Our Parking Lot

A few days ago, I slipped on a pair of shoes so I could go outside and get the mail. People who live in cute apartment buildings probably have the luxury of reaching a hand out the door and grappling at a metal lid. Some people might even be able to walk to an interior lobby and unlock a special golden box. I put on shoes and rain gear, fear the elements, and head outside. My building's mailboxes are on the outside wall, maybe seven steps away from my door. The distance is not the real issue. Upon opening my door to go outside, I am usually making direct eye contact with whomever happens to be sitting in a parked car at that moment. It's usually a construction worker or a plumber, some guy who is eating a sandwich and definitely not expecting anyone to appear from the decrepit door on the side of the building. In case I've never mentioned it before, our building is next to a parking lot for the restaurant across the street. Sometimes a guy who mumbles and collects metal cans hangs out in this parking lot. He smiles a lot. I know that every time I open this door, I am going to potentially be interacting with someone and it's just such a drag. But I gotta check that mail, you know?

I've been awaiting my absentee ballot like a crazy person. I don't even mind that I might have to actually talk to someone while checking the mail. I am a LADY and I need to VOTE [in Ohio because my vote doesn't mean much here]!!!! I've never voted absentee before so I don't really know what kind of time frame I should be expecting in regards to getting this envelope of democracy. (Note: an e-mail today informed me that it was just sent.) So a few days ago, after I had slipped on my shoes and ran down all the steps and swung open the door and growled at the sun, I turned to the mailboxes, my mailbox key in hand, and I promptly freaked the fuck out. Why?

Because there was a bum sleeping on my steps.

"DAH!" I exclaimed. Needless to say, I wasn't really expecting to see somebody so peacefully curled up near the usually bustling parking lot. Did I say "peacefully curled up"? I meant to say splayed-out-like-a-dead-guy-oh-my-god-this-guy-might-be-dead-run,Katie,run. He was also alarmingly close to the mailboxes and it was my fear that I'd wake him up and then I would have to interact with a parking lot person. After my initial yelp, I immediately high tailed it back inside, locked both locks, ran upstairs, and locked all those locks, too. I had fabricated the idea that Bum Magic exists, a special dark form of wizardry that enables homeless guys to make their way through locked doors. It's ridiculous, I know, but it made sense at the time. I texted my room mate to warn her about the sleeping man on our steps. She responded to say that she had already seen him when she left for work that morning at circa 6 am, meaning he had been slumbering/laying unconscious for close to six hours if not much more. I did not like this one bit. Afternoon nap? Hell yeah, right there with you man. Dead guy on my steps? NO THANKS.  Once in the apartment, I opted not to do anything but instead think about a lot of stuff. I thought having to call the police and saying, "Uhh, yeah, hi, I've got a situation." That storyline then branched off into this hypothetical in which the policemen became my personal protectors and we were friends and so on and so forth. I also thought about having to call our landlord, the same guy who has yet to return my calls or e-mails in regards to the washer and dryer not working. Dead body? He's especially not calling back. I also imagined having to talk to the authorities and they would ask, "Ma'm, did you kill this hobo?" And I would say, "No. Are you registered to vote?" None of these things happened because by the time my room mate got home around 2, he was gone. I fully anticipate his return at some point in the near future. And yes, I will scream again.

Last night I was awoken at 4:20 on the dot (not on purpose) by what I thought was a live mariachi hip hop band in my dining room. Needless to say, I was a little perplexed. I got up and walked into the room, the noise growing louder as I made my way out. I looked out the window and a car was parked there, all four doors open, music blasting. And numerous people were just dancing it all out, straight up stomping the yard. I growled at them. Don't you people have jobs to go to in the morning? I don't personally but I just assumed they did. I stumbled back to bed. Minutes later, the music set off at least three car alarms on the street. I hope they didn't wake up that hobo--I'm sure he had a rough night.

This isn't ours. I just wanted a new thumbnail picture for this post. 

Last night I was walking home from a friend's nearby apartment. I was with someone and she asked if I felt safe in my neighborhood. I said that I really do, especially because I'm located in such a public, well-lit area. I did, however, pause and say: "Well, our parking lot can get a little weird." And I really, really mean that. 

In other news, I saw The Avett Brothers for a third time in concert! It was the absolute best. This is what the set list looked like:

Live and Die
Paranoia in B-Flat Major 

Shame

The Fall

I Never Knew You

Go To Sleep

Down With the Shine

Distraction #74

January Wedding

At the Beach

Head Full of Doubt/Road Full of Promise

Laundry Room

Pretty Girl from Chile

Winter in my Heart

Will You Return?

Murder in the City

February Seven

A Father's First Spring

The Prettiest Thing (David Childers cover, look it up!)

Kick Drum Heart

I and Love and You

If It's the Beaches (first time seeing it live; freaked out.)

Talk on Indolence 

Just a Closer Walk with Thee

AND BOB CRAWFORD WAS THERE!!!! I had a lot of emotions happening during this concert as well as a result of it. It's nice to have music that reminds you what it is to feel. 

Oh, and in case anyone was wondering: Yes, fall in Chicago is lovely. I highly recommend it. 

 

The Homecoming Post

So I did it. I really did it. After only being out the door for four months, I returned to my alma mater for Homecoming 2012 as a part of the alumni and let me tell you what: it was kind of weird.

I initially had no plans of making the trek back. I thought that it was too soon and I didn't want to be lame. (I base most of my life preferences and decisions on not wanting to be lame; it almost never works out that way.) I had worked at my college all summer, so I definitely wasn't missing the landscape, and I hail from the fair city of Akron, which is kind of the first big city you get to when driving away from College and you're out of the cornfields. So really, I had spent my entire summer there and the whole point of moving to Chicago was to get out of Ohio. Like, seriously, I was just there. 

Needless to say, I went. I'm not sure what exactly was the final contributing factor in my decision to go. I had made a deal with myself that if my pal from Boston was able to get there, then I would go. But I made my decision to go before he had a plane ticket so...who the hell knows. Maybe I was feeling sentimental. Maybe I felt like I needed another vacation after the Wisconsin vacation. Maybe I wanted to cuddle with my cats. The point is that I returned for a kind of strange but mostly fine friendship reunion that lasted 48 hours.

Our journey started with a solid hour of sitting in traffic, something that man friend grumbled through while shifting gears. We were on our way downtown to pick up another friend who would be joining us for the ride, a friend who does not take lightly to tardiness. Man friend was prepping his defense to me as we stopped and started and stopped and started for the entire length of Sheridan Drive. I reminded him a few times that I was not upset with him for being late, but after awhile I just gave up and nodded my head while he laid his argument out before me. Once the pick up was made, it took another hour or so to get out of the city. So finally, at around 7 pm CST, we were looking at Indiana and accepting how very long the car ride was going to be.

