Birthing the marathon

Running a marathon is, I've decided, a lot like giving birth.

True, I have yet to have an actual baby. But considering the anticipation of said event and the physicality that comes along with it, I'm going to go ahead and say the comparison is not a stretch.

Thus, my marathon birth story.

*Spoiler alert* I won.



How amazing is this guy? Yup. Running buddy.

Alright, so I didn't quite win it. But I finished. I think my time was 4:37 minutes - give or take.

But let's back up.

I was talked into running this puppy by my friend who has run three other marathons. I love Chicago, I love this friend and I've always wanted to try so sign up we did.

You may recall my trials and tribulations with training. It worked out well, in the end as I was unemployed and could contribute larger chunks of my week to hitting the open road. Then I got injured. Then I recovered. Then I got a job and training got pushed to the back burner but I managed to clock in 18 miles the week before so away I went.

Friend and I had a hotel right by the starting line and after a lovely day of distractions with Chicago friends and a hearty meal with my family who flew in for the even, we made our way up to our room for a short nights rest.

Up at 5:45, we dedicated an hour to stretching and preparations and made it down to the starting line just as they were blocking off some entrances. We squeezed into the 10 minute mile slot along with a couple thousand other people and...walked a crowded slow distance up to the start.

It started off great, as I'm sure these all do. It was a beautiful, if super toasty, day and the crowd was already thick and excited at the 7:30 start. We meandered through the crowd of runners in the loop and made our way up to the lakeside and into my old neighborhoods Lincoln Park and Lakeview. We even passed my old street (twice)!

Lakeview was definitely the most rocking of the neighborhoods, what with Boystown to support the runners in the Trannies-in-costume-dancing-to-Lady-Gaga category.

Friend and I ran side-by-side until about the halfway point. She was having some knee problems and we gradually drifted apart (sniff) until I couldn't see her anymore.

Then I saw my parents. It was somewhere between miles 13 and 14 and my dad popped out of the crowd and ran with me for a moment offering me sips of water and dates. Brilliant. It was also a lovely distraction. He told me they would be around miles 17 and 20, so it was always something to keep me going.

Turning west I tried to keep an eye out for Chicago friends who I knew would be hanging around the Diversey/Greektown area or thereabouts but, sadly, I never saw them. The crowd thinned in parts in the western neighborhoods but there were always people around and I was never not running in a crowd.

Around mile 16 I started to get a pain in my knee - a familiar one, that annoying IT band strain. But it was early and every so often it would go away so I just ran on.

Just as he promised, I saw my dad around 18 and then somewhere in the early 20s when things were starting to go downhill. At this point I was just running through the knee pain but it kind of provided a distraction from the regular old body pain that was starting to present itself with little bursts. I tried to keep up the eating but it seemed the last thing I wanted to do.

The latter part of the course weaves itself around the south side. Whenever I thought we were starting to run back north we'd take another turn and head south again. But it wasn't bad. Ignorance was bliss as I had absolutely no idea what was up ahead.

Between miles 20 and 23 I had this flash of optimism. I was getting down to a handful of miles and the crowd was getting thicker and more supportive. I even braved a sip of beer around 23. I had my ipod sitting with an hour long mix for motivation back up and somewhere around this time period I turned it on. I totally misjudged the type of music I would be up for. Some advice: less 80s and 90s ballads and more Beyonce. I think it was around 22 that 'Halo' came on and I literally got chills as I rounded a corner and saw the loop in the distance. The mix took a dive from there but it was a really nice 2 minutes.

And then 24 hit and there seemed absolutely no possible way that I could run two more miles. Like, none. The crowd was awesome but downtown Chicago just did not seem to get any closer. I was to the point of hobbling with my knee. Actually, when I ran it was better but whenever I stopped for water a shooting pain ran up my left leg.

Also at this point I had no idea how slow I was going. How long was 2 miles? 20 minutes? Please kill me, 40 minutes?

Then I started to see it. The crowd was a mass of color ahead of me. The mileage markers started to count down in kilometers, which helped me gauge the distance not at all. You had to turn right, run up a slight hill and then take a left and head in to the final mini stretch. People were screaming, just yelling their heads off for every runner trying to make it up that mini mountain. At one point I look over and this woman who had already lost her voice yelled, 'You're my hero, I could never do this.' And that got me over the hill.

When I rounded the corner and the giant red finish line was clearly in front of me I started to laugh cry and, I think, said 'oh my god' a few times until I got looks from nearby runners. But, I'm sorry, are you really going to finish this thing in silence?

I crossed the finish line with arms raised, like friend told me too, and totally and completely wept. Man it felt good.

Then it felt terrible and then I was given water and cookies and bananas and bagels and a cape of some sort and told to grin in front of a camera (I can only imagine out framable that one was) and wander TWO miles down to where family and friends would be reunited. That walk must have taken as long as the marathon. I was dazed and limping and feeling slightly ill just trying to retain a tight grip on all the goodies I was shoveled.

