Second Chances

I met you a few years ago, and honestly, I was not very impressed.  Perhaps it was because you were popular, and everyone wanted a go at you.  And I do mean everyone - moms, kids, teens, elders, probably dads when they were alone.  I didn't understand all the hype, really, but I tried you out for the sake of being a part of something.  I gave up on you not even halfway through, but now, in the clarity that post-college life brings (haha), I would like to give you a second chance.  Now that you are more mature, successful, and complete, I think it's worth a shot.  I'm talking to you, Harry Potter.  I read about your first three years at Hogwarts over the course of a winter break when I was in college a few years back.  Both of my younger siblings were obsessed, and you came highly recommended.  Not all of your books were published at this point, which is possibly why I had little desire to see you through your teenage years.  Also, and don't judge me here, I may have been a bit snobbish about my reading-for-pleasure list (I'm at a University where I read classic literature and discuss it over lattes at the local coffee shop with people who make their own clothes and steal toilet paper from college bathrooms).  So, a part of this post comes in the form of an apology: I may have judged you too soon, Harry, and I'm sorry for that.  What brought about my change of heart, you ask?  Well, that's a good question, and I think I can attribute it to two things.  One, I have been reading a lot of non-fiction and memoirs recently, and some of it's been disappointing.  Two, I took a break in that drab phase to read The Hunger Games, which, like your story, stemmed from a very basic and fantastic idea.  I lost myself in those books, especially the first and the second, and I can't find anything to replace the Rue-sized hole left in the atrium of my heart reserved for fictional characters.  I hope you can help me.  I also remember being quite fond of your friends, especially Hermoine, whose name I pronounced entirely wrong in my head until I saw the movies.  Ah, speaking of which, I have seen all eight movies, and I really loved the last couple.  I hope you don't think this is cheating.  You should know that I always defend books versus their movie versions on principal.  So here we are.  Just two people, getting to know each other.  Want to hang out?  I know this great local coffee shop in town... 

Inspirations/Delusions

Spring. No one will really say it, because we're all afraid the weather gods will hear us and punish our naivety with a snowstorm. But I think, I hope, it just might be here.

Truth: I am not my best self in the winter. I was a bit unhappy with going to and from work in the dark. I was so delusional that, while saving a parking spot for my husband who was just around the corner, I yelled at a lady trying to back into the spot. I flailed my arms like a yeti, trying to appear larger and scare her with my craziness. Who does that? Who does that in Chicago? Our neighborhood is fairly safe, but all bets are off when it snows. This city hardens you, freezes you until you are mean.

So now I am thawing out, and becoming inspired by the littlest of things. I'm whistling as I cook dinner, greeting people and dogs on the street, and pausing to notice the emerging tulip buds. Grocery shopping isn't a chore, it's an opportunity to awaken my olefactory sense. I bought, like, five bunches of cilantro because they smelled good. I smiled during a workout. Who does that? And what was wrong with me before?

I had the winter crazies, and no real way of pulling myself out. I usually get a mild bout of Seasonal Affective Disorder, where I am just a bit grumpy until I get some Vitamin D. Heaven help me if we get an actual Chicago winter this year. Plan: Prepare for the worst. Create a survival kit for next winter, a box full of delusions to trick myself. New Business idea: Box Full O' Summer.

TIMATS, Part 2

Can you freaking believe this weather? I was definitely not prepared (I've been ingnoring my razor's pleas for employment), and neither was the rest of Chicago. I write this with confidence, because I saw all of Chicago this weekend celebrating St. Patrick's Day in shorts and tanktops. It was like a Lollapoloozer mated with a caveman or woman, and the offspring dressed up like a leprachaun. Hairy, pale-skinned, sun-bothered people stumbling drunk through Chicago at all times of the day, asking if you've seen their lucky charms. It was awesome! If you haven't been to Chi-town to see the river dyed green, it's definitely worth a trip, especially if a little global warming throws you a bone (I know, I know, I've read the research, but it just sounded good here).

