Today was not a good day. Today was a bad day. Today was a “what have I done by moving here” day. My first since moving, I think.

Today was a fine day, objectively. It was lovely, in fact, an overcast respite after yesterday’s picture-perfect height of summer. Yesterday the sun shone wide in a cloudless sky, warming the air to 86 degrees as we scampered about a sparkling swimming pool. We ate vanilla soft serve in wafer cones with sunscreen melting down our backs. We careened down water slides and braved loud waterfalls without a second thought given to time.

Today, I needed calm. I needed clouds. I got both. I got indoor swim class and shiny blue ribbons and casual driveway basketball.

But last night I dreamt about my hometown, Denver, and the ghosts who still haunt me there. Dreams almost always become my shadow the next day, lacing this day with unease and the realization that for me, home is a moving target.

I left Denver for California because there was nothing left for me there. I left California for Chicago because what was left for me there? So here I sit, in my queen-sized bed in the upper Midwest, hurling myself into a new life. As I walked to the playground today, I wondered: How long before I let this, too, grow old?

I’m lucky. I’ve been able to combine two of my greatest passions – writing and the concept of home – into a way to make a living. I write all day at work and I write here at night. But the truth of home continues to evade me. Denver is no longer it (although I’ve since realized the value of the phrase I was born and raised here). The Bay Area wasn’t it until two months ago; now I stare longingly at the past 10 years. Sometimes it’s innocent nostalgia; other times it’s a deep, sad ache.

But I’m here, now. In Chicago, a beautiful city by its own right. And I’ve decided to do a little mind-fuck. To play a trick on myself by pretending that I’m a local. To ignore when people comment on my California license plates, which I still haven’t changed. To act like I belong. To take for granted that this is my turf. I even lied at Starbucks tonight and told the guy who asked that I’d lived here for years.

I’ll pretend the extremities in weather are just something I deal with. I’ll pretend the fireflies lighting up dusk aren’t a novelty at all. And I’ll look up at the night sky and believe: This is where I call home. 

God, how I miss Ross Dress for Less. I’d venture to say I miss Ross more than any other commercial establishment in San Francisco. Which is pretty fucking lame of me for a city teeming with creatively minded independent businesses. But god, it’s true. It’s heartbreakingly true.

Dare I say the city’s best Ross was a mere five minutes from the Potrero Hill house I lived in for a while. Probably 40 percent of my wardrobe originated there. It had designer markdowns. It had oversized polyester tees made by obscure overseas brands called things like “Dreamcatcher” or “Urban Connection.” They cost $4.99 and were so, so shitty but still worth the price.

This Ross had size 10 shoes. This was the place I bought my shoes in San Francisco. Fuck John Fluevog in the Haight. Fuck those designer shoe boutiques on Hayes. Girls with big feet who live in San Francisco: Go to Ross at Bryant and Potrero. Every Nordstrom in the country sends their overstocked size 10s there. Please, enjoy it for me.

There are Ross stores in Chicago. But none as conveniently located. It’s a good thing. I’m saving money. (I actually am. I dropped by Ross in San Francisco at least once a week and rarely escaped for less than $30.) There’s a Marshall’s nearby, which might be my next discount clothing frontier.

Until then though, I love you, Ross in Potrero Center. We shall meet again.

*When I was little, my mom would sing “It Goes Like It Goes,” the theme from the 1979 movie “Norma Rae.”

So it goes 
Like it goes
Like the river flows 
And time keeps travelin’ on 
And maybe what’s good 
Will get a little bit better
And maybe what’s bad
Will get gone

The passage of time is a bittersweet beast. It happens incrementally and without much noise. But give life a month or two, and things won’t be the same.

I’m starting to notice clues that I’ve been here for little while now, that the move is no longer shiny and new. They’re silly things that nonetheless nod to time taking steps. I used the last of the paper towels I bought in bulk the weekend I moved in. The systems network password I created on my first day at work will expire soon.

Then there’s the house across the street. An older couple has lived there for 45 years. The woman is plump with shoulder-length white hair that she curls to tuck under her chin. The man wears glasses, suspenders and baggy jeans. He’s bald.

The day I moved in, I waited on my front step for the movers to arrive with my stuff. They called to say they’d be late. I walked to Starbucks under a hazy sun, nervously aware that in an hour, this relaxed calmness would fade without a promise to reappear.

I returned to the porch and drank an iced mocha through a green straw. The woman across the street was gardening. She ripped up some grass and planted something, then watered it with a hose.

Over the next few weeks, I came to feel like her stalker. I’d peer out the window to see if she was working outside. The sight of her gave me comfort. Maybe she reminded me of my grandmothers. One warm Saturday afternoon, her young granddaughter and grandson came over to splash in a plastic kiddie pool. She sat in a lawn chair with a broad-brimmed hat, bringing them toys from inside. It made me smile. She was, to me, simplicity, a life that had progressed and was peacefully, slowly coming to a close.

I came home from work a few weeks ago to a “for sale” sign staked in their front yard. For a second, my heart fell. Not because I’d grown to know them; we’d never spoken. But it represented the undoing of something seemingly permanent.

