City Wendy

Love, Life, Thanks

I did one of those Tweet Clouds yesterday where Twitter users can see which words they tweet most frequently. Looking at the cloud, it seemed my top three words were "love," "life," and "thanks," which I liked a lot and seemed fitting, but on closer inspection I realized that my three most-used words were actually "wedding," "time," and "night." Oh, right, there was that whole six-month period this year when I discussed almost nothing else but my nuptials. Still, I feel pretty good that "hope," "happy," and "people" are among my top words as opposed to, say, "despair," "sadness," and "nobody." Also, Chicago was at the top of my list, but no New York, not yet.

I was in Chicago a couple weeks ago. I wandered through my old neighborhood, danced and laughed with my friends, and drank champagne for breakfast, lunch and dinner. At Cafe Bong I sang my whole karaoke repetoire, hugged the owner multiple times, and left with a free Heineken stuffed in my purse. "I have to close now!" Jinny said at 2 AM, handing me the beer as a peace offering. "You drink it next place!" she said, pushing me out the door.

Earlier that day I walked along a street near Roscoe Village and felt a pang of homesickness. Actually, what I felt first was familiarity, and something deeper than that — comfort, I guess. That street near Roscoe Village, that street whose name I couldn't even tell you, a street I may or may not have ever walked along suddenly felt more familiar to me than anything else I'd experienced in recent months. It felt like home.

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Yesterday, by a combination of lucky mistakes, great timing, and some good old-fashioned sweet talk, Drew and some friends and I ended up in a most magical bar at the outskirts of Brooklyn, in Red Hook. The bar, Sunny's, is usually closed on Sundays, but the six of us or so were able to finagle our way in for the late afternoon into early evening. We caught up on each other's Thanksgivings, shared some leftovers, and listened to a college station on the small radio behind the bar.

Sunny's is a well, worn-in joint near the river with slanted floors, cracked red leather booths, and nautical-themed artwork and family photos on the walls. It's not a shiny place, but it glows. There's even a banjo made out of a bedpan in one corner. 

"I like your bar," I said to Sunny when he came back from having dinner with his wife and daughter next door. 

The booze had made me feel warm, but not yet dizzy, and I was in that zen-like spot between mindfulness and daydreaming. Everything, of course, was painfully significant.

"I appreciate that you like my bar," said Sunny, who has eyes like shiny marbles and a long, thick mop of grey hair on his head, "but when people say that, what they really mean is that they recognize something in the bar that they like about themselves. You like things that remind you of what you like in yourself."

Hope, happy, people, love, life, thanks. I guess he's right.

No Penis Products Here

I had such a great time in Chicago that I came *this* close to extending my trip a few days, but the I remembered that, holy shit, my wedding is in 5 and a half weeks, and I started thinking about my to-do list and had such terrible anxiety dreams, I decided I better get back to town and get down to bizniss. Seriously, I had one dream that I lost my engagement ring and went crazy looking for it and when I finally found it, it was shattered in a million pieces, which, obviously, is a metaphor for my MIND because nothing makes you more insane and scatter-brained than worrying about wedding details, except maybe being pregnant, but I wouldn't know about that. Yet. And then I had a dream that my hair started falling out in clumps and it was so vivd and realistic, I woke up and searched my pillow for signs of stray hair.

Oh, but being in Chicago was so relaxing and pleasant and made me feel homesick all over again. On Saturday afternoon I drank too much tequila at the Andersonville street fest and ended up doing that ugly drunked snot-cry with a friend of mine right there in the middle of everyone. "I just miss you SO MUCH!" I sniffed, throwing my arms around her. "GOD! You don't even KNOW. SO MUCH!!" And she was crying, too and wiping my face with the back of her hands and it was all pretty ridiculous. Another friend said he saw us walking through the park later that afternoon and we were a rambling, wobbling mess. I guess it wasn't any surprise I woke up with a killer hangover the next morning.

My hangover was so bad, in fact, that after I met a friend for breakfast I apologized and said I didn't think I could make it to the beach like we'd planned because I needed to go sleep for an hour or two before I could even think about carrying on with life.
"But..." she said, wrinkling her forehead and narrowing her eyes, "but..."
"Are you mad?" I said, "I'm really sorry, but I feel like shit. I drank too much last night -- I really need to go lie down for a little bit or I might DIE. Really."
"But you have to go to the beach!" she said.

