catching up with cadiz: wrigley field

For those of you wondering where the heck I've been, I apologize. Things have been mighty busy, and there have been dozens of posts that have been drafted and dumped because they didn't get posted in a timely manner. Here is one I thought I could salvage, even though I don't remember a lot of the details now. More posts to come, hopefully soon.

When my brother was in town (at the end of May, which feels like a million years ago), H and I took him and his roommate, Mark, to Wrigley Field for a tour.

The marquee (I remember it best from that flashback in Sleepless in Seattle).

The view from Waveland, near where everyone stands around in hopes of catching a ball.

The Chicago Bears played at Wrigley until 1970 and it's been used for soccer (Chicago Sting), concerts and they even had a ski-jump competition.

Originally it housed 14,000 fans and now can seat up to 41,000. We were a little mesmerized about how weird it looked all empty like this.

The place was the first to have an organ (the original is now in the Hall of Fame).

It's also the first baseball field where they allowed fans to keep foul balls as souvenirs.

No one has ever hit the scoreboard--with a baseball. Sam Snead hit it with a golf ball, teeing off from home plate.

If you look closely, home plate and the pitcher's mound don't line up with the "400" sign in center field. When they wanted to add seats, they cut left field and rolled it all back. The pitcher's mound now is where home plate used to be.

AC006299: "After Championship, it's been zero years since their last division championship, it's been 62 years since they won the pennant and it's been 99 years since they last won the World Series. The latin roughly translates to "Let's go Cubs."

People hang out on rooftops during games, too. Sometimes they light up that spinning Harry Caray wheel.

We got to sit in the pressbox. It's a real nice view.

Radio booth, where they might possibly sing "Take Me Out To The Ballgame" during the seventh-inning stretch. Or not. I don't remember.

We got to go into the locker rooms. This one's for visitors.

This is how you're supposed to wear the uniform.

Don't forget your bats, either.

Professional athletes need a LOT of products to look good on the field. And this was the visiting bathroom.

Squint and you'll see a wedding party. Apparently people like to have their photos taken at Wrigley. (Sounds like something my brother would want).

We went on the tour right before the Dodgers/Cubs series at the end of May, and we went to a couple of games. H got a bunch of shots of himself with this dodgers round identifier thingy. It's huge; this photo is from the pressbox. (And I've been informed that it's called the "on-deck circle.")

When we were at the game the next day, these cute old guys would entertain the crowd with their impromptu band.

H caught Derrek Lee's home run. (In fact, he took most of these photos--the good ones, at least.)

Personally, I go to ballgames for the hot dogs and beer. And the peoplewatching.

The Dodgers didn't fare too well in that series. They got swept, and Murphy's Bleachers rubbed it in. Sorry, H. But at least they made a grammatical mistake in their rush to gloat.

The famous ivy.

3!

Part of dinner the other night.

It's amazing that even after three years of talking for hours on the phone (and now in person) every single day, we still haven't run out of stuff to say.

speaking of gangsters

They're filming Public Enemies just outside our office. Those poor production assistants have been working overtime in the heat changing street and window signs and there are dozens of old-school cars lining the streets. Johnny Depp will be playing John Dillinger.

Here's the only wimpy photo I could get on Monday with my camera as I crossed the street trying not to look starstruck. Coincidentally that was Johnny's birthday (some people had signs).

On the left under the trees you can see a bunch of sweaty extras in heavy coats and fedoras sweating away in the heat.

But people.com had a way better shot of the shoot, including the man himself:

photo by Charles Sykes, Rex USA via people.com

Fake gangsters seem to plague my working life.

office supply closet

At my old office in the River North neighborhood of downtown Chicago, we were near a lot of interesting things: a Brown-line El stop, Brett's Kitchen, Batman, The Onion, lots of art galleries and a Starbucks where people often got pickpocketed.

The River North area is known for its interior design outlets, cathedrals and has the most galleries in the U.S. outside of Manhattan. Back in the day it had a lot of warehouses, too, and you can see the evidence in the exposed bricks and beams featured in a lot of the galleries and office buildings in the area. If you're real lucky, your office will come with a built-in man-size safe.

This is in a hallway of our old office between the two larger rooms of desks.

Nobody knew why there was a safe built into the wall. We wondered what the heck it could have been used for, especially because the combination lock wasn't particularly effective.

There isn't much room inside, either.

While we were still working there, we decided (based on no historical knowledge whatsoever) that gangsters used that safe to hide ungodly amounts of cash, guns or booze during Prohibition. Or bodies. It's over the top, I know, but any sort of intrigue makes sitting at a desk job seem a little more sexy.

Nowadays the "sexy" in our new office comes in the form of some muffled samba coming up through the floor. You've gotta take what you can get.

what?

Even if you're not a Lost fan, there's something really entertaining about one word repeated over and over.

And if you are a Lost fan, you'll probably appreciate this.

Actual posting coming soon.

come and knock on our door

This weekend, my brother's roommate, Mark (the Wafflehouse Skanks' drummer) will be in for a visit. He's never been to Chicago, so he and my brother are going to crash at our place for a couple days and check out the city. It'll be a Wrigley weekend: a tour of the Friendly Confines on Saturday and two Cubs/Dodger series games on Monday and Tuesday. That means a lot of hot dogs and stadium beer for me. Plus I'm having the (in-state) high school crowd over on Sunday. That's a lot of people for a 685-square-foot place, but I'm sure it'll be a lot of fun.

I'd much rather have my home packed with loved ones than what's been going on—not that I have any problems with people coming to see the place—the more prospective buyers, the better! But H told me that yesterday after a showing when he got back into our unit, it looked as though someone had been sitting on our bed. For some reason that really creeped me out. Strangers walking around and touching our things, sitting on the couch where I fall asleep every night at 10 pm, fondling my pillow, opening my fridge and seeing my stockpiles of string cheese. It's a little too much to think about. 

