Home again, home again

Thursday, petting Tim's fuzzy, shaved head while he tried to exercise around me, I said, "I am ready to go home."

"Me, too, back to our kitties, and our own space."

"I'm glad we're considering it home now."

So I assumed the kick in the stomach I was feeling as we drove to the airport was actually excitement to return south. But it really must have been more like a premonition.

We got home Saturday night to an upright bass sprayed with cat pee, a $200 lab bill for a Chlamydia test I never requested, a food cabinet filled with strange black bugs, and no good Thai restaurant down the street from which to order take-out.

So we dealt by yelling, then retreating to our own corners of the apartment to do the only things we could handle: clean. Somehow I only feel motivated to deep-clean the bathroom when I am very, very angry. And thank god Tim does all the cat clean-up. I like that our relationship doesn't involve much yelling at all, but when the urge arises, we take space to calm down, then come back together when we're ready. And cleaning or unpacking speeds the recovery process, because it's more fun to hang out than actually work.

Then we opened a bottle of champagne, and watched some Arrested Development. It made the homecoming infinitely more tolerable.

But I hate being back. I like the slower pace of life, but I feel this big hole in my chest, where family and friends, and tall buildings and el trains, Indian spice markets and handmade paper stores, and good sushi and quiet bars with good whiskey used to be. I'm trying to figure out why I was looking forward to being back.

Getting to laze around in 70 degree weather in January is a compelling reason, though. And getting to see the kitties, who were very happy to have us around again. And being by ourselves again, in our own space. I forget when in Chicago at other people's houses, how much more comfortable I am in my own.

So we're home. And work starts tomorrow, and I hope it helps stop up this hole inside me.

July 4th

"Gorey Stories" opened tonight, and I was disappointed by the timing. Running until 9:30, we missed almost all of the fireworks set off from Navy Pier. Disappointed because in all my many years in Chicago, I've actually never seen them, and this year I was right at the lake doing the show.

I had forgotten, though, that sometimes the civilian fireworks are just as spectacular as the city's. Biking home, west on Fullerton, the night spread out before me as a sparkling jewel. The last mile home was particularly livid. I biked through a fug of gunpowder and falling embers, and nearly hit a few parked cars as I swerved on my ride, watching the sky.

I love how into the holiday this city is, though given the high density of undocumented immigrants in my neighborhood, I suspect the fiery celebrations are more for a love of pretty explosives rather than the history of this country.

This time last year, I was also sitting under a shower of fireworks, but at a Biscuits game in Montgomery. As soon as the last play was completed, every light in the stadium was cut, and music started up as the pyrotechnics blasted. For a good ten minutes or so, the sky lit up. Finally, "Sweet Home Alabama" was played, and the crowd went wild for the finale. Tim and I grinned at each other, deliriously happy to be in that spot at that moment.

And forever since then, that song makes me happy. It reminds me of a time when I felt like part of a community. I felt like I was an Alabamian, like that sweet home was my home. For a little while, it was.

And I love that now any time I see fireworks, that's what I'll think of.

RIP Fergus

Tim says how you know you've met the right kitty is that it picks you, not that you pick it.

I've spent hours at shelters before, looking for exactly the right cat, going into it desiring an all-black cat, and keeping my eyes focused for what I thought I wanted. And it was frustrating, seeing all the wonderful cats who seemed only just good enough. Not The One.

And then the right one will come along unbidden.

Fergus found me the summer of 1999. I went to Harmony House for Cats, entered a room filled with black kitties, and one jumped onto my lap, curled up, and fell asleep. I fell in love, but he had a bronchial infection, so I had to wait a week to pick him up. I think when I went back, they gave me the wrong cat, because Fergus never once sat in my lap for the rest of his life.



He was my punk kitty. He loved racing around the apartment (even better when I lived in a two-story apartment with a long, carpeted staircase to the basement), chomping down on my hair while I was sleeping, and climbing my clothes hanging in the closet to perch near the ceiling. He went crazy whenever there was a newspaper to dive under or a box to climb in.



