Schmuckegan

Once upon a time in Waukegan I was driving with my new lover, Bo, to see the premiere of his newest theatrical production that I was told was a smart funny metafictional look at a relationship between two psychopaths. Not being native to the Midwest I had yet to really understand much of what existed outside of the Chicago borders. I had assumed that the surrounding suburbs were merely quaint little miniature installations of Chicago's neighborhoods. However, as we continued to drive the outside scenery grew increasingly bleak until the only things we passed were rest stops, strip clubs, or a combination of those two things. I imagined the show to take place at a darling little off-broadway theater with an old fashioned marquee sign on a cobblestone street lined with cafés and antique stores.

Downtown Waukegan proved to be somewhat different than I had envisioned. It was more like a set from Mad Max that had been populated with low squat commercial real estate, then deserted and left to die for about a thousand years only to be re-inhabited by a few bleak denizens, several handfuls of people in stonewashed denim jackets with cut-off sleeves. We parked on a desolate dusty street with tumbleweeds of crumpled up McDonalds bags rolling past.

"Why are you parking here? Wouldn't it be easier to park downtown?" I was under the impression that the theater was in the bustling epicenter of downtown Waukegan.

"This is downtown. This is the busiest street in the whole city," he said with what I prayed was a sense of humor. I waited for a laugh or a smile, but he was serious, sample sale serious. I scanned the street for signs of life. For every three empty store fronts there was a bar or wig shop. The people walking around looked as though someone had transported all of the extras from Fast Times at Ridgemont High to this time and place. "Come on, lets go get a sandwich at Al's." Bo said shutting the driver side door. I shrunk into the carseat and relocked the doors. He walked around to my side and knocked on the window giving me the 'what gives?' face. I rolled down the window.

"Go on without me, save yourself." He reached through the window, unlocked the door and pulled me out of the car. Then just left the car unlocked with the window down. "What are you doing? This actually looks like the kind of place where cars get stolen."

"It's better this way, otherwise they just break the windows," he said in a way that made me think this has happened before.

We dined at Al's Sammiches, where a surly woman wrote our order on a post-it note. The diners regarded me, in a blazer and dressed how I would dress to go out for an evening at the "theater," as if I were a strange tropical bird that had drifted into this frozen tundra of 80's chart toppers and potato skins. The diners slumped over beers and Long Island iced teas. I imagined this was a little like my restaurant at the end of the universe because it was about as far outside of Chicago as I would ever go again. I looked over the dusty mountain peak of civilization and saw a long frightening drop into the canyon of despair and Lee jeans. He ordered his usual, an enormous burger topped with bacon and bleu cheese with a side of more things covered in cheese.

"Let's see," I said nervously as the waitresses gaze shifted to me, "I'll have this, uh, 'the plain ass chicken sammich' and a martini."

"We don't have no fancy drinks here."

"In that case can I just have a noose--"

"We'll have two Bud Lights," Bo said and handed her the menus. She walked away slowly, keeping an eye on me as she went through the parlor door into the kitchen.

"Bo I told you I have a strict policy of not drinking anything that can be made light."

"You have to stop ordering martinis in places like this. It makes people uncomfortable."

"How do you think I feel? There's a lynch mob waiting outside for me now. They're going to tie me to the back of paw paw's tractor and drag me through a dirt road until I look like David Carradine."

"Stop they don't lynch people here. This is a very progressive town."

"There is a fucking woman in a muumuu putting quarters in the jukebox, how progressive is that? I just hope this show is good. We drove three and a half hours to get here and are eating at a place that uses the word sammich in a completely un-ironic way."

"This is the nicest restaurant on the street."

The build up to this fateful night in Waukegan began weeks ago in the beginning of our courtship. Bo was working at a coffee shop in the suburbs outside of Chicago while trying to get his career as an actor slash comedian off the ground. It didn't seem completely implausible as comedy was one of the few natural resources Chicago had to offer. I tried to remain supportive of his budding theatrical career. However, three nights a week he was gone until late at night to rehearse at the theater in Waukegan, which he told me had a flourishing independent theater culture. He had indicated that, despite the fact that most of the actors lived in Chicago it was a very strategic move to produce the show in Waukegan.

Pretty soon every night was spent driving down to the theater to rehearse or work on the set. Since he had put up his own money to produce this show and had put a lot of effort into fundraising I appreciated his dedication to making this show successful. I regarded creative types as a rare and special commodity. We had no money, no social skills, and contributed nothing to society; the one thing we had to offer to the world was our talent. So I could respect a person who was willing to put a lot of work into their craft. The understanding was that this person was a gifted actor and comedian, something I never questioned. I had simply assumed that if I was attracted to him he must be talented.

So despite the lackluster surroundings and bleak creatures inhabiting the town of Waukegan I was still excited to see his show. This would surely be the highlight of our relationship and cause me to realize that I was truly in love with him. Seeing people on stage had that effect on me.

We left the restaurant with our beer buzz and our indigestion so that we could grab a coffee before the show and get there early to set things up. As we walked down the main street I saw the theater in the distance, a marvelous old fashioned theater that was exactly as I had envisioned it. A couple lightbulbs were missing but the marquis retained all of its original charm. It was a glowing beacon of hope that my man was a rising star. I walked toward the theater like a moth to shimmering lamp light. I almost walked right through the door before I realized I was walking alone. Bo had stopped half a block away in front of an empty store front.

"Where are you going?" he called back to me. I pointed absentmindedly at the theater. Maybe there was a back entrance? A VIP area? "No no no," he said, "Our show is in here," he said indicating the empty storefront. How I entered the dilapidated building was how the protagonist of a horror film might enter a musty cabin, looking around helplessly waiting to be slaughtered by my own disappointment. The entryway had a small reception area with a raised desk that they would presumably use to sell tickets and small candy bars. A short white hallway opened up into a square room with a big wooden platform and five haphazardly aligned rows of mismatched chairs. Past the wooden platform was another hallway that led into a back of house storage area that had a microwave and a restroom, neither of which had been cleaned in the current era.

Behind the chairs there was a folding table with some sound equipment and a switchboard that spilled about a hundred tangled wires onto the floor, where they snaked around and up into the ceiling. The "stage," a wooden platform in a strange uneven hexagonal shape, was constructed in the middle of a blank white room with not one adornment or window. Behind this makeshift stage one single black bed sheet was pinned up to the wall to indicate that the set designer was, in fact, a toddler.

Bo came up behind me and gave me a great big bear hug that lifted me off the ground.

"Just think Bo, one day this will all be yours."

"I know it's a little rough right now but we'll fix it up into a truly great theater."

"I like what you did with the place, its very Pink Flamingoes."

"Hey, I had to borrow these chairs from every business on the block. And three of them are my mom's dining room chairs."

I had never known someone who was so willing to cast off the shadow of reality like Bo. To say, in all seriousness, that this was a theater as a thirty-something man. It was beyond a childish pipe dream, this was utter denial. This theater company was beyond repair, irreparably damaged from it's conception, and the most blatant display of fuckuppery I had every seen. If the show had actually cast talented actors (although how could it) then it may have been a salvageable effort, but half of the cast didn't even show up for rehearsals, andthe main character knew so few of his lines that at several points in the play he would just repeat the same line with a different tone of voice. At least six words were mispronounced by characters who were supposed to be doctors. All this time I had accepted that the nights apart when he couldn't see me were spent toiling away at work of artistic genius that would launch his career, but really he was just fuckegan around in this dump.

I sat in the audience of six aghast that grown adults, people with mortgages and pets and utility bills actually took hard earned money and invested it into this. And I wasn't so pretentious as to be unable to enjoy a junky rundown theater; but it was the complete non-acknowledgment of the setting that alarmed me. We were standing in what used to be a Payless Shoes watching a show in front of a bed sheet and not one person had a sense of humor about it, they carried on as if this were opening night at the Gershwin. It occurred to me that my boyfriend was never going to make it to Saturday Night Live. He was never going to co-star in a movie with Tina Fey. He wasn't going to Hollywood. This was a man doomed to walk the plank of abandoned real estate theater for the rest of his days.

After the show I remained plastered to my seat. I was in the worst possible place. I literally had not one nice thing to say about the entire experience. Bo came out of the back room with an enormous grin on his face and gave me a big hug. He was so happy to have me here I couldn't have possibly spoiled it for him. I was going to have to pretend that his career was not destined for dinner theater at Medieval Times. I was at a loss for words. Bo informed me that his costars were so excited to meet me at the local neighborhood dive bar where they went after shows to sing karaoke. It was like being caught in a light summer shower without an umbrella and just when I had accepted that it wasn't that bad the real downpour broke. I escaped from the embrace and looked up at Bo and experienced what could only be explained as a hysterical reaction to stress as I blurted out,

"I love you."

