waiting.

A slate grey SUV pulls up to 513 Francis Court. A beagle named Gary hears it first. He jumps onto the faded grapefruit colored couch, his front paws overhanging the back of the sofa as his nose smooshes against the front room window.

The SUV, an Audi Q7, honks its horn. Its driver continues to sit behind the wheel waiting for the pending passenger.

Caroline Robertson is 15 years old. She's going on her first date, her first "hang out" with Graham Treehouse. She's in her bedroom, and she just changed out of and into another top for the fourth time. She hears the car horn.

"Shitshitshit."

She throws on a lilac tank-top over her cream colored bandeau bra. It will have to do. Truth be told, all of her shirts look good on her. She's 5'5, has sun-washed brown blonde hair and an athletic butt. For 15, she's the whole package: girl next door meets teenage, scratch that, all male fantasy.

Caroline grabs her bag, a Marc Jacobs satchel she purchased last month after saving for what seemed like forever, and throws mascara, her wallet and some Neutrogena Rose tinted lip balm inside.

The SUV honks again, and Graham rolls down the window. The Ralph Lauren Polo Black cologne he snagged from his older brother Daniel permeates the air as it escapes the car. He looks nice in the clothes his mother had gotten him at the beginning of the school year: a white button up collared shirt, seersucker blue and white striped shorts, dark brown Sperry's and the braided rope bracelet he had gotten on vacation in Florida when he visited his Grandma Sue last year.

Gary the beagle is still looking at the car from his front room post. His collar tinkles as he releases his nose from the glass, turning his head upon hearing Caroline rush down the stairs and past him.

"Bye buddy," she says, opening then closing the door behind her.

Her mother is in the kitchen talking on the phone, sitting on a floral cushion atop her desk chair facing her built-in desk. It's covered in school papers, bills, junk mail and a hand-painted coffee mug from that morning. Caroline painted it for her at one of those paint parties girls have for their birthdays. Flowers that look like they're from a 1970s pattern and the word Love cover the cup. Mrs. Robertson twirls the phone cord in her hand, hears Caroline open the door, bid adieu to the dog and the door latching shut.

"Hold on," Mrs. Robertson, Diane actually, says to her friend Ginny. Ginny muffles, "Ok," into the receiver.

Diane gets up, puts the phone to the right of its holder, and walks briskly to the door past Gary. She opens it, a thick white painted oak with a brass handle from Restoration Hardware.

"Caroline," she says to the driveway.

The SUV is at the end of block by now. Graham is looking at Caroline from his peripheral vision. Caroline is smiling, her head is turned slightly facing the right window. It's rolled down. Graham's scent is everywhere, and she likes it. Her left hand is placed precariously on the edge of her seat just in case he wants to hold it. He might, but not yet.

Gary is in the doorway, which Diane left open. Diane has begun picking the small weeds between the bricks of her driveway. She forgot about Ginny on the phone. Ginny hangs up her end of the call.

And they all wait for one another.

Unlikely Acquaintances Who Become Friends.

There are thirty-seven cars on her street right now. She knows because she counted them. Earlier, Joanie (don't ask, she hates her name) went for a run...what was going to be a run, and instead, she got sidetracked into a conversation with her neighbor Manuel (that's pronounced Man-Well, not Man-You-Uhl, like she originally thought). They are in their building's downstairs lobby. He's sitting on one of the Pier1 Imports chairs that no one sits in normally.

"Hello pretty neighbor," says Manuel getting up to greet her. This is how Manuel speaks to all of his female building-mates. Just your typical overly friendly 65 plus Latino neighbor.

"Hi," Joanie says. "So good to see you." They hug, and Manuel gives her a small kiss on her cheek, very close to her right eye. Joanie tags on that last bit because Manuel's face is so expectant, his cracked corn cob smile visible behind dry lips.

"We are good today," he says hoping she's with him in his we-ness. She is. Manuel reminds her of her church growing up. There was an usher at Christ the King who was, well, too excited to lead people to their seats. He would say, "Today is the day, is the day, the day for you to sit...!" and he would guide them down the center aisle to whichever pew looked most empty, and shake everyones hands proclaiming the peace of the Lord be with them. She can't remember his name now. It's not really important, either.

"I'm just on my way out, Manuel," she says still smiling. Joanie is wearing bright violet running shorts with a zebra stripe down each side, Nike stitched onto the right, and a black dry-fit tank claiming: Strength. The green iPod nano currently playing her Top Tracks playlist is clipped to her arm. It will inevitably get annoying, as it will certainly hit the inside of her bicep. Eventually Joanie will elect to hold it.

"Oh, yes, yes. I see," Manuel says, adjusting his short-sleeved button up that is indeed buttoned up all the way. "I would fall down." He laughs at this sentiment.

Joanie smiles. "Me too," she admits, a girlish giggle cropping up.

