strange little girl.

exhibit a: witchcraft, torment, conflicted tori - 90's win


i dug out a copy of the 2001 tori amos cover album 'strange little girls' at the radio station tonight. found myself drawn to playing the title track, cover of the 1982 single originally performed by the stranglers. as i frantically googled research, so i could sound half way articulate and composed during my on-air break, i learned that amos actually made a music video for this single, and it slowly came back to me. i was a freshman in college, at the university of wisconsin river-falls. i had a bad hackjob lesbian haircut, and wore all too many bright plaid pants. an unmentionable 19 day stint with an eyebrow piercing. way too much blue mascara. garbage and veruca salt posters, rip outs rather, from spin magazine, taped to my bulletin board poster wall in my concrete wall dorm room. but my real heroine/rock goddess of the time, was of course none other than myra ellen amos.

this got me thinking about my former vhs copy of her greatest hit music videos that i had picked up at laurie's planet of sound, long before the days that i had trashed my vcr to move into yuppie lakeview. the collection was pretty decent, but did not include any of her work post boys for pele. not that this is discounting much, although songs from the choirgirl hotel and to venus and back were noteworthy releases, as well as the aforementioned said covers record above.

but there was something about her videos, the kitschy 90's angsty cheese. the cringeworthy epitome of my awkward youth. thinking that smeared black eyeliner, red, tossled hair and razor sharp passive female aggression would make a difference, be the voice for all womenkind done wrong. to that, 29 year old me in 2012, retorts a loud LOLZ. tori, you reek of 90's camp. i find myself drawn/stuck to the 90's, as much as i try to stray and move on, somehow similar to the generation above me who still jams to van halen and def leppard. nirvana/tori amos/pixies, hell even a handful of songs by juliana hatfield, stone temple pilots, smashing pumpkins - still stick with me. this past weekend i even copied my old POE (lolz) cds, as well as green day's dookie, to my husband's encouragment to my iPod.

angsty cheese or not, i liked amos more when she was troubled. a colleague at the radio station tonight overheard a track i was playing from rotation by nas, which featured the late amy winehouse. 'i miss her,' she sighed. i turned around, 'but why though? sure, she had a nice voice, but her drug problem was worse. say she stayed alive and conquered her addiction to alcohol/drugs, then what?' and i thought about it, what would kurt cobain be doing if were still alive today? or jimmi hendrix, bradley nowel (now im just throwing random iconography rock dudes out there who i dont even particularly care for, just to prove a point). would these musician idols still be conquering their craft? or would they be overweight, bloated, used to bes, lucky to have a gig at ribfest in chicago some 15 years after their prime, still milking that dollar to put food on their tables? (ala poison, motley crue, or fuck it, even 10,000 maniacs who i just saw an advertisement on the metra bridge for playing some douchey street fest at damen/roscoe in september). the point is - noone's interested if there's no conflict. tori amos eventually got over her conflict with religion, moved on from her rape, and evolved from her miscarriage - to eventually marry a man, have his baby, and name her future albums after spiderwebs, beecatchers and other boringass adult contemporary bullshit. give me the writhing, church masturbation and bewitching tortured howls of little earthquakes anyday. i can't, won't and flat out refuse to listen to her new material.

reason being? happy people are boring. pop culture, and hell, even general fans of music, want torment. they want conflict. they want anger, sadness, lack of hope. that, or they just wanna hear about getting wasted, laid and whatever other bullshit chris brown or phonyass shitnugget bands like fun are spewing about.

so tori, she has quite the collection of music videos. and they're all pretty terrible. but i fucking welcome them on tuesday nights when i'm curled up in bed next to an obese cat named beans, patiently waiting for my sick husband to come home to bed. i guess this is as pg-13 as my personal torment gets these days, but at least i can cringe, reminiscing on tori's former days of awespiring agony.

'i got a bowling ball in my stomach, a desert in my mouth. figures that my courage would choose to sell out now.' - you tell 'em, homegirl.

exhibit b: here, tori gets bullied by a matchbox wolf and rocks her 'alt' little girl hair-do


exhibit c: one of my fave tori tracks, we find miss amos blindfolded and hogtied in the woods. will she survive?


exhibit d: tori looks bangin' in her club gear. but did she try to kill this little girl with ADHD by igniting her collection of aquanet and locking the doors?


exhibit e: tori takes her fascination with salvador deli, pick-up trucks, merry go rounds and raisin bran. torment? angst? just awesome, duh.


exhibit f: best powerpoint bathtub intro to any music video OF ALL TIME.


exhibit g: as in god save us all, this is what happens when someone becomes 'happy'.

movin' on up.

it's really strange to realize that the month of august is almost behind us, and that summer is coming to a conclusion. even more odd, that we're 75% done with 2012. time flies, as they say.

it's been one helluva rollercoaster ride this year, with many bumps in the road - but despite a rocky first half, life's been pretty damned swell and dare i say, smooth sailing since health issues have been put to rest. family is well, marriage is excellent, kitties are fabulous. the hubs & i just signed a lease yesterday, so as of october 1st it looks like i'll be relocating to my former hood of Lincoln Square - directly across from the cardinal (my favoritest liquor store bar OF ALL TIME), and mickey d's (imlovinit). the apartment itself is quite the find, more spacious than our current crib - cheaper, and while the commutes to our respective jobs will tack on an additional 15-20 mins or so, the overall ambience of the area is much more our style. funny, how, when i lived in lincoln square for my first 4 years in chicago, i wanted to be anywhere but there. there weren't bars or boys in the yuppie baby infested village (which ironically enough, after wearing a double ring set of my own for nearly a year is EXACTLY what i'm looking for--the lack of boys and bars, not the infant infestation -  we're not quite there YET).  we'll live closer to friends and family, and actually have a tree lined street. my cousin and sister will be rooming together as well, a short walk away. we'll finally be able to dust off the unopened slow cooker and have actual family dinners. is it odd that this excites me 20 times more than going to see a show these days? because it totally does.

on top of the new neighborhood, i also recently transitioned shifts on CHIRP. many of you are familiar with my radio show already, but instead of rocking up friday evenings, i started my new air shift same time (6-8pm CT) on tuesdays 2 weeks back. it's still taking a little bit getting used to it, (i keep thinking its my weekend on tues nights now - ugh), but overall it's great - no more weekends held hostage that i could be leaving town (as if that is an actual frequent reoccurrence), and i can come straight home after the work week vs. having a 13 hr day. still keeping busy with CHIRP, and have been enjoying flooding the format with more 80's/90's and soul tracks as of late. for new music, i'm really digging the new spoon/handsome furs/wolfparade/new bomb turks project Divine Fits. Yes, it's dominated by Britt Daniel and sounds like a catchier poppier Spoon record, but cmon, after their last record I needed some reinforcement that Daniel's still got it in him. Might take the hubs to catch Ariel Pink at Metro next month, and have got tickets to see Beach House in October as well as HALL & OATES at Ravinia Labor Day Wknd. Am def looking forward to getting my Daryl & John on. (in other words, i am so so so old. and so so so white).

looking forward to planning a trip for our one year anniversary in early november. no concrete destination picked yet, but i'm leaning towards a 3 day beach trip in mexico again, and the following week in chicago to just bum around and not work.

instead of focusing on music (outside of chirp anyway), i find myself getting more and more excited about my skills in the kitchen. i was embarassed to admit that i shelled out ten bucks on a casserole magazine the other day, and was being heckled by some gal pals who spotted said publication on my counter. they can laugh it up, however, when i'm getting my glutton on with my recently perfected chicken artichoke spinach florentine.

writing this blog makes me feel kind of boring, to be honest. in the past i always wrote to reveal hurt/drama/troubled pasts. sort of a therepeutical outlet. (or to rave about new albums/shows). but like tori amos, the older i get, the less troubled i am, and the more pg 13 my ramblings become. this may feel/sound boring - but in all actuality, it's anything but. my daily adventures with my husband and feline friends have made me the happiest, most fulfilled human being i have ever been my 29 years.

it's a good year. with 4 more months before we unravel a new year with new change, i fully intend on making the very most of it, and enjoying my newfound middle class yuppiedom. instead of new tattoos and concerts, i'll be baking and catladying my happy ass off.

honey, i've gone away

i realize more and more each passing day, that i'm getting older. not in the sense like, boo-hoo, i'm no longer a young, energetic foolish kid who has all the freedom in the world - but more in the sense of, 'i wish it was a monday night so vin and i could curl up on the couch and watch the bachelorette.' basically, i'm turning into a 30-year-old homebody. one who talks to her cats more frequently than her girlfriends, and sad as it is to admit, kind of prefers it that way. going out and participating in social events is getting harder and harder - not because i don't have opportunities or can't afford it, but because again, cuddles and the comfort of a husband and home is much more inviting than plastering make-up on my face, getting all decked out and then having to answer the inevitable, repetitious, 'so jodi, it's been forever - what have you been up to? what's new?' a harmless enough question, no doubt, but the inquiry always draws a blank. luckily for me, there has been no new drama - whether it medical, family, work related or otherwise; and other than drama, like i said, i don't get out too much, so there's never really much to say/do. so i always force a smile and mutter something about marriage being wonderful (because it is), cats being awesome (because they are), work being work (to put it lightly), and that everything's great - nothing's new. and unless i plan a vacation, or we decide to plan a family, i have a feeling thing's are going to remain on this track indefinitely. the weirdest part, however, is that I LOVE THIS LIFE. i love just hanging out at home --cooking, reading, playing hair-tie fetch with the kitties, drinking vodka tonics at home on friday nights. it's amazing. probably boring to most people, but i'm the happiest i've been in my entire life. if anyone would have read me this blog entry to myself 2 years ago, i'da burst out laughing and blurted out some crude obscenity in disbelief. but 27 year old jodi, is not 29 year old jodi. and as entertaining as my former self was, i'm pretty content the way things are today.

