Settling into Normal

Now that I've been here for all of six weeks, I can say it feels longer, but in a good way.

My uncle and I have settled into a happy co-existence, and I think we both like the company. We watch Jeopardy! together and yell at the screen; he buys vegetarian food for me when he sees something interesting, bless his heart. Like many people, he buys things with no regard for the environmental effect of packaging. He has, however, gotten into recycling now that I've implemented it in the household. We give each other space and I try to be helpful without being pushy.

He's cool. I like living here. I like the space, the quiet, the wild turkeys in the yard who also freak me out a bit by coldly observing me while I dump dirty rabbit litter into my makeshift compost heap. My uncle likes the cats. He makes no judgments on the worm composter in the cellar. He avoids burning his beloved Yankee Candles because they aggravate my asthma. He makes unbelievable salads. 

The cats love it here for the same reason I do. The rabbits are more confined, but they have a large area to hang out in, and Sparrow is right now sprawled luxuriously on her side on their rug, something she never did back in the small apartment. 

We're all doing well.

I'm in what appears to be the last stages of a job interview -- two companies seem to want me, which is good. I prefer the one in the 'burbs, a 20-minute drive from the house, where I'd support an in-house legal team of four nice guys. the company is large, profitable, philanthropic, and privately owned.

The other company is in town (in the building incidentally, whose facade was used in Boston Legal as the law firm. Alas, no William Shatner roaming the halls while I was there). It's a publicly-traded property-management company. I'd be doing a 3-month temp gig for a maternity-leave coverage, but during the interview they asked whether I'd be interested in permanent. They need to know by Monday, but I'm their first choice, and they know I'm waiting to hear about the other job, so I'm in the position of being in a hurry to see who loves me most. that office would be more hassle to get to and would involve more commuter expense, but it's in a really pretty part of town, so I could handle it.

I'm happy at the prospect of an income, but will miss my relative freedom. I did some freelance admin for a friend's sister for three weeks, but she was a bit bipolar. More about that later; I've been having trouble with my right arm, and typing hurts. But right now, things are good. I'm doing well.

The Move - On the Road and Arrival

Move over, settling in, so I thought I'd post about the interim since my last post over a few entries, to make the story more acceptable.

Best Friend SP came down from Canada and spent the night at a neighbor's. Next day, he helped me load the truck, and I can truly say he saved me. the other two friends who were joining us on the road were, as SP put it, "absolutely fucking useless."  So it was basically he and I. When one of the Duo complained about how heavy things were (she couldn't carry an empty drawer), I reminded her that I had at one point packed and moved every singe box by myself around the apartment as I prepared to go.

Car rented for the animals? I'd wanted to have access the night before so that I could figure out animal placement, but that didn't happen. Next day they arrived with the car and a back seat full of luggage. JesusMaryandJoseph. Finally got the animals situated, and we set out.

Trip went smoothly save for the occasional call from the other car asking why we slowed down, what was the matter, etc. And at each rest stop I got a running commentary on my driving (which is fine), and my choice of parking space. SP and I were taking bets on the quality and number of comments.

Arrival at my home town, and my uncle's house. Uncle had decided that the room I'd originally asked for the rabbits wouldn't work as it was too central and was used a lot for entertaining. Fair enough, but the issue: the rest of the house is carpeted in off-white wall-to-all. Decided to put the rabbit hutch on my wool area rug on top of the carpet in my bedroom. Had dinner, then to bed. The next day sent the girls exploring while SP and I unpacked the truck. My mother and father arrived.

"I thought you were only bringing a bed!" my mother said.

"What?"

"I thought you were bringing only a bed!"

And it begins.

"I don't know why you would think that," I said.

A nice surprise: my dad had gotten his 1993 Pontiac Acclaim fixed up for me to use. This is a huge deal, and the first time either parent has done anything so generous without being asked. It may be that they know I need it to get a job, but it's still a godsend.  The car is red inside and out, with plush interior, a sort of AARP pimpmobile. After a week here, I know that I'd have lost my ever-loving mind without it.

