Holy crap, you guys. So, I've been sitting here, watching
Young Frankenstein and painting my nails (don't even pretend you're not jealous of this wild Wednesday evening) and I remembered:
Today, the Rainbow Chronicles turn 3! If only I had some Funfetti! Quick, go get a cupcake to eat while you read this!
It seems
that last year, I neglected to host a blogging birthday celebration—I was far too busy feeling a lot of feelings about
my recent discovery of James Blake—but this year, I'm in more of a celebratory mood. I mean,
Gene Wilder and Peter Boyle are dancing on the television right now, and if that doesn't put you in the partying mood,
what will?
For the
first birthday bash, in 2010, back when I was still a young girl of 25, I recapped my favorite moments of my first full year of blogging. There was a lot of talk about
Swayze, Schwinn Breezes
named Patricia, and
waiting tables. And of course, some more serious posts about family and
my seemingly never-ending job search.
Now, two years later, though
Sunday Swayze Fest may not happen as often as we'd all like (and by "we" of course I mean "I"), I can still say with all honesty that my most recent viewing of
Dirty Dancing was three days ago and I now own
a t-shirt with Patrick Swayze on it (
clutch Christmas gift from Jay and Jasmine). So never fear, faithful Rainbow groupies. Swayze Fest will always be here in my heart, if not every Sunday on this blog.
And while I still occasionally have elaborate daydreams about
riding my Schwinn Breeze all over town, I think we all know in reality I'm far too clumsy and terrified of Chicago traffic for that to happen more than twice every three years.
Speaking of clumsy—today at the coffee shop, I may or may not have knocked a framed record off the wall. Glass shattered, people stared, and I turned beet red, slumped into my seat, and cursed my elbows.
Back to the birthday bash, and away from my awkwardness, if at all possible. One thing I love about looking back over the last three years of blogging is how, in many ways, it's a tidy chronicle of my life. Of course, it's not a complete chronicle, and it never should or will be one, but as I look back I remember a lot—good and bad. Sometimes I laugh. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I think, "What kind of a creep reads her own blog archive?" But basically, looking back over this blog on its "birthday" makes me happy, and it makes me a little sentimental.
Kind of like an actual birthday.
Three years ago, I sat in my first Chicago apartment's kitchen, listened to some Fiona Apple, and braved
my first blog post, "Small Town and Scared Shitless in the Big City." Looking back, I'm almost shocked by my fears of exploring new places, and I'm still a little embarrassed about sharing those fears with the Interwebs. I may no longer be the young woman who's "scared shitless in the big city," but I don't mind admitting that no matter how long I live in Chicago, I'll still be that same "small town" girl who listens to Fiona and enjoys hanging out with my cats in the comfort of my home.
I recently reread
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. Like many of my books, it was originally my mother's, and I vaguely remembered reading it when I was younger. When I found an index card tucked in the pages with my name and a sequence of numbers on it, I realized with glee that it was my 7th grade locker combination. I loved every minute re-reading
the story of Francie and her family. Pretty much all of my reading happens in one of two places: on the train to and from work, or in bed. Sometimes, I get a little self-conscious after being completely absorbed in a book on a crowded train—I can only imagine the faces I must have been making as, teary eyed, I read the scene where Francie's mother shoots the man attempting to attack Francie in the stairwell. When I realized I was at my stop, I shoved the book in my bag and noticed some middle-aged guy was giving me a similar look to the ones I give the people shouting nonsensically in public. (Yes, that happens.
I blogged about it.) But hey, if my funny faces keep a fellow commuter entertained on their commute, so be it.
As it happens, I was on the train when I finished the book. It was a beautiful ending to a beautiful book. I didn't care that the train was crowded, and I was sitting in a seat directly facing strangers. I smiled to myself, closed the book slowly, and then reopened it to the first page, where my mother had written her name 18 years earlier. I ran my index finger across her name and sighed.
It was a happy feeling. It was a little sentimental. It was something to be remembered.
Thanks for reading my little blog these last three years. Any time I find out someone's read any of these essays, rants, or even
just a long, winding sentence I wrote, it makes me feel just like that.
kisses,
Alison(composes)
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No, I'm not proud of myself. What a stupid hat. Luckily Wrigleyville is full of white girls engaging in even more embarrassing behavior, so for once in my life, I sort of fit in with the crowd.
(It reads: “And then I come home and look at a photo of dear Eleanor Roosevelt wearing an improbable yet wonderful hat. Where does courage come from? I call my aunt in Israel. She is 92. And I ask her, “What is the most important thing?” And she answers, “Self-confidence.”)