I think it was nearing 2 am when we pulled onto campus. Antsy Pants in the back seat wanted to get to his girlfriend (can't blame him) but Man Friend was like, "Let's make a pit stop at the home of our friend who hasn't been answering his phone!" I thought the entire scenario was kind of hilarious. We parked outside of the house and crept on to the porch and, like creeps, looked in the windows. I used to live in the house next door to that one and there is something kind of unsettling about the neighborhood. It's a little remote and not really on campus. So now, as I watch myself type this, I realize that putting my face in someone's living room window frame is kind of weird and should have been a cause for concern. Lucky for us, all we saw was the blue glow of a television screen and a lump of blankets on a couch. But were there bodies under the blankets? Of course there were! Obviously we knocked on the door and the blanket pile essentially rolled on the floor, possibly out of fear, I don't know. I heard the girl body say "Should I get it?!?!?!" and, because I knew who she was, I addressed her by name and told her to get the door. Which is, again, kind of creepy. Her face appeared in the cracked door and when she saw it was me, she emitted a squeal of delight before throwing herself into my arms. While her face was buried in my neck, she whispered in my ear about what she and the boy body had been doing before we got there. I had never felt so close to her. I tore myself away to peek my head into the room of our sleeping pal and the reason we were at that house in the first place. He looked as though he had just, well, woken up. So as not to seem too overwhelming, I traipsed around his room and touched all of his pastel pants before patting him on the head and putting him back to bed.

I spent the next day-ish in Akron! It was nice. I pet the cats and hung out with my mom and packed up my Christmas decorations to bring back with me AND I watched the newest Project Runway. I really miss cable. Roomie and I had yet another infuriating cable company experience last night. Don't make me write a letter to your supervisor, you know?

I ventured back to College on Friday evening. A kind friend who lives downtown gave me the spare key to her apartment (because she was staying in my apartment in Chicago, weird) so I didn't have to worry about sleeping on anyone's floor. I did the dinner and drinks game with a number of fellow alum friends as well as current students. That was lovely. And then I looked outside and saw that it was MONSOONING. Seriously? Normally that wouldn't have been a huge issue but man friend and I were walking. So off we went, into the seemingly infinite abyss, up hill for the next mile while our umbrellas turned inside out and every last inch of me was soaked. My buzz had worn off and I was just a sober person walking with a defunct umbrella. I hate when that happens. We eventually made it to campus where I received lots of hugs, many of them awkward, and I ran around a dorm looking for the person I was on the phone with. No dice. Eventually I made my way back to my old stomping grounds, the third floor of my senior building. Naturally, because things never change too much, the main components of my old crew were sitting on a futon. That was actually pretty exciting. Even Boston pal who pretends not to like me hugged me forever.  And then, as though nothing had ever changed, we started in on our favorite conversation: What are we doing tonight? That decision was made for us fairly soon as security arrived at the door and told us they had received a noise complaint. I'm really not trying to be accusatory here but....seriously? It's Friday night. Study in the morning. That reminds me of the final party we threw as seniors, other wise known as The Greatest Party The World Had Ever Known, and that kid on the first floor started calling security at circa 9 pm. Relax, seriously. Anyway, we left, went to another party in the rain, I drank beers that I had stashed in my purse (old habits) and at the end of the night we got a ride back downtown. It was a tame night.

Then why was I SO hungover the next morning? Because I'm old now, right, I forgot. Man friend had to be up early to be in the Homecoming parade and I think I mumbled something to him about "Yeah, no, I'll be there." Lies, Katie. You know yourself better than that. I eventually got up to meet people for lunch and even my hair looked tired. Impressive. After food, I felt more human-like and after I bathed I felt even more human-like. I made arrangements to go hang out with my advisor which I was pretty excited about. While driving to her house, I saw the unmistakable red coif of one of my good buddies bouncing down the street. He held a thirty of Keystone under each arm, flow blowing in the wind, and the biggest puppy dog smile from ear to ear. The image melted my heart, it really did. From there I had a delightful reunion with my advisor ("Your blog is cracking me up...though some entries are better than others...and I think you know that." Ah, once an advisor...) and then dinner and some more ho humming around until starting any kind of festivities. And then the festivities were kind of bizarre, a little overwhelming, but mostly a good time.

My first stop was the same crew of guys I had hung out with the night before/close to every minute of my college career. I got up to the room they were in, plopped down on the couch, set into the six pack I had brought with me and looked to the grinning face next to me.

"We ate a cookie," he said, giggling.

I looked around the room at the other faces. All of them smiled back at me, eyes glazed, shoulders relaxed. From across the room another one said,

"And it has fucked up our day." The three of them laughed hysterically.

I did my best to catch up with my beers but the boys had been running all day and I hadn't even stretched yet. Also, I don't eat cookies, so I was really really behind.  After not that long at all, they all freaked out and announced that they had to go outside immediately.

At some point in all of this, a progressive passed through the very same hall. It was a group of people I know very well and they were adorned in thematic costume, most of them seemingly hammered. I essentially acted as a greeting party, saying my hellos from the comfort of a doorway. From out of the crowd of people I heard someone shout my name. "Katie!! Katie!!" My eyes met with a boy with whom I have a funny relationship. When he was a senior in high school, he attended an admitted students program at my College and as I was a baby admissions intern at the time, I was told that I was in charge of talking to all of the quiet awkward boys. Seriously. But what a lot of people don't know is that quiet awkward boys are like putty in my hands, so when I encountered this particular kid we became pals. I like to credit myself for his choice of colleges. When he got to school he was still suuuuuuper quiet and I wondered if I had imagined our friendship. But on Saturday, there he was! Calling my name in a sea of costumed people! And he wanted to thank me for being nice to him at the admitted student event so he got me a drink from the progressive stop! It was some kind of vodka white mocha concoction and it was absolutely delicious. You know what that's called? Paying it forward.

Cut back to the deviants outside. I met up with them and escorted them to a party across campus. I felt like I was watching them swim in slow motion. Upon arriving at the house we were met by many hugs at the front door. I assume this over whelmed them. I was hugged by one of my biggest college girl crushes. I think I ran inside, found man friend, and immediately told him about it. This party was a lot more voluminous as far as population goes. I had a lot of really solid run ins. A girl ran up to me, shouted my name (first and last), and immediately told me about her senior project. I felt really terrible because I couldn't remember her name. Don't worry, it came to me eventually. Another guy came up to me and was like, "You need to write, Katie! Because that's your passion! That's your PASSION!" And I was like, yeah, totally. I saw a friend from home, the very character who got me to go to my college in the first place. (See, pay it forward.) I received a great "Kaaaaatttiiiee" call which is like the Feeney call, from my old neighbor, whose beautiful speaking voice would wake me up most days of the week. I dealt with a lot of drunk girls. Like. A lot of emotions and dancing and shouting. I guess that just comes with the territory. I also fielded a lot of looks from underclassmen that said She doesn't go here, she's not one of us, why is she here, these are our boys, stay away. And I was like, oh girl, I am old, I do not want your men. Then, at the end of the night, the cops came. As I was leaving I heard them say, "I'm going to need a name--because someone is going down for this!" I liked that line a lot.

The next morning I mistakenly met up with everybody from the night before while I was attempting to get some breakfast. My boys were there, asking if they had seen me the night before.