that being said, i did actually have a somewhat eventful week this past. vincent and i did our best to attempt and man up the hype that is pitchfork yesterday - despite seeing wild flag (whom i love), and some friendly faces i haven't seen in a while, i can honestly say it's going to take one hell of a lineup to get me to return. something about selling raffle tickets (which sucks enough as is), in the torrential downpouring rain, it just wasn't my thing. then when the hubs joined me, it still wasn't the same. we all but forced ourselves to get our asses to get to the empty bottle to catch ty segall perform for renee's birthday outing. bradford cox of atlas sound/deerhunter stood right behind us, and i didn't give two flying fucks. jodi from 2 years ago, woulda been all over it - asking for an interview or a picture and blowing up her twitter feed. jodi today was like, 'meh his face isn't as ashy grey as it was during his performance, what a phony.' but back to the show, come 1:00am or so, maybe 3 songs into ty segall's set, and we were in a cab, back home so vincent could get a few winks of sleep before his 7 am shift at work the next day. i was grateful. i cannot stay out in drunken crowds anymore!

if only every show was like the one i saw this past tuesday night. . . a sit down theater, with beautiful architecture, lighting, clear acoustics, and a straight on view of the stage. i paid $90 for my ticket, which is the most i've ever spent to see one sole performer, but i can say without a doubt it was worth it just to sit down alone, let alone the view and remarkable performance.

the show i'm referring to, of course, is fiona apple. she recently released her fourth album, the idler wheel is wiser than the driver of the screw and whipping cords will serve you more than ropes will ever do. it's pretty much the best album of 2012 (sorry, beach house). i've listened to it countless times since it was pre-streamed on npr a week before i copped it on vinyl. and i've never yet tired of it, discovering a greatness in the layers that i didn't pick up on previously with each recurring spin.

i had a cousin date, with the lovely miss staci, a fellow fiona fan. after consuming an over priced meal and cocktail at a typical downtown bar & grill, we guzzled a fifteen dollar cocktail at a hotel bar just across the street from the chicago theater. heading to the show, the venue was buzzing with aging hipster fiona fans like ourselves. maybe one gentleman for every 15 ladies. after procuring $6 dollar plastic cups of wine, we made our way to our seats, which were row F (6th from stage), on the main floor to the right of the stage. we were pumped. we tolerated the opening act, which was some dude who played in fiona's band. not bad by any means, and under different circumstances i may have even enjoyed it - but let's be honest here, everyone was READY to see miss apple show us what she's been up to the past 7 years.

she finally took to the stage around 9:15, an hour 45 after the show had been scheduled to begin at 7:30. to make up for it, fiona wasted no time with introductions or niceties. instead, the band dived right into it, with the addicting percussion intro from her sophomore album's lead single, 'fast as you can.' i immediately was 16 again, speeding along highway c in my rusty red ford tempo, between argyle and monticello, to visit my highschool boyfriend keith. getting so caught up in the piano infused tribal banger, that i wound up scoring a $125 speeding ticket from the county patrolmen. fast as you can, indeed. (apparently the fastest i could go was 72 mph).

next up, another gem from when the pawn hits --album opener, on the bound. again, amazing and super nostalgic. i liked where this setlist seemed to be heading, with older yet solid tracks, that never made a huge impact in the mainstream realm.

third on the list was fiona's first ever single, released in 97--shadowboxer. again, i was consumed with memories from yesteryears. this time i was 12 years old, sitting in the carpeted basement rec room of george henner, watching music videos on mtv (yeah, they used to do that), on a summer afternoon with a handful of other ex-patriots. fiona's sultry, black and white images crossed the television screen, and i remember watching her work the piano keys, wishing i could make my piano sound like that, not fully wanting to admit i was taken with this single (bc these were the warren g and montell jordan days, people), but still being involuntarily mesmorized by her vocals. the live interpretation had me equally taken.

still - never saying a word to the audience, apple and her band continue to seamlessly flow through more tracks--paperbag, anything we want (her first new song in the set), get gone,  sleep to dream. the one song i had my fingers crossed for was sleep to dream, as i fell head over heels with her live rendition from her mtv unplugged performance however many years back. so much so, that particular version makes a frequent appearance on my weekly radio program. again, so much fucking raw energy and passion. how one woman, that is so small, could create such a monstrosity of sound, will always be beyond my grasp of comprehension. the band was immaculate as well - stand up bass, light but heavy percussion, pounding pianos, light keys and organwork, guitar - it all blended so well. sleep to dream was also where apple started to get a bit weird, concluding the track with a convulsing, angry spit scat of sorts. very animate. and then during the lengthier instrumental breaks, it was as if apple didn't know what to do with her hands - or her body - or herself. so naturally, she began twirling her legs into a pretzeled, possessed like state of contortionism. (literally). whatevs, she still belted that jam out hard.

after sleep to dream, i really didn't care what apple played. but she kept me on the edge with adrenaline and enjoyment, anyway. extraordinary machine (complete with vaudeville like falsetto), werewolf (my personal fave from the new record), tymps sick in the head song--which started off calm enough, but ended in another eccentric body twist to the floor jig, complete with an incredibly rowdy musical concluder. daredevil (ok, maybe this is my personal fave from the new record), the intimate i know slowed things down a notch, with apple crooning the microphone in lavendar lush lighting, reminding us that she really is just a sad, loveable girl. every single night, not about love - featuring apple SCREAMING over her piano mic, just in case we weren't convinced that she's NOT ABOUT LOVE. ok, borderline discomfort - is she ok? carrion-an oldie, but a goodie. (honey i've gone away). back to the days of  being 13 again. criminal- of course, the standing ovation. unrecognizable cover, a song about make believe, but good - need to look this up post show, would love to cop a copy of this performance on mp3. fiona really should put out a live album - unlike the many artists who release live performances as a cheap shot to fulfill their contract with a record label, or just to make a few more bucks, apple's live interpretation of her works is indeed magical, unlike the recorded versions and much more effective.


maybe it's because we see it with our own eyes? her twisted, insecurities and overwhelming sadness. it wasn't until after the last song that she meekly thanked chicago, and said a few following words into the microphone which were inaudible due to the crowd's roaring appreciation, and she stepped stage left, never to be seen again.

it was a magical night, one i won't soon forget. i walked out feeling fulfilled, drowsy, and a little sad. i've grown up with the music of fiona apple, and she's served as my older sister of sorts, sharing her own personal tales of failed relationships and resentment. somehow reassuring me that it happens to the best of us, and we'll all move along. it's sad, though, to see that apple, who's only a few years my senior, is still that sad, little girl she was when she was 17 with the release of tidal. don't get me wrong, her music has transcended eons of maturity and complexity, as have her lyrics - but she still strikes me as a sad and lonely woman, with many skeletons lurking in her haunted closet. as a music fan, i do have to admit, this is to my advantage. noone is listening to tori amos now that she's married with a baby - she was at her peak in the early 90s when she was writhing on her piano, crooning about the pain from her rape, miscarriage, war with God. now that she's happy she's wimpering about butterflies, spider webs and other bullshit. suck city. not fiona, though. she's still twisting around her demons, sharing them with the world.

for that, i would like to thank her. i hope for your sake that your life does pick up, but if not, please do continue to recycle your turmoil for my listening pleasure. and thank you, for getting my 30 year old cat lady fatass out of my apartment on a school night, keeping me out until 11pm, a rare and infrequent occurrence. come back to chicago anytime, i will gladly shell out another 90 dollars, hell, maybe even 100 next time. and thanks for making my favorite record of 2012--someday i hope you can find your own homebody counterpart to fulfill your void.

thank you fiona, for continuing to be my female musical heroine.

1. fast as you can - (when the pawn)
2. on the bound - (when the pawn)
3. shadowboxer - (tidal)
4. paperbag - (when the pawn)
5. anything we want - (the idler wheel)
6. get gone - (when the pawn)
7. sleep to dream - (tidal)
8. extraordinary machine - (extraordinary machine)
9. werewolf - (the idler wheel)
10. tymps (the sick in the head song) - (extraordinary machine)
11. daredevil - (the idler wheel)
12. i know - (when the pawn)
13. every single night - (the idler wheel)
14. not about love- (extraordinary machine)
15. carrion - (tidal)
16. criminal - (tidal)
- encore -
17. it's only make believe (conway twitty cover)

dear sony records, thanks for nothing.

so i'm pretty frustrated right now. it's very few and far between that i get super excited giddy stoked for the drop of a new album, even in rarer form that i listen to the album before it's release to DEATH and not only am i not sick of it, but i'm physically craving my next spin. it's been 7 long years since my sultry heroine miss fiona apple dropped extraordinary machine, and i've been patiently and eagerly waiting. it's bogus enough that apple had this record written and recorded for years, but had a delayed release due to politics with her label sony, but now that it's finally here, i figured who gives a shit. fiona rules. her new album is a masterpiece. yay, everybody wins.

my darling husband picked up a copy of the idler wheel for me this afternoon at reckless records. to my squealing delight, he texted me a confirmation that yes, it came with a free digital download. so i can finally appease my craving for such addictive tracks as werewolf and hot knife on my morning commute, not to mention finally play the shit out of this record on my weekly radio show at chirp.

however, as soon as i got home (in the blistering 90+ degree mugginess that is chicago this afternoon), i eagerly unwrapped the cellophane from the vinyl square, dug out the digital download code (b/c let's face it, i'm camping out in the bedroom with a/c tonite, not going anywhere near the record player in the humid living room), so i can anxiously download my new treasures on my ipod, ready for tomorrow's dreary workday. then the link comes up reading:

So, as it turns out...

