dark ride

Deep breath. It's a Friday before a long holiday weekend. I will not be in the office on Monday because we are closed, so my next post will not be until Tuesday. Three whole days off in a row. Lervely.

I have all sorts of plans over the next three days. I am going to see a show tonight, and then tomorrow it is supposed to be guh-horgous---in the 70's and sunny---FINALLY. So, I will take a nice long walk and do errands, and then I think I am going to see the Indiana Jones movie. Then Sunday I am going to a BBQ at a friend's house. Monday I will force myself to finish sorting and packing any clothing and closet items that I will not absolutely need in the next three weeks or so. Then I am meeting friends for a drink.

I figure the more time I spend outside my apartment at this point the better I will feel. It is far too cramped in there now that the ground is no longer covered with snow and ice. If I am in there for too long I start to go a little crazy. All that cardboard...

Last night I got on the bus to head home after work and I swear it was the bus ride to the gates of hell. Normally my bus routes are not all that nutty---they are usually rather sedate, in fact. I tend to see the same twenty or thirty passengers with some regularity, and it's rare to encounter anyone truly unstable or disturbing.

But last night it was as though the hell hounds were on the rampage, chasing all sorts of unfortunate souls onto the city bus before me. And when I unwittingly boarded, I was thrust into the presence of several people who had one foot in the nether-world. Here are the characters I encountered, all in under fifteen minutes time:

Army fatigue-wearing nose-bleed man--- This guy sat slumped over in his seat with some sort of filthy rag held to his face. When he pulled it away I could see it was covered in blood. Horrified, I was just about to lean over to him to see if he needed medical help and/or alert the bus driver that there was a bleeding man aboard when a woman leaned over instead and said, "I am a registered nurse. Do you need help, sir?" The man shot her an indignant look and screamed "GET AWAY FROM ME YOU WHORE." Nobody spoke to the man for the rest of the time I was on that bus, and thankfully he bled in silence.

Sobbing cell-phone woman--- This woman boarded the bus a few stops after me, and I noticed her because she was wearing a bright pink trench coat which I rather admired. I was noticing the stitching on the lapels when I also noticed that she was holding a cell phone to her ear with white-knuckled intensity and sobbing softly to herself. I then saw that tears were running down her cheeks and her nose was red, as though she'd been crying for some time. She took a seat a couple of rows in front of me and proceeded to sob into the phone until she got off at Waveland. I never heard her say one word into that phone---just sobs.

Glitter man--- This guy was behind me at first, and I didn't notice him until I reached to get my Ipod out of my bag (in an attempt to not listen in on sobbing woman). He was wearing polo shirt made of a lightweight mesh material and carrying a back pack which was literally encrusted with all sorts of pins and buttons. These pins said everything from "NO NUKES!" to "It Takes A Village" to "Go Cubs!" But the most amazing thing about this dude was the glitter. He had multi-color glitter all over his face, neck and arms. I am guessing it was all over his body, but those were the only parts I could see. I must admit I was impressed with the glitter application job, and wondered if it would clog his pipes when he showered it off.

Scab man--- This man was not nearly as eye-catching as Glitter man, but was instead a sad sight to behold as he had a gargantuan scab running down the entire left side of his body. He was wearing running shorts and a tee shirt, so it was easy to see the scab's enormity. From the top of his sock up to his sleeve was scab. It looked like he'd literally been dragged behind a cart a couple weeks before and was now healing nicely. Thankfully he did not appear to be in any pain, was not bleeding, and was not sobbing. Scab man seemed to be almost normal but for that god-awful scar. Poor dude.

