Nobody Knows Me

And I like cream in my coffee
And I like to sleep late on Sunday
And nobody knows me like my baby
And I like eggs over easy
With flour tortillas
And nobody knows me like my baby

And nobody holds me
And nobody knows me
Nobody knows me like my baby

But it was a dream made to order
South of the border
And nobody knows me like my baby
And she cried man how could you do it
And I swore that there weren't nothing to it
But nobody knows me like my baby

And nobody holds me
And nobody knows me
Nobody knows me like my baby

And I like cream in my coffee
And I hate to be alone on Sunday
And nobody knows me like my baby

When I was 17, I met my boyfriend at a church youth rally. He was tall, lanky, with a shock of dark hair hanging in his eyes and a deep scar on his cheek. He spoke French to me and tucked me into his beat-up motorcycle jacket, and when I found out how embarrassingly too young for me he was, it was too late. I was already smitten.

We lived two hours from each other, so our relationship was a torrid, letter-writing affair that lasted for a month or two. I invited him to my senior prom, and he was excited about wearing a thrift-store suit with giant safety pins instead of cuff links. I was a grunge girl; I should have rejoiced in my hip, hot boyfriend, but instead I was mortified by the idea, and soon we broke up.

The one thing I got out of the relationship was this Lyle Lovett song. I bet somewhere at my parents' house, in my old bedroom, I could still find the mix tape he made me, stuck between yearbooks and old prom pictures. There was no play list; the song came on between folky alternative songs, and in the context of those, I assumed it was a folk or acoustic rock song.

Four or five years later, I was getting to know my classmates during my stint in a creative writing program in Ireland. Someone brought a Lyle Lovett CD and put it on the stereo. His big-band country sound gave no indication that the album contained this song. In my vodka and orange juice-induced daze (a typical state that summer), I may have started crying at the song. It reminded me of my past, and a song long forgotten.

So then I knew who performed it. Yet I never made any attempt to own the CD. I still don't. I have tracked down a copy once or twice to put on mix CDs, but it's not a song I want to own. It's one I want to be surprised with in unexpected moments.

Like at roadhouses in the middle of Iowa, during road trips with Tim, when we knew nothing of our future, only that we loved each other fiercely. He put a few coins in the old jukebox, and the song came on. We sat in the sticky bar booth, looking at each other, tears prickling our eyes as we listened together, and part of our future together fell into place.

On that note I'd like to end, but I have to add, it wasn't until Tim that I actually listened to the lyrics in the second verse. I was so smitten with the beautiful melody, Lyle's lonesome voice, and the beauty of the idea of knowing someone so well that I didn't realize the song was actually about infidelity. I wondered why I have always been so drawn to songs about pain and heartbreak. (Another noncontender and gorgeous song completely unfit for our wedding was Zepplin's "Babe I'm Gonna Leave You." Rats.)

But I'm reminded tonight of The Princess Bride, and a line my friends and I would recite to the screen every time we watched it: "Life is pain, highness!" (Prince Humperdink--I think) and I think part of the beauty of heartbreaking songs is the music putting eloquent words to what we know of our own lives.

Thinking back

The day after I graduated from college, my belongings were packed in the back of a truck, and my parents and I drove to Chicago.

Growing up, every time we'd visit, we'd arrive the same way, from the south, up the Dan Ryan to LSD, and then the home stretch to my grandparents' home just north of the city, in Evanston. Coming up Sheridan Road in Rogers Park, I'd get a thrill of excitement, because to me, Rogers Park was the city. It was the embodiment of everything I believed Chicago to be.

So I was finally there! The city was mine! (Well, sort of. The fact that I lived in what could technically be called a suburb didn't phase me.) Evanston wasn't a typical suburb, anyway. It was a cross between being its own city and a small town.

That summer, I ran the baked streets, getting to know the cafes, vintage bookstores, and thrifts. I worked at a cafe near Northwestern, and I flirted with the intellectual professors who'd spend their Sunday mornings over my coffee and a newspaper. Sometimes nights I'd walk through the neighborhood on the lake, the one with unbelievably fancy mansions and daydream about what it would be like to live in one.