The page you were looking for cannot be found.

 wtf, right? we paid our $19.99 to support a hard working, talented musician the legal and ethical way. i have enough contacts in the industry where i can cop pretty much whatever release i want for free, or tactics to hunt down the leak illegally, but guess what. i want to support this artist. this album is a piece of art. but fuck you, sony records, not only for distributing faulty codes, or for not anticipating  that 'oh shit, fiona has more fans than we realized, guess we should have backed up our servers for this,' or for having ANY GODDAMN LINKS ONLINE FROM OTHER USERS EXPERIENCING THE SAME TECHNICAL BULLSHIT DIFFICULTIES. ok, guess what guys - homegirl's about to get her period and it's too hot to eat icecream without it melting all over myself. so please, for the love of all things holy, do not deprive me of my fiona.

i'm posting this rant mostly to get the frustration off my chest, but also to show love for a stellar album, but mainly, b/c i didn't see shit when i googled the hell out of this glitch to see if it's happening for other users. seriously, is noone else getting this?? i did get sent to a link that says i can 'contact customer support,' to which point i'm directed to a generic email form (not a phone number, conveniently enough), that assures me that myplay does their best to respond within 24 hours.

bottom line is this - don't sell a product if you can't deliver. terrible customer service such as sony's with their myplay site will only deter me from purchasing physical albums, already a dying species on its way to extinction, and relying solely on the digital format - either legally or illegally, but i sure as fuck am not going to give sony another penny of mine until they get their shit together.

you want a werewolf? i'll give you a werewolf.grrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

sincerely,
one extremely rattled fiona apple fan

 

every single night.

countdown, 1 month today, i will see fiona apple, at the chicago theater. 8 days, until her new album drops. today - the drop of her first video from upcoming release. whoamygod, cousin staci and i are in for a treat next month. 17 years of being a fan, and ima finally see miss apple rock it out at quite possibly the most expensive concert i ever will and have purchase tickets for. ieeeeeee.

forbidden dreams of immaculate dust, abandoned stairwells, and grandma.

my entire life, i've been fascinated and fixated on the idea of abandoned places. not the actual act, feeling or process of BEING abandoned as a person or anything - but the places themselves. a lot of it has to do with my past experiences and hangup on the idea of hauntings and the paranormal, but some of it too, is the history of the place itself, of stories past and what sort of path led to a breathing, operable location's semi or complete demise.

(. . . pause in thought as 20 lb. feline walks on my chest and attempts to sit on my face. . .)

i had a dream last night. it was familiar, with themes partial to a dream i've had recurring for at least the past 5 years or so. maybe even longer. the details are blurred, but the overall idea is the same. there's this house. it's a house i'm familiar with, although i don't think i've ever actually been there in my real life. there's nothing extraordinary about this house, except that the inside is larger than the outside makes it appear. there's some sort of inner hidden dimension, with extra staircases leading to a separate corridor. it's not a super nice house, but it's not exactly a shack, either. in some versions it's the house i grew up in argyle until 4th grade on monroe street. in others, it's my grandparents' old farm  house in richland center.

in this house, there's some sort of extra presence. i'm always intrigued in my dream, yet when i wake up i'm frightened. it's as if there is some extra evil, or dangerous is probably a better word for it, presence, lurking in the extra hidden extension to the house. very david lynch like, think the black lodge from twin peaks, sans dancing shorties or giants. i'm led to believe in my dream, that it's got something to do with the spirit of my grandmother. my grandmother was like everyone's grandmother - sweet, caring and gentle. she was a magnificent woman. and in my dream, even though i'm not sure it's her, i somehow know that the unspeakable presence has a lot to do with her. it's almost like some sort of presence is trying to trick me into thinking it's her, so i feel a false sense of comfort and security, luring me into some inevitable trap. in almost every variation of this dream, i know not to explore the closed off portion of the house. my family members or the people with me in or around the house always tell me, 'you can't go up there' with creepy stares.

in one version, there's a descending twirling staircase that leads to an immaculately clean mansion like series of bedrooms. the bathroom has an impressive whirlpool with red, velvet shower curtains. giant masterbedroom. scary crazy clean and quiet. in another version, the one from last night/this morning, it's actually upstairs, in an attic living space, with a closed off bedroom playing a creepy analog tape machine that i've never seen before, with a track of distorted chipmunk sounds and bird songs, almost like a possessed remix of that elliott smith track off of from a basement on the hill, ostriches and chirping, sans whistling. more rustling. overall creep central. the song is playing on a loop, with noone monitoring or playing it. it's dusty. i break it with my hand, and whoever is with me (i never see their face), tells me 'you shouldn't have done that. grandma likes to hear that playing.' the whole room is dusty. and even though i continue opening doors and moving on where i shouldn't, i never encounter this extra presence that everyone has strictly forbade me from pursuing. i deep down know its not my family, but they're still involved.

the houses are mad creepy. but it's almost my fate, to explore them and become sucked into the madness infesting them. the conflicting themes of cleanliness and descending staircases, and then dusty insanity in an abandoned attic are polar from one another, yet consistent with their repetition. it's always one or the other. the hidden evil feeling of dread, and sinking sensation of doom are overwhelming. enough to make me want to go back to sleep, not to escape my thoughts, but to continue exploring their meanings.

i have never actually explored an abandoned house, though i did one time break into an old apartment of mine from college. then, my brother and i did break into my grandparent's old gas station in argyle a few years back, before it was torn down by the town. we rummaged through an old desk, filled with receipts and notes with my grandmother's cursive handwriting, from the late 60's/early 70's. we stole an old electric 7-up clock that i still have today. the idea of my grandparents owning/operating the dusty musky shack as a profitable business was crazy, but not quite the nightmare i have these days.

the last time i went home to argyle, it was this past march. i took my husband for the blink and miss it 10 minute walking tour of my hometown, and we spent a decent amount of time shuffling outside of my childhood home. no one lives there, or has since my mother moved out some odd 5-6 years ago. at first i was just looking around for my best pal for life callie's grave in the backyard. the former landlords, however, stole my mom's ceramic angel statue marker, so i stood pouting, missing my kitty cat, around the general vicinity, and pointed out my old bush fort built upon gravestones and a circular path around a leafless shrub. i used to sit on those headstones, not for actual dead people, but left there from our neighbors who ran a gravestone company for my fort. i used to sweep around that dumb bush, and leave fruit snacks in my wooden 'cupboard' (ie old wooden beer crate).

i wish i still had that fort.

after the normal memory jogs, i walked up to the back screen door, which was propped open, waiving in the wind off its broken rusty hinge. as shitty as the place looked, with weeds yay-high around the yard, it looked as if actual renevations are feebly being attempted. i so very much wanted to open the door and walk in. i know how to break in through the front door, by heart. i did live there for 15 years or so. but i didn't. not because i was scared i would get caught. but because i learned my lesson the last time i broke into a past residence of mine. that was in oshkosh. that place was mad scary, with real monsters and shit.

i don't know how i'd feel leaving my childhood home, frightened. although i was never really at peace living there anyway. too many weird sounds. too many unexplained encounters.

but this isn't a post about ghost stories. we all know there's plenty of those hidden in this blog.

there's no real revelation or reflection in this post. more less a ramble, an extended thought, on the idea of abandoned locations. my childhood home, for example, was never a great place. but it was enough, and it was where i grew up. to come back and see it, a handful of years after i left my hometown, as nothing but a dark,weed infested empty abandoned shack - it makes me wonder if my dreams are more than dreams, and that hidden vortex does exist behind those close, half locked doors.

is evil real? is there more to what meets the eye in paranormal theories? just because we don't see it, does that make it less of a reality? what separates living consciousness from dreams?

i wish i could just break into old buildings for a living. the encounters with the unexplained and on-the-job dangers would more than make up for it. until then, i'll just continue slumming for the inexplicable, in my dreams.

these bandages cover more than scrapes.

two surgeries, one week, one stubborn patient. while it's nice to take the time off from work. i'm pretty effin' grateful i'm done with these 'self-improvements' of mine. thank goodness for the company of my beloved feline nurses, miss mols and els (beans!), on these boring ass days. (oh, and my husband has been pretty damn amazing as well).

