I'm crossing blog posts here... Hippie blog meet Chicago blog, vice versa.

Hey guys, I've gained some weight in the last two months. In fact, I went to put on my work pants today and could barely get them buttoned. In no way, shape, or form am I saying that I am overweight, but I'm just saying I don't want to go out and buy new clothes.

I was looking back on photos of when I first moved here. My face was less swollen, my eyes were white and clear, and my hair looked like silk. I discovered, however, that Chicago is full of delicious food. Food that my time in Iowa did not provide. Sure you can get cheeseburgers there, but they often did not come with a fried egg on top, with thick apple smoked bacon and Gouda cheese. Nor could I find a popcorn appetizer that was cooked in bacon grease and then topped with those crispy little pig fat bits. And the beer, good god, the selection of beer is extensive, beautiful and often tastes of flowers.  This, my friends, is why I cannot seem to get back to the way I looked pre-Chicago. Vegetarianism is nothing but a pipe dream lately.

Eating this way has become nothing but a simple addiction. At one time I avoided sugar, but now have to have a chocolate bar for breakfast (no joke). Starbucks is conveniently located in my building, so trips for my favorite latte have become frequent and needed for that quick fix.

Like many things that have begun to change in my life lately, (old habits I have kindly asked to stop) I would like this to be one of the pillars that support who I am.

Michael Anderson, the creator of the documentary, Eating, says "the American eating habit is suicidal". I have recently become part of that culture. My routine trips to the produce market, have been cut short by routine trips to Whole Foods to pick up Mac N Cheese or cookies. Somehow I justify a food substance that does not have preservatives, but is layered in sugar, the caloric equivalent of a rock.

The simple thing about this is, I know better. It blows my mind that our modern day diseases and ailments were unrecognizable by the medical community 100 years ago. It blows my mind that we are teaching our children the same patterns. It blows my mind that children are getting diabetes from what they eat at a very young age. Ugh, our country has been blowing my mind for years now and I have to ask, when are we going to evolve already?

When am I going to stick with my evolution? Alicia Silverstone, an idol of mine (although I don't totally agree with the vegan lifestyle), says that we should flirt with the idea. Flirting often gets me discouraged as I yearn for perfectionism. I give up too early in the game. One day of back sliding results in four weeks of binging on sugar treats and meat products.

I've learned lately, after some real talk with myself on the train, that I should not be so hard on myself. I've been much too self critical lately and need to let go of that. Perfectionism does not exist. Back tracking and finding yourself again is motion of life and I also return to center, eventually.

So, I sit here with a cup of this orange tea concoction that I got from the cafe down the street and decide to eat a handful of Milk & Honey's granola. It's small changes and no matter how many times I falter, I can pick up right where I left off. Something small is better then nothing at all.

Ah, so I've been writing in my other blog so much that I forgot about this one, apparently.

I had this moment today, inside my head. I was thinking about my first week in Chicago. I was at a bar with my bestie. We were having drinks and celebrating my new life in the city. The guy next to me decided to chat me up. He had lived in Chicago for nearly 10 years. He was a displaced Tennessean who found himself in a city that was too big and too angry for his liking. He had made the decision to move back home and was, himself, celebrating his last day in Chicago.

I remember he was confused by how utterly "sweet" I was. He would ask my bff if I was for real, or if that was an act. It wasn't. I was sweet to a fault and once he understood that I was genuine, he imparted these words of advice... "don't let this city change you".

I think it was only a week later, that the extreme amount of empathy and sympathy I carried, was quickly drained out of me by the cruelness of the city. I stood in line at the coffee shop and tried ordering some confusing coffee concoction for my girlfriend, to which I had gotten incorrect. While I was flustered, the annoyed Barista made it known to the entire impatient crowd of patrons that I'm a moron. I came back to the car with a regular coffee and tears that drenched my face and my little soft hearted soul developed it's first callous. My bestie replied, "you'll get used to it."

It took me a year to get used to it. People were cruel and I developed one solid festering callous after another. I had an epiphany that I was no longer the super sweet girl that my ex used to cater to after I found myself yelling at a cabbie for treating me like I was a tourist who didn't know the difference between Wacker and Western.

I have become a product of my surroundings, much less congenial and much more cynical.

It’s been awhile, I know. I’m writing school papers.

I woke up this morning and thought about my 26 year old self. I’m in college. I’m sitting in my house. I’m studying. I’m trying to get out of a relationship. Every morning there’s a large snake that comes out from underneath the house and suns itself on the back stairs when I take the dog for a walk. I’m listening to Jack’s Mannequin, Yellowcard, and Motion City Soundtrack on my computer. I’m scribbling notes on a piece of paper.