I was lonely still, missing my Kansas boyfriend and worried about job prospects, but it was also a glorious time, filled with newness. The world unrolled itself at my feet, and I could have done anything.

Memories like that rush back at the touch of hot summer wind, or the smell of coffee beans freshly ground. Certain music can resurrect the exact feelings I had at any given moment during that period. The experience is so deeply imprinted upon my psyche.

It goes without saying that there is an entire chamber of my heart devoted to Evanston. I still work here, 9.5 years after that beautiful summer. So I was excited to also do my internship here.
And it's different.

I'm older.

I'm seeing a different side of the city, the one where 25% of the citizens live at or below the poverty line. Where the streets I formerly skipped down, if I turn left instead of right, I discover low-income areas I never knew existed.

Knowing about the urban problems that Evanston's pretty, tree-lined streets cover up sour my memories of the perfect college "town" I used to know. It's hard to enjoy its beauty when I know about the uneasy alliance between the priviledged and unpriviledged.

But sometimes, sometimes sometimes, I'm able to walk into the organic cafe that's near my internship, sit down with some tea, and be transported back, unfettered, in the glorious spell that this place once cast upon me.

Socializing and stuff

Theatre parties. I never go, because they're always on Sunday nights. But this week, I worked overtime on Friday, so I was able to take off most of Monday. So Sunday night, I squeezed myself into a pretty black strapless top, my new grass-green capris, and went out to have some fun and a gross amount of vodka lemonade. While I'm generally bored when actors start yapping about theatre, this party included crew and stage hands. At this theatre, they are some of the nicest, most down-to-earth people I've ever met. I met some of the Wardrobe girls who invited me to their weekly scrapbooking/movie nights. I chatted about knitting with a Prop Runner, whose husband just got a new Star Wars tattoo. And one of the actors informed Tim that he had a "very hot wife."

It always amazes me how happiness can increase beauty tenfold. I miss having a social life.

The party spilled over into Monday night, when about fifteen people showed up at the baseball stadium for a Biscuits home game. I had forgotten how much fun it is to watch baseball, eat hot dogs and drink beer with a rowdy bunch of friends.

Tonight I start tennis lessons. I'm scared. I haven't played in nearly ten years, and my tendonitis is raging right now. But I'm excited.

And this Saturday I'm volunteering for an arts festival at the fine arts museum. I love how busy and involved I am. I'm even looking forward to the governor's conference on domestic violence that I'm attending this week, a chance to hang out outside of work (sort of) with a few co-workers.

Missed Connections

A few years ago I was obsessed with the Missed Connections section of the Reader (which, sadly, is now dorkily called "I Saw You." Aw, man.) So that is the basis of the following story. It was harder than I expected to come up with only 25 words each time.


February 7
Hey blue-eyed girl on the Blue Line train, evening commute. I see you every day. Maybe next time, a hello? 'Til we meet again . . .

February 14
My nerves got the best of me, blue eyes. I couldn't bring myself to approach you. Try again next week? Be kind to shy men.

February 21
Hectic work. Overtime kept me from your side. The late-night ride is not the same without you. Did I mention I miss your smile?

February 28
You, this week, absent from my ride again. My schedule is the same. Have you changed your routine? My fault? Do you even read these?

March 7
Dark man with you Wednesday. A date? Has someone already a claim on your heart? You smile at him, not knowing of my love.

March 14
Alone again. But not me. Never fear, the woman was only a co-worker. My heart belongs to you . . . if only you would notice me.

March 21
Tuesday you dropped a glove. My chance! The teenage boy got to it first. You gave him the smile meant for me. Next time . . .

March 28
Your new coat matches your eyes. I heard you get compliments. They should have been from me. Your beauty brightens my day after all.

April 4
Sneezing Wednesday. Are you getting a cold? I said "bless you." Conversation at last! Why did you not respond? Did you hear me?

