Closure (sort of.)

Wow. This is super weird. Right now, it is 9:00 p.m. est, and I am on campus in NY for the first time since last August. I'm in the public service office. Last night being the last night I was in Chi-town, well, it was sort of surreal. Not that I was there long, but still. So I went on a walk to you know, think meditatively or something. With my walkman. It was like, I dunno, 7'ish. At night. And I just meant to go to the 7-11 just around the corner. But I just kept on walking. And walking.

And suddenly, I was in the next neighborhood. And I came upon this apartment building that wasn't in such great shape. It had this huge amount of land behind it, and the grass was all dead. Across the street. It could have been beautiful if only someone kept up with it....When have I thought that same thought before, I asked myself. And, for a minute, I couldn't place why it all looked so familiar to me. And then I realized: My first month in Chicago, I was looking for an apartment in Wicker Park, and I had ducked into one of those side streets to check out some random apartments, right by that very apartment. To think, if I had just kept walking for another 20 minutes in the other direction, I might've come across the place that Alicia ended up picking out a month later.

So, you know, I just kept on walking. And walking. And suddenly, there was this bar: The Silver Cloud. Right by the Damen el stop. Well, the first week I was in Chicago, I went out with some Americorps junkies during orientation, and we ended up just sort of gravitating towards this Silver Cloud bar, thinking that the name sounded kinda cool. But the place was totally empty, it being a Tuesday night, so we didn't even bother checking it out. I think we ended up at this place called the Beer Garden, or something like that. And there was a guy at the Beer Garden that I was too afraid to ask for a cigarette, cuz I only just wanted one, and my friend Julie and I didn't want to waste money on a whole pack. And we'd spent half the evening trying to devise a nonchalant way of asking this guy for not one, but two cigarettes, and really, it was just pathetic.

It was also the night that there were seven of us: Four women and three men. And I remember the conversation had been sort of revolving around sexuality and socialism, and I had blurted out something along the lines of, wouldn't it be great if we could somehow find an average of all seven of us, and how much attracted we were to men or women. Like, on the whole, how much were we attracted to women or men. So Evan took out a napkin and a pen and said, now I want you all to write down, on a scale of 1 to 10, how attracted you are to men or women, women being at number 1, and men being at number 10. And wouldn't you know, there being more women than men at the table, the average was something like 4.2.

So, yeah, I was walking through Wicker Park, you know, where they're filming the "Real World" right now, and I was thinking, this was some sort of weird closure. I mean, I didn't know that walking down that very street would lead me straight into the very things that were the first things I saw. I know, I can't really word any of this the right way, but this is more for me than it is for you, anyway.

I just called...to say...I love you...

I'mdoneI'mdoneI'mdoneI'mdoneI'mdone. What a week. What an incredibly messed up week. Last entry before I leave for New York on Sunday and BAM. BAM BAM BAM lemme out!

owmyhead

Just had my last meeting with Lydia at our general office. Good times. Juanita (Lydia's assistant) is taking me out to lunch this afternoon. I feel like I should be taking her out, since she's taking me out because I was so much help to Lydia with the Holiday Gift Program in Juanita's extended absence. She just got back from attending her mother-in-law's funeral in Mexico. It's really sad. She's doing a little better than one might expect.

My big projects are pretty much all finished here. Just a few more tweaks here and there, and then it's off to New York. People at work have been asking me every chance they get, "Are you excited to be going back to New York?" And of course all I can do is smile. But then they get all offended, like, "Come on now, Chicago isn't that bad, is it?" Why do my co-workers insist on asking me questions whose answers they don't want to hear? I won't lie. I refuse.

Eh hem. I don't know. I'm just feeling sort of ::blah:: right now. Gonna ship my boxes out tonight, hooray. There are only 8 of them: Seven normal sized and one huge one. I'm actually leaving with less than what was shipped to me to begin with. Maybe I just packed better.

What do you get when you cross really nice people with really bad evaluations?

I am so depressed. I am just so depressed. I just met with Sandra for over two hours to fill out the paperwork for my leaving the agency. She didn't exactly leave me with the best of marks on the Americorps rating chart. In fact....there was one "above average," and all the rest were mediocre. Nothing like "poor" or anything. But it's just...I didn't realize....I can never seem to keep my personal life from affecting my performance. I wish that I could push on full force ahead despite everything, like everyone else I know seems to be capable of doing.

She made me rate myself. It went terribly. I've rarely given myself better marks than whoever is marking me. Usually I'm either so much on target that it scares me, or I'm way harder on myself than I should be. But nope, not today. So much for references.

