rooooooaring!

Fully

Several improvements have been made in my life tonight. 

Firstfully, I have sheets. According to Cindy Crawford, who claims to have envisioned this bedding, they're "quiet mauve," but I like to think of them more the color Elizabeth Taylor's eyes were supposed to be circa National Velvet. They feel nice, too--though that might just be their ultra-new crispness and my newly shaved legs.

Secondfully, I hung a clock in my kitchen. Now I'll know what time it is when I'm wishing I still had a Brita or sticking a finger in the Peter Pan. I also stuck a battery in the boxy little alarm clock. I keep it on my headboard and it's so darling I just want to pat it.

Currently/Commonly Asked-of-Me Question: "Rory, why'd you move back to Oak Park? Did you and Brock break up?" 

Hey, friend-o, don't think I didn't notice that's two questions. But fair enough: I moved back to Oak Park because Brock, while being a grand boyfriend, turned out to be a less-than-grand roommate. The details aren't blog fodder but, importantly, once I decided to high-tail it back to 60301, I realized/remembered that I really do feel good living here: living in the same community I work and having no commute, feeling like i can take a walk any time of night, being within a few blocks of the El, three bookstores, the new Bleeding Heart Bakery, and a sister. I also totally dig living by myself, at least for now.

But Mr. Rumer and I didn't break up, nope; he's still quite cute and buys me egg rolls almost on request and appreciates stuff like this--we both think there's plenty of fun left to be had together.

Thirdfully, I improved my life by deciding not to cut my own hair on a malevolent whim with sewing shears.

Currently/Commonly Asked-of-Me Question: "Have you heard from Jennie? Where is she again, Ecuador? How's she doing?" 

Yep, she's shocked me sby so far being an insistent email correspondent. She's in Quito for probably the next couple of months, learning Spanish and hitting the discos and undoubtedly having unfair amounts of fun. I do miss her but am ignoring that feeling because I'm sure to miss her considerably more by, say, December. Or February. Or April. Six months without a present best friend won't be no easy-breezy cake walk in the park.

Fourthfully, I finally watched a few episodes of Freaks & Geeks tonight and, okay, now I get it. It's very good. 

Pale Green

Envy me: my sister Molly is brushing my hair right now, with a big cushioned paddle that claims to "stimulate hair growth and sheen." Envy my growth and sheen. We both worked at the library until 9 and decided to watch a movie at my place. Though I've seen it, I agreed it should be No Country for Old Men because, please, everyone should see that film (Molly hasn't) and see it with someone. 

So I've put out the only food I have right now: Trader Joe's [envy me some more--there's a TJ's from my apartment] Red Pepper Hummus and generic wheat thins--and we're gonna sit down and stare at my tiny computer screen for a few hours. First I had to blog something, anything, because I promised myself I would every night. You should keep promises to yourself.

Incredible Italian Inspiration

Cohost Me

My dear-heart friend Jeff and I have pledged to be food buddies. Which, bummerifically, doesn't mean we're going to exchange recipes or hang out together at jam tastings or give each other silly food-related nicknames ("Oh, Pumpernickel!"). It means we record everything we consume and then encourage each other to eat in a way that'll cause less shame when we record it. 

This is marginally more fun than it sounds, especially when we brainstorm silly ways to motivate ourselves (we'll be able to shop at H&M again) or even more silly ways to discipline ourselves (let's only eat foods that are included in the crops grown in our fake Farmville fields). 

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Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin have been chosen--or, more accurately, have agreed--to co-host the Oscars. This is the sort of news I wish I could hear every night right before I go to bed BECAUSE IT IS THE STUFF DREAMS ARE MADE OF.

I had the honor of seeing Steve perform live a couple of weeks ago, at the Cadillac Palace. ("Cadillac Palace" is fun to say, especially if you say my full name right before it.) He didn't disappoint, though maybe he talked about his new wife too much. I mean, just reminding me he had a wife was crushing.

