Sweet Home Chicago

Visiting a former coworker at my old office.

There are pieces of myself that I left in Chicago. And visiting them did a world of good to my heart.

Leaving them again, not so much.

I can't tell you what it is that makes Chicago different from New York City. All I know is that as soon as my taxi entered the heart of the city, I felt relaxed. And relaxation is not a state that I find myself entering while roaming the streets as a tiny worm in the Big Apple. Ever.

New York puts me into a place of anxiety. Sometimes fear. I guard and shield myself there. My social anxiety and panic attacks may not fully flood me, but they brim beneath a thin surface. I'm on edge. I'm defensive. I'm uncomfortable. And I'm certainly not happy.



An outgoing, attention-loving person who is afraid of other people and would prefer to deal with them in the introverted seclusion of the internet. What am I?



In Chicago, I don't notice my bubbling insecurities. Even in loud bars and restaurants, not a single threat that an attack might fully manifest itself and tailspin my life (yes, I just used tailspin -- incorrectly -- as a verb. I'm creative; deal with it).

Did I have a single social anxiety attack in the two years I lived in Chicago? If I did, I can't remember it now. And yet, I remember every one I had in Michigan. And in Indiana. And in Florida. And in London. And in New York. I don't even remember having to tell people in Chicago that I had an anxiety problems. In every other city, I make sure someone I'm out with knows, so that they can help to remove me from the situation in case of an attack (as I am often rendered both illogical and incapable of doing anything of the sort on my own behalf).

Sure, I'm still not as great at handling group social situations as I am one-on-one (Chicago can't change that), but I don't feel as guarded because of them. Overwhelmed, awkward, and verbose? Absolutely. But not guarded.

Chicago is a cuddly bear that holds me tight. A place where I lived alone on a street between two halfway houses. A place where drunk men often followed me home and I danced with homeless men on street corners. I rarely felt in any way threatened or endangered. And I don't know why.

A part, I'm sure, was naïveté. My KGB sense was never properly developed. My subconscious finds danger where it doesn't exist, yet fails to recognize the dark shadows lurking around corners.

Part of it is the safety of the company I keep. In New York, I'm more frequently alone. And if I do happen to be out in social surroundings, I generally know one or two people, whom I follow around pathetically.

Maybe it's because Chicago was the first place where I was ever truly on my own. Though not where I was raised, Chicago is the place where I finally began to grow up.

I learned how to explore when I was there, though I tragically never made it as far as I like to think that I did. The south side (aka the majority of the city) is largely foreign to me, aside from the walk from the Red Line to my friend Mike's old apartment, where I often found myself for New Year's Eve, St. Patrick's Day, and several invented excuses to party along the way.

Maybe it's just the familiarity of places. Though I passed a Walgreens that hadn't existed (and it totally made me forgot the layout of the area, and made me temporarily concerned that perhaps The Holiday Club uptown had closed -- which was upsetting for reasons beyond my ken, as I never actually entered that shabby, trashy building; it now appears to have been renovated, and far more friendly than in my memory).

Something about the city seems... roomier than New York. Less dense with tall buildings, perhaps, although it certainly doesn't seem that way when gazing at the skyline. The streets are... wider? No. But drivers are more polite. I never feel like I'm going to be run down by a rogue car when I have the right of way at a crosswalk (ironic and hilarious if you remember that I was at Clark and Fullerton on the fateful night when I was hit by a car and thrown into oncoming traffic... but I prefer to ignore that event).

[Side note -- I just reread the aforementioned post. And while I haven't had this thought since I wrote it, I agree with myself in something selfish, morose, and generally horrible: when I die, I want it to inconvenience people.]


People in Chicago are just so... nice.

My 1st apartment building in Chicago, at the corner of Broadway & Barry.

