One of the things I love about coming home for the holidays is the wonderful change in pace from a very hectic lifestyle down in Chicago.  To put in perspective just how drastic a change this is:  From my apartment in Lincoln Park, I can make it to any of 4 grocery stores within a 5-minute walk.  In Hartford it's a different story.  To me, the Piggly Wiggly is synonymous with the boondocks.  It's the only grocery store repeatedly mentioned, along with Wal Mart, in country songs about living in the middle of nowhere.  

Well, there isn't even one of those within an easy drive from the farm.  Driving to one is a real special occasion, one that is planned for and always comes with with requests like "Oooh!  As long as you're going to the Pig, could you pick up some ____?"  That blank is filled with one of many items you can't find at our local grocery stores, including fresh herbs, most cheeses, and check-out clerks with a high school education.  

In fact right now I'm sitting at a Panera, back in civilization, with my to-do list sitting next to me, and circled at the top is:

"Buy Fresh Thyme."

"Buy Duck Food."

That about sums it up.

And as much as I love the city, I am really enjoying this change of pace.  I've played more versions of Solitaire in the last 72 hours than I ever have, finished 2 puzzles, am actually up to page 45 of Team of Rivals, (a book that is extremely well written, but reads like a history book), and still cannot get enough of the snow-covered landscape.  Next up is getting to know the six ducks my parents are bringing home this afternoon, probably followed by Wheel of Fortune and a rousing game of Catchphrase before 9 o'clock bedtime. 

It seems that not only have I gone home, but I've also just celebrated my 75th birthday.

Maybe tomorrow we'll make a little trip to Home Depot.  I don't know, I don't know if we'll have enough time. 

Today I got lost on the way to Sam's Liquors, in search of a bottle of wine that apparently I can only get there.

That was the first red flag - that I was lost on the way to a liquor store in the middle of the afternoon.  The second red flag was that the neighborhood I ended up in by the time I finally decided to call and ask them for directions was so far from any part of Chicago I was familiar with that I spent some time questioning whether or not I may have just driven to Indiana.

I pulled to the side of the road in my soccer-mom CRV with a magnetic Wisconsin Action-W stuck to my bumper, and quickly deduced that I:

a) Was sitting behind the wheel of the only car on the street manufactured after 1975

b) Was the only white person in a 10-mile radius

c) Should be a little more concerned than I was

I locked my doors as I took in my surroundings - a playground precariously built right under the rusting El-Tracks - I watched as sparks from a passing train fell onto the swing-set where a little boy was swinging while his mother stared me down.

Straight ahead of me was a warehouse that looked as though it was originally built for meat packing and is now used just for packing heat.

And to my left was a mailman that looked a little nervous about his being here alone, much less me.  I wanted to let him know that I was in complete control of the situation, so I rolled my window down the tiniest bit, lifted my chin, and said, "Sup."  He shot me a look that had lost all concern and been replaced with pity before he walked away.

Quickly I dialed information to try and get the address for Sam's.  That's got to sound good - when someone calls your liquor store at 1:30 in the afternoon sounding a tad frantic and a lot like if she doesn't get to the booze immediately, she'll have a meltdown.  

The truth was I just wanted to get out of that neighborhood as fast as I could, and after last months ticket wasn't about to use my cell phone unless pulled over.  I would have been just as frantic for the information if I was calling a convent for directions and admissions requirements. 

"Hi, I'm a bit lost trying to find your store, could you direct me?" I said when a nice man answered.

"Of course," he said.  "What street are you on?"

"Halsted," I said, surprising even myself.  I had no idea Halsted went this far.

"Halsted and what?" he asked.  I looked around for the nearest cross street.  You've got to be kidding, was my first thought when I saw what it was.  There was no way I was going to say that.  "I don't know," I lied to the guy.

"Ma'am, I can't help you if I don't know the cross street."

Next I tried the coughing trick - hoping he'd catch onto the street name, but no such luck.

"Ma'am," he said, a little more forcefully.

"Fine," I grumbled.  "It's Hooker Street," I admitted.  "I'm on Halsted and Hooker."

After a brief silence he managed to compose himself.  "I had no idea there was a Hooker street in Chicago."

"Neither did I," was all I had time to tell him before he gave me the directions to a location that was a lot closer to me than his, then promptly hung up on me.

After all that, I arrived only to find that that particular location had closed.  No way was I calling back and asking for directions to a different location, so I gave up my quest drove home - via streets that I was familiar with.

And all those people I'd planned to get a nice bottle of wine for will now be getting a box of Franzia or bottle of Arbor Mist for Christmas.  Those I know I can get at my neighborhood liquor store. 

Lately I've noticed a commonality between the kids that I babysit for and most of my guy friends - something that is either brutal honesty or complete oblivion.  Or, maybe both.  

I happen to love it.  How great, to say exactly what you're thinking exactly when you're thinking it, and either be unaware of the affect it might have, or just not care.

It also makes for some funny moments.  

The other night I met a guy friend for a walk.  It was snowing, so I planned accordingly.  He was waiting for me outside, and after a quick hug and a hello, our exchange went something like this:

Him:  "How are you?"

Me:  "Good, you?"

Him:  "Good.  I like what you did with your hair tonight."

Me: "Thank you."

Him: "It really shows your sense of humor."

I was tempted to ask him what exactly he would do with his hair if his gender couldn't really get away with a buzz cut, and had to plan for a 3 mile walk in the snow.  

Or, the other day when I got to the house of the kids that I babysit for.  While I was getting breakfast ready, the little boy kept staring at me.  I could see on his face that he had a question he wanted to ask, and finally as I set his breakfast in front of him, he did.

