"This is to have succeeded..."

Every few weeks, I receive an email from my undergrad alma mater’s alumni association. I confess that I often delete these emails without even opening them. Don’t get me wrong. I love WMU and don’t regret a single day I spent there. But we are neither big nor prestigious, and the alumni association’s headlines usually fail to impress me. “Current student competes in Miss USA pageant.” (Not even Miss America.) “Feasibility of WMU medical school considered.” (But no decision expected any time soon.)

However, a few days ago I received one that caught and held my attention: “WMU President Emeritus Diether Haenicke passes away.” I was taken aback by the instant profound wave of sadness that passed through me. I have not spoken to Dr. Haenicke since I left Western. He was not president while I was a student. He was not my advisor or any other consistent presence in my life while I was in school or since. Yet I find that I am in mourning, and over the past few days, I’ve been paging through my memories of him in an attempt to understand why.

I first met Dr. Haenicke during my first week of classes at WMU. He co-taught an honors seminar I was taking all about Joan of Arc. When I registered for the class, I had absolutely no idea who he was. During the first session, he introduced himself as simply Dr. Haenicke, but the other instructor made sure to point out that he had been president of the university before the current president. I was duly impressed and quite nervous, but I tried to see this as an opportunity. I told myself to be cool and make a good impression during the course of the semester.

I completely blew that goal exactly one week later. The seminar was a once-a-week, Wednesday night class, and Dr. Haenicke told us that over the coming weeks, he was going to take us all out for dinner after class, in groups of five or so. As this is the sort of situation that makes me (or at least, used to make me) horribly anxious, I signed up for the first dinner, telling myself it was better to get it over with. So, after our second class session, I found myself in the back seat of Dr. Haenicke’s car with some other students, on my way to a Chinese restaurant.

I have almost no memory of the dinner itself; I only know it went smoothly and I was feeling happy and confident as Dr. Haenicke was driving us back to campus. It was raining, so he offered to take each of us to our individual dorms. I was the first to be dropped off. He popped his trunk for me, and I jumped out of the car, grabbed my backpack from the trunk, and hurried up the walk toward the door. It was about five seconds later, just as I was reaching for the door handle, that I realized that I had sprinted away without closing the trunk. My stomach sank and as I turned around and watched the former president of the university (whom had just bought me dinner, by the way) step out into the pouring rain as a result of my stupidity. We made eye contact for the briefest of moments, and then he was back in the car and pulling away.

I walked back up to my dorm room and contemplated never leaving again. I felt like I could never show my face to Dr. Haenicke again. Things did seem a bit less bleak the next morning, but not for long. I went to a morning history lecture and then scampered to my 10AM psychology lab. As I walked toward the building, I couldn’t help but notice the name spelled on it in giant black letters: Haenicke Hall. The reality of whom I had embarrassed myself in front of slammed home yet again, and I secretly prayed that I would never see Dr. Haenicke again.

Obviously, that particular prayer was not answered. Not only did I see Dr. Haenicke every week in my Joan of Arc course, I also found out that he was heavily involved in the Medallion program, the very scholarship program that was funding my education. Every individual scholarship is named for either a donor or an honoree, and one of the winners in my year was the recipient of the Diether Haenicke Medallion. Dr. Haenicke was present at almost every reception and dinner I attended for the program for the next four years.

It could have been a horribly embarrassing situation every time we met, but Dr. Haeniecke never held the trunk against me. He greeted me warmly every time we met, and if he ever had reason to introduce me to someone else, he made mention of my insightful comments in class or my well-written final exam, not of my failure to close his trunk. He did not write me off as hopeless or unworthy, as he so easily could have. Instead, he forgot my shortcomings and noticed my potential. He humbled me not by looking down on me, but by treating me as an equal. In that way, he challenged me to be a better person.

After a lot of reflection, I realize that is why I am so sad to hear of his passing. Even though my day to day life will not change at all as a result of his death, I still know that the world at large is suffering a profound loss. The world was a better place while he was around, not only because of the person he was, but because of the person he expected you to be while you were around him.

I am just recently 26. I realize this is young by almost any measure, but I still find myself worrying from time to time that I am wasting these precious years of my life. As happy and satisfied as I claim to be right now (and I am, really!), I can’t help but wonder if I will look back some day and regret not spending my twenties traveling the world or at least doing something more incredible than going to bar trivia. I’m sure I’ll have similar worries throughout my life. My greatest fear is wasting this life I’ve been given. I never know how I will measure success; I am never sure how I will tell if I have done enough with my life to deserve this greatest of gifts.

In saying goodbye to a teacher and mentor, I think I may have found an answer.

Rest in peace, Dr. Haenicke. If, when I die, even one person remembers me the way I remember you, I will know I’ve done enough.

Batty for Books

I love books.

It’s a common statement – perhaps even a cliché – but I feel like it’s a lesser known fact about me. When I was growing up, it was my sister that was considered the avid reader. Laurie was the one that got the “Book Lady” tote bags, the autographed book release posters, and the bookstore jobs. People knew I liked to read, too, but it wasn’t part of my identity the way it was a part of hers.

I suppose I can understand why things ended up this way. Laurie is a speed reader. She can read a book a day, easy. In fact, she’s probably read more books by now than I will read in my lifetime. She skims through them, understanding the plot and main points if not every single subtle nuance.

I, on the other hand, plod through books like I am wading through quicksand. I read every single word and contemplate the meaning of every single sentence. I’m forever flipping back to reread parts that have suddenly become more important or to make sure I have all the characters and the chronology straight in my head. When I finish a book, I know the story and characters intimately, at least until the details are pushed out of my memory by a new book. It takes me a long time to read a book, even the easy ones – and a hard read will take me over a month sometimes. This methodical technique of complete comprehension is probably one of the things that makes me so good at my job.

My slow, careful reading style also has another effect: my complete and total immersion into the world of a story. When I’m reading a book, particularly one I really like, the real world around me starts to face away. I see the setting and characters, and almost hear them speaking. I have some sort of vague awareness of the things going on around me; I’ll respond if someone says my name, but I usually have to ask people to repeat any questions they ask me. Reading is almost time travel to me.

Mostly, I love this about myself. I like being able to completely abandon the real world, if only temporarily, anytime I want. But this time-travel phenomenon also has an unexpected consequence that may get me into trouble one day. You see, when I’m deep into a good book, I never completely come back from the story world, even when I’m not reading. My habit of completely immersing myself into the story affects the way I react to things in the real world.

Let me give you a few examples from the book I’m reading right now. It’s a thousand-page historical fiction novel about life in 14th-century England. About halfway through the book, my favorite character, Caris, was accused of practicing witchcraft. It terrified her – witchcraft was both impossible to prove and impossible to disprove in those days, and superstitions usually won out. Almost any woman who was accused of witchcraft ended up being sentenced to death. Caris only narrowly escaped this fate herself. She confessed her sins and her death sentence was suspended so long as she took vows and became a nun. It was a horrible sacrifice for her, as she was in love and supposed to be married days later.

Reading that part of the story made me both sad for Caris and scared for women in general. But not just the women in the story – all women, then and now, including myself. A couple of days later, I was walking home from the train stop, and it started to rain. I instinctively reached for my hood. But then I hesitated as I remembered which coat I was wearing. It’s a blue corduroy jacket, and on the back are sewn white patches that spell “WICH,” an acronym for Wizards In CHicago, for an informal Harry Potter fan club of which I am a member. Usually the patches are hidden by the hood, but putting the hood up would expose them. As I thought about that, I remembered Caris and her trial, and I worried that the wrong person would see the patches and accuse me of being a witch. I walked the rest of the way home letting the rain soak my hair and face. I was too afraid to put the hood up.

Nuts, right? First of all, the likelihood of anyone even noticing the patches was slim. Second, even if anyone did, I doubt his or her first thought would be to accuse me of witchcraft, as it is 2009 and generally accepted that witchcraft is not possible. Third, even if some person DID accuse me of being a witch, there’s no way I would be sentenced to death. I know all those things, yet the world of the story has become so real for me that I couldn’t quite shake the fear.

