December

As you may have already gleaned from some of my entries, I love fall and winter. Really. I've always thought that I have a disorder exactly opposite of those people who get depressed during winter and have to sit in front of sun lamps. Summer usually bums me out -- hot and humid weather, a wardrobe that reminds me on a daily basis that I am not thrilled with my body, hours and hours of sunlight that make me think I should be working, etc. The major exceptions to these complaints are baseball and really good thunderstorms.

Fall and winter have always satisfied my nesting instinct, my love for all things cozy and some sort of hot drink to cradle in my always-frigid hands (Dave helpfully rubs them for me and offers the sage advice to quit smoking). I love sweaters and thick socks and comfy throws on the couch. I like baking cookies for the sole purpose of countering the draft coming through the kitchen door -- with the fringe benefits of the smell and, of course, the cookies. I like filling out Christmas cards and decorating for the holidays. I love a good snowstorm -- especially when it begins when we're fully stocked with food and toilet paper and the potato-leek soup is already simmering.

All of this is to say -- this year I'm not feeling it. I have not baked a cookie. I have not dug out all of my cozy sweaters. We have not bought a tree. December has descended upon us and we are both struggling to control it.

We did decorate -- and the apartment looks great. I bought scented candles and we have the big star in the window. I love that. We did a big cleaning when we decorated and did it all in one day (yes, we -- Dave did lots to help). This has proven smart as we would not have decorations up if we had left them to do piecemeal. We are both busy (yes, me -- I've even got a job interview on the phone tomorrow but I'm not going to talk about it here nor is anyone going to discuss it less we jinx the first chance of a shot at a job I've had in over two years). I've also got a meeting tonight (Ofest '05!) and a meeting (parish council) and choir rehearsal (WGN-TV is coming to preview us before we shoot some little piece for some religious music program they have) tomorrow night. Sprinkle in a few social obligations and visiting friends and family from out of town, and the December calendar is full. We're just a little overwhelmed lately and Christmas is not going to patiently wait for us to come up for air.

I'm actually looking forward to the days after Christmas at my parents' -- the afterglow, if you will. The debriefing from nieces and nephews about Santa's performance this year, cookies for breakfast (I'll make them at some point!), colorful flames in the fireplace from wrapping paper kindling, hours-long games on the dining room table, the perpetual pot of coffee or mugs of Mom's hot chocolate to fuel the day, and, notably, no shopping to do, no errands to run, no holiday drivers and lack of parking to deal with, no hours of interstate driving with amateurs to suffer, no Salvation Army bell ringers to bear, no appropriate outfits to coordinate for social occasions, no meetings-we-have-to-get-in-before-the-holidays to attend, only family, food, and thick socks and a cozy sweater -- that part of Christmas that is after Christmas that I love.

Best Day Ever

Right before our Thanksgiving getaway, I had to run to Walgreens. You know how it is -- tiny shampoos, tiny toothpaste, travel candy, etc. Then I headed to Wendy's to grab us an early dinner as we had successfully emptied the apartment of perishable food before our Thanksgiving jaunt. The helpful drive-thru window attendant apologized that the fries would not be ready for another two minutes. No problem. I love hot fries. So I pulled forward and put the Focus in park.

This particular Wendy's is on Lawrence Avenue which can be a very busy thoroughfare. As is common for me, the mandated time-out waiting for fries allowed me the opportunity to observe a few things that I would have otherwise missed in my attempts to make a quick left onto Lawrence without dying in order to make it home with fries above room temperature.

The first thing I noticed was a man in a beat-up old Honda something-or-other. He was parked at the curb on the side of Lawrence that I was on -- headed east. He looked nervous. He kept checking his mirrors. Then I heard the transmission crunch as he put it in first, pulled the wheel all the way left, and hit the gas. He made a u-turn across four lanes of traffic just like that. When he made it to the other side of the street, the transmission crunched again as he put it in reverse and proceeded to alternate between first and reverse in order to park the car on that side of the street -- exactly opposite of where he was parked before he risked his life to get the new spot. Once he was happy with the car's placement and parallelness, he got out and walked into the building that was right in front of the car. Odd.

Soon after the super-parker had disappeared into his building, I saw a family walking towards me. They were clearly coming back from the Sears that is a little east of the Wendy's. It was mom, three boys, and two girls. I would bet that the oldest was 12. Each child and mom had a bag from Sears. It was clear that each bag contained something that each had picked. The youngest, and last in line, was a girl. She decided to do away with her Sears bag and instead proudly carried her purchase unconcealed. In her arms she held a baby doll that was still securely fashioned to the box in a reclining pose. I know how tough those plastic ties can be. The doll looks like you could just reach out and lift her up from her nap -- when the reality is that she is permanently affixed to the box by her ankles, wrists, and neck. I loved that the little girl was so happy. She was beaming. She didn't need the doll to be free of the box to hold her baby. She had removed her mittens to wriggle her hands behind her new charge and the plastic ties that bound her in order to clasp her baby to her chest ignoring the box completely.

The youngest girl and her doll were last in the mother-and-ducklings line. Just as she had passed from my view as they crossed in front of the Wendy's, she reappeared with a smile and happiness upon her face even greater than what I had just witnessed. Her eyes and mouth were open wide. She was almost levitating with joy. Her brothers were working quickly to move past her. It was one of those "but, wait! there's more!" moments. Mom had just announced that they and their new purchases were going to eat at Wendy's!

I remember that kind of joy. My dad used to take each of us kids out to breakfast at McDonalds for our birthdays and I thought it was the best thing ever. We got to eat inside! We didn't have to take it home! I could get my own orange juice and drink it through a straw! I didn't have to share any of it with a sister or brother!

My fries arrived and I was struck that I thought of this trip to Wendy's as a nuisance, an easy way out of a no-food-in-the-house situation. A less-than-desirable quickie meal that required me to sit and wait in the fast-food drive thru. But for that little girl, a trip to Wendy's was the icing on the cake of the best day ever.

Saturday

Dave took the picture above on the digital camera that he gave me for my birthday. We're both interested in photography. My approach has been to read and practice (and as such, the digital camera is a great tool for me with instant gratification and lower costs on all of my "experiments").

Both the picture above and two of the best pictures ever take of me (one immediately following the other) were shot by Dave as an afterthought with no preparation following shots of another subject -- which appears to be Dave's approach.

I love this picture. It perfectly represents that Saturday. It was November 6 and it was the first Saturday in recent memory that belonged wholly to the two of us. We started with going out to breakfast. The weather was perfectly autumn. Later in the day we decided (I suggested) we walk down to a new-ish cafe in the neighborhood for an afternoon fix. Dave brought along the camera. On our way home he decided he wanted to take a picture of an old water pumping station. I stood across the street while he lined up his shots. Dave came back across the street and set down his coffee on the construction horse to review the shots he had just taken and show them to me.

But when he tilted the camera down to switch it to the display mode, he saw this shot in the window and fired it off. Just like that. I am in love with this pic -- the colors, the textures, the prominence of o holy coffee, and even the unexpected presence of my odd foot. It is the perfect composition of our Saturday. Dave immediately named it "Saturday with Katie."

I'm working on building a website for me and Dave -- we've talked about having one since we put one together for our wedding. We each had individual sites for a short time many moons ago. I'm hoping that this latest site will be a venue for us to post pics and the stories that go along with them -- and I'm hoping that will allow me to quit posting here about goofy pics that mess up the blog layout.

Autumn

It's funny how I each time I think about blogging, I think "wow, where has the time gone?" Clearly, I am inept at keeping track of time, knowing what day it is, how old I am, or now what time it is -- fall back and spring forward always screw me up a little.

When I was in grade school we had to do service hours at a local nursing home. In the lounge area of each floor, one would find various and assorted old people, and a display on the wall with a list of prompts printed in easy-to-read super large font for visitors to query their elders:

Today is ... Sunday.
The month is ... October.
The date is ... the 31st.
The year is ... 2004.
The weather is ... partly sunny.
The president is ... George W. Bush.

and so on.

Even when I was young and aware enough to be able to answer each of the prompts easily (as well as announce my age -- including the months), I thought those were a weird way to measure the degree of one's dementia.

And today I agree with my younger self all the more. What day is it? How many weeks ago did I blog last? Why is the weather so cool all of a sudden? What do you mean we need to drop off the rent check?

I'm lucky if I can answer two of the six dementia-test questions without too much hesitation -- and that's looking out the window for one, and guessing that "Bush" has a high probability for being another correct answer.

And so, once again, I lament -- where has the time gone?

The picture above was taken the Monday after Oktoberfest. I was driving back home on Lake Shore Drive after taking Dave to work. I had the old Praktika camera in the trunk -- a great, old, everything-is-manual, East German camera -- which happened to be loaded with film.

The lake was churning, the sky was steel gray, the wind was blowing, the waves were crashing, and the sea gulls were huddled along the shore.

It was the first truly chilly day of the season. The kind of morning that sneaks up on you and makes you wish you could slip into soft jeans and a cozy sweatshirt while still under the intoxicating warmth of the comforter.

