I was going to be so productive today, and then I got sucked in by The Napping Couch. I was doing pretty well combating it, but then Bug, the treacherous feline, tipped the balance by taking up a position on my lap. I was defeated.

I've also been hypnotized by my new electronics. God, TV is evil. Evil, I tell you! I got sucked in to watching a re-run of The Real World Chicago last night, which was, as per usual, like watching a car crash, except this time I knew the exact location of the bodies. They certainly seem to be a bunch of idiots. Even if people hadn't been protesting the potential boost in gentrification The Real World brought, they should be protesting general stupidity.

Still working on my redesign. We'll see what happens.

I've made a deal with a friend of mine to send out at least three articles by Thursday. I think it'll be the swimming in Australia, bests tours around Sydney, and sea kayaking. I've got other things percolating, and we'll see what comes of it.

Eric Chandler, if you're still reading the blog, give me a call/e-mail. I never seem to catch you on IM and I (stupidly) pitched your e-mail without saving the address in the last great "Your Hotmail Account Is Running Out Of Space" purge. Bastards.

Warning: Psycho-babble follows. Skip this if you want a light, funny, coherent read. Also, skip this if you're supposed to have any respect for me -- ok, Andy?

I got a message from Zeke that I haven't responded to, and I've been trying to figure out why. Well, partially, because he was asking me hard questions:

I've been wondering something ever since you came back from Australia all tan, fit, and rested: how happy are you really in Chicago? ... Since you've gotten back there's been an undercurrent of slight dissatisfaction in your blog. The job isn't exciting. The home is robbed. There's no super-duper vacation to look forward to. There's more, but I don't care to do the research through your blog right now. Suffice to say, I'm a bit worried that all may not be well in the house of the warrior-Quaker.

First of all: "Warrior-Quaker." Hee. That might have to go in the redesign as well.

But back to the questions at hand: I dunno, Zeke, a part of me wants to say "Duh." I've always been like this, it's just I spend less time pretending in the blog. But you know me pretty well -- hell, you think it's the mark of a perky, non-depressive personality to ask to borrow your VCR so I can watch Gallipoli and Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid because "I need an excuse to cry"?

Granted, you address this: Yes, I know to whom I speak. I don't know if extreme personal happiness and a joyful, puppy-like excitement is ever going to come gushing from your pores any time soon.

Yeah, that.

But still there's something in your blog that's got me wondering... what's keeping you in Chicago? I know there's the house, but is that really enough? My personal bet is that it is the strong group of friends you've got surrounding you. You've kept your school friends by your side much better than I have over the last 10 or so years. But is it still enough for you? Do you ever have the urge to just rip up all the roots of your life and go someplace else - to be someone else? After all, a writer can write from anywhere. Have laptop, will travel.

I wonder about that too, sometimes. It's almost always overseas, though. I think "I could move to Sydney, I could move to Edinburgh, I could move to Tokyo, I could move to Singapore, I could move to ..." I could be exotic again. I could fall in with an instant group of people just by virtue of being a foreigner. I could have this distinguishing characteristic that people would know right off the bat, right when I opened my mouth -- I'm an expat, I'm an American, I'm adventurous, I'm different, I'm interesting. I wouldn't have to work to make myself interesting or attractive or different -- I'd stand out just by virtue of being born and growing up elsewhere.

That's what happened when I graduated college and went to Hong Kong for three years. And that was one of the best decisions I ever made, and I'm so glad I did it. But part of the thrill of it was from being exotic, from standing out with no effort. I have a generic midwestern-esque face and body, basic brown-blonde hair, I get mistaken for someone else all the time. That didn't happen in Hong Kong. When people stared at me -- and they did stare -- it didn't make me feel self-conscious, as it would here, because I knew it was because I was exotic. (or because my zipper was down or my boobs were hanging out. Whatever.)

