As you likely read, I was at a wedding of two close friends this past weekend.
Brett and I made the drive all the way north to Mackinac Island, and settled in (way back in time) to the slower pace of things to enjoy the celebrations. We walked, held hands, ate fudge, rode beach cruiser bikes, laughed at the horses (and avoided their poop!), dipped our toes in the chilly lake, admired the scenery, took photos of the Mackinac Bridge, ate wonderful food and met new people.
The wedding weekend was one of great joy, happiness and a real cause for celebration. As the bride put it in her thank you toast, it was a "fairy tale wedding" and that goes for the guests, too. The view from The Grand Hotel's veranda proved that there is a God, and he may have a partiality for northern Michigan.
But what may have struck me the most about our weekend, and the wedding in specific, was the details. Everyone knows that it is the little things that often make the most lasting impressions, and I must admit that this held true for us in our experience.
The families of the bride and groom had thought of everything. At the groom's dinner the night before the wedding, each guest took home a custom-made, personalized CD of the couple's favorite songs, tied with a purple raffia bow with a little silver charm that says "to love and cherish."
The hotel distributed one of the nicest gift bags, courtesy of the bride and her family, I've ever received at a destination wedding. It held the basic snacks and sweets and a set of travel sized toiletries and slippers for each of us. Slippers! How luxurious.
The canvas tote bag and a pair of monogrammed plastic glasses featured the wedding "logo." As a specialist in branding, it was a pleasure to note that the "brand" for the wedding was carried out consistently, and integrated across all medium. Including the multi-page "magazine" that the bride put together that highlighted fun things to do on the Island, dinner/lunch recommendations and a story of the couple—how they'd met, the proposal, and why they chose Mackinac Island for the setting of their big day. It was a lot of work, clearly, but it is these types of details that make a guest feel welcomed.
I was given a stunning bouquet of fuschia roses with green decorations as a thank-you for participating in the ceremony as a reader. The reading, which I published last week, brought many in the church to tears, and the bride's proud smile up at me from the altar while I pronounced each word with care, was worth all the nerves I had that day.
The guests rang little white cowbells, after basking in the mid-day sun with a flute of sparkling pink lemonade, to usher the newlyweds into their carriage.
Gifts, little things and thoughtful touches didn't stop there.
The reception tables were identified with art from a local artist each with a specific Island scene—the fort, the bridge, the Grand Hotel, etc.—and each guest was given a mini-version to match with their table. Each place setting boasted a Lenox silver butler's tray and a silk fan for the heat. When we departed the reception, each guest was handed a bag with the wedding logo in order to cart out the goodies, which now included a ribbon-tied box of J&J candies and cigars for the men. So local, so thoughtful and so fun.
Saturday night's cocktail party was a "make your own" ice cream sundae bar, and the favor that evening (as if we needed any more gifts!) was a sterling silver ice cream scooper. How delicious!
The long and short of it is this—the details truly impressed upon the guests that the families had considered our every need, want and desire—and were thrilled to honor us with the thoughtful little things. These touches may not be the things I remember in 20 years and I think back to the wedding, but they made an impact.
The little things I will likely remember are many...
I will remember the rays of sun alighting on the bride's sparkling pearls as she grinned her signature ear-to-ear smile and shifted her veil from her face.
I will remember the delightful breeze on the veranda as it graced the tables of friends and family, tousling the ladies' summer dresses and lifting the men's silk ties.
I will remember their first dance—slow, easy and deliberate—accompanied by a friend playing "Your Song" on the piano.
I will remember the choked up, heartfelt toast of love and gratitude that the bride's sister gave to a teary crowd.
I will remember the way Brett looked in his suit—shiny, proud and handsome—and the way it felt to walk through the weekend with him on my arm.
I will remember the way the groom looked down at his bride, and grinned, as if he knew a secret that we weren't in on, and wasn't going to share.
CTA buses are breaking down everywhere. I was on not one, but TWO that broke down in ONE 25-minute commute home last week. It is quite an ordeal to chase down the next one, convince the driver you already paid the fare once, and find a new seat on the recovered bus. And, then the second bus repeats the first's breakdown, and the process starts all over.
But, seriously, they're everywhere. Go three blocks down Michigan Avenue, Lake Shore Drive or any other main thoroughfare, and you'll inevitably see one, pulled over, hazard lights flashing, and all passengers off the bus.
The telltale sign of a breakdown is the back flap open in the rear showing the mechanical innards to all passersby.
Maybe I'm too empathetic to these public transit monsters, but whenever I see one of the buses with its engine flap open, it makes me sad.
It feels like I am spying on a surgery and the doctor has stepped away from the table momentarily, and the patient, knocked out and with a gown stretched open, is on display without shame or modesty.
Sometimes it doesn't take much to get me to giggle. Take this morning, for instance.
As the bus pulled up, I anticipated the usual monotone, computerized voice to tell me what route I was boarding. Instead, I was treated to a case of the cartoon voice in a garbled, Chipmunks high-speed, high-pitched delivery. You couldn't even make out one word.
I laughed out loud. The bus driver just smiled, shook his head and said, "I'm driving the Looney Toons bus today."
Then, I tried to pass my ChicagoCard in front of the card reader to pay my fare, and the bus driver chimed in again, "It's broken. Free ride on the Looney Toons express, honey." Score!
So, I giggled again and sat down.
