The Unicorn Club

Kristi Kay was the first best friend I ever made. We met at an art table in first grade and bonded over Crayola created sea creatures and Caribbean Green. It was my first day at a new school. She was good at drawing whales. I was not.

During our elementary school days, we were lucky enough to share a classroom every year, and by 4th grade, Mrs. Worth was our teacher and Kristi and I were the best of friends. It's funny how kids start to rank each other socially. In addition to learning about the great state of Missouri and how to divide fractions, kids were being labeled as cool or nerdy, "the fast runner" or "the kid with really good handwriting." Neither Kristi nor I had reputations or labels of our own. We were simply known for being best friends - exclusively. We spent our recesses playing tetherball or making dandelion rings and bracelets while telling each other ghost stories. It's not that we didn't want to play with other kids, it's just that nobody else was as much fun as we were.

There was one other exclusive group in my class, Stephanie, Christine and Roxanne, also known as The Unicorn Club. While Kristi and I were private, we were approachable. The girls in The Unicorn Club were slick and cool in a way that made you nervous to speak to them. They used hairspray and were good at rollerskating, had an awesome Disney movie collection and you sort of knew they had families that ran their air conditioner all the time. At Clardy Elementary School, they were mythical creatures and I was mystified.

Sometime after Christmas break, which would have been January(ish) 1994, my phone rang. It was Christine and Stephanie on 3-way and they wanted to know if I wanted to join The Unicorn Club on a trial basis. I did.

After telling me this invitation did not extend to Kristi, the first thing I had to do was have my parents take me to Dillards and buy me a black tracksuit with gold stars on it. This was a very important part of being a Unicorn, as everyone always wore the same outfit on Thursdays. It was ridiculous and loud and I wore it every single Thursday.

When Christine decided she had a crush on a boy in our class named Curtis and found out he didn't feel the same, I was instructed to make him my boyfriend, but not to develop feelings for him. This way no one else would "go out" with him, effectively keeping him single for Christine. On a bus on our way to a field trip, Curtis held my hand. Christine saw this, had us switch seats and by the end of the bus ride, Curtis and Christine were a couple. At 10, I was basically a prostitute and Christine was my pimp.

Unicorns were also known for using 3-way calling, excessively, in order to spy on each other. It was evil and hurtful and fun. A conversation usually went something like this:

Stephanie: Hi, Lauren. What did you think about Roxanne's bow? I thought it was terrible.

Lauren: Yeah. I mean, I guess it wasn't that great. Bows aren't really my style.

Stephanie: I can't believe you said that. Roxanne did you hear that?

Roxanne: I hate you, Lauren. My grandma gave me that bow.

Throughout all of this, I maintained my relationship with Kristi. She was understanding when I played four square during recess with the Unicorns instead of hanging out with her. She never got jealous when I went to their slumber parties and never said a mean thing about any of them.

Around the time I was planning my birthday party - slumber party, duh - the Unicorns had one final request before I became a full fledged member. Uninvite Kristi to my birthday party or lose them as friends - and half my party guest list. With butterflies in my stomach while curled up on my kitchen counter with my cordless phone, I called Kristi. I told her that I was going to have two separate birthday parties. One with a big group and the other one with only her. She started to cry.

It was then, after making my best friend, the girl I could play MASH with for hours, sob and feel rejectied that I realized The Unicorn Club was filled with fucking bitches. The next day during gym class while lined up along the wall before pony races, I told the Unicorns I was out. Kristi was my best friend and I wasn't going to do that to her. The general response from the girls was shock, but then Stephanie said something that has haunted me until this very day, "If you leave, you will never be a Unicorn again."

And I never was.

Being almost famous in some circles feels almost awesome - and I miss some of you

The other day I was having a conversation with my friend Dave. It wasn't an original topic by any means, but still, it made me think. It made me laugh. It did all of the requisite things a good conversation should.

Dave: Who would be your celeb eff?
Me: Easy. Ira Glass.
Dave: Public radio celebs don't count, Bodaface.
Me: Who would yours be?
Dave: Tom Selleck
Me: Too late. I've already had Tom Selleck. What about Duffy?
Dave: Duffy my roommate?
Me: Yes. I'm sure he is famous in some circles.
Dave: No.

The point of this blog post, which started out being something completely different, is I disparately miss my friends, Catherine and Kate, who have both left Chicago, and me. One was married off and taken to a faraway land. The other turned into an American Penguin and now teaches english to little children in a place I can't really even imagine. Thank God for Wikipedia.

This week, Kate resent me an old blog post she wrote...about me. She is a girl I met when I was a sophomore or junior in college and is someone I've always considered a sister. In life, I am usually thought of as being the most unusual or quirky (or some other adjective I hate) that said person knows. Kate tops me. She is bigger and twirlier and braver. She makes me better and dream grander. Kate reminds me that life is short and if I don't take the time to read great literature or sit in a coffee house discussing silliness or make up songs on a guitar after I've had 6 bottles of wine and outstayed my welcome at a Thankgiving dinner - I might forget what it's like. "It" being the excitement and passion awarded to a lucky few in adulthood. I miss her. I hope she swims back soon.