And we had this good-bye thing right before that. And my co-workers were asking me what I liked the most about Chicago, and what I disliked the most. And I couldn't answer on either count. I didn't even have some kind of witty remark. Nothing. So then they were all, wow, you really do hate it here, huh. And I was like, no, I just....And I had no answer what-so-ever. And I hate it when people put words in my mouth, especially when I don't even know what should be there.

When people think of New York, they only think of the city.

So....my boxes are all packed, ready to be mailed out to New York tomorrow evening. My landlord is still a life-sucking prick. As the wise philosopher Albert Einstein once said, "What a long, strange trip it's been." Two more days of work after today. I can't even afford the time I'm taking to write this entry, but what are they going to do, fire me? But, you know me. Melissa Anderson, Perfectionist Specialist.

Martin Luther King, Jr. Day was a goodie. For the good ol' folks over at Americorps, I thought I would help them out with one last thing before I went on my way. So I organized this 1-1/2 hour opening program for MLK Service Day. It was great MC'ing and making a few speeches before the main speakers came out. I'd forgotten how much I loathe public speaking. A good 250 people or so. The congressman really liked himself, I could tell. I think the best thing was that I hadn't even had the time, after getting the program together, to prepare a speech. So I was just sort of winging it without index cards or anything. I've never done that before. Sort of exhilarating. I just sort of got up to the mic and was like, "Happy Martin Luther King Day!" And they were like, "Right on, sistah!" And it was all uphill from there (downhill? really, neither of those sounds very good).

Alicia's new thing lately is blaming me for her missing towels. You know what I did? It's kind of funny. I went into the linen closet and folded one of her towels wrong just to see how much of a psycho she is, you know, how much she'd flip out. Survey saaaays....She's a ten!

Limping on air....

For the third time in six months, here I sit, taking a walk down Memory Lane. Packing is so overrated. As I sift through all of my paperwork, making executive decisions about what to keep and what to eliminate, I realize how silly it is for me to keep every single paper memento.

And how terrible it would be to trash a single piece of it.

Now back to your regularly scheduled programming.

If it weren't for how great my co-workers and higher-ups have been, I just might go insane due to the immaturity of my roommates and landlord.

You see, my roommate, Alicia, is a coward. She likes to leave little post-it notes around the house stating her obvious dissatisfaction with certain aspects of my personality. Strangely enough, I've let her walk all over me for the past few months, simply because I've been desperate and haven't wanted to upset anyone, or to "cause" anyone to move out. You know, that whole mediator thing. I was also trying to be quiet because the security deposit is all in her name, and I didn't want to screw up any chance of her sending me my part once we got tenants to replace us, if she ever intended to send it to me at all.

It's not worth it, though. After the well-worded note she left me on the refridgerator last night, I wrote a succinct note in response, telling her just where she can stick her post-it notes the next time she feels the need to avoid a face-to-face conversation about her concerns.

Okay, you caught me--I'll be honest. What I really said was, "I could care less about my credit rating, so if you'd like me to leave February's rent behind before I go, then you'd best either speak to my face, or avoid me entirely for the next week."

I don't understand obsessive-compulsiveness, unless you have a real reason like me. For instance, if one--oh, I don't know--gets her wallet stolen, for example, she might check the location of said wallet every three point two minutes thereafter. Cases like that are understandable. I bring this up because Alicia has the worst case of obsessive-compulsiveness that I've seen in my entire life, and it doesn't look like there is any comprehendible reason for it. (This includes my mother and anyone I've ever dated.) Actually, I take that back, albeit only partially. She's just obsessive. She's got issues. I wish I'd known just how many roommates had skipped out on her in the past, before I signed on to live with her highness. There are two that I know of, now.

I've decided that it might be fun to psycho-analyze the wildebeest. (That word, unfortunately, really isn't as bad as it sounds. It's just a gnu--an African antelope of some sort, I think.) Aw, come on--this'll be fun!

Why My Roommate Is a Freak

Scenario 1: She's really a femme-bot. Ever watch "Austin Powers"?
Scenario 2: Daddy never really loved her.
Scenario 3: Once, when she was seven, a doberman attacked her because she hadn't cleaned her hands after eating lunch.
Scenario 4: Once, when she was nine, her classmates attacked her because they didn't like her.
Scenario 5: Sorry, got off track for a second. Maybe it's because, after being locked up in the sanitarium for so long, she has a pressing need to be in control.
Scenario 6: When she was younger, her best friend always made her be the dad when they were playing house.
Scenario 7: Okay, this is getting out of control.

Seriously, though, what's up with that?

The lunaTIC...is on the grass....

