We used to live in that building…

My ex wore a scarf just like that when we first met…

I had my picture taken once between these bookshelves on a summer afternoon…

I want to but can’t…that movie sing-a-long was “our thing” and now it’s “sacred”…

I walked down this street the night before I left for good, sobbing my eyes out the whole way…

This is the doorway through which we first walked together on our first date…

There are so many things I remember. Things that I miss. Things that I do not. Things that have left their mark. An imprint. On this city. On me.

Live in a place long enough and you’ll be bumping into ghosts at every turn; board the bus with them, grocery shop with them, get coffee with them. Order take out. Pick up the dry cleaning. Look at art. Pay bills. Ride bikes. Window shop. Return library books. Nod along to some band. Drink your drink. The whispers of a life lived with someone else, whispering to you each step along the way.  Ghosts of loves past.

I remember…

I used to…

Once I…

That used to be…

I let myself be whispered to now. I no longer fight it as I once did during the break ups of my twenties. Now, I feel no stab of regret, remorse, sadness at the memory. Very well, come along then.

There is detachment, yes. Acknowledgement of the place and memory as one would note the color of wall paint. Matter of fact. That has happened and now this. More than that, there is respect for what was, for who that person was, for who I was.

I have loved, been loved. My heart doesn’t quicken to know it. My eyes remain dry. Dull acceptance. Things that were but are no longer. Places that hold memories but not pangs.

I am alone. And never much lonely.

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Many thanks to animalcrackers' circus for use of her photo!

Last weekend, I threw together a little meet up for some local bloggers, many of whom I’ve been reading for years and had yet to meet in person! With everyone’s busy schedules- especially over the summer months, there just never seems to be an opportunity to get together! So, I created one. Our own unofficial version of a Chicago Blogger Meet-up/ Tweet-up.

I created an Evite and sent it along to some local bloggers I’m lucky enough to already count as friends and to those bloggers and twitterati I’d been long overdue to meet. I admit, I checked the RSVPs religiously. And of course, I auditioned no fewer than six outfits, finally deciding on a $22 tank dress from Forever 21.

As the event drew near and in lieu of being able to secure a drink special or deal, I planned to give away a bottle of Mumm Napa sparkling wine (my favorite from Napa!). That afternoon, as my cab raced a Chicago rainstorm to Pops for Champagne, I was excited, yes, but nervous too. What if no one ended up coming? I consoled myself with a half-kidding, “Well, then I’ll just drink ALL OF THE CHAMPAGNE!”

Lucky for me- and for the champagne- the unofficial Chicago Blogger Meet/Tweet Up was larger than a party of one and included @SaraLang, Punch It In!, Dysfunction Junction, A Day in the Life, Full of Snark, animalcrackers’ circus, and @shefmeansflower (who we peer pressured onto twitter right then and there).

Together, we passed the hours drinking and talking. About, you ask? Well, we talked about Caryn’s recent engagement and cruise, our various odd illnesses that make us sound like a bunch of 80 year olds, the Field Museum and how their whale exhibit is sad because all of the animals are dead but the Shedd’s “whale encounter” is epic and financially taunting, we discussed Jeremy Wade (“biologist and extreme angler”) and how kickass River Monsters is- hello, they have episodes called “Man Eater” and “Death Ray,” and we laughed at the apparent hilarity that would be a notarized break up letter. Annnnnd that’s the extent of my “notetaking” skills as we broke into our second bottle! Ladies, what did I forget to include?

Thank you again for coming out in a rainstorm and for making my first ever Chicago Blogger Meet/Tweet Up a success!

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Why? Well.

I am irked because TOO MANY HATERS seem apt to treat dogs like sub-humans. Yes, I said “sub-humans.” I say this, despite dogs obviously not being human, because animals should in general be treated with respect (and this is said by someone who was recently bitten by a horse, mind you). They ought to be treated with love. Or, at the very least, with common decency. In particular, I am absolutely sick of people being mean to dogs.

I’m sick of being yelled at by complete strangers because I’m walking Wendy down the sidewalk (mind you, on leash, perfectly well-behaved, and oblivious to batshit crazy lady’s presence HALF WAY DOWN THE BLOCK).

I’m sick of being scowled at in the building where I live because I have to use the “people” elevators and not the designated freight elevator because said elevator dates back to when the building was built (1927!!!!) and is frequently out of service- or stuck with someone inside.

I’m sick of drivers flipping the fuck out and screeching forward when you don’t walk your dog fast enough across the street.

I’m sick of seeing a dog treated inferior and literally dragged down a sidewalk, being yelled at and choked along the way.

And I’m sick of people being downright insensitive as evidenced by this lady’s blatant disrespect when, quite frankly, she of all people should have known better.