The Perfect Fit

I was shopping for a pair of gray chinos to go with the gray weather in Chicago. Closing date on the condo was approaching and it was starting to look like I would have to take another bartending job in yet another hotel restaurant. While I was browsing the pants online I curiously opened the careers tab just to see what was available. And of course, the Chicago store was looking for a personal shopper for their store. I closed the browser. I had already sent out about a hundred resumes it was time to take the hint. I was officially, and irrevocably a career server. Supposedly when one door closed in life another door opened. In my case it was the door to Nordstrom on Michigan Avenue. I brought with me a fellow bartender to help me pick out an outfit for New York.

What about these? The ones here; she handed me a pair of chinos.

"It's so funny you picked these, I was just looking at them online today," I put down a pile of clothes to hold them up. "You know they're hiring, the company that makes these."

"Really? Why don't you apply," she asked, scooping up my pile. I decided to shelve the pants and the issue and replied with a nondescript sigh. We went to go visit the shoe department where I planned on spending the rest of the day wallowing over the new horse bit Gucci loafers.

"This is just cruel," I said holding up the loafer, "Can't they just stop making these shoes until I start working again?"

"I don't understand. Why wouldn't you do this?"

"Buy these loafers? Lets see they put us about $495 over budget that's why."

"No, this, I mean do this for a living. Shop, pick out clothes, tell people what to wear. I don't understand it's who you are, you're always telling people what to wear and what goes with what. You love clothing and have an almost encyclopedic knowledge of menswear."

"Do you know how many retail queens there are in this town? It's such a small community, almost a cult, and they're not looking to let anyone else in. They want some peppy little teeny bopper who works at Banana Republic to sashay through the door, not me."

"Stop. Why can't you just apply? You can't give up. I'm going to spend the rest of my life bartending, but you don't have to. You don't want to. So what's stopping you from trying?"

"I'll think about it. Hey, you think I can squeeze one more charge on my credit card before they shut it down?"

"No."

The next day I was on a flight to visit my friend Molly in New York. With all the packing and job hunting and obsessing over furniture and man hunting I needed a break from this break from work. Molly had been helping with the design of my apartment so she intended on writing the whole trip off and I intended on putting my anxieties about Chicago to rest. And also, there is a perk to travelling to another city: flirting with businessmen in airport bars.

Anatomy of a Businessman

When it comes to potential hubby material the a-list of my interests lies in one particular group of men. Observe in his natural habitat (airport terminal at 5:30am): the businessman. What is it about these half stale starched specimens that piques my interest so? The reason is simple. I like businessmen for the same reason I like Starbucks: the taste is horrible but you always know exactly what you're getting. For a control freak like myself you can't put a value on consistency. I can walk into any Starbucks in the world and order a double grande nonfat dirty chai with no water and I will get the exact same drink in every location. You can date a businessman from any background or city and know exactly what you're getting and it may not be as exciting or as good a fit as other men but at the very least you know what you're in for.

Lets start with how to spot this special breed indigenous to hotels and cubicles the world over. This is the kind of man that does the same thing the same way every single day of his life. His hair is permanently parted in the same place, he's worn the same glasses for most of his life, he always reads the newspaper sections in the same order (business, sports then world news). Look for the set in dimples established from years of making the same expressions to the same people. Though this man may own many pairs if shoes he only wears two; there's the loafers and the lace ups. This is how you can spot the businessmen native to your area– the ones traveling will be wearing slip on shoes and the locals will be wearing lace-ups. The true moniker of this breed is, naturally, the business suit. As with tropical birds much can be told about these types based on their plumage.

First, think of the suit as a gauge for experience. If it fits loosely he's young and new to his industry, if it fits perfectly he's in his hubby-perfect 30's, and if it's too tight he's got poor taste and probably works as a bank teller. What color is the suit? This is like his mood ring. Never approach a man in a black suit, and never marry a man in a brown one. Blue and grey are day to day, pinstripes are sexually available windowpane plaid is emotionally available and houndstooth means he's kinky. And if the man is wearing mismatched slacks and blazer it means he'll forget your birthday or anniversary or both. Discard men wearing jeans or khakis, they're off duty (or taken). How many buttons does the suit have? Doesn't usually matter, three just means he has a long torso, two means he's average proportioned, one means he shops at h&m and if, god forbid, he is wearing a four button suit he's probably going to take your luggage up to the room.

Second, observe the accoutrements. Don't assume he's single if there's no ring in his finger– they like to take them off, especially at bars parties and on vacation. A better way to tell if they're married is by the cleanliness of their shirt collars. Men are incapable of pre-treating, it's a genetic flaw. Any man wearing a class ring is past his prime. How do I know? His prime was just before he got that ring. Look for men who peak in their late thirties. You can ascertain this by asking two questions. Did you enjoy your high school years? Did you enjoy your college years? You're looking for two nos. People who did well in grade school are bad at life. And anyone who enjoyed their college years didn't go to a serious school or major in a serious subject. If he's wearing a pocket square he reads GQ. If he's wearing a Rolex he reads Jugs.

However, the business men with all their consistency and reliability, lack a certain something to keep me interested. It's best to have your month with them, get a few meals out of it, and let them free to roam the terminals again.

From suits in the airport to suiting on Fifth avenue. I was browsing through Saks waiting for Molly to get off work so we could celebrate my arrival with four straight days of drinking, shopping and eating. I overheard a frustrated man try to explain what he wanted to the sales associate.

"No, a soft suit. You know like a soft suit," the man said.

The sales associate kept pulling suits and was visibly agitated. "So this is a silk blend, and then we have a merino wool, they're both very very soft. Personally I like this one from Jil Sande-"

"No these aren't soft, they're too, I don't know. I saw this guy wearing a suit the other day and it was like floppy or something, really cool."

"Floppy?"

I walked over and interrupted the conversation,

"Armani. He wants the Giorgio Armani unstructured suit. Armani popularized the relaxed suits in the seventies."

"Yeah! The unstructured thingy."

"Thanks," the sales associate said, "Do you work in retail?"

"No." And then I thought about it, "Not yet."

After my reaffirming shopping experience in New York I decided to apply for the personal shopper position as soon as I got back to Chicago. On the train ride home from O'hare I checked my OK Cupid (a misnomer really, should have been called so-so cupid, or stupid cupid) To find a message from a handsome thirty-something beardy actor/writer on the north side. Things were looking up. Within a week I was scheduling my first interview and my first date. And I'll save you the week of soul searching and anxious phone watching: I got a second interview, and the second date. I was so excited about the news of making it to the second round of interviews that it really put me in the romantic mood. So at dinner my date suggested we go celebrate with a drink after dinner. We wound up at the Granville Anvil, which is pretty much as horrible as it sounds. The seediness of this bar is matched only by Second Story bar on Ohio st and a bar called Dick's on the border of Indiana.

It became apparent after his seventh whiskey that my date was intoxicated so I decided to walk him home and invite myself in to spend the night since it was late and snow storming. I was prepared for a snowstorm-- a shitstorm, on the other hand, I was not prepared for. When I walked into his apartment I at first thought we had maybe walked into one of his neighbors' crack dens. It was beyond messy. It was Somalia. It was a fourth world country. 

"I'm just going to use the bathroom," he said, and hopped, HOPPED, over a pile of clothes and other things into the bathroom. I trudged into the bedroom and if there wasn't several feet of snow on the ground in Roger's Park I would have hopped the hell out of there. Walking into this apartment is like turning the lights on too quickly in the morning. Your eyes need time to adjust to it. By the time he was finished in the bathroom I had just about adjusted to the mess when I saw a bra hanging from the top drawer of his dresser, which was a very unusual piece of furniture in this apartment given that it was empty and all the clothing was on the floor.

I held it up as he walked, or hopped, through the bedroom door.

"Do we need to talk about this?" I asked, holding it up.

"Oh, that."

"I mean I'm less troubled by the fact that you have girls over and more troubled by the fact any any woman would remove her clothing in this apartment."

"Ha-ha, my place is messy. I just closed two shows."

"Well they must have run longer than Cats because this place is a disaster."

"The bra is from a sketch comedy show where I dressed up as a woman." I flung the bra in the corner. I made a space for myself on the bed.

In every relationship there is a bra. There is always some 'what the fuck' moment that makes us reconsider. The real test of a romance is what to do after we find the bra. The next morning I woke up in his apartment after he had left for work. I was impressed with his willingness to leave me alone in his place. It was a good sign he was willing to commit although maybe he suspected that the mess would prevent or deter all snooping efforts. And it worked, in a very uncharacteristic move I decided to leave without looking through all the drawers. One bra was enough for this visit.