Joanie hadn't gone for a run in over a month. The last time she did she was not three blocks from her apartment when she just face-planted, licking the pavement. As far as she could tell, no one had seen her Total Life Fail Moment, but in reality, someone did see and periodically when that someone is doing dishes and annoyed at her husband, she thinks of that girl who tripped and fell and smiles, laughing to herself. Her husband asks, "What's that about?" assuming she's laughing at him, because everyone assumes they're being laughed at when they're the only other person in the room, but she wasn't. She was laughing at the girl who fell, Joanie. Joanie doesn't know she exists, so the woman is no one important, thus she has no name.

Manuel shares his smile with her again. "Please, please, go on."

"Oh, thank you," Joanie says, turning her music down finally. "Are you going to be OK today?"

"Yes, I'm waiting for my daughter to come get me." He looks anxious.

"That's great. Are you getting lunch together?"

"Yes." He pauses, and Joanie starts to turn her iPod back on, but then, "She's looking at my apartment."

"Oh?"

"Yes."

"Is she helping you with something?"

"I'm going to go move in with her."

The unlikely acquaintances who became friends both look sad.

Finally, "When?" asks Joanie.

"This weekend."

"So soon?"

"Yes."

There's another long pause. Manuel's gaze is affixed to his friend, and then he hears a car pull up.

"Is she here?"

"Yes, this is her. Arabelle."

"Beautiful name."

"It is."

"Well, I guess, I'll —" Joanie cuts herself off. She didn't expect to be so sad. Manuel's her kind neighbor, but just a neighbor. A friend, who's about her own father's age. And Arabelle is about her age, maybe a little older. "I'll get going on this run. You let me know when you leave, though."

"Ok," says Manuel. He grins, waves at his daughter. She gets out of her turquoise RAV4, "Hi dad!"

Joanie waves, then turns to go, beginning her brisk run. A Ryan Adams song begins to play.

"Hello Gracie you're a good little girl. It's a beautiful world, oh when you're out in it. Last time I saw you playing in the yard, you were running with children and the old people were smiling..."

settled

Two nights ago I couldn't sleep. After returning late from an improv show at iO I was stuck thinking and rethinking about everything that had happened before, during, and after the show. Since I'm moving to Los Angeles in about a month all I've done lately is reflect on my years in Chicago. I had a few things to do on my checklist before I could leave here. I've done them all, and now I'm more than ready. But it's been all the things and people between those bullet points that have made Chicago everything. I landed here by default, but I chose to stay for as long as I have because I loved it.

All night Monday I was up going through drawers in my bedroom, clearing out what I assumed would be junk, but what I found instead was treasure. I found countless notes, cards and keepsakes from nights out. These were things I knew I would want to look at again before I boxed them in an old shoebox. I know myself well enough to know that these are the things I'll want to look back at when feeling low, maybe in LA, maybe wherever I go after that.

One of my favorite little things I found was a piece of white computer paper that I had written some thoughts on one night while at my parents house. There were existential questions like, "Why are we here?" and hopefully non-predictive statements such as, "Eventually, I will be broke," accompanied by an arrow pointing to the name: Peter Francis Geracy, Illinois' premier bankruptcy attorney. I can't decide if I meant PFG will say this or if he's whom I should call about going broke in the future. Both seem like viable options. But, what I liked most about this note I'd unintentionally written to myself was this poem:

They never loved you
I never loved you
I loved you, but I didn't
I did as much as I could

-and I was timid.
I was nervous. and I acted like we were new. and then it was old.
we were old. and we weren't supposed to be together
-and now I'm scared that I'll be alone and you were it.
and now I'm alone, but I never settled
Is that better?

-I wasted your time.
-I wasted your time.

It was followed with this:

If I were me right now I'd run. I'd be fine, until right before. My heart would race like crazy and I'd convince myself it wasn't nerves -- until I'd realize that would mean I'd have a heart condition. I have it all prepared. I have it played out in my mind. Why does my body convince itself it's not ready. Not prepared. No one else up here is really all that special. Every day I think -- I could do that. But here I am failing at the one thing I want. It'd be sort of funny to want to be a banker. And every time you count money you can't count because money made you so nervous. Living in general would be difficult. Money is such a big part of life. It really is.

There's this constant push to be moving forward, and I love that push. I love that drive, that fire, to pursue life fully despite nerves, despite fear, despite obstacles. It's a funny thing to never feel settled, and perhaps it's less in the destination, but more in the people where you're settled. Once you find your people, that's where the comfort is. So for me, I'm settled in Chicago. I'm settled in Iowa. I'm settled in the U.P. I'm settled in Lake Forest. I'm settled in San Francisco. I'm settled in Los Angeles. I'm settled all over because everyone I love is out there pursuing their lives, as I am.