Finally, at the designated meet-up spot, I saw my Mom and brother and have never been so excited. They hugged me, sweaty and all, and it was the best moment.



My Dad, who was trying to find me up by the finish line, returned and we compared stories. A little while later, from out of the crowd like a sweaty little angel, appeared friend! She finished despite running on a bum knee for the entire second half of the marathon. I limped up to her and we hugged and both cried and it was hilariously emotional and awesome. We treated ourselves to free massages, very slow showers, a clean change of clothes and a panini and french fries afterward.

It was a crazy experience and I was surprised by the emotions and all I kept thinking is, why would anyone ever want to do this again?

And yet, as the days passed and my aches and pains faded it was really just the anticipation and excitement and shared experience that remained. I tried running the other day and got 10 minutes into a job before my IT band acted up. So it's going to be a longer recovery, but I'm OK with that. I did what I had to do. I finished/won and have my life back now that training isn't a top priority. But with the New York marathon happening this weekend it's hard not to think if maybe that's a possibility sometime in the future.

A long way in the future.

Happy running.

xoL

Training day: Longest and finalest run, T-minus three days

Here we go party people.

What was once 16 weeks has dwindled down to a measly four days.

Saturday was my last attempt at a long run and it was, dare I say, a success.

I clocked in 18.75 miles.

I ran from Greenpoint to Williamsburg, across the Williamsburg bridge, across Broome Street in Manhattan and an already bustling Soho, up the West Side (lovely), across 106th street, into Central Park (where I saw, I kid you not, a gaggle of dogs doing circus tricks, a rare bird show and the end of a half-marathon race), South through the winding park paths, East across 59th street (the bowels of the tourist industry), across the Queensboro Bridge, down through my new hood (Long Island City, people, get into it!), across the Polaski Bridge, and back through Greenpoint ending and at an early Halloween celebration in McCarren Park.

Sure I wanted to chop off my throbbing legs, but I survived and it was enjoyable.

Now I just have to tack on a teen tiny seven (SEVEN?!) more miles come Sunday and we're golden. Pooped, but golden.

I have become completely and totally paranoid about injuries but I'm trying to take it easy. I'm fitting to do some sprints tomorrow to keep the stamina up, a Bikram yoga class Thursday night and a leisurely run Friday morning before jetting off to good ol' Chi-town.

I feel the potential to forget my sneakers in Brooklyn is so real I can reach out and touch it. The more I think about the possibility the more it seems they will sit this trip out. To prevent this first-and-last-marathon-ending scenario I have left post-it notes around my belongings as reminder. My belongings, at this point, comprises the remains of a suitcase in the corner of a living room, but you'd be surprised how many helpful notes can be tucked into the corners of said luggage.

SHOES, screams one piece of paper. SNEAKS yells another. DON'T FORGET demands a third. I may have even set an alarm on my phone.

Hey, this is serious people. By Friday, if I forget these puppies, I should bypass the plane and go straight to the mental hospital for surely this is a case for earliest-onset Alzheimer.

Should anyone be interested in tracking my progress/near-death experience you can try out the Runner Tracker as provided by Bank of America. My bib number is 43542. It may not actually activate until I register on Saturday, but try your luck. Now, no judging on my less-than-stellar times. The goal here is survival. Survival and beating Katie Holmes's time (no offense, of course, to Ms. Cruise, but that was pretty brutal and please just put me out of my misery if I'm running for five hours and 30 minutes).

A lovely friend mentioned the coincidence that the marathon date is 10-10-10 and this year I am 10+10+10 so it must be good luck. Let's hope she's right!

xoL

How to train for a triathlon (when you have no idea what you're doing)

It may sound scary at first but a triathlon is completely achievable for the busy, athletically fickle and, well, homeless. Just follow these easy steps and you'll be jaunting across that finish line in no time.


1) Sign up at least 6 months ahead of time. This gives you the necessary luxury of forgetting that you signed up for anything at all. While decked out in wintery layers the August feat o strength will seem impossibly far away so that it'll seem just plain silly to train.

2) Do as much as possible. No, I'm not talking about the running, biking and swimming required of this event. The DO that will help you is the everyday tasks. Working? Ask for more responsibilities, take on more shifts or opt for those consecutive conferences across the continent. In school? Make sure that the final three training months correspond with your capstone project, final thesis or (at least) finals. You want to spread out the worry. Dwell on other things besides the fact that you haven't run more than a mile in six months. If your schedule is a little too, shall we say, open, might I recommend moving, dog sitting or trying to get a VISA. One or all of these items will make a 24-mile bike ride seem like a vacation.