The best part was when the automated, computerized messages came on every block or so. The entire bus broke into laughter as the Chipmunks on crack delivered some standard message about being polite while using your cell phone, or exiting through the rear of the bus. It is nice to hear a large group of usually quiet, grumpy and introverted commuters giggling in a symphony of pleasant noises. Rare, and nice.
It was a great way to start the day.
I only wish I had audio recorded the message so you could all bear witness, and get a free laugh outta me.
Little Stone Church, Mackinac Island, Michigan. Photo by Robert Jerstrom.
As you may already know, today is Jill and Josh's wedding day. We are on Mackinac Island, and don't worry, I pre-wrote and pre-published this post. I'm not holed up in a hotel somewhere in the Upper Peninsula writing this...I plan ahead.
When they asked me to be a part of their wedding, I immediately knew that a toast would be involved. I’m a tad of a sap and therefore knew I needed to put it down on paper for fear of getting too emotional and forgetting all the nice things I wanted to say.
But, when it came time to actually write the words to express my congratulations for the happy couple, I realized it was simple.
It all comes down to just three words.
Three words that change as our lives do, three words with varying meanings, three words that grow and bloom as we mature, three words that will last forever, from this day forward.
In the beginning, it was “Hi, I’m Jill.” as we formed a friendship that would last for a lifetime.
After our introductory two years in Chicago, it was “Let’s move again.” as we continued on as roommates and ‘better halves’ for five years.
Not long after, it was “I met someone!” as Jill celebrated the joys of a new romance.
Proudly, Jill announced, “This is Josh.” as he moved to Chicago and became a part of the life we’d formed in the city.
Then it was, “I love him.” as things with Josh got more serious, and their relationship grew into something special.
Last July, it was “We’re getting married!” as the promise, and the ring, sparkled in the sunshine and they took the first steps towards becoming husband and wife.
Put simply, three words to describe Jill are kind, spirited and thoughtful. The same can be said about Josh, and I gladly hand over my better half to him.
(To be fair, though, I’d probably have to admit she’s really only my ‘better one third’ because of our significant differences in height).
Jill and Josh, I toast the beginning of your life together with three more words:
At this very moment, as you are reading this, I am in driving up to Mackinac Island, Michigan to attend the wedding festivities of my two dear friends Jill and Josh.
I have been asked to be a reader at their ceremony, which is being held tomorrow morning at 11 am in The Little Stone Church on the island. They have made many great non-traditional choices for their wedding, all of which make it totally and uniquely theirs. Very special, I think.
One of those great choices that "breaks the rules" a bit is the addition of a reading from somewhere other than the Bible. The text of this reading is below, and it is really good advice.
I can almost hear my grandparents telling me this stuff from their point of view, about marriage in general, from the experience of those who lasted a long, long time. The exact story is blurry in my memory, but I do know that my grandparents met at an military dance in Iowa in their early 20s, and ran off to elope in Cheyenne, Wyoming a VERY short time later. Like a month or something wild. Clearly they took a risk on love, but it worked.
My grandparents, on my parents' wedding day, 1973
My Gramps is in heaven now, and enjoyed many long and happy years of marriage. I'm pretty sure that he's up there hoping that I make these choices for myself when I get married someday.
--- The Art Of A Good Marriage Wilferd Arlan Peterson
Happiness in marriage is not something that just happens.
A good marriage must be created.
In marriage the little things are the big things.
It is never being too old to hold hands.
It is remembering to say "I love you" at least once a day.
It is never going to sleep angry.
It is at no time taking the other for granted; the courtship should not end with the honeymoon, it should continue through the years.
It is having a mutual sense of values and common objectives.
It is standing together facing the world.
It is forming a circle of love that gathers the whole family.
It is doing things for each other, not in the attitude of duty or sacrifice, but in the spirit of joy.
It is speaking words of appreciation and demonstrating gratitude in thoughtful ways.
It is not looking for perfection in each other.
It is cultivating flexibility, patience, understanding and a sense of humor.
It is having the capacity to forgive and forget.
It is giving each other an atmosphere in which each can grow old.
It is a common search for the good and the beautiful.
It is establishing a relationship in which the independence is equal, dependence is mutual and the obligation is reciprocal.
It is not only marrying the right partner, it is being the right partner. ---
Isn't that beautiful?
On this day, and from this day forward, I wish these things for my friends.
Not just those getting married this weekend, but those who have already made this commitment and celebrated this day. I will pray that they embody these sentiments each day of their marriage. And, as their friend and witness, I will do everything I can, when called upon to do so, to be a positive influence and assistant to making these very things come true.
Because, to borrow a phrase, that is the art of a good friendship.
Hold onto your hats people, because this is big news.
Are you ready?
You sure?
I'm not feeling it...you positive?
Here goes.
I have nothing to say.
Literally. The day is crawling, as was yesterday (the poem was the best I could do to express how slowly) and I have no stories, no anecdotes, no commentaries, no shares.
NADA.
So, you'll have to wait until tomorrow. Until then, could someone please wake me up when it is 5 pm?
This weekend featured St. Joseph, Michigan's big affair. The main attraction. The grande enchilada.
The Venetian Festival.
The musical offerings were a bit light this year, with the main act being "Loverboy," an arena rock band six-hit wonder from the very early 80s, and some kid who sings in the show "Hannah Montana." Luckily, we were fortunate enough to hear Ty Maxon and Brett's sister Brittany perform, and they made it all better.
