Now We Are Twenty-Six

My twenty-sixth birthday was a week and a half ago. Since it's still October, I'm still on-time writing this post (just like I am still on-time with this year's NaNoWriMo, and my e-book project: it's still 2014).

Twenty-six is the Official Age of Adulting, at least in the United States. Now I am twenty-six, I have to figure out how this insurance thing works. I'm in the middle of my first-since-I-was-six autumn that did not include any classes. I've moved out of Michigan, and my parent's house (I may or may not regret this decision, depending on the day and how much I've got in my bank account/refrigerator). It's just coincidence that the repayment plan on my school loans starts at the end of the month, but it feels like another reason I need to become more proficient at Adulting. This includes things like budgeting, and getting up early enough to eat breakfast before leaving the house instead of on my mile-long walk to work.

This was my birthday haul...and what a haul it is!

I think it would help if I stopped buying books. After all, I was given the new Rick Riordan book, The Blood Of Olympus, for my birthday (among others).

On the other hand, I included Molly Wizenberg's book signing in my week of birthday celebrations. I bought a hardcover copy of her new book Delancey at full price, and stood in line to have it signed. And it was absolutely worth it, because Molly Wizenberg, besides being an incredibly vivid and articulate writer, turns out to be a darling, generous person who wasn't phased when I fangirled in a mildly embarrassing manner. Instead she asked encouraging questions about my writing, told me that she loves to read Calvin Trillin, and graciously posed for a picture with me at the end of the evening. 

So maybe I need to budget for the occasional new book.

And maybe I can start posting my blog once a week.

And maybe I'll have a plan for NaNoWriMo when it starts on the first of November. While still working enough to pay my bills. I'll figure out how to get home for Thanksgiving, navigate the ridiculous world of student loans, and start thinking about grad school.

After all, I managed to graduate from Eastern Michigan with a degree in music education. Being twenty-six can't be any more or less difficult than that.

The Days Are Just PACKED

Prepping the balloon

I've been looking through the pictures I took while I was home last week: a sampler tray of beer from Corner Brewery in Ypsilanti; the flowers blooming along my parent's barn; our dog Molly grinning; Whitmore Lake reflecting the sky in such a way that I could see the depth of both sky and water simultaneously.

I was home for less than seventy-two hours, but they were wonderful hours. We celebrated my dad's sixty-fifth birthday as a family. My older brother and I discovered the beer garden that appears in a magical manner outside Downtown Home and Garden when the evening draws in. I had a chance to jam with some of the jazz musicians I worked with in college. The hours were packed with happy occurrences for me, and a list (however long) cannot convey them in their entirety.

Perhaps I am inclined to romanticize my time at home, because there are so many elements of home that I no longer have the privilege of enjoying. Things like making plans with good friends for tomorrow or next week—taking a walk around the yard while Molly races in loops around me—discovering that someone has made delicious food, and there are leftovers in the refrigerator up for grabs...really simple, stupidly simple, things that I miss every day.

And of course, nobody in Wisconsin is asking me if I'd be interested in going balloon chasing.

Balloon chasing turns out to be very close to what I expected. My friend Mike Ball brought me along as ground crew for a balloon launch. It involved a very early morning, a van trip trying to follow a balloon that didn't have to follow roads, 9am champagne, and (oddly enough) a Fox 2 news team. Despite the fact that I didn't actually go up in the balloon, it was weirdly exhilarating. Hot air balloons! TV cameras! Sparkling wine! This is not my every-day fare.

Bringing in the second balloon

Once again, the details aren't nearly as interesting when listed as they were to live through. My co-workers have been asking about my trip home, and I have yet to come up with a better answer than, “It was soooooo great!” In truth, it was even better than that—a mixture of familiar and new, of family and friends.

A Gathering of August Days

I haven't written a blog post in nearly a month, despite best laid plans, because life has gotten in the way. First I went home for a variety of reasons, so I didn't feel like I needed to write—everybody who reads this would see me in person, for as little as a hello or as much as possible in a week. Then I found a job, and an apartment, so I had all these beautiful feelings about life working out.

And then, after being very gracious (I felt) and hauling my trombone about a mile across town so I could do a sound-test for the new landlord, my lease application was unceremoniously dumped. I'm not saying there was a bias against me being a musician, although there definitely was that tension in the air. What did happen was a freak occurrence of both my new boss and my landlord being out of town and out of reach; this combination seemed to convince the landlord that I was lying about my job and leasing history.

All in all, it was awful. It rankled, and festered, and sucked maggoty gopher guts. Not only was I on the hunt for a new apartment with only a week left on my lease, but for maybe the first time in my entire life someone looked at me, looked at my blue eyes and blond hair and earnest habit of talking, and thought to themselves that I looked like someone who is untrustworthy. Someone who might play loud bass guitar at 2am. Someone who won't be willing or able to pay rent on time.