Later in the book, the plague strikes the village and half of the population dies. The people become paranoid and fearful, and every sniffle and sneeze is looked upon with dread. Hence, paranoia struck me, too. I was at work one day last week, and I overheard one of my coworkers say to another something as mundane as, “How are you feeling?” My first, fleeting thought? “Oh, no, I hope he doesn’t have the plague!” I quickly quashed that thought before I said anything foolish, but I acknowledge that I thought it, anyway. Even though I was at work, reading about exponential regression, a part of me was still in Kingsbridge, England, in 1337.

As I said before, even though I like how deeply involved I get into book, I worry that someday I will say something completely batty and be locked up for life. Sometimes, I don’t quash my reactions so easily. Yesterday, at the end of my lunch break, I read a passage from the book where one of the male characters does something unforgivably selfish and cowardly. Before I could stop myself, I slammed the book closed and said, “Even in the 14th century, men were stupid.”

No one who overheard seemed to think I was crazy. Lucky for me, I suppose, that some things never change.

Otherwise known as Furry Boot Girl

Winter sucks. There’s just no getting around it. Highs in the single digits and below zero wind chills make life miserable for everyone who has to so much as step outside. However, I’m convinced that those that suffer the most are those that wait for the bus. There’s no way to describe the sense of misery I feel as I step off the train on one of those cold, cold mornings and walk to the bus stop, knowing I could be standing there for over half an hour.

It’s hard to feel alone in my suffering, though, when I see the same people at the bus stop every morning. In my 15 months of commuting to the loop on the brown line, even though I always waited at the same stop, I never recognized anyone. Somehow, the bus stop is different. It’s like an odd little club we have – everyone knows everybody else, usually not by name, but at least by sight.

It’s an odd social situation, really. I’m both fascinated and frustrated by it. I see these people more often than my family or most of my friends. Consequently, I will sometimes mention them when I’m telling people about my day. But it’s difficult to refer to a nameless face. So what do I do? Ask their names, in an effort to fight the isolation in a crowd that all of us city-dwellers live with? No, silly readers. That would require a great deal of initiative and the breaking of many unspoken public transportation courtesies. Instead, I assign them my own set of names.

There’s a girl, probably around my age, that waits for my bus in the morning. She almost always has a coffee in her hands, and wears a red ski jacket. What really strikes me about her, though, is her curly hair, especially since it’s often still wet as she stands in the cold. Ergo, I know her as Curly Hair Girl. We commiserate about the cold from time to time, but I really know nothing else about her.

Once I board the bus, there are a few other people I always see. One man is almost a fixture in the front side-facing seats. He’s there, every morning, with a thread of yarn slowly being pulled out of his backpack as he knits or crochets. To this day, I can’t figure out how he keeps his stitches so straight on a bouncing bus. He’s Knitting Guy.

There’s another man – a bit of a newcomer, starting to ride my bus a month or two ago – that sits in the same seat each morning, facing straight ahead and scowling. His coat is an unappealing shade of orange. He’s Angry Orange Coat Guy.

Of course, there are a few regulars at on my bus home, as well. One is an older woman with a fabulous head of long white hair, always held in place by combs. She’s friendly with the drivers and very likable. She’s White Hair Lady.

Another regular is a boy who must be a student at the U of Chicago Lab School. He’s always camped out in a corner in the back, working on his homework. Hence, he is Homework Kid. Before he gets off the bus, he always does a second check of his seat to make sure he has everything. For some reason, this always makes me smile. His mom taught him well.

You may think I’m odd for assigning these people such goofy names. I thought I was odd, too, at first. But then I learned I am not the only one who does this. I have a coworker that sometimes rides my bus home, and we had a discussion about this once. Turns out we both have the same name for White Hair Lady.

Not all our names are the same, though. On one bus ride we shared, when a twenty-something I call iPod Guy got off the bus, I mentioned his name to my coworker. She said something to the effect of, “Oh. I’ve always just called him ‘Guy Who Gets Off Here and Goes That Way.’” (And you thought my names were bad!)

To be fair, some people are kinder with their names than me. I sometimes ride a bus home that makes only limited stops. Since the stops are so far apart, there’s tons of time for passengers to pull the cord that signals the bus driver to stop. However, regardless of when you pull the cord, you only have to do it once. There’s one woman that stands for the entire 7 minutes between her stop and the one prior, tossing her hair long black back and forth and pulling the cord every thirty seconds. For some reason, I find this unspeakably annoying. My friend has seen this woman, too. She calls her Long Hair Lady. Me? I call her Obnoxious Cord Puller.

While finding out that I wasn’t the only one that did this made me feel a little better, another thought also occurred to me. If people I know also create these names, people I don’t know must do so as well. And that means I’ve probably got a name or two of my own.

But what do people call me? I’ve got some theories. Last winter, I tended to wear my black peacoat with a bright red hat. This year, I’m partial to my down coat and my pink scarf. So I’m guessing there’s at least a few people who know me as Red Hat Girl or Pink Scarf Girl.

One never knows what will catch people’s attention, though. Maybe the hat and scarf are not my most distinctive features. Maybe people remember me for my love of the RedEye crossword, and I am Crossword Puzzle Girl. Perhaps people can’t understand why I choose to stand outside the bus shelter, even in the bitter wind, and I am Shuns the Shelter Lady. To the other woman who carries the same commuter bag as me, I imagine my name is Woman Who Has My Bag. Or it could be that my habit of saying hello to the driver when I get on and thank you when I get off is my most distinctive feature, and I’m Girl Who Talks to the Driver.

I’d love to believe that last one is the most prevalent name I have. Unfortunately, I think Furry Boot Girl is far more likely.

26 thoughts on my 26th birthday

1. My birthday party was a lot of fun, and there was no group-mixing drama. I guess my theoretical analysis was pretty accurate. I’ve always been good with theory, though. I am a mathematician, after all.

2. Even though I spent the day slogging through some binomial probability misery, I can’t help but think to myself that taking the job at U of C was one of the best decisions I ever made. I’m really good at what I do, and I feel that my work is important and worthwhile. I never really felt that way at my last job. My job also connected me with some really great friends, and I’m equally grateful for that.

3. It’s been about two and a half years since I took in my kitty, and at certain moments, I am still amazed what an extraordinarily good companion she is. She’s a loudmouth, and she scratches my furniture, but I can’t imagine how lonely my apartment would be without her.

4. It’s almost the end of January, and that means we are through a substantial portion of the winter. Amen to that. I think perhaps this one was a little easier than the last. Of course, now I just jinxed it.

5. I’m starting to train for the half marathon, and I am actually really excited about it. I think it’s because running is the first thing I have ever really succeeded at athletically. I’m only competing against myself, for myself, and that relieves a lot of pressure for me. It also makes running achievements all that more satisfying – I always know I did it all on my own.

6. I can hear my neighbors talking through the walls right now. I can’t hear individual words, only murmuring and laughter. It makes me smile to hear them laugh, even though I don’t know them. The more laughter in the world, the better. Look at me; now that I’m 26, I apparently think I am a wise sage.

7. Today, Governor Blagojevich compared himself to Ghandi. He’s completely delusional. Also, the auto industry continues to collapse. So, both Illinois and Michigan are in rough shape. I’m starting to think it’s got something to do with me. Don’t let me move to your state.

8. I just put my iTunes on. I always forget how music can help me focus and invigorate me. I really don’t utilize it enough.

9. The other interesting thing about listening to music is how different songs make me think of different people and different parts of my life. It’s a fun thing to do on my birthday, when I’m reflecting on things past. I wonder how my friends from Sweden would feel about the fact that I associate them with “Shut Up” by the Black Eyed Peas. (Actually, I know they would understand exactly why it makes me think of them. Oh, the memories of cheap German wine….)