My uncle is being great. He loves my outgoing cat, and is trying his best to get the other two to warm up to him. I think he likes the company.

I'd thought that having two people in a 4-br house would mean plenty of room, but it turns out my uncle is that type of modern-day hoarder who keeps a clean house, but whose every inch of closet and basement space is crammed full of duplicates of things he never uses. I cleared out the basement for my things and got the dehumidifier to work, this removing the Private Swamp Effect, and organized some other things. I think he feels a little motivated. I'm trying to be helpful without making him feel invaded.

He keeps the house very dark -- in my old place, lights tended to be on, partly because the place was tiny, partly because I was always moving around the place. Here, he keeps no lights on save a nightlight -- even in the TV room he watches it in the dark. I take refuge in my room, which I keep lighted and where I keep a TV with a new antenna. I'd watch TV with my uncle, but he tends towards things like televised poker matches and shows where people with stupid amounts of money flip mansions.

The house is in the suburbs, one of these streets that dead-ends into a wooded area; wild turkeys wander into the yard, and on a walk in the woods the other day I startled a herd of deer. When books talk about deer "crashing" through the brush, they aren't kidding. I took to singing Desperado" as I walked to alert them of my presence and prevent mutual terror.

Right now I'm feeling claustrophobic and isolated, but keeping busy. Have had an interview with a staffing agency and, thanks to a friend, have connected with a woman who runs a business and who is looking for someone. Right now I'm temping, with possibility for permanent. We'll see. Had first day today, and will go back tomorrow and Thursday.

I knew this would be an adjustment, and I knew it would be a challenge, even though I fully expect it to be temporary.  And it is a challenge. It's hard being in someone else's house, being mindful of the dishes and not leaving things lying about. It's difficult not being able to walk to a single thing. I do miss my little Chicago apartment, full of my things. My bathtub. My fridge. A place full of only me and my pets and my things. I miss walking to the local cafe and train, seeing familiar faces, riding my bike to the Whole Foods. I've been looking online and it looks like I may be able to find a place in a town that would work for me: just outside Boston, on pub trans, plenty of street life. The ability to be around people. Once I get a job.

Packing

I leave Chicago this Saturday. This week, people whom I've had to chase down want to grab a drink, get dinner, see a movie. Can we do this? Can we get together? Can we? Can we? Know what not ONE person has asked?

"Can I help?"

So ready to be out of here.

Road Tripping and Falling

My friend, "Clara,"suggested she drive the vehicle I was renting to transport the animals back East.

"It will be fun; I love road trips!" she said.

"Look, this is a long slog on an interstate. I'm not sure you want to do that, and I'm not sure you'll have company." My best friend and I were riding in the truck; I was driving, and he's allergic to pets.

"It will be cool. Maybe I can get Jodi to come along and we can drive back, too."

"Hey, that's your call, but that would be a really big favor, and I'd pay for the vehicle."

Ok, fine.

When it looked like she'd be riding alone and not with my friend's BF, she said, "I'll need a detailed map so I'll know where we're going."

"The entire trip is I-90, from Chicago to Boston. I will print you out a map to the hotel in Rochester, and to my uncle's place in MA, but we'll be near each other the entire time."

"How will we communicate?"

"We have cellphones."

"Mine doesn't always have good coverage."

"Um...there's not a lot I can do about that, is there?"

"Well, I won't know where I'll be, and.."

"It's INTERSTATE 90. OK, I'll buy a set of flashlights, and if either of us needs to stop at a rest area, they can flash the other."

A week ago I mentioned I'd bought a covered bed for one of the cats to hide in.

"He'll like it for the trip," I said.

"He's not going to be in a carrier?"

"He can't be in a carrier for two days."

"How is he going to be contained?"

