My Last Polaroid Picture

In the age of iPhones, the World Wide Web and constant WiFi, I discovered the saddest thing on the Internet. On September 30, 2009, the final batches of Polaroid film in existence passed their expiry date. When these supplies either spoil or run out, the world will lose something special again due to technology.

Polaroid pictures used to appear like magic, now they are disappearing forever. Polaroids have always been something extremely unique to me. I was born in Oklahoma and for as long as I can remember, my parents have always used Polaroids. They took a Polaroid of me the day I was born. I still have a Polaroid picture of my mom and dad holding me as a baby, my first day home.

From a very young age I was given my first Polaroid camera. The photo above brings back vivid childhood memories of being at my grandparents summer home in Oklahoma. In this photo I was dressed up for Easter and, as you can see, on my side is my first camera, a loud, clunky Polaroid. But what makes this photo so special to me is written on the back. In my grandmothers bold, wobbly writing it reads, "Mik, Easter 1981."
To look at this memory and to be able to hold it in my hand makes me feel something indescribable. It's a sadness, like running out of gin or letting go of a beloved pet you had since you were young.
Bulky, heavy, in constant need of flashbulbs, this was my first true love. Should ask my friends, they would laugh, but agree, I practically take it everywhere with me. When I was young I even took it to bed.

Here is a photo of me eating an orange; circa 1980, also at my grandparents.
I know I eventually lost or broke this camera, but in 2005 my friend John bought me a new Polaroid camera. In Spring that year I took a vacation to visit my best friend in Los Angeles. Late one night in early Spring, we laid on a blanket on the beach at Santa Monica Pier. It was a full moon and our plan was to catch a grunion with our bare hands. Laying on the beach, camera in hand, we waited in the moonlight. As the tide rose, we waited patiently for the grunion run. As we waited, we laid on our stomachs and shared stories about where we would be in 25 years. It was nearly 2am when I looked out beyond the shore and shined my flashlight towards the waves, "That looks like a huge wave."
Faith replied, "Yeah, it's pretty big, and it's coming right for us!"
And before we knew what hit us, the wave crashed to shore, washing away our sandals, our blanket and sadly, my beloved Polaroid. The next day, I went to CVS and purchased an identical camera so my friend John would never know that his gift was now lost at sea. Today, it's covered with stickers from vacations, bumps, scratches and my name is safely scribbled on the bottom. There is even a tar fingerprint permanently stuck on the front. While in LA, Faith took me to the La Brea tar pits and I accidentally got tar on my shoe, which somehow got onto my fingers and somehow got a hot, gooey fingerprint stuck to the side.
Here is a photo of my 21st birthday. My friend Shaunda served rainbow birthday cake and pink champagne.

Over the years, this camera has stood tried and true. It was always a little too bulky to pack in my bag on vacation, but I somehow always managed to bring it. I usually receive a lot of criticism about this camera from my friends. "It's too big. It's too heavy. The film is too expensive. You only get 10 pictures." But, it's all too ironic, because after I took a photo, they were always the ones begging to shake it, hold it, watch it develop before their eyes. Then, secretly, after all their sarcasm, they wanted to keep it; knowing it was the only one in existence.
Last year, as a Birthday gift, my boyfriend decided it was time to join the millennium and bought me a digital camera. In fact, I have used it, out of consideration, thoughtfulness and overall price of the gift, but I still took my Polaroid on our last vacation. As I was packing, he smiled and rolled his eyes as he observed me packing it under my socks. I coyly replied, "Just in case the battery dies."
In my past thirty years, I have captured hundreds of one-of-a-kind photos.

Birthday parties, ex-boyfriends, distant friends,

insurance claims, pets,

the World Trade Center towers, and yes, even things I wish I had not been caught doing with Furbies.

It's sad to know that this day has come and the last of the Polaroid film is coming to an end. But I am thankful to have these memories, to have had this friend. As time passes, I too will run out of film and I will be taking my last Polaroid picture. And once the film is gone, the camera will sit useless, empty and void of it's heart. However, nothing will make me forget, the hearty sound of film deploying from the mouth of my Polaroid camera.

R.I.P. "Neee-awww

GOOD MORNING, CHICAGO!