Sadly, the fireworks were rained out on Saturday evening. The food vendors likely lost out on serious revenue opportunities to sell their elephant ears, roasted almonds, sno-cones and other fair foods to the visitors who usually travel from all over Southwest Michigan.
Weather ruined most of the weekend's activities. However, NOTHING could stop the carnival from coming to town. When the rain finally let up, and the grey haze and dampness moved on, the resulting day yesterday was nothing short of gorgeous. The sky was blue, the clouds were sparse, the sun was out and the lake breeze was perfect.
And, the carnival rides were sparkling in the sunshine. Or maybe that was WD40 dripping off of the bolts holding the frighteningly precarious metal ride pieces and parts together?
As an adult, those things frighten me. Not because I'm wimpy and afraid of the speed, or the height, or ever unpopular with Brett's family...the stomach drop!
Nope. I am afraid of carnival rides because we should be. Let's overlook the fact that they are painted in extremely creepy ways, including one yesterday that featured a distorted Michael Jackson face and bright colors that are designed to make you squint, and discuss the real scary thing.
They look like they could fall apart at any second, they creak and moan under the weight of the participants (well, it was a rather LARGE crowd), and they barely eek their way over the top for each "go." Water was dripping out of many of the buckets, and I'm fairly sure I heard a sizzle or two as the ride geared up.
Ropes zig-zag around on the ground just begging to trip a small kid running for the next ride. Wires and cords are en masse laying in puddles here and there, tempting fate for a good spark. The ride operators are either a) barely out of middle school, or b) barely paying attention.
I felt like an ancient curmudgeon as I wandered through the carnival rides, zig-zagging like the wires and ropes beneath my feet. And, then, the Carnies started flirting.
"Hey pretty lady, come over here and throw a dart to win a giant bear!"
Uh, yeah. Just what a 31-year old childless urban professional needs. An enormous 5-foot pink bear that has a babydoll tee on it that says "Heart Breaker." And, where would I put that? Which room's decor does THAT complement?
The Carnies (and no, that's not derogatory—he used it himself when explaining that "Carnies offer kisses for good luck," eeeww) were all smoking, eating, chewing something homegrown and spitting. All at once.
I didn't understand exactly what they had to say, and their transient lifestyle and secret language had me curious. So, I did my research. More precisely, I turned to Google and Wikipedia.
According to Wikipedia, a Carnie is anyone who runs a "joint" (booth), "grab joint" (food stand), game, or ride at a carnival.
Not surprising.
However, the language of the Carnies is. Look how fascinating!
Though these terms are traditionally part of carnival jargon, it is an ever-changing form of communication, and in large part designed to be impossible to understand by an outsider. Sadly, most of the code-words are created to trick the carnival-goers.
Alibi A technique used where the player has apparently won the game, but is denied a prize when the jointee invents a further, unforeseeable, condition of the game.
Bally A free performance intended to attract both tips and visitors to the nearby sideshow.
Blow Off Rush of customers out of an exhibition.
Burn the lot To cheat players with little or no attempt to conceal the subterfuge, in the Carnie's expectation that the same town will not be visited again.
Butcher A carnie that will take every penny from a mark by confusing them and then forcing them to pay.
Flat A game that is rigged so that you cannot win. Illegal in most states.
Gaff To rig a game so as to make it unwinnable.
Hammer-Squash Used to describe an individual as dumb or stupid.
Mark A target for swindling, especially one whose gullibility has been demonstrated. Derived from the covert use of chalk to mark the backs of especially ripe targets. The term has entered the popular lexicon, usually as "easy mark."
Oats Stolen money from a concession.
Patch money Money used to induce police officers to turn a blind eye. Also known as juice or ice.
Sugar Shack A concession or food-stand that doubles as a front for drug commerce & trafficking.
Store Can mean any joint, but is usually used to refer to a "straight store" where there's a winner every time. The store is basically selling stock, usually slum, for a handsome profit.
Two-Way Joint A game that can be quickly converted from a fixed, unwinnable game into a temporarily honest one when police officers come by.
-- Don't you feel smarter now? Watch yourself, in more ways than one, if you decide to visit a traveling carnival this summer.
I'd suggest you stick with the food and beer tents. A soggy funnel cake is a sure thing every time.
You know those times when things just feel off? And bad things are happening to people around you? And you feel too much? And cry more than is normal? And your eyes feel like someone poured sand over your head and pushed your face to the ground? And your heart aches, your head hurts and overall, you just don't feel quite right?
Yeah, that was the last few days for me.
Despite having a friend in town—and we did enjoy her visit—the purpose for her being in Chicago really just put a damper on the whole thing.
She's visiting a family member who has had some really rough times of late, for health reasons, and just hearing about all that this poor woman is going through (and more precisely, those around her), gives me a little perspective.
I mean, we're talking major health crisis, which impacts her teenage daughter and older son, her loving husband of just 3 years, her extended family, her neighbors, her friends and everyone who knows her. Her finances are threatened, her job is on the line and her disability insurance may not keep up.
Worst of all, she doesn't even realize how long this has been going on. She has no idea that the entire month of June, and almost all of July, have passed by while she was in a medically induced coma. She can't talk, walk, move, gesture, bathe, eat or even breathe the way she used to. And this is a woman with an incredible personality, physical beauty, vivid life and vitality and a contagious energy. I enjoyed just being at the same table as her. And, now this.
