the end of an era...has already happened.

Hello friends,

Recently, I've had a couple of friends complain that I haven't updated this blog in forever, and when was there going to be another post? After I had gotten over my mild shock at the fact that they were actually reading it, I realized that it's only polite to let you all know what's going on.
So, here 'tis - and, by the way, if you are reading this, thanks for hanging out so long!

I started this blog way back in 2009, when I was but a wee freshman in college and laboring under the delusion that I had something significant to say (I did not, but that didn't keep me from saying it, oh no indeed). I kept it up, more or less, through eight semesters, one ill-advised relationship, four months abroad, a couple internships, several jobs, and more tiny breakdowns and quiet panic attacks than I care to count. Sometimes, it's been nice to feel like there might be someone out there even passingly interested in what's going on with my life, or who might sympathize with my problems - and other times, it's been a super handy way to keep up with family and friends who are too far away to have any other way of knowing what I'm up to.

A lot has changed since freshman year, though (thank goodness)! College is well behind me now; I have a two jobs, an apartment, a professional resume and a serious partner. I'm a very different person than I was in college, and I have very different things to say. It's been surprisingly difficult to admit that while blogging here with Valentine, though, and so, as of a few months ago, my time blogging here has come to an end. If you'd like to follow me in my writings elsewhere, my email's right up there in my bio - let me know! If not, though, I still appreciate your presence this long.

As always, thanks for reading. Onward and upward!

England flashbacks.

I was living in England when I really learned what ‘torrents of rain’ meant. On the one hand, this was extremely appropriate. On the other, I was climbing uphill cobblestones in ballet flats at the time, and despite my masochistic inner satisfaction at having what I was sure was a ‘terribly English’ experience, I was also the kind of miserable that comes with a head cold, a lack of funds, and the utter certainty that absolutely everyone at your new school would much rather talk about you than to you, and even that not much at all, because you are not very interesting.

tales from the closet

These days, it seems like almost all of my best/favorite clothes are ones only appropriate to wear in the winter.

I suspect that this is partly due to a longstanding body image problem that has always flared up particularly badly in the summertime (like Regina Spektor says – summer in the city, it's “cleavage, cleavage, cleavage,” and heaven help you if you don't want strangers on the bus staring down/rating yours), and partly due to my love of wearing tights instead of pants, which I can generally only justify under sweater dresses.

...Well, I say generally. I am becoming steadily more shameless as I get older. At this point in time, for example, I have been seen publicly in sweatpants at least once. I like to think of it as half of the special secret shame shared between myself and the guy working the late shift at the 24-hour pharmacy. (The other half, of course, was the quart of Ben & Jerry's that I purchased and took home to consume by myself. You're welcome.)

a terribly late post

Weeks ago - over a month now, I'm pretty sure - I went on a retreat to Saugatuck, Michigan, with the women of my current church. I was a little reluctant, as I knew only two of the 26 women that were going to be there, and said retreat was bound to involve planning, and packing, and riding in a car during times when I could be...sleeping. Or whatever it is that everyone else does on the weekends; I haven't quite gotten the hang of it yet. And then, of course, I would have to interact with people, answering the same five or six questions over and over again – yes, I work in theater, no, I'm not an actress, yes, I've been living in Chicago for a little over a year now, no, the school I went to isn't that Truman, it's the other one that you have probably never seen. And yes, I've been to the church before. You may have met me and forgotten me; anything's possible!

Street Harassment Ain’t No Thang (and other lies that I tell myself, in order to avoid having, like, emotions)

“Hey, hey girl. Sit down. I’m givin’ you my seat.”

This from a skinny man on the train who was, apparently, determined to get my attention. I was wearing my biggest shades and my headphones and toting my usual twenty-pound Show Bag*, just like any other day on the red line. Let the record show that I was also looking pretty good, although it might have just been the new dress and unexpectedly good hair day going to my head.

For whatever reason – possibly because I was only four stops from my destination, possibly because I didn’t feel like giving this guy an excuse to keep talking to me – I just didn’t feel like sitting. So I smiled, shook my head, and went back to looking away and out the window.

It would seem that, for some people, this is a huge insult.

Or so you would think, as I spent the rest of my train ride being loudly and insistently asked to take my headphones out, whether I was ‘looking for a man’, whether I was a ‘good and decent woman’ who knew how to treat one, and, finally, loudest of all, whether I was ‘one of those dykes.’

