Happy Holiday, to you and your[s]

Season's greetings, friends! I apologize for the delay in blog posts. I have been busy, which is weird because I don't have a job anymore. Ask me about it! I've been writing and baking a lot, two things I like quite a bit, as well as attempting to prepare for Christmas in Ohio. I will be taking BF with me--I've affectionately dubbed this outing "Will's First Christmas." Subsequently, all of last week was "Katie's First Hanukkah." I think I was pretty good at it. But now I want to impart some modicum of cheer to others because I care. I know that everyone gets a little sad around the holidays, a concept I never fully understood when I was little. As far as I was concerned, Christmas was what everyone waited for, the End All Be All, the pièce de résistance of the entire year! But as you get older, there are other priorities, other things to worry about, and other reasons besides Christmas to get excited (IE: this Lou Malnati's pizza that's about to be delivered.) We as humans are naturally inclined to feel like crap at some point; I think it's the way biology works. And with the recent influx of just the crappiest crap happening, I wanted to personally reach out to each and every one of my friends and families and let them know I'm thinking of them.

But I don't really have time for that. 

Unfortunately,  this idea came to me a little late in the game and I will have to condense everyone's personalized Christmas letters into one . I'm sure you don't mind at all. Just keep an eye out for information that might pertain to you and we should be good to go.

December 20, 2012 

Hello, friend!

How are you? I've been meaning to get in touch ever since I saw the engagement announcement on Facebook. Which reminds me, so sorry to hear about the break up. You were too good for him anyway. And the wedding? It looked beautiful. YOU looked beautiful. It's hard to believe that we're old enough for this kind of stuff, you know? And don't worry--you will be a great dad.

I think about you often and wonder how you are doing. It's hard not to when you've known someone for as long as we've known each other. Even though we only met in college, I will always consider you to be one of my dearest friends. I guess it just goes to show that it doesn't matter how many years are in a friendship, but the number of years that lie ahead! Ha ha. I've been thinking about you and old high school gang lately. We sure knew how to get in trouble, eh? I met all too many people in college who had never partied before and I was like, you should see my crew from back home! You made high school the best time in my life!  I can easily say that college was the best time in my life and I think I have you to thank for that. I can't wait to see you on New Years Eve. I wish I were seeing you some time soon. See you at the reunion? Feel free to visit if you ever find your self in the Windy City--I've got a futon with your name on it! Now is probably not the best time for me to have visitors, though, as I just have so much going on. Maybe in the spring!

Congratulations on your new job! It looks like you're really enjoying it. I always knew that you would amount to something great and have the opportunity to do something you love. And I love reading your work tweets-so funny! It's like I'm right there with you. Don't worry about the job luck--I think it's something we all go through. And can you believe these assholes who tweet from work? Talk about unprofessional, not to mention completely arrogant. Like, who cares, you know? I really am so truly happy for you. I really am so truly pissed that everybody appears to be doing better than me. I really am so truly glad I didn't immediately go to grad school. I should have gone to grad school.

Are you still writing? Are you still performing? Do you ever play the violin anymore? Are you dating anyone? How are classes? How's your mom? How's your dad? Do you think your brother has an actual crush on me or a fake one? Can you read something for me? How are your knees? Do you like Houston? Do you like Portland? Do you like Boston? Do you like Berkley? Do you like Nashville? Is law school hard? Is med school hard? Is living at home hard? Are you famous yet? Do you think you're really moving to France? Are you happy? Have you seen Lincoln? Did you cry when you saw the final pictures from the last day of 30 Rock? Did you get a haircut? How's I.S.? Have you figured out your life yet? Do you miss me?

Best of luck in the new year! Merry Christmas! See you some day!

Katie

There, I think that about covers everything I wanted to say to everybody.

