Single Child In The City

I love Facebook.  An unhealthy amount.  It's almost like a celebrity blog for all my friends.  I know what they're doing when they're doing it and who they're doing it with.  With pictures.  I love finding the random people from high school that I haven't seen in 10 years, looking at their pictures and reading their wall posts and trying to picture a day in their life.  If they're not living the life I have for them in my head, they should...it's wildly entertaining.  Alas, there is a flip side.  Those people I haven't seen or spoken to in 10 years have to do the obligatory wall post and/or message:

"WOW!  It's been FOREVER!  How have you been?  What are you up to?  Married/Kids?  I'm in (insert small town here) teaching/nursing/cutting hair, married for 6 years, 2 little boys and a little girl!  So good to see you again!  Keep in touch!"

Translation:  "WOW!  You don't look the way I imagined you to AT ALL!  I've pretty much managed to keep up with you through the local gossip mill, so I'm basically just here checking to see if you're still fat or look coked out.  Where are you working now and how much are they paying you?  Have you been deemed worthy enough by the opposite sex to enter into a union?  I don't really care, except that I want to judge your spouse to see if they are a mismatch.  If you've reproduced, I need to know if these are bastard children, so I'm going to do the math with your wedding date.  I find myself unable to leave the 5 mile radius of my parents and the only life I've ever known.  I teach elementary school, am a nurse, or cut hair because I lack the necessary social skills to find true friendships outside of my work environment and don't have much to offer a conversation that isn't work-related.  I married my high school sweeetheart because of that damn abstinence pledge I signed in 8th grade, and finally, at age 22, I decided I was ready to make the leap but required a marriage license so that Jesus would accept my natural desires.  As a cruel joke for waiting so long, God made me pregnant within the first week of my marriage.  Each subsequent child has been the result of me wanting someone to whom I can transfer my love, since my increasing despondent spouse and I have very little in common despite our 10 year courtship of convenience.  It was nice to find your profile so that I can stalk you.  Any future correspondence will include the obligatory 'Happy Birthday' and annoying comments to your status updates, usually with an 'LOL'."

So, that's good and gravy and all, but when I respond that I'm living far away, just working a lot (don't like to give them the satisfaction of knowing exactly what it is I do), still single and no kids, thank goodness, I'm met with this reply:

"Wow, that sure is a world away from where we grew up!  Sounds like you're loving your life (even though I have given no indication one way or the other)...and don't worry...you'll find someone soon!  And just wait until you have kids!  Your life will change and you won't even remember what life was like before!"

Okay, "don't worry...you'll find someone soon!"  Since when did someone photoshop my face over the poster of the wet cat with the caption "Hang In There!"?  Trust me...I'm not worried about finding someone soon.  I find people all the time.  Sometimes, I just nod at them as we pass on the sidewalk.  Sometimes, I ignore them.  Sometimes, I sleep with them.  People are everywhere.  Chicago has 9 million people.  Why do people just assume that because I'm single I don't want to be?  And why does this behavior seem to be prevalent in small Southern towns?  Of all the people I've 'found' in Chicago, when they ask if I'm seeing anyone and I reply don't-count-on-it, they never say, "Aw, don't worry.  There's someone out there for you."

Not to go all Carrie Bradshaw on your ass, but since when do you have to be in a couple to be considered whole?  I don't need another person to complete me anymore than an amputee needs an artificial limb to feel like a whole person.  I'm selfish.  I'm moody.  Sometimes, I'm messy.  I keep odd hours.  I have strange habits that some closest friends don't know about.  I tend to drink until I pass out.  I'm an unapologetic smoker.  My life is not where I planned it to be.  I have no 5 year plan.  I could go on and on, but I think you get the point...I find it hard enough to live with me, why in the hell would I want to bring someone into this mess?  And I would seriously have to judge the mental well-being of anyone who would knowingly enter a relationship with me.

Now, the alleged benefits of being in a relationship...

-Someone's always there for you.  People, that's why there are dogs.  Unconditional love.  Right there.  And could not be more happy to see you if you're coming home from a 2 week vacation, or just coming back from the bathroom.

-Someone to grow old with.  Maybe I'm delusional (okay, scratch the 'maybe'), but growing old is not something I sit around and think about.  If anything, it's in the furthest crevice of my brain along with the lyrics to 'Wild Wild West' by Escape Club.  Being old, crippled, more-than-likely broke, wildly unattractive, smelling of several ointments, not in control of my bladder without the alcohol excuse...not something I'm pining for, that's for damn sure.  Get me a dog if I make it to 65.

