I love being able to make my own schedule.  Considering the fact that the weekdays here seem to be beautiful while the weekends come complete with typhoons and 60 mile an hour winds, I can spend a weekday enjoying the beautiful weather, and make up the work on the weekends or at night.

It also allows me the freedom to work from where I want.  This comes in handy in a variety of situations:  Those days when I don't feel like getting out of bed, those days when I get out of bed, take one look in the mirror, and conclude it's best I don't be seen that day, and and those days when there are important calls to make.

When I was at Zocalo and had to make an important call from my desk, I was always surrounded by 5-10 coworkers while my bosses doors sat open and the office was inconveniently silent - a situation within the same sphere of comfort as Marie Antoinette giving birth in a bedroom packed with courtiers there to witness the big event.  Slightly more appropriate, but just as painful and just as disastrous - right down to the fainting spells.

Thus, the people on the other end of the line almost always had to ask why I was whispering.  

Now I can go home in the middle of the day if I have some outreach to do. 

And after writing from a noisy Starbucks all morning, the thought of walking into a quiet, sun-filled apartment is incredibly appealing, when it comes time to jump on those nerve-wracking phone calls where I try and convince someone else that my book is worth mentioning in their publication.  This is just the kind of idyllic environment I was picturing a few days ago as I made my way home, and breathed a sigh of relief when I closed the door behind me and was met with nothing but silence.

I put my bag down in the front hall and rounded the corner into my 11th floor living room, where I immediately came face-to-crotch with the lower halves of two men, right outside my window.  There were two options here - they were window washers, in which case I could blissfully ignore them, or they were levitating, in which case I was suddenly incredibly interested in meeting them.

The cables and ridiculously un-sturdy looking plank they stood on alluded to the fact that they may not be the magicians I was hoping they were, and I had no sooner decided to ignore their presence than they greeted me with what I imagine having a cavity drilled sounds like, if you're the tooth.  

Within seconds there was dust billowing into my apartment, despite the fact that my windows were closed, and the whole wall, if not the whole apartment, was shaking.

Once I regained my balance and found the nearest doorframe to brace myself in, I started thinking about the situation in a logical manner.  On the plus side, they were finally doing the external brick work needed to fix my internal water damage.  On the downside, they were doing it now.  

This provided a better option for most residents, I'm sure, than 6:00 in the evening, but for me it was less than ideal.  

So I army crawled from doorframe to doorframe until I'd gotten as far away from the noise and the man-made earthquake as I could, and sat down on my bed.  

I was mid-phone-conversation with my Mom, when the drillers decided to take their smoke break.  Still on their plank of death, they sat down on some overturned buckets and decided to smoke facing not the street, but my apartment.

So there they sat, smoking and talking and looking in my windows. 

I did a quick mental calculation of anything incriminating I may have left out.  My Golden Girls DVD'S had been missing since November, so those wouldn't land me in any embarrassment.  (I think they were taken by an ex-boyfriend who has a not-so-secret crush on Betty White.)  I had started a puzzle on the coffee table, a cutesy catalog pillow that reads "Quiet, Novel in Progress" sat on my windowsill, my cat was dozing on my desk, and the room was filled with more pictures, pillows, and empty bottles of Ensure than I knew what to do with.

All in all, I figured they'd probably think they were looking in on a sweet elderly woman.

This is probably exactly what they thought, because they started peering in my windows as if they were concerned about the well-being of the resident inside and wanted to check on this real-life Golden Girl.

I watched as one slowly dusted off the window, cupped his hands around his eyes, and pressed his face as close as he could to the glass.

He was met not with a nice grandma type, but instead with me - wearing a dinosaur t-shirt I'd gotten at Goodwill years ago, cradling the phone to one ear while I simultaneously swabbed the other with a Q-tip and attempted to eat with one hand the largest turkey sandwich I'd ever put together.  I later discovered that there was mustard smeared not only around my mouth, but down half my face, most of my right arm, and a good portion of the nearest bedpost.

Maybe not elderly, but in need of just as much round-the-clock care. 

I did the only thing I could think to do - smiled, waved, and pointed at the velociraptor on my shirt.  He smiled and waved back, before leaning over and whispering to his fellow worker.  I would assume his comment had something to do with how nice it was that this building was now offering independent housing to people with such severe disabilities.  

After I finished my sandwich and conversation, I changed back into something a little more professional.  I'd read somewhere that you should be dressed up even if your interviews were taking place over the phone, because it would make you act more professional.  I'd already witnessed how my Dino T had made me act, and I wasn't about to repeat that while trying to pitch my book.

But just as I picked up the phone to make my first business call, the drilling started up again.