Later, in a phone call with my mother, I explained the plight. I can't date a slob, I alphabetize my dress shirts by designer. Why would the universe do this to me? Why send me a handsome sweat great guy with a job and his own place and then do this to it. It was like an overcooked cut of prime rib. It could have been perfect, and now I wondered if his condo was something I could digest. All this time I've catalogued all of the dump-worthy flaws in men into an encyclopedic tome of would-be hubbies. And now it was time for me to stop looking for negatives. There was too much right for me to throw in the towel, or in this case, throw the towel on the floor. At least I didn't have to worry about fighting for closet space, I don't even think he owned hangers.

Back downtown, and in the comfort of my mess-free apartment I was performing a special brand of feng shui: how to arrange your apartment when you have a Skype interview. I positioned the laptop at a 90 degree angle to the window so as not to create backlighting, put a lamp behind the computer to create a soft warm glow. I moved the bookshelf and side tables around to create a harmonious and balanced backdrop that wouldn't draw attention away from me but also wouldn't be stale or boring. When it came to webcams I was the Nate Berkus of Skype interview decor.

It seemed like everything was wrapping up nicely. I had a new boyfriend, a new condo, and after one more round of interviews a new job. It was funny how the universe tied things up this way, made a big mess of things and then somehow cleaned it all up for you too. I thought back to all of the bad apartments, bad jobs and bad dates I'd been on. Suddenly none of that seemed important. While I was obsessively analyzing my life an a amazing thing happened: I actually lived some of it. That was the thing about shopping, sometimes you didn't find a thing to wear and sometimes you found the perfect fit.

The Cost of Perfection

I was in bed watching bad TV with a plate of white anchovies and Doritos when my broker called to tell me his brilliant plan. It was now almost March, I was hopelessly locked in an escrow I couldn't get out of, about to be homeless, jobless, and single yet again. Once more I'd have to live out of a storage unit and sleep in a crappy room at the Travelodge. Not even the sight of the new Prada sequined camouflage formal slippers could shake me out of my ennui. I should have been able to enjoy this time off work like a vacation but I just couldn't.

"Paul, I can't talk right now, I'm devastated--" I shoved some chips in my mouth and continued, mouth full, "I'm mourning the loss of that incredible condo."

"Are you eating dinner?" he asked. I looked down at the plate of anchovy filets and soggy chips,

"Yes I am," I replied and shoved another handful in my mouth. "I made it myself."

"Well I have good news!"

"Andy Cohen's casting a gay reality show in Chicago?"

"I found a way for you to get your condo."

"Oh, that's good too!" Gucci sidled up to me and started purring. I set the plate down in my lap and rubbed his ears. Ever the opportunist, and seeing the anchovy unguarded he grabbed it and flew across the room. "Paul, I gotta go, I have to go sell my cat to a Vietnamese restaurant."

"Don't you want to know how you can get the condo?"

"You found me a wealthy older hedge fund manager that wants to get married in the next two weeks?"

"No, it's much easier than that. You just have to call your mothe--" I hung up the phone before he could finish the sentence. I knew it would come to this.

My broker's plan was to have my mother finance the condo for me but knowing my mother there was no way she'd go for it. Formerly the Czar of Husbandry and the Chai Czar now my mother would insist on claimimg the ultimate title when it comes to her oversight of my life, the Land Czar, alternately known as landlord. At so it would seem, I moved 800 miles away only to move back into my mother's home. There was just no way to escape her. She was, of course, thrilled at the opportunity.

"And when your credit is better I can sell this unit back to you, turn around and buy another one in the building."

"For what?" I asked.

"Income property, and I can have you manage the tenants. Or we can flip it and buy another one."

I informed my broker that he had created a monster.

With my new mortgage and new furniture bills it was time to find a new job to match. I was invited to stage at a high end bar as a mixologist. I've dabbled in cocktail creation and thought it might be an interesting switch in career. To "stage" (stah-j) in a restaurant is basically to work for free for a shift so that the restaurant can simultaneously haze you and test out your temperament. I was feeling pretty good about this. I read up on cocktails and spirits, researched the bar and chef and took the green line to restaurant row.

I was so confident, I had a mocha, I had a cute little vest, and I had my swagger. I walked up to the front door and it was locked. I peered through the window, it was a long blank hallway. I walked around the perimeter of the mostly unmarked speakeasy-esque bar. I couldn't see a single way in. My watch said I still had a few minutes before I would be officially not early. After circling the block twice I finally gave up and lit a cigarette in the alley. I saw a bunch of guys with tattoos wearing all black walk into an unmarked side door in the alley. I figured they were either going to some underground fight club or they worked at the bar. I finished my cigarette and followed them in.

If you've never worked in a restaurant or hotel, the back of the house can sometimes be a jarring experience. By now I was used to the crusty walls, creaky staircases, endless twists and turns and corridors, dim lighting, people running back and forth with oranges, chickens or bottles of pink cleaner. I strolled around the ground floor of the bustling restaurant, not even sure if I was in the right place. Mostly people ignored me. A few gave me a quick look but then went back to what they were doing. Everyone seemed very busy, which was already a big shift from the restaurant I was at where everyone just seemed very bored.

Finally, I wandered by the prep kitchen and a woman appeared behind me--

"Are you here to stage?"

"Yes!" I jumped a little.

"Take this." She heaved a crate of funky looking oranges on me and walked away. I stood in the hallway unsure of exactly what she wanted me to do with these large wrinkly oranges. Almost to the stairs she turned around, "Are you coming?" I ran after her and up the stairs into the bar. It was then that I realized I may have been in over my head. The bar was less of a bar and more of a kitchen line where the bartenders had no interaction with the guests except for the brief moments when you'd look up and out through the cage into the crowd of people outside. The entrance of the bar led guests past the cage so that they could peer into the mysterious voodoo that happened to their cocktails. It was almost nonsensical to the outside eye, like ordering a coffee drink from Intelligentsia that takes twenty steps to make. There were no wood counters and garnish boxes, no bar stools, no how are you. The bartenders worked like line cooks in a sleek stainless steel room where they were caged in, presumably to keep them from escaping mid-shift.

Peel these and keep the peels, you're going to use them later. Juice the king oranges and strain them into bottles, then wash the juicer; take everything apart and was each piece by hand, then I need you to mix three times the weight of sugar with the peels and muddle them until the sugar turns orange, then put the mix into bags, vacuum seal them and store them in the bar cooler.

"I have a question."

"What?"

"What bar is this?" After ascertaining that I was, actually, in the right place I was utterly lost and confused, "Just one more question, where do you--"

"No time, just figure it out," and she skittered away. I started absentmindedly peeling oranges and looking around. I started to recognize, vaguely, what some of the drinks were. I could see what looked like a giant tub of Rob Roy, and another that was negroni being made. Though I could recognize certain ingredients I had no understanding of the process they were going through. The negroni was transferred into glass bottles and carbonated. A mixture of pisco and some other clear liquid was sealed into little clear pouches and heated to near boiling. Apples were peeled and stuffed, little cups of tea were individually measured out, liquid nitrogen was poured over something, tiny slices of ginger were placed on another thing with tweezers.

I had never seen a place like this before in my life. People weren't joking or talking about what they did  last night or talking at all. Nobody looked up from the work they were doing. It was perfectly silent. There was a soft close policy, meaning if you shut a door too hard or made any noise closing a drawer or even set down a glass to hard someone would rush over to you and tell you to be quiet, or stop making so much noise. Everything was calm and orderly and quiet and perfectly measured. If you poured something you poured it in the very center of the glass. If you did even the slightest thing off you poured the drink back and made it again. The Rob Roys I watched being made earlier were then taken out of a cooler and sealed into a bag. The tiniest corner was snipped off and a tube was inserted that pumped lavender scented air into the bag and resealed once it was inflated.

It dawned on me something about the workers here. Where the hotel hired people who were gregarious, warm, extroverted and friendly, this bar was staffed by people that were like the bar itself: cold, introverted, inscrutable, complex. There was an iciness to the staff that I wasn't used to and I could tell it wasn't just toward me. This was a place that drew perfectionists from all over the city to practice obsessive compulsive cocktails together. It was the exact opposite of where I had been working. I realized the world outside our little hotel restaurant wasn't what I thought it would be. It was scary and confusing and I was no longer good or even adequate at my job and I was miles away from perfect.

After the shift, which went from 2pm to 3am I sat down with the manager to talk about the position and, I suppose, interview. Toward the end of the interview I had to ask what, exactly, these bartenders make.

"Thirty thousand is their salary."

"For...A Year?"

"Yes."

"They work five days a week, thirteen hours a day, for thirty thousand a year and no tips?"

"Yes."

I could not have gotten out of there sooner. Yes, in food and beverage we did unnatural horrible things to our body. We stood for entire days in shoes with no arch support, we skipped meals, we woke up at four in the morning or we went to bed at four in the morning, we ignored urges to go the the restroom because we were in the weeds, we burned our hands on hot plates, we took abuse from customers, managers, and anyone else that would abuse us, we worked the crap shifts, and the killer shifts, we ate the embarrassingly bad unhealthy food in the employee dining room, we dehydrated ourselves, we stood in 90 degree heat wearing all black serving food on the patio and we did all of these things smiling and ready to for more.