I took many pictures of the sky, and the water, and the waves crashing against the rocks. I got out the long lens to take shots of the gulls without scaring them.

And then I ran back to the car when the wind made my ears burn and the chill reminded me of the amount of coffee I had already consumed.

I meant to post it a long time ago. I meant to post about autumn being my favorite season -- and not just because of my birthday and anniversary.

Alas, I got distracted by other things. Other things that I should also blog about.

Ofest

The Fourth Annual Oktoberfest is upon us. It seems to be my full-time job lately. [Click here if you want the details.]

We have just over a week and one day to make it all happen. To top things off, I'm sick. I can't explain that. I thought I was supposed to get sick after Ofest -- just like getting sick after finals. As the Germans say, na ja, what are ya gonna do?

I wish I had a witty story or an observation of human folly to post -- but really all I've got is Ofest.

I'm dreaming about it now. Thankfully, I'm not having dreams about the fest or when the merchandise will arrive, or how the tent is going to be erected on our brand new parking lot, or if we'll have enough tables, or ... No. Rather, I'm having my usual dreams about nothing -- but everyone is wearing lederhosen and alpine hats.

Hmmmmmm. I don't care to know what Freud would think about that!

Green City

I used to think that Chicago was a big city like you imagine when you picture Gotham City. I was afraid it was going to be all concrete and asphalt and steel and glass.

Long before I came here, David would reassure me that there were neighborhoods, and trees, and parks. But I knew what that looked like -- that was where I grew up. I couldn't imagine that a city as huge as Chicago would have green space and lush trees.

Wow was I wrong.

I took the picture above during the spring of 2000. David let me start playing with an old East German camera. Nothing automatic, nothing pretty, pure function.

I bought a couple of books at a used book store on photography and tried to self-teach f-stops and proper camera holds and the such.

This was one of my first shots ever. I was trying to figure out how you do that thing to make the foreground out of focus and the background in focus and vice versa. I'm not sure which I was going for here -- and I'm not sure if it worked, but I've always liked this shot.

I centered things nicely (at least in comparison to other shots on the roll), and I love that there are two people at the far end, and dark branches that frame the top. And I like it because it is so green -- the picture is full of green! And it's on a side neighborhood street in the big city of Chicago.

Where Has My Time Gone?

Oh, Lord do I have a lot to do! Why do I have so much to do? How did being unemployed take away all of my freetime?

NPR recently did a series of stories on leisure. One of the installments I caught was on housework and about time-saving devices (like washing machines) and how they have changed -- in particular -- the role of women in the household, and how they haven't. One particular line from Susan Strasser caught me. She said, essentially, "we have found that time-saving devices have not necessarily contributed to increased leisure time." I don't know why, but that idea really struck me. I hadn't seen that reality so clearly before.

So, I'm busy with my usual volunteer duties and I've added some occasional hourly work (paid?!) to the mix. This year's Oktoberfest is taking up the most time and effort right now. I'll include more details later -- our website should launch soon. Ofest will be on Friday, September 24 and Saturday, September 25 this year -- and oh wow do we have a lot to do!

Black and Blue

So some of you may know that I have klutz tendencies. I remember my mother telling me once about her and my father being concerned about my muscular development as a child. I apparently fell often. They decided to take me to the doctor -- surely there must be something wrong with a little girl who is constantly falling, knocking into things, and has needed stitches enough times to be recognized by name upon entering the emergency room at Cardinal Glennon's Children's Hospital. Apparently, after several informal tests my pediatrician comforted my parents with the news that I had a serious condition of being a klutz.

Fast forward thirty-some-odd years to a couple of weeks ago. I was working on one of our several "project piles" set off on the side table in the dining room. I can't remember what I was looking for -- but it was something that I wanted to find pronto. Upon not finding it, I became frustrated and turned to storm across the dining room to the office to hunt there. Unfortunately, my planned route did not take into account the dining room table that is in the middle of our dining room. My path was immediately and abruptly blocked by said dining room table which made contact with my left thigh. Or my left thigh made contact with it. Regardless, the table was pushed a good two inches off center (which is really impressive when you know that I actually had to push it up hill as our dining room floor is a bit sloped).

I knew immediately that I had done something awful. I knew immediately that it was really going to be bad since my visceral reaction did not include swearing or rubbing the injured thigh. I remember hearing David from the other room -- "You okay?"

I fought the urge to cry. I cursed the dining room table (clearly, it was the table's fault) and tried to figure out how long I could go without looking at my thigh. I was sure I would not be able to handle seeing the bone sticking out of the flesh. Well, that's what it felt like. I'm fairly convinced that had I hit the table with the same force with a bone other than my femur, I would have shattered it. When Dave finally got the chance to see the damage, all he could muster was "Ohhhhhh, Katie, that must hurt!"

It was red and purple within a few minutes, black and blue with red squiggly lines in the middle within a few days. I realized in the days following the incident that I often touch that part of my leg -- something I had never realized before touching it resulted in such searing pain. The bruise has now passed through its rainbow of colors. I still have a gray shadow of a bruise at the exact height of our dining room table just in case I forget too soon.

Another St. Louisan

I attended a choir party the other night. I won't bore you with all the reasons or details. However, at one point I was briefly introduced to a new choir member. Later, she looked across the deck at my shoes and exclaimed, "I love your shoes."

Now, I was wearing one of my all time favorite pairs of shoes -- my red shoes. Well, my first pair of red shoes (I now have a couple). The pair of shoes that I had convinced myself I could not afford, did not deserve, and would not be practical -- as they are red. I do not fit the woman-with-shoe-fetish stereotype, but I was able to come up with a rationalization for buying and wearing these red shoes: I had just completed my master's thesis and it was about time I actually started wearing things that exhibited the personal style that I had always imagined for myself but hid behind and under more practical pieces.

So I've had these red shoes for years and they have been worn and loved and inspired subsequent wardrobe pieces. I occasionally receive compliments on these shoes. This compliment was a little different -- the woman who paid me the compliment came closer to admire the shoes allowing me to see her choice in footwear: my shoe splurge of last fall while down in Urbana at my favorite good-for-your-feet shoe store! Yes, she was wearing these great Dansko's with a button! (I love Dansko everything.)

Okay, but here's the weird part beyond the fact that we appear to be shoe sisters: she grew up in, yes -- wait for it, Webster Groves! I won't bore you with a list of the families that we both know or the fact that she went to my grade school . . . wow, which just now reminds me that the guy from the Oktoberfest committee who is the nephew of my grade school soccer coach also went to my grade school, though long after me. The woman at the choir party also seemed young -- I wonder if they know each other or that they are both at St. Al's.

Funny small world.

Rooster

This is a test to see if I can post photos to my blog. I'd like to post the occasional photo that I've taken -- you know that whole "a picture is worth a thousand words" thing.

This is a picture I took a few years ago at Barb and Ed's farm.

It's Beginning to Feel A Lot Like...

...October?! The sky is gray, the wind is blustery, there are intermittent light rains, and the temperature at O'Hare at 2:00 this afternoon was 63 degrees. Throw in some turning leaves and autumn is upon us. In August.

I actually love this weather. I love the fall. I love cool temperatures and the smell of fireplaces in use. I love wearing layers to guard against a chill or the chance of dropping temperatures at nightfall. Today I am wearing jeans and a cardigan and shoes that don't simply slip on and off. In August.

The weather is actually strangely appropriate for the preparation instinct I am feeling -- it's time to start shopping for school supplies! This will be the start of academic year number three that I am missing out on and I still feel the need to stock up on loose leaf, pens, binders, ooooh! maybe I'll upgrade my label maker, and make the necessary outlay for new office organizational tools that will foster my most organized and efficient school year yet!

I was at Target the other day -- so I'm sure you can see where the impulse to buy school supplies was born. Oh the myriad of supplies offered to today's students! Forget the Trapper Keepers, I want a backpack on wheels. I want a binder that folds back -- have you seen these? They are regular binders, with my favorite D-shaped rings, and the front flap folds back under the binder to make it feasible on those tiny college desks. I'm in love.

With my renewed infatuation with the handwritten word, I could not keep myself from browsing the pen section. I think today's gel pens are yesterday's erasable pens. I want them all. And post-it notes. And a mirror and dry-erase board conveniently backed with magnets to hang in my locker. And magnetic pouches that are the exact size of a locker door that can hold all of my gel pens so as to rescue them from the dark bottom of the locker beneath so many textbooks.

I want a beanbag chair for my dorm room and coordinated bedding for my bed. I want to save the article from the Sunday New York Times of a couple of weeks ago that had designers design and make suggestions for dorm room living that avoids the institutional look of a cell block and tack it to my magnetic message board. I want a hot pot to make tea and Ramen noodles -- even if today's dorm dwellers would be astonished by such ancient technology.

