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.

Fainting and Being Weird

So I just started the new quarter in my grad program, and I thought I was going to be so smart and take only one class instead of two so I would only have one night a week of going to class straight from work and feeling totally run-down and terrible the next day.  Also, less homework. 

What I neglected to take into account was the fact that I enrolled in a magazine writing course, which, it turns out, involves TALKING and INTERVIEWING and REPORTING, and all sorts of things that require I go up to a stranger and ask them to tell me about their lives.

Dear God, help me.

So last night I went to a poetry reading.  It’s a monthly event that my roommate and I attend, and I’d spoken to the curators about interviewing them about how the series got started.  I was still freaked out and full of anxiety and unhappiness, but I figured, at least I’m getting somewhere.  We went to the reading, which was pretty fun, and afterwards my roommate and I stood around talking to people and got roped into a super awkward conversation with a guy who may or may not have been on drugs.

While he was going on in his rambling, convoluted way about how boring business school is and my roommate and I were trying to figure out how to end the conversation, something weird happened.  I began to feel very hot, and my vision went blurry.  Then I couldn’t hear anymore.

I woke up sometime later on the kitchen floor with maybe a dozen faces peering up at me.

And that’s how I had the first real fainting experience of my life.  (The only other time was when I had the flu in college, and I don’t think that counts since I was definitely the sickest I’d ever been.)

Damn corset.  I knew it would get me.

The waking up was probably the worst part.  It was kind of embarrassing with all these strangers watching me.   But it was kind of nice after that, because of all the nice people who talked to me and helped me and made sure I was okay.

I don’t think there’s a point to this story, except that I’m realllllly stressed out and I get easily dehydrated.  I could probably never live in the southwest.

The end.  Hope you’re all happy and healthy.

First-World Problems, I Guess

So I may have mentioned before that I have a hyper-developed guilt complex.  Guilt, guilt, guilt.  I feel bad about everything.  I feel responsible for things that aren’t my fault.  I feel bad for things that no one else will ever, ever care about.  It’s so fun!

The latest object of my guilt is the fact that I live in this beautiful and amazing city and don’t really go out all that much.  I could probably count the number of restaurants I’ve been to in Chicago on one hand.  I haven’t really explored much other than my own Lakeview area and the Loop.  (Bucktown?  Wicker Park?  What?)  And it’s super embarrassing that with all my history in dance and music, I have not been to one dance concert or music concert in this city.  No theater, no nothing.  I’ve been to some poetry readings in someone’s apartment and that’s it.

There are legitimate reasons, I guess…money is a big one, since you need a lot of it to go to concerts and plays.  Time is another.  And then there’s that whole “I don’t have anyone to go with” issue, which is probably just an excuse because lots of people go to things by themselves.  I think.

This weekend I have absolutely no plans, and I’m completely exhilarated by that fact.  It’s like…I GET TO SLEEP AND SIT ON THE COUCH AND WATCH TV!!!!!

Ew.  I don’t recognize myself.  And I feel like, as a Chicagoan, I should be going out every night and doing amazing, exotic things. 

It’s Saturday night.  What am I missing?

Blue Man Group?

Second City?

I’m sure one or two pop stars are here tonight.

Probably some famous comedians.  Or at least really funny ones who aren’t famous yet but will be.

A symphony, a choir.

ICE SKATING.

I was watching the news and Jason Segel was here tonight, so whatever.

And here I am, doing things I could do in any small town in the US, getting excited by things like Command strips and cleaning supplies.  Baking muffins from scratch and being like OOOOH, LOOK AT THIS NEW LAUNDRY STARCH!  IT SMELLS SOOOOO GOOD!  LET’S IRON!  IRONING IS SO FUN!!!

Yeahhhhh.

Oh, and I spent 9 hours putting together my IKEA dresser last week, by myself, and it was perfectly blissful.

Before.

After.

What is wrong with me?  It’s like I got old.

(And I’m not kidding about Command strips.  They are the shiznet.)

The Best Thing Ever: #108

(I wrote this yesterday, Monday, but didn't bother posting til today, so just pretend that it's Monday when you're reading this.  I will explain why later.)

The best thing ever is IKEA!

Yesterday was yours truly’s first trip to IKEA, after my bed collapsed (sound familiar?) and I decided I’d rather buy a new one than try to fix the old one and have it collapse again.  So off my roommate and I went.

I’ve been aware of IKEA for maybe 10 years now, but I’d never been inside one before.  Here are the things I knew:

It’s Swedish.

It has decently priced furniture.

It has meatballs.

That’s pretty much it.

So we went inside this HUGE blue-and-yellow building, which smelled like a mixture of lumber and cinnamon, and I fell in love.  I wanted to buy all the beds and all the tables and redecorate my entire apartment.  My roommate felt the same way.

IKEA furniture is so cute and efficient.  I feel like you could have three times as much furniture but somehow everything would still fit and come together, because it’s all so practical.  Everything has a hidden drawer or a clever way of making itself smaller.

We picked up new picture frames for $2 each.  My roommate picked up some necessities (who knew you could get bedding or kitchen supplies at IKEA?  Well, you probably did, but I didn’t) and then we went to fetch my bed and dresser.

We didn’t visit the restaurant, but it smelled divine and there were these appetizing ads for it everywhere.  $2 chocolate cake!  $3 omelet!  Mmm.

The hard part was lugging the boxes into the car and then getting them out of the car when we made it home, but luckily, our neighbor across the alley had big muscles and helped us.  I like muscles when they help me.

I put together the bed in less than an hour, thanks to IKEA’s very friendly instructions manual, and today I’m gonna tackle the chest of drawers. 

PS: It’s nice to have a bed that doesn’t squeak and shriek whenever you make the slightest move.  Bless you, IKEA.  My bed only cost $60, including the slats.  INCLUDING THE SLATS.