In other exciting news, there was a rat in our apartment this morning. I don't blame him--we have a pretty cozy place that is pulsating with the joy of Christmas. Last night I stayed up with a friend watching Liz & Dick and in order to make it through, we went through a lot of wine. So this morning at 5:30 when my room mate notified me that she had just had a stand off with a rat, I was still filled with holiday cheer as I had just gone to bed two hours before. I was very confused and decided the best thing to do was build a barricade of clothes against my door so the rat couldn't get in. I then considered that the rat could have gotten in the apartment via my closet, so instead of opening my closet and just checking, I built another barricade in front of that door. Then I crept back into bed and proceeded to have alcohol induced rat dreams with images including but not limited to: The Rat King from The Nutcracker, Rat from Fantastic Mr. Fox, Templeton, this creepy guy from high school that everyone referred to as "the rat," and then another guy from college who sported a rat tail and we all knew him as "Rat King, Lord of Hipsters." I was also still thinking about Liz & Dick. So all of this converged in my poor, throbbing head and then I woke up and hid under my covers for awhile because I am not emotionally or physically strong enough to come to fisticuffs with a gigantic, human-sized rat. But then the exterminator came and he set traps all over our kitchen. Can't wait to see if they've worked when I come back from Ohio!

Don't mind me. I'm just eating all your plants and candy and getting away with it.

Tomorrow is the big night where BF and I hop on a train and then wake up in Cleveland on Saturday. If I know him as well as I think I do, though, he will be too excited about being on a train and not sleep at all. Oh, and another thing: I still think Christmas is totally the best. Adulthood can take my money, but it can't take my childlike wonderment and awe for a holiday that is based on sugar and twinkle lights. Tell me, what's so bad about that?

What I'm thinking at 23 years old

After earning a college degree, moving to a new city, and paying all of the bills, there is only one sound conclusion I can muster:

I'm still totally obsessed with The O.C.

A lot of things have stuck with me over the years, particularly the things that also happen to be benchmarks in pop cultural history. I don't think there's anything unique about that--we all have certain memories connected with movies, music, commercials. I think that's just how the mind works. But if you have met me (and maybe you have, I don't know who reads this thing) I have a stupid amount of pop culture knowledge, particularly that which pertains to the screen, whether it be small or large. I have little to no academic memory. Sometimes I think about how my life would have been different had I dedicated the same amount of brain space to "real" information as I have to telling you what every Mighty Duck is up to these days. I love movies, I love television, and when I find something that sticks, it sticks around forever.

Thus The O.C. obsession reveals itself.

The obsession is rooted in being 14 years old and having used the previous 5 to concoct what I thought was a realistic view of high school. I guess high school was my real first obsession, the more I think about it. In 1999 (or there about) I was sneaking off to the basement to watch Dawson's Creek and begging my dad to take me to Blockbuster so I could rent She's All That every weekend. I tried to write my own script inspired by She's All That but it was actually just She's All That with some of the names changed. I remember I wrote the whole thing in pink pen on notebook paper. It was my first large body of work (5 pages, front and back) and I thought it was pretty good. I don't want to go into detail about how I feel and how I've been affected by teen movies. Just know that everything I thought high school would be was more or less defined by Pacey Witter. And yes, he ruined it for every single one of you. But at 14 with only one year until high school, The O.C. entered my life to give me one last glimpse of what it could be like.

Big LOL, right? Like. Seriously, Katie? You used The O.C. as your standard of reality? After years of watching varying degrees of white kids falling in love and finding themselves, you ended it all with The O.C.?

Oh, yeah. That's totally what I did. 

Early on in the watching process, I became very keen to the notion that none of the things on this show would never, ever happen to me. None of them. As much as I wanted Seth Cohen to happen to me, I also knew that he would never ever happen. I liked being in a world that would never exist for me. I rank The O.C. as one of the greatest fantasy epics of my lifetime. I would never look like Marisa or Summer, I would never have a dad like Sandy Cohen, and I would never be so California it hurt. It was pure fantasy in which I willingly immersed myself. So when high school eventually came, I knew exactly what not to expect. I was pretty right, save for a few of my friends whose very big houses intimidated the hell out of me.

For Christmas 2006 I got season one of The O.C. on DVD. I think I must have started watching the show halfway through its first season, so it was very important to me that I had the feeling of "being there from the beginning." TV on DVD during high school was the greatest thing that had ever happened to any of us and you know it just as well as I do. Christmas break was made up entirely of:

Hey, what are you doing?
I don't know I just watched, like, six hours of Grey's Anatomy. 
Cool. I haven't moved from my couch yet either. 

I would dedicate long, late nights to The O.C. I used to only put that kind of time into writing, but that winter I was 100% committed to The O.C. And I loved it. I love it now, especially when I hear the intro to "California" and I know a new episode is starting. Because that's the greatest part of watching a series in bulk, right? The theme music keeps you going. Have you ever watched two seasons of Game of Thrones in less than a week? Because I have and that music makes me want to fight someone or ride a horse or hatch dragon eggs. The point is that hearing the beachy, summer hit, "California" actually makes me think about drinking hot chocolate and still turning on the Christmas tree even though Christmas already happened. The O.C. is, simply, the coziest thing I have. (**For more commentary on the song, ask me about Phantom Planet and my downright adoration and undying love for Jason Schwartzman. It will make you feel sad for me at first but then that knowledge plus knowing who I am will coincide quite nicely.)   

This past summer, TNT re-booted the smash hit 80s drama, Dallas. Like me, my mom is a skeptic, and she initially seemed unsure of the rising-from-the-dead of her favorite television show. It took close to no time at all for her to be just as enthralled as I imagine she was 30 years ago. I guess TV just sticks. TV moves forward like we do (which is why Girl Meets World will be 100% fine, by the way, please relax) and whether we grow with it currently or remember a time in which we did, there's really no better way to document your life than tying it to the fake lives of people you don't know. But I guess we do kind of know them, don't we?

Years from now when I am remembering Chicago, or at least this first year out of college, there will surely be a pattern to the kind of entertainment that affected me most. It seems to me that this time in my life is defined by funny women who make me laugh while teaching me how to also be a funny woman. I will personally thank them some day.

In the mean time, I hope you all are enjoying the early days of December and rearing up for which ever holiday it is you enjoy the most. I also hope you all get the chance to watch the things that make you feel most at home.

Happy Chrismukkah! Now go watch Over the Top!

Quick end note. I'm trying really hard not to ruin the sentimental end of this blog post, so I'll just whisper it here. I WOULD be watching lots of happy things on TV right but COMCAST, YEAH YOU COMCAST, fucked up our cable package and effectively ruined my life. How does that feel, Comcast, knowing that you ruin people's lives day after day? Does it make you feel big? Do you gain satisfaction from being literally the worst service provider ever? You're the worst and I hate you.

I Mustache You a Question

I bleached my mustache the other night.

I know. Weird, right?

I know I'm not supposed to talk about this because women aren't supposed to have facial hair. Women aren't supposed to have facial hair and they're definitely not supposed to talk about getting it removed. Fortunately for me, I am still allowed to talk about it because I win on a technicality. I didn't remove it. I just bleached it. Before I started waxing, when I was 8 or 9, my mom would mix up a small batch of bleach from a home kit. I'd smear it all over my upper lip, wait 10 minutes, and then wash it off. Easy as that. That's why I did it the other night. It was easier than finding a new salon in Chicago, easier than spending money, and easier than explaining to a well meaning woman that No, no, really, I want my eyebrows this thick. For as long as I can remember, my hair and I have been in a fierce conflict with one another. My mom bought me a little grey and purple electric razor when I was little so I could start shaving my legs. I started getting eyebrows, upper lip, and miscellaneous face regions waxed not longer after that. And I remember getting so pissed off at friends who wanted to take random trips to pools because I needed at least an hour's notice so I could shave everything. For a lot of years, it made me very, very miserable.

This is what I thought I looked like

I've been getting every square inch of my face waxed since I was 12. You can personally decide how much of that previous statement is hyperbolic. I have deep, decade old callouses on my face where the wax has been ripped off hundreds of times. I don't even feel it happen anymore. I remember a hot summer day when I was 13 or 14 and I was already sick to death of the trips to the salon. My mom told me about electrolysis and how my hair could go away forever. Yes, I thought, this is the answer to everything! I was surface level aware of what electrolysis meant but all I cared about was the part where my mustache went away. I remember pulling up to the woman's office, which was really just an old home tucked away on a hill. We practically climbed up to and stood on its great porch, waiting for her to get the door. I don't remember what the woman looked like or what the woman sounded like, but I was positive that she might try to murder me. She asked that my mom wait downstairs while she took me up for a consultation. She led me down a long hall to a wood paneled room, in it a reclined chair like that at the dentist's office. She told me to sit. She talked to me about the series of procedures I would undergo, all while shining a bright light at my face so she could take a closer look at my pores. I looked up at the ceiling in hopes of distracting myself and I was met with a picture of a good looking man, shirtless and posing in a swimming pool. She saw me looking at it. "Ha, oh that," she said. "That's a little something for you to look at. When the pain gets to be too much."

