Moss, Lime and Kiwi

kim_sagami_7149, originally uploaded by fan of mutts.

So it’s been forever—foreva eva—since my last post. The only major update since then? I now know LEED stands for Leadership in Energy and Environmental Design, a designation that was developed by the US Green Building Council. (Oh—and I ran a marathon). Ask anyone in the PacNW if they know about LEED and they’ll roll their eyes in a “how dumb do you think I am” huff, albeit a conscientious huff. Sad that it took me this long, but indicative of midwestern stubbornness. Most here are still trying on shades of green, unsure if the moss looks better than the kiwi, or if lime is really me. Price points are obviously a factor in this frugal middle delta, along with a don’tknowdon’tcare blind eye towards how extravagant most of our “thrifty” finds really are, when broken down by logistics such as barrels of oil required for shipping.

Eschewing light to medium shades of green, I seem to have jumped headfirst into a vat of non-toxic full-on green. I am currently collaborating with Green Exchange, an innovative and wholeheartedly green project in Chicago. Green businesses and vendors are quickly filling up slots in the Green Exchange’s LEED Platinum-certified renovation of a historic underwear factory in Logan Square. Once completed, Green Exchange will be the largest green community under one roof here in the US. There are even loft spaces (LEED of course) on the top floor for anyone looking to thoroughly cut out the commute. It is going to be truly neat.

So this past weekend it was completely gorgeous out. That teeny wrinkle in time between ass gray rainy weather and 90 degrees with 80% humidity. Living in Chicago is so extreme.

Anyway, the hubby—who is only mildly green, and more of a seasick than an eco-friendly shade, mainly stemming from the oversaturation of green-this and green-that emanating from my yap as of late—must have been in a state of sleep-deprivation (his agency is conducting an experiment to find employees requiring less than 60 seconds of both sleep and sunlight any given day), because he submitted to being dragged down to tourist trap Navy Pier during said gorgeous weather.

That’s right. Instead of lollygagging at the farmer’s market, scoping out flowers at Fertile Gardens, or lazing on our deck with books and cold drinks, we chose to walk around in a giant exhibit hall filled with fluorescent lights in order to check out the Green Festival. I had volunteered to take some photos for the Fest, and also wanted to show some support for A Fresh Squeeze (one of our Green Exchange tenants) since they planned on having a booth there. Being green, we biked there, and after eons of searching we finally found the bike parking.

Lack of organization aside, it must be said that there were some wonderful vendors and booths. Take, for example, Upton’s Naturals (pictured above). Based in Skokie, Upton’s makes delicious vegan Italian seitan sausage and other meat-ish but meat-free products. Ordinarily not a fan of such food, I was taken by their fun branding, free moustaches, and tag line, “The Finest Faux.” It was fun to learn about this homegrown green business, and I found myself wishing there was more of a local presence at the Fest.

Some vendors rose my skeptical eyebrow. For instance, the CTA doling out CTA card carriers. We grabbed them because they were retro-looking and practical, yet we were immediately engulfed with overwhelming made-in-China-vinyl fumes. Can’t imagine those were green in any way, from production to supply chain. Or the booths filled with glossy brochures and coupons that seemed in no way printed with FSC-certified paper or printers. Wouldn’t paperless seem the way to go at a green festival? You would think vendors would know better. I saw garbage bins full of these brochures. Though the festival had recycling bins for plastic, there was nothing for paper.

Despite these hiccups, I was impressed with the overall scene and the roster of speakers they offered. As it is only in its second year, the Green Festival gets points for bringing together such a large green community for just two days in multiple cities.

Spring chicken defies the odds.

It’s been over a month since my last post. The sharp lady I’m hugging in the photo to the left? That’s my great aunt. Auntie Hattie, as everyone affectionately calls her. She looks about 70, but in actuality will be turning 90 this June. Auntie Hattie grew up on a farm, but she is a Bellovian hep cat through and through. She and her husband lived in Hyde Park for most of their salad days, retired to Evanston for a while, and she now kicks back in a high-rise condo that is currently being dwarfed by the new Trump tower (she is a regular at the Board meetings). Her phone is always ringing off the hook, her social calendar is packed with lunches and theater/opera dates, and she is constantly on the go. Auntie Hattie is one of those people who keeps in touch, and the favor is doubly returned to her, in measures of good health. Until this month, she had never had surgery. Never checked in to the hospital. She walks everywhere, has her wits about her, and has stayed stubbornly independent even after her husband passed some 15 years ago. Impressive for an 89-year-old, wouldn’t you say?