For a long time, it was him and me against the world. He was my rock for a few years. I went through a lot, but I never got lonely at home with him by my side. I'd come home from work, and he'd run to the table to relax and watch me make dinner. While I ate, he'd lay beside me on the table, then curl up on the couch cushion next to me while I read or watched TV. After about three years together, I began waking up in the middle of the night to discover him curled in my arms. I could scarcely breathe; it was so special. He hadn't been a very affectionate cat, which I didn't mind so much because he had so much spunk and intelligence. But for a good year or two, I didn't get much sleep because I'd lay awake, treasuring those quiet, cuddly moments where he deigned to act like a cat instead of a little furry person.



When Tim entered the picture, it was all over for the punk kitty. Tim lavished so much love on Fergus, believing--accurately--that the way to my heart was through Fergus's, and he turned into a little love bug. A year or so after that, Tim was convinced he needed a friend, so we went back to the same shelter, and Olivia found us.

Fergus tried to kill Olivia the first day she was home. But after about a week, the hissing stopped, and after about a month, he allowed her to eat out of the same bowl. I don't think he ever loved her the way she loved him, but there was tolerance, and sometimes he'd give up the fight and let her snuggle him.







The happiest time for Fergus was in Alabama. He'd snake through our home-made cat door onto the balcony and roll around deliriously on the concrete, dirt-sprinkled floor. He'd "walk the wire" of the balcony, and click his tongue at the birds. And he'd spend a lot of time asleep on the World's Most Comfortable Chair, a place he always let Olivia share. I always felt bad leaving that apartment, and his outdoor freedom.

And then we came back to Chicago, and he started to get sick, and that's not something I want to remember right now. I want to remember his wise eyes, and the way I wasn't sure he ever knew exactly what I was saying, but certain he always knew my meaning. How he'd meow a kitty "bless you" every time I'd sneeze, or come running to my side with a concerned look on his face if I ever made a cry of pain or sadness. How he was staunchly anti-laps or cuddling in the living room, but could be counted on to curl his head under my chin at night, or let me rest my head, using him as a pillow, to listen to his purr.

And in the end, Olivia proved a good partner, whether he ever acknowledged her or not. At a time when another animal might have attacked him for being weak, she didn't push him to play, but instead licked his ears while he ate, grooming him carefully.

I think we all have one kindred animal spirit in the world, and it doesn't seem right that he's gone, but I feel lucky to have known him.

Chicken soup

This week, driving home from work and stopping by Bruno's to pick up some chicken soup to sooth my cold, I thought about what I would have done in Chicago.

Walking home from the train, I would have stopped by Rosded, a Thai restaurant, and ordered take-out Chicken Tom Ka Kay, extra spicy. At home, I'd take the lid off the soup and breathe in, the steam itself so hot from the extra chili peppers that my sinuses would clear instantly. I'd strain the soup to pick out the galangal and lemongrass, so the broth was clear with its chicken, and sometimes cabbage. The takeout container was so large, I'd often get two meals out of it, which only got spicier by the second bowl if I didn't take out the peppers in the beginning, too.

Thinking about that while heating the Campbell's on the stove made the noodle soup seem so bland and unappetizing, and I realized how completely different my life is now. Though its simplicity is finally comforting and appealing to me, I'll always pick living someplace where I can walk home and pick up Thai food on the way above all else.

Music at home

Last night Fran invited me to an event one of her classmates was putting on. She didn't know many details, so I didn't know what to expect. It was a musical review (revue?) that had been picked up by Broadway recently, a play written by a local singer-songwriter based on Lee Smith's Fair and Tender Ladies.

We walked into her classmate Joe's tall, Colonial home, into a big living room stripped bare of furniture, filled with people watching a man on bass and a woman on guitar, singing. They did a few songs, then other people picked up instruments and moved into what I think was the dining room, filled with amps and microphones. A tiny boy dressed in a flaming cowboy shirt, snakeskin boots, and a black ten-gallon that fell to his nose swaggered out, carrying a guitar that covered most of his body. He was 7, and a Hank Williams impersonator. It was really the most precious thing I've ever seen. His singing was, well, you know, he's seven. But I was blown away by how his teeny fingers hopped from chord to chord with ease--he didn't even have to look! (Sometimes I have to look.)