-Guaranteed Regular Sex.  Okay, in theory, that's a good one.  But as a single person, I'm having more sex than my coupled friends.  I'm sure it's great when you're 'making love' to someone you're 'in love with,' but don't be so quick to dismiss casual encounters.  Sure, it's embarrassing when you have to take the cab-ride-home-of-shame, go to the Bravo website to look up the cast members from the previous season of Project Runway to put a name with the face of the person you just left, but how is it that much different from the sad, desperate role playing couple who 'meet' at a bar when the woman is dressed like a 99 cent version of Shauna Sands and the man looks like he should be holding court in a Vegas lounge far off the Strip?  Hey, I'm not having to 'role-play' that whole strangers in the night fantasy, I'm living it.

-Someone you can be yourself around.  That's why I have friends.  I can tell them things that I would never tell someone I wanted to have sex with.  They've seen me cry.  They've seen me laugh.  They've seen me looking rough.  They've seen me vomit.  They've seen me have an accident when I passed out after drinking 2 fifths of Jager.  And you know what?  They're still my friends.

So, unless they're incredibly wealthy and generous, passive/aggressive depending on my mood, enjoy cleaning up after me, will carry my drunk ass out of a bar with a smile on their face, send me a carton of Parliament Lights as a 'happy,' and find a lack of direction a turn-on, I'm good.

If life is a 5th grade field day and I need a partner for the 3-legged race...I'm content to sit on the side drinking soda from a waxy Coca-Cola cup waiting for the Potato Sack race.

Walking Around in the City

So I made the move to Chicago in November of 2007.  My reasons were twofold:  First, I was ready to get out of Mississippi.  Second, I thought it would be a good idea to get my first winter out of the way.  Now, I had visited Chicargo (as many older Southerners call it) several times, mostly in the winter.  I even spent a week in Wisconsin each January for a few years visiting friends.  Naturally, I thought I was prepared.  Faithful readers (me), let me let you in on a little tidbit.  Visiting a city during the winter and living in a city during the winter are two completely different things.  When you're visiting, the cold is a novelty.  You spend most of your time indoors drinking, and when you venture outside for a few minutes, you're drunk.  At least I was.  Am.  Whatever.  You jump in a cab when you need to go somewhere and chalk it up to another vacation expense.  When you actually live in the cold, go to work in the cold, have to go to the grocery in the cold, have to step outside of a bar to smoke in the cold because the friggin bastards instituted a smoking ban 2 months after you moved to the God-forsaken city, it's a different story.  And as plentiful as cabs are in Chicago, one will quickly go broke taking one each day.  Wanting to fully emerge myself into the city life, and desperately needing the money to do so,  I sold my car in Mississippi and placed myself at the mercy of the Chicago Transit Authority.  I must say that I am one of the lucky ones.  Directly outside of my apartment are two different bus stops, and I am a short 2 block walk to the El.  In my mind, I would never have to wait for a bus, because when I needed one they would sit outside my apartment and honk the horn, much like the school buses of my youth.  In Chicago, that doesn't quite work.  So, you have to stand outside and wait.  For a good twenty or thirty minutes sometimes.  And it never fails that if you wait more than 15 minutes, as soon as you board your bus, you see another one directly behind it.  You'd think these people could figure this shit out.  But you'd be wrong.

Walking the two blocks to the train seems like nothing at all.  Except when the windchill doesn't quite creep up to zero.  Which is most days in January and February.  Not only is it beyond cold, this is the Windy City.  And I'm pretty sure that Chicago wind hates me because it does not matter which direction I travel in, the wind is always in my face.  I could stand outside and do pirouettes (which I do sometimes for fun if I happen to be wearing my Capezio's) and every which way I turn, I will be blasted with arctic air.

Anyway, not long after moving here I got a job in the West Loop neighborhood.  According to Google Maps (my new bestie up until the Sysco Fiasco), it was 6.7 miles from my apartment to Carnivale.  Now, for me to actually get there, I would walk the 2 blocks to the Brown Line station, and take the Brown Line down into the Loop.  From there, I would board a Pink Line and take that to the 1st stop.  Then, it was a 3 block walk.  Somehow, most days it would take about an hour and a half to go this 6.5 miles.  How?  You tell me.