This made me feel highly insulted and also weirdly as if I had spent my entire life surrounded by a cushion of privilege.

In the end, though, I found a place to live in the same way that I found a sublet at the beginning of summer: I scoured Craigslist. I sent out email after email, made calls, toured single-bedroom flats, and met prospective housemates. With just two days to spare before officially becoming homeless, I signed a lease with four guys on an apartment in the more hippy-dippy, artistic, slightly pretentious part of Madison just off Williston St, right on the isthmus between Lake Mendota and Lake Monona.

So far, it's been going as well as can be expected. The washer in the basement doesn't work, but the front door lock was replaced. I wish I could have the entire shower ripped out and replaced, but at least the grout was re-done. It's a mile hike to work, and with the exception of days when I'm tired because I was on my feet for nine hours, I like the walk. Sometimes I stop to sit and look at the lake. Sometimes I merely look at the houses I pass and think about the lives that take place inside of them.

Most importantly, I have my own space—my own bed, my own kitchen, my own room. It'll take a few more books and posters to make it feel like home, but I'm working on it, and it will get there.

Heart Made of Art

This week has been all about the art, starting with comics and ending with Art Fair on the Square.

This gorgeous piece by Aaron Hequembourg.

I.

I was excited to find out that DanielleCorsetto, the writer of my favorite webcomic, was coming to Madison. Girls With Slingshots is very funny, a little bawdy, and not for anyone with an aversion to alcohol, commentary on vibrators and sex, or cats that say, “Dooooooom.” Graciously hosted by Westfield Comics, this book signing was a weird but happy conjunction of web-art and real life.

Book signings are a strange beast in general. Sometimes you meet interesting people that are happy to chat about the author, elections, tv shows, and the disappearance of the honey bee. Sometimes you meet nobody, and the time spent in line becomes a trial of bad posture and aching feet. Since Madison is still a new town to me, I didn't have the bravery and gumption to chat up my neighbors in line. Not this time, anyways. What I had was an excellent selection of comics to distract me, and that kept me happy enough.

Then, of course, was the moment I met Danielle. The moment she asked if I was from around here (the same question asked to all of the fans, I think, but it still felt special.) The moment she signed two books for me. The moment she said, “Sure! We can do a picture!” And the moment I walked out of the shop, thrilled to have two signed copies of GWS books—thrilled, too, that after admiring Danielle Corsetto for years, she was just as fantastic in real life as her comics suggested. 

II.

I stepped foot inside the OvertureCenter for the first time, where I saw a collection curated by my new acquaintance Anders in Gallery 3. Titled "The Printed World: Artists as Visual Ecologists," I believe it's a collection of prints by various artists. I don't know enough about art to comment, other than to say that a lot of the pieces seemed to be trying to re-arrange bits of my brain.

III.

Laura Harris, these ones.

Art Fair on the Square is more or less (mostly less) like the Ann Arbor Art Fairs. I am firmly convinced I've seen some of the same artists with booths in Ann Arbor.

As excellent as the art was, the Ann Arbor Art Fairs win this round, hands down. Madison's Art Fair on the Square cannot compete with the sprawl of art, the extensive and strange collections, or the devotion it takes to see even half of the art that takes over Ann Arbor this week.

I think this was Dolan Geiman...

Of all the silly things that could make a girl homesick, I think being homesick for a city that goes into slow motion with closed streets and a record of disgusting weather during Art Fair, is quite a silly thing. Still, here I am. Feeling homesick.

And then I said, "Look! A mustache ride!"

4th Night

I didn't do much on the Fourth of July. It's one of my favorite holidays, but there were no fireworks, no grilling out, no red-white-n-blue cake for me. Instead, I spent the day marathoning episodes of the TV show New Girl, and the evening at a rock show featuring local talent.

This is not to say that I completely missed out on national fervor. Six days before the Fourth of July, way back in June, I heard the boom and crack of fireworks outside my window. These weren't a pop here and a fiery spray from a Roman Candle there, but rather a serious fireworks display that crackled above Lake Monona.  I live a half-dozen blocks from Lake Monona, but when I stepped outside I could still see the sprays of light from my tiny balcony. Or rather—I could see some of the fireworks through the leaves and branches of the trees outside my house.

Despite the somewhat terrible view, I couldn't leave. The loud, celebratory nature of fireworks around the Fourth of July usually drenches me with a glorious feeling of solidarity and pride. I might even go so far as to call it patriotism, which is a word I associate purely with politics and firemen.

This year, though, I started thinking. Having missed the memo that the celebrations were starting, I spent my time watching the fireworks remembering other July 4ths.

One year, watching the fireworks sparkling over Lake Michigan with family in Petoskey.