"Back to School" has become its own full-fledged season. It keeps the Halloween decorations, costumes, and candy from encroaching on Labor Day. I have always secretly loved Back to School. I was never too terribly upset to see summer end -- though there were many an August in a sweltering classroom that made me wish the temperatures would reflect the season -- especially in high school when I had to wear a wool skirt and blazer (okay, we only had to wear the blazer on some occasions, but now I'm old enough to bitch about it especially upon learning that the young women who currently attend my alma mater have warm weather uniforms?!). I love the excitement of a new schedule and new textbooks that seem oh so much more advanced than the ones we used the year before. I'm an even bigger sucker for the beginning of a new college semester -- but you've already had to deal with me wax crazy about that…

St. Louisans Everywhere

So, remember how I was talking about bumping into St. Louisans here in the big city (click here and read Home Away From Home)? So I'm neck-deep in Oktoberfest planning, right? A few new suckers, I mean volunteers, have been added to the logistics ranks of the committee as we move into the final stretch. I met one man the other night -- he had a familiar name and look about him. Turns out he is the brother-in-law of the St. Louisan I know in choir. While we were chatting, someone at the meeting mentioned that another new committee member who had arrived late is also from St. Louis. I didn't get the chance to talk to him.

And then today I volunteered to put together a contact list with all the names, numbers, emails, etc. of the committee members so that we can hunt each other down. Someone sent me the name of the supposed St. Louisan whom I hadn't met. He had a very familiar last name...and a cell phone number with the area code for St. Louis...Oh God! could he be the little brother of a grade school classmate of mine and the son of the soccer coach I had for eight years of grade school?! No, after checking with my brother Matt, it turns out that he is said classmate's cousin and said coach's nephew.

It's a small freaking world my friends.

One Year

Well, it's been one year. Can you believe it? I can't. One year ago today I started this blog. I feel bad sometimes that I don't blog more often, but now that I realize that I've kept it somewhat together for a year, I'm kinda proud. I enjoy writing a lot, I just can't seem to find the time to do as often as I would like. I've actually resorted to keeping a list (I love lists) of blog topics on an index card in one of those clip thingys that you can stand up in front of your computer so that you are reminded every day of all the things you want to do or have to do but still haven't done.

My next blog is going to be about school supplies and how much I love them. I've been meaning to write it for a week now. I was in Target last week and saw that they had the school supplies out.

I'll get to it soon. For now, just a note to mark a milestone.

Mr. Postman

I miss writing and receiving letters. I'm a huge fan of technology and email -- don't get me wrong -- but there is something about snail mail and the excitement of opening an envelope, and the recognizable uniqueness of a loved one's handwriting. I love nice papers and the tell-tale envelope shape of personal correspondence. (Dave has also made me something of a pen snob.)

I think that's what it is -- the handwriting. I love the crisp cleanliness of print, the legibility and uniformity of fonts. But they are also so sterile, so generic. They reveal nothing of the writer but his or her preference for serif or sans serif and the creative capacity of his or her word processor.

Handwriting is personal and imperfect. Though many a nun and other grade school teachers tried for years to produce perfect Palmer right handers, one's personality, style, and mood cannot help but be expressed in handwriting.

Now that I think about it, I wonder if handwriting classes have been replaced with keyboarding classes in grade schools. Do kids still have to suffer through practicing multiple versions of that numeric-looking cursive capital Q on paper with dotted blue midlines?

Emailing is great, and free, and fast. IM is immediately gratifying and allows for multitasking that would be perceived as rude in a conversation. Each of these media have now been accepted as their own genre allowing for many a PhD candidate to wax philosophical and linguistic about the ease of global communication, syntax change, new systems of punctuation and abbreviation, and even those damned emoticons.

Technology allows for rapid and inexpensive communication with anybody on the planet who has access to the internet. Wait -- do I have to change that? Does the shuttle or space station communicate via email? You see what I'm saying?

When I get suckered into reading newspaper articles that are human interest stories on families impacted directly and daily by this war (it's always the photos that suck me in), I am struck by the number of people serving on land and sea who have the capability to email loved ones on a fairly regular basis. How different is this even compared to when the previous Bush put us in the previous war in Iraq? How reassuring must it be to communicate with a loved one overseas and know that the message might be a few minutes rather than a few weeks old? How comforting must it be to get even a few lines of text? -- "I'm ok. I love you. Send wet wipes and Humvee armor."

So, email is a great and wonderful tool that allows for easy written communication and has quickly become affordable and accessible to large sections of the population. It has, indeed, developed into its own medium.

And yet -- I cannot bundle yellowing emails with a tattered ribbon that I used to wear in my hair. Printing out emails from friends and family in order to preserve them in a shoebox under my bed is just, well, stupid.

Emails don't have the communicative power of transferring the multi-sensory nature of the (truly) written word. Only a handwritten letter or note can impart this -- the warm feeling of connection -- I am touching a letter that he touched, I am holding a piece of paper that he held and that started its journey far from me, was passed from machine to machine and person to person until it is now becoming wrinkled by my sweaty touch. This material connection is truly a connection over time -- from the moment it was written, to the moment it was read by the recipient, for the rest of time that it is cherished and reread and shared.

One of the beautiful and lasting side-effects of the many years of a long-distance relationship between David and me is a pile of letters and cards that are, yes, tied up with a tattered ribbon that I used to wear in my hair. Briefly, for those of you who may not yet have been subjected to this saga or were not present to live through it first hand, David and I met during our junior year in college while studying in Freiburg, Germany. After that blissful first semester, David was homeless for a few months, and I was for one. While he continued to roam, I took the Orient Express to Vienna, Austria for a spring semester of studies. Our letters began while David traveled Europe and slept on trains (although I had before that received a few notes with surprise gifts at my door and had thoughts scribbled in the margins of my notebook during class such as "your hair looks nice today"). David's letters are the epitome of romantic. He is such a good writer -- and such a charmer. And we were young and in love and in Europe...you get the picture.

Since I had an address at the time, I was the lucky one -- I got to receive letters! He would tell me about where he had been and what he had seen. Most letters ended with a proposal: "I'll be at the main train station in Prague this Saturday every hour on the hour from noon to six -- come if you can!" This was our only means of communication at the time -- Dave's letters to me and my occasional escape to meet him in a foreign city. (We saw Prague, Berlin, and Salzburg like this, to highlight a few.)

We never really had the chance to call each other -- we could sometimes coordinate phone calls to public phone booths with money saved up for phone cards. We didn't live close to each other, we didn't have cell phones (hardly anyone did), we didn't have access to email -- no, we were forced to do it the old-fashioned way. (Which, interestingly, is how I wrote this blog!)

I cherish the bundle of letters and cards from that time in my life. We continued to write each other upon our returns to our respective pieces of the Midwest: me in St. Louis, Dave in Chicago, me in Des Moines, Dave in Champaign-Urbana. Even as we graduated to phone calls and emails, we still sent each other the occasional note, or a funny card. Even since we've lived together I have enjoyed emailing quick notes to Dave at work or leaving the rare sneak attack voicemail -- but nothing beats a handwritten note left on the toilet (where he is sure to find it) or surprise cards sent to work.

I still carry in my Filofax a sweet note that David wrote me years ago and left for me to find on my pillow. It's kind of yellow now, and little roughed up, but it is a real piece of him that I can have with me when he is not near. And not even the most touching email could affect me like that short, handwritten note.

A Couple Of Thoughts

I seem to be all over the place lately -- many different projects happening at once. Thus, today's blog is a combo platter. Well, maybe not a combo platter, maybe more like a value meal...

…SOMEBODY'S WATCHING ME

I'll admit it. When I'm at home alone, I do not close the bathroom door while I'm using the facilities. I think that this is due in part to my experience growing up in a house with seven people and one bathroom, and then, of course, moving on to college where I shared a bathroom with many more people.

Our bathroom door is directly across the hall from our bedroom door, which is directly across the room from our bedroom window, which overlooks the alley. Yesterday, as I was preparing to leave the bathroom, I felt as though someone was watching me through said window.

Not only was this unsettling since I was sitting on the toilet at the time, but it was also frightening since the bedroom window is two stories up with nothing near it to lend access to it.

Except for a telephone pole.

Unfortunately, I didn't have my glasses on. I could see the curve of something like the top of a head and eyes? did I see a pair of eyes? They were gone when I squinted to see more clearly.

I flipped the door shut, completed my bathroom protocol, and then grabbed my glasses from the hallway shelf on my way to the bedroom window.

I carefully approached it from the side trying to be as quiet as possible.

Sitting just as quietly on the windowsill keeping his head down below the window was Rocky the Squirrel. He wasn't wearing his usual cap and goggles -- but it was him!

My four-word exclamation did not startle him. He merely stood up and looked at me. I asked him what he was doing out there, but he didn't respond. He was holding a piece of brick that he had chosen from the assortment that rests on the ledge from our last tuckpointing extravaganza.

He started to nibble on the brick. I asked him if he was feeling okay. He pulled the brick from his mouth and looked at me as though I had said something stupid. Then he scampered back down the telephone pole.

