City Living

People from Cincinnati often ask me how I like living in Chicago. I've been here more than 10 years now, and mostly, they assume I like it. They're right.

Chicago's the perfect city, in my humble opinion. We have great parks, the gorgeous lakefront, a (mostly) decent economy, good restaurants, theatre, music, and people. And we're still in the heart of the midwest. We can fly anywhere in the country in about 3 hours (with some exceptions) and we don't have to spend an arm and a leg to do it.

But city living is, frankly, city living. It means there are a lot of people in tight spaces. It means traffic, and a 10% sales tax (thanks, Cook County Board of Commissioners! I'll be voting you out soon!!!). It means an ancient public transportation system that is unworthy of a city our size. And, despite the fact that we have wonderful, amazing neighborhoods, it means noise.

I live in a beautiful old building in a two bedroom condo. There is a basement below me (no neighbors) and only one set of neighbors with whom I share walls. They're above me - and nice people - a couple, with a dog. The dog, per restrictions, is less than 45 pounds. He's pretty tame. The couple, without restrictions, are also appropriately sized. And mostly, they're pretty quiet. I think they're students. But, to be honest, when I was working and going to Racine, Wisconsin every day, I wanted to murder them. Every morning. Because they generally go to bed around 11:30 p.m. I went to bed at 10. Quietly. Them? Not so much.

Do you know what a dog leash sounds like when dropped on a hardwood floor from five feet? Or what a pocketful of change sounds like as it hits the floor and rolls around?

On concrete, it's nothing. It disappears into the abyss. But on 100 year old hardwood, with little insulation between floors, it's like someone playing the Liberty Bell in the room above. I tried everything. Ear plugs, alcohol, going to bed earlier, going to bed later. I slept in my second bedroom (their TV room above me). I laughed, I cried. I read. Usually by Wednesday night of a given week, I was so exhausted that I slept regardless of how loud they were.

Ironically, now that I'm out of work, I can't seem to hear them. Maybe it's because I go to bed after they do - but even in the morning, when I know they're running around up there, it doesn't phase me. I'm guessing that's because I can roll over and sleep for another 2 hours if I want to - which seems SO wrong, but is really SO right.

Anyway, that's not the only noise we get. Soon, it will be spring. (I know, where you live, it may already be spring, but until we get 10 days above 50 degrees in a row, I'm refusing to call it). That means open windows, and birds in the morning, and squirrels running around at night (yes, dammit, they are squirrels, they are NOT rats...well, most of the time. Let me live in my delusion, okay?) Anyway, the windows are going to be open. The occasional hoodlum will ride by with his H to the I to the Z to the Izzo blaring out the window (but he's rare, really). And other sounds will wander in - people walking home from a night out, bikers zipping up my street to head North. Did I mention the birds? Allow me to detour, because yes, in reality, this scene plays through my head on more occasions than I like to admit:

City Living Video: Take One

But you know what? They're not that bad. I live 3 blocks from the train, and when it's quiet, late at night, I can hear it roll by. When I was growing up, we always heard the trains - even though they were far away - rolling down along the Ohio River. It's a sound that I have always associated with home. And maybe that's why that noise - my kind of ambient noise - is not that hard to bear.

Don't get me wrong. I'd still like to play Liberty Bell to my neighbors some mornings (Saturday morning runs at 6:30 are REALLY fun in the summer!). But for the most part, I'm learning to live with it. Twelve years in, I've adapted. Sort of. Through ear plugs, alcohol, and a ceiling fan. I feel like Ruby would shake her head at me - what a softie her granddaughter is! But then again, maybe she'd be just as happy that I'm here at all - just a little bit far from home, living in the best city in the world.

A granddaughter can dream....

How the Single Girls Roll

I was thinking today about the difference between single midwestern girls, and the common perception of "Single in the City". Between what Hollywood, and advertisers, and, heck, even all of our married friends, think of our "glamorous" life, and what it really looks like.

