Two years in Chicago

Chicago: where I learned that my dream job is a horse cop. A horse cop who never has to get off her horse to fight extra-violent crimes, that is. 

I moved to Chicago two years ago today, when a job plucked me from the faintly beer-scented bosom of the post-graduate refuge I built at Beloit. During my first few months, I defensively looked over my shoulder every ten feet, expected to meet my mate during some romantic rush hour while squeezed into a train car, got dick-flashed by a man on a tiny bicycle on my way to the farmer's market, and learned not to bolt upright in bed at every slamming door, barking dog, or passing siren.  

When I first moved here, I was singularly obsessed with the trappings of adulthood. I'd just spent my senior year thinking about it endlessly as I wrote my senior creative writing honors project -- about weddings, about trusting yourself enough to decide you're ready for the Significant Relationship you've found, about housewares and Kitchen Aid mixers and the day you stop dropping abbreviations like "totes" into things that you really say in real life. While I don't have my copy on me, I'm pretty sure at one point I imagined that "someday, we'll wake up and realize we know how to take care of ourselves. Somewhere along the way, without noticing it, we'll have learned what it takes to be the grown-ups we never imagined."  I guess I just had to get dick-flashed first. 

While I'm nowhere near having my act completely together, these past two years have brought me a life as a grown-ass woman -- it's still one of my favorite terms -- and I wake up without any fear of it. Most days, it doesn't even surprise me. While it's no "20Reasons Why I Do Not Wish to Leave Chicago: An Incomplete, Random List," when I look back on my time here, these are the things I see first.

I've written and edited with stunners like these. 

The boys I started work with, celebrating our first anniversary

I've spotted Rahm, and picnicked the hell out of Millennium Park

Miss you, Maryn!

I started volunteering here.

I fell in love with VFW Post 7975 and its inimitable karaoke, was charmed by Gody at The Brauhaus, saw Jens Lekman for the third and fourth times, saw David Byrne in person three times (discussion panel at the Music Box, on his bicycle at Michigan and Randolph!, and in Love This Giant), and sang along to "Trapped in the Closet" on the big screen 

I joined a band whose mere rehearsals are a tonic for the soul 

I taught my folks how to ride the CTA

I've made pilgrimages to Longman & Eagle and Lula Cafe, tried my first Chicago dog before seeing Bruce Springsteen at Wrigley Field, and had a hard-boiled egg as a chaser at Richard's

I'm always dreaming of Margie's Candies, and trips to the Tastee Freeze. I'm also waiting for Jill's next incredible dinner party, continuously delighted that Bang Bang Pie Shop gets the accolades it deserves, waiting for my next trip to Doughnut Vault, and crowing over my victory at the Hideout's cake walk.

at Jill's Hunger Games dinner party:
"Haymitch's White Liquor, by Ripper" 

I completed iO's improv training program, and baked a Del Close cake to celebrate

I've thrown theme parties

"You've Got Mail"

Anne of Green Gables

I went to the turtle races, and MET IRA GLASS

                         

I convinced this guy to be my best friend, before I convinced him to make out with me

and, on a good day, I wake up to this face

or these faces.

TIF's and school districts and crime and potholes and Wrigleyville and letting a Hard Rock Hotel occupy the Carbon and Carbide building aside, you're a hell of a place, Chicago. See you next year. 

A Chicago Christmas, Part II: The Best Things Happen While You're Dancing... With a Unicorn

The weekend I looked forward to for months (months!) finally arrived on December 14. I couldn't come up with any appropriate names for it -- Christmaspalooza is stupid, but let's face it, all Christmas puns are pretty stupid, aren't they? -- but I knew it was going to make my face hurt from smiling. And I couldn't effin' wait.

 Friday: Office holiday party

 Jorie and I accidentally went to the party as twins, as did our boyfriends. 

Why take a nice picture you could cherish forever, when you could just be duck-lipped hambones? 

Saturday: Sufjan Stevens' Christmas Concert

Officially dubbed "The Surfjohn Stevens Christmas Sing-a-Long Seasonal Affective Disorder Yuletide Disaster Pageant on Ice," getting tickets to this show at the Metro was a Christmas miracle in itself. Once the opening comedian was finished doing her combination of Molly Shannon characters and Steve Martin gags (why didn't I understand it? Can someone explain that to me? I'm serious), Sufjan and his merry band swarmed the stage with all the "low-budget props" promised in the show description: 

Costumes, such as this Super Chicken

And other costumes, like this Christmas Unicorn made out of balloons and garland

... which was apparently very good for climbing

This "Wheel! Of! Christmas!" dictated which carols the audience would sing together. Not pictured: the inflatable Santas and unicorns which periodically bounced across the crowd.

Snow! 

The whole thing was a treat, especially when I discovered that I actually know most of the words to "We Need A Little Christmas," and when Sufjan made amends for skipping "It's Christmas, Let's Be Glad" by performing "Sister Winter," which some stranger kindly filmed for you: 

The evening ended with my very late arrival at my old improv class' holiday party, where I snuck in this picture with my longtime classmates/longtime bros, and also snuck "yes, and" into every conversation like a big comedy nerd-jerk. 

Sunday: The Music Box Christmas Show 

If you give a mouse a cookie, or a lady like me a ticket to a double feature of "White Christmas" and "It's A Wonderful Life," she's going to want wintry drinks at Guthrie's to go with it. 

Some boozy cider for the gentleman

More cider and hot chocolate with Frangelico for Emmy and me

and Scattergories for all! 

Oh, my heavens, that Music Box Christmas Show.  It is the highlight of my year. It is the home of my heart (along with the state of Wisconsin and the sale section of any Anthropologie). It is worth a trip to Chicago next winter, if you don't live here. It's ideal, absolutely ideal. 

A chamber quartet croons in the lobby while everyone loads up on popcorn and jingle bell bracelets before joining Santa and the theater organist in some carols. Eventually Santa takes a lap around the rows while haphazardly throwing candy around. Even the parody of "White Christmas" about Chicago landmarks -- "a mint by Frango, the smile of Uncle Mistletoe" -- is completely charming when you're surrounded by people just as excited to sing along to "Sisters" as you are. 

Hup-de-do!

Now, it's not perfect. I can't condone the way everyone hisses at Emma when she sets the whole Betty-goes-to-New-York plotline in motion -- for heaven's sake, the busybody makes a mistake! Do you want a plot for this musical or not? -- nor can I approve of the hissing at Betty that follows, even when she's on her way back to Vermont, you jerks. But a few hours later, I just can't top the feeling of hissing at Mr. Potter and then immediately sobbing through the end of "It's A Wonderful Life." 

My gent, my pooch, and I finished the weekend with a Mini-Christmas at home after the show. 

A new kong! 

I'm pretty sure Z has given in to the charms of his new Herschel backpack

My new unicorn skull has no right to be as attractive as it is. Yet it's white, it's glass, it's gold, it's macabre, and therefore it fits right in with everything else I own.

A weekend like this could make a gal believe a Christmas pun is a good idea after all.