I should note here that some observers of nature claim that strange animal behavior is a predictor of natural disasters. In December 1990, many earthquake-types were predicting that the New Madrid (MA-drid; not like the city in Spain, first vowel as in cat) Fault was going to blow. Sales of bottled water and granola bars went through the roof, schools closed, general craziness ensued in communities along the fault. My sister Lucy was in St. Louis at the time (a city that would feel it if the fault actually did something). To this day she claims that as she did dishes one night she looked out the window and saw a squirrel standing on a tree branch and staring at her.

Now, there are tons of squirrels in and around my parents' house -- seeing one on a tree branch is no big deal. Lucy said this one was different. She said that when she noticed it and stopped doing the dishes long enough to look at it, it looked right back at her and began patting its head with one hand and rubbing its stomach with the other. She swears it.


BABY YOU CAN DRIVE MY CAR

David and I bought a new car last week -- our first big purchase as a married couple, and our first joint purchase of a car. Well, that's what he's saying. Now instead of his car and my car we have the Focus and the Metro.

We traded in his '98 Volkswagen (my '96 Geo Wagenschen still has a home with us). The road to the purchase was paved with visits to the garage for various VW ailments. The car had over 105,000 miles on it, so while it was frustrating, it wasn't really unexpected.

I did some research on new cars (Dave claims it was a lot, I like to think of it as thorough). It's amazing what you can learn online these days. Dave gave me an idea of what kind of car he was thinking about. Most days when he came home from work I had a couple of file folders with some stuff for him to read.

We narrowed the field and I did some inventory searches of local dealerships to zero in on what we wanted. Since Dave has been extremely busy at work and since no one wants to spend more time at a dealership than is necessary, I was hoping that this specific information -- I had invoice costs, MSRPs, current financing deals being offered, and even the damned vin's -- would aid us (and the dealership) in a near painless purchase.

I won't bore you with the details of how wrong I was. I am shocked by the gall of salesmen (yep, all men) to lie to my face. I am surprised at how difficult it is to give a company thousands of dollars knowing that at least a couple of them are profit. I am astonished at the surprise of salesmen that I would know anything about the car I think I might finance for thousands of dollars and 60 months besides the color.

In the end -- after two dealerships and walking out of "negotiations" at one point -- we got the car we wanted at the price we wanted from a salesman who reminded me of the Willy Loman-type salesman on The Simpson's. I'm thinking more and more that I may travel back down to Rantoul, Illinois -- in the far far away future when it is time to buy another car -- to go to the great dealership where I bought my Wagenschen. (Click here and read My Little Car for more details.)

I'll blog later about our new car. It doesn't have a name (or a gender, for that matter) yet, and we're still getting to know each other.

Home Away From Home

Lately I have found myself bumping into Webster Groves, Missouri here in Chicago, Illinois. Webster happens to be my hometown.

It's not a very big place. Webster is an old, traditional "bedroom community" just minutes from the St. Louis city limits. My parents (Mom from north city, Dad from south city) moved the family to Webster just months before I was born – and they still live in the same house. All of us grew up there, walked to school, walked to the library, walked to the grocery store, surrounded by trees and big old houses. It is very idyllic. Dave calls it Mayberry. I think it actually makes him nervous to be there sometimes.

I have been accused of being very proud of my broader hometown, St. Louis. I have found that St. Louisans of all stripes are proud of our hometown. We have a kind of small-town mentality about the place, and most can quote interesting facts about its history. I once saw an interview with the rapper Nelly – who comes from a part of St. Louis that is not at all like Webster – in which he took the time to point out that the first Olympics in the United States were held in St. Louis in 1904, the same year as our World's Fair. That's pride. Oh, and his backup band is the St. Lunatics.

Speaking of the Olympics, check out this link (or the Webster Groves one above) for details on when the Olympic torch for the Athens 2004 Olympic Games will pass through, and indeed stop in, beautiful Webster Groves this month.

So back to my point: Webster keeps popping up here in the big city.

I find that I meet a lot of St. Louisans in Chicago. The husband of the woman who with her brother owns a bar we go to is from Kirkwood (a rival suburb) and his family's former lawyer is my brother-in-law's father. I also know a woman who is in the choir at St. Al's who is from St. Louis – she and her St. Louisan husband were married at the New Cathedral in St. Louis, which my great-grandfather helped to build.

Often, once they find out that I am also a proud St. Louisan, they ask when I am planning to move back. What? The first time I heard that question I was really confused. It seems that most expat St. Louisans gradually find their way back to the homeland.

While all St. Louisans I meet know Webster Groves (the real St. Louisans, not people from the east side or far-reaches like Eureka), not many are from Webster. Until recently, that is.

I went to buy a new futon cover for our futo-couch (Dave's word) a few weeks ago. There's a tiny futon place just a few doors up from St. Al's, so I decided to stop in and see what they had and for how much when I was conveniently parked at the church for something or other. The young man working there was very helpful and friendly. He convinced me to purchase the cheaper of the two covers I was considering since the return policy is for store credit only. So, if I indeed wanted the more expensive cover, it could be easily arranged.

I returned that same afternoon to return the couldn't-be-more-wrong maroon cover I had purchased that morning. The friendly employee recognized me and facilitated the exchange. We started talking when he asked about my quick decision. I mentioned that I had to be at the church (pointing my finger down Lincoln Avenue towards St. Al's) later for a meeting (Oktoberfest), and thought it would be easiest to make the exchange now.

So we start talking about the church. He hasn't been inside, but has thought about it because it looks so great on the outside. I, naturally, start talking up the church, its history, its architectural impressiveness, etc. and tell him he should stick his head in.

He says, "I'm Catholic, I should really go for mass sometime."

I say, "Well, I don't have anything to say about that."

He says, "I'd love to go to mass somewhere beautiful because I grew up in a parish that had a really ugly church."

I say, "Me too!"

He says, "Which church?"

I say, "Oh, not someplace here. I grew up in St. Louis."

He says, "Me too!"

And so it begins. I often refer to these moments as Barbara Ann moments as I am sure that they are due to whatever genetic characteristic for conversation-making and making connections with strangers my mother passed on to me. (Click here and read the story O Canada! for further evidence.)

It turns out that the futon man grew up in Florissant, Missouri. Northsider. So we talk about where my mother grew up, fellow northsider. Which leads to where I grew up, Webster. It also turns out that his brother and sister-in-law live in Webster. The sister-in-law grew up there and always planned on raising her children there. So they live on a street off of Summit. One of my sisters used to live in a house on a street off of Summit! Small world, huh?

So not two weeks later I am at home and Dave asks if I new that the neighbors are from St. Louis. What? How had I missed that? I had only recently connected with the woman downstairs and across the hall who noticed my Drake sweatshirt. Turns out she grew up in Iowa City. I have had much more contact with Dave and Amanda next door due to our mutual plumbing woes. How could I have missed the St. Louis connection?

It turns out that Dave spotted Amanda wearing a Cardinals t-shirt. (Dear Reader, please keep in mind that my beloved is sensitive of this matter as ours is considered a mixed marriage on both sides of the family.) To Dave's mind, only Cardinal fans wear Cardinal gear so close to the Friendly Confines.

So, he asks her point-blank, "Are you from St. Louis?"

She says, "I lived there for a while and went to school there."

He says, "Where?"

She says, "Webster University? Do you know it?"

He says, "Oh, jeez, my wife is from Webster," and of course ends the interaction there.

I was showing my mother-in-law the back porches of our building when I spotted Dave and Amanda out back.

I say, "Webster Groves, huh?"

He says, "Yeah, Amanda mentioned you're from there. She went to school there and I used to hang out there."

I say, "Hang out there?"

He says, "I was a fire fighter in Florissant [see earlier encounter with futon guy!], and used to hang out on campus" with a grin on his face.

Amanda comes out and we discuss Webster. I tell her about when my parents moved there in 1970 (and it was Webster College) and they saw "hippies hanging out the trees" as they drove down Big Bend Boulevard.

She says, "Where did you live?"

I describe where my parent's house is.

She says, "So you went to Holy Redeemer?"

This is further proof of a St. Louisan characteristic of asking about one's parish (lots of us are Catholic) or high school in order to gain a better understanding of the other person. Dave is always stumped by this question.

We briefly discussed Webster and St. Louis and how great a place it is and how much cheaper all of those big, old houses seem now that we have spent time in Chicago.

I had forgotten how often I find my hometown here in Chicago. It reminded me of an incident early in my time in the big city. The longer I lived in places outside of St. Louis, the more I realized what a unique breed we St. Louisans are. (Personally, I think our pride is particularly evident. Oh, and the fact that we are the best and most-knowledgeable fans in all of baseball.)

Anyway, St. Louisans have become noticeable to me. They have different personality characteristics. They have more conservative hair cuts. They even dress a little differently. So Dave, our buddy Chris, and I were sitting in our old usual bar many years ago enjoying several beers. We used to sit at the far end of the bar where it curved around. From this vantage point, most of the bar's patrons could be observed for our entertainment. The neighborhood was then (and I guess is still now) a massive single's bar. The whole place was teeming with young singles – many of them not Chicagoans.

We were enjoying the follies of one particular group of young men who were having very little success in getting to know young women in the bar. As we enjoyed our anthropological analyses of their failures, it hit me – I know these guys. I mean, I didn't know them, and yet they were familiar to me. After some reflection, I realized what is was – they were St. Louisans.

So I say to Dave and Chris, "Those guys at the end of the bar are from St. Louis."

They say, "How can you tell? Did they say that?"

I say, "No. I can just tell. Look at their hair cuts, their braided leather belts, their loafers, their inability to get the bartender's attention. They're St. Louisans."

They say, "No way. Prove it."

And so money is laid on the bar and I walk down to the group of young men to win easy money from Dave and Chris.

I say, "Hey, what high school did you guys go to?"

They say, "SLUH [St. Louis University High]."

And I made twenty bucks.

A St. Bernard To Jog My Memory

I have noticed that lots of people who go to Julius Meinl Café bring their dogs with them. The café keeps a couple of dog dishes outside the door -- one full of dog treats, one full of water. I often leave the café to find a pooch or two tied to the short fence that contains humans inside the outdoor seating area of the café.

When I left the café last week, only one dog was patiently waiting outside for its owner. The dog was sitting and slowly wagging its tail. While sitting, the dog came up to my chin. It was the largest St. Bernard I have ever seen. Ever -- in life or in a picture or in a formula-storyline Disney film.

Now this is saying something. In December of 2001 I thought I had encountered the largest St. Bernard I would ever lay eyes -- and a cautious hand -- on.

I was spending Christmas with David and his German relatives in their hometown, Ostentrop, Germany. I had known David for all of two and a half months and agreed to go with him to a town in Germany that was accessible only after a few trains, a one-car train, a bus, and then a gracious ride home from a relative. Or, one could take a train to Cologne and sit outside the train station and gaze upon one of the most beautiful Catholic churches ever built while waiting for a super-gracious ride home from a relative.

David’s relatives were wonderfully generous. They gave me a glimpse into the life of a German family, welcomed me as a family member, and helped me improve my fledgling German with teaching lessons in the kitchen, on walks through town, and while playing a Simpson’s board game that required me to count out bucks.

One morning I came into the kitchen to find Lisa (the mom of this branch of the family) preparing to go out to run errands. While she worked hard to get me to use my German, her English was great and we often used it as means of easy communication. She told me that the men were out “to steal a Christmas tree,” (I later learned that her use of steal was not a translation error) and asked me if I would like to go with her.

While I was a little envious of the men out tree hunting, I quickly agreed to go along and help with the food errands. As soon as we had pulled out of the driveway, I remembered the trip into Ostentrop. It is such as small town that there were no businesses -- at least not the traditional storefront or modern Try-N-Save businesses that you or I are used to.

Lisa drove past a house that had a small building attached to it. She explained that her cousin lived there (she seemed to have a cousin in every other house in town). Her cousin in this particular house was the town baker. The smaller building attached to the house was full of shelves on which he cooled his bread before packing the loaves up to deliver them.

Our particular mission that morning was milk and eggs. We were headed to a woman’s home where we could do one-stop shopping. We approached a house that had a barn attached to it. Yes, attached to it. I had seen many home-barn combinations like this in that part of Germany. A similar house down the road from this one had a couple of horses tied to a wagon full of hay in front of it. The horses were the size of Clydesdales (the only breed of horse with which I have any familiarity).

As we pulled up to the barn side of the milk and eggs house, it appeared as though a horse was tied in front. It was no horse. Lisa cautioned me before we left the car -- this was a very large and extremely protective St. Bernard.

Lisa told me that the dog was chained to the house because the dog could become overly affectionate or overly aggressive depending on the visitor. She assured me that our caution was in the dog becoming overly affectionate. She was convinced that the dog had learned to recognized license plates since he often started reacting before visitors had exited their car. This was most problematic for the town butcher (one of Lisa’s cousins). The dog was as protective of the farm animals as he was of his owners and consistently pitched a raucous fit each time the butcher came to slaughter some of the dog’s charges.

The dog was indeed chained to the house. He got up from his snoozing position to lumber towards Lisa and me leaving ropes of drool nearly as long as his chain. Lisa offered a hand to the dog and a couple of affection rubs behind the ear. She suggested I let the dog get to know me as well. I successfully left my introduction to the dog (whose name I am sad to admit I cannot recall) with all of my digits and limbs intact, albeit a bit more moist.

While the St. Bernard was the original point of my story, telling the story reminds me of two other things. One, the purveyor of eggs and milk was a lady right out of National Geographic. She was a collection of circles: round knot of hair, round face, round glasses perched in front of smiling round eyes, round figure. She had on what appeared to be about thirty skirts and aprons of various colors and lengths. Her cheeks were rosy and chapped from the wind. She had a pair of very large hands that had clearly seen many years of work.

When we went in the door, we were in a kind of barn foyer. It was a workspace with long benches and stacks of empty egg cartons and various types of milk containers. If you walked straight ahead, you would come upon the kitchen. If you looked to the right, you could see the cows in their stalls through the Dutch door to the barn.

With my minimal German, I could understand as Lisa explained to the woman who I was and where I was from. The lady smiled at me, took two steps closer to me, and screamed in my general direction in German, “DO YOU HAVE SNOW WHERE YOU COME FROM?” Though my German vocabulary at that point in my studies was very limited, I happened to know all of the words she used. I politely answered that we were in fact familiar with snow in my part of the world, “Ja.”

Lisa handed her a couple of egg cartons and two huge containers for milk. The farmhouse lady (whose name I also cannot recollect) left us briefly to go get eggs and milk.

Perhaps my most vivid memory from this experience in Germany of just over twelve years ago revived by a large St. Bernard in Chicago last week, is what happened next. The milk and eggs lady said good bye to Lisa and then thoughtfully shouted a good bye and Merry Christmas in my direction. I got in the car and Lisa asked if I would hold the milk containers so that they wouldn’t spill on the way home.

Now I do not necessarily consider myself to be a city woman, and yet by no means I am a country woman either -- here, my second memory. Being a child of an old bedroom community suburb, I am used to milk being 2%, homogenized, pasteurized, and cold. And though I am intelligent enough to understand that milk does not come out of a cow 2%, homogenized, pasteurized, and cold, the warmth of the fresh milk on my lap during the ride home was something of an unappetizing surprise.

Travel Companions

I hate flying. I'm not afraid of take offs or landings. I’m not afraid of turbulence or terrorists. I just don't like the chaotic crush of humanity that is always the case when flying.

At the end March I had to fly from O'Hare to LAX. I was heading out to Long Beach for a conference (TESOL) that I attend every year. I realized as I was packing that the last time I flew was for this conference last year -- that time in Baltimore. I also realized that this would be the first time in a long time that I would be flying out of O'Hare.

I rarely fly. But when I fly, I often fly Southwest. They usually fly to where I'm going -- with just a couple of stops -- they are frequently cheaper, and they fly out of Midway in Chicago which is a much more manageably-sized airport for me.

This time I flew United. United is great for flying to major cities at about any time you could want. I had my pick of flights to LAX. My sweet husband drove me to the airport giving me plenty of time to make it through the gauntlet that is security.

The whole process was actually very smooth. I used an ATM-like check in for the first time. It worked quite well. A very nice security guard inspected my bag and a helpful airline employee checked it for me and confirmed my boarding pass. I proceeded through security taking off minimal items of clothing and was on my way to the gate.

I flipped through a magazine at my leisure and waited for boarding. The only glitch at the gate was the fact that the signs posted in the terminal and over the gate desk said Tokyo. The employees frequently reassured us that we were in fact going to Los Angeles.

As I waited, I realized that this was the first flight I've taken in a long time that has assigned seating. Flying Southwest made me comfortable with the prospect of choosing my own seat, and often therefore, my travel companions. On this flight I would be at the mercy of the United computer system.

I would board with the middle group. As I made my way onto the plane and greeted flight attendants who looked oh-so-happy to be serving me today, I quickly learned that I had gotten a window seat. Slowly I worked my way back to my seat. I finally spotted my row -- two elderly people were already seated there. I had to wait for a man to stow all of his worldly possessions in the overhead bin before I could politely ask the couple to let me in. They seemed a little surprised at first.

I got settled in my seat. I got my magazines and my new PDA with a very cool game on it at the ready. The woman was seated next to me -- she gestured toward my rings and said "pretty." I said thank you. She then said something to her husband. I realized in that moment that I had the best seat on the plane. Not only was I seated next to a friendly older couple -- but they spoke Italian and had very little English!

Please don't think me terrible. I have met many complete strangers and ended up having many wonderful encounters with people -- but sometimes I just want to sit on the plane and read or sleep or play Bedazzled and not have share anything with my seatmates other than the intimacy of our hips being wedged in together.

We arrived at LAX without incident. I smiled a good-bye to my travel companions and made my way to the restroom (I hate going on the plane), baggage claim, and then the shuttle vans.