3) Get a bike. Yeah, you'll need one. But don't get caught into the whirl wind chaos of a bike that works. No. You really just need two wheels and a seat. Why not take the time to go vintage. Opt for fun over function. Two brakes are for wimps and you'll just be showing off with foot cages or, ha, shoe clips.

4) The week before the tri, lock your bike to a street lamp and loose not just the main key but the two back-up keys. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and things are no different when you can't hop on that sea-foam green monster and peddle away.

Lucky for you, you went for vintage so no one in their right mind cared to pry the chain off that puppy. So you'll have to shell out $85 for a friendly young keysmith to come grind the chain off.

He'll be lovely and that mac & cheese you order and eat on the street corner while he finds his way are just the perks.


5) Don't give into the 'swimming in open water' hype until the very last minute. That 70-degree pool water is totally close to the experience of maneuvering the white-peaked waves of Lake Michigan. Sure, the weather may experience some unseasonably cold dips and storms may threaten, but you're tough. right? Well, if you're feeling iffy get your mits on a wet suit. "Professionals" may try to talk you into a real wet suit - the seamless, neoprene, full-body kind. But that's just plain silly. And, actually, two days before the tri, will be impossible to find. Sooooo jump into a child's surf suit. You get the added benefit of a brightly-colored patches that set you apart from every other competitor. And when everyone else is a little too toasty in their suit, you'll be cool as a cucumber with bare legs and arms exposed. It'll put hair on your chest. And - bonus - the wet suit becomes your adult depends when you forget to pee in the lake.

6) Finally, an awesome cheerleading section is a must! Good friends screaming their heads off will be better than any energizing GU they throw at you.


It was brutal and ridiculous and I definitely threw up a little in my mouth before starting but, damn, crossing that finish line was the BEST FEELING EVER.
Get into it.

3 fcking 03! And still walking!

Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Puppy's momma

It seemed an obvious choice when I was asked by my babysitting family if I wanted to hang with their two pups for a week while they go on a mini summer holiday.

"Oh, they like to cuddle," the Mom said.

"Convenient," I said, "so do I."

Puppies, playtime and a nightly snuggle? Yes please.

Perhaps I should have known when I received a phone call the Saturday night before I set off on my week of dogs in the South Side. Went a little something like this:

"Lauren, do you know how to butcher a chicken?"

"Sure (lie), messily."

"OK, great. That's it."

Hm. Dinner? Pour moi? That's above and beyond. Well...not exactly. This odd, quick chat made a bit more sense when, the next morning, I opened their fridge to find eight gallon-size bags filled with a chopped up raw chicken. One slightly nerved phone call out to the parents later I find that these featherless fowl are for the pups. no, no cooking needed. Just throw them in the bowls and voila! Dinner is served.

The sound of their big dog jaws ripping into the wee back, thigh and wing bones was enough to send shivers down my meat-eating back. I ate falafel for dinner.

Chomping on uncooked poultry will wear any four legged friend down so off we three trotted to bed - a big bed. A family bed. I stretched out in one corner and the pups, one at a time, hopped their little raw chicken mouths all up in my the newly washed sheets. By morning there were a few paws massaging my bum as I got cozy with the wall. it was quaint.

That wasn't the only thing I woke up too, though. No. Monday was full of surprises. Like the big dog's nose erupted in some sort of open wound of a hive patch that he continued to itch all day every day. He was a walking bloody mess. After a full day of school on the other side of the Chicago world (a.k.a. Evanston) I opened the door and the bloody nose was waiting on the other side, ready to make a beeline for my bare leg, skirt or pant leg - whatever I was wearing - as the relief he'd been searching for (on any surface he could find) all day. Nights were the worst. The poor thing was up for all hours picking so that I'd wake up to a veritable crime scene. I went through three loads of laundry, cleaning sheets and towels and anything that I could throw over a one-time clean surface.



As this was all happening I was trying to drop subtle hints of concern to the parents ("yeah, he's bleeding a little here and there," "no, it's not getting better," "it might be getting worse," "alright, so he's a walking open wound!"). I finally got the OK to drug the dog with Benadryl: thank god for those sweet pink pills. The Mom suggested I throw those little guys in with a raw egg (cause he'll just sop those right up) but having had enough of the uncooked chicken - fully formed or no - I opted for a less offensive yogurt. BUT. They worked! The wound slowly became a scab and the three of us fell into somewhat of a normal routine. I felt a little like bad mom drugging her chillins to keep them quiet and at home, but damn if that wasn't helpful.

But just in case I was getting too comfortable, on our last walk together, somewhere between leashing the dogs up and returning home, I lost my keys. Yup. Good stuff. I will miss, terribly, my kick ass RENO key chain (100% Woman). But other than that, fairly harmeless.

So, what did I learn after a week of living as a single mom of two pups? 1) I'm only ever getting one. 2) they are only eating dry, fully cooked food 3) future pup is DEFINITELY not sleeping with me and 4) I'm not ready to be a puppy mom. YET.