It is hard to NOT be affected when someone you know is experiencing these kinds of lows, and it was a double whammy this week. The second incident spurned Wednesday's post about the visciousness of gossip that can wreck repuations, relationships, careers and self-esteem. I appreciate the good karma that all of your support created—strength in numbers and revenge in the truth.
However, as for me, it is time that I gain a little perspective. I need to usher up prayers and kind thoughts for those in need, and yank my self out of the frustrating, shallow rut of self-pity and sadness that can sometimes overtake an otherwise pretty darn good week.
Life is GOOD. I have so much to be thankful for, proud of, grateful for and happy about. I just need to live in the moment, turn the music up loud, give a hug, eat something delicious, celebrate the small things, realize the bliss, laugh harder and smile more.
Oh, and I may need to dance like a damn fool with my arms flinging above my head, my eyes closed and my hair hanging in my face like a greasy hippie drunk at Woodstock.
I'm not feeling very funny today, and I don't have any charming stories or little observations to share.
Just this tiny little diatribe, vent and plea:
Someone very close to me has been very, deeply hurt by gossip. Widespread gossip. Hurtful, horrible, humiliating gossip. Gossip that is based on nothing but lies, misjudgment, accusations and backhandedness. Jealousy is a very ugly thing, and it makes people do very inhumane things.
I sent this person my love and support, but my heart literally breaks as I empathize with the pain and humiliation that gossip can bring. My stomach churns with the pain of knowing how hurtful this is.
So, Internet, I beg you. Please do NOT believe everything you read. Most of it is garbage, trash created and disseminated to sell magazines, make money or cause trouble. Most of it has very little to do with the truth. And, the people who associate themselves with it are just as low as you can be.
And, please silently send good karma out there into oblivion for my loved one. Today is the day for the loving and kind thoughts of strangers to lift one up from the depths of yuck.
This person knows how I feel, how much I care, and how much I faith, belief and support I have, and for that, I am proud.
Nasty gossip, and authors/spreaders of it, be damned. You'll get your due.
I never really think about how tall I am until it is brought to my attention. In fact, I pretty much forget that I literally tower above most of the adult population. I am six inches taller than the average woman, and two inches taller than the average man. At six feet (barefoot), I am one tall woman. My view of the world is just that—my view.
As a pre-teen and teenager, being tall was torture. The boys in my class didn't catch up to my height until late in high school, if they caught up at all. A growth spurt here or there definitely made the class photos less awkward, but overall, I found myself in the back row of every group photo, all team pictures and every single other setting where masses were lined up for one reason or another. Yes, it was good for basketball and tennis and other such things, but it was more challenging than it was worth back then.
I was always treated as if I was older than my age. My height indicated a sense of maturity that I may or may not have had at that particular age. One memory is when I was about 12, and my mom took me to the bank to open my first checking account, and the banker asked me for my driver's license and work phone number. Always a smart alec, I said, "Oh, you mean the phone number of the family I babysit for?" He didn't laugh.
The benefits, as an adult, of a tall stature are quite clear in a business setting. In a meeting, particularly when we greet at the door of the conference room, all standing up, I am immediately given a sense of respect that is almost tangible, especially by men. It is fascinating to watch their faces register my height. And, almost always, the men slyly look down at the floor. I used to tell myself (knowing it was false) that they were checking out my legs. Yeah, no. They were inevitably looking at my feet to determine if I was really that tall, or if I was sporting some really thick heels.
Today on the bus was no exception. With it being summer and all, my employer creates a casual environment, and practically encourages us to wear flip flops or other summer sandals. Hence, no heels. I was in flip flops this morning, and I saw not one, but two men look down at my shoes to assess if this height thing was natural, or provided by Nordstrom's shoe department.
It has come in handy more times than I can recall. Being tall makes a crowd more manageable, and I can always see the stage, the movie screen, the sign or the event up ahead. I am spared the sense of crowd claustrophobia that my more vertically challenged friends are impaired with. I, at six feet, can breathe. The air up here is nice, yes.
Living with other people, namely my five-foot friend Jill, we experienced the pleasure of having both ends of the height spectrum covered. When we unloaded the dishwasher, for example, she put away all the pots and pans down low, and I took care of the glasses and dishes up high. I could easily store our liquor bottles and cook books up in the hardly usable above-the-fridge cabinet that kitchen designers love to install. Our walk-in pantry was easily divided between the two of us—I took the top four shelves, and Jill took the bottom four. Cohabitation made easy, I say.
Jill and I also leveraged our varying heights to our costumed advantage one Halloween. Several years ago, upon receiving an invite to an annual party where the best costume was awarded a cash prize, I walked into the costume shop with no ideas of what we should be.
First, I spotted an orange mesh vest. Then I saw a police officer hat, and a blue camp shirt. Immediately, the idea took shape in my brain. I'll be the crossing guard, and Jill can be the small child I'm escorting across the street! Jill found her costume for about $11 at Target in the kid's department, and was soon outfitted in a baby blue Hello Kitty rain coat, pink light-up tennis shoes, a plastic backpack and pigtails with bows. I sported the vest and an official looking blue outfit, with reflective tape down the legs of the pants, and fashioned a stop sign out of construction paper and a paint stick. Donning the white gloves and the whistle, I knew we were ready for action.
