The Bridge Beat

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My Patriotic Splurge.

I’m inspired, folks.  Plain and simple, I’m g.d. inspired.  The DNC for me is like the time right before Christmas when all your shopping is done, you haven’t been depressed by the onslaught of family tensions between your overemotional sister and your curt and non-affectionate mother, and you listen to holiday songs and are grateful for the mere excitement of the giving season.

After listening to Michelle Obama’s speech from last night, I can’t help but feel like it’s Christmas.  But instead of opening up gifts from under the tree, I’m opening up youtube videos and watching how awesome our outlook is.  (Although, I’ve considered putting my laptop under some loose shrubbery with a makeshift Christmas light made out of electrical tape and a mag-light covered in blue cellophane.)  Barack’s great, don’t get me wrong, but it’s Michelle that’s turning heads.  What a wonderfully poised, strong and yet gentle speaker.  In general, the women in politics this year are pretty darn incredible.  From Hillary to Michelle, women in America, and more importantly around the world, have some phenomenal some representation!

I can only imagine the struggles of our ancestors 88 years ago who had a lot to say and no way to be heard.  They’re rolling in their graves right now… to the lady in the coffin next to her with a shot of whiskey, a non-filter cigarette and a voting ballot saying, “It’s about damn time someone gave us the microphone.  My body may have decomposed decades ago, but I still have got a thing or 2 to say!  First things, first… ‘FINALLY’”

Of course, there have always been amazing women throughout history making necessary and incredible changes.  But for purposes of politics, this here is some lucrative times, people.

Thank you to the men and women who have fought on behalf of those w/o a voice.  This goes to the women of generations past, this goes to the working people who didn’t have the opportunity to get the voting polls because they were working 3 jobs to support their families, this goes to the children who were told that this is as good as it gets but ignored it, this goes to the families who did not speak the language, but still fought to understand their rights.  Compared to so many countries out there, America is a powerful force where everyday people have the chance to change things.  Nothing is perfect and nor will it ever be, but our perspective is sure getting a hell of a lot better.  As Gandhi said, “Be the change you wish to see in the world.”

Change is slow-coming, but if we know we want it, we aren’t going to let it fall to the wayside easily.

And if McCain gets elected, I’m moving to Canada… or Fiji.  Maybe Fiji.

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Done With Renting

For the past few weeks I’ve been on, what seems to be, a ceaseless hunt for the perfect apartment.  My constant stalking of Craig’s List for the perfect apartment attributes, has given me a taste of the OCD life that I wish not to maintain.  It’s become an obsession.  I dream about apartments.  I wake up to apartments (mostly because I live in one).  This should be a right-of-passage to a city dweller.  You know, just part of that sweet and cool and unnecessarily pricey lifestyle.  However I’ve stalked Craig’s List like a middle-class, middle-aged white woman stalks the linen skirt she is about to steal from the department store.  I mean, my right eye lid is starting to lose its elasticity and draws closer to my eyelashes to cohabitate in sagging harmony.

Seeing apartment after apartment after apartment has taught me many things.  These are some of them:

1.)    I’m ready to own a place: I know, I know, it’s so NOT bohemian and I should be writing a play, living in a questionable structure and heating coffee in a percolator.  I’ve seen these places and the relics of this life, and I am not enthused.  I really want to say I live a rocker/beatnik lifestyle, but with polished hardwood floors and stainless steel appliances.  I want a cute furry little dog instead of the ever-popular pit-bull or bulldog.  When I know that I can figure out how much it would cost me to own a nice place and compare it to my current rent, I shed a tear, one of joy.  I CAN do this.  I CAN.  I CAN be a homeowner.  Oh god, are the pleated khakis next??

2.)    People are disgusting, in general:  There is a scene in Good Fellas where they have to unbury a body and you see Ray projectile vomiting because of the stench of this decomposed mass.  The lingering stench left by the tenants of some of these apartments is an indicator of future decomposition.  Especially men.  Men, with all do respect, there is a dudely smell that just hovers in whatever room in which you sleep.  It’s not always bad, but it is always dudely.  Point of the story is that I’m not really interested in living the remains of other filth. I like my own filth thank you very much.

3.)    It is not good for your relationship:  As if living together for the first time isn’t a daunting leap, now you have to barter and plan and negotiate for what the perfect space will be for (as my fiancé would say), “me to hide from you.”  I’m sure it will be amazing and wonderful and an experience that clearly we are looking forward to.  I just wish we could find the picture perfect apartment already to start our picture perfect life.  I mean, I don’t think perfection is too much to ask.