Oh and I'm EATING margherita! It's SO exciting and terribly delicious.


Mini salad (featuring marg and basil)

This is just getting weird

Well, it's August and I've sold all of my furniture. Yup. It's me, an aloha beach chair and my tele. It's not nearly the end of school but I had the fear of New York living/moving in me. So out the furniture went. I think this trumps the 28th birthday waking up at the Road Side Inn in South Dakota.

But I'm random enough so I'm heading down to Hyde Park for the next week to dog sit and pretend to live someone else's life. Then I have two more weeks of school and a shit ton of work to do, some silly presentation to give, a story to write, a video to make and a triathlon to run. oh and sending my life via usps - only 9 boxes. I don't know if that's sad or impressive.

In a matter of three short weeks I'll be saying goodbye to another city, another apartment, another mini life. I will miss this palatial apartment since it will be the biggest place I will live in...ever.

Margherita is doing well and pushing out tomatoes a plenty. It's kind of toppling over over with the weight of all of them and I haven't a clue what to do about that. But she's looking h.o.t and delicious.

Ms. L goes to Washington

It was about a week ago, maybe longer, that I boarded a plane bound for our fair capital. I was fittin to see my man, stalk my president's chief of staff and see why one would care to reside in the district.

I've visited D.C. before. A number of times. I am intimately familiar with the Fung Wah bus, in all its shapes, sizes and names. While living in NYC my lovely friend and I would hussle out of our 'assistant' titled jobs and catch a late-night Friday bus armed with half a dozen magazines and wine to tide us over. I was always happy to go but it was never for the city. You see, I have these hilarious and entertaining friends and whenever we would get together it was all about us. It wasn't the city. Though sustenance and imbibing was involved, and fairly high on our list of priorities, sight seeing and such was not.

So I never knew the district. Never cared too. Maybe it was one too many nights in some cave in Adams Morgan surrounded by a Kahki Brigade of recent graduates. That's possible.

But this trip was a little bit different. For one, R was involved. And I have realized, quite pleasantly, that together we are lazy adventurers. Hard to do, I know. We balance just enough exploration, chance and couch time to feel like we did something, saw some stuff and ate a little tasty bite.

The city looked a little better this time around.

There were some enticing curves


Clever colors


Good friends


and a certain...I don't know what.


I never did see that certain chief of staff but I'm pretty sure he felt my presence and is now searching for me all over the city, desperate to offer me a job, guided by only a ball point pen I accidentally left while taking fake photos in the press room.


Next up: London. Well, I'm getting ahead of myself, but it's a comin. Still have a month in Chicago. But those months come fast and furious and it's all slipping a little too quickly. I dig this city. I will be sad to see it and its central time go.

xoxoL

It's a TOMATO!

L is proud to announce the arrival of baby tomatoes!



Approximately five of them
Still green
weighing in at a very small amount

Both plant and owner are doing well, thriving, even, under the hot Chicago sun.

We look forward to more baby tomatoes as the summer passes on, so long as they can hang freely on the branch and Marg doesn't topple over from all that weight she's gained.

Don't forget the gift registry!


Best wishes,

L & Margherita

What I do in my free time

I found a little buddy down in Hyde Park. He may be 24 years younger than I, but I tell you we get along swimmingly. The other week we made some Play Doh and built worlds of colors mushed with dog hair. And, yes, I went home and made a video about it.

pictoral catch-u-up

Hey there. It's been a while. I know, I know. But here's a quick spin, a compilation, of my last - oh - five weeks.

Completed my third quarter by a hair. I celebrated with friends and jetted back East where I delighted in terrible June weather but wonderfully relaxing home-type stuff.

I hung out with a not-so-little Lola:




Took a trip into the city and hung out with a definitely Little S:



A real Little L:



And ate some super little C's:



So tiny:



Found serious BBQ in BK:



I flew on back to Chicago swapped cold-weather clothes for warm and welcomed the summer.

I had me a taste:



and got really wet:



but found some fun in a little Booker T. and, yes, a throw back with Guster:



I completely missed any fireworks happening in Chicago but felt the rumble on the streets and the shouts from the public and felt pretty patriotic.

Now I have seven whole weeks to create an online magazine, run/swim/bike a triathlon, rent out my apartment, figure out what to do with all that I own and design some sort of a future that involves writing and other journalism-type-stuff that would make this fancy M.A. all worth it.

eek.

xoxoL

Purple teeth, green thumbs

So I jetted off to Sonoma, CA, for the weekend, like broke journalism students ought to do. My lovely college friend whom I have not seen in over THREE years was gettin married in the wine country oasis and I was NOT about to miss out on that.

I packed lightly for my adult prom event of the season (three dress option, two pairs of shoes and loads of other inappropriate items)and got myself on the 8am flight (public transit and all). I was seated next to a girl no more than 14 who wore a bright pink t-shirt that said "this is so messed up?" (to which she or the shirt were referring to, I'm not entirely sure) and tight, dare I say, stone-wash jeans (are those back?).

