Chicago

I had gone to Chicago for a weekend trip with my two closest friends. None of us had been there as adults so this was to be a grand adventure. Like the dipshits we are, we neglected to follow the advice of previous Chicago visitors and refused to use the taxis. As we discovered on successive trips, hailing and taking a taxi in Chicago is about as easy as breathing. But we didn't know that. Instead, we chose to walk.

Chicago is a bigass town.

We parked a few blocks away from the "Miracle Mile" in the most amusing parking garage. For what they charged, a little entertainment was the least they could do. The music that played outside the elevator in the waiting area corresponded with the color of the floor. Of course we had to stop at each and every floor to listen to its song. We were most amused with Kermit singing "It's Hard To Be Green" on the green floor.

So we walked to the Miracle Mile and went into a few of the expensive shops. And we walked up the Miracle Mile. And then we ventured west, following our noses for dinner. Seriously. We were not following a map or any great suggestions, just our noses. Oh and this was in the middle of December. And we were wearing "cute" shoes for the night out.

Amazingly, we found a great restaurant, Rock Bottom Brewery. As we waited for our table we watched waiters wizz back and forth with platters of the most delicious looking food. Booty and I both spotted a curious item pass by and I pondered, "I wonder what those long things are." They were toasted, thin, round and nearly a foot long, sticking off the edge of the platter. Piranha very dryly replied "french fries." Obviously she hadn't seen the same platter and didn't understand why Booty and I were just rolling. Those were clearly NOT french fries, unless they were MUTANT french fries. When we got to our table we asked the waiter about them and they were the most glorious appetizer, Titan Toothpicks, tortillas filled with grilled chicken and salsa. After several hours of charming the hell out of our waiter, the waiters serving neighboring tables and the manager we were pointed in the direction of the bar district or Rush Street. Again we were encouraged to get a taxi, but we were steadfast in our insistence to walk.

The three of us meandered down Rush Street hitting nearly every bar. Some were too fancy for us and there were even a few with the "special" list of cool people. We clearly were not on any of those lists. We were actually most charmed by the hole-in-the-wall pub and made a mental note to remember this place for future Chicago trips. We went to a margarita bar and a smoking lounge. We came across all sorts of people in various places and did lots and lots of dancing. The night (morning) was winding down but we were still in the mood to party. As we were lamenting this fact while we were walking down Rush Street a stranger suggested a night club just a few blocks away that is open until FOUR AM! We were totally taken in with this concept. St. Louis, hardly a po-dunk, one-bar town, does not have night clubs that stay open past 2 am. As we made our way to the night club our eavesdropping stranger was suddenly accosted by the police and slammed against the wall! The police looked at us as if to ask a question, but we quickly assured the officers that we had no idea who this guy was, that he approached us just a few seconds earlier. Evidently he had been followed for some time and the police were well aware of our chance meeting. They let us go with a warning about who we associate with on the streets of Chicago.

We found the nightclub with no problem and proceeded to dance our collective asses off. 4 am came and we were quickly ushered out the door. Evidently the nightclub staff wasn't nearly as taken with the closing time as we were and want to get HOME.

So the night was over and it was time for us to depart as well. And yet again we opted not to use the services of a taxi. Somewhere along our stroll through downtown Chicago it truly dawned on us that this is really a big place. Needless to say, our feet HURT. And we needed to go pee again.

Now I'm not above ducking behind a bush in someone's yard and dropping trou, but the yards we passed were exactly the size of a postage stamp. There was no hiding, no privacy, no avoiding public indecency charges. And yes, at that hour there is plenty to need to hide from when answering nature's call - the sky was getting less dark as we neared sunrise and a few joggers had already passed by. No, what we needed was proper restroom facilities. Had we been on the road, a Denny's or a shady gas station would have sufficed. Unfortunately we were downtown, way too early, on a Sunday morning. Public restrooms were not readily available. And the urge was getting stronger.

And I could feel the rumblings of the onset of beershits. A toilet with toilet paper was imminently necessary. Clearly I was breaking into the fastest walk my intestines would withstand. Outright running was out of the question.

In the meantime, Piranha and Booty had discovered the skyline of Chicago as seen from the sidewalk of the Miracle Mile. They meandered at a snail's pace with their necks craned back as far as possible looking at how amazingly tall all of the buildings are. They had the audacity to yell at me that I was walking too fast. They should just be happy that I wasn't leaving a brown trail for them to follow!

At last we stumbled across a hotel. The bellhop didn't seem very receptive to allowing any drunken women into his lobby, but we explained that it was either in their toilets or right here in front of the doors. Booty and Piranha's bladders were finally pressing urgently as well.

The bellhop relented and escorted us through the lobby, down a hall, to the lady's room. The poor guy barely got to the door when we ran past him. Okay, I ran past, nearly knocking him over. Piranha and Booty made their apologies for their rude friend and politely walked in.

As Piranha would tell the story, I dashed in, dropped my pants and my load, zipped up and was washing my hands by the time she and Booty entered the restroom. She also likes to comment on the lovely smell left wafting in my wake.

Like I said, it was urgent.

We made our way back to the amusing parking garage. Another visit to the green floor and then on to our car.

I had my last drink just after we arrived at the nightclub several hours earlier. After all of the dancing and then that powerwalk, I was completely sober and thus, the designated driver. We had ahead of us a forty minute drive. Leave it to us to book a hotel on the outskirts of town! Piranha and Booty took this opportunity to catch a quick nap... or pass out. That left me all by myself with no one to talk to, no one to keep me awake. At this hour I was exhausted and very droopy eyed. I turned on the radio and rolled down the windows. Somehow I managed to keep the car on the road and delivered us safely to our hotel. As soon as I pulled into the parking lot, my passengers woke up. Chipper. And chatty. Neither of which described me at the moment. My only goal was to get to our room, get out of my shoes and socks and crawl into bed. I didn't give a rat's ass what I was or wasn't wearing, washing my face or bothering with locked doors. I sure as hell didn't have the least desire to hold a conversation with a grown woman who felt like asking eighty bazillion questions. Piranha, on the other hand, was well rested and had just enough alcohol in her to want to be a royal fucking pain in the ass and ask any pointless question that danced through that empty cavity that poses as her head.

