Spitting in the Wind

The other day I was busied and hurried trying to catch a train to the Loop in order to run an errand over lunch. (The Loop is only .5 miles [or less!] from my work but I take the train because? Am lazy!) I was just past the turnstile, when a lady turned to ask me if this was the train that was headed towards the Loop.

Normally, I hate strangers, but this day I was feeling helpful and generally not filled with disdain for my fellow man. (I’ve gone soft!) So I looked up and was about to tell her that yes she was headed in the right direction, but before I could get out that yes a giant ball of spit flew from my mouth.

This spittle took such an exaggerated arch on its way to her forearm that there was plenty of time for our eyes to go from each other to the flying spitwad back to each other.

I was mortified. How do you recover from that?

I didn’t even bother to finish my answer. I didn’t even apologize! Instead, I just ran.

And honestly, I really hope she finally found her way to the Loop, but I will never know. And that’s because I turned on my heels, and headed for the train going the opposite direction and rode it for two stops just to make sure I could put ENOUGH space between me and the embarrassment.

Sunsets

The other day I was leaving work and walking towards to the bus stop when I happened to look up at the sky peaking out between the skyscrapers. It was slightly after six, the weather was perfect and the sky was starting to take on that wonderfully delicious color of dusk. Shades of crimsons, pinks and oranges were being spread across the sky by the setting sun.

I wished I had a camera because I have a thing for sunsets. A life lesson my mother taught me was to always enjoy sunsets because you never know which one will be your last. One thing Oklahoma beats Chicago hands down in is sunsets. In Oklahoma, without buildings blocking your view of the horizon, sunsets set the entire sky on fire. (Too bad for Oklahoma, it’s also home to Republicans.)

I smiled. I had one of those moments that almost make your heart explode with a flood of emotions. Mix of joy, sadness, regret, love but mostly a sense of true happiness for the first time in a long time.

Then I suddenly remembered I had my sunglasses on. I took them off, and the sky returned to a muted gray with the only slightest hints of pink. I thought to myself, hmm I must have on some rose-tinted glasses.

I put them back on and enjoyed the view.

Life can be so poetic sometimes.

Hey look! It's an Adult!

I like to say that I am running at about 48% Responsible Adult, meaning I almost there, but not quite. The number comes from the fact that although I am 28 years old I still don’t act like an adult.

For example:

• I don’t have a regular laundry schedule

• I still don’t like broccoli.

• I put way too much on my credit cards each month.

• I eat too much candy.

• Owning a house might be a possibility for me sometime in the year 2042.

• I’m over involved in the lives of people on reality TV shows.

• I don’t remember other people’s birthdays, but expect everyone to remember mine.

• I don’t have a 401k, nor do I have any clue what a Roth IRA is.

• According to the amount of money in my savings account, I’m saving for the future purchases of 4 Snickers bars and an Us Weekly.

• There’s no toilet paper on the roll.

And the list could go on and on. I’m not very happy about being only a 48% Responsible Adult. And trust me, I have all these big plans to eventually become a 100% Responsible Adult, but the current 48% means that I am clearly in no rush, or that I even know what a Responsible Adult is—and oh, look America’s Next Top Model is on.

So now each day I have decided to try to do something new that will boost my Responsible Adult-ness. In fact today, while at the Coke machine I had this brilliant internal dialogue:

“Oh no, I can’t get my third Coke for the day, people will think I am weird. Well, weirder than they already think I am. Oooh, I know I’ll get a V8. Because that’s what an adult would do.”

So I got my V8, and gloated all the way back to my desk thinking to myself:

“Look at me, I am so healthy and SUCH an adult. Next thing you know I will be drinking sparkling water.”

And you know what? V8 tastes awful.

Reunited, and it feels so good.

Inspired (okay, damn near ripped off) by this entry over at Bacon Grease

Dearest Chicago,

I know it’s not cool to be the first to say this, but I think I love you. Really! I want to have your little Chicagoland babies.

Chicago? Will you be my Lovah.

Love you always,

Tweets

Guess what? I love this city. I'm pretty sure Chicago feels the same way. And I can't stop gushing about it to everyone.

We’re in that amazing phase where you’re falling in love, but you don’t want to admit it to yourself because you are afraid you’ll jinx it. The phase where you spend hours just looking at public transportation maps and just marvel: I can get anywhere I want to and never hop in a car.

I’m not one to brag but my Lovah put a CVS across the street from me. And a little dive bar at the end of the block. And I can frequent both establishments in my pajamas if I so choose. If I want a Chicago-style hot dog I can get an AUTHENTIC one—at almost any hour of the night. There are the 4 a.m. Thai take-out places. The Cuban bistro. The quaint Ethiopian restaurant which serves its beer in glasses slightly larger than Dixie cups. And since 6 long months of miserable cold weather is beginning to transition over to lazy warm afternoons, the whole of Chicago has decided to leave their cramped apartments to just be outside. There are people everywhere. It’s like Chicago has up and thrown a party for me.

But what I love most about Chicago and our renewed love, I haven’t felt this pressure to live up to an unattainable perfection—ahem, I’m looking at you, Dallas. You drift in an anonymous sea of strangers who are all at the same time exactly like you and nothing like you. Every day on the bus a cacophony of languages ring out. (Although some are just a tad too loud on the cell phones behind me, but don’t get me started.)

And don’t get me wrong, Chicago is not without its flaws. Alley noise at 3 a.m. Silent farters on the bus. Overzealous horn honkers. Parallel parking. Meanie cashiers. And that distinctive smell of urine, day old feces, Old Spice and vomit that graces the deep bowels below the city in the subway. (Which to be honest this is the first relationship where I have plunged headfirst into the bowels of anything, so who’s to say this isn’t typical of all my loves.)

I’m also not implying that I'm without my faults. Some days I am just not in the mood to deal with you, Ranting Homeless Man. And some days I long for some man to hold open the door for me again. (STILL a feminist! Don’t get any ideas!) But we put up with each because it’s TA-WU WUV.

Chicago offers me a few million things to do every day. Even if all I do is watch a marathon of America’s Next Top Model, I really just can’t get enough of this city. The sights, the sounds, the people and the pace of it all. I love just getting caught up in it. And yes, the cashier at CVS may never remember my name, but that's its charm. The kind of anonymity that makes me feel like I can be somebody.

Oh Chicago, let’s run off to somewhere exotic, and get married. (But come right back of course.)

Holy Sheet!

Oh y'all what have I done?

To Whom It May Concern:

I am giving my two week’s notice for the resignation of my employment with Your Agency. My last day will be February 28, 2007.

Sincerely,
Tweets

I move to Chicago in two weeks. I don't have a job. I am bat-shit insane.

And I'm so excited I may have just peed a little.

More to come... including the thrilling adventures of being unemployed, desperate and beggin complete strangers to hire you. Sounds fun, no?

And I can't promise you that this won't be me in two months: