A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Beach

The heat wave we've been having finally burst on Sunday and temperatures were in the frigid 80s, so I thought I’d finally take myself down to the beach.  All summer long I’ve been wanting one simple thing: an afternoon of reading on the sand, falling asleep with the sound of waves crashing a few feet away.  Insert your own Oprah moment here.

Last summer I found the beach pretty quickly, and that was back when I knew pretty much zero about Chicago geography, so I didn’t even bother Google-mapping my trip this weekend.  I figured I’d just wander until I got to the shore, like I did back when I was a greenhorn.

Well, I did wander, and that’s how I ended up the Lincoln Park Zoo for the first time.

I generally dislike zoos.  They’re inevitably hot, crowded, and full of miserable animals who are all like, Why am I heeeeeere?  I want to be chomping on my prey in the African plains/Arctic dessert/other awesome place, not sitting in this cave, eating this piece of grass, watching you watch me. 

But stumbling upon a zoo accidentally, when you’re by yourself and can go wherever you want, is much more pleasant. 

I found this black rhino chilling in the shade.  He got up and ate part of a tree branch and all the kids squealed.

I also found some wild African dogs, and after that I pretty much left because all of the big cats were off sleeping somewhere cool, and zoos are no fun if you can’t see any big cats.

The point is, I was so glad this happened.  I hadn’t been to the zoo before.  And without meaning to go there, I was there, and I didn’t even let myself be like GET OUT OF HERE RIGHT NOW WE’RE GOING TO THE BEACH HURRY UP.  What did it matter?  It didn’t.  Insert another Oprah moment here about spontaneity and accepting the present.

Then, as I continued on my way to the beach, I found several women’s rowing teams.  I think they were racing:

Wow, you can really tell what I was taking a picture of, right?

They made me want to start rowing competitively, just so I could wear a bikini top and look super hot and muscle in it, and I could get in a boat and start screaming and people would listen to me.

Anyhow, I made it to the beach, finally.  And I fell asleep on the sand.

It was a good day. 

En Route

Recently, in honor of SUMMERTIME!!!, my hours got changed slightly at work.  Not dramatically—I just come in and leave a half-hour later than usual—but it’s enough to give me an extra half-hour’s sleep, and it required me to learn The Rules of my new commute. 

During the rest of the year, I’ve pretty much had my commute down to a science that involves a healthy combination of reliance on the CTA Tracker and my own experiences with each bus and/or train.  I’ve also gotten to know some people quite well, even though we are strangers.  Seeing them for a few minutes every day is enough for a lifetime.  Know what I mean? 

Here are a few of the characters I’ve gotten to know, and whose faces I doubt I’ll see again until September when my schedule returns to normal:

The Ceremonial Smoker.  Middle-aged woman, slight, with a dark, bobbed haircut.  Every morning we get off the bus together and she makes a beeline for the awning of the Chase Bank, where she lights a cigarette and huffs it down before getting to the train.  I can just imagine her being like, This is MY time, dammit.

The Boy Next Door.  Nicely-dressed young professional.  Muscle Milk drinker.  Totally adorable.  One time this other guy drove by while the Boy Next Door and I were waiting for the bus at 6:30 a.m. and demanded directions to Magnolia Ave.  Boy Next Door said, with the slightest Southern drawl, “Magnol-ya?  Ah don’t know.  Ah apologize.”  My heart died of happiness.

Peanut Butter.  A thirty-something nurse with a Peter Pan haircut who rides a crowded bus eating a peanut butter sandwich on a regular basis.  Kudos on a healthy breakfast, but that early in the morning, in a crowded space, there are few smells more nauseating.

Rat’s Nest.  Older woman, petite, rides the bus to Hyde Park.  She reads books on a wide variety of topics and seems utterly normal except that her hair is always a gigantic mess.  What’s going on?  Does she not brush it?  I don’t know.