April 11
No illness this week. Why did you leave your seat when I mentioned that? Stay and talk to me. You must.

April 18
Blue eyes, your friend called you Cara. Next time, I'll use it, and you will see how special you are to me.

April 25
Cara, your stop is after mine. Today I stayed on to see where you live. So close we are. You could walk over.

May 2
Did you see the flowers I left on your stoop for May day? You need romance. I can be so giving. Let me in.

May 9
Cara, always evenings, never mornings. That's not how I crave it. I want you freshly awake, unsullied by the day and interactions with others.

May 16
I have your mornings now. Coffee here, bagel there. Blue eyes, you are radiant at sunrise. Seeing you keeps me going every day.

May 23
This weekend, where were you? Apartment dim each evening, late return on Sunday. Your eyes aglow--for whom? Me? You couldn't have seen me there.

May 23 (ad 2)
Sturdy oak tree, spring leaves offer one protection. You with no curtains offer me sweet glimpses again. I know that you care. I am near.

May 30
Warm nights now, Cara. Give me a sign that you're ready. Leave a window open for me, my love.

June 6
At last, my blue eyes, how I've waited for this. Sweet soft cheek, see how gentle my touch? A quiet kiss. I'll be here tomorrow.

June 13
Blue lights flashing, fiercer than the glow from your eyes. How could you do this? I thought you cared. This is not the end.

The lost art of flirting

Tim and I talked last night about flirting, and sexual banter. I've never been much for the banter with my friends, but ever since I learned how to flirt, it's been my favorite thing. It's just so fun to do. Kind of affirming, a celebration of being alive.

Ok, maybe that's attempting to get too deep about it. But it can make me giddy, raise my spirits, remind me that I'm fun and cute. The best is when it's two people appreciating each other without misinterpreting the situation. And I think that, since getting married, I haven't figured out what the new appropriate behavior is. And I think my problem is that I believe it has to somehow change.

Yet, conversely, I don't have this idea that since suddenly I am a married woman, I am forbidden from appreciating other people than the husband. We are both open about the fact that not noticing other beauty is pretty impossible, and why cut ourselves off from the enjoyment of interactions with others?

I don't think it's something that Tim struggles with as much as me, because he needs those sparks and connections to castmates, to bring genuine emotion to whatever role he's playing. Unlike Angelina Jolie, though, he understands that fucking your co-star actually ruins the chemistry. He just needs that spark.

There's one man who works at my agency. One man out of about fifty women. He's the tech guy. And he's only on-site when there's a computer problem. I only see him every few weeks. He seems very nice, and he's surprisingly good looking for all the tech guys I've known. All the women in my office are friends with him, so he'll sit in the office when he's doing with the computers, chatting. I don't know if I'm just caught off-guard by seeing a man in a very female-centric place, or if maybe I am secretly attracted to him and feel uncomfortable with that. But I get extremely awkward around him, and end up running out of the office and not saying anything. I feel so weird. Sometimes I think if Tim and I were not so open, I might not be feeling so strange. Because if we didn't talk about how normal and natural attraction was, then I wouldn't think about it, and I'd just go with my accustomed reaction to hot men. But now, I'm thinking about how it's fine for me to act like I normally do, but since I'm thinking about it, I jinx myself and start acting awkward.

Man alive. I think too much.

Alfalfa

One day this week, when I got out of my car at the work parking lot, it smelled like freshly mown alfalfa. A strange and nostalgic smell, because I haven't smelled it since I lived in Kansas. It's a sweet farm smell. It's used as fodder for . . . I don't know. Probably cows, sheep, etc.

It took me a minute to reconcile the smell of alfalfa with the place, in the middle of a neighborhood where most windows are boarded up, men sit out on their porches all day and all night waiting for buyers, shiny Escalades are parked in driveways of houses that cost considerably less than that vehicle, people sleep in crawl spaces of the boarded-up houses because they have no real home, and there aren't any alfalfa fields for miles.