"Well, he'll be behind a barrier in the vehicle, but he won't be in a crate. He can't be with the other cats because he becomes a pest, and there won't be room for two cat crates big enough for a litter box, and the rabbit crate. I've done this before. Several times. It will be fine. All cats want to do in  a car is lay low."

"I just don't want him crawling on my lap when I'm driving; I won't be driving somewhere familiar."

Again, the entirety of the trip will be along Interstate 90. No back roads, no blue highways.

"He won't be able to get in your lap. He'll be behind a barrier. I also have a harness and leash I can use as a backup. You won't be loading or unloading any of the animals.  It will be fine, trust me."

I could tell she was becoming neurotic, so I got home and called Jodi, who's a freelance reporter.

"If the issue is money, I will give you money to ride with Clara. She's doing the Clara Thing and getting neurotic on me, and it's too close to the move to change plans."

Jodi assured me she was going, and also confirmed she'd keep Clara on earth.

I won't miss any of this.

The End is Near

One more week left of work. Three more weeks left in Chicago. I know how I feel about it; what I'm not prepared for is how I'll feel about it later, which is something I'll just have to find out.

Katerina's, a bar I visited early in Chicago for a Big Lebowski showing, closed last month: Katerina is retiring.

Last Sunday I stopped in a pet-supply place that I use as emergency-hay supply when I misjudge how much I have left (Joe's Parkview Pet Supply is closed Sundays). I learned that it would be closing, since the owner and her dog had both passed away a few months ago.

A few days later I went to Joe's store and he took me aside to tell me he was closing his shop at the end of the year, as online-sales sites were killing him. His prices are the best you'll find anywhere, but he can't compete with online sites. It was all I could do not to cry.

The Landmark in Andersonville is closing -- The oner can't afford to keep the shop; rents are too high.

Icosium Cafe closed.

Life is about change, don't I know that lesson, but the loss of dear things is crushing.  I fear we are looking at a destruction of natural resources and society that is unprecedented. Those of us who cherish interpersonal connections and who don't live life through a digital screen are finding it harder and harder to maintain stability and familiarity. It may seem hypocritical to mourn the loss of things I'm moving away from, but their passing signals for me a larger loss, a greater instability.

For my part, I've got a tenant for my place, a seemingly nice young woman; and I'm painting my green walls to a neutral shade, which I have to say looks pretty elegant. The U-Haul is reserved, my best friend is coming down from Canada to help me, and two friends are driving a vehicle with the animals inside.  The mid-point hotel is reserved, the utilities are scheduled for cutoff, I've sold or given away most of my furniture and divested myself of things I no longer wear, use, or need. Letting go has been easier than I thought. Part of it is recognizing that the shit you own owns you (thanks, Fight Club), and part of it is realizing that you can't take it with you, and it might was well go to another home that will appreciate it. I like to think of my vet friend having friends over for dinner and saying, "I got this table from my friend JC. We bonded over her rabbits."

Last week I saw Hank Williams: Lost Highway with a friend who belongs to the theater putting it on, and it was of course phenomenal, and I reflected on the amazing things I've been so lucky to have experienced, how random and wonderful it has been. I met this friend while waiting for an open seat at a show, and striking up a conversation. I met another friend because I took a crochet (!) class. For a girl who was pathologically self-conscious through her twenties, I feel blessed to have gotten to this place, and I'll always be grateful that I took this chance nine years ago and put myself out there. It's time to go, but it won't be a clean break, and I'm glad I'll retain a connection to Chicago. it will be fun to come back for pure recreation, to enjoy the good without the jobs and the commute and the mundane drudgery.

In the meantime, there is always more stuff to do. So it's time to finish my iced tea here at Sol Cafe, and bike back to the apartment and the critters and the boxes.

Curious George and Reincarnation

The twins' father called the other week: they needed a sitter for that evening. My neighbor would pick them up from school and then hand them off to me since she had a meeting to attend for our condo.

