Two-thirds

Today was a good day because I met up for a writing date with JP at The Book Cellar and actually banged out a story start-to-finish before we were both fried for the day. 

I have this terrible habit, in writing and, I guess in life, of powering through the first two-thirds of something and then dragging.......to.....a.....stop.

I've been kicking an idea for a graphic novel around in my head for more than a year.  One night this summer, after a long walk on the lake path, I came home and outlined it on page after page with a black Sharpie.  But then, weirdly, I stopped at a point a little more than halfway through the story.  I have 2/3 of a short story done. The whole thing is outlined, I have read it multiple times for my writing partners, but I just can't sit down and finish it.

What I wrote today needs a ton of work.  But, I'm clear on the beginning-middle-end.  That's a big deal for me. 

To celebrate, JP and I pretended we were in France and had a delicious dinner of wine, cheese and chocolate.  Just for fun, I've been asking myself this question every day:  "If someone came and said, 'you can go anywhere in the world right now -- money, obligations and reality are not a factor' where would I go?"  Recent popular answers have been Maine (in a cottage by the sea, eating lobster and writing) Alaska (watching grizzlies...from a safe distance) and Thailand (laying on the beach). 

Today it was France.  How can I make it happen? 

The Trouble With Jars

Occasionally, I become paranoid that I'm edging over the line between quirky and socially unacceptable.

In the last couple of years, I've become a little attached to jars.  Chicago doesn't have a recycling program that's worth a damn and, let's face it, everyday chores are enough of a challenge for this girl.  It's not like I'm going to faithfully rent a zipcar to haul a bunch of recycleables to the nearest facility.

Jars are so handy.  I use them for my makeup brushes, spare change, to hold extra soup and sauces.  I use them for the 1 trillion safety pins that come home with the dry cleaning.  And I think they are pretty.  I like the shapes.  I like glass.

But inevitably, there are extras.  There are some in my cupboard, and I've pulled some out and put them on top of my yikky white kitchen cupboards to add a little visual interest.

These guys live in my kitchen

Just tonight, there was a new spaghetti sauce jar and a salsa jar ready for the dishwasher.  I paused before putting them in.  Is this how it starts...my inevitable decline into hoarding?  With jars?  I had a vision of the future -- my family members placing concerned phone calls amongst themselves, "well I knew there was something wrong when she started with those damn jars."

I've already made my sister Ariel promise that if I ever need a hoarding intervention, she'll hire Dr. Zazio.  Her voice!  It's so soothing!

Identifications to be Made While Walking in the City

Ketchup or blood?

Peeled hard boiled egg or large fungus?

Dog poop or human poop?

Speaking on cell phone or speaking to demons?

Discarded lunch remains or regurgitated dinner?

My bus or not my bus? 

Well, Excuse Me for Living

I retract my earlier statements about how nothing causes an existential crisis like updating your resume.  Applying for health insurance should be outlawed for violating our Eighth Amendment rights.

Backstory:  in the next few weeks, I will have exhausted my COBRA.  My new employer won't start offering health insurance until January.  So that leaves me vulnerable to car accidents, aneurysms and stray cats carrying the Ebola virus for a few months.

I have been insured by Blue Cross Blue Shield my entire life.  So, it would seem, it wouldn't be a bad idea for me to obtain one of their nifty little Temporary PPO plans to cover me in the interim.  It would seem.  They totally denied me.

I've applied for a couple of other individual plans, but it doesn't take an underwriter to see where this is heading.

The medical history questions went back ten years.  TEN.  And they asked about everything -- I was scrambling to look up names and addresses of doctors who have retired since I last saw them.  By the end of it, I was wracked with an exam-taking anxiety.  "Have you had a pap smear?" was one of the questions.  Yes.  Wait...is that a trick question?  Will they NOT cover me because I haven't been more thrifty with my ladyparts?  

This is Me Right Now.

The main issue appears to be that I receive treatment for anxiety and depression.  So, a disease that I inherited (both of my parents are medicated and/or in counseling.  Grandmothers on both sides have made octogenarian confessions to me that they think they have an anxiety disorder.  My uncle attempted suicide three times.) has turned me into an Untouchable in the eyes of the health insurance pantheon.

So, basically I'm being penalized for doing what American culture insists that we do: "take steps" and "make a plan" and "feel better."  I'm being penalized for not blowing my head off.

"Do you consider yourself cured?" the form asked.  And no, there wasn't a write-in box.  

On the upside, this seems to be one of the only times in recent years where my non-imminent production of offspring is a good thing. 

We all just went through a painful and intelligence-insulting national health care debate, so I'm not going to go into all that.  But if anyone knows a Canadian who wants to get married --  hook a sister up.

Spotted at the Argyle Stop

The man coming down the opposite staircase was older, maybe 65 with a lumbering walk and close-cropped silver hair.  He was wearing an XXL t-shirt that blared "Pray for Me, My Husband is ITALIAN" in red and green letters. 

What's With the Name?

When I was a kid, I loved superheroes.  Specifically, the kickass female superheroes of the late 70s/early 80s.  (well, and KISS, but that's another story)

Wonder Woman was my absolute favorite.  I had the underoos, the Wonder Woman utility belt (tiara, bracelets, belt and magic lasso) and I used to walk around with my long dirty blonde hair all wet because I thought it made it look dark like Wonder Woman's.

I also was really into this coloring book, "Wonder Woman and the Menace of the Mole Men."  Upon tracking down and shelling out an embarrassing amount of cash for a couple of these on eBay, I discovered that the plot was a little...shall we say...risque?  At least for a Kindergartener.

Sunday Night

I'm having a hard time settling down and writing today.  This was a social weekend -- I was out Friday night with JP at Krista's mustache party, which turned into a late, late Bucktown night out ending past 4am at the ever-notorious Marie's.

Last night, we celebrated Jess's upcoming wedding with a grownlady bachelorette party.  An adorable redhead from Wines for Humanity came and hosted a wine tasting.  Wine tastings are pretty fun.  I'm not particularly advanced at detecting notes and noses and finishes, but some of the wines make me want to eat certain things -- buttery pasta or strawberry pie.  Some of them trigger bizarre smell memories.  We tasted a French merlot that made me think of spaghetti at my Grandma B's house.  Turns out, I was picking up the green pepper in the wine.  By bottle number six, my notes on a Spanish Granache had deteriorated a bit: "fruity-fruity jelly yum."

I lost my shit over this cheese.

There was also a cheesemonger on hand who paired cheeses with the wines we were tasting.  Cheese is my favorite substance on earth.  I have given this a lot of thought, and if some demented deal-maker said to me that I either had to give up cheese or lose a whole year of life, I would take the cheese.  Same with a finger, or possibly an entire hand.  We tasted a Taleggio that actually caused goosebumps to climb up the sides of my neck.

Today was mostly spent sleeping and grappling with confusing dreams that involved Michigan black bears, lost text messages and lost love.  I can't shake this sense that somewhere, right around the corner, I'm going to find a definitive answer or a strategy to end the drifting.  But every Sunday, I find myself right back where I was. And maybe that's alright.