An hour into the flight pink t-shirt pulled out a late breakfast/early lunch of Reese's Peanut Butter cups and Cool Ranch Doritos. Two inches away I munched on an apple and dried fruit trail mix, feeling old and ravenous.

But...nothing makes a girl feel more sexy than a bulky, white Dodge Caliber. Ohhhh yes. Here's M showing it off (like it needs it).

Fully equipped with a few doors, roll -down windows, manual locks and a silver plastic dashboard (I'm sorry, but why aren't American-made cars doing well?), M and I were ready to hit the town.

Sonoma is GORGeous, blue sky, California beach weather by day and bone-chilling antarctic mistake by night. Hole-E crap that was cold. I, of course, was constantly scantily clad because bulky jackets did not go well with cute ruffly pink dresses and such. I made do with a wine wrap and hovered around heat lamps (clever Sonomans).

The wedding was breathtaking views, tear-jerking speeches and delicious cakes.

There was dancing and photos galore. Even a harrowing roller coaster ride up and down a mountain side.

Weave in a little John & Kate Plus 8 marathon and that is top five best weekends. I tell you, it was hard to leave. Especially hard to leave our sic ride (miss you already Caliber!).

After a fun weekend hangover and a truly depressing season opener of John & Kate (I am pre-emptively divorcing the show. It's just no fun anymore. I feel like I'm getting divorced and it is no longer cute) I decided I had to look to the future. And that future is margarita.

I told you, yes, of my baby tomato plant? Well in no less than two weeks I finally made it a home. I had hap hazardously scribbled directions from the woman who sold me the plant. I ran down the slightly indecipherable list at my local hardware store:

- A 10-12 inch container that drains. check.
- Organic plotter feed. check, more or less.
- Gardening gloves (not required but they were yellow with flowers!)
- Stakes. Stakes? Hm.
- Nylons with which to tie the stakes? Hm again.

Well. I winged it. And by winged I mean I followed the incredibly terse directions on the back of the Miracle Grow plotting feed (don't tell the tomato woman, she'll be so disappointed). The directions are a little less than helpful. They are so short and vague I'd think they were dictated via gardener hostage at gun point.





Select a pot with a drain hole. Alright, alright...I'm there.











Fill pot about 1/3 full. Uh huh, uh huh...go on







Loosen root ball. Come again? Root...ball, you say?










Add more mix; press lightly. Wait! Wait. I'm still at the root ball. OK. How lightly is too light?


Water; let drain. For the love of GOD, man, slow it down!




Like any knew mother I am riddled with anxiety. Did I over water it? Not water it enough? Is it too cold? Too alone out there on the fake balcony? Will it survive the sudden thunderstorm? Was that really the root ball?

I'm going to let it live its little life on its own, but let's be honest, something about this set up looks ridiculous:


The good news is that I finally got to use the item voted, Least Likely to Be Used Before I Leave -- The frog watering bucket!


It was a proud moment.

xoxoL

Septuagenarian swoon

A few weeks ago R came to visit. He arrived on a Wednesday and we had a whole FIVE days together. It was so comfortable and natural that I forgot to actually hang out with him. I had classes, a few meetings, we went to a movie with friends and before you know it - poof - he's gone. His birthday was just a few weeks before he came out and I surprised him (and me) with tickets to see Leonard Cohen at the Chicago Theater.



It. Was. Incredible. This man is, what, 75ish? UnREAL. it was amazing. He sang for more than three hours. He returned to the set with not two or three but four encores. He played the classics that I know, sing and danced to when I was a kid - The Tower of Song, Bird on A Wire, Chelsea Hotel, Everybody Knows, Halleluja, I'm Your Man, So Long Marianne, Suzanne and many more. He wove some spoken lyrics throughout the night, which could make the hairs on the back of your neck stand up they're so good.

I loved you when you opened like a lily to the heat, you see I’m just another snowman standing in the rain and sleet, who loved you with his frozen love, his second hand physique, with all he is, and all he was,
A thousand kisses deep.

Ugh. It was amazing. And he was such a gentleman. He bowed to his bandmates and to the audience after each song, making sure to take off his fedora. He introduced his band twice and they each got a solo at the end. For all the work, we gave Leonard a few standing Os.




The Chicago Theater is pretty amazing as well, perfect place to get to see a legend. But Leonard was the star so it's not right for me to even go into it.

Since then I've been all over Chicago, doing a story about a garden on the South Side and taking classes downtown and in Evanston. The spring has FINALLY come and the trees are no longer bare but budding and fantastically all shades of green.

