Netflix, You Complete Me.

I just realized that I can watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer, in its entirety (THAT'S RIGHT! ALL 7 SEASONS!) instantly on Netflix.

OH. HOLY. CRAP.

Somehow, I think I kept my high school love for Buffy hidden from everyone but my parents, who knew that I shut myself in my room when it came on (when was that, Monday nights on the WB?).

Why I did this, I don't know. So now I'm coming out with it: I LOVE BUFFY. (Everything except the cheerleading part. Sah-ree.)

Here, a perfect example of great Buffy elements. Buffy kicking ass, Buffy making out with hot vampire boyfriend Angel.

Edward Cullen, take a seat.



So, in case you were worried about what the hell I'm going to do with myself once I leave Chicago and have no social life, now you can quit worrying!

I'll be watching Buffy. And slipping deeper and deeper into geekdom.

If you're lucky, I'll start a regular blog feature about it. Ha! (But wait...should I?)

Shameless Self-Promotion!

Because I can't hold out any longer...

One of my short stories was published in the Logan Square Literary Review last week. You can order a copy online, or for all you lucky Chicago people, you can just go into one of these great stores and pick one up:

Myopic Books, Wolfbait and B-Girls Boutique, G-Mart Comics, or Quimby's Bookstore.

(If you go to Wolfbait, make sure to look for my friend Rachel's badass jewelry. She sells there. Just ask about Madame Platypus. Or, just go to her Etsy store now.)

My story is called SLUT. You really can't miss it.

It's the first short story I've had published, and given the nature of the story, it makes me both really excited and sort of nauseated all at the same time. You know, cause on the one hand I want to call up my grandma and tell her the good news. On the other hand, I don't ever, EVER want her to read this story. It's, uhhh, not exactly PG.

Read it! You know you want to ...

Whatever Will Be, Will Be (Thanks, Corinne Bailey Rae)

This Thursday I saw one of the most amazing performances of my life: Corinne Bailey Rae at the Vic in Chicago.

It was my first show at the Vic, which was just as great of a venue as I'd heard. We got right in front of the stage, so I had a perfect view of the opener, Daniel Merriweather, who was also terrific. (Check out his song, "Cigarettes"— you'll see what I mean.)

And then, of course, since I had no intention of moving from that spot, we also had a great view of Ms. Rae.

She was incredible. Mesmerizing, in fact. True, I've been listening to her new album, The Sea, pretty much on repeat since February, so that helped, considering she pretty much played it in its entirety. But her voice— damn. It gave me chills.

The only low moment of the show was when I finally took a minute to sprint to the women's room, and of course, right when I walk in the stall, she starts playing "Put Your Records On"— I mean, why wouldn't I be in the toilet when she plays her biggest hit? (Same thing happened when I went to see Stephen and Damian Marley. "Traffic Jam" started while I was in line for the bathroom, and finished by the time I was washing my hands. Stupid Bluebird bathroom.)

But that's okay. That song's not even my favorite. When she did play my favorites, "Diving for Hearts" and "I Would Like to Call it Beauty," she played them back to back. I was actually holding back tears during those two songs. Beautiful. Even more beautiful was the lovely pregnant woman standing next to me, holding her pregnant belly, swaying to the music with her partner, and singing along.

Loved it! Right at the time when I was feeling high on more than just Heineken's and great music, she comes back for her encore and blows me away with this:



Que sera, sera. You said it, Corinne.

Drinking Schweppe's Down On The Farm

Watching Jimmy Fallon giggling makes this even better.

fuck yeah, literary quotes

Just changed my life. Check it out. I'm mad I didn't create this.

Some of my favorites so far (via pretty-little-time-bomb, via fuck yeah, literary quotes):

I’ve seen it before. There are women who spread ruin through no fault of theirs, just by being too beautiful, too full of life and love. They can’t help it. People come to them as people go to a warm fire in winter. O Pioneers!, Willa Cather

Blame it or praise it, there is no denying the wild horse in us. Jacob’s Room, Virginia Woolf

People that like to read are always a little fucked up. The Prince of Tides, Pat Conroy

If only there could be an invention that bottled up a memory, like scent. And it never faded, and it never got stale. And then, when one wanted it, the bottle could be uncorked, and it would be like having the moment all over again. Rebecca, Daphne du Maurier

I feel like I need to do so many things now. In no specific order, these things include re-reading Rebecca, starting a kick-ass tumblr site such as this, and writing a short story.

Oh, yeah. And pack. I need to pack.