The crowd was mostly grandparents and middle-aged folks when we arrived, but as the night went on, a younger crowd started showing up, and it was clear by the time we left that an afterparty was brewing in the backyard. Joe's friends seemed like the type I would enjoy. He seemed to be about my age, very personable and good looking, goateed, with a poplin fedora, thick silver ring on his pinky, and trendy pointy black shoes like I'm always trying to interest Tim in.

Fran and I mostly stuck to watching the music, and talking to Joe whenever his rounds would place him in our vicinity. He introduced us to his friends once, and they seemed really cool, but we weren't feeling that social. It was fun for me just to get to hang out with her. The music was easy to sit back and listen to. I haven't been able to hang out and listen to live country or folk in a long time.

Towards the end of the evening, Joe played a few songs. One of them, "Valentine," stuck in my head like a burr in cotton. I knew it front to back, but couldn't remember from where. I asked, and he said, "Old 97s." Of course. I started talking about music, and as soon as the words "alt-country" left my mouth, I could feel the light go on inside me, and I knew if things were different, in my old life, that would have been the moment when the evening changed, and lengthened, the water in my hand would have become a beer, then another, and the crowd would thin, then disappear, and eventually, I'd tiptoe out the next morning in the bright sunlight with a phone number in the back pocket of my jeans.

Musicans get me every time.

In a much more wholesome way, the night reminded me of being a kid and going to the Music Emporium for concerts. It was a dusty music store that would open its storage space in the back on weekends for shows. It started out small, a potluck dinner, people sitting on boxes or bringing their own lawn chairs. The kids would run around in the front where the instruments were, and try to count all the frog trinkets and figurines (plus the lazy cat named Frog who slept in plush guitar cases) that the owners collected. I once spent a concert sketching the guitar player bent over playing. I remember the folds of his workshirt and the smooth, reckless curve of the instrument were my favorite parts to draw. My parents pushed me up afterwards to present him with the picture. I was probably eight or ten.

The evening made me think of how I want my home to be someday, filled with laughing people with a beer in one hand and an instrument in the other. I want to host evenings like this, in our spacious home somewhere--preferrably in the middle of the country with a wide porch and a living room big enough for dancing. I want to draw creative people to me with temptations of my cooking, and Tim's love of playing music.

It was a really wonderful evening.

Alone for the summer

I feel some guilt admitting this, but I don't really miss Tim. He's been gone nearly a month. I was dreading this summer so much, remembering how miserable I was the first two times we did the distance.

I've been so busy, really, I don't even have my own time, so it's something of a relief to have the house to myself. I come home late from the show, and zone out for a little while before going to bed. I don't have to plan and make meals because I don't really eat them regularly anymore. As much as I love living with him, I like being in the apartment by myself again. It reminds me of the four blissful years I was able to live alone. Additionally, the cats are so very needy with him gone--particularly Olivia--so I get cuddles all night long from one kitty or another.

I don't know what it will be like once the play is over. It's what's occupying most of my time outside of work. Finally I'll have some evenings to just lay on the couch and stare at the ceiling, doing nothing and loving it.

Even though I have no free time whatsoever, I'm also doing more socializing than I used to. The friends I made in school are now friends I don't feel like I have to qualify by saying "school friends." And when there are things to do, invitations to accept, it always feels like such a luxury to be able to turn them down to settle in at home. (Very different than when settling in at home is the only option.)

The only problem is that when I'm running at full throttle, every now and then, I feel this twinge, an empty ache inside. I've identified it as barely hanging on--that when the frenetic pace of life slows, I'll have nothing tangible to hold onto, because then it will occur to me that I am by myself, and the person I usually curl up to and get my peace from is away.

Working with families

In my interview last week for an internship at a youth-services agency, they asked me what I liked about teenagers, and what the challenges working with them were. I love teenagers because they're living through possibly the most formative time of life. They can still have the innocence of children (wellll, not so much the ones I work with), and some of the wisdom of adulthood (ditto). And I remember what a glorious yet angst-filled time that was for me. Plus, some of them respond really well to my sarcasm, and others to my sympathetic side, so we just really get along.

What I don't like about working with them is their parents. So many of the kids are in the hospital and diagnosed with bipolar disorder or intermittant explosive disorder because their families are just pretty fucked up. So rarely do I actually believe their mental health diagnosis is actually a chemical inbalance and not the response to a difficult, traumatic upbringing.