I don’t care if this makes me sound like some crazy dog lady. I don’t. My dog and so many other dogs exist only to be loved and cared for. They’re loyal and loving. And to many of us, they are our children and may be the only ones we ever have. Fuck you if you think that’s a dumb statement. You’re a toolbag for being mean to dogs and thinking less of those who love them dearly.

I told you. I’m irked. Toolbags will do that to a person.

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A day from which I am still recovering and seeing a chiropractor. A day when I intended to *happily* squire my visiting brother and his girlfriend around Chicago and later see Fitz and the Tantrums at Schubas for their Lolla aftershow.

Instead, I slipped in the apartment Saturday morning on the residual oil slick from the dude’s otherwise innocuous pre-Lolla sunscreen spraying in the bathroom. I fell backward at what I am guessing was a 60 degree angle into the bookcase, then promptly onto the floor. As I lay there, I thought I’d sprained my left ankle from the slip, elevating it on the edge of the couch’s arm. Luckily, I did not. Unluckily, however, I managed to seriously FUCK UP my neck and left shoulder, which became apparent the minute I tried to raise my head off the hardwood floor.

In the meantime, Wendy scurried over to sniff me and take up her perch on the couch from which she could fully take in Mommy’s silliness. Really need to get cracking on teaching her how to go get help/ dial 911 given how klutzy I am in general! In this particular case though- I could have been a damn Triwizard Tournament Champion (that one’s just for you Brandy, as well as the balloon hat reference below!) and still would have taken a nasty fall. I’m just glad I fell out of the tiled bathroom and not back into it and the bathtub, which could have been truly disastrous.

So that was the epic start to the day, followed by my apologetic air hugs to my brother and his lady friend (“Don’t touch me, I’m old and broken!”), and my attempts to self-medicate with two margaritas at the newly opened Margaritaville at Navy Pier during lunch (no balloon hats at this location, I’m sad to say). I managed to get a decent buzz going, but nothing that drowned out the neck spasms completely. Perhaps some retail therapy?

Despite the pain, I soldiered on via cab to Michigan Avenue where I took them to the North Face Store (hello, that place is READY for winter and almost sold me on these badass $40 (strangely $60 online) gloves except what the hell it’s August and humid as a skank whore outside- because skank whores are apparently humid), to the new AllSaints (am in love with this place and promptly picked up this waistcoat which will look amazing with a black pencil skirt or with these gummy black skinny jeans), to the new Chick-fil-A for lemonades (sadly no room for my favoritest sandwich ever despite its status as Jesus chicken- no joke, I even referenced my love for the Fil-A in my About page), to the top of the Hancock, and finally to Ghirardelli for ice cream (strawberry cheesecake FTW).

We took our ice cream cones across the street and sat on the edge of the fountain by the Water Tower, people watching and chatting. It was one of those beautiful, albeit tourist-laden, moments in the city. We finished our ice creams and walked over to the line of horse carriages, where my brother expressed his fear of horses in general. I promptly proceeded to scoff at him and intended to demonstrate how perfectly tame they are. And then it happened.

I got bit by a horse.

There on the banal sidewalk of the Magnificent Mile, surrounded by shoppers and street performers and children (one of whom the same rabid horse would later try to bite), on an otherwise uneventful and sunny Saturday afternoon, in the middle of the fucking city; I reached my hand out to pet the horse’s head and he curled his mouth around and chomped down on my right forearm, leaving behind horse slobber and bits of grass and teeth marks. What. The. Fuck.

Like I said, last Saturday was A DAY.

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The word on the street is there’s a bit of a gathering headed my way in another week or so. The first ever @20SB Summit is coming to Chicago August 19-21 and bringing with it a number of my favorite people and many more whom I’ve been wanting to meet for years. (Ben, please don’t be alarmed. I’m perfectly harmless in spite of being a major fan girl of your blog and your awesomeness in general.)

Despite the Summit’s proximity to Nic Narrates headquarters, I’ve spent the majority of the summer on the fence about registering to attend. I wasn’t exactly sure what the content was going to shape up to be- if it would be geared toward 20-somethings only (read: not me) or if it was intended for people who work in social media. (Also not me, though ummm, hi. Anyone want to give me a job? Seriously.)

If I’m going to be completely honest, I was a bit wary of signing up to go to an actual blogging event with legit sessions and panels and all kinds of general bloggy know-how that makes an amateur blogger like me a bit uncomfortable. I’ve never really taken this show on the road (except for the spectacularness that was Bloggers in Sin City last May) and have pretty much kept a low profile (rarely attending local blog events, never doing any give-aways or product reviews- check back tomorrow for my first ever courtesy of Samsonite!- and refraining from blog swaps). Okay, so basically I’ve been unmotivated and, at the risk of sounding completely ridiculous, a teensy bit anti-social.

No more!

