How You Know It’s Summertime

Something happens when the sun comes out in Chicago - I go outside more. I’m more social. My friends and family get married (fifth wedding of the year this coming weekend! Oh my!) I feel more inspired.

I’ve also been doing beta reads for some great authors. I’ve been swimming and running more (despite what I lament here), trying to get healthy and training for my first 5K ever... And did I mention I got engaged? Because I did. :)

So, with being outside and enjoying the weather and friends and family, I clearly haven’t been around my laptop as much. This isn’t to say I haven’t been writing. Despite my page-a-day calendar falling off at 6/8/10, I’ve been writing nearly every day.. (If you don’t count the weekends away - I’ve only been in town on weekends twice in the past, oh, 2 months?) I’m keeping up on Gather, hot dogs, and even my novel, to some extent. How do I, you ask? I stopped keeping track of word counts (it takes up time!) I’ve also been staying up late, a lot. That might be changing soon too though - because I gave up caffeine nearly three weeks ago now.

Oy vey! Just writing that makes me tired. But, you know what? Strangely enough, I’ve had more energy lately than I’ve had in awhile - with the exception of the 2:30pm tiredness striking without fail most days. Maybe because it’s summertime in the city? Because, if you haven’t noticed - I love Chicago when it’s warm out. Too bad it’s not like this all year round!

But maybe it also has something to do with being busy, too... I like being busy. It keeps me on my toes, helps me manage my time even more than I usually do.

How do you manage your time - especially when it's this awesomely nice outside?

A letter to the weather

Dear Chicago Spring Weather,


Thanks for stopping by. Put your feet up, relax. Stay for awhile. We've all missed you.


The weather reports tell me that you're think of leaving soon, and bringing back the chilly cold this weekend along with some crazy thunderstorms. I don't mind the rain, but please don't leave. I want to bask in your warm 70+ degree weather glow for as long as possible. So, please, stick around.

Yours truly,
Liz

All Moved In

... well, sort of. I still have plenty of unpacking to do, but we're in our new place and absolutely loving it so far.

I woke up yesterday to sunlight filtering through tree leaves, dancing between my blinds, and I realized that this new apartment already feels like home - even though it hasn't even been a week yet! Not to mention that I'm loving the neighborhood. There's at least three Mexican restaurants (my fav!) within blocks. There's tons of other restaurants that I'm dying to try. The famous Dinkel's bakery is just around the corner (cheese bear claw = awesome). I'm closer to my youngest sister's apartment - well, at least I will be when she comes back from Paris. There's parking spots every hour of every day, meaning I have my car back from my parent's house. Food is less expensive, both in restaurants and at the local grocery store. I'm blocks from Trader Joe's. And I'm blocks from the YMCA, which is not only affordable but has tons of equipment, a pool that won't give me an eye infection (like my last building's did), and free - yes FREE - classes. Want me to keep going? I can.

Even the apartment is amazing. For one, there's the spacious rooms and closet space. I'm soon going to own my first ever dining room table (I'm clearly starting to feel more grown up). The entire apartment is wood floors. The walls are so well insulated, I don't hear my neighbors.

But, there are quirks to the apartment, too. After all, it's old. For one, the bedroom door sticks, and I almost locked myself in there yesterday. The water takes forever to heat up, and there isn't central air. But, you know what? I don't care! The neighborhood and the new place (even the kitchen cabinets, which are being replaced by the end of the month) are absolutely wonderful.

While I've been getting settled in, I've taken what I feel is a long break from writing my novel, even as I've been doing research/reading. Now, I'm starting to feel like I have more time to get back to the actual writing! Progress!

I'm the new Chicago hot dog lady!

Yes, you read that right. I'm the new Chicago Hot Dog Examiner! What's new in the hot dog world? What are the best toppings? What are the best kind of dogs... and where can you find them? I'll be answering all of these questions - and more - over at examiner.com.

My first article went up yesterday about what makes a Chicago-style hot dog.

I'm having SO much fun with this. Questions have been poring in to my email inbox, so feel free to jump in and ask your burning questions about the Chicago dog, too!

Of course, with this new stint, I've been a bit distracted from the novel. I'm still shooting for all the deadlines I gave myself, but I know they're going to be a little bit more hard to beat now that I'm writing about hot dogs.

I like saying that: I write about hot dogs.

Check it out now, and check back often.

Monday Morning

I live in Chicago, and even though my place is just a couple blocks from Millennium Park, I'm in the center of a concrete jungle. So, imagine my surprise on my way to work, when I see a sord of ducks - a mommy mallard leading seven ducklings - just outside the Aon Center.