"Melissa?" he asked.

"Yeah?"

"What are you dressed as today?"

"What do you mean?" I asked him, although I had a feeling I knew what he was getting at.

"Your costume.  What are you supposed to be?" 

Again I was tempted to make a comment along the lines of "Well, I'm dressed as the woman who just made you breakfast.  If you want to make your own breakfast, I'd be happy to go take your morning nap for you and get my offensive outfit out of your eye-line.   

But I didn't - not only would that have been wildly inappropriate, but I adore that little man and somehow his honest question made him all the more adorable.

Then, later that morning, his sister asked me a question that was less brutally honest and more honestly curious - and pretty insightful for a 5 year old.  I also had absolutely no idea how to answer it.

"Melissa?" she said quietly as we'd just finished singing Oh Little Town of Bethlehem.  "Is Jesus God's baby?"

"Yeah," I answered quickly.

"But isn't Jesus Joseph's baby?"

"Umm..."  Shoot, I though.  Isn't he?  "Yeah..." I answered a little less quickly, still trying to decide if I even knew the answer to that question, when she hit me with:

"So ... if Jesus is God's baby, and He's also Joseph's baby, does that mean Joseph is God?"

This was followed by about 25 minutes of silence while I tried to come up with an answer to that, before she gave up and moved onto this question:

"Was Jesus the first person to die in the world, ever?"

"No," I said enthusiastically, thrilled to be able to answer one of her questions.  "Adam and Eve must have been, I think."

"Why?"

"Because Adam and Eve were the first people ever."

"Well how did they get born, without a Mommy and Daddy?"

I really had only myself to blame here ... I should have seen that one coming.  Still, I've decided that anyone working with kids should be given a manual filled with three things:

Appropriate responses to insulting questions, Appropriate responses to insightful questions, and Appropriate responses to questions you have no idea how to answer without sending the child to therapy for most of their adolescence.  

And, minus the last part, anyone with a group of honest guy friends should be given the same manual. 

In a little over a month, I'm moving to Kansas.  There's something I never thought I'd say - my visions of Kansas have always included little more than gingham, tornadoes and Toto dogs.  But, somehow, I am more excited for this particular move than any I've made before.

It wasn't a decision I've come to all that recently - in fact, the ball was set in motion months ago, on an unseasonably warm early spring day.  

I had embarked on my morning run, which 8 months and 20 pounds ago was a far more frightening sight than it is today.  I was one of those chubby girls who refused to recognize that she'd gotten chubby, and therefore stubbornly held onto the same clothes I'd had when I was thinner.  Therefore, any kind of pre-run stretching ran the risk of splitting my running pants in half, and so I'd worked out a kind of quasi-stretch that accomplished the same goal with significantly less risk.  Unfortunately for any passerby's, it also left me in a series of positions that are probably left out of yoga classes for a good reason.

I'd just finished conducting said stretches on one of the park benches along the lakefront and was beginning to huff and puff my way down the path when, out of nowhere, Josh Groban told me he loved me.  More specifically, he called me his forever love.  This came as a shock, because minutes earlier, Michael Buble had called me his Everything, and only a few seconds before that, Frank Sinatra had asked me to fly him to the moon.  

I was on a roll.

I realized these crooners were not actually singing those words to me, but on the heels of a bad breakup, it was one of those days where it seemed everyone in the city of Chicago was madly in love and not afraid to flaunt it.  All morning I'd passed happy couple after happy couple, and now it seemed my iPod, which I keep permanently on shuffle, was ganging up on me too.  Frustrated, I moved onto the next song, only to find Dean Martin there to remind me that you're nobody 'till somebody loves you.  Realistically, the fact that I share the musical taste of women either under the age of 10 or over the age of 80 had more to do with the unfortunate timing of these songs than anything else, but I'd had about enough.  Unfortunately my iPod had not - next, it selected Amazed by Lonestar.  Where were Love Stinks and other 80's classics when I needed them!?  I think I finally just turned my iPod off, but by the time I finished my run, I was feeling rather sorry for myself.

Right then and there I decided that the best way to deal with this would be to move in with a happily married couple.

Ok, so that's not exactly the way it came about, but there could not have been a better time for a healthy dose of perspective to fall into my lap, and less than an hour later it did, in the form of a phone call.  

On the phone was one of my best friends, who had just discovered that she and her husband were having another baby and was wondering how exactly they were going to do it.  They both work, and are both in school.  Add to the mix a 3-year-old and the fact that they're living several hundred miles from family and adding anything into that mix feels a little daunting, much less a child, who will inevitably come out looking as much like the Gerber baby as his brother did.  

Moving into close proximity with one of the very relationships I'd just been lamenting seemed a little counterproductive, but somehow it was just what I needed.

Those two have faced one of life's challenges after another for almost 4 years now, and have somehow come through it all stronger than I ever could have imagined.  Worrying about supporting and caring for two children, all the while devoting time to higher education and a career - that's important.  Whatever petty thing I'd been worrying about earlier that morning seemed drastically less so.  The decision to move down there and help them out was a no-brainer.

It will be a little like Mrs. Doubtfire meets You, Me and Dupree; without the cross-dressing and buttering up librarians, respectively. 

So, Kansas City here I come!  There's a part of me that still sees Kansas City as little more than a lot of corn and a football team I could never love as much as the Packers.  But really what awaits me is 6-months with a couple that, if mere proximity can transfer even an ounce of their work ethic and dedication to me, will make me a far better person than I am today.  

And, of course, darn good barbeque.