eye surgery went well, i'm pretty sure it was successful, although the vision close-up still tends to get a bit blurry at times, especially when i'm zoned out on the computer or reading for too long, but that's to be expected, per my eye doc--he said that such a large correction as mine should take upward to a month to be 100%, i hope he's right. but overall, waking up and not having to plop in contacts or squint around for my glasses has been a dream come true. just this morning, i was reaching around on my nightstand for my specs, when i realized, oh yeah, i can see already, don't need 'em. was pretty nice. the experience of the surgery itself was a blur. maybe 15 minutes tops, and while there were 2 60-second intervals of discomfort when they suctioned some lil roly poly clockwork orangey clamp on my eyeball to peel back my cornea, after the pressure was released it was just a super rad lazer light show that woulda put pink floyd to shame. blurs, lights, blinky red dot, and boom. yer done, here's some sexy ass horace grant goggles to wear at bedtime and a baggie full of drops.

i kinda miss the goggles, already. . .

then yesterday. not so much fun, but not too bad, either. come to think of it, the surgery yesterday was probably the best out of all the steps leading up to it, in my journey through not-quite-breast-cancer. my husband was there to hold my hand. i got to wear a super cool robe and be rolled around on a bed like royalty. and they konked me out something fierce. i remember talking to my doctor, being rolled into the OR, and then waking up in recovery, and being handed off to vincent, who then catered to my every need and scolded me everytime i tried to get up and do something for myself. took yesterday and today off of work, which is why i'm rambling here, but the worst of it honestly is not being able to shower until friday morning. yech. plus, i haven't gotten to remove any of my bandage dressings, and to be honest, i'm a little freaked out to find out what kind of scarring remains, but my surgeon assured me that the majority of the scarring would fade by months time. guess that means no wet t-shirt contests for me (until november, that is). overall, despite the hefty co-pays and nightmares of medical billing (and this is even with the top notch BCBS PPO), and the trauma of being a nameless statistic in the realm of hospital care, i'm grateful. i'm grateful to not have cancer. to have a full life. to have encountered the support of my friends and family. to remain strong. sure, there were a few instances before the results of my biopsy came back that led me to a dark place, but now that i'm on the other end of everything, with only a few scars and check-up appointments remaining, i feel like a stronger woman. lump free and ecstatic. cancer-free. it's a pretty damn fine feeling, to be honest with you.

now that my health woes are on their way to being a part of my past, i'm confident that i can begin to save and invest my time, resources and finances into building the next chapter in my future. will that bring a career change? a move to a new city? building a family? well, not yet. my 20's (and first couple 30's), are reserved for me and vincent. what adventures await us are unknown, but hopefully from here on out these adventures can be positive, exciting, and a little less heavy. now that i can see and i don't have any lumps in my breasts weighing me down, i'm hoping i can build up the energy to lose those extra 15-20 lbs. get on my bike. skip on the pizzas. run around. i wish their was kitty exercise programs. srsly, i swear i could lose 10 lbs like whoa, just chasing kittens around in a circle, like in a gym or field all day. that shit would be fun as hell.

ok, ok, ok. i'm getting ahead of myself. 90 minutes left until vincent comes home to cure me of my bedridden woes, and hopefully i can get my unshowered bandaged self up and at em to go for a walk outside. until then, i guess i'll take a stab at a few album reviews (you know that write up on beach house's bloom is in the works, kiddos), and updating that extinct resume of mine, just in case you know, that job opportunity arises for a kitty work-out coach.

no news is good news. good news is even better.

as my friend jenny said, 'i'm taking no news as good news,' when she left me a voicemail the other day. to those of you who have extended your thoughts, kind words and support the last couple of weeks, thank you. your tremendous outpouring of support was overwhelming. many of you have shared your own personal journies with me, and it's times like these that i realize how truly privileged i am to be in such good company of wonderful people.  jenny was right - no news is good news. or good news is even better news.


i am happy to report and share with you all, that i am 100% cancer free. the last couple of weeks have been a bit of a whirlwind, both medically and non-medically speaking, so i apologize that it took me this long to post an update. the biopsy 2 weeks past, sucked. like, big time. it was 1000% the least fun thing i've ever done in my life, but probably one of the smarter and pro-active adult initiatives i've completed at the same time. while my poor little lambs are still a bit banged up and bruised, i'm happy to say that it's one hell of a relief to know that this whole cancer scare nightmare is almost behind me.

i say almost, because even though the masses turned out to be benign, the size/shape are still enough to warrant surgical removal, which my smart ass opted to sign up for less than a week after my previously scheduled lasik eye surgery. this coming wednesday, i say fare thee well to 22 years of blindness, and toss the 'double paned soundproof' (childhood tauntings), to the side, and look to the world with clear, actual vision. i'm pretty effing scared, to be honest, since i'll be looking at this shit as they poke and jimmy out my eyeballs, which will be strapped open with some crazy clockwork orange like aparatus, but i figure the ends is worth the means. plus a pretty hefty chunk of change, but fuck it. i wanna see. so yeah, wednesday - eye surgery. as soon as my eyeballs are back to normal, i'm off for a series of bloodwork and then a lumpectomy to get these annoying fibroadenomas outta my bod come the following tuesday. i'm gonna be a swollen boobed mr. magoo. can't wait.

i wish i could say the hospital system was more respectful and prompt with delivering my results than my past encounters, but unfortunately it was equally shitty - having to call the hospital 16 times to be transferred to 5 different office locations to be told that only the physician who ordered the biopsy could deliver the results to me, despite the radiologist who worked on me saying he could call me, and would call me, within 48 hours--and finally, once speaking to my order physicians' secretary, was told, 'yes mrs sassana, we have your results, but the doctor is busy in surgery all day today and tomorrow, she will call you when she has time'. cool, cuz like, you know. it's only lumps in my breasts, no big thang.

but in other news, once i finally DID get the good news that yes, you are cancer free, but operation is still necessary, i did get another nugget of decency, in that i got the bump of a mini-promotion at work i had been anxiously awaiting to hear about for months. responsibilities aren't really changing, and the payday is hardly noticeable, but it was a little glimmer of proof that my grandma was looking out for me. no cancer and a promotion in the same day? not too bad.

overall, the past few months have provided me with a stronger appreciation of everything and everyone i have in my life. i've got some unconditional support, friendship, and newfound appreciation of my health, my family and friends. i've also got a stronger sense of optimism and strength, knowing that if i survived what i have, i'm really up for anything. i don't know how actual cancer survivors have that kind of strength that they do, but i tell you one thing, i def pay more attention to those breast cancer support ads/causes more so now than i did before. the emotional strength to undergo all of those procedures is enough alone, let alone the physical endurance. i'm fortunate enough that my experiences ended with a biopsy and surgery, i may have some shitty memories to look back on, particularly with how i was handled in the medical politics, but at least i've got me and the rest of my life to lead, cancer free.

i'm going to make the most out of everything i've got, moving forward. starting today, as i celebrate my final weekend with glasses. come may 26th, when i turn 29, my eyes, boobs and outlook will be 100% clear. being a grown-up rules.

interim thoughts of whiskey & ignorance.

the acidic aftertaste of astringent and whiskey. the feel of it seeping, almost drowning in the back of her throat. suffocation and helplessness, dramatics and drunkeness from life, not the booze she couldn't quite taste.  at what point do we wake up? and finally smell these roses. where is that cold, hard, slap in the face that is so very needed, at this time of surrender. come on, get up. stop this nonsense now. what is real and what is make believe, almost buying into the fictional madness, arms up in the air. sitting on the cold, hair infested floor. am i sick? or am i dead. why is he still here? does he really believe me? do i believe me - empty. quiet. nothing. just that sour false choking sensation of either really bad, or really good, whiskey. pinching at her nostrils, as if she took too large of a gulp that she could handle. this isn't worth it. nothing is. gambling is an asinine timekill for unintelligent assholes. gambling is for those who have already thrown in the towel, given it all up. she's not ready to give up. not anywhere close. but why are the demons poking out behind the hedges? they're peeking and prodding. in the disguise of a lumpy breast. they're restless, now. been asleep much far too long. they're ready to erupt and sit on that forbidden, dusty button of self destruct. just to push it. for the taste of it. she shoos the demons back. away. 29 years didn't teach her nothing. she knows to sit up and splash the water on her face. to tell them demons, BE GONE. he is mine. he is my all. my everything. and more. no lumps. no needles. no intimidating 'probably's' are going to stand in the way of this power.

trying to stay positive. how does jodi do this? eating brussel sprouts. shitty music from her eccletically (is that a word?) lame iTunes library. writing really bad musings and thoughts and poetic reflections. if ,that's even what that trash above is. wishing she didn't eat brussel sprouts. like, really, really wishing. wondering if my knee is going out. covering up the winespill on my grey ikea wobble couch. staring at my cats. trying in vain, to figure out how to work the instagram for android app on her so called smart phone. speaking in third person. playing mad spider solitaire. wishing he was home. so cuddles could commence. trying to cheer up by ignoring other things. the institution didn't call today. or friday. like they said they would. by tuesday, the one woman said. at the latest.

in that foggy bitter day of hell. invasive. almost like the feeling of rape. definitely not the sort of thing you'd wish upon a soul. while the external bruises have already started to heal and fade, the sick swelling of my inner feministic soul remains stirred into a fury of sadness and intrusion. it really isn't, ok.