"Seriously? You're serious? You're not serious." That was my reaction. They laughed and said no, no, of course we remember! And then their eyes shifted back and forth. We decided that while it was great to see each other, we should do it on our own turf next time, because college while not in college is kind of weird. I have a great futon, so let your visits begin.

And then, after a late afternoon outside chat with the friend I couldn't find on Friday night, we jumped in the car and drove back to Chicago. En route, two of the three boys called to apologize for their behavior from the previous night. And to chat because, I think, they missed me already.

So THAT is, more or less, the highlights of Homecoming. It was kind of a lot, but at the same time not enough time at all to see all the people you know you should see. I guess that's what wedding season is for!!! Ultimately, though, it is nice to be back to my regular schedule which really isn't a regular schedule at all. That will come around eventually. In the meantime, I have things like the zoo and The Avett Brothers/Justin Townes Earle, and visiting buddies to look forward to. I have my 826Chicago orientation date set up AND, this is the best part, I found a Zumba studio in the area. My life is really starting to fall in to place.

Thoughts on Outdoor Activities

Two summers ago, a co-worker of mine asked where I went to camp when I was a kid.

"Camp, like, camp camp?" I said. I was stirring a cup of coffee, clanking the spoon against the mug, and conjuring up a face that was nothing more than bona fide confusion. I drank a lot of coffee that summer.

"Yeah, what was your summer camp like?" She asked me as though she was inquiring about my dog or my first period. I looked at Dan, who was sitting down.

"Camp?" I said to him. He shrugged his shoulders. I looked back at my co-worker. "I didn't go to camp."

Her face dropped. "What do you mean you didn't go to camp? Everybody goes to camp! Wow, it's like you didn't have a childhood." She crossed her arms and shook her head in exasperation.

Dan and I exchanged glances. As fellow Ohioans from more or less similar backgrounds, it had never dawned on us that Camp is a Thing. I know how ludicrous that sounds, even more so now as I reflect on the countless individuals who have looked like they're on the verge of vomit when they discover my prepubescent deprivation of lake swims and night hikes. But now, especially after having attended a Liberal Arts College, it is abundantly clear to me that Camp is most definitely a Thing. I think this was the first time that either Dan or I had been so aggressively confronted with the realization. Our co-worker continued by telling us how awesome her camp was, how awesome camp still is, how we should apply to work at camps at some point in our lives, and how not attending camp has forever affected the trajectory of our lives and we'll probably never be able to fill the gaping camp voids we both undoubtedly possess. Dan and I drank more coffee.

After stewing it over for awhile, she approached us again.

"So if you didn't go to camp, then what did you do?" She looked so worried for me, as though I was going to reveal a meth habit acquired at age 12. I told her that sometimes we'd go outside, play tag, maybe ride bikes. When it rained we had to accommodate to that, what with rain being wet and all, but we made do. We played with a contraption called "the hose" which is like a lake but compressed into a system of rubber tubing. I explained to her that we'd use it when it got really hot outside, sometimes even hooking it up to another device called "the sprinkler." Night was a little tricky. We were often unable to navigate the neighborhoods with star visibility being as low as it was on account of those damn street lights. Traumatizing, really. She understood completely.

I really don't mean to demonize camp people or make them all seem like my co-worker/the other people I've encountered who are so sincerely sad for me and my alleged lost childhood. Simply put, I did not grow up in a community where camp was a popular (or even existent) option. I literally don't know people who went to camp and no, Camp Christopher Family Camp does not count. So going to my college, where most people had a pair of rock climbing shoes handy or wanted to know the best local river for kayaking, was a little strange for me. Of course this is not to say that I dislike nature either. Nature and I co-exist. She does her work out there and I do my work in here. She ruins my life with allergies and sinus bursting pressure changes but I get her back by using styrofoam, plastic bottles, and formerly driving my car around a three-block-long college campus. We're about even.

When I was little I was all about nature and I really liked getting dirty. I felt a strange sense of accomplishment if my knees and fingernails were crusted with dirt, as though I had put in my quota of play for the day. I liked to dig up bugs and put them in jars. I think I wanted to study bugs for a short period of time, actually. I liked to have grass stains and mosquito bites and shin bruises. But then, as is often the case, my interests changed and my body changed and those things did not hold my attention anymore. I don't think there's anything wrong with that. I believe there's a stigma surrounding people who don't do outdoorsy things and it's annoying as hell. People think you're boring or weak or lazy or not willing to have fun. Movies and television always have these infuriating depictions of female characters whose bitchiness or "she's so wrong for him!"-ness is shown via her inability to handle wildlife. Think about Dennis Quaid's girlfriend in The Parent Trap. We were already instructed not to like her, mostly because she was NOT Natasha Richardson, but the final nail in the coffin for this women was her ill-fated attempt at a camping trip. She screamed at bugs and was disgusted by everything in the forest and she was styled in an all white outfit that suggested she was more worried about staying pretty than enjoying the hike. I hate shit like that. Imagine how infuriated I was when Carrie Bradshaw had that freak attack whiny child fit thing when she hated everything about Aidan's cabin. I was like, Carrie, pull yourself together, you're not doing us any favors. Anyway. My indifference to, and sometimes disinterest in outdoorsy things is rooted in my body's reactions to certain activities. I have bad knees. Bad Knews Knees. I don't like the way my body feels when I push it to do things I know it shouldn't. There's a huge difference between pushing yourself in a healthy way and pushing your already damaged bones and joints to do things they shouldn't. I hope that clears up your criticisms. Or does this only validate your argument that I am boring, weak, and lazy? Whatever, bro, you can pop my knee back into place sometime. It's as much fun as you think it would be.

So I have this ambivalence towards outdoor activity. I like being outside and I think that there are many beautiful things to see when outside but no, I don't want to go mountain biking with you. But do you know what makes this hilarious? Manfriend is the BIGGEST outdoor kid ever. No, not just outdoor. Camp Kid. He walks outside in the morning and birds sit on his shoulders while squirrels tie his shoe laces.  He breathes in sunshine and his body turns it into his cheery disposition and the twinkle in his eye. He says things like "I biked 90 miles in a day!" and then he puts on boots and a flannel shirt and chops down a tree. All the while I'm like, "Do we need one or two bottles of wine? I'll get both," and then I growl at the sun and shake my fist at it. It's really bright, you know? Anyway, he is an absolute dear about not making me feel bad about having different interests than him. I realize that I'm being a little paranoid and insecure, but I have actually faced characters in my past who used the word "boring" and certainly inferred laziness and weakness on several occasions because I didn't want to go to backpacking or whatever the activity may have been. I can be a crazy person, but this one is surprisingly well rooted in reason.

I decided that I should give you my pre-approved list of outdoor activities. These are things I will always like doing with you outside.

Drinking outside
I feel my outdoorsiest when I am outside while drinking. You don't even need to bring a coat.

Eating outside
This is also very nice, especially if you have a chair. If you're standing up while eating outside you're probably at a graduation party or family reunion. But sitting down to a meal outside is lovely because it gives you a sense of outdoor accomplishment, like you "did" something with your day.

