Avery in the City

Avery Goes to Therapy. Again.

2011-06-21T13:30:00.006-05:00

Following a thirty minute one-man pep rally, I finally forced myself to get out of bed for the first time in two days. My body ached. It was no wonder I didn’t have bedsores. After a long sigh, I made my way toward the window and opened the curtains. With a grimace, I squinted as light poured into the room. Who knew that two days of complete darkness could turn someone into a vampire?

The cats—I assume encouraged by the presence of sunlight—came running into the bedroom. Their familiar, desperate meows indicated that it was feeding time. After filling their bowls, I turned on my cell phone. There were 12 new voicemail messages and 20 texts. Most were of the expected variety.

“We haven’t heard from you, Avery. Is everything okay? Your Dad and I are very worried.”

“Avery, I’m sorry about what happened. I wish things were better for you. By the way, would you mind taking my shift at the hospital tonight?”

“Avery, it’s Jasper. Are you dead? If so I need to know, because you still have that “Waiting to Exhale” soundtrack you stole from me in 1998. I want it back after probate.”

I quickly dressed and made my way down to the street. The sun felt good on my skin. It was one of those perfect spring mornings when the weather is nice and warm, but the cool lake breeze prevents you from overheating.

I slowly made my way toward the Gold Coast, stopping only at Dunkin’ Donuts for an iced coffee. As I walked up Michigan Avenue, I noticed an abundance of tourists. They were out in full force. They all looked so happy, sauntering down the street with their “Chicago” tee-shirts and “White Sox” baseball caps.

A particularly large woman sat in Water Tower Park snacking on a large bag of Garrett’s Popcorn. She looked so content. Was she here visiting relatives? No. Maybe she was in town with the hopes of visiting the “Oprah Winfrey Show” on a day when La Winfrey dispensed her favorite things. Whatever the reason, I couldn’t help but envy her pleasurable mood.

When I arrived at the good doctor’s, I announced myself to the doorman who told me to go right up. I was so not in the mood for this. I’d been rehashing the events between Jack and I over and over in my head since he unexpectedly (and permanently) left the apartment too days ago. I really didn’t want to be forced to verbalize it.

“Hello, Avery.” Dr. Drexel Carrington said with a smile, as he opened his door. “Come on in.”

I blushed. In all my sorrow, I’d forgotten just how hot the good doctor was. Maybe I was in the mood for this therapy session. I did, after all, have a lot on my mind.

Avery in Bed

2011-06-20T13:30:00.004-05:00

I didn’t leave my bed for two days. I didn’t answer the telephone either. I’m sure a search party was sent out for me, but I didn’t care. I was alone. The two cats were there, but Jack was gone. And he took the television set.

Luckily, the night that Jack moved out was my last night at hospital for a few days. I have never been happier to be off of work in my entire life. How could I care for any ill patients in my state? How could I offer comfort to one of the scared children who’d been admitted to my unit.

Child

Nurse Avery, my tummy hurts.

Cut to Nurse Avery standing at the end of the child’s bed, reading the patient chart. A cigarette in desperate need of ashing hanging dangles from the nurse’s lips.

Nurse Avery

Ha! You don’t know from hurting, kid. Talk to me when your metabolism slows down, your hairline recedes and the man who told you he wanted to spend the rest of his life with you steals away in the middle of the night, leaving you with a broken heart, a mortgage and an overly expensive bill for 375 cable channels that you can’t watch because he also stole your TV.

My nursing career flashed before my eyes. This wasn’t good. I had to snap out of it. I glanced at my bedside clock. 10:00 AM. I wasn’t due to see the good doctor for another three hours. I dreaded it.

It’s amazing how acclimated a person can get to a specific environment. Short of going to the bathroom, I hadn’t gotten out of my bed in days. I would have been happy never to leave again. My bed was comfortable and safe. I felt as though nothing could harm me so long I was between my 800 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets.

As wonderful as that fantasy was, I knew it was just that. I couldn’t hide in my bedroom forever. I would have to go back to work eventually. I would have to return my friends’ phone calls at some point. And my cats would probably turn to cannibalization if I didn’t feed them soon.

The scheduled appointment with Dr. Drexel Carrington would be just the motivation I needed to get back into the grove of things. After all, I’d left his office on cloud nine when I’d last seen him. I was sure that I’d feel the exact same way this afternoon. All I had to do was get out of bed.

Avery Responds. Sort of.

2011-06-16T13:30:00.015-05:00

I couldn’t believe it. Jack had written me a crummy ‘Dear John’ letter. Going against our agreement to separate our belongings as a couple—a term I use loosely—, he’d slipped out in the middle of the night while I was at work. I could only imagine what he’d taken with him. I was going to need a big glass of wine for this.

I entered the kitchen and began to pour. Taking a seat at the breakfast table, I reread his note aloud. I grew angrier and angrier with each line.

I know that you will be both hurt and angry when you read this letter. I am sorry for that.

It doesn’t take a brain trust to know that ditching me would tick me off. You ARE sorry. A sorry a$$monkey—pardon my language.

I really hate ending our relationship this way, but I feel—in the deepest part of my heart—that moving out while you are at work is the best way to preserve what I pray will ultimately be a friendship. In time, I can only hope you that you will feel the same.

Friends?!?! On which planet do you live? Fiend is more like it.

We both made a lot of mistakes during our time together. As I told you before, I have been very unhappy for a long time. In hindsight, I now understand that I did us both a grave disservice by not expressing that unhappiness sooner. Instead of communicating my feelings to you, I let them fester. What was once a great love for you devolved little by little each day to annoyance, irritation, anger, hatred and, ultimately, indifference.

The first bit of truth I’ve heard come out of his mouth in months.

As I take full responsibility for my part in the destruction of our relationship, I ask that you take responsibility for your own. You shut me out, Avery. Your words sting. You may not be aware of your actions, but you have repeatedly made me feel as though I was less than. You have done this each time you minimized my feelings, ignore my wishes and ridicule the profession when comparing it to yours. Eventually enough was enough.