Anyway, one night in January, I get off work.  I'm walking the three blocks east towards the train.  I've got a Diet Coke in one hand, a Parliament Light in my mouth, and my cell in the other hand talking to my friend Reba (no relation).  I'm walking, walking, talking, sipping, walking, puffing and then bam....spread eagle on my stomach.  In the middle of the street.  My Diet Coke rolls into the Chicago River.  Reebs is telling me some story and I'm moaning in pain.  I explain what just happened.  I carefully pick myself up and continue on my journey.  About 15 feet later, bam.  Same thing.  Reebs asks me what I've had to drink.  Sadly, only about half a DC.  There are, of course, a steady stream of cars going up and down Wells Street while I'm doing my crawl of shame.  So, I pick myself up.  I ever-so-carefully maneuver my way further down the street.  Have a near slip.  Recover.  Pat myself on my back, which of course causes me to lose focus, so, say it with me...BAM.  Damn it.  Tell Reebs that I've got to go because I have some serious internal bleeding I need to tend do.  Once again, peel myself off of the ice, wave to the kind motorists who have slowed to point and laugh.  And wouldn't you know it, I fell a fourth friggin time.  At this point, I'm Kristi Yamaguchi sliding down Wells Street.  On the plus side, in the next two blocks I was able to nail my triple salchow, double toe loop.  I'd give myself an 8.8 for a technical score, but def a 9.6 in artistic.  It's hard to be graceful when you have absolutely no shame, several bruised ribs, a possibly punctured spleen, wearing 3 jackets and a backpack, but I did a pretty damn good job.  I made it home and vowed to not leave my apartment until March.

Of course, once I got home I realized I was out of cigs.  So, I have to make my now nightly trip 4 blocks away to CVS.  I start walking ever-so-slowly down my sidewalk.  I don't have much traction, but I think I'm kinda doing okay.  I just can't walk faster than 2 feet per minute.  Normally, a walk there takes about 10 minutes, but as I'm sliding and cussing people for not shoveling their sidewalks, I'm estimating that it's going to take me about 45 minutes to get there.  I finally make my way to the half way point and need to cross the street.  The ice is extremely slick all around this corner and I realize I'm not going to be able to do it.  I get really freaked out.  I don't know what to do.  I'm in the middle of this ice patch, and anyway I go I'm bound to fall.  So, what do I do?  I stand there and cry.  I feel like I do need to let anyone who might be reading this that contrary to my posts, I'm not a crier.  Except during Brothers and Sisters.  I never cry.  But I'm so disoriented (no doubt from my internal injuries), scared to fall again and seriously injure myself, frustrated, cold, sore, and pissed at myself for getting myself into this situation that I have no choice but to stand there.  For a good 5 minutes.  Trying to plan my next move.  Finally, and I kid you not, I kneel down, carefully lay my arms in front of me, and crawl down the sidewalk to the street.  I prop myself up against a car (in the process freezing my hand to it) and wait for a cab to take me 2 blocks to CVS.  I make him wait outside.  Make my purchase.  He drops me off in front of my door.

The moral of this story?  If you're from the South, stay there.  It's just not worth it.  We weren't bred for this.

Job Searching in the City

As I'm sure it is in the rest of the country, Chicago is not really a job seeker's market these days.  Back in October, I quit my dream job on a whim, certain that I could take a little two week breather and immediately begin employment somewhere else.  When I look back on that fateful day now, I chuckle.  Then I cry myself to sleep.  Finally, I had a ray of hope.  I had...an interview.