I was happy to spend about five days in Long Beach with two friends with whom I share a hotel room every year at TESOL. I attended some paper presentations, a couple of colloquia, and strolled more than a few times through the exhibitors hall to flip through and buy some of the latest publications in my field. I saw long-lost friends and colleagues and stayed up way too late and woke up way too early.

I was scheduled to return on Saturday. I was hoping that the return trip would be smooth. I was hoping that there wouldn't be millions of travelers. I realized as I sat in the shuttle van that a couple of hundred people from the conference made the same plan I did (the conference actually continues through Saturday). I spent the ride to LAX talking with a group of ladies from Texas who were all decked out in perfect running suits that looked like they had to be dry cleaned. Each of them had on more jewelry that I will probably own over the course of my life.

The last stop at LAX was for United. The shuttle driver started apologizing as we pulled up. Then he said, "I'm sure glad I don't have to deal with this today." There were lines outside of the terminal that made it look like the place had been evacuated. We asked a 4 foot 11 lady in a uniform and orange vest where we should go. She blew her whistle "You need to cross through the line (whistle) then get in line inside to check in (whistle) don't get in the line to come back out here until you check in (whistle)."

I was immediately sure that checking in at LAX would not be nearly as smooth or quick as checking in at O'Hare.

I got in line inside to check in using one of the ATM-like machines. The machine recognized me via my credit card (that still really kind of spooks me), checked me in, asked me if I had bags to check, and then denied me a boarding pass. What? I calmly waited for the one employee who was working six different machines. She came by to check my bag. I asked her about the boarding pass. She gave me my gate information and told me to go there and try to get one. I booked this flight in January.

I was directed to take my checked bag back outside the terminal to get in that line. (I'm sorry, how is this safer?) I waited in that line for about 15 minutes until my favorite lady with a whistle directed a group of us back into the door we came out of (and had not moved past) to get in a short line right inside the door to have our bags inspected. The inspection didn't take very long.

Once my bag was deemed safe and taken from me, I was directed into another line just adjacent to the bag inspection line. About three of us moved over into the line. Another short woman (is there a height limit for this job?) told us that this security section had been closed and we were to cross through another line and then walk across the terminal to the other side to go through security there. (Again, I ask you, is this safe?)

I won't bore you with the circus that was this security checkpoint. Once it was finally my turn, I again got through turning on only a few appliances and taking off only a little bit of clothing. Whew.

Now I had to get myself a boarding pass. I found my gate. The plane sitting outside the gate was the size of trans-Atlantic planes. The gate area had about 20 seats and about 200 passengers -- most of them Japanese(?). I got in line at the desk. The woman working the desk got on the speaker to make sure that as few people as possible could understand her announcement that if you were waiting for boarding pass or flying standby you should get out of line and wait for your name to be called. If you were hoping to change seats you should get out of line because it was not going to happen because the flight was full. Only two of us got out of line -- what were those other people doing?

I found a comfortable spot against a support column and started flipping through the papers that I bought for Dave. I noticed off to my right a lady looking at me. I quickly glanced up and determined that I knew her but that I didn't know from where. I stared at the paper without reading it -- did I know her from the conference? Was she someone I spoke with after a presentation? Maybe she is from Chicago and I know her from the neighborhood or church. It really bothered me until my name was called and I scampered up to get my boarding pass just as they were doing the final boarding.

Since I was one of the last people on the plane, I naturally had a seat in the very last row. The plane really was a big one -- there were two aisles with two seats along each side and a set of three seats in the middle. I was in the last row, middle section, middle seat.

I really just didn't care at this point. I battled my way back to my seat down the left-side aisle. I politely asked the young woman on the outside seat to let me in. I got in, got my magazines and PDA and bottled water at the ready and buckled up. I noticed that there was an elderly lady on my left -- she gestured to my rings and said "Pretty."

The lady from the gate area was the same travel companion as on my flight out! What are the chances? She and her husband were flying this time with a younger woman who was seated with the man in the seats across the aisle from the woman I had sat next to on the way to LAX.

Again, the flight went without incident. I read and slept and read some more. When we touched down at O'Hare I waited for most of the plane to clear before gathering my things. I walked out with my travel companions and then smiled another good-bye before heading to the ladies room and then baggage claim.

Baggage claim was chaos. Many flights had been delayed due to storms out east and bags were stacked everywhere. Lots of spring breakers were searching for bags. I found a spot toward the very end of the baggage carousel and waited. I waited a long time. Dave was waiting for me while circling upstairs through the departures area trying to avoid screaming security guards. The board showing which flights the baggage was from started adding flights from places like Omaha and Cleveland. Still no bag.

Just as I was starting to get nervous, a batch of bags came out together. I saw a woman who I thought was on my flight pick up her bag on the other side of the carousel. Sure enough, my bag was there. I positioned myself to grab it. I got my bag, checked that it was mine, and released the handle. I turned to finally leave this airport and end this trip. Just behind me at the baggage claim area was my travel companion who waved and smiled at me as I left.

Kitchen Window

I usually take Dave to work in the morning. Well, that's overstating things. I usually ride in the passenger seat of Dave's car on the way to the Loop while Dave listens to NPR and I wake up with coffee that Dave programmed to brew at o'dark thirty and lovingly poured into a to-go cup for me. He often makes the cup for me, puts it in my hand, and gently guides my arm to get the cup up close to my mouth so that I am able to drink the coffee. With a little coffee and a trip to the bathroom I am usually able to get at least one eye open after I've been standing for five minutes or so. I'm not exactly a morning person.

Riding in the passenger seat affords me time to wake up. Once we get to Dave's office, I climb over to the driver seat, pull the lever to raise it six inches, pull the other lever to bring it forward six inches, adjust the rear view mirrors and both side mirrors, and turn the heat back up to mammal-appropriate levels.

Riding in the passenger seat also allows me time to explore the city in ways that I do not get to when I am driving and have to pay attention to assertive Chicago drivers, crazy Indiana drivers, freaked out we're-in-the-big-city tourist drivers, and bus and cab drivers who just don't care. It's amazing how much you can miss when you are driving and have to pay attention to the road.

My favorite part of the trip is Lake Shore Drive. We actually spend most of the trip on the Drive. It's a great way to get downtown from where we live -- especially since Dave's office is pretty close to the lake. Lake Shore Drive is a long and varied strip. I particularly like looking at the buildings closer to downtown. This could be because the buildings get a little bigger and are a mix of old and new -- this could also be due to the fact that I am not fully conscious until we get that far south.

The closer you get to downtown on the Drive (coming from the north), the closer the Drive gets to the lake and the buildings get to the Drive. This is particularly true when you get to the S-curve at the top of Michigan Avenue when it looks like you are going to drive into the Drake Hotel.

I like looking at the residential buildings as we approach this part of the city -- and all the way to our exit at Randolph. Some of the buildings are gorgeous old buildings dotted with window air conditioners. Others are atrocious "modern" buildings probably built in the 50s and 60s with color-faded facades and balconies in disrepair. Many buildings stretch high into the air. Others are smaller one- or two-family mansions broken up by the occasional foreign consulate. I am fascinated by the diversity of these buildings -- and their inhabitants. Living by the lake is not reserved for the wealthy and trendy alone.

Naturally, whether the building is old or new, the architects who built them and the people who rent/own them planned to take full advantage of the view of the lake. People who live just a few floors up must have spectacular living room window waterscapes. It's obvious that the morning sun shining across the lake might be a nuisance -- some windows have black tarp-looking shades or shades made of reflective or thermal looking material. Nicer apartments have custom-made shutters -- and are probably much deeper allowing the dwellers within to hide from the sun in back rooms.

I first saw Hitchcock's Rear Window when I was in eighth grade. The story was okay -- it didn't scare me too much and I knew from the get-go who had dunnit and what he had done. No, the interesting part of that movie was the concept of gazing into people's private lives and personal moments through their windows. I have always been fascinated by that concept.

It's pretty easy here in the city to look into each other's windows. Our living room windows that face the street prove us some access into the front windows of the two-families across the street. The inhabitants of one house in particular do not have shades or blinds and always illuminate themselves at night with harsh overhead lights. There's also a guy across the street who lives upstairs and likes to step out on his porch and play guitar in the dark.

Our living room porch door allows us to see into the condo across the alley. If we stood on our porch and she opened her kitchen or living room window, we could have an easy conversation.

But we don't even know these people. There is some sort of unspoken rule about ignoring what we see inside each other's homes. You never ever make eye contact with the other person. You mind your own business and discuss only among your own people the fact that across-the-alley has had at least four different men making coffee in her kitchen in the last six months.

But I digress.

I think about this Rear Window idea of having a portal into a complete stranger's life. These portals can be particularly fascinating when there are many of them stacked on top of each other. Lake Shore Drive has a lot of windows to grant you access. Not many people have their shades drawn -- perhaps since there is no neighbor to see into their home, only the lake.