And then I got the fuck out of there.

When I was a freshman in high school, my face heavy with braces and pockets of grease, I spent a better chunk of my time trying to figure out when boys would start liking me. I didn't care to know how to get them to like me, or who it was that would eventually like me, but I was more interested in when. Time was of the essence and everybody knew that if boys weren't interested in you after the month of summer gym, then you were NOT a hot girl. Based on that criteria, I was definitely not a hot girl. I was a girl....who had come from some alternative middle school....who was funny sometimes. I didn't play a sport, so I wasn't a hot sporty girl. And  I didn't have a reputation, so I wasn't a hot allegedly slutty girl. I was hoping to blaze a trail of my own, get noticed for something cool, and make people stand back and say, "Wow. She really is all that." But there was one, huge, really embarrassing secret about myself that was acting as both a mental and physical hindrance in my plot to become the Coolest Girl Ever. It was my mustache.

I wanted my mustache to be this cute. Trust me, it was not.

I happened to overhear a group of boys at school talking about a girl's mustache. They said she should shave it, and it's disgusting, and they couldn't believe she left the house looking like that. My immediate reaction was that they were talking about me. They had glimpsed my whiskers before I had the chance to get them taken care of, and now they were repulsed by me. After further sleuthing, however, I realized that they were actually talking about somebody else. A relief, yes, but it still scared the hell out of me. I couldn't ever let them find out about my mustache. And I couldn't ever let them find out how hairy my arms were. And I especially couldn't reveal my legs, which I felt were in a constant state of five o'clock shadow. I was convinced that these boys would totally freak out if they ever realized how gross I was.
But it's not my fault! I wanted to tell them. It's hereditary! I come from very furry people! Then I would eat a plate of spaghetti while wearing a Russian hat.

In order to distract boys from both my mustache and my braces, I took to wearing very dark eye make up. I had read in some teen magazine that any time you want to distract a guy from something else on your face, you should wear a ton of eye liner. So I did. I don't think that worked very well. In hindsight it's obvious that I should have shown more cleavage, but the past is in the past. I blamed everything on the patches of black fuzz that sprouted at the corners of my lips, actual noticeable facial hair that was way darker than anything my guy friends could grow. And then I would go get it waxed off, and my eyebrows would be perfectly shaped and lovely, and I would just feel better. I've never understood women who need to get their nails done, but when I think of it as something similar to waxing then yes, I am totally on board.

In study hall my senior year of high school, I had my head down doing work. A friend of mine was sitting across from me and he said, "Hey. I can see your mustache. It's like, really dark."

In all my years of mustache-shaming, I had never once been called out on it until that moment. And by a boy. I had no idea what to say. I, of all people, had no come back. I think I mumbled something about an appointment, but as far as I can remember I didn't respond. I hated the way he made the comment. I hated that he sounded so much like those boys whose words I had tried to out run. They finally caught up to me. He looked at me with a crinkled nose and small eyes. He was seriously disturbed by my mustache. And he was also incredibly pleased with himself for getting the chance to point it out to me, like he was doing me a service. I asked the study hall monitor if I could go to the bathroom. I stood in a stall and immediately made an appointment.

After all these years of dealing with my facial hair, I can't say that it doesn't bother me anymore. Of course it still bothers me. I think it's a huge pain in the ass. I must think it's a pain in the ass if I whipped up a batch of face bleach and applied it myself. But I do it because it's something that's important to me. I know how easy it would be for me to make a really fantastic statement about self-worth and loving yourself. I believe in those things, don't worry. But I also believe that as human beings, we are vain. We are vain and impossibly unforgiving when it comes to ourselves and when you wanna look good, you wanna look good. When I told my mom I was blogging about my facial hair she said, "Be kind to yourself." And I think I've done just fine. But do you want to see something awesome?

These are my eyebrows

Those babies are mine. I've been stopped by strangers who tell me I have great eyebrows. Who would have ever thought that such a heavy browed woman would get to flaunt them with such pride? You may have noticed that I've given shout outs to heavy browed women before. I mean it every time. I have love for the blondes and red heads but to anyone whose life has revolved around hair removal, men too,  I salute you. We are stronger because of it.