But today I led a family session that went so well. The mom was upset but still willing to support her son. First I asked her how she wanted to see his behavior change when he got home, and she listed a bunch of things. We talked about the supportive services he was already receiving. Then I brought him into the room and asked him to tell his mom what he had been working on while in the hospital. He said his anger issues and coping skills; and I asked him to elaborate and give examples about what skills he's learning. Then I gave both of them a copy of a poem called The Meanest Mother in the World. (It's pretty cheesy but it's a good way for kids to reflect on why their parents do things like impose curfews, make them do chores, etc.) I had him read it outloud and then explain what he thought it meant, and how it applied to his mom.

Then I brought out a art project the son had done during a therapy group about suicide. It was a funeral program. He read it to his mom and explained how he created it and why he included the things he did. It was a really amazing program. I said, "What do you think it would be like for your mom, if this were a real program for your funeral?" which generated good discussion.

I wasn't planning on the next part, but the conversation led up to it really well, so I asked the two of them to do a reverse role play of mom and son. The mother really got into it, acting like her son wanting to go out and hang with friends. I think the son was irritated by the exercise, but he responded as his mom would, and afterwards, was able to articulate some good thoughts about the activity.

Then we made up a contract of behaviors, what the son would work on when he went home, what the mom would do, and some things I'd be able to help them with. The son was able to come up with his own ideas of how his behavior should change that mirrored what his mom said, and she was agreeable to the things he asked her to do, like being there for him when he needed to talk and to not blame him for things before asking first if he caused them.

Finally, I gave each of them a saying about attitude and had the son read it. Then it was over, and the family hugged. One of the nurses asked me a little later what had happened, because evidently the kid came back to group with a really bad attitude. So maybe he didn't get as much out of it as it seemed, but I don't really care. The mom was pleased with how it went, and she's very supportive of him, and will allow him to come back into the home, so that's the important part. And it made me feel really good about my (slowly but surely) improving skills.

Preparation

I think one of the great things about being married to Tim is that I have gained a handle on preparation.

I didn't own any snow boots until he came into the picture. Actually, not until now. Six years in Chicago awful winters, and I never wore snow boots.

Each day at the office, I'd get low blood sugar and start shaking, barely making it home before I collapsed, face-down into a pile of cheese and crackers. It wasn't until we explored the South Beach diet that I was able to control that, and arrive home each night not feeling like death.

Now I don't leave the house without an energy bar (homemade), a nail file, hand lotion, and enough layers to deal with whatever the weather throws at me.

I make granola a few times a month so we have breakfast (and snack food for when the low blood sugar sneaks up on us). Our cabinets are stuffed full of canned vegetables and falafel mix, so if we come home without an idea for dinner, we don't have to go out.

Preparation has bought me a great deal of calm, and I love it.

Indulgent weekend

The weekend was perfection. It started out with happy hour afterwork with Sally and Fran at an outdoor restaurant. They are always so busy that it was a real treat to get to hang out. The weather was perfect and so was the company. Afternoon bled into evening, then suddenly it was late and not a good idea to drive myself home.

Saturday I lounged around until the afternoon when Meghan could drive me back to my car. We went to a nearby cafe and had iced coffees and chatted. It was the first time I've ever felt completely comfortable hanging out just us (I usually think of her as Tim's friend first). Then we went next door to a boutique that also fosters cats and petted the friendly ones weaving in and out of the jewelry and antique displays. Then I drove home, stopping by Publix on the way. I sat in the car for a little while before shopping because there was a really good radio program about Johnny Cash on. Inside Publix, pesto-parmesan ham was on sale, an old dude commented on one of my tattooes and told me to get some of the free samples of Easter food, and I saw a very scary 7-foot-tall Easter bunny.

Once home, I had a long conversation with Hannah, who may be coming to visit! Yay! And dinner with Tim. After he went back to work, I lounged around more, watched embarrassing TV shows that I had out from NetFlix, and made carrot-ginger cupcakes from the most amazing cupcake blog I've ever read. (YUM.) After the show, we went to a party with his castmates. Riotous, late-night fun.