great friends and support systems. brussel sprouts. kitty and human cuddles and sweat pants and love. and fear and sickness. and worry, but inner comfort. what does one turn to, when they don't have a god? even now, i still watch as a bystander. like a parade of sorts. of symbols and rituals. and say this, but not that. eat this, not that. don't you dare love a fag. but you will always be welcome, in this great abyss. or something like that. i have my being here with me. his name is vincent and he loves me whole. as do my family, friends and cats. there is some solace in this. but i still don't think a man on a cross will suck the lumps out of me and heal me for my good deeds. maybe i just don't deserve it. or maybe i do. thinking about big picture things such as life or death, of good and evil. of life and thereafter. is something i'm certainly not accustomed of doing. so even now, i come across as a blind, blabbering imbecile. but i'm ok with this.

this weekend it was supposed to storm. all day saturday, throughout sunday. all day, vincent and i locked ourselves up in our convenient little yuppy house. waiting eagerly, like children do for santa claus. excited for some big delivery. a big thunderstorm of thunderstorms. so we could stand, slackjawed, at the windows. laughing at the scared cats, eating ice cream and holding together close. we waited and we waited. and we ended up getting about 20 minutes total of some pitter patter rain noise. it was nice and all, but hardly anything i'd call a storm.

so if that was the calm - when do we expect the storm to hit? we had the hurricane, or at least i did. a whirlpool of emotions and overall highs and lows. physical, mental, emotional inner warfare. that poor excuse of rain barely washed away any of the residue, or crumpled pile of soggy charmin tissue.

the doctor said by tuesday. one week ago from tomorrow. one long week, unfolding like a disorienting dreamscape. tomorrow we can begin. move forward once again. stronger, unified and more real than ever.

no more whiskey dreams. acidic backwash of fear and ignorance.

one last deep breath - we're almost there.

bow down before the one you serve.

the 80's were cool. trent reznor was actually pretty badass. i'm sure current fans of nin can appreciate his oldman gothic 'industrial' ways, (lolz, remember when 'industrial' music was cool? oh, the 90's), but i don't care no more. this isn't a post about how cool nine inch nails are. or trent reznor is or isn't. but instead, how incredibly cheesy, yet timeless reznor's debut nin 1989 release, pretty hate machine is badass.i don't know if it's some sort of subtle mind trickery hypnosis that i was succombed to at age 7, when my 21 year old brother would get all pumped up on his handheld boombox on christmas break from college. (lord knows that's how i got hooked on huey lewis & the news, but hell, i never fell for inxs, and believe you me, mr. jtr totally rocked the new sensation back then). or maybe the sick sleezy production of tracks like 'sin', (which reminds me of sndtrk to a teenage mutant ninja turtles movie), or 'head like a hole' are really just that simplistic good. i don't know. i do know that mr. reznor was nursing a bit of a broken heart, and was a night janitor when he wrote this 10 track collection of badness, and i fully appreciate it. makes me want to pierce my nose with an oversized safety pin, tear up my skinny jean knees, and rock some badass black eyeliner and overkill the aquanet.

but i won't. instead, i'll sit on my lopsided wine soaked ikea sofa (only one sip pre-spill, mind you, i'm really that clutzy), and listen to my iTunes proud, feeling all sorts of coolness for pretty hate machine.

blunders, boys, booze, bruises & boobs.

i was never that super nice girl you wanted to take home to meet your parents. i mean, i've always had a decent head on my shoulders, maybe not the sharpest crayon in the box, but could still out spell your ass and cream you in a speed-read-athon. but brains aside, i was hardly the girl next door. tattoos, piercings, mismatched clothing, topped with a messy mane of fiery red bedhead hair and enough make-up to pass as a MAC store employee, i was some sort of halfway hipster clown show. if it wasn't the over abundance of caffeine as a youngster, it was the careless excessive submerging of alcohol. i always thrived off of being the center of attention, and quite frankly, growing up in the small town i did, i didn't care one way or another if the attention was positive, negative or general befuddlement. (hence the thankgodly short-lived career of jodi the intoxicated freestyle rapper).

my life growing up wasn't too much to write home about. i guess i had things harder than other kids. typical single parent household, no father in the picture. the asshole fake step-dad (who later turned out to be gayer than rupaul). the DIY pay for your own clothes and shit 'life lessons'. maybe some bouts of sexual abuse. drugs and alcohol in the family. but through it all, i always came out strong, head held high. in high school, come to think of it, maybe i was that girl you'd bring home to meet your family--just not in my hometown, since the whole town knew about my family. and apparently, the root household wasn't a strong enough name in the community to be proud about. (single mother in a bible bangin' village? gasp!) but hell, i got straight A's. was the track captain senior year. prom queen. leads in the high school plays. went to state every year for forensics/speech club. tutored kindergarten kids. national honor society. didn't drink a drop.

then whatever, fast forward all the predictable post small town shenaniganry of bad decision making, (mostly induced by my introduction to alcohol), and the blah blah blahs. yeah, i turned kinda bad. but not so bad. i think my stunted youth turned me into the typical small child gone wild come late teens/early 20's upon independence. some crazy shit hit the fan, but it's too late to really regret or beat myself up over it. now, i can just roll my eyes and tell myself that yes, sometimes mothers are right. especially in the instance of that tribal tramp stamp i procured in my 19th year.

i was always into the idea of people. of meeting new and exciting friends. i thrived off of music. wanted so badly to pair up with a rock star, not necessarily male or sexual, just wanted to be besties with someone famous. that never really happened, although i'd be lying if i said i didn't meet (and wasn't initially impressed in my young naivety) a slew of incredibly pretentious musician assholes. but overall, i mean. really what i wanted was male attention. or girl attention - to help me get male attention.

i'm pretty sure the reason of this is because i never had much guy attention before. sure, i cashed my v card around the average high school age of late 16, to my high school 'sweetheart' (although i think high school 'bitch boy' would be a more appropriate term for this individual. to his defense, i was a complete bossy cunt. he was just the moron who let me bully him around). but after dude finally wised up and dumped my ass senior year of high school, i never stuck with another dude for longer than a month. even then, it was more less me fish baiting, casting my lure in front of the dorkiest pool of potential suitors possible, (i'm talking Dungeons and Dragons, socks with sandals demographic), and then as soon as one would nibble or bite, i'd bat my long lashes and be quickly on my way.

i broke a lot of fucking hearts. in college and beyond. but to my defense, i guess i was just more of the dude type. i liked the challenge of a chase, the hard to get, if you will. that explains my second relationship, which was much more serious. my college/post college boyfriend of nearly 4 years was a quiet sort. he wasn't used to female attention, but he did share my love for free beer friday at kelly's from 6-8pm. his friends were my friends, (kinda), and long story short we gave it a whirl. it was an excellent experience, and while i can't say anything bad about him, i can admit that i'm not so proud of my personal take on how i treated him throughout the courtship. i was a bit of a drama queen, to say the least. i needed to take a chill pill, grow the fuck up, and respect people (him) more.

so we split and that was that. in between the college nerds, the first grown up relationship, there were crushes. i told my husband the other night, that i have been in love with six men before him, but only dated three of the six. 'how could you have been in love with someone you were never with?' he questioned, laughing it off. honestly, i couldn't think of a good response. i don't know if it really was love. but i can say this, those three other gentlemen most likely had no idea of my feelings, but that didn't lessen the intensity of my early 20-something angst and desire. (again, like i said, i was a sucker for the musician type when i was young and stupid - 'you can play guitar?' 'you think i'm cute?' 'this must be love!!'). who knows what i felt for those clowns. i know that to this day, however, as much teenage pain i had in my deflated little heart when i finally came to the conclusion that all three of these homeboys who lived in other states than i weren't going to reciprocate my secret yearnings, i wrote some badass (not the good badass) mopey ass poetry. like, really bad. shitshow bad. my sony vaio crashed last year and i dont' give a fuck about that writing i lost bad.

after my first real relationship, i tried the online dating scene. dipped around in for a second. met a stalker, whom actually this blog is named after, when he sent me one of his many psychotic emails bragging about how great of a writer he was and after i had finally caved and showed him a piece i was actually confident about that i had written, he replied, 'yeah, you're right. your style is unpolished, but some people really like that.' concluding the email with 'i took a photo of myself with my webcam in my new fedora hat for you to enjoy.' fucking slimeball. all smizing in the camera like i gave a shit. i'll spare you the deets about how he circled my block in lincoln square after i faked a cold to stand him up post-IMASTALKERFREAKOUT session. lolz. ok, stupid.

online dating was kinda funny. mostly creepy. i met some guys i would have been content being friends with, but when it was apparent they were interested in being mr. root after date 1, i outtie5000'd from that shit and would only set up profiles intermittently for 24 hours at a time post idrankabottleofwinebymyself seshes. i met one guy from a site. he turned out to be a terrible person with women. tricked me into rebounding from the serious boyfriend and moving on. it was fun for like 10 minutes, but then i got laid off from my job and went kind of on a downward spiral. if i wasn't so crazydepressednutso from losing my job (the first time i had been unemployed in what, 14 years?!), i might have noticed homeboy was sticking his dick in whatever crevice he could find, most notably his 'ex' girlfriend. the good thing, however, is that he did lead me to my husband, as messy as it eventually became. but whatever. in between the crumblings of me being a naive and desperate retard, i did wise up enough to try and meet some other guys instead. help me get over my disease of needing male attention. i'm pretty sure in that small time frame, i too, then hurt a few other guys.

