owner of a lonely heart

I've never been one to deal well with loneliness, and so -- as I prepare to spend New Year's Eve alone and transitioning between apartments (i.e., sleeping on an air mattress in a largely unfurnished apartment) -- I'm in a bit of a funk. Now, it could be that I'm coming out of a week-long flu bout with with a strep throat chaser and all that Tylenol PM and Zithromax (combined with my period starting Friday) have brought me to the brink of depression. Or that watching four romantic comedies in a row (well, three, since The Break-Up surely can't be included in that genre) isn't the best thing to do when I'm dateless, hopeless, and only a step away from being homeless while everyone else is out cavorting and engaging in mass debauchery. But I don't think so. I really do think it's living alone that's doing it to me, and I've even taking to spending as much time as possible back at the house with the kiddos (and, indirectly, A.) to avoid having to come back to my place and be, well, alone. And so what am I doing? I'm getting a cat. Which, ironically, makes me feel happy to help a cat who would've been euthanized had I not saved her, but also even more alone.

The problem? This is what I've been wanting to feel, to experience, to learn. All along, I've said that I've never been alone, never known what it feels like to live by myself. What happens, though, if all of those lessons simply underscore that I've made a mistake moving in this direction? Does anyone reach a point when they stop second-guessing themselves and start feeling at home in their own skin -- alone?

it's a hazy shade of winter

After making plans for The Hideout last night, I ended up staying in and catching up on episodes of Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip I hadn't yet seen. I've had a stubborn killer headache since yesterday afternoon, and this cold weather just sucks. To top it all off, I'm drowning trying to swim in a dating pool after seven years of wasted energy... ugh.

At least there's a hafla with the hip mamas on Friday. And airfare to NYC just dropped to $83 r/t, so I'm making my plans to get away soon...

not quite a good idea...

OK, so taking B ice skating by myself wasn't exactly the best idea in the world. Never mind that *I* haven't been ice skating since 1989; I still had hopes that B would take to the ice like a fish to water and we'd be gracefully looping around the rink. Instead, we went around once, and he fell quite a bit, then we went home.

I'm glad it was free (except for the $2 skate rental). At least on the way home we stopped at Kaufman's Bagels, then the Pita Inn. So now I'm stuffed from onion bagels, falafel, and hummus, and watching winter shows on Nick Jr. while I try to write my Spring syllabi before going to see Volver tonight...

further proof i have no common sense whatsoever

My forehead hurts like heck after I beaned myself with my car door last night. I was at Spoon Thai getting food to bring to Val's (we had a girls' night in...) and freaked out when I couldn't find my cell phone... so I was in a hurry to get in the car and look for it, and bent down right as I was opening the door quickly. Ouch. Right now I've got a knot in my forehead, and I'm waiting for the bruising to catch up. At least since I've already dyed my hair blue, it will blend in?

Still reeling from a cold this evening -- been taking Airborne like crazy, and it's helping, but the knock to my noggin has dicombobulated me. Going off to watch All the King's Men now... it's my third movie of the day, having already watched Lifeboat and Zizek! earlier this afternoon...

the poor and infamous

I was at The Grind yesterday and looked up to see Peter Weller chatting with the barista... I left a few minutes later and found him standing in front of the Krause Music Store (one of Louis Sullivan's buildings) with his Frank's Home co-star Harris Yulin (best known as Roger Stanton on 24). I stopped to say hello and tell them how much I enjoyed their performances and had a good ten-minute conversation with them. We talked about Frank Lloyd Wright, Louis Sullivan, and their explorations on their day off. [They also asked my name, which led my friend J. to believe that perhaps Peter Weller was hitting on me, but given that he's 26 years older than I am, it wouldn't have happened anyhow...]

Still on my brush-with-celebrity high, T. and I headed out to the Steppenwolf to hear Allen Toussaint, and the show was marvelous. Everything he played warmed my heart, but it was his cover of Bob Dylan's Mama, You Been on My Mind that brought tears to my eyes.

After the Toussaint show, we went to the Double Door to see The M's and Catfish Haven. T. collected phone numbers like they were candy & I successfully rejected the 21-year-old firefighter who insisted he loves "older women" like me. [But at least he served as an effective repellant to the fat guy who was all over me...] Ugh.