Sunday, we made waffles with mangos and strawberry yogurt, and watched some "Battlestar Galactica," which really bugs the crap out of me. In the afternoon, I shopped for dinner, then played a scorching game of tennis with some of Tim's classmates. Dinner was grilled chicken, jasmine rice salad, and a new, intriguing salad containing dried apricots, figs, capers, feta, mint, kalamata olives, toasted pine nuts, and jalepenos, with a vinegrette. Dessert was leftover cupcakes. Afterwards, we laid around on the floor, reading trashy magazines, and talking.

The whole weekend felt like an indulgent escape. I suppose I never have that much to do on the weekends here anyway, but this one felt so free and lazy. The only thing that would have made it more perfect would have been if our pool was already open so I could have done some lounging poolside.

It totally recharged me.

When I was a kid

When I was a kid, we didn't have running water in the house. I would open the bottom windows of my bedroom late at night and pee in the grass because I was scared of the outhouse after dark.

When I was a kid, my best friend's phone number was 2-2850. As in, 382-2850, but you didn't need to dial the first part of the prefix because we lived in such a remote, unpopulated area. We had a party line, which meant we had to listen carefully to the kind of ring the phone made, because the call might have been for our neighbors down the road, the Bakers. Sometimes we'd pick up the phone to make a call and we'd have to wait because they'd be talking to someone.

When I was a kid, my dad taught industrial arts at a high school that was widely known to be filled with deliquents. He'd come home after a stressful day and chop the heads off a few chickens. I remember watching them run around in the yard, headless.

We ate a lot of chicken, when I was a kid.

When I was a kid, we would raise one pig a year. My dad would bring home huge trays of slop from the school cafeteria to feed it. He says that when he'd butcher it, I'd hang out in the barn, watching. I don't believe that, though, because all I remember is racing back to the house the morning of slaughter and burying my head in pillows so I couldn't hear the crack of the gunshot. I remember rendering the fat, filling plastic gallon jugs with pure white lard to be frozen and used later for frying, and the golden cracklings piled into cheesecloth.

When I was a kid, I really wanted to believe that the reflection on the windows of kids riding the bus was really an alternate universe filled with fairies.

When I was a kid, my best friend and I decided we were going to be psychic, and shuffled two packs of cards together, trying to guess whether or not the next face-down card was black or red. We determined any success to be a sure indicator of our psychic ability.

When I was a kid, I pulled warm eggs from underneath crabby hens, and held eggs while ducklings pecked their way out.

When I was a kid, I dug up a rusted pistol from the garden. Another time, I dug up a salamander in the asparagus bed. I went back there every day to dig him up again and play with him until he wised up and found a different home.

When I was a kid, I hung out in the tunnel stream under the railroad while a train thundered above. Once I holed up during a pasture burning that trapped me there until the flames on the rail banks died down.

When I was a kid, I'd take my fishing pole down to my favorite spot on the creek and cast all day, without any hook.

When I was a kid, I fell down the stone steps of our cave and cracked my skull. The cave was where we went during tornados, unless it was knee-deep with flood water and snakes.

When I was a kid, my favorite smell was my mother's fresh baked whole wheat bread.

When I was a kid, our babysitter made chocolate chip cookies with us. We had a scary stove back then. When she stuck a match to light pilot, a big lobe of blue flame rose out of it. I'd never seen that in the times I'd watched my parents light the stove, so I tried to blow it out. The stove exploded. It blew out a few windows all over the house, and singed off the hair on our faces.

Babysitters never came back twice, when I was a kid.

All Het up

Today I encountered a lot of petty bullshit. Sometimes I am in awe of how mean-spirited, petty, and vindictive women can be when they have bigger problems they don't want to face. I ended my day confronting a client, "I've heard this report about your behavior. Did you do it? What about this report? Is it true?"

"I have witnessed myself the way you bully and pick at other women. It needs to stop."

Only it didn't. I left work only moments before she blew up at the other clients. How do I know this? Because I got a phone call. At home. From a client. This is the second time in two weeks that I have been called at home about client problems and complaints.

It's my fault, really. One day I took a client to a job interview right around the corner from my apartment, so I dropped her off, gave her my number, and went home to have lunch with Tim. I paused before handing over my number, but then I thought of the alternative, her calling back to the agency, and them calling me on my cell phone. It just seemed easier this way.

Oh boy was I not thinking. After the first call (and subsequent huge blowup that ensued that night, getting both my boss and I in trouble), I forgot to tell the client, "don't ever do that again. Throw away my number."