Talking outside
Yeah, I'll talk to you outside, that's fine. But once the mosquitoes come out, I'm booking it. 

Fires
Sitting near fires is very nice. You should be outside for this anyway. Sometimes, if you're really lucky, you can combine the above activities and do them all while being near this fire. 

Walking outside
That's okay, too. I'll even let you call it a hike. Though one time I hiked with a friend in Vermont and I thought I was dying because he was walking the trail at race pace. At one point I stopped for water and I seriously considered starting a new life there on that rock where I was sitting. I assumed someone would find me eventually.

Reading/writing outside
Again, this makes you feel like you "did" something with your day.

Boats!!!
I'll totally go on a boat with you. I was on a boat a couple of days ago and I was like...okay, boat, you're fine. I was with Manfriend and his family and I'm not sure if they knew it was my first time on a sailboat, but I made sure not to mention it. Sometimes people go really crazy about anyone doing anything for the first time. The first time I left the country was when I studied abroad in Italy. Countless people responded with, "What?!?!?! How?!?!?! Oh my God!!!!??? So deprived!!!! How did this happen??!" And I was like, probably because I didn't go to camp. But I enjoyed my time on said boat. I had a glass of wine and after one sip it occurred to me that I had no idea if sea sickness affects me. It had been easily twelve years since I was last on a boat and my stomach has changed a lot since then. I was immediately hyper aware of my every move. At one point, I was motioned to another part of the boat and I was holding my wine while trying to walk which was awkward anyway, but I jumped to the conclusion that I was not awkward but so totally hammered and sea sick. Obviously, neither of those things were true at all as I had imbibed about a thimble full of wine at that point, but I stopped moving and sat down anyway. I just sat down. I think someone even asked if I was okay. And I was but I had tricked myself into thinking I wasn't and in the span of about five seconds I had constructed a narrative in my head in which the family told stories about me for years to come and I would be known as That Girl Who Can't Walk on Boats or something hopefully a little more clever. From my seated position I handed off my wine glass to someone, did a strange kind of slither into a seat, got my legs caught under my body, then flopped into another seat. I imagine it being a beautiful display of the body's abilities.

And that's pretty much how I feel about going outside.

I have nothing especially Chicago-y to report as I have been in Wisconsin for about the last week. I did all of the above outside activities. One day, I sat outside with wool socks and shorts and now I have a tan like at mid shin. It's glorious.

Tomorrow I am dedicating my day to the walking tour of my neighborhood/surrounding neighborhoods. I am going to beg employment from friendly looking book sellers and baristas. I will be wearing my glasses. And if this works out, then all of my dreams will have finally come true, as I will either be reading and drinking coffee inside of a building where the temperature is controlled and then I can come home and write all the things that need to be written so that I can then send them to other friendly people who want to publish them. It's a fail proof plan.

Also, you should know that Manfriend made me promise to never blog about him. I think he will be okay, though, as I have essentially depicted him as a lumberjack.

                                                                          <3 <3 <3

A Glimpse Into a Glamorous Life

I'm nestled snug in my bed as I type this, dreaming about the fruit and block of cheese I want to eat. I know I should just give in and go get it, cut off a few slices of the smoked cheddar, take a small bunch of grapes and select a nice peach. I'm not being stopped by food guilt or the knowledge that eating late makes for wicked indigestion. It's a wonder I only want cheese and fruit--my late night cravings usually call for dinner left overs or cooking up eggs and french toast. Really, I'm finding it hard to get up because I'm so damn tired. It just hit me like a wave. I am tired. Maybe my body isn't adjusted to the time difference yet. I think it's fair to assume that I am tired from the move and all the things that have come with it. I am tired from application portals that log me out without saving my work because I wasn't using the correct internet browser. I am tired from walking the length of Bucktown and back, only to choose the bar a block away from our apartment. I am tired from cleaning the kitchen every single time anything is cooked, prepared, or eaten because I have a small anxiety concerning food particles. I am tired from cable companies. Fuck the cable companies. But I am very happy and I am very comfortable so apologies in advance for my stream of consciousness. I think I'm sleep writing.

It is my deepest hope that "Everyday is an adventure!!!" does not become a theme of either this blog or my life. I am not trying to convince anyone, especially myself, that watching six hours of Netflix is an adventure. Then again, have you seen some of the stuff on there? Call me cynical or mundane or just plain old curmudgeony, but I understand that just because I live in Chicago now does not mean that my life is suddenly glamorous. I suppose an argument to this could be something a long the lines of "But it's your life! Make it glamorous! You are young and wild and free!" I mean. Sure. But glamorous is not how I would describe myself nor is it anything I have ever aspired to be. I think "hygienic"is easily my top priority, adjective wise of course. WAIT. Ready for a small rant? Talking about glamorous reminded me of my current social media pet peeve. I really take issue with anything that is hash tagged as "classy."Because. I just do. Now stick with me, I told you I was tired, I promise there's a justification behind this but all I can really come up with is the anger. Let me stew over that, come up with real words, and I'll get back to you. But know this: there is a certain classy lady Twitter account with 16k followers and it just tweeted something to the effect of The more money you spend on alcohol, the uglier you are!!! First of all, I don't know what that has to do with being classy. And second of all, I have spent an ungodly amount of money on alcohol in my lifetime and I have had more than one gentleman tell me I look like Sandra Bullock. I think I've proven my point.

What did I just say? Glamorous ≠ Me. #classy = all of the groans.

OH and someone is bound to be like "Why aren't you more grateful for your amazing life in Chicago? Don't you understand how lucky you are? EVERYDAY IS AN ADVENTURE!!!!" Yes, I know that. Read the last post, I ended it with a really sentimental closing paragraph that addresses those very concerns. #blessed #grateful #lucky #etc #etc

Here's a few tidbits from the last week. Think of it as your holiday newsletter from the Roomie and me.

[Note: Just fixed that fruit and cheese plate. Have you ever eaten a nice mild cheese with fresh jam on top? Oh, it is delightful.]

First and foremost, she and I are unbelievably pleased that we didn't stay super duper close over the past three years. Hold up. You know we were freshman year roommates, right? Well, we were, and we used to have the best pillow talk and we are actually the only roommate the other has ever had. Isn't that adorable? After freshman year we both had singles for the remainder of college and now, here we are, freshman in life roommates. Like I was saying, because we didn't constantly update each other for three years, we now have SO many pillow talk topics. In fact, we have spent nearly every night eating dinner for hours and just talking about pretty much everything that has happened to us in college. And tonight we admired our books and art and exclaimed "BOOKS AND ART!" and celebrated all of the culture in the living room. No, the cable is not hooked up yet but we do have a Nintendo 64.

After the Dreamboat Dave encounter, Roomie tried her hand at some more Craig's list ads. She picked up her dresser from a gorgeous doctor who is moving from Chicago to New Zealand where he is doing volunteer work for a year. Don't even bother with a dating service if you're in the Chi. Look for furniture ads written in man voices and go from there.