An album that is sure to not disappoint! This album includes all your favorites, Such as:
1) Who's that Jackhammerin' at 7am Blues?
2) Next door Children's Chorus (A Capella)
3) The Raddelin' Red Line Rumba
4) Minimalist Gunshot Sonata No. 12
5) Octogenarian Landlord's Emphysema Waltz
6) Rehabin' The Upstairs Apartment Rhapsody

7) Peppers in A Major (Recorded LIVE!)
8) The Garbage Truck Tango
9) Oh, What A Beautiful Car Alarm Adagio
10) Fire Engine No. 49 Rondeaux
Delicately crafted to welcome you to every day with the authentic wonder of city living, this is one gift that's sure to please!

Return of the Sabbath

The past month has been a hard one, particularly this last week. For months I have been consoling friends and strangers who wandered into my coffee shop and listened intently to their woes and sorrows of loosing their jobs. I tried to comfort strangers by being a listening ear and a friendly smile for when they decide to wake up, have a cup of coffee and get back out there and apply themselves. But sometimes, when it hit much closer to home, a friend would stop in and tell me they'd been cut back or laid off. I'd slip their small coffee into a larger cup, smile and say, "You hated that job anyway", or "It's really a blessing in disguise." I'd try to be encouraging and make searching for another job less painful for anyone who wanted to share their stories with me.
However, I felt lucky that I had a stable job, something I enjoyed doing and a position I never felt was threatened by the black hole of the current economy. But last week proved that the universe was growing, expanding and that the carnivorous black hole needed one more job to devour. On one day, in the middle of the week, totally unexpected, my day proved that its' existence was still very real. I left work within the first ten minutes in which I had arrived, sat in my car, keys still in my hand. I wondered how long I had sat there, just thinking. It felt like an hour, but couldn't have been more than sixty seconds because a woman pulled up next to me and shouted in a bitchy tone, "Are you leaving or what?"

Yes, I was leaving, leaving and not coming back. I drove home like an unconscious person might at 4AM after the last bar had closed. I was dazed as if I were kicked out, drunk, wondering where I could get my next drink.
When I arrived home my cats yawned and stretched on the couch. I secretly wondered what it would be like to have a cats' life. Eat, sleep, scratch everything up and sleep again. No job, no worries, no telephone calls to return, just sleeping and scratching and depending on your owners abiding love. As I sat on the couch, I couldn't bring myself to do anything but just sit there and numbly think. Truth be told, I don't worry all that much. I obsess, but never really worry.
Thinking about it now, the first thing I did was a little odd; I made a list. A list of things I'd like to do with all this newly found time off. My car was paid off and my bills were seemingly low since I split them equally with my partner. At the top my list I wrote, "SLEEP IN" in all capital letters. I obsessed over how I wrote it. I underlined it, traced it, analyzed my handwriting and then studied the meaning of the words. I felt satisfied with that word being at the top. It must be good if my cats do it all day, nearly hourly. As I sat thinking about number two on my list, my eyelids grew heavy and I thought, "I'll finish this list later."

Then, the weekend arrived and my partner asked me if I wanted to go to church. This took a lot of thought. In the past I had given religion many chances to prove itself to me. I grew up in a Southern Baptist church, but my grandparents experimented once in a Methodist church. That required a lot of narrow thinking and extreme ideas. During one such experience at the Methodist church I had been coaxed by a young, handsome choir director to star in a musical production. My grandparents were greatly pleased that I had discovered a musical niche within their religious realm. I, on the other hand, had possible ulterior motives. Truly, I cannot stress enough the handsome features or the strange desire I had towards the musical director. However, I was pushed to my limits when one such incident occurred during practice when he asked to speak to me in private.
I will now stop this story and say, I had only hoped what you're thinking would have happened. Instead, I was told in private that the lead in the 'Little Orphan Annie' scene had dropped out and since I had been accompanying the choir on the piano, if I might step in and fill the role of Annie. I was asked to sing, in falsetto, the song "Maybe", in a red wig, ragged clothes and make up. Only one rehearsal was all it took for my grandparents to remove me from Methodist church.

