This Girl

Shoes tell a story Of everyone you meet What people wear To hide their feet Boots to make you sturdy Sandals to make you free A holey pair of slip-on shoes Will do just fine by me --Tina Kovach (now Henne) I wrote that stupid little poem in high school.  My English teacher thought it was a catchy little ditty and wanted me to expand upon the already quirky rhyme. She even threw in her own take on shoes. While I appreciated the feedback, I refused to alter my then-masterpiece for the following reasons: I thought her added lines were dumb I was in the thick of the "you're not the boss of me" 15-year old bitch phase and just wasn't having it I felt that eight lines was more than enough to express my feelings about shoes The deeper meaning of my poetic genius lies in the observation that we are, at times, books that can be judged by our covers (for added cliche bonus--we wear our hearts on our sleeves, our lives are open books, march to the

 Like most people, the mass murder of children makes me physically ill. With every news clip, every tweet, every Facebook post, every banner scrolling across news pages related to the tragedy in Connecticut, I feel like I got punched in the gut. There is a reason why our reactions strike at the core of our beings--most of us actually give a damn about other people. Most of us actually care about the children. Most of us do see ourselves as our brother's keeper. So seeing these events unfold elicits a visceral response that leaves us in tears, or angry, or confused, or wanting to do something at a time when for all intents and purposes, we are helpless. We each have our own reasons why we react so personally to tragedy states away. The common denominator is that we have a moral compass--a gauge inside of us that says, "This is the most extreme form of wrong I have ever seen." Aside from that common denominator, our reasons stem from our personal life experiences. For m

" I never met a like I didn't like." --Roy W. Rogers Okay, so I made that quote up. But when you think about it, who doesn't like a like? To humans, the need to be liked is so visceral. It is a means to achieve inner peace. It is the necessary feedback to assess whether one is on the right path or should consider the options. There are different degrees of "like," though, and sometimes it is difficult to tell if a person likes you likes you, or just likes you. And if your counterpart particularly is adept at putting on the poker face, it can be quite a hardscrabble to determine if there is any liking to be had at all.

I recently came across this article on Yahoo outlining "10 Things You Should Never Say at the Office." I'll admit that I expected to see a list of swear words, variations on the use of F-bombs and derogatory comments about bosses. While these were noticeably absent, the list did provide a nice snapshot of terms that business rookies may encounter in this wonderful world of new words designed to dress up old words to lessen the blow they are meant to deliver. Ms. Harris' list is not exhaustive, though. Given this degree of disconnect, I'd like to leverage my meager experience on the cutting edge in order to reach out and socialize with you, dear reader, so that you may be armed with some game-changing, value-add anecdotes, in the event that this whole thing goes viral and you have to circle back to it is what it is.

My first sorry attempt to write about the perils of social media strove to answer the question, "Who are we and how did we get here?" As you can see from that post and from the follow up , there is no easy answer. In fact, I'm not even sure if there is an answer, for I still do not know the whole answer and nothing but. Here is what I do know: I am me, you are you and the folks looking in on our conversation from some undisclosed location (but let's face it, it is most likely their living rooms, where they are spending their time lurking in on us and not socializing with their families) are just plain creepy. But once again, as is my MO, I have severely digressed.

It's that time of year again. The colors are turning. The wind is blowing. The leaves are falling. The Boilermaker football team is disappointing. Yup. Thanksgiving time has arrived, and with it, my yearly not-meant-to-be-exhaustive and in-no-specific-order list of little things for which I am thankful. Here goes.

Dear Politics, There is no easy way to say this, so I will not try to sugar coat it. I will be blunt, but swift, so hopefully the sting will fizzle quickly. You, sir, are a bitch. I know, mean, right? I'm not sorry I said it. It is a fact and facts, necessary as they are, can hurt. The facts are indisputable. Facts are emotionless. Facts do not play favorites or lean right or left. Facts are sometimes hard to take. But facts do not lie. And the fact of the matter is that you, Politics, are a total bitch.