Unfortunately, we recently discovered Auntie Hattie has bladder cancer. At her age, the [awesome] oncology team at Northwestern thought it best to forgo chemo, as it would be too much for her kidneys. So they went straight to surgery to remove her entire bladder. The surgery took six hours, which seems like a long time for anyone to be cut open on a table, let alone someone her age. She had a planned stay in the ICU for several days afterward so the docs could monitor her closely, and then almost two weeks in recovery on a less monitored floor. She is currently undergoing physical and occupational therapy, and very slowly but very surely, this spring chicken is getting her groove back. Her resilience is borderline absurd. She is already pretty good at dealing with her man-made ostomy pouch, which forever replaces her now-absent bladder.

Auntie Hattie has a vast network of people who care about her, as evidenced by the mountain of letters, emails, e-cards, and snail mail cards taking over her condo. But many of her friends in the city are in worse shape, in need of care themselves, and most of the able helpers in the family live far away, where they have their own work, families and lives to tend to. Auntie Hattie never had children of her own, so it was time for someone to step up and fill that role. Along with the mixed bag of emotions that accompanies any big C diagnosis, I know that our fiercely independent Auntie Hattie has had a hard time grappling with accepting help. But she has accepted it, and that explains my month-long absence from the blogosphere. We’re not quite in the home stretch yet, so expect another hiatus. I’ll be off surprising myself at my growing ability to deal with blood, body fluids, and changing a stoma pouch. All while marveling at an 89-year-old who never quits.

Hangin’ Tough

In high school, I was not one for solitary endeavors such as running. I preferred the camaraderie of losing together. But when I started undergrad at a university wedged between two beautiful lakes, I couldn’t ignore nature’s call. Or maybe it had something to do with not wanting to give up going to the bars and the requisite late night pizza. At any rate, something propelled me to start running along the lakeshore path, and I grew to love it. I started out slow one spring, jogging just a mile or two a couple of times a week. As any distance runner knows, running is a sport that rewards you with increased endurance rather quickly, if you are dedicated. Before I knew it, I was racing in 5Ks for fun, and I discovered a new form of camaraderie. Not exactly like the soccer team, but there is something cool about being out there on race day morning with all the other runners, knowing we’ve got this crazy love for ruining our knees in common. Running took on new meaning in my life. It was my time to think (or not think), clear my head, get away from it all. I always came back refreshed, ready to tackle a term paper or study for finals.

In the space between undergrad and grad school, I had a short hiatus crewing on a schooner and waiting tables in Key West, FL [a haven for tourists, artists, writers, renegades, sailors, illegal Eastern European aliens, and without a doubt, low-lifes]. It was a wild spell, wherein I met an unforgettable cast of characters. Though I maintained a fairly regular schedule, I think I was alone in this. My islandmates all seemed to have varying degrees of chaos in their lives, and I looked to my old friend running for some semblance of normalcy and routine.

The beautiful Florida weather makes it easy to have races all year long, and I found myself racing in an 8K not long after I arrived. Key West is much tinier than Chicago or Madison, and for the first time I wasn’t squished in between throngs of people. Meaning, I was actually able to see the people running around me. Running circles, that is. I was being schooled by septuagenarians. In fact, the overall male winner for that particular 8K was 73 years old. When I found myself standing in line behind Mr. Speedy 73 at the local health food store shortly thereafter, I tapped his shoulder and immediately started gushing about what good shape he was in. What a nice old man. He took my chirping with an amused smile, claiming anyone could do it. He inquired about how my run went that day (quite well), and wondered if I would be running the half marathon the following weekend. I guffawed in response, startled at the thought. Me? A half marathon? Maybe one day. But it’s a very nice half, he said. People come from all over just to run it. And after all, an 8K is five miles. What’s another eight? His inquiry was so sincere that I took it to heart. I wasn’t really sure if I could do it, but I decided to give it the old college try the following weekend anyway. I ran it with zero expectations, slogging along slowly at points, personal records the farthest thing from my mind. When I reached the finish and the realization hit me that I had never stopped running, I was amazed. Many thanks to Mr. Speedy 73 for being such an inspiration in my life. That was six years ago. I hope that he is still healthy today.