I told my partner that I'd consider attending church again, since I had not been to a service in the eight years I've lived in Chicago. On Sunday morning I woke up in a perky, upbeat mood. "Let's go to chuuurch!" I sang in a Oprah surprise-giveaway tone that put a smile on his face.
He had picked a gay friendly Methodist church in the Boystown area of Chicago. We arrived ten minutes late and sat in the back to avoid the congregation's judgmental eyes. Say what you want about Christians being forgiving, but arriving late is one item on the list even the lesbian minister judges you.
As we sat in service, something immediately struck me as odd as I looked around in the house of God. Men holding men and lesbians burping their culturally diverse babies. It truly was a reach from the conservative Oklahoma churches I was familiar with. The service continued as the collection plate was passed around. Tithes and offerings, I have always felt, are important to any successful mission involved church, but when ones' current income is zero, I felt no shame in passing the plate away. And as I did, I noticed a homeless looking woman wearing a heavy red coat soiled with stains and feet surrounded with grocery bags full of newspapers and clothing. During the service she fiddled with her bags, flipping through magazines, eating a banana and even finding time to balance her checkbook.
At the end of the service was a "Joy and Concern" portion where troubled members could loudly speak to the congregation with a microphone passed about the aisles. I sat quietly and observed this behavior, not knowing if the microphone would later be passed onto me. A middle aged woman in the front went first. "I HAVE BOTH A JOY AND A CON-CERN TO SHARE", she said very loudly into the microphone as if she had never used such an instrument before.
"My joy is that my father recently had his drivers licence reinstated."
Her voice softened as she went on to explain that her father was a professional long distance trucker and he had recently suffered a stroke which paralyzed one half of his body. "My concern is, now that he is back on the interstates and highways, for his safety and for others who also share the road with him."
My mouth must have opened when I digested her announcement that her paralyzed father was out there driving around in an eighteen wheeler along a road which I very well may soon encounter as I leave this church.
"Amen", the congregation said in unison.

Next, the microphone was handed back to our row where the homeless woman took the stage. She only had a concern to speak about. She mentioned a homeless woman, which oddly enough, sounded like she was trying to disguise as herself. As she proclaimed her concern, she shut her eyes and went into a well devised script. "Well, let's see. I, uh, met her one day on the bus. She needed money. I told her, get yourself to church, that's where people can help you with that." She rambled on and on until a woman, in some sort of authority, reached out and tried taking the microphone away from her.
 "Alright, alright, alright, I'll wrap this up...", but she did not. She continued to ramble until the woman finally did take the microphone away from her tight grasp. She opened her eyes and sat down mumbling to herself and everyone in unison once more said, "Amen."

Again, the microphone was handed down to a seemingly quiet man who sat with no one around him. "I have a joy and a concern too," he said in a strangely accusatory way.
"My joy is that my back is feeling much better. The pain is mostly gone and I am able to pick things up off the floor again." People applauded as to give God glory.
"My concern is...", the lesbian pastor stood to her feet, "..there is a rumor going around in this church that I am a pedophile."
My mouth could not stay closed, again I was ingesting another sickening concern.


"I am not a pedophile and for the one who started this nasty rumor, well, she knows who she is."

He nodded his head towards the female pastor as she and everyone was forced to say, "Amen."
As the microphone was passed down to a transgendered man who softly voiced a joy about his growing breasts and shrinking testicles, I whispered to Michael that we should be going. We gathered our things and left before we could hear more about his bodily concerns. We stepped onto Broadway and I took a deep breath. We walked to the car and I began to think if the microphone would have been passed onto me, what I would have said. Would I have voiced my joy to have the option to never return to this place or would I have shared my concern for the lack of dignity that people leave unattended at the front door? Either way, my partner looked at me and said, "I have a joy to share."
"OK, let's hear it", I said.
"I'm glad we'll never go back there again."
I laughed and in unison we both said "Amen!"

