My first apartment as a new divorcé in Chicago was on Clifton in between School and Belmont. For those who know Chicago, this is a pretty sweet spot for a single gal to live, especially with two other single gals. I could walk to Wrigley Field for a Cubs game, to Southport for a beer at an Irish pub, to Belmont for a pair of Doc Martins, and to the L to take me anywhere else. I quit the mafia restaurant bar and began working for a brand new martini bar, which, like all martini bars in Chicago, lasted about as long as a Hollywood marriage. I am still amazed with what speed I could concoct a chocolate martini (in a chocolate dipped martini glass…man that sounds good right now), a cosmopolitan and a dirty martini, all at the same time. I am convinced that becoming an ambidextrous bartender was critical for early motherhood success.

As the martini bar’s popularity began to wind down and the bank began to repossess its capital, I started to panic for another job. I had to find a bartending job because I needed my days free for auditioning. I got so desperate that I almost took a job at the Crazy Horse strip club, as a bartender. I was told my experience made ideal for the VIP room and that I would only have to sign a confidentiality agreement because of “things I would most likely see”. Secretly, I wish I would have taken the job for the material, but still, the thought of those “things” makes me throw up a bit in my mouth. Thankfully, a job at Shelter, a popular rave bar, fell into my lap. I saw plenty there: glittered club kids on X, suburban jocks on G and fellow bartenders on coke.  One night my co-bartender disappeared later to be found hunched on a toilet, whacked out on GHB. We carried her up the stairs and were debating what to do when another bartender popped a “diet pill” in the girl’s mouth and the rest of us watched as she flopped alive like Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction. “Someone else count out her drawer,” she said, steering the poor girl to a dirty couch. My anti-drug policy helped me quickly become one of the club’s fastest bartenders and I earned a spot in the VIP lounge where the real action was. [A blog for another day]

One year after living on Clifton, one of my roommates found a huge three bedroom apartment on Chicago and Sedgwick. It was a beautiful apartment, dining room, fireplace, laundry room, and close to Shelter, but it was right across the street from the Cabrini Green housing projects. Despite my preconceptions, I never had a problem with the neighborhood, even with my erratic hours. Only one roomie had her car broken into- within minutes after she double parked to unload a work computer. The same roommate was talking to her boyfriend out on the sidewalk one evening and noticed the red light from a laser was glowing on his forehead. We convinced ourselves it was just kids playing a joke, not a laser gunsight. A year later, my roomie bought a house with laser boy, the other roomie moved in with another girl, and I began making plans to move to LA; temporarily moving into an apartment in Roger’s Park with the guy who was joining me on that journey. He lived in a quaint, old apartment building perched on the lake. There is nothing more invigorating that taking an afternoon swim in Lake Michigan. It helps clear the mind when you are about to make the greatest leap of faith in your life.