Snow Angels

I hope everyone had lovely holidays and your 2009 has thus far been a bowl of cherries! We recently returned from three weeks in the Florida sunshine, celebrating Christmas under the palm trees like God intended. There’s something about returning to my parents’ house that never fails to turn me into a fifteen-year-old. I can be found playing video games into the late afternoon, still in my pajamas, with a plate of fudge propped on the cushion next to me and giggling into the wee hours of the morning with old, dear friends. This break was dominated by Guitar Hero World Tour (I sing a flawless “La Bamba”), long naps, poker (I do not play flawless Texas Hold ‘Em) and the Emmy award winning series Planet Earth (which I recommend everyone rent and savor). And we hosted our Tenth Annual Millennium Pool New Year’s Eve Party, which basically just means I am really, really old.

I landed in Michigan last week to find everything encase in ice; I had to abandon my suitcase in the driveway and army-crawl up my front walk and haul myself up the porch steps by the railing (sort of like a person without functioning legs, minus the upper body strength). I did spend the weekend in Chicago, where I’d planned to get some photos for a blog post – I’m still clinging to the dream of staying somewhat on topic – but I was blizzarded upon mercilessly the entire time, something like eleven inches in twenty-four hours, and I’m afraid I spent most of the weekend sitting indoors with cocoa playing Sudoku on my husband’s new iPhone. (Though I will confess to finally seeing Slumdog Millionaire and loving it.)

But now that we’ve moved and unpacked and kind of settled and then vacationed and returned and weekended and come back, I will be jumping back on the regular blogging train. I’m looking forward to catching up with you all!

Happy Holidays from a Bad, Bad Blogger

For some reason I believed I'd be a faithful blogger during the few weeks we're spending in (blessedly hot) Florida at my parents' house over the holidays. I should have known better. Considering I've barely been online for over a week and any day I'm out of my pajamas before late afternoon is a triumph, I was obviously delusional. But I did want to pop in for a moment and wish everyone a merry Christmas and happy holidays. I'll be back in early January!

Chicago on Skates

I grew up in Florida where it may get below freezing a couple of nights a year, an event which causes a great stir in the community as everyone rushes to cover their delicate tropical landscaping and stockpiles firewood – whether or not they have an actual fireplace. Before I moved north of the Mason Dixon line at the tender age of twenty-two, the most ice I’d seen in one place had been floating in a punch bowl.

So the only thing I knew about outdoor ice skating came from the occasional harrowing reports on the national news of northerners falling through thin ice and having to be drug free and resuscitated. Then they would possibly go on to live the rest of their lives with incurable brain damage or two less fingers.

Consequently, it was with deep mistrust I eyed Chicago’s outdoor rink in Millennium Park. This rink is not actually a frozen lake – so that was comforting – but something the city rigs over the concrete ground that houses an outdoor café during the warmer months. Laughing, red-cheeked skaters fill the rink daily about three or four months out of the year. I’d not heard of any casualties.

Ideally, the rest of the post would go thus: I wobbled out onto the ice, knocking down children and small adults. At first, I was unsteady, graceless. Then my latent coordination kicked in and I made my first lap. Within the hour I had mastered the double axel and that move where they squat down and spin around with one leg extended in front of them. That’s when I was approached by a US Olympic figure skating scout holding out a sequined leotard and promising me I would be the next big thing since Nancy Kerrigan.

But unfortunately, I wasn’t patient enough to wait the forty-five minutes to rent skates, so I trudged home, undiscovered yet entirely bruise-free.

Maybe I’ll try skating on Lake Michigan.

So who’s been ice-skating this season? Or do you too avoid it like the plague?

Deported to Dearborn

What better way to up the glamour of this blog than with a move to Dearborn, Michigan - arguably Detroit's most fabulous suburb? This past weekend, in our third move of the year, we lost thirty-six stories and gained one yard when we settled into a cozy Dearborn duplex just a mile from the Detroit border.

Which obviously leaves my blog struggling with an identity crisis. We're hopeful this is temporary (we move a ton) and are aiming to get back to the Windy City soon. And since we will be weekending in Chicago for the forseeable future while my husband works on his MBA at Northwestern, I think I'm keeping the title for now. (But if you're a stickler for detail, you can mentally retitle it "Shipped From Chicago.") Plus I already had a few more Chicago posts planned anyway. However, this does mean you might be exposed to more of my off-topic rambling, and you may even learn a thing or two about Michigan (State motto: Great Lakes, Great Times). What more could you want in a blog?

So anyway, hello from Michigan; I'll be back to my rigorous twice-a-week posting schedule as soon as I'm unpacked!

And sometimes you run smack into a parade...

If I were remotely intentional about my blogging-Chicago focus, I’d consult some sort of calendar of events so I could plan these posts. I’d arrive at major goings-on on time and informed. I’d certainly strive to be aware when the city threw a parade three blocks from my apartment. I hate to tell you, but if that’s the sort of conscientious blogger you’re looking for – not one who stumbles into huge, city-wide celebrations completely disoriented and unaware – you’re probably going to have to find another girl.