Catherine. Oh, Catherine. She was a lucky find. We worked together in a terrible terrible place and bonded over Chili's chips and salsa and margaritas. We both got laid off on the same day and grew closer over meals of animal crackers and stolen booze. After she left the city last August to marry a wonderful guy, she also wrote a little blog post about me. Well, it is not really about me so much as her experience in Chicago, which I just so happened to be a large part of. What was so great about Catherine is that she taught me the beauty of being silent, to listen, something that is very difficult for me with my long crazy stories and love of whiskey. What you miss when you are surrounded by noise and flashing lights, either yours or others, are the small, quieter parts of life's beauty - the smell of communion bread, the knowledge gained from listening to others thoughtful perspectives, the silent love shown by actions a daughter can express for her mother and siblings. She has been gone for about 6 months - almost a third of the time we actually knew each other - and I'm starting to lose some of the memories. What I'm left with when I think of her is that really good feeling you get right when you wake-up in the morning after having an amazing dream. The feeling something really great just happened, but you're not sure exactly what. I will never forget the most important things - john slattery, animal crackers, warm CBJ, dog sitting, talks of vampires, crying at her wedding reception, etc. - but most importantly, I will never forget the person I got to be in my early twenties because I met her.




After rereading this post

1)I sort of made Catherine sound dead or like a nun. She is neither. Catherine and I got into our own share of trouble - she wasn't all silent thoughts and communion bread. Just felt I needed to point that out.
2)Dave isn't gay and his roommate isn't famous.

Missed Connections

You approached me and my two friends, one with perfect hair and the other with a denim blazer, outside of Old Town Social on Friday night and started a conversation. When we told you our destination of Big City Tap, immediately you insisted we head to Butch McGuire's instead. You told us not to be scared, you are, after all, Irish. It then became apparent the only way to choose a late-night bar was a dance off, Berlin style. You got nervous due to your 2-Irish left feet at which point I told you my name (Margaret Sweeney), age (36), ethnicity (Irish) and other important facts about my upbringing on the South side of Chicago. It is at this time I should point out that none of that information was true.

In the end, your swift moves won out over mine and the four of us got into a cab and went to Butch's. It was during that 10 minute trip heading south we witnessed you do the most incredible Hall and Oates' Rich Girl I am certain anyone has ever seen. It is clear that before you were even born, that song was meant for you. The way you drummed on the dash and pointed to the back seat with every nuance of the song was incredible.

We arrived at Butch’s and you took our drink order, 2 beers and 2 Jamesons, then led us to the back of the bar where your friends were. 3 boys who all seemed to have an affinity for plaid, two of which wore glasses and one with some sort of winking disorder. At the end of the night we all separated. I found a few Russians on tour with Bono while you and my friend shared a cab together. You tried to give her your number, but it all ended terribly when she didn’t hit save.

We would like to hangout again, Irish. If we do, we promise to never go to Big City Tap ever again.





http://chicago.en.craigslist.org/chc/mis/1378425336.html

Amanda Meszaros - The Unbelievable Tale of Amazement and Disbelief

When I was a child, I would take long road trips with my grandfather. Just him and I down the straight and solid Kansas Highway. Sometimes we would drive all night, and as the sun would begin to set, he would lull me to sleep with stories from his past, his childhood, his memories. My favorite was about a young girl he called Amanda Meszaros.

As he told it, Amanda was born to a family of great privilege, a station in life which allowed her to see all the corners of the world, but also juxtaposed a jail in which she almost always sat, alone, in her beautiful taffeta dresses, with her thoughts and her things.

An intelligent girl, she was acutely aware of the privileges and limitations her post in life and size of her father's bank account afforded her. Amanda's mother passed when she was just seven from the fever, something she recovered from but her Father, a distant and ill-tempered man who loved brandy, books and thoroughbreds, never could.

Other than his hobbies and expectations for her, she knew very little of the man she called Papa. The third week of every month he would come to their country estate, Amanda's full-time residence where she was cared for by nannies, cooks and tutors, for one weekend. Upon his arrival she was to greet him in the parlor for cocktails and conversation before dinner. As he would run through the requisite questions and status updates (math grade?, science score?, piano level?) he would puff on a foreign cigar, a smell that made her stomach turn.

Tutored in her home and forbidden to socialize unless on a trip with her father, Amanda's only friend was Nona, a busty Jamaican who served as her wet nurse during Amanda's infancy. At night, Nona would sit on her truckle next to Amanda's bed and tell stories about different lives and times and adventures - tales of camping trips in the jungle, war protest, dancing on the shore under the moonlight to Paul Simon. Tales of being free.

Amanda dreamed of having such adventures of her own one day. Of freeing herself of her father's tyrant rule. Of having friends and laughing so hard her stomach ached. Of running in the rain. Of walking on a city street and eating ice cream. Of drinking beer. Of being happy.