Cursing angry teen girls--- After sobbing woman got off, there was a couple of stops where I began to think the bus was not so whacked out as I'd originally thought. (I believe this is called "denial," wherein your brain attempts to justify any horrid condition you are currently enduring.) Then my world was shattered as three yelling sailor-mouthed girls got on. They could not have been older than fifteen, and looked like they were either related or had all been friends for so long that they started to look alike. The all wore tight low-rise jeans, hoodies, and had their hair pulled tightly back in pony tails. They all wore huge gold-plated earrings and enough lip gloss to lubricate several automobiles. But mostly they were just LOUD and ANGRY. From the moment they boarded the bus I don't think they said more than three words in a row that did not include an f-bomb or some other horrifically offensive swear word. I found myself staring at them in shock (as they never did take a seat, but instead hung onto the poles and yelled menacingly at each other over people's heads.) They were still on board when I got off, and it was a total relief to be away from them, let me tell you.

People, that bus should have had a big sign on the side that read:

"ABANDON ALL HOPE, ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE."

Had I seen that, I would have waited for the next bus. In that extra time could have detoured over to Walgreens to buy some glitter---I am thinking that might be a good look for the holiday weekend, especially given the fact that I couldn't care less about the health of my apartment's plumbing.

Have a lovely weekend, every one. Until Tuesday------

hunting and gathering

I am dreading the task of balancing my checkbook. I don't think there will be any actual money left to write in the balance column once I do. Always depressing. Lately money runs through my wallet as though the wallet is made of a cloud.

Doing a fun task at work today though---the owner asked me to do research and find any and all blogs that mention our company or any of our building projects. This is way more fun than Excel spread sheets and accounts receivable. I spent the day so far barrelling through search engines of all sorts and writing down what I find so I can summarize it in a nicely organized memo later.

Tonight is the first night this week I have no place to get to after work. I can just go home as the mood takes me. I was gong to had to the movies, but I figure I better save what little money I have left. Sad, but true. So, I am just going to go to the drug store and buy a couple things I really need (a girl cannot deprive herself of Q-tips and toilet paper, after all), and then I am gonna head home. What a novel idea. Home.

Although as I have mentioned it barely feels like home anymore. Even less so now, as I can finally feel the separation happening. It's subtle, but it has started. Perhaps because I had an official phone conversation with my landlord last night wherein I negotiated with him to only pay rent for half of June as I am almost certain I will be closing and moving by the middle of that month.

We discussed it for a while, and I finally got my wish by conceding that I will not take any interest when he refunds my security deposit. It will come to about $90.00 that I gave up, but I figure it's better than paying full rent and getting that extra $90.00 after the fact. This deal will save me over $300.00 on June 1st when I cut my last rent check. Fortunately I think he liked me as a tenant, so this aspect of my housing transition worked out well. Now if I actually move by June 15th we'll be all set.

My shoulders are stiff. I need a sit in a hot tub, or a good stretching, or a massage by a nimble fingered man. As I cannot afford a hot tub and my apartment is too cramped to really stretch effectively, I plan on finding a man on the way home. I figure I am on a roll with bending people to my will, so I may as well go for it.

Oh, and I ate that lovely filet mignon last night. It was delectable. I had some nice broccoli with it too. And I am still feeling full today, as I imagine that beef is still digesting. But it was worth it.

I found a cool wooden thing on the way home in an alley. I have no idea what it's for---it was clearly made by someone for some specific purpose. It's solid wood, stained a nice rich wood stain, and sort of the size and shape of one of those old fashioned telephone stands---the kind you set the phone on the top and put the phone book or an answering machine underneath on a special enclosed shelf area. It's in perfect condition, and even has little felt doo-hickees on the bottom so you don't scratch whatever surface it sits on.

I carried it home and figured I'd keep it---at least for a while. I don't think I would have found it if it was not relevant somehow. Clearly it will have a purpose. When I find out what it is I will let ya know. Distract yourselves until that happens.

a bite outa life

I just had a blueberry banana yogurt smoothie for lunch. No time for food that I need to chew. And I must say that the last two days I am craving red meat. This rarely happens, but when it does I feel I truly NEED the meat. Even crappy hamburgers start to look good.

But I will not give in to that. I will hold out for a nice fillet. I have one in my freezer, and will grill it tonight on my little contact grill that drains most of the fat away. Mmmmm. All meaty and succulent. I can feel my iron level rising already.