Check out this article for further reading. You go, girl.

And I haven't plugged twitter in awhile. @markovichsays yay!

Art stuff, kind of

Raise your hand if you noticed I haven't posted in two weeks!!!

Right, well I noticed the same thing. I can't say I'm terribly pleased about it, especially since this "blog" is supposed to be treated like a "job." I read that in an article somewhere. It advised me to think of this blog as my job, that way I am working on it constantly and I am always giving my readers the product that they more desire. That's a precious way to think of this old girl. But until KatieMark.COM becomes a thing, you (as in vouz) will have to deal with the creative entity known as A Small Blog Thing. Of course I am making a pretty sizable assumption in suggesting you (vouz again) care, but pretending is half the battle when you're trying to be a writer.

In terms of my writing endeavors, that's still happening. The process feels slow, especially after last year when I had the most amazing writing schedule, but I'm figuring it out. Time management is a weird thing when you're navigating early adulthood. Odds are, your only commitment is work. And if your mind functions like mine does, you picture the "Things To Do" column and you only see one item. One obligation a day is way less than what I was doing in college. But somehow, I am more drained now than I ever was when I was rushing from work to class to meeting to rehearsal to college fair to library and back again. And that's because, and say this with much respect, college wasn't real. It was real in the actual sense but it was ultimately four years of being unbelievably self centered and doing things for me. College is very me centric, especially if you went to my college. You get your own spot in the library, you get your own holiday, you are guaranteed an active advisor from the time you send in your deposit check. You demand your friends go drinking with you on your birthday and then you get pissy with them when they don't leave you alone to study. College felt busy because we made it that way for ourselves. But now we're out here handling someone else's products, someone else's kids, someone else's money, someone else's research. We are on someone else's time. I've worked since I was 16, so I'm certainly not shocked that I actually have to do stuff. Now that "work" is the only thing in my obligations column, I suppose I understand what it means in terms of amount of ilk carried. This probably explains why I downloaded so many GRE apps last week and I now have to re-learn 10th grade math by February 9th.

Speaking of time and it not being your own anymore. Chicago has this thing called the Chicago Transit Authority, or the CTA. The CTA is both the L and the bus system. It's fine, a totally acceptable means of public transportation...until you need to be on time. I'm not necessarily being an asshole when I say that, I just think that's the most direct way of explaining the CTA. It's super cool to jump on the L on a Saturday afternoon and then spend the day in Millennium Park, or at the lake front, or shopping, or whatever. Anything that can be described as "recreational" is a okay. But if you NEED to be anywhere, the buses and the L run in windows of time. For example, the bus I need to take in the morning is at the stop anywhere between 5:27 and 5:31. Those minutes matter, because if you're not standing on the curb the bus will not stop and another one does not come for a good 15 minutes or so. I need to catch a train that leaves at 5:48, and the next one doesn't leave until 7:20. The minutes really matter and watching that bus fly by you because you were 10 feet to the left of where you need to be is the worst. I have to admit that being sans car has been more difficult than I had anticipated. Granted, my work/transportation  is not what I thought it would be so of course my expectations are a little off, but still. Just because I live in a city doesn't mean that everything is right around the corner. Waiting on trains. Waiting on buses. Or missing them. I think that's been the most difficult adjustment.


And speaking of adjustments.

At work there's this coffee mug that I try to get every morning before I fill it with the Caribou Daybreak blend. Sometimes I keep it at my desk over night so I know it will be there the next day. It's an official Art Institute of Chicago souvenir mug and not only is it huge, but it also bears the image of Caillebotte's Paris Street: Rainy Day. 

Caillebotte, Gustave. Paris Street: Rainy Day, 1877. The Art Institute of Chicago. 