NOBODY KNOWS THE TRUFFLES I'VE SEEN

When I first moved to Chicago I worked a coffee house in Boystown, affectionately named for the gay population which resides there. I had only worked at the coffee house for a few months when I was able to experience my first Chicago winter. I was living on Irving Park at Lakeshore when the first snow arrived and blanketed the already frozen lake. It was harsh and the December wind that whirled off the lake only made the cold Canadian air seem even colder. The coffee house was only a few blocks away, but I couldn’t face the freezing temperatures so I lazily took a cab. When I arrived, I found the coffee house was nearly empty due to the storm. But as I began my shift, I noticed a regular who would sit at the same table directly in my line of sight when working on the espresso machine. We seemed to catch each others random glances on his every visit. Perhaps it was because I was still new to Chicago or maybe it was because I was the always smiling face of the coffee house and he was curious what my story was. Either way, I was single and it was very flattering. I really should specify that it wasn’t merely a glance, it felt stronger because on each occasion it made me shyly blush.
A few weeks into this coy game, he returned with a heavy backpack as if he was studying for finals or backpacking through Europe. He sat at or near the same table on each visit to ensure his view. He would crack open a thick, heavy book to study and after a few sips of his drink he would read for a hour then reach down into his backpack. I envisioned him removing a German-English dictionary to ask for directions, as I would expect from a tourist. But the back pack revealed to house a huge chocolate bar, one which would make Willy Wonka envious. He peeled back a giant portion of the paper and cracked off a baby-bird portion of the bar to nibble on. I must have been staring again because he looked up and nodded at me, as if to offer me a bite. He hypnotically waved the book sized candy bar at me which must have put me under a chocolate spell because what I did next, I would never have done in a chocolate-free daze. I walked over to the table and immediately the dark chocolate wafted all around me. He politely grunted in very neanderthal style, as to offer me a bite. I snapped off a realistic, American sized bite and told him thank you. I introduced myself and I sat in an empty chair next to him and we chatted for a while. We nibbled on the chocolate, got to know each other and exchanged phone numbers. And a few weeks later we were on our first date.

His name was René, he was from Germany and it was his second year in the U.S. at a technical college. I found everything about him very interesting. Maybe, peculiar is a better word. He had a loud, uncomfortable laugh which I would often confuse as a severe wheeze. However, we dated throughout the Christmas season and continued to share more about each other. We often spent a lot of time in his apartment on the West side. We stayed in a lot because he liked to cook, mostly extravagant, traditional German meals. During dinner I shared with him stories about boring holiday traditions of picking what I wanted out from a Sears catalog.

He’d scoop up a hefty spoonful of sauerkraut and frown in disgust. He shook his head at the thought that presents were bought from a mega retailer who also specialized in automotive repairs and oil changes. He would then try and explain to me why Christmas in Germany was better. His first suggestion was there is more than one type of Santa available; Even an evil Santa named Krampus, that violently whipped children with a switch. I was confused at the thought of having more than one option. I mean, I was angry at my parents for lying to me about just one, so there must have been some awfully vengeful prepubescents in Germany.

He explained that the first one, Christkindl, is a good Santa; More of a Santa-angel. The other good Santa, Weihnactsmann, is actually the one bringing the gifts, arriving on a single white horse instead of tiny flying reindeer. At least that part of the story seemed to make sense. But most importantly, he stressed having an Advent calendar to count down the days until Christmas, pointing his out over his shoulder. It lazily hung crooked in his kitchen with nearly every little chocolate candy ripped out of its’ doors, as if a wild, sugar-crazed child struggled to fight off a diabetic shock. It was only December 4th.

In the following weeks leading to Christmas I continued to blindly rationalize away all the red flags which lead to the disastrous end of our relationship. Other than his borderline obsession and insatiable appetite for chocolate, things were not all that bad. Occasionally, he would slip in and out of German, teaching me a few phrases. Once, when my German began to improve, he must have felt I was worthy enough to share a family heirloom that he brought with him from Germany. It was a handcrafted, ivory antique instrument that he must have truly treasured because of the way he handled it. Carefully it was removed from the case and then gently, he unwrapped the soft calfskin hide that protected it. He treated it with such extreme care that I got nervous just preparing to see it. He then slid it out and immediately I noticed a lengthy German inscription along the side of the instrument. I looked closer as he held it up to his lips to blow. And as the music began, I realized I was listening to him play "We Three Kings" on a glorified, ivory recorder.

A few days later, I woke up at his place and discovered he had left me alone. This was extremely unexpected since we were not at all on that level where I would have been comfortable leaving him alone at my place. There was a note on his desk that read he had ran to the pastry shop for breakfast. I took this as a do-it-yourself-in-ten-minutes-or-less opportunity to learn as much about him before he returned. I carefully opened the closet and examined how neatly his clothing hung on all wooden hangers, like a Banana Republic store. “A total neat-freak”, I thought to myself.
I then scanned across the papers on his desk--messy, unorganized, and several past due bills and credit cards with high balances. “Tisk-tisk!”
I quickly continued as I heard his keys on the kitchen counter. Usually the good stuff is under the bed, so I quickly lifted the bed skirt and there it was...the ultimate red flag. Eighteen, maybe twenty, wrappers from the same over sized Vosges chocolate bars that first put us together, all shoved under his bed and hidden due to his shameless love and guilt of chocolate.
I sat on the bed thinking to myself, “Surely, chocolate hoarders can’t be safe to date.”
I had gained weight since we met, eating my way through Germany and snacking on chocolate the way Veruca Salt might have, had she not met her untimely demise with her flashy, “I want the whole world” attitude.
René swung open the door and presented me with a bakers box full of breakfast pastries. “Guten Morgen!”, he announced and handed me the box. I sat on the corner of the bed and reluctantly opened the crave-case sized box. I looked down and starring up at me were one-dozen pain au chocolat. Knowing that it was a bakers dozen, I scoffed knowing he had already eaten three.