Angry Face.  I used to think this guy who rides from Hyde Park to the Loop every afternoon was a musician or something because he likes to gesture emphatically with his hands and face, and I thought he was conducting music in his head.  But now I think that he’s just having a fantasy argument with someone he hates.  Probably one of his coworkers.  I feel bad for Angry Face because I think he hates his job.

The Bear.  My favorite bus driver of all time.  I usually catch him on the way home from Hyde Park.  He’s a big guy with dreadlocks and a drawling voice.  When you say thank you to him, he says, “Uh-huh, watch your step,” really adorably.

Farewell til September, commuter friends.

The Best Thing Ever: #7

This weekend I had to go home to Kentucky very suddenly.  The reason was sad: my sweet Uncle Jack (who was actually a great-uncle) had died, and his funeral was Saturday. 

My family is huge, and even though I never got to know Uncle Jack very well, I knew he always meant a lot to my cousins, aunts and uncles, and grandparents.  It was important for me to take off work and be with them.

And because Jack was a beloved man who lived a long, successful life, the event was more of one of those “celebration of life” funerals than a somber affair.  There was singing, and dancing, and remembering, and laughing.  No one wore all black.  I wore a fuschia dress, for heaven’s sakes.  It was the best funeral I’ve ever been to.

Coming from Chicago, and with only a few hours to prepare for a trip home, I had to think quickly.  And that’s when the Megabus and I became friends.

Megabus is the best thing ever.

Here’s the secret of Megabus: it’s better than Greyhound. 

It’s a giant blue double-decker bus.

It doesn’t have “stations,” per se.  It just has stops, which consist of little blue signs in cities and towns throughout the East and Midwest.

That allows it to be monster cheap.  When I say monster cheap, I mean that I got a round-trip ticket from Chicago to Cincinnati, day of travel, for $82.50.

And the best part comes when you get on the bus, and maybe you have to cut in front of a person or two, but then you can sit on the top level in the very front.  Then you can take dorky pictures like this one:

You’re welcome.

And bless you, Uncle Jack, for a life well-lived and a family who knew that a fun, rollicking funeral was the kind you’d like the best.

Andersonville, Andersonville

Today my roommate and I visited Andersonville, the North Side neighborhood of Chicago known for its Swedish heritage.  (Shout out to my friend and fellow blogger Brittany: if you come to Chicago again, WE NEED TO VISIT THE SWEDISH AMERICAN HERITAGE MUSEUM.  That is all.)

Here are a few other things I learned about Andersonville:

It has a pretty strong Middle Eastern population, judging by all the Middle Eastern cafes we passed by.

It has a lot of design-y, arty stores where you can buy trendy end tables and such. 

It’s not the kind of place to go when you feel like browsing a bunch of boutiques, which is what we were going to do, but whatever on that.

I did find this sweet old Polish woman selling jewelry, and bought a gorgeous green amber ring:

Then we stopped at the bookstore Women and Children First, which yeah, borders a little bit on anti-men sentiments, but still had a lot of interesting books and things.

Finally, we had gluten-free crepes at Icosium Café, which is Algerian, and had $3 glasses of juice.

I had pomegranate.

Roommate had mango. 

We ate our gluten-free crepes and talked about our dreams for the future.

Thanks, Andersonville.

How to Run Your First 5K

      1.       Join a running club.  Doesn’t matter how big or important it is, just join a running club     so that you’ll actually feel obligated to run.

2.       Spend an obscene amount of money on fancy sports bras.

3.       Start running.  Become somewhat preoccupied with the thought of running when you’re at work, at school, wherever.  Google “mile splits” so that you can understand what everyone else is talking about.

4.       Start feeling superior over non-runners because OH GEE, YOU CAN RUN TWO MILES.

5.       Donate your old pants to charity because they start being all loose and mom jean-looking.

6.       Start feeling superior over non-runners because OH GEE, NOW YOU CAN RUN THREE MILES!

7.       Sign up for a 5K.

8.       Look down your nose at anything cotton.

9.       Run five miles on a whim and consider yourself the champion of the world.

10.   On race day, get up obscenely early.  Eat four Twizzlers for breakfast.  Drastically miscalculate how long it will take you to get to the race location.  Stand around when you get there, awkwardly waiting for the race to start. 