Another year, at my neighbor's house, happy after an afternoon of sun and blue pool water.

The times I ran the Fourth of July 5k in my Michigan hometown of Whitmore Lake. The reading of the Declaration of Independence at the library. The Kiwanis club frying up chicken dinners until the scent of fried chicken wafted across the town. The small-town parade that I marched in as a high schooler. Watching the fireworks exploding over the lake from a friend's deck. After dark, taking a pontoon boat out for a cruise and watching the occasional firework blooming around the lake.

These memories sifted through my mind as I watched Madison's fireworks through my tree branches. I wasn't homesick, exactly, but certainly nostalgic. It's difficult leaving home for a city of 300,000. For me, this is especially true because am acquainted with very few of that number. It made celebrating Independence Day in the traditional fashion almost impossible.

I ended my day with a rock show, however, and that was great. Very American.

City of Many Ways

“Just like Ann Arbor, but bigger,” I was told. Similar, maybe, but not exactly alike; although it's true I moved here partly because the trees wouldn't make me homesick. Instead, they make the horizons here almost familiar.

Madison is a biking city—and, according to some people, one of the best in the United States. There are streets where cyclists are granted equal status with cars. The street I live on, for instance. My neighbor has propped a sign near the road reading, “Mind Bicycle Boulevard,” with an illustration of a bike, a heart, and a car. 

I see cyclists, dozens of them, every day. Despite this, I wasn't brought home to the meaning of a “biking city,” until I was riding a bus that was held to the speed of four cyclists zooming along directly in front of it.

Madison is a foodie city, too—which would be wonderful, if I could afford to eat out as often as I have some new place suggested. This place has the best Laotian, that place offers amazing gyros. I hear things like that all the time. Bloody Marys. Fish n chips. Italian. Cheese. Sandwiches. Indian. Fru-fru drinks. I have a list of recommendations as long as my arm and leg to check out once I have a decent job.

The thing that I can really get behind is the Saturday farmer's market. Tents stand in lines around the capital square, each bursting with fresh produce, cheese, honey, flowers, or bread. Masses of people move from one tent to the next, a sluggish stream of humanity that skirls and eddies around the stalls. One couple stops to exclaim over the snap peas. Another walks by with a bright bouquet of deep red lilies and purple Canterbury bells. Parents keep a close eye on small children. A few people have escaped from the mash of bodies to lie under the trees shading the capital lawn.

One tent full of dried bird-house gourds is fronted by a grinning man, and the next sells lamb skins. I find myself drawn to the tents full of colorful produce. I don't have the budget for organic lettuce at $3 a head, but in making my circuit around the square, I find better deals. For my farmer's market haul, I bring home small sweet onions, new carrots, dirty young beets, and a cutting of rhubarb in seductive red. I'm more than satisfied.

So...not just like Ann Arbor. I find myself missing Top of the Park, and meeting up with friends at Arbor Brewing Company. I have yet to find a bookstore equivalent to the Dawn Treader. There's no Zingerman's Deli. But I think Madison has its own wonderful corners, and its own festivals and farmer's markets.

Where I Live Now

I've been living in Madison, Wisconsin, for just over two weeks. That's long enough to be forced into figuring out the bus system and where to do my laundry, and definitely long enough to be bummed about not having a job.

It's also long enough that my internal clock has gone bonkers. Without a job, or any real schedule, I've been sleeping nine or ten hours a night, waking up tired at eleven a.m., and just starting to think about supper at half past nine in the evening. It doesn't help that my room only seems to get sunlight at around 5:38 in the morning, when I am not remotely ready to open my eyes.

Today, I aim to reset my body.

This is my plan: a little exercise. Healthy sized meals. Getting out of bed in the morning before 10 a.m.

I started with a run down the next street over, although calling it 'running' is maybe too ambitious. I have an embarrassing tendency towards the golf jog, which is little more than than a glorified shuffle. But today, it's better than doing nothing.

Where I live, on the isthmus between Lake Mendota and Lake Monona, it's only a few blocks from anything. From the corner of my street, I can see the capitol building. Three blocks over is James Madison Park, where I can watch the sun set over Lake Mendota. In the opposite direction of the park is Willie Street, which is home to a lot of restaurants and other small businesses: a baker, a butcher, a glassblower, a cat-centric pet shop.

One street over from my apartment, though, is mostly residential homes shaded by friendly, giant trees. There are neat gardens, and fancy gardens, and a lone front yard with nothing but thigh-high weeds. I passed a school with a small community plot full of young tomato plants and raspberry canes straining against their ties. There are houses of all sizes and the occasional apartment building. More importantly, in the middle of this city, with its population over 240,000, I can do my little shuffle-run down a street where the loudest noises are the birds calling from the tree tops. It feels surprisingly like home.