lindsayliveshere.org

Marches

Today was spring in Chicago — I biked down Clark St. suddenly enveloped in banjo sounds; someone hanging out his window and playing to the street… women in bright African cloths, a little kid carrying a gallon jug of milk on his shoulder, homeless men nestled amongst their bags, lesbian couples holding hands, brigades of hipsters in vintage t-shirts, loud and free on a 60-degree day.

It was a good Saturday. Most days are hard, the weeks are slow. March. What.

I am being cut from my job in June, they say. I now understand how “sick” and “tired” go together in our lexicon.

Luckily Eric was in town last weekend to distract. We went to the Signature Room of the Hancock Building and watched the sunset, jetted off to an opera (fantastico, by the way), and then decompressed at Standee’s diner. The next day we hit up the deli. Bob got new glasses with gold rims, and there is a new section of imported foods where an old freezer used to be, but all else is the same. They were out of spice cookies, so I got a chocolate chip cookie instead. Oddly, the last time I had a chocolate chip cookie there was also in March.