But we did it for a hell of a lot more than thirty thousand a year.

I got to the green line station only to find that it stopped running at 2am. These people take cabs! Cabs home, every night! For thirty! Maybe the restaurant I was at wasn't all that bad. It suddenly made our inadequacies seem more charming and endearing. Maybe I would have to resign myself to working summer on the patios and getting laid off every winter during the slow months. I would have to accept the fact the we would never be perfect like them, and if we were we'd resent it. We wouldn't be ourselves. We wouldn't do silly stupid things, we wouldn't stand at the hostess stand talking about balls, we wouldn't actually enjoy going to work. And that was worth not being perfect for.

Wagon Wheels

I'm going to do something a little uncharacteristic here and step back, about three years back and write about something that happened a while ago. If you're one of my regular readers, AKA: my mother, you're probably dying to know what happened with my mortgage fiasco and unemployment. And that is what we call a cliff hanger. And you know what television shows do when there is a cliff hanger episode? They usually start the next episode with a flashback of something completely unrelated but equally dramatic that makes you forget what the original plot was about. But of course I am going to set up why this flashback is occurring first. I am, as usual, sitting in a bar by myself ordering dinner.

I stepped away to use the restroom for a moment, but really I was just in the bathroom talking to myself in the mirror about whether or not to order dessert. This is the conversation I had with myself:

"Come on, seriously?" I said to the mirror.

"What? I've already ordered a three course meal I might as well get some peanut butter pie," my reflection in the mirror said back.

"Or you could save the six dollars and put it toward a cab home and eat ice cream in front of the television with your cat."

"See," the mirror started, "that is just the kind of evening you were trying to avoid by going out."

"True, but the reason restaurants have dessert is for couples that are on successful first dates and want to prolong the time with each other. After all of that food nobody is actually hungry but if the date is going well you want to milk those last moments together splitting an oversized piece of cake. For this reason desserts are usually portioned for two people to share. If you order one by yourself you will therefore be pathetic."

"You're talking to a figment of your imagination in the mirror," the mirror said, "you're already pathetic"

"Have a cigarette and hail a--" and just as I was about to put this conversation with myself to close a song came on in the restaurant. I stopped talking, walked back to my bar stool and ordered dessert. The song that came on was Wagon Wheels, which was not a particularly sentimental song, except for the fact that it was my sister's song and the song that they played at her funeral. I tended to hear this song randomly, about twice a year when I was in a bar that played hipster music. Whenever it came on the first thought I had was that my sister was there in the bar and wanted to let me know. When I went back to the bar I pulled out the chair next to me and ordered the peanut butter pie. When a couple tried to take the seat I told them sternly,

"No, someone is sitting here."

As far as I was concerned my sister had come to visit me, and that was worth a slice of pie. But then I pictured her sitting on the bar stool next to me and for a moment it seemed very lucid and real and I started to tear up. It was sad enough that I was eating dessert at a bar "by myself" but I couldn't be the sad drunk crying and talking to the ghost of my sister.  I tried to pull it together. I looked around nobody seemed to noticed I was crying a little. I had no choice now but to think of that week.

Even though the events happened over the course of the week I honestly don't remember most of it. I spent so much time crying that the moments I remember are the times when I stopped crying long enough for something to happen. I look back and try to construct a timeline of events and it doesn't work. I can't seem to put together a cohesive narrative. I read other writers who have written about deaths in the families and I notice that they struggle with much of the same thing. When you're in it there are moments that seem so clear and in focus, and then everything else seems blurry and rushed like you're looking at it happening underwater. I'm usually tremendous at writing about my life and talking about my life but this was one of those times when I simply had nothing to say.

My first thought was that I needed a cigarette. I was working in a doctor's office and had quit at the time at the doctor's request. When my mother called to tell me there was an accident I didn't know what to think and wasn't ready for details. I knew what I had to do--whenever something happened in my family we immediately kept busy. I had to keep moving and I couldn't stop until I was ready to deal with what happened , which was never so I was pretty much going to be on the go for the rest of my life. I had a cigarette in the cab ride home ran upstairs and threw a bunch of black clothes in a suitcase while my then boyfriend was trying to figure out what was happening frantically in the background. I summed up the event in one sentence and was out the door. People always want to talk and have a cry but I wasn't ready to do any of that I threw my keep all in the cab and told the driver to take me to Ohare.

"What terminal?" He asked.

"I don't know yet just take me anywhere I'm buying the tickets now." I probably should have waited at home while trying to get a flight but that would involve stopping and sitting, not an option. I called every airline and nobody could get me on a flight. Finally, as I was standing outside of the airport chain smoking my stepfather came through with a exorbitantly priced first class ticket. It was the first seat in the first row.

"Would you like a drink before we depart?" the flight attendant asked. What time was it? What did it matter?

"Yes, please," I replied groggily.

"Should I guess?" everyone in the section chuckled except me.

"Just pour some whiskey in a glass, no ice or mixer." Then I got choked up a little bit, it was just the kind of sassy thing I would say I should have been amused. Why couldn't I be amused? Was I even allowed to be amused by anything right now? The drink returned and I threw it back. I tried to sleep but I spent most of the flight staring out the window at nothing and imaging how the accident happened. I had no details and in these moments an imagination was the worst thing to have. I then felt bad for leaving my boyfriend at home without any real explanation of what happened. He saw me frantically packing and I said in probably one breath, 'sisterdiedgoingtopennsylvnianowdon'twanttotalkgottapack.' Did I even say bye?

At some point I managed to compose myself on the way home. A friend picked me up from the airport and decided that the best thing to do was to make stupid jokes to try and distract me. The hardest part in any of it was seeing my other sister, her twin, and she'd never be a twin again. I'd never have twin sisters again. The thought overwhelmed me. And I just kept thinking please nobody say anything or I'm going to start crying again. My sister simply said,

"It's so hard." And that was all it took, we both sat down on the steps and had a good cry.

An hour later my Mother came with reinforcements, my grandmother. First of all there are some things you need to know about my grandmother, here is the general profile:

Dossier of Nana

Age: we don't ask anymore

Hair color: we don't know anymore, it's been the same artificial brown color since Eisenhower.

Location: New Jersey, when the early settlers discovered New Jersey and decided to inhabit and pollute it into oblivion they neglected to design roads where you could make a left turn. The elderly were all stuffed away in quiet retirement suburbs, which are as horrible as they sound, in a not at all ironically named part of the state called Leisuretown. Since Nana has settled there she has left the state maybe twice and not stopped complaining until she was back across New Jersey state lines.

Occupation: until recently worked in the divorce courts in New Jersey as a secretary. Long before I was born she worked in the jewelry store at the Palmer House in downtown Chicago, which was where she met my grandfather.

Features: Nana has been wearing Chanel no. 5 since it was invented in the twenties, she thinks that a woman should never be seen in public without a silk scarf and a pantsuit, and she doesn't yet understand homosexuality and maintains (to this day) that I'm single and living with a good friend. She insists that my sister decide on any major other than business because no man will ever want to marry her is she makes more money than them.

Nana approached me and my sister and, for the first time in my life, actually cried about something. This was a tough broad who had been there, done that, got the tee shirt--she's seen everything. She said to us,

"I've lost everything in my life. I'm old, everyone I know has died or is dying. I should be used to this by now, but this is the worst. It's just the worst."

In times of mourning, some families turn to the drink. Nana had come prepared with her jug of Carlo Rossi Rose, my mother had bought a bottle of Jameson. However, it seemed that alcohol was not the thing that would help us in this time of tragedy. You never understand until you're in it but food is the single most important, cathartic, nourishing thing. My family did the only thing we could do: we ate. We ate everything. Nothing would take the feelings of sadness, nothing would patch the hole in our lives, and so we focussed on the hole in our stomaches. And there was no short supply of food. People instinctively knew that flowers wouldn't help this, muffins would. Platters of bagels and lox would help. Cakes would help. My sister had worked briefly at Panera in high school and the entire staff heard what happened and sent over bags and bags of bread and sandwiches and pastries. They didn't even ask if we needed more, they just kept sending. So we just kept eating, and as ridiculous as it sounds there was something so healing about being able to eat, and sit and talk with friends and family.

Though the family had never been more broken it took this even to bring us all back to the dinner table, where we stayed for five days straight eating our schmears and sharing our stories about my sister. Though I had plenty of stories to tell, I had nothing to write. Everyone told me that I should try to write about what I was feeling, to just get it down. But the writing wasn't what helped. The eating and talking was. My uncle called, after years of no communication. If you had asked me before this if there was anything that would bring my mother and her brother back together I would have thought absolutely not. When my grandfather died, he didn't even come to the funeral. I thought he would forever be out of our lives, but somehow the loss had turned things around, had made us all realize how petty we had been in our lives.