10. I’m proud of myself for getting involved with some things this year. Leading the food pantry bagging, in particular, has been a trip. There’s never a dull moment. Last week, I had two toddlers who put cans of tuna in the bags for me. The week before, one of the French community teens told me they couldn’t find the tuna, but they finished packing the Chicken of the Sea. Hmm, why do all the interesting stories involve tuna?

11. Every morning, I see the same people at the bus stop, yet I don’t know any of their names. Is that sad, or just the nature of riding public transportation?

12. Wicked closed yesterday. It still makes me sad. It’s going to be weird seeing a different marquee at the theater. It’s almost like an old friend moved away.

13. I’m going to see Spamalot this weekend. It will be my 49th musical. I feel I should commemorate #50 somehow. Any ideas? Anyone want to come?

14. It’s been a tight month, but I’ve still got $38 left in my budget to last me until I get paid on Friday. I plan to spend it on beer and bar food at trivia tomorrow. I wouldn’t admit that, but since it’s my birthday today, you are not allowed to judge.

15. I can’t believe the number of people that wrote on my Facebook wall today. One was sitting about 4 feet from me at the time. Another wrote from Sweden. Oh, the wonders of technology.

16. The alarm clock next to my bed is five minutes fast, and the clock on my VCR is three minutes slow. These are the only readily visible clocks in my apartment. I’m not sure why I’m so anal retentive about most things but I find my clocks completely normal.

17. I complain often about the lack of space in my studio apartment, but looking around, I think perhaps I could utilize the space better. For instance, do I need three pairs of huge plush slippers – cats, ladybugs, and giraffes? …. Yes, yes I do. Never mind.

18. I’m usually very conscious of what I eat, but today, just for the day, I ate whatever the heck I wanted, which included a cream cheese Danish, several chocolate covered strawberries, Coldstone ice cream, and hot chocolate. It was so worth it. I really recommend treating yourself on your birthday.

19. Nothing touches me more than when someone does or says something that shows that they were listening to me in some idle conversation in the past. A friend came to my birthday party bearing a Borders gift card. It may seem like a generic, safe gift, but she also said she looked for the book I was reading now – which I had told her I was really enjoying a few days before – and looked for something like it. She eventually decided to go with the gift card, but the fact that she remembered the title of the book really got me. Thanks, Carla.

20. I’m looking right now at the other gift I received that night – a bowl, hand thrown and glazed by the only amateur potter I know. It came with an opportunity for a trade-in when he goes pro. How can I not be flattered? I had almost forgotten how much fun it was to receive a handmade gift. Thanks, Ben. I’ll always think of this birthday when I look at it.

21. Actually, perhaps it’s any out-of-the-way effort that gets to me. Thanks, Cabby and Guacs, for letting me host at your apartment.

22. Thanks Jess, for coming from the other end of the city.

23. Thanks Meg, for getting there from Chinatown, bearing fortune cookies.

24. Thanks Carlos, for bringing me the top-shelf beer. It all meant a lot to me.

25. I am happy. I am truly, honestly satisfied with my life right now, and that’s the best birthday gift I could ask for. I’ve worked really hard over the past few years to discover things that interest me, follow my passions, and meet new people, and all of that has really paid off for me. It’s the best birthday gift I could have asked for, and I thank everyone who has helped me get here.

26. This 27th year? I think it’s going to be a good one.

Birthday masks?

Well, folks, it’s t-minus one week until I turn 26. Since my birthday is on the 26th of January, that makes this my golden birthday! And I’m proud to report that in my three and a half years in the city, I have finally met enough people that I can throw a party.

Yup, next Saturday, I’ve invited all my friends to come and celebrate with me at my gracious host’s lakefront condo. I sent an evite, and so far I have 17 e-yeses and 2 e-maybes. That’s a lot of e-sponses! (Yes, Scrubs fans, I did borrow that line from J.D.) I’m really excited that so many people are coming. (Though I barely know a few of them, so this kinda makes it look like I have more friends than I really do. Shut up. It’s my birthday. Let me have it.)

The high number of attendees is actually going to make this quite interesting, because it’s my first attempt at mixing groups of friends. Theoretically, this should not be a big deal, but the idea has gotten me thinking about a skit that comedian Jim Gaffigan does about the different faces we put on for different groups. He says something like, “Just so you know, this group thinks I don’t drink, and that group thinks I have a British accent.” Obviously, no one thinks I have a British accent (I wouldn’t be able to fake it if I tried!) and I’m pretty sure I’ve never so much as insinuated that I don’t drink. However, I have been thinking about the ways I act around each group and wondering if there will be any surprises for anyone.

Let’s examine the facts, shall we?

Group: co-workers
What we’ve done together: Work (obviously), so they know that I am generally focused worker who doesn’t leave her desk much. Bar trivia, so they know I’m clueless when it comes to sports, and not much better when it comes to anything but math. Other parties, so they have seen me drink and know I suck at beer pong.
What they don’t know: any details about my life before I moved to Chicago – no ex-boy drama, no family drama, no study abroad trauma. They know who I am now, but not where I come from.

Group: ex-roommates
What we’ve done together: Lived (obviously) through my first year in the city, so they saw my rocky homesickness phase and my depressed, post heart-ripping-out phase, and they know I basically won’t clean until something’s disgusting. Some bar outings, so they know a lot about my once-controlling, now under-control social anxiety issues about bars.
What they don’t know: How much my current situation suits me, and how involved I’ve gotten with social and volunteering stuff. They saw me struggle. I’m not sure they saw me get all the way out of the abyss.

Group: friends from undergrad
What we’ve done together: Gone to school (do I need to say it again?), so they know I am a grade monger to the extreme. Done lots of church and volunteer stuff, so they know I have it in me to be a successful, albeit reluctant, leader.
What they don’t know: The ways I interact with my boss and coworkers, and how seriously I take my job. We don’t talk about work all that much, and I don’t think they really know how good I am at my job and how much I really love it.

Group: friends from grad school
What we’ve done together: Studied, studied, studied, so they know how I am obsessive compulsive about getting stuff done. Done some Harry Potter discussions and games, so they know the extent of my nerd-dom in that department.
What they don’t know: almost anything about my life before or after grad school. During that year, school was my life, and the only other thing I talked about was joining the Peace Corps. So, looking back, I’m not sure they know much more than how I felt and acted during that one year of my life. However, they are the only ones that really know about that year.

Group: well, this time, one person – my sister.
What we’ve done together: Oh good God, shared a bedroom, shared a bathroom, shared the back seat of a car on long trips… you know how it is with siblings. Since she moved to Chicago, gone to plays and dinner from time to time. Laurie was a part of my everyday life until she left for college, and has heard second hand about most of my life’s triumphs and defeats after that.
What she doesn’t know: The day-to-day details of my life right now. She only hears about the deviations from that. I’m not sure she knows how I get to work, what I do all day, what coffee shops I frequent, or what TV shows I watch.

So, it’s true that every group has a slightly different picture of me in their minds. But after that analysis, I don’t think that any of those pictures really conflict with each other. They’re just each incomplete – each a different piece of my whole.

This conclusion pleases me, because it means that I’m not really wearing any masks these days. I have different outlets for my different interests, but I don’t become a different person to please different people. Maybe, after 26 years, I have figured out who I really am.

Of course, this is just a theoretical analysis. I’ll be interested to see what happens at the party. Perhaps you, reader, will be there, but if not – wish me luck.

Who you calling trivial?

So far, my New Year’s resolutions are going well. My first resolution was to write every week. This being my third blog post in three weeks, I call that one a success so far. My second was to finally stop saying I would go to bar trivia and actually go to bar trivia. I’m happy to report that I have actually gone. Twice!

For those not in the know, bar trivia is exactly what it sounds like. One night a week, several bars around the city host a trivia game. Teams of five or so people show up, drink beer, and answer trivia questions read by some sort of host or DJ. There are seven rounds of ten questions, and the top teams win gift certificates, cash prizes, or a percentage off their bill.