I revisited an old book store that I love (I'm not sure if this is its official name, but the window reads "BOOKS: RARE MEDIUM WELL DONE"; a Yelp search suggests that it is actually called Bookman's Corner -- but there is no sign calling it that -- and is located at 2959 N. Clark St., by Binny's in Lakeview). The old man there has grown even older. I reminded him that I used to live nearby, and that I used to come in and reorganize (or perhaps just "organize", because they had previously been strewn about with no rhyme or reason to their placement) his Shakespeare collection by publisher (as only a true Shakespeare geek would do, so one might more easily track down editions by Arden or Folger) and subcategorize by title. He used to call me "little sister", and make me feel so very welcome. I told him his store is my favorite in the world, although I didn't mention that the reason is it's overwhelming disorganization (it is far easier to strike gold in a store in which people have to put in effort to see what is there; most people prefer the used book store that is organized like a Borders, but there is no mystery there, and the good finds get snatched up as soon as they are placed out, by mere novices, as opposed to the hard-searchers who deserve their treasures). He didn't seem to remember me, but he sure did try to fake it. And he insisted on giving me both of the books I was buying for the grand total of one dollar. He called it a graduation present. He has now surrounded his register in a cave of stacked books taller than I am (5'6"). He began insisting to me that he had a book "somewhere" in there that he knew I'd love, but I stopped him from searching, as I feared the whole book structure might collapse on him like a Jenga tower if he took anything out. (If you go there, say hello to the old man for me. And buy me something weird for a dollar. I'll pay you back, and I'll adore you for it.)

My favorite used book store. It's even less organized on the inside.

[Side note -- I remember the days when I wanted to emulate my Chicago Shakespeare coach and have a bookshelf filled with slowly-acquired editions of every Shakespearean title. But now I see that my life is going to be far too transitory for that to be practical. I have given away everything but my Folgers, which smell so very nice and have the most practical set-up for note-taking and easy side-style footnoted references for establishing quick context and explanations. But I know they will not be placed in my tight-packed bags for California, so perhaps it's time to part with even them.]


At another one of my former used-book hang-outs, the grouchy shop owner always seemed inconvenienced by my presence. But this time, he said, "Hey, I know you. The actress, right? You went back to school. You in movies yet?" He said that I "look like that Black Swan chick. That's kind of a compliment, right? If she's working, I bet you'll be famous, too." If only the world worked that way. He then told me how great he thought Eddie Murphy was in Dreamgirls, and how confused he is by Johnny Depp's success, because, "That guy can't act. Did you see that stupid tourist movie he did? And the headless horseman one? I just don't get it."

The first place -- and only -- place I've ever lived alone.

My street intersected itself. Clearly I lived at the nexus of the universe.

I passed by my second apartment in the city. The one where I lived by myself for the very first time. And as I went to take a picture of the now-vandalized awning, the owner of the convenience store on the ground floor came out of his shop. "Actress! You are back!" I sometimes struggled to understand him through his thick accent. "It has been long time. Must be four years, yes?" He then gave me an ice cold bottle of water for the hot day before saying, "What you need? Anything you want, you take! Anything! Anything!" He told me all about the crushing hospital bills that he had just succeeded in eradicating. The strange new Walgreens had been hurting his business, but he was less concerned about that now that he was no longer drowning in medical debt. It was the happiest I have ever seen him. I wish I could pronounce his name.

The nice man who remembered me.

I feared that my favorite restaurant, Pizza Rustica, had closed. In reality, it had moved across the street to a much larger location, and gained a liquor license (which is actually too bad, as I always thought it's "Bring Your Own Wine" tradition was charming... though I'm not a wine-drinker, so I'm not sure why I should care). I ordered the same thing I've always ordered: pappardelle salsa rosa. And I almost started crying when I ate it alone in a hotel room on the corner of State and Grand (using my hands in a most comical fashion, as I had forgotten to request a plastic fork).

Seriously, go here. And get pappardelle salsa rosa.

My very first boyfriend came into the city my first night there. We went out to drinks. It was the first time that we had seen each other since I broke his heart on June 9th, 2007 (I have a strangely good memory for dates... even ones that any sane person would prefer to forget). He has a long-term girlfriend who seems great for him. It was good to see him. He had been my best friend for such a long time, and that changed abruptly when our relationship ended. Somehow, I hadn't anticipated that when I broke things off. I thought we could just stop making out during the monthly visits that we had, but our relationship would otherwise remain similar. What a strange child I was. (Can you be a child when you're 22? Because I'm fairly certain that I was one. I started this blog about 4 months after I broke up with him, so if you're feeling masochistic, by all means go back through some of my earlier posts and judge for yourself.)

I had a brunch on Thursday with three gals I went to graduate school with (and the nearly-two-year-old son of one of them, whom I had not yet met). They are all lovely and progressing in their lives in amazing ways. And -- as is the mark of spending time with a group of other actors -- it was the least I was asked/expected to talk about myself amongst all of my interactions with others in my trip to Chicago. In some ways, that was a nice change. And after all, it had been between 3 months and 2 years since I'd seen those women, so there was less to ask me about.