I had one mission for this evening: stroll over to Borders and buy a book I could curl up with for the rest of the night. Sure I’d heard rumblings about Magnificent Mile lights, but I thought it was just a matter of someone finally getting around to plugging in the lights they’ve been hanging up in the trees all week. I’d only walked a block when I encountered my first street closure and a teeming mass of people clutching their Starbucks as tightly as their children. I knew it was a Saturday night during holiday season, but this was ridiculous. That’s when I almost stepped in a steaming pile of horse manure. In my experience, Chicago only brings the mounted police out when something big is afoot.

Then the snowman floated by, and I was completely thrown for a loop. The Thanksgiving parade wasn’t supposed to be until, well, Thanksgiving. What kind of city throws two parades in the same week? Was this some sort of warm-up? (When I later scanned the Magnificent Mile Lights Festival literature, I noticed they don’t call it a parade, but a procession. Sneaky. I also noticed Mickey Mouse – of whom I saw neither hide nor hair – was supposed to be emceeing the event.)

Since there was no way to get any closer to the parade on Michigan Avenue without grinding small children underfoot, I refocused on my bookstore objective, only to discover Borders was a madhouse. Not only were people inside seeking refuge from the cold and – I hoped for the sake of the publishing industry I’d like to someday be a part of – buying books, the second floor windows afforded a prime parade panorama:

So I snapped photos for awhile before heading home, bookless. (I’d have taken a picture of the line at Borders, but it wouldn’t fit in my camera lens.) And since you’re still reading at this point, I’ll vow to be good and do a little more research before attending the week’s next parade!

Singing for Your Supper

I first learned the word “busker” a few years back when I read Charles De Lint’s novel Trader, and I thought it was a much more fun descriptor than “street performer.” While I’ve seen buskers on and off during various travels, this is the first time I’ve lived somewhere I come into contact with them on a daily basis. It’s always an auditory adventure to ride the Red Line through downtown and hear the snatches of music as the train doors slide open and closed at each station. I’ve noticed the Jackson stop tends to be a hot venue – or “pitch” in busking lingo – for buskers, but maybe it’s just I pass through there often on the way to the library. (edit: a knowledgeable source has told me that "pitch" is the British term, and in the States it's just boring old "spot")

The performances range from saxophone solos to puppet shows to break dancing to some dude bleating pop songs to a karoke track. There is also a wizened old Asian woman I’ve seen a couple of times who plays a long, slender instrument I don’t recognize, accompanied by a background tape. One day I’m going to ask her what it’s called. Occasionally the buskers’ offerings are what I would term enjoyable. Other times they’re ear-splittingly awful. And the statue people are just plain freaky. But whatever the skill level, I can’t help but admire the guts it takes to perform for such a disinterested, transient – and at times downright hostile – audience.

Sometimes when I’m standing on a quiet, buskerless subway platform I wonder: if I pulled out my manuscript and started reading excerpts from my novel, how far would I get before someone shoved me in front of an oncoming train?

If you had to busk for your bread, what would be your talent?

SERENITY NOW!!

Before I started yoga, I was under the impression it was all about stretching and meditating on the Meaning Of Life. Now I suppose I've been more wrong before, but not by much. In truth, yoga is more like stretching and meditating on How To Not Die.

I do Bikram yoga, developed by sadist Bikram Choudhury, which consists of 26 postures performed in a room heated in excess of 100 degrees. Supposedly the heat warms the muscles and mimics the sweltering conditions of India where the yogis of yore practiced. Personally, I don’t care if the yogis of yore balanced on the backs of tigers and chanted rap lyrics; I like my air-conditioning. And yet I keep going.

I find it’s best to arrive right before the class begins so I don’t have time to talk myself out of the studio and back into the elevator. You’re encouraged to position your mat so you can see yourself in the mirror. Under the best of circumstances, the mirror and I have a love/hate relationship, but when I’m dripping sweat and contorting my body into all sorts of unnatural positions, the mirror is almost the last thing I want to see. (The absolute last thing I want to see is the hairy-backed, Speedo-wearing dude who never fails to put his mat between me and the mirror.) Once it’s go time, they slam the door and crank the heater, and you realize you should have run when you had the chance.

The instructor talks you through a series of postures that utterly fail to correspond to their whimsical, friendly-sounding names. Eagle? Maybe if you twisted its neck and wrapped its dead carcass around a coat hanger. Rabbit? I don't think so. Check out camel, pictured to the right (and no, that’s not me). It’d be more aptly called Nausea-Inducing Backbend From Hell. Unlike other exercise classes, where the instructor will tell you to stop and rest if you feel like hurling, the Bikram teacher’s favorite line is “It’s completely normal to feel sick and nauseated. Just stay with it.” They also remind you to breathe, an impossible feat in 85% of the postures. You have no idea how hard it is to flip someone the bird from camel pose.

There are also a few literally-named poses: standing head-to-knee, spine twisting, awkward pose, and – my personal favorite – wind-removing pose (think about it… yes, that’s right).

After ninety grueling minutes, the class is over, your towel is wetter than if you'd pulled it out of the washer, and you promise yourself Never Again. But although I have yet to achieve anything resembling a state of zen, I haven’t had a headache in sixth months and can now watch TV without my neck getting cricked – which is why I started going in the first place. I even fancy I’m a little taller. So I continue to go and sweat and moan. And mentally shoot camels.