C is for crazy.

“We are being delayed, waiting for signals ahead.”

The message heard by anyone that’s ridden the Red Line in the last six months could be applied to the state of my live right now. Friends, there’s too much stuff happening and not enough time to manage the details.

First and most exciting, we bought an apartment. Yes, it was quick. Yes, we’re excited. Yes, we’ll be completely broke for the next 30 years. Assuming all goes well among the inspectors, the lawyers and the agents, we’ll get the keys on May 25th. Of course, this means we’ll soon have a two-bedroom apartment to sublet, so please spread the word if you know anyone looking for a place.

In addition to our valiant effort to stop paying rent, I’m traveling to a couple of completely opposite destinations for work. First on the agenda, a trip to Baltimore for focus groups. Second and far more interesting, a nine-day trip to Italy to finish writing a print campaign for a pasta company.

Italy. Cool. Right? Almost. As many of you know, leaving the country is pretty damn complicated these days. With a whole slew of new Homeland Security laws that just went into effect, I’m now one of the ten-bazillion people rushing to get an “emergency” passport. This means I have to make special arrangements to meet with a government official at a government office downtown. I can already hear the buzz of fluorescent lights above my head as I slowly waste away in a windowless, off-white hallway on the 37th floor of an indescript building on a street no one’s ever heard of.

Why have I’ve detailed all this grown-up-life junk? So you, the not-so-anonymous reader, can decide for yourself whether I have good reasons for neglecting my blog—or just a bunch of lame excuses. Of course, no matter which conclusion you come to, expect a sparse supply of new material for the next couple of months.

Thanks for understanding,
curtis
The soon to be poverty-stricken homeowner

New kind of kick.

It all started just a few days ago when I suggested we go meet with a mortgage banker. I really didn’t mean anything by it. After all, I like the place we’re currently renting and I always assumed most Chicago real estate was way beyond our means.

And then we found a nice looking place that was somewhat in our price range. Before I knew it, Cristi and I were in full-fledged, wide-eyed, let’s-buy-a-piece-of-property-as-soon-as-we-can-find-something apartment search mode. For the last two days all I’ve dreamt about is gut rehabs and “vintage charmers.” The only subject I’ve been able to discuss is price range and zip code. The only websites in my computer history are connectMLS.com and googlemaps.com.

Then, yesterday afternoon, Armando from Remax called. He said, “Curtis, I can help you find exactly what you’re looking for.” I believed him. I opened up. I told him everything. What we do on Saturdays, my favorite TV show, my middle name (spelled Lynne with an ‘e’ on the end). Now the flood of emails and phone calls are coming nonstop. Screw work. Forget about a social life. I don’t even really feel like riding my bike. All I care about is finding a two bedroom, top floor with a balcony on a tree-lined street.

I’m telling you—while I still retain some sense of sanity—I may not be back for a while. It’s possible you may never hear from me again. You can try to write or call, but remember, I’m hanging out with Armando now and the MLS listings are very, very good.

Sunday morning coming down.

I wasn’t involved in yesterday’s 7th Annual Polar Plunge, but I did head out at for a Sunday morning “pleasure” ride through the city. Unfortunately, any sense of pleasure froze up along with my feet and hands and all I really found out in the world was 137 mile-per-hour winds, a bunch of hard core joggers and a big, old boat. I took a few snapshots and rode home as quickly as my Bontrager wheels would carry me.