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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I’d been wanting a dog for nearly a decade, but finally decided to make my lifestyle fit dog ownership rather than wait for it to happen as if by magic. It was no question that I’d be adopting a dog from PAWS’ no-kill shelter and every day I went online looking at all of the Little Faces posted there. Cute, cuter, and heartbreaking. I wanted them all, however, I wouldn’t allow myself to actually go to the shelter if I wasn’t prepared to come home with one dog that very same day.

So I waited. I watched as they began their 12 Strays of Christmas campaign on their web site, each day revealing more and more dogs (and kitties) available for adoption. And then, one day there she was. I saw this sad little girl with eyes that looked full of uncertainty and read her brief description and needs. I left work early and would not be dissuaded.

The shelter was busy that day and I had to wait for what seemed like an hour in the hall. I’d found her, somehow surreptitiously going straight to her room out of all of them. She was coded in their inventory as special needs (because she was so fearful) and I’d have to get their senior level person to unlock the door so I could finally meet her.

As family after family strolled by, she never once lifted her head from her dog bed. I worried someone would come to flip her sign alerting everyone that an adoption was in process. It was chaotic and I feared she’d go to the wrong person, someone who wouldn’t understand her and nurture her. Someone who would fuss at her and make her do endless tricks for the sake of tricks and complain when she just wanted to nap. Someone who wouldn’t name her after a much beloved, loyal, and motherly character in literature. Someone who would name her something empty like “Muffin,” “Doodle,” or “Cashew.”

When finally I was let in to meet her, she scurried over to me and hid against my legs as I sat on the floor. She curled in a ball, shaking. She wreaked, the fur around her face was unkempt and overgrown, and the rest of her was shaved bare with what looked- very unsettling in fact- like a rat tail. She had cuts along each of her paws and legs and kept biting at them. Her ears….I don’t think they’d ever been cleaned. Ever. As helpful as the volunteer helping me was, she couldn’t tell me much about Wendy’s history other than that she’d been a stray, had just been fixed, and was fearful of people with a tendency to nip if crated. Not exactly the stuff of dreams. But somehow, I knew.

I had 15 minutes with her before the girl was pulled elsewhere. They were adopting out 32 dogs and said I’d have to come back after they closed, maybe even tomorrow. But I refused to wait until morning.

Even though the volunteers didn’t know much about her from the five days she was in their care, somehow I knew I was the right person to take care of her. I didn’t know if she was right for me at the time- she was scared and didn’t show any personality- but I just knew I was right for her. As I look back on our first year together; if I had listed out everything I hoped for in a dog, I don’t think anyone could have found me a better match than my Wendy.

I wish I were rich enough to take her everywhere with me (because when you’re rich you can do that sort of thing and no one can say anything). Even still, we’re inseparable and I’d rather spend an afternoon on the couch at home with her than traipsing about the city in search of new adventures, shoe sales, or the latest opening.

I am so incredibly grateful for her every single day (even those days when she refuses to conduct her business in the rain, requiring me to walk her up and down the block for 30 minutes, soaking us both, and making me miss my train to work). And I’m grateful to PAWS for bringing her into my life, for saving her from Animal Control, and for seeing the possibility for something more for her and for so many dogs and cats not only at Christmas but year round.

I know not everyone is as lucky as I’ve been when adopting a dog, but I encourage you to consider a shelter when looking for your next pet. I know if I hadn’t gone looking that day, I might not have found my soul mate.

Visit PAWS Chicago’s “12 Strays of Christmas” daily now through Christmas Eve!

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But…

As I wile away the hours at work or on the couch with one Miss Wendy Lou Who, I know that this solitude is temporary. I’m getting out there and making more plans with friends again. I’m settling into my new place and figuring out what kind of kitchen table I want and where to hang things on the walls. I’m trying. I haven’t given up.

And as for boys? Well, I may be more cynical than is right or good for someone with my deep-rooted romantic longings, but I still believe in love. I may criticize, poke fun, question, doubt, and heckle; but underpinning all of that is the desire to be with my own special someone. To flirt. To catch his interest and hold it. To be kissed. To be touched. To tumble into bed. To feel love. To be loved.

And I will. This Christmas, I may be single again, but who knows where next Christmas will find me?

I’ll allow that such a sentiment may seem “hopeful,” but in fact it’s more simple than that. This single girl’s heart recognizes the inevitability that someone who wants to love and be loved someday will find it. Again.

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Maybe.

But what about when you force change? What about when you really want change to happen, so much so that you make it happen? What then?

No one ever warned me that change like that…change for the sake of change…is playing with fire. Silly me, I somehow believed I was simply taking control of life. That I was making a command decision. That I was in charge.

I got burned.

I forced a change in my relationship and moved in with my then boyfriend. An oversimplified summary of events perhaps, but we both knew it was a bad decision beforehand and we both went through with it anyway. No matter how I describe it or the months that followed…it ruined us.

And now I’m alone. Again.

The thing is, I like being alone. I haven’t always felt that way, but over time I’ve learned to embrace it, relish it even. I’ve learned that being alone is actually easier in a lot of ways. But I threw that thinking away. I chose to stop watching my life and what happened in it. I chose to open myself up to the change of living with a man I loved, of taking that risk, of believing that what may come eventually might as well come now.

I was wrong. I regret the decision. I regret what it’s done to me. And I regret what it’s done to him.

Everyone always says that change is a good thing. Maybe that’s true. But what I know, what I’ve experienced, is something altogether different.

Change, in my case, is moving into a one bedroom apartment in a place named Bittersweet.

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The other day, someone asked me what I did over the weekend. After thinking long and hard (TWSS), I realized holy fuck. I had bacon on three separate occasions within 24 hours (on a burger, straight from the frying pan & sans eggs, and in my mac and cheese). I continued to think long and hard about whether to actually share this feat. Would it be worse to plead forgetfulness to hide my shame (“Oh, yeah, this weekend? I think I took a nap…or something?”) or proudly parade my inadvertent Bacon Fest 2011? Decisions decisions…

During the 20SB Summit, I found myself joking A LOT about being “grandfathered-in” to the community. Joking. But utterly serious. I belong dammit. Don’t you question me, you young whipper-snappers! Never mind that the term “grandfathered-in” bespeaks all things crotchety and old.

I now live in fear of the kidney stone redux that the Internet tells me I am 95% likely to experience in my lifetime. My fear is not so great that I will give up drinking tea or choosing soy milk however. 

I recently realized that I put my underroos on inside out. It was 3 o’clock in the afternoon. I shrugged and continued to wear them that way. I should add that this was the second time in a week I’d been bested by the challenges of wearing one’s clothing right side out. Holla!

During one of my awesomesauce insomnia bouts, I wound up googling “dog ate a silverfish now what” to find out if that’s bad. I went on to wonder if the presence (or previous presence as it were) of said silverfish on the tile floor meant that the dude and I are slobs who live in squalor. Are we “dirty people”? [BF: Yo, if you're reading this, don't answer that because we both know the answer but they don't.]

I am genuinely considering getting a red streak put into my hair later this week. Because, why not? I dye my hair brunette as it is, have for years, but am thinking it could use a little something. Like a streak of fire engine red! I mean, if you can’t dye a red streak into your hair at 31, when can you? #RedStreakFTW!

This conversation happened at work the other day…. Emo: “I can’t believe I showered for this.” Me: “Don’t worry; I didn’t.” And scene.

What can I say? This is what it’s come to….I’m clearly living The Dream. And my thirties? All they’re cracked up to be. Obviously.

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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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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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