Heh!!
No! A movie about the stupidest city I haven't been to!
I usually am pretty uninterested in my alumni magazine. Usually, I just flip to the Class Notes section to see 1) what famous people sent in notes about their lives (yay, Stephen Colbert! boo, Zach Braff!), 2) what percentage of my classmates are investment bankers, 3) who got married. The current issue, however, had an update on Ryan Du Val, who famously painted a replica of the Sistine Chapel ceiling on his dorm room ceiling my sophomore year. A friend of a friend of a friend or something knew Ryan, so I got to see the room, and, I gotta tell you, it was awesome. Of course, the university freaked out, as that was the Northwestern way, about whether or not Ryan could keep the ceiling painted all year. Shut up, Northwestern. Luckily, he was allowed to keep it painted. And here's an article about where he is now! Just takes me back to the halls of Bobb-McCulloch (which, filthy as they were, still would have been a better place to live than CCS).
Holy schnikies! What is my damage? Well, my issue has been running around all crazed, trying to fit too many things into too few hours and then watching all the junk on my Tivo when I get home, instead of trying to sleep. Tired! But I have a glorious four-day weekend stretching ahead of me, and now I can relax.
I didn't even write about New York, which was-- what, three weeks ago? Jesus. Anyway, this is a long overdue blog entry, and it was a long overdue trip to NYC. I always intend to go there as much as possible but never do. "If I were rich, I'd go to New York ALL THE TIME," I told Dee. "If you were really rich, wouldn't you just _live_ there?" she asked. Oh. Right. Yeah, I love New York. Its siren song is always there, and if Chicago didn't exist, heck yeah I'd be there in a second. But Chicago has everything that I do love about being in a big city, and, well, I'm probably going to buy a little condo here in the next year. On one salary. That's what's keeping me from giving New York a year or two of my time. All that $$$ will be gone. And I'll get even less sleep than I did this week!
Going only once a year isn't really enough though. Now that Kate and Adeet are there, maybe I'll go more often. It was SO. FANTASTIC. to see the Deshmukhs. They come back to Chicago a lot, but I got their undivided attention while visiting them. So much eating and walking and eating and walking and eating: so fun. I'd been feeling a bit out-of-sorts in the week or two before my trip, and, ironically, the best antidote to feeling less like a character in an Edward Hopper painting was...going to New York. Getting there was a bit of a chore, as my 4-hour flight delay caused me to miss a dinner party Adeet's family friend was throwing in honor of a famous Indian actress in town for the Tribeca Film Festival. Boo, United! But as soon as my plane circled Manhattan, I forgot all my irritations. Chicago is definitely a prettier city from the ground-- the lakefront, the parks, the architecture, the fact that we hide our garbage away in alleys-- but Manhattan from the air is like a fairytale land. So cool. And the Deshmukhs whisked me away to a late dinner at King Kabob, which is always full of Queens cab drivers (always a good sign). It might not have been a dinner party overlooking Central Park, but it had some great kabobs. Over the following 48 hours, I put away egg creams, cherry lime rickeys, a mysterious mishmosh of delicousness at Shopsins, the BEST donut I've EVER had, pommes frites, mussels at a 24-hour French diner, great bagels (Chicago-style hot dogs are far superior to the street vendor NYC hot dogs that sit around in gray water all day, and let's not get into the deep dish vs. thin crust debate because that debate shows some ignorance about what pizza Chicagoans actually eat on a regular basis, but I admit that there's something special about a real NYC bagel--yum), sweets from Dessert Truck, etc., etc. etc. The Deshmukhs know how to keep their guests well-fed.
The purpose of the weekend was really to spend time with them. I wasn't able to meet up with Kunal, Anna, or Mitch, but I luckily saw some college friends at Amy and J.D.'s wine-tasting party on Saturday. I felt like I stepped into a time warp when JUDGE showed up. Wow. That was, what, 8, 9, years ago, when I was hanging out at Theta Chi all the time? Wow.
Anyway, some highlights:
Also: no. Just, no...
Trisha and I checked out the Homer/Hopper exhibit at the Art Institute on Saturday morning. Hopper has long been my favorite artist, and I was really looking forward to seeing a lot of his work at once. The Hopper portion of the exhibit was indeed curated really well, and I really enjoyed it, but I had a weird creeping feeling while looking at all of his pictures of urban ennui, malaise, and late nights. Then I realized: Edward Hopper captured my mental state! No wonder I like his paintings so much.
Dee and I were working too many hours at the end of March. We started to share a brain and had conversations composed of single syllables. We found improbable sources of humor in editor-dork statements such as "italic bullet? Like an ellipse?" We were clearly losing it.
We're facing a bit of downtime at work, and during my research into No Child Left Behind (BOOOOO!), I came across this article that sums up exactly what I do for a living.
Thanks to everyone for your kind words about Bogie over the last two weeks. I realized what a long life he lived when Andy Strietelmeier wrote to say he was sorry to hear about it. Yes, Bogie met a young Andy! And now Andy and I are pushing 30.
Goodbye to a funny little dog.
Bogie, a.k.a. Bogart, a.k.a. Choo-Choo, a.k.a. Pet Dinosaur, is gone, after 16 or so years. We had been joking about him being an ageless demon that would outlast us all, but he finally gave out. He died naturally, of old age, which is all you can wish for the end of a pet’s life. It isn’t a surprise, losing a 16-year-old dog, but it still hurts. Bogie saw me through middle school, high school, college, post-college adulthood, and, now, real adulthood. He saw me through many, many high points and low points, three long-term boyfriends, a move to a faraway continent and back, the jump into uncertainty and independence at 22, the start and development of my career. Losing him is closing a door on part of my life.