Today has been loopy at work---tons of little disconnected and unrelated tasks that swirl around me like fog. At least the sun actually came out today, which is a pretty novel idea for Chicago lately. Generally the sun has been showing itself for approximately thirty seconds at a time about twice a week if we're lucky. This has been a crappy spring if you ask me, right on the tail of a crappier winter.

OK--- I will now tell you the newest info I have regarding the condo development. I found out last Friday that one of the reps, "John," in the St Louis sales office of my day job used to work for the development company that is building my condo. How brilliant is that?! I called him right up on company time and asked him about his old employer's track record, their customer service and response time patterns, and their ability to ultimately deliver a satisfactory product on time.

He laughed heartily at my questions and knew my condo sales rep very well. He told me that they rarely were on schedule with construction and so rarely on time with delivery to buyers. And then he dropped the bombshell: the company has declared bankruptcy and will be closing their doors and starting up business under a new name right after my building is completely closed. He said last year when he quit he could sense that was coming, and that was the reason for his departure. He also told me that my sales rep was searching for a new job as we spoke.

Iiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnnnnnnttttttteeeeeeeerrrrrrrrrrrrreeeeesssssstttiiiinnnnnnnnggggggg, no?

I thought so, and I knew immediately that I could use this insider, not-yet-announced-to-the-public information to my advantage. And I did.

I shot a quick email to my sales rep "Jane" and wrote that "John" (and I included his last name for clarity's sake) said hello, and that I was surprised to learn that he used to be her sales manager and hopes she's doing well on the job search. I did not let on that I knew why she was job hunting, only that I knew enough to know more than she thought I knew. And ya know what? For the first time in almost two months, she wrote me back. Within minutes, I may add.

She told me---and I quote---

"Your closing will be very soon. We are starting the closings in the building today (which was yesterday) and your floor will be next. We also just need to factor in the 10 days the city needs to process your paperwork for their program. But it will not be long now---either the very end of May or the very beginning of June. Talk to you soon and hope you are well, Jane."

I swear that's the most communication I have had from her since I signed the buyer's contract last August. Sad that it takes some sort of veiled insinuation as to one's struggle and or one's personal/professional secrets to make any headway in a business transaction. But I am sick of this limbo crap and am not afraid to use that sort of thing if necessary, although it's not my general nature to do so. Leaves a sour taste in my mouth, but it's a sacrifice I am willing to make.

I have a long weekend coming up, as next Monday is Memorial Day and my day job is closed. I have several social things on my calendar, but don't be thinking I will not continue to sort and pack and organize during that time. Just in case my sales rep is not lying to me (again), I want to be ready. Nobody's gonna catch me off guard. And if they do I hope it's in a good way. You know, like dropping a big wad of cash into my bag or handing me a Tony award or paying off my mortgage the day after I move in.

Clearly that yogurt smoothie is causing my brain synapses to fire off in nonsensical patterns. That steak cannot be eaten soon enough, I tell ya.

purple haze

Every year around this time, my street smells like a million lilacs. All up and down are houses with a lilac bush or two in the yard---some of them growing very close to the sidewalk. And as I walk the street at least twice a day, I get to enjoy the wafting perfume of thousands of fresh lilac blooms. It's quite lovely. And the various shades of purple are nice too, in a "you don't often see that color in nature" type of way.

But here is something I discovered: I like the smell of lilacs better outdoors than indoors. Not only that, but the smell of lilacs indoors gives me a headache and makes me think of chemical spills. At least the lilacs I brought into my house, anyway.

In an attempt to make my box-filled, cramped, sightly stuffy apartment feel more spring-like and fresh, I brought in a small bouquet of freshly picked lilacs. There is a bush (which actually looks more like a tree) in the back yard, and it's all but ignored by my landlord, whose view of nature seems to be "don't fuss with it unless it trips people or impairs your view." (Hence his tendency to mow the lawn a total of four times all summer long. If anyone needs hay for their farm animals, let me know.)