There may have been a small part of me that thought, "Why don't you want to find out more about how AWESOME I am?" And then I immediately began the mental self-flagellation of, "Why am I so selfish and egocentric? They are all AWESOME, too!" And don't roll your eyes when reading this, because the majority my readers are either bloggers or actors (or formerly of either category), and I hope you are self-aware enough to realize that you are all just as narcissistic as I am.

I revisited my old workplace. I planned to go for half an hour, but I ended up staying for an additional 5. As I walked around the office, I was surprised to see so many remnants of myself there. Little things that I'd made for people were still tacked up in their cubicles 4 years later. A gumball machine that I apparently used to own is displayed prominently in the middle of my department (I had a gumball machine? Why did I have a gumball machine?). One former coworker reminded me that she had me autograph a pillowcase before I left, which she now keeps in a ziplock bag in her linen closet, ready to be placed on eBay as soon as I "get famous in Hollywood." One coworker has even kept some really, truly horrible perfume that I left behind.

My former coworker kept my blueberry muffin perfume and my teal Play-Doh. Even he seems puzzled as to why.

Several of my former coworkers kept hand-made notes I made them with their nicknames. Made me wish I had spent more time on them to make them more attractive.

The room I went into at my old office to take the phone call offering me a spot in the grad school of my dreams.

(ETA: While I do not miss cubicle life, I do certainly miss having a job with regular socialization. And a regular paycheck. And health insurance. And my 401k. Man, no wonder people give up acting for real jobs.)

I went on Facebook, searched for "Current City: Chicago", and invited roughly 230 people to see me while I was there, hoping that 3-5 would actually come through. I think the grand total of Facebook friends I actually saw was 22, which made me feel like a minor celebrity. And my goodness, how I missed people.

I'm trying not to be bummed about the one close friend who acknowledged that I was in town, but then made no effort to see me (or communicate any sort of regret about or reason for not being able to see me.)


I first invited people out to cupcakes at Swirlz, which had been my favorite stop on the blogger cupcake  crawl. The second was a bar called Fat Cat with fantastic mixed drinks that I remembered from a friend's birthday party five years ago. Both were just as lovely as I remembered. And the people I saw, even more so.

A Hi-Hat, which involves grapes, basil, vodka, simple syrup, and ginger ale. An unexpected drink, yet super delicious.

I had forgotten how interesting my Chicago life had once been. The people I saw while there were ones I knew from college, three plays I'd been in, National Novel Writing Month, blogging, work, and through mutual friends. (By contrast, I lived in Florida for 3 years and 99% of the people I knew in that state were people I met through my grad school theatre. I have been in Connecticut for 1 year, and ONLY know people I've met through work and my parents, and none of them are my age.) The two events I organized for people to see me, none of the people who showed up knew each other, and I had to go through a new round of introductions with each new entrance. It was good fun.

The people were the best part of my visit. And the fact that some of them called me "Sunshine"? And some called me "Aiea"? *thump thump* Something about hearing those names made me feel more complete.

I may have done some overdramatic crying the day after I returned. Thinking about the city. And the people I miss. And what my life might have been like if I had made other choices. I'm not stating regrets; I just like to daydream. What if I had been braver when I lived in Chicago? What if I had been bolder? What if I had been more blunt (or, at the very least, more honest)? What if I had known better than to waste my time with events and people that didn't deserve my attention? What if I had made the absolute best of my time there, instead of wandering the streets confused and aimless for two years? What if I had made friends sooner, instead of staying inside the walls of my apartment for the first year I lived there? What if I had been perfect?

Two days before I moved away from Chicago, I was casually watching the Beijing summer Olympics with a friend as we ate day-old pizza and played quizzes on the internet. Now after a 4 year absence, I found myself in a bar with the same friend, casually watching the opening ceremonies in London while sipping mixed drinks and telling tales of stupid things I've done in front of celebrities (because name-dropping isn't quite as gauche when self-deprecation is involved, right?).

London. A city I once thought might be my home. Maybe someday it still will be. But after returning to Chicago, I know which city is my favorite. Even with the horrific crowded subways filled with Cubs fans who don't disembark until Addison and Clark (by contrast, the Tube is like the Metra). Even with the centipede-infested apartments that a friend who just moved to Chicago reminded me exist. Even with the painful, teeth-chattering winters that left my skin dry, my fingers numb, and my heart so very lonely (it's hard to socialize when you don't want to leave the relative warmth of your apartment).

