City Wendy

For Good

I've been using copies of the Chicago Reader to pack all my belongings in boxes to be shipped out to storage on Saturday morning. Ironically, the cover story of this week's Reader is about the staff's favorite things in Chicago. Somehow, it seems almost poetic that I'm wrapping my coffee mugs and Pier 1 vases in articles about the sweet spot at the Empty Bottle and matinees at the Music Box. I wonder, months from now when I'm settled in New York and a new apartment, if I'll feel a tinge of homesickness while unpacking my stuff as I'm reminded of Chicago's charm in the wrinkled, crumpled pages of the Reader.

Oh, I'll miss you, Chicago. I'll miss your vast lake and tree-lined streets and neighborhood summer fests. I'll miss all the things I always meant to do and never got around to. I'll miss the inky-haired Palestinian woman who owns the Middle Eastern Bakery on Foster and Clark and always waves the 13 cents I can't seem to find in my change purse when I'm paying for my baklava and falafel. And I'll miss the owner of the liquor store across the street whom, when I showed up with my gay best friend  five years ago and a bouquet of flowers I took home from my flower shop gig, I managed to convince I'd just gotten married. And I'll miss Winnemac Park where I've whiled away many an hour on my back staring at the sky from my spot under the weeping willow tree daydreaming about nothing and everything all at the same time.

And I'll miss my apartment where I've lived for 3 years and 3 months--the longest I've ever lived anywhere in my life. I'll miss the way the light floods the livingroom in the early afternoon and how all my things fit perfectly and I never once had to compromise with anyone about what color to paint the walls and what to put where and how much room I could have in the closet.

"I'm going to miss all my friends," I said to Niki last week on our final visit to Hollywood Beach, flicking a piece of sand from beneath my fingernail, "I'm really gonna miss you all."

And I said it again to myself on Saturday as I jogged down Glenwood for one of the last times. I said it to myself and suddenly I couldn't get enough air and I was inhaling desperately, trying to fill my lungs, and I couldn't, and I started choking back tears, and I sat on the curb and untied and retied the laces of my tennis shoes just to have something else to focus on besides how much everything in my life is about to change and I'm going to a place where I know hardly anyone and nothing's ever going to be the same.

"Yeah," Niki replied back at the beach, "But in just a few days you're going to be with your best friend and you're going to be able to see him all the time."

And after a year and a half of quick hellos and too many good-byes and almost 30 roundtrip flights between us and countless hours in the airport and on buses and trains and in taxi cabs just to get to one another, there's nothing that sounds better right now than seeing Drew in a couple of days and knowing that this time it's for good.

So, good-bye, Windy City.
I'll post again next week from the Big Apple.

Adjustments

Today I sold the bookshelf that I got three years ago at Target and put together wrong so it was lopsided and I was too lazy to fix it and so I called it the Leaning Tower of Books all this time. I got 25 bucks for it, which is totally better than the nothing I would have gotten had I left it in the alley like I orginally planned before the vet got me all wound up yesterday about how expensive New York is. So now I can totally afford a salad at Dean and Deluca.

I also sold my drop-leaf table that I inherited 6 years ago when my grandparents downsized from their 4 bedroom house  of 40 years to their 2-bedroom apartment. I remember putting the leaves in that table and hosting Thanksgiving with my ex-boyfriend for our neighbors and some friends in our 2nd year here--a party of 12 or so. I also remember sitting at the table in my grandparents' basement when I was a kid and passing late summer  nights working on puzzles and coloring inside the lines of my Bugs Bunny coloring book. I told the people who bought the table that my grandparents got it when they were first married. I don't know if that's really true or not--it could be--but even if not, it seemed a good thing to tell a couple who's just been married two weeks.

I still have a window unit to get rid of, a sofa to sell, and a little dinette set to unload. I've sold or given away boxes and boxes of clothes, knick-knacks, books and CDs, all kinds of crap. And in his apartment in Manhattan, Drew is doing the same thing, making room for me and the stuff I've got left. He told me today he's taken 5 bags of clothes to the Savation Army and that he's carved room for me in half of his closet and three of his shelves.

Hmm...half a closet, huh??
Boy, he's in for a big surprise.

