What a beautiful day! The the sun is sunny and the lake is shimmering like a drag queen’s sequined dress. Chicago’s plain-faced midwestern sky is uniformly blue, with big white fluffy clouds. Its the kind of sky that says: “I am nice!”

I’m so happy that this day is grand; I woke in a panic from a strange dream, unsure of where I was. At first, I thought I was in Michigan, visiting family. But as it dawned on me that I was not, I couldn’t quite figure out where I might be if not there. Plus, the kitten dropped a furry toy mouse in the hollow of my clavicle in the night, which added to the confusion: I also thought I was covered in rodents.

But once I got up and went running, things got markedly better. I was happy to be outside, happy to be in my city. Totting along the sweaty homestrech of my 5 mile route, I decided: I would buy a bike today.

I’ve never bought a bike before. I’d been using my mom’s old bike forever. Her old bike is a huge, heavy thing; its one of the first mountain bikes ever made for women. I call it The Hulk. It currently lives in Michigan, in my paternal grandma’s corn silo. I wanted to keep The Hulk there; she a GREAT bike, but I’ve always thought it would be nice to have a bike while in Michigan.

Anyhow, riding to work is so easy for me in Chicago; the museum is flush against the lake-shore path. I can bike to work faster than it takes me on the subway. And without the threat of passing out on the crowded subway cars! Its a bargain. Plus, public transit has gone up to $2 a ride and will only continue to go up with the cost of fuel skyrocketing.

Going through the Chicago Reader this morning, I found an ad for The Village Cycle Center’s bike clearance sale this weekend. To hell with uncovering a suitable Craigslist bike! If I’m going to use my bike for my primary mode of transport, I deserve a new bike! So a new bike I got.

My new bike is named Mary Shelley and is a hot orange 07 Trek 820. Mary has special little anti-theft pins on it that make it impossible to steal the tires and seat. I also got a U-lock for her frame, a big basket on the front (I usually put my work outfits in a basket and change once I get to work and have a sponge bath with baby wipes), and a good helmet (its adjustable and comfy and after I tried it on I knew I could never settle for the foam chunk that I’d been using ever again).

In total, Mary Shelley and all her gear will have paid for itself after 2 months of riding. That’s 2 months of public transit riding in exchange for a bike with all the bells and whistles that I’ve ever needed! Totally worth the splurge.  

This afternoon, I’m in Tweet with a pint, checking up on Life2.0 (that’s code for email and blogging). I love Tweet. After lunch, Tweet becomes a gay bar (for boys and girrrlz) called Big Chicks. So technically, I’m at Big Chicks. Everyone here is SO FRIENDLY. Old black and white movies play are playing on the TVs (rodeo was on before the movies) and Walking on Sunshine is playing. People dance and sing along, uninhibited and free. I feel so lucky that this place is my neighborhood bar. 

Soon I’m heading in for dinner. If I’m good, I’ll work more on my story. If I’m bad, I’ll watch a movie with Squee (I think she went to Blockbuster this afternoon). Either way, I’ll get an early night. Tomorrow will be a BUSY day at work; its opening weekend for the Jeff Koons show. And the sexually explicit material warning is going to be a fun one to handle complaints from. Explicit indeed! But that’s what happens when you marry an Italian porn star and make MASSIVE photo-realistic oil paintings of your sex life. Ha!

Which reminds me: the members’ opening night party last night for the Koons show was a blast. My friend Nick and I both loved the show and ate and drank and socialized and were merry. It felt so good to be back in the museum at an opening night party. I felt like my life was back, for real.

Hope everyone has a great weekend! Have you, my dear reader, any fun weekend plans?

Be well!

Friday morning, I was one of those dramatic, tear-stained airport people. Beside LaGuardia’s checked baggage station, Shaun wrapped his arms around me tight. I used his shirt as a kleenex.

“I’m sorry,” I repeated.
“Don’t be. It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s good.”

I thought of soldiers and their spouses and how this was their life, only worse, with the lilac-stench of death hovering over everything.