So, I had an interview today at Sysco to be a food salesperson. Great job. Great company. And possibly the only position in our solar system that would legitimize the time I've wasted in the restaurant industry. Well, oddly enough Sysco's offices aren't in Chicago proper, rather they are in a magical land called Des Plaines...which is a quiet little suburb about 20 miles outside of the city. No worries. I've consulted the Chicago Transit Authority's website to get my exact route, I will take one bus, get on a commuter train, and then its a short 15 minute jaunt to the facility. I should have known.
I get dressed today, cute well-fitting charcoal suit, purple shirt, the blue eyes are popping. I notice some black dress shoes in my closet that I've been neglecting, so I pull those bitches out. Grab a scarf and I am out the door.
About half way through my little mile-long trek to the bus, through the remnants of Monday's honest-to-God blizzard, I notice my toes are really ridiculously cold. Now, the windchill is about 15 below, but still. Get on the bus, slip my shoe off, and remember why those shoes were banished to my closet: they kinda leak. So the two pairs of socks I"m wearing are completely soaked. Of course. Get off the bus, walk up 73 stairs to the commuter train station. Ask the friendly, albiet toothless young lass how long until the train comes. 33 minutes. So I'm waiting on a platform in the middle of the interstate with nothing to break the frigid wind, wearing wet socks. And of course forgot my earmuffs. Ty'shawnia and I make idle chit chat until the train comes when I ditch her and board the train. Having relieved myself of the burden that is shame years ago, I remove my shoes to allow my feet to warm up in the hopes that when my adventures have concluded, the doctors will be able to save at least 2 of my toes. The conductor quickly instructs me to replace them.
So, I get off the train in God's Country (aka Des Plaines), and begin following my little directions. Apparently the suburbs aren't big on pedestrians, so there are no sidewalks. And in GC (aka DP), when they plow the streets, they're left with 5 foot tall mounds of snow on the shoulders. So, I start walking, okay, sliding down the street about a mile and see Sysco looming before me like an MAOI in front of Britney Spears. When I come to the end of this road, I notice that the gate is padlocked. No worries, just above this road is a highway. So I climb the embankment to the highway. The highway sans a walkway. The busy highway sans a walkway. So I slowly begin my travel, thinking this will only be a minor setback. Well, I end up walking (though if you were to see me, I don't know that walking is the accurate description) through knee-deep snow. While I'm in my suit. And dress shoes. That leak. While cars a whirring past me. Splashing my entire face and body with black street slush. I get about a mile and a half down this highway, and finally call Sysco to ask where on the highway the entrance is. Velma then informs me, "Oh no, sugar, you've gone too far. You need to go back down the highway, and its about another mile and a half." Cue tears. Real tears. 
I turn myself around, and begin the journey back to where I had started. I'm running the iditarod at this point without the luxury of a sled or dogs. I'm still traipsing through knee-deep snow, my nose is still running constantly which at this point, I"m just wiping it away with my scarf. Cars are still splashing me. It's snowing. My shoes are still leaking. I go to wipe my nose again with my scarf and realize that said scarf is now frozen. I also realize at this point that thanks to all the moisture, my Clinique Streak-Free Bronzer for Men is rubbing off on my white scarf. Snot? Now frozen to my face. Along with my tears. And road slush. My toes are now burning which is odd because it's not even remotely warm. I make it back to the original area, through which I've already walked twice, find a nice little path and am on my way. I encounter some stairs along my path which lead me to a bridge. I promptly fall backwards, cushioned by the snow and perhaps even giggling like the Snuggle Bear. Try again and this time fall face forward. There was no giggling this time as I hit concrete. When I use my frozen scarf to wipe my face, this time there's bronzer and blood. But I perservere. I reach the hallowed Sysco gates, ask a gentleman where the administration office is (keep in mind I'm 35 minutes late for my interview at this point). He points off in the distance, "You see that blue building way down there? It's two buildings past that." So I continue down my path, now with 18 wheelers splashing slush onto me. Finally make it there, ask where the men's room is so I can attempt to save face (literally) only to be told it's out of order.
So, I go into my interview looking like a victim of a brutal hate crime who has been cryogenically frozen. It goes ok.
Begin my trek back to the train station just in time to miss the train. Have to stand outside and wait 55 minutes for the next one. By now, the sun has gone down. The wind has picked up. I'm not sure how many toes I have. Get on the train. Arrive at the train stop, wait 15 minutes for bus. Board bus. 2 blocks later, the bus breaks down. Wait 20 more minutes, board another crowded bus where any idea of 'personal space' is quickly forgotten. Luckily, a man keeps stepping on my toes, so I'm able to count about 4 of them. Get to my destination. Slide down 4 more blocks to get home. 

Shockingly, about a week later, I receive a nice letter from the good people at Sysco.  While they appreciate my interest, they do not feel that they currently have an opportunity that matches my needs.  I am shocked.

Murder Rate in the City

Maybe because I'm my parent's youngest child, my mother constantly fears for my well-being. I suppose its natural, and I would prefer it to the alternative of her simply using me as a small person whose only purpose was to keep her Dr. Pepper supply plenty and the Virginia Slim 120 Menthols coming. Oh wait...

Anyway, since I've made the big move from small town Mississippi to the bustling megalopolis that is Chicago, my mother has made WGN her personal local news. I am grateful that my mom wants to take the time to know what's going on in my city, and am even more grateful that she has figured out that WGN is based out of Chicago. She's not what you'd call 'tech savvy.' Or 'aware.' If it doesn't involve the Home Shopping Network or online Bingo, there's a 99% chance she has no idea what you're talking about. Bless her soul.

For the first few months I lived in Chicago, I yielded almost daily calls from my mother, Dianne, asking me general questions about my new city and neighborhood, about the weather, and her favorite topic: Murder. This is a typical daily exchange:
Dianne: "I guess you heard there was another murder yesterday."
Me: "Well, I hadn't heard. I just assumed there was."
Dianne: "I tell you, I just worry about you day and night living up there with all those murders."
Me: "Well, mom, that's the risk you take, I suppose."
Dianne: "Well, I just couldn't do it."
Me: "Well, good thing you're not."

