Dear Chicago,

I've been here almost five years now, and I love it here, don't get me wrong; but I have a few thoughts I'd like to share with you:

"Diversity in the workplace" does not mean that you hire both Cubs AND Sox fans.

An "upscale" restaurant does not mean that the wall TV plays only major league, not college, sports.

A "balanced diet" does not mean hamburgers AND hot dogs.

A foot of snow is not a snowstorm.

Being proud of government corruption doesn't impress anyone.

Wrigley Field is not a ball park; it's a huge keg party with a ridiculously high cover.

Men: Dressing up does not mean that your shirt matches your baseball cap.

Women: Dressing up does not mean that your dress matches your baseball cap.

No matter how many times you tell yourself differently, The Wisconsin Dells waterpark is not an exotic getaway.

Walking never killed anyone. Neither did a vegetable. Or subtitles.

All the world's a stage. Or at least, a rehearsal basement...

So my unemployment status pretty much killed a lot of extracurriculars: no more stained-glass class, no more associate artist and its attendant fees. That's OK; I knew it was not forever, and I've kept in touch with people.

But I was feeling restless and in a rut, and the Chicago winter did nothing to help. I sorted through clothes, re-organized my files, tidied up, did laundry... but that didn't really satisfy the creative bug. I'd been thinking I'd wanted to get back into some performance, so I auditioned for a sketch show, and I got in. Great. It wouldn't cost me anything but time, and I'd have some regular camaraderie. And fun!

So there are 5 men, including the (writer/director) and two women (the other woman plays the "hot" chick, and I play -- well, the other chick). They are all really nice people. As usual, I'm the loud one, cracking jokes and being a general wiseass. There was one other guy who was similar, and our scenes together were really fun. One in particular dealt with a woman discovering that her husband had a problem with internet porn.

"I want this done playfully," said the director.

"This is so guy," I told him. 'Oh, honey, I never touch you, and when I do, I have to take Viagra, but when you find I've been watching porn all the time, I want you to find it kind of funny.' "You realize, of course, that this is purely a male fantasy."

Still, we did it his way, and it worked fine, mostly thanks to the actor. Very cute. Then my co-actor started to feel unwell. He has a problem with asthma, and chalked it up to that. Then a few days ago we came to rehearsal and the director told us that the actor had gone to the hospital for emergency triple-bypass surgery. We opened in 11 days. I reflected that I'd done this for fun. Stress-free fun. I also reflected on the dark humor of the Cosmos.

So we got another actor who will take 4 main scenes, and the others have been divvied up. I now also play an army sergeant and a teenager. I wondered whether Streep or Dench had to pretend to play Modern Warfare 2, and decided that if they did they probably researched the game and played it ten hours a day to prepare miming it perfectly. I also realized that I'm too lazy to be that good. I practice saying "dude" a lot.

All in all, the show is fun and pretty well written, I manage to keep my Inner Bitch deep inside where she can't feast on anyone's blood, and I get to dance to Led Zeppelin, so how bad can life be? I know the director is stressing over the sick actor, and I'm proud of the way the cast has pulled together to pick up the slack. If this new guy can pull through, the audience should not be able to tell that anything's amiss. I'm so glad I took improv.

Dude.

So much can change in a month...

So when impending homelessness loomed, I'd called my real-estate agent, and told him I thought it might be time to try to sell my place. He came to my house a few days later, with statistics on local home sales. He watched silently while I looked at them.

"There is no way I'm going to be able to sell this place," I said.

"No," he replied.

He then proposed several solutions, which included me renting the place out for less than my monthly mortgage payment (to bring it in line with market rents), combined with renting a room in one of the houses he and his wife owned nearby, at a ridiculously low rent, which would make it possible for me to earn the difference on my place with a low-paying job. The cats and rabbits would be accommodated.

Again, the kindness of people amazes me.

We agreed I'd put together a plan within the week.

And then, when things looked darkest..

A fellow condo board member saw a job posting in his office, forwarded my resume to HR, and I got a call from a dubious-sounding HR rep.

"You're resume doesn't list Access. You have to know Access."

"I've used Access very little, but I did have some training in it along time ago, and I test well in it. It's not a very hard program, from what I've seen."

Now, anyone who's dealt with HR departments knows that they are frequently the least technologically savvy people in the company, and because of this, they assume that every software application is mind-bogglingly hard.

So it seemed clear by this woman's demeanor that she was talking to me as a courtesy to my friend, and after a very terse conversation, I was sent an online test module. Word, Excel, Access. So I took them.

