The other night I did something I have never done before. I went to a bar by myself. I only lasted for one beer before I felt the urge to jump ship. Still, it was a big moment for me.

I recall the first time I ever went to a sit down sort of restaurant unaccompanied. I was hyperaware of my lack of companionship and ate as quickly as possibly in order to just be done with the whole unpleasant process. That was about five years ago, and I am now absolutely comfortable eating alone. In fact I have come to really enjoy it. So, there might be hope for me yet in my solo drinking endeavors.

I am beginning to view this city in a new light. Perhaps it is because I am now living here permanently rather than just passing through as I have been for the past decade. Often I find that cities in which I have formerly resided are populated by ghosts of all sizes and shapes. Certain streets or places remind me of other people and other times, usually ones of which I would prefer not to be reminded. This city isn’t like that. There is a cheerful sort of familiarity, a basic understanding of cardinal directions, and yet there are no ghosts, friendly or otherwise. There are things like oh there is the street where my mother grew up or oh that is the house that my great great grandfather built or there is the shop that used to house my great uncle’s television repair business or there is the park that used to be a yard in which my beloved grandfather grew sweet corn, yet at the end of the day Chicago has, for me, a refreshing amount of neutrality.

Sometimes I think about going to Los Angeles, maybe just for a visit. Maybe just for a spicy garlic tofu and a large iced coffee. Perhaps a number nineteen, if I could find the time. Mostly, though, I think this is not a great idea. At least not right now. Of course financially it is not impossible but is certainly not intelligent. Besides, when I was there in February I found it to be emotionally taxing. At the time the quiet and the sun and the warm was so nice. No chicken bones or sounds of people abusing children anywhere to be found. I was reminded of all the things I missed and it was hard to leave. Right now I am on a good roll here in the flatlands. I must stay the course.

I signed the lease on an apartment yesterday. It is a lot like my last apartment in LA was, that is to say crumbling and utterly without amenities. I move in on September first and I am excited.

Racial stereotypes, anyone?

Today I had an experience with a security guard named Maurice, who is quickly becoming a bright spot in my life. This encounter warranted the use of the term “Sambo”, however at the time the lingo escaped me.

Sambo |ˈsambō|
noun ( pl. -bos or -boes)
1 offensive a black person. [ORIGIN: early 18th cent.: perhaps from Fula sambo ‘uncle.’ ]

While the dictionary might categorize the word as offensive, the behavior that inspired me to re-familiarize myself with it was anything but. Now that I have this, paired with the recent discovery that the T9 function of my phone features and regularly suggests “darky”, I can really start living life to the fullest.

T9 also constantly urges use of “8ball” but that doesn’t have much application for me anymore now that I no longer reside in Echo Park.

Eggs

Anyone who has regularly taken meals with me in the last twenty years or so is aware that the egg and I do not mix. At least we didn’t used to. Something in me has changed, and I have come to appreciate this foodstuff. I admire its versatility. It has pluck.

We have come a long way together, however I still feel as if the mighty ova is mostly shrouded in mystery. Today, for example, I went to a diner and ordered something with Hobo in the name. As an aside, few foods besides egg based dishes ever employ the word Hobo in their titles. Another plus. At any rate, I asked for a fried egg.

“Over easy, over medium, or over hard?” the waitress asked me.

Egg eaters, please enlighten me. Is this over business just a subsection of the friedness? I feel like I really need to know.

In other news, I am sort of unofficially beginning my apartment search this week. My overall feeling is that I will be able to find something cute yet cheap. I found two excellent chairs in the trash yesterday, which I am taking as a good sign in my quest for domesticity.

At the house of my mother, butter is a commodity more precious than gold. Bring a package into the house, and it will all but vanish before your eyes. It will likely be replaced by a plastic tub of butter impostor. This too will be an invaluable household item. It will be hidden in the back of the refrigerator. You will be cautioned as to the consequences of its overuse. Margarine as luxury. Welcome to Middle America, wayward child.

Last weekend was a particularly difficult one for me, breakup-wise. I want so much to be a brave woman, but festering in the basement of mother’s house while all of the favorite people attend the most talked about wedding of the season is very, very depressing. You let your mind wander to that boyfriend you used to have, that impishly handsome one. You remember all the twinkles in his eyes, the reflections of that preposterous downtown rivaled only by the embers of that ridiculous cigar. That boyfriend you thought would end all boyfriends. It is hard not to cry a tear or two before bedtime.