We walked into the bar where the party was being held, and the bouncer stopped Jill and didn't want to let her in. She'd gone soft on the makeup that night to fully invest in her costume, and the none-too-pleased bouncer thought she was underage. Severely underage. Ok, let's be frank. She looked about nine years old. He eventually looked at her driver's license so long he gave up and let her in. Good thing he did! We proceeded to do "promotional walks" through the party, with me holding up my stop sign, and Jill holding my gloved hand, and we attracted some serious attention. And, promptly won the $100 cash prize for best costume. Our contrasting heights certainly were an advantage! Evidence below, and please excuse the poor quality—my reflective vest was throwing off the flash.
Halloween 2004
Shopping is practically a sport for me, but I must admit that it isn't as simple as you'd think. Everyone thinks that clothes are made for tall women. Maybe tall as defined at 5'8" with a tiny waistline and no hips or booty. At age 17.
But, the real truth is that every single pair of pants/jeans I've ever bought have had to be altered, taking the hem out as far as it will go. My drycleaners/tailor now says to me when I plop a new pair in front of her, "Hem down?" before I've even said hello. At least the shorter-legged women can always hem something up—you can't make more fabric. Often, I have to just pass on a great looking pair of pants, because I just know that after one wearing/washing, they'll be too short and I'll look as if I'm waiting for the flood. Which, incidentally, I'm not.
Dating as a tall woman has not always been so easy, either. Girls would always say to me, "Oh, I have this great guy for you." My first question, sadly, was not fetching for information about his intelligence, drive, passion, sense of humor, or even his looks. It was, "Is he tall?" And, my short friends can attest, my second question was usually, "I mean, taller than you is one thing. Is he taller than me?"
Because I never could get over that feeling of towering over (even if only by an inch or so) the guy with whom I was linked arms. I didn't like the feeling of being "bigger" than him. Even if he had me by 50 pounds, I still felt like an Amazon woman on the arm of a shorty. I know, I know. Beggars can't be choosers. And so I did relent, and go out with a few men who were shorter than I. And I regretted it every time as we walked down the sidewalk together and people stared. Yes they did. I know what you're thinking—that it was all in my head. Well, maybe, but that's enough reason for me.
As a tall woman, I know this much is true. When asked to be a bridesmaid, which I've done many many times, I'm guaranteed to be the one at the end of the row at the front of the church. I'll be in the back of the group photo, and you'll pretty much only see my head. I'll be the first to enter the church, and the last pair to exit, hopefully on the arm of a groomsman who is also vertically blessed. Otherwise, we just look plain silly. I'll also have had to dole out an additional $50 for "extra fabric" to get the dress to attempt to cover my painful bridesmaid shoes. Exhibit A is below. See the shoes? Yeah, you shouldn't. And the beautiful bride Anna is one of my TALL friends!
With Anna & Kelley in 2007
Height requires a level of self-confidence to carry off, and only as I crossed over into my thirties do I truly realize the benefits of, and difficulty of, bearing it. I walk into a room and people notice me, even if that wasn't my goal. There is no "hiding in the background" or "blending in." I know I need to, and am getting better at, throwing back my shoulders and carrying my height with pride. I'm learning.
It doesn't hurt that I am quite happy in a relationship with a man who is well over six feet tall. I can wear heels! And feel ladylike! And small! And dainty! Ok. Not quite dainty. That was a stretch. But, we fit.
Ultimately, I blame my parents. My dad is a hefty 6'4" and my mom used to be considered quite statuesque at 5'8 1/2", but in our family, my mom is now the shrimp. My sister is just shy of me at about 5'10" and she wears her height well. Ultimately, our family portraits are always taken with a tripod that is tilted WAY up. At least we don't always wear costumes for them.
St. Louis circa 1983
I was born early and was considered a preemie, but apparently I've caught up. Life is good up here, if you can get used to the shoe-inspection, first-bridesmaid-in, dating-challenged, pant-altering life.
At the height of the moment, I guess it doesn't really matter that much, but being tall sure has defined me in a lot of ways.
When you plan to have people over, whether it is 4 people or 40, it makes you look around your home and assess it through the eyes of the visitor.
I have lived in my condo for almost 3 years and I love to entertain. Now, don't go getting any grand ideas about fancy dinner parties for 12 where the table looks like Martha Stewart laid it out and is now hiding in the closet. I don't have a table that big, or a closet that roomy for that matter.
More often, it is just a handful of friends, stopping in to have a drink, toast the season, play a board game or watch sports on TV, or simply to swap stories and laugh about life in general. All in all, low-key entertaining is my bag. I love the notion of having people into my space, and expect that they will want the "tour" and kindly "judge" my choices. All of which is expected, and just fine with me.
Tomorrow, Brett will be bringing his parents by after the Cubs game, due to my ridiculously convenient location near Wrigley Field (I know, it is as awesome as you think) and I genuinely want the place to look "just so." And, I'm having an impromptu gathering at my place (either inside if it rains, or on the roof-deck if it is nice) tomorrow night, so it is a double whammy. Most of my friends have seen my place, but not all of them.
And, it is truly MY place. I found a realtor on my own, used my friend the mortgage broker, hired a lawyer on my own, bought it on my own and love it all so much more for that accomplishment. BUT, I must say, that the love I have for this place is magnified, exemplified and multiplied by the fact that the place was in total and terrible disarray when I first wrote the offer.
