Since my parents didn’t want me to move to NYC anyway, they were somewhat cool about this absolutely insane turn of events. The only stipulation was that we had to be engaged for a year to make sure we weren’t making a mistake. The mistake was living at home. It is very difficult to be engaged to someone when living with neurotically conservative parents. My mother has always been a “what do others think” person and I was never allowed to be alone with any boy I was dating, unless I was outside on the porch so all the neighbors could see we weren’t in the house having sex. When I went away to college, my first college boyfriend, an amazingly patient guy, was the recipient of all that baggage. I used to make him keep his frat room door open whenever we were together; he didn’t have a porch. Later with Virginity Guy, I actually crawled out of his window in the mornings so his frat brothers wouldn’t know I stayed over. In my post college years, I embraced the walk of shame, or stride of pride, depending on the guy. I digress.

Since this blog series is about moving, I will save the marriage and divorce story for another time. I did get married and moved to Peoria where he had a job as an anchor for the local news station. We lived in an apartment first then moved to a little, and I mean little, house. While in Peoria I satisfied the acting itch by getting involved in community theater and went from play to play to play. Divorce ensued, after a year and a half, and I moved with the Ameritec job I had to Chicago, Arlington Heights specifically, where I lived in a one bedroom apartment with my Indian co-worker who, once her parents began prearranging her marriage, took the transfer in hopes of finding her own husband. I slept on a short purple couch that came from her parents’ hotel and she slept on a mattress on the floor.

Returning to my acting plan, I worked a ridiculous amount of overtime and saved enough money to afford laceName>SecondlaceName> laceType>CitylaceType> classes. I soon got an agent, headshots and a bartending job at a mafia bar and steak joint which allowed me to quit Ameritec. For the bar job, I had to watch training videos on cigars and single malt scotches. Both of which I served to young, obnoxious mafia sons as they ate handfuls of olives out of my station.

Arlington Hts was too far away for my developing life in the city so I began living out of my car and squatting on my friend’s couch as I waited over two months for an apartment and two roommates to become available. At one point I also had a suitcase in Andersonville at a boyfriend’s apartment, but the steady flophouse was my car. I loved that car. Champagne Super Nova was her name, or “Champagne” for short; a beige Nissan Altima that I leased after my divorce. (Always name your cars. And talk to them. It makes them more reliable). After spending all night watching middle aged singles trying to do the Macarena, seeing Champagne in the parking lot always brought a smile to my face. It even had an escape hatch. The back seat arm rest reclined and opened to the trunk. I had to use it one day when I locked myself out of my car, but left the trunk open. Champagne survived being a victim of hit and run and a small scrape with a Jersey barrier on a slick turn in Roger’s Park. I drove it from Chicago to LA where is lasted five years without accident but suffered a break in two weeks before I moved. Even after she lost her luster, she was beautiful to me. (Inner city parking made her back bumper look like it had been attacked by tigers)  There will never be another car like it.