I'm not sure, when Hollywood drafts up its idea of how we roll, it really has a good idea. Do I want to look like Kate Walsh, kiss Dr. McDreamy, and drive a ruby-red Cadillac? Oh, sure, maybe...but my life is just a tad more...well...real?

Take today. I picked up my friend up this afternoon for some serious errand running. We headed North, into the afternoon rush, and first hit Costco (yes, even I sometimes tempt the fates of Crazy and Death and North Shore Jewish Women by walking into a big-box store in Skokie on a Sunday.)

Now, in Carrie Bradshaw's world, I would have run into a handsome 40-something trying to decide between the latest Smartphone, while sporting just-perfect denim and a fine leather shoe. I would NOT have been wearing running shoes, and I most certainly would have had on some lip gloss. (Um, yeah. It's Sunday. You can guess how I looked.)

Instead, I found myself chatting up a customer at the Verizon counter, trying to find out the difference between DVR-R and DVR+R for my friend Val. That friendly customer? He told me first, not to leave my purse on the cart, because he was a cop (And no, contrary to popular opinion, music does NOT cue and the lights dim when this happens. I do, however, find myself giggling like a ten year old. It's pretty embarrassing, especially since I have on gym shoes and no lip gloss.)

After overlooking the fact that he was in sweatpants in a public place, he was actually very helpful. He went on to recommend storage solutions, (portable hard drives?), read the instructions on the DVRs, and generally chat us up. It was lovely. Mostly because he outweighed me and didn't have a ring on his finger. But it wasn't quite what Carrie goes through on a Sunday, right?

I also have a hard time imagining the conversation we had in the Toilet Paper section. Yes, you read that correctly.

Me: "What are you doing?" I asked as I approached my friend.

Friend: Muttering, punching numbers into her phone. "$18.99 divided by 15,000 sheets equals .001 cents per sheet."

Me: "But that's for the Scott stuff. It's not very nice to your ass."

Friend: "Okay, so the Charmin is how much?"

Me: "$19.99 less the $2.50 coupon, is $17.50. And there's 30 rolls with 1500 sheets per roll. So it's $17.50 divided by 7500."

Friend: "That's .002 cents per sheet."

Me: "Well, the Charmin is more expensive, but personally, I find that I use more of the cheap stuff because - well, it doesn't quite get the same coverage."

Friend, looking at me like she didn't need to know this information. "I think you use what you use, you know?"

Me: "Yeah, but really, doesn't your ass deserve the very best?"

She bought the Charmin.

But really, that wasn't the best part of the day. Next, we went to Lowe's (my friend and I). She purchased a 52" ceiling fan (which her brother is going to install next week). Then we looked for the appropriate lightbulbs (a process nearly as difficult as calculating the per sheet price of toilet paper); and then she bought the storm door that she had measured for, and we had pre-selected a few weeks back.

She also smartly picked out the thermostat that she needed (a programmable 5/2 day one) AND selected the energy-saving dimmer switch to go along with the fan.

And THEN, we loaded it all into my big ole Santa Fe. Even the 82" door!!! Two city chics. Loading up the Santa Fe. And since there weren't any magically appearing Men-Elves to help us get it into her unit, when we arrived at her condo, we hauled it up the two flights of stairs. Because we're damn good.

Now, I know Beyoncee sings about All the Single Ladies, and Shonda Rhimes writes great characters for Grey's (sometimes). And there are some great women writers out there. But this, my friends - this is what we single ladies do here. In Cincinnati today, my mom probably bent over 1,000 times (and no, she wasn't praying to the Hindu God of anything, she was just weeding her yard.

So yes, we still need brothers and friends or the occasional installer to put that door into its place. But we're the ones running that show. We measure. We haul. We lift, and we (often) drop. But we do take care of ourselves, and each other, more than you might think.

So the next time your friendly neighborhood single girl shows up for a party, or dinner, give her a little bit of credit - because she's probably running a pretty big show on her own - and, probably doing it pretty well.

Because that's how we real single girls roll.