So she gave it to another woman who had a problem tonight to discuss with me.

Luckily, I can refer most problems (ish) to my boss, and she's used to being called at all hours with client strife and agency crisis, but I haven't heard back from her yet tonight, so I'm not going to be able to sleep. Wondering how the situation is playing out has me on edge all night.
About my job, I thought: "At least I can leave work at work," for I am pretty good at that. But I can't when it calls me at all hours.

What also makes me not be able to sleep are my actions before I left work. Initially, I was pretty proud of myself for confronting a slippery, bitchy, bullying woman. I've needed to for a while, but never much have the nerve.

But then I think, "that's why she blew up at the other clients." If I had just kept my mouth shut . . .

If I had just kept my mouth shut, then I'd have to put up with daily tattlings from other clients, though.

What the hell is the right thing to do in this situation? I'm sure not looking forward to tomorrow.

Home again

Well, I guess the tide has turned. The home I longed for this weekend was with Tim, not in Chicago where I was. The part that I miss now is family, not the city.

The only time I had a visceral reaction to being back in the city was with my friend Bob. We had a cheap, delicious sushi dinner, and drinks at a cheap dive bar. Maybe it was the whiskies and PBRs we were double-fisting, but that's the part I miss: friends, good conversation in dusty bars.

Also, Sunday morning, I walked through my sister's neighborhood slowly, headed for a cafe more for the experience of being in the hood rather than needing the caffeine.

It was, of course, fabulous being back. But it didn't hurt to leave as much as I expected.

I thought all weekend about how much better it would have been if Tim was there, so I wouldn't have to miss him. And I got ideas of ways to improve our apartment.

The hard part was returning to a cluttered, messy apartment, carpet stained by spills and cat puke after being in airy apartments all weekend that had hardwood floors and high ceilings. But it prompted discussion of how to make things more habitable--a necessity since we're staying for two extra years. So we reorganized the living room and dining room, and it looks more spacious now. I am happier.

But I realized finally that my home is Tim. It doesn't matter (too much) where we're living, as long as we are together.

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.

Thoroughly satisfying

My birthday. I had tea and granola with fruit for early breakfast, laid around in the morning, then went to the library to get a new library card. The woman who set me up with the card had relatives in Alabama, so we bonded over that. (She spent her childhood summers about half an hour away from where I lived.)

I met Hannah and Katie for a totally delicious second breakfast of bacon lettuce tomato avocado and fried egg sandwiches on croissants, then Katie and I went back to her apartment to be slugs and watch Veronica Mars for a while. Then we went to see Talledega Nights--which is really best viewed as a matinee, or maybe a rental.* In the evening, I went out for a swank dinner with Katie and Chris. Heirloom tomato, fresh mozarella salad, beef tenderloin with roasted farro, spinach, and mushrooms in a cabernet reduction sauce, and, sweet Jesus, espresso creme brulee with fresh raspberries. Then I met Hannah for a drink on the patio of our favorite cafe in my neighborhood, and their dirty martini with a blue-cheese-stuffed olive was divine.

After, I walked home in a daze. I haven't yet sussed out my neighborhood enough to know if I feel safe walking home in the dark at 10:30 p.m., but I want to be. So I did it anyway, and it was fine.

I don't think I feel 30. I don't know what 30 feels like. I suspect that today I'm fine, but tomorrow I'll wake up and freak out.

* I suspect the next time I get really drunk, I'll quote the most hysterical line from it: "Who's retarded now??" Or flip someone off and say, "Yeah. Got it at Target. It was on sale." Ok, I guess you really have to see the movie to appreciate it.

I drink alone

Friday was the worst day of my work life thus far. It involved claims of suicidal tendancies, a very long wait at the emergency room, and a feeling of complete and utter helplessness. And it all happened in not just eight hours, but twelve. I actually cried when I was done. (No matter how upsetting or frustrating things get, I rarely cry at work.)

I left work at 8 p.m., having been too busy to eat lunch or dinner, and drove through wet streets that shone during flashes of lightning. (It was a dark and stormy night.) I didn't know what to do, where to go, how to process my day, and how to work up strength to return to work on Monday. I just knew I couldn't think about it.

