photo stolen from Okunola
Who knew posting one measly update a day would be so tough? Between love, work, friends, a dog, eyebrow waxes, beer, showering and sleeping I just do not know where the time goes.
Here are some amazing photos of our city shot by The Mister aka Okunola. He has quite an eye.
[@okjey on instagram]
It takes little to make me obsessive about something. I see something I like, I’m all in, going for the gusto. This usually only lasts a few weeks as I get bored quickly and don’t know how to finish what I start but I digress. Instagram has not bored me yet.
While I’m late in espousing my love for this iPhone application, I make up for it by constant use. I love hearting other people’s images. I love seeing folks heart my images. I click hashtags for everything from #chicago to #urban to #art to #kids to #flowers to #whatiwore. I cannot stop. I follow about 75 people on Instagram and I only know a handful personally. The rest I don’t really interact with in any other way, shape, or form. I just like their photos. Some shoot super artistic and beautiful snapshots that are plain old fun to look at while I value others for the peek into a life completely different than my own.
The problem is this: good old regular camera has taken a serious backseat, which means I’m losing what little skills I had in the DSLR department. It’s like speaking Spanish. When I lived in California I was constantly mistaken as second generation Mexican. In Chicago, my Spanish is so damn broken that yo tengo miedo when I have to speak it to people I don’t know.
I’m sure I’ll be both DSLR’ing and Instagramming the hell out of our new place but if you miss me in the meantime, follow me on Instagram and let’s be friends: my username is, you guessed it, urbancasita.
Chicago went from winter to summer in about twelve hours this week. Sunday was cold and rainy but since then I’ve worn a dress to work every single day. Without a jacket. It’s around ninety degrees as I type.
Midwestern cities do summer differently than other areas of the country. When I lived in California an eighty degree day meant nothing to me versus a fifty-five degree one. I just didn’t care; I knew that the next warm day was around the corner whether we were smack dab in the middle of December or at the tail end of July. Here, it’s different.
On Tuesday, the first time we passed the eighty degree mark, our neighborhood went insane. Spontaneous parties popped up on every block, parking was a joke, the main streets were filled with happy half-dressed people on their way here and there and we ended up on the back porch until well after midnight with our own spur of the moment get together, an impromptu moment made complete with a few Trader Joe’s delicious French style pizzas we thankfully had in the freezer.
Tomorrow we go back down to a high of seventy and a low of fifty-five. I’ll be sad, and the weekend will probably be a mess of rain and clouds, but the last three days have reminded me that Chicago is where I want to be for a very long time. I would put up with snow for an entire month more just for the summers that this city churns out. It’s that worth it.