Suddenly she whipped out her phone and started texting away, telling me she was giving her roommate a message she forgot to tell her earlier. Then I got a text from another friend who said he was at the beach with his dogs and I should stop by, so I turned to Katy and said, "Fine, I'll go to the damn beach if it's such a big damn deal for everyone, but I'm not staying long!" And of course, you know where this is going. I got to the lakefront at Foster and a bunch of my friends were gathered under a canopy for a surprise bachelorette party for me. There were cupcakes and gourmet sandwiches and pasta salad and plenty of champagne and vodka lemonade, and after a litlte hair of the dog, I was good as new. Better than new! I was so happy and touched by the whole thing and loved every minute of the afternoon. It was the perfect bachelorette party — my best friends at my favorite place with perfect weather and no dorky penis products. I felt completely loved and supported and it was what anyone would want before she gets married.

Ironically, an article I wrote on the "death of single-girl friendships" made the homepage of CNN the next day and the comments were fucking outrageous. The essay was about the difficulty of moving away from my friends and about transitioning into a new chapter of my life, one that doesn't leave as much time to invest in friendships like I was able to when living the single life in Chicago. People went insane -- calling me horrible and immature and the "epitome of everything wrong with women today." One person called me a "succubus," someone else called me the scum of the earth. Dozens, if not hundreds of people, weighed in on the likelihood of my marriage disintegrating within two years and how I'd "deserve it" when it happened because I have such little respect for anyone but myself. One person even said she wished my husband would die and I'd be all alone because I'd dumped all my friends as soon as I found Mr. Right. And, wow, there sure are a lot of angry, bitter people out there...and apparently they all hang out on CNN.com all day. Anyway, I'm glad the people I love know how I feel about them. And now, thanks to a little tequila and a beautiful afternoon, everyone at the Andersonville street fest knows, too.

City Wendy in the Windy City

Being back at Lake Michigan for the first time since I left Chicago reminded me of all the reasons I stayed there for 7 years despite the terrible traffic, the hassle to get anywhere, and enough look-alike white yuppies in Northface fleece to drown a small town.

Chicago is pleasant — it's one of the most pleasant places I've ever been in my life and that's counting the week I once spent in the South of France with an old boyfriend and his entire Iranian family who pretty much only spoke Farsi around me for the whole trip. I mean, terraced vineyards and plum trees are beautiful, but sharing them with a dysfunctional guy and his family who clearly don't want you around sort of ruin the pleasantry of it all. But Chicago, Chicago is pleasant through and though — at least from May to November, it is. And so for five days I lapped up all that pleasantry — inhaled it and held it as deep in my lungs as I could. I sat at the lake and I looked at far as my eyes could see, like if I looked long enough and hard enough, I could somehow transport some of all that pleasantness back home to New York.

This visit back to Chicago was what I'd been waiting for — the weather was actually really gorgeous the first two days I was there and my friends were happy and relaxed now that their horrible winter is behind them. We had BBQs and bike rides and hula hoop karaoke, and Neil even drove to the outskirts of the city and picked wildflowers and mushrooms that we rolled in batter and fried like chicken and ate for dinner  with salmon burgers and Nikki's homemade potato salad and, well, if that isn't the most pleasant thing you've ever heard of, I don't know what is. And then I came home.

I wish I could say that I was happy coming home to soggy New York, but the truth is I wanted to go back to Chicago. Just for a couple more days. Just for a bit more bike riding, one more BBQ with my friends, another walk through Winnemac Park. See, the great thing about leaving is that it always gets to be this great place I visit now. I hated so many things about Chicago and being back, I realized I'd hate it even more if I lived there now. My old neighborhood -- Andersonville -- is nothing more than a relocated Bucktown, the over-priced, pretentious home goods stores strangling Clark St., my old favorite haunts replaced by trendier joints with pretty blond families in the windows, even Lincoln Square with it's cute stores and cafes is Stroller Central, I'd hate it. And in a way, it took moving to New York for me to realize how much I kind of hated it to begin with. But visiting? I love visiting! Oh, the pleasanty, the parks and lake and tree-lined streets.

You know what I wish? I wish I were a gypsy and I could just travel, travel, travel and never get to a point where I hate a place. I wish I could wrap my arms around the whole wide world and call it home, never settling in one spot, never unpacking my bags, never staying long enough to get on anyone's nerves or for them to get on mine. I wish I didn't have an apartment to keep clean and a fridge to stock. I wish I could be on vacation all the time. Maybe if i get good enough at hula hooping I can run away and join the circus once and for all.