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One ace thing about Brock: all I have to do is casually wonder, "Was it worth it to sign up for really fast internet if my computer was manufactured before Google was a verb?" and a couple days later he writes:

The connection you have is 22 or 30Mbps. The version of wireless your Mac and Airport have (802.11b) has a theoretical speed of 11Mbps, but the real speed is in the neighborhood of 4-6Mbps. I think the ethernet in your Mac/Airport is 10BaseT, which is 10Mbps, tho there is some chance it is 100Mbps (100BaseT). In other words, except if you have the 100Mbps ethernet, everything on your side of the cable modem is slower than the pipe coming in. What I don't know is if you get benefit from the bigger pipe up to that point. If it is like the highway, then it's good that the data can zip along at 65mph, even if it has to take the exit ramp and surface roads at 30. I couldn't find the answer in a little searching, but I'm going to try to see if I can find the answer from someone smart 'round the office or whatever.

Nothing a librarian likes more than a thoughtful offering of though-filled information.

Turns Out I Have An Oven

No surprise that the kitchen was the very last part of my apartment I bothered to attend to. I did it tonight, still high on a hard-fought pub quiz victory ["What's the only flag that can legally be flown above the Stars n' Stripes?"], scrubbing price tag residue off glassware while watching my latest Netflix: The Mayor of Casterbridge. Hey, Thomas Hardy? Would it really have strained your imagination that much to come up with even one mostly cheerful tale?

The apartment next to mine (or, at least, I think it's next to mine--this building has a perplexing layout) every night holds what sounds like an old-fashioned key party. I guess I admire their energy.

Lofty

I'm fully, truly, adverbily happy in this moment. Going to bed before I'm exhausted feels like a luxury after a couple of weeks of transition. Sleeping in a bed actually feels the same.

And I'm sitting up in this real bed with a real comforter (thank you to Mike, for loaning me a bed like it was a dollar for the jukebox; and to Brock, for knowing how to reconcile 83 pieces of bed; and to Capital One, for giving me a credit card which took me 20 minutes to max out at IKEA). Moses and Dave are bookend-cuddled up by my hips and I have a Diet Dr. Hansen's Black Cherry on the headboard (thank you, Oak Park commerce titans, for deciding to let a Trader Joe's into our fair 2x3 square miles). I'm writing this on a laptop (thank you, Claire and Bill, again, for this) that's receiving a strong internet signal even though I'm sitting 20 feet above my connection (thank you, Bill Gates, for inventing the people who invented the Airport.) See why I'm so happy?

Oh, and thank you unparenthetically, universe, for letting me find a lofted apartment that's not actually a loft but is really cool, even if it is in this patchouli-perfumed building. As of tonight, I feel at home, mistress of the space. I like to hear trains from my tiny kitchen and see so much sky from my huge window. I can't wait to grow even more into it, write a lot in it, have you over to it.

 

MORE SOON

Bloggy blog blogging blogger.

With The Band

Ohhhhh, darling...please believe me...I'll never do you no harm....believe me when I say...I'll start blogging again tomorrow. I want to tell you all about my Labor Day weekend and whatnot. But this afternoon is about getting caught up at work, and tonight is all about pretending to be John Lennon.

Stripey

One thing I like about Brock (and there's at least six things) is that he spends as much time online as me and sniffs out stuff like this for me: ZooBorns. This site is a simply marvelous mental tonic. There's a few too many monkeys and primates for my narrow awwww-zo-cute tastes but there's also gobs of little big cats. Look at these tiger triplets, who were born in Utah this summer:

They say, "HIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!"

You've Got To Move It Move It

It's supposed to thunderstorm for most of the day tomorrow, which would usually totally make my day off. But tomorrow isn't for sleeping in and cat-patting and watching Lost in Austen. Tomorrow is strictly for dropping shit on my toes.

I've been graudally moving into Brock's loft for weeks now, but tomorrow is the day I'm actually shelling out for a truck rental (at 6:30 in the blasted morning) and need to fully clear n' clean out my beloved apartment.

Molly will be helping me, partly because she's nice like that and partly because I've loaned her lots of money lately but mostly because we'll be moving her stuff, too--she's renting a lovely room in some guy's condo a few blocks away.

Jennie will be by in the afternoon with her Saturn; hopefully, by that point, we'll be working on final mini-projects. Sweep out the fireplace. RE-screw on the cupboard doors I preferred removed. Establishing Molly's cats at her boyfriend's dad's place (I can't imagine that's going to work out but maybe my imagination is drying up now that I'm in my sturdy thirties).

I can't wait to greet September fully installed in Printers Row, ready to block out a new routine and settle into new digs and see Brock's cute morning face (and even cuter morning hair) first thing every day.