I biked home, stopping to get supper supplies, which included taking into account my veganism, my desire for a low-gluten meal, and the girl's nut allergies. Oh, and the palates of six-year-olds. The last didn't worry me much; when I used to nanny them as babies, they had more than their share of hummus and veggie meatballs, and would toss aside anything for steamed broccoli.

At home I met my neighbor, and the kids raced up the stairs for hugs and kisses. I made dinner for us all, and it was a success.

As we sat at my dining table, the girl commented on one of my paintings hanging on the wall. It's very large, and depicts a series of houses floating in line through the sky. I explained that it was part of my search for the meaning of home, that I'd moved around a lot, and I felt that home was more than just a physical place; it was the people you met and the experiences you built, and the sense of yourself that you carry inside you.

"But you're not moving any more," she said.

I heard my neighbor groan softly. And i felt my stomach drop. Shit. how did I let this happen? My plan to tell the kids about my departure was not supposed to go like this. There was supposed to be a lead up, a little preparation, not this sudden left-turn.

But I've never lied to them, and I promised myself I never would.

"Well, actually, I am going to be moving. I'm going to go to be closer to my family, who live in Massachusetts."

"But not for forever, right?"

SHIT.

"Well, yes, I'll be moving for good, but I'll be coming back to visit you, and we'll see Jim's play together in the spring. And you'll see me before I leave."

During this the boy had gone from chowing down on his food to freezing with his fork in mid-air and staring at me. Huge eyes. Enormous eyes. I knew what I was doing: I was dropping a bomb, and I knew it was cruel, had hated it when it had been done to me as a child, but the option was to tell them that no, I wasn't moving, and then move. Betray a trust and go back on my word. None of this was going the way I'd planned. I'd planned it in my head a dozen times, and in not one of those times did it go down this way. In my fantasies, as the kids grow older they talk about all the fun times we had together, not the time I emotionally sucker-punched them during dinner.

"I'll still come back and see you -- you're my favorite kids, remember?" Silent nods.

I gave them dessert and the boy stayed to play with a neighbor's kids while the girl decided to accompany me to the drugstore. I put a blanket in my Radio Flyer and she reclined like a queen with her Rice Dream bar while we trekked the several blocks to the drugstore. While in line, she asked me about the false eyelashes on display, and I explained what they were for as her face took on more of a WTF?" expression.  So we talked about makeup.

"Makeup can be fun when you want to dress up, like when you put on fancy clothes or wear a necklace or put a bow in your hair, or paint your toenails pink," I said. "But there are women who think that they have to put on makeup in order to be pretty, and that's not healthy. Everyone is beautiful, and we should love ourselves the way we are."

Her mother has very short hair that is flecked with gray, and wears no makeup in general. I'm the same. "The women in my family don't really wear makeup," I said, "So it's never been something that I thought a lot about or used very much. I'm too used to my own face to want to change it."

She agreed and said that it could be fun ("sometimes I use lip gloss"), but you should indeed be happy with who you are.

We stopped by the community garden on the way back and she helped me water my plants. Naturally, I got in an explanation of how in some poor countries girls her age had to haul water for miles, as heavy as it was. I didn't lay it on thick, though, as I don't want to turn her into someone who feels more guilty than grateful.  We had some sweet fresh-picked cherry tomatoes, smelled some oregano, then headed back. We talked about what happens after you die (she brought it up), and I mentioned my thoughts on reincarnation (I lean toward it), and the girl said, "but then you never get to heaven."

"Well, the idea is that you keep coming back to learn all the things you need to learn in order to become a wise soul, and then you go to heaven."

"That makes sense."  Reminder: she's SIX.

Back at my place, I told them that I had some things that I wanted them to have, since I was moving and wanted to find good homes for them. (By now, any mention of my move prompted the boy to drop his blanket, put his hands over his ears, and stare silently at me, recalling a line from an Elvis Costello song: "It's the damage that we do we never know.")