Poetry Slam Tuesdays: Erica Jong, Again

I know, I know, I feature Erica Jong and Bukowski poems all the damn time. But I can't help it.

This is why:

Woman Enough
by Erica Jong

Because my grandmother's hours
were apple cakes baking,
& dust motes gathering,
& linens yellowing
& seams and hems
inevitably unraveling
I almost never keep house
though really I like houses
& wish I had a clean one.

Because my mother's minutes
were sucked into the roar
of the vacuum cleaner,
because she waltzed with the washer-dryer
& tore her hair waiting for repairmen
I send out my laundry,
& live in a dusty house,
though really I like clean houses
as well as anyone.

I am woman enough
to love the kneading of bread
as much as the feel
of typewriter keys
under my fingers
springy, springy.
& the smell of clean laundry
& simmering soup
are almost as dear to me
as the smell of paper and ink.

I wish there were not a choice;
I wish I could be two women.
I wish the days could be longer.
But they are short.
So I write while
the dust piles up.

I sit at my typewriter
remembering my grandmother
& all my mothers,
& the minutes they lost
loving houses better than themselves
& the man I love cleans up the kitchen
grumbling only a little
because he knows
that after all these centuries
it is easier for him
than for me.

Why I'm the Luckiest Lady on the Planet

Any idea?

You might already know this, but it's been awhile since I've mentioned it here at the Rainbow Chronicles. So I've said it before, and I'm saying it again now:

My pops is the shit.

I just talked to him on the phone for almost an hour. I feel better about, well, pretty much everything now.

That's all. I wish everyone had a great dad they could call on a Sunday afternoon. Just to talk. Just to be there for you.

It's easy for me to focus on all the bad things—like how I can't pay my rent, or how my car's a piece of crap that breaks down every month, or how I hate waiting tables—but then I think, who supports me through all that bad stuff? Who do I call to help me out?

My dad.

Not everyone is fortunate enough to have that. This is what I remind myself when times are tough. They might be tough, but it could be much, much worse.

I have my dad. And that's a lot.

Not only that, I've got these other two guys in my life. My pops, and two badass older brothers? I'm starting to feel a little greedy.

This is my family. They're awesome.

Happy Sunday, y'all.

Dear Chicago (Te Amo)

“I fell in love again
all things go, all things go
drove to Chicago”

This song.
I had just moved to Chicago.

I listened over and over
“all things grow, all things grow”
It was like Sufjan wrote it
just for me.

“All things go, all things go”

I walked down Belmont,
a little scared,
a lot self-conscious.
I kept my sunglasses on,
my headphones in,
and I walked to the Blue line.

Everything was unfamiliar.

The Mexicans and Puerto Ricans
honked as they drove by—
some whistled, some stopped
altogether.
What?
I had never felt so WHITE.
So country. So new. So dumb.
Even the billboards were in Spanish.
I stared at those unfamiliar words,
and imagined they said exotic, poetic phrases,
but really,
it was just beer and McDonalds ads.

I didn’t know how to react to the honking,
and the whistling.
I felt like they were laughing at me.
I didn’t get it. Where was I?
Not home.
Was it obvious?
Silly white girl.
So I just bumped up the volume
on my iPod,
stared straight ahead,
and let Sufjan sing to me.

“I was in love with the place
in my mind, in my mind”

I had arrived.
When I got to the Belmont stop,
I bounced down those stairs,
into that dirty pit.
Suddenly, I was in love.

Honk at me. Whatever.

Maybe I could fool them
to think
I know what I’m doing.
Maybe not. 
But it didn’t matter:

I had made it!

Here, in Chicago.
And Sufjan was singing to me.

My whole life, I’ll never forget it.

That walk,
down Belmont.
In my new city.

Thank you, Sufjan Stevens.

I Dream Big. I am a Super Woman.

I just applied to be the head blogger for Alicia Keys' new website.

In case you were ever wondering, what's Alison's dream job? Well, this is it. Exactly.

Holy crap. Dear Alicia Keys, please hire me for this job, and change my life forever. Who cares that I've never been to NYC? Whatevs. For this job, I'd live on the North Pole.

And you know what? I would kick some serious ass as her head blogger. I know it. And no, not just because Alicia is my dream woman.

Check out the vision for the new site:

"IAAS.com (I Am A SuperWoman.com) will ignite super women with empowering content, delivering vibrant and optimistic news, opinion, and entertainment at a supersonic pace. IAAS (I Am A SuperWoman) will give powerhouses everywhere one source to connect with each other--and the world."

I am a Super Woman? I love it! Every little thing about it. Love. It.