When I was growing up, the most interesting thing about me -- the thing that made me different -- was that my sisters are twins. I'm not a twin, they are. So somehow I managed to figure that I just blended into the crowd -- there was nothing special about me. That's not something anyone ever consciously told me, it's just the way it was, I figured. Whenever I thought about how someone would remind someone else of who I was, I figured it was either "You know, the one with twin sisters." Otherwise, I only came up with negatives: "The fat one." "The awkward one." "That chick who cries all the time." So being "The American" was incredibly freeing, even though I don't think I was/am the typical American working overseas (I wasn't paid enough, for one thing.)

But all that meant I didn't really have to work to define myself, to figure out who or what I wanted to be. I had a few really good friends, who I still keep in touch with, but otherwise the cast of characters turned over so quickly that you never really had to go beneath the surface. You could sort of drift. you could be superficial, and before you had to get deep with anyone, one of you would leave the country. They never had to see the boring stuff, the nasty stuff, the depressing stuff, because you never really had to get that far.

All of which is a long way of saying, I think that moving overseas again would just be a way of delaying again. Of putting off figuring out the hard questions. No, I'm not happy in my job. Would freelancing be better? Would I be able to pay the mortgage? Or would it turn into another boring job? And why don't I have the confidence to sit down and write, to send stuff out, to be a writer? Why do I find it so much easier to believe the negative about myself? Why do I still think so poorly of myself when there are so many incredible people who seem to think I'm worth knowing? Those are questions I have to answer, and they suck -- questions that I've avoided thinking about for a very long time, and now I'm finally confronting them out loud, head on. It involves all sorts of delving into why I'm so fricking insecure, when I put on such a Warrior-Quaker front (Did anyone ever buy it, out of curiosity?) And I guess I'm just no longer pretending they don't exist.

Obligatory disclaimer: I'm ok. I really am. I don't need an intervention and I don't need a Sally Field type "You like me! You really like me!" moment. I don't want to worry anyone. I know there's a bunch of people out there who care about me, and one of these days I might even believe I deserve it (Kidding! Sort of. Sigh.) Remember that I am from depressive Scandinavian/Northern European stock, and this sort of blathering is normal from my people. Really. And I'll be funny again (?) soon.

Many, many electronics.... hmmmm.

So I'm a little ambivilent about blogging. I can't help but think of some cultures -- the Hmong, definitely, and I think some Eastern European and/or Jewish cultures -- who think it's bad luck to be complimentary about anything. One of the worst things you can say to a mother is "What a pretty child," because that will attract the attention of evil spirits, who might think, "Hey, yeah, that is a pretty kid. I think I want it." *Swoop* So to protect your kid, you denigrate it -- "Oh, no, very disobedient and ugly. Good-for-nothing-child." Just to keep the kid safe, you know?

(As a side note, if I'm right about that being the custom in Eastern/Middle Europe, it goes a long way toward explaining why psychotherapy originated in Vienna and thereabouts. Can you imagine the complexes you'd get as a kid?)

Anyway, I'm feeling that way about a shipment I just got from the insurance company -- good-for-nothing consumer electronics. Not worth shit. Really. Nothing to see here -- move along.....

So I've had these crappy pieces of consumer electronic gear sitting around my office, because UPS was delivering them and I'm not at home during the day. (Hence, the robberies. All of them.) Some of said gear is quite heavy (but crap, I tell you, crap!), so I couldn't get it home by myself. Enter Angie and Jordan, who graciously assisted Wendy and me schlepp all this stuff back home. Jordan did most of the heavy lifting, and Angie... well, Angie held doors and stuff. She *claims* she helped me with the distraction plan that I'd come up with -- see, I didn't want anyone to see that I was moving any new electronics, woeful though they might be, into the house. So I figured I'd station Wendy and Angie at opposite ends of the block, and on my signal, they'd light fireworks, strip naked and start throwing $10 bills into the air. The both nodded and smiled and seemed amenable to the plan, but they both remained clothed. Some help they were. I chose Angie and Wendy for this task because (1) they were there, and (2) they both have bad backs/knees/whatever that exempt them from heavy lifting. I thought at least they'd want to help out in a way that wasn't damaging to the body -- although it is kinda cold, and I imagine frostbite would be a danger -- but they seemed to think that providing the large car and the strong husband was enough. I can't really argue with that.