I am now faced with the opposite of my former problem - instead of feeling the need to whisper on the phone, I feel the need to yell into the receiver.  I also feel the need to come up with an acceptable explanation to not only why it is in each publication's best interest to mention my book, but also to why I am trying to convince them of this from what must sound like either the heart of Ogilve Transportation Center, or the fuselage of a jumbo jet.

Anyone have a quiet apartment they want to let me use?  

One of these days I'll start posting with a little more regularity.  And, as luck would have it, that day is today!  I'm trying something new - 5 blog posts a week.  Tuesday through Thursday they will be themed around the (attempted) marketing of my book, and Monday's will be devoted to the crazy things I witness here in Chicago, which are abundant.

One would think this sounds pretty organized - and it is.  But, my fear is that I'll end up like this fine establishment - a place I found somewhere in Wisconsin that, from the looks of it, missed the corporate seminar on finding a clear brand offering and thus decided to offer a little bit of everything:

I don't think I'd buy cheese from an antique store, and I'm not sure if I'd trust an antique sold at an espresso bar.  From the looks of their sign, they also offer ice cream and some type of falafel sandwich, neither of which I'd associate with collectables.  

Today's Manic Monday doesn't necessarily focus on anything crazy I've witnessed (besides inadvertently stepping in a homeless mans puke today and falling, thus ripping off half a toenail in a most sanitary fashion).  Instead it focuses on the fine people of my city, and the horrible front they put forth this weekend.

I had family in town from Central Wisconsin - where people are known for being incredibly nice and going out of their way for their neighbor.  I was hoping Chicago would put forth enough of that "Midwest Nice" to compete - and was expecting that it would, as it has always seemed to me that people in Chicago are, overall, friendly people.

I was almost immediately proved wrong.  My cousins wanted to see a musical, so we got tickets for Billy Elliot.  After a wonderful dinner at the Atwood Cafe, we made our way to the Oriental Theater, where we found our seats and waited for the play to begin.  While we were waiting, we had our cameras out and took a picture of my aunts together.  The flash had barely gone off before one of the ushers, who looked like a much older, much less attractive Jane Lynch, was descending upon us in such an extreme fashion that you'd think we'd all walked in naked, drunk, smoking weed, and talking loudly about throwing tomatoes or hand grenades at the performers as soon as the curtain opened.

I honestly don't remember the usher's exact soliloquy, but was rude enough for several of us to comment to her that she needn't be so rude.  I think it went something like this:

"There is absolutely NO flash photography in the theater - it's listed right on the back of your programs.  If I see your camera out again I WILL confiscate it - all pictures you've just taken need to be IMMEDIATELY deleted...etc. etc."  Judging strictly from her tone, it sounded more like:

"There is absolutely NO flash photography in the theater - How DARE you not have read page 23 of your playbill yet and looked for that small paragraph in size 6 font halfway down the page?  If I see that camera again it will be thrown onto Michigan Avenue where it WILL be run over by one of our city busses, driven by my husband, who will then back over it repeatedly until there is nothing left of your camera but a few measly glass shards, which will then be given back to you, at  which point you will be forced to sit on them for the duration of this three hour musical."

Strike one, citizens of Chicago.  A very kind, very simple "I'm sorry, we don't allow flash photography in the theater, would you mind putting your camera away?" would have sufficed.  Walking over to tell us that would have sufficed as well, instead of sprinting up the aisle and then vaulting over rows L - S to deliver the news.

The next day we were met with another kind Chicagoan, this time one who worked for one of the architecture tours.  We bought tickets for the architecture tour put on by the Chicago Architecture Foundation (which was wonderful!)  When we left the Shedd aquarium, we were told that since we already had our tickets, we could get a free water-taxi ride back to Michigan Avenue.  After having spent $30 on admission to an aquarium we stayed at for all of 50 minutes and saw little we couldn't have seen on a trip to the beach, we all jumped on that, and so we headed to the water taxi stand.

I arrived first, along with one of my cousins, and showed them my ticket.  The exchange went a little like this:

Me: "We have tickets for the 3:00 architecture tour, and were told inside that if we showed you our tickets, we could get a ride back to Michigan Avenue?"

Disgruntled Water Taxi Driver: "Fuck off."

Ok, so that's not exactly how it went, but he may as well have said that.  Here's how it really went:

Me: "We have tickets for the 3:00 architecture tour, and were told inside that if we showed you our tickets, we could get a ride back to Michigan Avenue?"

Disgruntled Water Taxi Driver: "Maybe if the water taxi was driven by the CAF, that would work out really well for you."

Me: "Oh, is this not the same architecture tour?"

DWTD: "Do you think there's only one architecture tour in the city of Chicago?"

