This (scroll to Act 2) made me want to write a “This is Just to Say” poem to my Judi Rosen jeans. They were the single piece of clothing that most improved my 2007-2008 wardrobe. Good job, jeans. Sorry about your demise.
I went for a run right after arriving in Chicago on a warm afternoon. These are some things I saw:
-A car with a sticker reading "Fins up." Reminded me that my elementary school mascot was the shark. "Fins Up" was our slogan. French schools don't have mascots. Paved playgrounds, graph paper notebooks, no mascots. I'm starting a list of things that are overly serious yet adorable about French schools. -At Wellington and Damen, I came upon a baseball field that made me feel like I was in a Tom Perrotta novel. It was dusk. The stadium lights were so bright. There were all these different games going on in corners of the field. Little pockets of people playing. Bodies in t-shirts. I wondered how many drawers full of t-shirts these people had – two, three? How many t-shirts total does an average Parisian have? Two, three? -I passed a group of people my age playing co-ed softball. One guy goes, "That's Ryan's girlfriend," gesturing to a far off girl. The girl sitting next to him goes, "Ha ha, whatever." They were simultaneously making fun of Ryan and the girl. I think. Okay, there is a certain kind of American guy that still intimidates me. -There is a water tower near where I'm staying with the word "Menards" written on it. Immediately I hear in my head, "Save big money at Menaaards." The word and the song are inextricably linked. It's a jingle I estimate I haven't heard since 2003. Seriously that's in my head and not my phone number?
The next morning, I am in the office. If this were France, there would be concern about my fatigue. In America, I say I arrived yesterday and they kind of nod. Don't think I will collapse under my desk for want of a siesta. Ah, what rough and ready pioneers these people be.
I had pizza that very night, the second night I was in town, with Kathleen and Whitney, two girls who have known me since middle school. They think it's annoying when I talk about America as if it were foreign land. Fair enough. But.
Oh, another thing. One of the first things I saw when I stepped out of my taxi in front of my friend Jen's apartment on Wellington (you know, near the Dunkin Donuts on Ashland, and that big Jewel), was a man running in a t-shirt that said "FYI, I'm Irish." Think he probably meant it in more of a "my great grandparents went through a lot of shite and me I like to drink beer" kind of way. Stereotype. Sorry. Anyway I thought it was perfect. Wanted to hug him. Ellis Island.
Oh, and unrelated: last night I went to bed 27 and today I woke up 28. Boo hoo. Kafka.