Once More to the Lake

As a Weimaraner, Albright was bred to swim through marshes and retrieve the waterfowls her masters shoot. She has big webbed feet and a keen interest in Chicago's pigeon population, which makes me think she has all the right instincts—until we go to a lake.

Here's how it usually goes:

On Memorial Day, we came across a dog-friendly beach. She ran around, happy-cried, and sniffed other dogs, as I expected. 

But then she got into the lake, starting with her feet in the surf. 

I ran into the waves as a test, and she followed me. I was shocked.

ARE YOU GUYS SEEING THIS DOG? THIS DOG IN THE LAKE? This dog doesn't do lakes. And yet this dog did a lake.

I'm still not convinced I didn't dream it—did I dream it?—but I'm already looking forward to a summer of playing fetch with floaty toys.

Dream or no dream, I know for certain that we trekked up to Waterfront Cafe to celebrate with a pitcher of sangria. Albright got cozy in the sand and kept a close eye on passersby.

I hope your Memorial Day included a miracle of its own, or at least some day drinking.

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. 

Let's Start the New Year Right

Uncle Buck is ready to party. 

Happy new year! 

My resolutions are more like Chicago Life Goals than actual resolutions, subdivided into categories such as  "Culinary," "Cultural Events," and "Other Leisure Activities," and are taped inside my planner on Rifle Paper Co. paper. It's all very official. Many of them are rollovers from last year--Hot Doug's, I'm coming for you, dammit--and here are some highlights so far:

* Decide if I'm a Cubs or a Sox fan, preferably by going to games 

* Go to a Shanty Sing

* Dominate at least one of my many March Madness brackets

* Visit every major museum at least once

* Lincoln Park Zoo (I've never been!)

* Hit up the Newberry and Printer's Row book fairs again

* Finally see Improvised Shakespeare (I know, I'm a disgrace, where have I been?)

* Doughnut Vault

* BellyQ or Belly Shack (or both!)

* Map Room

* Victory's Banner

* Hopleaf

* Girl and the Goat

* Aviary

* Actually buy something at Brimfield

* Revisit the Whistler, Violet Hour, Lula Cafe, and any Chicago-style hot dog

* Read one new-to-me book per month

* See one new-to-me movie per month

I hope you're all having fun while you're abstaining from butter or dropping coins into your swear jars, or whatever, but when you're through with all of that, I'll greet you with a fatty snack, a cocktail, and some salty language somewhere above. Let's do this, 2013. 

A photo text from Marlo Senior on New Year's Day reported that Albright required "the hair of the dog."

P.S. This Bing Crosby number from "Holiday Inn" comes into my head every December 26 and doesn't leave until February. "Kissing the old year out, kissing the new year in, how can our love go wrong if we start the new year right?" 

Christmas is Over, and Business is Business, but First, Some Pictures of Dogs

 

My parents' dog, Lucy, loves Christmas. She guards the cookies, and cries and howls for hours when she sees her stocking come out for the season. She knows what that sock with a bell on it means: several mouthfuls of treats. 

 

"Here, let me help you with that, Marlo Senior!"

Her favorite sound in the world is crinkly paper. It's also her favorite texture to gnaw on. It's a very big holiday. 

This was our third Christmas with my dog, Albright, who pranced across the living room on Christmas morning with her stocking in her mouth. 

 

Yes, she does have a scarlet A on her stocking, but she's not a hobag.

 

                   

Then the dogs ruined Christmas by fighting over their Greenies, growling, and pouting for the next 48 hours.

Well, Albright got over her pouting pretty quickly.

                                      

These clever toys, a gift from my boyfriend, hide water bottles inside, so dogs can smash them without cutting themselves. So far Albright has hogged them both.

We got them to make up long enough to take this picture, at least.

As far as the human Christmas went, well, my dreams came true:

A gallon of giardiniera and this Carl Kasell autograph pillow. These were my truest Christmas wishes. Nothing I just said was facetious. 

            

Eerily enough, my phone thinks Carl's face is a real human face. Is NPR bugging my house?  Is this pillow just a big microphone cover? Is Carl actually 14 inches tall and hiding in that pillow?  Something's amiss here. 

But probably not as amiss as the way I asked my mother to hide my pillow at the foot of my bed on Christmas morning, Godfather-style, right? (She didn't.)

 

 

Innocent cuddling aside, I know Carl will be busy with photobombs and other pranks when he's not keeping score on my couch. A post for another day.

Thanks, Santa! Now, as my father always says, "Christmas is over and business is business."