While down at the garden I got sucked into the growing season and bought myself a tomato plant. yes! it's a little guy, barely a stem and a few leaves but it's got a good vibe, I can tell. It's sitting still in its little red keg cup out on my faux ledge waiting for that streak of 4pm sun that graces my west-facing wall. I have to get it a proper home and some other things I'm sure (already this is proving to be more high maintenance than a not so much green but inked-thumbed girl can handle). I have named it Margarita - I hoped the name would inspire it to fulfill its yummy future.

Oh yeah, and I may have killed my virtual chia pet. Right. I can't even get a real one. It's a widget on my laptop and all it needed was a little water (click the giant water drop) and the occasional hair cut (click the red and blue sign). But, no. It seemed to be too much for me. Fear not. I got another. And it's going to be awesome.

That is all. For now.
xoxoL

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

Half time

Well, two down and two to go. As of yesterday I am done with my second quarter of graduate school! Seem fast? That's what happens when grad school is squished down to a year. It's genius, really, if it weren't for this retched economy. Luckily, I'm still only half way through so I don't technically have to succumb to those depressing realities.

In other news. I'd like to take this half-time opportunity to thank those items that traveled hundreds of miles and across a whole time zone only to site idly on my Chicago shelves.

1) Iron. Oh iron. Why ever I thought you would be necessary, I don't know. You looked so adult and professional sitting there in my New York apartment. I even haggled for you with R and won. Only to put you on a nearly unreachable shelf in my random closet. No offense, but you're not even that special. You were bought on a desperate pre-interview whim on sale at Duane Reade. But, nonetheless, here you are. Giving my wrinkled shirts the stink eye. But they're just cotton and those creases are kinda cute, so far as I'm concerned. But there could be hope for us yet. Spring is around the corner and I hear linen might be a must.

2)DVD player. It was a rough drive for you. We nearly forgot you that sunny day back in September but I ran in and found you, shadowed by a nearby discarded box. I squeeze you into a crevice in the back. You sacrificed a button for that ride but proved you could work with out it. You were just a delight during my darker non-cable days - playing early episodes of 90210, even repeating them for me when you wanted to move on to the artsy film recently delivered by Netflix. Then cable came with a big-footed greasy-fingered cable man who worked like a ninja behind the TV to make the cable wires fit where they may. Pulling out some and inserting others. Metal pieces flung like confetti and before we knew it was gone and, so were you. That cable man gave me instant gratification - the food network, TLC and the occasional prime time something rather. Months passed before I thought to try you out again, but by that time it was too late. I don't know what the cable man did back there but you've grow impotent and dusty and what can I do but warm myself by the glow of another episode of John and Kate plus 8?

Speaking of which...3) Netflix. Oh netflix account. You encouraged me with ease and lower prices to continue service when I moved out to Chicago. Just $6.99 you said and I agreed. And the queue was entertaining and overwhelming but it was mine...all mine. I quickly deleted R's selections (the divide was obvious: go (History Channel and PBS documentaries, i.e. The Nazis) and stay (Made of Honor)) and built a list of entertainment I would never get through. Now, without faithful DVD player, what use are you to me? The artsy foreign flick I chose ever so randomly is still sitting, unopened, atop DVD player. The postage date glares: Jan. 3 2009. Yet every month you take out that $6.99 and I just turn my head. Just when I think I've had enough you coax me back in with the allure of instant movies that I can watch on my computer. Alright, I say once more, you can stay. Three months have come and gone and I still haven't opened artsy flick nor have I watched a movie instantly, like you promised. Why is it so hard to let you go? Perhaps things will change over the spring. As warm weather draws people out of their caves, will I be tempted to stay in and watch the next vaguely review Judd Apatow movie?

Thank you hapless items. I hope to reap the fruits of your general existence...sometime soon. Until then, I'm blowing this Popsicle stand to hang with R in Boston!
xoxoL

A wanted woman

Yeah, that's right. My article on the Chicago Bosnian community was posted on the home page of the American Southeast European Chamber of Commerce

What is the AmSECC? Yeah, I'm not sure. But we are besties already.

And, hey, even Maureen Dowd had to start somewhere. Alright, so she started at the Washington Star, but let's be honest, that's absolutely a fake newspaper.

Stay tuned for a byline in the Chicago Journal (maybe).

I'd thank to the Academy

I have been lame, I'll admit it.

But I've been busy building my film journalism repertoir.

Yup, I'm a one man band. Hitting the streets with the camera, tripod, lavaliere, cords, batteries, voice recorders and all the rest in tow.

Except that the company I bought the camera from neglected to send me the very professional bag that comes with it - you know the one with the cleverly placed pockets and mesh lining perfect for extra tapes? Yeah, didn't have it. But what I did have was a pleather shoulder bag. I may not have had any of that nifty protective padding, but I did have the blinding sheen of daylight on pleather. Classy.

I planned my most professional looking outfit: they're not called jeans, but...slacks? Yeah, there were some of those, a black button down and even a vest-type thing. I felt comfortable enough to leave my "I'm a journalist, for real" sign at home.