It was owned by a woman who was 104 when she died, and she was wheelchair bound and hadn't updated the unit in about, oh, 40 years. The rotary telephone on the kitchen wall was dated 1965 on the back. She had brown vinyl flooring, a pink stovetop, a brown fridge, metal cabinets with wood veneer stickers, furry vinyl dining room flooring and western-movie-style-wooden-swinging-doors in/out of the kitchen. The light fixtures were brass and from 1973, and the furniture was old enough to be ugly, but not old enough to be valluable. It was really hard to see past all of it.
But, I, for one, can see the potential in a place. It was huge for a one-bedroom, and had knee-to-ceiling windows on the entire north side that featured spectacular views of the Western sky and the Eastern view over the lake.
I also happen to have super handy parents who were kind and generous enough to help guide, steer and help me through the renovation. To put it mildly, we painted every surface that wasn't carpet, ripped out every cabinet there was, detached every light fixture from its place (minus one, story to come) and refinished the floors in 3 out of 4 rooms. All 1,000 square feet are just the way I had hoped they'd be, at least in design. After much blood, sweat and beers, mind you.
Just feeling that way makes you more protective of your space, and how people will view it. And, quite frankly, the love affair with the place is starting to move past the honeymoon phase and into the reality of the relationship, where you notice the flaws, cracks and otherwise dings in the overall loveliness of the facade you once treasured.
However, I mustn't point those out to visitors, right?
They shouldn't know that the bathtub leaks and the incessant drip is wearing off the epoxy tub and tile paint job that my mother and I so painstakingly mixed (a true science experiment, that one) and painted until we were almost choking on fumes, right?
They couldn't possibly notice how the tiny bathroom isn't vented properly, and therefore, every shower that is taken in its presence causes the walls to sweat, right?
They won't ever be keen to the fact that the hot water in the kitchen runs at a pressure about 1/10th of what it should, making washing dishes very challenging, right?
They won't see that the carpet is flattened out in certain places from the previous owner's wheelchair, and that I haven't yet felt like up-ending my life to replace it, right?
Yeah. They will never be the wiser. However, I am, and it makes me judge and view my place with a harsher lens than others do.
Most days, though, the crystal chandelier in the dining room—the one fixture we left in tact—catches the sun coming in from the west as it sets over Wrigley Field and I'm just happy as a clam. The blue of the water of Lake Michigan over the green of the grass of Waveland Park reflect so perfectly against the khaki hues in which I've chosen to wash my walls, leaving the viewer in awe of nature's color palette.
And, given the fact that the renovation was completed in a mere 5 days (due to delayed closings and all other sorts of stressfu, horrible, terrible, frustrating situations that were far beyond my control) with all of my belongings in the center under a tarp and new and old cabinets serving as dining tables as we (once again) ate pizza out of boxes while paint dried in our hair and the beer was not even cold because the fridge was in the living room and the sink had no faucet and the counter had no granite yet and the bathroom only worked when the epoxy paint had dried...I'd say we did ok.
Yeah. No one needs to know all of that. But, I can show you a few before and afters, in an homage to my fearless renovating parents, and my sister's loving touches, and my own strength of character (and volume of voice in a stressful tirade, as it turned out).
The bathroom in all of its before and after glory.
Pretty big improvement in the kitchen, I'd say.
Another view of the kitchen, where the old phone had once hung.
In the dining room, the crystal chandelier in question.
As Brett's kind parents and a handful of close Chicago friends come over tomorrow, I will serve as a gracious host, and will absolutely NOT point out the flaws of the place. As with any good relationship, I respect my place too much to air our grievances in public.
Let's have fun with flickr, and see what a "Colleen mosaic" would look like. Thanks to Grits in the City, I know how to make this happen.
How does this whole thing work?
First, I typed the answer to each of the questions below into Flickr Search. Using only the first page, I picked an image. Then, I copied and pasted each of the URLs for the images into Mosaic Maker. And the questions were...
1. What is your first name? 2. What is your favorite food? 3. What high school did you go to? 4. What is your favorite color? 5. Who is your celebrity crush? 6. Favorite drink? 7. Dream vacation? 8. Favorite dessert? 9. What you want to be when you grow up? 10. Your favorite hobby? 11. Your sibling's name? 12. A pet you have or wish you had? 13. What are you most proud of? 14. The place you call home? 15. What do you love most in life? 16. One word to describe you?
My mosaic looks like this:
Isn't it beautfiul?
My answers, and the link to credit the photorapher, are below. Did you guess correctly what the image I chose represented?
There you have it. Thanks to all of the super photographers I borrowed from...aren't they amazing?
By the way, this process made me:
a) want to eat fatty desserts dripping with sauces b) long to travel c) wish it was happy hour already d) crave a good puppy cuddle e) envy the talented photographers out there
Lately, each day at work, at about 3:45 in the afternoon, I get this creepy feeling that somebody's watching me.
Rockwell was right. It's creepy. So is he, incidentally.
Anyway, it freaks me out each day. Slowly, the shadow comes across my window, behind me, and I see the reflection of something huge in my laptop screen.
The skin on my arms crawls and the hair stands up on my neck.
I turn around, only to be faced with this:
Yeah. I know. He's not scary, but his arrival each day sure is.
Shall I remind you that I'm on the 27th floor?
*I should clarify—they are doing cement work on the building's exterior. We do not get our windows washed every day. THAT would be a waste!
This one is for the ladies. And, only the ladies, I fear.
(sorry guys)
Gals, not to be crass, but do you ever splurge so much on one item that you have to plot out how to wear it as many times possible to maximize the longevity of it and to minimize the cost-per-wearing?