He showed up when I was 13, with the official name of Sir Sydney, which we promptly changed to Bogart, a.k.a. Bogie. The runt of the litter, he was the only one left at the breeder’s house. Though his parents had been champion dogs, he wasn’t quite right for a silky terrier; he was strangely colored (“the color of mud,” as Bot said), misshapen, and far too little to be a typical silky. Though we gave him a hard time about his goofy looks, we thought he was awfully cute, with a crooked half-smile constantly on his face. And unlike Breezy, the badass silky we had when I was a little kid, he was sweet-natured. With our overactive imaginations, we invented a whole other personality for him: a two-faced shape-shifting sociopath demon who would disappear and appear at will and who was plotting to take over the world. In reality, Bogie was good-natured and friendly. A terrier through and through, however, he was fiercely independent, often moody and extremely protective of his alone time. He would get very cross when someone tried to bother him when he was sitting by himself in his room.
Yes, his room. He was definitely a spoiled little dog. His “room” was merely a mudroom next to an entrance that nobody ever used—basically, he had his own private entrance to the house. In very cold or hot weather, he would stand for hours in front of the vent in the mudroom, enjoying the heat or AC, with his crooked half-smile. He had a bed with his name embroidered on it and very bizarre toys, stuffed animals my dad received from pharmaceutical companies. Bogie loved chewing on stuffed cows and dogs with the names of random medicines on them. His favorites were a little bull that made noise when he pulled a string (which he figured out how to do), a sunflower called Sunshine, and a yellow monster named Mojo. Unlike attention-hogging retriever types, however, he didn’t really play fetch. We would throw the toy, he would retrieve it, he would then dash to his room with it. We knew better than to go in there to try to get the toy back. They were his toys! Now it’s “Bogie alone time”! Terriers are the best!
His favorite hobby was running laps around the kitchen island at high speeds. Even after his eyesight failed him in old age, he ran the laps from memory. If the floor had just been mopped, however, he would lose his footing and smash headfirst into furniture. He would pretend that nothing was awry, probably to keep his dignity.
Bogie’s favorite time of year was Christmas, when we all came home and he got to enter the usually-verboten living room. He would fall asleep in front of the roaring fireplace and would refuse to move, even when he was clearly overheated. Once, an ember from the fire flew into his fur, and we all panicked and tried to hit it out. He thought we were hitting him and dashed under the sofa to hide. Sorry, Bogie! After spending hours in front of the fire with the family around him, he was never pleased about being sent to his room alone for bed. He would always squawk all night, which I, with my room directly over his room, did not appreciate. We would always get him fun treats for Christmas, and he would be so overjoyed about getting a present that he would stick his nose into every other gift as we were opening them, thinking that everything was for him. Once we opened his treats for him, however, he inevitably disliked them.
Yes, Bogie was a very finicky eater. When offered a treat, he would usually look at it, lick it, and then look at us. He would hesitate before eating things that make up a dog’s diet, such as meat. But he LOVED pieces of chopped onion or tomato. We suspected that he was the world’s first vegan dog. Perhaps that explains his longevity.
Bogie was very silly and very lovable. Even my mom, well-known for not being an animal person, grew attached to him. Though we all loved Bogie, he was really Bot’s dog. Bot was at home for 4 more years than I was, and Bogie clearly responded more to him than to the rest of us. It’s really more a loss for Bot than for us. Bogie was there in our house during some rough times: when our grandparents, who were living with, had rapidly failing health, for instance. That seems like ages ago, but Bogie was there. He was a constant irritation, a constant joy. He was a distraction and a comfort. Though he was frequently a pain in the ass, he also always could tell when I was upset. And he always hated it when one of us would leave. The minute he saw suitcases, he would grow agitated. He was a fixture in the house and saw lots of change in his short life. My grandparents passed away. Magua, Bot, and I left home. Bogie was always there to keep my parents company.
I adore dogs, but a loss like this makes me wonder why we get so attached to these creatures that, chances are, will leave us in 10-15 years. When I was walking home today, I looked at every dog and thought, “That dog is most definitely going to die well before its owner.” Why do we do that to ourselves? Is it worth it? I know it is, and I know that I’ll eventually feel like it’s worth it to bring another dog into our lives. It’s just hard to imagine when we’ve just lost Bogie.
So, goodbye, little guy. I love you very much. I hope that where you are, you can run at top speed for miles and eat as many veggies as you want. If you run into Breezy, don’t let him bully you! That dog was certainly a badass, but you can win him over with your sweetness and your weird crooked half-smile.
I feel like I am crashing from two weeks of not-great sleep. Between tommy-gun-punctuated scenes being shot in my alley at 1 AM and my crazy project, I've been sleep-deprived and cranky. Not having hot water for a few days didn't help. But today-- oh, today, my awesome team did the impossible and MET OUR DEADLINE. The boss-people sent us home early as a reward for our long hours, and I was looking forward to a nice evening of my Bar Method class (which I had to skip the last two weeks), a good dinner, and Magua showing up for her weekend visit. But, boo! The Hollywood people are back to reshoot scenes tonight. And, oh good, they seem to be reshooting that one scene that involves a gun battle and a woman screaming and people running like elephants across the floor above me. I like that I've gotten all jaded about this: get outta my building, Depp!
But other than that, I'm happy. The project is done, I had a lot of fun running the Shamrock Shuffle earlier this week, and I'm looking forward to a nice weekend with lots of family plans.