After a week of the warmest March-weather Chicago has EVER SEEN, and after today's headline that the pollen count in Georgia is stupid-high, I can honestly say that there is nothing I miss at this moment in time. Sorry, South, but the Midwest has you beat this week. I have a really old, dark green, Honda accord that is still dark green even though spring has apparently sprung. I am positive you southerners will all need car-washes to distinguish the hue of your automobile after today. I will, however, be missing the South and her abundance of air-conditioned buildings as soon as it turns too hot to be inside or outside. But for now, I will just enjoy my rooftop bar-view, a fresh beer on tap, and rub it in your face until it snows again.

The Great States Challenge

So I work with a bunch of Israelis. In the flesh, and as a stereotype, they are just as blunt as that opening sentence. In the office they out-number the Americans by a ratio of four to one, and in sheer vocal volume, the ratio is indeterminate but very significant. They are fiercely patriotic, persistently argumentative, and passionate about everything. Many attribute the patriotism to the fact that almost all citizens serve in the army - two years for women and three for men. Perhaps, as per my conversation with an Israeli coworker of mine, some of it can be attributed to their love and attachment to the land itself. She also suggested that we Americans, as a stereotype, haven't seen much of our country. To her, this was nothing short of unpatriotic, as most Israelis have traveled the length of their country and beyond. To be fair to us, it's easier to travel to the nether regions of one's homeland when it's only the size of New Jersey. But just how much of this great, sprawling map have we experienced? In an effort to tally how many states I have visited, I give to you the Great States Challenge. Here are the rules in case you want to try this at home; they're not too complicated.

Rule One: One must have spent at least one full day in a given state for it to count, and the extent of the travel is self-discretionary.

Rule Two: One has to have been old enough to remember the visit for it to count.

Rule Three: One must make an effort to visit all remaining states, as fruitless as it may seem. There has to be something good in South Dakota.

In no particular order:

Georgia: I lived there for most of my life to date, and also visited the lovely coastal city of Savannah, and the northern Blue Ridge Mountains.

Alabama: Family vacation to the U.S. Space and Rocket Center in Huntsville. Visited friends in Tuscaloosa at the University of Alabama. Beach vacation in Gulf Shores.

Mississippi: Football games at Ole Miss, also a band trip in high school to the University of Southern Miss.

Louisiana: Multi-day bowl trip to New Orleans for the Sugar Bowl. Bourbon Street. New Years. Go there.

Florida: Where haven't I been here? Disney vacation. Beach towns of Destin, St. Augustine, Ft. Lauderdale, Seaside. Football in Gainesville - the world's largest outdoor cocktail party. I will probably retire here.

South Carolina: Hilton Head, every summer. Football games in Columbia.

North Carolina: I bought my flute here in Raleigh. This one might not count.

Tennessee: Nashville, the best city in the South. My best friend lives here, and I visit often. I've also been to Gatlinburg, which is good to see once but never again.

Massachusetts: Visited my aunt, uncle, and cousins in Boston when searching for colleges.

New York: Born here, been back to visit the Big Apple.

Illinois: I live here now.

Wisconsin: July 4, 2011 to visit best friend's family in Whitefish Bay.

Virginia: Trekked all over in my junior year in high school - UVA, Vtech, University of Richmond (the spiders!)

West Virginia: Family vacation with Class VI rapids - a week on the New River!

Indiana: Spent some time at Indiana University.

Michigan: Visited family in Detroit - my grandfather used to own a butcher shop on 8 Mile Road!

Ohio: I used to spend the summers in Cleveland.

Pennsylvania: My grandparents used to live in the Pocono Mountains - Grandpa taught me how to fish here.

Kentucky - Been for football games. Somebody is going to have to sales pitch me this state before I find a reason to go back.

Colorado: Summer backpack and rockclimbing in Rocky Mountain National Park.

Utah: Arches National Park, skiing in Park City.

Arizona: Family vacation in Phoenix, Tuscon, Sedona, Grand Canyon!