So instead I'll focus on what to recommend Mark sees while he's here. Any suggestions?

can't never catch up

Last week I admitted on twitter that I was having a Jessie Spano "I'm so excited" moment, and some of you expressed your concern (Thanks for the "no hope with dope" reminder, Omar).

It's not that things are bad, or even really terribly hectic, but for some reason, I feel like I'm behind, like there are eleventeen hundred things that would better serve me to do than sitting around watching last season's So You Think You Can Dance all in one long Cat-Deely-narrated marathon. Yet there was nothing I could do to remove myself from its tractor beam.

Or maybe it's the waiting. Patiently anticipating has never been my strong suit; I always feel more productive walking twenty blocks than waiting twenty minutes for the bus, even though it takes a lot longer. The waiting—for things we've worked for to fall into place so I can finally relax—is killing me. So much so that the acid reflux/ulcer/monster in my stomach is coming back. I really hope I don't have to sleep sitting up again.

So in relaxation exercise, I share some of these shots of my trip to my brother's graduation:

I don't know too many people who can say they've been on a Jumbo Tron.

Mobile Bay, just behind the restaurant we went to for a celebratory dinner after the ceremony. There was a dock back there from which people were giving pontoon and airboat rides. We had to wait about two and a half hours for a table, and I was mighty tempted to hop on one and search for alligators.

*

But it was worth the wait: This was the view from our table. That was also where I tried alligator (small bites and a nice spicy sauce). It also had some killer Key Lime Pie.

Driving 14 hours in a Chrysler Sebring (the backseat is like a vortex—so close to the ground that adults can barely see out the windows) with my parents and H wasn't nearly as bad as it could be. Even though we were stuck on a bridge the bayou for three hours in the dark with hundreds of other cars because of a fatal accident, with no idea when we'd be able to see the inside of a bathroom. I had the through-the-night driving shift both on the way there and back, and couldn't help myself but cheer as we passed through a little town in Kentucky:

H was awake on the way back so I pulled over and made him take some pictures. I was in some of them, but after six hours of middle-of-the-night driving (on top of the three-hour bayou delay) I was looking disheveled at the very best and probably a lot more like a psychotic demon because of the way my hair got so very frizzy and frazzled down there in the humidity. So I'll spare you that nightmarish image. I'm dying to know how they pronounce it down there, but I'm pretty sure I'd have some shoes thrown at me if I tried to stop and find out at 3 am.

***UPDATE***

Sorry it's not more exciting. No actual woodmen were spotted, however there was a lovely (retention) pond by the side of the turn off.

* All photos were taken by H, except for the one of the airboat, which was courtesy of Cadiz.

the things we give up for love

"Did you see that girl we just passed? I really liked her dress."

"Eh, it was okay. But did you see how much makeup she had on?"

"I thought she looked nice!"

"Maybe from far away, but as she got closer you could see it was really caked on. Gross."

"You're totally the reason I don't wear makeup. Not because I'm lazy or anything."

"I never said Don't wear it. I just don't like when you leave that menthol or minty or whatever-it-is stuff on my Gatorade bottle."

"I stopped wearing that Burt's Bees stuff because you said that."

"We all make sacrifices. Like when I started dating you, I had to come to terms with saying goodbye to my liver-flavored chapstick."

"I appreciate that. You're a pal."

you'll never get those 3 hours back, but you won't get another shot, either

On Saturday we watched as my brother graduated from college.

A few months ago, he told us that he didn't want to walk in the ceremony, that it wasn't a big deal and it's not like he'll get anything other than the empty certificate holder anyway. Plus, it'd be an all-school graduation and likely last several hours. After a lot of persuading, I convinced him to suck it up and get fitted for that cap and gown because my parents deserved to see him up there. And though he grumbled the entire way and took his cap off as soon as he sat back down, he went through with it. 

We made the drive and got dressed up and filed into the auditorium. Most people sitting around us were leafing through the pamphlets and chattering (however there was an extremely frazzled mom with no grasp on her loud children, who rested their feet on our shoulders, drowned out the speakers and repeatedly hurled shredded programs at H's head). I was looking around at everything from the jumbotron to the blond-wood bass in the band and suddenly I was crying. 

I don't know what prompted it. I wasn't thinking about anything in particular, but the tears kept rolling and I couldn't do anything to stop them. All these years of my brother struggling just to make it through another day, let alone the rigors of earning a diploma—it really is quite an accomplishment. And it definitely wasn't easy. Several semesters were missed for surgery, recovery and complications, and dozens of credit units didn't transfer from school to school. A lesser man might have called it quits a long time ago. 

I looked over at my mom, who was in the same state. All she could do was smile through her tears. Later she said she had been picturing that first surgery, when my brother's tiny three-month-old body was covered in tubes and encased in an incubator, and how she hadn't known then if she should even hope to see this day. I held her hand; that's all I've ever really had to offer.
 

Five years ago, my then-boss' sister (who also worked at our company) had been diagnosed with lung cancer, despite never having smoked a cigarette in her life. The sister was one of those people who make your day better just by the way they say hello. My boss was just as wonderful: She was fair and kind and considerate and kicked ass at her job. And we worked hard because we didn't want to let her down. I loved that boss. She taught me so much, not just about our craft, but about what it really means to supervise people so they can grow. She gave me the feedback that pushed me toward a job I had hoped to snag someday but worried I wasn't good enough for. And she was a genuinely awesome person.