(Side note -- Guys, I forgot how rambling my blog posts are. Do you actually read this? HOW? I'm betting there is a good amount of skimming involved. No shame in that. I've been writing this on and off for most of the day. And I figure if I'M getting distracted from it, surely you all are as well. Maybe you should try to spread out reading my posts over a couple of hours and see if that makes them more interesting.)

To be honest, visiting Chicago has messed with my head a little bit. Phil said, "I was so worried you'd go to Chicago, and fall back in love with it, and not want to move to LA." And while I will most definitely be moving to LA next month, part of my heart wishes that I were going more in the direction of Lake Michigan than the Pacific Ocean.


I thought returning to Chicago after grad school would feel like regression. But what it actually feels like... is home. And that's a tough feeling to let go of. I hope I can move back someday. Maybe star on a Chicago-based sitcom. Maybe get into the old boys' club that is the Chicago theatre scene. Maybe even do that thing that other people do where they settle down and have normal lives. I don't know what the future will hold, but I do know that I'm happy when I'm in Chicago.


May you find a way to go home again. And may you be better at saying goodbye than I am.

~A~


P.S. Something went wrong with my iPhoto, and I lost half of the photos I took while in Chicago (the only ones I have are ones that auto-loaded to DropBox. Not that they were great pictures anyway, but still. Totally bummed.

A Comfortable Return

Dear Friend,
(for if you are still bothering to read this intimate rambling after my long absence, I most certainly most do the kindness of calling you a friend, rather than assuming you are an internet stranger)

I'm living in Connecticut right now, but I am in NYC all the time (I was there 5 days this week).

I'm visiting Chicago: July 25-28.

I'm visiting Michigan: August 24-26.

I'm moving to L.A. at the beginning of September. My boyfriend Phil is moving there, too.

If you are in any of these locales, you should probably contact me. Because I like seeing/meeting people.



Yes, that's right. My boyfriend and I, after over two years of dating (but I'm sure it seems like time has flown for those of you who casually subscribe to this blog on aggregators and have assumed I'm never posting again since I haven't posted in nearly a year), are going to finally end up being in the same country. And the same city, no less. We're giving LA a 90-day trial period (as that's the length of time he's allowed to be in this country without the work visa that he has not-quite-yet managed to obtain).

I'm a very big fan of my boyfriend, by the way. He's sensational. And despite our present distance (reminder: he's still living in Original England while I'm in New England), I'm not sure what I'd do without him in my life.

(Sorry. That was annoyingly saccharine.)

You're probably wondering what I've been up to (which is only a fair assumption on my part if there are indeed people reading this, and I really should have every reason to believe that no one is... after all, Google Reader kind of sucks now that it has ceased to be a means of social interaction, and is now not much better than reading an oddly eclectic online newspaper). So here goes.


I have:
- gotten an agent
- been in two national commercials/infomercials, one beer commercial, and also a weird Japanese commercial (in which I have no idea what the product was, because everyone was speaking to me in broken English)
- had small roles on two television shows (but in both, my lines were cut)
- been cast on the very bottom floor of two different television pilots (neither of which has shown any evidence of climbing higher)
- had a role in a web series
- been in a student film
- been in two shows in NYC (and am doing a 24-hour play festival next weekend, which should be fun)
- gotten on IMDb (and subsequently crossed that off of the bucket list I made when I was a senior in high school)
- chopped off my hair for a role (which I have always wanted to do)

- worked as a photo-double (think stunt-double minus the stunts) on tv shows (I was Tiffani Theissen's hands/shoulders/hair on a couple episodes of "White Collar". I also did a few guest characters' hands/arms/feet/shoulders on "Person of Interest". Why do they use photo-doubles? Because it's a lot cheaper to use me for a day than to call in Tiffani Theissen.)
- worked as a stand-in (I stand/walk/sit where the leads are going to in a scene so that the crew can set up the lights and camera, and then the lead can just come in and film the scene. I've done this on Blue Bloods, Gossip Girl, Pan Am, and Masters of Sex)
- been an extra (or as some snobby extras prefer to be known, "background actor") on The Bitter Pill Blue Bloods, Broken City, The Carrie Diaries, The Good Wife, Gossip Girl, Law & Order: SVU, Louie, Masters of Sex, My Man Is a Loser, The Newsroom, Pan Am, Person of Interest, The Revolution, The Secret Life of Walter Mitty, Smash, Unforgettable, Untitled Ali Leroi Pilot (Lil P-Nut), and Untitled James Gray Project (Lowlife).