So I got my not-at-all-exciting consumer electronics upstairs and hooked everything up again. Not everything fits they way it used to -- see, stuff worth stealing is small, not big -- so I need to do some juggling. Sigh.

I hope my electronic goods aren't going to need therapy (or wouldn't, were they sentient and not inanimate oobjects....)

I was reminded again why Angie and I get along so well -- we're both Digression Girl. I talked about what I'd write in the blog tonight, and I was trying to explain about the first bit -- the "Ugly child!" bit -- but to do that, the path went something like this:

(1) I'm trying to figure out what to blog tonight
(2) You know in some cultures, like the Hmong
(3) Oh, I was reading this great book -- The Spirit Catches You and You Fall Down, about a clash of cultures -- Hmong refugees and the American medical establishment
(4) Did you ever have any classes with Dwight Conquergood at Northwestern?
(5) He was in this book, because he worked in Hmong refugee camps in Thailand
(6) They were trying to get the dogs vaccinated for rabies, and the refugee-camp doctors told everyone to bring their dogs in, and the Hmong basically ignored them.
(7) So Dwight Conquergood organizied this parade with the tiger and the chicken and all this stuff to get people to bring their dogs to be vaccinated -- characters talking about the vaccinations, that is -- and after that, everyone did.
(8) Anyway, the Hmong feel like you shouldn't compliment a child, or a bad spirit will decide he wants the kid and will take them
(9) And that's how I feel about my new electronics
(10) So I don't know if I should blog about it.

And Wendy and Jordan were sitting there, getting whiplash, wondering how the hell I was going to get back to my original thought, while Angie just sat there saying "Yup, I''m with you." Thank you, Angie. You're so cool.

So are you, Jordan, for being the sherpa, and you, Wendy, for providing the transport.

I also dealt with (Boo! Hiss!) AT&T Broadband today, to get a new cable box, which was also stolen (it was, after all, attached to my old, infinitely superior TV). First they said "Make an appointment to get a technician out -- and by the way, the new box will coast $250." Gahh! I called again, and they said "No, you need to bring your police report to one of our offices" -- one of which wasn't that far from work. So I schlepped over there today, just as it started snowing, only to find, upon reaching the office, that no, since I live where I do and my cable is provided by someone they just bought out, I needed to go to another office -- at 4501 W. Irving Park Rd -- pratically out to O'Hare. This is NOT near anything -- not my home, certainly not the office. I schlepped out there anyway, stood in a huge long line, and finally got a new cable box and the means to attach it. Also, the guy behind the counter said I needed to pay just (just!) $100 for the new box. I guess that's an improvement.

Anyway. Now that I have a TV again, I'll probably be much less productive. It is an evil thing, but I'm a slave to Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel. It's tragic, I know.

A couple of quick-hit things, as I'm grumpy and tired:

Went out to see Kate and Leopold with Michelle. I didn't expect much -- not of the plot, not of the acting, and god forbid of the science -- but I was looking forward to one thing: Seeing Hugh Jackman at least semi-naked. Just shirtless, even. Didn't happen. So I had to focus on the stuff I really didn't want to focus on: The plot (oh please....), the acting (eh), Meg Ryan (never one of my favorites, and in this movie they didn't even make her look cute), the premise and philosophy (I had serious hear-me-roar problems with that) ... All in all, not a good investment of $8.75. But hanging out with Michelle was fun, as always, and that's excuse enough for a night out.

But I was looking forward to lovely views of Hugh. Nope. Dammit. He looks good riding a horse through the rain, being a gentleman, talking in a swoony English accent (yes, I know he's Australian... he had an English accent in this film), but remained stubbornly clothed. I feel cheated.