I knew my boss was having a really tough time seeing her sister in so much pain. And while there's not a lot that you can say to comfort people at times like that, I know a little about how it is. My boss said that hearing about my brother made her feel a little better—especially when I told her that the doctors had said we'd be lucky if he made it to age 20 and that we had just toasted his 21st birthday.

Unfortunately, my boss' sister didn't make it. Even more tragic, my boss herself was diagnosed with cancer last year. When I found out, I got her a card that just said "Shit." (She got a kick out of that.) When I was putting it into our office's Outgoing Mail pile, a senior person picked it up and approached me kind of menacingly. I thought I violated some policy about sending personal mail from the office, but it turned out that he was my boss' brother-in-law. He offered to hand-deliver the card because she'd been coming to his house to recover after every round of chemo.

Even though she had been doing really well, things took a turn for the worst and my boss passed away early Sunday morning, as we were getting done celebrating brother's graduation in Alabama. Losing her has hit everyone hard: I've gotten calls from people I haven't seen in years, and I will probably see more at the memorial on Thursday. It's terrible that it'll take a death to bring us all back together again. But it is a testament to how much this woman is loved and how I didn't have to go far before I bumped into someone else who is blessed to have known her. 

If I had gotten to see my boss before she died, I would have told her that not only did my brother finally graduate after seven years, but he'll be turning 26 in September and continues to raise hell every single day. I think it would have made her happy to hear. 

It pays to celebrate what you've got, while you still have it.

Leave it to the skanks

I have just been informed that one of the Wafflehouse Skanks has broken Rock Band. Granted, the way it was presented to me was with the phraseology "something shorted in the drums; we didn't do it on purpose" but I recognize that sentence for the flimsy coverup for alcohol-laden gaming that it is. 

I am upset. I was really looking forward to taking a crack at it because a) I've never played Rock Band b) I've never played w/ more than one other person c) I'd do WAY better at the singing than playing any instrument and d) Playing video games with my brother is really fun. 

I probably can still try out the other instruments and sing, but it just won't be the same without the drums. 

Maybe I can convince H to let us bring the extra guitar and Guitar Hero so any hard-core Cadiz rocking out will not be impeded in Alabama.

Stupid skanks.

p.s. When I googled "Wafflehouse Skanks" to get the link to my earlier post, it wasn't even the first one that came up! This blog came up third, and it wasn't even the band post that it linked to, but one about the people our office shares a building with. The first two links are to how Kid Rock got into trouble with the law at a Waffle House, and apparently there were skanks present. Who would have guessed? 

listed

We finally listed the place on Monday, about a month after the realtor was hoping we would. But I think all the improvements were worth the delay and now if it languishes on the market I'll have fewer woulda/shoulda/couldas to kick myself about.

Tuesday morning H had to get the place ready at the last minute for a showing. He showered, set up the bed and all the "show" towels, vacuumed, cleaned the electric stovetop, cleared all the clutter and took out the garbage in about 25 minutes. He opened the door with the trash in hand to the realtor and prospective buyers. What a trooper.

This weekend he will be joining the Cadiz clan on a drive to Alabama for my brother's graduation. Nothing like a 12-hour road trip to get to know your girlfriend's parents. Any suggestions for a good book on tape?

hey nonbelievers: this is how we did it

A few weeks ago we went to suburbia to wait for H's stuff that never came, and we made the most of being unable to leave my parents' house all day by using my dad's tools and all that room to fashion a headboard for our place.

After a trip to the hardware store and the crack house, we had the materials: foam, plywood, fabric, staplegun, household glue and random measuring equipment.


H's sister had suggested we hang three panels of varying colors for more interest, so we originally had a large piece of plywood cut into thirds. But after we settled on a very diagonally patterned and texture-y fabric, we decided it'd be easier to do a single color in one large piece instead of three separates that we'd have to match up over rounded edges.


So we had to attach them back together and cross our fingers that the divisions weren't too obvious under the fabric.


I'm not that into glitz, but we agreed that a little shine never killed anyone. Plus I like the fact that what's normally the "wrong side" (the stitching of all those pieces together) is what makes the "right side" look cool.


We put the boards together with brackets. At this point it would have been really smart to add a layer of batting, as H's sister had originally suggested, because a) the fabric is a hundred diamond-shapes of silk sewn together—if it ripped, it'd be a mess b) the edges of the board wouldn't feel so hard and c) it'd help hide the divisions between the three panels underneath. Unfortunately we forgot about the batting until we were done and attempting to transport the thing (which was not easy, by the way. Maybe panels would have been a better option after all).


Stapling was good for channeling our angst about waiting around all day with no word on when his stuff was going to show. Especially when it didn't even end up coming.


I was a little over-enthusiastic about pulling the fabric taut. If we do this again, I'll have to take more zen breaths and relax.



It's always a good idea to make sure everything is level and matches up. I let H do the math.

I'm happy with the way it turned out. Maybe in the next place we'll get to do more home-improvement projects. My inner Martha is constantly straining at the leash and H has proven himself to be more than handy. However, I'm starting to think he's acquired those skills to justify his constant daydreaming about the ridiculous power tools he'd someday like to own. 

let them do the walking

Hey peeps, I know there are a bazillion great causes out there, but two people I know (one of whom is the illustrious highcontrast) are putting on their walking shoes to raise a little cash for charity.

The first is someone I worked with years ago, right around her son's birth. Jackson is a great kid who's making a lot of progress. His parents* have participated in Walk Now For Autism for several years, and Team Action Jackson always has cool t-shirts.

Highcon** is walking in New York to help fight AIDS. This epidemic isn't going away, and many people are still getting infected every day.

And just because it has helped my brother so tremendously in his life—from making him confident and aware that he's not suffering alone, to offering him a whole network of people his age who understand the crap he's been through that goes way beyond the "camp" experience—I include a link to Camp Bon Coeur, a camp for kids with cardiac issues.