I ended up at my favorite burrito lounge. Busy on a Friday night, there was only room at the bar, which is where I wanted to be.

I'm not entirely at ease--not at all, in fact--being alone at a bar. But I absolutely couldn't be with anyone at the moment, nor could I face going home.

I ordered a Corona, and hunched over the bar. It was awkward. For me, anyway. No doubt no one else in the bar and restaurant even gave a second thought to me, but I felt out of place and uneasy in my position. It helped to keep a hand on my beer, and soon I drained it. My brain slowed down and emptied. I started to feel blessedly numb. I stopped worrying about how I looked to others, and what they thought. I stopped worrying if I looked too exhausted or worried or upset.

The bartender was inept, but he finally noticed my empty bottle, and gave me another. I ordered food. I ate slowly, and memorized the labels on the bottles behind the bar. I tried not to stare at the people in conversation to either side of me. I got drunkish.

I was ready to leave when the bartender set down another beer, and said it was from a guy in the kitchen. I think he was a little runty guy, and I was far too old for him. But I felt it would be poor form to turn down the drink, and besides, it was only the second time a stranger had ever bought me a drink (the first was at a club in college, when the waitress pointed out a skeevy guy who offered a drink and suggested I turn him down. I got a water instead.). He didn't bother me. In fact, he didn't even approach me. He was probably the type who just likes to be able to say he's gotten a woman's drink before.

I drank it slowly, for I still had to drive. And then I was ready, and my mind was softer and clearer and more peaceful, and I was able to put work behind me and go home.

It's not something I can do easily or often, but in the end, I was glad I did. I like being able to do things alone.

Home is where the heart is

Or the Tim, I guess.

I was thinking about living here recently. Maybe it was running into Sally in the grocery store, which made things feel small-town and homey.

I watched the news last night, which reported this new development in a cool section of town. The city razed a rundown block and is planning to build restaurants, outdoor cafes, boutiques, etc, in its place. And a downtown alley near the baseball stadium is being considered as a touristy spot for fountains, trees, and cafes and bars. I got excited--then I realized I wouldn't be here to see it.

They broadcast the opening game of baseball on NBC Thursday, and I watched some of it, to see if I recognized anyone in the stands.

When did this become home? I'm going to miss it. I had no idea I'd fall so hard for a small city (and one so filled with suburban nightmares like strip malls).

This makes me think, maybe I can live anywhere, as long as I have Tim. He makes things bearable, but it occurs to me that what I have here, I created myself. I wake up next to him, and he makes me breakfast, but when I go out in the world, I'm doing it by myself.

In the theatre, I'm his wife. But everywhere else, I'm just me. And it's dawning on me just how much I'm capable of.

Where I'm from

I know it's more complex than where I was born and raised. But I still never know how to answer people when they ask.

I was born in Colorado. Though I spent a mere six months there, and only returned to camp and backpack there as a child, leaving the flat dust bowl prairies of western Kansas and eastern Colorado, seeing the mountains emerge from the clouds, has always felt like coming home.

Kansas. Where I spent twenty-one years of life. Has never, ever, EVER felt like home. It was always strange to feel so isolated, an outsider to the place that was fully saturated in my history. The whole time I was growing up there, I'd wonder what I would have been like had we stayed in Colorado. I had this idea that I would have felt more comfortable being ME. Maybe I would have. After all, we left a hippie enclave to establish a life in a thoroughly conservative small town. Aside from a group of family friends, no one else lived the way we did. (And of course, by the time the real estate boom hit Boulder, I would have been the daughter of wealthy parents, for the property they owned back in the seventies is now worth millions.)

Chicago. That's what I always say when people ask. Yet I really only spent six or seven years there. How accurate or appropriate is it to use that as my answer then? I feel all melodramatic, like I'm back in high school poetry class, talking about how my heart belongs to Chicago. But it's true.

Staff Christmas party

In my opinion, you can't be fully a part of workplace friendship until you've had one too many drinks and danced your ass off in front of co-workers, half in earnest, half in self-deprication.

Well, mission accomplished. Staff Christmas party last night. It was held in an old Victorian home turned restaurant/catering business. We had an almost passable meal of heavy appetizers, and did a strange gift exchange that involved standing in a circle and passing gifts as someone read "Night Before Christmas" with lefts and rights inserted in the text. It was BYOB, and I shared a bottle of wine with someone.

