City of Big Shoulders and Noses

I work accross the street from a Garretts Popcorn, and hoo-boy does it smell incredible every morning!  The fear of getting fired is the only thing that keeps me from hopping in line behind the hoards of tourists clamoring for that magical Chicago Mix.

I love that certain bridges and streets smell like chocolate, particularly in the winter thanks to the Chicago chocolate factories just outside of downtown.

Walking home through my Lincoln Square neighborhood it is all I can do not to steal bites off the tables of the al fresco diners.  Each patio smells different--bar food, Indian, Italian, Mexican.  (You'll notice, all of this mouth watering smell business happens after I've departed from the CTA.  Those are smells of a whole different nature and I chose not to go into it so close to dinenr time.)

Today was entirely different, and I hope temporary.  I swear, the entire 700 block of North Michigan Ave smelled like EasyMac.  I know it smelled like EasyMac because EasyMac has a very distincitve smell that is altogether different from that of regular Mac N Cheese.  I think it's because of whatever they do to the cheese powder that makes it not need butter. 

The toursists didn't seem to notice anything.  Maybe they brought the smell with them?  Maybe as countless cars from Wisconsin parked for the day and opened their doors, the fregrance of EasyCheese was released into the city air.  Maybe it was one VanGelder Bus full of retirees who brought the smell with them?  Perhaps there is a Kraft Convetion in town?

I take pride in the fact that you can breath deeply in Chicago.  That we don't have the summer garbage smell that NYC is known for, nor the smog of LA.  But somehow, I was deeply unnerved by the EasyMac smell.  And also nostalgic for my freshman year dormroom.

The Great Fiction Fail of 2010

 

“How’s your story going?" he asked.

“What story?” I asked.

“The one for class. The 20 page one that you’ve been talking about!”

“Oh, that,” I hedged. “It’s going really well. Wow, these tater tots are fantastic! How are the nachos?”

“How long is it?” he pressed.

“Try this Sam Adams Summer. I like it better than the Winter Ale,” I respond.

“Your story, how long is it?”

“Well, I don’t actually have anything written down. I’ve been going for walks and thinking through it and have written some outlines,” I said. “It’s all just part of my process. “

What a load of crap.

It’s really not very nice to lie to one’s fiancé. I’ve never written fiction before, how do I know what my process may or may not be? You aren’t allowed to be that pretentious until you have something to show for it, and as yet, I have nothing to show for it. I don’t think that I even realized it was an outright lie until last night when the squandered eight weeks came to a screeching halt. I had to face it, this story will not be finished on time. I haven’t done enough work on this. I have been doing other things.

Rather than writing I have been talking about writing. I have been telling people, in a very smug manner, that I’ve been really busy, what with the story I’m writing and all. I have sighed that this weekend I really should devote some time to the story I’m working on. “I have so much going on right now, and really I just want to sit and write my story.” Once I even caught myself saying, ‘well, it’s sort of an unconventional coming of age story.” Oh, brother.

Rather than writing I’ve been wedding planning. Incidentally, I’ve been wedding planning rather than doing my job, rather than doing my housework, rather than pretty much everything else. For a year and a half I’ve more or less avoided being the girl who obsesses over her wedding but those days are gone. With two months to go I have embarked down the one way road of flowers and fabric swatches. Rather than writing I have studied invitation fonts and I am mortified to admit that I actually lost sleep debating the virtues chicken versus pork. It is my fervent prayer August 1, 2010 will mark the return of the Erin I was before I learned what a French Bustle is.

Rather than writing I’ve read Harry Potter. All of them. Again.

Rather than writing I have been enjoying the spring. Who can sit at a desk and write when it’s Sunday and 65 degrees and there is corn hole to play and burgers to eat and beers to drink? Rather than writing, I spent my picnic in the park watching kids play tee-ball and listening to hippies in their drum circle. I made friends with the other sun deprived Chicagoans waking up after their eight month hibernation. I only mildly regret the Vitamin D nap that I took with my blank journal opened next to me on the blanket.

Rather than writing I’ve searched for apartments on Craig’s List, even though I know that there are no postings for a September 1st yet.