At night my sister would hunch over her computer and go through every picture of her twin on Facebook. The page was overflowing from comments from everyone she knew. People we didn't even know started reaching out. Day after day we just left the door open and people would wander in and out of the house, sit for a while at the table with us, eat a muffin and go. After everything that had happened we just didn't have the energy to plan a funeral, and I wasn't even sure how long I could really avoid going back to "the real world" in Chicago. We planned what was supposed to be a simple celebration and the family decided that we should make it a party. And in the spirit of celebration my mother asked that nobody wear black or somber colors. My sister and I looked at each other. We both lived in the city, and pretty much only owned black gray and neutral clothes. I pulled everything out of my luggage it was all black.

My boyfriend called to tell me his flight time and asked if I wanted him to bring me anything to wear.

"No, I'm just going to the mall to buy a stupid cheap shirt that I'm never going to have to wear again. We're going today."

My sister and I perused later at Boscov's. If this department store had a slogan it wouldn't be "the everything store," it would be "the nothing-you-want-to-wear store."

"Who are all of these crappy designers?" I asked my sister.

"This is why I left the suburbs," she said, "So I'd never have to shop in this damn store again." Boscov's was a bit of a throw back to the northeast department stores in the Strawbridges era. Most of them were gone and the few that dwindled were hopelessly latched to a shopping mall next to a Spencer gifts or Sam Goody. In stores like this there was no new collection, no trend alerts. There were no mailers. Places like this time just stood still and nothing ever changed. And in a way it was almost a little calming to stand in what felt like a time warp. Everything around the store rushed on into the future while my sister and I stood in the past next to the two-for-ten sweater sets.

The day of the celebration we all took different posts around the hall. We had rented out one of those giant halls that they have the cop funerals in since my stepfather's brother worked for the Philadelphia police and had a connection at the hall. We weren't really sure would show up since we didn't call anyone or send notice in every way, just just made a simple Facebook event and said to bring anyone you'd like or might want to celebrate her life. We each took different posts. I was the greeter--meaning I stood in front of the door with a circle of chain smokers and a cup of lukewarm coffee. My boyfriend was on Nana duty, meaning he had to sit with Nana and keep her from doing anything crazy, my sister was stationed at the buffet eating her feelings and stuffing food in her Coach bag. My mother was in charge of the guest book.

Within an hour the entire hall was full. There was a line out the door and around the building to sign the guest book. There were no more seats in the chamber. People stood outside anxiously vying for a good view. I had no idea my sister, my little sister who dropped out of college and worked in a diner could have possibly known this many people. It was a powerful feeling, but also made me morbidly consider my own life. Could I ever command a turnout like this? Inside the chamber, where it was shoulder to shoulder people, my boyfriend was trying to keep Nana company. Nana seemed a little shellshocked throughout everything so he was trying to keep her talking.

"It's so crowded in here," she said groggily.

"I know," my boyfriend said, "Look at all the people. They're all here for your granddaughter. Isn't it special."

"I wish they would shut the doors already," she grunted.

"What?"

"I can't even hear myself think! Go get me a coffee and something to nibble on dear. I'll hold your seat."

Outside my boyfriend found me,

"Your Nana's really something else," he said. Once everyone was packed into the hall I took my seat with the rest of the family in front. A group of my sister's friends brought their instruments and played Wagon Wheels, which was supposedly her favorite song. A few people went on stage to speak and then a minister was saying a few words when my sister turned to me, tears welling up in her eyes. I kept thinking, please don't say anything. Don't say anything. I can't take any more of this. Everyone around us turned to her and she leaned in close to me and our mother and whimpered a little.

"What is it sweetie?" My mother asked, putting her hand on my sister's leg. Here it comes. I grabbed a tissue out of my jacket pocket.

"Mom--" she hesitated. Don't say anything, I can't cry anymore today, I was thinking.

"What baby, what's wrong."

"I really--" she paused and looked around, the minister was telling a story about how she would have wanted us to feel joy and celebrate, "really--" Everyone in the family turned to my sister and waited for her to finish the thought.

"I know, I know honey."

"I really have to pee."

"Oh," my mother said, and we all broke out into laughter. The minister stopped speaking and everyone began to look over at all of us. "Will you take your sister to the bathroom?" she motioned to me.

"Now? Did you misplace your bladder?"

"You need to fake cry, make it seem like you're overwhelmed with grief and your brother will take you out--they'll all think you're just overcome with tears."

"I cannot honestly believe you," I said. Nana leaned over and shushed all of us,

"Stop, I can't even hear this stupid woman talk!" She yelled loud enough for half the room to hear.

That was the thing about these things. Sometimes you need a good cry, but mostly you're just waiting for someone to make you laugh. That night at the dinner table, a family again, we all told stories about my sister, some of the ridiculous outfits at the funeral, Nana passed out on the couch, horrible botched family vacations, and of course my sister and her propensity for ruining everything with her bladder.

Back in Chicago I had to readjust to city life, and I couldn't think of any way better than a martini at the Palmer House. I strolled by where Nana used to work and it suddenly stuck me that for however random, horrible, and unpredictable my life was sometimes it always came full circle, and there was always something to laugh at, and there was always a dinner table for eating and drinking and telling stories.

Empty Calories

When you're not working in a city like Chicago the thought of going outside can seem daunting. The outside world is cold, expensive, and the streets are full of people with jobs that you silently resent. I began the ritualistic unemployed life. My days were filled with home cooked meals (from the freezer section at Trader Joes), box wine and daytime television. At some point in the unemployment process you just stop sending out resumes, you stop looking, you halt everything. It's usually the point when you've sent out about 100 resumes that you forget which places you've already applied and just have to stop and wait to hear back. And you will wait. And, it seems, you will never hear back. For every 100 resumes I send out probably one of them will call me in for an interview, which is no surprise since this is how resumes are processed in the food and beverage industry:

The resume pops up in an e-mail to some assistant manager, they absentmindedly print it and forget about it, the hostess then prints a stack of menus that the resume gets mingled into. On the floor, the hostess will fold the resume in half and write a reservation on the back of it. One of the servers will tear a corner off to write a phone number on and then use the rest to take an order with. When the server goes to the kitchen to run food he'll toss it on the counter where a line cook will spill au jus on it. The chef will wander through at some point during the night and yell at whoever is passing by for this paper being here. They'll bring it to the managers office where another assistant manager with fold it into a paper airplane and throw it on the ground. Two hours later it will still be sitting in the same spot when the GM finds it wants to know what the fuck this is and the F&B director will rush over to take the resume from him and file it away in a drawer full of resumes that have been treated the same way, never looked at, and are in no discernible order. A month later when there aren't enough servers to cover the shifts one of the managers will remember all those resumes and pull ten at random to interview. If a resume is not pulled then it will remain in that drawer until the end of time.

For the time being I was just going to have to sit my days out, constantly pressing the refresh button on my inbox. And if I were to recommend a pairing for jobless days it would not be dateless nights. The antidote to daytime ennui is the nightly blind date. And I do mean nightly. Night after night I sit in booths, bar stools, benches outside museums, and nightclubs waiting for dates. When applying for the job of boyfriend it's important to be persistent and keep searching. Highlights include:

Nookies: "Wait, you live in Indiana?"

Ralph Lauren: "I'll have the calamari and foie gras to start and the steak Diane rare as an entree and a Martini for now but leave the wine list."

"I'll have a small caesar and water."

"I'm sorry, are you on the Karen Carpenter diet?"

The Modern Wing: "I think the point of the piece is to simply make you experience something. Like this one makes me think of my childhood."

"I spent my childhood miserable and abused."

"Would you excuse me, I need to go powder my nose or something."

Bandera: "I'm really happy with my job, I think I make a really good living and have good benefits."

"That's great! What do you do?"

"I'm a bagger at Trader Joes."

"Oh that's funny I buy their--actually, never mind it's not funny. It's actually sad."

Valenties day was approaching and all of the smug coupled people will post schmaltzy updates on Facebook about love and things like, "Don't worry singles you'll get here one day," like we're in the traffic jam of romance or something. And then all the singles post pictures on Facebook with their animals and pretend not to notice what day it is, quickly removing anything mentioning Valentines from the news feed.

As the hunt for a date continued the dates became more desperate and unfulfilling. In the diet of life, these dates were the empty calories.

Roscoes: “Oh I hope you don't mind I brought two of my buds.”

Lets step back in a very meta fictional way here. Sometimes men will make power plays such as this. The instinct to bring ones friends on a date is a smug attempt to put you off guard. This turns you into the gazelle and him the pack of hyenas. Now I bet you think I turned right around and left since this idiot brought two men obviously more attractive than i, but have no fear I know exactly how to handle this situation. In fighting when encountered by an enemy larger than oneself you simply need to leverage their weight against them or in this case use the attractiveness of his friends to smite him. Observe.

