The Thing About the Internet

So, thanks to the internet, I have a blog. Thanks to my blog I have had a chance to sharpen my writing and, more importantly, I have met some really wonderful people. To which I also need to add, thank you for all of your encouraging words and emails. Thank you for reminding me that I am not alone, that I am fabulous, and that some day I will meet someone amazing when we’re ready. I feel like a very lucky girl indeed. That makes me love the internet.

But there is a side to the internet I am not a fan of. It usually rears its head on sites like Friendster or MySpace. I know I am not the only one who has seen this side of the internet. Poor Amber has been there too. For me, it’s been Friendster. I have encountered people who can’t take a hint there. Here’s one, if you “smile” at me every day for two weeks and I never respond, maybe, just maybe, I am not interested. My last date (aka Pushy McPusherson) was someone I met through Friendster. And when I politely told him I was not interested in another date emailed me to ask “why” to which, on advice from friends, including male ones, I didn’t respond. But really, he wasn’t a loser like some of the others that I know are out there.

So, here’s my theory about episodes like Amber’s and mine. Ready? The losers are emboldened by the internet. It’s like alcohol for them. But here’s the thing, no alcohol for us. We don’t get the pleasure of beer goggles or beermuffs* so we have to receive it all sober. And appalled. That is the bad side of the internet. They should create a slogan. “Internet: Like Beer Without the Alcohol!”

And what happens if you mix beer with the internet? Well, maybe that’s when I get extremely disgusting, misogynistic, pornographic comments from some sicko out there. Or maybe that was just because of my freak magnet.

“I think it’s just the freak magnet (we) seem to have imbedded in our skulls somewhere.” ~Me to Marissa

*”Beermuffs” is a term I created a year ago. A take off of earmuff, “beermuffs” are like beer goggles for your ears. When you are drunk everything the other person says is just soooo funny and witty. Yet, if you were sober, you might not think so.

I’ll Be Home For Christmas

Best Friend leaves today to spend Christmas with her family. I leave for Minnesota next Friday. So, in honor of holiday travel, I bring you my most interesting travel story. Sit back and grab a cup of coffee, it’s a long one, but not nearly as long as the actual exerience.

It starts my first year at Bryn Mawr, my first Christmas of coming home. I booked my ticket to leave Philadelphia around 1:00 pm on the 22^nd, and arrive in Minnesota at 3:00 pm.

A friend’s boyfriend drove me to the airport and dropped me off. I checked in and headed to my gate, then boarded the plane as usual. I listened to the safety instructions and we were taxiing down the runway when the plane slowed to a stop. And my stomach sank.

“Ladies and gentleman, we have a technical problem. It should just be about 15 minutes til we get going.” Thirty minutes later, we were back at the gate; they wouldn’t let us leave the plane. “Fifteen minutes,” they continued to tell us which stretched into hours. I sat through more and more “15 minute” promises. The opportunity allowed bonding with my fellow passengers worried about getting home for Christmas, fretting over their presents. Some people left to get on other flights. But I didn’t. I had faith in the airline and the crew to get me home for Christmas.

It was around 5:00 when they finally admitted defeat and told us that because they had to fly a crew in, our flight out be taking off at 6:00 the next morning. Being a girl who hates the unexpected, I freaked.

I grabbed my carry on and waited my turn to exit the plane. I promptly joined others in line to talk to the ticketing agent in the hopes of getting onto one of the flights leaving that night. I got lucky; I could take a flight on another airline, switch planes in St. Louis, and continue to Minneapolis, getting there at 10:00 pm.

We landed in St. Louis somewhat delayed, and I had half an hour to make a mad dash to my next plane. I did and luckily it wasn’t too far away. I boarded the plane and headed to my seat.

Announcements were made. I talked to the guy across the aisle from me, on his way home to Iowa from army camp in Texas. Then the pilot came on the announcements. They were having problems getting the door to seal and we had to wait while they tried to fix it.

Suddenly, a carol was running through my head. “I’ll be home for Christmas…You can plan on me,” it sadly trailed off. That is all it took. I stood up, turned and took the one step to the restroom. I went inside and attempted to compose myself and every time I though I had it under control, it was back. “Please have snow and mistletoe.” Tears began to fall and I took some deep calming breaths. I composed myself enough to leave the restroom and face the plane filled with people.

We waited. Finally the captain was back with bad news—the door couldn’t be fixed—and good news—there was another plane waiting for us. All we had to do was head over to it and then wait for our luggage to be transported. Then, incredibly, the captain came back. They fixed the problem and we’d be staying put. It was a regular Christmas miracle.

We landed in Minneapolis at 1:00 am.—more than 10 hours later than I was supposed to arrive, and I didn’t know who was going to be waiting for me at the gate. I didn’t expect everyone, maybe just my dad or sister. I finally got to leave the plane, made my way out and saw my whole family, up late to welcome me home.

Congratulations, you’ve survived my comedy of errors, complete with a happy ending and a holiday with the family. I survived it too.

