21 Nov 2016

The View From Last Year.

by | posted in: Day In The Life | 3
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The page itself! Page/scan: Me.

 

On this date last year, I was sitting in this very room — but the room was full of boxes.

It was one year ago exactly that Claus and I drove from Washington to return me to my rightful place: Chicago. In this post from exactly one year ago today I’m trying to express my joy. I’m not a Buddhist, but it seemed to fit.

When I realized it was my one-year anniversary, I pulled out my journal from November 2015. I’m pretty joyful in there, too. In fact, below is an excerpt from the journal entry for this day last year. It’s not good writing. It’s just good to see a human be so sure of a decision and crow about being happy even when no one is looking.

Difficult to describe the feeling I have, being home. It’s an understatement to say that and ‘difficult to describe’ and ‘an understatement’ are both lame collections of words, too; poor, so poor. Never have I felt so wrapped in warmth. It’s a true homecoming.

The view from Wabash. My own park and my statue of General Logan just there, just east; the building’s white glazed brick entrance, oh, the fluttering, glittering joy I feel, as though I could fly, leave the ground, float up to see it all even more.

Buddha was enlightened: He saw everything exactly as it was, with no illusions, only presence. This is how I felt yesterday morning and this morning, gazing uptown from 8th and Wabash, holding my black coffee. The sun. The el. That’s my corner. The Hilton. Columbia. Michigan Avenue, I’m coming, baby. I’m coming back to touch sole to pavement and we will make like we never left.

Except that I did. And I learned one new thing. Just one. One. And that is that I love you more — so much more — than I ever even realized. And I knew I loved you a lot. But now it’s marriage.

So much has happened in the past year. Quilts made, decisions made, pain and love. And the moment I came home I knew I wanted to get new carpet.

Yippee! It finally happened! These things take time!

One year later, Chicago, we’re stronger than ever. Happy Anniversary!

14 Jun 2016

True Confessions of a Real Estate Dropout.

by | posted in: Chicago, Day In The Life | 2
Unique advertisement for real estate "near Puerto Rico" c. 1973. Photo: Wikipedia.
Unique advertisement for real estate “near Puerto Rico” c. 1973. Photo: Wikipedia.

True confession: I put my condo up for sale.I didn’t tell you. But it’s not for sale anymore.

When I came back in November, Chicago felt like a soft, fluffy cloud that wasn’t made out of water vapor but a material that made it soft and fluffy. I floated down to my Chicago cloud and bounced once, twice, three times, and then fell asleep dreaming of Nelson Algren and Lou Malnati’s pizza. Chicago was perfect in every way and I knew in my bones I was right to come home. But my condo felt strange.

Oh, it was clean after my renters. We talked about this. The building management was the same. Most of my neighbors and doormen guys were intact. No, it was something else. Was the ceiling lower in my unit? Was the sink I picked for the bathroom just a total misfire? The windows weren’t big enough. The carpet needed to be redone, or maybe hardwood floors? All the cosmetic issues led to deeper ones. The truth is, I have experienced pure agony in this space of both the physical and relational kind. Hospital, heartbreak; it’s all the same when it’s at Level 10, it’s just a question of whether you need a surgeon or Tom Waits. Even the good stuff that happened here felt hard to meet with again, e.g., I dreamed up Quilty here and by the time I came back, the girl was gone.

And so I listed it a few months ago. I thought, “New space, new life, reset.” I mean, at this point, I sorta miss moving. (That is a joke.)

It’s an amazing thing to live in a condo that is for sale. The best part is that I’ve kept the place immaculate; it has needed to be ready for a showing at any moment so everything is put away and shiny. While Claus was here I had a cleaning buddy and I miss that; good heavenly days could that man clean a kitchen! My adorable, capable realtor has been chipper, energetic, and optimistic from the start, but has been more interest than there have been offers. There are reasons. There are no dogs allowed in my building and that’s a drawback; the monthly assessments are crazy high (vintage building, doormen, amenities, new elevators, etc.); the remodeled kitchen is stunning but narrow, stuff like that. Everyone who has come into my home freaks out and loves it: but coming over for a dinner party, a sewing group, or a nightcap does not involve mortgage insurance. Real estate is a big deal and I’ve curated this place for one specific person: me.

As the months went by and I wasn’t getting what I was after, two things happened: 1) I continued to settle in; and 2) I looked around. There’s a saying that getting over a breakup takes half as long as the relationship lasted. That sounds like some 8th-grade girl math to me but I am an 8th-grade girl in many ways, so I like it. Maybe it’s true for moving back into a home. I was gone eighteen months; maybe it’s taking nine to readjust. It’s been about eight so far.

It hit me the other day that I don’t need to leave this place, that I don’t even want to. I just need some paint. I need to get that painting framed, finally. I might just go find a new couch, although spending anything over $150 is unwise — hello, grad school! — and $150 won’t buy you a couch you actually want to sit on. But I can do a lot with very little; I did it in D.C. not so very long ago. (In fact, I did it twice.)

Condo, I’m sorry. I love you. What was I thinking? You’re my buddy. Let’s get messy this summer. Let’s paint and rearrange stuff and find vintage gems. Let’s date each other. I’ll buy flowers for you and you let me sleep over.

 

5 Jan 2014

On White Stuff.

by | posted in: Chicago, Day In The Life, Quilting, Tips | 5
Credit: Chicago Tribune archive photo.
A shot of the aftermath of the Chicago snowstorm of ’67.  They got 23 inches in 35 hours. (c) Chicago Tribune archive photo.

I live downtown on the sixteenth floor of a mid-rise building. I have a south-facing wall and that wall has five windows: two of them are in my bedroom, the other three line up in the main room. I’m not surrounded by skyscrapers, thankfully, so from my perch, I can see Chicago for miles. Sometimes, I’ll bet you I can see clear to Indiana, all the way to those fruited plains. I don’t see the actual sun rise (being that I’m looking south and all) but of course I get the slowly strengthening light. I wake up quite early to catch this; it’s my favorite time of day. I make my tea, read one of the three things I have going, and write in my journal. I take from 90 minutes to two hours to do this every day, come rain, shine, or — wait for it — snow.

It’s been sifting down for hours. Every so often the white stops to catch its breath and then starts up again, and it was the same pattern a few days ago. It’s winter in the midwest.

The town I love is quiet. I look down on the street and no one is out. I look across the tops of the buildings and see white billows of steam from the heating systems working in overdrive because it’s not just snowing here: it’s cold. We’ll have temperatures back in the minuses the next few days and when it’s this bad, I think about the homeless people who will die this winter. Macabre, sure. Also true. Sometimes it’s hard to know what to do in the world.

To the couch. To the books. It’s Sunday and it’s a blizzard. I may have to venture down to the 7-Eleven for milk and chocolate later, but that’s later. For now, it’s time to hunker down and enjoy one of the many quilts I have made. I have quite a selection and I do believe they were made for this.

I’ll pick my favorite of all. It’s called “Whisper,” and it’s white.