California: San Fran, Disney Land, Wine Country.

Are we counting D.C.? Family vacation to Washington D.C. SO MANY MUSEUMS.

23 States and one Capital! Holy cow I have so many to go, and I think I'll be starting with Hawaii after this Chicago winter. Take the challenge, post the results below, and send me your suggestions!

I Would Like to Quit on Valentine's Day

Today I had one of those days at work that I'm sure we've all had. Something bad happens. Someone gets mad and yells. You get blamed for things that you're positive are not your fault (I sent you those emails last week Flurger&*# Blug&#*$ and I know you didn't get them because you never read my emails and maybe if you were clear with your expectations in the first place we wouldn't be having this fight that is also not my fault). Deep Breaths. Then you go into your office and plan your excellent revenge that will never happen (note, I am literally slamming the keys on my computer). I will look for a new job where they really appreciate me, you think. Somewhere my work is valued and I don't have to jump through hoops to get paid and I will be so smiley all the time and people will love me for me. I will love going to work everyday and I will never want to leave, and then sometime when I am wildly successful I will schmulzily waltz into my old work - oh hey boss, what's your name again?- and they will miss me like how much I missed cinnamon buns on my no- carb diet. Then you complain to your coworkers, they make you feel better, and you realize that this will never happen and you become a little sad.

(I feel bad for complaining about work, because I know how hard it is to find a job these days. I assure you, I worked hard to get one, and the road was not easy. I will probably look back on this post and be embarrassed, but that's the point of writing it, because a part of me is really pissed right now.)

I spent a lot of time plotting said revenge at work today, and just fuming around my office in general. And then I started wondering if I could have done something to prevent this? Am I really an unpleasant person at work? Was I a big disappointment after that kickass interview a few months ago when I was my best self? Let me walk you through that day. I left my apartment two hours before the interview, and my suit was freshly dry cleaned. I had printed off the job requirements and rehearsed my responses to said requirements. I felt good. I took the red line, and smiled the whole time (if you've ever ridden the red line, you know how much of a challenge this is. One time, a guy pissed on himself, and the urine started running down the length of the train on floor. Even this would not have squished my uber-enthusiastic job-catching aura on this interview day). I stopped at a 7-eleven and tried to buy a lint roller. Finding none, I borrowed their scotch tape and taped myself clean of cat hair. I got to the office early, and chewed some gum, and can I just say I nailed it? I walked away and wanted to call Bill Gates and pitch him some ideas, just because! I could've nailed that too!

Scan to present day where I seem unhappy, ungrateful, tired, and on the defensive. WHAT HAPPENED?

Really, I know it's going to be ok. I came home, played with my cat for thirty minutes (she's amazing and if you hate cats, she can convert you) and had some chocolate. Bad days happen. But really what I'm wondering from all of this is how many of us out there in the working world are truly our best selves at work? Our best personal selves, complimenting those who deserve it and letting things slide, giving others the benefit of the doubt. Our best work selves, efficiently going through emails and responding immediately, avoiding facebook and pinterest. And does this have a direct relationship with how happy we are at the office?

The First Installment of Things I Miss About the South

I wouldn't necessarily call myself a southerner, and I wouldn't say I'm a yankee either. I'm the type of hybrid that results from two Midwesterners procreating, moving to New York to have children, and then relocating to Atlanta after one too many winters. I don't speak with an accent; my vowels are not abused (Heeeey huuuneeey!) , nor are my "r's" missing (New Yoak), but I have picked up isms here and there. Most notably, I use the word "y'all." It's just efficient - replace "you guys" for "y'all" for a week and you'll see what I mean.

Now, Atlanta is not as deep-fried as some places below the Mason-Dixon, but I loved growing up there because it was a nice mix of that southern charm and the city life that so many northerners love. And at this moment, prime among my list of southern charms taken for granted, is simply space.