Long story short: I aced the tests, I did well on my telephone interview, and passed my two in-person interviews with flying colors. And I start my job on March 1. I'll be making about 10K less than my old job, but 25K more than unemployment, so I'm happy to have it.

I am now making it my mission to find jobs for people I know who are still looking. There are lots of great people out there, and it's become clear to me that the best way to get a job is to have a little help from your friends.

(I'd also discovered that my unemployment was extended regardless, so my situation wasn't as dire as I'd thought. But it never hurts to have a plan.)

And I'm glad to stay in my place, at least for now. She's old and she's creaky, but she's a gorgeous tiny old thing, and I do love her. And my neighbors have been amazing. In fact, so many people have been amazing, and generous, and thoughtful. Friends who hired me for "jobs" they needed help with: packing their apartments for a move, bringing their laptops in to tech support, freelance proofreading. It's kept me afloat, and I feel a strong sense of not only obligation, but desire, to pay it forward.

Adversity Meets Insight

So I sat down with my Exel spreadsheet, took the balance left on my unemployment, the amounts paid every two weeks, and calculated that my financial doomsday hits in March. I called the Loss Mitigation number for my bank, and got a nice guy -- Gary, in Arizona -- and I talked with him about my options. I mentioned my IRA and that I'd been doing odd jobs to make ends meet, but once the unemployment runs out I will essentially stop being able to pay my mortgage, and was there anything the bank could do to prevent a foreclosure?

Gary talked about options and numbers, and said a couple of things that made a lot of sense. One was that even if the bank could extend some kind of payment reduction, if I couldn't even pay that, what was the point? I might consider trying to sell my place, but if I couldn't, I might be better off "walking into the bank, handing them [my] keys and saying, 'I can't make my payments, I just have to give it up.'"

He also said, "I heard you mention an IRA. Don't spend that on your place. If you spend it all to stay in your place, what will you do once it's gone? If that is all the money you have, keep that for yourself. Use it to take care of yourself."

I explained, as I find myself doing more and more (those of you who have been in this situation may understand) that my credit score is 812, that I've always paid my bills, that I'm not someone who takes her responsibilities lightly, but I can't seem to get anyone to consider me for a decent job.

"Look," said Gary, "a new chapter is being written for a lot of people. A lot of people like you, good, decent, responsible people, through no fault of their own, find themselves having to do things they've never done before. If you have to do it, do it. Take care of yourself."

I didn't expect this level of personal concern, and I was taken off guard. Gary was so kind, so understanding, and I thought of all the stories he must have to listen to every day. I was grateful that instead of being jaded, he was empathetic. I got a little choked up, thanked Gary, and sent an email to my real-estate friend to talk about putting my place on the market. Now, the chances of me selling the place quickly are crazy slim; however, on the bright side, it's nicer than when I bought it, and it's cute.

This is emotional for me. It's not that I can't part with the place, but rather the notion of having to make a new home again, of moving my stuff agin (GROAN). And this is the first place I've ever bought completely on my own. And it's so. Very. Cute. I've made stained-glass windows for it, take hot baths in my lavender-tiled vintage bathroom, eat at my four (!) windows overlooking the ornamental pear trees in the courtyard, drink wine with neighbors as we look over Lake Michigan on summer nights. Listen to the waves as I lay in bed. It's purely lovely. And yet --

I've been thinking about why I moved here. To have a better quality of life. Yes, for what I have and where I am, I'm paying a lot less than I would in Boston. But compared to renting, I'm paying a lot more: I could get a 1-BR with heat included for easily $300-$400 less per month.(The apartment above me, same layout, is for rent for $810 per month, heat and hot water included, because they've owned it forever. Not as nice as mine, but...My outlay is close to $1300, because our assessments are high.) The jobs I've looked at that paid too little for me to live on would be doable, if not excessive, if my housing outlay were reduced like that. And it struck me: By buying this place I'd locked myself into exactly the job rut I wanted to avoid. Don't get me wrong: owning has a lot of advantages, as far as equity and tax deductions. At least, in a normal economy. But I don't need to own here. I'm pretty sure I'm not going to grow old in Chicago - my sister could never live here.

I realized that if I rented again, I could ease my housing burden. Even if I got a job, selling may still be the preferable option: I'd rather spend money on movies and restaurants and traveling, and a life. I won't have to worry about condo boards and long-range planning. I could pay down my credit card. I could expand my job possibilities. When I thought about that, I realized that, as sad as it will be to leave my cute little condo and my great neighbors, it may be for the best. I like the idea of not being tied down. Ask my ex-husband.