Crying in the airport, I thought of something I’d written for Shaun that compared heartache to the ache our muscles feel on a long mountain hike. When we hike, we trust our bodies despite the ache. Aches like these propel people forward. But it only made me cry harder to think of how strong our relationship was, how I would be spending months away from my best friend (with those sexy, sexy benefits that would also be greatly missed).

We finally peeled ourselves apart after a time. I boarded the plane and fell into a dreamless sleep. When I woke, I looked out the window to see Chicago unfolding beneath me. I cried again. I’ve always loved how the city curves to cradle Lake Michigan; I was home. The home that we’d plant roots in, have a family in. I was overcome with happiness, eager to build us a nest.

Friday afternoon was spent chitchatting away my frayed feelings with my roommate and best girlfriend Squee. I also got my haircut at my Chicago place (I’m now sporting a very cute, layered bob with short fringe). In the evening, we met two of her girlfriends at the Scottish Pub, where we all grew close and girl-like and made friends with our waiter, Elrubiel. And we must have been exceedingly cute that evening; when the bill came, our meals were comped and we only paid for about half of what we drank. 

After nursing a small hang-over on Saturday (it is really VERY rare for me to go out drinking), I went running along the lakeshore path. And I nearly cried again. SO BEAUTIFUL. Seriously. This city. My god. So good. That evening, we had the Scottish Pub girls over again to watch Teeth, which is my new favorite movie. So much camp. So hilarious (weather the humor is intentional or not is up for debate, but I for one, don’t care). 

There was more running and chitchat with Squee on Sunday, which, in addition to nightly calls to Shaun, has pretty much been the underlying current to my daily life here in Chicago. I’m also writing a non-linear story with multiple points of view, inspired by my reading of The Savage Detectives. I’m also trolling craigslist for a suitable used bike/bed-thing. Also: Squee has a new kitten named Hamish, who is very cute but farts a great deal. We call him Cat Smell.

I started work on Tuesday. The welcome back was incredible. So many hugs and conversations and warmth. The MCA really is a home to me.

My new work schedule is Sunday–Thursday. And I work weird hours on Tuesday, when the museum is open late (I come in late and leave late). Since I’m in charge of everything front-of-house, my schedule reflects the hours that the museum is open more than regular office hours. 

While I’m not working tonight, I am headed to the museum to attend the opening night party. My friend Nick is my date–I’ve not seen him since I’ve been back and I’m very excited to catch up. Nick and I became pals in college; we worked at the computer lab together and wrote exquisite corpse stories about McDonalds characters (because love affairs between Mayor McCheese and Ronald are very funny).

I’d like to write more (and write better), but my computer is nearly dead. One drawback of living with Squee is that there’s no internet in her pad. The surrounding cafes have free wifi, but if my blogging is skimpy for a while, that is why.

All for now. Hope all is well in Xanga-land.

In Chicago. Been here since Friday. Having a BLAST. Love the job. Love the city. I’m home.

Will write more Friday. It’s been busy and my Internet connection is sketchy. I’m writing now from one of the many, many beautiful gay bars in my new/old hood. Great music, free wifi, old black & white movies on the TVs (instead of sports) and a come-as-you-are, welcoming vibe.

I miss my Shaun. But I love this place. Oh I love it.

More soon.

I sent the following email today. What do I feel? Relief. Warmth. A feeling deep in my belly that every little thing is gonna be alright.

Dear Friends & Family:

Uh-oh! What’s this in your in-box? A mass-email from Truly! By now, you know the drill: this can only mean one thing. That’s right: I’m moving. Again.

As many of you know, NYC has been a bummer for Shaun and I. Since we first discovered that the Big Apple was a bad match for us (about two months after we moved here), we’ve been hard at work positioning
ourselves for a move back home to Chicago. That hard work is now paying off. And in the way that these emails usually start, I’ll say: the past few days have been wild.

As happy as I am to kick start our new life in a city that feels like home, I’m very sad to be apart from Shaun for up to 4 months. Thats so long! A whole season! I’m trying to keep in mind that the distance is
necessary; we’re both working to ensure that we have a sustainable, happy home moving forward.