Surprisingly, it wasn't the ducks I first noticed, but the way people reacted to them. People took out their cameras (unfortunately, I didn't have mine), commuters who typically didn't give the time of day to their fellow sidewalk walkers chatted about how cute the ducklings were, and - what really caught my attention - two taxi cab drivers and a handful of people coaxed a couple ducklings out from under a cab. The same cabbies who mercilessly honk at anything and anyone in hopes of speeding through the yellow light and cut you off, whether you're a pedestrian or fellow driver, were taking the time to get make sure these ducklings got up onto the sidewalk.

The mama duck didn't seem to notice too much, as she quacked and led the way between the Lakeshore Fitness Center and Aon buildings. As she waddled away, as if it were any normal day, people stopped, took notice, and helped the ducklings. And that, I must say, is a great way to start my Monday morning.

(The above picture is clearly one I didn't take - not only because I didn't have my camera, but also because there's no grass near my building. But I had to add a pic; after all, ducklings are adorable!)

Image source: http://www.digital-images.net/Images/Ducks/Marching_MallardDucklings_1055.jpg

2009 Creative Chicago Expo

Are you an artist, writer - or both? Do you live in Chicago? Then, check out the 2009 Creative Chicago Expo.

I've never been to this event before, but I plan on being there tomorrow. There's workshops, vendors, and consultations (although, most of them are filled up; I wish I'd heard of this earlier!).

The low-down:
Where: Chicago Cultural Center (corner of Randolph & Michigan)
When: Saturday, 4/4, from 10am to 4pm
Admission: FREE

You can find more details about the event by clicking here.

Most of you know me as a writer, but I'm also an artist. Check out my portrait business here.

See you there!

Chicago in the Springtime

I'll get back to posting about my "beginnings" as a writer... but right now, I'm happy it's finally SPRING in Chicago. And I'm not just saying this because it was my birthday yesterday, but because I love Spring, and I love Chicago, and the two combine wonderfully.

Why I love Chicago in the Springtime:

* People come outside, like crazy! Gone are the heavy coats and the scowls. Chicagoans (and those from the surrounding suburbs) really appreciate the weather when it finally turns from frigid cold to the springtime, sunny weather. The streets around my apartment were packed today.

* The best 'city entertainment' appears too. A block from my apartment, there was a mime, performing to some music. A little bit further up Michigan Ave. there was the puppet show that circulates the city in a cart.

* The warm lake breeze. 'Nuff said.

* The clear blue skies that surround a beautiful skyscraper-filled horizon. 'Nuff said.

* Being able to cook-out and not freeze my ass off. 'Nuff said.

* The art outside. It's easier to appreciate when it's not freezing. Like the ~50 foot statue of the "American Gothic" figures (which, today, had a homeless guy sleeping at the base of it; not surprisingly, this didn't stop any of the tourists from taking a picture and/or climbing on top of the large suitcase at the woman's feet). Or, finding that someone had spelled out, in chalk, the word "VISION," by placing one letter on the base of each of the six concrete flower pots. You can only notice it when walking south on Fairbanks/Columbus. Observation is rewarded!

Granted, it's only 52 degrees out right now. But that's Springtime in Chicago for you, and I'll take it!

A New Kind of Cabbie

Today, I met Ellis "Chubby" Miller, a cab driver in Chicago... but he's no ordinary cabbie.

He's a matchmaker, and has been written about in Germany for his skills. He also has an airport car service that includes various Dunkin Donuts packages. And, to top it off, he says he's from P.M.A., a Positive Mental Attitude, as evidenced by his handwritten 4x6 sign posted next to his cabbie's license.

As I got out of the cab, he said, "Aren't you lucky, that out of thousands of cabs in the city, you got me?"

Christmastime in the City

When I was a kid, every year my family would travel to the city just before Christmas to see the lights, to ooh and aah over Santa's Workshop in Carson's windows, to discover what story the Marshall Field's windows held.

At Marshall Field's, we always had to start at the beginning of the "story," no matter if it was a story that we'd heard (or seen) many times before, like The Nutcracker. My younger sisters and I would squeeze through the throngs of people, attempting to get to the front to admire Clara twirl, or the MouseKing dance.

Now, years later, Carson's is gone. And Marshall Field's is now a Macy's. I've grown up, and I've moved to the city. Macy's on State Street is now part of my "neighborhood," and I pass it every day on my way to work with little thought about how some of my favorite Christmastime memories were on those very sidewalks. Granted, it didn't help that for the past few weeks the Macy's windows have been covered, with these words impressed onto the glass: "Pardon our appearance. A little magic is in store."