In other news I was on the phone with my sister Amy helping her work through some voice issues for an article she's writing. The guts of the article -- the arguement, the point, etc. -- are great, she was just writing like a psychologist for a much more conversational audience. So we talked that through, and I think it reads better now. The funny thing was she kept saying "Oh, that's a great idea, that sounds really good, you're good at this." Yes. I'm an editor. It's what I do. I'm practiced at making good things sound better. Why are you surprised?

How does this jibe with my "Poor me, who wants to read what I write?" laments? It doesn't. Evidentally I live my life (at least my professional life) on the razor's edge between arrogance and overwrought self-depreciation. Joy.

So I've talked about living in a "changing" neighborhood before. To give you an idea of what I'm talking about, here's this handy scorecard:

The neighborhood	Pre "change"	Post "change"
Dogs	Rottweilers, Doberman Pinchers, German Shepherds -- "Fuck off" dogs	Golden Retrievers, Chocolate Labs, Weimeraners -- "Rub my belly" dogs
Drinking detrius	King Cobra 40s, broken	Starbucks hand protectors and swizzle sticks
Abandonned or run-down houses	Drug bait -- here comes the crackhouse!	Developer bait -- here come the condos!
Corner stores	Liquor and food stores -- emphasis on the liquor	Trendy boutiques -- emphasis on trendy
Street parking	Available, but not necessarily advisable	Desirable, but not usually available
Really nice cars	Probably a visiting drug lord	Probably a resident yuppiescum consultant
"Ethnic" restaurants	Basic cheap food from the home country/region of the neighborhood	Expensive cuisine in a hip atmosphere from the hot region of the moment
Neighborhood hangouts	Inexpensive home-style (or home-country) restaurants, heavy on the full-fat food. Bars and nightclubs with an emphasis on drinking	Inexpensive(ish) funky cafe-type places, heavy (as it were) on veggie or vegan food. Bars and nighclubs with an emphasis on decor and atmosphere. Oh, yeah, and drinking.
Scruffily dressed denizens with questionable hygiene	Homeless, junkie or drunk	Artist, musician or student

By this scale, we're closer to the "Pre-change" part of the continuum. But even in the time we've lived here, we can see movement. We've got crackhouses and condos; old-country cooking-with-lard, menu-in-Spanish places and a little hipster place with funky decor and vegan options right around the corner; even the occasional Starbucks cup in the gutter (I have no idea where that came from -- the nearest Starbuck is several blocks away.) The trick is to see if the neighborhood can keep its character -- the restaurants, the corner grocericias, the music from the shops -- and lose the drugs and gangs.

So I have to admit I have mixed feelings when we pass the condo building that's gone up nearby. On the one hand, huzzah, our property values are going to rise! On the other hand, boo, developers are making characterless, cookie-cutter buildings that lead to characterless, cookie-cutter neighborhoods with no soul. I don't want to be a part of the thing that sucks the soul out of this neighborhood. But I don't want to live with drug deals going down and multiple property crimes. I don't think it's a zero-sum game -- I think you can make a neighborhood safe while keeping the culture and character of the place alive. I think you can have both the groceracias and the boutiques, the Hispanic lunch counters and the vegan cafes. I'm just not sure how it's done.

When we were robbed, I suspect two things happened:
(1) The thieves picked us, and kept coming back, because we're basically white yuppiescum interlopers and we probably had decent stuff.
(2) The police paid attention to our complaints because we're basically white yuppiescum interlopers and we probably had decent stuff.

So if our presense, and our making pains out of ourselves with the police, helps the neighborhood be safer for everyone involved, fantastic. I feel like I've contributed (although how fucking sad and infuriating is it that the police will still pay more attention to a white person's complaint than a Hispanic person's complaint.) I just don't want us to be the harbingers of gentrification doom. I'm living here because I like so much about the neighborhood (and because we could afford to buy here), not because I expect the neighborhood to be made over in Lakeview's image. (I shudder to think...) I think the folks I know in the neighborhood know that; I just don't know.

Ah, the horrors of white liberal guilt. Poor wee me, I have it so hard. *sniff*.