Acceleration

So I'd decided to work for 5-6 more months in order to save a decent amount to move, but after one more week at work, I decided I wasn't going to make it. So last week I told my boss my last day would be in September.

Now that I've announced the decision, I've decided to stop in at all the places that have been dear to me. So on Saturday I took myself to Svea in Andersonville, where I used to go every weekend when I was within walking distance. It was typically full, so I sat at the counter with a copy of the Chicago Reader. An older man sat to my left -- he was very sweet and childlike, and the waitress obviously knew him; same for the guy who came in and sat to my right. The regulars.  I ate my Swedish pancakes with lingonberry sauce and fried potatoes. The Reader had a feature on street art, and mentioned Brooks Golden, a graffiti artist who'd passed away about 6 months ago from cancer at a very young age. I'd met him through his girlfriend, who works part-time at my pet-supply store.

The man to my left warned me about the air conditioning blowing on my food, but I assured him it didn't bother me, which relived him greatly. I looked at his bag of magazines and papers.

"You look very organized," I said.

"Oh, thank you for saying that. Would you like to see an article on Svea?" he asked, handing me a copy of The Red Eye, a local free paper. "It's on page 28." On the front margin he'd written "PAGE 28" in large round letters in pen.

"Thank you," I said, and turned to the page. There was a tiny blurb about Svea's good eats.

"This is great," I said. I opened The Reader to the article on Brooks. "I met this man. He was a tremendous artist and a lovely person." A photo showed Brooks in front of a street mural of an enormous owl that he'd painted.

"Thank you for sharing that with me," the man said. "That painting of his is lovely."

We chatted and I mentioned that I was at Svea to pay it homage since I was planning to return to Massachusetts.

"We used to visit Massachusetts!" he exclaimed. "We had a cousin in Swampscott and we'd visit and play on the beach and get all salty."

"Well, My hometown is right next to Swampscott. You must have gone to King's Beach then," I said.

"Do you you know the song 'Charlie on The MTA'?" he asked.

"The Kingston Trio! Of course!"

And we sang the refrain.

"As a matter of fact --" I pulled out my walled and extracted a card I'd gotten onmy last trip -- "When Boston changed to a fare-card system, look what they called it." I showed him the card with the cartoon of the man hanging out of the window of the train. Across the card it said CHARLIE CARD.

"Charlie Card! That's wonderful! Thank you for sharing that with me!" he crowed.

I said goodbye to him and headed out to the sun and the people on the street. I looked at Women and Children First bookstore across the street.  I remembered the first time I ate here, with my best friend, on a visit to him when he was in college. Over ten years ago. I remember saying, "I could live here."

"You could," he'd replied. "And you would love it."

He wasn't wrong.

Eastward, ho!

I've lived in Chicago for nine years. It's been a hell of a ride, but I've decided it's time to move back to the Northeast. When I took a vacation there last month I didn't feel compelled to return, but after I got back to Chicago, as the days went by the sinking dread I felt each morning as I woke got worse, and I began to feel trapped.

I realized that what I was feeling was the realization that none of us lives forever, and that one day I and everyone I know will be gone. And the corollary to that is: enjoy them while you can.

My uncle offered to let me and my animals stay with him while I get on my feet. He lives alone in a four-bedroom house in my hometown. I used to live in this house, during an unhappy adolescence, but my uncle is the resident now and of all my family members he is the least likely to try to comment on my life or get in my face.

It will be a big adjustment, and there are many, many things here in Chicago that I'll miss. But it will be great to re-connect with old friends, and I've re-connected on Facebook with folks I'd love to see more often. It will also be nice to live in a house for the first time in my adult life. To have a quiet yard. To have space for my animals to run about and for me to paint. I will be more challenged to keep busy, but I've already located a pottery class in a building I once took painting classes as a teen, and my cousin in a town close by also expressed an interest.

Once I'd decided to make the move, my anxiety went away and I no longer woke up in dread. There are logistics: I have to rent out my condo, and buy an inexpensive used car. I've gotten a quote on movers and a lead on a property manager. I have to sell what furniture I don't want to take with me, and save enough for a buffer while I look for work once I'm moved. I estimate it will all take 5-6 months, unless I find other options.