Rather than being a writer, I’ve pretended to be a writer. This is a sobering truth that I can’t quite ignore. I’m not a writer. Not yet. Until I can pass up Pub Trivia in favor of sitting at home and working on my piece, I’m not a writer. Until I can ignore my roommates and the T.V. and the phone and the e-mail from our florist and $5 martini night and going to plays and just sit and write and focus, I am not a writer. Until I write more than I talk about writing, I’m not a writer. Not really, anyway.

It scares me that writing isn’t a desperate, burning desire within me. Don’t all the great writers say that if you don’t have to write then you should find something else to do? Like macramé? The truth is that I don’t have to write, I just feel better when I do. I feel better when I shelve my self-consciousness and just write something, anything, and listen to myself and the words I’m putting down. I feel better when I dig deep and exert a little bit of discipline and just write. When did writing become like exercising?

And so rather than turning in my twenty page story-cum-novel that has been rolling about in my head for weeks, I’m turning in an essay. A non-fiction essay at that. Major fiction fail. Still, I hold out hope that my embarrassing honesty will somehow propel me along the road to becoming the writer that I pretend to be. I’m hoping that by holding a mirror up to myself, I can finally identify the places I need to fix. By writing about not writing, I’m hoping to help myself write? Wow. Shouldn’t have sat that close to the hippie drum circle!

And Isaac? Please. Please, don’t ever let me use the word ‘process’ again. Seriously. Pretentious.

Making My Own Advice

I have a theory that as soon as a couple gets engaged, a ripple vibrates the fabric of the universe. Like a whistle only dogs can hear, it alerts florists, caterers, bridal shops and Martha Stewart. Then hits the deluge of information. Macy’s Bridal Registry finds out where you live. TheKnot.com stalks you with invitations to every bridal expo in the greater metro area. Facebook ads chide you for the wedding diet you swear you’ll start on Monday. You are inundated with must-haves and conflicting reports of The-One-Most-Important-Place-to-Invest-or-Your-Day-Is-Ruined.

When I said yes, I had no idea what I was getting in to. I knew there would be stress. I knew there would be cost. I even knew there would be fights. I did not know that rather than saying congratulations, most people ask what my colors are. I had no idea that weddings require a theme. (Surely I learned my lesson on theme after the senior prom debacle?) I am intimidated by other brides-to-be and how they gracefully glide along that fine line between the latest trend and classic tradition. I think they burst forth from the womb with a complete working knowledge of the rules of etiquette and a library of color-coded spreadsheets, all organized in a coordinating Kate Spade bag.

I want a beautiful day as much as the next bride. I want to be the undisputed prettiest girl in the room while pledging myself to my soul mate. But I do not have a trust fund, nor the wherewithal to craft my own centerpieces. Magazines assume that you can either afford everything or make anything, both without breakouts or binge drinking. Clearly they haven’t met me.
I have read the guides and the tips and almost none of them are applicable to my life. And so I give you my own. These are tips from the trenches—not from a bridal expert but a comrade in arms unwilling to stress eat for the duration of planning. Hopefully writing them down will help me remember them myself.

#1. What You Didn’t Care About Before You Were Engaged, You Won’t Care About After You Are Married
Choose the three things (other than the groom) that you are absolutely passionate about. Flowers? Location? Guest list? What will make or break your wedding? With so many vendors and relatives telling you new things you’ll regret, it becomes easy to believe you must have all of it. However, armed with your list of three you can keep perspective of what’s truly important and remember that it is your mom, not you, who just has to have the prime rib and your father-in-law who thinks it is madness not to have a brass quartet.

#2. Let Others Do the Work for You
No matter your age, I’m willing to bet you know someone who has recently planned a wedding. Why meet with 10,000 photographers when your cousin was very happy with hers? Rather than chasing down your friends for addresses, ask a recent bride for her invitation spreadsheet. Read the registry list of friends whose taste you like and steal liberally. Obviously you can’t avoid all research, but you can substantially limit the field and save yourself a headache.

#3. Manage Expectations of Yourself
One day, you will become That Girl. Accept it. Regardless how calm you swore you’d be, you will become the person who prays that people ask you about plans. Every morning you will check your registry before your e-mail. All conversation will dovetail nicely into a decision you just made about flowers. Don’t beat yourself up. It is inevitable. However, for your sanity and that of those around you, establish No Wedding Zones. Stop all wedding thought two hours before bed. No planning during meals. Ask your friends questions about their lives, then pay attention to the answer. Take a class. Volunteer. Distract yourself. Your friends will thank you for it.