“So you don't mind right,”

“ no that's great you're friends are cute too– introduce me.”

This reaction is effective not only because it immediately instigates his jealous competitive instincts, but it's also the exact opposite he's expecting. He's waiting for me to stomp out in a huff or call him an asshole or pout the whole night, which makes him feel emasculated. But instead I have taken his power play and deflected it back on him.

Observe:

“Oh,” he said unsure of this response. “Well I just came here with them we can go somewhere else. Together.”

“But you're not going to introduce me? They seem nice; I'm just going to go say hi–”

“Are you hungry I'm hungry why don't we get dinner somewhere less crowded?”

“That sounds nice. What did you have in mind?”

“How about pie hole?”

What do I think of pie hole? I think it's a great place for a date if your date is a drag queen or craving gluten free pizza and a can if pop.

“I just remembered I have to give my cat his anti-psychotic medication.”

Escr-oh no

In a quaint Roger's Park coffee shop that only took me forty minutes on the bus to get to I was meeting so-so guy. So-so guy is the guy that you go on a date with, don't feel any chemistry, ignore his calls for two years and then finally give in and agree to get coffee because Valentines day is two weeks away and you will accept offers from anything that isn't a blow up doll to sit across from you at a restaurant. Honestly, it might have been what is amounting to a year-long dry spell in the love department but so-so guy was looking better than so-so. Sure he was a little granola and lacked the certain masculine je ne sais quois to excite below the belt but he was handsome, polite and owned a suit. Honestly, he had valentines date written all over his face in an invisible ink that only I could see.

"So I was wondering, what are you doing on the fourteenth?"

"Valentines day?" 

"As it were."

"You're asking me to out on Valentines day? I don't even know your last name."

"No, I'm not asking you, I'm just ascertaining your availability."

"Why?"

"Because I've already made reservations."

"Even though I  haven't said yes?"

"Even before you asked me on this date. I made the reservations a month ago to alleviate the anxiety about getting into Henri at the last minute. I figured it's easier to cancel reservations than make them at the last minute."

"So you're sort of kind of asking me?"

"I just need to know whether I should rule you out altogether, asking you happens later, contingent on the success of the first two dates. You see if I just waited for things to progress naturally at an average pace of one date per week valentines day would happen shortly after the second date thus leaving us with some cheeseball restaurant or Trader Joes frozen dinners at home. Therefore every year I keep a standing reservation at a French restaurant on Valentines day on the off chance that I will find a date."

"You did this last year."

"No my boyfriend broke up with me a week before last year. I preformed dark voodoo last Valentines day with an energy worker I found in the phonebook."

"You still get a phone book?"

"Yes, you have to request them, and if you don't live in a high rise you might have to pay for it now, I don't know. Or you could use Angies List."

"Angies List rates witch doctors?"

"She was an energy worker. She promised to make his varicose veins turn purple and his psoriasis act up every time a man was attracted to him. Oh and she also promised me someone would feed him something with tree nuts going into anaphylactic shock."

"Do you think it worked?"

"Yeah, but they probably got him to the hospital in time. Voodoo is not a perfect craft."

And from hexes on exes to signing on exes:

We had finally settled on a price for the condo after a lackluster bidding war. I expected it to look like a really dramatic episode of House Hunters but really it's pretty boring and happened almost entirely by e-mail. After the paperwork was in order the seller's agent sent out a e-mail to all of us: "here's to a smooth escrow."

Shit, naturally, hit the fan immediately after he said that. 

I had secured a pre-approval from a stylish young mortgage broker at Bank of America. I told her that my credit was probably still shot from when I settled out of my student loan debt.

"That is totes no problem. I went to art school too for fashion. I was like wait, how am I supposed to make money. And my ex was like get a real estate license and you can like sell houses in California but then I was like but I want to move to Chicago or New York or like the big city. So then he broke up with me and now I'm doing this stuff."

"This. Stuff. As in, mortgages."

"Def. So we'll get you a totally sexy rate cause you're cool and we have the art school thing. I can lock in a 3.5"

"What? Really? Rates are that low?"

"I know, right? Say do you know where sha or shay or something is? It's like a restaurant. I'm meeting this guy there for lunch after we wrap this shiz up."

I know what you're thinking as you read through this exchange, and I was thinking the same exact thing as I sat across from her,

"Do you have any single gay friends?"

I went home and willed my computer to produce e-mails. I had applied for over twenty jobs at this point, any of which I would have been a great fit for, some of which I was even recommended by people who worked at the company. And still, three weeks, no call. They say that a watched pot will never boil, and it would seem that a watched inbox will always be empty. The trick in the job hunting process is to not act unemployed. Wake up, shower, get dressed, drink coffee, go about your business as usual so that physically you don't feel unemployed. It's important to starve off the lethargy as long as possible. Once the laziness and gloom sets in you're on the long term unemployment track. If I've learned anything in my life bad news begets more bad news. When one thing goes wrong everything else goes with it.

This has been true every year of my life. It's always like a delicate end-game Jenga puzzle precariously hanging on. All it takes is one foolish person to come alone and pull the wrong block out and the whole thing comes toppling down. I was a juggler and I had to keep any one ball in my life from dropping; just keep throwing balls in the air, worry about catching them later. The best thing to do at the very least  was keep the good news coming. The second the bad news hit, the second I dropped one ball it would all fall apart. I took a mental inventory of my life. This condo was good news. I got the old lady with her enormous furniture down to the price I wanted, I was getting a great fixed rate on my mortgage, I was going to have a view of the lake. It was clear that the condo was my only source of good news lately so I needed to keep that going.

Moving from a studio into a one bedroom feels like moving into a whole different lifestyle. When you live in a studio, no matter how cleverly you decorate, you can't have people over. You can't buy furniture. You don't need to hang art. You don't need to make your bed. Now, these are generalizations my apartment always looks Home & Garden ready. I have art up, and a sophisticated palate of cherry wood, Dior gray and Scarlet accents. Instead of flowers I put sharpies and pens in vases. I hate plants. I think they look sad and unnatural indoors. Plants outside, great go for it, but plants inside, ew creepy go away. So maybe I'm Home & Garden minus the garden. But the fact of the matter was I was moving out of one lifestyle and into another. I am living in the ultimate single person's apartment. Walk in closet, plenty of kitchen cabinets for storing extra clothes that don't fit in the enormous closet. A coat closet big enough for two, or one with a lot of coats. 800 sq. feet of space for kitty to run around and cough up hairballs in. Across the street from Nordstrom and next door to a steakhouse. I was living the glorious frivolous and fiscally irresponsible life of a single 20-something in downtown Chicago. Make money in the summers, spend the winter months in whiskey bars.

It was fun while it lasted but it was time to grow up, buy some furniture and learn how to make a place setting at the dinner table. I went into the modernist's crack den, Room & Board, to get my fix of mid-century-esque designs. Some people like to dabble in modern. I prefer to bathe in it. I want an IV drip of 50s design. It's something about coming of age in Chicago, it's such a different design style here than on the east coast. There it's French, English, opulence, old money kitchy kitchy ya ya, Ralph Lauren tufted lounge chairs. In Chicago it's a less is more modern scandinavian architectural sensibility, unless you're the old lady living in the condo I'm buying-- this woman climbed every beanstalk in the kingdom looking for giant furniture. I am reminded of last season on Downton Abbey where Lady Mary was talking about the differences in how people furnish their mansions-- your people buy furniture and art, my people inherit it, and this old lady carved hers out of boulders.

That is what we call an enormous bed.

When my mother shops for furniture she hits the massive warehouse places, antique stores, and probably pulls it all together with some filler furniture from restoration hardware. I, on the other hand, was designing the quintessential upwardly mobile yuppie Chicagoan apartment: 40% Room & Board, 40% vintage, and 20% Ikea. With coaching--and shameless use of discounts--from my designer friends I had settled on a very cozy warm masculine palate or blacks, browns and natural wood. I picked out some lavishly priced gallons of paint from Farrow & Ball, maxed out a credit card on a leather sofa, and  dipped into my savings for what seemed like a vital piece of furniture: a cowhide ottoman. Luckily, I had some money tucked away in a CD that was about to mature. I had already switched the money over to my savings account. My broker called me while I was pillaging the floor samples at Crate & Barrel. I plopped down in an armchair.

"My mortgage banker? I don't know I gave her all of the information, I would assume things are moving along," I said. I turned over the tag on the chair and grimaced at the price. I turned it over quickly to try and erase that number from my brain. I used to sell high end furniture and I always manage to get sticker shock.

"So you began the application process? You were approved?"

"I don't know. Yes?"

"Did she schedule an appraisal?"

"A Praise-all?"