Of Cat Food, Crashes, and Christmastime

A few days before Chirstmas I drove to Parkview Pet Supply to stock up on cat food. I chatted with Joe about Christmas plans, then decided to stop a couple of blocks away to check out the boots in Payless. Nothing tantalized me, so I returned to my car, which was parked on a side street just past the corner. Someone had parked a red Monte Carlo directly behind me, creating a very tight fit between it and the car in front of me. It was clear I'd need to to the back-up-slightly-turn-slightly-pull-forward-back-up-turn-slightly routine until I was clear.

As I was doing this, the driver of the Red Monto Carlo got inside the car and started the engine (the lights came on). I was one backup away from a free-and-clear pull out, and I didn't want the Monte Carlo to pull forward while I was pulling back. I watched the car closely as I slowly backed up, and then I pulled out.

Of course, what I should have been looking at then was traffic. I wasn't. So it was that I pulled out into an orange Honda Element passing by. I felt the impact, and saw the Element judder to the left before pulling forward and stopping. It all happened so fast, and all I could think was, "Oh no, no no. I'm so stupid."

I got out of my car, dreading everything I was about to do and see. My entire bumper had been ripped off and lay in the street amidst a small lake of little broken pieces of my car. The driver of the other car had stepped out, He was a small man, who despite obviously being good and grown had a childlike look to his features.

I'd met him before. I racked my brain trying to think where. He was gay, that much I knew.

"Didn't you see me? " he asked quietly.

"No," I said, dying inside a thousand times. "I really didn't. I'm so sorry. Let me get my information." I felt absolutely awful. His front passenger tire was torn open, and a long deep gash ran on the passenger side from the front to the back. It was a nice car. Argh. He assured me he was unhurt.

Back in my car, I opened my glove box, thankful that after a bad cop experience a fews years back I always keep my insurance card there.

It wasn't there. A copy of an old policy was there, but not the current insurance card.

I tore everything apart. Nope. Not there.

CRAP. When the cops arrived, I was going to be in deep doo. the last time this happened, I'd had my license confiscated. The old policy had my agent's name, so I called and got my current policy number and the claims phone number.

I went to the other car; the driver said he'd called the police, so we just needed to wait for a cruiser to arrive. I explained my dilemma with the insurance card, but assured him I was insured and that it would all be covered. I gave him my insurance info. He was having similar trouble locating his insurance, so we were in the same boat.

"You look familiar," I said.

"Yeah; you do too," he replied.

We brainstormed, but couldn't figure out where we'd met. His name was Eddie.

"Well, I hope it was under better circumstances; I'd hate to think our meetings are always so dire," I said.

We sat in our cars and waited. It was cold. the street was near an El stop, so periodically, groups of people would pass by and stare. Several made sure we were OK. That was nice.

After over a half hour the cops still hadn't arrived, so I decided screw it, I was going to clean things up. I got out of my car and dragged my bumper assembly to the curb. I then took my plastic snow shovel from the trunk and began to push the small bits of stuff to the side of the curb to keep them from ruining someone's tires. As I pushed the debris to the side with my pathetic shovel, I caught the eye of a passing woman.

"What you now see is the perfect metaphor for this entire year," I said.

A man stopped. He owned a body shop. He suggested he drive Eddie to the police station, I could follow, and we could file our report there. He could then take Eddie back and see that his tire was fixed so he could drive home. Since it had been at least an hour and it was getting colder, I agreed. We called the police (again), told them of our plans, and after getting my bumper into the trunk, drove to the station.

I entered the station first. I approached two police officers, man and woman, who sat behind a counter that ran the length of the room. It was topped with granite and came up to my chin. Now, there is something so pervasively hostile about Chicago police that one chooses one's words carefully, not to ingratiate (that's impossible), but to avoid drawing the sadistic abuse of power they seem to enjoy. Yes, there are many things you can say, but let me tell you now that walking up to a chin-high granite counter, placing your hands on it and saying, "Hey, this is just like German Expressionistic Theater!" is not your best choice.

The woman behind the desk glowered down at me. The desk ran the length of the room, which was very long and very high; it was relatively modern, cavernous, and pretty empty.

"What can I do for you." Deadpan.

OK. I should explain that when I'm wound up or nervous or have done something like hit someone else's car, I get this sort of compulsive smartass Tourette's. I can't shut myself up, and I listen in despair as my insane self spews forth one-liners.

"I'm the perpetrator. I hit his car," I said, pointing to Eddie as he came in with his Samaritan.