It makes going to work much easier: I know I'm working on an exit strategy.

The move is on my mind a lot as I go to my regular shops and haunts. It's a kind of bittersweet taking stock, but in my gut I know I'm making the right choice. I haven't told many people here, as the time isnt' right, particularly with my work on the condo board.

I was on a hike last week with a group, and was talking with a woman who was originally from western North Carolina. She was returning there for her husband's job. She also shared that she'd found it hard to find friends here, that she missed mountains, and that Chicago is where "all the Bg Ten people come to talk to each other." I was amazed at how similar to mine her impression was. Chicago is a fine, beautiful city, but it's time to go back to my roots.

Mountains! The ocean! What a beautiful thought.

Library or Kindergarten?

So my job is dull, made worse by the fact that I sit in a cubicle farm where people don't talk to each other but sit at their computers wearing headphones.

The other week, my boss IM'd me. "Can I see you in my office?"

?!?

I walked down the hall to her office and went in.

"Can you shut the door?"

Oh for crying out loud. What now? My mind was racing. We've all been through these lead-ups, and they are never good, especially when you have no idea what the issue is. And I had not a clue.

I sat, and my boss began. "Someone in your area has told me that you are having a lot of personal conversations, and it looks bad."

I froze. What? What?!?! I'd had a couple of calls with a fencing contractor that the board is working with for something to do with the association, but really? It's not as though I sat on the phone constantly, chewing the fat. It's not as if I wasn't working.

"It's not like I don't make up the time if I'm on a longer call," I said, biting back other comments.

"I know, and the person in your area who told me didn't want to get you in trouble, they just were concerned that you have personal conversations, and it looks bad."

Someone In My Area. I had no doubt it was my co-worker, who shares a cubicle wall with me. Only he possesses the kind of neurotic need for control coupled with the arrogance that would have him actually make this an issue. This, the same person who was on the phone nonstop for two weeks when he posted an apartment for rent online.

Un-frikkin-believable. I'd disliked my job before, and I'd not respected my boss's lack of leadership, but this was it. That she'd actually countenance such a kindergarten tattle-tale move without giving me any benefit of the doubt, validating the allegations, or without just telling Someone In My Area to grow up and mind his own business, was just one more piece of evidence that my job and I had a huge personality difference, and that I'd walked into a clique.

"Ok, I imagine this was a difficult conversation for you to have, and I'm sorry you had to have it, but it won't happen again."

Translation: "I have nothing polite to say about this ridiculous exchange, or about Someone In My Area, so here's what I need to say to get you off my case."

My colleague was much more pleasant to me after that, presumably since he no longer had to fume in silence at my occasional outrageous use of the telephone. For my part, I now come in, say Good Morning, am pleasant when spoken to and when I ask questions, but I no longer try to engage him in conversation. You don't like personal communication? Fine. You got it.

A secretary with whom I get along with very well (we have similar personalities) wasn't surprised. "They did the same thing to me: I was too loud. I talked too much. Blah blah. I said 'Fine.' So I came in and said nothing to nobody. Now, I say 'screw you, I don't care what you think.'"  She also said, "I couldn't believe they hired you, when I met you, You are way too friendly and outgoing for this place. They can't handle it."

So I bide my time and do my job, and this week Someone In My Area is on vacation, so I don't have to have his controlling anxiety permeating my work area.

And I make phone calls.  Just because.

Neighbors and Dogs

During one of the days we were sent home early from work last winter due to the imminent -40 F Polar Vortex temperatures, I found myself walking down the steps from my train stop. We'd had a ridiculous number of snowy days, so the steep concrete steps that defy the ADA had been updated by slippery packed snow from tricky to treacherous.

As I started down the steps I saw a figure in front of me slowly making her way down the stairs, one hand gripping the railing, the other holding a Trader Joe's bag. One foot sported a cast.