11.   When you cross the start line, run like hell for 3.1 miles.  Feel superior over the people in their vehicles who have to wait for ten minutes at an intersection so that you and everyone else can run past.

12.   Do a decidedly mediocre job at finishing.  Gorge yourself on pizza at 9:00 in the morning.  Decide that you are once again the champion of the world and you can’t wait to do it all over again.

Look Ma, I runnededed!!!

The Best Thing Ever: #100

The other day, it was payday, and I stopped by Nordstrom Rack.  After a week of scrimping and saving, I wanted to splurge a little bit.

I looked through a few dresses and sweaters, picked up a new bag, and thought maybe it’d be fun to get a new wallet to go with it.

That’s when I found this:

And my heart stopped.

It was perfect.  It was brilliant.  The little Degas-inspired ballerinas  reminded me of my years and years as a ballet dancer.  The leather gave it a sophisticated edge, and the way the leather was shaped and puckered gave it kind of that unique, artsy feel.

Then I looked at the price tag.  I died a little bit.  It was $80.

But it was too late.  The little ballerina clutch had already taken up residence inside me.  It was a part of who I was.

I pretended to deliberate with myself for another minute or two, then took a deep breath and walked up to the cash register.  The sweet cashier took the ballerina clutch delicately out of my hands.

“This is beautiful,” she said.  “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“I know!” I squealed.

She rang it up.  “And today is your lucky day,” she said, “because this is one cent.”

I stared at her for a few seconds.  “Um…what?”

“Yeah,” she said, and shrugged.  “Sometimes they put them in the system wrong, and there’s nothing I can do about it.  This costs one penny.” 

“Okay,” I said, after a moment of stunned silence.  “I’ll take it!”

Yes, this clutch is just a material object.  I don’t normally rely so much on material objects for my self-worth and completion of myself as a human being, but this clutch is just something.

I’ll love it forever.

And it cost me one cent.

It was the best thing ever.  The end.

Chicago Dentistry is Hardcore

I am one of maybe seven or eight people out there who don’t hate going to the dentist.  I never have.  It’s just one of those things, like doing laundry, that (for me) is a more or less tolerable chore where at least you get a fresh, clean reward at the end.

Turns out when you live in a big city and are occasionally lonely, going to the dentist can become quite a pleasant thing.  Someone nice massages your jaw, pokes around in your mouth, and compliments you on your flossing habits.  Win!

Also, turns out that Chicago dentists are really hardcore about what they do.  Seriously, the other day, I thought I was just going in to my new dentist for a routine cleaning.  Instead, here’s what happened:

They took 18 x-rays of my mouth with a bunch of sharp, hurt-y things.

They stuck some instruments in my mouth and said things like “3…2…3…4…3…2…3” for five minutes.

They stuck a camera in my mouth and took fancy snapshots of my teeth.

Then the dentist sat and talked with me about my teeth.  At first, he was like, your teeth are AWESOME!  You are the flossing champion of the world!

And then he was like, oh, but I need to put some fillings in.  Six fillings, to be exact.

I have never had a filling.

The fact that I needed fillings at all was news to me.  But as the dentist showed me, teeth can sometimes be disgusting.  More specifically, teeth are funky-shaped (this is a technical term, look it up, people) and sometimes even the flossing champion of the world can’t reach every nook and cranny.

Not that YOU care, but I have to make myself feel better, okay?

I thought about showing you guys a picture of one of my better teeth, but then I decided that would be disgusting.  You're welcome.

In Which I Do Not Partake In Any Festivities

Are you dying to hear about St. Patrick’s Day in Chicago, where they dye the river green and everyone goes completely bonkers?

Well, you are in for a disappointment, because I am pretty un-festive when it comes to March 17.  I did go outside to walk to my kettlebells class—at 8 AM—and saw lots of folks in green t-shirts lining up at the bars.  Turns out the North Side is a great place to go to drink yourself silly in the early morning hours.