* Jackson's mom has an essay published in the local paper.
** Some of you may have noticed that I didn't include a link to highcon's donation site. If you'd like to contribute to his AIDS walk, please e-mail me at cadiztwelve[at]gmail[dot]com.

another seven years of bad luck? no thanks.

Every potential hole in the wall warrants a discussion about whether the safety/necessity of said hole is worth pissing off potential buyers or having to patch them later. 

In our redecorating we got a small table for the front hall, on which I put a fairly large and heavy mirror. I was content to leave it leaning on the table, but H was uneasy that someone might catch a table leg and the mirror would crash and break into shards. I told him not to be so uptight—it's not like Illinois is known for its earthquakes, and tornadoes rarely hit downtown—but I relented. He attached those safety straps people put on furniture so kids don't pull it down on top of themselves. 

It was a good thing he did it, too, because apparently there was an earthquake in the Chicago area at 4 am this morning. I don't believe there was too much damage or any injuries, but my boss woke up and blamed his wife for shaking the bed. And people even felt it in the dungeon.

I sort of remember waking up in the middle of the night, but I doubt it was because I felt the tremor. When my family and I visited my  mom's godmother in California in 1987, there was a 6-point-some earthquake while I slept in a bed on wheels. The next morning I woke up clear across the room, having been tossed around quite a bit without noticing a thing. 

Thank God H went with his instincts and protected that mirror, because these last few years I've had just about all the bad luck I can handle.

edged out and showing up

Long ago, I reported seeing some kind of jackal tearing through the streets of Chicago.

A little less long ago, there was a coyote who parked himself in a cooler of a Quizno's in the Loop (downtown).

And now it seems a cougar has wandered into the city from maybe as far as The Badlands.

Perhaps this is a sign that people should stop putting concrete on every parcel of land not covered in water?

that white speck is the light at the end of the tunnel—or just an errant piece of drywall

H and I have been furiously working to get the condo ready to be listed since he got off the plane on March 24. This has included new appliances, a new wood floor, new furniture, making a headboard, and scouring every home-type store, student art gallery, hardware store and Target within 30 miles. We have made more trips to IKEA in the last three weeks than trips made in the combined lifetimes of all members of both of our families, and the condo's front-desk people are wondering if we're building an emporium in our unit because of the frequent requests for freight elevators and luggage carts to haul all this stuff up there. 

We even contacted artist friends to see if we might borrow a few pieces for a few months, but unfortunately the logistics didn't work out (however, I really liked a piece featuring a Rabbit that was painted by Kaiya's fiance, and was disappointed that we needed more of a vertical). It even got to the point where I bought a ginormous canvas and dug up my own oil paints in an attempt to come up with something useable. But then I remembered that any piece of art I've made has taken weeks or months, and we just don't have that kind of time (and I can't stand to look at my own stuff anyway). So we hung a mirror instead.

Our realtor came by last night and said things looked good. The only thing left to do is hang six framed photos in the hall—a 30-minute job that will likely take 4 hours with all the scooching and adjusting and laser-leveling.  We've been been procrastinating on it, probably because after that I'll have nothing to do but lose sleep over how long it will take the place to sell.

We had the good luck of finding an all-purpose contractor guy who happens to be married to my mom's coworker, and he finished all of our projects in record speed (it also really helped that the weather was craptastic all last week so he wasn't able to go to his 9-5 job and could work with us). So if anyone is looking to make home improvements in the Chicago area, e-mail me.

What's hilarious about this whole thing is that it's a TINY place with only four rooms. I have no idea how people with full-out houses complete with backyards and chimneys and shutters and all that other jazz do what it takes to get things moving in this kind of market. All I know is that we're going to think long and hard about the next place we get because renovating is not as fast and simple and cheap as it seemed when we started. But I do like the way it looks, even though it feels a little impersonal.

As a reward, I have been on a Guitar Hero fast since the Wii was delivered. H has already rocked it, and he even bought me my own guitar-controller, but I have stuck to my policy of delayed gratification and won't plug in until that last damn picture is hanging on the wall and our place is listed. Because, as we all know, once I get the fever, I'm not going to want to sleep, eat or work until I have conquered it. So I may as well get everything done first.

But once it's on, it's ON.

nothing says "I'm sorry" like rows and rows of gadgets

"Sorry I didn't call you earlier to say I couldn't come home early and you had to sit around all afternoon."

"Take me to Fry's Electronics, and I'll forgive you."

"Ok, we'll make time for Fry's tonight in between the paint store and the hardware store."

"I can be bought—I forgive you."

"I guess every man has a price."

let's hope i don't have to re-knit sweaters

For years, I've said that I lived at my parents' house because I had to stockpile money for the impending Depression, and that all my years spent learning to make clothes, knit and generally be crafty were preparation for the hard times I was sure are coming. I was mostly kidding, of course.

Salon has an opinion piece today about just how close we are to falling off the edge of the cliff and into another economic depression. And while this is one person's take on the current situation that I don't even completely understand, there's some interesting discussion in the comments that sort of freaks me out.

Nobody knows what will happen, but I'm going to try and educate myself a little better about what's going on. And I sure as hell will think twice about joking about it again.

day off

After a month of working/hustling on this condo stuff every single day, we slept in, then watched two movies on TNT while waiting for the replacement microwave (the one we got looks like it had been dropped from a great height and the resulting dent won't even allow us to fit it into the space where we need to mount it).

All this sitting around is putting me into a panic; with all that go-go-go, doing this feels a little bit insane.