So by the time the DJ cranked up the volume on the music, indicating it was dancing time, it was a moderately surreal evening. I spent some extraordinarily anti-social time texting a few people about the weirdness, and then, somehow, I really got into it.

My boss tore it up. She goes to step dance clubs in Birmingham and Atlanta, and knows all the moves. It was so much fun just to sit and watch her, but she also taught me a few of the easier ones, too. Eventually, the party cleared out until there about ten of us, a few cases of beer, and loud music. The wine buzz had worn off by then, but everyone, regardless of having a lot or no rhythm, was dancing. One older woman, an art therapist I really like, told me my new nickname was "Catwoman," because of the way I danced.

Though she said it was a compliment, I'm still not sure. I like dancing, and I try to forget that I may look a fool while doing it. It took me about sixteen years to lose my inhibitions on the dance floor, and I don't want to gain them back.

The party wound down, and we diehards helped clean up (I felt we should, for we stayed late late late), then made plans for a few of us to continue the party at someone's home. We all pulled out of the parking lot to caravan there, and I heard a noise that sounded like a tire blowout. But I didn't start swerving or anything, so I kept driving. Fran was right behind me, and she slowed down. A few blocks later, I called her, and she said the noise was a gunshot! And that she saw a man emerge from the apartment building across from the restaurant holding a gun out in front of him, pointing it at someone. She slowed down to call 911. If we had been five minutes later leaving the restaurant, we would have walked onto the whole scene.

So we went to one of my co-worker's houses. She's probably about my mother's age, and lives in a beautiful subdivision in a stunning house. Five of us ended up in her favorite room of the house, that she calls the Birdcage. A tiny converted attic, it has sloping ceilings, skylights, and cozy furniture. We cuddled up with throw blankets, ice cream, and hot cocoa, and stayed up until 1:30 a.m. talking. It was cozy and relaxing.

I feel like I'm a part of a group of friends now. It's wonderful.

The great pumpkin caper

Maybe caper is the wrong word, because that makes it sound frolicsome, when really it's a big (little) pumpkin mystery.

Two cute, baby pumpkins sitting on the porch. Innocently sunning themselves, waiting for their big debut at Halloween, only to be cut short. Very short.

Last night when I came home:

It looks like they spontaneously combusted. Like Dementors paid them a visit and sucked out their will to live.

Our porch:


As you can see by this picture in particular (our door is at top right), the up stairs end up by our neighbor's door, so anyone near our door is definitely there for a reason.


I just don't know what reason that could be. The pumpkins don't look like they've been disturbed. The pile of guts is fairly neat, and there was but one or two seeds on the ground--it didn't look like a battlefield.

Tonight when I came home (I'm considering leaving everything intact for our Halloween party next week):

(And lest anyone doubt my editorial prowess, I'm not the one who mispelled anonymous.)

First Friday

It would be embarrassing to say that I'm buzzed from four tablespoon-sized cups of wine, so I'll say it's the excitement of having something to do with a new friend tonight.

My new work friend Fran and I went to the art museum for their First Friday activities. Wine tasting, snacks, cash bar, a jazzy country band, and art. I invited her to go because we had recently talked about the special photography exhibits that were about to close at the museum: Ansel Adams and William Wegman. We wandered the halls (the building and grounds are extraordinarily beautiful; the regular art collection merely so-so) and tried to carry on a conversation as the band's danceable music and loud voices of other people bounced off the tile floors. Terrible acoustics, there.

It was a neat event. I might have appreciated it in and of itself had my mind not currently been filled with Chicago again, so I compared it to the First Friday art openings I had been to there, and it was, well, very different. In Chicago, I could have indulged in more wine, because I wouldn't have to worry about driving home. And after the galleries closed, my friends and I would have spent many minutes narrowing down the choices of what to do next.

There are too many obstacles here: I considered inviting Fran to come over because we both enjoyed one of the proseccos at the tasting, and we could have gotten a bottle at Fresh Market, but then how would she have gotten herself home after we polished off a bottle together? And also, I need to clean the apartment because the MIL is arriving any minute.

But, I am making a new friend, and that's the most important part.