Nemesis

This woman is my nemesis. Because she is also named Claire and from Chicago and a writer. Except she's a good writer and semi-successful, whereas I am... not. And I seem to remember her from college, unless that was a different one.

Chicago at SXSW

Here's the list of Chicago bands scheduled for showcases at SXSW. It's depressing that I don't know most of these bands, and the ones I do know, I'm not rabid about. But good to know there's going to be such a Chicago presence down in Austin.

An Encounter

Just walking back from lunch down Randolph east of Michigan, a bike messenger (I didn't catch what company he was with, but he had on a blue uniform) rode up beside me: 40/male/black. He stated (very calmly): "Get your white caucasian bitch ass outta here." Then he dodged between me and the (white) businessman who was walking a yard or so ahead of me, and seemed to repeat the same thing in that man's ear. Did he mean, get out of his way on the sidewalk (which it's illegal to ride on anyway)? Did he mean, get out of Chicago? Off the planet? Unsure.

How I Knew

You may well ask, how do you know that the man you're with now is the one you want to spend the rest of your life with? (For those of you wondering, no, this is nothing official, just something that I like to ponder.) Well, I'll tell you, it was something trivial, but it assured me I was on the right path. I'd already fallen for him completely by this point, you understand, had been trading I love yous for months, but during one evening's conversation it became clear to me that this was no temporary affair.

Like most signs, this one would have meant nothing to someone who was not me. In fact, I'm quite sure it meant nothing to him when he said it, other than making idle conversation. And I have no idea how we came to be on the topic at all. But he happened to mention that of all the things that baffled him, speed reading was one of the biggest bafflers. I just don't understand how it works, and why you'd want to do it, he said.

That was it. That was the sign. You'd think it would be something bigger, but no. To understand why, you have to understand that my ex was a devotee of speed reading, that he read thick boring treatises on the science of commodities trading via some kind of speed reading technique he'd picked up on the Internet. I thought it was the biggest joke, the biggest waste of time ever. Why bother reading at all if you're only going to skim? How can that possibly even work? We'd argue it back and forth for months.

And obviously it's not the actual fact of speed reading, it's the general outlook on life. Some people prefer to take things naturally, to go slowly and enjoy, to struggle a little if they have to. Some people prefer to look for shortcuts, race through things, get on to the next, look for that miracle cure. It's a symbol of someone's philosophy. I wouldn't go so far to say one is right and one is wrong, but it's a clear dichotomy. The fact that the current boy, with no prompting, happened to mention this particular symbol... that's the sign. That's how I knew.

I Will Never Be a Great Blogger

because I have low self-esteem and I know you don't care what I say, think, or do.
because I am generally unmotivated to write these days.
because I do not have the patience to surf around the Internet finding obscure stories to link to and make snarky comments about.
because reading other people's blogs is more amusing to me than creating my own.
because I am still addicted to paper and am reluctant to move entirely into the electronic world.
because I know there's no money in it.

Guest Appearances

I had this thing when I lived in New York where I always wondered what tourist's photos or home movies I would end up in. I'd be sitting in Washington Sq. (scribbling my passionate and revolutionary poetry, of course) and there would be the Japanese tour mob, or a family with petulant teenagers, or a middle-aged couple, and one of them would pose with her back to the empty fountain and the arch, and the other would snap away, and there would be me, vintage army jacket and long cherry-cola hair and composition notebook, scowling in the background. I always thought it strange to wind up as a guest in someone else's memories. I had the feeling again today, reading someone's blog in which I am a (now infrequent) character. An odd feeling, being in someone's memory, entirely powerless to the way they recall a scene or an action, entirely powerless in how and when and why they think of you.

Parenting the Parents

I spent the long weekend out at my parents' house in the suburbs, helping my mom clean the house in preparation for putting it on the market tomorrow. They've bought a nice condo in a new complex a little further west, and they're neck-deep in things like choosing carpet and initialing papers. I had to spend hour upon hour being very interested in my mother's choice of tile and what sort of window treatments she's going to buy. In a strange turn of events, my dad was actually being much more sociable, asking me questions about what I'm up to, while Mom babbled on about herself. In the only moment I had alone with my dad, I asked him how he was doing with all of the hubbub, knowing he's not good about change in general, especially not uprooting himself after nearly a quarter-century. He sighed and made noises about how he would be very glad once all of the papers were signed. I tried to get him excited about the huge new kitchen and no yard work, and he agreed that that was all very nice, but he just seemed very tired with the whole process. My mom, on the other hand, while running herself entirely ragged between work and getting the house ready and preparing to move and making decisions about the condo, couldn't be more energetic to the point of manic. She talked constantly about the house; she never tires of it. I'm completely annoyed and frustrated with the whole deal, because even though I know I should be really happy for them. So I just fake being happy with my mom, and try to get my dad to be ok with all of this activity. I feel very much like I have to parent my parents.