Yep. That'll be me. I bought the most beautiful dress at Nordstrom last week, shown below. I don't want my mother to know exactly how much I spent, so I pulled the image from the designer's website. I will get to don it a few times: first to my friends' wedding in Mackinac Island, Michigan in a few weeks. Second, I'll just HAVE to wear it to the formal wedding I'm attending with Brett in September at the Hotel Intercontinental here in Chicago.
Okay. So that is twice. The cost-per-wearing is still a tad on the high side for this bargain shopper. What now?
Do I start wearing it to work? To the office holiday party? Bowling? To the movies? Show up at the local dive bar in my black taffeta cocktail dress?
I just might.
I will say this, however, about Nordstrom's dress department. I had the absolute best shopping experience there I've ever had. Yes, she managed to get me to more than double my "budget" for the dress (yeah, I'm a real tough sell), but she somehow made the whole process fun.
Which says a lot, considering at one point I was squeezing myself into a borrowed pair of Spanx nude-colored, knee-length strangulation tights in order to smooth the bumps under one satin number she'd brought me.
Tangent alert: How do women wear those things? I turned blue from the waist up, I feel certain, from those things squeezing my thighs. And, the crotch hole? Just unladylike if you ask me. The nude hue does nothing for my complexion, and the NASA-developed space-leotard fabric just pushed all the excess fat above and below the Spanx, which was entirely unpleasant to both the eyes and the legs. Yes, I'll concede that they are a Godsend for some outfits, but I wouldn't have been able to consume a cocktail, much less dinner, if I was strapped into them. And, what's a wedding without enjoying some free drinks and food?
Back to the dress in question. So, I love it. And, it does NOT require any Medieval skin-gripping torture devices underneath in order to fit well and feel good. I swore I'd never buy another black dress, but this one has just that right amount of pizzaz and uniqueness to stand out just a little without calling too much attention away from the inevitably stunning bride. Best of all, I already have the shoes and the bag.
And, I emailed the salesgirl the following morning, when, to my dismay, I noticed on the designer's website (while showing the excellent purchase to my friend Katie) that they were running a 15% promotion off all dresses for the weekend, and she immediately (no questions asked) credited my account for the total 15%. What a gal!!
Working in marketing, I know that consumerism and shopping in general is almost entirely driven by the "brand experience" and I thanked her for continuing to make mine a great one. She knows she cemented my loyalty as a Nordstrom shopper, and I sent her boss an email bragging about her. And he actually responded. I know how important this stuff is, and wanted to do my part as the shopper on the good end of a customer service experience.
Because, after getting rudely treated at any number of stores while spending your hard-earned cash there, isn't it nice to experience someone who loves their job, is good at it, and makes you feel glad you stopped in? I think so, too.
Maybe I'll wear the dress over to thank her? That would bring me to three total showings, reducing my cost-per-wearing to something I can almost bear.
In an effort to share the highs and lows of blogging, as well as to momentarily travel back to the commuting theme, I present to you today a guest blogger. Yes, that pun was intended.
You know her from my previous posts. Elizabeth is one of The Posse, was part of the Costa Rica adventure, and has been featured many other times in blog posts, stories and references. She is a regular reader and a hilarious commenter. We've been friends since the 9th grade, despite the fact that at first, we were like oil and water. She quickly became one of my favorite people in the whole world, and I couldn't be happier that we're now in our 17th year of friendship.
So, I am proud to offer up today's post from Liz, in her words. My notes are in italics, because you know I can't keep quiet THIS LONG without saying at least a few things.
-- How to commute to Chicago...in a snow storm! By Elizabeth Norris
In August 2006, Colleen's friends in Chicago, Jill and Josh, began contacting her friends, family and coworkers about throwing a surprise 30th birthday for her in December. Four months before the party date, there were 15 out of towners who had booked plane tickets for the big surprise. The bulk of the party goers were traveling from Atlanta, LA and St. Louis. Needless to say, everyone was very excited and found it challenging to keep the secret from Colleen. She's quite the crafty, nosy, smart girl...whatever you want to call it.
I'd call it sly and brilliant, but that's just me.
The party was scheduled for a Friday night, the first weekend in December, so most guests had plane flights departing their respective cities early in the morning. The Thursday before the party, a massive snow storm decided to visit Chicago.
Slam into the city is more like it!
This created a huge mess for travelers all over the country. Four girls traveling from Atlanta (me ---> Liz, Mandi, Heather, Lauren) were lucky to get on the 8 AM flight to Midway. This was the ONLY Delta flight out of Atlanta heading to Chicago that was not canceled that day. Lauren was using a buddy pass and made it on the flight at the last minute and was forced to ride First Class with our world traveler and Delta Sky Mile collector, Heather. Rough life.
We were so excited to be on our way to Chicago because a great panic had set in that we may not make it. The flight was marvelous and the smells of poop filled the plane. It seemed a passenger had a "grumpy" in the bathroom and it circulated throughout the air system of the plane. It even made its way to the cockpit and the pilots were phoning the Flight Attendants in the cabin asking what the hell was going on out there.
The plane made it to Chicago and circled and circled and circled. And then..landed in Indianapolis! Yeah! This is where everything got interesting.
The flight crew informed the passengers that:
a) the plane was returning to Atlanta, and b) nobody was allowed to get off the plane.
Angry passengers began shouting and some finally just bailed past the flight attendants and left. One man, with carry-on luggage, kept saying that he'd rented an SUV and was driving to Chicago and demanded they let him off. He was quite attractive and was standing next to our first class passengers, Heather and Lauren.