I really was in love you. And I still do love you. Very much. Please know that I sincerely mean every word that I’ve written on this page. I hope you find someone who’ll make you happier than I did. Until we meet again.

xxoo,

Jack

Yeah? Well, I hope you catch a man-eating virus and die penniless and alone on the desperately middle-class streets of Berwyn.

I threw my glass against the kitchen wall. It shattered across the tiled floor and my deliciously juicy malbec slowly trickled down the wall. I didn’t care. Nothing seemed to matter at that point. Jack and I were officially over. Everything that was going to be said had been said. There was nothing more that I could do. Nothing more that I could do except cry.

Avery and the Letter

2011-06-15T13:30:00.005-05:00

Dear Avery,

I know that you will be both hurt and angry when you read this letter. I am sorry for that. I really hate ending our relationship this way, but I feel—in the deepest part of my heart—that moving out while you are at work is the best way to preserve what I pray will ultimately be a friendship. In time, I can only hope you that you will feel the same.

xxoo,

Jack

Avery and the Grifter

2011-06-14T13:30:00.003-05:00

I stood, mouth agape, in my living room. The television was gone. Had I been robbed? As I ran toward the media console, I noticed that its lower cabinet was slightly ajar and more than half of my music and video collection was missing.

I began to panic. How could I have been burglarized? This is a secure building in an excellent neighborhood. Simms, the doorman, had said anything when we spoke just five minutes ago.

Oh my goodness, I immediately thought. Could the thief still be in the apartment?

I crept toward the bedrooms. My heart was in my throat. I pictured the headline as it would run in the Sun-Times: LOCAL GAY MAN DUMPED THEN JUMPED. It wasn’t a pretty picture. Kicking open the master bedroom door (as I’d seen Benson and Stabler to so many times on Law & Order: SVU) I quickly scanned the quarters. No one there. I inched into the room and silently entered the adjoining bathroom. No one there either.

Suddenly, I heard a loud THUMP come from Jack’s office. Oh no, I thought to myself. I’m going to be murdered. Back in the bedroom hallway, I grabbed a broomstick—the only weapon I could think to grab—from the opened linen closet and made my way toward Jack’s office. The door was closed. I took a deep breath and then kicked it open, again SVU-style.

No one was in the room but the cats. The loud THUD was a book they’d knocked off of the windowsill. I sighed with relief. It wasn’t a break-in. No sooner had I calmed down did a knot form in the pit of my stomach.

Jack’s office was nearly empty. His computer? Gone. The pictures of us on one of our many vacations to New Orleans? Gone. Instinctively, I ran back to the master bedroom and violently opened the closet door. None of Jack’s clothes remained.

Jack didn’t leave, I said to myself, He wouldn’t leave like this.

We’d both agreed to go through our belongings and separate them together. This was as much for my own closure as it was to insure that he didn’t take anything I wanted to keep. Apparently, he decided not to live up to our agreement, but rather chose to steal away into the night like a grifter.

I noticed an envelope taped to the back of the front door. Written on it, in Jack’s handwriting, were two words: I’m sorry.

Avery Comes Clean to His Colleagues

2011-06-13T13:30:00.007-05:00

I’d been so nervous about telling my co-workers that Jack and I were finished, although I’m not sure why. I guess I was afraid of being judged. No one wants to look like a failure, particularly with colleagues. Losing the respect of your colleagues can feel like a death in the family. Think about it. The average person spends more waking hours at work than anywhere else. No one wants to be the outcast. No matter how we dress it up, the world is really just one big high school.

The women I work with, however, surprised me. They weren’t judgmental at all. In fact, they were more supportive than I could have ever imagined. They also felt obliged to let me in on their true feelings about Jack.

“I never thought that the two of you were a perfect match”

“I concur. He was a bit uppity for my tastes.”

“I heard that. Always looking down his nose—as if his doo-doo don’t stink!”

Thanks, ladies. Perhaps—next time—you’d care to share your thoughts before I move in, merge finances and purchase an apartment with an uppity doo-doo head? That’s alright. It’s the thought that counts.

I left my shift in a much better mood than when I’d arrived. Jack’s and my conversation, the horrible rainy weather and my fender bender were a distant memory. I even made my usual small talk with Simms the doorman, before boarding the lift to “heaven on 14”, wear a big glass of wine and a Unisom awaited me.

When the elevator reached my floor, I calmly walked toward our apartment. My apartment. Maybe Jack moving out wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. I’d been single before. There really are worse things than being alone, such as… such as… I give you examples later.

I put the key in the lock and turned. The door slowly swung open. Everything was eerily quiet. I stepped into the entry way and slowly made my way into the living room. My jaw dropped. I could not believe what I was witnessing.

Avery Learns That Reinforcements Will Be Arriving Soon

2011-06-09T13:30:00.009-05:00

Surprisingly, I was only 20 minutes late for work. I quickly found a parking spot and raced into the hospital. Just as I was about to step in to the elevator my cell phone rang. I answered.

“Sorry I missed your call,” Jasper said, “I was at the liquor store.” He’d been where I desperately wanted to be. “I saw you called,” he continued, “What’s up.”

“Nothing,” I replied, covering. “Just a little car accident.”

“What?!?!” he exclaimed. I could hear a glass crashing in the background.

“It’s no big deal,” I assured him. “It was just a little fender bender. No real damage was done.”

Jasper got quiet. “Hello?” I asked. Still nothing. After a moment I could hear the sound of ice in a cocktail shaker.

“Sorry,” Jasper finally replied, “refill time.” Jasper took a moment to sip his freshly made martini then continued. “I can’t let you do this.”

“Do what?” I asked. I tried to play innocent but knew exactly what he was driving at.

“You’re self-destructing.

“Nonsense.” I was covering and he knew it.

“Avery, you crashed your car. Have you seen a therapist?”

“Yes.” I replied sheepishly.

“Oh my goodness. You’ve got a crush on him!”

“Do not!” I protested. I was lying through my teeth. This is the problem with friends you’ve had since childhood. They know all too well how to read between the lines. This can be both a blessing and a curse. In this instance, however, it was a blessing.

“Well, I’m putting an end to this,” Jasper continued.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I’m coming to Chicago. I arrive on Friday.”