Chicago is great for so many things, and I am certainly not city-bashing, but privacy is at a premium. In fact, as I sit in my living room typing, I can look out the windows facing the street and see directly into my neighbors tv- room window across the road. They have a couple kids, and they go to bed early. One time I saw them having a private Zumba class in their backyard, and I'm sure this is more than they care for me to know. I can hear the 81 bus and the metra as they exhale. If it's a quiet night, I can probably tell you how many people get off. As most metropolitans know, the city never sleeps, and while I don't necessarily feel like someone is watching me, I never feel quite alone either. Don't get me wrong, as this can be nice. But from time to time, it would be nice to take my shoes off before I get home. When I taught in Georgia, I used to get in my car after school, lock the doors, put my hair up, take the shoes off, and play Michael Jackson as loud as my little Honda speakers could bare. Chances were, nobody would pay me much attention on the road. Nowadays, I have to be civilized until my train graciously lets me go.

There are places you can go, in Georgia and elsewhere, where the night cicadas are louder than the cars. Where space is not a luxury and you can drive or bike for miles on open road. Where gardens are overgrown and ivy controls the landscape. People own riding lawnmowers down there for a purpose. I guess I miss feeling like a piece of land is mine to occupy and mine to explore. A place where I can breathe my own air and let it go, confident in it's originality.
To make matters worse, the new tenant in the garden apartment smokes a pack a day, and her musky, second-hand cancer smells waft up two flights of stairs and remind me that I am very much not alone.

When it snows and nature cleans things up a bit, I get a glimpse of that unspoiled landscape that I very much miss. So I hope for more snow.

Date Night

Just to be clear, we are not a mushy couple. He doesn't write me messages on the bathroom mirror, telling me how much he appreciates my expert dishwashing skills. I don't send him 17 texts a day detailing my love in sonnet form (pictures of the cat doing cute things does not count). But when the goings get busy and our sleep times don't overlap for a week, it's time for date night.

Plan: Dinner and tv marathon of the shows we missed last week.

Expectations: Medium-high, riding on the outcome of the restaurant.

Outcome: Cosmic Explosions. Foodgasms. It’s all downhill from here.

Have you heard of this place in Chicago called “Great Lake?” I hadn’t either, but you should put it on your radar. Apparently Beyonce and Jay-Z were there a few weeks ago. Some yelpers loved it, some hated with a foodie passion. I’ve walked past the location without realizing anything was there. Wait, backup, it’s pizza, right? How could anyone hate it? Why was Beyonce in Chicago? Just for the pizza? JUST FOR THE PIZZA? Was this before or after the birth of Blue Ivy? Seriously, they named their kid Blue Ivy?

The restaurant looked closed, and we stared at the door for a few seconds before concluding that it was, in fact, open, and not, in fact, a small hydro-museum. The place doesn’t seat more than eleven people, so we put our name on the list and waited for a call-back. This may have been the best call-back I’ve ever received. We were seated at a long table, in between a family of three and a party of four, summer-camp style. I felt pressure to make our conversation seem interesting. I felt guilt while eavesdropping. Not the dinner dreams are made of, but eventually, and I’m not quite sure how it happened, we got to know these date-night invaders. Skip an hour, and we are all sharing pizzas. Wine is offered. Someone buys chocolate to share. We might as well have lit Shabbat candles and passed the challah. Our date night turned into family night, but not the fighting kind. The good kind where you find out that your dad was a hippie. We met a songwriter from Nashville. The gay couple put us on their party list (“You both seem nice- email me. We throw huge parties. I’m a plastic surgeon”). The family told us the secrets to successfully getting a table (apparently, we were a fluke). I wouldn’t be surprised if, a few weeks from now, the exact same people gathered for some Great Lake pizza by complete chance. And that’s the charm of this place. Oh, and the pizza. It’s AMAZEBALLS. I would bathe in the sauce, I would smother myself with the garlic. I would sleep in a tent to be first on the list, I would cry myself to sleep every night if it closed. You get the picture.

Note: I cannot confirm that Beyonce came here just for the pizza, but if I was her, I totally would. Also, my father was not a hippie.