Formal Fridays

While in most offices, Friday is a day for more relaxed attire -- denim, no panyhouse, flat shoes, etc -- in our office, the men have banded together and declared Formal Fridays. They all, at a minimum, wear ties (something not generally seen on non-managerial staff here at our little publishing office). Some of them get quite dapper: vests, suspenders, cuff links. It's great to see some of the scruffier sorts, the ones that on a Wednesday might try to get away with sneakers underneath their just-a-step-above-jeans pants, get all dolled up for no particular reason. I don't know, but I suspect that the scruffiest among them (an all-around instigator) actually started this trend.

I also think it's telling that we women aren't jumping on the bandwagon. It's bad enough, as far as I'm concerned, that I have to wear heels most days. I'm certainly not going to stuff myself into a secretarial suit when it's not completely necessary.

He's a Ball Player, Not a Historian

"Presidents have been here for three, four hundred years." -- A.J. Pierzynski on his visit to the White House.

Accidental Adventures Part Two

So, once the limo dropped us off in Lincoln Square, we decided to go to the Huettenbar, someplace I'd never been to before, just because it was there and seemed to have good beers. Todd's buddy Dave from back in the Indiana days now lives in the neighborhood, and he met us up there. This is where the games began.

Dave, having just moved up to the city, is now on the prowl for girlflesh. So Todd, his happily-coupled-up friend, is on a mission to help him. Early on in the evening, Todd was getting a fresh beer and got hit on by two girls sitting at the bar, scoping for men. Todd brought the report back to our table that there were two eager targets for the taking. An hour of unnecessary strategizing followed between the two men. The girls kept looking over at our table. I got pretty aggressively possessive, feeling myself threatened by two hot women trying to pick up my boy. Finally, the guys got up the balls to just go talk to the girls. I was left alone at the table. This made me easy pickings for two guys who'd just sat down at the bar opposite me. I went ahead and accepted their offer of a beer (feeling a little guilty, partly towards Todd for taking a drink from a strange man, partly toward the guys for taking a drink when I knew I wanted nothing to do with them).

The guys, they claimed, were both taken, one with a live-in girlfriend of 8 years, the other with a new fiancee. It seemed to me that this was either a lie they'd come up with before they came out, in order to make them seem less desperate with girls (that seemed to work ok) or that they were behaving really shitty toward their women (not so much the live-in girlfriend one who, although he talked to me most of the night, wasn't all sketchy come-on-y. The one with the fiancee seemed to be hitting on a well-preserved yoga-instructor-looking lady all night.)

So ensued a fun time of Todd bouncing back and forth between the far end of the bar, where he was helping his somewhat-nervous buddy chat up the two girls (specifically the blonde; apparently the brunette was unappealling and so Todd had to occupy her while Dave's attack was underway) and our end of the bar, where he was asserting his territorialness by reminding the guys chatting with me that I was his and they better keep that one-stool-distance between us. The feminist in me was annoyed; the girlfriend in me loved it, because I was pretty jealous that he was flirting and buying drinks for hot women who weren't me all night.

I can't possibly explain the sheer insanity of commentating on the scene at the far end of the bar with the total stranger sitting next to me (and arguing with the engaged guy about whether or not I should drink another beer). But it was great. It was one of those nights that could have been made into a good scene in the indie movie of my year. It unraveled at the end, as most things do, with all of us being kicked out as the bouncer swept the place at closing time, out into the street, Todd screaming and drunk and falling down laughing on the frozen sidewalk of Western Ave., Dave half-convinced that the girl had given him a fake number, and me so tired and unable to hold my drunk boyfriend up anymore that I almost caught a cab without him. But I let him come with me and, aside from his wicked hangover this morning, everything seems to be fine now.