But, today, as I passed by the store, on the corner of Randolph and State, Christmas music filled the air, emanating from the new window displays, full of red clothed mannequins and toys that, of course, Macy's is selling. I inwardly groaned. I know there is still well over a month until Christmas, that the Nutcracker, or some other story, may eventually fill the windows - but it's not the same, and not just because it's no longer Marshall Field's.

I continued on, scurrying to work, until I got to Daly Plaza, where I typically cut through to save myself just a few steps. But, over the weekend, the plaza had been shut off--and a Christmas-time transformation has begun. White tents have been raised. Small stores, made out of wood, have been built. And, my favorite part of all, the large Christmas tree is being assembled. As a kid visiting this Christkindlmarket, and even just last year, I knew that there was no way this enormous tree was one single tree, but I had no clue how it came to be--until today.

They started with one very tall pole, surrounded by a few steel rings that narrow in size the higher up the tree they go. The workers attach the first tree to the top of the pole using a crane. Now, they are working their way down, filling the tree in from the middle and then expanding it outward. They haven't gotten far yet, but it's only to be expected that a 75 foot tree (or thereabouts) would take a while to create. But in a few days, the tree will be put together and strung with lights. The stores will be filled with German-American wares and food--and no matter what happens in the windows of Macy's, at least I know there'll still be plenty of Christmas-time magic in the city air.

The Ethics of People Watching

One of the reasons I love the city of Chicago is the variety of people I see everyday. And I admit: I'm an avid people-watcher. I'm not talking about checking out hot guys. I'm talking about noticing people move through their days - usually oblivious to the fact that I'm noticing them.

I never gave much thought to the "ethics" of this, for one, because I never stare. And two, what else am I supposed to do as I walk down the street? Stare at the sidewalk? Look at my reflection in the windows? Constantly window shop? Plus, come on, it's interesting watching people -- especially when they think they're not being looked at.

But what do we do when we people-watch? (C'mon, I know the few of you reading this like to people watch. Don't we all, on some level? So, do comment on this posting, let me know what fascinates you about people watching... )

For me, I look not only for the unexpected but the apparently mundane; I like learning the different ways people navigate their world. Here's just a sampling of things I've noticed lately:
* A big black woman outside a Bank of America, hawking StreetWise through hog calls
* A woman in a suit prancing down the sidewalk instead of walking
* A woman ambles down the sidewalk, mindless of the morning commuters. Suddenly, she turns and bows to a guy who rushes by her. In her hands, she holds a picture of Jesus.

I also notice things:
* A smoldering cigarette butt precariously sitting on the edge of a sidewalk grate
* Every morning on the corner of Daley plaza, a man holds a sign that reads: "Senator OBAMA, SAVE my only SON, PLEASE" (I have yet to figure out if this is about Iraq or something else)
* A red diamond sign near the corner of Madison & Wacker that reads, "You are beautiful" (Oh, how I love seeing that sign on my way to work.)

One of my most favorite times to watch people is actually on my way to work, whether I'm walking or riding the bus. This moment of the morning seems particularly unappealing and uneventful, considering the way people scurry, attempting to make it through a crosswalk before the flashing orange hand stops, and also considering the way people are focused on the walk ahead, barely looking around them to admire where they are (which says so much about them - especially considering the tourists I see daily outside my apartment, who are all about stopping and looking around, even if it means cutting you off and being totally unaware of all the people around them). Plus, it's 7:30, 8:00 in the morning; people seem intent to get where they're going - whether Starbucks or work - and don't seem to do much other than this. Which is exactly why when I do see someone doing something out of the ordinary, it's all the more interesting.

Not too long ago, I was on the CTA bus, riding to my temp job, hurtling down Madison before the bus screeched to a stop every couple blocks, and I couldn't help but almost be dismayed at the similarities I saw everywhere. People had the same set expressions on their faces, amplified by tired eyes. They streamed down the sidewalks. Everywhere I looked, the same.

And then, we stopped near the corner of LaSalle, and a couple stood nearby, and I couldn't help but imagine that they were simply saying their goodbyes before heading off to work -- just something simple, normal, something everyday. But then I noticed the body language, how one of his arms pulled her close to him, how his other hand cupped her face. And then she tried to turn away, her eyes scrunched up, her face red.