The last time I drove home, I listened to this one song from her new album repeatedly. The message in it is exactly what I need in my life right now.

From "Through it All":

Don't think about the past, don't worry bout the future
Just live in the moment
Long as there's another day there will be another way
A chance to make it through

 Listen to it. If that doesn't inspire you, well...listen to it again, cause you weren't really listening.

Maybe she'll hire me. Probably, she won't. Either way, I'm still dreaming the big dream. I'm a super woman.

Poetry Slam Tuesdays: "Nothing is for Nothing"

I hope this rocks your world like it did mine. Enjoy.

You're gonna hate me when I tell you everything.

But I'm hoping you'll forgive me.

Poetry Slam Tuesdays: What's So Good About Goodbye?

 It's Tuesday! You know what that means!

Today is one of those rare, scary poetry slams. The featured poet: C'est moi. 

I wrote this a couple years ago. I'd tell you the exact date, but that wouldn't be fun. Who's the unfortunate young man I wrote about? Of course I'm not going to tell you that, either!

But I will tell you this: I still remember exactly how he looked at me that day. Goodbyes are tough. Sometimes, like this one, they're tough and romantic (and dramatic). Sigh. Swoon. Puke. Etc.

Or maybe just my poetry is tough and dramatic. To read. Ha! After the jump, my romantic, dramatic goodbye poem of the past. But first: What's so good about goodbye?

On Doing Laundry & Trying to Be a Grownup

Today, I'm doing laundry.

I realize that this is a pretty run-of-the-mill, normal activity for a Saturday afternoon, but when you're me, it's an actual fucking day. Laundry. Day. I've got my third and fourth loads in the wash right now, and really, since I got a whole roll of quarters in order to take care of my laundry "situation," I should probably do a fifth load, too. But a fifth load means I'm being so ambitious that I'm washing my comforter AND the old comforter that's been balled up on the floor of my closet for three months, and really, I'm just not that ambitious.

I have promised myself that when I take the first and second loads out of the dryer, I will immediately carry them upstairs to my apartment, and fold them. I promised myself. Typically, this is what happens: I wait to do laundry until there's absolutely no way I can wait one more day, one more hour, or really, even one more minute to just do my fucking laundry. I wash two loads of clothes, max. By the time I pull the clothes out of the dryer, I'm just ... over it. I want to be doing something else. So I put my hamper full of clean clothes in my bedroom, and I tell myself I'll fold and put them away soon, maybe in an hour or so.

Next thing I know, it's a week later, and I'm still pulling clothes out of the damn hamper as I put them on. Pretty sure for a huge chunk of our relationship, Rene thought I was consistently wearing dirty clothes. And not only that, with absolutely no shame about it! Just pulling them out of the hamper in front of him. Sheesh. I’m not that gross.

But seriously. This is ridiculous. I want to be like normal people who pull their clothes out of drawers and off hangers when they get dressed in the morning! I want to wake up early enough in the morning so that I sit and drink a cup of tea while I flip through the paper and eat a grapefruit. I want to iron my clothes in the morning! Instead, I wake up 20 minutes before I’m supposed to leave, run around like a maniac and eat a granola bar while I’m half-walking, half-jogging to the train.

Why are simple, domestic tasks such a difficult feat for me? Whenever Rene would finally reach a point of exasperation from my piles and piles of both dirty and clean clothes scattered around my bedroom, he'd be like, "Why don't you give me some clothes I can throw in with my load at home?" (Of course, Rene is some kind of superhuman that doesn’t actually seem to get exasperated or annoyed by anything, ever. Basically me in Bizarro world. It’s both wonderful and ... exasperating.)

Two hours later, he'd be back, with my clothes neatly folded and stacked. What?! Once when he was doing laundry at my place because his washer was broken, I walked into my bedroom later that evening and just stared. He'd already folded everything! It was in neat stacks! How did this happen? Is this how real people do laundry?

I have no idea. But today, I’m going to try it. Wish me luck.

I’m writing this post while drinking Kool-Aid out of a wine glass. Something tells me I’m never going to be the kind of grownup who sits around in the morning, reading the paper and eating grapefruit. Oh, well. You can’t win ’em all.

Reason #5,839 Why I Hate Tyler Perry

My dislike for Tyler Perry is already pretty well-documented, so I'll just leave you with this. And OF COURSE the song playing is my fave Mary J song! Damn you, Tyler Perry. Damn you.



ONE. OF THESE COUPLES. WILL. NOT. MAKE. IT.

Blech.