it was always really difficult to get me to stay focused, and not be so selfish. eventually, i met vincent, the one gentleman who i will introduce by his name. there's enough 'i love my husband, he is the bestest ever' posts on this blog, so i'll with hold my urges to write another one. (although-srsly-vin-you-the-best-ever-i-love-you-times-infinity). but while i knew that this time was for sure the real deal, the one i've been dicking around waiting for all these years, part of me felt guilty, like i didn't deserve this break. i thought i jerked around so much that i wasn't ever going to find happiness, or my equal or any of that hallmark jazz. so when it did, i didn't waste any time. i married that fine piece of ass no more than 5 months after he asked me. (2-3 year engagement my ass!)

we wed in november. so basically, 2011 was a pretty great year. a lot of things happened for me. i got a better job/career in the bag. i adopted another kitty. vin and i got a super nice apartment on the lakefront. i had a great group of friends. my mom finally seemed to be doing better since the abusive closet queen left her to wed his 75 year old sugar daddy. things were good.

so when i made my overdue annual pap exam last january, i was elated. the final pap smear! sure, i'd go in for routine exams to make sure my lady bits were in order and get my prescriptions refilled. but no longer did i ever have to fear any creepy news or worry about dying from cervical cancer or aids. i was pretty stoked. i remember that day, really well. i had taken half the day off from work, my intention was to work in the afternoon remotely following my appointment. i conned vin into walking with me to the doctor, because i figured it would be a quick in and out, and we could get some exercise. the doctor, of course, like every other fucking chicago ob/gyn i've seen in the 6 years i've lived here, made me wait for an hour and fifteen minutes, shivering naked under a thin sheet gown that ripped every time i'd move to stand up and pace angrily throughout the room, feverishly texting 'fuck this shit' sweet nothings to vin, who was patiently waiting with cold starbucks int he lobby. 'five more minutes and if she's not here i'm getting dressed and getting out of here!'

after my 4th or so disgruntled text message, there was a knock on the door. my appointment went fine, as normal--up until the ob/gyn felt the lump in my right breast.

'have you noticed this before?'

fuck. are you kidding me?

of course i hadn't.

she sent me on my merry way with a prescription for a diagnostic mammogram (which i later learned no women under 40 should have), a bilateral ultrasound, along with instructions to see the technicians 'as soon as possible.'

it wasn't much fun admitting to my husband on that walk home, the findings from the doctor. he held my hand, though, and i called off my radio show and the rest of my work day. tried to be optimistic. it's not cancer. no way, no how.

i called the technician as soon as i got home, and the soonest they could squeeze me in was the following friday. 'fine, i'll take it.'

fast forward a week ahead, and my sister-in-law, whom i suckered into working with me, was busy holding the fort down in the office, dodging creepy 'where is jodi' questions. 'is she pregnant??' i went to the referral hospital as directed, more shooken up than i had anticipated, by myself despite my mother in law sweetly offering to accompany me. sitting in the lobby, i had registered and was provided with a card that read '3'. puzzled, the woman shooed me away to wait.  i tried to not burst into tears with frustration and humiliation as i sat waiting for my turn, the touristy asian couple snapping shots of each other on different parts of the waiting room, some too close for my comfort by where i was sitting. the sickening fake consoling comfort smooth sounds of the shitty music they play for people who are dying.20 minutes later, i was being summoned. 'PATIENT NUMBER THREE? PATIENT NUMBER THREE. PATIENT NUMBER THREE? WE'RE READY TO SEE YOU NOW.' so that's what the card meant, you don't have a personal identity in a oncology ward.

after i was herded to my waiting room, where i again, had the leisure of sporting a sexy sheet gown. i then had to talk to a non-friendly technician who didn't want anything to do with touching my breasts, but rather insisted i put a sticker pasty on where my doctor had discovered the lump. after that, the overall experience of a mammogram, to say the least, fucking sucks. it's not fun. it's fucking traumatizing, actually, and i'll spare you the dirty details. as if 15 minutes of torture wasn't enough there, i then was guided into a public waiting room, where i joined a loud chatty asian woman and an african american woman who was really into good morning america. please note, that i am still topless, in a sheet gown. my two companions, alas, were fully clothed. 30 minutes i had to wait. without any acknowledgement or greeting. just kelly ripa and cancer dying isnt so bad mood music. eventually, it was time for the ultrasound. i was greeted by another non friendly technician, who said not a word to me the entire time. as she scanned my unborn breasts, i got the sick feeling in my gut that something more than the original right side lump was discovered. she didn't say a word, but just kept taking pictures. eventually, she shoved a consent form at me and i was free to go home.

the form i signed said my primary doctor would have my results by tuesday, my appointment was on friday. while 4 days was rough, i was optimistic and assured vincent it wasn't that big of a deal and i could wait. come tuesday, i call the doctor's office to find out that she's only in on thursdays, and no one can share my results with me until then. nice, ok. i left a message. thursday morning comes, i leave another message. eventually, the european accent gyno calls me back - 20 minutes before my first meeting with our new VP at my 9-5. aint no stress, here, gang. doc tells me 'it's probably benign,' but that my fears were accurate, and two additional lumps were discovered on my left side. 'so if it's probably not cancer, what is it?' i asked her. 'is it a cyst?' 'no, definitely not a cyst. you will need to see a surgeon for a consultation and another ultrasound. don't wait any longer than a month. we don't have any surgeons here, so i'll refer you to one instead.' i ask her for the referral info, but nope, she has to mail me a prescription, giving me another 3 days before i can make a damn phone call to mr. surgeon to realize, 'sorry, doctor can't see you until march 5th.' please keep in mind this was the third week of january. waiting a month for next steps when it's 'probably not cancer,' but the lumps are 'unusually large' isn't exactly my fortee.

i make the appointment anyway, and begin to freak out. i finally tell my mom, who then proceeds to share with my brother, all that's been going on. my mom has me talk to her lifelong friend and a second mom to me, who's not only a survivor, but an RN. my brother tells me to ask one of the doctors that i'm close with at my own job, (oh, did i neglect to mention the irony of my medical drama? my job involves kissing 200 physicians' asses and facilitating their schedules--funny, how i serve docs on one end with internal customer service, yet when it's my time to be in need, i get shat on), to see if she has any advice or knows any connections that could get me in sooner. i did both, and the doctor friend at work got me a list of names to start calling.

i make an appointment for 2 weeks later, versus the original 5, after a 45 minute conversation with Lateesha, who's awfully sorry about the new system and her having lost my information, (including my social security number) twice in the same call, could i please repeat my info again? that aside, i had my consultation scheduled. i felt better. that is, up until 2 days before my appointment i receive a cancellation notice, informing me i'll need to reschedule. again. i go back to the list of referral names i had from the last go around, call up a few, and after being transferred from one department to the next, 'we don't typically see patients unless they have an official diagnosis, try this extension instead,' 'sorry, we're booked for the next 6 weeks here,'. in defeat, i call the doc who cancelled on me back, and as luck would have it, was able to reschedule the following week.

the consultation itself wasn't so bad at all. the referral doc that my work friend told me to call was upfront, personable, yet very informative and a trustworthy lady. along with her technician, i got what seemed like yet another ultrasound, (but wasn't), and they confirmed i have 3 lumps in both breasts. my new surgeon talks to me like a human being, instead of beating me away, and assures me that it's most likely not cancer, but we'll need to have a biopsy to be sure. she tells me we won't be able to schedule said biopsy, however, until after the new hospital retrieves my films from my mammogram at the first hospital. this could take 2-3 weeks. unless, of course, i opt for a second mammogram.

no, thank you.

the upside is that the new doc lady tells me that while she doesn't think it's life threatening, she would like to schedule me for surgery, to remove the lumps. 50% will go into remission and disappear all by themselves, whereas the other 50% grow. and mine are already quite an impressive size. so, since she confided to me that she just operated on her own daughter, about my age, with the same thing, she tells me she'll take care of it, and while we're at it, 'let's get rid of that freaky mole on your stomach.' um, ok. bye bye, beauty mark.

i go on vacation with my husband, finally believing that i'm not going to be bald and sketching thank you return address labels to fund my funeral. we relax. i forget about things. then i get a call, saying another ultrasound will be necessary, since so much time has passed from my first ultrasound, and that a biopsy is not possible without knowing the exact locations of my fibroadenomas. (yeah, that's apparently what my lovely lady lumps are called, say that 3 times backwards, folks). thats' odd, given the dealy in my patient care has had nothing whatsoever to do on my behalf, but what can i do? them docs want to send me another $300 co-pay for another notawkwardatall feel up sesh? SURE, LET'S DO IT GUYS.

another half-day of work, another boobshow. at least this technician is showing me what she's seeing and looking for, instead of pretending i'm not there. she calls a doctor in to analyze the findings in real time, and this woman is not my doctor. she tells me she's '98% sure it's not cancer,' thus, i don't need surgery, and i should go home and come back in 6 months for another ultrasound. yeah, cuz i'm sure insurance wants to pay for this every half year. . . 

i tell the lady i'd feel better knowing for sure. while 'probably not' is better than 'bitchyougotcancer,' i'm not really feeling the gamble. the scheduling lady takes me to a new room, and helps me schedule my biopsy. out of all the members of hospital care i've dealt with in the 2-3 months leading to this, this woman is actually the kindest and most personable. she confides to me how she had to go through the same experience, and while it's still a gigantic needle poking at yr freezed tits, she drove all the way to michigan afterwards (even though she wasn't supposed to), so if i have a friend to drive me home that's great, but if not, i'll be strong enough to get home.