With that, Jasper excused himself to tend to arriving guests. I hung up the phone and got on the elevator. At that moment, I knew that things were going to be looking up.

Avery Has No Friends

2011-06-08T13:30:00.003-05:00

The plain clothed police officer was much nicer that I thought she would be. Apparently, she has just finished working and was heading home. The accident was completely her fault, and she didn’t try to argue otherwise. Unfortunately, because she was a police officer, she was required to dispatch a third-party to take the report.

She returned to her car, I slumped into my driver’s seat, and we waited. I looked at the clock. 6:58 PM. There was no way I could make it into work in two minutes. I quickly dialed the hospital on my cell. My colleague completely understood. She told me to get there when I get there and to “take my time.”

Staring through my rain soaked windshield, I noticed the plain clothed police officer talking on her cell phone. I wondered what that conversation entailed. Was she talking to her husband? I imagined the discourse.

“I’ve been in an accident… No, no, no, I’m fine…Yes, dear. I know I should be more careful on the road… We’re going to have to cancel the reservations… I know. I was looking forward to Maggiano’s… Uh, huh… Well there’s no reason to waste the babysitter. Why don’t you take two steaks out of the freezer and we’ll have our date night at home…”

It was a lovely thought, but it left me feeling lonely. I wanted someone to call. Someone who’d ask me if I was alright, who’d warn me to drive more carefully, to suggest we meet for a drink after my shift to call my nerves.

I searched through my phone’s contact list:

Jack: There’s no way I’d call him.

My Parents: I don’t think so. The only thing I’d get from them is a long lecture about traffic safety and the need to be more responsible when operating a motor vehicle on the dangerous streets of Chicago. No thank you.

I continued to scroll through the names. Everyone was either a casual acquaintance or no one that I’d consider turning to in a time of need. I called Jasper in New York. After about five rings, I was met with the familiar voice.

“Hi, you’ve reached Jasper. I can’t come to the—”

I slammed down the phone. It’s sobering to discover that your support system consists of only four people—scratch that—three people now that Jack was no longer in my life. What’s worse was the realization that I really don’t like to talk to my parents often and Jasper lived 700 miles away.

Once the third party officer arrived, we completed the proper paperwork and I was on my way to the hospital. Into the lion’s den, I should say. I was sure that the ladies in my unit would be brutal when they learned about the status of my relationship. And as lonely as I felt in the moment, I couldn’t wait.

Avery is Late for Work

2011-06-07T13:30:00.004-05:00

It all happened so quickly. I barely remember a thing. One second, I’m cruising down the street toward my hospital then BANG. Although I was shaken, there didn’t seem to be any immediate damage. Nothing dramatic, such as the airbags deploying, occurred. I only hoped that the driver of the car I’d rear-ended could say the same.

I looked at the clock: 6:45 PM. Good grief. I was due at the hospital at 7:00. I took a deep breath and chose not to panic. As long as there wasn’t any serious damage, the driver and I would simply exchange information and be on our way. No big deal.

The rain continued to pour, making the information exchange more difficult that it sounds. I began to dig around the back seat for the umbrella I kept in the car for emergencies such as these. Unfortunately, all I could feel was carpet. Suddenly, I remembered that Jack had taken my umbrella to work one morning when he couldn’t find his. Apparently, he’d never returned it. All together now:

I hate Jack.

Lying on the passenger seat next to me was last month’s issue of CS—that’s Chicago Social to us old-timers. Perfect. I could use it to cover my head as I approached the other driver’s car. Unintentionally, I opened the magazine to a page of party pictures taken at an event at \ Nordstrom. Who’s smiling faces do I see front and center? You’ve got it. Jack and Me. It really does pour when it rains.

I didn’t have time to dwell on this. My thoughts were interrupted by the driver of the other car who was now briskly tapping on my window. I rolled it down.

“Are you alright?” I asked with all sincerity.

“Yes. You?”

I confirmed that I was in stable condition. This was going to be a breeze. She was fine. I was fine. There seemed to be minimal damage. There wouldn’t need to be a police report, and I would make it to work on time.

“Should we exchange information?” I offered. I’d actually never been in a car accident before.

“Actually, I’m a police officer,” the other driver replied. “I need to see your license and registration, please.”

This was obviously going to be an incredibly long night.

Avery. Naked.

2011-06-06T13:30:00.003-05:00

My mind raced as I drove to work later that evening. The conversation Jack and I’d had earlier had really taken a toll on me. I couldn’t believe that he’d seriously think I’d part with my animals. That said, I was proud of myself. I’d really stood my ground.

Dr. Drexel Carrington a/k/a the good doctor says that I have to strongly assert my wishes in order to get what I want. He tells me this at every one of our sessions. I won’t go into the details at this very moment as to why voicing my desires is so hard, but—needless to say—the good doctor would be very happy with the way I’d handled Pet-gate.

No sooner had I pat myself on the back, did I begin dreading what I’d soon experience at work. Admitting to myself that my relationship had failed was one thing. The thought of having to deliver the news to my co-workers was another. I’d feel inept. I’d feel like a failure.

I know, I know. There’s no reason to feel the way. The women in my nursing unit have always been supportive of me—cheering me on and providing a shoulder for nearly a decade. But this situation was different. This wasn’t a battle with an uncooperative doctor. This wasn’t my annoyance with my slothful older brother. always worked diligently to present a perfect personal life. Now I’d be forced to admit that my life had fallen apart. Tonight, my colleagues would discover that the emperor had no clothes. Those thoughts, however, were abruptly interrupted.

It suddenly began to rain—no, not rain. It suddenly began to pour. I couldn’t see a thing. I turned on the windshield wipers, but the rain can down too hard for even their highest speed. The next 20 seconds were a blur. I heard the sounds of tires screeching. I felt the unexpected surprise of a loud car horn. And I saw red break lights.

Crash.

Avery and the Cats

2011-06-02T13:30:00.000-05:00

I adopted Bertie long before Jack came into my life. Although I’d always wanted a pet, my parents would never allow me to have one. Not that I was surprised, because this was often the case during my childhood—“No, Avery, you can’t play the violin. Take up your older brother’s hand-me-down guitar”—but I digress. In retrospect, getting a cat may have been a passive aggressive way for me to stick it to my parents, with whom I was still living with at the time.

