Tune in in a while, I'm out having a social life!
Yes, this is another one of those entries that I'm writing for "today" when it's actually "tomorrow," albeit after 1:00 a.m.
I was filled with the best intentions this morning. I was going to write up the interview from yesterday and do a bunch of other things, but instead I went and helped feed the local economy. A lot.
I think I got a little carried away with the spectre of an actual date looming, and instead, I got up and had my hair done -- well cut, but not really done -- and went out to look for Date Clothes.
Do you all do that? Become convinced that nothing out of all the mounds of clothes you have is fit to be seen in, and you must get something else right now? That panic gripped me as I drove all the way up to Hawthorn Center out in Vernon Hills to see what I could find at Field's. Yes, I know downtown is much closer, but I really think old ladies and tourists shop at Field's downtown. And, Carson Pirie Scott was having a sale on suits and I needed one.
I got there, found a really nice gray wool suit at Carson, and then went across the mall to Field's to try to find something... datelike.
Yes, I'll admit it. Call me a trollop, but I was looking for something that didn't make me look like a nearly-thirty and somewhat dull writer and artist from the Midwest. Nothing really overt, of course, but just something that I could surprise myself with.
It's not easy. They don't seem to design these clothes with women like me in mind. I don't know who they cut some of the dresses and skirts for, but it seems to be either midgets or 15-year-olds. If I was a size 6, I'd have left with half the store. But as a somewhat uneven size 12, sometimes a 14, I ended up hunting. I tried on several things that looked promising, but they were either lumpy where they shouldn't have been, or were Simply Too Short. You know that length, where it might have looked good on the model on the runway, but just Isn't Something I Could Wear?
My limiting factor in the length department was a remarkable bruise on my hip and thigh from my encounter with slippery surfaces this week. I didn't even notice it at first, and it doesn't hurt, but yesterday in the shower I looked down, and it really looked like I was some sort of rollery-derby queen. A black-and-yellow patch the size of my hand that showed pretty distinctly even through black stockings. I was going to have to find something that wasn't going to show that, and that meant, "not terribly short." But I might have been tempted otherwise.
I didn't come away defeated, however. I found a nice black dress, sleeveless with a sort of jacket, about two inches above the knee, in rayon. The fit was actually pretty good. I looked like I have a chest. The dress dips a little more than I'm used to in front, but I suppose I can live with it.
I like Field's because eventually, you can find anything there.
I did not, however, find shoes. I eventually gave up trying to find anything well-made and found a pair of black satin t-straps with a little silver buckle and a decent heel at a place down the mall. I also bought a pair of flats I'll probably have to wait until spring to wear, but they were $8 and the color matches some slacks I have that I never wear because... I have no shoes for them. Problem solved. Zillions of dollars later, problem solved, that is.
What we had worked out was that we'd go to dinner before the play, and then see what we felt like doing after. About 5:30, Jeff arrived, and I learned that he is Pickup Truck Man. Not that that's a bad thing -- trucks are useful -- but I looked down from the front window and saw this gigantic thing that was taller than I am, and realized there was no way I could climb up into that machine in that dress. Airlift, perhaps, but not climb. A quick conference, and we decided to take my car instead, which is a little easier to park downtown and which rarely demands that I flash my behind to the entire neighborhood while entering or exiting the vehicle. Jeff is from Atlanta, and I think trucks are the thing to have down there. Here, trucks are for writing graffiti on.
When he came up, I realized I'd actually said hi to him the other night at the party. That had been it, just sort of a friendly-but-vacant "hi," but some things stick with people. He looked very nice -- a conservative jacket and all -- and we talked a lot on the drive down to the Loop.
It turns out that Jeff also knows someone I've had as an editor at the University of Chicago Press, back when I was trying to get a book of poems published (unsuccessfully). He plays racquetball with him from time to time. I hope Jeff doesn't expect me to take that up -- I have a problem with small objects flung at high speed, at me.
We had settled on a sort of interesting Italian restaurant about a block from the theatre, near Dearborn and Monroe, a place I'd been to before and liked.
That ego thing... it was really strange to have people check me out... I know it was the intended outcome, but it's still a little strange if you're used to blending into the wallpaper as I am lately. I'm already fairly tall, and the heels probably put me at a little over six feet. I turned heads, and I have to admit, it felt kind of fun.
I'll turn in my feminist card tomorrow morning and receive my noodle lashes, but tonight it was actually nice to get that kind of attention. Sorry, everyone.
What was remarkable about the place was that although it seemed to be allowed, no one was smoking. I was very happy about this, because my eyes tear up from cigarette smoke and I'd really have preferred that my hair and the dress not smell like stale tobacco all evening. And so it went. We talked a lot, about what we do, and the people we seem to know in common.
Jeff came to Chicago about five years ago to finish a master's, and stayed to work for UC. His family are all "real Southern" as he puts it and can't understand why he wants to stay up here. He says he likes the things to do, likes the work he does, which is something to do with lipid compounds - I'm not a scientist and won't attempt to translate - and likes the people he's met here.
He also has a way of talking that puts people at ease. I'm nervous talking to new people most of the time, unless it's in conjunction with a job, and that didn't happen. I'd have liked to talk more, but suddenly it was 7:30 and time to hoof it across the street to the theatre. Apparently at performances of Rent in New York, the theatre reserves a few front-row seats at a great discount for these young people who camp out waiting for them to go on sale just before the show, and they've done that here in Chicago, too. I think that's great, because theatre tickets are fairly expensive and not everyone has that sort of money. Most of the students I knew or still know certainly do not.
I won't attempt to recap the show. Most of you probably know it, and tomorrow I'm going out to find the cast recording. I only do that with shows I've really liked - Sweeney Todd, Cats, 42nd Street, among others. I'll talk more about the show tomorrow.
It was well after 11:00 when we finally got the Honda back from the valet and thought about what to do next. I really wanted to talk, and Jeff suggested a place on West Grand that had Jimmy McGriff, and had the added benefit of being (amazingly) smoke-free, though I found out that it was intentional. It was nice to catch the second set, hear some good music, and be able to talk a little more. We actually stayed until about 12:30, and then came back here.
I just realized that for one, it's now after two, and also, this entry is enormous. I apologize for those of you on a slow internet connection. Wait... I have a slow internet connection!
To jump to what you all want to know, and what I know you've been plowing through all these words to get to, no, there isn't a swarthy Georgian curled up in my bed as write this. I mean, be real, I have to kind of ease back into the social thing, and so no, nothing happened. Jeff is a perfectly nice guy, and I think he understood that there wasn't any need to push it. So we did the little good-night-kiss thing, and said we'd call each other, and that was it.
What? You're disappointed? Again, I'm sorry, but be patient, maybe this will turn out.
I can't believe I wrote that. I've practically contracted myself to splattering the details of my sex life all over the internet for your consumption. I can't believe me sometimes.
So, in short, I'll do the girl thing and wait for him to call. Yes, I'm chicken, and yes, I had a really nice time, but parts of me are still pretty conservative (this evening's attire notwithstanding) and so I'll wait a little and see what comes up.
Fargo is over in the corner chewing on the silver buckle on my shoe. I have to go put them back in the box before the fake satin gets soaked with kitten drool.
I am going to bed. By myself. Or at least as alone as I can be with The Kitten Who Ate Chicago around.
Yes, folks, I think Princess Jeanne might have a social life after all.