Anyway, a couple nights ago I went out back with a pair of scissors I have been using to cut packing tape for my box piles, and I trimmed off a few stellar lilac blooms. They were ripe for the picking: lush, tender, filled with color and aroma, and not quite ready to go to seed. As I snipped the stems I was drunk on their perfume, and I seemed to float away into a fantasy land where everything felt like the floral counted cross-stitch designs like my mother used to make---aesthetically pleasing, appealingly balanced, and comforting in a "Grandmother's apple pie" kind of way.

I carried my treasure into the house and put them in water right away. Never mind that all my vases and all my glasses made of actual glass are packed. (I have a coffee mug left out, but I need that for, well, coffee.) I found a plastic cup I'd been using to store the old toothbrush I use to clean jewelry with under the bathroom sink. I rinsed it out and carefully arranged the lilac blooms. Then I dried off the bottom of the plastic cup and placed it on a box in the center of the apartment for maximum aromatic effect. I made sure to pick a stack of sturdy boxes that I would not bump.

I admired my handiwork and for the first time in weeks felt good about my residence. I felt relaxed and settled and pampered. I have always viewed fresh flowers as a luxury item bordering on wastefulness because a part of me believes that flowers are best admired in nature, but whenever I have them in my home a little secret part of me truly revels in it. I think mostly because they are gonna die soon and the pleasure is so short lived. (See? Even my enjoyment of flowers is morbid. Sigh.)

Anyway, I went about my business and later that night as I headed to bed I was amazed at how powerful the lilac scent was. I could even smell it in the bedroom under the covers. Cool, right?

Uh, no. The next morning I woke up with a headache that felt like my skull had been placed in a vise and tightened until my ears bled and my eyes turned gelatinous. My eyes watered as I headed to the bathroom to get ready for work. I popped some Tylenol and told myself to quit whining, as I did not yet connect the headache to the lilacs. An hour later I was waiting for the bus and started to feel fine, thank goodness.

That night when I got home, the smell hit me as soon as I opened the door. LILAC. LILACLILACLILACLILAC. I swear I felt a bit faint and grabbed the door frame to stay upright. And the longer I stood there, the more the lilacs smelled like a lethal blend of turpentine, toluene, and acrylic paint.

The lilac blooms still looked lovely, but man, it was as if each and every little purple petal was impersonating one of those annoying women who spritzes you with every cologne known to mankind as you enter Macy's. It was all I could do not to cover my face with a hand towel and dive under the couch to wait for poison control to show up.

I somehow managed to make my way to the box pile where the plastic cup sat, now looking not so charming and homey as it did threatening and manipulative. I grabbed the cup and, while holding my breath, made a dash for the out of doors. I got out to the sidewalk and almost ran into the crazy woman who lives upstairs from me. She already thinks I am a moron (and the feeling is mutual), so I am sure my odd behavior did not disappoint her.

She looked at me with an expression that can only be described as concern mixed with pity blended with judgemental amusement and said, "Hellllloooo, Susan. I see you have been cutting some fresh lilacs. I hope you had permission." (Side note: this woman is not my landlord; she is another renter who lives right above me with her unfortunate son.)

I must say that my eyes were still watering from the lilac smell, and I was borderline choking on the chemical taste in the back of my throat, but it was all I could do not to dump that plastic cup of flowers over her stupid head of frizzy red hair. Which I am sure is dyed, by the way. Although why anyone would willingly dye their hair red (unless they were being paid to do it for an acting role) is beyond me.

But I digress. I brushed past her and walked across the street, still not sure what I was going to do. It was one of those moments that was quickly moving from bad to worse, so anything I did was only going to cement the fact that in Crazy Red's eyes, I was a complete lunatic. Suddenly I noted that the big dumpster which had been parked on my street because the city was cutting down rogue tree limbs was still there. I thanked the universe for such a gift and walked swiftly toward it.

When I got close enough, I hurled that cup filled with overly aromatic water and those devil blooms as hard as I could. The cup arced beautifully as if in slow-motion, and within seconds was safely flung into that dumpster amongst a huge pile of tree branches. Then I turned on my heel and strode purposefully back toward my front door. Crazy Red was still standing there, mouth agape.

