PaperGirl

We're about halfway through the first Godfather film. I'm typing this as Don Corleone is talking to Michael about how he wanted him to be "Senator Corleone," or "Govenor Corleone" and not get involved in the family business.

Ooh. Brando just died. Heart attack in the tomato patch. What a movie!

A film like The Godfather always makes me think about gender and how confused everyone seems to be about it. Here you have a movie in which big men with big guns and big beef take care of business in bloody, muscled ways. The women cry and look beautiful. The Godfather just said to Mike, "Women and children can be careless, but not men."

On the surface, it all looks terribly sexist. And maybe it is. But I struggle with the attitude that any of this is somehow deeply, deeply wrong. Do men not use force to protect their tribe? Do women not give birth to the babies and weep when their sons die? Don't young women wear skirts and look hot? Don't young men wear newsboy caps and look hot and kill people?

I get frustrated when the world tries to make the sexes obsolete. I understand full well that gender is a rainbow, that not everyone fits squarely into the girls = pink, boys = blue way of thinking. But when girls (who are essentially happy being girls) deny the fact that they really love getting roses on an anniversary or would rather bake a pie than work in the garage, just because they think doing so would be insulting to them somehow, we've got problems. Why is what is considered "women's work" or a woman's interests and desires seen as embarrassing or of lesser value? That's the root of the problem, here; not the toy in the playroom that is a certain color or shape.

When straight couples talk about having "no gender roles" in their relationship, I think they must be confusing things needlessly. Doesn't it make sense for the person with upper body strength to do the heavy lifting? Isn't that usually the man? Doesn't it make sense for a woman to pick out the color of the curtains if she's the one who really cares about the things? Many women do care about such things and many of these women's men, don't.

I have trouble with the loopy, thinly veiled hatred that passes for feminism so often these days. I value women more than that. And, in case you missed the memo, the men do the bloody work to protect their prize possession: the women and children. The women run the show, anyway.

Don Corleone should wear one of those t-shirts that say: "This is what a feminist looks like."

I went skating on the lake path today to clear my head and take in what was yet another glorious Chicago summer day. The Weather Gods, after months of foul play, are in fine spirits these days.

On the skate down to Belmont, I had music on my iPod. On the way back up, I didn't. Sometimes, Dizzee Rascal helps cover the internal noise; sometimes he just adds to it. As I skated home, I needed some quiet, so I clicked off the music. I had to keep my headphones on my ears, however, because they flop around otherwise and it's super annoying.

As I passed by a basketball court, a large black man called out to me.

"Hay! Hay gurl! Hay!"

I skated on, not acknowledging that I had heard him, though of course I had. I enjoyed hiding in plain sight in this way.

"Hay!" the man shouted again. "Take off those goddamn earmuffs!"

And that was so funny that I almost turned to look at him, but then there I was at my turn off to go home. I took out my ponytail and shook my hair free. I licked the salt off my lips. I zipped between the pedestrians all the way home.

Every day since Monday has been a fourteen-hour day, except for today, which only felt that long.

I'm angry. Jealousy gets my vote as the most impotent emotion, but anger runs a close second. Sure, there's the warrior-like, super-justified, retribution kind of anger, which is okay I guess, but it only really happens like that in the movies.

Most of the time, anger is just letting someone or something live rent free in your head. (That, as some of you may have recognized, is not an original phrase.) Anger is toxic; it's energy that goes mostly nowhere, except to your head and circulatory system, where it causes trouble. If it manages to snooker you into expressing it to others, then they suffer, too. Also, anger is pretty unattractive. Whether it's a wide-open mouth, all stretched out and screaming obscenities, or a seething, lip-chewing person with cruel things to say, anger is ugly.

Still, it happens. Here's what I'm angry about:

1. I had an unexpected encounter with my father today.
2. I haven't been to Bikram in three days and all I want is to go, but the class times and my schedule this week are totally incompatible.
3. A few of my genes.
4. I take great care of my teeth, but I still have a huge cavity that must be filled on Monday. The dentist tells me my teeth have a lot of 'topography' or 'geography,' which means they have lots of grooves and bumps. Even though I floss every night and brush a couple times a day (okay, once a day at least), I'm prone to cavities. See #3.
5. Increased sales tax and how the power companies are actually getting aways with charging for "estimated usage."

I'm keeping my mouth shut, so my face won't be twisted into sneers or shouting -- for now. But something needs to change because I've been feeling some anger all week and it's starting to make my stomach hurt.

I wouldn't trade my anger for jealousy, but I'd honestly swap my anger for a little ennui or medium-level annoyance. That's all so much more manageable.