Most buildings offer views into people's homes, but no people -- like some kind of life-sized Barbie Dream House with no dolls. In the morning I can see all kinds of decorating schemes and crimes -- some looking like the first apartment of a new city-dweller and others the refined, professionally planned condo of a wealthy retiree.

I'm always surprised that I don't see more people in the morning. I imagine that if I had a window facing the lake, or even a small balcony, I would be enjoying it with one eye open and coffee in a to-go cup.

Lately, my favorite window has been a kitchen window just before our exit. It's in a building that has been turned into condos and most likely had a previous life in business or light industry. It's in an area that is not very residential -- though several new and super expensive buildings are growing up nearby.

I notice this window every morning as we zip past it. It is a very large kitchen window in the middle of a patchwork of other very large kitchen windows. The ceilings are high and it looks like the interior has exposed brick walls. The cabinetry and appliances look new and fancy. The owners have one of those metal contraptions that hangs from the ceiling as a trapeze for expensive pots and pans free from the stains of use. What's most noticeable about this particular window is the large wooden table that sits against it and the man in a light-blue robe in the same chair every morning with a cup of something and a newspaper. Every morning. The same man in the same robe in the same chair with a cup and a paper. I catch him for just a fleeting moment every weekday morning at about 8:20 am.

I find myself anticipating his window -- will he be there this morning? Will he be sitting on the other side of the table? Maybe he'll be dressed or wearing a different robe. I like that I can count on him being there. I like that he takes advantage of his window on the lake every morning. I like that he confirms for me that people actually live inside those many windows I peek into each morning.

Missing Person Report

What happened to February? How did I miss it with an extra day this year?

To my regular readers, mea culpa. I cannot believe that I have not posted since January 27. I have been aware of my lack of posting, but had no idea that it had gotten this bad. I have started a few blogs on paper over the last couple of weeks, only to abandon them later. With each day it got easier to just not write.

I really have no excuse except to say that I haven't been myself lately.

Have you ever gotten up in the morning and wondered who the hell you were? Have you ever caught yourself in the middle of the afternoon on a weekday wondering why you were doing what you were doing and thinking that you were really supposed to be somewhere else?

I know it sounds juvenile -- and I should point out here that my family has had its share of mental/emotional unhealthiness -- but lately I have found myself missing. I have found myself lacking.

If I had to pick a cause (read, excuse) for this, I would have to say it is my employment situation. I never realized before how much what you do for a living can be self-defining. I have never been more afraid of the common question "what do you do?" I never knew how much I had tied my self-worth and identity to my employment status and situation. I have never felt more frustration than when trying to explain to someone what I wish I were doing.

I am selfish and self-centered enough to still wonder why it is that I can't find a job that would allow me to do the thing that I love most, that I worked so hard for, that people close to me suffered for. Blood, sweat, tears, thousands of miles, years of working, and tens of thousands of dollars went into those degrees -- and that doesn't even match the work, support, and patience of the people around me.

I was arrogant enough to think a few months ago that I could readjust my search and apply for ESL teaching jobs at community colleges and get a job that would get me back in the classroom, get my feet wet again, get a paycheck, get something on the CV (academic resume) again, and perhaps even inspire me and stabilize my schedule enough to allow me to write and get published and therefore be able to get that teaching/research position next year.

I prepared all the application materials and wonderful people who support me year after year wrote letters for me and printed and mailed stuff for me. I updated our voicemail message, I kept my email program open all day, I checked to make sure my suit still fits -- nothing. Not a phone call, not an email, not a form-letter rejection.

Who was I kidding?

I let all of this Sturm und Drang infect all aspects of my life. Nothing could make me happy, nothing could fulfill me, hours were spent feeling sorry for myself and not doing anything about it. I couldn't even find a little joy in writing short blogs about the tchotchke of life such as laundry, vacuums, and hot dogs.

I get, God, I get it. Can we move on now?

God should just send me an email telling me to tone down the pride and realize that not everything comes easily. Sending the message this way really sucks. How about a memo?

TO: Kate
FROM: God
RE: The New Path I Have Chosen For Your Life, And How To Get There

I’m thinking now that maybe my plan, my dream job, my schedule are not what is best for me. It's time to refocus and just do what I love to do -- whether someone hires me to do it or not. I have a massive dissertation that should be streamlined and revitalized into a manuscript for publication. I have tons of ideas for a textbook that friends and colleagues have asked me to do for a few years now. I have opportunities to work with individual learners offering chances for me to refresh my teaching skills and rewrite my materials -- perhaps a case study!

I should note here that most of these ideas are David's. He works all day and then comes home to deal with me. He never shows me anger or frustration -- only support and understanding when most other people would have tossed me out the window by now.

I have never liked the word surrender, but I've been hearing it in the back of my head lately. I remember some time back that some women had written a book and used the term surrender to refer to how women should operate in their marriages and families. It caused quite an uproar -- and this was before the "The Rules" fiasco. I remember hearing the authors try to defend their use of the word surrender. Even though I still thought the premise of the book was crap, I remembering thinking that they could have done a better job explaining their take on the word.

Surrender doesn't have to be giving up or submitting -- I'm thinking now that it can mean yielding or releasing.

That's what I'm doing here. Consider the white flag raised, God. It's time to meet and begin discussing plans for occupation and reconstruction.

Cleaning the Vacuum

I have just finished cleaning the vacuum. It took me almost an hour. Cleaning the vacuum, yes, not with the vacuum.

Let me tell you why.

I have been in an organizing, take-control-of-my-crap-since-I-have-control-of-nothing-else mood since the new year. It's been going quite well. My dear husband even suggested, supported, financed, and contributed muscle and brain power to the office bookshelves project that is now near completion. (Shims to equalize the level issues in the room and the adjustment of individual shelves are all that remain.) I'll have to blog later about the bed we built together in August 2001 and the building of these shelves and how these projects have strengthened our marriage.

But I digress.

I got the chance to go to The Container Store yesterday afternoon to buy a few items to help organize our home. I got another rope-thingy to hold Dave's baseball hats, some small containers to neatly hold the junk in our junk drawer, an organizer for my underwear drawer, various other wonderful products I won't bore you with, and a jumbo-sized Space Bag to contain a twin-size feather bed that has never had a proper home.

I've been hiding the feather bed in the office. Now that we have a wall of bookshelves, the hiding place is no more. I thought of the Space Bag while at the store. We have a couple of king-size comforters sucked within inches of their lives neatly and safely stored under our bed. I knew the feather bed would fit alongside them and bought the bag.

I've spent most of today putting these new organizing tools to work (after quick morning runs to the drug store and grocery store for essentials -- the snow keeps coming!). I was enjoying my nesting routine and was down to my last task: the feather bed. I got the bag ready on the bed, pulled out the vacuum cleaner, and turned it on. No suction at all.

I was disappointed and upset at the same time. This vacuum cleaner is not that old. I needed it for just a couple of minutes to suck the feather bed and re-suck the comforters. I turned it off and looked into the hose for answers. Nothing. I flipped it over. Nothing. I emptied the canister and cleaned out the filter. Nothing. I looked into the vacuum where the hose connects. Eureka!

There was a tightly-packed column of hair and dust. The more I poked around, the more poured out. The carpet in the bedroom became covered. I threw away the big, gross clumps, put the vacuum back together, and tried again. Nothing.

Now I was really frustrated. I left the vacuum alone in the room with the feather bed to think about it while I calmed myself with a fistful of those little chalky Valentine hearts with un-romantic messages like "email me" on them (drug store impulse purchase).

I approached the vacuum again. The hose on it attaches in two places -- you can detach one end for using with tools. The other end is more permanent, but can be removed to replace the hose, or (duh) clean out clogs. I detached the semi-permanent end and another dust cloud spewed forth.

I held the end of the hose up to look inside and found only darkness. After enlisting the help of a pencil, I found that the clog was quite deep and thick. I slowly worked on it wondering how the suction power of the vacuum had not sucked the clog through, and how the clog was so tight as to not allow any suction at all.

I had covered the carpet and myself with a fine snow of dust. I worked the pencil in and try to angle it to get enough leverage to discharge the clog. With my subtle urging and a few prayers, the clog was freed. Onto my feet fell lots of hair, tons of dust, part of a plastic bag that the newspaper comes in, a tag from one of my bras, and two red M&Ms.

I really have to remember to clean the vacuum more often.

It's Cold Outside!

Chicago is experiencing something of a cold snap. It's not horrible. It's not as bad as the East Coast had it recently. But it's cold outside. The temperature right now is 10, wind chill is 2 below. It's always the wind chill that gets you. It's been like this for a few days now.

I hadn't really noticed the cold until it got hot in the apartment. Ironically, we have to crack a couple of windows a little when it gets really cold because the radiators are really good. When it gets less cold and the radiators don't work as hard, we have to close the windows. Thus, if the windows are open it must be really cold outside. (?!)