I'm afraid of our oven. I know that sounds crazy and irrational, but that's only because it is. I used it for the first time on Saturday night when I was baking cookies (PARTYSOHARD) and facing it was easily the bravest thing I've ever done. I don't love the click click click of the gas stove. At some point in my childhood, my brother totally convinced me that everything was going to blow up all the time: houses, cars, buildings, bikes, sandwiches, et cetera. I doubt that his argument was rooted in logic but all I know is it scared the hell out of me. To this day I get nervous when there is a repetitive sound that suddenly stops; that's when I think the explosion happens. Turning on this weird new oven was not ideal but I did it because I had all that cookie dough, you know? The oven was on and I needed a cookie sheet, which I keep in the warming drawer underneath the oven. I opened it up and right there in my face was this gnarly blue flame just waiting to jump out at me and light my kitchen on fire. I mean, am I exaggerating? You be the judge of that. But I grabbed three cookie sheets, cupcake molds, a bread pan and whatever else was in that stack of crap because I didn't want to sift through it while the flame was looking at me. You remember that episode of Are You Afraid of the Dark? where the kids are hanging out at the fire house? You know the one. Yeah, it was kind of like that.

The cookies turned out fine so I counted that as a point in my favor. When it came time to bake my chicken for dinner on Monday night, I got nervous about using the oven but knew that it would be totally lame if I ended up eating pasta for like, the fifth night since being there. I crept towards the oven and exchanged niceties. I smiled, tossled my hair, gave it a few winks. That oughtta do it. I twisted the oven nob, because it's a nobby oven without a fancy digital interface, and I didn't hear or feel anything happen. Obviously, that meant it was broken and I couldn't eat my chicken. Ho Hum. I gave myself a pep talk and frittered away on the internet before returning to the nob. I tried to twist it, but it didn't even move. I was growing concerned because I had constructed a scenario in which the oven was detecting airborne gas and not allowing me to turn it on as a safety precaution. I repeated the pep talk and internet act, probably sent a few dumb tweets and then returned to the oven. I attempted the nob one more time and, like magic, the oven began to heat. You know why? Because I actually pushed it in and turned it on. Seriously, though, believe me when I say it's just like that radiator in the basement of Home Alone. I swear it has teeth and everything.

Saturday was not only dominated by cookie baking. We explored the bars, too! After making drinks from our respective liquors (she's whiskey, I'm rum) we set off into the night. It had been pouring all night so I looked not glamorous but instead like I was walking across campus for a house party: Raincoat, boots, head to toe black but not in an I'm wearing black tonight kind of way. We were both aware of the bar just a block down from us and we knew we definitely wanted to check it out. But after much deliberation, we decided to walk to the collection of bars and night life we had heard about from other people who knew the area. It was a bit of a hike, but maybe it only felt that way because it had stopped raining and I was still dressed to go backpacking in a wind storm. I was feeling a little nervous when we only saw empty store fronts block after block, but eventually we came to a pretty lively area. It was actually quite late so a lot of people were already hailing cabs or defiantly telling their friends they could walk by themselves. We selected a bar that looked interesting but ultimately only used it to use the bathroom. Once inside it became apparent that everyone there was a real adult with a real job and a real haircut, two things I definitely do not have. It just wasn't my scene. Everybody knows that the only city I get dressed up for is Pittsburgh and I intend to keep it that way. So we left and walked and walked before eventually cutting up the street that our neighborhood lives on. We made our way in, decided it's definitely more our speed, and wondered if the bartender would come to know us as the Ohio Girls as we both have the pink licenses. I drank a Great Lakes Octoberfest-it was on draft! And then we walked across the street, more or less, and went to bed.

Oh, and yesterday my man friend and I were sitting next to each other on the couch and he was looking  at one LL Bean catalogue and I was looking at the other. Maybe every day IS an adventure!!!

Time to pack my bags and head to Wisconsin! Man friend and I are traveling north to escape the heat. We hate the heat. He has a lake house and it will take everything in my power to not constantly make references to the classic film, The Lake House starring one Sandra Bullock. (full circle?) Is it bad that the only reason I knew anything about Jane Austen's Persuasion is because of The Lake House and when I read Persuasion my senior year I had to promise myself not to tell my advisor how I was semi-familiar with the book? Not as sad as the fact that I only know the ending of Anna Kerenina because of an episode of Saved by the Bell. Woof.

Once this week is over, I've decided to start doing productive things with my life. I'll let you know how that works out.

*Note: Could you tell this post was written before I went to bed and then finished when I woke up the next morning? And try to count the neurotic Katie-isms; there's a couple! 

Dreamboat Dave

Ok, I'm here, I made it! 

Now what do I do? 

I say that facetiously but only like, half facetiously. The big scary "Shit that definitely needs to be accomplished" list is so big and scary that it's imploded on itself and I now live in the illusion that I have free time. The currently check marked and completed "Find Apartment" now has a million different bullet points underneath it. Items like "cabinet for food" are amongst the bullet points. But seriously. There is so little cabinet space we have no room to store food. I guess that takes care of the food budget issue. Everything that's happened between Saturday morning at six am and right this second has been a silly whirlwind of huge successes and enormously frustrating and near tear inducing failures. (That last description only applies to Katie Vs. Cable Company. And if you've ever called the cable company then I think you can justifiably accompany me in a hearty, "fuck you!") But there is no need to dwell upon the things that have been a pain in the ass. After all, I think I should anticipate a lot of that.  AGAIN look out for Katie Does Public Transit. For now, however, I just want to talk about my first ever Craig's list experience and the fact that I can confidently declare that it will be the greatest Craig's list experience I'll ever have. 

On Sunday afternoon, Roommate and I parked ourselves at the coffee shop across the street from our apartment because they have the interwebs and we, at the time, did not. We decided to peruse Craig's list for the stuff we don't have, which is everything but the futon. I had never used the website myself except in the most general cases of apartment and job hunting, all experiences that I wasn't too committed to anyway.  Craig had a pretty good list of TV sets, but Roommate and I quickly realized that we didn't know shit about TVs or how much they cost. Awesome! So we did some Google sleuthing right quick and then we returned to Craig. We found a great TV and cabinet set that was going for a pretty good deal, so I punched the phone number into a blank text message and sent a cheery inquiry to the character we had dubbed "Tv Guy." And how did I know it was a guy? Well, I didn't. But the voice of the ad was certainly masculine. I don't know, I'm sure somebody reading this is going to write an I.S. about masculine vs. feminine rhetoric and voice, and how "you people" are so quick to gender certain forms of writing. Well, I am you people, so use me in your study and thank me in the acknowledgements. 