4.)    Vintage is not cool unless your age reflects vintage as well.

5.)    Smokers are stinky.

6.)    All bathrooms gross me out when I know that anyone could have piddle on and around the toilet.  Yet I’m ok with picking up doggie doo for the duration of my future dog’s life.

7.)    I’m ready to be done with it already.

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A Humbling Moment - Brought to You by Random Dude & Cab

Don’t over react.  That’s what I have to tell myself.  I have to say that or, don’t act out the horrible scenario that is playing in your head because it never turns out well.  How many times does this happen; you assume you are in the right and because of your assumption, you completely overreact on a righteous notion and then it comes back to bite you?  You’re not only scarred from this horrible gash, but you’re crippled by the embarrassment.

“What do you mean, Bridge,” you ask.

Today, I was waiting for the bus for 30 minutes at the Western stop as it was pouring down rain.  Of course, I was already panicked at the Western stop in the first place because my mom called me to tell me to remain alive while an alleged tornado was expected to level Chicago.  Of course the only thing that leveled was my patience for this stupid bus.  I decided to take a cab.  In the pouring rain, I’m waving my arm frantically to any blurry headlights that showed promise of taking me home either because it was a cab, or cause it felt pity.  Luckily it was a cab that pulled over and not the latter.  As I’m stepping up to the cab, a man grabs the door as if he is going to get in.  Immediately, my blood starts to boil and I pull one of the most wonderfully executed passive aggressive tactics; I throw up my hands, scoff and give a look of, “Hey buddy are you going to be that rude and steal my cab, because you know what, I’m not going to say anything, I’m going to stand here and scoff and wait for you to be the bigger person and grovel and my wet, wet feet.  So what? What?!  I could be dying of a rare face-cancer and you have the nerve to steal a poor woman’s cab,” but I never actually verbalize anything.

So after I’ve completely vilified this man, before I even have a chance to see his face, he turns to me and says, “You going north?”  I say, “What?”  He repeats the question.  At first, I thought, “what do you care?” then I realized he wanted to split a cab.  I think, “No one splits cabs.”  We get in the cab, “you know, that’s what I hate about this city,” he says, “no one splits cabs.”  I sat there awkwardly, wanting to apologize for my inner thoughts about him and how I had just set him up to be this cabbie terrorist who steals rides from people, pushes the elderly and knees pregnant women in the stomach.  Thankfully, I said nothing of the sort.  I sheepishly agreed with him saying that I had never split a cab before.  I felt obligated to ask him questions, because a.  I’m uncomfortable with awkward silences and b. I had to redeem myself since I had already portrayed myself as a trixie-bitch.  We actually get out of a cab at the same intersection so that I can get to my apartment and he can catch a bus going in the other direction since he just went about 2 miles out of his way.  I reach into my purse to get out some money and he ends up paying for a cab ride that actually took him no where near his destination.  Offering him some money, he refused and said, “Thanks, I enjoyed your company,” then said, “Com’mon!” as I was taking to long to get out of the cab since I was putting my money away.  He really did just yell at me.  It was funny and yet, so so so weird.  I was so astounded that this stranger to whom I was such a dick just paid for my cab.  I guess I stood there for a second just fumbling with my bag, trying to say thanks and he said, “What are you still standing out in the rain for?”  Immediately I ran across the street, almost getting hit by a car.

Moral of the story: don’t overreact… because someone actually might want to help you even though you’re a jerk and take too long to exit a cab.

Thanks, random dude.  I’ll pay it forward.

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My Classical Love Affair

There were a few weeks of time where I could not spend any alone time… alone.  There was this nagging twitch in my arm that forced me to flip open my cell phone and dial a number, any number.  The funny thing is, I never really had much to say.  I usually never do, unless I’m in my domain with my domain name, singing my favorite refrain, busting out the name game with my fame.  Case-in-point; because I never really have much to say during these abhorrent times of solitude, I start rapping.  Sick.