Roots

How often do we really stop and think about where we come from? In all of the rushing around of daily life, the work and meetings and deadlines, time with friends and family, dinners out and appointments, and everything else we do regularly, we don’t stop to really think about where we came from. People are aware of the family they have, possibly the people directly before them. But how far back in our family pasts do we allow it to sort of drift away?

I remember doing a report for school on my ancestors. I chose to use my mother’s mother’s side of the family. Her mother (my great-grandmother) had a father, mother and brothers who were all born in Bohemia which in the Czech Republic, which at the time was joined with Slovakia to be Czechoslovakia. My great-grandmother’s name was Mary and her parents left their village outside of Prague and came to the US. They settled in Chicago. Mary was born after the move, first in the US.

I told this story, along with some picture to my class in elementary school. Then promptly filed it away in the back of my mind. I went to high school, then college, then moved to Chicago. I gave it little thought. One day last year I took a roundabout way home from work and passed the Bohemian National Cemetery. I pause here to say that whenever anyone asks what I “am” I always say I am half Italian and half Bohemian because Bohemian is a specific ethnic group of Czechs (there are also Moravians). I started defining myself this way in high school and confused a lot of people who thought I was saying I was artsy. I’m not that kind of Bohemian though.

Anyway I passed the cemetery and was intrigued. Turns out Chicago had a large Czech population at one time. I wondered if my great-great-grandfather was buried there. It was after he died that that side of the family went to Minnesota. My mother and I only had a name–Thomas–to go by. No date of death. So, we didn’t give much more though to the Bohemian National Cemetery.

Over Thanksgiving I was talking to my cousin. She has been researching the family’s geneaology and can’t find much about the Chicago stuff. She asked for my help. I agreed. Last night my cousin emailed me. She had found the census data from 1900 and had an address for my great-grandmother’s family. Unfortunately for us, Chicago has renamed the streets since 1900. And renumbered them. We wanted to find out where they lived. My suspiscion had always been that it was on the South Side because there is a neighborhood called Pilsen that was settled by Czech immigrants.

With some inspiration I was able, in a matter of an hour, to pull up a map of the 1900 census to see where their ward was. On the South Side. Then I found a document, courtesy of the Chicago Historical Society on the changed street names. So I found out what the street is called. Know what I found out. My grandmother’s family lived almost directly south of where I live now. Granted, it’s about 80 blocks south, but south nonetheless.

My cousin is going to send me copies of what she has. And I am taking them to the Historical Society and to the Newberry Library which apparently has one of the most extensive genealogical libraries in the country. I am going to find out where they lived. I’m also going to get copies of my great-grandmother’s birth certificate and her father’s death certificate if I can, and anything else I can find for our little project.

It’s weird that I never thought much about the fact that my family had been here in Chicago before. But they were here, and suddenly I feel a connectiton to that. Now, I am thinking about them, 80 blocks south of where I sit now. Eighty blocks to the south and 105 years in the past. I think we’ve come pretty far in that time.

These Wonderful Things

December is upon us and soon it will be time for Christmas. In all honesty, Christmas is my favorite time of year. I like the idea of peace on earth, good will toward all. I like the lights, the music, the gift-giving. I like the trees and decorations and even the snow. Although come January I am ready for the snow to go away.

Growing up, Christmas always seemed so magical to me. I remember baking cookies with my mom and sister and grandma, the windows all steamy. Then we’d have hot chocolate with our sugar cookies. Thankfully, my mother allowed us to have sugar and all that good stuff. I remember trampling to the nursery to pick out a real tree and setting up Christmas decorations with the family. I always wanted to set up the nativity scene. Every year I would look for my favorite ornament to put on the tree.

In Catholic school we had Christmas programs every year and had secret santas. In high school, the cheerleaders had “Holiday Honeys” which was somehow even cuter. I used to give all my friends holiday cards and candy canes and I remember the anticiptaion on the last day of school before break began, in both places.

My family would open presents on Christmas Eve, then go to my aunt’s house, then to midnight mass. The next day was for Santa’s gifts and dinner. Then all my friends and I would do the traditional, “What’d you get?” and play with new toys or experiment with clothes. For me, it was effortless and fun and the best time of year. The memories really are ones I will remember all through my life.

I still love Christmas, but it somehow isn’t the same as it once was. Now that I am grown up, Christmas has lost a little magic. Maybe because it has gained so much effort. Now it entails shopping for perfect presents, at the crowded malls no less. It requires buying ingredients for the good food, preparing it. It involves traveling and other arrangements.

Part of me is sad that Christmas has lost its magic. Yet, there is also a part of me that sees Michigan Avenue all lit up, and feels a little twinge of joy. There is a part of me that might catch “Charlie Brown Christmas” or some other holiday movie, and feel nostalgic. There is something inside me that waits to provide my own children with happy memories. There is still a part of me that hopes for peace on earth, goodwill to all. That hopeful part holds on to the holidays.

So I wish you all happy holidays, whether it’s a Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Joyous Kwanzaa, or in the weeks ahead, Eid Mubarak. And I wish you all peace.