Here are a few pictures from my day that might help clarify just how apathetic I am about this holiday:

I took the trash out and found this guy on our Dumpster.  It's actually a pretty impressive piece of art.  I enjoyed it.  I guess this doesn't really say anything about St. Patrick's Day, but I took out the trash while I was on my way to buy groceries, which is to say that I was out doing normal things rather than being celebratory and fun.

Dinner for one.  Irish nachos: that's a thing, right?

I Guess This Is My Monthly Update

Wow, seriously?  It’s been a month since I posted last?

My apologies to the two or three of you who happen to check this site.  I’ve been a little busy lately, but I won’t complain about it, because 1) that’s boring and 2) aren’t we all?

Instead, I’ll give you a quick update on what I’ve been doing:

DOWNHILL SKIING.  My dad, sister, sister’s boyfriend, uncle, and a few other folks met up for my dad’s 50^th birthday at the end of February.  We were going to do some cross-country skiing, my dad’s personal favorite, but there hasn’t been enough snow this winter to make that possible.  So we went to a downhill ski resort and I tried my hand at it.

As it turns out, I’m freaking awesome at downhill.  I will not even be modest about this.  I killed it.

My sissy and me, after a few hours in the powder.  Guess who is who!  Ha ha ha!!

I got really excited about buying my own gear and going up to Wisconsin every weekend to ski, but then it got nice outside, and my athletic ambitions went in another direction:

RUNNING A 5K.  This is my new goal.  And I already joined the Chicago Area Runners Association (CARA), started attending a weekly running group, and bought almost $300 worth of new running clothes, so try and stop me now!

(On a different note, how is it possible that I visited both Nike and Adidas before realizing that Victoria’s Secret is the only place on earth with actually supportive sports bras?  I mean, good job, VS.  Boo, Nike and Adidas, AKA THE MOST POPULAR AND REPUTABLE SPORTS CLOTHING LINES ON THE PLANET.)

Let’s see; what else?  My graduate course is almost complete, and I’m almost sure that I aced it, but…never mind.  I don’t want to get my hopes up.  You never know.  Either way, even if I didn’t ace it, I managed to get through it with only ONE fainting episode!  Brava to me!

Oh!  Last weekend, two of my BEST FRIENDS from college came to visit me.  It was spectacular.  We walked around the city, ate lots of delicious food, and told all the same stories we’ve told each other two thousand times before.  Don’t you love friends like that?

Because my apartment is small and tends to get crowded, my friends and I stayed at the HoJo downtown.  Check out the lock on our door.  I mean, we had no security concerns at ALL.

In other news, two weekends ago my roommate and I saw the Joffrey Ballet perform, and then we walked around Wicker Park so that I could say I’ve been there, and yesterday we went on a scavenger hunt. 

At this point I’m guessing you’re getting bored, so I’ll say tah-tah for now.  I have brownies that just came out of the oven.  So there.

Here is a hilarious picture of my cat hogging my coat and all my stuff.

The Best Thing Ever: #45

I have not blogged in a while because I have been busy.

Busy using this:

(Yes, I know the bit is crooked.  It's not like I tried to use it that way.  Sheesh.)

To hang a curtain rod, so that I could hang these:

Which I made myself, with like, thread and everything.

My temporary job becomes permanent next week, which means I get a full hour for lunch every day along with benefits, so a power drill seemed like a wise present to myself.

A power drill is the best thing ever.  It makes holes, and loud noises, and it looks like a narwhal.

And when you've been trying to drill holes in drywall using a battery-operated screwdriver because you thought THAT was what a power drill was, a power drill suddenly seems like the answer to every prayer.

Look out, because I have a weapon and I sort of know how to use it. 

Hint: that toggle switch that power drills have?  That’s so you can switch between drilling and pulling the drill bit out of the wall.  You know, forward and then reverse.

It is NOT a handy-dandy switch you can throw depending on whether you’re left-handed or right-handed.

Only a leftie would ever think that.  Oh well.