Farther away from YOU

I took the cats to the vet this morning to get the rabies vaccine and health ceritificate needed for them to fly with me next week.
"So, you're moving, huh?" the vet asked as he pulled Miles out from his Sherpa bag and placed him on a scale.
"Yeah," I answered, scratching Miles behind the ears to calm him.
"Where to?" he said.
"New York," I replied.
"New York City?" he asked.
"Hm-mm." I said.
"Oh, but it's soooo expensive there!!" he exclaimed, waving his hands about as if to fan the flames of my anxiety even more, as if it hadn't occured to me yet that New York has the highest rents of almost any other city in the world and oh.my. god, I don't even have a job or much savings and the size of my student loan debt is about the same as a mortgage for a 2-bedroom house in Boise, Idaho, and, I mean, what am I--totally crazy??
So I replied to his surprisingly common, yet completely rude remark the same way I've begun replying to everyone who responds similarly when I tell them I'm moving to NYC: "Well, it may be "so expensive" there, but it's also so far away from you!!"

That always makes me feel better.

Anchors away

Today is Monday and day-one in an indeterminable period of unemployment. Friday was my last day of work and on Saturday morning I sold my car. Passing over the keys to its new owner--a tall, wiry black kid from south side who reminded me a little of Theo Huxtable--was like lifting an anchor on my life here. I wrote about my car in this post and its significance in my life, so I won't repeat myself, but suffice to say that walking away from my car for the last time was an emotional moment.

Also in this post, I wrote about my ex-boyfriend, B--the one I moved to Chicago with. He drove the Ryder truck filled with our belongings, and I drove the car I just sold and we arrived in Chicago after a two-day drive on an early August afternoon in 2000. Three and half years later, we went our separate ways and I've had very little contact with him since. But it was on my mind that I should call him at some point and tell him I was moving. It seemed the right thing to do since we moved here together and all, and I know if the tables were reversed and he were leaving Chicago, I'd want to know, if only to put to rest my wondering if I might run into him eventually. So two weeks ago I called him for the first time in a couple of years. We talked for about 12 minutes--long enough to tell each other we were both happy. Long enough for complete closure.

I'm down to just a few more things to cross off my to-do list. Mostly at this point, I'm just saying good-bye to people and packing. My friends threw me a going-away party on Saturday night. We played Roxanne. Have you ever played? Put on Roxanne by the Police and break into two teams. Every time the Police sing "Roxanne," one team drinks, and every time they sing , "You don't have to put on the red light," the other team drinks. Impressively, a couple of my friends finished entire cans of Budweiser by the second verse. I, on the other hand, barely got through half a can before I was ready to barf.

Towards the end of the night, we did something I didn't think would ever happen again: we went to Cafe Bong! In a surprising and wonderful turn of events, Ginnie bought back the Bong last week, which is like the best going-away gift ever. So a bunch of us headed over later in the night and finished up the party singing karaoeke and drinking special Cafe Bong shots. In typical Bong style, I attempted a very tricky dance move--something that involved lifting my leg ear-high and turning swiftly on my tippy-toes while singing a Duran Duran song. I totally split  my pants. I really couldn't imagine a better way to end my going away party.

T-Minus 16 days!

Alert! Alert! I have now entered the "crazy zone!" You know the one (and if you don't, God bless you!)--the one where you are so overwhelmed with all the little details that need to be tended to, including those that pop up just as one is crossed off the list, all of which are tedious and annoying and require more mental dexterity than your two-cocktail-a-day diet leaves much room for, but you can't  give up the gin, for without it, you would turn into a pile of mush on the sidewalk to be kicked sideways to the curb! And on top of it all--on top of the tedious details that pop up relentlessly depsite your every effort to best them once and for all--is your emotional state, swaying a little to swiftly for comfort from one end of the spectrum to another--sailing from high-stakes anxiety right through sadness, excitement, giddiness, and "OH MY GOD! Am I really doing this? I am! Okay, Well, then."

It's shaky ground, really, and the things that are involved in closing a life chapter and starting a new one are the exact reason I don't dare to ever plan a fancy wedding. Basically, I wish everything in life could be reduced to a simple pretty dress, some $2 nail polish, drinks with umbrellas, a catchy song, and a handful of cool people you love. If I do get married one day, I think I could pull that off, but moving? Unfortunately, moving requires so much more, very little of which involve drink umbrellas or nail polish, so I'm kind of out of my comfort zone here.

The good news is that I posted my car on Craigslist yesterday and after fielding some questionable potential buyers, and being stood by one already, I have found someone who seems VERY promising, if only for her outgoing voice mail message which, in character, pretends to be a pimp asking her hos for the money and warning bill collectors they will be paid in no-buary. When selling a car, I suppose this would be a turn-off for most, but when I heard that message, I thought, "Hells yeah! I found the next owner of my baby!" She's coming to look at the car on Saturday, so keep your fingers crossed for me that she loves Peri as much as I have.