It was the night before her 14th birthday she had the first of many dreams. Had she of known the magnitude of what was to come, she would have tried harder to remember. But, as she would have never known (how could she have?), the next morning as she sat over her breakfast of hardboiled eggs, raspberries and soy gravy, all she could recall about the curious dream was the sound of steel when it rubs together and a vision of what she could only describe as prancing metal legs.

One night she awoke from one of those mysterious dreams, they had now been coming almost nightly for the past few months, and was startled with what she saw. She jumped out of bed, almost tripping over Nona, and ran to her window which overlooked a great pasture. In the distance under the moonlight Amanda squinted. She didn't understand what she was seeing. She couldn't.

"Darre com'in fo you chiidt," said Nona, who was now standing behind her and stroking her perfect hair while overlooking the same unbelievable sight. "Don'tchoo be scaaad now. Don'tchoo be, deeya chiidt."

The next night Amanda decided to wait up, hoping they would once again return. Nona had the night off and decided to go into town for one of her church groups, which was led by Friar Tuck. She watched the seconds on her clock waiting. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. "Please don't let me sleep, please let them come back," she whispered over and over again to herself.

Though she wasn't sure why, maybe it was dreaming about these beings for almost a year, or maybe it was finally seeing them, but she wasn't scared. She longed for the unknown to begin, for her life to change.

Then, without notice, there was a tap on her third-floor window. Startled, she got up slowly, feeling the cool hardwood floor under her feet, and opened the window. There stood two figures with white boxy bodies and long metal arms and feet.

"Hello," said Amanda.

"Hello," the two beings said in unison. "Are you ready?"

"But, what are you?"

"We are your future. We are robots. And we would like for you to join us," said the lead robot who called herself Lindsay.

"I don't understand," said Amanda, already packing her bag.

"You don't need those items where we are going," said the one who called himself Dave. "It is a magical land. There is wilderness and trains. A woman named Oprah and great buildings. When you are ready, climb into my hand and I will show you the way."

As Amanda looked around her room and at all her beautiful things, she knew the only person she would really miss was Nona. She shed a tear and rubbed it on Nona's pillow as a parting gift. Then, she climbed out of the window and into Dave's hand.

As she did, a sudden and rapid transformation occurred. Her body grew stiff and hard. Her legs got long and wobbly. She grew in length and in width. She was a robot now, too.

With this she started sprinting through the great pasture feeling the wind on her skin. It was exhilarating. She felt powerful and strong, two things she had never known.

As she and Lindsay and Dave ran through the forest she realized something amazing. This was her new life now, as a robot. This change was just the beginning of all her adventures.

When periods are more than a part of grammar - a little about lady days

Periods. I hate them. You hate them. Guys don't understand them. "What? You bleed for how long? Why? Babies? Huh. Chiptole."

Periods are taboo, but when you're on them, there is not anything else you would rather talk about - bitch about. But, alas, the world likes to sweep any mention of them under the bloody rug, or strike them from the lady days calendar of life. I don't know exactly what I'm trying to say or what point I'm trying to make, but Gloria Steinem, of course, put it best with her essay If Men Could Menstruate. Sara Haskins Birth Control Target Women is pretty funny too.

Yo - Yo - Yo

If one day, when I die, I awake the next morning, fuzzy and confused and as a different person - full of old memories of my past, but none of my own - sleeping in a new bed with a different shade of skin - a different accent - living in a new country - I think I would like to be a member of a British R&B / Blues group that plays the local art scene.

I think that is who I shall strive to be tomorrow - or the day after I die.

Sunday, Don't You Dear John Me!

Oh, Hey Sunday! How are you? I haven't seen you all week, but I have certainly been thinking about you. I always have so much fun when we're together, but I always feel like you're in such a rush to get out of here.

Anyway, do you remember that time we slept until 11 and then watched TV all day, all snugly in our matching Snuggies, because it was raining outside. Can someone say, LIFETIME MARATHON!? That was great. Or when we went on a long wanderous walk with Kate and she pretended to drown in the playground of fake boats and we laughed and laughed and laughed. You're right, it was soo funny. Or even just yesterday when we had 2, no, 8, margaritas with Mandy and then went in and out of vintage clothing and record shops looking for the perfect pair of plaid sunglasses and that long lost Paul Simon album? Good times, right?

What? What did you say to me, Sunday? You don't?! I thought those were such meaningful times!

Well, I don't know why I thought you cared. I bet you DOO have tons of friends!! Tons more than me.

You know what, Sunday? You are mean. You are a mean mean person and I don't have to sit here and take it any more!

Leave.

Just leave. I never needed you any way.

Wait.

Where are you going.

Sunday, I'm sorry. Come back.

PLEASE COME BACK SUNDAY!

Because I love you. Yes I do.

Yes I do. Just listen to me. Okay, I accept your apology.

Oh, you have someplace to go? Okay. Well, I'll see you next week.