It reminded me of other smell memories from my childhood. The hay that filled the loft of Hannah's barn, where we'd build forts, play with kitties, and try to avoid snakes. The smell of her house, which reeked with the beauty of greenhouses, new construction, and the fruit orchard. My mom pounding on the worn chopping block counter, kneading out dough, which would soon fill the house with the yeasty smell of whole wheat bread baking. (And then the way she'd cut a slice right out of the oven, and it would crumble softly with heat, steam rising.)

Once LeAnn and I took to the milo field that encircled my house, and cut pathways in the rows (whether to create a maze or a fort, I don't remember). I don't know what milo smells like. It's probably more fragrant after harvest than in the field, but to me, the day had a scent. Hot hard wind, girls growing past childhood . . . there's always been a gorgeous despair in thinking about the swift flight of time, and remembering.

"My senses exist to witness your beauty"

I have a box of letters under the bed. One of my secret desires of old was to be someone who inspired love letters, and it's very satisfying to have fulfilled that. The oldest is from 1994, and the latest are ones from Tim, our anniversary letters to each other.

I went in it last night to see what it contained for the purpose of writing this post. Otherwise I hadn't looked at it in a while. Usually the box existed for post-breakup self-confidence boosting. If ever I was down about someone rejecting me, or wondering if anyone would ever be interested again, reading through the old letters was good for that.

At home over Christmas, organizing my old things, I came across two enormous boxes filled with all the letters I'd ever received from childhood up through college. I was a prolific writer back then, and so were my correspondents. (I think the box filled with three summers of letters to me at camp was the same amount as the rest of my childhood combined.) Since college was included in that collection, I found a few from a guy I had wanted to date but never did.

Reminiscing is only good if you have no regrets. Though I'd like to have none, David was one.

I met him early in the first semester of my senior year of college. LeAnn and I lived across the street from a laundromat, and we went together to wash our clothes. It was manned by a short, muscular guy in hippie attire with long hair and thick sideburns. Too bad David was so short, for he was exactly my type. Nonetheless, I found ways to flirt with him as LeAnn hissed at me to ignore him. The next time I did laundry, it was early afternoon and the place was dead but for him. We sat in front of the TV, watching a soccer game on the Spanish station, and he wove me a hemp necklace with a melted copper squiggle of a pendant. In the midst of it all, I started dating someone else. We hadn't had The Talk yet, so when David asked if I wanted to go to a poetry reading with him, I accepted. I wasn't sure how to handle things (hadn't yet developed skill enough to date multiple people), so I had a talk with the other guy, and we determined that we were exclusive. So the date ended up being a nondate, and I told him about my boyfriend when we went for drinks after the poetry.

But still. There was something there. A few months later, he went to Egypt to study field mice for a year (he was a bio grad student), and he wrote to me frequently. Once he even called me to hear my sexy, throaty, cold-induced voice. I took over his place at the laundromat, and eventually started working with his best friend Doug.

Doug and I become good friends, and eventually he strong-armed me into dating him. (I say that because I had utterly no intention of dating him. I was still hung up on his best friend.) David visited one week, and I found out later that Doug had given him strict (if paranoid) instructions to stay away from me. That was the nail in the coffin--for both me and Doug, and for anything with David.

As the years passed, I'd occasionally Google him, and once I discovered him living in an apartment not three blocks away from where I had just moved! Or so I thought. After leaving a message on his machine, I wondered if that was really his voice, and then a few weeks later, a guy returned my call and it wasn't him.

Oh how I wished things had gone differently. Being with him instead of Doug (who turned out to be controlling and insecure, a real bother), or having a second chance. I daydreamed about randomly running into him at a bar in Chicago, for I knew he visited often. Finally, after way too long, he faded from my thoughts, and I only Googled him if the subject came up of old flames.

So I didn't like reading the ancient letters I found from him. They reminded me of things I didn't want to think about, because there was nothing to be done about them. I think regrets are stupid, and I don't want to think about having any.

But Googling is a good thing. I finally tracked down a photo of him online, and it completely erased any lingering thoughts I'd had of him. Whew. Aging is sometimes unkind.