It’s often said that you don’t choose your pets. They choose you. I visited an animal adoption agency and was taken into a room filled with cats. All seemed preoccupied except for Bertie, who made a beeline for me. For the next 15 minutes he didn’t leave my side. He was a beautiful blond tabby—I think I previously mentioned my family’s blond German fetish—and was named after one of my favorite childhood characters. I adopted him immediately.

Fast forward to my bachelor’s loft in the West Loop, Jack (who’d by then moved in) and I’d decided that, with both of us working so many hours, Bertie needed a playmate. Off we were again to the animal adoption agency. In we went into that same room filled with cats.

As we stood and watched the preoccupied cats play, one cat in particular took an interest in us. In fact, he marched directly over and lay across my feet. I couldn’t get rid of him. His name was Bouncer and he was ours. Since that day—Jack’s birthday—Bertie and Bouncer have gotten along famously.

For this very reason, I couldn’t possibly take Jack seriously when he told me that he wanted custody of Bouncer. He was very sore about my stance, stating that Bouncer had been a birthday gift and using vile and offensive terms like “Indian giver.” Regardless, I held my ground. Separating the cats would be cruel. Furthermore, there was no way in H-E double hockey sticks I was going to relinquish Bertie. Bertie had been with me long before Jack came into the picture and, as it seemed, would continue to be with me long after Jack took his final bows.

Finally, Jack changed the subject. We agreed to reconvene the following morning after my shift at the hospital. He’d taken the day off. We’d separate our belongings and he’d leave for Berwyn (I can barely say the word without heaving). That was the end of the cat conversation. So I thought. Little did I know, Jack was still very upset about the ordeal. He would end up taking revenge in the cruelest way imaginable.

Avery Considers Homicide

2011-06-01T13:30:00.002-05:00

Alright, so maybe I exaggerated a little. I didn’t exactly punch Jack in the beezer when he said, “I wish you the best,” after I told him I’d be buying the condominium myself. In fact, I didn’t punch him at all. Yes, I wanted to go postal. I wanted to pretend he was an annoying Chihuahua and I a gun wielding mail carrier. I wanted to him to feel as powerless, hopeless, confused and scared as he’d made me feel. But I didn’t.

Chris Rock once said—and I’m paraphrasing here—that you’ve never truly been in love unless you’ve considered committing homicide. I guess no one could ever accuse me of loving Jack.

“When will you move out?” I asked him.

“I don’t know. There’s so much to do before then.”

“That’s an understatement,” I replied.

Jack was correct. Lots needed to be done before we said our final goodbyes. Our CD collection needed to be divided. He needed to disassemble and remove his office desk and the other tacky furniture left over from his dorm days. I’d always hated that furniture. On more than one occasion I’d threatened to burn it. Be careful what you wish for, I guess.

“I just thought of something, Avery.”

He spoke slowly and quietly, as though he were choosing his words very carefully. I immediately tensed. The tone was that same he used when telling me that he no longer loved me. He spoke just as succinctly when he said that he’d be moving out of our home. He delivered his “yeah” just as softly when he confirmed that there was another man.

“Yes, Jack?” I held my breath and waited for the next in the list of bombshells I’d received in less than 48 hours.

“Well,” he slowly replied. I hated the way he was dragging out his words. The mix of anticipation and dread killed me. This was not going to be good.

“Get on with it,” I urged, unable to wait another second.

“Avery, I want to keep the cats.”

If Chris Rock’s words were true, I was more in love with Jack at that moment than I’d ever been.

Avery and Jack’s Domestic Bliss… That’s a Wrap

2011-05-31T13:30:00.005-05:00

the first time since this ordeal began that he showed any emotion at all. Too bad the emotion wasn’t his love for me. Or was it? I called his bluff.

“I said,” repeating myself as coolly as possible, “I’m not calling the landlord to get out of the lease.”

“But I’m not staying here,” he replied, confused.

“I know you’re not. I am”

Jack, unresponsive, blankly stared at me. I think that he might have thought that I’d had a minor stroke resulting from the previous 24-hour’s information overload. I continued my monologue.

“I realize, Jack, that you don’t want me anymore. I’m okay with that,” okay that was a lie. “But this is my home, and I love it dearly. Secondly, I’ve already paid a substantial non-refundable deposit toward to secure a mortgage. I’m moving forward with the purchase. Alone.”

Jack took a seat and remained silent. It was now my turn to determine whether he’d had a minor stroke. I have to admit, a part of me wished that—since I’d called his bluff—he’d fold. I wished that he’d tell me this had all been an elaborate (albeit twisted) game, and that we could continue on with our life together. Our domestic bliss. But, alas, it wasn’t meant to be.

“I wish you the best,” he said having lost what little emotion he’d just exhibited. My mind raced a mile a minute.

I wish you the best? Is that really all you have to say? What a jackhole. What a waste of time you’ve been, sending me to New York on some wild goose chase, with the false hope that we could rebuild what he had. What garbage. I’m glad you’re leaving. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.

I’m not sure if it was the emotional stress of the death of our relationship, the mental fatigue of my time with the good doctor, too much booze—or all of the above—but I was suddenly overcome. Naomi Campbell described it best when explaining her violent outbursts to Oprah. I stopped breathing. I saw red. My jaw clenched and my shoulders tensed. My fists tightened and—I swear it was involuntarily, officer—I punched him. I punched him right in the beezer.

I wish you the best as well, Jack.

Avery and Jack’s Domestic Bliss… Take Three

2011-05-26T13:30:00.006-05:00

The first apartment that Billy took Jack and I to view was in a modern hi-rise situated right in the heart of the Loop. It had two bedrooms—we’d decided that Jack needed a home office—one and a half baths and a balcony. Jack loved it. Then again, Jack would love anything. Melrose Park… Irving Park… shoebox in the City with Avery.

