Yon Ti Moman. Only a Little While.

Times are tough up in Chicago. I'm broke, jobless, and it's GD EFFING freezing.

Yesterday I was feeling so panicked about money that, mid-job searching, I jumped up from my computer and started running around my apartment like a madwoman, collecting all my spare change. I dug through every purse, every bag, every coat. I picked up pennies off the floor. (Seriously, my whole life, there's always been change on my floor. When I was in high school, anytime my dad would walk in my room, he'd start picking up the change on the floor and lecturing me on the value of money. Maybe I should have paid more attention.)

I dumped all the change in a tupperware container, not including the $12 in quarters I found (laundry money!). I had another container full of change in the trunk of my car. So, clutching my tupperware jars of change like my life depended on it, I took my broke ass to Jewel and used the Coinstar machine. Some of my change got rejected because it was so dirty from being in my car for the last decade, but all in all, I had $52 in change.

Hallelujah! I'm pretty sure the cashier thought I was batshit crazy, because I handed her my voucher with a huge grin on my face. But you know what? I didn't care. I was 52 bucks richer. And right now, for me, that's really something.

Then today came. By mid-afternoon, I'd reached a pretty record low. I had no more change to collect. Rent's going to be due again soon. Damn, was I feeling sorry for myself. I headed toward the Loop to apply for a serving gig, because I needed to feel like I was really actively doing something. (Other than applying for the umpteenth job online, that is.)

Filling out an application turned into getting interviewed, and I actually left there with my hopes up. (Keep your fingers crossed for me!) So, I hop on the train to go back home, and start reading the latest New Yorker. I always read "The Talk of the Town" section first, so I flip there. 

The story I read first starts with this line: "My cousin Maxo has died." Immediately, I'm sucked in to this article (without even realizing until I finish that it's written by Edwidge Danticat). It turns out the author's cousin Maxo was killed in Haiti when his house collapsed on him during the quake. She continues, writing about Maxo and his life in Haiti. He sounded like a wonderful, unique person.

I'm so enthralled by this story that I'm pretty much oblivious to the fact that I'm still on the train. By the end, I'm teary eyed, holding back full fledged tears.

Monday Mix Tapes: Harvest Moon

Really loving this cover of Neil Young's "Harvest Moon" by St. Vincent's Annie Clark and Bon Iver's Justin Vernon from a Brooklyn show to raise money for Haiti earthquake relief. (Via Pitchfork.)



But don't worry, I'm well aware that nothing holds a candle to the real deal.

Who's More of a Broke Ass Than Me?

No one, right? That's why I just emailed RedEye and told them to feature me in their upcoming project.

If you love me and are sick of hearing me whine about being a broke ass, it couldn't hurt to tell RedEye about me.

Pretty please? Seriously, right before I emailed RedEye, I applied for a deferment on my student loans with Sallie Mae. I need this.

Here's how they say to contact:

"Shoot an e-mail to redeyetalk@gmail.com (with "Broke-Ass" in the subject line), drop us a line on our Facebook fan page or get at us on Twitter. We're around."

Love,
Broke Ass Alison

Sunday Swayze Fest Returns!

Swayze as the protective older brother = SWOON.



What a great book/movie.

Old Friends

Today I visited my oldest and dearest friend Eileen. We hadn’t seen each other since this summer, only about a month after her baby, Eli, was born. It seems silly, considering we only live about an hour apart—she lives in Aurora, I live in the city—but sometimes life just gets in the way of getting together. (That and the fact that until recently, I worked in a bar and she has a normal human being’s schedule.)

Eileen and I first met standing in line to go outside for recess in elementary school. We had the exact same coat. It was destiny.

Although sometimes we go six months without seeing each other, it doesn’t really matter. Not that I wouldn’t love to see her more often, of course I would. But it really doesn’t matter because, like we talked about tonight, we’ve known each for so long, and we know each other so well, that we can always pick up a conversation like we just saw each other yesterday. Plus, we laugh our asses off every time we’re together. What’s so funny, I’m not really sure. But it’s pretty damn terrific.

One of Eileen’s greatest qualities is how she makes everyone around her feel happy. You can see that just by being around her and her wonderful husband Aron, or the way her son’s eyes light up every time she looks at him. She always, always, always, looks for a positive note in everything in life. It’s therapeutic for me to be around her. I seriously drove the entire ride home with a big ass grin on my face.