My husband will disagree, but I really am not one to keep score. Since that first half marathon, I don’t know how many more I’ve run. Quite a few. I’ve honestly lost track. Every time I’ve finished one, though, I’ve reflected on what it would feel like to keep going and do it all over. The full marathon has been rattling around in my head for some time now. It was never a matter of if, but rather when. With the wedding behind us, and at least a year before wee ones, this seems like as good a time as any. So a few months ago when my girlfriend Jess (a Chicago Marathon vet) asked if I’d run the Lake Geneva Marathon with her in May, I replied without hesitation. Yes.

Of course, at the time, I was still employed, meaning I had free access to a gym. I imagined comfortably clocking miles on a cozy treadmill on subzero days. Things are a little tough now that I don’t have that as a backup. Plus, we seem to be having the coldest January ever (I say this every year like a broken machine). But you know what? I have been out there running anyway. Yes, it requires proper layering. Yes, it’s a bit cold some days. Yes, I am careful. Yesterday was my long run, and I should have gone 14. But the wind chill was -3, so I did 10 instead. I’ll make it up later in the week. With the sun shining and the surprising number of fellow runners out there on the lakefront, I never stopped to think about the cold. I felt great.

26.2 on May 9th? Economy be damned. I don’t need a stinking gym membership. It’s in the bag.

Seeing Things Through

Last night I had the pleasure of attending a rough-cut screening of The House of Suh at Facets Cinematheque, part of IFP Chicago’s Meet the Filmmaker series.

The House of Suh is Iris Shim’s watershed foray into documentary filmmaking. I would suggest checking out the above link to read more about it, as there is no way I can do justice to the layers of complexity she unveils in her film.

The theme of this blog post is not so much about cinematography as it is about seeing things through. Iris is one of my sister’s best friends, and my first memory of her is us giddily driving up to Summerfest to check out a Jack Johnson concert. It seems like many moons ago (pardon the clichés here), but I still remember how the three of us were footloose and fancy free on that warm summer night. I remember, with similar clarity, a few years back when I found out she was starting work on a documentary, because I was struck by her temerity.

When I saw my first glimpse of the work in progress at one of Iris’ fundraisers, I was nothing short of amazed. But she only gave us a teaser, perhaps a half hour long. She had come a long way, but I also felt the weight of the work ahead of her. Still so much footage to shoot. Interviews to hound for. Editing and rendering. Editing and rendering. Funding to grovel for.

Cut to last night. Iris, in bright red Converse sneaks, running on no sleep (but you’d never know it). Armed with detailed questionnaires in order to grab audience feedback. Her family and friends comprised an impressive cheering section, but there were many new faces as well. She had to be nervous, exposing her baby to the cruel world like that. I am glad she did, though. I was blown away by the bizarre, unthinkable story that unfurled in the most quietly beautiful way. From the Q&A afterwards, it is obvious the rest of the audience felt the same way.

And she predicts she will be able to release the final edit this fall. Have to hand it to her. You know how it is, the careers that take up too much time. The loved ones that we don’t make enough time for. The hobbies with which we occasionally reacquaint ourselves, then turn our backs upon once again. Time, like a slippery tramp, escapes us. None of us can win the war against it. But Iris has a firmer grasp than most. Her need to tell this story, and to tell it with as much integrity as possible, makes her fight time. She is seeing it through. Props, kiddo. I am counting the days until the premiere.

Working from Home Works for Me

Adding to the rites of passage, I was laid off from my job at a small business-to-business marketing firm in December. As my professional career only spans four to five years, this is a shiny new experience in my slim book. I had been with the firm for two years and seven months. Which, in advertising years, is about equivalent to 25. Needless to say, it had been time to move on for some time already. Young creatives who contentedly hang around the same agency for years and years even when they are not producing much are oft looked upon with suspicion in the industry. Rightfully so. If you don’t have ADD, how can you truly be a creative? All of this stomped through my mind as I took note of the overwhelming decline in business and activity not only at our firm, but at agencies all over the city. While still employed, I started earnestly looking for a new job towards the end of 2007, and continued in 2008. At about the two year mark I felt I was really overstaying my welcome. We all feel somewhat guilty seeking the next new thing while we are still in the now thing (job, relationship, bad date, whatever), but vital to feeling alive is the disruption of routine, the anticipation of new challenges, and progressive growth.

Alas, Chicago’s unemployment rate hanging around 7.5% throughout 2008 did not make moving on an easy feat. Really. It wasn’t the free soda and snacks that kept me there. I was averaging about 1 in 30 responses to the combination of a carefully crafted cover letter and portfolio. People were now so inundated with candidates that they could no longer be bothered to send even the most automated reply. In part, this confirmed my growing fear of a dwindling industry, and also pushed me to take an honest look at my life path and career goals.