Overall, just another day in the life -- going to see The Drastics on Wednesday at Piece with K., if anyone wants to join us. It's a late show, but I don't have to work until January 17...

back in the world of adulthood...

Last night was a reminder of how nice it is to go out on a "real" date (that wasn't even really a date, though it depends on the definition)... went out with J (ex-boyfriend) to Karyn's for a yummy vegan meal (with even yummier wine) then off to The Goodman for Frank's Home* & to the Huettenbar for a nightcap.

*It wasn't the best play I've seen, but the acting was excellent. J was excited to see Peter Weller (who, in addition to appearing in RoboCop, was apparently stellar in 1984's The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the 8th Dimension).

winter is a dreary place to be

My new apartment has no electricity, no heat, and a landlord who won't return phone calls about said lack of electricity and heat, which means I've spent the past four nights paying rent for an apartment I can't inhabit and sleeping on a couch I thought I'd seen the last of weeks ago. And someone backed into the side of my car this afternoon.

I feel like going to a bar and asking random strangers if they have a comfortable bed in a heated (and well lit) apartment. First one who says yes can take me home... though something makes me think it's better to incessantly call my landlord until he calls back. :)

i'm getting too old for this

While giving B. a piggyback ride, I fell down an entire flight of stairs at Ikea. I was fine until I got back to the city and made, oh, about nine trips up four flights of stairs carrying heavy shit. My knee is killing me, and I'm begging Mr. Big to give me some of the Vicodin he got after his root canal this afternoon. If that doesn't work, I'm sure the bartender at the Hideout will supply me with enough liquor to dull the pain this evening. Speaking of which, Mr. Big and I are going to the Hideout, so come out! We'll be there after 10pm...

they shoot grad students, don't they?

I think the fact that I've spent the last two hours reading The Overeducated Nympho's blog is proof that I am finally and irredeemably burned out on graduate school. I have a project due in less than 12 hours and here I am reading about some random woman's sexual exploits in Houston, of all places?

Off to watch Season Two of Sex and the City while doing a mediocre job on my project. I've got straight As in grad school so far, but it's not like anyone ever checks transcripts, and I doubt I will EVER lose out on a job by someone saying, "Hmmm. We were going to hire you, but it looks like you got a B in Phonology class. Now I don't know..."

So fuck phonology and hello television.

the dialectic of jack black & mr. big

Can people die from sleep deprivation? I got 45 minutes of sleep last night. And that's AFTER I asked for an extension on my phonology project so that I wouldn't have to stay up all night. But, while grading an insanely unfair number of papers, I watched the entire first season of Sex and the City, and I have some thoughts:

1. The hip mamas are my Sex and the City friends! Here I thought I'd missed out on that, but when we get together, we are those women who have those conversations (albeit with children and stretch marks and a decidedly philosophical - if not financial - objection to spending $500 on shoes).
   
   
2. I am certain I am Miranda. The scene where she's interacting with Skipper at the bar, and he's being genuine but she thinks he's mocking her? Oh, boy. I saw something like 22 relationships pass before my eyes during those 30 seconds.
   
   
3. Mr. Big is both intriguing and repelling (like my love-hate relationship with Jack Black, but opposite). I believe this is because I'm currently struggling with my own conflicting desires, a sort of dialectic between praxis and theory: lust tells me I should find a twenty-something art student living in Ukranian Village who rides a beat-up bicycle around town, whereas prudence insists I need a forty-something divorced single father with a fantastic job, River North loft, car service, and nice (vegan) shoes.

and then depression settles in

I hate this cold weather and how it makes me look like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

If I hear one more Chicago native refer to the "windshield" factor, I'm going to scream. And that goes for "viadocks" as well.

I was less stressed and got more sleep when I had B in the middle of the semester. Or when I went back to school and work only two weeks after having my head drilled open.

I need wine, a personal masseuse, and about eighteen hours straight of lounging in bed.

Someone give me a good reason why I cannot, a week before the semester ends, drop out of school and off the face of the planet to go live in Jamaica selling tsotschkes to tourists.