Old Sweater, New Sweater

Do you know what's a good time? You and a handful of friends get kind of dressed up and head over to one friend's house for cocktails and amazing homemade hours dourves (goat cheese-stuffed dates! wrapped in basil and prosciutto and warmed in the broiler! Bloody Mary Shrimp Cocktail Salad!). You listen to some Brazilian music and dance around the table a bit and take photos of each other while you're still sober. Then after about an hour and a half you pile in the car (still sober, remember), and head over to another friend's house where you drink wine and eat three kinds of cheese and french bread and fresh fruit. Someone might even dance on the table. More pictures are taken. Another hour and half later, you all bundle up and walk three blocks down street to a third friend's apartment. This one has 4 red lights in the window and looks like a brothel. You don't need to remember the address because you can see it glowing from way down the street. There's a new cocktail at this house--one with ginger beer and something else and it's so strong, you can barely get it down. There's a full bar, though, so you make a White Russian and snack on mini tacos and trail mix. You finally kick off your heels even though they make your outfit and you sneak into your friend's closet where everything is organized by color and pattern and you pull out an argyle sweater and houndstooth blazer. You spend the rest of the evening--or at least the next hour--making John Hughes references, and yes, dancing on the table. At 3 am, you borrow your friend's pumas and walk home in the snow.

My trip to Chicago was lovely. The "progressive cocktail" party was Chad's idea and we had a fucking blast. The weather was perfect all weekend, I caught up with friends, visited my old haunts, and affirmed my decision to move to New York. More than my last visit to Chicago in December, this time I really felt like I didn't live there anymore. And I felt completely fine and at peace with that. This time around, Chicago felt too small to me in a way an old, favorite sweater might. I still love the color and the style, but it just doesn't quite fit anymore, which is fine, because I've found this other sweater. It's totally different and I'm still growing into it--but that's kind of the point. There's room for me to grow now.

Anyway, now I'm back in New York and suddenly very busy. I'm trying to play catch-up with the stuff I pushed aside the last few days, I've got a pseudo freelance job interview this afternoon, the playgirl party tomorrow night and on Friday we're hosting a small leap year party for a few friends (I'm going to try my hand at making those stuffed dates that were so phenomenal that other night). Someone over the weekend told me that my blog doesn't have the bite it used to when I was still single and sort of depressed. I said, "Really? You don't think hearing about hours dourves at a cocktail party is biting?" And then I ate a piece of cheese and turned up the music.

For Good

I've been using copies of the Chicago Reader to pack all my belongings in boxes to be shipped out to storage on Saturday morning. Ironically, the cover story of this week's Reader is about the staff's favorite things in Chicago. Somehow, it seems almost poetic that I'm wrapping my coffee mugs and Pier 1 vases in articles about the sweet spot at the Empty Bottle and matinees at the Music Box. I wonder, months from now when I'm settled in New York and a new apartment, if I'll feel a tinge of homesickness while unpacking my stuff as I'm reminded of Chicago's charm in the wrinkled, crumpled pages of the Reader.

Oh, I'll miss you, Chicago. I'll miss your vast lake and tree-lined streets and neighborhood summer fests. I'll miss all the things I always meant to do and never got around to. I'll miss the inky-haired Palestinian woman who owns the Middle Eastern Bakery on Foster and Clark and always waves the 13 cents I can't seem to find in my change purse when I'm paying for my baklava and falafel. And I'll miss the owner of the liquor store across the street whom, when I showed up with my gay best friend  five years ago and a bouquet of flowers I took home from my flower shop gig, I managed to convince I'd just gotten married. And I'll miss Winnemac Park where I've whiled away many an hour on my back staring at the sky from my spot under the weeping willow tree daydreaming about nothing and everything all at the same time.

And I'll miss my apartment where I've lived for 3 years and 3 months--the longest I've ever lived anywhere in my life. I'll miss the way the light floods the livingroom in the early afternoon and how all my things fit perfectly and I never once had to compromise with anyone about what color to paint the walls and what to put where and how much room I could have in the closet.

"I'm going to miss all my friends," I said to Niki last week on our final visit to Hollywood Beach, flicking a piece of sand from beneath my fingernail, "I'm really gonna miss you all."

And I said it again to myself on Saturday as I jogged down Glenwood for one of the last times. I said it to myself and suddenly I couldn't get enough air and I was inhaling desperately, trying to fill my lungs, and I couldn't, and I started choking back tears, and I sat on the curb and untied and retied the laces of my tennis shoes just to have something else to focus on besides how much everything in my life is about to change and I'm going to a place where I know hardly anyone and nothing's ever going to be the same.