It was not until this past week, that solitude has greeted me more amicably.  This moment brought to you by: The Classics.  That’s right folks, I’m reading the classics.  I picked up To Kill a Mockingbird the other day, and now my brain is having a righteous affair with an old flame.  Atticus, oh how I admire your determination and sense of self; never faltering to the traps that peoples’ insecurities set-up for you step after step.  Oh Scout, how I have tried, myself, to relinquish a temper that is as natural and forth-right as baking powder and 7-up in a grade-school-made volcano.  Oh Jem.  That’s all I got.  Sorry, Jem.  Perhaps there is a 14-year-old in me that I must suppress when it comes to the classics.  Every time I hear the word classics, as it relates to books, I automatically disengage. “That’s so boring,” I think to myself.

The classics have proven me wrong before, stealthily sneaking up on my reality-tv-laden mind with a whipped energy that snaps my mind into a different dimension.  Oh Upton Sinclair, I can’t thank you enough for The Jungle.  Oh Jurgis, could life get any worse for you?  Would you ever get a break in this dismal place we call America, specifically 63^rd and Halsted?  There was a time where I thought my misery would never end on 63^rd Street.  Driving to Elmhurst and waiting minute after minute to turn left onto Kingery Highway as more and more cars jam themselves into an urban planning disaster, I think of you, Jurgis.  Without air conditioning in the summer and in the winter, a heat that would only work on high.  I was either freezing, or incredibly warm and always incredibly frustrated in my traffic-jammed life.  When my hamburger from McDonalds made me question the tormented meat’s whereabouts, I think of you Jurgis.  When I eat that hamburger anyway, I think of the hamburger, Jurgis, cause I’m hungry and I just want to eat the hamburger and my blood sugar is low so stop judging me for what I’m eating cause I need to eat it and I just need some orange juice too.  Jurgis.  I think of you.

The classics make me believe in my brain again.  When other, modern-day novels fail to keep my interest, I am revived with a classic.  The old stories bring back older tales that modify an existence not so different from my own.  ‘Tis a classic love story, waiting to be told:  The Bridge and The Classics.

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Mondays = A respite in laziness

Mondays are my most productive days.  Contrary to popular belief, they are!  This morning I decided that I was going to get up BEFORE work and go for a run.  While I was running I couldn’t help but think to myself, “This really is not my favorite thing in the world.”  And so I will do it again.  I guess I’m slightly masochistic like that.  After work, I returned my library books –on time- bought a new guitar and cancelled my gym membership.

Running:  I never really liked it but I still do it.  Anything that involved coordination detoured from my abilities.  Running is the only thing I can do where I get exercise and avoid the shame that comes with lacking general talent.  Doing it before work just increased my talent-level a smidgen.  (Getting up before work to do something does require talent.)

Returned my library books on time:  Remember when I talked about talent?  Yeah, it might just make an appearance here as well.

I bought a new guitar:  Tell me if this was a bit extreme.  I bought a new guitar that was a significant amount of money.  Well I went into the store that I had been into before where I had once caressed that sweet implement of music in my very own lap.  I knew what I wanted, I just had to get it.  Here’s how it plays out.  As I enter the store I ask, “Do you ship?”  The sales clerk says: “Anywhere in the world actually.”  I asked, “how much,” and he told me.  I said, “Well in that case, I’d like you to ship my guitar to Iowa.”  Now, I don’t have an address in Iowa.  But my friend does and she will be visiting me in 2 weeks.  Why ship it to my friend in Iowa who plays no instruments?  The amount of money it would have cost me to pay for shipping is less than the disgusting 10.25% sales tax that Chicago has pushed upon its down-trodden citizens.  The actually savings for this ordeal?  About $15.  It may seem like a lot of trouble just to save a few dollars, but it’s the principal dang it.  The dang-gonned principal!!  The sales clerk had given me a puzzled look followed by a peaking judgment that says, “This girl just spent a significant amount of money on a guitar and is now going to have it shipped to a different state to save $15?  Are you sure you can afford the guitar lady?”  “It’s principal!!” I screamed.  He backed away frightened that I had just responded to what he thought was his inner monologue.  Oops.

I cancelled my gym membership:  Typical gym-membership story, I got sucked in, thinking I’d go religiously and be so totally pumped up.  I did go.. by it a lot.  But never really went it in as often as I went by it.  Really, most of the things you need to get healthy, you can get outside of a gym.  Walk.  Anywhere.  You could even walk to the grocery store (blasphemy!).  Eat vegetables.  Cut down vodka consumption to after 11 a.m.  Don’t drink the toilet water.  Either way.. blasting my pecks 3 or 4 times a year wasn’t worth it to me.  Judge me if you want like Mr. Guitar Sales Clerk guy.  But he too, thought he had an inner monologue.  Silly mistake…

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Wind Beneath Your Wings

Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh.
It must have been cold there in my shadow,
to never have sunlight on your face.
I wasn’t content to let you shine, that’s my way.
I never walked a step behind.