Currently, we're wondering if paying a professional to move our own furniture around, lending us art and a few tchotchkys for three months and recommending paint colors for a high price is really what it takes to sell a place, or if just doing the paint recommendations at a lesser price is better. Our realtor wanted us to get listed last week, but it's taking awhile longer to get everything together. In the time since we last checked, there are SEVEN other comparable units in our building up for sale, some of them on higher floors. So now I'm thinking using a certified stager is a better use of our money than doing it myself and guessing wrong. But I don't know for sure, because the women who came by for an assessment seemed to like all the stuff I had already picked out. Were they just kissing up so I'd sign with them or am I capable of choosing my own stuff? God only knows.

I can't wait until this is all over so I can get back to watching TNT all weekend without feeling guilty.

moving is tough on moms

This weekend, when my parents were helping me move stuff in and appliances out of the condo with the U-Haul and my dad and I were wrangling over the title of Most Bossiest, I said something to them in the heat of the moment that they needed to hear, but not from me. 

My mother was interjecting that when we move all my brother's stuff home from college in a few months, my dad and I better not be arguing like this. I replied that bickery situations like this were exactly why my little brother isn't moving home, so it wouldn't be an issue anyway.

My dad was in the heat of battle and probably strategizing his next argument for why his way of doing things was far superior to my less-experienced take. My mother, however, looked like someone just slapped her in the face. She stared at me in shock long enough for me to see her eyes well up with tears. The she snapped, "Good for him! That way he won't have to deal with all this nonsense." She got up and abruptly left the room.

My brother has told me on several occasions that he doesn't really want to leave Mobile for home in Chicago. This completely boggles my mind, because he's looking into working in the sports industry and Mobile doesn't even have any professional teams, while Chicago has more than most cities in the country. It's true that he's got some really good buddies down there, but he's still tight with his boys from high school, most of whom still live up here. There's some other poppycock about the weather, but I don't consider that a valid reason. Granted, living with my parents isn't always a picnic, but I've found that the benefits far outweigh any periodic negatives. Besides, as I've been telling him for years, I need him to come home because I'm moving—we are like a wrestling duo, and the time has come for him to tag me out of the ring because those two cannot be left alone unsupervised.

I have been in on the discussion my brother's not moving back here for months, but he hasn't said much to my mom other than that he hasn't decided. And he really hasn't. In the back of my mind I'm hoping for him to come home. I think my mom just assumed it, so it was a jolt to hear the contrary. I can still picture the expression on her face when she heard and that just makes me want to cry.

It's certainly not easy for a mom to say goodbye to her baby, knowing that things will never be quite the same. But no matter how old you are or how far away you're going, seeing your mother cry is one of the most heartbreaking things there is.

just when you think you've thought of everything

You wake up, late for work, only to realize that you have shower curtains but no shower-curtain RINGS.

Thank goodness H is resourceful.

Also, after less than 24 hours in the new place, I have a greater appreciation for my parents and all that I haven't had to worry about during the last few years since I was in my own apartment. Only having to do one-third of the chores will certainly be missed.

It's also really easy to take everyday things, such as a refrigerator, for granted. Until you have to improvise.

The new appliances don't come until Thursday.

Other than that, I think things are going well. Hopefully the place will start to come together and we can get on with finally being able to relax. But the fifteen-minute walk to work and seeing H in person pretty much whenever I want makes it all worth it.

H gets in today. Hopefully he'll stay awhile.

"The idea of this would actually make me want to live in California."

"So that's all it would take? A full-blown Microfarm? Why didn't you say so!"

"WITH solar panels?"

"Argh!!! You got me. I'll be on a plane on Monday."

Maybe the Easter bunny will bring me some lamps

For all of you wondering about the Great Move, here's probably WAY more updates than you care for:

• Tenants are out. I got the keys, the place is getting cleaned as we speak.
• Ordered new appliances (stainless is a must in this market) 
• Got an exorbitant price quote on hardwood; getting a second opinion. However, I kind of really want it. But I don't want to have to pay for it with my teeth. (Perhaps that expression only works in Hindi.)
• Bought barstools with the same style of stitching as the couch at a pretty good deal—no exchange/no return—proceeded to puncture a hole in the back of one with the door of my car on the way home. The store stuck to its policy. I nearly cried.
• After looking at three bazillion comforter sets, I finally chose one (blue w/ brown accents) that has a very subtle leaf design. (Thanks for the coupon, H's sister!)
• Found a west elm rug for the living room that has a similar leaf pattern (look at me tying things together subconsciously)
• Will be buying a nightstand, coffee table and tv console today after work. (fingers crossed)
• Stumped trying to figure out what kind of desk* will work in a space like this:

From the door to the heating post is 32", the post sticks out 14" and from that corner to the wall is 26.5". The line on the carpet is where the edge of the bed will likely be, approximately 38" from the parallel post-wall. Yes, I realize how ridiculous this space is.

• H's shipped stuff will probably be delayed; trying to find something for him to do in the empty place waiting all day for the furniture/appliances—perhaps assemble furniture?
• Trying to figure out which accent color will look good on the wall behind a blue bedspread and dark brown nightstand. 
• Trying to find decent-priced metal-ish pendant lights to hang from/replace this awkward-looking track light over the kitchen bar:

• Packing. What exactly defines "essential" anyway?
  
• Moving furniture in/old appliances out in a U-Haul excursion with my dad (cause for stress in itself, as we are both made of the same stubborn, know-it-all DNA, which only flares up when dealing with one another) on Saturday.
  

Who knew getting a handful of furniture to make a place "show" ready would be so damn frustrating? If I were just shopping for us, this would be a lot more fun. But trying to pick stuff I like that'll appeal to a variety of buyers, as well as work wherever we end up living next is downright mind-boggling.