I've seen the piece twice in person and I loved it both times. Man friend and I like to turn museum trips into free verse oral narrative time, in which everything is a part of some plot happening somewhere at some point. I remember rounding a corner and seeing this piece displayed at center and I immediately pointed at the man with the umbrella's face. "Look at him," I said. "Who is he looking at? Some one from his past. Or maybe that's who she sees. Whoever it is, the other doesn't know." And I became a little obsessed with this question. Who are they looking at? What are they looking at? So it's kismet or cosmic justice or because it was in the clean cup stack, but I love that look at this painting every day while I sit at my desk. I can't stop thinking about what they're looking at. (I also can't stop thinking about how many times I've ended these sentences with "at" but for the sake of flow and limited brain power, I'm just going to leave them.) The Art Institute is open until 8 on Thursdays, so I could feasibly take my train back into the city after work, run into the museum, and just stare at this for awhile. The painting is post-Napoleonic, visual commentary on the modernity that was sweeping Paris, and it kind of whispers, everything is different now, isn't it? But it's a hesitant whisper, wishing that someone will say that nothing's different. But yet, here's the change, the transition, the "It's all happening!" moment. Just look at their faces. What are they looking at? 

I hope I haven't dissuaded anybody from growing up. It's not so bad. You get to do cool things like go to the 96th floor of the Hancock Building for 14 dollar martinis on your 23rd birthday. You get to enjoy Saturdays in a beautiful, pure way that you never imagined you could love a day of the week. You get to buy different bread than whatever it is you grew up with. And you get to find things to look at, every day, for as long as you want to. 

Coming up this weekend: The aquarium! I wonder who the fishes will be when I see them. 

Dreamboat Dave Redux

That's right. Dreamboat Dave is BACK. 

But first, a brief synopsis of why cable companies are the worst. 

Since the first week we moved here, Roomie and I have been attempting to get cable television. I know this seems silly as we are in an age of Netflix and Drinking, but cable television is a very large part of my life and it is important to me to have it in my home. I don't even have a series I keep up with. I just really love TV.  I find great comfort in aimless channel surfing (see: "What's wrong with our youth") and if I'm going to be an adult, I need cable. My first experience with the cable company involved a man named Jody who repeatedly said "Ma'am, you do not understand" and I narrowly escaped spending nearly 400 dollars in charges and equipment that I definitely did not need. After that attempt, I cried and ate a poorly made grilled cheese sandwich. The memory haunts me still. From there, Roomie would try about once a week to try and talk to a decent human being at the cable company, but it seemed that all of the decent employees were on smoke breaks and we only talked to sleazy guys who were just relentless salesmen. We have spent a significant (relatively speaking) amount of time in Chicago on the phone with the cable company, and nearly all of those conversations have resulted in one if not both us crying and threatening to begin new lives somewhere else. But a few days ago Roomie was successful in talking to a real life human folk who actually had her best interest at heart and an installation appointment was finally set up. OR someone at this cable company saw the tweets I sent them. They read, "Be better at your job." We may never know. 

So the cable was coming! But there was one small problem that I had totally forgotten to address at any point in the last month: we still didn't have the remote control. It had been a month plus since we had our run in with Dreamboat Dave and I couldn't help but think that my texting and inquiring about said remote would be a little creepy. (In hind sight, I'm realizing that the fact that this blog post as well as the first one even exists is a little creepy. Whatevs, YOLO.) I had saved him in my phone as TV Guy so I scrolled down to the last time I had texted him. I could feel my face contort into disgust at the sight of my last message. I was trying so hard. I figured it was worth a shot, though. The guy was nice enough to get the remote from his old place so why not finally take it off his hands? I was nervous to text him. Like, what if he forgot about me? What if I didn't sound cool? What if he could tell that I was sitting on my futon in my sweatpants? And, even sadder, I had moved the futon to the other side of the room so that my phone could remain plugged into the wall while I used it. Could he sense that, too?!?! I decided to text him.

A short aside: I have a twitter follower who is also an awesome political analyst. I could have said that I follow an awesome political analyst, but for the sake of attention and intrigue, I want you to know this: he followed me first. Due to a very long winded train of non-logic, I sometimes confuse this twitter follower with Dreamboat Dave. Why? Ask me some time. It doesn't actually make sense, but their faces cross in my head and I get confused. Anyway, I decided to send Dave the text message while the third presidential debate was happening. And there was a legitimate moment of fear in which I thought Oh, he won't be able to text me back tonight, he's live tweeting the debate. This is how my brain works, people. I can't help it. And even worse is the part where I reminded myself that Dave and twitter follower are two different people and still proceeded to get confused. When actual Dreamboat Dave texted me back my first thought was, wow, so cool to text me during the debate!!!! Eventually I rectified the differences. 