"It's when someone from the bank tells you what something is worth."

"I know what that word means. Why do I need them to tell me what it's worth, the finishings alone put that way over the comp prices. Just that kitchen had to cost twenty thousand."

"Yes but if the appraiser says the unit is not worth the purchase price they won't give you a loan. She didn't explain this to you."

"She's not the brightest lightbulb." In fact, she was like a dimmer forever stuck on the low setting.

"I'm getting nervous, can you give her a call and make sure the application is underway."

After I hung up the phone I kicked my feet up on the matching footstool. Of course my application was underway. We were three weeks into escrow. How could it not be underway? I overheard a couple talking about their cousins sister's boyfriend or something about a loan and then she didn't pay it back and then they went to her house and it was empty,

"That bitch done flew the coop," she said. Then they walked out of my hearing range.

Maybe my fashionista had already scheduled the appraisal. But wouldn't I have to pay for that? I checked my bank account, no unusual charges, except all of my recent furniture purchases. And somehow...I had a negative number in my savings account. I didn't even think that was possible. I went through my transactions and couldn't find the deposit from the CD. They never moved it over into my account. Or did they put the money in someone else's account? Where did it go? Was it just sitting on a desk somewhere in the corporate offices of Merrill Lynch?

My Bank of America branch was only a few blocks away so I figured I could just knock out both problems by heading into the branch. I explained the situation to the teller and showed her a receipt that said, "FUNDS NOW AVAILABLE:..."

"Yes, that money should be available now."

"Should is correct. But it is not available."

"Let me see. Oh, it looks like it was never deposited."

"So is it still in the CD account?"

"No."

"I'm sorry, I'm a little confused. Where exactly is the money?"

"I--I--"

"You what?"

"I don't actually know. Right now it's nowhere."

The digital age was marked by some of the most incomprehensible situations. Money no longer seems like a material thing, it's just numbers floating on computer screens like the Matrix. And one little glitch and it's just gone.

"So, I'm going to go meet with my mortgage banker and you're going to fix this."

"Ok, let me just--oh, wait she moved back to California."

"She moved back to California." I thought that maybe repeating the line would help it make sense but it didn't

"Yes, she isn't working as a loan officer anymore."

"She isn't working as a loan officer anymore."

"You can meet with Darrell though, while I--you know--fix this."

"Yes, let me meet with Darrell. Who is Darrell?"

Darrell was not like my fashionista. Darrell did not think my credit was 'totes okay.' I sat in the chair staring at the desk hutch, I needed to buy a desk. I really wanted a secretary desk. But were those practical? No I should just use the desk I have now. But it's so ugly, maybe I needed a new one. At least I didn't have to worry about the CD. It was already placed into it's rightful account. They still couldn't answer the question of where exactly it was for 24 hours. My money was literally in limbo, it was just nowhere.

"Michael," he said.

"Actually I go by Zack. It's my middle name."

"Okay, Zack," he said as if allegedly that was my name, "You're not eligible for this loan."

"I'm not eligible for this loan."

"That is what I said. She messed up this pre-approval, you should have never been approved for this amount. She neglected to calculate PMI into this. And with your credit no matter how much you put down you're going to pay PMI."

"PMI. Premenstrual--"

"Private Mortgage insurance. All FHA loans have it."

"FHA. PMI. WTF. These are all new acronyms. Why were these acronyms never mentioned? And I thought I had already applied for a mortgage."

"She never started the process. I think she realized putting in all the numbers that she messed up."

"I've been in escrow for three weeks."

"You're going to need to get out. I've moved all the numbers around every way imaginable, there is no way for you to possibly finance this condo."

"So what can I do?"

"Find another condo."

"I'm sorry-- why did this happen? Can you get that woman on the phone, the one who told me that my credit was 'totes okay.'"

"What? Totes? She moved to California."

"Yes I've heard."

"We've been unable to reach her since-- she changed her number."

"Oh my god."

"Are you okay sir?"

"Oh my god."

"What is it?"

"I don't believe this."

"What?" Darrell seemed concerned. Should he call security? An exorcist? What had come over me? What did I realize? Did I leave the oven on?

"I honestly don't believe it. That bitch done flew the coop."

A Dose of Realty

There is a phenomenon about vacations. It doesn't matter how relaxing, how fun, how long the vacation is, the second you go home you feel like crap. I was ready to return to the cold and snow and high taxes and emotionally unavailable men of Chicago. I turned on my phone after having it off for a week. I had the usual e-mails and text messages. I also had a message from my manager telling me I wasn't getting laid off after all, so that happened. Then I had the pre-new-year-booty-calls. Some men, rather than make resolutions, make revolutions. Every year at the same time they send their annual holiday booty calls. These well wishes always arrive unexpected and usually unwanted. I think, in some way, they think that the new year is a baptism and every year your slate is wiped clean so might as well get the booty in right before the ball drops. Let me introduce you to the newest addition to the Encyclopedia of Undatable Men:

10 Month Revolving Door Man

Meet the man that everyone in Chicago has had a 10-month relationship with. Every year he is in a new relationship by Valentines day, and single by Thanksgiving. Starting with the Macy's parade he starts humping everything but the fire hydrant in research for his next 10-month relationship. If you know a man that you get a call once a year every December from he is likely a 10-monther. Your only cure is so give in and date him or move to another city. This man usually has a job that requires early mornings or lots of travel, and the constant view of his back walking out the door is really just foreshadowing the end of your relationship.

I deleted the messages I would usually reply too because there was a much more pressing matter at hand, the only real man in my life: Gucci. And from a domestically challenged man to a fully domesticated one, I returned home to kitty. Upon arriving home I was pleasantly surprised to find that everything was as I left it and no evidence of urine. I turned out all the lights and took out the black light wand. When it comes to Gucci's bladder coming home every night is like the first five minutes of a Law and Order episode.

Gucci followed me around as I scanned the floor of the apartment with the black light. Kitty inspection went well, no urine anywhere, although I did find a left over spaghetti sauce stain next to the desk. Gucci seemed to be happy and well cared for, especially since I left elaborate and whimsical instructions for his care:

The Perfectionist's Guide to Caring for Kitty

1. Kitty prefers a schedule. Cats are creatures of habit and routine and a prone to OCD tendencies. Therefore, kitty's schedule must be rigidly upheld or he will annoy you and or pee on something expensive. Kitty likes to rise at about three in the morning and go for a run; due to limited space this will involve him running back and forth and making a lot of noise. At five AM sharp he'll attempt to wake you, and once again at six AM. At seven he will climb onto your belly and knead you with his paws this is your last and final warning before he knocks over a lamp.

2. Your day starts with refreshing kitty's water bowl which he has kicked numerous pieces of food into rendering it undrinkable. He will insist this is your fault for inexplicably placing the food bowl near the water bowl. At this time you will also want to ensure that the bottom of the food bowl can not be seen, if this is the case food levels are too low and this will result in kitty chewing through the wire for your iPhone charger

3. Before showering or relieving yourself you must brush and groom kitty. Stick your nose into his coat and inhale. If he smells like fish he is clean, this indicates he has eaten a mouthful of food before grooming himself. If he smells like pee he is dirty and must be dry shampooed before grooming. He will probably bite you when you do this and will expect to be fed his special stinky food after.

4. You are now required to provide kitty with at least twenty minutes of petting lap time. You're not allowed to move even if he digs his claws into you. During this time you are allowed to watch television but only CSPAN, which is kitty's favorite.

5. Finally, it is time for the removal of cat poo and pee from the litter box. First, vacuum the surrounding area of litter that kitty has kicked outside of the box. You must then carefully lift the lid of the box and immediately clean with bleach wipes. Then, use the scoop to skim for hard clumps and flush them. Flatten out and smooth the litter, think of it as kitty's special zen garden.

6. Kitty now insists on being played with for no less than fifteen minutes. You will throw the mousy back and forth until he sits down from exhaustion. He will rest a minute and expect to resume play. You must continue this cycle for the rest of your life.

7. Finally you may leave to tend to matters of lesser importance like your job or social life. But you must return within eight hours or the kitty will panic, eat all of his food and pee on a shoe in his hysteria. Upon returning you must provide more lap and play time.


With my fresh new caribbean tan lines and new years eve approaching I bet you think I had finding some man candy high on the priority list, and you would be one hundred and ten percent right about this. But next the the match.com tab, in an equally desperate browser, was the craigslist job postings. When I returned from the caribbean I was met with some harsh weather and harsher realities. After new years I was going to be off the schedule. Although in an act of inexplicable cheapness I would not be laid off, just simply not scheduled for any shifts or compensated in anyway. It was time to look for a new job.