I suddenly felt as if I was intruding on something I shouldn't have seen, an intensely personal moment that I couldn't understand from just a simple glance. It could be about anything - she could be upset about someone who recently died, or they could have just broken up, or she could have just learned that he'd cheated on her. No matter what the "possibilities," I felt like I was doing something wrong, even though this moment was occuring on the intersection of two very busy Chicago streets.

People kept walking by, paying no heed to the couple, and the bus pulled away from the stop. And then I was back to all the people with the similiar expressions, scurrying off to work.

I still like to watch people, don't get me wrong. But that one moment, that split second, made me realize that we can guess and wonder all we want about people's lives -- but that doesn't mean we understand them any better than we did before.

Review: Avec Restaurant

Located in the West Loop, the trendy Avec Restaurant was overflowing when I arrived near 8:00pm this past Saturday. The crowd wasn't suprising considering the restaurant doesn't take reservations and there aren't too many tables. Since there was only my boyfriend and I, we were willing to sit at the bar, and it paid off to our advantage. Despite the long line of people, we were seated after only a minute of waiting.

Perched on bar stools, we were feet away from where the cooking was taking place. We saw food slipped into wood-burning stoves, vegetables tossed on the grill. The cooks moved in a pattern, easily sidestepping one another as they put the finishing touches on plate after plate. From this vantage point, we asked our bartender/waiter, "What's that? And that?" over and over again. He patiently answered our questions, and we soon found ourselves overwhelmed with choices.

Fortunately, with the way Avec is set up, we were able to order a few different meals. As our waiter pointed out, two people can usually comfortably eat either two small plates (ranging between $4 and $12 each) or one large plate (ranging from as low as $14 to as high as $44 for the daily special).

The hangar steak, a delicious medium-rare, sat on a bed of corn and lima beans (both adding the perfect amount of sweetness to the plate) and broccoli, which was an unfortunate startingly strong flavor that I found at odds with the rest of the dish. Our second plate, a whipped brandade, was a hearty and heated cod dip that was sinfully delightful; we took solace in the fact that while there was some heavy cream, the taste of cod was perfectly intermingled with the other ingredients and was paired well with toasted garlic bread.

We were getting full but our neighbors to the left had gotten more dishes that we coveted, and so we ordered one last dish: dates stuffed with chorizo and wrapped in bacon. As we waited for our food, we continued to sip our wine (available by the glass or bottle), and for the first time realized how warm it had gotten in the restaurant, one of the unfortunate side effects of having the kitchen in the same cigar-styled room as the seating area. Despite the growing and somewhat uncomfortable heat, it seemed like it was supposed to be a part of the place's atmosphere. After all, every part of the wall, floor, and ceiling was covered in slabs of wood, causing the place to appear as if it was one big sauna.

The dates arrived, carried to us in a dish resting on a wooden slab (we really sensed the theme with this delivery of food). The dates were sweet, salty, and spicy -- and we could see why, according to our waiter, it is one of the most popular dishes as well as the longest-running menu item. Alas, the waiter was right in suggesting only two small plates. We each had one date and we were more than satiated. We got the last two dates to go, and left Avec, already excited about returning and trying other dishes we saw being whisked out of the open-air kitchen.

And even though it was near 9:30 when we left, a crowd of people -- different from those we saw when we first arrived -- mingled outside, waiting for their chance at some decently priced gourmet food.

"Home"

After moving out of my parent’s place almost exactly a year ago, my parents sold my childhood home in Barrington. My parents aren’t planning on moving far, because my dad is still running the landscape business out of South Barrington—but it’s still weird; I feel like I’m losing a “home.” Don’t get me wrong. I love the city of Chicago—despite the constant flow of tourists, the sirens and car horns, and the pigeons. I love my wonderful view of the city skyline, watching as the skyscrapers are built, the beaches just blocks from my front door, and meeting interesting people everyday. My apartment is my new home, but I had a home in Barrington too, and now that feels like it’s disappearing.

Barrington—as much as I dismissed it as “Boring”-ton when I was younger, when I was ready to vacate the town and begin, I thought, my life—isn’t as bad as I made it out to be. Sure, there isn’t that much to do, and that restaurants seem to vanish after only a couple years, but my parents’ house was a retreat. I’m going to miss the fresh air untainted by public transportation, my backyard constantly being tended to by my dad, the gazebo and the front porch where I spent so much of my time imagining new stories to write, and of course, my old bedroom, up on the converted third floor, which provided a birds-eye view of nearly half of Summit Street.

I know my parents will always have a space for us, a room reserved for my sisters and me when we visit them, but it won’t feel like “home,” if only because I have never lived there.