DD told me that he had dinner reservations at a place nearish us, so we arranged to meet up. Of course he was totally funny and cool about the whole thing while I rolled around on the futon, half giggling to myself. He even made jokes about finding an alternative to the remote control, which I thought was really funny even though it wasn't. Today (Tuesday) I got home from work knowing that I had SO many fun things to look forward to: Cable, DD, AND grocery shopping. (Prior to the grocery shopping, there was a tub of sour cream in our fridge. That was about it.) To make things even better, I got home from work at an unbelievably early time. But when I got home, I walked into the living room and I saw something on our coffee table. 

"What is that?"

That was a remote control and that had been given to us by the cable guy and that was his unintentional Tanya Harding sabotage to my go see Dreamboat Dave plan. Roomie asked, "Do we still need to get the remote tonight?" And I said "Yes! Of course we do!" I was manic. I was a woman crazed. I immediately came up with all the reasons why we still needed the original remote to the television set we own. We needed it! Yes! We needed it! Around seven he texted me the address of the restaurant. When I mapped it on my phone, the nearest eatery was a Subway. I secretly hoped that he had made a reservation at Subway because he missed peasant food. What's funny is he told us to meet him at the Wendy's nearby because "I'm early and I wanted to grab a soda." Adorable. Before we left I made a passing joke to Roomie. I said, "Is it bad that I thought about putting in my contacts and putting on make up?" She said, "I put on blush." And then we went. 

We arrived at the Wendy's and immediately upon pulling into its parking lot, I saw Dave sitting at a table inside. He was drinking a soda. "It's him!" I exclaimed, pointing directly at him. We went inside and he stood up to greet us, shaking our hands and saying it was great to see us again. He produced the remote from his jacket pocket and immediately apologized for not putting batteries in it. I think I just giggled or did something really dumb, I don't know. He was asking us about how Chicago is treating us when a woman kind of appeared and joined our conversation. It was his sister and I gave her a too-hearty handshake and introduced myself as though she had any reason to understand who I am. Dave said, "These girls bought my TV" and that seemed to be enough of an explanation for sister. Upon hearing Roomie's New Mexico connection, Sister told us all about the Georgia O'Keeffe museum and why we need to go and Georgia just really has a way of saying so many different things, you know? And all I could think about was the obvious Georgia associations and the fact that I was thinking about them in this Wendy's with strangers but nodding my head the whole time because I wanted her to like me. She said, "You should really go." And at the exact same time, Dave and I said, "Yeah, the next time I'm in New Mexico!" And we laughed. 

After some more pleasantries, we eventually parted ways, probably forever this time. (But probably not--Chicago is the smallest big place I've ever lived. According to cosmic law, you run in to everybody all the time.) Roomie and I sighed happily when we got back in the car. 

"He really looks well," said Roomie.

"Mmhmm, he does." I agreed. 

"Married life must be suiting him. We should have asked him about it! Would that be too much?"

"Maybe. I think we would have gotten away with it."

And then we went grocery shopping and, as per usual, I spent way too much money on food. It was, however, lovely to come home to a nice TV that has commercials and edited versions of movies and, best of all, more remote controls than we know what to do with. 

Potential Themes for this Blog

It has come to my attention that the best and most successful blogs are the ones that operate around one central theme and then turn that central theme into a relevant, poignant, and hilarious part of other people's lives. I relate to you because I also like sports! I relate to you because I also take pictures of cupcakes! I relate to you because we are both skinny bitches and like to make people feel terrible about their bodies! My blog is not like that. My blog does not focus on any one thing, unless you count me as a thing. I can see where that might cause some stress for you, the reader. Reader, how can I best connect to you? I ask myself daily. How can I make you feel like you are here, with me, on the streets of Chicago? My favorite piece of advice when writing is if I am bored writing it, then you are bored reading it. I don't want any of us to be bored. So I've come up with this list of potential new directions in which the blog can go. Remember the rules of good blogs! Relevant, poignant, and hilarious. There's got to be something out there.

1. Fashion
In which I re-purpose Blackhawks jerseys and use them to make cute, boho-chic dresses. Each entry will include a quirky picture of me, probably sporting bangs and boots, hanging off of one famous street sign in the city of Chicago. The entry will chronicle the disheartened fan from whom I took the jersey. This blog will show that I value recycled goods (Go Green!!!), the world of couture, and that I stand firmly with (or without) what ever it is (or isn't) the NHL lock out means.