My teammates and I went in with low expectations – rather than trying to win, we were just shooting to not be last. On our first night, out of 17 teams, we came in 16th. Not last! On our second try, we came in not last, not second to last, but third to last. Moving up in the world, ever so slowly. In approximately three years, we might win.

Obviously, going to these trivia games is not a big confidence booster. I can’t say I’m surprised by the outcome, but I am surprised by one of the reasons our scores are so low. Sure, there are questions I don’t know. For instance, I don’t know the name of the last University of Michigan player to win the Heisman Trophy. (Charles Woodson) I don’t know which alcoholic drink is also an international radio code word. (whiskey) And I certainly don’t know what world nation is named after a ruler that lived there most recently from 19-something to 19-something. (The answer was Bolivia, but let me assure you, even with the years filled in, the question made no sense.) These missed questions don’t bother me much. There are bound to be lots of bits of knowledge I haven’t come across in my lifetime. The misses that bother me are the answers I DO know, but don’t allow myself to retrieve at the right moment.

Let me illustrate with an example. I knew the answer to this question: What Chinese philosopher was featured in a 1980s song? The answer, of course, is Wang Chung. But the answer we wrote down? Confucius. That’s right. Everybody have fun tonight – everybody Confucius tonight! The most irritating and belittling thing about getting that question wrong is that one of my teammates said the correct answer immediately after she heard the question. We all agreed for a moment, then promptly dismissed the idea that Wang Chung could be a real person. Then, when the DJ read the answers, we all kicked ourselves.

I know lots of 80s music, and I know only one Chinese philosopher. So why did I bank on the Chinese philosopher? Probably because I didn’t want to admit that I know more about 80s music than Chinese philosophers. I would have rather guessed right about a Chinese philosopher than guessed right about 80s pop. It was a stupid kind of pride, and in an attempt to feel smarter, I made myself look (and feel) like an idiot. Score one for Katie!

We’re going to another game next week. My strategy for moving up to fourth to last? Play to my strengths, even if I’m not proud of them.

I will mourn the Wicked...

It’s a fairly well known fact among my friends and acquaintances that I like musicals. That’s an understatement, really. I’m mildly obsessed. As best as I can recall, I have seen 48 different live musicals, and several of those I have seen up to four times. (Yes, 48. And yes, I have a list. Perhaps I’ll post it as a prelude to this entry.)

Since I have seen, oh, say, 9 times as many musicals as the average American, people often ask me which is my favorite. Mostly, I answer that a dozen different shows have different aspects that are my favorite. The music and story of Jeckyll and Hyde pull at my emotions like no other show. The score of Phantom of the Opera fills an auditorium and surrounds me like no other. The Lion King, without question, is the most amazing visual spectacle I have ever seen. RENT has the best subculture surrounding it, with the front row rush tickets always available for under $25. And no show has ever surprised me as much or made me laugh as hard as The 25^th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee.

But after a lot of thought, I realized that I do have an overall favorite. Despite my affection for a wide range of shows, no other holds a place in my heart like Wicked.

What is it about Wicked that makes me love it so? To begin with, the way the story ties into the Wizard of Oz still amazes me. The show not only tells you the witch’s story, it tells you the back story of the Tin Man, the Scarecrow, the Cowardly Lion, and even the Wizard himself. What’s more, the dialogue and lyrics are packed with foreshadowing. Elphaba predicts that she will be “so happy she will melt.” The Scarecrow, before he becomes the Scarecrow, calls himself “brainless.” And several characters forsee a celebration in Oz all about Elphaba – although none of them realize at first that it will be a celebration of her death. The thousand tiny hints that are hidden in Wicked make the soundtrack worth listening to time and time again.

But the really great thing about Wicked is that there is so much more to the show than just the Ozian story. There are many layers to the show, and lots of themes that run through it. There’s the familiar struggle between good and evil, and the unsettling idea that perhaps the line between good and evil is not so clear. There are numerous classic struggles with requited and unrequited love. There’s commentary on government, propaganda, animal rights, and mob mentality. And there’s an examination of the concept of truth: does an ultimate truth exist, or is the truth, as the Wizard suggests, just “what we all agree on”?

Yes, Wicked has a lot going on, and its complexity definitely gives it a high ranking on my list. But I think the thing that makes me really love it is what’s left when you strip all of that away. Because at its core, Wicked is not about Oz, or love, or good and evil. Ultimately, Wicked is a show about saying goodbye.

There are two parts of the show that make me believe this. One is right before intermission, when Elphaba makes the choice to fight against the system, even though she knows she will be on her own. Glinda begs her to change her mind, and reminds her that if she would just apologize and keep quiet, she could have “all she ever wanted.” Elphaba’s reply is, “I know. But I don’t want it. No, I can’t want it any more.” In that moment, she lets go of a dream she held for years, to everything she believed to be true all her life. She says goodbye to the person she was and the life she had hoped to have one day. And she moves off into the unknown.

The other crucial moment is the show is during the closing song. Glinda and Elphaba have spent years seemingly fighting on different sides, but struggling to remain friends at the same time. Finally, they reach a point when they know they will not see each other again. Not because they are forced to be apart, really, but because other choices they made have overpowered their friendship. Despite the fact that both know the other is the best friend she’s ever had, all they can do is look at each other and say, “because I knew you, I have been changed for good.” With that, they say goodbye. And even though I have seen the show five times, I still cry every time.

Wicked speaks to me because facing the reality of these kinds of goodbyes has been one of the hardest lessons I’ve had to learn in my life. I’ve said both kinds of goodbyes in recent years – to dreams and beliefs I held dear for years, and friendships I thought would be for life.

During my second year of college, I got involved in a lot more activities and eventually found myself with a close-knit circle of friends. Among them was someone I even dared to call my best friend. (And from my previous post, you can see how well that label worked out for me in the past.) And also, as you might have guessed, among them was also someone with whom I eventually fell head over heels in love. And I was happy. I really was. Blissfully, if naively, happy.

But it didn’t last. The best friend and I had a fight that left us hardly speaking to each other, and despite my patience and effort, the guy simply did not love me back. This was the state of things when I left for my study abroad semester in Sweden.

My first months abroad were tumultuous and confusing, but after about three months, I took a trip to Russia. The trip included an 8+ hour bus ride across Finland. As Finland (at least the part I saw) is basically a giant expanse of frozen tundra, I had a lot of time to think during that bus ride. And I thought about my dysfunctional relationships for hours, asking myself where I had gone wrong and what I could do to fix them.

I remember very clearly the moment when I came to a realization that I had always believed that everything could be fixed if I tried hard enough. I could have whatever I wanted if I could just figure out the puzzle.

And after that first realization came a second – I was wrong. There were things I couldn’t fix. No matter how hard I tried, there were some things I could not make into a happy ending.

It doesn’t sound like much, but those two realizations struck me to my core. Without really knowing it, I had envisioned a whole future ahead of me with this best friend and this boyfriend, and I had really believed that there was a way to make it happen. Suddenly, I knew it never would.

I wish I could say that acceptance of that truth came right away, but it was another few years before I reached the point that Elphaba does. I struggled to come to terms with the fact that there was no way to know if I would end up married or single, scraping to make ends meet or living in luxury, fulfilled in my work or just doing something to pay the bills, with the close friend I could on or mostly on my own. But eventually, I did. I congratulated the boy when I found out he was buying a ring for someone else, and said goodbye to the belief that my loving him would ever be enough for him to love me. I hugged the friend goodbye when I left her wedding, knowing there were barriers our friendship simply would never pass. And like Elphaba, I stepped away from the future I had always imagined, away from beliefs I had held for so long, and into the uncomfortable unknown.

Whenever I watch Elphaba say goodbye, I remember those moments. Are they happy memories? Not really. But I find that it’s important for me to be reminded that not everything is fixable, and so not everything is my responsibility to fix. And reliving the realization of those sobering truths also prompts me to think about my life now, and remember that even though I said goodbye to certainty and hello to uncertainty, I am still happy with where I have been and where I seem to be headed.