#4 Listen to Everyone, Then Ignore Them
Everyone has at least one good idea. My mom has a many good ideas. People will not be shy about sharing these good ideas with you, and examples of just-the-cutest-thing-I-saw-a-bride-do-at-a-wedding-once. By all means listen to them. Process them. Consider them. Then forget about them. Repeat after me: Just because the girl in my office hand-crafted ice swans does not mean I have to. With every well-meaning friend tossing in their two cents, insecurities will bubble to the surface. It becomes all-too easy to assume that if one person rented a brass quartet, you have to as well. It is imperative at this point to put blinders on and remember your style. Revisit tip #1. Trust that who you both are will shine through the day. While the advice of others is valuable, know where to draw the line.

#5 Remember Why You Are Doing This
Remember that you get to spend the rest of your life with the person you love most in the world. You can commit to each other with all of your loved ones, quite literally, standing behind you. And finally, you are able to throw a celebration thanking all of the people who have nurtured you along the way. And isn’t that a lovely thing?

Relax. Pack a flask. You’ll do just fine.

Office Space Redux

At 2:15 on Tuesday we received an e-mail from our Executive Director. It simply read, “Hello. We will have a brief team meeting at 3pm today (Tuesday) in the conference room.” This was annoying on many levels, not the least of which is that I hate (hate) parenthetical notations like that. Like when people say “I would like to order fifty-two (52) of the pike variety fish tacos.” Are we too dumb to know what fifty-two is? Or 52? Do you just like typing? It is completely antiquated in the age of emails and also it's rather snooty. The other reason this e-mail angered me is because you can’t call a meeting 45 minutes before you want it to start! It’s just disrespectful to your employees. Also, I was really into a great game of internet Scrabble.


Nonetheless, all 5 of us grudgingly converged on the conference room, employees on one side, boss on the other. Dorothy, our executive director, had written on the dry erase board, “What is AOP?” Shoot. I really don't think I know this one.

As we sat, she smiled at us in that crazy cat lady way of hers that spells doom. Dorothy has a fervor for this company that never in my life will I understand. She gets here at 6:30 every morning. She has come in every weekend for the twenty (20) plus years that she’s worked here. She personally decorated the bathroom and on occasions such as these likes to have meandering meetings on no discernable topic. I think she sees herself as a combination role model, mentor and Hilary Clinton style tough gal. Her blinking jingle bell earrings betray her.

“I called you all here because I thought that we should do some mission building,” she began. “So—what is it that we do? What are we here for?” Everyone looked down. My direct boss began to write, seemingly taking notes, but when I looked closer I could see she was doodling her name over and over again. Thankfully, Dorothy called on our Membership Director. “What do we do? What purpose do we serve?” Dorothy was leaning back in her chair now, ankle crossed over knee, fingers folded into a steeple under her chin. If she had eyebrows, I feel certain that one of them would be raised. It was like she’d seen how this was done in a movie and was thrilled to be playing the part in real life.

“Um. Generally. What I…um tell people,” stammered our poor director, “Is that we are a membership association. Dedicated to providing services. For members.” I thought that was pretty good. I certainly couldn’t do better and as I chanced a glance around the table it seemed nobody else could either.

“Excellent!” Dorothy exclaimed in an oddly triumphant manner, at which point she launched into a thirty (30) minute monologue that I’m sure she must have practiced in the shower that morning. It was meandering, nonsensical, boring and hilarious.

“I’m like a bus driver,” she began. “And when I’m driving, sometimes I forget that I can’t be a passenger and when the passengers want to go see the biggest ball of string in the world I might pull over because I don’t want to be an ogre-boss because we’re a family but also we can’t have anyone on the bus with stinky feet …”and on she went. And on, and on.

And on.

I watched her as she hit her stride, gesticulating wildly, eyes alight with a fervor born of mission building. Slowly a guilty, uncomfortable sort of feeling began creeping over me that I promptly tried to ignore. A restless, anxious feeling that had been sneaking around my cubicle for months now. I was uneasy. I work here, I like to think I do a good job, but I’m incapable of caring about it. I’ve tried to care about it. I honestly have. Dorothy certainly cares about it.

“…and if we were on a boat maybe we could go fishing but it’s also important to check your sonar and gadgets...” There was no end in sight.