i wish i could have driven that nice little lady to michigan after her biopsy, but alas. it's march by this time, and the soonest they can get me into my biopsy is april 10th.

i pretty much forgot about my biopsy until the past couple of days. i realized when my 'smart'phone sent me a reminder that this noise is this week, that i better call the hospital and ensure my surgeon stayed true to her word, that even though it only sounds about 65% medically necessary, that she wrote me an order so i can get the 'yes you have cancer' or 'shitgirlyoufree!' determination fixed, so she can then slice and dice my ta-tas before my 29th birthday next month. the order's in.

my husband, while he has to work tomorrow night, called his mother and ensured i have a lift home from south michigan ave. so here i am, 18 hours before go time, finishing up the blog i started a month ago and was too nervous, or scared to post. not that many of you read my humble little blog, and for those of you who do, seeking out kewl new muzik scoops, i apologize that shit got real personal right quick, but guess what. i've always written. i may never have been that super popular, uber talented, girl next door type that everyone thought was super great, but i have always been that sharp, observing cynical bookworm, nursing premature carpel tunnel two doors down, clutching her hot pink diary and feather squiggle wiggle pen. bad poetry, cynical music reviews, ihatemenrambles. all of it, it's been super therapeutic for me.

last year was my up year. my introduction to my happy ending. 2011 was full of optimism and new adventures. 2012 is that first chapter to the life of an almost 30 year old woman who finally learned to grow up up. i'm going in for a biospy on both of my breasts tomorrow, to ensure that i don't have cancer, or that if i do, we can treat it before it's too late. the news i'm looking for is that i don't have cancer, but i will still require surgery, to remove the benign masses. either shortly after, or before, i will also have surgery on my eyes for vision correction. meanwhile, i'm still concerned that i need to dye my hair, and that i'm getting too chubby for my husband. life continues as it should, and i am extremely grateful to have such genuine people in my life. my 'dysfunctional' lifelong family, my new family in law, and superfuckingawesome friends for life.

plus, i have cats.

i hope to continue to use writing as my outlet and guide to keep me strong through the next month. i haven't cracked for tomorrow, and it's going to take more than a soreass set of knockers to break me down.

maybe i'm not that girl next door, but i'm guessing all the protection, hand holding and overusage of hand sanitizer never really toughed her up for something like this. it takes tough skin to survive the stumbles and falls, and by god, ima pick myself up.

to 2012, let's do this, motherfuckers.

doll parts, grapefruit, rapeman. (or just another monday night in chicago).

it's a monday night. super wicked cold, january. we're in chicago, one of the largest cities in the u.s. i'm beat, as i'm pretty sure are you. we're old pals, been together not quite long enough to count on two hands, but longer than most post-collegiate friendships. it's been a while, since i've had the energy or motivation to leave the comforts of my adult married apartment. drinks bore me, at least if vincent's not there with me. but i know it's been too long, we both do, so when we make plans to hang out, i know in the back of my mind i'm not going to flake or bail this time, and you do too. or at least i think you thought that, because you came through on it. instead of overpriced east lakeview manicures at 'this really great asian joint, down on broadway, the price is worth it, go no-chip manicures!', we opt to hop in your little eco-car and we cruise it on down to our old stomping grounds. a mini bar crawl at the dangerous hour of 7:00pm. we opt for the more pricey beers, because well, we can afford them. and they taste better. we talk about our jobs. about love. about past experiences. our parents, and how everyone has some sort of dis-attachment they can't shake from their mom or dad. you, your dad. me, my mom. we talk about others we know, and how we're glad we're not them. two beers in and we're both feeling good, the conversation is on full spigot blast now. we become friends with joey, the little man boy bartender who plays hipster garage rock from three years past on his iPod, who feeds us malort shots and explains, 'they're really not that bad if you expect grapefruit, it's only if you think it's going to be bad it is,' you take the shot, 'this tastes like wood.' i take the shot, 'or a really bad kisser.' but we agree it's not as bad as aqua-net hairspray, which is what i was initially anticipating prior to the grapefruit analogy. we hop next door to an establishment we've frequented many a times in our past lives. it's different, but the same. enigma is still on the jukebox, as is eve 6. we play both, followed up with some deftones and kid rock. but it's only when we play hole's 'doll parts' and both burst out in teenage white girl angst, thrashing our arms at the wooden townie bar, that we realize how badly we want a karaoke night. instead i make small talk on the bulls game, they beat the nets, 84 to 111 (or something, at this point i'm 3 beers in and pretty beat). i'm going to see this game on february 18th with my husband. i bought tickets for valentines' day. being a wife is fun. but instead of our karaoke fix, we opt for cheap mexican food next door instead. you, two veggie tacos, with pretty incredible looking avocado slices. me, a steak quesadilla, side of sour cream of course. we share an over salted basket of tortilla chips that taste suspiciously like frito's corn chips. i pay the bill and it's under fifteen dollars. we drive back to lakeview, with promises to make this a monday night weekly tradition - except that you have a class every monday night starting the following week, and i have spinning classes on tuesdays. we'll make it work somehow, we agree, and you drive past my turn. we hop on lakeshore drive, listening to a cd in your car stereo by an artist called rapeman. surprisingly, it's pretty badass. i want to be in a band called rapeman. you drop me off at home, and i crawl into bed, inspired to write, observing and documenting the little things in my head. i write a sleepy mini outline in my gmail account, since my new laptop doesn't have microsoft word, and wonder how i can put this into prose. i guess this could constitute as a running start, a halfway meager attempt at an outline of sorts, a writing exercise. maybe, maybe not. at least if nothing else, it's an excuse to post a music video by hole on my blog. i'll take that, my friends, for what it's worth.

my morning commute.

this morning my iPod was on shuffle. and i got a big old good morning from sister yesterday. there are two songs in the world that turn me back in time. back to the days where i'd sit beside my single speaker cassette tape boombox (actually, it belonged to my older brother jamie, but i totally claimed minezies on it when he went away to college) and wait, finger upheld, perfectly above the circular REC button, hoping to capture my favorite songs from the static infested FM airwaves of Madison's own Z104. one of the songs was r.e.m.'s 'losing my religion,' but i liked that one b/c it reminded me of my grandpa's barn in richlan center. the other, i'm not really sure why i was drawn to other than the fact that i was an 8 year old girl, was the track above by miss sophie b. hawkins, a one hit wonder if i ever heard one. but DAMN, that song was catchy. and even though i was a mere 3rd grader, 8 year old jodi felt this jam tug at her pre-pubescent heart strings. how i wanted a boy in my class to hold my hand! look at me like i was pretty! circle YES on a 'do you like me circle yes/no/maybe' notebook note. these things never happened, but listening to sophie b. gave me hope anyway. that even this fully grown babe who could hold the key on eva and eva and eva and evAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA for like 90 seconds, yearns for a dude who wasn't hers, made me feel accepted. and normal. and way too mature for my age.

listening to this song some 20 years later, i still feel my heartstrings grip a tiny bit tighter, but now i can smile back on the days of my youth and assuredly smile that it all worked out in the end. all the while, looking super fly with my eyes half closed, jamming away to my 90's power fem jam on the business insect infested cta bus down lake shore drive.

you a stupid hoe.

upon first watch, this was a car wreck. i resisted the urge to watch it for nearly 3 days based on the title alone. but as it was destined, i eventually clicked 'play' while louging lazily on my couch. after the first 15 seconds of air horns, unneccessary clapping, adderol infused groaning clashed with accusations of promiscuity, i thought i (maybe) had had enough. my husband turned to me, no longer glued to his nba highlights, 'jodes, i'm not sure i want you listening to this music.' the tone of concern there showed it wasn't just for his own well being, either. but after i finished gaping at this fuck you lil kim anthem, i found my inner concious iPod re-whooping, clapping and stupid hoe'ing all over the goddamn place. so then i watched it again. and again. and again. and now, somehow, miss minaj has won me over all over again. i don't know what it is about her, but she has finally proven she can do whatever the fuck she wants. hell, she could probably even get me to listen to the scatman. and like it. and i HATE the scatman. so maybe it's better i don't think about that right now. point is: nickin minaj rules. so does this obscenity. later on tonight, when you're riding alone on the cta, spacing out after your long shift at work, and the haunting beeping sirens and stupid hoe is firing insisently in yr brains, you can thank me later for that.

bitches, this is my new jam.

who knew an 8 bones splurge in line at world market would change my very existence. holy shit i be smelling and feeling supa fly. sugar scrub, did done get it. ya'll be feeling exxxtra supple, soft, and hella delicious. yeah, i guess this totally confirms my nearly 30 yr old white yuppiedom, whatevs.

fact vs. fiction

after a regular day in the office, i came home to an empty apartment. well, not exactly empty. even though my husband is currently pulling a 2nd shift at the hostel and i'm the sole person in my apartment, i am and have been accompanied by the presence of two naughty, yet subdued feline friends, a 47 lb. amazon.com shipment of clay cat litter pellets (tidy cat breeze, you know - so much better than the regular litter (just keep telling yrself that, miss jodi)), a dinner consisting of yellow rice & red beans, approximately 4 cups of a 'treat yrself' $20 bottle of red wine from world market, and the final approximate 120 or so pages of the latest (but not greatest) novel from my favorite author, japanese surrealist fictional writer, haruki murakami.