“We’re do we go for late night munchies?” I asked. Although the Loop is the heart of downtown Chicago, the blocks surrounding this building were dead after business hours. Next.

Billy took Jack and I to see more apartments: River North, Gold Cost, South Loop, New East Side, but I was displeased with any of them: too small, an awkwardly shaped room, ugly bathroom tile, shag carpeting left over from an era before my time. Each was lacking something—that va-va-voom—I was searching for.

After the seventh showing, Jack became frustrated. “Just pick,” he would yell at me. He couldn’t understand that I didn’t want to settle. This apartment was more than a cot and a squat. This apartment represented the next step in our lives together. It would be the foundation to our future. One day, when we were old and gray, we’d tell our grandkids with great pride all about the first home we’d built together.

A few days after seeing the last apartment, I received a call from Billy. “Come immediately,” he said excitedly. “I’ve found the perfect place for you and Jack.”

The doorman, who introduced himself as Sims, smiled as he led us to the elevator. Billy educated us on the buildings history as we rode up to the 14^th floor. This was a condominium unit owned by a man who’d moved to St. Louis for work. He’d wanted to sell it, but, as a result of his need to relocate immediately, was open to a rent to own situation.

Our jaws dropped when we entered the apartments. The space was so large and open, and the kitchen and bathrooms were newly remodeled. Nothing but miles and miles of blue Lake Michigan could be seen through the wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling windows that lined each room. It felt as though we were sitting on top of the world. We were home.

These memories raced through my mind as I waited for our landlord to answer the telephone. I prayed with each ring that he wouldn’t answer. Although I’d (barely) accepted that Jack and I were over, I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving this place.

With that thought, I hung up the telephone. Jack gave me a strange look. Did the landlord not answer? It wouldn’t have mattered had the landlord answered. In that split second, I’d decided that I was not leaving the apartment.

Avery and Jack’s Domestic Bliss… Take Two

2011-05-25T13:30:00.008-05:00

Jack and I had no clue as to how to begin our apartment search. He, the quintessential suburbanite, has no preference or concept as to which neighborhood would be appropriate for us. Although saddened at the prospect of losing my once perfect bachelor pad, I was eagerly looking forward to accomplishing a goal I’d set for myself as a little kid growing up in Oak Brook. I wanted to move downtown.

“But, Avery,” you’re all saying to yourself, “You lived in the West Loop. That’s downtown.”

You are correct. The West Loop is downtown, but the West Loop wasn’t the downtown I envisioned long ago. I wanted to be surrounded by the city’s tallest buildings. I wanted to step right outside my door and have no delay when hailing a taxi. I wanted to be walking distance to Michigan Avenue, Lake Michigan and all those other points of interest that we native Chicagoans make fun of tourists for loving.

“Sure. Whatever,” said Jack.

After all of my work with Dr. Drexel Carrington, I now have to wonder if Jack cared at all. As I said before, I believe his true motivation for “shaking up” with me was so he did not have to move in with his mother in Melrose Park or his dads in Irving Park. At the time, I gave this no thought. I was moving on up!

Through a friend’s referral, we connected with an amazingly friendly—and dreamy—real estate agent named Billy. Billy stood about six feet tall, had ocean blue eyes and spoke in a soothing baritone. His red hair sat messily on top of his head in a way that can only be achieved with the help of a $300 stylist and lots of product. Don’t cha just love a ginger?

“If it’s downtown you want,” Billy said, “then its downtown you’re going to get.”

With those words, we set out to find new diggs for Jack and me. We set out to find an apartment that met both of our needs. We set out to find a building that offered every amenity we desired—central air, a dishwasher and a doorman. We set out to build a home that would be overflowing with the most important amenity:

Love.

Avery and Jack’s Domestic Bliss Part I

2011-05-24T13:30:00.018-05:00

Memories flooded back as I dialed our landlord. Jack and I had once been so happy in this apartment. We knew that we’d discovered our own piece of heaven the moment we’d first entered it.

Shortly after Jack graduated from college, he moved into my West Loop loft. It was bliss in one and a half rooms. He’d received and accepted a job offer from a company located in Schaumburg which allowed him to work from home two days a week. This worked out perfectly for us.

My shift at the hospital began promptly at 11:00PM. Jack and I would have dinner together each evening, either preparing a delicious meal at home or going out to one of the many establishments on Restaurant Row. Wishbone was always favorite. During dinner, Jack would tell me about his day, filling me in on all of his work gossip and—on days that he telecommuted—any good television I’d missed that afternoon. Afterward, I’d head off to work and he to bed.

I return home the following morning as Jack was preparing for his day at the office. We’d have breakfast together each day. Over eggs and coffee—champagne for me (7:00AM is my happy hour!), I would tell him about my night, filling him in on all of my work gossip and any breaking news that’d happened as he slept. Afterward, he’d head off to work and I to bed.

The newness of this arrangement, however, wore off rather quickly. Although our schedules complimented each other perfectly, the loft didn’t. The living and sleeping spaces were separated only by a half wall. While this setup worked perfectly as a bachelor pad, it was hardly ideal for coupledom.

On days that he worked from the apartment, I couldn’t get any sleep. I’d hear him typing and faxing and teleconferencing and whatever else-ing cubicle-dwellers do. Jack suffered just the same hardship. On my nights off, he’d hear my phone call and television shows and my using the blender when making margaritas for Jasper’s and my bi-weekly tele-cocktail party.

After two months of sleep deprivation, we’d both became irritable and unpleasant to be around. Enough was enough. For the good of our relationship and respective careers, we had to find a home that was more appropriate for our lifestyle. And what a search that was.

Avery Recites a Mantra… or Two

2011-05-23T13:30:00.005-05:00

Jack and I stood face-to-face in front of the refrigerator. I froze. When I was young, my uncle in Milwaukee would take me and my cousins on camping trips. Before we ventured out into the wild, he would always remind us how to behave should we encounter a large predator.

“Remember,” Uncle Heinrich (the women—and 10% of the men—in my family are really into German guys. More about that later) would say. “Stand completely still. Sudden movements could lead to an unfortunate situation.”