I tried to think of something better to share with you today, but truth is, it simply doesn't exist.

You're welcome.

An Open Letter to Harvey, the Nonconsensual Roommate

Dear Harvey,

Let me open by saying that of course, I realize that this situation isn’t your fault. Winter is coming, after all, and a nice warm apartment like ours, full of bookshelves to hide behind and absent any nasty old cats, must have been awfully tempting. I understand where you’re coming from. Truly, I do.

Unfortunately, we’ve discussed it between the two of us (that would be, Us, the two people who actually signed the lease), and we regret to inform you that you are no longer welcome on the premises. I mean, let’s be honest – you were never welcome in the first place. But it’s very definite and official now: we are going to need you to leave.

So Apparently Being An Adult Means You Can’t Ride in the Grocery Cart OR The Laundry Basket, aka This Sucks, and To Top It All Off, the Laundromat Doesn’t Have WiFi

Happy Thor’s Day, people of the internet!

META-THOR.

Full disclosure - I am actually writing this ahead of time, on Wednesday. Also, in case you hadn’t guessed, I am sitting at the laundromat down the street from our apartment, waiting for my clothes to dry and being slowly and gently fleeced in the meantime. (It costs at least five dollars for us to do two weeks of laundry down here. Can you imagine? Five whole dollars. That’s almost as much as I paid in library fines yesterday.)

I still think apologies are stupid (but only most of the time)

When I was a kid, and having one of the (in retrospect, many) passive-aggressive-cold-war-turned-violent-blood-feud fights that my siblings and I used to engage in when we were all stuck at home yet sick to death of the sight of each other, I would often be ordered to ‘say sorry, or I’m telling!’

More often than not, if intimidation and/or psychological warfare had failed to force my victim to admit it was their own fault the whole time, I tended to turn pious. “But why should I say sorry?” I’d ask, folding my arms and shrugging, which was my pretend ‘let’s just level with each other’ stance. “I know I’m not sorry. You know I’m not sorry. Do you want me to tell a lie? Lying’s a sin, you know. I’m surprised you’re trying to get me to do that.”

Sometimes it worked (meaning, they gave up). Sometimes it didn't.

not with a whimper, but with a BANG

Hello again, internet friends! I know, it's been forever. I missed you too. HEARTS.

Last weekend, I (almost without realizing it) celebrated my one-year anniversary of living in Chicago. I didn't even recognize the milestone until Sunday night, out drinking with friends, I was asked how long I'd been here, and I answered, "Well, about a year now...*pause* Actually, uh, exactly one year now. Like. As of yesterday."

WELP.

It seems only appropriate to mark this occasion with a Useful List (because I am that kind of person, yes, but we knew this already). Thus, without further ado: Ten Things To Know About Your First Year In Chicago.*

a medium-length ramble

begin with the assumption

that you are Enough.

I currently have these words hanging on my wall, above my desk, right next to my computer screen. I hung them there because a) I am one of those people that hangs “inspirational quotes” on my walls; I have hung them on post-its and post-cards and the backs of playbills and the corners of napkins and, when I am feeling particularly strongly, I have occasionally scrawled them on my own skin, in permanent ink so that they stay there long enough that my eyes have memorized their shape by the time they’re gone

And b)

The eventfulest day.

And some days you end up standing in the rain,
covered in mud, wondering why the heck
your magic hammer is so heavy all of a sudden.
It happens.

(I ALMOST FORGOT about Thor's Day this week, guys. It was that serious.)
Happy Thor's Day!

Two important things happened today:

1) Ninety-six years ago, Ella Fitzgerald was born. Happy Birthday, Lady Ella.

2) I got my tax refund! And consequently paid off my credit card, and, like, bought food, and put money in my sadly neglected savings account (sorry, little guy). It was awesome. (Sometimes I'm a little concerned about how much of a mood-lifter Having Money is for me, I'll be honest. My sense of security may be ever so slightly misplaced.)

...oh, and also sort of 3) Bard and I found an apartment!

I'm hesitant to announce this as actual news yet, with, y'know, all the attendant fanfare and photos and such, because we had a terribly tough time getting some of the requirements worked out, and there was all this nonsense with cosigners and secure deposit and our move-in date but the upswing of all of it is...we should be signing a lease in two weeks. And then, two weeks after that? Well. Moving Will Be Happening. And it will be epic. And y'all will get so sick of pictures of my new bathroom.
Stay tuned...