They moved into their house in 1970. My older sister hadn’t been born yet. This town was without question a different place. Smaller. Probably more like a village. The world, of course, was a different place. It didn’t have internet. It didn’t have iPhones. It didn’t have girls in cutoff shorts posing with pursed lips and parted hair. At least, not for the sake of Instagram.

On a recent Saturday after the gym, I saw the older woman outside. I crossed the street and introduced myself. Up close, she looks like Paula Deen, with soft skin and caramel-colored freckles. She was warm and friendly. She made eye contact with clear blue eyes. She used to work at the local elementary school, the one right around the corner. She and her husband don’t want to move, but taking care of a house was becoming too much. They’re going to a retirement home.

I explained my cross-country move. I told her how much I love the neighborhood. In that moment, we each shared a slice of our lives. We wished each other well, she called me sweetie, and I crossed the street back home.

Now, new families are coming through, touring the house with their realtors. A woman in a burqa with her small son. A family of four, the two kids arguing. I’ve come outside almost every day to a new pile of stuff the older couple is giving away. I usually rummage through it. I picked up some plastic dinner plates that are good for a kid at dinnertime. I picked up some extension cords because I needed one for the microwave.

The last thing I picked up was a plastic Christmas wreath. It’s nothing special inherently, just typical faux evergreen shaped like a donut. But I’ll think of Paula and her husband every year as I tie the wreath with ribbon and arrange white lights around it to welcome us home on winter nights. I’ll hang it on the door and wonder where my neighbors are.

When people say things like “Have fun at the gym!” it’s always made me think “huh?” Politeness leads me respond with “thanks,” but I tend to skip a beat before saying it. Last night I found out why.

As I was in mile six of a run, an uphill climb that I promised myself this morning I’d do, I thought, This is not fun. When I was done, I thought about it. I laid on the ground and sweat and drank cold water and thought about it. I realized: I’m not in the gym to have fun. I’m there for the time I’m not there. I’m there so I feel normal and good and healthy and strong when I’m at work, on the playground, waking up every morning. I’m there for the post-gym drive home, when I beam in the light of just having completed something hard.

But am I there for fun? No, not really.

I felt like a nag tonight when the 21-year-old babysitter/college student I’ve employed for the summer said she’d spent the last two hours laying out in the sun in her backyard. I told her she looked tan. Her face lit up.

“Tell me you used sunscreen,” I said.

“I did,” she replied. “I used oil. It has an SPF of 4.”

“You are going to be so sorry you’re doing this to your skin in about 10 years. Maybe even sooner,” I said. “The sun is not your friend.”

She gave me the same practiced look I’m sure she gives her Russian mother. There was something of an awkward pause before she replied: “Thanks for saying I’m tan!”

I think I’ve outgrown music festivals. There’s one here, Ravinia, and the idea of it is quite appealing to a mid-30s granny like me.

1. It’s close to where I live. I can drive there. I don’t have to navigate public transit with 5,000 other people trying to get to the same place on a 90-degree day.

2. The venue is small. I love small venues and can say with utter confidence that I’ll never go to an arena show again unless a certain teenager makes me. Then again, who wants to go to a show with their mom?

3. It goes on for three whole months, and there’s a variety of shows to choose from. Orchestras, jazz, Lenny Kravitz, a cappella choirs, once-great bands like Steely Dan.

4. There are trees. Tons of them. This means plenty of shade on the lawn.

5. There is covered pavilion seating. Most of the seats have a pretty good view.

6. There is fresh, well-prepared food. Not Cheez Whiz nachos.

7. There is good wine sold in plastic cups.

As I’m learning during my first summer in Chicago, Ravinia is an experience. Which might be code for “an ordeal.” First, parking is awful. It’s free, but it’s awful.

The first time I went, I saw a show for kids starring acrobats from China. The main parking lot was half full. I got a spot right away. We had a great time and skipped back to the car when it was over. We did not wait in traffic to leave. This Ravinia thing is great! I thought.

The second time I went, it was by myself to see a British guy I’ve wanted to marry for years. The main parking lot was full. I parked in an overflow lot about four miles from the venue. I packed into a shuttle bus with my fellow show-goers, most of them awkwardly lugging folded lawn chairs, beach towels, picnic blankets, folded tables, coolers, bottles of wine, jackets, picnic baskets, umbrellas…

The show was pretty good, but during it, I found myself wondering whether getting home would be a headache. It was. When the encore was over, most people had packed up and were running (actually running) for the shuttles. I waited in line a long time. There were obnoxious drunk people. It was getting late. I was cranky, and my Twitter feed had run out of updates.

In my rush to catch the shuttle before the show, I hadn’t noted where I parked. Sheer dumb luck led me to the row with my car. I sat in exiting traffic from 10:52 p.m. to 11:04 p.m.