Tv Guy responded immediately and asked when we wanted to come see it. I don't know why I said this aloud, but I nervously laugh and go, "He sure responded fast. I hope he's not going to kill us!" As soon as the words left my mouth, it occurred to me that this is exactly how Craig's list murders happen. Unsuspecting seekers of discounted goods are drunk with hubris as they blindly stumble into a stranger's home, only to be found days later in a garbage can. Diane Court has this great line in Say Anything about how she perceives the balance of the universe and there can't be too much good stuff without some bad stuff; it's all very yin and yang. I'm not going to put you through my similarly minded philosophy, but know that Diane Court and I are thinking the same thing. Right, so there I was, Craig's list killer on my mind and I was like: Well, I've already been far too lucky thus far in life. I guess this is how it ends! Which is terrible, I know, but the mind thinks what it wants. 

The next day I was contacted by Tv Guy who had just returned from Milwaukee and he said that he was ready for us to come check out the TV. Because the both of us had managed to push the murder comment to the back of our minds, Roomie and I jumped into her Honda Accord and made our way to a Chicagoland neighborhood a little north of where we live. As soon as we turned the corner into Tv Guy's neighborhood, we simultaneously let out a gasp. 

"Woooooow."

"This does not look like our neighborhood."

And that's because this place was swank as hell. I immediately felt better about the probability of Tv Guy being a murderer, but then all I could do was think about Patrick Bateman and I got nervous again.   We were especially going to be murdered. Tv Guy texted me and told me he was going to be late so to just hang tight outside of his building. Roomie and I positioned ourselves in a flower bed and watched lots of nice cars roll down the private road to parallel park in spots that did not at all seem big enough. Young yuppie couples walking on the sidewalk looked like they were coming from a really good work out that didn't involve any sweat; I couldn't help but notice all the skinny tan ring fingers adorned with diamonds the size of pebbles. And there I sat, most of me in the dirt, sweating profusely, and hoping that the Accord wasn't being towed. 

A little black car swerved into an empty space in front of the building and the driver's side door swung open. A man leaped out and threw his hands about his head.

"Who's here for a TV!" 

"IT'S ME!" I said, standing up and throwing my hands up as well. 

We caught up to the man and introduced ourselves. His name was Dave. It was then that I realized that Dave was far and away the dreamiest guy I had come into contact with in recent years, and I actually think I blushed when I revealed myself as "the one who's been texting you." Dave wore a San Francisco Giants retro tee, chino cut off shorts, and boat shoes. He had a head of hair like John Stamos circa 1993. And he had just spent the long weekend biking to and from Milwaukee. There he was, our Craig's list murderer-to-be: Dreamboat Dave. 

D.D. opened the glass doors to the the massive apartment building and we were met with a sea of marble: marble floors, marble pillars, marble walls. I said, "This looks just like our building." He laughed, his dimples making their first appearance, before catching himself. "Wait, really?" Ugh, so endearing, D.D.! You know our apartment isn't as nice as yours, but thanks for thinking it could be! I immediately stopped to remind myself that Patrick Bateman always did his killing inside his apartment, so I should take a step back from the enthusiasm and remain on my guard. But, seriously, D.D. was such a cutie I just wanted to giggle and smile as much as humanly possible. The elevator ride provided us with enough time to exchange pleasantries. I pray that I was witty to some degree. Then we made it to his apartment. 

Uh, it was fabulous. Of course it was. Like, it had to be. It had high ceilings and exposed brick and a killer view and DAVE used to live there and man, was it nice. I scanned the countertops for Phil Collins CDs, but we were in the clear. The tv and little cabinet on which it stood looked great and after making some remarks of approval, the three of us stood out on his balcony and he pointed out the building he works in and various other downtown landmarks. Dreamboat Dave, you are sooo dreamy. After we decided that we would definitely be making a deal, he started pointing at the last remnants of his possessions around the apartment, asking us if he wanted them. When in the bedroom, he pointed at a gorgeous nightstand and said, "You want that?" I said "Sure. How much?" He mulled it over for about 15 seconds before saying, "Twenty bucks?" I handed him a twenty and then he said, "Yeah, it's from Crate and Barrel so it's pretty nice. And take the lamp with you, too."

NOTE: Googled that table the next day. Originally 300 bucks, baby. YEAH YEAH YEAH YEAH.

Right, so the pointing continued and he motioned up to his cabinets. On top of them was a variation of decorative looking stuff; run-of-the mill filler items that are owned by rich people with lofted ceilings. D.D. jumped up on his counter, pulled down a beautiful picnic basket and said, "Do you want this?"

I kind of pretended like he was handing me a bouquet. But hells yeah I took that picnic basket! It is adorable and it has matching plates and cloth napkins inside and it has braided leather accents and D.D. totally sold it by telling me about free concerts in Millennium Park that are perfect for picnic baskets. Man, I'm about to do SO much picnicking. I also want you to know that this was the point in which I noticed his wedding invitation hanging on his fridge. Roomie and I gushed over it for probably far too long and then we asked him a lot of details about the ceremony and "ooohed!" and "ahhhed!" like we were watching a god damn Hugh Grant movie. His Dreamboat stock went up a hundred fold based on his re-telling of his recent nuptials. Mrs. Dreamboat Dave better be the best of the best. 

So then we carried all the crap outside. This part is not interesting. In fact, the three of us struggled. My arms are still sore and I have bruises all over my legs. Moving is the worst. 

D.D. was unbelievably awesome and helpful as he took the time to finagle everything into the Accord. He made several trips for us and, on the last one, he came out with a Brita water pitcher, one of the really nice ones with the lights that go off if you need to refill. And he said, "Here, you can have this too." I can drink clean water, go on picnics, watch TV, and rest my glasses somewhere while I sleep. All because of Dreamboat Dave. And the best part? We totally forgot the remote controls at his old place so I have to see him again some time this week. 

I trust Craig's list will never run this smoothly ever again. 

Five days in and I already love this city. I never had any doubt, as I loved it before I got here, but we are already discovering perfect little coffee shops, bomb Thai food, and the ease of getting downtown on our faithful Blue Line. 20 minutes on the train and I'm looking at Michigan Avenue. It's great. If you're thinking about going to a new city after college, you need to do it. If you have the means to do it, do it. Do it. Because it's an adventure and it's really hard and really frustrating and if you don't do it now, you're probably not going to do it. So even though I've been here for 5 days and I spent 2.5 of them cleaning every square inch of this apartment, trust that I am peddling the truth. It's worth it

A Full Shot Next to an Empty Cocktail

The last week has been nothing but cleaning and packing, so I feared that my post this week would be about all the stuff I found under my bed. It was disgusting. I considered just skipping writing anything at all, hoping that my mom and the other seven readers would understand, but then I went to the gynecologist and it was a god damn schmorgesborg of silliness. You now have very good reason to assume that this entry is going to get weird, but I promise it doesn't. Well, I guess that depends on your definition of weird. I'm going to get reported to the Overlord of Blog, aren't I? Does that only happen if I use the word vagina? I won't say vagina, don't worry. [Feel free to add your own assumptions about my feelings on literally everything that's come out of male politician's mouths in the last week that relate to lady parts. Or you can tell yourself that I really do care about following the Code of Blog, totally up to you.]

Right, so I went to the gynecologist. It should be known that I have absolutely no issue with going, as I know many women do, and I had no fear or apprehension or anything of the sort leading up to my examination.