I did not look at her---to look into her eyes is to tempt the grim reaper---but as I walked past her I said under my breath and in a tone filled with mysterious purpose, "And that's what happens to things which do me wrong." Then I whooshed through my front door and shut the door firmly behind me. I am sure Crazy Red stood there for some time, perhaps painting a swastika on my front walk or mumbling an exorcism. As if I still want to be living there.

I realize now how incomprehensible and utterly nonsensical my statement was, even though it sounded very grand as it exited my mouth in the heat of the moment. Hell, I don't even think it's proper English. At the very least it's highly awkward phrasing. But the lilacs are gone, as is my headache. And hopefully Crazy Red will not be far behind.

Update on the condo situation in tomorrows post. I have already consumed enough of your time today. And please don't give me any lilacs, unless you opt to plant them outside in the yard rather than give them to me wrapped in tissue paper. Merci.

in passing

Over the weekend a friend of mine died suddenly. He was 48 years old, and actor/director who had moved not too long ago from Chicago to NYC. He was just starting to do well there---he was on an episode of "Law and Order" last week, for example. He was not ill and he was in good shape. Yet as he crossed a street he dropped dead from a heart attack. The ER doctor says it was immediate.

Crap likes this always seems to wake a person up from the mundane tedium that is day to day living. I know I am not alone in this. It's not that it scares you into thinking, "Hey---I am gonna die someday" so much as it makes you realize that at any given moment when you least expect it---BLAM--- you are somewhere else and cannot come back anytime soon. At least not in the way we know.

I think about death a lot. I never did until some years back when a few people in my family and immediate circle of close friends died. And ever since then it's like a constant presence over my shoulder. I can't always see it, and days go by when I am not exactly aware of it, but I know it's there, somewhere, not too far off---like a hawk looking down at me from a branch high up in a tree.

I wonder how many years I have left. Not in a morbid way, exactly, but more in a curious way. There are moments when I see something beautiful, for example, and I think, "Wow. That is gorgeous. I wonder if I will ever see something this beautiful again or if this will be it." That does not scare me or depress me at that moment, but it's a present thought there in the forefront of my mind for a while.

The hardest part for me when someone I care about dies is the blatant missing of them and knowing that you will never be able to be with them in exactly that same way again. It is a raw, helpless feeling to suddenly realize that a living being you knew and were connected to in some way is just gone. And there is nothing to be done about it.

It's as if you were walking for years and years with a rope tied to your waist and the other end of the rope was tied to someone else. You couldn't always see them, and you didn't always feel the tug on the rope, but you knew there were there, and that at any time they might come into view, or call out, or yank on the rope to get your attention. Only out of the blue the rope just hangs limply and drags on the ground and you can see that the end of the rope has been cut and there is nothing attached to it anymore.

I wanted to write a few things I have learned about the development company for my condo, and a few other banal things from my weekend and some such nonsense, but none of that seems important today. Today I will just think about my friend and keep busy at the office and remember that I am still alive and must keep on.

Tomorrow I will write of other things.

unsanitary emotions

I never understand when people talk on cell phones in public bathroom stalls. It's downright unnerving hearing someone chat away while you are on the opposite side of a thin steel partition unrolling toilet paper. And come on, the person on the other end of the phone line has to know they are being spoken to from a bathroom---it's all echo-ey and filled with the sounds of running water, hand dryer blowers, and toilets flushing. Puh-leeeze.

Really, there is no good reason to talk on the phone in a public bathroom unless: A) You have begun to give birth and need an ambulance, B) are being victimized in some way and need the police, or C) get a call from your doctor saying the kidney/heart/liver you are awaiting is available for insertion ASAP.

Anyway, I believe I've mentioned this before, but there is a dental office in my office building, and they do a pretty brisk business. That dentist employs upwards of a dozen hygienists and receptionists, all of them women. And they go to the ladies room in groups. At least once a day I run into a gang of scrub-wearing females in the bathroom, and I have noticed that their conversation is not usually so much to each other, but rather into their cell phones.