Me: "Sir no sir.  I did, however, think that this was an equal opportunity water taxi.  Are you saying that we'd need to buy a ticket for your particular architecture tour in order to take a water taxi ride to Michigan Avenue?"

DWTD: "It would be preferable."

Me: "Ok, well thanks anyways."

Next the disgruntled water taxi driver yelled, as we were walking away, "What you want to do, ladies, is jump on the bus."

My sister just called "we'll walk" over her shoulder, and thank goodness she did, otherwise I would have responded with: "What we want to do is push your crappy water taxi stand into the lake, commandeer your vessel, and run your business in a more polite and professional manner."

Again, we found ourselves in a situation where a very simple "Oh, I'm sorry - we can only offer that deal to ticket holders for our particular tour - can I help you find a different mode of transportation?" would have been nice.  Strike 2, Chicago citizens.  

Strike three was the puke I slipped in today.  Chicago, you're out.  Contemplating a move - any suggestions?  Maybe I'll move to the Chippewa Valley and commandeer the local Cheese-antiques-collectables-espresso-ice cream-falafel shop.  They seem like they could use a little help...

Or, laundry.  

At $1.50 a load, I usually end up opting out of laundry each week, instead deciding to see how much mileage I can get out of bikini bottoms as underwear and bath towels as evening dresses.  Still, even these must run out eventually and so I'm left with a closet floor that has long since disappeared underneath about 6 months worth of laundry.  

But, last weeks additions to the pile had garments in it that had been completely submerged in lake water and then just tossed on the floor - and I feared if I left them there, they'd begin to grow their very own lake vegetation.

So, I did what I do when I finally decide to do laundry - I pulled out the biggest suitcase I could find, loaded up everything I could, and headed for my aunt's in Winnetka.  

I try to take the fact that I'm 25 and still take my laundry "home" for the weekend and think of it not as pathetic and immature, but instead as monetarily responsible.  I will put the $15 I'll save on laundry towards my retirement fund, and years from now it will have grown into something really spectacular.  Like $45. 

It was somewhat of a struggle hauling that suitcase into my tiny, dark, tower-of-terror elevator, but by the time my eyes finally adjusted to the midnight-esque ambiance they've got going in there, I discovered I wasn't alone. There was another woman in the elevator with a suitcase the exact same size as mine!

"Hey!!" I said, probably a little too enthusiastically, and pointed at her suitcase.  "Laundry?!?"

"Excuse me?" she said.

"Is it laundry day for you, too?" my enthusiasm deflated a little bit.

"Um, no, I'm going to Vegas," she sniffed and pulled her suitcase a little closer to her, as if the fact that I pulled my laundry around in a suitcase the size of North Dakota made me some sort of vagrant who was going to make off with her Vegas wardrobe and head for the hills.

I decided then and there that I'd rather use my suitcase for travel than what it was currently being employed for, so I concluded it was probably time to start getting serious about marketing my book.

Another problem with being a starving artist, however, is that you tend not to have a marketing budget.

So, I tried to brainstorm some creative solutions.  Solution #1 was to find anyone reading a book in public, strike up a conversation, and steer it in a direction that resulted in them vowing to ditch whatever author they were currently enjoying in favor of reading my book instead.  I pictured striking up a casual conversation, wowing them with my intellect, and bashfully agreeing to follow them to the bookstore so they could buy my book and I could immediately sign it for them.

I found my first target at a bus stop on Clark and Fullerton.  I was sitting there waiting for the 22, so it could drop me off a mile from the movie theater for which I was bound, and I could walk the rest of the way.  The alternative, in lieu of cab money, was walking the entire way, and I didn't trust I'd make it that far without the Starbucks I couldn't afford to stop and get. 

So, here I was - and here she was, reading a book, just like I'd planned.

"This is it!"  I thought gleefully as I inched closer to her on the bench, getting ready to make my introductory move.  Before I could though, I caught a glimpse of whatever it was she was currently reading.

"She lay on her back, bound to the bed by tawdry leather straps," was the first line I read.  It was also the first line of the book. 

It struck me that perhaps this was a woman who may not be interested in the particular genre I had to offer.  I certainly have no "tawdry leather straps" in my book, and I wouldn't want to disappoint her.  I'd have to find someone else.  Or, some money for marketing.

In the meantime, its more of the same.  Six months worth of laundry crammed into a suitcase meant for exotic backpacking trips, and getting wherever I need to go via busses and train cars that smell like an acute mix of urine, discontent, and failure.  (Masked as Monetary Responsibility, of course.)