It’s not unhappiness lurking around my desk, more like uncertainty. It’s my quarter life crisis. The life crisis no one tells you about because it doesn’t result in sports cars or affairs with the pool boy. It’s the period after college and before babies when you realize that you have no idea what it means to follow your bliss, even though that quote was your mantra throughout those formative years. It’s the period where you realize that maybe your parents had it right after all—perhaps a job is just a job.

“…and a copy machine that collates and staples is important but if it doesn’t work properly then it is just junk and we’d be better off with that monkey we passed…” My boss had stopped writing her name and began writing, “What the hell?” over and over in a curvy sort of script. Everyone else was glassy eyed. I tried to tune out, thinking about my dinner and what I guessed would happen next in Twilight (spoiler alert— he’s a vampire and she's an idiot) But every couple of minutes that uncomfortable pang came back to me. Maybe my mom’s desire to be a mom and my dad’s desire to provide for a family wasn’t as antiquated-child-of-the-50’s-antifeminist as I thought. Maybe the fact that a job makes the rest of your life possible is what makes it blissful and meaningful? Maybe my career isn’t where my passion lies? Maybe that’s ok.

We were in there for about an hour, treated to more road trip metaphors and assurances that we could do great and good things for the doctors of our association. Over the course of the meeting it became clear to me that not only did none of us know what our association really does, we don’t know where we fit into the umbrella association above us, nor do we know what everyone else does day-to-day. It wasn't just me that wasted hours a day taking quizzes to tell me what Harry Potter House I belong in (Hufflepuff) or which Tim Burton character I am (Ed Wood).

For a while I was buoyed up by the comforting knowledge that I’m not the only one perpetually waiting desperately for 5:00 to roll around. But that comfort has slowly evaporated and prickly questions linger. Shouldn't I just shut up and be grateful that I have a job in times such as these and that my working life makes my actual life possible? And yet, am I really paying student loans so I can procrastinate on that mailing I need to send out? It somehow feels like a waste to spending my days sending certificates to members who don’t care. But what would I do instead? Probably no one will pay me, much less give me health insurance, to plan fun things to do with my friends. There has got to be more to me than this. God, I hope so anyway.

I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up. At twenty-seven, I’m told that’s a common feeling. This is a coming of age I didn’t expect. It’s a karmic kick in the pants. It’s a reminder that I still have a lot of growing up to do while the person I wanted to be and the person I am about to be duke it out. In the mean time, Dorothy is my bus driver and I have something to learn from her twenty (20) years in this association. As she so sagely wrapped our meeting, “We’re just in a tunnel, and none of us can see out of it but that’s why we have an office so we can get through the tunnel together and make sure we don’t scrape the sides of the bus too much on the way out!”

Moonlighting

He was too short to be a real rock star. Though not obvious at first, it didn’t take long to notice his five inch, electric blue, platform shoes. They weren’t there to mask his lack of stature, rather they embraced his height and accessorized accordingly. He was bald. He had shaved his remaining hair to make it look like a choice rather than an act of God, but the five o’clock shadow on the sides of his scalp betrayed him. As he sang he held the microphone directly above his head, up-turned face alive with passion and blue aviator sunglasses gleaming in the spotlight. Knees slightly bent, chest thrown out, eyes closed, he was every inch a pint-sized Bono, singing U2’s greatest hits with passion and fervor.


It’s been a month since I saw The Bloody Sundays (U2 That Can Play Your Party or Corporate Events!) and I’m still wondering about that Tiny Bono. I wonder what he does when he’s not performing in a cover band. I imagine him, practicing his Irish accent, working out new dance moves in front of his bedroom mirror, maybe singing into a hairbrush held aloft. Do his coworkers know that he moonlights as a cheesy U2 impersonator? Do his parents? How could one keep that a secret?

There’s no doubt about it, Tiny Bono was ridiculous. Yet, I found myself charmed by him. I am somewhat in love with his gusto! In love with the energy and honesty he brought to his performance. I am in love with the way he went all in and if he knew we were laughing at him, he didn’t care.

I have realized that I have much to learn from Tiny Bono. I wish I could do that. I wish I had the guts to moonlight as something potentially ridiculous just because it made me happy. We all have silly ambitions—those things we’d do if we won the lottery and could quit our jobs, or the hobby we’d take up if only it was not so absurd or impractical. Why must practicality always get the better of us? If practicality and pride would stay out of the way, I know exactly what I would do with my life. If no one were to find out what I was really up to, I know the career path I would follow. I, Erin Moore, would become a world famous romance novelist!

