How to Know You are Uuuuuuber Lame

So tonight I walked down to this little store on my street that sells paper and cards and crafty supplies, so I could pick out a card for my daddy's 50th birthday.  I got a card and walked up to the counter to pay for it.

The guy ringing me up was about my age, hipster-ish, very cute in the way that dogs and small children are cute.  He was friendly.  "You going out tonight?" he asked.

And I laughed and said, "THIS is my going out."

And he said, "Yeah, if I didn't have a birthday party to go to tonight, I'd be at home by myself, drinking wine."

And I thought, "Mmm.  Sounds like my kind of guy."

Clearly, I am a real winner.

The end.

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.

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. 

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.