Advertising art direction/design is something I fell into unintentionally, over beers on the terrace at Memorial Union. Long story; I’ll spare you. At any rate, copywriting would have at least made some sense, but the cheapskate in me insisted on getting the most bang for my buck when I started advertising portfolio school. An English major, I was a little more John Hodgman, a little less Justin Long. I desired to become one with my brand new and first-ever Mac, savvy with these software “layout” programs I had never heard of, and to get better at shooting on an SLR. With a writing background, copywriting seemed like something I could get to on my own, for free.

Looking back, there are no regrets. It hasn’t been such a bad few years doing this art direction/design thing, and it certainly helps now when I am able to sit at home and take on freelance design projects that actually pay quite a bit more, all the while accomplishing mundane household tasks like laundry. It is especially not bad on a day such as this, when all I want to do is watch the Inauguration proceedings and swoon over Barack’s eloquence and intelligence. And guess what? Yes I can.

Now, being laid off isn’t all fun and games. Little did I realize that my husband’s wench of an HR lady is not only a wench, but actually incompetent at her job. At his company he has had the same health insurance plan for five years now. Five! Instead of staying competitive, their rates only go up, and usually without notice. Their dusty old health plan conveniently refuses to cover spouses. So, I find myself paying for a high-deductible plan out-of-pocket. Rather unideal, and there go any wild dreams of using this time off to create a mini-Kim, because I’ll be damned if I have to go to some shack of an OB/GYN office somewhere up near Devon while embarking on something so huge. I want my smart, young doctor at Northwestern who I’ve been seeing for years.

Not to mention the doting extended family members who keep ashamedly referring to how I was “let go.” The “let go” part always drops down to a whisper. As if it isn’t difficult enough picking up the pieces, I must endure being on the receiving end of schadenfreude from family members who have never progressed beyond secretarial or food service work (please read yesterday’s post so that I don’t have bad karma forever for saying that).

Ah yes, it is not all fun and games. However, for today at least, it’s working just fine for me. Let’s all take a moment to be thankful for the new direction this country is headed in.

The Trials, Travails, and Joys of Family

In the spring of 2005, leaving grad school, I found myself at yet another crossroads. Since completing my bachelor’s, I had driven cross-country, crewed on a 180-foot schooner in the Atlantic (with very little experience at the time of hire), made a killing waiting tables in fine dining (when you are a kid, not a sommelier, charm helps), conducted photoshoots in-studio and on-location in South Beach, lived and studied advertising/design in Amsterdam (while sharing a bunk bed with my eccentric male copywriter in an apartment full of slobs), tromped around Rome solo and fearless, been mistaken for a Japanese tourist at the Louvre, and so on and so forth.

Feeling naturally wise at 24, I knew there was ever much more to see (Africa! India! Nicaragua! Peace Corps?), even though I had quite a few interesting experiences in my pocket to date. And when you are young and restive, coming home feels like failure. So what next?

The option of moving back to Chicago was thus carefully over-analyzed. In the short but tidy list of pros, practical notions such as “free internet for job search,” “free laundry,” and “live rent-free” stared up at me, lifeless and uninspired on the page. The long list of cons, with afterthoughts scrawled in between more orderly line items, and many items emphatically underlined, threatened “live w/parents ’til find work,” “brutal winter,” “must make new friends,” and the like.

The thing is, I was broke. And asking parents who have generously put you through undergrad and grad school to provide any further funding, no matter how important the cause, is simply out of the question when you are 24. 24! I should have been a famed columnist or photojournalist with a summer house in the south of France by then! If only I had been more focused.

Despite my caveat emptor to myself, I knew it was time to head home. When your parents are closer in age to your friends’ grandparents, things are a little different. Caretaking and the need to be nearby come up much earlier (read: the selfishness of youth is curtailed quite a bit sooner). But this is actually not a bad thing. It does take a fair amount of maturation (and doesn’t hurt to have a wine cellar), but turns out, family is wonderful. Crazy family, overbearing family, annoying family, ignorant family. It doesn’t really matter, does it? They are a part of us and we a part of them. Whatever trials and travails we put each other through, family helps us weave the fabric of a full life.

Had I known this then, well, I probably would not have been 24. And I would have added to the list of pros, “be closer to family.”

As I like to say, I am learning all the time.

Spruce vs. Tryptophan

Frank insisted we get a tree while Chad was still in town.