...In which our heroine returns to form.

"Protection" by Massive Attack is one of my favorite songs and this is the first time I've listened to it in over a year. I'm typing this at an awkward angle, laying on my chest, feeling my delightful pangs of carpal tunnel. Watching Mad Men kill JFK tonight made me realize my uncle was born two days later in 1963 - why doesn't anyone ever mention this? Why is it so hard to delete people on Facebook...there's so many people I despise for their updates in my news feeds yet I can't commit. What a strange form of voyeurism. This little boys Cubs shirt is my best clothing purchase of the past month. Nothing I ate today was wholly satisfying. Perused eBay for cat eye glasses frames - don't wanna look like a grandma, but also don't want some bullshit modern retro-y frames. At work on Friday I read through tax returns for non-profits and found out that giving to health organizations and religious organizations seems to be mutually exclusive. I don't update this or write in my journal enough anymore, except for the good dreams. I've been lucid dreaming in the mornings lately, and it forces me to stay in bed another hour, in the hopes that some great fantasia will happen. This building is so old I can hear the floors creaking from downstairs. I almost felt bad for screaming at the television during the Blackhawks game tonight, but the country music usually drifting through the floorboards made me reconsider. "Rebellion (Lies)" is such a great song title, though the new Arcade Fire tracks are disappointing in the worst way. My job might change to be assistant to the work infatuation, which is now strictly an infatuation, no longer a crush. That plays into far too many issues than I need bring upon myself. A movie a day is keeping me mostly honest. I need to read more, tackle my huge pile of books. And better work clothes. Two songs away from 4,000 on iTunes. Why is the first picture of Chris Farley on Google of him dead? MORBID, even for me. I've been sleeping a lot lately, but eating better and walking all over tarnation. There's beer in the fridge and Blu-ray discs on their way from the UK. I won't be going back to Cincinnati until late July, and this should bother me more than it does. I never finished Mean Streets. He said he would call tonight, and he didn't, again. I turned on the MTV Movie Awards for about five minutes and it was fucking intolerable. The only movie I'm still excited for this summer is Inception. My Morning Jacket in August probably means to Pitchfork? I don't know.

...In which our heroine finds a home.

"Home is behind, the world ahead, and there are many paths to tread. Through shadow, to the edge of night, until the stars are all alight.  Mist and shadow, cloud and shade, all shall fade... all... shall... fade." - Pippin Took, The Lord of the Rings: Return of the King

The notion of home is an odd one. Cincinnati is one - in the living rooms of my grandmothers, in the pulpy smelling comic shops I visited with my father, the earth of my mom's tomato plants. Chicago is another - in rooms 2602, 2714, and 813, in late night diners, in my now sparsely decorated new Lincoln Park living room. I don't think a person can have simply one home: we make it wherever we tread, hopefully, and there are many places where we can find a home.

I knew this was a new place to call home on Sunday. I went on a trip to explore the new neighborhood, and amongst the bitchin' vintage stores, eateries, and baby/dog army, I found a used book store called Bootleggers. Used book stores and I go way back, and I've struggled to find a decent one in Chicago. Now that isn't the case. I perused the dog-eared fantasy paperbacks, the film books, the vinyl in the back, the smell of paper and the elevator jazz welcoming me home.

But this isn't the important part of the story, no. For about two years, I've been trying to recover something I lost. Maybe "lost" isn't the right word - I know who has it - but it's something I can't ever get back. I never should have let him borrow it in the first place, before spring break our senior year, and it's been gone ever since: my favorite book ever, the first edition hard cover copy of Stephen King's The Stand. 

I first read the book when I was fifteen, and its narrative was so rich, so compelling, I promised myself I'd re-read it every five years.  Seeing as age twenty is half-over, I was getting discouraged. I refused to settle for a paperback or abridged edition - I wanted exactly what I used to have, the same copy.

