I remember when Evan and I first met, almost exactly six years ago to the day. He was in the student union, all bundled up in a stiff wool coat, and when I saw him, blood rushed into my face. After chasing him for a few weeks (he'd see me, stammer shyly, and leave Raisinets for me at the front desk of East Quad) we finally made plans to have cocoa. And it's strange, because I somehow knew right away that I was going to fall in love with him. And I told him this within two weeks of spending time together. I look back on it now and realize that revealing so much of myself goes against the dating rules of studied detachment. You're just not supposed to blab a sentiment like that, even if you believe it. But we did fall in love, you know. Maybe the secret to feeling comfortable around somebody is allowing yourself to do so.
I've been reading For Whom The Bell Tolls by Papa Hemingway for the past three weeks. I'm at page 140. Normally, I can plow through a novel in a day or two. But this! This is inexquisite torture. Disliking this book makes me feel like I'm part of the illiterati, which is antithetical to my whole "Mysterious and Smart in 2004" plan. I jest. Mostly.
Yesterday, Adam and I decided to walk to Leo's Lunchroom for a snackaroo. "It's brisk," we thought. "It'll be good to walk." Wrong. By the time we walked to Wicker Park, our noses were magenta from the cold. But this is not the point of my story. The point is this: while walking on a side street, we came across two plump squirrels. They were chasing each other around the sidewalk, wiggling their tails and seemingly smiling with acorn-plump cheeks. It's still a few weeks to early for them to be mating, so they were simply flirting. It put a big smile on my face to think about that. Squirrels in love!
Yesterday, Adam and I decided to walk to Leo's Lunchroom for a snackaroo. "It's brisk," we thought. "It'll be good to walk." Wrong. By the time we walked to Wicker Park, our noses were magenta from the cold. But this is not the point of my story. The point is this: while walking on a side street, we came across two plump squirrels. They were chasing each other around the sidewalk, wiggling their tails and seemingly smiling with acorn-plump cheeks. It's still a few weeks to early for them to be mating, so they were simply flirting. It put a big smile on my face to think about that. Squirrels in love!
Labels: squirrel
Tonight, after enjoying a Japanese dinner with Karinsa, I went to Filter to finish a piece for the next issue of Venus. Filter isn't my favorite coffeeshop in the city (that dubious honor belongs to Atomix) but it's sometimes nice to watch people walking around the six-cornered intersection. Besides, it's busy enough to keep me from noticing every single person who walks through the door.
I was very productive until the dreaded open mic began. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for artistic expression. But there's something about an open mic that feels too... patchouli. I tried to work while a woman belted out a rather vulgar chorus, but it just wasn't happening. So I gathered my belongings and made my way into the cold air. A light snow was falling. I walked up Damen, window-browsing the Lincoln Park boutiques that had moved to Bucktown, and then I paused at the facade of a new restaurant. The name had something to do with death, and their paraphrased slogan was "Our cooking will knock you dead!" I'm not sure that the "eating here will lead to imminent discomfort and death" marketing plan is a sound one. People don't like culinary homicide.
Also today, I had to have a professional conversation with a man wearing one of those matchy-matchy velour sweatsuits. It is difficult to take a man seriously when he is swathed in a fuzzy cotton-poly blend, when his package is evident and lumpy, or when he has just popped a green apple Blow-Pop into his mouth.
All I want to do is listen to Indian Summer, read, and eat angel hair pasta.
I was very productive until the dreaded open mic began. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for artistic expression. But there's something about an open mic that feels too... patchouli. I tried to work while a woman belted out a rather vulgar chorus, but it just wasn't happening. So I gathered my belongings and made my way into the cold air. A light snow was falling. I walked up Damen, window-browsing the Lincoln Park boutiques that had moved to Bucktown, and then I paused at the facade of a new restaurant. The name had something to do with death, and their paraphrased slogan was "Our cooking will knock you dead!" I'm not sure that the "eating here will lead to imminent discomfort and death" marketing plan is a sound one. People don't like culinary homicide.
Also today, I had to have a professional conversation with a man wearing one of those matchy-matchy velour sweatsuits. It is difficult to take a man seriously when he is swathed in a fuzzy cotton-poly blend, when his package is evident and lumpy, or when he has just popped a green apple Blow-Pop into his mouth.
All I want to do is listen to Indian Summer, read, and eat angel hair pasta.
(I love it when the elevator in my stomach kicks in and goes to the top floor.)
Two weeks into the new year, and already I'm fighting the urge to grab Mikan and head to the hills. A junkie broke into my car the other night, and the cop who found the perp drove up right in front of my apartment. Great detective work, Columbo, but couldja maybe not give the guy a birds-eye view of my entryway? Thanks. Later that night, Josh and I went to Rodan to commisserate. Despite my friend's witty comments and genuine goodness, the whole time I was mildly worried that people were going to laugh at me because I was wearing a DEER SWEATSHIRT without a bra. Which made me think of how someone else told me that I'm essentially shallow and self-loathing, and how he's probably right and I'm a bad person.
But then:
I thought about the perp (I like to say that term) and how he must have been in pretty desperate shape to smash the window of a little Honda. And then I was thankful that I have kind friends who don't care about my brassiere or lack thereof. And my therapist says I am deep, and she knows me pretty well, so I'm going to continue the arduous process of accepting myself with all the flaws. 2004 is the year of being thankful for the small things, of sweeping change, and of no longer pursuing the unattainable.
Two weeks into the new year, and already I'm fighting the urge to grab Mikan and head to the hills. A junkie broke into my car the other night, and the cop who found the perp drove up right in front of my apartment. Great detective work, Columbo, but couldja maybe not give the guy a birds-eye view of my entryway? Thanks. Later that night, Josh and I went to Rodan to commisserate. Despite my friend's witty comments and genuine goodness, the whole time I was mildly worried that people were going to laugh at me because I was wearing a DEER SWEATSHIRT without a bra. Which made me think of how someone else told me that I'm essentially shallow and self-loathing, and how he's probably right and I'm a bad person.
But then:
I thought about the perp (I like to say that term) and how he must have been in pretty desperate shape to smash the window of a little Honda. And then I was thankful that I have kind friends who don't care about my brassiere or lack thereof. And my therapist says I am deep, and she knows me pretty well, so I'm going to continue the arduous process of accepting myself with all the flaws. 2004 is the year of being thankful for the small things, of sweeping change, and of no longer pursuing the unattainable.
