Things I Thought I Would Like Before I Realized I Was Wrong

My significant other recently posted a blog entry (found here) to deter my claims that he is too negative. In doing so, he also made the suggestion that I myself am too positive. And I quote: "Kalah has an almost comically unrealistic amount of optimism and positivity towards her fellow human." And I end quote. Now, while I will never say no to "comically" being used in a description of myself, I also recognize that we are all human and in being so are complex creatures constructed of complicated emotional codings and incurable split-ends. And so, just as Rickey put figurative pen to paper to prove he is not made completely of grumpy thoughts and resentment, I am also here to provide evidence that I am more than joy and hope. What follows is my list of Things I Thought I Would Like Before I Realized I Was Wrong:

El Trains

But at least we can enjoy our views on the CTA

I'll admit, as a fresh face to the city last spring, I was more than giddy as I stepped onto my first train. I was riding the Blue Line from Logan Square to the Jackson stop downtown to see the library. I remember mentally telling myself to play it cool and try to look as jaded and bored as the rest of the riders. But the excitement was undeniable. And so, so short lived. Right away, I didn't like not being able to tell the conductor thank you, as I got in the habit of doing on city buses. A silly complaint, I realize, but true nonetheless. Also, as the heat quickly increased, I grew to detest the underground stops. And, it was quickly realized that reading on an underground train was nothing but cause for severe motion sickness. I ask you, what is a train ride if not an opportunity to read? And then there are the smells. My lord, the smells. Each train unique in the bodily produced oder it specializes in, they all stand strong year round. Which brings me to the last point of distaste on my CTA list: nowhere to barf. And I'm sorry to report that this has been a subject of panicked worry on more than one occasion. No trash cans, no windows that open, and no emergency stops. If you barf on the train, it just become another ingredient in the body fluid stew that is the CTA signature scent. Combine all these points with derailments, stalled trains, sitting still for up to an hour on a crowded train, and being kicked to curb when your train suddenly becomes an express to across town, and you can understand my continually growing detest for the CTA of Chicago.

Rainstorms

A good day.

I remember growing up and watching movies like Breakfast at Tiffany's and seeing the actors getting soaked to the bone within the first ten seconds of the rain starting and I never bought it. It was always just another Hollywood move to increase drama. And then I moved here. Coming from Pacific Northwest, I thought I was prepared for rain for the rest of my life. I mean, I lived in an actual rain forest for crying out loud. But nothing can prepare a person for this. These rainstorms are like monsoons, but they last much longer. Streets flood, pets float away, and cars are abandoned. It's just a part of life out here. I hate it. And with the wind, an umbrella is nothing but a joke and a nuisance. And where rain pours the most during the fall in the PNW, summer is the time for rain here - which only adds to the unbearable humidity. Which brings me to number three on my list:

Summer

Drunk youths. A Liz Lemon/Kalah Mazac nightmare.

Since I was seventeen, whenever I mentioned to anyone my desire to one day move to Chicago, they alway had the same thing to say: "Don't go in the winter." And so I didn't. But summer in Illinois as an introduction to one's new home is not the most ideal, either. It's muggy and sweaty, it's crowded and loud, and it is full of weird bugs. The streets are full of tourists of two types: either the overly enthusiastic, or the completely drained but refusing to slow down because they will get the most out of this vacation. While anyone who knows me can tell you that I actually adore tourists, while I'm living in this city, the less the better because it means fewer sticky pressing bodies on our stalled trains. And God help us all if we have to pass by the Addison stop during a Cubs game. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Back to summer: central heat is for a very small portion of housing, and the rest of us are left to sit fanning ourselves with Otter Pop wrappers in front of our window units. Ah, window units. The heaviest appliance known to the human race (not excluding stoves and deep freezer units). In Seattle, if I wanted to cool down on the cheap, I could always go read by the water. But here, that's bit of a hazard. This dislike of mine lines up pretty close to a like you will find on Rickey's blog, but despite the laws and rules against drinking on the public beaches, it is the number one location for underaged, sex-crazed and disrespectful teenagers to get loaded and yack in the water that children play in. Come on guys. I mean, seriously? So rude. So there you have it, summer in the city. And it's gross. Oh, there are also super crazy, creepy bugs that make terrifying electric-sounding noises and can make your small house pets lethally obese.

Theatre

Maybe one day...

Really, it could easily be argued that Chicago's theatre scene doesn't actually belong on my list, seeing as how I have had no chance to experience it. And that is the exact reason why it is on my list. Despite the incredible shows coming through and being previewed in this town, I have seen zero. Because Chicago is a big rich pile of greedy bitches. Student rush or discount previews are nowhere to be found. Free Theatre Week? Don't make them laugh - they may choke on their $20 martinis and have to wipe the mess off their chins with some extra hundies. Assholes.