On top of that, I have to find a hotel in Mobile for all of us to stay at for my brother's graduation, a task we talked about doing months ago that has somehow slipped through the cracks. And work. Gotta find time for that, too. Oh, and that little holiday thing going on this weekend, too. Perhaps the family wouldn't mind joining in on some freight-elevator rides to celebrate?

*any suggestions would be greatly appreciated

even if it means they call me Dork

I remember trying to explain the Auntie thing to H when he and I were first dating. I confessed to feeling weird about the idea of calling people who are older than me by their first names (even now I only do so at work). What's with all the awkwardness? I blame the motherland. 

Where my family's from, everyone has a very specific title; you never have to say "My father's younger brother's wife," you say "My Chachi" (or whatever the word is depending what area you hail from). And while learning them can be tricky, using them makes things easier. Especially when you employ my no-embarrassment method of addressing any unrelated elder as Auntie or Uncle.

Sepia Mutiny had a tribute post to the Auntie today and one commenter mentioned that he feels more warmth and affection when his cousin's children address him as "Mama" (mother's brother) or "Chacha" (father's brother) than if they were to just call him "Uncle."

I feel exactly the same way. In fact, I've been telling my brother for years that my kids will call him "Mama" no matter how much he protests. My brother, however, thinks that sounds ridiculous and would prefer that my children call him by his first name, or "Uncle." He swears that if I make my kids call him "Mama" he will make his own children address me as "Dork."

So I guess that just proves that personality has just as much to do with people's choices as culture. But it's interesting how people choose which practices to keep from what they knew as children. And the comments on that Sepia Mutiny post show only a small variety of how many choices are out there. 

I'm banking on the hope that my children will be adorable, so even if they were to call my brother something like "Uncle Doodyface" he'd just chuckle and say, "Just call me Mama." 

it's just not St. Patrick's Day without a little blarney

St. Patrick's day is a major celebration in Chicago, with everything from parades to drink specials that last anywhere from the actual day to several weeks around it. They even dye the river green every year. It's cool because you don't have to be Irish to partake, and I love seeing green everywhere. The Mardi Gras beads and boingy shamrock headbands I could do without, but who am I to judge? 

This year St. Paddy's falls on a Monday (today), so festivities have been in high gear all weekend. I was in the city at Ri and C's house because our Italian-who-works-in-U.K. friend, Valerio, was on this side of the ocean for a rare visit. I hadn't seen him in several years and was also looking forward to seeing his wife, but she's hanging out in Paris while Valerio is here. These people are international jet-setters and I'm hoping that my limited exposure to them will give my cool points a boost until I can get back on a plane again. Plus Valerio is absolutely hilarious, with his frank and jolly way of telling stories; his words carry an adorable Italian accent, peppered with the American slang he picked up during college in the States.

Ri and C live in a high-rise that overlooks Lake Michigan—parking is tough, to put it nicely. Many of the guest of honor's friends from around town stopped by to say hello, calling from the lobby to have the doorman buzz them in. Two of his roommates from college arrived, and were on their way up as Valerio regaled us with stories about how they had hosted some wild parties. Something about drunken shenanigans that led to them having to throw the couch off the balcony and keep their remote control in a plastic baggie after one legendary incident.

As the stories got crazier and crazier, we began to wonder what had happened to his friends. They had been buzzed up nearly 45 minutes earlier; surely it doesn't take that long to get into an elevator and press number 42.  And just as the speculating really began, there was a knock at the door.

Jim* and Joe ambled in, holding beers. There were two tipsy girls in their early twenties sheepishly bobbing around behind them in the hall (I couldn't see them from where I sat, but one was described as a 6-foot-5 "giantess").  The boys had been partying at the St. Patrick's Day parade all day and feeling amiable, so when the girls bumped into them in the lobby and asked them up for a drink, they said What the hell, and went.

Apparently giantess and company had been living it up all day, too, and after about half an hour, Jim and Joe became aware of how tipsy the ladies were and began looking for an exit. The girls came along to our party upstairs and Ri even invited them in to join us, but they awkwardly retreated and went back to their own condo.

About 30 minutes later, Valerio was describing the time some sorority girls dressed him as a woman for Halloween. He had not committed to the costume enough to shave anything other than his face, so long, dark hair showed through the "leg stockings" and peeked out from the opening of his shirt. "Man, I was HUGLY!" he said, with a twinkle in his eye.

We were laughing so uproariously that we didn't even notice the door open. All heads swung around to face the giant girl who had come back upstairs, this time with a giant yellow Labrador tucked under her arm, and invited herself in.

"Um, Joe?"

"Hey there! Do you want something to drink?"

"Uh no, not exactly. My friend, well, you see it's her birthday today, so she guilt-tripped me into coming up here and telling, I mean asking, you that um...Wow, I didn't think everyone would be listening..." [rapt silence and continued listening]

"Go on."

"Well, um, so it's her birthday, so uh, well...Um, she wanted me to tell you that...We're in 3308... All night."

"Uh, thanks."

"Okay, bye." [she leaves, and Joe's ears have turned the color of an unrequited Sweetest Day carnation]

We're all staring at each other incredulously. Why would she just open the door without knocking? Why didn't she at least take him out into the hall to make that kind of proposition? And most of all, just how drunk were those chickadees? Joe said there wasn't some great connection or anything; how many invites were they giving out that night anyway?

Prankster that he is, Valerio thought it would be funny to tell their other roommate John (who was on his way from another party) that we were in unit 3308 as a joke. You know, just to see what would happen. Poor John went there and discovered the giantess crew, who was even more plastered by then. He quickly realized he'd been duped and found his way up to our party.