We stood before her (no kidding; stone counter top, at chin height), while she asked us details of the accident and filled out a report. Her entire demeanor suggested that she had about a million things she'd rather be doing than helping us. When we didn't understand the question, or when she was unintelligible, we contorted in agony while we asked her to clarify. These requests were met with a steady glare and a repeat through clenched teeth.

As we waited for our insurance companies to fax us our proofs of insurance, my nervous compulsion had me making small talk and wisecracks, in a suicidal determination to get this officer to relax. Eddie and I chatted a bit, and I kept apologizing profusely for hitting him.
We all started talking about movies. The officer was becoming clearly relaxed; she was smiling,
making conversation (I think I got her to crack with discussions about unemployment and how it affects everyone -- I suspect I hit a good nerve there.) She told us that she liked action movies (shocker). "I like that movie 'Twelve Rounds.'" Yeah. She was almost scarier when she was confiding.

A very cute young black man appeared behind the counter. i was surprised at first, because he was dressed in a hoodie, a knit cap, and baggy clothes. Then I saw the ID around his neck.

"Don't say it." I begged myself. "Pleasepleaseplease, keep your mouth SHUT."

Feeling the urge grow, I satisfied it by turning to Eddie after the man had moved away.

"He's a brother undercover."

After all the information was in, I turned to Eddie and apologized once more. And here is when I got my Christmas present. He said, "You know, it sounds crazy, but it's been such a hectic week of running around, getting things ready, all the holiday madness, that it was actually nice to be forced to take a break." And he hugged me.

(I should also mention that the car was his boyfriend's. The BF called me a week or so later to follow up on my insurance submittal. We had a nice conversation, and he was very nice about it all. He wants us all to go to dinner after things are settled, so that we can figure out how we all know one another. He would drive, since I don't have a street-legal car.)

People. Can be. Amazing.

Yes, Folks; She's on the Board.

(Posted in Laundry Room, beside sheets of paper on which have been taped a dryer sheet, dryer lint, and a Doritos bag):

All this was found in the recycling bin. I’ve taken trash out of this bin THREE times now. What do you need to make recycling a no-brainer?? A big, bright-blue recycling can with a huge “Recycling” logo on it? A clear, brightly colored sign? Oh wait – YOU HAVE THESE.

I’m sorry I can’t stand here and throw your trash out for you, or explain the difference between a plastic detergent container and a snack bag or a handful of dryer lint.
I’ve done just about everything else I can, though, so if you could exercise just a little initiative, that would be just swell.
Blue can = recycling. It’s not hard.

Joy C, irritated JOTL secretary

Running into the law in the RP

The other day I was driving back home from running an errand. As I came to a busy cross-street, I followed a car across it and continued down. I was familiar with the neighborhood, and suddenly, something didn't feel right, but I couldn't put my finger on it. I noticed that the car in front of me was an unmarked police car. It had slowed down, and I could tell that there were two people in it, driver and passenger. Through the rear window I could see the silhouette of the driver as the car stopped and he threw his arms up in the air in a questioning manner. I wondered what he was discussing with his partner, and idly considered the amusing fact that, since unmarked police cars were all so distinctly alike as to make them instantly recognizable as police cars, they seemed beside the point.

The car continued down the street, slowly, as did I. A bus came up from the opposite direction, and we both pulled over to let it pass. As it did, I marveled at how tight a fit it was.

The driver's window of the cop car rolled down and the driver motioned me forward. I thought that was nice, and began to pass, when he gave a quick BLAT on the siren and motioned me to stop when I was abreast of his car. I stopped and rolled the passenger side down. The man at the wheel had on dark glasses.

"Why are you following me?" he demanded.

I was completely stunned. What? Following him? What was he on about? I was on my guard, and some instinct told me to do the improv thing: take it in a new direction.

I smiled broadly and cocked me head. "Because you're cute."

He paused and looked away. "Well, thank you, but I can go down this street; you can't."

Then it hit me.

"Oh my God, is this a one-way street?"

"Yes, and you have to turn right here."

"Oh, I'm so sorry - OK, I'm turning; thank you."

Now, I'm sure there was a Do Not Enter sign at the end of the street; in fact, I recalled that I'd never gone down the street that way. But there are a lot of shop signs, and an overhanging traffic light, and a very busy streetscape, and that, combined with seeing a car ahead of me go down the street had caused me to overlook the sign and passively follow.

I have to say, I've encountered a fair few cops since I've been here, and they are rarely friendly.

And he wasn't cute. But he seemed the type who would think he was. Unmarked Crown Vic; dark glasses. Someone's a badass in his own head.