A romance novelist! What could be a more entertaining way to spend your day than to write those hilarious bodice rippers, replete with adventure, romance, intrigue and illicit sex with the stable hand? I would never leave my desk, concocting secret identities and kidnappings and heroines born to a life of privilege who fall in love with a blacksmith, forcing her to chose between the life she knows and the love she can’t live without! The adventure! The escapism! The wonderful absurdity of it all! Maybe Lifetime would buy the rights and turn it into a made-for-TV-movie starring Andie MacDowell and Rob Lowe! Maybe they would have a special marathon of my movies like they do for Nora Roberts. Maybe they would have introductions that feature me sipping a glass of red wine in front of a crackling fire, talking to the camera about the inspiration behind A Love Forbidden (He loved her desperately, but would it be enough?) the latest in my Strong Women, Strong Love Series.

Obviously, I’d have to come up with a pseudonym so that my mom wouldn’t know what I was up to. Maybe I could be Anastasia Petrov or Molly O’Shandy? Obviously, my heroines would be strong-willed women ahead of their time, who only want for a man strong enough to handle her! Obviously, I would have to pick up a few cats and grow my hair down past my butt.

It would be the most fun and embarrassing job in the entire world. Embarrassing. The word stops me short as it always has. This is why I’ve never taken to my eagle feather quill to weave a tale of deception and adventure. It’s embarrassing. My friends, who are so well-read and intelligent, who have always challenged me to know more and learn more, what would they say if this was my calling? My sisters, who are so smart and practical and insightful, what would they think of me? What would my parents say to a book that contains pirate sex?

Tiny Bono has opened my eyes to my own hypocrisy. Can I know that something is silly and ridiculous and do it anyway? Is it better to know how terrible the genre is and yet become a part of it? Or to know that I love it, yet abide by a strict no literary junk food diet? Can I still believe that words and books have the potential to change our lives and open our minds, and yet spend my days writing stories that have no depth or socially redeeming qualities? Can’t someone else challenge our minds while I provide escape? Having always been a firm believer in the simple, incalculable value of escapism, I think I could step into this roll quite nicely. Escapism is why I love Jimmy Buffett so much and cooking shows and Harry Potter. It would be an act of kindness to try and provide this distraction to others.

If Tiny Bono can do it, I can too! If he can strap on his giant shoes and matching shades, I can face my friends and family as someone who honestly likes this crap. The real me. Today I begin. Today, I answer the calls of the swashbuckler and con-artist and headstrong woman trying to succeed in a man’s world, for they are all waiting patiently in my imagination.

Today is my coming out. Mom, Dad. I love you and nothing has changed. I’m still the same Erin I was before, I just…I just write romance novels now. I know it’s not what you dreamed for me, but it’s who I am and if you loved me before you can love me now! Can you love me now? Because if you don’t then I don’t stand a chance at my high school reunion.

How strange. How perfectly ridiculous that a five foot man in five inch platform shoes singing twenty year old hits can inspire me to embrace who I really am— just your average assistant meeting planner who dreams of publishing books that feature a half naked man on the cover. Thank you Tiny Bono. Perhaps in tribute my first novel will feature a woman who falls for the lead singer of a cover band, believing him to the real thing. Can she love him when she discovers the truth of who he really is?

False Alarm

This morning I woke up feeling terrible. Swine flu. It has to be. The sweats, nausea, headache, blurry vision. I knew it! I knew public transportation would be the, if not death, decapacitation of me. Ugh why do I have to be sick on a busy week like this! Hmm. This has been a busy week. Last night was Trivia Night, so that must make this Thursday morning. Trivia Night. Nausea. Sweats. Huh. False alarm. Not, in fact Swine Flu, but hangover.


I am one, classy broad.

In case of emergency

Our building handed out "Go" bags.  In the case of terror attack, natural disaster, or an Oprah-induced rampage, we are to take these bags with us to help us get to safety.  The contents are as follows:
1 garbage bag
1 painters mask
1 map of downtown Chicago printed 5 years ago
2 small bandaids that I've already used thanks to uncomfy shoes

Really?