We spent the rest of the evening swapping stories about crazy times in the past. Valerio told us about singing Karaoke in Tokyo at his wedding reception. An Italian uncle gave a speech in Japanese and a Japanese uncle gave a speech in Italian, and Jim admitted that they had made him cry. John said he's still paying for bottles of champagne they enjoyed at the six-star hotel where festivities were held.  And we shared some of our own stories from Italy. Everyone resolved to meet up sometime in an exotic locale—other than Chicago, of course. A good time was had by all.

I can't help but think about how fun it was to relive those old memories. Something about telling it as history makes our experiences so much more impressive than they had been when we were going through them. Whatever it was, I'm looking forward to hearing Valerio tell the story of the indecent proposal on St. Patrick's Day weekend in Chicago in the years to come. But I'm pretty sure Joe won't be coming to any more parties in that building.

****UPDATE****

What I failed to mention is that Joe** made a big deal about how embarrassed he was, going on and on about how he's going to be known as "That Guy" from now on and how this was incredibly humiliating (which is why I put as my first postscript that he really didn't have anything to be embarrassed about). We couldn't figure out why he was being so dramatic about it; even when he left early and we all were like Oh we know where YOU'RE going and he put on such a front: "You guys can follow me downstairs if you want! I SWEAR I'm not going to 3308! You can watch me leave the building even!" Geez, dude, relax.
 

It turns out that he DID go down there. After we had left, Valerio, Jim and John told Ri and C that this guy is only a cousin of a friend and tags along with them. The guys wanted us to know that they are not like him and they aren't cool with that kind of stuff—mostly because Joe is married. I'm not going to make soapbox judgements about how people live their lives, but suddenly this story just isn't that funny anymore.

*Some names have been changed to protect the Embarrassed, even though there really wasn't anything to be embarrassed about.

**Joe's real name is Brian. He was *embarrassed* enough to make a big show for us, so I feel okay about sharing his name now.

And I will neverevereverever do it again.

After nine months, I finally managed to miss the bus. On a day I woke up earlier than usual! (Figures.)

Standing on the corner at 7:03 am, I wasn't sure what to do. My first instinct was to cut through some back yards and try to catch the bus as it came back around out of our subdivision. But I think I hesitated too much because as I headed that way, I heard it rumble past. Then I tried to head toward the main entrance to our neighborhood, and watched it sail away on the other side of the elementary school—there was no way I would have been able to cross that soccer/football/tag/ring-around-the-rosy field in time. 

I had heard that there was another bus, at around 7:30 am. But the one I normally get is the only route that passes through my neighborhood. There is a busy street that separates our subdivision from another one, so I figured I'd head over that way. Unfortunately, I have no idea what route it takes over there because my bus picks those people up before they get to me and drop them off after I get off. 

I had my Pumas on, so I figured I'd give the 3.5-mile walk a try. I've always been curious as to how long it'd take me to hoof it, it wasn't terribly freezing out this morning and I do a lot of walking downtown as it is, so it probably wouldn't be an issue. So I set off, holding a single-serving pizza box with leftovers from last night's dinner. 

The thing about walking in the city is that there's so much to look at, you don't realize you're exerting any effort. But trudging past the field used in the header for this blog (which is a barren expanse of dirt at this time of year) wasn't nearly as interesting as downtown Chicago. I plodded along. I didn't realize until it was too late that the flimsy cardboard pizza box was coming open at the side and after a thump, I saw my lunch face down on the concrete. So I had to take a detour to find a garbage can.

I got about 3/4 of a mile away and was waiting on the corner for the WALK signal when my bus pulled up to the light. I guess it pays to be friendly, because my driver was on his way back from dropping off my normal crew and recognized me. He waved. I said Screw walking, and skirted through the cars at the light to get on. I had to ride through the entire route, so now I have a good backup plan in case I miss the bus again. The weird thing is that I got on the bus about 40 minutes later than I usually do, but because I didn't have to wait long for a train, I got to my office only ten minutes later than I usually do.

Too bad I'm moving to the city in two weeks, after which the lessons learned on this particular excursion will be completely useless. And so it goes.

milestone: year 3

This weekend I went to dinner with ri and kaiya to catch up. It's been quite a while since we've had quality time together, and ri said something to the effect of You know, I feel like I find out more about you from reading your blog than from sitting across from you at dinner like this. I wasn't sure if I should be sad or glad about that. Granted, it's easy to wander off on a tangent while discussing marriageable characteristics portrayed on The Bachelor. But more importantly our time together is so limited that we often spend it all just getting everyone up to speed on what's happening in our respective lives.

I feel like I need to have a catching up of sorts here, what with all the crazy crap going on that I haven't had time to explain. Let me start with how I missed the third anniversary of this blog last Friday. Which is surprising even to me.

Normally, I post snippets of what people might have missed. I'm too exhausted for that. And here's why: 

Back in 2004 I started working in the dungeon. I was living with my parents and sleeping in same bed I had grown up sleeping in. And while the 36-mile commute wasn't the best—what with the parking and all—I felt a lot better pulling into their quiet cul-de-sac at 4 a.m. than I would have parking on a Chicago city street and walking alone to my own apartment. Plus, I had the whole house to myself because when I was awake, they were asleep or at work. And eventually, the steep discount on rent allowed for more frequent trips to see H.

The dungeon thing was a two-year gig with an option to stay on. Certain factors indicated that I had a pretty good shot, so I purchased a tiny piece of high-rise property that would turn my commute into a seven-minute walk or a $4 cab ride. But because long-term dungeon was not a done deal, I allowed the person who had been renting it to stay there until I found out, even though the rent did not cover all of the mortgage and assessments.