Do you live in Chicago or the surrounding area? Perhaps you live in a city or town with an airport and you feel like taking a trip to Chicago. Maybe you intensely dislike Chicago and feel like giving it a second chance.

Whatever your reasons for possibly being in Chicago this week, I urge you to come to Theater On the Lake. Each year, five or six of Chicago's finest theater productions from that year are selected to be re-mounted at the City of Chicago's illustrious (and dusty) Theater On the Lake.

The theater is, as you surely suspected, right there on Lake Michigan at Fullerton. It's a large space with over three hundred seats and sometimes squirrels get in because it's a very open space, too. I'm not sure how much tickets are, but they're not going to break the bank.

Starting tomorrow and running through Sunday night, six of the Neos, including myself, will be doing Too Much Light Makes The Baby Go Blind: 30 Plays In 60 Minutes at TOTL. Shows start at 7:30pm, except for Sunday, when the show is at 6:30pm.

We need you. The TOTL crowd is notoriously, um, old. The folks who see shows at the lake are largely season-ticket holders and you know what that means: they eat Fiber One. We love these people! They are our grandparents and our grandparents' friends! It's not that we don't want to do the show for them, it's just that they're not our typical crowd and we are used to crowds with serious pep.

Bring your pep. Bring money for popsicles. You'll love the show. You'll adore it. It's packed with some of our favorite plays and you're sure to be entertained and appalled. You might even be able to do your good deed for the week when the elderly woman sitting next to you clucks and lets out a huff and says, "Well I never!" when she sees us all in our underwear and asks you to help her get up so she can leave. You'll help her out and then come back to watch us light sparklers.

I'm telling you. Our show is so good.

The writing is on the wall.

We painted the entire north wall of the dining room in chalkboard paint. I love it. D.W. likes it too. This was made clear when, once the paint had dried, he promptly drew a life-sized naked woman on the wall, complete with naughty caption.

I wrote an article about this interior decorating trend a couple of months ago for one of the companies I work for. That article directly inspired me to use the technique myself and I'm pleased to report that everything I claimed to be true in the article is really, actually true in real life. The chalkboard wall looks really cool, it was easy to do, and it's head-slappingly helpful.

Currently on our wall: a running grocery list, a tally of wedding expenses so far, a math equation, a design.

The first two items I listed might be more helpful to some people, but "a design" is helpful to me in incalculable ways. Math equations not so much, but the math equation we have up is "2 + 2 = 4" and there is no equation more charming than that one.

The paint is not terribly expensive. You can paint over it as easily as any other paint when you decide to move out/change your scenery. An all-black wall, contrary to what your mother might suggest, does not make the room "look like a cave."

Make plans. Write them down. On the wall, four feet high.

For someone who has been known to foolishly bury her head in the sand and hope various stuff just goes away, or fixes itself, or finds resolution without her help, I've been getting a lot of positive reinforcement that I should keep doing that.

Last year, for my birthday, D.W. gave me a beautiful pair of salt and pepper grinders made by Peugeot. That's right: the manufacturer of fine European automobiles also works in table accessories. I loved them at once, but sadly, the salt grinder didn't work properly. I had this incredible sea salt and it refused to be ground by the birthday salt mill. So the shaker sat in the cupboard for months and whenever I would see it, I would say, "Hello, salt shaker. Shall we try today?" And I'd twist the top and no salt would come out and then I would say, "I really need to go get you fixed." But I never did.

On Monday, I tried the salt shaker. Out came the salt, beautifully ground to a fine powder. Perhaps the humidity broke down a crystal of salt so that the mill could work properly? We may never know. But it works now and I did nothing.

Similarly; I no longer have a brain tumor.

In 2002, with my own eyes, I saw my prolactinoma. It was there on my MRI, hanging out in my pituitary gland, looking menacing. I put off treatment because I was scared and broke. I dealt with symptoms on and off, ever clinging to the words of my doctor at the time: "It's not cancerous." I chose to forget the second part of her statement, however, which was: "It can become cancerous, however, so we should watch it."

Five years later, at the Mayo Clinic, I'm bracing myself for the worst. Then, one of my doctors (who really did look exactly like Santa Claus) told me, "Your prolactinoma is gone. Your MRI looks great. Congratulations!"

I was stunned. And happy, naturally, but mostly stunned. Gone? Just...gone? No surgery? No $350/bottle medication? No. Just gone. D.W. and I celebrated with chocolate cake. I called my mother and she choked up. It was her birthday.