And there’s really something to be said for being around a friend who, when I talk about my mom, not only knew her and understands what I’m saying, but gets a little teary eyed because she loved her too. Our moms were friends, too. My dad is still friends with hers. You get what I mean. She’s family.

I hope everyone has an Eileen in their lives.

Love ya, Bean.

Blog for Choice Day: What "Trust Women" Means to Me

Today is the 37th anniversary of Roe v. Wade. It's also the 5th annual Blog for Choice Day. Each year, NARAL Pro-Choice America poses a question for bloggers to respond to on January 22, Roe v. Wade's anniversary.

In honor of Dr. George Tiller, who often wore a button that read, "Trust Women," this year's question is:

What does Trust Women mean to you?

I'm a little late in the day with my post, and I've already read some great responses to this question, so what I have to say is brief.

"Trust Women" means understanding a woman's right to make decisions about her body. It means trusting that we can, and must, make our own decisions regarding our reproductive choices.

Trust a woman to know when she's ready to have a child. Trust a woman to decide if she's not ready for a child.

All women, regardless of class, income, religion, or color, should be able to make decisions about their own bodies. That's why I support Planned Parenthood (and Judy Blume).

It's simple: Women's rights are human rights. Trust women to decide for themselves. We are capable.

And she signed each note, “Love, Rexanna”

My mother proofread everything, even her little notes to my father left on the kitchen counter before we’d go out somewhere—short notes, written on the backs of discarded “Page-a-Day” calendar pages. When I was little, I’d hover behind her, watching her mouth move as her pen swept from word to word, making sure everything had come out right. When I was a teenager, I’d stand in the doorway and groan for her to hurry up—“you don’t have to proofread everything, Mom”—but she didn’t care.

She’d never leave until she had reread the note, checking every detail. Was it so Dad would know exactly where we’d gone, what time we’d return? Or was it to make sure, just in case, God forbid, her last written words would have no errors? Maybe a little bit of both.

She signed each note, “Love, Rexanna.”

These notes were always part of the routine. Paper and pens sat, waiting, at the top of the fridge.

Now, desperate for something of my mother, I curse all those notes thrown out without a thought. But why would we save such things? I remember sitting in my dorm room at IU, only months after she was gone. Frantic, I searched through my email, hoping to find old emails from my mother.There were only a few. I read each line, desperate, praying for a clue. But they weren’t what I wanted. I wanted little notes written on the backs of Dad’s old Page-a-Day calendars signed “Love, Rexanna.” I wanted them piled, stacks of unimportant notes, all around me. Therein would be the answers to everything I had to know. I wanted to stand in our kitchen, hovering behind as she reread each word, mouth moving, pen sweeping across the paper.

Now, I can’t even remember my mother’s scarcely used email address. She would shudder at all the grammatical errors in our lives now. Twitter and text, she’d roll her eyes at such nonsense. Sometimes, I force myself not to capitalize my “i’s” in emails. It pains me in ways I can’t explain. An “i” in an email from me is not a careless gesture, not quick typing. It’s a meditated act—mouth moving, pen sweeping across the paper—but no one gets it but me. It’s my teenaged self, groaning at my mom in the kitchen: “You don’t have to proofread everything.”

“Yes, you do.”

Frantic, I try to picture her in the kitchen, proofreading her notes to my father.

Because my father still sometimes leaves me notes on the backs of his Page-a-Day calendars, I have a kitchen drawer overflowing. I can’t bear to throw such precious things away. He always signs them, “Love, Dad.” Every year my brother and I buy our dad two calendars: a Page-a-Day and a wall calendar for the kitchen. This year I forgot his wall calendar. I remembered Christmas Eve. Frantic, I feared I'd ruined our tradition forever. He opened his Page-a-Day calendar from Jay. It made me want to cry. I wasn't sure why.

On my refrigerator is a card my grandfather wrote me. I found it in a box two weeks after he died. Yesterday I looked at the line, “I have three robins in my yard, it makes me think of spring.” It made me want to cry. I wasn't sure why. In my father’s kitchen cabinet is a small jar labeled “Sage.” It’s my grandmother’s writing.

When I go home I check for it in the cabinet. It’s always still there.