My Kind of Town

Chicago, Illinois. My new home. I have to say, I like the pizza.

But what I like most of all is that on every single bus and train I have ever ridden in this city (and that is no small number) I always see people giving up their seats. Men giving their seats to ladies. Children giving their seats to the elderly and pregnant women. Somehow, all these commuters who seem so isolated in their little iPod universe manage to be constantly aware of the needs of the people around them. It's incredible. In fact, pretty much everything about my life in this city thus far has been incredible.

For starters, my job. Time Out London was the publication that made me want to be a writer. Now everyday when the elevator opens on the 17th floor of my building, and I see the Time Out logo glowing from inside the glass doors of the office, I get a little smile on my face. I still can't believe I am here. Somedays I feel like a fraud. Like at any moment they could discover that I really am not an expert on shopping or fashion and that my credentials are worthless and my clips lack any discernable talent and they will come and ask me to pack up my things and go. Other days I feel completely capable. I worked for this. I earned this. I hid in bathroom stalls in Los Angeles to eavesdrop on Nicolette Sheridan for this. And let's be honest. Not every moment of the job is a dream come true. Schlepping around the city in uncomfortable shoes to pick out the season's best dog costumes isn't really what I imagined I would do with my life. But nor did I ever expect that I would hear a news achor say my name. As in "We have Jenn Thompson here with us today to share the secrets of fall fashion accessories." I loved hearing my name said in the smooth rich tones of the anchors voice. Now if only I could say the same about hearing my own voice. I have both of my TV apperances tivo'd. But I haven't been able to make it through either of them. I always run out of the room screaming and covering my ears to block out the erie sound of my own words coming through the screen. It's horrifying.
But not as horrifying, apparently , as a Chicago Winter. Which, so I have heard, are practically unbearable. Considering that my idea of winter is a few days during which it drops below 32 degrees and a possible quickly-melting snow fall, I think i am in some serious trouble. I don't own what most people would refer to as "a warm coat". Nor do I really understand the concept of boots that aren't leather and high heeled. Not to mention that it was 50 degrees two mornings last week and I have whipped out the heaviest scarf I own. Of course this was also when my mother was visiting. She saw me walk up with a large purple scarf wrapped all the way up to my nose and began to cackle with laughter. I think she might have even started a pool with my relatives back in NC to see how long it takes before I call begging to come home for the weekend "just to get warm". This is not good. Not good at all. I am told that things don't get really ugly until January or February. At which point, I will have strapped myself down on the couch in our apartment, covered in threee blankets and wearing long underware under my pajamas so as to avoid high gas heating bills. How I will go to work and remain a productive human being remains to be seen. Survival is the main goal.

I think I would find the winter more bearable though, if I had a puppy. Though, I also believe that polio, the plague, and golf tournaments would all be bearable if I had a puppy. I want a puppy rilly rilly bad. However, there are a few things standing between me and puppy bliss: 1) Our apartment doesn't allow them. 2)I cannot afford one 3) I can't decide which kind I want. Obviously I am only really concerned with one of these problems. What kind do I get? Once I solve that, everything else will fall into place. At the moment I am leaning towards a toy beagle. Let me know what you think.

Joe, bless his soul, indulges my puppy lust on a regular basis. He does not call me crazy when I start talking about Gus and Sam and Wrigley ( Beagle, Brown Lab, Blond Lab) as if I actually already own them. He doesn't mind when I fall to my knees and talk in incomprehensible baby talk to a puppy belonging to an unsuspecting stranger who happened to be walking his pup on the street. He has stopped reminding me of problems 1 and 2 whenever I whine "WHYYYYYYYYyyyyyeeee can't we have one???" He is, among other things, a tolerante boy.

Granted, I know that a puppy is not a smart addition to a really nice apartment. He will chew things and pee on things and roll around on things that I would prefer he not. And, let it be said that our apartment is no shabby shelter. I am pretty sure that our sink alone costs the same as a month's rent. So yes, it would be a travesty if our darling little Gus was to chew at the corners of our custom cabinetry, or urinate on our slate tile floor, or playfully tug on my carefully chosen satin window dressings. But when I look into those little adorable puppy eyes... all would be forgiven. Except perhaps by our landlord Mark who actually built the custom cabinetry and laid the tile floors and rehabbed the bathroom and sunk thousands and thousands of dollars into a place far nicer and far bigger than anywhere I could ever afford to live ever again in my life. So, for now, my puppy lust must remain unfullfilled. Thus I as a person, remain incomplete.

Alright. I must end this post a little prematurely so that I can go out and gather up more alarm clocks for our upcoming feature on.. well alarm clocks. Adieu for now and feel free to post comments, questions, complaints.