WAIT. We all know what a gynecologist does, right? Google it right quick.

I felt totally whatever about going in for my annual because, in case you didn't know, I'm a pretty big advocate of women's health (ok, all reproductive health, let's not discriminate) and I firmly believe that if you have shit to get checked out, then get it checked out. For years I quarreled with a friend who refused to go to the gynecologist. She thought it was disgusting and weird and totally humiliating and her biggest fear was being judged by the doctor. But I told her that it's not like a Redwood tree down there--the doctors don't see rings or anything. And besides, you have no idea what is going on inside of your body so you need someone to give it a nice thorough looksy, make sure everything is where it needs to be, make sure nothing is growing where it shouldn't, and then you're done until next year. And my friend? Yeah, she totally hates going. She indeed finds it disgusting, weird, and humiliating. But hey, I don't like the dentist. C'est la vie.

I made it to my appointment on time, signed in, sat around in the creepily silent but always filled with pregnant ladies waiting room, and then I went back to begin my journey through the labyrinth of desks, exam rooms, offices, stock rooms and phantom exit signs that don't really go anywhere. The nurse weighed me and before stepping onto the scale, I sucked in my stomach. I like to tell myself that this makes a difference. Then back to the exam room where I sit in the weird modern furniture and the nurse asks me some questions before she says:

"Ok, I need you to pee in this cup."

I must have laughed or made a face or simply shook my head because I can't imagine having any other reaction. There was no way in hell I had any excess liquid in my body. I should explain. My body does not adjust well to heat. In fact, my body has yet to develop a heat regulation process of any kind and I spend May-August completely miserable, completely dehydrated, and completely gross. I sweat when I take showers. If I'm baking and I touch the batter, the dough melts. (This is true, this happens pretty regularly.) And my car, the very one I had just driven to said appointment, is a convection oven and offers no relief from any outdoor temperature above 55 degrees. At the moment of being asked for pee in a cup, I was lucky to have fluid in my eye sockets. I said:

"Yeah, I'm gonna need some water for that."

I changed into a slate gray robe, the kind with the weird drawstring ties that don't really draw or tie anything together. The nurse brought me a red Solo cup filled with ice cold water, a bendy straw included. I couldn't help but be reminded of a cheap cocktail. But the water was tasty and almost certainly came from a Brita--this is definitely the kind of place with a Brita. She left me again and I traipsed around in circles, letting my robe hang open while I slurped my water. After I finished, I jumped up and down a few times, hoping for gravity to help. It worked eventually. I went to the bathroom, mustered a pathetic Dixie cup of urine, and then set it on the counter next to my Solo cup, like a full shot next to an empty cocktail.

More minutes passed, because time at the gynecologist's office is predominantly spent waiting around, and then another nurse entered my exam room. She immediately went for the Purell pump sitting on the sink, slammed down the top, and Purell went everywhere. She made a comment about it, hoping for a laugh I would have usually given her but I had nothing clever to say. I think I said something like Yeah, that'll happen. Heh heh. But then this nurse, who was not the nurse from before, picked up my pee cup and DUMPED IT DOWN THE SINK. So nonchalant about it. Like. Oh, here's some pee in a cup, this is probably old anyway, I'll just go ahead and get rid of it. Now there is an excellent chance that something medical happened between picking up the cup and pouring it out, but the next thing I knew she was tossing is in a trash can. I worked really hard for that, you know? I had to drink a whole cup of water for that. But of course I didn't mention anything to her because I didn't want to pee again. I just assume they got what they needed from me.

Then my doctor came in for the main event. My lady doctor is a man and that really freaks some people out. Well I love the guy so it doesn't phase me too much. He has this fantastic way of sweeping into the room, his nurse trailing him like a groupie, and he just starts up some fabulous conversation that makes you feel like a god damn princess and before you know it the exam is over. Now we could all make a lot of jokes about men and their charm and how my pelvic exams sound like a bad date but seriously, believe me. This guy is the cat's pajamas. He asked me about my summer and I kind of ho-hummed about the difficulties of being a new graduate and not knowing what to do with my life. It was then that he launched into a truly brilliant believe in your dreams!!! speech. I know that some people reading this have had a full exam with the gynecologist: the one that starts under your arm pits and ends inside of you. For those who haven't, well, read the previous sentence. That's basically what happens.

How I felt during my pelvic exam. 

So there I was, splayed out on an exam table, feet in stirrups, robe wide open, and I felt like a million bucks. Though I have received a lot of support for my move to Chicago, I have also dealt with just enough negativity that it's began (begun?) to wear on me. People talk to me like I'm an idiot; like I don't know it's expensive; like I don't know I don't have a job; like I generally have no idea what I'm doing and I'm being a big fat entitled Akron-hater without a clue. No, it didn't necessarily take my rubber gloved gynecologist to finally convince me I'm not making a huge mistake. But I do love it when adults are on my side. I loved that this man, who probably spent most of his twenties in  school, was so unbelievably excited for me to take my time, have fun, and be whatever I want to be. I'm sure you are, too!!!! Seriously, though. Great talk. What do you think: would that scene most likely feature a) Carrie Bradshaw b) Hannah Horvat c) Liz Lemon? or d) some other really awesome girl character?

So, yeah! Woo! Yay! Success! 

But then I had to get an ultrasound anyway. Uhghhghghghghghghghhhhggg.

I'm some thing of a "high risk" patient, so when things are not functioning at 100%, into the ultrasound room I go. I've had the procedure done more times than I can count, so it's not the physical act that annoys the shit out of me, it's the waiting for the apparatus to not be in use. And it's the waiting around to see if the ultrasound tech is even in the office that day. And it's the listening to that awful receptionist talk about all the cute lunch boxes that are on sale at Target. In case you didn't know, you don't just "get" to have an ultrasound, the doctor is doing it see what's wrong with you. I'm talking about the internal ultrasound, by the way; the invasive one. Have you seen Knocked Up? There's a scene where one of the potential gynecologists lubes up a large phallic looking probe, points it at Seth Rogen, laughs and says, "You're next!" Ok, it's that thing. 

I was eventually called into the ultrasound room. The tech was an older woman, undoubtedly someone's grandma, and upon checking my chart she realized that she had done my first ultrasound so many years ago. Adorable. I changed again behind a curtain and waddled to the chair with a paper sheet wrapped around my waist. Alright, I thought, breathe and relax your knees. My eyes were closed and I had a nice zen smile on my face. But when I looked next to me, the woman was holding the probe out to me, as though offering a popsicle. 

"I'll let you insert this yourself," she said smiling.

And then I laughed because I didn't know how else to react. 

So that was my doctor's appointment!!! By the way, I'm fine. This wasn't my way of subtly hinting at some illness I have. In fact, one of my proudest personal achievements is how healthy my blood is. No, seriously. Whenever I want to feel good about my body I give blood because the nurses always go crazy about how perfect my blood is and how healthy my veins are. I'm giving blood tomorrow--the area Red Cross thinks I'm something of a celebrity. Oh, right, I also do it to save lives. 

