Last Saturday in Chicago

I always bring a book, but Saturday I didn’t bring a book. I would rush from one show to another, I knew. My last performances in Chicago. The two theatres I fell in love with decade+ ago. Dal asked me to arrive early to i_. So we could talk. Before I go. I arrived five minutes late after shoveling kale and sesame oil into a biodegradable box across the street. The bar was quiet. The show was pushed two hours earlier for a festival, light house, some staples of the ensemble missing.

I didn’t do a big thing. I texted four people actually. I am not afraid of leaving people as much as my study carrel in the library and my coffee shop with the sunny patio and sugar-free cookie dough syrup.

The first show was good. Not as good as two weeks ago with the booming sold-out laughs. It’s easy for me now. I don’t warm-up, and I don’t question everything I did while passing Philly’s Best at midnight on my walk home from the train. But also this time is a different kind of good, the kind you don’t need validation to hold. An audience member asked what his partner should do to quit having nightmares. I started singing to myself about my sleep mask, and every time I got into “bed” (sitting on a chair holding a fake comforter next to Dal) I’d remember I had to feed my bat or something. I finally turned out the light and confided in Dal I was scared. He reassured me, so I asked him to take off his clown makeup. Lights.

The show was only 1:15. I hadn’t known we weren’t doing two full acts. I had an hour to kill. Cast cleared out. I wandered outside and asked a stranger to take a photo of me. No book. For once no book. I decided to forego my usual Saturday Uber and walk to SC. The evening was perfectly pink and humid. I could feel my curls loosening. I listened to Wilco. That teeny pilgrimage both heavy with August and light with leaving. “Burn down the missions”: lyrics I’ve decided I now understand. I bought the last walk-up ticket for Puhg.

Show Two. It was a new girl’s first go—something right, something cycled. The ensemble sang a warm-up about me. Our title was “Grease-y” so I got to be an updated Sandy. Flood initiated a drag race drag race. We go together.

Back at i_, I saw just the fewest sweet friends, and I was very happy. Gor said, “You were right about everything,” and Kram told me I was the girl he would miss. Roma was babysitting, so when it was time to go home she met me at Philly’s Best, but they were understaffed and not making fries. We went to the dumb ol’ corner for crinkle cut ones instead.

Friday February 13th

Just got home. It's 3:15. Our comedy cohort had a workshop tonight. It ended at 8 and we gleefully gathered by the escalators. Together we made our way to Lincoln Square where a reserved table and karaoke awaited us.

The drinks started flowing. Star is in AA, so she said she was interested in ordering the lemon pie or a fried Snickers. I suggested we split both. Crooks and I sang "No Scrubs," our gang danced so good you'd think it was planned, and several nearby drunkees tries to become our best friends. While the too confident business men butchered "Sweet Caroline" the Texan Queen said, "The DJ should really be playing our request more since we're the ones who are kinda making tonight HAPPEN."

Pinker showed up late from another gig, but I had faith he would be there. "Summer Lovin" was already in the queue. We harshly judged the braceface couple mumbling "Kryptonite" by Three Doors Down. It got later and later, but I was wide awake. I only drank half my ginger beer, so the caffeine shouldn't have been that bad. At the very end of the night I inspected the can to find 49 grams of sugar on the label. Ah ha.

There were too many bits. But eventually, as all things, the evening ended. Crooks and I headed out for the brown line. We were gabbing so intently, we forgot it was cold. And then after about a mile of what was supposed to be a half mile trot, we realized we had gone the wrong way. Our train was in 8 minutes. We sprinted.

My feet were on fire from my Uggs. My core, a furnace. Sweat beaded down my face. We sprinted a mile and a half and saw the last train of the night pull onto the platform just beyond our stride. We kept running just in case, but no, that was it. The station guy told us.

We started looking up Uber rates. We started watching for cab lights. But everyone was leaving the bar now. A man on the curb garbled something about hitchhiking. He had glasses, a furry cap, and was holding a pile of papers.Then we noticed he wasn't trying to hail a cab at all. He was darting up to passing cars with his middle fingers raised. I started looking up how long I would have to wait for a bus to avoid the hiked fares. Then the stranger guy walked up to us and said, "People don't like that." He was very close and his zipper was wide open. No underwear. Definitely not going to wait for a bus. And then--

Pinker and Finn showed up! "Hey!" they said very casually. "You guys left so long ago! What happened?" They were going to walk a half mile to the red line, still running. "Great!" We said and showed them our sweat and vamoosed away. A long frigid trek is pretty doable when the alternative was a creep curb. We laughed too much and took in the bricks and graffiti. We passed the huge northside cemetery. "It's Friday the 13th!" I squealed. "We have to go in," Pinker said. We sized up the fence. It was too high to jump, so we just took turns tells scary stories. And when that was over we took turns thinking of horrifying things that might happen on the way home--maybe someone lives in that little nook beneath the tracks. Maybe we'd see a man with a knife in a window reflection. It was nice.

We of course waited twenty minutes for a train, but it did arrive. It did, and we got on, and Finn and I got off, and he lives just down the block from me, so I was never alone. These are the nights of 2015. There are only 365 of them, and many are already gone.

Black Swan

Saw Black Swan with Dusty last week. So, while there a lot of cool parts in the movie--I wasn't the biggest fan. I mean, everyone knows Natalie Portman goes crazy, so, then it happens. And that's kinda it. Anyway, there's blood and stuff, and we all know how that goes for me:

I spent about 60% of the movie curled up in a ball on the seat kicking my legs up in the air squealing "Nooo" quietly. Dusty kept peeking down. "I think...I think there's no more blood." But then, two minutes later--BLOOD.

I was very tense the entire time. And right in the middle of some crazy psycho stuff my phone started blaring! My sister was calling. Yes, I was the doofus who forgot to turn the phone off. No big right? Except my sister's ringtone is "We Go Together" from Grease. Which I'm pretty sure is actually the worst possible song to compliment a ballerina gouging out her cheeks with a nail file. Dusty and I came up with Hinder's "Lips of an Angel" as a close second. But still second.

We'll always be together.
We'll always be together.
We'll always be together.
We'll always be together.

I Love Everybody.

My boss at The Writing Center. A true scholar.

The final nail is in the coffin on my first graduate school application. I feel...nervous. The fatty envelope is gone, and I keep thinking of all the things that would make me a good applicant that I didn't have space for in my statement of intent.

I really may not get into either program I applied for. Both only accept two students per year. Splat. I don't think I will be crushed if I get denied. I'll end up trying again. But, right now what's really important is how supportive everyone has been. So many people have now read and offered feedback on my manuscript submission. People came out of the woodworks to lend an eye to my statement of intent. Including the bff from high school. Including the boss above. And EVERYONE has been so encouraging. I LOVE EVERYONE FOR LOVING ME!

Okay. That's enough emotional barf for one day.

Chang chang changity chang shoo bop that's the way it should be