saint-louise's Diaryland Diary
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Is Chicago. Is not Chicago.
Because one person who was actually paying attention to this diary type thingy asked�
And since she is, apparently, the only one paying attention, I�m answering:
Chicago was nice. I would have liked another day to wander around, but alas.
Yes. Just alas.
See, I�m sick of thinking about how I hate corporate America. I�m tired feeling I�m wasting most of my life oozing sullenly through weekdays. I hate that I�m not independently wealthy and therefore unable to travel about the world as though it were my own shiny, blue-and-green jewel that I may do with what I wish, even if that means pawning it because sometimes I find it tiresome. And I especially hate the itch on the bottom of my foot that I can�t get to without unlacing all 20 holes of my boots.
But I don�t hate Chicago. I can�t in all honesty say that I loved it either, since I just met it in passing, like an old friend of a friend who only remembers to introduce me when I clear my throat. Hi, Chicago. I�ve heard so much about you! Have you read any good b�oh. Okaynicetomeetyoubye!
But there were a couple of interesting occurrences:
Friday:
That morning, OH caught a ride in to the city from Deerfield, where he had been working during the earlier part of the week. Some of his co-workers were on their way to a baseball game, so he rode as far as Wrigley Field.
Here is the part where OH realizes that he has lost his wallet.
He wasn�t sure where. Or when. But the lack of wallet was somewhat astonishing. Who knew something had the ability to be so, you know, NOT THERE.
I arrived in Chicago that afternoon, and met OH at our hotel. The next couple of hours were spent filing a police report. Calling cab companies to see if the wallet might have been left in a taxi. Cancelling credit cards. Calling the DMV. Calling the airport to see how OH was going to be able to fly back home in two days with no identification. And coming to the realization that neither of us had eaten a thing in about eight hours.
Which was (and I fear there is an understatement threatening to trample us) not exactly a pretty sight.
We decided to try out a sushi place that one of OH�s friends had recommended with the odd cautionary statement: �It�s not a scene, you know. Just a local place. Don�t expect much.�
Much. Hmm. Like, will they have food? Yes? Will it be delivered to us at a table and then we will be allowed to actually consume it? Will this food, once chewed and swallowed, help us to achieve our end goal to no longer be out of our fucking minds with hunger? Oh, it will? And then we will no longer want to kill each other over silly little things, like losing wallets, complaining bitterly and incessantly about the humidity, and breathing too loudly?
Good. Sounds like Much to me.
The sushi actually turned out to be more than Much, and I enjoyed it tremendously. However, I was still exhausted from traveling and stress, and I was really being quite unreasonable about the humidity. Even though I wanted very much to go to a bar around the corner from the sushi place to see some live music (blues, duh), OH looked uncertain about the people hanging around outside the bar, and I was much too cross to argue about it. Yes, gentle readers, I ran past my standard ornery personality, zoomed by the particularly bad mood, and broke the sound barrier straight into a petrified mass of tight-lipped, �Whatever you want to do. I don�t care.�
As you can see, one of my best qualities is my ability to be as contrite about my pisspoor moods as the moods themselves are unpleasant. Take note. Okay? Please?
Right. Continuing�
We wandered around for a while, looking for a nice, relatively quiet bar where we could get some drinks, and finally settled on a place where the bartender was friendly, informative and quick, and we weren�t far from the hotel. I got my second wind (or perhaps just the alcoholy illusion of such) after a couple of blissful, free-pour drinks, and decided to continue to keep the efficient bartender busy for a while. As a result, we didn�t get back to the hotel until 2:30 am.
Saturday:
I got a nasty shock that morning when I discovered that the hotel didn�t offer room service. This meant I was going to have to drag my stupid, overindulgent ass downstairs in search of food. We roamed around for a few blocks, wondering at the lack of establishments offering breakfast in the area immediately surrounding the hotel, and finally stumbled into a rundown little diner out of desperation.
The breakfast that I ordered consisted of (and I am not even slightly exaggerating) french toast, eggs, ham, raisins, walnuts, syrup, two kinds of cheese, and cinnamon. All layered on top of each other. I skipped the whipped cream that came with it because, you know, who needs all that fat?
Here is the part where I remember that there are two kinds of hangovers: one type where you crave as much greasy food as you can wrap your lips around, and one type where the mere sight of greasy food will make you want to projectile vomit.
Aaaand�here is the part where I realize I had the first type of hangover and OH had the second.
After OH returned from the restroom, we finished a very cautious breakfast. OH took small bites of his plain oatmeal, and I tore into my Big Ol� Pile of Heart Attack while trying as best I could to keep it out of OH�s sight, and somewhat downwind.
I felt so tremendously sorry when I looked at OH�s ashen face that I didn�t pester him to go sightseeing after breakfast. We had planned to take an architectural boat tour. I for one had hoped to have the contents of a septic tank dumped from a bridge onto our heads, but that was not to be. Instead, the rest of the vacation went something like this:
1. Nap.
2. Chicagodog.
3. Field museum.
4. Gem display, mummies, plastic dinosaur souvenir.
5. Italian food that was so good, it made me cry just a teensy bit.
6. Drinks with OH�s sushi-recommending friend.
7. Dessert.
8. I ate most of the dessert.
9. Sleep.
10. Ohsogood breakfast at a Mexican diner. (Why aren�t more Mexican food establishments around here open for breakfast?)
11. Cab. Train. Plane.
12. Dinosaur souvenir pulled out of my suitcase, sans head.
13. Head found.
14. Moped about having to go back to work.
15. Hid head in OH�s shoe.
16. Snickered childishly.
It doesn�t sound like much, but even with the two really bad occurrences, the small, very pleasant moments weren�t overshadowed. I really, really like those kinds of moments. They tend to be the things I remember the longest, and the most fondly.
Like the swanky bartender.
And delicious Italian wine.
And last Sunday, at 4 am, when I passionately defied OH to think of one thing � ONE THING � that was better than eating pancakes and scrambled eggs in your underwear in bed.
Try it. You�ll see what I mean.
10:06 a.m. - 2004-09-24
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