So I was the one with all the glory,
and I was the one with all the strength.
A beautiful face without a name for so long.
A beautiful smile to hide the pain.

Did you ever know that I’m your hero,
and everything you would like to be?
You can fly higher than an eagle,
‘cause I am the wind beneath your wings.

It might have appeared to go unnoticed,
but I’ve got it all here in my heart.
I want you to know I know the truth, of course I know it.
You would be nothing without me.

Did you ever know that I’m your hero?
I’m everything you wish you could be.
You could fly higher than an eagle,
‘cause I am the wind beneath your wings.

Did I ever tell you I’m your hero?
I’m everything, everything you wish you could be.
Oh, and you, you could fly higher than an eagle,
‘cause I am the wind beneath your wings,
‘cause I am the wind beneath your wings.

Oh, the wind beneath your wings.
I’m, I’m, I’m, I’m the wind beneath your wings.
Fly, fly, fly away. I let you fly so high.
Oh, I’m, I’m, I’m, the wind beneath your wings.
Oh, I’m, I’m, I’m, the wind beneath your wings.

Fly, fly, fly high against the sky,
so high you almost touch the sky.
Thank me, thank me,
thank God for me, the wind beneath your wings.

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The Puberty of Life

Whoever said that the awkwardness of your teens ends when you turn 20?  I’ve come to the conclusion that life is one big bout with puberty (cue the exclamation, “son of a bitch!”).  When I was 14, I had the jaded point-of-view of 30-year-old and the confidence of the pathetic training bra that just barely put forth the effort to hold up the source of my insecurity.  Wait, that wasn’t it.  It was my gangly body, big bangs and “weird” personality that were the source of my insecurity.  Boys didn’t like the weird girls.

When I was 20, I had the confidence of a 40-year-old executive and the professional skill of 14-year-old girl.  That was quite apparent in my job interviews:  “So what you’re saying (glance down at resume), Bridget, is that you’ve never actually written a press release before?”  And I confidently said, “Nope!”  Nope???  Stupid girl. (that one’s for you Ev).

When I was 23, I was really just 16 all over again.  Talk about the crappy times; one year out of college, living with my parents, working a soul-sucking job, adjusting to working full time and understanding why people would pull a Chris McCandless on their own lives. (the adventurous side, not the dying from poisonous plants side).

Then there’s the stage where your mind tells you that you can drink what you used to and your body reminds you, “Ok punk, you wanna learn the hard way? Fine, but it hurts me more than it hurts you.”  Silly body, it hurts us the same.  We’re one remember?  Like a happy family or the items in a value meal.  Apparently, I like learning the hard way, because I keep forgetting about that valuable lesson.  What’s wrong with Vodka, Pinot & Bud having a party in my stomach on the same night?  Oh yeah, they always end up fighting.  I try so hard to use my peacemaking tools of cold water and a wagging finger in my larynx.  But to no avail, I always have to bail them out into the drunk tank in the morning.

So then you start figuring out the alcohol thing and then comes the friend issue.  It seems like the older you get, the more you struggle to relate to your old friends and at the same time, struggle more to find honest friendships with new people.  Remember when our friends used to define our lives?  Now our lives are defining our friends.  Life’s like the really quiet and witty uncle that was always one step ahead of you.  Even as an adult!  Sometimes I just want to stomp my feet and say, “Let me call the shots for once, life!  And quiet, witty uncle!”

Even so, I’m almost looking forward to seeing what other awkward moments will freakishly greet me while I’m looking elsewhere.  Boys may not like weird girls, but awkward moments love us.

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Ready.

So I’m ready.  I’m ready for June of 2009.  I promised I wouldn’t talk about being engaged for another entry, but it has been a big part of the past month.  It has been the thing that everyone at work asks me about.  It has been the thing that turned the cheeks of my family.  It has been the thing that consumes my net-surfing.

To be honest, I kinda figured it would happen; being an engaged person takes on a personality of its own.  The challenging part is to try and maintain a sense of normalcy while all of it is happening.  It is difficult.  I just put a frozen pizza in the oven.  To eat.  I don’t eat pizza.  Let alone buy it on my own accord and eat alone in my cluttered apartment.  I smile at people.  I never even look at people.  Let alone acknowledge their existence in a pleasant way.  I’ve finally thrown out all my Bop Magazines featuring Jonathon Taylor Thomas (good-bye, love).   I bathe now.  It’s just gotten to be too much.