So yes, I do have a favorite musical, and it’s Wicked. And yes, it’s a show based completely on fantasy. But that’s not why I love it so. I love the reality underneath the fantasy. I love the way it tells a truth it took me 23 years to learn.

It’s two weeks until the show closes in Chicago. I must say I’m sad to see it go.

Be Fri st ends

While I was home for Christmas, I spent one afternoon going through the armoire that used to stand in my childhood bedroom. It was a task I approached with some trepidation. As I am both sentimental and a packrat, I knew it was full of keepsakes that would bring back memories both fond and bittersweet.

The armoire didn’t disappoint. I found the mousetrap car I built in middle school and the incense burner that my dad and I scoured the Antique Warehouse looking for. There was the film canister full of sand that my 8^th-grade love interest brought me back from the Cayman Islands, and dried flowers from every dance, play, and wedding I went to during my teens. One small box brought tears to my eyes when I opened it to discover Mancala pennies, a lake rock, and a piece of foam from a mattress I slept on during countless weekends with my cousins at our lakeside cabin.

But it was the jewelry that really caught me off guard. In the tangle of chains and cords, I found no less than eight best-friends necklaces, none of which had been taken out or worn in at least seven years. And if the sheer number weren’t enough, I was devastated to realize that I had no idea who had the other half of some of them. Some I recognized immediately, and a few more my sister and mom were able to help me identify. But there are two that I still don’t remember.

When I looked at any of those unidentified necklaces, I couldn’t help but wonder about the other person. Does she still have the necklace, or did she throw it out years ago? Does she remember that I have the other half? Even if her half of the necklace is long gone, does she remember that she once called me her best friend? Or has she forgotten me and the necklace the same way I have forgotten her? I wasn’t sure either answer to that last question would make me feel better.

The whole experience has got me thinking a lot about friendship, and especially about this whole nebulous and vague notion of best friendship. Clearly, I was infatuated with the idea of a best friend when I was younger. I always wanted to have one. But did I ever really have one? Even though I remember six of the eight necklaces, I have not spoken to any of those girls in years. In fact, there is not a single person from high school or before that I am still in contact with. Does that mean that the friendships I had during that time were insignificant? That they weren’t really friendships?

After a lot of reflection, I decided that the answers to that question was no. Those friends were good for me at the time. And though, in some cases, I regret not making the effort to stay in touch, I don’t believe that diminishes the value of the time we spent as friends. The thing I had to admit, however, was that in my almost 26 years I had yet to learn how to make a friendship last. And while I didn’t really believe that made me a bad person, it did make me sad because of its implications. It seemed inevitable that the friends in my life now would eventually fade out.

Luckily, before I even made it back to Chicago, another experience made me change my mind. I stopped in Kalamazoo, where I did my undergrad, to have lunch with two of my closest friends from college. We met at our favorite pizza place, gouged on the best cheesy bread ever made, and talked about both our time in college and what we are doing now. It was a lot of fun.

But it wasn’t the meeting itself that got me thinking again. It was the way we said goodbye. We walked out to our cars, gave each other a brief hug and a “drive safe,” and left. It was all very abrupt, really. It was not the type of goodbye you’d expect to say to a people you won’t see again for at least a year. It was the kind of comfortable, painless goodbye you’d say to a roommate or significant other when you left for work in the morning.

I thought about that as I drove the rest of the way back to the city, and I had to smile to myself. Goodbyes for the day are comfortable and painless because both people are blessed with a certainty that they will see each other again. I have that same kind of certainty with Alyson and Aaron. Of course, I miss them when long periods of time pass between meetings, but I know the time will come when we’ll see each other again.

So, I do have at least a couple of friendships that I believe will last. Perhaps not for my whole life, and perhaps not even until I’m 30, but at least through this part of my life. It took me until I was in college, but in the end I apparently did figure out how to make a friendship survive gaps in time and geography.

Does the fact that it took me until college bother me? Not really. I’m thankful for all the friends I had in childhood and high school, and I’m sorry to have forgotten a few that I once considered my best friends. But I am far removed from my hometown and the person I was in high school, and the friends that were good for me then likely would not be good for me now. Indeed, I probably would not be the best friend for them, either.

In the end, I kept all of the necklaces, even the ones I couldn’t identify. They’re in an envelope in a drawer in my closet. I expect that I will rediscover them again someday. I may remember all of them by that time, or I may remember even fewer. My only hope is that when the owners of the other halves of those necklaces discover their halves, they’ve said enough painless goodbyes lately to make sure they aren’t distressed if they don’t remember me.

Turkey Tumble

Well, I was on a roll for a while, but then the writing sort of faded out again. I still fall into the same old trap all the time – the trap of feeling like I have nothing significant to write about. And sometimes, it is hard of something interesting to talk about that happened since I last wrote. However, something occurred to me the other day. I have 25+ years of experiences to draw on, and most of those 25 years passed long before I started this blog or even my Sweden journal. I have years and years worth of stories to tell! And without further ado, I thought I’d start with a brief look into my senior year of high school. This memory came back to me the other day and it took everything in me to keep myself from laughing out loud and seeming crazy to the people around me. Self-deprecating though it may be, it’s definitely a story worth telling.

Every fall, my high school’s drama department put on a children’s play. When I was a senior, I was given a part of Tanya the Singing Turkey. That’s right, a singing turkey. And let me tell you, I was excited about this. The story said that Tanya Turkey and her husband Toulouse had recently moved to the North Pole and were new to the idea of Christmas. Their neighbors (penguins, of course) came over to say hello, and Tanya and Toulouse were excited to share their new knowledge of the holiday. And so they begin to sing the most ridiculous string of fractured Christmas carols imaginable.

The lyrics were hysterical enough to be a story on their own, though unfortunately I don’t remember any of them any more. But my strongest memory of that show had nothing to do with any of the performances. It happened during a rehearsal. Our first dress rehearsal, in fact. We wanted to evoke the colorful feather patterns of a turkey while leaving the details to the children’s imaginations, so my costume consisted of an oversized tie-dyed t-shirt, bright orange wind pants, and most importantly – to this story, at least – brown and red striped toe socks.

There was one point in the show where I suddenly had to take off running and do about 4 laps around a table. (Why, you ask? Truthfully, I don’t remember the exact context. But the show was about singing turkeys. Stop asking questions.) We had rehearsed the show many many times by now, and I had never had a problem with losing my balance. But remember that this was my first time doing the show in costume, and the costume involved socks and no shoes. And the stage was rather dusty. I’ll give you a moment to form your own mental picture of what happened when I took off running.

…

That’s right. I went flying.

And I do mean FLYING. You know how usually, when you fall, you don’t remember the fall itself? All of a sudden you are just on the ground and wondering how you got there. Well this time, I got so much hang time that I remember being in the air. And while I was airborne, I can remember thinking something along the lines of “oh, socks, right…”

Hysterical laughter ensued for several minutes after that, coming from the rest of the cast as well as me. And to add insult to injury, this happened to be the day that the director had decided to video tape the show so we could critique ourselves. I lost count of how many times she played it back over the next few days.

It was embarrassing for sure, but still a moment that I look back on with fondness. It was a moment of pure, innocent, untainted humor, and my drama friends and I talked of it constantly for months until something else hysterical happened.

And it’s a memory I still carry with me, almost 7 years later. That, I truly believe, is what makes it a story worth telling.

The choice that isn't a choice...

Greetings, everybody! I’m back after a one-week hiatus. I didn’t have time to write last weekend because I was a leader at the Chicago Cares Serve-a-Thon all days Saturday, and I also spent a good chunk of Sunday recovering from it. It was awesome, but it wore me out.

The poster frame debacle went on for a while longer and got even more ridiculous, but I did eventually get a refund. I ordered a different frame from a different company yesterday, so we’ll see if this one goes any better. I also bought two other pieces of Chicago art at the Wells Street Art Fair last weekend: one monograph of the skyline and one drawing of the el in the loop. They are both significantly smaller than the poster, so I didn’t expect a big problem with the frames. However, I did find out quickly that neither of them are standard sizes. Earlier today, though, I found the right size frames at Joann’s, and even got them for 50% off, so all is well. I put the art in the frames and they look nice. I just need to stop at Home Depot on the way home later and buy some picture-hanging hooks.