It was official I had lost everything in the matter of a year. I lost my apartment, my man, and now my job. I thought of where I was a year ago, buying a tuxedo to go to the Equality Illinois gala with my ex, looking at condos, planning a whole life that would never materialize. Burberry shopping sprees, Jonathan Adler,  Prada loafers, Pall Malls, bottle service at Pump Room. Now it was designer kitty litter, Home by Target, Pall Malls, and filling out applications at Pump Room. I knew that I'd be back on the schedule in march but there was a part of me that felt the finality of the situation. As I writer I know better than anybody when one chapter is coming to an end. Everything started with the restaurant job. In 2011 when I quit my job medical billing and quit my relationship for a the exciting life of brief tumultuous affairs and cash tips I knew that this was just another chapter and it like everything else would come to an end.

The restaurant was slow anyway this season. The hotel rooms empty, the staff lethargic. I had felt this coming for some time. Maybe it was like a comatose state. My body was alive but my brain had ceased to function. The restaurant had turned me into a zombie, a vegetable. And when it was time to pull the plug I felt nothing. My spirit had already left the building. Emotionally I had lost my job weeks ago, it just took a while for the restaurant to be sure this server was never coming back to life; in a lot of ways it was like all of my relationships upon ending, sudden, unexpected, and draining. My last weeks I saw the light drain out of this place that was once my second home. It longer felt safe, secure, happy and warm. What was left was the cold shell of a restaurant, something sad and hard to look at, like a euthanized dog; it looked like an old friend but there was just nothing left of it.

And my job wasn't the only thing coming to an end. My lease was up in March. It was time to find a new place for me and kitty. I pulled up my Bank of America accounts. I had a CD maturing in two weeks. I had put the money away when I though I would be going to grad school. With the money I could have taken half a year off, traveled, possibly met a husband in Italy. But then I looked at kitty. The thought of moving from apartment to apartment every year, never sure of where we'd live next and if it'd have carpet. No, I needed to find us a home and settle. It was time to find not just an apartment, but a home.

I called up my broker, an old fling from my college days to find me the deals. I though it would be like house hunters where you find the perfect apartment and there's a dramatic bidding war at the end where everyone ends up happy and living in a deliciously furnished town home.

"So this is our first unit, listed at 135," Broker said, holding open the door for me. Lets take the tour of property one, in a very desirable address on Cornelia. Take note of the vintage laminate parquet floors and lackluster tile in the kitchen dating back to the early seventies. These crusty grey wood-ish floorboards will look scrumptious under your shag rug from Brown Elephant. Through the entry way we'll find a scavenged kitchen. Note how not only are there no appliances, but there are no countertops and it looks like they tried to take the ceiling too but it wouldn't come all the way off. Your second hand bedroom set will personalize this already quirky one bedroom, try to ignore the squatters and crackheads that were living here right before the bank came to shoo them out and estimated that this gate way to shabby shabby chic living was worth a hundred and thirty-five thousand dollars. "This is a fixer upper."

"A fixer upper?" I had gone from harsh realities to harsh realty.

"It needs work," the bank agent says.

"It needs more than work. Joan Rivers need work. This apartment needs labor. This apartment needs to go into labor and give birth to all the fugly. It's in shambles. Who was the last tenant Lindsay Lohan?"

"Well, it's the cheapest unit in this building. You wanted a deal, this is unfortunately what you get with most of the bank-owned properties."

"Okay, I changed my mind. I don't want a deal anymore. Show me a hundred year old apartment that some old lady is living in where everything is wrapped in plastic."

"You want to live in Oak Park?"

It didn't get much better there, every condo in every high-rise that was listed for less that 150 either had carpeting, smelled like curry, had a linen closet where the clothes closet should have been, needed new tile in the bathroom, had avocado countertops, or was three hundred dollars for every square foot. Just when I was ready to give up on the condo search altogether we found an oversized condo on the 26th floor of a recently renovated building. It had a dining nook with a lake view, hardwood floors, granite counter tops, stainless steel appliances (all of them) and a 24-hour doorman.

I took one whiff of the enormous gaudy furniture and knew, this was the well preserved dwelling of a nit-picky old lady.

"Give me a pen, I'm writing the check right now."

"You haven't made an offer yet."

"I'm just going to write whatever you want in the box."

The Boogie Man (Belize part 2)

I promised jockstrap I'd sit in the front row of his show, which I knew wouldn't be a tough feat given that the ships passengers would probably break their neck bones if they had to look up. I arrived late hoping to have missed at least one of the numbers only to find the show still hadn't started. The front row was empty except for the guy my cougar tried to set me up with.

“Hi Zack!” He squealed.

“Oh, hi– I heard you made it to the finals of the karaoke competition.”

“I didn't think I'd see you, you missed all of the other shows. And all of the karaoke nights. And you didn't come to the teen dance party as per my invite.”

“I did so want to attend the teen dance party. And hear a bunch of show queens performing christmas musical comedy.”

“So you don't like the theater?” He looked at me like I had just killed his puppy, Santa Claus and Celine Dion.

“This is theater in it's most vulgar diseased form. I adore the theater, but as soon as theater boards a cruise ship it becomes infected with norovirus, AIDS, syphilis, anthrax and mono and has all of it's limbs chopped off and what actually makes it to stage is the mutant projectile vomit of the mutilated diseased theater. Cruise ships are to theater what locusts were to biblical times.”

“You could have just said no.”

“Look, the bald guy I was talking to at the pool today–”

“Is he gay?”

“No he just puts cocks in his mouth for fun.”

“I see.”

“Well that little knob gobbler is going to meet me after the show and he's going to buy me a drink, and then he's going to show me is stateroom, then I'm going to bend him like a stretch armstrong. That is the only reason I'm sitting through this crappy disco-themed show.”

“I think disco is fun.”

“I think you're going to make Richard Simmons very happy one day.”

“Who's that?”

The truth is there is some inextricable link between cruise ships and disco. The DJ that works in the night club, in his contract, seems required to play at least 33.3 percent disco music to keep young people off (or maybe on) the dance floor. I also noticed that he'd dug deep into the archive to surface a Will Smith album, which baffles most millennials as most of his career happened before they were born.

Disco and cruise ships seemed to have a lot in common. They shared a sense of gaudy design, sparkly things, so-so entertainment value, and encouraged people to wear silly outfits. Maybe disco had never died, it simply decided to spend decades in retirement aboard a cruise ship. After several nights of hits from before BCE i approached the DJ stand and told him to play some David Guetta for the love of god or anything that people can actually dance to.

But this Disco show seemed to confirm that the ship was lost in the bermuda triangle of the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack and after six long days of groovy I was ready for at least one night of Boogie. When the show started I could tell Jocktrap was singing to me and maybe going off choreography by grabbing his crotch a little too much. It might have been the glitter, it may have been the sparkly polyester outfits, or it could have been his rendition of Blame it on the Boogie, but I had never been turned on less is my life. 

I was ready for our post show drink. I needed it to get back in the mood.

I waited at Crooners, the martini bar, for my Jockstrapping lad to arrive. And when he did he was not alone. He had brought with him not only a third wheel and epic cock block but a starry eyed twenty something from New York whose claim to fame was playing piano for the off broadway debut of Mary Poppins. This twinkie dink sat right in between us at the bar.

Jock strap told me about how earlier when he was working out in the ship's fitness center he was approached by the mother of a young Broadway hopeful that desperately wanted to meet him after he saw Jock's rousing rendition of “I'll be home for Christmas.” He agreed to meet him briefly after the show, but apparently this brief meeting wasn't enough for Mr. Briefs over here so he brought him along. I threw my drink back and got up.

“Where are you going, we just got here.”

“Look jock itch, I don't ride a tricycle. You should have just told me you wanted cream puff for dessert and I would have left you with that teeny bopper.”

“We were just going to have a drink and talk I still wanted to hang out with you.”

“That's cute and all but I didn't really want to get to know you. You're a cruise performer I thought we'd fool around and never see each other again.”

“What kind of a guy do you think I am?”

I looked over at Mary Pops-in sitting behind him.

“The kind of guy that wants something low in calories,” and with that I stormed off, if only to give him a taste of what real theatricality is.

The next morning at breakfast I relayed the story to my mother, pausing at the end for emphasis.

“So what have we learned from this experience?” I asked her, “When you don't work out everyone suffers. So from now on I'm going to need you to spend every waking and some sleeping moments in the gym cruising men for me while I lie out in the sun.”

“Sweetie, the kind of guy that would go for that kind of guy, isn't your kind of guy.”

“This trip was a total bust.”

“That's not true, you bought a carton of cigarettes for twenty-five dollars.”

“But I didn't find a husband.”

She just raised her eyebrows. She was right maybe I came on this trip looking for a husband but found something else. Life is, after all, what happens when you're making other wedding plans. I wanted a husband, or at least a fling, and I got what I truly needed: something to blog about. It was exactly like the song, don't blame it on the sunshine, don't blame it on the moonlight, don't blame it on the good times, blame it on the boogie.