I Live in Chicago Now

I'm here, I made it.  I've been a Chicagoan for 30 hours, now, and I am really filling the burn.  I have learned that: Wal-Marts are illegal in this state, you can buy liquor virtually everywhere, pedestrians never have the right of way (I've been honked at a total of 4 times in the 45 minutes I was out of the apartment today), recycling hasn't made it this far east yet, and, as my kind and wise roommate informed me, I shop like a suburban (Chicago dwellers loath those who take up residency in the 'burbs) and if I don't keep my cart at my side at all times, it will get shoved into the next aisle and I will be verbally reprimanded.  Oh, and Dunkin Donuts is to Chicago what Starbucks is to Seattle.  Which grosses me out, to be quite honest. (But don't tell the natives!)

My new apartment is lovely and old in all the best ways . . . expect for maybe the wiring.  I now reside in a quant brown stone walkup, on the second floor.  And, despite being in the center of the building, our ceilings are very high, which gives me plenty of room up on my lofted bed (built by the Steppenwolf set designer for an actor who used to live here).  I live in Logan Square - not to be confused with Historic Logan Square, which I've already decided not to spend much time in past dark - and it's a fantastic neighborhood where the streets are lined with old trees and three story walkups each uniquely designed (I even found one with some unfortunate brick work which I will henceforth refer to as The Swastika House).  Walking down these streets, I get the feeling that Peter Pan may pop out at any moment.  With their well maintained iron fences and three or four story balconies, I image that Wendy and her brothers could be living in any one of these houses.  It's quite lovely.

Now, when I was on my way here I brought with me Rachel Dratch's new book, Girl Walks into a Bar, to read on the plane.  I had saved it for my trip, so I could get myself all pumped up about moving to Chi Town and chasing my dreams.  But with the lack of sleep, bouts of homesickness, and extreme fear bubbling within, the last thing this book did was get me pumped.  Or make me feel good about my choices at all.  Where Tina and Mindy have only made me want it more, Rachel was able to blow out my fiery ambition like it were a birthday candle.  As we began to make our decent, and I was halfway through her Chicago chapter, I read: "A lot of people move out to Chicago thinking 'I'll do Second City, and then on to Saturday Night Live!'  You soon lose your singular dream and the odds of actually getting on SNL are too slim to hold on to such a specific vision."  All I could think was, TURN AROUND!  I WANT TO GO BACK!  THIS IS STUPID, I SHOULDN'T HAVE DONE THIS!  PLEASE, JUST TURN THE PLANE AROUND!!  And when those tires hit that runway, it was like a giant iron door closing behind me.  Alright, Kalah.  You're in this now.  It's sink or swim.


And so, while most of yesterday I felt like sinking, I managed to weakly tread water.  And today, I took my first backstroke toward real honest to goodness survival.  I made some food, walked the neighborhood, opened a bank account, and tomorrow I start work.  No matter how much I didn't want to hear it, I know that Rachel was right.  And I've always known.  SNL can never and will never be my singular dream.  Writing in my only firmly placed goal, and where or with whom can be figured out later.  Reading on, Rachel affirmed my new attitude: "You also realize that there are many other pathways to make a career in comedy after Second City besides SNL."

I will be meeting her at her book signing on the 30th.  Now that I've calmed down, I guess I won't be pulling her hair and yelling at her for not publishing her book one month sooner so I could back out with just cause.