Accidental Adventures Part One

Todd and I were walking up Western last night around 8pm, looking back for the bus while refusing to stand still due to the freezing cold wind. We got just to North Ave. and had stopped in the bus shelter to look for the bus when a white stretch limo pulled up along side us. The window rolled down and the driver, a fat-faced guy with a vaguely south-side accent, said "Hey, you guys want a ride?" We laughed, because that's what you do when a limo tries to pick you up. He said, "No, really, I'm just taking this thing out to fill it up, so I may as well take you along. How far are you going?" We tell him to Lawrence. He says five bucks. With barely a glance at each other to check if this is sketchy or not, we get in.

He never introduced himself, but I imagine his name was Donnie. Donnie had owned a limo company for a few years. He was almost out of business due to the high gas prices. He complained about this for almost the entire trip. He explained that sometimes, when he goes to a gas station and they don't make him pay first, "and when it's a Pakistani guy" (this he was very particular about) he just drives off and steals a limo full of gas, making sure to flip the poor attendant off first and being very calm about committing a felony. He admitted that he was immature, and we both laughed carefully so that he wouldn't know we were thinking about what a horrible person he was.

At Wilson, traffic got unbearably slow and we got out. I gave him $8, which Todd said I shouldn't have done because the guy was an asshole. He was, it's true, but we got a limo ride on a random Saturday night out to a bar. As he drove away around the corner, Todd remarked that the car didn't have livery plates on it. We had just participated in a mildly illegal activity. No better way to start the evening.

In the News

Two items from yesterday that grabbed me:

In this report about underage athletes being caught with alcohol, they chose a very unfortunately-named girl to interview. See if you can spot her.

And this one is just too easy.

A Perfect Weekend

Friday: lay around at home gorging on pasta with shrimp, do taxes and find out that refund covers entire upcoming vacation, watch a cheesy expose on Internet sexual predators, sleep for 10 hours.

Saturday: leisurely breakfast with lots of coffee and Sudoku, a visit from the boy, a grocery trip to gather jambalaya supplies, make and eat copious amounts of jambalaya while watching the newest Aqua Teen Hunger Force DVD, take a bath, head out to Estelle's and Subterranean, then home for a cozy sleep.

Sunday: more coffee, shopping at Target, then lay around at home, read, blog, watch PBS and bake banana bread.

Really, what more could you want?

Demon Hell Bus Ride

Last night on the Division bus. I was sitting on the left-hand side dozing a little and keeping my eyes almost shut because the glaring industrial light is not conducive to nursing a migraine. All of a sudden, somewhere on Goose Island, there's a THUMP THUMP THUMP along my side of the bus. I look out, and there's a dude on a bike swerving through traffic and pounding against the bus with his fist as he passes. I don't know if it's to alert the bus driver that he's there or as some kind of protest against the fossil fuels the ancient behemoth is undoubtedly guzzling. But the bus driver, your typical sassy middle-aged black lady CTA employee who knows she's got a cushy city job, is pissed. Pissed the way only a CTA employee lady can get pissed.

"Muthafucker! What the hell you think you're doin? You high or something?"

She's screaming this just for the amusement of us passengers, I think, but then she peels out from a red light and zooms past the biker, who is now on our right side, the sidewalk side, and angles the bus toward the curb, as though she's going to let out a rider, but no one's pulled the rope. She brakes hard and pulls open the door. "Hey! Asshole! What the fuck are you doing?" The biker, sensibly wearing a helmet, zips around onto the sidewalk and continues westward. "Oh, he high or some shit, crazy fucker." She keeps driving.

Past Ashland, out front of Smokedaddy, the driver suddenly veers off again. The door flies open. "Hey asshole!" He's there locking up his bike. "I didn't beep at you cause I didn't want to scare you. But I shoulda run over your ass."

She slams the door and pulls out. But I look over and now the biker is back on his wheels and is following along by the side. Boldly flipping off the driver. She just keeps driving. "Motherfucker high or somethin." She lets it go.

Postscript: this morning waiting for the eastbound Division bus back to the city, I saw Mr. Biker riding back toward the lake. He didn't seem to have a demon hell bus on his tail this time.

Exercise Regimen: Day Three

...was a total failure. I was felled by a migraine and therefore did nothing. Now it's going to be cold out for several days. I will not be running anytime soon. However, I have lost 2 pounds already, mostly from not eating tons of utter crap. I will be doing an adequate impersonation of a svelte Brooklynite in no time.