My family and I, along with all of my friends over the years, have so many great memories that took place in my old home, and those memories belong to us no matter where my parents move.

Yet, the thought of how ‘home’ is where you make it offers little consolation. I still feel attached to the lot my parent’s bought and built a house on fifteen years ago. My memories feel attached to that space.

On Tuesday, I sat in my parent’s basement in the storage area, and went through a few boxes. Most were filled with books and sorority stuff from college, but others had stuffed animals, diaries, and typewritten stories from when I was in middle school and younger. I hadn’t looked at that stuff since, well, it was packed away years ago. I ended up barely throwing out anything like I had planned to that morning. It amazes me how much memory is tied to things, to spaces—which explains the hold my parents’ home still has on me. After all, even though those boxes are moving along with my parents, I still feel like I’m losing something in the move from one place to another.

When I remind myself of my new “home,” of the new memories that have formed there so far, and the promise of more memories to come with my friends, my family, and my boyfriend, I realize how lucky I am. Change happens. Life happens. But in the moves, and all the in betweens, I continue to surround myself with people who I care about and who care about me.

I’m not sure how to finish this post. I feel like I’ve been overdramatic, cliché, over-the-top, etc. But I suppose that’s what happens when I’m still hunting for a job and spending a majority of the daytime (and night) sitting behind my laptop. I overthink/overanalyze/overconcern myself with things that, in the end, don’t matter all that much. So I’ll just say this: I’m lucky to have what I have. I’m lucky I have my kickass apartment/home in the city, and I’m lucky I still have my family to return to in the burbs (wherever that may be come September 5th). Again, there I go, being all corny. At the moment, I just can’t help it. Hopefully I’ll have a job soon, and you’ll be reading less overwrought posts soon.

One last thing: despite my dramatics, I will miss my old home and old backyard. And, despite my teenage desire to escape Barrington, I think I’ll—eventually—miss the town too.

The question of the black marker

I have a confession to make: I’ve been contemplating what to write in this inaugural blog post for over a month. Honestly? Nearly two. I’m at the point where I realize I just need to write it, as I hope that the first post is always the hardest, the rest will be easy, and better ideas will come to me like crazy as soon as I next put cursor to page. It doesn’t help that my inner editor keeps telling me: “There’s plenty of blogs out there. What do you have to say? Do you have anything to contribute?” I know that’s a fear a lot of writers have, and I’m just one of out of many--but then I think, yeah, there’s lots of blogs out there on the world wide web, but a lot of them are not full of insightful, beautifully phrased anecdotes. What I want this blog to be, I honestly have to say I’m still not sure, but I guess we (if anyone is actually reading this) will just have to find out as I go along.

On what seems like a totally different note—but, I swear, related to my thoughts about not just writing, but writing something worthwhile—I’ve been wondering about a question a friend of mine posed to me awhile ago. “Where do the homeless guys get those black markers to write on the cardboard with?” Random, yes, but interesting I think. I get the cardboard. It’s pulled out of the trash and used. But what about the black markers they write with? Do they find those in the trash too, and once they find them are glad to find they still have some ink left? Or do some of them share a single black marker?

This has a point. I live in Chicago, and every day I pass by the homeless. I’m not trying to demean their lives or them as individuals in any way. But the thing is, I do pass by them everyday. They shouldn’t be, but they are just a part of the city to me. I rarely wonder who they are, where they came from, or why they’re sitting outside the Michigan Ave. stores jingling their McDonald’s cups and holding their signs. But, that question, “where do they get those black markers from?” forces us to think beyond them sitting on a street corner. What led them here? How did they become homeless? They couldn’t have always been hopeless right (my overly optimistic side thinks)? Or maybe that’s how they grew up (my cynical viewpoint kicks in)?

The question of the black marker is exactly what writing stories is about. It’s about looking beyond what we see everyday and not just seeing the man covered in dirt and tattered clothes. It’s about looking beyond, asking the how, what, when, and most importantly, the why. As our high school English teachers said, Go deeper, beyond the text. In this case, go beyond the visible.

I don’t have a particularly great answer about where they get those black markers from (and that’s part of the reason I bring it up—it can be anything we dream up in fiction), but the point, for now, is that I’m asking these questions (no matter how absurd they sound) and thinking them through.

This morning the question of the black marker changed. I passed an older man, hunched over his cardboard sign, which read, “I’m a good girl who’s made some bad decisions.” So maybe it’s as simple as they reuse old signs they find. But then again, what happened to that girl? Did she get off the streets? How? When? Where? What? Why? And before I know it, a story is forming.