I have to say, as stressed out as I am with all of this moving junk, and despite the three huge projects I’m trying to finish up at work, I am content right now. I just want to share some of my friends’ responses to my latest mass email.

"HEY! I like black jellybeans. AND martinis."

"Three cheers for you on quitting your job and following your instincts. I like your motto, but I have to learn to live by it."

"I know this will have some strange and bizarre way of working in your favor."

"I know there's that saying that says don't be a quitter and all that, but sometimes staying somewhere is taking the easy way out instead of the other way around….Life is too damn short."

"I'm glad you've made some decisions that sound like positive ones for you and that you'll be returning to Geneva for a while! Yay!"

"I admire your strength big time."

It’s somewhat strange, knowing that I needed to leave everyone for a while, and, at the same time, knowing that now is the right time to move back. This doesn’t necessarily mean that I’ll stick around for the rest of my life, but for now, I do follow my instincts, not quite knowing where they’ll take me. It’s a survival skill. Even when you think you’ve done the wrong thing, in the end, nothing could be more right.

There are too many times when my life has been falling apart at the seams. And maybe right now is one of those times. But that’s not the way I see it.

Sting like a bee.

A few days ago, I felt something for the first time in a long while: Elation. So it is with great regret that I inform you of my conflicting sentiments today. In one corner, weighing in at an ever-expanding 0.000000003 pound, there is Elation. Elation comes to us from the east, and likes to make its presence known to innocent bystanders. Elation has the power to heal, cure, and, well, elate. In the other corner, weighing in at a brooding billion point three pounds, is Confinement. Confinement hails from right here in the Windy City. Confinement likes everything that you, dear audience, does not: Black jelly beans, liver, martinis, and rice cakes. Confinement has the astounding abilities to hamper initiatives, oppress with unbreakable force, and leave one breathless. It often shows up uninvited.

Mexican Jumping Beans

Robot, through the motions, method, cruise control, what did you say, again? What did I read, again? One foot forward, that's it, automatic pilot, turn the corner, this has been done before. Work doesn't matter, food doesn't matter, sleep doesn't matter, stare up into fluorescent lights, the steam patters out. Cubicle, dull colors, the cursor blinks. Blink. Blink. Open your eyes, and nothing is new. Lean forward, full body weight, something for nothing, have you got a dollar to spare. Clean break, clean slate, clear skies, clear the runway. Drifting, floating, coasting. Dinner's here.

Alas, Anon. Anon Anon Alas.

What an incredibly unproductive weekend. I need to find boxes. Lots and lots of boxes. Damn.

T-13 (days) till I get back to Geneva. Geneva isn't that great--kind of boring, actually. But.... I don't know. There's something about it that makes it better than Chicago, at least. We'll see.

"Oh bother," said Pooh, as the brakes went out.

Two weeks from now, I will be on my way to O'Hare on a one-way ticket. It will have been the third month in a row during which I will have been in the air on the 27th. It will be great. I will be happy. Maybe not even happy, but, at the very least, unhappy amongst some really good friends. Not just the fair-weather folks here in Chi-town.

Let's talk about politics. There's a new topic. Never been discussed before. Ever. Seriously, though, how about that Georgie? Or Dubuya, to the common public. Isn't he swell? I wouldn't know. I won't even watch the news much anymore. I don't hate the guy; in fact, I thought he handled things much better than I could have ever anticipated. But, it still stands that this war is going to last forever and ever. It won't stop. It never does.

Which reminds me....perhaps I should compile a list of the things I've learned while living in Chicago. Don't sulk! This will be the coolest thing ever. Trust me.

TOP TEN THINGS I'VE LEARNED WHILE LIVING IN CHICAGO

10. A synonomous phrase for "peace rally" is "war protest."

9. If you haven't gotten a library card, visited any museums, and have been sleeping on an inflatable mattress for the first six months that you've lived here, chances are that you're going to change your mind and move back to where you came from real soon.

8. Spend a lot of money that you don't really have, and you'll learn a valuable lesson or five.

7. Don't ever stop to talk to a random stranger on the street on your birthday, even if his "mothah and grandma are right heah in dis nay-bo-hood."

6. If you live on the top floor of a three-flat, and the doorbell rings, don't bother to run down three flights of stairs to answer it unless you're expecting something in the mail. It's not for you.

5. Scams, scams, scams.

4. At work, when co-workers ask you how your weekend was, don't give them a real answer, because they don't want to hear it, even if it was a really good weekend. Instead, one-word, all-encompassing, middle-of-the-road, fake answers are best: "Fine," "good," and "busy" are all excellent examples of this. If you really feel the need to answer with more than one word, "too short" is always your best bet.