My doctors did put me on some medication, but it won't cost and arm or a leg. My hormones are still all wack-a-doo, so I need some regulation in that area. But for the most part, I was sent home with a clean bill of health. I am blessed, and I thank the many readers who emailed me with well wishes and prayers and concern.

Why did it go away? We don't know. While this qualifies as a case of me ignoring something and it eventually resolving itself, I'd like to offer something: I have been 100% abstinent from drugs and alcohol for 4.5 years. I've been smoke free for about 2 years, with a short relapse last winter. I exercise regularly, vigorously. I laugh a lot. I eat right and I eat well. I sleep. If anyone could kick an alien brain growth by virtue of a healthy lifestyle, I reckon I qualify.

God is good. I work hard in order to show my gratitude for Your grace and mercy. It's nice to get a nod.

D.W. and I embarrassed the living tar out ourselves tonight.

We're still in Rochester, having wrapped up my appointments at the Mayo Clinic earlier today. For our last night in town, we thought we'd have a nice dinner and go to Goonie's, the local comedy club because that was the only thing to do in Rochester. Trust me.

There is no place on earth where feelings of hopelessness and mirth are so closely intertwined than at a comedy club. If you haven't noticed, comedy clubs are everywhere, especially in middle America. The clubs are named Gonzo's, or Zak's, or The Laff Faktory, and there are several acts every night, which is mind-boggling.

Going to see stand-up comedy is not like seeing theater, though you do see someone act; it's not exactly solo performance in the way most would define it, though it is, in fact, a solo performance; and it's not like seeing performance art, but it shares some characteristics. If you haven't been, go. It's fascinating stuff and you might actually be made to laugh, which is a nice side effect.

Anyway, we went to Goonie's. The emcee was bad, but the opening guy was pretty good. There were a few too many drug jokes and some groan-inducing asides, but D.W. and I did sincerely laugh during the 30-minute set. The comic (who was about my age) referenced Art Spiegelman and made a German stripper/Pole joke, so we thought he was pretty good.

Then came the headliner. The man was about fifty and had the insecure, Rodney Dangerfield collar-pulling, wheezy, "take my wife, please!" thing going, but without the Rodney Dangerfield part. From the moment he took the stage and started making jokes about vegetarians and his crazy relatives, D.W. and I were cringing. Other people were laughing, which we did not understand. We had to get out of there.

Outside, we saw the young guy who had opened. In attempts to make him feel good -- we figured the stand-up world has got to be really hard and any encouragement is appreciated -- we said:

"Hey, you were really good! Nice work! Thank God we caught your act because that guy right now? That guy is garbage! We're outta here. I mean, you are kidding me, right? It's awful! He's AWFUL." Both D.W. and I really laid it on thick.

"That's my dad, actually."

Blink.

D.W. punched the guy on the arm. "Yeah, right. That's hilarious. That's a good bit. Your dad! Ha, ha."

"No, really," said the guy. "That's my dad. The owner of the club doesn't like my act, so he only books me with my dad."

We tried not to make it worse, but we did attempt to dig ourselves out at least a little. We said how it just wasn't our style, how he clearly had his fans, etc. The guy was nice enough, but really it was all just awful.

One definition in Webster's of the word "goon" is "a silly or foolish person."

We were so there.

Even at this very moment, an exceptionally talented web designer is hard at work, redesigning my website. How exciting!

I'll finally have a total "look," which I've been craving for such a long time now. There will be new images, new content, an updated resume (wait till you see how hard I've been working lately), and several shiny new features. The one I'm most excited about is "The PaperGirl 24-Hour Poetry Service."

For a price (which has yet to be determined), folks will be able to fill out an online form and purchase a poem, written by me to their specifications. They can order a love poem for their sweetheart, an inspirational poem for their graduating friend, a new baby poem for their now parental friend, an erotic poem for the person they're stalking, etc.

The form will ask for a name and some background info on the person who will be receiving the poem. With just a little info, I will create some stellar verse (10-20 lines or so) expressly for that person and that occasion.

I have a lot experience in writing poetry and I reckon I'm pretty decent at it. I've been writing poetry that doesn't suck for many years. Of course, I've written plenty of poetry that definitely does suck, but at least I know when it falls into that category and I promptly toss it in the garbage where it belongs. I have often wondered if the ability to know when something you've written blows is what truly distinguishes a good writer from a bad one.

I've written solid poems for people in front of large audiences, right there on the spot, so I feel confident that with a full day and some privacy, I'll be delivering affordable nuggets of poetic gold for those with pressing poetry needs.

So watch for that, because it's going to be a lot of fun. And the website is going to get a whole lot prettier this summer.

Just like you.