I am moving to Chicagoland on Saturday! Can't wait to write the entry about me trying to understand public transit. I can't say for certain, but that is going to be a hoot. 

And for anyone keeping score, I didn't even have to say vagina. You're welcome. 

And So It Begins

It's best to read that title the way Mr. Fox says it in Fantastic Mr. Fox. Because that's how it sounds in my head. Here's my favorite line from that movie:

"Redemption? Sure. But in the end he's just another dead rat in a garbage can behind a Chinese restaurant."

That has little to nothing to do with what I'm about to write about, so best not to try and make a connection.

For those of you who don't know my official moving date is September 1, meaning I have less than two weeks to get the tangible elements of my life in some kind of order. I made a pretty detailed To-Do list this past weekend, the first item on the list being "Make To-Do List." So at least I got to check off that one. I divided my list into four sections, one of them completely dedicated to the cleaning of/sorting of/purging of my room, a terrifying feat I've been putting off since we moved into this house 10  years ago. That sub-section was then split into a list of five, each item being a different part of my room that I felt needed the most individual attention. The number one slot went to the bookshelf and pile of crap next to the bookshelf, or as I like to call this area, "the fire hazard." Thank God there's a push to go paperless, because I am one of the assholes who only drafts stories with ink in notebooks and puts hexes on Kindles. This corner of my room is proof of that. The books are making the move with me, but that stack of crap had to be downsized, biggest reason being I knew just how many embarrassing creative attempts were in there.

Some a dat stack. 

Now as many know, especially artists of any kind, we all have artistic endeavors of which we are not proud. Well, maybe proud is not the correct word. We should all have pride in our efforts. But there are certainly drafts and recordings and sketches that we pray will never see the light of day. Yes, they have  probably served as a foundation for something better, but the actual first attempt at converting emotion to art is rough. The above picture is the rough stuff. The oh my god, noooo stuff. The boys who do not love me so I really have a lot of feelings right now stuff. The I'm 13 and alt music is my life and nobody understands me stuff. There was just an overwhelming amount of stuff and I went through all of it. 

Some notebooks were entirely dedicated to free writing: words I could have put in my diary but for whatever reason, I needed notebook paper. Those pieces were difficult because the emotion was raw but I was still trying to write with a hint of presentation. It was like I deemed my thoughts and feelings insignificant so I needed to amp up the pageantry just a touch in order to make them valuable. But to whom? I don't know, but I was looking for something. I have a rule about my diaries: creative writing never, ever, ever goes in them. Yes, we can argue about creativity of style and language and what not, but ultimately the diary exists for thoughts and nothing else, so it's very interesting that I felt compelled to put certain things in spiral notebooks. I think that, even at 15, I was aware of the artifice. 

Then there were binders and notebooks dedicated to various pieces of dialogue. Some were a part of larger script ideas, others had clearly been jotted down while sitting in a high school classroom. I found a list of 10 different script ideas. None of this stuff was horrible, which surprised me. A lot of these dialogue pieces had been inspired by people, though, and thinking about the person who at one time made you feel something is very strange and not super awesome. I think it takes a lot of maturity to transition from asking who inspired this? to what inspired this? It is so easy to point a finger and say "YOU did this to me" or "how could YOU?" But when we start thinking about themes, issues--politics, lying, family dynamics, etc.-- the writing becomes something else. It takes a long, long time to learn to extract how you feel about being cheated on and the concept of cheating as opposed to what you think of the cheater. Or the lover, or the liar, or the teacher or whomever introduced you to the feeling you wanted to express when you wrote it down. I think we should always let people inspire us as long as we recognize what is being inspired. Oh, and then use that person as an outline for a character. You can't let that kind of material go to waste. Somebody taught you how to say "fuck you" but somebody else made you say it with feeling. 

Anyway. Among the pages and dialogue and stories and lists of ideas, I was really surprised at how much of that material is still being used when I write. So even though I threw away all of it, I am definitely still using a lot of those one-liners and situations and characters and what not. Even if they were written in notebooks that look like this: 

Artfully styled in the year 2000. There is a big ass

picture of NSync on the back. 

My senior thesis project was a creative writing collection. There was all sorts of stuff crammed in there: stories, monologues, lists, scenes. It's very cool and very humbling to see that so much of that was easily 15 years in the making. That stack of notebooks and binders in the picture above? It was basically condensed into 140 pages. That's a lot of editing. Now I write everything on yellow legal pads or in small Moleskin notebooks. I'm interested to see how large that stack will get until it's ripped apart and downsized. 

And as for the diaries. Well.

Where are you in this stack? Jk! But seriously. 

24 individual hard covered journals. Nearly 16 years. Each entry including a date, a salutation, and a signature. Black ink only. You want to know why I have such a good memory? I write it down. And from all those pages you see above, there is the rawness and newness that stories don't get. These are a huge part of my writing process because I need the fuel to start the machine. In my final English class of my college career I read an essay in which I mentioned that I write about every new person I meet. Well, here are the records. 

Writing has propelled me to where I am now. Ironic, as I am unemployed and wading through post graduate life and trying to navigate the "where" and the "now." I know for a fact that there are people who read the previous sentence and think I'm a loser or I'm unmotivated or I wasted so much money on college or I'm making a huge mistake or some variation of those. And that's okay. I made this decision and I'm really happy about it. I'm terrified, yes, but I'm happy. Having a skill that is based in creativity gives people the idea that you are either out of touch with reality or you just don't care to ever be a part of reality. But I really like to write. Let's see what happens. 

Here's some advice I really like: 

"Writing is a muscle. Smaller than a hamstring and slightly bigger than a bicep, and it needs to be exercised to get stronger. Think of your words as reps, your paragraphs as sets, your pages as daily workouts. Think of your laptop as a machine like the one at the gym where you open and close your inner thighs in front of everyone, exposing both your insecurities and your genitals. Because that is what writing is all about." -Colin Nissan, "The Ultimate Guide to Writing Better Than You Normally Do." 

Check out the full article here. 

And here's something I love: 

"How many women wrote beautiful novels and stories and poems and essays and plays and scripts and songs in spite of all the crap they endured. How many of them didn’t collapse in a heap of “I could have been better than this” and instead went right ahead and became better than anyone would have predicted or allowed them to be. The unifying theme is resilience and faith. The unifying theme is being a warrior and a motherfucker. It is not fragility. It’s strength. It’s nerve. And “if your Nerve, deny you –,” as Emily Dickinson wrote, “go above your Nerve.” Writing is hard for every last one of us—straight white men included. Coal mining is harder. Do you think miners stand around all day talking about how hard it is to mine for coal? They do not. They simply dig." -Sugar (Cheryl Strayed), Dear Sugar #48, "Write Like a Motherfucker." 

You should definitely read the full piece here.

I think I should return to my To-Do list,  the one that has not decreased as the day has gone by but instead mocked me from afar. I made it, though, so really I did it to myself. All of this stuff I'm getting rid of and being afraid of and looking forward to: I did that to myself. But there's something kind of fantastic about that, isn't there?