3. If you run into a long string of never-ending bad luck, Chicago hates you and wants you out. Listen to it and leave.

2. The pizza here really sucks. In fact, all delivery food really sucks.

1. Once in a while you'll run into a genuinely nice person--one who'll let you live in her house while you search for an apartment during your first month here, for instance. But these rare people are not always enough to keep you here.

Thus endeth the Top Ten. Now, Chicago's not so bad if you've lived here all your life, or even you've just decided to take a weekend jaunt. But this place is not for me. I feel like I'm offending people every time I tell anyone I've quit my job to move back east. But, I ask myself, will I actually see these people ever again? Possibly yes, but most likely, no.

But then, life is very funny, to the point where one laughs in one's own mind even during the most serious of moments.

Written during my first year of high school: 2.15.94

The Paranoia Plague

It breaths within your heart and soul
And crawls underneath your skin....
It's a race for time and dignity;
At all costs, It will win.

Granted, you do not listen to this,
Yet you always hear Its voice;
True, you cannot see Its form--
But to feel, you have no choice.

And no matter where you may be,
Whether for business or for pleasure,
Its shadow will remain stuck to you,
So enormous, you cannot measure!

You look to your left and then to your right
And then look up and down;
Just when you think It's lost Its throne,
It will again seize Its crown.

It will take on Its specific form,
Perhaps at first, a little vague,
But there is no hiding or running from
This painful, awful plague.

You cannot fall asleep at night
Until It releases those fingers;
You toss and turn and hum and moan,
But the Iciness still lingers.

That insane game is still being played,
But who is keeping score?
You surrender, not caring, for all is lost--
And It has won the war.

Part of a poem that I wrote in high school, that just won't get out of my head today. It's not really supposed to make much sense.

I’m flying

Lazy

falling

leaf

I am twisting the belief.

Freckles, songs
Mindless thoughts
Holiday empty parking lots

I heard it once
And then forgot.

Mechanical

Not flowing through

Anything, everything all askew

All blown out of proportion

Twisted lies

Demise

Distortion

Mechanical.

There's no place like home....There's no place like home....

After swallowing and regurgitating my stomach and heart 33 times since waking up this morning, I met with my supervisor, Sandra. Here's how it went.

After some meaningless chit-chat about how Marilya got into an accident with her car, how she had to rent a new one, how she was sad that she had to rent a new one because it was like "an old pair of shoes," and how she'd had the thing for nine years anyway....We got into Sandra's office, twenty-five minutes after we had planned on meeting. She's a busy woman, so this didn't really bother me.

We get to her office. She shuts the door.

Me: Smart thing to do. Okay, first, I want you to know that I am not angry with anyone, and nothing bad has happened. Although, this might be bad news for you. Okay, I'm just going to say it. I need to leave Chicago.

Sandra: (smiles) Okay. How's your mother?

I start to tear up. I'm a big baby like that. "Well, I take it [my mother's illness] into consideration with every major decision I make, but it wouldn't really be fair of me to use that as an excuse." A beat. "I'm not happy here. But I need you to know, it has nothing to do with the job--you guys are great. You and Lydia, the way you communicate with CNS and with AmeriCorps, you two do a good job. I mean, every time I hear a horror story from a VISTA, it just makes me all that much more grateful for my position here."

She smiles a big smile. A knowing one.

"You're lonely," she says.

"Well....yes. That's not all of it. But, yes."

"What would you do when you got back? And where exactly do you plan on going? New York, Mass--?"

"New York. Upstate. Geneva. I have good friends there."

And so it went. You don't need to read the entire conversation. Now a little more of that waiting game. Sandra is going to call Lydia, the director of volunteers at our agency. Then I will meet with Lydia on Friday. Then, I will speak with Sarah, the Chicago AmeriCorps*VISTA contact for CNS (Center for National Service). Somewhere in between all of that, I will get my plane ticket. Then I will talk to my landlord. Then I will talk to my roommates. Then then then then then--

Then....

Why did the farmer cross the road?

T-17 until I speak with my boss. *shudder*

How nice my supervisors are ÷ How much of a prick my landlord is = When I leave Chicago.

Suddenly, I'm all scientific and stuff.

There is no question that this city has truly alienated me. I don't know by or from what, and I'm not sure that's even the right word, but it'll do for now. In short, I hate it here. The second I got to the first place I stayed at in Andersonville (yes, I hear your snickers, and yes, it's a nice neighborhood).... I brought my luggage up the staircase to the third floor, with two people helping me. As soon as I got myself situated, these people left and I was alone. The first thing I did was hop online. Chatted with a few friends. Finished my copy of The Bell Jar, which wasn't that great, by the way (or maybe I was just a little late in reading it). The next day, I explored the neighborhood. Whoopie.