Although we never had to put that lesson into practice, I’ve never forgotten it. Perhaps I was channeling it that morning. Perhaps if I stood completely still, Jack wouldn’t notice me. He’d graze right past me, through the kitchen and into the abyss (or suburbs) from whence he came.

No such luck.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” he said to me. I figured the safest thing to do was to answer his question with another question.

“Why aren’t you at work?”

“I spent last night at a friend’s, and took the day off so we could continue our conversation. Figured you’d have cooled off by know.”

I stifled the string of expletives that languished on my tongue. Now was not the time to begin another fight. What was that saying that Whitley Gilbert on “A Different World”, used to repeat? “Relax, relate, release.”

“I’ve spoken with my father,” Jack continued. “I’m moving in with him and Stan.”

I haven’t told you this, but, by this point, Jack’s father Rodney and his domestic partner Stan has long moved from Irving Park to a quaint little bungalow in—are you ready for this—Berwyn. Jack was leaving me, the cats and our fabulous condominium with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Navy Pier to live with two middle-aged wannabe Village People in BERWYN? I needed a drink.

He continued his telling me his plans as I headed for the bar. He’d been thinking a lot about the fact that we’d signed a contract on the apartment (Good to know!). He’d decided that we should speak to our landlord. Maybe he’d let us out of the contract if we could find another buyer (Get real!). If not, Jack’s okay with buy the place and living as—you’ll need to sit down for this—roommates.

Relax, relate, release.

“I’ll take care of it, Jack.” Those five words had become my mantra. You might even say it was the slogan of our relationship. I’ve taken care of everything since the beginning, so there’s no reason I should stop now that were almost at the finish line. No one likes a quitter.

I reached for the telephone and began dialing the landlord. How would I possibly explain this predicament to him?

Avery Hates Jack Part II

2011-05-20T13:30:00.001-05:00

As soon as I’d opened our apartment door, I could hear the sound of the bedroom television. My mood—brought upon by my first meeting with the good doctor—deflated. I glanced at my watch. 12:37PM. What is Jack doing home? I asked myself. He should still be at work.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. I hate Jack. I firmly believe he’s the ultimate jackhole. First, he ambushes me—after a long night at the hospital—with news that our seven-year relationship is over. He then storms out without another word. Next, he ambushes me—after a long afternoon with no Xanax— with the news that he’s already seeing someone else. He then storms out again without another word. Now, after I’ve finally—with the help of a dreamy therapist—decided to calmly accept my fate, he ambushes me for a third time.

I wasn’t ready for this yet. My plans for a relaxing bubble bath followed by a leisurely lunch of contemporary Italian cuisine at Pelago were now thrown out of the window. An afternoon of tipsy shopping at Ralph Lauren after drinks on the 96^th floor of the John Hancock? Forget about it. This afternoon was supposed to prepare me for Jack’s return. It was supposed to ease my spirit so I could rationally participate in the dialogue that he and I so desperately needed to have.

Not yet ready to face him, I retreated to the kitchen. I figured I could drown my anxiety in the final slice of chocolate cake left over from dinner two nights ago. When I opened the door of the stainless-steel Sub-Zero, I was further disappointed to discovered the cake was missing. Apparently, he’d eaten it.

While I’d be seeking refuge from my emotional anguish, Jack was at home. Eating my last slice of chocolate cake. I yelled an expletive and slammed the refrigerator door. To my surprise, Jack stood behind it stone-faced. On his lower lip, a dab of chocolate frosting. In his hand, a crumb filled dessert plate.

There we were. Face to face. Ready to begin round two.

All together now:

I hate Jack.

Avery and His Mother

2011-05-19T13:30:00.000-05:00

My head had been cleared during the 45 minutes I’d spent with Dr. Drexel Carrington. The anger I felt toward Jack had all but subsided. Don’t get me wrong. I was still hurt. But in conversing with the good doctor I was able to, however temporarily, see through my emotions and view Jack’s actions and our entire seven year relationship from the perspective of an unbiased third-party.

I was not the best partner to Jack. I didn’t always listen as well as I should have. I wasn’t always as supportive as he needed me to be. But the same could also be said for him. Jack didn’t listen as well as he should have. He rarely was as supportive as I needed him to be. He alienated those around us, embarrassing me in the process, more times than I can remember.

Not very long ago, maybe a month or two, I met my mother for our quarterly afternoon of lunch and shopping. We catch up during these outings on all of the every occurrences that we’ve missed in each other’s lives—work, vacation plans and that sort of thing. She’d help me sort out many of life’s dilemmas on these excursions. My mother is direct and to the point, even if it hurts my feelings. And she’s usually correct.

This meeting, however, was different. As we browsed the shops of Oakbrook Center, her conversation was very light in tone. Something was up. She'd never before spent two hours making idle chit chat. Not her style. Something was on her mind. I finally confronted her after we’d taken our seats at Maggiano's.

“What’s the deal, woman?” I asked her in a playful tone.

“Well, Avery,” she replied slowly, clearly choosing her words very carefully, “Daddy and I a little concerned, as are some of the other members of the family.”

Mother explained that all anyone could talk about since our family’s large Christmas get-together was Jack. More specifically, Jack's attitude. Apparently, the most important people in my life had come to determine that he was impolite and condescending. While I don’t remember the conversation verbatim, I do remember the word “bully” being used.

I immediately took the offense. How dare she insult my life partner? How dare she attempt to assassinate the character of the man I love? Realizing she’d hit a nerve, mother changed her approach.

“I just want you to be careful, Avy.”

She spoke in the same calm tone she’d used when comforting me a child.

“The most important thing in life is for you to be treated well," she continued, "with love, kindness and respect. Anything less is unacceptable.”

We finished our lunch in silence. Her words were honest and accurate. Unfortunately, I wasn’t ready to receive them.

This conversation was revisited during my first session with the good doctor. The anger I felt toward Jack was not all his doing. I had been mistreated. Correction. I had ALLOWED myself to be mistreated. Even worse, I’d never properly communicated my feelings to him. Now it was too late. He’d moved on. And so would I.