The El stairs have the beneficial side effect of creating small interludes of community. There is a communal agreement that you step into action whenever someone has more than one small child, a baby carriage, crutches, etc. or groceries.

"Can I help you with that?" I asked her.

And as we walked home, the woman -- we'll call her Cheryl -- told me about being laid off from a company where she was bullied, about her foot injury (pulled by her dog), and about her talents as a bartender being less important to potential employers than her lack of youthful sexuality. In her 50s, she had a slow, rambling manner, and seemed lonely despite mentioning a husband.

As it turns out, her building backs up to the same alley as mine, right behind it, so I frequently see her and her husband and the large German Shepherd  so detrimental to podiatric health. Each time she sees me she crows my name and then asks why I dont' call her (I don't have her number) and promises to find the card I gave her with my email on it.

Her husband seems pleasant and indulgent. Cheryl is about six feet tall, and if she weighs more than 100 pounds I'd be astounded. She dyes her hair red and looks for all the world like an adorable scarecrow. She has a slow, forgetful verbal style that I at first took for drunkenness, but I'm not so sure; it could be brain injury or something else. She's harmless, and each time I see her she has a new life event. Working a concession stand at Wrigley Field. Tossing that for catering waitressing. Her sister's cancer remission. I had to use the alley for about 10 days when I was heading to the next street to take care of a friend's cats, and more often than not I'd bump into her as I passed through. Our ritual is the same: I see her, hail her by name, she stops, stares blankly at me for a second, starts in recognition, and crows my name. Then to her husband: "This is my guardian angel who helped me home that day with my foot."

"I know, we've met," her husband says resignedly.

Then she tells me what's going on, I respond, and she repeats all or part of the story. She's a little off, but I like her; she's someone you feel is daft but genuine.

The dog is awesome.

Toe Bones

I have a new doctor, since I now have an HMO with my latest job. (As an aside, letting go of my old doctor and the hospital and the allergist was one of the hardest things ever. I met my doctor the first week I moved here.)

My new doctor is fine, though, and I like her, and with the HMO I pay half the premium and have more comprehensive coverage, so. Although when scheduling my mammogram, the center instructed me to bring a film of my last mammogram as a benchmark. Because I have those just hanging around my house. In fact, I put them on coffee mugs for Christmas gifts. What the hell?

When I told my doctor that my left foot continues to have pain issues (I was unable to run in last year's Chicago marathon because of it), she sent me to a specialist in the suburbs.

This is the major drawback to the new system. In my old system, I went to a big hospital complex downtown, where going from one specialist to another was a matter of a few floors or a half-block walk. Now, I had to rent a shared car and, Google Map laid out on the dashboard, make my paranoid way to the suburbs.

The foot doctor was great, though, and presented the first real diagnosis that made sense: my metatarsal had come loose from my plantar plate (bottom of my foot), and was going where it shouldn't. Then came the resident with the basin of warm water and the plaster to make a mold of my feet for orthotics. This should help. If not, there's surgery. I don't care; I just want my foot to be normal again, because the X-rays are not pretty. If the bones of the foot should be three-part harmony, mine are a bee-bop cacophony.

One good thing is that the doctor said running was not a problem. I have a good no-drop shoe with a wide toe box (Altras - excellent running shoes), and I've been starting up again. I can knock out three miles with only minor issues (mostly post-run swelling and tightness), so I'm going to try to build up enough that I can at least get some 5Ks under my belt. Dare I hope for another half-marathon this year?

Eastern Visit

I took a week off to visit Boston and catch up with family and friends. Despite taking my laptop I didn't write a word, and despite writing insightful and hilarious blog posts in my head, and despite being certain that I could just recall the many details, well, as it turns out, that's not true.

So, let's see what I can remember.

Attended my first ordination: an old theater friend was being made a deacon in the Episcopal church. The Episcopal church retains all of the cool things about Roman Catholicism (soaring, opulent architecture; stained glass, gothic pews, and that great Church Smell). Unfortunately, it also retains a long liturgy, and way too many anglo-centric, unsingable hymns (seriously: ALL FIVE verses?!?!)