- embarrassed myself in front of an inexcusable number of celebrities (chronologically: Margot Robbie, Karine Vanasse, Mike Vogel, Michael Maronna, Jeff Whitty, Natalie Venetia Belcon, Lizzy Caplan, Joanna Gleason, Adam Scott, Michelle Trachtenberg, and potentially Leighton Meester)
- found out that Michael Sheen learned my name (and I didn't even embarrass myself in front of him)


- worked as a barista
- worked retail (in three stores)
- worked doing inventory
- worked doing liquidation
- worked doing database processing
- worked doing internet research
- worked as a writer (online and in print)
- worked as a stage manager
- worked as a PA (production assistant) for a commercial shoot

- been a reader at auditions
- auditioned, although not as much as I would've liked... 35 total, and my last one was in April. (But out of those 35, I got callbacks for 9, and was cast in 6, so I've been doing super, super well.)
- been to the theatre 17 times as an audience member

- gone to London
- gone to Los Angeles
- had Phil come visit twice for extended periods of time



Ahhh. An unnecessarily verbose post full of lists and parenthetical blurbs. I'm sure you're all glad I'm back.

Here's the thing: that list simultaneously looks long, and looks inconsequential to me. I wish I could say I've done more; I haven't.

I have been told by a few people that they are impressed by how much I've managed to do creatively in such a relatively short time in New York (and they are generally more impressed when they realize that I don't actually live in New York, and have to commit 3+ hours and $30 to travel each day that I make the sojourn to the city), but somehow I still don't feel like I've accomplished much.

I try to promote myself through social media, and highlight my accomplishments over my set-backs. I don't mention that I work 4 hours a week at a retail job and 5 doing data/research just to be able to pay my health insurance bill and student loans while living rent-free at my parent's house (which I am entirely too old to be doing) without a car or any sense of autonomy. I don't mention that I don't have a single friend to hang out with in the entire state of Connecticut, and that my only human contact comes in the form of my parents, their social circle, and the boyfriend who seemingly only exists on Skype. I try to give the illusion that everything is going well, all the time, which, of course, it couldn't possibly be; life doesn't work like that.

I do my best to stay positive. Lucky for me -- the girl who once earned the nickname "Sunshine" at a droll, soul-sucking desk job in Chicago -- I'm fairly good at looking on the bright side of life. And my brothers bought me a sun-lamp for Christmas to try to combat my moody winter period (aka undiagnosed Seasonal Affected Disorder). So there's that. In general, I like my life. :)

(And now I've added an emoticon, so you know it's all truth. Also, apparently I've regressed to the story-telling sensibilities of a teenager, so that's fun.)

My closet is still exploding with more clothing than any non-celebrity has a reason to own. There are still things strewn carelessly about on my floor. I'm a nester; I honestly feel so much more relaxed an at home in a messy room than I could ever feel in hospital-orderly pin-neat perfection.

I'm the same girl who used to write to you, long letters that you skimmed and scanned, wondering if there was a point, and then discovering that no, there would never really be one -- but somehow continuing to read. (Oh, you glorious masochist, you.)

I've started working out, but I find it difficult to stick with it for more than about 4 days at a time. Also, I really love ice cream and cheeseburgers, so I'm about 99% sure that negates any progress that I might make in getting a Hollywood-ready body. Because let's be honest: I'm skinny for a normal girl, but actresses are not judged by normal standards. Unless you look like a skeleton with skin (*cough* Keira Knightley), it's tough to get work in television/film.

Kale is actually really good, so I've begun eating that. Also, you know those people that insist blending frozen bananas is just as good as ice cream? They're not wrong (provided that you like banana-flavored ice cream).

I still have weird pains and health issues. I might be having surgery next month, but it's still all up in the air.

(Right. Um. Where did I go just now?)

Thanks for being there. Thanks for being out in the internet ether, silently reading this and making me feel a bit less alone. Thank you for making this blog space be a comfortable place to snuggle up today (even though Blogger has entirely changed the format since I was last here: WTH?).


May you be able to go back to comfortable places, even after being gone entirely too long.

~A~