Given that I don't have kids, the title of this post may seem a bit odd. What do I know about planning for parenthood, right? I don't have much room to talk, right? Sure, I might not be one of the lucky ones who enjoys the joys of little bundles of joy, but I'm going to ask you to cut me a little slack before you judge. After all, at the age of nineteen, when I first moved away from home to prepare for a career in Radiography, I did not know I would be childless many moons later.

It didn’t take long to get me hooked on soccer. One play did it for me, as a matter of fact. The sequence is unforgettable—Rapinoe to Wambach to Goooaaaaalllll! That’s all it took. Now, sure, I’m a late bloomer when it comes to footballing. I still don’t understand the game fully. The whole idea of “tackling” is a puzzle to me. Isn’t that essentially tripping your opponent? If so, isn’t that just downright rude? I still don’t know how soccer players are able to overcome the fear of getting kicked in the face. And you know that whole foot-eye coordination thing? Yeah, I did not inherit that gene. But, I digress.

The Readers Digest was almost a required read in my household growing up. I remember reading the jokes and funny stories that people submitted and thinking, "If only something that funny would happen to me, I might have the chance to win 250 bucks for my story." Mostly, it was a source of laughter and feel-good anecdotes. One series that I particularly liked was the "most unforgettable" character series. We all have people like that in our lives. Unforgettable folks whose voices ring clearly in our heads at the most unexpected moments. Whose faces we can trace without a blink. And whose absence leaves a void that no other can fill.

[Because this bears repeating in such desperate times] Scientists report that a recent rise in the overuse of punctuation marks will ultimately lead to the demise of the common message. It is not known if the increasing trend of ending a sentence with multiple and in some cases, mixed, punctuation marks is the result of the natural evolution of messaging, or if human actions are speeding the process. What is clear, though, is that punctuation marks and messages are not taking their impending doom lying down. In a rare twist of bipartisanship, punctuation marks and messages came together to call for measures to halt the message crisis and return our civilization back to the days of making points in a clear, concise manner. Speaking for the punctuators, Exclamation point stated, "I'm a loner. You don't need two of me. The whole purpose of my existence is to accentuate a  point. I thought I was doing that just fine already." Mr. Question Mark had this to

The shoreline in the south loop of Chicago is marked by a concrete walkway that spans the perimeter of Museum Campus, smoothly curving around the Shedd Aquarium and Adler Planetarium. It makes for a nice, long walk that puts you as close to the ocean in Chicago as you can get without hopping on a plane to either end of the country. If you walk along there in the morning, you will pass a community of joggers and dog lovers. You'll witness ducks and geese pecking at moss covered rocks and diving for water. I have yet to see a fish jump, but am sure it will happen some day. Today, near the bend by Adler, a man and whom I will assume were his teenage sons, were gearing up for their morning fishing expedition. Watching them reminded me of my own Dad and brothers on one of their many fishing outings, when they would leave before dawn and come back smelling of crappies and night crawlers. The dad in today's exhibit was the first to cast and trolled the coastline for the target of th

We learn in chemistry and biology classes that water is the most essential element (it's a compound, but whatever) for life. Our cells are mostly water. Our planet is mostly water. The very process by which we breathe and turn oxygen and carbon into energy ends in the production of water. This simple combination of the first element and the most abundant element in our Earth's crust is what makes us thrive. It connects us to plants in the most uncanny way--while our cells make water to thrive, plant cells break water to feed themselves. This basic, essential element of life is what breathes life to life. Whether you are a staunch Creationist or accepting of Evolution, the theory is the same--life came forth from water. From Genesis, we are told that on the fifth day, God commanded the seas to teem forth with living creatures; whereas the land did not receive this same commandment until the sixth day. Tracing the story of the evolution of life on th

A faithful friend is a sturdy shelter; he who finds one finds a treasure.--Sirach 6:14 I'm not one to write on matters of faith. To me, faith is a personal matter between you and your God. I'm not a Biblical scholar. Nor am I well-versed in Church doctrine. To claim to be as much would make me a hypocrite. Tonight, though, during the Stations of the Cross, these words from the Book of Sirach were recited, and for once, I heard them. Now, I've heard this verse many times before. It tends to come up several times a year in readings. These words are not new to me. But let me say once more--tonight I heard them. And I got it. Each year, we relive the message of the Passion of Christ. We are reminded of how He died for our sins. We are reminded of the greatest sacrifice in the history of sacrifices. But perhaps we should consider another fact. He laid down his life for his friends. And as we are reminded, there is no greater love than to lay down one's life for a friend