Booty was of a similar mind as me and quickly found her bed and drifted into a deep sleep. If you haven't had the pleasure, Booty snores when she sleeps. She snores a lot and very loudly. Most people find it agitating, to say the least. Not me. I was married for twelve years to a man who snores like Fred Flintstone, sucking in the walls with every breath.

But here I was, Chatty Cathy next to me and a slumbering bear across the room. The noise was deafening. There wasn't much I could do about the snoring, but at least Piranha could shut up. I asked Piranha to be quiet, but she kept on. I calmly explained that I hadn't had a nap yet, could she quit asking me questions, yet she continued. Then I yelled at her to quit talking to me, she kept yammering on. Most people in my situation would have tried to ignore her, and trust me I tried, but the bitch does NOT like being ignored. Back in high school Piranha and Booty went on a 3 week exchange trip to Germany. Booty came back with a story of how she nearly had to BEAT Piranha in the head to get her to go to sleep. Trust me, the thought crossed my mind that morning. Instead, I gave her wedgie.

I think she got the hint, FINALLY or I simply passed out.

Since then I have never shared a bed with Piranha.

Sick Tour

My brother is possibly the most warped individual you'll ever encounter. The bastard is truly sick. He's come up with this idea for a vacation tour as an income possibility. I nearly died when he told me about this. Evidently his wife had the same reaction. Then I tossed out that if he added a movie camera that he might actually become famous.

I went on vacation with my brother and sister-in-law over the summer. The two of them clearly have different vacationing styles. The entertainment value was incredible while watching the two of them be on different trips at the same time. They bickered over every last thing. If he were my husband I would have cold-cocked him and left him at the curb long ago.

There are two things you need to know about him: he's cheap and he does not give a damn.

Now just imagine for a second somebody like that buying a tour bus and conducting bus tours. Oh and he drives like a demon. Then add his wife, the voice of reason. I swear the two of them could be the next Sharon and Ozzy.

Ned Flanders

He's a character off the Simpson's. He's the pollyanna, holier-than-thou, goody-two-shoes next door neighbor that annoys the living crap out of Homer and Homer basically treats him like shit.

I never made the connection before, but I've had a Ned Flanders in my life for quite some time. He's a member of my ex-husband's family. He's a great guy with his heart in the right place, but I can't tell you the times I've wanted to smack my head and scream DOH! He's too good, too sweet and tries too hard. In the end he's just a blundering fool. Love the guy dearly, but really, if he would just tone it down a notch, things in his life might go smoother.

Imagine my dismay when I encountered a SECOND Ned Flanders, this time in my professional world. "Unsettling" can't even begin to describe the sensation. The two men are approximately the same age, have incredibly similar features and they DRESS ALIKE.

How is it possible that a grown man can take fashion tips from a cartoon?

Like the cartoon Ned Flanders, Ned 1 and Ned 2 also wear loafers, a button-down long sleeve shirt and a pull-over sweater. Everyday. I know, there isn't an array of clothing options for men in the realm of "business casual" beyond the loafer and sweater combo. But somehow every other man on the face of the earth manages to change it up on occasion.

Okay, clothing aside, it's the behavior. It is the syrupy sweet conversation that teeters between gay and condescending. The excessive gratitude for the most meager of acts. The almost feminine capacity to over explain and go on for hours about nothing. My two real-life Neds would be absolutely crushed if they found out someone didn't like them - they try so hard to make everyone happy.

And maybe that's what bothers me the most. I detest when someone makes me do anything, even tries to make me like them. I hate a suck-up. I will like you on your merits, as you are. You don't have to spit and polish on my account, you don't have to acquiesce to me, just stand up and be you. Nothing will garner more respect from me than honesty. Sucking up isn't being true to yourself. It feels slimey when people do it and I just don't respect it.

So in the end, Neds 1 and 2, for as much as I want to protect their tender little hearts, I am conflicted because ultimately I don't respect either one of them. And that is a shame.

Pony Tail Boy

Saturday night I was a chaperone to a dance.

About an hour into the dance, one of the moms points out ponytail boy. Evidently he's been to a few activities. I speculated that he would be a great future computer geek based on his clothing. Okay, so I'm being judgemental - shoot me. She giggled and agreed.

And then he burst into dance.

They were playing Thriller and most of the kids were managing a half decent imitation of the video. But ponytail boy didn't quite have it right. He managed to capture the attention of his friends which was good for a few laughs... and he kept going. There was an actual dance routine, although not quite Michael Jackson. Arm flail here, arm flail there and SPIN. Yes, he did SPINS, like a freaking ballerina. At one point he took off his tie a-la-male stripper and I nearly fell out of my chair trying to hide my expression (horror and humor). And then it struck me, he wasn't imitating anything from the Thriller video. No, think more along the lines of Star Wars and Qui-Gon(however you spell his name) or Obi-Wan's light saber display. Yes, that was it. He was doing the light saber dance routine. I was expecting red or green lights to shoot up any second. I was in fixed fascination and could not stop watching this boy dance and spin and do his arm flail thing. And he did it the entire song.

The next day I asked my 8yr old to show me how to do an imaginary light saber. Damn if he didn't copy the dance routine from the night before with exact moves, minus the spin.