Summer has always been hard, anyway. The hot weather is more crazy making than the chilly, and the clothing options provide much less of a way out. Coated in sweater offers so much more escape than skin on parade.

There is something about quiet, though, that is nice for the ear. There is something about that brand of Midwestern earnestness, that “I can talk to the cashier without being a freak” that is the warmest of hugs. Home home home home home. As a concept it is foreign to me. Home is certain persons and certain smells and certain flavors. It transcends geography. Home is the Japanese couple knowing exactly what I want to order. Home is looking out the window of an airplane and pointing to my street. Home is the smell of a red sauce simmering away on a stove. Home is that donut so perfectly marbled. Home is that mouthy girl who doesn’t require the history lesson. Home is taking off the pants in the middle of the living room. Home is the songs that my surly friend sends, the songs that beg to be played on grey days with white houses and red barns in the background. Home is listening to the woes of the boy with the rainbow colored outfits, the uncensored eruption of present and future and past. Home is the golden sunlight peeking through the brown soot and the fog pouring in during late afternoon. Home is telling the little girl “I don’t have a Daddy” while he is there, somewhere, knowing that death is not yet a concept meant to be understood.

If you are lucky, you get to go away. You get to go to many places and see many things. You get to add to your arsenal so many stories and faces. And then, you get to come home. And you get to rest. And you get to see things anew. Blinded by sun and glistened by tears, there are your eyes.

I have relocated from my friend’s parents’ suburban house, via my mother’s house in the middle of nowhere, to my friend’s spacious apartment in the city. The neighborhood is rife with Mexicans and my heart is bursting with happiness. Oh Mexicans, I promise I won’t take you for granted anymore. I love you, I really do.

The nice thing about moving frequently is sampling the various regional beers. The liquor store down the street has a nice selection and overly suspicious Indian overseers. I like it.

I also got hired today for a job that is perfect for me. My new boss speaks with more expletives than not, and sees no reason why a person should come to work if the weather is inclement. We do happen to live in Chicago, a city known for many things and nice weather not being one of them. I foresee a lot of working from home in my future, my instant messaging continuing unabated.

After a weekend that found me shedding many tears and blossoming much acne, it is pleasant to feel as if a break is being caught.

I am stupid. Really, really, really stupid.

deriving joy from photobooth runs in the family

Today I was asked out for the first time in my new, single incarnation.  The asker was a trashy drunkard.  He repeatedly demanded my phone number, until finally I agreed to take his.

“Are you going to call me?”  posited the trashy drunkard.

“No.” I said.

I then looked at the flip side of the business card on which the never-to-be-dialed number was scrawled.

“Hey, is this your lawyer’s business card?”  I inquired.

“Yes!” replied the drunkard.  “He is a great lawyer.  He got my brother off for murder!”

All I was trying to do was have a couple of beers on a hot Friday afternoon while waiting for a train, and what I got was an anecdote.  Thank you, trashy drunkard, and godspeed.

Oh Los Angeles, so much of what is me is so much about you.  How this happened, I do not know.  But I miss you and your infernal dust and your golden sunlight.  I do I do I do.

Carry Me Ohio

Do you think people from Ohio realize that their state is pretty much a metaphor for transience, for pass throughs, for nothingness?  For some reason or another I have spent the past ten years or so favoring sad songs about states.  Michigan, Illinois, New Hampshire, Kentucky.  There are nice sad songs about these states.  But Ohio takes the cake.  Ohio has the most sad songs written about it.  And the best, if you ask me.

Ohio also has the best rest stops in the nation.  So that’s something. 

Having essentially exhausted my job search for today, I will soon go to the shower to do some shaving in anticipation of a visit to a water park.  I don’t know that shrieking children and piped in surfer music is going to cure what ails me.  Alas, I think time is the only thing that is going to cure what ails me.  I have it in spades so I best be using it in a manner that gives me adorable freckles.

Yesterday Elisa invited me on a bra shopping excursion.  As she paid for her purchases, it occurred to me that we were in the very store where my mother bought for me my first ever bra.  It was a sexy white cotton number, and it was incredibly itchy.  That same day, my entire family went to see “The Fugitive” starring Harrison Ford.  The air conditioning was broken in the movie theatre and that coupled with the discomfort of my newly imprisoned anatomy was almost more than I could take.  Oh 1993, weren’t you easy?  If only thirteen year old me would have had some anticipation of all that I would have to take in the years to come, I would have asked my mother to buy me prettier underthings.