ever since mr.sassana rolled outta bed that late october eve of the novel's release, and managed to cop me an autographed copy from the midnight release of 1Q84, i've been 'pokeassin' my way through the 924 page experience.

there were times when i flipped through the pages addicted, needing to finish the next paragraph, unable to set the clonker down and complete monotonous yet necessary tasks such as going to the bathroom. i needed to dig deeper, and find where these different paths connected, and to what mystical road this tale would turn down.

i read this on our honeymoon, in sunny jamaica. i read this on lonesome nights while vincent worked overnights. i read this on lazy sunday afternoons, and snuck glimpses into fictional parallel universe just because. and finally, yet still unknowingly inspired by the concept of literature and writing itself, i became motivated to finish it off.

so why am i wishing i had dwelled on facebook and failed at spider solitaire the past two hours instead? what is it, about murakami's latest that has failed to grasp my heartstrings and propel me into his unique lands? why do i feel, dare i say, disappointed? before i come to any conclusions that this book wasn't what i hoped for, i have the need to sit with peers, other fans of murakami, and discuss at length the pros, cons, dissect the characters, plot, symbolism. was it really a failure? or was it show your bones? the yeah yeah yeahs album that almost was, but never quite hit the mark they had set the bar for. but no way could 1Q84 be a case of the sophomore slump, murakami has been at his craft for decades, cranking out masterpiece after masterpiece, capturing the hearts of readers - dreamers and realists alike, for more time than i could appreciate literature.

so why do i feel saddened or let down? like i'm only pretending, to like that christmas gift my mother gave me 3 years past, of elastic waist banded stretch jeans from land's end? i need a book club, or a circle to discuss with. was it the fact that this was murakami's first attempt with a female protagonist in all his years of writing? was it the unnecessary drawn out length, the lost in translation effect of the never-ending stake out, that instead of suspense, only drew boredom?

still, the man is a beautiful writer. there's no fiction in that. his similes and metaphors are almost so obvious that they're genius. his lyrical prose is almost to a disadvantage, it's so clear. and you do hope for the good guys. you want them to win. yet still, i'm so accustomed to his past story telling records that i hoped it wouldn't work out for them. that some sickness would entrap the two main characters. their love would somehow, remain forbidden. and that shit would hit the fan. creating a sense of unavoidable gloom, reminding readers that the world, isn't always the beautiful fantasy we dream it to be.

but maybe that's just me. who am i to judge, anyway? i smell like stale rice and beans, with dried up siracha residue in my short, pink manicured fingernails. sweaty feet, tucked away in my crooked bedsheet and comforter. wearing my cousin lacy's old, blue and gold thin, cotton not quite plaid - definitely not flannel, dress shirt that she gave me when i was 9 years old, and for whatever reason, i still kept and wear some 20 years later, even though i haven't spoken with this cousin in over a decade. feeling the prickled hairs on my legs, tying knots in my messy mane, with oversized tiffany's black square frames sliding halfway down my nose. trying to reconnect with my past by listening to really not that great, even though i want them to be music albums on my ipod. department of eagles. cat power. sounds majestic on the 146 express bus, sure, but not quite so much after a long day of minimal speaking or enjoyment.

ok, enough about me. the facts are that i am still exercising my thoughts. trying to get on the path to writing once again. little by little, i'll release some sort of mental internal wd-brain40, and get my fingers typing the prose they once knew how to conduct. get over this brain blockage, find their way.

fiction will always remain. my polka-dotted tumbler glass of red wine on my nightstand will not. (at least not if miss elliott, who's paw currently dangles centimeters away from it, has anything to do with it).

so with this, i will run a bubble bath and call it a night. dream dreams of a parallel universe made up by one surrealist dreamer from another land. a land where 2 moons exist, and dangers lurk in the hidden crevices. where love beats all, and the unexplainable trumps reality. a fictional world simultaneously both worth dreaming of, but remaining apart of. my real world is much better than one of fiction, my facts are my everything. everyday will become a new mini chapter, in my own personal tale.

cognitive fiction.

sometimes, but not always, i miss the days of my restless childhood. the days when all i yearned for was to break away, and be free. run away to a city. so big no one could ever find me and i wouldn't have to answer to anyone. thrillseeking. breaking out. making that name for myself, defining who is and what would become, miss jodi robin root, born may 26th, 1983 and raised in south western rural wisconsin.

the days of swinging on gnarled ropes in flea infested hay mows. cuddling half feral, fur matted, eye gunked kittens against their will. tip toeing the makeshift balance beam aisle between the rotating shit belt and mawing cows, subconsciously etching the sounds of swishing cowtails and R.E.M's 1991 hit "Losing My Religion" in my self, so that anytime I would remember my days of girlhood at the Richland Center family farm, the nasally vocals of Michael Stipe would linger on.

wearing breadbags over my shoes instead of boots in the wet winters. oversized glasses. many a puff paint t-shirt, sporting my squiggly 4-letter name. way too many troll dolls, eventually transitioning into way too many lip gloss kits. poorly plucked eyebrows. angst teen journals, shoved into broken shoe boxes, tearing at the creases, secretly jammed under my full bed. only available social activities consisting of strolls to the duckpond on the outskirt of village limits, soaring as high as my pumping chicken legs would allow on the rusty swingset at the town park, daydreaming of first kisses under the baseball diamond bleachers, walks to the bj petro for a mountain dew and icecream cookie sandwich, flavorful chocolate malts and deepfried cheese curds at irma's kitchen. getting the mail at the post office. throwing rocks off the dam in the pecatonica river. fantasizing about first kisses on the merry go round. wishing my glasses weren't so big. and finally, when they weren't, wishing i would grow into my body. hoping my mind would someday soon be appeased. find some sort of something for me in the rural quiet madness.

always writing, always waiting.

i'm no longer in small town wisconsin. nor do i think i ever will be again, at least for the longhaul. my mother has since moved residences, two times in the past ten years. my childhood companion callie has long since passed. my backyard tree fort was sawed to the ground before i reached 20. classmates remain, although ironically enough, their cold shouldered tendencies still manage to haunt my dreams, with dream jodi still vying for nothing more than simple inclusion and friendship. yet regardless of no dreams or aspirations lingering in my past hometown, the skeletons within my subconscious still yearn for my return.

it's been nearly 2 years since i have had a real visit home. there was a 36 hour stint over christmas 2010, in which i sluggishly and slack jawed caved in to a freaks and geeks and law and order svu television marathons on TNT with my stoned 60 year old mother, eating cheeses and slurping box wine all the while. but there was no exploring. no writing. nor has there been in my  now, really.

my life has taken off, found its launch pad. its center orbit. meaning, match, purpose.

the skeletons can finally sleep. yet it's still not enough. i no longer need to wait, but the hidden desire and drive to write, to pen it all down for the record, remains.

i wrote a blog the other night while a bit too tipsy for my own good, but never hit publish post. it was a tangent rant of sorts about the plus/minuses of new year's resolutions. i pretty much bashed it since i was too lazy to come up with one for myself in 2012. i figure, what's the point in annual goals? I already have to do that shit at my job, why force myself to commit to ideals for a mere 365 days for self betterment? can't i just do me and live my life how i want, guilt-free if i eat too many calories? i don't commit to tedious objectives, but rather make life long commitments instead. to friends, family, and my husband. i don't need Cosmopolitan telling me to do more ab crunches and what breakfast snacks are sexy. thanks, but no thanks.

i do think, however, that i should make it a point, (note how i'm not saying resolve or make a resolution, here, due to stubbornness alone), to try and write more this year. the desire to describe, and sew a tale of details with words is strong, yet i always seem to stop myself because i never have a solid story to tell. more of glimmers and glimpses into my perspective or ideas that haunt my thoughts. i read a story my husband wrote about a past love the other day. it was really, really good. i got jealous, even, of his ability to craft prose. i caught myself gazing at him while he fake slept in the late morning hours, daydreaming of how happy of a life it would be, if neither one of us had to worry about financial responsibilities, and could rent ourselves a small and simple apartment, big enough for the 2 of us (and our cats), but with separate spaces reserved for writing. 2 desks, and maybe even a typewriter for sport. if we didn't have to work, but instead, were disciplined enough to set time apart each day for our writings. meeting every couple of hours for a lemonade/iced tea break, to chat over ideas and discuss inspiration. collaborating, even, and blending our mutual passion for fiction and non-fiction alike.

that would be nice, is all. but the fact that i even have a husband, career, apartment, and 2 cats is enough for me. but i do think 2012 is my time to discard all baggage. emotional, physical, and ideals. let it all go, and move forward focusing on only my loves and passions. literature, included. penned by others, and possibly even me.

something tells me a trip to wisconsin is in the works. perhaps a trip down nostalgia lane will uproot my humble beginnings and will light that wick, that's been patiently waiting and waivering, inside my creative being for far too long.

moving forward.

totally fell in love with adele about 1 year too late. this song is intense, reminds me of my days former, when brooding over a man wasn't only make believe. her lyrics are poignant, and an accurate portrayal of a female done wrong in love. brings back the sour taste of past turbulent times. days of weakness and naivety. in that regard, she is a success, and creates the ultimate pop song. girls, just try to not hit repeat on this jam, it's the most addictive chickshit since aimee mann's 'save me.'