Won't you be my neighbor?

I'm sitting here in the slightly cold darkness of my apartment. Typing away on an assignment due tomorrow when my ears perk, suddenly, to the sound of crunching. I pause the Pandora's Box music playing on my computer and wait. There it is again. It's loud, like walking over a bed of potato chip bag crunch. Persistent and random.

Is it possible that I have a rodent? Maybe a gremlin found its way out of 1984 and into my apartment? I quietly rolled my desk chair so that I could look out of my bedroom door. No potato chip bags. No furry anything.

Nope. It's hail. Yup. Hail against my window. And it's late April.

But all worrying over guests got me thinking about my neighbors and how I have NO idea who they are. I'm not even sure what they look like. I have had a regular 9-to-5 schedule, a weirdo college schedule, even a lazy weekend schedule and yet I've barely seen hide nor hair of my fellow 428ers.

The girl across the hallway from me leaves funny little presents outside her own door. Yesterday it was a brand new bike. The week before that, an outdoorsy water bottle. Sometime ago there was a pair of flip flops that seemed to be making themselves right at home. But that's about it.

There was that one time we had an exchange, if you can call it that. It was an equally crummy day one Sunday a few months ago. I made the ill planned decision to do my laundry, which, on a Sunday, can get nasty, dirty even, with only three washer and driers and 100 some-odd residents.

So I brought my sack out and down the skeevy pesticide-smelling nether basement to find that all the washers were already taken. There was one tall brown haired girl taking one wet tangle of clothing out and putting another dry heap of clothing in. I left my sack on the one table and went back to my apartment. I did this two more times before a washer was open and each time the brown-haird girl was down there. Passing between washer and dryer and packing seemingly endless loads of dirty laundry into one coveted machine.

But something became available, I packed my crap in - whites and darks, there was no need to drag this on - and returned once again to my apt. An hour later I made my way back down, past the half-squished cockroach, to the laundry room to find my clothes washed and the brown hair girl STILL at it. I threw my damps into the dryer and mentioned that my machine was now vacant if she wanted to put her, what, 85th load in. She smiled, I smiled and went on my way.

Anyhoodle, I eventually, thousands of hours later, picked up my hot clothes in a bundle (I forgot the mesh sack and dropped a few socks on the way home) and made my way back up my three and a half flights. When I'm just two steps away from the top who do I see coming out of the apartment across from mine? The brown haired laundry girl!

I let out an audible gasp. She turned (presumably to return to her life's work in the basement) and I said "Hey!" She looked at me as though I had eight heads. I tried another route. "I was," and I motioned to the heap of still-steaming clothes in my arms, "doing laundry...and well, you were..." still nothing on her end I might add.

I tried another route. "I'm Lauren." "I'm Amy," she said. And that, my friends, was the start to our non-existent relationship.

I'll be sure to keep you updated on our stimulating silences from across the hallway.


xoxoL

Sprrr...Spra...Spriii...

Something is happening. Chicagoans have started to shed their winter coats or at least their winter pusses. Though there aren't any blossoms or blooms to speak of there's an energy in the air that can only mean one thing - SPRING! Regular old, once begrudged residents are now actually stopping and conversing in the streets! They say please and excuse me and ask about the time. Being a New Yorker I still have to ignore them, but I appreciate the shift in personality. There is a bug, for sure, and it is catchy.

I've been quickly absorbed into my third quarter of school (what's that? Yes. MORE than half way done! YIKES). Moving away from the hard news of the downtown news room, I now get to indulge in long format writing and art criticism. For the art class we are going to see a ballet rehearsal and the symphony (such a hard life)! For the long form class I have chosen something that fits perfectly with this soon-to-be blissful weather - community gardens. It's a little bare now but there's potential for serious cuteness.

But more exciting than the reporting is that I had a visitor! Yes, it was a delight. We did a high-octane tour de Chicago food, specifically centered around the peskily cute cupcake. There are cupcake places galore! They are very hard to escape.

I dragged dear visitor down to the South Side of Chicago, where my community garden is located, and we bopped around the University of Chicago and did a minor stalk of Obama's house.

We thought these shake down signs meant that we could have a casual stroll by his front door if only they give us a little pat down.


Sadly, no. The talkative officer trapped in her patrol car told us that his empty house is blocked off and don't you dare try to step past my drivers side door and me oh my you should see it when he's here! We believed her and crossed the street to take some far away shots.


After living alone for, what is it now, eight months or so? I realized quickly with lovely visitor that I have gotten very comfortable hanging in my apartment straight up nudey or at least pantless. I had to reign it in and it took some reminding.

It might be nearly 60 degrees and sunny outside but this wee j-stu's gotta a pape to write. There are worse things.

xoxoL