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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SQUEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Okay. I’m done being giddy. For now. Sorry I’m not sorry.

….so as part of the registration process, you’re asked to list 5 things about yourself that others going to BiSC absolutely must know (check out my 5 and all the other amazing bloggers who are going here). I kind of struggled with my list again this year, but ultimately chose to keep it simple: Wendy, Anglophile, Wine, Liz Lemon, and Swearing. That pretty much sums up “me.” But, the more I think about it, the more I realize there are a few other things that I could have added:

1) I’ve always wanted to be a fireman. Like really really bad. One time when I was 8 or 9, I got picked out of all the kids in my class to be the one who got to hold the front of the fire hose during some kind of come-to-think-of-it-probably-unsafe firehouse relay race summer fun day we had at my elementary school. Except it never came to fruition because my parents packed my brothers and I away to Disney World in the back of our un-air-conditioned station wagon with wood paneling on the sides instead.

So…I guess I’m keeping that dream alive? In truth, I’d probably be a terrible fireman because no way could I climb up a ladder without freaking out about the height…BUT I’m not afraid of fire and am kind of a pyro when it comes to making one, I’m super good at making chili, I can drive like a mo fo so I’d be great at driving the fire truck (especially using the horn), and I’d be super awesome at taking care of the fire house’s Dalmatian (because I don’t care what anyone says, every fire station HAS A DALMATION DAMMIT). 

2) I recently upgraded my cable package just so I can get The Science Channel. For real. This conversation actually (or thereabouts) happened:

Me: “Hi. I’d like to pay you all of my monies to upgrade to whatever non-affordable cable package you offer that includes The Science Channel.”

Comcast: “Great! I can help you with that right now!”

Computer sounds: Bleep bloop beep bop bleep bloop bleep….

Comcast:“Excellent! I’ve upgraded your account and you will now have 387 additional channels that you’ve never heard of nor will ever watch, as well as The Science Channel!”

Me: “Fantastic! In HD?”

Comcast: “You better believe it! Best of all, it’ll only be $50 more a month for your preferred package!”

Me: “Ah snap! Now I will once again know How It’s Made, where Mantracker is, what’s odd on Oddities, and what Karl Pilkington’s Ricky-Gervais-Defined Bucket List amounts to! Yahtzee!”

And scene.

3) I’ve been a strong proponent of the use of the word “fancy” for a number of years now. In fact, I take an annoying ownership of its growing popularity. I started it all dammit! (You know, in the same way that Al Gore invented the Internet. Because yeah, that happened.) 

Please be forewarned: I will call you “Fancy” because in addition to its adjective properties, it is also my go-to term of endearment.

BTW- in case you were wondering, the opposite of “fancy” is “rural.” Which I can totally say because I grew up only a block away from corn and soybean fields. The worst. 

4) Last year, I was THE LAST BISC-uit TO LEAVE VEGAS. While I’d like to claim my love of BiSC as the impetus for this distinction (see: my full recap), the truth is a bit more dubious than that.

Remember the Joplin, Missouri tornado? That was happening while I naively waited out my flight delay by getting a pedicure in the Vegas airport. And then, all the flights east were canceled, including mine. For all my traveling, speed walking, and dialing savvy, I was unable to get another flight out…for TWO WHOLE DAYS. So I holed up at the airport La Quinta (incidentally the most expensive hotel I stayed at in Vegas, including the Bellagio!), dead broke, and managed to acquire I-can’t-leave-the-bathroom-for-more-than-30-minutes-altogether FOOD POISONING the night before my second attempt to leave Vegas.

When the time came to check out of the hotel, I was loaded up on Alka seltzer, Immodium, and Drammine. I managed to get through security without being wanded or detained and proceeded to the gift shop where I purchased more alka seltzer and a ceramic “Sin City!” mug in which to sip it over the span of an hour. There I sat at my gate in my jammies with my sunglasses on like some kind of Lohan-wannabe douchebag, smelling of sickness and financial insolvency, freaking out because in less than 12 hours I had movers scheduled to move me out of my apartment in Chicago and I was not yet finished packing. Which is when I saw the toe nail on the carpeting. Which is also when I felt grateful there was no longer anything in my stomach with which to react.

This is what happens when you stay too long in Vegas.

Here’s hoping for a less auspicious ending to BiSC 2012! And here’s hoping I’ll be the lucky blogger who wins the contest for one BiSC participant to go for free courtesy of Paperd, the prettiest little custom wallpaper app for the iPhone and iPod Touch (launching this February).

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A few weeks ago I received a text from a phone number that was like a ghost whispering in my ear, “Remember me? Thought you’d quite forgotten?”