There it was at Bootleggers, the book I'd been searching for, staring back at me from between some of King's lesser, more recent works. It was $11.03 with tax, my lucky number. It's staring at me from the coffee table, one Emily pilfered from her old apartment, like the huge tome that it is. It has a dust jacket. There's are penciled initials on the first page, "RM." The red foil men on the front are more worn than my copy, but the gold lettering on the edge isn't.

No, it isn't the same as my copy, but it's the closest thing I'll ever find. I'm thinking about how very different of a person I am at twenty than I was at fifteen - I was reading it around this time, the very beginning of summer. I'm thinking about who I gave it to, how it isn't truly lost, but even if I were to get it back, I don't want it. I'm thinking about what'll be like to start again. We need help, the poet reckoned, says the first page.

Home is in all kinds of places.

The smells of hot cocoa on winter mornings and the ants that swarm on purple peonies in the summer. The rats that scamper from my dumpster when I heave a bag in.

The late night conversations at Waffle House, or the midday ones at the new diner hangout, Golden Nugget.

On a couch in Cincinnati, Ohio, after school. In the pages of a book read by a girl who had never kissed a boy or been to Chicago. On a couch in Chicago, Illinois by a girl in her very first real apartment, who needs to tackle a pile of laundry and to ask the boys across the hall for some help on her television, although she could just as easily call the cable company.

The book begins with a page announcing "The Circle Opens," and tidies itself up nicely with "The Circle Closes," on the last page. Within the book, one of the generals mentions that lovely quote: "Things fall apart, the center does not hold" before eating a pistol. These things are certainly true, and while I live in the city now, you'll find me using the phrase home interchangeably for both here, and Cincinnati. Lots of things have fallen apart since I first read The Stand, circles have closed, forever irrecoverably damaged. But, now, in this, Oakdale Avenue, Apartment 4, that circle seems to be quite open. And still, there is Randall Flagg, threatening to give me the creeps before bedtime, though I know the creeps from the real world are much scarier. However oddly enough, I take comfort in this.

"To the one I now know most, I will tell them of your ghost like a thing that never, ever was."

...In which our heroine is back from the dead: Return of the Living Heroine Part 3

It's been a while. A long enough while that I'm typing this is my new living room, in Chicago's Lincoln Park neighborhood, where I'm technically neighbors with Jeff Tweedy and Roger Ebert. Things are in general chaos, but I have a bed, and food in the fridge, and books on the shelf.

I feel like doing a paint by numbers of the past month or so since I've been away is a little ridiculous because so much has happened. But here are the CliffNotes:

-The semester is finished. Got righteously trashed yesterday starting at 2PM with my 30 year old co-workers, and continued the party well into the evening. I hate to play that card, but I needed it.
-109 page screenplay is complete, for the moment. Won a pitch contest in Screenwriting II. Got a 98 on my script analysis final and he liked the paper so much he asked for it as an example. A on Biology final...it was a busy, but great semester.
-Lots of great film stuff I didn't get to mention! Eraserhead, Gas Food Lodging, Kick-Ass, The Return of the Secaucus Seven, Pink Flamingos, and The Doom Generation are all wonderfully weird and fantastic.
-My Morning Jacket did not disappoint. "Dondante" was the single best song I've ever seen live. The collaborating with the Preservation Hall Jazz Band was fantastic. And Mr. Jim James was even more beautiful in person. Also had a great time eating great food over great conversation with Emily, Nate, and David.

There's so much more to talk about, but those are the major things. Goals for the summer include: tackling Stephen King's The Dark Tower, catching up with Dexter, going to Pitchfork, making friends with the cute boys across the hall, improving my foodie skills, and working my way through the Netflix list.

As always, I continue to update Girl, You'll Be a Woman Soon. It's blogging on an ADD scale.

I'm really happy right now. I feel like this is going to be a great summer. How are you, friends?

...In which our heroine announces a hiatus.

What a strange day.

-I went into work Thursday to Joanna telling me "shit went down yesterday." The budget has been a major area of concern for CCAP over the past month, and not only is Columbia making cuts, but Chicago public schools are in serious turmoil. So of course I wasn't shocked when she told me 8 of the 24 staff workers at CCAP, including herself and my other boss Mecca, were being let go as of July 31st. For the moment, I'm not fired, and I had several people in the office mention how I needed to be kept on somehow, but it's still a shitty situation. Ironically enough, we had a really lovely day though - everyone was hungover and we spent most of the day walking around in the glorious weather.