Fast forward to 2010. I’m in college. I’m at work. I’m in Chicago. I’m looking out over Lake Michigan from my desk. I have an incredible man in my life. I am surrounded by brilliant people whom I adore. I’m meeting and engaging with the bands and people I obsessed over four years ago. I’m writing things that are meant for something bigger than scratch pieces of paper.

Not a day goes by that I don’t feel incredibly grateful for how my life is turning out.

Like, I get it. I get the whole hipster I'm going to record techno music in my apartment on my mini keyboard. You're awesome. You might make it big in the whole underground raging techno scene, maybe. You like music and that's cool. I like music. I have friends who make music. I enjoy listening to people do their thing, making music, but most of that is good. You are not good.

I don't enjoy listening to you play that same worn out beat over and over again. I'm telling you, I heard that same thing on some sci-fi channel one night. It was the part, right before they were about to cut the alien open, only to find more aliens. You know, the anticipation part, when they find the little alien egg pods all over and then the scientists all give each other that look. You know that look. It's the oh my god, I just found baby aliens look.  Crazy alien babies.... Anyway, stop. It's been done. Whatever you are trying to accomplish up there, it's retarded.

Listen, I personally hate techno. I really do. And I bet you really hate my indie crap. So, here's what's going to happen. You keep playing your beats real loud, late at night and I'm going to start blaring a little Ray LaMontagne or do you like Frightened Rabbit? Of course you do, you little hipster fuck. I'm going to make you hate your life with some.... shit, all I own is hipster crap. I'm going to track down some Glee soundtracks! Yea, start hating your life you little bastard!

This is a variation of chinese water torture you are performing on me but with less water and more repetitive electronic beats.

I get up at 5:30 am every day for work.

Fuck off.

Few people know that I wanted to be a teacher at one point in my life. I tend to live my life in a very black and white way, so teaching children really interferes with the lifestyle I want to lead. (Being pious has always been difficult for me). I am so passionate about the literary arts, I don't know quite where I should put all this energy. Teaching at one point became one of my options.

I finally read Alice in Wonderland and Treasure Island this last week. I wonder where these books were when I was in elementary school? Why weren't we forced to read some of these classic greats? Why am I finally getting to them now?

I had this amazing teacher in second grade, Mrs. Besch. I have always felt that she was some kind of revolutionary teacher. She read us Uncle Tom's cabin (what a brave move, looking back) and it was literally from that point on that I developed this passion for books. She influenced my love for writing, telling my Mother to frame one of my first little pieces of writing. Her teaching style focused developing our reading and writing skills, or maybe that's just what I remember about her class because that was my favorite subject. She was an absolutely brilliant teacher.

She was also so incredibly compassionate, a rare find in teachers that I have had throughout my life (from elementary school onto college). I remember the morning I woke to find our family dog had passed away. I broke out in tears during the first hour of school. She hugged me so hard, what seemed like an hour until I was calm enough to return to my desk. I loved her. I really loved her.

I've been dying to see the documentary, "Waiting for Superman" about our failing public school systems (my pirated copy should arrive next week, thanks IT guy!). I discuss this for hours- from feeding our kids minds with crap, and then feeding their bodies with crap during school lunches. It's no wonder that the general public makes me afraid for my country. We are raising mindless uneducated creatures, who just get by. I take public transportation, I witness the aftermath on a daily basis.

My children will attend private schools, for sure.

We saw De’Mar off last weekend. We drank to his departure to London. I asked Kevin if we could watch him play Letterman in New York, to which he swiftly replied “no” to. I have never been to NYC and what better excuse is there to go than to watch your friend play in front of an audience of millions. Apparently, we can watch him any time in Chicago. It looks as if my vacation to east will not be happening soon.

I’m dying to go to New York, just to visit. She told me it suits me and she can imagine me living there. Chicago is the mid-size version of New York City, and I’m satisfied with that. If I were to choose another city to live in, I would probably either go east coast Boston or west coast San Fran. I lean sharply to the west, however.

Last weekend was so brilliantly good. The three of us eating mashed potato pizza at Piece and drinking beers, while chatting about artists who stray from their bands and venture solo, we debated over who made it and who didn’t. We drank shots of whiskey and Miller Lite in a wood clad pub, where he bought me a rose, which tied perfectly around my wrist.

The weekend seemed to extend forever. We shopped for hours on Saturday, buying little to nothing, except for the extra items that fit nicely in my bathroom. I like the placement and the smell of men’s soap that sits on my bath tub ledge, the extra toothbrush in my medicine cabinet, and the reserved towel in my linen closet.

I ended my weekend, with the homework that seems to consume my life; reading Alice in Wonderland in nothing but my underwear, and writing a little bit more. I stumbled upon a writing contest through the Chicago Reader, and I think I’m going to make a go of it. I have little expectations, or any real hope that I will actually win, but I still feel the need to give it a try.

Life is good.