So no, I did not waste anyone's time and no one wasted mine.

glassy eyed.

The other day I found my childhood diary. Yes, the one I had faithfully written in for five years from ages 7 to 12. As a kid I remember spending a lot of time alone hiding in the playroom's small walk-in closet, living like a hermit listening to the sounds of my siblings playing together while I retreated into my separate imagination. I created a whole world in there. A whole world by myself that Larry, Colleen, Sean, Timmy and Kevin couldn't disrupt. Thinking about it now, there's something about loneliness that has always plagued me. And however cliche it certainly is, I remember how much I wanted to be paid attention to as a child. I remember how accurate the term crush was every day of junior high. I remember thinking the neighborhood girls were snobby and that at heart, we had nothing in common anyway; I could never bring myself to fake it. Now 15 years later not so much has changed. I'd rather actually be alone than feel alone with people who happen to be next to me. Maybe everyone's like this. Maybe not.

There's something about loneliness that has buried itself in my heart. I don't share my feelings regularly. Sometimes I feel like an emotionally vacant person, like a dad in the 50s, like Don Draper. But the thing is about dads and Don Draper is they do have feelings, a lot of feelings and they're wandering lost just like the rest of us. There's this constant struggle of not wanting to show our cards because if you do then you are open to the elements. And somehow, when the moment strikes and you actually find yourself in that moment of vulnerability, you get stung. Every time you vow to keep it locked up tighter next time, don't share, don't care, don't don't don't, somehow someone comes along, and magically they get that guard to come down, and right when you think you're safe -- you just...aren't. Perhaps we're meant to be breakable, but to what end?

Growing up my family mockingly teased me by calling me glassy-eyes, referring to the way my big brown eyes watered uncontrollably whenever I would actually express how I felt. I would try so hard to keep my emotions at bay to no avail. A slight shiny, wet film would overcome my eyes just waiting until those heavy tears couldn't help but spill over. Now, I attempt to close off entirely, if not by neglecting a good cry, at least doing it at the AMC River East some random Thursday morning during a showing of whatever I want to see by myself that day when no one can see how much I care. Perhaps a stranger will see me in the dark responding disproportionately to the sad parts in Woody Allen's Blue Jasmine, but that's ok.

One of my life-friends, a compatriot in not wanting to need others, recently returned from a long, long walk. A 32 day walk spanning 800 km along the Northern reaches of Spain. The Camino de Compostelle. She's been a person seeking adventure and finding it as long as I have known her, which is now over a decade. Reading her entries reflecting on her journey and after talking last weekend over french toast, she has come to a place of serenity and openness that I have never quite known. This particular post struck me. I was overcome with how much there is here. I didn't cry, but I wanted to:

There was no other choice. It was clear. 

There is strength in weakness. 

There is beauty in needing people and reaching out your hands for help. 

We weren´t made to walk alone.

It's so easy to become swept up in what it is to be lonely, to assume everyone else is a part of something, to feel as if you're on the outside. It's so easy to be the wallflower sitting in your apartment on New Years, or any Friday in September, listening to the sound of life in the next building over. But even if all those things are true, even if 5-year-old me was that way, that doesn't mean 27-year-old me has to be.

Notes on Today:

-Every morning (or at least most mornings) I ride my bicycle to work. It's not particularly cool. Actually, it's probably the antithesis of cool. It's an early 90s Trek colored a particularly unflattering shade of maroon scattered with rust from years left outside my childhood home in the rain. It's a mountain bike that's never seen a mountain. I bummed it off my sister after the bike I had previously bummed off my old roommate conked out on me. Anyway, as I ride through Lincoln Park, Old Town and River North I'm wary of an impending moment. A possible doom. The pavement glides out from beneath these decade old tires as I pass under green lights coming up to the inevitable bridge, which serves as a right of passage from the North side to the Loop. From the Merchandise Mart to Upper Wacker Drive a heavy steel grater connects North with South filling me with fear. Flash thoughts well up inside my brain as I imagine my front tire getting caught on something, anything, pulling my small frame to the ground, then beneath a car. And my body is compressed, pushed through the small steel holes, like cheddar cheese ready for a quesadilla.

-Recently it's been rather crisp in the mornings. In the afternoon, though, it's that fake cool. It's that kind of cool where once you begin to get to where you're going, not five minutes go by and you're sweating. I think of pumpkin ice cream in those moments. It's the perfect food to describe the beginning of fall.

-I took the train on Thursday last week. It must have been Thursday. I'm not positive. Maybe it was the week before. Really, it's not important. At some point I took it home from the Loop and people watched. Today I picked up my two complimentary tickets to see a preview showing of Candide at the Goodman, and my box office ticketer was someone I remember from people watching. Small world.