It's taken me nearly a year to convince her that for the most part, I'm out of harm's way. Still, she continues "I just can't get over the fact that someone is killed every day up there." I mentioned to her that I read her local newspaper most days online, and that there has yet to be a day where there were no obituaries.  I tried rationalizing that Chicago has a larger population than Mississippi, so it was only natural that the crime rate would be higher in a city of 9 million than a city of 75,000.  Finally, it became this exchange:

Di:  "Well, I guess you heard about the double murder yesterday."

Me:  "Mother, did they say where this murder took place?"

Di:  "On the South Side, I believe."

Me:  "Yes, ma'am.  95% of all these murders you tell me about everyday occur on the South Side.  Now, where do I live?"

Di:  "On the far north side?"

Me:  "Right.  Now most of these violent crimes occur at least 100 blocks from where I live.  We're talking at least 10 miles most of the time."

Di:  "But what if they decided to come up to your part of town?"

Which got me thinking.  What if these gang bangers from the South and Southwest side decided to journey up to Ravenswood, my 'hood.  So, I started picturing all of them meeting in the South Loop.  All dolled up in their best gang attire, right at the edge of the Financial District.  I'm picturing them trying to blend in, exchanging their straight-billed White Sox caps, Roca Wear, and black baggy denim for navy suits and oxblood shoes.  The boom boxes on their shoulders (I always assume they still carry these, because my only notion of true gang bangers comes from late 80's Will Smith videos) have now been switched from rap to a collection of Journey's greatest hits (since all the Financial District workers were frat boys 2 years ago).

Now, they make their way up Michigan Avenue and the Magnificent Mile.  The girl-gang-bangers are now accesorized fully in Coach (wait...wouldn't they be anyway??), and the guys have been to J. Crew and are now dressing like Andre 3000.  They move west to Bucktown and Wicker Park.  They've traded in their Brooks Brother's suits for the tightest women's tapered leg jeans they can find, wearing Converse, tight v-neck tshirts with ironic slogans (no matter the weather) and scarves.  They now have on fake glasses and are sipping on PBR.  The boom boxes are now silent as they argue over which one is the fan of the more obscure band.  They head East.  To Lincoln Park.

Several members of the entourage have sadly been mowed down by soccer moms in their BMW SUVs on their way to Whole Foods.  These women will stop at nothing to purchase over-priced soy products and organic bell peppers.  The gentlemen now sport chinos, sweater vests over blue oxfords, and suede driving mocs.  The women are now wearing Lora Piana cashmere sweater sets and black matchstick pants with Christian Louboutin's.  The boom box is playing the latest Coldplay at a very reasonable level.  Most of the women have Belvedere cosmos, while their counterparts now sip from various overpriced India Pale Ales.  A few holdouts are carrying their Starbucks while the one rogue Yuppie swears by his Dunkin' Donuts coffee.  They move north on Halsted.

Thirty minutes later, the group emerges from Hydrate, with the men now drinking cosmos and flirtinis and the women drinking Budweiser.  The men have traded in their smart preppy wares for thongs, floor-length sequined gowns, and boas.  Two are dressed as Bea Arthur while three of them are screaming "Liza with a 'Z'" at the top of their lungs.  Their glitter-covered bodies are now gyrating to the Lady GaGa pulsating from their new Bose stereos.  The women, now adorned in either carpenter jeans and plaid shirts or men's basketball shorts with rolled up tshirts and soccer sandals are holding hands, since many of them have now entered into long term relationships.  They're discussing what to name their Rescue Kittens and looking for a one bedroom apartment in Andersonville.  Still, they tredge north.

Upon reaching Wrigleyville, the boys are now wearing khaki shorts and long sleeve button ups with their sleeves rolled up over tshirts that say "Fukudome is my Homeboy" or "You Can't Quiet The Riot" with blue Cubs hats, the bills now perfectly rolled.  Our former lady-loving-ladies have washed their hair, straightened the bluntly-cut layers, and now have on multi-colored tube tops and black skirts with shoes they are unable to walk in sober, much less after the 12 lemon drop shots they've tricked the guys into buying for them.  Oddly, in one of the whitest parts of Chicago, they are now listening to rap music.  And Rihanna.  Always Rihanna.

I imagine that they all move north up Clark Street now, to Montrose.  They hang a left and walk a few more blocks to my apartment.  After this journey, I just don't see that they'd be in much of a mood to put a cap in my ass.  Maybe I'm just niave.