Sleep

Haven't been sleeping well lately. I've been having exceptionally vivid dreams, most of which I will not bore you with except two:

1) Wherein I was at a party in a school gym, like those banquets we had in high school for theatre, when everyone sat at miles-long folding tables. I sat down next to an old friend of mine who I haven't spoken with in months (she moved down to Texas and then went incommunicado), and we hugged and chatted like girls do. And then the next day (awake, no longer dreaming) I had an e-mail from her explaining that she was, in fact, still alive. Good to know. Also good to know that I am, in some small way and despite my usual skepticism, psychic.

2) Wherein I was an octopus.

Besides the vivid dreams (which I wake up to ponder, causing me to lose sleep) it seems like the landlady has been hacking up her lungs with an unusual fervor lately. She's about 70 and smokes like only a 70-year-old overweight diabetic can -- like a lady with nothing to fear. Every night, starting at about 10 pm, and continuing until about 6 am (or maybe these are the only hours I notice it), every few minutes she coughs with the sort of violence generally reserved for civil wars in Third World nations. And then all is quiet. For a few minutes. Then the battle between Annie and her innards begins again. Remember that this building is more than 100 years old and apparently built of balsa wood.

Add into that general high anxiety about my failure as a (in random order): daughter, girlfriend, writer, friend, sister, human being. Plus of course an occasionally blanket-thieving and loud-breathing boyfriend.

I need a nap.

Rugged Chicagoans

If there's one thing Chicagoans love, it's a good hot dog. But if there's two things Chicagoans love, the other one is to brag about how awful our weather is. Summers are impossibly humid. Spring is one long thunderstorm. And winter is the best of all. You've got your wind. You've got your snow. You've got your salt and slush and muck. It's everything a rugged Chicagoan could ask for in terms of conversational topics. How many times did you clean off your car today? What do you use to melt the ice off your steps? How do you block up the drafty old windows in your 100-year-old bungalow? How long did it take you to dig out a parking space on the street? Which items did you use to hold said space while you drove down to the Jewel? Cardboard boxes are no good, they get soggy, you've gotta use the plastic patio chairs. And god help the man that tries to move those chairs illicitly. He's going to get Tony and Leon and Mac all coming after him with snow shovels.

Chicago weather a matter of pride. You don't complain about how cold it is, you just mention how great your new hat is with the synthetic lining and it was only $3 at Walgreens. You don't whine about last night's snowstorm, you tell the story about that one time when you were a kid and it snowed so bad and your friend's drunk mom was trying to make it down the street in her huge ancient Caddy and it got stuck halfway and the neighbors came to dig her out and she was screaming at them like it was their fault there was a foot and a half of snow. You revel in the brutal conditions like you're a descendant of the Vikings.

It isn't until you're 60 or so that you finally get smart and head to Arizona until April.

Childhood Dreams Fulfilled?

When I was a kid, I wanted to be a detective. Most of my friends wanted to be things like ice skaters (pretty dresses) or marine biologists (get to play with dolphins). Me, I wanted to be a detective. I wrote endless stories featuring thinly disguised alter egos for myself and my two best friends as hard-boiled detectives working for the Trioptic Agency (Trioptic, three private eyes, get it? Pretty brilliant for an eight year old.) We solved all sorts of crimes Encyclopedia Brown-style. He was the greatest detective I knew of until I started reading Nero Wolfe novels.

But, flash forward a decade and some odd years, and with my big-name private-university diploma in hand I land a job... slinging coffee at the same joint I've been toiling at through college. So, I scour the Reader want-ads every week, answering every one that mentions something involving research or writing or anything that I could possibly claim to do with a journalism degree.

And finally, I get an interview. In my black knock-off suit, with the professional-length skirt and pantyhose and all, I head downtown to one of the indistinguishable Loop office buildings. I sign in with the security desk. I head to the express elevators. I wipe my hands on my polyester jacket. I walk into the designated suite. I'd been told I was interviewing with XX and Associates. Little did I know about the two words printed beneath that on the door, in gold letters: Detective Agency.

The interview was typical-- he was impressed by how fast I could type, my research background. He didn't seem to mind that I had only the vaguest notion of what an "affidavit" was. These were the things, I was told, I would be writing. Could I do that? Hell, I can write anything. Sure, I told him. I'm a stellar affidavit writer.

And, two years later, it turns out that I am. This job, like most things you fall into in life, is not really what I expected. At parties, when people ask what I do, I tell them I'm a detective, because it's impressive, but technically it's not true. I don't have a license. I just work for a guy who does. I don't wear a fedora or hang around dark alleys. We don't stalk straying wives. We don't hunt down murderers. Mostly, we find one idiot who owes another idiot money, and give him court documents saying pay your debts, idiot. It's not particularly glamorous or particuarly seedy, but it pays the bills. And how many other people actually grow up to become what they thought they'd be when they were eight?

And so we begin...

Perhaps I should have chosen a more exciting moment to begin this little experiment.