2. Romance
In which I romantic date my way through Chicago. Each entry will be about some really fabulous date that the Boy and I went on this weekend and all of those dates will be brilliantly, breathlessly Chicago! You're SO jealous now, aren't you? Don't you wish you were standing on top of the Hancock Building, drink in hand, arm around your man friend's middle? Don't you wish you were on the beaches of Lake Michigan with the picnic basket you acquired from Dreamboat Dave? Don't you wish you were catching a film in Millennium Park, your man friend's Brooks Brothers suit jacket draped over the both of you? You would love reading this blog because you could text your other friends and say Uggghhh that dumb bitch I went to high school with wrote about another one of her dates. Oh, and Will pays for everything.

One of the romantic caricatures drawn at Navy Pier. Look at how the artist captured the natural curls of my hair.

3. Finding Myself/My Story
In which I recognize that my Romance Blog is heteronormative, presumptuous, and a little alienating. So that's why THIS blog is about my WOMAN friend!!! I don't have one, but I think I could find one. This would probably be the most relevant, poignant, and hilarious blog option. I also believe that Bravo will want to give me a reality show because of it. Each entry will talk about my feelings, the patriarchy, and the various ways in which Chicago exhibits the values of the patriarchy and my feelings because of it. Seriously, though, this city is nothing but phallic symbols. Which leads me to...

4. Chicago Hot Dog Blog 
In which I eat a Chicago style hot dog every day and tell you how it affects my health. It will be kind of like Supersize Me but a little less gross. And, because I have a stomach made of iron and the metabolism of a 14 year old boy, you will be shocked, angered, and entertained with what I get away with. Each entry will include an anecdote about someone I meet while buying my hot dog. This will distract you from the fact that I'm eating a Chicago Style Hot Dog every single day. My hope is that it functions like that MTV show that Casey really liked, The Buried Life. I will promise these strangers that I can help them change their lives, all while shoving a hot dog in my mouth. (Chicago Style Hot Dog----> the patriarchy.) And then I'll be like Ugh, I don't feel so good and leave them to their own devices.

This is how I looked up the name of that show.

5. Bean Spotting Blog
In which I watch people take pictures of themselves in The Bean. Each entry will be video commentary of me sitting in Millennium Park, shooing away pigeons, and providing my unsolicited observations. I am most drawn to this blog idea and feel that I don't need to talk you into it.

6. Block Party Blog
In which I learn Spanish. Each entry will be about how I go across the street to my beloved 24 hour Mexican restaurant and I smile and nod the whole time before giving into the live band that ALWAYS plays a song from Selena. I have been told by my Chicago field guide that my neighborhood is more than likely going to be sick for La Dia De Los Muertos. And, as a common American, I whole heartedly look forward to this event. I think the Tequila intake will help with my speaking skills.

Really though, RIP.

7. Sports
In which I put on my favorite pink satin Jay Cutler jersey and go to the bars!!! Each entry will document how much I love the Bears, the Cubs, the Hawks, and the Bulls. I will be the ultimate Chicago super fan and also the cutest. Because guys LOVE sports girls!!! Especially ones who know ALL the guys' names but have no idea what they do. DERRICK ROSE, BITCHES!!!! PATRICK KAYNE, BITCHES!!! SOMEBODY WHO PLAYS FOR THE CUBS, BITCHES!!! As a girl who likes sports, I need you to know how much I like sports. Because I'm wearing this pink jersey, that means you can still want to have sex with me without feeling weird about it. All of my entries will be about all the times that my girls and me have been  court side/50 yard line/first base line and some really hot celebrity athlete approached me personally and told me that I must be a model. I'm not saying that that's why I have all of this sports (SPORTS DID I MENTION SPORTS) information but I guess I just made an impression on him.
(Note: Did you know that I was legitimately obsessed with Kirk Hinrich? Because he and LeBron got drafted together and I was SO over LeBron at that point but I really liked Kansas that year because of Kirk. And he did that 70s retro commercial with Carmelo Anthony? Yeah, whatever, sports.)

Well, I feel pretty comfortable with this as a starter. I think I have some good ideas flowing. Relevant, poignant, hilarious. That's what a blog is and that is what I aspire towards. Thank you, Chicago, for your inspiration.

AND FOR THIS.

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.