Things That Are Hardcore: WHITE TIGERS

Today was an extraordinary day.

I always feel better when I’ve accomplished something significant—in comparison to times when I relax and maybe take care of myself but don’t get much done—and today I’ve been able to do both.

After a morning of kettlebells, buying fun groceries like smoked salmon and whipped cream cheese, and picking up my pants at the tailor’s, and making myself a delicious brunch, I packed up my notebook and my voice recorder and headed to Navy Pier.

Despite my reasons for going to Navy Pier, I was feeling good.  I’d gotten some exercise.  I’d made myself French toast with real maple syrup.  I’d even made my bed, and making my bed always makes nighttime so much more inviting.  (I may have mentioned before that while I’m 24 chronologically, I am much, much older in my head.  At least two decades older.)

Anyway, the trip was prompted by the fact that I desperately needed a story for my first magazine article assignment.  (See the story where I fainted for the full scoop on my anxiety regarding saying words out loud to other people.)  I’d seen an ad for a Royal White Tigers exhibit at Navy Pier, and figured it’d be a good spot for a story.

I was also just psyched to see some white tigers, because I love tigers.  They look like giant kittens and I want to snuggle them.  Did anyone see We Bought A Zoo?  OMG.



When Matt Damon looks in the mrror, he probably sees a tiger anyway.

And somehow, guys, I did it.  I made it through the tigers exhibit, got three people to talk to me AND provide their contact information, and got enough material for a decent story.  I talked to two of the men staffing the tiger enclosures and talking to the people coming through, and I snagged a few lines from a middle-aged lady who was there with her two nieces.

Bless kind-hearted people who take pity on an anxiety-ridden grad student.

And bless Gita and her one-year-old cub Kozmo, for being WHITE TIGERS and being SO AWESOME that hundreds of people come to see them every day.

Here are some things I learned about tigers today:

They eat raw meat, and they can’t digest anything else.

They can’t purr.  (Isn’t that a tragedy?  The sound of a purr is a wonderful thing.)

They have gorgeous fat paws.    

Finally, white tigers are extinct in the wild, but they’re going to be released back soon.  So take care of the environment and say no to poaching.

Because tigers are snuggly, adorable, badass kittens.  And they have significantly decreased my anxiety.



You so cute, you killer cat, you.

Goodbye to the Kia

This is my car, the Kia Sephia, known to some as Sophie, known to some as the Fear No Art Mobile, known quite often to me as my $&%@#*%&! car.

It was made in 2000.  I bought it in 2009.  For two and a half years, it drove me to class at Edinboro University, took me to dance rehearsal in Erie, PA, carried me to the airport, and once, all the way to Louisville, Kentucky and back.

It also sometimes refused to start for no discernable reason, and I’d have to call my then-boyfriend to come bail me out of the Wal-Mart parking lot or the sketchy Erie neighborhood or wherever.  The driver’s side sun visor came loose and dangled distractingly until I ripped it off.  In the winter, all the doors froze shut, and even when I managed to get one open, it wouldn’t shut again until the car warmed up.  I’d spend a good ten minutes driving slowly through the ice and snow, leaning all the way over to the passenger side, holding the door shut because it was the only door that would open in the first place.

The best thing?  One time the timing belt snapped when I was waiting at a red light in downtown Erie, and I had to flag all the other cars around me until a tow truck came to rescue me.

Now I’m donating the Kia to charity.  It has sat in my dad’s driveway for four months, and it has failed inspection, and I think it’s time for it to go. 

I guess this is a little bit bittersweet, which is probably the case for most people when they get rid of their first car, because it’s been with me for a while and has seen me through a lot of things, blah blah blah, etc. 

It’s also bittersweet because originally, I kept the car so I’d have a way to get around whenever I visited Pennsylvania. 

And when I finished my degree in Chicago, I reasoned, I’d have a car when I moved to some little place less public transit-friendly than this city.

But things have changed since then.  I don’t plan on leaving Chicago anytime soon.  I have a full-time job.  I have friends.  I’m getting to know the city a little better all the time.