On a whim, I submitted to win a free ticket to the Summit on Jenn’s blog and I actually won! When I saw her tweet announcing I’d won, I did a little happy dance right then and there in my seat on the CTA bus home from work, fellow commuters notwithstanding. I won! I won! I won! I get to see my friends and spend even more time with them and meet new people and tackle hug them and I’m so excited! And…and…oh shit. I won. And now I need to, like, get my act together. Make the most of this opportunity. Network. Not be a total dork. And…and…I won! Now what the hell am I going to wear????

And, scene.

Have you registered for the @20sb Summit yet? There are still tickets available and the agenda is online now as well. If you’re planning to be in Chicago, let’s meet up!

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Last week, though (like the bad little blogger I’ve been lately) I only just realized, marked five years for me as a blogger. Reflecting on that time, both upon blogging and the content on which I write, I’ve experienced quite a bit of Life over those years…

I fell in love. And out of love.

I went to London, Jamaica, the Dominican Republic- twice, Philadelphia, San Francisco, Napa, Seattle, Alaska, Las Vegas, and South Carolina. And New York- how could I forget New York?- again and again and again.

I met a boy. And another one. And then another one. Until there came the one who’s stuck by me- so far at least.

I got a dog and am convinced within myself I’ve met my soul mate.

I wrote letters to Jessica Simpson and openly adored Tina Fey.

I got fucking WHOOPING COUGH like it’s the Eighteenth century or some junk, birthed a kidney stone as though I’m some infirm old fucker, and managed to garner food poisoning while stranded in Vegas for 48 hours after a flight cancellation.

I observed and questioned motherhood first hand. I feared babies and their ability to, like bees, smell that fear.

I gave voice to my angst for pregnant smokers, Drunk Bus, Facebook, Icky Couples and other such Toolbags.

I threw a pity parade for myself as friends got engaged, married, had babies, and moved on.

I swore a lot and not always as a result of Who the Fuck is Sharon.

I fell into a depression. And I admitted the one thing I’ve always kept secret and for which I still feel ashamed.

I authored posts about which I am proud and not so proud, and still others I have, at times, felt disappointed went nearly without comment.

I celebrated birthdays and turned 30. Then realized, holy fuck, I’m now IN my thirties!

I bitched about work and covered my ass by requiring a password as my blog took on a more “real life” following.

I said good bye.

I wrote and I didn’t write. And other times I wanted to, but avoided what needed (still needs) writing.

I discovered Twitter and became completely addicted.

I left my home of six years and moved in with a man for the first time in my life.

I baked, took calligraphy, made Thanksgiving turkeys, and ugly Christmas sweaters.

I met other bloggers and became close with several others, and others still whom I have yet to meet in person but hope to one day soon. I greatly admired/ still admire several others from afar.

I Dressed for Dinner.

I found inner peace. Other times, not so much.

I drank. A. Lot. Of. Wine.

I allowed two people and 60 minutes to throw me into what wound up being a mid-life crisis that I still wrestle with some days.

I moved from Blogspot to WordPress and became “Nic Narrates,” then rebranded with my own site.

I contended with the Bathroom Troll. And other related topics.

I mourned for those bloggers who blogged off into the sunset…Charming But Single, Petite Anglais, Anonymous Coworker, Little Red Cape, Ashton Likes, and Surving Myself.

I wrote the things I cannot say to my dad, my mother, my brothers, and my grandfather.

Five years.

In five years, I grew to embrace blogging, found my voice, and began to identify myself as a writer foremost. I’ve been heartbroken, infatuated, furious, defeated, whimsical, sarcastic, jaded, humorous, naive, envious, and sentimental.

In five years, I’ve let you in, let you “know” me. Let you have a bit of myself and tried always to be honest with you despite the discomfort of knowing who else may be reading.

Thank you for indulging me (and my obnoxiously nostalgic links). More than anything, thank you for joining me along the way.

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There was a faint coolness in the air as I slipped my sandals off and stepped, pensively, onto the fenced-in and manicured grass; barefooted and in want of a pedicure. The grass was slick beneath my toes from the overnight rains. And the locust tree branches overhead sprinkled their storm remnants upon my shoulders where I stood.

Seagulls and other such birds were drown out by the rush of the morning city traffic as cars and trucks and motorcycles splashed through the burdensome puddles. I closed my eyes and listened. And remembered.

I remembered a place and a morning, not unlike this one, though far away both in time and distance. I remembered the sunrise spot. That beach. Those waves. The cluster of palm trees. Coarse sand. And there was this same pale, pastel sky. Same coolness of air before the day’s heat.

That place only exists now in my memory; torn down to make way for a modern and posher resort for other travelers to marvel at other sunrises. My “happy place” no longer. Twice I stood upon that sand and that beach before it slipped away.

This morning, I stood on the edge of a memory and returned.

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