When he realized he was going to be given something, the hands came down and he relaxed. I brought them into my bedroom and showed them an enormous stuffed Curious George.

"My mommy got this for me when i was twelve. I think he needs to be around some little kids. Do you think you can take very good care of him?" The boy was certain he could.

Next were two Fisher Price dolls. "I got these when I was your age. Do you think you can give them a good home?" The girl was sure she could.

I added a Toy Story stuffed alien to the mix  and we headed out, meeting my neighbor, who was done with her meeting.

We piled the toys onto the Radio Flyer and the kids made sure everyone was comfortable and not falling out. As we proceeded, I choked up. Something about parting from these things that had been part of my landscape, purchased for me from people who would one day be gone, and the imminent departure from the kids, and the progression of life, and a view of mortality and life as loss overtook me. I pulled it together, because I didn't want to disturb the kids.

At their house, the boy put Curious George on his bed and introduced him to his stuffed dog, and opined on the friendship that would develop between them. The girl was already putting barrettes in the dolls' hair. We discussed the folly of cutting doll hair, and I extracted a promise that she never would. I'm not sure she'll remember, but they're hers now.

The new additions seemed to put aside my news of departure, and we played for a bit before my neighbor announced bath time, and I had to head home. Hugs and kisses and naked children, and I was on my way. On the walk home, the dark night hid my tears.

My Misogynistic Lady

My neighbor wanted to celebrate her 50th birthday at Ravinia listening to show tunes by Lerner and Loewe at an afternoon performance. Not my ideal, but what the 50th birthday girl wants, she by god should get. About 29 people altogether were scheduled to converge on the manicured lawns of Ravinia in Highland Park, with food.

I brought a beach chair, which sits low to the ground, and we convoyed in my neighbor's vehicle. Once there I socialized, ate way too much crap and, when the program began, sat back in my chair and fell fast asleep.

I awoke shortly before intermission, and soon the twins arrived with their parents. I helped the girl (we'll call her Emma) check out the food for what she could eat (nut allergy), and she and her brother played with the other kids there.

A large blanket had been spread out, and one of the other little girls had taken The Boy's dinosaurs and was treating them somewhat roughly. Emma saw this, and I watched her face set in consternation. She sat down in front of the other girl.

"Please don't do that," she said politely. "Those are my brother's, and he likes to have them treated nicely."

The other girl just stared at her. Emma gently took the dinosaurs out of her hands and said, "Would you like me to tell you their names?"

"I know their names," the other girl said flatly.

I watched something flicker behind Emma's eyes, and saw a very subtle change in the set of her mouth that said, "So that's how you want to play it."

"So tell me their names," she said very politely, staring at the other girl. The other girl just stared back.

"I'm waiting."

I was dying but I pretended to be absorbed in something else.

Later, I took Emma for a walk over to the amphitheater where the music was being performed, We stood at the railing watching the singers. I explained that these were show tunes, and then I explained what that was, and that the song we were listening to was from a show called "My Fair Lady," and then I began to explain the plot.

And as I began, I realized it's a horrible story. So I made it about having good manners, and veered off to another topic.

Back with the group, I mentioned my dilemma to Emma's mom.

"It's a terrible premise," I said. "Two rich guys make a wager on a poor unsophisticated girl because they're better than she is. Gah."

"Oh, it's horrible," she agreed. "And then when she's made over in his ideal image, he falls in love with her and that's supposed to be a good thing."

"It was all I could do not to say to Emma, 'Don't take any crap. Don't let anyone tell you how to dress or how to act, or how to wear your hair.'"

One of the other women later mentioned something about "ladylike behavior," and I wanted to clap my hands over Emma's ears. She loves to turn cartwheels, and run, and roll on the grass, and get filthy. She loves to wear frilly dresses and synthetic flower garlands, and have her toes painted with her mom at the pedicure shop. She does whatever she likes to do without any concern for whether she should, and if you fuck with her brother's dinosaurs, she will take you down.

I want her to be this way forever.