Although there is a bonus to wearing a ring on your finger: You can be nice to other men.  For the longest time, when I was cordial and acting like my normal, goofy self around other men, they would assume that I’d want to carry their demon seed. WRONG.  That’s just who I am.  So when I went into a guitar store yesterday to make my big purchase (next to my grad school thing of which I officially became a drop-out, whoops) there was a gentleman who was helping me.  It was about closing time and there was a moment.  Everyone knows “the moment”.  For a guy, “the moment” is when you have the split second chance to ask a girl you find attractive out for a cup of doin’-it or leave it be, wondering for the rest of your life how cute your demon seed would been with her.

“The moment” for the girl is the time, where if you’re interested, you stall by shuffling your weight back and forth, smiling big and accidentally flashing your birth control pills to let him know you are certified in won’t-call-you-for-child-support sex.  “The moment” for a girl who is not interested consists of her finding any way to mention her boyfriend in a conversation that doesn’t call for it at all, “Oh really, you also do silk-screening?  My boyfriend likes to play with sidewalk chalk sometimes,” or “Oh you want to go out sometime?  Wow that’s really sweet.  But my boyfriend doesn’t like me dating other men who don’t want to come over and play sidewalk chalk.”

BUT when you’re engaged or married, “the moment” can be pacified with a flirtatious movement of the bangs with your left hand.  This relays the message, “Thanks, honey, I bet you’re really sweet, but I just sold my one ticket to The Bridge Show: Greatest Show on Earth.”

So there you have it folks, the pros and cons.  Get gaged.

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Engaged.

I’m engaged… to be married.  (In the case you thought it was something else.  I suppose I could be engaged, just generally speaking.  Which I am, usually.  Not at work, though.  There I am not engaged.  Until now.  Although at work I’m still not engaged generally speaking, just maritally speaking.)

I’m betrothed… to be married.  (That ellipses I suppose you could have done without.)   It’s been about 3 weeks now and I think I’m finally coming down off the initial excitement high.  And a high it definitely is.  It stops your life in its tracks as everyone comes up to congratulate you, ask you questions and in some cases share their bitterness with you (thanks, mom).

At first I thought I didn’t want to live up this engagement.  I mean, it’s just my man and I.  We’re still the same people even though we’re getting married, so why make a fuss?  But you know what?  SCREW that idea.  I’m living it up!  And here’s why: coming off of the engagement high is only indicative of what will be.  You must live up your engagement, because this is the only time in recorded history that people will actually be excited about your relationship.  Once you get married, no one gives a shit.  You’re news is old news.  I know, I know, everyone will still love us, I get that.  But people won’t celebrate us.  We are celebrities right now.  I can’t wait to start getting calls from Vogue, People, my mom, Allure, Chicago Bride and The Nation (that’s just the super left liberal dream of mine.  Despite the content, if I could get in there, I would).

Moving along…

God forbid society’s reproductive push once you take the marital plunge.  And then once you have children, your trendy friends who have chosen to go childless start finding reasons not to invite you and your crying baby up to their cabin in Geneva for the weekend.  “We just don’t want to inconvenience you.  I mean, we haven’t baby-proofed our house yet.  I mean, my 25-year-old-live-in-boyfriend managed to fall from our second story loft yesterday trying to take a picture of his back mole so he could reenact a legitimate R. Kelly sex tape.  And my PR job is so demanding right now, I’m pretty much on my Blackberry anyway trying to save Roma Tomato Inc. from bombing.  But how are you?  You look great for having been so preggers.  You’re baby is so cute!  Does it sleep in its own cage yet?  Speaking of cages, have you tried the new Asian-fusion restaurant on Printer’s Row yet?”

Trendy friends aside, live it up ladies and gents.  I’m already inundated with details like colors, shapes, people, places & things.  Who? What? Where? When? How? But what about…?  And so and so?   But I hate so and so.  So and so is so I don’t know.

Live it up.  I know I am.  I only plan to do this once. Unless my man starts taking a keen interest in R.Kelly and volunteering at the neighborhood Junior High.

A bacholorette am I, but now, I’ve got a nice little timeline of 12 months.  Psha!