"Yeah," Niki replied back at the beach, "But in just a few days you're going to be with your best friend and you're going to be able to see him all the time."

And after a year and a half of quick hellos and too many good-byes and almost 30 roundtrip flights between us and countless hours in the airport and on buses and trains and in taxi cabs just to get to one another, there's nothing that sounds better right now than seeing Drew in a couple of days and knowing that this time it's for good.

So, good-bye, Windy City.
I'll post again next week from the Big Apple.

Where you grow the wine!

I need to ask you all a favor--well, those of you who live in Chicago, that is...and anyone who might be visiting sometime soon.

There's this new restaurant in Andersonville--Anteprima--that I'd like you to visit, not because the food is great  (which it definitely is!), or that the ambiance is fabulous (it's only so-so, and it certainly lacks the kind of charm and character that comes with long-established--or even unique--eateries), and at best it's just another euro-wannabe-trendy restaurant with a great menu and good wine in a neighborhood that's quickly becoming unbearably cutesy. And at worst, it's another euro-wannabe-trendy restaurant with slow service and a host who has as much class as a jumpsuit zipper.

Last night Katy and I ventured over to Anteprima for our first visit to enjoy some wine in their outdoor patio on a lovely night. We'd noticed their sign earlier in the summer advertising a charming "wine garden," and so we added it to our list of "things we have to do together before I move." Katy and I go all the way back to the week before we started college when we ended up together in the last-minute freshman orientation session, and when we discovered on move-in day that we lived across the hall from each other in Woods dorm, our friendship was sealed. I don't think either one of us would have predicted we'd still be friends 13 years later and making lists of things to do before I move to NY, but after a few years of falling out of touch, Katy moved to Chicago, looked me up, and we've been hanging out again since like no time ever passed. She even let me borrow her jeep wrangler last weekend for a road trip Drew and I took out to a friend's farmhouse in the country (where I got so many bug bites, I'm still bathing in Calamine lotion a week later). She'd gotten the jeep brand new sophomore year and when she moved to NY herself a couple of years later, she gave it to her parents who passed it down one-by-one to all 5 of her siblings until, just a few months ago when her car here went kaput, the jeep was returned once again to get her around town.

"Do you realize you're sitting shotgun in the same seat I sat shotgun when I was 20?" I asked Drew last weekend.

"That's so hot," he replied, snapping a photo of me on the open road.

ANYWAY! Anteprima and why you should go there! So Katy and I arrived there last night excited to finally try out this new neighborhood joint with the special wine garden and the host promptly sat us at a cramped little table in a dark corner.
"Oh," I said, picturing the sign we saw earlier in the summer, "Don't you have a little wine garden?"
"A what?!" he asked, incredulously.
"A wine garden? I thought I heard you had a wine garden?"
"I don't know what a "wine garden" is? I mean, we have a little garden, but a wine garden? I don't know what you mean! What's a wine garden? A place where you grow wine? (yes! he really said that!!) No. We don't have that. We don't have a wine garden."
I narrowed my eyes at him and clenched my teeth, readying myself for a confrontation.
"We saw a sign for a wine garden earlier in the summer," Katy jumped in sweetly, clearly recognizing my look and knowing all too well what comes after.
"Oh," he said, "We just have a little garden, not a wine garden."
"Well," I said, through my clenched teeth, "Can we sit in the 'little garden' and drink wine?"
"Yes," he said," But there's a 20 minute wait."

Now that's where you come in, Internet friends! What I'd love for you to do sometime--some evening when the weather is nice and you'd like to sit outside in a "litte garden" and drink wine and eat overpriced--albeit very tasty--pasta, is go to Anteprima on Clark St. (5216, to be exact) in Andersonville and ask the host to sit you in the WINE GARDEN. And then when he says, "The what?" Just smile and say, "You know--the garden where you grow the wine!!"

Thanks.

Another one bites the dust UPDATE WITH LINK

Last night I had my final meal at Augies--one of my favorite neighborhood haunts. Like most places in my area that I've fallen in love with over the years, it is suddenly closing after decades in business. It all started about two years ago when Cafe Boost, my favorite neighborhood coffee shop where I used to get the best grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches ever and make flirty eyes at the boy in all black who read Proust in the window booth every afternoon, closed it's doors and in its place opened an obnoxious purple-painted hamburger chain several months later. Then the Lakeview Lounge closed, which was almost too much to bear. And this summer it's been a triple hit with the initial shock of losing Cafe Bong, and then Angels, the neighborhood Mexican joint with the best back patio (pear trees, people!), and now Augies.