Endless love to you all,

T

I’m off to Michigan this afternoon, away for a long weekend with family. Last night, arranging airport pick up plans, my mom said something to the effect of: “soon you’ll be home and you won’t have to lift a finger. Just let everyone take care of you.” I thought she was joking and laughed. I’d sincerely forgotten that there was a place in this world where there are people willing to say such a nice thing and mean it. Thinking back on it now, I realize how crass and mean I must have sounded.

I look forward to softening, to setting my own pace for a while. I’m looking forward to kicking back in The Union with beer and Bryan. I’m looking forward to stopping by LA Cafe and getting a snickerdoodle cookie from The Village Bakery. I’m looking forward to cheering on my cousin Sheri as she walks across the stage and holds her hands out for a well-deserved doctorate in pharmacy. I’m looking forward to sitting at the kitchen table with my mother-in-law, letting down my guard and telling her more than I meant to; when she’s calm, my mother-in-law is a beautiful listener, like her son. I’m looking forward to kyaking with my mom on Sunday, and hopefully going to the newly re-vamped Clarkston Cafe with her for fancy pizzas; my mom makes me feel like me, no-matter how lost I am. I’m looking forward to running into my favorite high school teacher on the sidewalk, as I usually do when I’m out running and he’s taking his dog Sam out for a morning walk. I’m looking forward to possibly getting my hair cut–a ‘do that would easily cost me $70 in NYC will cost $40 (tops) in Michigan. I’m looking forward to a blizzard at Dairy Dream with my brothers. My brothers! My tall and loveable brothers! I’m looking forward to reading to my nephews and smelling their little-kid hair as they sit all squiggly in my lap. And I’m really, really looking forward to being with Shaun. Lately, after we walk to the subway together in the morning (he takes the #1, I take the A), I don’t see him until 11pm, when I’m bleary-eyed and crawling into bed after a long day of work. But this weekend, we’ll be together. With others, but together, holding hands and laughing at the things only we can see.

Giles is going to be okay. The vet was *shocked* that the cat survived the fall, let alone survived without a single  broken bone. The impact did incite a hurt kitty mouth, liver trauma, and massive swelling (he is a big bruise beneath his fluff), but we’ve got him on some meds that are designed to take care of that and provide pain relief. The meds have also heavily sedated Giles, forcing him to take it easy. Now he just stares at the wall with round, necco-wafer sized eyes. Its really funny.

Also funny: our vet pronounces our cat’s name with a Dominican-style “G,” turning Giles into Hee-lays. It is very exciting. Giles’ full name is Giles Alejandro Scimitar. Clearly Hee-lays sounds fantastic with the middle and last names. I’ve taken to pronouncing it this way and Hee-lays seems to like it.

That said, the last time I tried to change his name (a few months ago, to Mr. Sexy Legs), Giles liked it at first, but soon tired of my antics and just ignored me. I’m sure Hee-lays will run its course as well.

I love naming things. I call my friends invented names. Many people I love have multiple names. Here are a few examples:

Derek: Moth/Princess MonoBitch
Lindsey: Squee/Homeslice/Homeskillet/Skillet/Slice
Julian: Juje/Juju/JujuBean/JujuBear
Keith: Queff/Queffers
Bryan: Byron/Brain/Tinos
Anthony: Hammer/HamBone
Sheri: Good Tard/Killer Bread/Bob Evans 
Mom: Mamacita
Bryony: B
Val: V
Shaun: Shaun-san

I don’t have too many nicknames. Derek calls me Moth (we are both Moth, which gets confusing, but not really) and Bryan calls me Tinos (also – both of us are Tinos, interchangeably). In high school, my friend Andrew called me T-dog sometimes, a nickname that I often sign off with on friend emails. My dad’s family sometimes calls me TrueBoo. My stepdad calls me Mogoli, or when I’m in trouble: Ms. T. Susie calls me T(rules), which I find thrilling.