But anyway, on to today’s topic….

I seem to be, once again, at a fork in the road. Most of you know that I am a textbook editor at a university, and that for the most part, I love my job. Right now I’m the lead editor on an advanced algebra book intended for about 10^th grade, and I’ve had the opportunity to help with important curricular decisions, write activities and problems, research application contexts, and more. They sent me to my first conference in April. And most importantly, they make me feel much more valued and appreciated than any other job ever has. I’m doing something that I’m really good at, that I’m well trained for, and that is honestly fun and exciting for me. I adore my job.

However, the one of perils of working in textbook development, rather than textbook publishing, is that the project is grant funded and therefore has and end date. I knew when I accepted the job that the money would run out and my job would cease to exist no later than July 2009.

I have absolutely no regrets about taking the job. But now that the end of the project is barely a year away, I do have to start thinking about what I’m going to do next. So imagine my surprise and excitement when someone from the same university called me last week to ask if I’d like to be involved in another project that has an end date of 2013.

If I chose to go work for them, I’d be working on books from the same series as I work on right now, but at the elementary level rather than secondary. When I met with them, they said I would probably be staffed on fifth and sixth grade books, which is a good thing since by background is much stronger in secondary math than elementary math. I’d still be involved in the development of the books, so I’d be able to do the same kinds of things my current job has allowed me to do, not just italicize variable and add commas like I did when I worked in commercial publishing. And what’s more, during our meeting, the directors of this project told me that I could transition over to them at any point I wanted – at the end of the summer when my book is finished, or even in a year when the entire project is over.

It seems like a no-brainer, right? It seemed that way to me, too, at first. How can I even consider this a choice? Not only is this opportunity as close as I’m going to get to staying at my current job (which, again, I love), but there is no other alternative! No other alternative, that is, besides sending our dozens of resumes, going on dozens of interviews (if I’m lucky enough to get them), constantly worrying I’m going to run out of money before I get a job and end up staying on someone’s couch again, and so on and so on.

So why on EARTH am I hesitating? Loathe as I am to admit it, at the back of my mind is a tiny voice saying, “if you applied elsewhere, you could make more money.” Which is probably true. If I take this new grant position, I will probably continue making roughly what I make now. If I went back to working in commercial publishing, I would probably make $5 more an hour just to start. And that could lead to a dramatic change in lifestyle.

I’m not saying that I don’t like my life now. I do. But the truth is that I struggle with money sometimes. A lot of the time. And as I watch my friends who work in big business buy condos and clothes shop without hesitation, I do wonder if selling my soul to a corporate enterprise would be worth it.

I feel guilty even writing that, and I know deep down in my soul that will take the new job at the university and be happy for it. Because I’m getting by just fine. I’ve found ways to have a good time on a budget, and some of the things I’ve had to cut back on (like eating out) are better for me anyway.

But when I do take the job, I have to admit I’ll need some time to mourn the things I could have had if I was content to do nothing but italicize variables and add commas for the next 20 years. To help you understand where I’m coming from, and perhaps make you giggle a time or two, I’m going to write a wish list of the things I am giving up by doing something I really love to do.

1. An apartment with more than one room. I live in a studio apartment right now with about 300 square feet of living space. Honestly, most of the time I don’t mind, because I really don’t own enough furniture or anything else that will fill more than 300 square feet. But sometimes I can’t help but think to myself, “crimeny, can I get a friggin bedroom?” While I have plenty of space for me and my cat, the thought of inviting anyone over is out of the question. It’s physically impossible for more than two people to see my 14-inch TV at the same time unless 3 people know each other well enough to all sit on my 2-person love seat. How many pairs of people do you know that you’d be comfortable sitting hip-to-hip with for a 2-hour movie? I think I’ve made my point.

2. A kitchen with counters. This sort of goes along with #1, but not necessarily, because some one-bedroom apartments have kitchens smaller than mine. But the kitchen in my apartment consists of a sink, mini range, and refrigerator right next to each other, and about 2 feet of counter space on the other side of the sink. Half of that is taken up by my dish drainer (no, silly, I do not have a dishwasher), and the other half by a cutting board. Which means I have absolutely no counter space for anything else. I’ve often had to mix things while the bowl was on the stove, which is complicated when one of the burners is on, and even when the burners are off, because the range has a pilot light. Again, I’ve found ways to get around it, and nine days out of ten I am reheating leftovers rather than cooking anyway. But it’d be really nice to have some counter space. I mean, occasionally I’ve had to adjust cooking times on my crock pot because it’s been sitting on the stove all day and I know the pilot light will have hurried the cooking along. Go ahead and say it. That’s just sad.

3. Purchases that I can forget about. I’m not asking to not have to think about hundred-dollar clothing purchases or thousand-dollar vacations, but there was a time when I didn’t have to save the receipt from my $5 frozen yogurt purchase or my $10 movie ticket. Now, every cent I spend goes into a spreadsheet to make sure I don’t overspend my monthly income. I start forgetting small purchases, and they will add up and get me into big trouble. The really ironic thing is, the time when I didn’t have to worry about that was while I was in college. Now, I have a bachelor’s degree, a master’s degree, and a job, and yet money is tighter. Kind of counterintuitive, eh? But it makes me realize how lucky I was to have a full-ride scholarship back then.

You know, I’m surprised, but those are the only three things I can think of. Those are the things I wish I had that I know I can only get by giving up a job I know I will really love to do something I know I won’t love.

I know this probably seems like a big pity party and complaint fest to anyone reading this. But thanks for reading anyway. Because you know what I’ve learned by writing this?

It’s totally and completely going to be worth it to take that job.

I hate you, UPS.

Alright, so I know that usually my blogs are more commentary and less straight-up storytelling, but this week I have a story that is just dying to be told. It is a story of great woe for me, but I am hoping that by writing about it I will lessen my frustration with the situation, and more importantly, give my readers (all two of you) some laughs. So sit back and enjoy…

The Saga of the Poster Frame

For several weeks after receiving my $300 stimulus payment from the man that will (thank God) not be president much longer, I deliberated over what I should spend the money on. After soliciting ideas for superfluous purchases from friends and strangers alike, I decided I’d use the money to purchase some art for the one blank wall left in my apartment. Ever since I moved in, I’ve been wanting some Chicago-themed stuff to hang there – a painting of a city scene, a map, maybe a skyline photo – but I had yet to be able to afford it and I thought this was the perfect opportunity.

My first purchase was a Chicago neighborhood map from the Chicago Architecture Foundation. Let me tell you, this poster is COOL. It shows over fifty neighborhoods, all the train lines, all the parks and beaches, and more. And the art itself is amazing. Everything is hand-drawn and it’s done in deep jewel-tone colors, which are my favorite. So, after I bought it, I couldn’t wait to hang it up.

However, hanging the poster required having a frame. So, after I noted the poster’s dimensions (27” by 39”), I went on a hunt for the correct size frame. One Sunday afternoon, I went into every store I could think of in a 2-mile radius of my apartment: Linen’s and Things, Bed Bath and Beyond, Target, Marshall’s, World Market, and probably others I cannot remember right now. No 27” by 39” frames. Apparently the largest size carried by your average store is 24” by 36”. (An aside: If I were reading this at work, I would circle all those quotes and mark them to be changed to straight lines to look like the actual inch symbol. However, I am not at work, so I can’t tell the production people to change them, and I am too lazy to do so myself.)

After my failed attempts at purchasing a frame for my beloved poster in a store, I decided to order one online. I shopped around a bit by eventually decided to order just a standard black poster frame from amazon.com. A few clicks and a payment of $21.95 plus shipping and handling, and I could expect to be hanging the poster up in 7-10 business days.