For communion, they set up various stations in order to divvy up the church so that each ordinant could participate in serving communion. It was also a bonus that that sped things up a bit.

And there was indeed a gluten-free station.

My friend, "Dan," was a chalice bearer in a rear corner. I hid behind a tall guy as the line proceeded, and Dan saw me as I stepped forward to take a small piece of pita bread from his communion partner. I turned to him.

I grinned, delighted for him. Here was the guy who'd handcuffed me in the last scene of a cheesy murder-mystery spoof, standing in a white Jedi-like garb holding a communion cup.

"And what have we here?" I said.

Dan struck a Very Serious Pose, held out the chalice, and in his great stage voice said, "The blood of Christ!"

I took the chalice, and suddenly blanked. So I improvised.

Toasting him with the chalice, I said, "Awesome!"

"This is weird," said Dan as I took a sip.

"I know," I said, hugging him.

"Just too weird."

Sunday was a barbecue at my uncle's house, where any notions I might have had about eventually having normal family relationships went out the window. My pal Ev came along. They like her and besides, I like witnesses.  We both suspect my family thinks she's my girlfriend, which is odd, but I appreciate their support for my mistakenly-identified-as-lesbian lifestyle.

Met two old college friends for dinner, and we discussed our shared issues with menopause.

"I cry at everything," I said.

"Oh my gosh -- EVERYTHING" agreed one of my friends.

"Because it's all so serious and beautiful," I rejoined, beating my breast with my fist.

Know what's great? Hanging out with people who knew you when you were at your most creative, most open, most joyful.  Who remind you of who you are.

Took my sister to a movie and lunch for her birthday. She was excited to wear 3D glasses, and she enjoyed her first taste of Ethiopian food at a place I used to go in Cambridge. It was afternoon, so the only other person there was a Ukrainian woman who now lives "on a mountain in Vermont" ("away from the traffic and the noise and the shit"). She used to come to this restaurant all the time, and makes a point of stopping in when she's in town.

The owner smiled at me. "I haven't seen you in a long time," she said. I was touched that she remembered me. I explained that it was my sister's birthday and I wanted her to have some good food.

While we ate we chatted with the Ukrainian Vermonter, and the owner brought out some ice cream with a candle in it for my sister. I left her a nice tip on my card, which she never processed. How awesome is that?

The rest of the week was a flurry of visiting friends: staying at a very dear friend's house, seeing her family and climbing some small  mountains at the foot of the Whites; lunches and dinners and seeing the Squeezebox Slam in Somerville with more awesome people, and meeting strangers whose kids had no fear of being picked up and danced with to Cajun accordion music.

It was a good week. An excellent week. I wanted to want to move back, but I can't see it working. A friend in San Francisco put it well: "I outgrew Boston but it's still where the people who know me best live." I feel like the love there is assumed; nobody has to work at it.

But Ev is tired of the extremes of weather in Boston,  and I have to say I'm ready for a city that's closer to nature. Neither of us wants to start over in a new city alone.  As she says, there's always Portland, OR. We could be not-lesbians there.

Downtown Preacher Man

I miss the man in front of Old Navy.

He'd been a fixture there for so long -- an old black man in a dark suit and hat, portable speakers and a microphone -- that my best friend, who lived here several years before I did, remembers him.

He preached. There may have been some Bible in there, I don't know, but mostly it was common-sense stuff.

"God doesn't want you to smoke," said his amplified voice to the insensible crowds swirling past him one evening as I walked to the train after work.

I used to marvel at his tenacity, his sense of purpose. His stamina. How did he keep talking? How did he find new things to say without benefit of response?

Lately I realized I haven't seen him. Perhaps he took off for the winter; perhaps the cold was too much for his old frame. Maybe with the warming months and longer days he'll return. I imagine him having breakfast, packing his equipment on his little trolley, and heading downtown to do God's work, propelled by purpose.

I used to try to catch his eye to give him a smile or nod (preach it), but he was not one to be wooed, focused as he was on sending and not receiving, putting out the message to the exclusion of all else, even love.