The strangest thing about this particular text is that I managed to recognize the long-deleted number from the guy who stopped calling me and blew me off when I was sick with whooping cough one January THREE YEARS AGO.

Happiness that you deserve, he says. How nice. How quaint. How flimsy and pointlessly offered. Why this? Why now?

Please don’t misinterpret my annoyance and disgust for conceit. The thing is, it’d be one thing if it was a fluke, but it’s not. His unnecessary text is not unique.

At 31 years old, I find that one of the most insulting things about dating has been the “after-the-fact” one-two punch of many an ex-boyfriend/ dalliance. Months later. Years later. After no contact whatsoever. No friendship. No nothing.

Why is it that my worth, my “value,” to these men is only evident once I’m in their rearview mirror? Why can’t they see what they have when I’m sitting in the car beside them? Ex after ex after ex after ex…they find their way back and want….what? What do they want?

The truth is, I have nothing more to give them. They’ve gotten the best of me already, had their chance, and I warned them. Be sure you’re done before you say it. This is the last of me you will have.

There is no more going back. And yet. There are texts, emails, Linked In invites, Facebook requests, and tweets cluttering personal and work inboxes left and right. Clawing at my eyes, my consciousness. More requests. More demands. They cling to my legs as I wade through the present. How do I go forward when I’m dragging around so many yesterdays? Where can I go, where can I look, that they have not yet papered with their inquires?

I have nothing for these men who used to know me. There is no piece of me that remains that they would be content to have. My heart is tired. My will to converse with them silenced. My unkissed lips have gone cold. My insatiate desire waned. I am no longer the woman they knew. “DIDN’T YOU TAKE ENOUGH OF ME LAST TIME!” I want to scream.

It occurs to me that I have not burned enough bridges. I have not been a bad enough girl to release these former somethings from their attempts at rekindled knowing. Rather than lash out or maim with words or deed, I retreat within myself and do not respond.

Happiness that you deserve, he says. Happiness. You. Deserve. I deserve.

What happiness might that be? Surely none that any ex-whatever can give me.

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If 2011 shaped up to be the year that I expanded my offline blog presence and met so many of the bloggers I’ve long admired from afar- joining the raucousness of Bloggers in Sin City, winning a spot at the 20SB Summit, and hosting a tweet up/ blog meet up in Chicago, as well as going so far as making actual business cards for Nic Narrates- where will 2012 take me? Back to BiSC? Back to planning more offline get togethers? Or off in new directions altogether?

And what of my love life? Last year will always be framed in my mind as the year I tried to live with a boy and failed miserably- both at living with him and hanging onto him. I take the blame. I am not without fault. And I accept that I could not fix it. I understand certain things that I never did before; how sometimes there isn’t that one thing that ruins everything, how you stop being able to talk to one another, how it becomes irreconcilable. As for what I do with that knowledge in 2012….well. You wouldn’t actually expect me to have that all worked out three days into the New Year, would you?

What I do know is this: from that failure I was given a unique opportunity. I was able to live with two of my closest friends and spend more time with them than I’d ever otherwise be able to. It was the kindest gift to not only have the offer of a place to stay for weeks at a time for both me and my dog, but to actually have been provided with it. Their friendships will forever stand apart for such graciousness.

Now that I find myself living on my own again in a new year, I’m forced to admit that 2011 shaped up to be wholly unexpected…it brought new friends, new experiences, an end to my relationship of over two years, and a new home. But in retrospect, I spent the greater part of last year feeling sad and uncertain in private.

I hope that 2012 will be a different kind of year for me. Personally, I’m not one for resolutions, but I will say that I hope to be more present in my life, to make more plans with friends both new and old, and to travel widely again. No matter what else this year may bring.

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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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Well, to you I say in no uncertain hyperbolic terms, what is life without a turkey craft?!? And a LIZ LEMON turkey craft at that!

This year, my turkey is singing the theme song for Cheezy Blasters into her wine glass while working on her Night Cheese and shuffling along on a treadmill at 2 mph. Meat Cat and some teamster subs were good enough to make cameos! Thanks Meat Cat! (If you don’t know what any of this is referring to, then I don’t know if we can be friends anymore. Oh, just go watch 30 Rock!)

You're my hero, Liz Lemon!

Pinch crafting for Fancy this year was the tag-team crafting duo of my mom and grandma. From where I sit, both created equally disturbing and cracked out turkeys…

My mother: for her sudden can’t-miss-it interest in football and references to “The Game” and some Packer football player she called “Trusty.”

Football is stupid. The end.

And my grandmother: for her…um…well…just take a look and tell me if that shit isn’t cracked out. Is this what happens to us when we get old?

I have no words. No words.

I hope you enjoy our “craftiness” and that you had a fantastic Turkey Day!

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