Augies was one of the first places I took Drew early in our relationship when we weren't sure if we were starting a real relationship or just having a summer fling or what. Over omelets and hashbrowns, we discovered our mutal love of diners and eavesdropping on people in diners and we came up with an idea for a cross-country diner-focused road-trip around which we would research and write our first play together. Augies is everything you'd want in a diner and nothing you wouldn't. The food is awesome and cheap! The waitstaff is the nicest you could ever hope for. And the decor hasn't been touched since the 70's--all dark wood and black leather booths. I go there almost every week and even if no one is awake to join me, there's nothing better than hitting Augies first thing on a Saturday morning for a six-dollar breakfast that will keep me full til late afternoon. And so it was with a heavy heart on Sunday afternoon on my way to the video store to pick up a movie to watch with some friends on the rainy afternoon that I noticed the sign in the window of Augies saying that after 53 years of business, the owners were closing shop.

Yesterday evening I called my friend Katy who I have dinner with every Monday night and told her that Augies was closing on Wednesday. We agreed to meet there for dinner immediately and over our final Augies tuna melts, we recounted memories and meals and lamented how sad it is to lose another local favorite to what will  probably be an upscale brunch place that will serve imported chilles and shaved cinnamon on eggs benedict.

Thankfully, we had my favorite waiter ever last night--a guy from eastern europe who always says, "For zee lady," when he brings me my food.

"Oh, he's my favorite too!!" Katy said, after he took our order.
"He's always just so nice," I replied.
"So nice!" she agreed.

I told him he was my favorite and that I'd really miss seeing him and I asked him where he was going next and he said he didn't know yet. When we left, we gave him a great big tip and waved good-bye and wished him luck.

At this rate, I'm gonna have nothing left to miss when I finally go because everything is closing before I'll have a chance! Oh, Augies--Rest in Peace.

UPDATE:

Read the Tribune article and watch the video clip. (thanks, Jen)

Liquor Store Crush

I've been going to the Bi-Lo Liquor store on the corner of Clark and Foster for ages now. Years ago when I first moved to the neighborhood, the oldest son of the owner was barely legal and  I'm sure I noticed the discount Pinot Noir more than I noticed him. Lately though, I've realized that I'm finding more and more reasons to hit Bi-Lo on a near-daily basis. More than meeting my liquor needs, Bi-Lo also conveniently provides pints of Ben and Jerry's Phish Food Frozen Yogurt, bags of baked lays, and usually a little crate of limes to the right of the cash register.

A few weeks ago, I decided to make key lime pie for a friend's birthday and so I had to make 3 trips to bi-lo for limes because I kept running out! I mean, who knew one lime wouldn't be enough for a pie?? And then two limes wasn't even enough?! I mean, crazy! (As a quick aside, I spent nearly an hour slicing and juicing and grating those limes by hand until I had the best key lime pie this side of the Mississippi and I just knew it would be a hit at my friend's birthday bbq--and then! Just as I was pulling it out of the oven to stick in in the refrigerator, the pan slipped from my hands and the pie unceremoniously dropped all over my kitchen floor! Ruined, just like that!! And by the way, it did occur to me to take photos of the pie all over the kitchen floor to share with you, internet people, as a visual aid, but then I realized I'd be one of those people who not only writes about her baking faux pas, she posts pictures of them too, and if there's anything more embarrassing than a 30-year-old woman who psuedo-stalks her liquor store owner's son, it's a 30-year-old woman who blogs about it and then posts pictures of key lime pie all over her kitchen floor. Also, my camera batteries were dead.)

Anyway, I'm not saying that my three trips to Bi-Lo had anything to do with my buttery fingers, but I will admit that it seems I've grown a bit keen on the oldest son of the liquor store owner since he hit his mid-20's and stopped looking like someone I might've baby-sat a few months ago. And I'll even grant you that maybe a time or two I've found myself on the corner of Clark and Foster for no other reason that to run into Bi-Lo and ask for the time.

And, frankly, I don't see anything wrong with that! Oh sure, I have a boyfriend (hi, NYM!), but surely he understands that a woman has needs--not the least of which is the need to buy ripe limes and ice cream and gin on a regular basis from a man who's young enough to be her, well, younger brother, and who makes the backs of her knees sweat a little. I mean, isn't that need as basic as owning 17 kinds of lipglosses, comparing oneself to Carrie Bradshaw, and hitting the Target sales rack every other day? Well, I'd certainly say so.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to bake a pie for NYM's visit this weekend. And I think you can guess what kind of pie I'll be baking...