-If you've seen Black Hawk Down, you know Ewan McGregor is in it. In my script analysis class, the real life Ewan McGregor talked to us tonight about being a stunt double for him in the film, and how he was in fact on that mission in 1993. I had noticed the gentleman before because a. he's much older and b. he was wearing a proudly gay t-shirt. Couldn't make it up if I tried!

-The lease is signed on our apartment as of Monday. I feel slightly more like a grown-up and just want to get out of these dorms like yesterday. May 7th!

-Obsessing over John Cassavetes. We watched Faces in class, which my professor describing as a film we would either hate or find life changing. I fell into the latter category. I also watched A Woman Under the Influence this week and The Killing of A Chinese Bookie. Faces and A Woman Under the Influence were immediately favorites. I just love the conversations, the hand-held camera, the alcohol, the exploration of love, of people. What a brilliant, brilliant filmmaker.

-For the moment, I think this is going to be the last blog post on here. As you can see, they've been coming fewer and further between. I'm just too busy. BUT, you can also visit me on Tumblr, to which I finally caved. I just don't have enough time right now, except to post some pictures. So, stop by Girl, You'll Be a Woman Soon in the meantime.

Falling back in love with Dolly Parton. I inexplicably was allowed to watch this movie when I was no older than 5.

...In which our heroine ponders the strange and wonderful world of technology.

I'm sitting on my home couch watching UK kick some Wake Forest ass and my tummy is full of my momma's cupcakes. It's a lovely feeling.

Here's the thought for the day: The internet is a strange and spectacular place, most of the time. Through happenstance, I've gotten very into reading various Tumblr accounts on a regular basis because why read when you can look at lots of pictures...kidding. I haven't started one myself, but I find the format to be really interesting in terms of how information gets disseminated so widely.

Case in point: In my ongoing quest to love my body just as it is, one of the Tumblrs I check is called Fuck Yeah Chubby Girls. It's a body positive site that encourages reader submissions and posts them. It provides me with a daily self-esteem boost, and a lot of times there are cute fashion tips. Another way I've been working on embracing my curves is to take pictures of myself on days when I'm feeling cute. One such picture ended up very cute and I thought - hey, why not share my narcissism with the world. So I submitted to FYCG, and it got posted. 

34 people have liked, and 4 have reblogged the picture of yourself. I wasn't doing it to fish for compliments, but more so for 15 year old versions of myself that found FYCG and could have more positive role models - we all know the media is devoid of them. One of the likes was from a 15 year old, whose Tumblr mentions her low self-esteem. I know it would've helped my 15 year old self if I would have found such a site sooner.

However, 2 of the reblogs were porn sites. I clicked on them, and there I was between a couple hardcore shots. I realize that putting yourself out onto the internet opens you up to all sorts of that stuff, but it was still weird. Aside from some cleavage, my picture in no way shape or form resembles the other stuff on the sites.

It presents an interesting conundrum to me: I submitted a picture as a means of self-empowerment and obviously people liked it, but just enough to get posted on pornographic Tumblrs. It also begs the question of how not anonymous people are anymore. While I don't post my business all over the internet, I do have a Facebook, a Twitter, this blog, and now have submitted to a site where a photo of me takes you to sites featuring content unmentionable for this blog. It certainly wasn't my intent, but it's done now and forever out into the black of cyberspace. It makes me wonder if I'll ever submit anything again, even though I really do like the site and what it does for chubby girls like yours truly.

Isn't the internet a strange place, that one photo of you, or a post made, or a video made, can be seen throughout an entire network of people you don't even know. Nothing is private, and we're doing it to ourselves. I don't even mind so much that the photo ended up where it did - I opened that up when I submitted it - but still, it isn't everyday that I as your pesky, verbose heroine faces such a situation.