 
I closed my eyes and politely said, “Thank you, but I really should be leaving.”
I snagged one of the pain au chocolat out of the box, kissed him on the forehead and left. On my way home I contacted T-Mobile and changed my phone number.

When the representative asked the purpose of changing my number, I asked her, “Did you know Germany has an angry, devil Santa?”

Dismantling Christmas

 I pulled the first bulb off the tree and began to think,“Christmas always seems so far away, but once it arrives, I wish it would never leave.”

Unable to stand another Christmas song, I turned on Pandora Radio. They haven’t invented a radio station dedicated to dismantling Christmas, so I chose something evenly upbeat and turned to Diana Ross to liven the mood. There’s something about her voice, commanding, but cheerful. Like my second grade teacher who tirelessly worked to correct my cursive, uppercase letter “E.”

“Begin at the top, then lift and loop and loop again.” She was awfully thorough for a backwards 3.

I began to remove the branches of our artificial tree and carefully pack away the gold ribbons which had beautifully wrapped the tree. I pulled off a miniature high heel sling back that we recently bought at Bronner’s, a Christmas Wonderland Emporium. It truly was just a few weeks ago I spent 5 hours walking around Bronner’s. This place is six acres of nothing but Christmas decorations and overly cheerful employees. I had exhausted myself while shopping and rested at Santa’s North Pole Café #2, to refuel on a salted pretzel. Phone reception was spotty at best inside this caverous wonderland and I lost the people I drove there with hours ago. Nevertheless, I pressed on throughout the ornament warehouse as hoards of families continued to pour in. Suddenly, I was cut off by two obese women on Hoverounds decorated with garland and a string of flashing lights. I was lodged between Baby’s 1^st Christmas and Pickle ornaments. It was then, when I turned around, that I found a gold-flaked high heel shoe that would be perfect to hang on my tree. But now that I was packing it away, I began to feel sad because the heel only had approximately 10 days to glimmer and another 355 in a sealed box.

Diana continued, “Someday we’ll be together.” She knew. She understood what it was like to reluctantly remove holiday decorations. My ornament box quickly filled and I was forced to go buy another storage container.

It’s interesting, every department store boasts holiday clearance and deeply discounted sale items on everything in the store. Ironically, what I needed were holiday ornament containers, which were not on sale. This only leads me to buy six other holiday items on sale, to justify my forty-five minute drive. Yes, I seek justification for my sixty pound carbon footprint of the day.

My boyfriend had the day off while I decided to box up Christmas and I think he too, was feeling a little bit unhappy that Christmas had come and gone so quickly. I needed a solution for our gloomy outlooks and I needed it to be as good, if not better, than Christmas itself.
He turned on CNN to watch the latest news and to his disappointment, caught Ann Coulter vomiting her right-wing political opinions and using her anti-Semitic views to defend them.

“She sickens me,” I said. “Did you know she’s been engaged seven times?”

He laughed and thought I was joking.  

“Honestly!” I told him, “But that MILF has never been married.”

Just then he turned to a local Chicago television station where Governor Pat Quinn spoke out about Illinois Civil Unions. A bill which recognized same-sex unions had passed just before Christmas and Quinn stated that he'd sign the bill early in 2011. Michael had a look of disbelief. Could it be true that Illinois is now as progressive as Iowa?

The bill would take effect on June 1, and we agreed to celebrate by being one of the first to apply for our license. That got his mind off of Christmas and mine too. Just then Diana Ross began to flood the room again, “I’m Coming Out!” she bellowed.
We stood to our feet and began to dance around our tiny apartment. I picked up our little kitten, Peppers, and bounced him around on my shoulder.

Michael skipped around the boxes in the room then leaned over, “This is better than any present I could have asked for.”

I agreed, “We may be putting Christmas in the closet, but we’re ‘Coming Out!’."