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. 

Throw Your Own: Anne of Green Gables Brunch

The Lady of Shalott drifts in a pond of raspberry cordial

On January 26, I invited my lady friends over for an Anne Shirley-themed brunch. It had one major flaw from the get-go, which I hope you can learn from: say hello first when you greet your guests at the gate, before you promptly tell them, "Oh, I'm sorry, I sent for a boy." It might make them think they aren't actually invited, or they got the date wrong. They will not beg to stay at Green Gables even though they're girls. It's too soon, way too soon.  Just let the ladies in, and leave the theme for the inside of your apartment, okay?

Decor: 

Braided orange crepe paper, tied at the ends with green crepe paper: instant Anne pigtails for every doorway!

Uncle Buck, dressed as Matthew Cuthbert in the wintertime

Queen Anne's Lace, admittedly fake. Keep an eye out for a glut of bona fide c-h-r-y-s-a-n-t-h-e-m-u-m-s; chrysanthemums.

Food and Drink:

In addition to the raspberry cordial -- which would have been Lindeman's Framboise instead of the ginger ale-vodka-club soda-raspberry syrup combo I mixed up, except I'm not made of money -- I served fruit, three kinds of quiche, roasted potatoes, and carrots.  ("Carrots?!?!")

Instead of drowning in sauce for a pudding meant for Miss Stacy, my brunch's little mouse hid in between two kinds of muffins. 

I regret to inform you that the Lady of Shalott did eventually drown, and Gilbert Blythe did not come by to save her.

Dress Code: 

I greeted each lady with a nametag. If her name didn't already end with an e -- like Anne with an e, of course! -- well, it did for the duration of the brunch. I couldn't stop referring to Caitlin, who became Caitline, as if she were a hard-hitting news program like Dateline. 

Amy!

My invitations encouraged the gals to come in their "finest winter whites, gable greens, and carrot oranges." 

Annie, left,  came in her best "smock-like outfit." Jill was a perfect prairie woman. Sarah eventually started a fight (see "Other Amusements").

Martina's fascinator, what a riot?

Emmy!

Lauren and Jorie

We kept the incomparable 1985 Megan Follows masterpiece on in the background.

Other Amusements:

 I made a slate out of construction paper and foam core (tutorial to follow someday) to break over the heads of any Gilbert Blythes or ornery young ladies.

I was the first to try it out; thanks to Annie for the action shot.

Then Sarah and Caitlin had their own schoolhouse altercation:

Oh, girl, no you DIDN'T call me carrots!

Marilla may not have approved of everything we did -- I'm sure she'd have regarded the whole thing with that very expression -- but we partied on like a band of true bosom friends.  Next stop: Prince Edward Island!