In other fantastical news, WE FOUND AN APARTMENT. It's right in Lincoln Park, the yuppiest part of Chicago (my mother called me a "yupster," a yuppie and a hipster, of which I am neither) and near a Borders, an Aveda, and an arthouse theatre. 4th floor walk-up, 3 bedrooms, huge living and dining rooms, newish kitchen, lots of breeze and beautiful natural light. I'm so in love with the place, and can't wait to make it my own. We signed the initial paperwork yesterday, and I had one of those moments - despite the blister from having to wear the cute flats to visit apartments and the fact I didn't do as well on midterms as I should have - when you realize that sometimes life gives you exactly what you could only dream of.

RIP Alex Chilton - this is one of the sweetest songs ever written.

...In which our heroine needs a necessary distraction.

Midterms this week. Zero motivation to write my producing analysis on A History of Violence or study for my biology exam tomorrrow.

So instead, since my internal clock is all fucked up from the time change and I took a nap at 6PM:

      I'm sitting in the spot where Kara slept this weekend. When the adorable bald clerk at Sephora asked how long we'd been friends, the enormity of the answer - 15 years - struck me then. We had so much fun drinking wine as sweet as grape juice and getting scared by low budget horror films and making faces at the St. Patrick's Day drunks and eating dinner at 10PM. The bones in front of my ears hurt and I don't know why. We looked at apartments today - Emily called, and I e-mailed eight potential dwellings for the next year. Lots of promise, lots of excitement. Somedays I have to remember I'm capable of such decisions. My parents gave me a check for $500 that they certainly don't have for, as my dad said, "life, school, etc." I think I'm going to buy a new television with it, HD, because I can't watch movies on the same blue television that I've had since I entered double digits.

      The forecast predicts weather in the 50s all week and I bought a pair of tights at the grocery store today to wear dresses. Why must everything in women's clothes be different - numbers, letters, names. The thighs of my jeans always conveniently rip out when I'm about to go home, which I am on Saturday. OSU and UC spring breaks are the same as mine and this is a delightful fact. PITCHFORK OR LOLLAPALOOZA...this is the most significant decision facing me right now, and for this I'm thankful. My dishwasher always makes noises befitting of demonic possession, and with the apartment to myself, I'm sure to run it before I go to bed always.

       Today I saw that Ben had one of his articles published online, and I was overwhelmed at how happy I was he's being productive and succeeding, even if we barely ever talk. Little joy - I couldn't get that phrase out of my head. I bought a red writer's notebook at the feminist bookstore in Andersonville and am keeping my thoughts in it. Kara touched it, saying she knew a million dollar idea would be stored within. I had a table read of my first 25 pages of the new script and it sounded good. My friend Steve told me I write like the Coen Brothers and it was the best compliment of the week. NOT, the security guard at work who calls me baby doll. Chicago public schools are a mess - I'm learning this from the inside out - and I feel so badly for the kids trapped within. I visited ACT Charter High School, which is being shut down by the city, and felt like I was in an episode of The Wire. In some small part, even though I mostly just write e-mails and file papers, I feel like I'm helping with CCAP. "'Cause everything be great, and everything be good, if everybody could," is the quote on my Facebook and that's how working at CCAP makes me feel. Maybe it doesn't matter in the whole big dance of it all, but at least we can try. 

I love this song so much. It makes me think of University of Iowa blankets made it forts and sleeping until 1PM and the boy I stopped loving a year ago. It really is the "Album of the Year," - this song, that he gave to me on those nights.

...In which our heroine recaps.

The Oscars were the biggest yawn-fest in my viewing history, which began in 1995 when I wanted Babe to win Best Picture over Braveheart. I was six. Oscar nights make me nostalgic for when I used to dress my Barbies up for the red carpet. Bad or good, the Oscars are my thing.

Highlights of the evening included:

 

  

Yeah, it was a boring show, but triple foxy redheadedness, the first female director to win!, a tribute to John Hughes that made me cry, and some divine company (with the elusive Sofia Coppola sparkling wine) the night was certainly uber-bingo.