Nothing to start your goddamn day off like a man with no teeth telling you he likes a woman with big legs.
healthy: making dinner, changing my sheets, attempting to go to bed early
It feels like spring, a little, and so I am drinking a gin and tonic. Letherbee’s vernal gin. Let me tell about how one time I bought an expensive bottle of gin. I am glad about that now, because this gin is very, very good.
There is still snow on the ground, still slush, still not enough spring feel-goods to get anyone out of the house. I feel some sort of sickness coming on (thanks, airplanes) and so I am making my immunity soup (roasted red peppers, as much garlic as you have, homemade stock, cayenne, whatever else seems appropriate, in this case potatoes and onions and the scraps of turkey from the skeleton (my grandma’s phrasing) that I pulled out of my freezer to make more stock). My large stock pot is in Mike’s basement in Connecticut, and so there are two stocks and one soup going on the stove, a record (First Aid Kit’s The Lion’s Roar) on the stereo, a salad in my mind but nowhere else yet.
Today I felt fuzzy at my desk, not focused. I was wearing what I would call a good frumpy librarian look, a dress that hit below my knees and bunchy tights, a vintage scarf and two visible pimples on my face, my hair awful. My hair has just been awful lately, dry and oily at the same time, foofed in a way that is even worse than a newslady or a first lady, not shaped but somehow still out there. I refuse to go get it cut, though, because it always just makes it worse.
I trimmed the dead leaves and watered all my plants, though, and hey, I feel pretty great.
I should have been asleep hours ago because I need to get on an airplane at noon tomorrow and I need to finish a presentation before that and also pick up the clothes off my floor and buy tickets to a show I worry will sell out and also kiss Hilda 100 times, because I don’t know. I will be gone for the weekend, in New York even though I’m sick of New York. Last time Mike picked me up in New York I told him how I was done seeing the inside of Laguardia airport, and it is true. I am.
I guess I’m just complaining. I ate an entire pot of macaroni and cheese earlier. It was store brand. I applied to three jobs today. Earlier I said to Hannah on the gchat that I’m not even sure that half the jobs I apply to are real. How do you know if a job is real? How do I make myself stop thinking and go to bed?
An examination of the #hildagram tag on instagram reveals that there are four pets in America named Hilda: a yellow cat, a curly white dog, a frog, and this here beast.
I’m sitting in a plane on the runway at Laguardia. The plane was supposed to take off at 8:33. It is 9:45. We are back at the gate. It is negative two degrees where I’m going (blogging about the weather) but it is warm here in Queens where I woke up. It was colder last night but still warm to me, used to Chicago, a temporary midwesterner. What will it be like in another ten years? I’ll have been back to the east coast for as long as I had been in the Midwest but something tells me I’ll be colder by then anyhow, that my body will have unlearned how to walk outside and face the wind.
I haven’t left my house in nearly 48 hours except to shovel my car out while wearing a hot pink long underwear set under a fur coat.
This is my last Chicago winter, and I think I’m okay with it. It is easy to be okay with it when it has been so cold, when I went to Mattie’s house for dinner the other night and looked at the icicles that grow on the back of her tiny house, the tiny house that Monica lived in, and then Ed, and now Mattie.
I’ve built something here. I like it here, despite the cold and the distance, but because of the things I have here: connections that involve great people and tiny houses, the knowledge of the best bike routes, the orange sky, the home I’ve built with Sparks. She is in the kitchen roasting squash, and we know how to laugh at each others’ jokes.
But you cannot live forever in this space between college and adulthood, though I’m not entirely sure that’s what we’re doing. I read a thing on a blog today because all I do is read things on blogs and it was about style, about traditional vs. modern and tastes changing, which is irrelevant but feels so because I equate my future as more traditional than I expected, but I don’t mind in certain ways, though I do mind in others. I don’t like doing what’s expected.
This feels like a melancholy way of telling you that Mike asked me to marry him on December 16, and I said yes because duh, because he is the best human I know and the person I want to spend my life with. Before all that came about we were already planning this future that felt like a clean line between not-adulthood and adulthood— we are moving together to an east coast city this summer, likely Providence or Philly (do you live there? can we be friends?), and I am sitting at the dining room table looking at my resume, and I am scared of all these things.
So here is my first update in months— it is cold, and I am excited and scared about the future, and I am going to have squash for dinner.
"So you don’t have much time to blog anymore," my father said to me earlier.
I went back to work today.
It rained heavily on the bike ride home. I showered and got in bed and haven’t left. I supervised Mike’s first pizza from my bed, which is only sort of near the kitchen. Mike just left to pick up sandwiches from Cemitas.