Tomorrow is my last day of work--a day I have been looking forward to pretty much since I started the job. I won't get into the specifics, but suffice it to say, I will be celebrating extra hard at my going away party Saturday night. Of course, I'd have more reason to celebrate if I actually knew where my next paycheck is coming from, but we won't think about that right now, will we? I'm still scouring the classifieds, obsessively refreshing mediabistro and Craigslist throughout the day and have actually found a few positions I could get excited about. Whether the feeling is mututal is up in the air, and only one more thing that adds to my ever-increasing anxiety.

Anyway, anyway, anyway. I don't know where I'm going with this. I shall close now and head off on my bike to have burgers at Moody's one last time. ta-ta.

Viva L'Anorexia!

Can we talk about Britney for a second? I don't want to trash her, actually. I want to talk about her body. Apparently, she's disgusting? Tubby? Fat and sloppy? Insanely out-of-shape? How could she parade around on national TV looking that gross?
At least, that's what I'm hearing from everyone: the media, blogs, friends, etc.
Even last night on the phone when I asked Drew what he thought of her "performance," he mentioned how out-of-shape she looked.
"Really?" I asked, " She's in better shape than I am!"

And it's true. I've been more self-indulgent than usual the last few months, nay, year. I've been boozing more than I should, eating more sweets and fried stuff and not getting enough exercise and though I still feel pretty good, my figure has suffered. I've gained nearly 10 pounds and have gone up a dress size. And still? When I look in  the mirror, I don't see gross, disgusting, tubby, fat and sloppy. I think I look okay! Not the best I ever have looked, but  not so bad!

But now? Well, apparently the world --including my boyfriend, I believe--thinks a body in better shape than mine is a travesty--is disgusting. I guess that explains why that terrible little man on the plane a few months ago called me fat.
Hmm...well, if 135 pounds on a 5'7" frame is fat and disgusting, no wonder there are so many girls who idolize the Olsen twins and Nicole Richie. Viva l'anorexia!!

Moving in the Right Direction

Drew just left. (Boo-hoo). The only upside is that this is the last good-bye we'll ever make! Well, I shouldn't say ever--one never knows what life has in store...and I do suppose we'll still have long weekends apart and occasional separate vactions and the like, but as far as our long-distance relationship goes, this is it--the final weekend visit!!  The next time I see Drew--in less than three weeks--he'll be flying in to help me finish up packing, send my stuff off with the movers, and then load the cats onto a plane for our new home in New York.  In just 20 days, we'll go from long distance to short distance...very short distance.

I'll be staying with Drew when I first get to town--keeping my stuff in storage here in Chicago and "sending for it" once I have a job and am a bit more settled in NYC. People keep asking if I'll be getting my own place once I find a job and when I say, "yes," half the people say, "oh, good--smart girl," and the other half say, "but why?" I told Drew about this and he says when he has this same discussion with people, everyone just answers with the latter. The truth is, of course, that it's no one's business, really, and that for as much as I repect friends' and family's advice and insight, people just pretty much project their own stuff on everyone else with little reference to the advisee. Ask people why they think we should or shouldn't live together right off the bat, and chances are their opinion--and they will have an opinion--will be based on a past relationship of their own or someone close to them. Rarely is it based on my relationship and what's between Drew and me. And that's fine...it's just something I have to get used to in being part of a couple--what everything else thinks is right for us.
All this is to say: "Oh My God--I'm gonna be living with a boy again!!!"

On my last visit to New York, I asked Drew to please start cleaning out his closets and drawers and stuff so there'd be room for my shirts and skirts and shoes and what not. Even if I'm there for just a couple of months, there's got to be some space for my shoes, you know. He assures me he's made room, and I have no choice but to believe him--especially since I've now sent two suitcases full of stuff and I assume he's putting my things somewhere other than the floor. Right??

(Oh my God--I'm gonna be living with a boy again!!)