It's odd standing in line for a stall and seeing four or five dental professionals all speaking very loudly and animatedly---but not to each other. Their conversations usually seem familial in nature. Often times I can tell the woman is speaking to her child or to her husband. But today I am praying the woman I heard speaking was practicing lines from a bad community theater script.

I entered the bathroom to hear a woman in a stall on her phone. She was either unaware I had entered, or didn't much care. She was yelling into her cell phone, and was clearly enraged. Here is what I heard:

"I am telling you right now that if she is there when I get home I will kick her all the way down the stairs. Then I will punch her in her ugly face and ram her head into the sidewalk. Then I will tie her to a tree and run her down with her own damn car, that b*tch. She will be sorry she was ever f*^#ng born. I'll grind glass into her face too, if I have to. (pause) What? No, that is NOT what she said. Girl, I am telling you what she said and if I was at home I would kill her right now."

Well, you can bet your sweet bippy that I have never peed so fast in my life, but this woman still beat me out of the stall, talking on her phone the whole time. I decided to stay in my stall until she had washed her hands, dried them, and left. Call me nutty, but I didn't feel like interacting with this terror.

Only, here's the rub: The woman didn't wash her hands! Damn if she didn't just exit her stall and slam directly out of the bathroom in one angry swoop, still dropping f-bombs and making threats that sounded like they might just work in the story boards of the "Saw" movies.

OK, so now not only do we have inappropriately angry, cursing, death-threat hygienist, but we have UNWASHED HANDS AFTER PEEING hygienist. Which to me is just as atrocious and abominable. I stayed in the stall for a few minutes, appalled and disgusted.

And today, friends, I have never been happier that my dentist is in a whole different part of town. I can avoid possible gang warfare as well as a nasty infection. Chalk this up to one thing that worked out in my favor without me having to make one bit of effort.

Life is good.

personal spreadsheet

My calendar, she's a fillin' up by the day. There are meetings and get-togethers and parties and free tickets to shows, and more. On my calendar there is very little blank space.

But none of those events is my condo closing. Still no letter. And if what the development company rep said ("If you don't close by the end of May it will not be our fault") is not a lie, ***sucks in breath and stifles a fit of ironic laughter*** then I will be in utter awe if there is not a two-weeks notice closing date letter waiting for me in the mail when I get home. Cuz, ya know, AHEM, May 15th, which is today, is just about two weeks away from May 30.

OK, I am willing to give them to the 16th. Maybe even until the 17th on the outside because this is a month with 31 days. But after May 17th I am going to be officially livid and give my sales rep a little phone call wherein I do not try to hide my anger.

Not that that will do any good. That woman seems impenetrable when it comes to other people's emotions. I bet if I took a little puppy and skewered it on a spear and threw acid at it and then left it to rot in the sun with a sign underneath it that read "Stupid Puppy" she would not flinch.

OK, now I am so sad about that puppy that I am no longer upset about the condo. See what this experience has done to me? It has me turning into Susan the Impaler.

I just bought a bus pass at the Currency Exchange and the weird dude behind the counter told me I had nice teeth. Then he smiled at me and I saw that he had three gold teeth in the front of him mouth alone. (I am guessing there are more in the molar region.)

For some reason this struck me as hilarious and I practically gagged on my own saliva in my attempt to quell the laughter. I pretty much ran out of there with my head down and one hand covering my face while the other hand clutched my wallet and the bus pass. Time to find a new currency exchange.

Tonight is the first hour of the three hour season finale of "Lost." I can barely contain myself. Next week's two hour conclusion will have me insane. I am sure by next week I will have turned my physical body inside out and spread my brain matter across my box piles like mortar. This television show is so good it makes my lungs jump in my chest. (And no, I don't have asthma, consumption, or respiratory mites.)

Alright. Time to remember who I am and get back to work. Stupid work.