My subject in question was a family going through foreclosure who was kind enough to share their story with me.

I headed west in my professional outfit and pleather camera case. I overshot my first bus stop and had to back track. The time crunch made me break into a sweat immediately and unleashed a blizzard of butterflies in my tum.

I made it to the family's house on time, despite or maybe because of my jump-the-gun anxiety.

Now, when you're doing a video story you need to film something called B-Roll
I was told you should have more than you think - not just a one minute shot here and there but up to 30 minutes or more, if you can stand it.

And stand it, I could not. Filming is awkward. Perhaps because my camera (and everything else) is not the large professional one that comes out of the white television van and screams "I have a purpose (a.k.a I'm not a creep!)."


I wasn't sure what to expect with the family, though I had met them once before. For the situation they are in, they were amazingly open and welcoming. They had three boys who were at school at the time of my visit. I interviewed the husband and wife and the husband's mother who had never lived anywhere but that home. For this family of six, this house was TINE. EY. I mean, damn. It was impressive. Moma foreclosure gets a room. Parents Foreclosure get a room (the husband's childhood room - still powder blue) and the three boys share the room in between.

Granted maybe the smallest boy could still fit comfortably in a corner and you wouldn't have to worry, but if these boys' growth mirrors their father's I'd be really concerned that they'll pop the roof off the home Alice in Wonderland style.

So I asked: would you want to see you boys grow up here...would you want to stay in this home if you could? Yes, definitely yes. If and when the foreclosure process ends they hope to turn the attic into rooms for the boys (dear god can someone please do this for them).

Younger Moma forelcosure gave me a tour of the home and then I sat them down for a one on three interview. I had senior moma foreclosure sit along with the parents on the couch and there was a divide so much greater than the vanilla cushion between them. Oh my. I had stumbled into a Jerry Springer warm up.

My friend advised me prior to my shoot to TAKE CONTROL. You are the journalist. You're the one with all the equipment. Feel free to guide them, tell them what to do and make them repeat themselves if unplanned noises take over the shoot.

If you're reading this (especially this far down) you'll probably already know that taking control is not, shall we say, my strong suit.

When a chorus of cell phone rings took over the first five minutes of our interview, yeah, I let it go. When family foreclosure put on a spontaneous phlegm-ism version of Beethoven's 5th, who was I to cut them off? And when their full-sized bull dog lept up over the child gate and into my camera, what are you going to do?

The interview lasted a little bit longer than planned. But we pulled something out and wrapped up. I said my goodbyes and let them know that I'd probably be doing a walk around the outside of the house for a few more shots. Ten minutes into these final filming, younger moma forelcosure walks out of the house with my tape and voice recorder (absolutely necessary components!). CLASS. EE.

Clearly, I'm meant for this - just think of where I could end up. You can check it out the final video for yourself. Get excited. Or depressed, cause that is a sad situation for family foreclosure.


xoL

Politic-oon

A few things has solidified over the past week or so. One, I have a new found appreciation for the hyperlink. And two I've moved on from those silly Hollywood crushes of yesteryear (not totally over, I'm human afterall) to the ever-more adult, politic-oon.

My nascent crush - thanks to my sometime painful government beat assignment last quarter - has spiraled into a full blown political swoon for Mr. Emanuel.

As it turns out, Rahm-bo and I are much more alike than one might immediate presume, for the following reasons:


1. Rahm got his masters degree from Northwestern University.
I am ALSO getting my masters degree from Northwestern University

2. Rahm went to a small liberal arts school to study ballet.
I ALSO went to a small liberal arts school where in my first semester, after an inspirational viewing of FAME!, I signed up for and immediately dropped an intro to ballet dance class.

3. Rahm cut off the top of his middle finger while working at Arbys.
I, in an obvious subconscious sign of solidarity with the current chief of staff, have never eaten at an Arbys.

4. Rahm has three children.
I was conned into sponsoring a baby in the Dominican Republic (baby Ruth) for the better part of a year while living in NYC making 25,000 a year (read: a dollar value meal away from street life).

5. Rahm's brother is a high-powered Hollywood agent and the inspiration for Ari Gold on HBO's Entourage
I'm pretty sure my brother has watched and enjoys Entourage and I read enough US Weekly to know as much about Hollywood as an agent

6. Rahm gets up a 5 in the morning to hit the gym
I set my alarm at 5 in the morning to go to the gym and then get up 5:30 to turn it off for another hour of sleep.

For all these reasons, and so much more, you can see that Rahm Emanuel, the White House Chief of Staff and I, a student, are ever so similar and, at the very least, should be besties.

Where winter lives

I get it, Chicago. You win, Chicago. You are winter.