So that’s parking at Ravinia. Next is the lawn. Unless you have reserved seating, you have to fend for yourself on the lawn. It’s a beautiful sprawling space, all flowers and huge trees and really green grass. But securing space on it is a sport that people take seriously. Most shows start at 8 p.m., doors open at 4. People are lined up by 3 to get their first choice on the lawn.

Also, these people mean business. It’s not about unrolling a blanket. They set up full dinner spreads on tables and plates with cheese, bread, fruit, wine, sandwiches. And candlelight. Lots of candlelight.

The third time I went to Ravinia will be the last for me this summer. The parking situation was even worse. I gladly left long before the show’s end to avoid the bottleneck.

Leaving so early felt like I was wasting money, but I consider the whole thing a lesson in Ravinia: Pick one or two shows you really want to see, then bookmark from about 6 p.m. to midnight for “doing Ravinia,” and earlier if you have lawn seats.

In the end, I liken Ravinia to an amusement park. It’s fun, but it’s annoying.

Anyway, the truth is, if I’m complaining about Ravinia – a music festival tailor-made for people in their 50s – I think it’s safe to say that my days of music festivals might be coming to a close.

Art   Cooking and Baking   Music   Movies   Books   Laughing   Dancing   Swimming   The Ocean   Giant Thunderstorms   Makeup   Ross Dress for Less   Clean Bed Sheets   Dishwashers   Fancy Cocktails   Disneyland   Trader Joe’s   Oversized Balloons   Oversized T-Shirts   Good Coffee   Black Keds with Black Soles   Fireflies   Quality Headphones   Outer Space

The first in a series of run-on stories because William Zinsser was right, but hey. 

it was all glittering lights and velvet evenings cold as Colorado before the world came crashing back, and each night we bid the tree goodnight as its colors lullabied us through ’til morning and there were gifts and good takeout and tide pools on New Year’s Day, but now it’s back to everything normal and though I wished for normal a few times when it wasn’t, now I desperately want back what’s special, oh that’s so like me, so indecisive but I give myself little things to look forward to and sometimes it’s all that keeps me going.

Sometimes I wonder if while lying on my deathbed, I will wish I had been more social.

To the extent that a 33-year-old person in the full throngs of adulthood can blame her parents for being a recluse, I do. My mom and dad are quiet, reserved people. They’re lovely human beings. Compassionate, and smart. Just not outgoing. They wildly prefer to be left alone.

When I was a kid, I didn’t have birthday parties. I think my parents considered them too much work. All those kids, all that cleanup. When I turned 7, finally I was allowed to choose three friends to have over for cake, ice cream and presents. The selection process was daunting. It made me think hard about who were my best friends. I had to leave a girl named Amanda out, and that caused all kinds of problems.

As I got older, my parents didn’t encourage me to do things outside of school with other kids. They didn’t actively discourage it either. It was almost the familial cultural equivalent of the phrase “don’t ask, don’t tell.”

My social stance now pretty closely mirrors that of my 7th birthday party. I gravitate toward a few people who I find quite special. Otherwise, I keep to myself. Not only are long nights out rare, they also sound miserably unappealing. Give me home. Homemade cocktails. My bed. A warm shower when I wake up after 8-10 hours of non-nocturnal sleep. Yes. Give me that. Boring? Maybe. At peace? Very much.

I’m not on Facebook. I’m on Twitter but only to get news and ideas for things to do around town. I’m not on Instagram (I do stalk, but only two people I’ve never met). Everything else, the millions of everything elses: No.

Which makes me a dinosaur, really, because that’s how it’s done now. That’s one-half of being extroverted. That’s one way people come to care about you, because you choose to let them in. Even if it’s digitally.

My parents love me and I love them too, but we’re not close. I don’t have tons of friends. I have people who have little ones who play with my little one at our house because I refuse to make the same mistake. I seek who I seek, and as for the rest of life, I experience it with myself. I’ve been called narcissistic because of that. I’ve been told I hide because I have something to hide. The truth, though, is simple: This is the way I’ve chosen. This is the path I’ve carved.

That is why sometimes I wonder if while lying on my deathbed, I will be pleased with my life, because it was mine.

I don’t much consider myself a writer. I don’t know. I’m a copywriter by day, sure. It’s my job. But have I earned the far more prestigious title “writer”? If I have, doesn’t that cheapen the greats who are, without question, writers? It feels like a distinction to be reserved for only the best of the best.

William Zinsser was one. He wrote “On Writing Well,” a wonderful, straightforward book on the craft and art of writing. I’ve tried to model my writing on his advice, both at work and elsewhere. Especially lately. Even in my texts (I know that’s nerdy).

Many people think good writing is flowery and complicated, littered with big words that few people understand. But that’s what those words are: litter. They have their place, I guess. But not in everyday writing. There, simplicity is king.

William Zinsser died in May. He was 92. This is my favorite line from his obituary in the New York Times:

His advice was straightforward: Write clearly. Guard the message with your life. Avoid jargon and big words. Use active verbs. Make the reader think you enjoyed writing the piece.

And this, from the man himself, perhaps my favorite thing that has ever been said about writing:

There’s not much to be said about the period except that most writers don’t reach it soon enough.