One of my best friends, Squee, has a name picked out for a cat she has yet to adopt. She hasn’t even got it picked out! She just knows that its name is Hamish and that its waiting in the world for her and that they soon shall meet. I think that takes skill. I’ve got to know someone for a while before I pick out a pet name for them. I look forward to meeting her cat and know that it will be every inch a Hamish.
_______________________________________________________________________________
How do you name things? What’s your nickname?

Our cat hurtled himself off the window ledge yesterday. He took a nose-dive into the empty air and crash landed in the ally, three flights below. Giles, the furry comet.

Typically, the ally is home to a ’round-the-clock soiree, where Dominican gentlemen congregate to smoke pot, drink El Presidente, and listen the same mariachi song over and over. Had it been warmer, the ally revelers would’ve had some spice added to their party routine, something new to tell to the wives back at home:

A howling cat falling headlong from the heavens. A white boy leaning from a window ledge above, eyes wide with despair, his voice a shot in the dark: “Giles!”

Had it been warmer, our cat’s limp body would’ve been encircled by the ally revelers once it hit the pavement. The mariachi song would draw to a close; no one would dare hit repeat. Quiet, sensitive Manuel would be the first to crouch down and run calloused hand over furry flank. Never to be outdone, Victor would mournfully remove his Mets cap, turn his face to the sky and cry: “¡Pobrecito!”

Seconds later, Shaun would pound the ally gate with both fists. Jose would break from the group to let him in. Smelling the familiar scent of his owner, life would stir back into the cat’s body. His eyelids would flutter, a pathetic meow would issue from his mouth. The cat would move himself to all fours, slow but steady, resurrected.

The ally revelers would cheer and offer Shaun a beer, a hit, a  mariachi song. “No,” he’d say, “thank you. I’d better get this little guy home.”

But it was unseasonably cold yesterday. A dirty clamminess clung to the air like a strand of greasy hair. There were no ally revelers. There was no soiree. There was only a cat sprawled on pavement, a locked ally door, and a frantic Shaun banging on it, unable to get in.

Shaun called the super, who did not answer. He called the building owner, who promised he might swing by to help, but not until Monday. In pigeon-Spanish, Shaun asked neighbors if they knew anyone in the building with a key. After all, someone must have one, seeing as how our ally is party-central. But as white people, as non-Dominican people, as non-Orthodox Jews, as people for whom English is their first language, whose parents were born in this country: we are not to be trusted.

We don’t know what happens here, how things work. We don’t know why there are at least two plains-clothes arrests every night on our block. We don’t know why every corner has a candle-lit memorial site to a slain teenager, where friends leave poetry and bags of the victims favorite snacks. We don’t know the characters in the murals. We only know that mail trucks and city services won’t come above 148th street, where most maps of Manhattan inexplicably end. We live on 186th.

We are outsiders here. We are constantly aware of our skin, our language, our dress, our walk, our music, our shows, our water bottles, our hair, our inability to access the ally where our cat’s injured body is sprawled: this is how the Dominicans and the Orthodox Jews in this neighborhood must feel if they go anywhere outside of it. We can only ever be observers in this place. We are lingering guests, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible.

After running around the building like mad, someone must have taken pity on Shaun and unlocked the ally door for him. There, he found our cat, face bloodied and swollen. But alive. The vet office took him in early this morning for cat x-rays and mending.

I was away, working yet another double-job, 14-hour Friday when this all happened. I came home to find an unravelled husband, a cat sipping shallow breaths, and a feeling that I was missing my life, letting down everyone I loved, and selling small chunks of myself just to keep living in a city I’ve grown to hate.

Many people say that pets and their owners mirror each-other. While neither Shaun nor I are as cute as Giles, we do share personality traits with him. Giles is one of the friendliest cats I’ve ever met. He rushes, indiscriminately, to anyone who enters our home–family, friends, repairmen–for cuddles, conversation, and play. Giles is also a gusty, brave cat. He loves racing out the door, tearing into the unknown, blindly trusting that it will be nothing more than a fun lark. And last night, rushing headlong onto the street, Giles hadn’t the faintest idea that NYC would knock the wind out of him and leave him wondering why he ever thought it wise to do such a foolish, painful thing.