What a strange spring we've had. Near ninety degree weather in March. Followed by forties and windy. I miss the good old days when we had two good months of mid-60 degree weather. Now those were seasons to remember. When the tulips teased their way to the surface. When the robins rousted you out of bed each morning. When you still needed a sweatshirt in the morning and evening, but could get by with a long sleeved shirt midday. Tonight made me think of those seasons past. Cool. Light breeze. Perfect night for a hoodie. I grabbed my pale, light gray hoodie emblazoned with my high school mascot--a profile of a proud, strong Warrior. As I left the house for my nightly walk, I threw it over my head and settled in to a comfortable stride. About ten minutes into my neighborhood stroll, memories of hoodies past surfaced. In normal times, I imagine that I wouldn't think twice about sweatshirts. But these are not normal times. These are abrupt times. These are times for rash decisions

I think of everything in life as either an adventure or an experiment. Social media has been a bit of both. An experiment to test the power, the purpose, the potential of these engines of connectivity. An adventure to test my willingness to meander into uncharted territory, to strike up a conversation with a stranger on the train, to let go of the fear of the unknown. So, I am writing this post as a follow up to the last thesis that asked the question of the Antisociality of Social Media: Who Are We and How Did We Get Here? To answer this question, I will address the good, the bad and the ugly, in no particular order. These are just observations, open to interpretation and critique. This is just my commentary on the adventure and experiment we call social media. I must admit that my research is limited to Facebook since I do not tweet, I don't play four square (sounds like an elderly card game), I'm still not sure what spotify is, am too lazy to figure out flickr, have a Goog

(Response forthcoming in part two) I'm bad with names. I can remember a face no problem. But names are automatically sent to an unlockable vault deep within the cortex of my brain. I don't know if it is my short term memory that is a problem or long term. I have forgotten names of people I have just met while they are finishing their "Hi, I'm so and so. Nice to meet you." You had me at Hi and lost me by "I'm so and so." Likewise, I also can't remember the names of people I grew up with. I dread going out and about in my hometown for fear that I will run into someone who is purportedly my BFF from 1986 and I just don't remember his or her name to save my life. I'm partial to the Elaine Benes idea that we should all wear name tags. (For those not familiar with Seinfeld, Google it.) Now, one might be inclined to suggest that I see a neurologist to have a thorough hippocampus evaluation. But I'm not so sure the problem is c

America is my country and Paris is my hometown. Gertrude Stein I must admit that I do not know much about Gertrude Stein except for the bare minimum needed to answer a random trivia question. That, and what comes up on the Google. Lately, though, it seems that every time I need a witty quote, there she is, saying the words that are trapped in my brain, waiting to find the right neuropathways that allow them to connect into what exits as an eloquent descriptor of exactly what I wanted to say.  While many Americans may have an erroneous view of all things Paris, I happen to like it. A lot. I've heard many myths about Paris since I've voiced my love for this city. One of my favorites is "I heard Paris stinks really bad." Really? As opposed to Hammond, IN? I've been stuck on the Chicago-Indiana Skyway far too often not to know what stinky is. Then there is "the French are rude!" Huh. And how many have insulted you lately? And "aren't you afraid t

You've known for a long time that my greatest wish is to become a journalist someday and later on a famous writer--Anne Frank What I am about to say is going to shock some of you and probably make some of you use the Google, as the thing by which you will be shocked is somewhat of a lost art. Or science, for that matter, as this thing requires intersecting lines that have meaning, much like a graph of data points should have meaning. But anyway, one of my favorite classes in Junior high school was English class. Oh, you mean because of all the great books and stories you got to read? No. Well then, it must have been because of all the great stories you got to write. Not necessarily. English was my favorite subject because....wait for it.....we got to diagram sentences. The Catholic school way, too. Brutal. Intricate. No room for error. The please, God, don't let me make a mistake and have to use the eraser way of diagramming sentences. Now, before you throw the proverbial tom