The rest I am going to tell in timeline format, became often the timing is what makes this situation so frustratingly amusing. We begin on Wednesday….

5:40 PM: I come home to find a UPS Info Notice on the outside door to my apartment building. Hurrah! The frame is almost here! I carry my mail up to my apartment quite excitedly.

6:15 PM: I look at the Info Notice more closely and see that UPS claims that if I sign the notice and leave it back where I found it, they will leave the package for me. I decide that is a lie (or at the very least a bad idea) because my building’s outer door opens directly to the street. I read further to see that I can call a number to arrange for package pickup instead, and recall that my sister has arranged to pick up packages at any UPS store in the past.

6:20 PM: I call number to arrange for package pickup and find myself talking to a computer. I ask to arrange for package pickup anyway. I am shocked when computer-woman understands my request, and suddenly worry that I am actually talking to a human. Computer-woman says there is still time to get my package tonight and asks if I would like to do that. I say yes. She asks for my phone number and an alternate number, says someone from UPS will call me within the hour to arrange for pickup, and tells me I may hang up. I do so, still sort of wondering if that woman just talks like a computer so she doesn’t have to answer hard questions.

6:55 PM: My phone rings. I run for it excitedly but discover it is not UPS, but my friend inviting me to dinner. I do a poor job of covering that I am disappointed that she is not from UPS.

7:30 PM: I realize that more than an hour has passed and wonder why UPS has not called. I call my parents (the alternate number I gave them) to see if UPS has called there looking for me. They have not. So I call the 800 number again. Computer-woman tells me again they will call within the hour. She loses coolness points when she fails to understand “It’s been more than an hour,” “I did not receive a call,” “Let me talk to a human, you crazy computer-woman!”

10:00 PM: I decide they are unlikely to call, and go to bed disappointed that the neighborhood map is not on my wall after computer-woman got my hopes all up.

Thursday….

1:30 PM: I message my sister to ask if she’s ever had UPS not call her back. She says yes, and she had to call the customer service number. I attempt to call the customer service number, then realize I have left the Info Notice and tracking number at home.

6:00 PM: I arrive home and am a bit disturbed that there is not a notice of a second delivery attempt. I go upstairs and call customer service. Eventually I get connected to the same computer-woman, and stay on the line long enough that she asks if I want to talk to an agent. I say yes, and hope she doesn’t mean the FBI. I am put on hold.

6:15 PM: Finally, I get to talk to an agent. I inform him I never got a call. He looks at his computer and says someone tried to call last night and I did not pick up the phone. Before I can respond, he tells me that late pickup is only available on the first day, and now I have to go get my package during business hours, from 8-6, Monday to Friday. I am annoyed, but agree. There is a pause and asks if there’s anything else he can do. Exasperatedly, I tell him I still need to set up my pickup location. He informs me that the package is at 1500 S. Jefferson (many, many miles from both my home and my workplace) and I am not allowed to have it sent anywhere else. I ask if he seriously means I have no other options but to get to no-man’s land during business hours or be home for one of my two remaining delivery attempts. He responds that my additional option is returning the package to sender. I hang up on him.

6:35 PM: I message my sister to tell her UPS says I can’t have package delivered to any UPS store. She says that’s a lie, but they may charge me a fee. I wonder if my “agent” was dumb enough to not offer me options that included a fee and decide to call back.

6:45 PM: I call the 800 number and snap, “AGENT!” at computer-woman. She recognizes either the word or the fact that I am yelling and connects me. I ask the agent if I can have package delivered to a UPS store for a fee. He has to “check on that.” After taking my tracking number, he tells me that because I have “already arranged to have the package held at 1500 S. Jefferson”, they are unable to have the package delivered to anywhere else. Calmly as I can in my rage, I inform him I did not “arrange” anything, as I never got a call. I tell him the note on his computer is a lie, as my cell phone did not register a missed call and they also did not try my alternate number. I tell him that it is impossible for me to get to the holding warehouse or be home to receive the delivery during business hours. He reluctantly suggests having the package delivered to my office instead of my home. I agree, and give him my work address. He tells me that he will forward the information to the Chicago warehouse and they will call me within an hour to confirm the details. If they don’t, please call him back so he can figure out why they are not calling me.

7:10 PM: It suddenly occurs to me that the package contains a 27” by 39” poster frame and it is going to be a pain in the ass to get it home from my office on the bus. My annoyance and frustration renewed, I decide not to wait around for the call, but instead carry my phone with me while I walk to the optometrist to get my new glasses.

7:15 PM: I leave for the optometrist, but keep my phone in my hand the whole time I am walking so I won’t miss the call.

7:45 PM: I arrive at the optometrist and get my glasses! Yay! I am cute!

7:50 PM: I walk home, again with the phone in my hand. I have that weird feeling of the ground being too close because my prescription has gotten stronger.

8:20 PM: I arrive home. I have not gotten a call from UPS, and no missed calls have registered. I sigh and call my old friend the computer-woman and ask for an agent. Apparently the shift has changed, because my old agent is not there. New agent tells me I had no reason to expect a call. She confirms that the address has been changed, but the delivery will not be made until Monday. I hang up the phone and bang my head a few times on my desk in frustration. I am not at all confident that the package is ever going to get to me.

Friday….

7:45 AM: I tell my sad story to my co-worker on the bus. She says she’s sorry, but my new glasses are cute.

12:15 PM: I tell my sad story to more co-workers at the lunch table. They tell me I am welcome to have anything delivered there when I need to. I thank them, but mention that when packages contain things like 27” by 39” poster frames, getting them home on my hour and 15 minute commute on public transportation is not easy. My co-worker Gary offers to give me a ride home Monday. I graciously accept, and am relieved at least that part is taken care of.

3:00 PM: Gary sticks his head in my office to tell me to have a good weekend, then leaves.

3:15 PM: An additional coworker comes to my office to tell me my package has arrived. (You lied to me, 2^nd-shift agent!) I place my face in my hands as I remember Gary has already left and I will need to take the package on the bus.

3:17 PM: I retrieve the package from clerical office, and I am pleased to find that it is not very heavy.

3:20 PM: As I carry the package back to my office, my boss sees me, has pity on me, and tells me to go home early! I pack up quickly and decide to make a run for the 3:30 bus.

3:25 PM: I exit the building to find out there are gale force winds blowing. I have to cross a big field to get to the bus stop, and the large, thin package is acting like a windsail. I fight an epic battle to keep from losing the package or letting it drag me into the road.

3:29 PM: After that great struggle, I arrive at the bus stop one minute early. However, I am informed that the bus is running 10 minutes late. I struggle against the wind for 10 more minutes.

3:40 PM: Finally, I board the bus. I sit in a seat with the package in front of me, and feel guilty because it is impossible for anyone to sit in the seat next to me. I also feel like I am in a box, as I cannot see anything in front of or behind me. I furtively hope that the earlier bus will get me home quicker than usual.

4:05 PM: My hopes are dashed as we arrive downtown and discover a traffic jam due to the blues festival. I sink further into my box-prison and pout.

5:15 PM: FINALLY, I arrive at my stop. I struggle against the wind a bit more as I walk to my apartment. I carry the package up the stairs, get through my door, and do a little victory dance.

5:20 PM: I start ripping open the package, frantic with excitement. I pull the frame out to discover that the packaging has “27 inches by 41 inches” printed on it, but there is a sticker over the 41 with “39” written on it in permanent marker. Suddenly I worry if I got ripped off and the poster will not fit, but I lay poster over the top. It seems like it will fit.

5:25 PM: I get the rest of the packaging off and start to take apart the frame. I yell swear words as I discover that the plastic is cracked in two places, leaving one hole, and two of the frame’s corners are noticeably bent. I literally have to fight back tears as I laugh at the ridiculousness of this situation.

5:50 PM: I find out how to contact the company through amazon.com’s website. I send a scathing email asking for a refund.

7:30 PM: I receive a response from the company. They say they are very sorry and will refund my money when they receive the broken frame back. They tell me to return the frame to its original packaging, and….