-Last night I picked up my kitchen table. Currently it's dismantled in my bedroom. I was nervous that this cat which is still living in my apartment would scratch it up with it's monstrous claws. Then it occurred to me that I could have a kitchen table in my room for a while. That's bothersome. In other news: it's super, and I love it. Plus, it was a bargain. Hooray for Craig's List haggling.

-Tissues are one of those things that you wish you had when you don't, but don't think about when you do. I feel that way about some of my relationships, and that's not so good. Things to work on: appreciating the people in my life.

-The scar developing on the top of my right foot is icky. I wish I was more agile and had not dropped my bike on my foot this past July. That said, since I did, I wish I went to the hospital and got the stitches I needed.

smiley face cookies

Today I was busy. Busyness is key when you have nothing to do. Errands remain one of the great time eaters, and that's what I did. I ran errands all day. Then, when the time arrived to fill my gut with cookies, a traditionally wonderful thing to do when mildly depressed, I looked no further than Highwood's Il Mulino Bakery. As my mother would say, "It's a touch of Europe right in our backyard." I told her she should be a copy editor or at least in advertising/marketing, but I'm pretty sure she'll stick with nursing.

The Smiley Face Cookie has been a staple in my life since I was six. On Saturday mornings my dad would generally pick one out of the six of us kids to take to the bakery, and pick out cookies for everyone. Whenever he would take me I would ask for the Smiley Face. It is a day-brightener to the highest degree.

You know the worst thing that could ever happen when dealing with Smiley Face Cookies? I'll tell you. The worst thing is going into the cookie box and realizing that your choice is not there. The worst thing is seeing the crumbs leading toward the stuffed face of your younger brother. He literally turned my smile upside down and ate it.

This, this was the last straw.

The one thing truly good about my day today was eaten. $2.50 down the belly. And, let me tell you, when it comes to eating someone else's Smiley Face Cookie, all I can say is, "Good Luck," because that pathetic "Sorry" doesn't cut it.

Growing Pains. Life Goes On Whether or Not Anyone Notices

I was thinking about this great scene in Growing Pains yesterday afternoon. I don't quite know how it ended up swirling about in my head, but it was there. Read below if you're curious, then I'll continue.

Mike: Hey dad!
Jason: What is it Mike?
Mike: Gilligan's Island is on every day at three thirty.
Jason: Mike I’m very busy, I’m trying to make a chart.
Mike: Dad, Dad, it's on whether I watch it or not. Gilligan the skipper too, the millionaire, his wife, the professor, and...
Jason: Marianne?
Mike: Exactly.
Jason: Mike, what's the point?
Mike: It's not on for me, it's just...on.
Jason: Mike, are you starting to realize that the world doesn't revolve around you?
Mike: Well, yeah, I guess I am.
Jason: Well, congratulations, you know you've hit upon one of the basic ideas in the philosophies of Camu.
Mike: Don't you see. If Gilligan goes on without me, so does my school. You know all day today life went on, even though I wasn't there.
Jason: Mike this is your first philosophical realization. I’m proud of you. See, you can learn from T.V.
Mike: Dad, all day today life went on without me, and you too...don't you realize, the world doesn't need us any more; it does just fine without us.
-Growing Pains, Season 1, Episode 21- "Career Decisions"

I haven't been diligently keeping up on my reruns of Growing Pains, the hit television show that captured the hearts of youngsters every time Jason and Maggie macked in the kitchen, every time Carol whined about being uncool, every time little Ben impersonated someone famous, and oh, indeed, every time Mike Seaver himself walked on camera. Anyway, the point is that this scene just sort of sprang to mind, specifically the line where Jason says, "This is your first philosophical realization." I was thinking about it because lately I've been applying to a whirlwind of jobs, as I'm now just over half-way finished with my internship with Ode, and I have to start thinking about my life some more. Since I've been in California I've been doing some cool things, meeting new people, catching up with old ones located here in the west, and learning about the magazine business—and that's been great. But, I'm just starting to think more about all the things I'm not doing, too. There isn't enough time in the day, and that is frustrating. If I had all the time in the world I'm sure my list of things I want to do would be similar to many: In no particular order:

1. Be an executive editor at a top-tier magazine
2. Work for a nonprofit
3. Step foot in every country, ie travel all the time
4. Raise a family
5. Be an actress
6. Own a vineyard and a farm
7. Hibernate in a cabin in Michigan all winter long
8. Be really good at skiing, snowboarding, fishing, kayaking, snowshoeing
9. Manage to get killer six-pack abs. (I know vain, but come on, who doesn't get jealous looking at Janet Jackson?)
10. Donate tons of time and money to international aid organizations
11. Live in Washington, D.C., Paris, London, New York, Chicago, Cork (Ireland)
12. Scuba dive and not be scared of sharks
13. Work at an NGO and do things to save humanity
14. I don't know, a handful of other things that I'll think up later.

I have a lot of ideas.