There are many advantages to living the life of a "starving artist."  I have the ability to create my own schedule and to write from anywhere - a combination that led to me being able to live in a different state for the last 4 months.  The disadvantage of living elsewhere, however, was that not all my mail made it to Kansas.  This led to a doctors bill from January that went unpaid for 4 months, ending in what is now a "delinquent account" in my name. 

I'm not sure what this means - do alarms go off somewhere the next time I try to call and set up an appointment?  Is there a picture of me at the doctors office with a big red X through it?  Considering the bill was for all of $30, I can't imagine this is the case, but it's something I'm going to have to get to the bottom of.

It also led to my 2010 Census forms never quite reaching me.  So, Wednesday morning I sat on my bed surrounded by various envelopes and forms and, fearing I'd missed the deadline, opted to call them with my information. 

A very official sounding man answered, whom I'll call Carl, for several reasons; one, I don't remember his actual name, two, I don't know any Carl's, and three, it sounds about right for this type of man.

And so we started one of the most infuriating conversations I've had in months. 

First we discussed the issue of my race.  I was asked to pick from a list of possible races that I might be.  Almost every other option was either ridiculously complicated or bridged by the word OR  - "Native American or Pacific Islander," "of Hispanic or of Latino descent," "Skin darker than a double caramel latte but not quite as dark as a triple caramel latte," etc.  

No one seemed to want to weed through the different varieties of Caucasian, however.  It didn't matter if I was of Northern European descent or Eastern European Descent, it didn't matter if my skin was the color of virgin snow (which it is) or the color of city street snow, my option was simply "White."  This made answering pretty simple, I thought.

When Carl finished listing my possibilities, I answered "White" pretty definitively.  

"So there is only one member of your household, and that member is white," he confirmed.

"Correct," I answered.

"So the one member of your household is not of Hispanic decent," he clarified.

"Correct," I answered again.

"Ok," Carl said.  "Now please answer the next question to the best of your knowledge."

"Will do," I waited patiently.

"To the best of your knowledge, there is one person living in your household, and that person is not of African American decent."

This sounded pretty familiar.

"That is correct, sir," I told him.

"So the sole member of your household would best be described as "white."

"SIR YES SIR!" I shouted.  Perhaps I hadn't been answering in a very official capacity, and this was the problem.  Well, I was out to amend that.

Carl, however, was less than thrilled.  So, we moved on to my household guests.

Carl asked me if there had been anyone staying with me from the armed forces or a from nursing home.

"No sir," I told him.

"So on April 1st 2010, no one was staying with you from a nursing home."

"No."

"Were there any babies living in your residence?"

"No sir, no babies."

"Ok," Carl said.

"Are we done?" I asked.

"Just a few more questions," said Carl.  "On April 1st, 2010, were there any babies or anyone from a nursing home living with you?"

He had to be kidding.

After assuring Carl several times that I had no college students, senior citizens, or armed personnel crashing on my couch, he seemed satisfied with my answers.

"Is there anything else I can help you with ma'am?" he asked.

"Actually, yes, just one question," I said.  "Since I gave you this information on the phone, do I still need to fill out my form and send it in, or does this take care of it?"

There was a long pause.

"Carl?" I said.

"I'm sorry, can you repeat the question?"

"Since I gave you this information on the phone, do I still need to fill out my form and send it in, or does this take care of it?" I asked again.

"I'm not sure I understand what you're asking," Carl said.

"Seriously?" I asked him, but when he was silent, I figured he must not be kidding.  Carl didn't seem like the type to kid.  So I tried a different approach.

"Ok, Carl.  I, Melissa Milne, the lone, white member of my household, have given you my Census information on this Wednesday, June 2nd, in the year of our Lord 2010, over the telephone.  Having done so, am I still required to fill out the physical, paper Census form that was sent to me in the mail, or has this telephone conversation given you the answers about me that you need?"

Another long pause from Carl, until he finally said "I'm sorry ma'am, can I put you on hold while I look for an answer to your question?"

Then, before I could even answer, I was on hold.  

Twenty-five minutes later, Carl came back.

"Are you still there?" he asked.

"Yes," I answered.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but I wasn't able to find any information to answer your question."

"Seriously?" I said again.

"Is there anything else I can help you with today, ma'am?"

"Goodbye, Carl," I said, and hung up.  

I appreciate the thoroughness, I do.  There should be absolutely no confusion now about how many members are in my household, whether or not I had any house guests staying there in April, and what we all look like.  Still, for as thorough as he was trained to be, you'd think Carl would have been scripted some sort of answer, should the question of inadvertently being counted twice come up.

Still, I didn't have time to worry about it - I had a delinquent account to take care of.  The thought of having WANTED posters with my face on them slapped all over Wisconsin does not appeal to me.