (eek!), I now am back to reading at open mic nights.  I tend to write rhyming poems with a somewhat confessional style and self-aware stage presence, and I'm pretty good at gauging what to read for which audiences.  Although I wouldn't say I'm a professional by any means, I've become a familiar sight at city and suburban events and can be counted on to get up and read or recite.

It's weird in a way.  I mean, many people see public speaking as scary, but I don't.  My job requires public speaking, which I really enjoy, but I also love being creative and reading my own material.

I don't really know what's got into me, but now that I have gotten back into writing and performing, I find it strangely addicting as a hobby.  Just the rush of people applauding (got a standing o for my girl-powered "The Princess Who Rescued Herself" at a Lincoln Park event) when I finish or snapping when I say something that resonates with them is enough to put me on a high for the rest of the day.  When I talk to the other artists afterward and find out what they're all about, I'm excited to get to know them and answer their questions about me as well.  When I've volunteered to read, I get really excited and will spend hours reciting and tweaking what I've written days and weeks before the event.  I'll think about who might be there, what their reactions might be, and how I can make something that will really be meaningful.  I've read uplifting anthemic numbers at my grad school's transformative justice nights, confessional poems at all-female literary salons at the north side bookstore, and road poems at my old hometown's art walks. I cheer on the other artists, join in on call-and-responses, and give a friend candid advice when she tries going backed up the first time.

It's oddly seductive.  I keep coming back and wanting more.  Wanting to do more.

An open letter to that telemarketer who called my cell phone

Hello telemarketer who called my cell phone the other day,

Okay, I get it.  Your job is tough.  While I am still majorly peeved that you didn't seem to know that I'm on a "do not call" list, I can understand how tedious your job must be, and I feel for you.  Really, I do.

But listen, I have totally got a bone to pick with you.  First, I at first couldn't even tell you were a telemarketer when you asked for me.  The beauty of having a difficult-to-say last name effectively screens out people I don't wish to talk to!  Usually, when one of your ilk calls and asks to speak to "Ms. Insert-Totally-Mangled-Version-of-My-Name-Here," I usually say in my most NPR voice, "I'm sorry, dear.  There's no Ms. Insert-Totally-Mangled-Version-of-My-Name-Here living here."  Because, well, it's a true statement!

But you actually knew how to say my name!  Mad props.  Until THIS popped out of your mouth--

"Um, yes, could I speak to the man of the household please?"

EXCUSE ME???

There IS NO MAN of this household!  If you wanted to speak to the "head of household," that would be me.  Because I'm the only one in this household!  Despite my the fact that Alex can also be a guy name, there is no man living here.  My g-d, what is this, 1950???

Listen, telemarketer, if you actually want business, you may want to realize that there are many, many households that don't have a "man of the household."  Single, divorced, same-sex couples, genderqueer/gender non-conforming, roomies, the list goes on.  By leaving all of us out, you've just alienated a big chunk of a potential customer base.  But I don't know what you were selling because I was so pissed I hung up shortly after that.  

Please use this as a teachable moment.  And please--check the Do Not Call list before you call.  I'm on there, so I am hoping this is the first and last time I'll have to hear that question.

Not the man of a household (but totally the head of the household),

Revel

Heart of Destruction

2014 is here, and wow, is it a cold start to the year!  The city of Chicago is now being called ChiBeria, but I'm guessing it could give Siberia a run for its frigid cash. 

Today, with the start of a new year, I'd like to give voice to something that's really been on my mind the past several months.  If you're looking for a positive and upbeat post, you might want to skip this one and grab some hot chocolate and a stack of Parks and Rec DVDs instead.  (I love that show!)  However, if you're up for it and can handle an emotionally raw and long post, please read on.