Avery Loves Psychobabble

2011-05-18T13:30:00.007-05:00

I left Dr. Drexel Carrington’s office on cloud nine. My secret crush on him aside, the previous 45 minutes left me feel reinvigorated. Under the good doctor’s guidance, I was going to “breakthrough” this “mental crisis” and “reaffirm” my “self-worth”. I love psychobabble.

The sun shone brightly as I sauntered down Michigan Avenue. Everyone seemed to be smiling. Today was going to be a good day. First, I’d head home and take a luxurious bubble bath. Next, I’d treat myself to lunch at Pelago, followed by a drink at the Signature Lounge. Touristy, I know. But I can think of no better place to make a person feel as though he were on top of the world. The afternoon would conclude with a little retail therapy at Ralph. Mr. Lauren always makes me happy.

This renewed energy must have been written across my face. The moment I entered my building Simms, the daytime doorman, returned my smiled.

“You’re in excellent spirits, Avery. Didya win the lottery or something?”

“Nope.” I replied. “Jack’s moving out.”

I didn’t stop walking until I reached the elevator. I can only imagine the puzzled look on Simms’ ruggedly handsome, middle-aged face.

Once I’d reached the 14^th floor, I headed toward my front door intent on making lemonade out of lemons, sangria out of sour grapes, apple martinis out of rotten—well, you get the idea. There was a lot that still needed to be determined. When would Jack be moving out? What would we do about separating our finances? How were we going to get out of this real estate contract?

I shook those thoughts out of my head. Those thoughts were for later. This day of self-pampering would help me prepare for that discussion. This day would help me find that calm and collected space. Later, when Jack returned, I would be ready to broach these topics in a rational and civilized manner.

That was the plan. My smile, however, faded as I entered my apartment. Jack was back.

Avery Lives Out Loud

2011-05-17T13:30:00.002-05:00

“Well, don’t just stand there. Come on in.”

Dr. Drexel Carrington ushered me into the foyer and together we continued to his library.

“Did you find the building easily?” he asked.

“Yes.”

I had suddenly caught a case of the bashfuls. The good doctor was so good looking, I couldn’t speak. For the next 20 minutes, I answered his questions with short one-word responses.

One of my favorite movies is a film called “Living Out Loud.” In it, the protagonist—a posh nurse with a fantastic apartment and killer highlights—has recently been dumped by her husband. Depressed and resigned to living the rest of her life alone, she spends her nights downing martinis at a local jazz club where, one particular evening, she has a chance encounter with a hot stranger. At that very moment, she decides that all is not lost. “Aha,” she says to herself, “This’ll be my new story. This is how I met my second husband.” I was beginning to understand the sentiment.

Dr. Carrington’s apartment was nicely appointed. From what I could see there was a formal living room, dining room, library and at least two bedrooms. I could be very at home here, I thought to myself. The walls of his library were covered in attractive light grey wallpaper. Nice. He invited me to sit on the Mid Century Modernsofa (just my style), under a contemporary print that looked more Ikea than MCA, Chicago. That’s okay, I told myself, My Lempika will be the perfect replacement.

The handsomely attired doctor sat directly across from me. I sat silently for a moment just taking him in. His perfectly coiffed hair of pepper, lightly salted. His piercing blue eyes framed by dark rimmed Versace spectacles. He was outfitted in a crisp dark purple button-down and perfectly pressed black slacks. Both looked to be made of the most luxurious fabric known to mankind.

Yes, I thought to myself, This’ll be my new story. This is how I met my second husband.

“So, Avery,” he continued. His voice was deep and soothing. “Why have you come to see me?”

Oh right. This wasn’t a blind date. I was there for therapy.

Avery Meets Dr. Carrington

2011-05-16T13:30:00.017-05:00

The sun pierced through my floor-to-ceiling bedroom windows. The Following the dramatic The previous evening’s confrontation between Jack and I had been so dramatic, I’d neglected to draw the blinds. I looked at the clock. 10:30AM. My appointment with Dr. Drexel Carrington was scheduled for 11:30.

I didn’t feel like getting dressed. I couldn’t be bothered to brush my teeth. And I had absolutely no interest in spilling my cuts to an old guy in an armchair. All I wanted to do was crawl back under the covers and not wake up for at least three months. I psyched myself up for the journey. I’d quickly get ready, hop on over, tell the old man my woes and be back in bed with a carton of Häagen-Dazs and a bar of Toblerone before the opening credits of “The Bold and the Beautiful” had completed rolling.

Jack had not returned home after storming out. As I brushed my teeth, showered and dressed for my outing, I wondered if he ever would. Although I’d resigned myself to the fact that our relationship really was over, I couldn’t help but wonder how we’d go about dissolving our partnership.

Most of our possessions, like artwork, clothing and electronics, were considered jointly owned. The laptop that I write these very words with, for example, was purchased by Jack as a birthday present for me. Should I now return it? Likewise, should I repossess the watches and jewelry I’d gifted him over the years? And what about belongings that one of us brought into the relationship that the other couldn’t bear to part with? (The majority of our vast Disney DVD collection belonged to Jack, but I’d kill him before I’d let him leave with “Beauty and the Beast!”).

It took me no time to get to the good doctor’s office. Actually, the good doctor’s office was an apartment. Dr. Drexel Carrington runs his practice out of the library of his Gold Coast condominium. The doorman announced my arrival and pointed me toward the mahogany paneled elevator.

You can do this, I said to myself. Just forty-five minutes, and you’ll be back in the comfort of your 500 thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets, where you can feel sorry for yourself all afternoon.

Once I’d reached the fifth floor, I made my way to apartment 502. I lightly tapped on the door.

“Just a moment,” came the voice from the inside.

Funny. He didn’t sound like an old fuddy-duddy. After a moment, the door swung open and I came face to face with the man I would come to know my darkest innermost thoughts and secrets.

“Hello,” he said. “You must be Avery. I’m Dr. Carrington. Please come in.”

I couldn’t speak. Dr. Carrington was drop dead gorgeous. Good think I decided on brushing my teeth.

Avery Begins Act II. Places, Please.

