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Well, here I am, sitting at O’Hare airport, in the international terminal where they do not have free wireless, waiting for our (delayed) British Airways flight. Why, the back up vocals of the Flist ask, is Jessica sitting in the O’Hare International Airport (I’m using my dad’s work's wireless stick) waiting for a delayed BA flight to Heathrow?  Why am I here instead of sunning on the Oak Street Beach? Or hanging out at Woodfield? Or catching the Cubs at Wrigley?


Because instead of having a normal, wonderful, Chicago summer where I was going to learn to drive (finally) and pull drinks at the *bucks in Evanston, go for runs along the lakefront, watch the American women kick ass in the FIFA World Cup, go to Taste of Chicago and do all the other awesome things there are to do in this town, I am going to f*cking Kent in f*cking England. To clean house.

I’d posted a few months ago that my great-grandmother had died. I didn’t know her very well. I only met her once. She lived in England and she always seemed from the stories like a cool, but strange, lady. Really strange. The lawyers have finally settled the “estate” (it’s a three bedroom “cottage” not Camelot) and I’m going with my dad to clean out the house.

Flist, you will notice a name missing.  Naomi and I had a huge blow up last night. I’m not ready to talk about it, but we’ve done the 2011 equivalent of burning the bridge and the river underneath it. De-f’d from FB and LJ and blocked the Tweet and Tumblr feeds and yeah, it was bad. I won’t call her a bitch – though f*ck knows what she’s calling me. We just disagreed. Big time. It was honest, if you know what I mean? Which makes it hurt even more, ‘cuz I really don’t see how we can get passed it or fix it.

Anyway now I’m really depressed besides being mad and sad, so signing off for now and we’re boarding. Do you think they have deep dish pizza and bagels in England? Yeah, I don't think so, either.  They must have string cheese and bananas?  I hope it's not all deep fried organ meats that will give me mad cow disease.   Hopefully, there’ll be wi fi on the plane.

I really don’t want to go especially having left things with Naomi with us yelling at one another and if there’s no wireless at the picturesque, quaint English garden cottage, you’re going to hear my screams from all the way across the Atlantic.

And the TSA lady totally felt me up.  Gross.


Wi fi! YES! On the plane!

So here’s more of the scoop on Gran. No wonder she was more than a few cards from a full deck.  When she was about 21, her whole family died – mother, father, two brothers and her sister, plus her cousin, and a couple of friends in a big massive train wreck. From then (and this is before the days of Prozac Nation), she went on to do all sorts of things. Traveled, was a secretary in some government job, did lots of sports (<3333), became a minister (like a priest or rabbi, but not), did animal rescue, was a vegetarian, was a huge opponent of apartheid in South Africa, lived in the US for a while where she got arrested marching with Martin Luther King, married again after her first husband was shot in East Germany (you know, like before the Berlin Wall came down?! -- you do know what the Berlin Wall was, don't you?), and was in politics in England and a member of Parliament for her local town, I guess. Parish? Borough? IDEK. So, not really what I was expecting.  Oh, and did I say before?  This is on my mom's side.  But, mom's got a big case going up to the State Supreme Court (typical) and dad's off for the summer, so that's why I'm with him but cleaning up after her family.  Also typical.

This connection is crap and the guy in front of me just reclined the seat into my lap, so I’m signing off for now.

Peace and love to my back up vocals

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