Then the economy started to turn. The dungeon didn't work out after all and I was done by New Year's Day 2007. I didn't find a full-time right away, so I was freelancing and wrangling with tenants. (Apparently, sympathy and being considerate are traits that successful landladies do not have.) And even though I technically had no holes in my resume, I wasn't eligible for unemployment compensation and started freaking out about covering the bills. I was told employers would be scrambling to snatch me up when they saw I had a big-name dungeon on my resume, but the industry on the whole was hit very hard and there were few takers and a lot of talent to compete with.

So I visited Miami. Then Detroit. I courted people in New York and Los Angeles. And then I snagged a full-time gig in Chicago. I was relieved that I wouldn't have to sell my place and could still be local to deal with tenant drama. And live with my mom. And still be able to afford plane tickets to LAX.

Then I got laid off on my birthday. Our last day wasn't until November, so there was a cushion to figure out what to do next. 

Looking for a job and not knowing when or how much the next paycheck would be during most of 2007 was not fun. The stress brought on some health issues, too. So I decided to make the leap and join a startup business. Unfortunately, while the tiny high-rise condo is not far from the startup, the place and all of its high-end niceties is a bit out of my current price range. Especially now that the current tenants have broken their lease and I have no rent to count on.

So this is the plan: 

• The current tenants are moving out next week 
• H is moving here the week after that
• We will stay at the place, renovate it ("Um, stainless-steel appliances and hardwood floors are STANDARD now, Cadiz") and put it on the market—Hopefully this will be my absolute last stint as landlady. Ever.
  
• Instead of paying 5K for three months to have professionals "stage" the place with rented furniture and accessories, I'm trying to buy stuff that will make the current digs look nice and can also work with wherever we end up moving after (when?) it sells. 
• Hopefully H will have an easier time landing a full-time gig than I did.
  
  

All of the above has pretty much overtaken my thoughts (and kept me up at night) for the last few weeks. I'm extremely excited to be in the same zip code with H. It's pretty much the only thing that's keeping me sane. But it's a big step for us; this weekend he's selling most of his stuff. I think I might be more sad that he's parting with it than he is.

Tonight our startup company is having a launch party to celebrate little guys everywhere (but mostly just us). Things are going pretty smoothly and hopefully in time we can build a bigger and even stronger business. The newspaper gave us a small mention, so that's a good start. I'll be toasting to new beginnings.

But that's not all there is to celebrate. Three years of blogging! I'd just like to thank every one who reads what I write here, especially those whom I don't get to see or talk with often. It means a lot to me that you take time out of your day to stop by and comment, and you always give great advice. You guys are the best.

Much love, 

Cadiz

when your boss dreams about your boyfriend

"You want to freak out your man? Tell him I had a dream about him last night."

"Really? What happened in your dream?"

"H and I were dressed up like Aquabats and trick-or-treating."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah, and it was like a messed-up Batman and Robin; you know, because I'm not too much taller but I have more mass than he does. And it's not like we were little kids, we were our age now."

"That's hilarious. I'm totally going to tell him that! How'd you guys make out with the candy? DId you get a good haul?"

"You know, it's funny; we weren't even getting candy, we were getting little things like pins from Rainforest Cafe, bumper stickers and other things you pick up here and there. I probably had those on my mind because I saw a bunch of that stuff lying around the house last night." 

"And we were just talking about how you both like the Aquabats. However it's weird that you somehow sensed that H doesn't like candy. I'm starting to wonder if you're more excited about the idea of him coming out here than I am." 

victory smells like basement parties and beer pong

One of the highlights of my trip to Los Angeles was a Guitar Hero party—something I hadn't been looking forward to because:

a) I spent eight of my formative years learning to play the cello. I figured that having played an instrument where you have to know where to place your fingers without markers while swinging a bow would make holding down five colored buttons and strumming a flap on a plastic guitar incredibly easy on the very first try. I figured wrong.

b) I had never really played the game save for one time in the electronics store where I was kicked off the virtual stage and smirked at by a some real-life teenagers.

c) The party was being hosted by H's friend that I had beef with last October, though I'm pretty sure he didn't know it. And it's a good thing: I've since chalked the whole thing up to me not understanding boys and I'm long over it. He's still invited.

H seemed to think all I needed was a little practice. So before the party, I spent about 45 minutes going down the list on Guitar Hero III while no one else was in the room. I royally sucked. My timing was off, I got booted off songs, but I was improving. By the time the party was in full swing, I reluctantly decided to participate in the contest, but made sure to tell everyone I met that I had never really played the game before that day.

The party was held in H's friend's basement, with a gigantic floor-to-ceiling screen upon which a ceiling projector showed the picture. The tournament was broken down into three categories: easy, medium and hard and they had prizes, the best of which was a gift card to the electronics store. I put my name down in the Easy column and was convinced that I'd win by default until someone else moved her name down from Medium to Easy so I'd have a little competition. The pressure was on.

A pretty sweet setup if you ask me.

The thing about me is that I work better under pressure. Which is probably the reason I ended up in a career that requires a lot of last-minute finesse and on-the-spot do-overs. And it's also probably why I keep the amount of pressure I put on myself cranked up to high most of the time. I was determined to win. And I did.

I edged out my competitor on "Slow Ride," which wasn't even one of the songs I had tried in my practice session. And the prize was fitting; as the only Out-of-Towner, I was probably the one who'd appreciate it the most. Plus, I was cheered on by a couple of people who made me feel so welcome that I forgave the guy I had beef with purely by association.

Of course, it did help that he awarded me this for winning.

At this point in my life, my repertoire on the cello has likely dwindled down to just one song: "Hot Cross Buns." Sad, I know. I can't say for sure if any of that training set me up for saving face at that admittedly low-stakes Guitar Hero Tournament, but I'm going to go ahead and say it didn't. Because that way I can tell people that if I can do it, anyone can.

Rock on, my friends.