But on the other hand, there's an incredible and sometimes free or nearly free comedy scene. So at least there's that.

Location

That's it.

The Midwest is . . . so bland. So very bland. And flat. Sometimes I think I see a mountain and my heart soars, and then I realize it's just a low cloud. I've read of beautiful camping in Wisconsin and seen photos of a lovely property in northern Michigan. But Illinois has . . . very easy biking terrain. Growing up in the West, I had developed a very romanticized understanding of anything to my east. But I realize now I should have done a bit more research on my geography. Fore while I did in fact move east, I didn't get quite far enough for the romanticism I was looking for. There are no little colonial towns to visit on weekends. No spectacular leaves to watch shift during the fall. No histories of witch burnings or tea in harbors. Though, to be fair, we don't have nothing. Why, just the other day, Rickey and I got to see the actual bed that Lincoln died in (very short, poor guy). And there are museums for Hemmingway and Frank Lloyd Wright, I am told. So there's that.

The People

Chicago's poster child.

My birthday is in three days. I had been here for just over a month last year when my birthday came around, and my Bestie came out so I wouldn't be alone (and because she is the loveliest of souls). And I remember wondering what my next birthday would look like. What relationships I would have developed and how I would be celebrating and who with. And now here we are and I have a second partyless birthday to look forward. Please don't feel sorry for me, because that is not the result I am after. You see, under any normal circumstances I would be blaming myself and wondering if I am just an unloveable individual. But these are not normal circumstances, because I live in a city populated primarily by grumps and Mr./Mrs. Rudes. My best friends in this city are all men and are of the ages 29, 4, and 16 months. They are the best people I have found. Don't get me wrong, I have met other nice people. But these are the three I have put myself into and who have given just as much back to me. Over the year the friends I have made have moved (I don't blame you guys), decided to shit on our relationship (to each their own), or just never moved past acquaintance. This last one is the most common, and I get it. We are adults now and we have our own lives to deal with. It's always harder to make friends after school, where student and friend-finder are your two full time jobs. Anyway, my point is, people here overall are just rude. And mean. And there are so many of them! People shouting from car windows. Young men not standing to let the old woman sit on the train. People who don't hold a door open, or don't thank the person ringing them up, or don't at least say 'excuse me' as they shove past you on the street. Not good quality people, overall. (And please keep in mind how much I love people)

Beer

Another unique scent found on the CTA.

Maybe I'm just not looking in the right places, but it seems like most of the craft beers I get ahold of end up always being owned by a big monster company. And that bums me out. I want the small owned breweries. There are a few (read: one) that I have found. And I like it. But...is that it? There is a big selection I can get bottled from the midwest, so that's something. But if I'm in the mood for some local craft beer on tap, the list is always short and mostly the same. And you know what else I can get on tap? Old Style, Schlitz, PBR, Coors Miller Lite, and Bud. But, hey, at least I get to pay like I'm drinking a craft beer. And I'm also being hydrated more than if I were to drink a preferred brew, since it's all watered down piss. Bleh.

Wrigleyville

All drunk, I assure you.

And last but not least, Wrigleyville. The neighborhood surrounding Wrigley Field is that of a massive Frat House that has busted a seam and spewed forth a flood of drunk bros and hammered woo girls all mixed together in a frothy, intoxicated human stew of promiscuity and terrible life choices. The stadium, while I am thankful to get a chance to experience this piece of history, is just that - a giant, crumbling piece of history. It would do better as a museum exhibit than a structure housing hundreds of drunk, stomping Cubs fans. I mean, it is ninety-nine years old, guys. And looks just like it. The scoreboard is still manual, the walls are covered in ivy, and the seats are a terrible, peeling metal. It is bursting with charm, I'll admit. But as a professional stadium, it sure isn't doing anyone any favors.

Surrounding the stadium is what feels like miles and miles of sports bars and souvenir shops. Each bar is the same: oozing past legal capacity with drunks who are all overpaying for watered down beers and just one more shot away from a brawl. Though I will admit, I found a kick-ass used bookstore in the area - a silent oasis, as no Cubs fan (but I) would follow up a winning game with a calming stroll among forgotten paperbacks and an entire circus section. Yeah, that totally happened. But what is the worst about these bars - and every bar in this city - is happy hour is an obsolete thing. It's a joke. You want me to elbow my way through your crowded, sweaty bar to pay five bucks for a warm PBR that will in an hour's time reign terror on my innards? You must be mistaken.

So there you have it, Rickey. I have dug deep and found rage within me that would have otherwise sat smothered by my optimism. Now I have to surround myself with joyful thoughts and craft beers to bring my cheer back up to a normal range.

Oh, one more!

Chicago Style Pizza

Gross.

It's disgusting.