So, donating the Sephia is a little bit like cutting the last of the apron strings.  Even if I wanted to move back to Pennsylvania, not having a car there would make it that much more impractical.

I put my kayak on my car this summer just to prove I was strong enough to do it by myself.  Scratched my car all to heck in the process, but I got it done.

Goodbye, fussy little car!  I don’t have the slightest idea what happens to cars that are donated to charity.  But wherever you end up, I hope they treat you nice.

My Friend Tina

This past weekend, one of my best friends came to visit me in Chicago.

In the spirit of protecting her delicate identity, I will refer to her as Tina Fey. 

(Seriously, she looks so much like Tina Fey.)

It took a while for me to find her on the corner of Washington and LaSalle.  She wandered there from the train station and hung out in the Einstein Bagels, and then when I got there she’d gone across the street, so I spent a few minutes pacing outside Einstein’s and wondering if she’d been kidnapped.

But then she saw me and came back.  We had a tearful reunion.

And we had a great weekend!

We went to Chinatown and bought trinkets.

We saw the holiday train at the Jackson red line stop.  There were lights and a Santa and excitement.

Great shot, right?

We got very cold and stopped at Corner Bakery for coffee and defrosting our fingers.

We got warm again and went to the Bean at Millennium Park.

We saw the Marilyn Monroe statue.  Marilyn had snow on her dress.

We bumped into way too many people on State Street.

We went to Daley Plaza and the Christmas market, which personally I found a little boring except for these birds:

We went to the Sears Tower (NOT Willis Tower, as it would insist to be called these days).  Tina called her mom and was like GUESS WHERE I AM!  NO, NOT CHINATOWN!  GUESS!

Here we are on the skydeck:

Okay, not a great picture, you can't see a thing, it was dark and raining, don't judge.

We went to dinner at Elephant and Castle.

We watched Bridesmaids, and my life became complete.

…And all of that was just Saturday.

Sunday was fun, too.  Tina and I saw The Descendants with George Clooney and I had to bite down hard on my tongue to keep from bursting into tears.  What a sad and beautiful movie.  My god, I can’t even describe.  Also I dropped all my popcorn on the ground.

We also got super lost on our way back to the train station Sunday night and ended up walking something like 16 blocks in the cold and dark, and by the time we reached Union Station we were exhausted and starving and grumpy.  Somehow we were able to avoid getting hit by trucks, stumbled into a sports bar, and ate and drank everything we could ever want.  Tina made me get a cab home.  Ahem.

A word about friends: the ones who ride Amtrak from the smutty old station in Erie, PA to visit you in Chicago, who get up with you at 6 AM because you have to go to work on Friday and don’t want to leave them all alone in your apartment, who wait patiently on a dead college campus while you’re at work, who don’t get mad when you can’t follow directions and end up dragging them all over the more god-forsaken parts of the city, who leave town Sunday night on same smutty train because they have to go to work at 8 AM after a night of fitful, chilly sleep…those are friends worth having.

Tina Fey is one of those friends.

Here we are having fun together.

The End.

Chicago's First Snow

Thursday night, snow fell in Chicago.

I didn’t realize this when I walked out the door at 6:30 Friday morning.  I traipsed down the two flights of outdoor stairs to the alley, on my way to catch the bus, and was met with a sparkly dusting of fresh snow.

Having lived in northeastern Pennsylvania for five years, and Michigan for two years before that, I’m no newcomer to snow.  But the first snowfall is always a surprise and a delight, at least to me.

Did you know I used to be kind of weirdly obsessed with snow?  Senior year of college, I started eating it.  Like, a lot.  And by the way, eating snow is not a good idea for anyone, even aside from that whole “don’t eat the yellow snow” joke.  It does carry a ton of bacteria and nastiness.  It was never a good idea for me to eat snow.

But I did.  I’d eat a whole bowl of it every day.  What can I say?  Emotionally, it got me through February.

I wish you all a happy Sunday.  The end.