2011-05-13T13:30:00.003-05:00

I contacted Dr. Drexel Carrington, a therapist previously been referred to me by a trusted colleague who’d fallen upon rough times of her own. She’d spoken very highly of him, saying he helped her view her problems in a realistic light, allowing her to take ownership of her role in creating those issues. I guess he’s the Dr. Phil of the Near North Side. As luck would have it, he was available to see me on the following day.

This wouldn’t be the first time that I’d tried therapy. I saw my first therapist shortly after my 21^st birthday, with the goal of helping navigate the rough waters one encounters when navigating toward adulthood. I grew exponentially during those sessions. I learned a lot about myself and began to concretely define my value system. Yet, nearly 10 years later, I felt as though I was back where I’d started.

Jane Fonda believes that life is broken down into three acts. The first is your act of learning. It is when you make your mistakes. The second, which begins when you turn 30, is your act of working. You’ve made your mistakes and are now ready to put all that you’ve learned into practice. Your third and final act begins on your 60^th day on Earth. This is your act of reflection. When you look back on all you’ve learned, the mistakes you’ve made and the achievement you have accomplished.

When I first heard this theory, I laughed it off. Only an actress, I said to myself, would view life as though it were a three act play. On this day, however, I had to reevaluate my assessment. Maybe she was on to something.

The overture of my first act underscored a vignette of a relatively normal, if not idyllic, suburban childhood. The audience gasped when I came out of the closet, and cheered as I accomplished my goal of becoming a nurse. My first act ended with a dramatic thud. “Alone with my sorrows,” to quote Cole Porter, “down in the depths on the 90^th floor.”

Maybe Dr. Drexel Carrington would cue the orchestra to begin playing the entr’acte. Maybe this melodrama would continue, with our protagonist embarking on great adventures, triumphing over evil and ultimately finding love. Maybe the star of our show would live happily ever after. Maybe.

Avery. Alone.

2011-05-12T13:00:00.000-05:00

Once upon a time, I relished the thought of being alone. Remember being a teenager? Remember that moment when you’re standing at the threshold of adulthood? You knew you’d figured out all of life’s mysteries. The world, however, insisted you were still a child in need of protection and guidance. You were still under your parents’ stronghold, required to follow their rules. I remember that time in my life vividly. I couldn’t wait to be alone.

Being alone represented independence. It represented the freedom to do or say whatever I wanted to say. It represented the autonomy of going wherever I wanted whenever I wanted. It represented the ability to make my own choices. Being alone represented adulthood.

I was alone for a long time. I was alone at college, first in a dorm room, then in my own on-campus apartment. I was alone after college when I moved into my parents’ coach house. Being alone felt fantastic. I had no curfew. I had no one telling me what I should or shouldn’t be eating. If my plans suddenly changed, I didn’t need to “check in” with anybody.

Unplanned jaunt to a concert in Milwaukee? No problem. Impulsive road trip just to see how far we could take I55 before running out of gas? I’m there.

Then one day I wasn’t alone. I had a constant companion. He was the first person I saw when I woke and the last person I saw before I fell asleep. When not at work, he was the person with whom I spent every waking hour.

Last minute party invitation? Let me check with Jack. A weekend in New York? I’ll have to talk with Jack. Shall I purchase rice milk or almond milk? What do you think, Jack? Is it cold in here? Do you mind if I close the window, Jack? I’m hungry. Are you hungry, Jack? What would you like for dinner, Jack? Where should we order from, Jack? Do you think their prices are too high, Jack? I’m in the mood for pasta, but, if you’re not, we can always order from another restaurant, Jack.

And now I was alone again. This time, however, it didn’t hold the same appeal. After seven years of not being alone, the word no longer represented independence. It no longer represented freedom. Being alone now represented boredom. Being alone now represented loneliness.

Do I want your unused theatre tickets? No, thank you. I have no one to go with. I should try that new restaurant? Thanks, but I couldn’t possibly dine alone. “Saturday Night Live” is hilarious tonight, don’t you think, kitties?

Stephen Sondheim wrote that “alone is alone. Not alive.” Never did words ring more true. I’d taken to talking to my cats for crying out loud. If I was ever going to get through this and move forward with my life, I knew that I couldn’t do it alone. I was going to need a therapist.

Avery and His Sobering Reality

2011-05-11T12:55:00.000-05:00

My mind raced from one topic to another as our coupledom disintegrated in the living room that evening. No sooner had I questioned Jack about not honoring his intentions to salvage our relationship, was I panicking about our pending real estate contract. Moments later, my thoughts had progressed to another realization.

I’m not sure why it took me so long to put two and two together, but suddenly it all seemed clear to me—the list, the lies, the abrupt decision to call it quits. I had to ask the question even though I wasn’t sure if I could accept the answer.

“Jack,” I whispered as calmly as possible, “Are you seeing someone else?”

He didn’t have to respond with words. His body language spoke loudly and clearly. His gaze veered toward the ground. He crossed his arms. His cheeks reddened. He let out a long sigh and took a seat on the sofa. I felt a pain deep in the pit of my stomach.

I wanted to know who he was seeing. I wanted to know how long they’d been seeing each other. I wanted to know if they’d shared each other’s secrets, just as Jack and I had.

Did this new man know that Jack’s favorite color is blue or that, when he’s sad, his favorite comfort food is macaroni and cheese covered in ketchup? Did he know that Jack’s childhood pet lizard, Blue Streak, is buried under a bench in a forest preserve near Melrose Park? Did he know that Jack’s happiest memories are of trips to Kiddieland as a 5 year old with his late uncle, Thomas, or that he’s afraid of heights, or that he wet the bed until he was 12 years old?

I didn’t ask these questions though. I didn’t have the nerve.

“I think you should leave,” I told him as I collected myself.

I retreated to the bathroom, where I locked the door and cried and cried. I cried for the happy memories Jack and I’d created. I cried for the future we’d never have. I cried for the beautiful apartment we’d found and the home we’d built together. I cried for Blue Streak and his pauper’s grave. I cried.

When I’d finished mourning, I slowly emerged from the bathroom. Jack was gone, the cats were asleep and I came to a sobering realization. For the first time in seven years, I was completely and utterly alone.