Anyway, it was so nice having Drew here for my birthday weekend--it was a lovely one, indeed, full of chocolate crepes, champagne, plenty of phone calls and visits from friends, indulgent meals, fabulous gifts, bike rides, and lakefront daydreaming. I feel just a wee-bit spoiled after it, and still have a cake celebration at a friend's house this evening and my going away party next weekend to look forward to. There's nothing like leaving town on the heels of a birthday to bring out the well-wishers and plans for celebratory drinks and last dinners and all that jazz. I do feel loved, if not just a little sad to be leaving all these gorgeous friends o' mine to a city where I can count the number of aquaintances on about one and a half hands. And that's including the cab driver from my last visit who gave me his card when I tipped him about 40% on account of him getting me to the airport through a big-ass parade in midtown.

I do feel like I'm brimming over with emotion lately. In this last week, I've started organzing files and such and part of that involves going through these boxes of old photos and cards and letters (because maybe it's time to get rid of those old birthday cards from 1996?). In the evenings after work, I've been spending an hour or so reading these notes from people I haven't seen or heard of in years (which means no time for exercise, but sometimes you have to make sacrifices in life). I've also been poring over letters from close friends and family sent in my early days of college. One night, I invited Katy over and we laughed at some letters she sent when we were still teenagers. I found a 29-page letter from my mom that she mailed my first week of college--over 13 years ago, and of the 28 pages, 27 1/2 were questions she wanted answered immediately and in "the order they were asked," she wrote, including how many feet the bathroom was from my dorm room. I'm not sure who had the tougher transition when I moved from Germany to the states for school where I didn't know a soul--me or my endearingly overbearing mother. (She's since relaxed some--phone calls only last two hours now and emails are often less that ten paragraphs!)

I've moved before--obviously. I had 5 international moves through 3 different countries, and about a dozen different homes before I finished high school, so moving is like in my DNA or something. But this move feels different--more permanent somehow, like more of a life change, a marker of time passing--of moving from one life stage to another. But I'm probably just being overly dramatic. As usual.

At any rate, I found a four-leaf clover today. Drew and I were sitting at the lakefront--probably our last visit there together...maybe ever--and I suddenly got the itch to clover-hunt. It took about five minutes and I found it. The last time I found a 4-leaf clover was over a year ago--in May...the month I met Drew and the summer I finished grad school and really felt a transition starting. I found two that day, actually, just seconds apart. I'd like to think they're all good signs--that maybe, after all this time and countless mis-steps, I'm finally moving in the right direction.

Is Birthday Orange the Opposite of Birthday Blue??

The moving sale was a big success! I got rid of so much junk and I made over $200 (which I promptly spent on G&T’s, Margaritas, Sangria, and fried food)! Plus, I still have my bigger ticket items to get rid of a little closer to the move date, which I hope will bring in another little chunk of dough (does anyone want to buy my 10-year old car?? an 8-year-old sofa? a djembe drum? an old rug with cat barf stains? You want it. You know it). I tell you what, though—if you ever want to get to know your neighbors and the general freaks in your hood, you should totally go through your dresser drawers and closets, box up some junk, haul it out to your curb and sit with it for a few hours. I guarantee you will get some whack-jobs and wierdos who’ll want to chat you up and throw wads of cash at you for your used socks and burned-down candles.

Speaking of weirdos, when I wasn't selling my crap on the front lawn, I was at Hollywood Beach all weekend catching the final days fo the Hollywood Show. If you live in Chicago and haven't been to Hollywood Beach on a summer afternoon, you don’t know what you’re missing. Seriously, dental floss thongs and Pageant Parades at the lake front, y’all. I estimate I’ve spent nearly 25 days at Hollywood this summer alone and when I leave, it will be the thing I'll miss most (after my friends, and the CT-fucking-A, of course).

I have 8 more days of work and then I’ll be officially unemployed—a fact that’s got me just a wee bit anxious.

What doesn’t have me even the least bit anxious, though, is my birthday this weekend. This morning on my drive into work, I was thinking to myself, “Wow! 32! 32 birthdays! 32 , 32, 32—I like the sound of that. I like the way it feels. 32 is a good age—bring it on—yay 32!!” And then I suddenly remembered that I’m not actually not turning 32, I’m turning 31! And that’s even better! Because: Fun, fun, thirty-one!! 31 flavors at Baskin Robbins. THIRTY-ONE! Thirty-one is going to be good and I can’t wait! Bring it on! Turning 31 is way better than turning 30. Turning 30 kind of sucked—I had bad hair, no plans, my boyfriend was far away, and I was flat-fucking broke. But 31? Bring it, bitches! I have good hair (thanks to Brad at Sine Qua Non Salon--you should totally go see him!), good plans, my boyfriend will be here, and I just made $200 selling old shirts with deodorant stains. Yeah man, this year is gonna rock.