Then I had to move in with my supervisor for a while because, on my generous government volunteer stipend, I could not afford to move until October, when most leases ended.

So...I moved to Bucktown in October, which at first was nice because it's a 15-minute train ride from downtown, and I can see the Sears Tower from my kitchen window. Well. Let me just say, I sure know how to pick roommates. Alicia's an inconsiderate, shop-a-holic, conservative Republican, judgemental something-or-other. Oh yeah, and she's a flight attendant.

And I usually thought that gay boys were nice...until I met Billy. Well, I liked him at first. That was, until he was doing his and his (ex) boyfriend's laundry non-stop with my detergent, eating all of my food (when he was the one making the most money in the apartment), refusing to pay certain bills and wanting reduced rent because he "wasn't there all the time," and having sex with his boyfriend in my bed. But that's another story that I'll spare you from reading.

So, what now? I feel so...confined. Like, I just want to get out, and right now I have to play the waiting game.

Waiting....

Sit down. I have something to tell you.

Life is so funny. Ha ha ha funny funny ha ha!

On December 21st, the day before I was set to go to Boston to visit my family, my wallet got stolen in a local Chicago shoe store downtown. I saw it coming, of course, but these women knew what they were doing and practically knocked me on my ass. I had the cards cancelled within seven minutes; the only regret I have is that I had far too much cash on me. Anywho, my main concern was, after realizing that I had oh, no identification, getting to Boston the next afternoon. Thank goodness for passports, or I'd be a walking nobody right now.

After Christmas with the fam, I was set to fly into Buffalo NY for New Year's. Yeah, uh huh, that didn't happen. I must've switched my flight half a dozen times before settling on a flight to Syracuse ten minutes into boarding time. Then, after convincing the flight attendant that I was 17, and having her get me some complimentary wine anyway, life was good because hell, I was in the first row. I rang in the New Year with 20 of my closest friends in Geneva NY, I think to the tune of some guy no one really knew punching and kicking people. After downing my champagne in two gulps, we called 911 and had him carted away. I kid you not--this all really happened.

Hold on, I'm not done.

On the first, I came to an important decision, somewhat accidentally. I think a few of us had just finished a round of Beyond Balderdash, and, tired of losing, I asked if we could just be done for the night. Everyone else was sick of it, and so it went. Then something funny happened. There was one of those memorable, lazy silences where someone's supposed to talk to fill in the gap, and everyone knows it, but no one really has anything to say. So I blurted out the first thing that came to mind: "Can we talk about why I'm sad?" After making all of my friends cry, I think I decided to quit my job here in Chicago, and move back east. So that's what I'm up to in this next week--meetings with my supervisors. Neither of them knows what it's about, but each knows that I have a meeting to speak with the other pivately, so I'm kind of hoping that they talk to each other beforehand and come to the obvious conclusion. I probably should have clarified and told them that they wouldn't be getting any sexual harassment suits any time soon, but for now, it's in motion, and they can think what they want until I speak with them.

I'm nervous as all hell.

You were in my dream last night. I don't remember what you were doing, though. Just that you were there.

I have committed a sin that most people dare not speak of: I forgot to make New Year's resolutions. I give in to this ritual every year without a second thought. I tell myself, this is the year when I will become more organized. I will get something published. I am going to melt away that fudge. Uh, pudge. And, what comes of it, this unchallenged ritual? 2002, the Great Palindrome. Not another palindrome for another 110 years, and I forgot to make a resolution. Does it sound like I'm beating myself up over this? Well, I'm not. I really could care less.

So that is what I resolve to do this year: I resolve to care less. I resolve to sit on my lazy butt with nothing to do in any free time I have. I resolve to sleep more and to write a sestina. To create the wheel, Pop Rocks, and to get myself on the cover of Playboy, and maybe win a bodybuilding competition, at least at the state level. Then I'll write several screenplays, sell my body for money, learn to fly a prop plane, and sing our national anthem at the Superbowl.

Does anyone else see how silly this whole process is? Undoubtedly, the only realistic thing I'd do from anything on that list is the sestina (and even that's pushing it). I mean, you make these resolutions each year--maybe you even write them in a journal or on a cocktail napkin--and each time, the results are the same. Within the first month or so, your discipline has waned, you are more frustrated with yourself than ever, and your habits have become worse than they were before you even made these promises to yourself.

Please do yourself a favor, and be realistic.