“…UPS will contact you to arrange a pickup.”

That’s where the story ends for now. Needless to say, UPS has not contacted me. That would break Murphy’s Law.

So. Anyone know where I can buy a 27” by 39” poster frame?

I'm a part of that...

Hello and welcome to blog #2 from a local Chicago coffee shop. Today I’m at Noble Tree Coffee and Tea on Clark, a bit north of Fullerton. So far I’m not entirely impressed with the atmosphere, but they have Savor the Flavor beat on the menu. I’m just finishing a fabulous roast beef sandwich and iced chai latte. A bit expensive, but worth it once and a while for how good it was. Apparently this shop has several floors as well, so maybe I would like the atmosphere a bit better upstairs where there would not be a group of four pretentious people having a ridiculous conversation about interior design right next to me. Jury’s still out on this one.

In other news, happy anniversary to me! Today marks three years since I moved to Chicago. To mark this momentous (read: completely insignificant to everyone but me) occasion, I’m going to write on a topic that was suggested to me by my mother many months ago, while I was still in graduate school. During that year, I lived in Evanston, the first northern suburb, because that is where Northwestern’s main campus is located. And although Evanston is a very pleasant place to live, I spent the whole year saying that I could not wait to move back into the city. About the 98^th time my mother had to endure the complaint, she suggested that I write a blog about why I was so desperate to move back.

I never wrote that blog, not only because it was another eight months before I actually started writing again instead of just talking about it, but because I was not sure I could articulate my reasons for being so bothered by being outside the city’s borders. I am still not sure I can, but I think I’ve gained enough understanding of myself and the city over the last six months to give it a shot.

You see, for me, the city of Chicago is not just a location. It’s a way of life. So many aspects of my life changed the day I moved here. I wrote about one of the big ones last week: I now walk or take the train almost everywhere I go. This alone changed the way I think about how to best organize my day and about what I have to carry with me. For instance, stopping at a store on the way home requires not only knowing where the store is, like it would if I drove, but knowing what train stop is closest to it and whether the best way to get home is to get back on the same train I got off or take another. Generally speaking, coming home first before going somewhere after work doesn’t make a lot of sense, as so many things lie somewhere between my office at 6000 south in Hyde Park and my apartment at 2800 north in Lincoln Park. So, if I need anything for after-work activities, it has to come with me to work. On the flip side of that, I also have to think harder about what I really need to have with me. It’s not a good idea to carry extraneous stuff, because I do actually have to carry it with me wherever I go. There’s no leaving it in my car. If I am going anywhere but work on a work day, there generally has to be a plan mapped out in my head the day before.

Living here has also fundamentally changed my sense of time. For example, my sister lives about 4 miles north of me. On a good day, it takes me about a half-hour to get to her apartment from mine. The strange thing about that is, I think she lives quite close. While I was in high school, the people that lived a half-hour away lived on the opposite end of town from me. Indeed, the 15-minute drive from my high school to my house just outside of town in Zilwaukee was considered a really long trip. (No one ever wanted to come and get me or take me home. It was very sad. My parents allowed me to use some savings to buy a car when I turned 16, simply because they were so tired of having to take my places when my friends refused to pick me up.) Pre-Chicago, a half-hour trip was a burden. Now, it’s a pleasant little jaunt. My sense of time is so altered now that I have a really hard time judging how long things will take when I am not in the city. When I was at my parents’ house in August, one day my mother asked me to run three or four errands and do some cooking for a party we were throwing the next day. I told her I would try, but wasn’t sure I would get it all done. As it would turn out, I was done with all the errands and back home by 10am. The fact that I had a car and could drive point to point, and that the locations of all three errands were in about a one-mile radius, apparently did not factor into my calculations.

Anyway, my point is not to bore you with all the ways that big-city life differs from small-town or even suburban life. I am simply pointing out that there ARE huge and fundamental differences between how I live my life now and how I lived my life in Evanston. So, why do I like city life so much better? The couple of things I described above make it seem like a burden. You have to do more planning ahead, and everything takes longer.

The fact is, being an efficient city-dweller develops over time just like any other skill. Everyday existence is practice, and practice makes perfect. The longer you live here, the more you learn about the best ways to get around, the tools that help you carry more with you than you ever thought you were capable of, and closest stores that have anything you need. City-dwellers know secrets about the city that no one else knows. Not really because we jealously guard the secrets, but because they are things you won’t ever need or want to know unless you live here.

This phenomenon fascinates me, because it makes the city seem like a living, self-sustaining being. Only people that live here know what the difficulties and annoyances are, and so they start businesses in an attempt to alleviate those burdens. Then, simply by going about their everyday lives, which necessarily involve some walking and exploring, residents uncover these new secrets and support them. The city lifestyle helps to keep the city running. I really believe that only by living here awhile and letting the city change the way you think and exist can you understand its needs and contribute to them. Hopefully, that makes some sort of sense to you.

But again returning to my original question: how does all this relate to me being so desperate to move back into the city? Simply put, living in the city makes me feel connected to the rest of the people that live here. I see this city as one, connected, living entity, and I love the feeling of being part of the reason it remains alive. Simply by living here, I have a certain mutual understanding with all the people I pass on the streets and bump elbows with on the train. We all know the same secrets that people that non-city-dwellers simply don’t. We all have something in common and all know something about each other.

And that makes me feel less alone. Even though I live by myself, and do a lot of things on my own, and have had to learn to be self-sufficient in ways I never could have imagined, I feel less lonely living here than I would if all those things were still true and I lived somewhere else.

The funny thing about these blogs is that occasionally the act of writing them helps me understand things that I never have before. This is one of those times. Suddenly I realize that one of the huge reasons I would so unhappy in graduate school was that I was horrendously lonely. That’s why I was so desperate to move back into the city. Although I really loved my classmates, I simply did not think about the subject matter or the world of academia or life in general the way they did, and I felt very our of place and disconnected from the world. I wanted to move back to the city where I understood how people thought and lived.

I’m not sure I have made all of this as clear for you as I have made it for myself, so I am going to digress for a moment in an effort to explain this another way.

Are any of you familiar with the PostSecret project? There is a link to it on the right side of this page, under my profile. Basically, the founder of the project invites anyone who wishes to send in an anonymous postcard with a secret written on it. He then chooses the best ones out of the mountains of cards he receives and posts a couple dozen on a blog each week.

The project has an enormous following and has been going on for several years now. Tons of people have written to the founder, saying how moved they are, and how the share the same secrets, and how the project has changed their lives. I am a faithful reader of the posts, but I confess that I don’t connect with the project in the manner that the writers of those letters do. I find the secrets quite interesting and the art is sometimes breath-taking, but I don’t tend to share the secrets. In fact, for a long time, I felt like I didn’t even have a secret. Even if I wanted to send in a post card, I wouldn’t know what to say.

Yet, I kept reading each week. I think maybe I was hoping that one day I would have to moving, emotional experience that everyone kept talking about.

Then one day, I was scrolling down the page and stopped on a postcard that had a picture of hands reaching into the center of a circle. The text said, “I just want to be a part of something. Anything.”

I confess that I did not have an emotional breakdown or feel my life had been changed. But I did feel like I was looking at my own secret. It was not an emotional moment for me because it was something I had always known about myself, but I had never articulated it quite so well. The deepest, most desperate desire of my heart is to be part of something that matters. To be vital to someone and something. To matter.

In some small but fundamental way, living in the city makes me feel like I am a part of something. I think that’s the best way I can explain it.

I still think I may have been ineffective in communicating my feeling about this, but I have come to understand it better by writing this. So, thank you for reading.

As always, feel free to post comments or email me if there’s anything else you’d like me to write about. Next time, I will try my hand at something funnier. But on this, my third anniversary in Chicago, somehow this topic felt appropriate.

Have a fantastic day, and get out and enjoy the summertime weather! And I say this to all of you with the utmost sincerity: I wish you all the happiness and peace of mind that living in this city gives me.