The cold hit home yesterday morning when Dave and I ventured out to the café with work and newspapers and blank to-do lists ready to be filled (you can guess which were Dave's and which were mine). The passenger-side door on Dave's car would not open. After we each banged on it, I pulled, and Dave pushed, we gave up. I spent most of the day sitting in the back seat getting driven around and feeling important. Downsides to this included lack of leg room, inaccessibility of radio and temperature controls, and Dave's dislike at being addressed as "Driver."

I was thinking about the cold again this morning while I put on my biggest sweater and Dave was already outside warming up the car and trying to get the door unfrozen. Dave's car was parked right in front of the building. Both of our cars are often within steps of our front door. Therefore, it is only when I am taking the el or walking to a neighborhood shop that I have to dress for the weather. How lucky am I?

Even when I am driving somewhere I have my emergency back-up clothing and cold weather accessories (hat, gloves, another scarf, etc.), but I rarely have to actually put all these pieces on. This was not the case when I was young.

I realized this morning that my memories of colder winters are really distorted. Of course they were colder to me -- because I had to walk several blocks to and from school, or walk a couple of blocks to wait for a bus at 7 am and then get off it to wait for another one when I was in high school. I went to college in Des Moines! My first winter there we took our finals while the rest of the city was shut down because the wind chills were 70 below zero. Yes, seven zero.

For all of those years I had to bundle up every time I stepped outside. In those early years, Mom helped us all bundle up before heading off to grade school. She had us in assembly lines for hair: two braids, one braid, ponytail, or ponytail that was braided, and then winter clothing layering: uniform, leg warmers, Moon boots (check that your school shoes are in your backpack), scarf, hat, mittens, sibling-matching blue parka, hood, another scarf. Mom would finish us off with a children's multi-vitamin and chewable vitamin C stuck in between face-covering layers of scarves once we had become immobile and unable to resist. The "bundle up" scene from the movie A Christmas Story is not an exaggeration. It is the truth and torment of many a Midwestern kid.

I learned in college that looking cool does not matter – you dressed to stay warm, or, indeed, save your life and limbs. The cold weather gear that was avoided or quickly concealed in high school was embraced and adorned on the open plain of Iowa. Everyone wore whatever was necessary and did not worry about looking stupid. In fact, outrageous hats and mile-long scarves became something of a statement.

I bundled up when we last had snow here in Chicago to go out and take some pictures. I wore multiple layers and Dave's coat and headed out. I came back in after 20 minutes to change film, drop off my glasses (they're cold on my face and constantly fog up), and blow my nose. I ventured out for another 15 minutes and ended up ducking into a café to change film and blow my nose. I had no idea I had become so weak.

I am going back to Des Moines in a couple of weeks for a choir reunion. I am staying at a hotel near campus and will be able to walk to everything. In fact, I'll need to walk to everything since the most convenient parking will probably be at the hotel. It's been a long time since I was on campus in the February cold. I'm thinking I should start taking my vitamins now.

New Year Resolutions

I hate New Years Resolutions. They remind me of the practice of making some sort of sacrifice for Lent. Every Lent since I can remember, I have struggled with what I am going to "give up for Christ." I can't tell you the soul-wrenching involved in deciding if abstaining from Coke products for 40 days and nights is taxing enough to remind me that Christ suffered on the cross for me.

When I was in second grade, Mrs. Kramen had each of us cut a cross out of pink construction paper (I remember it was pink – why pink?). We were then instructed to write down our Lenten sacrifice on one side of the cross, and put our name on the other. She then discreetly collected the crosses and stapled them (name side out, four staples per cross) to the large bulletin board that took up one wall of the classroom. No one could read what each of us had written.

But I knew what I had written. And I knew that God knew what I had written. And that was pressure enough to keep me to my promise to not drink Coke for all of Lent. I remember this vividly. I remember thinking I could see the words I had written glow through the pink construction paper like some kind of flashing neon sign. (I remember thinking once while waiting for the next word in a spelling test that it was funny that God didn't reverse the words for me when He reminded me of my promise with neon letters – I was forced to read them backwards as though they were truly bleeding through the paper.) Wow, was I bored in second grade.

Unfortunately for me, my sister Rach also knew what I had written. She revealed this during one of our rare family trips to McDonald's. We were actually going to eat inside the restaurant, so we were allowed to order a small drink. I remembered my Lenten promise and order a small orange drink. Do you remember the McDonald's HiC orange drink? I felt comfortable with my choice – even though I really really wanted a Coke. Rach announced my Lenten sacrifice to the whole family and presented the argument that orange drink was in fact the same as soda (the word we St. Louisans use for pop), and therefore I should not be allowed to order it. It was bad enough when I had my own guilt and the occasional classroom reminder from God compelling me to stick to my promise, now I had my sister rallying troops against me like some kind of six-year-old Norma Rae.

In this same vein, I loathe making New Year resolutions. I hate feeling like I'm being told what to do – even if it is me doing the telling. Rather than thinking of resolutions as being a promise to change my life for the better, or to improve myself, or to make the bed every morning, I can't help thinking of them as a chore, a burden, an added obligation with no end-date in sight.

As an adult, I have decided to boycott Lenten sacrifices and New Year resolutions – which are made only to be broken just as quickly as the special offers at athletic clubs expire and calendars are offered at half-price.

And yet, I find myself making resolutions that are secret pacts with myself. If I tell someone what my resolutions are, I have to keep them. Secret ones are better – no one will get hurt. These resolutions are especially powerful. They are often promises that I tell myself I shouldn't make. They are too challenging, too lofty, too ridiculous. They are like those little deals with God that we all make from time to time in order to avoid those little compromises with the Devil.

I find that these pacts last longer for me than traditional, public resolutions – so long as I remind myself that they are not resolutions per se – because I am boycotting resolutions.

I can usually keep these "not resolutions" about until Lent begins in the early spring.

Therefore, I have decided upon several resolutions to not have this year.

Lent begins February 25.

My Older Self

I saw myself in 30 years at Julius Meinl café the other day. I walked in and sat down right in front of me.

The whole experience was surreal. I know that it was me.

I continue to cut my hair shorter and shorter – resulting in a smart, choppy style that is more gray than brown, but is ideal for my lack of hairstyling ability.

I had on a great sweater – I'm betting it was handmade, evidence that I continue to work on my knitting skills. The sweater was a pretty gray. I was wearing it with baggy black pants, gray striped socks, and black clogs. I thought it funny that my current self was wearing the exact same striped socks and clogs on the same day as my future self.

I still enjoy a classic Viennese mélange (large) and a flaky apple turnover in the future. My future self could have just as easily pointed to myself seated at the other table and said "I'll have what she's having" to the waitress when I arrived and declined the menu because I already know what I want to order. I wanted to tell me that the apple turnovers were not the best today, but I knew I would order one anyway.

I used two different pair of glasses while seated at a table next to the window. It appears I eventually succumb to the need for a stylish chain on which to attach my glasses. I keep thinking (the current me, that is) that I should get a chain or maybe one of the cool necklaces I've seen with a metal loop on which to hang my glasses. I only need glasses for seeing far away – so I constantly take them off to read. And then I lose them. Sometimes, I put them on top of my head. Sometimes, I hook them on the neckline of my top. Often, I forget where I have placed them when I find myself in a situation where I want to be able to see things far away from me – like looking out a window.

My future self took a break from my work to glance out the window. (My self-diagnosis of Attention Deficit Disorder appears to hold true!) The future me forgot that my glasses were hanging from the stylish chain and searched in vain for them. I quickly gave up the search and reached into my Chicago Historical Society tote bag (it appears that David maintains his membership into the future). Just like the current me, I have two pair of glasses on me most of the time. The future me found the back-up pair and put them on to gaze out the window for a break from work – and then tried to drop the glasses from my face as though they were attached to a chain. My future self realized at that moment that both pair of glasses were in use. We laughed at ourself at the same time.

I became intrigued by my work. My future self had the largest binder I have ever seen – with a D-ring, my favorite kind because the front cover opens and lays completely flat so as to not disrupt the pages that have been restricted to the confines of the binder.

I was doing what I always do – making handwritten notes on printed draft pages. I know that they were my words because I write on a separate piece of paper when I take notes on someone else's work. Perhaps it is my seminal work. Perhaps I finally amass a large amount of data on the longitudinal effects of teaching the fascinating feature of phonology that I love so dearly. Perhaps it is something completely different from the work I wish to do now. Whatever it is, it is long. I (in the future) appear to be enjoying it as I have multiple post-it flags in a myriad of colors and pens in inks to match. Bliss.

The current me desperately wanted to steal a glance at one page – but it would have required me to get up and walk past me. And the maneuver would have been too obvious. I did not want to cause some sort of cataclysm of fate and alter my future fulfillment due to current curiosity.

The current me stayed at the café longer than the future me. I figure that I must be a very busy person. As I strolled past myself with the heavy tote bag over one shoulder, I felt a tremendous sense of calm and confidence come over my current self. Things look pretty good in the future. I look pretty good in the future.

I feel very lucky to have enjoyed a morning at the café with me, myself, and a mélange.