It has NOT stopped snowing, pretty much since I returned. I'm a snow bunny at heart, but there's something about trudging through gunk like this:



that takes away the serenity of all this:





But in any event, it's impressive. Way to go. So thankful for my boots.

Conveniently, during the consta-blizzard, I am hitting the pavement searching for information on my shiny new reporting beat: housing and communities. Though this is the BEST time for politics in Chicago I have come to understand that political writing is just not my cup of green tea.
But housing is juicy, don't you fret. There's foreclosures and fraudulent mortgages and lies, lies, lies (according to one foreclosure prevention officer)!.

Tuesday is our first day of reporting. Blessedly, I do not have a story due until Wednesday so I'll be out and about - a morning meeting with the Housing Task Force, a court hearing on a delinquent hotel owner and, hopefully, a few phone interviews.

Oh, the good news of the second quarter stu, is that I'm a real live reporter! I think I mentioned this, but it's so exciting I'll do it again, we get press passes! And my own desk with a working phone and an in/out box. Oh the thrill.
Though the press passes were definitely made by some administrator's third grader, it does not take away the excitement of feeling like a professional.

Now, all this professional needs to do is come up with some story ideas (pronto) and figure out which (out)fits make her sweat less.
Dangerous world out there.

I'm also taking an interactive class - you may decide what that means on your own. So I am plunging deeper into the Web vortex than ever before. It's pretty delightful. In my 'research' I've come across and have been sent some pretty fantastic sites and hilariously clever articles. I'll continue to pass these guys along, if the mood should strike.

And by all means, feel free to do the same.

xoL

...and we're back

I feel like more happened today than in my three week (OK,month) hiatus from this blog/school/chicago/life, but a quick summary wouldn't hurt. Right?

Let's see, since I signed off on December 1st, 2008 there was:

A final project
Creepy building tours
Bitter cold days spent wondering the Chicago streets
Final flush-inducing presentations
A holiday party with a splash (alright, a flood) of air guitar
A punishing migraine
Panic packing
A much anticipated return to NYC
College (with bangs) redeux
Another holiday party (crashed)
Death by brie
Brunch
A walk across the Brooklyn Bridge
A Baby visit
A stomach flu
An R visit
Cuddles with Lola
An early Christmas
A Jamaican vacation
Many a good meal
Evenings of catch up with far-away family
A delayed flight
More cuddles with Lola
Return of R
A short road trip North
Fantastic bouts of laziness
Bad movies
Good movies
Great movies
Old movies
Home cooked meals
Shopping
Shared lunches
Drinks with old friends and new
A blizzard
A New Years sake bomb
A New Year
No resolutions, but some goals
More brunch (what was that, croissant french toast?)
A vague anniversary
Wonderful sleep in mornings
A very early morning
An epic road trip
A speedy return (all things considered)
A sigh of relief
A day of organization
A good night's sleep
A first day of school
A first blog post of the new year

...and I think that brings us up to speed.

A new semester means new classes, challenges and, above all, a better commute! Yes. No more hour long thing. No more burbs. No sir. I'm up and at 'em and in downtown Chicago in 30 minutes or less! Yup. No more Evanston. It's glorious.

Our tuition 'includes' a transit pass that allows us to go all over this great city (woo hoo). The fine print being that we have to travel up to campus (aka Evanston. aka the hour long commute) to get it (boo hiss). So this morning I sucked it up (I have Monday morning free, ps. Jealous?) and traveled up to the Evs at my normal rush hour time (8 am). I got up there pretty swiftly, had an awkward hello with an administrator, picked up my pass and attempted to get on with my morning. Walking back through campus my eye caught a few newbies anxiously looking skyward and I felt good and nostalgic, even, for those early panic-stricken days when everything was (too) new. I felt revived and ready to take on a new semester, happy to be in Chicago and to be back at school. Yes, I may have been skipping.

That was, until, the transit system failed me (really CTA? So early into the new year?) with derailment problems or signal issues or something. There was no sweet express train bringing back downtown. Instead, I had a long and cold wait on a random corner with some angry and crazy commuters. There was the toothless guy who spit his words to the sidewalk. There was an older woman who 'knows a thing or two about the CTA and has a thing or two to tell them.' She also had a thing or two dripping out of her nose that tended to graze my coat. But, after 20 minutes of waiting on a cold, seemingly abandoned, stoop you really feel like you belong with these irate crazies. I may have spat a little myself. I may have added a 'uh huh' and a 'you tell him' to the pacing man's rant.

Though, when the bus finally did come I took my seat in the back and pretended to be terribly enthralled by the passing scenery. I have enough friends, after all. Many buses and two hours later I was back in my hood and rushing to get ready for my first day of school.

But, after all of this, maybe that's a story for another time. I will say, I am excited. The kind of excited that is laced with anxiety and makes me sweat a little, but that's not so bad (and not so unexpected, let's be honest).

Oh, and a muffin shout out:



She's so sleepy and edible.