In his frustration he began talking to Heather and explaining to her that he had a car and they could not hold him on the plane. Heather jokingly asks "well, can you take us to Chicago, too?" "No problem," he says, and pushes past the flight attendant and onto the jetway.
So long, Mr. Cute Man with the Rental Car.
At this point, it was clear that the crew could not hold us captive on the plane so we began crafting our getaway plan. We needed to know what would happen to our luggage if we got off in Indianapolis. Originally, Delta told us our luggage was going back to Atlanta—no questions asked. While this was not 100% appealing to us, we were ready to bail on our luggage and make-up for the entire weekend and hit the first H&M we saw. The excuse for a shopping spree was thrilling to us.
Side note: then, I broke the plane.
It was a very nice new plane but my booty broke it. I'm packin' some heat in the "trunk" for those of you that don't know me. Therefore, I plead genetic defect.
To sum it up, I was up in first class with Heather and Lauren, trying to feel superior and rich, leaning against the wall of the plane. I was leaning over with my hands on my knees, so I was applying a decent amount of pressure to the cabin wall. Next thing we heard was "POP" and the wall collapsed in a little. I have concaved the wall and separated a seam of the airplane wall. Freaking genius. I knew Delta was gonna make me clean out barf bags and pick up tiny peanuts 'til I paid for the damage. Luckily, I used my massive rear to conceal the damage from the crew.
Remember, this is Liz talking. My booty isn't quite this powerful.
At this time, 45 minutes had passed since we'd landed and Delta finally said that we could all get off the plane. They agreed to unload all our luggage and said they were trying to organize buses to Chicago. These buses were going to be there to pick us up who knows when (they were predicting 3+ hours). The plane was still going back to Atlanta for those who would like that option.
Poor Lauren, with her buddy pass status, knew that her chances of getting on a flight back to Atlanta from Chicago on Sunday were slim. She could have been stranded there 'til mid- week. So we waved good bye to our friend as she headed off to complete the most pointless plane trip of her life.
We exited the plane, celebrating our escape, but wondering how we were supposed to get to Chicago. As we left the jetway we saw a beam of light from the sky that created a glow around...Mr. Cute Man with the Rental Car!
The Hallelujah Chorus was heard in the background and we ran in slow motion toward him with our arms outstretched. Ok...not really, but that's how it felt when we saw him still waiting at the gate for us. He was with a flight attendant who had been riding as a passenger next to Heather and Lauren. She also needed a ride to Chicago. The two of them had waited on me, Mandi and Heather, and we could not believe our luck.
Doesn't hurt that I have attractive friends.
We grabbed our luggage and all piled into the mid-size SUV rental car. There was a snowstorm going on and we had a two-hour drive to Chicago. A two-hour ride with strangers is something I recommend everyone do. It was quite the experience. I learned that Indiana is flat...VERY flat. We talked a lot about Colleen's party and how we'd been friends for so long. We knew almost all flights into Chicago were canceled and were keeping our fingers crossed that all the other party guests were going to make it.
Throughout the ride, Rob (AKA Mr. Cute Man with the Rental Car) was getting a lot of business phone calls. We could tell he had an interesting job so we all began quietly trying and figure it out amongst ourselves. Even the flight attendant in the front seat was turned around whispering to us. It was very funny.
Finally, one of us just asked him what line of work he was in. He replied, "I'm a reporter for Dateline." THE Dateline we were all thinking? Yep...THE Dateline that, at the time, was on NBC two or more times a week. His name is Rob Stafford, and he lived in Chicago. He currently does the weekend news for NBC5 News in Chicago, and yes...he's pretty darn cute and charming.
We talked about some of the stories he'd covered. In Georgia, he did a special on the Bart Corbin trial and the Amy Yates investigation. He explained that his phone calls were with a P.I. he was working with trying to locate a suspect. They were plotting how they could approach him with cameras at his job and confront him about the murder of his girlfriend. Rob had worked for Dateline for ten years and knew Stone Phillips, Chris Hanson and Ann Curry quite well. He was a mini-celebrity who had saved us from Indianapolis and nicely driven us to Midway.
He dropped the four of us off and Midway and rode off into the sunset.
Considering that we had gotten about 12 inches of snow that morning, let's assume this is the proverbial sunset, ok?
Not sure if Rob even knows what his generosity meant to us that day. How many grown men would even volunteer for a long car ride with some giggly girls excited about a surprise party, drinking the night away and a cheap clothing store? Brave soul. I bet his wife is pretty cool...like us.
We shared a taxi to the city with the flight attendant and made our way to our friend Jenny's Dad's condo on LaSalle St. Jenny had arrived the day before and avoided Snow Storm '06.
Sadly, the four of us were the only out of town guests who made it. Colleen's parents and sister were stranded in the Atlanta airport for more than 13 hours, Aunts and cousins never left St. Louis, a friend didn't make it out of South Carolina, an Aunt and Uncle didn't make it from Michigan and old friends and more cousins never made it off the ground in LA.
What was going to be 15 strong had become only 4 visitors from out of town. But, three of us had managed to write our own version of planes, trains and automobiles. Quite the unexpected but memorable adventure!
Luckily, Colleen is blessed with a wonderful group of friends in Chicago. There was no shortage of people at the party and we had a great time. If Colleen is brave enough she'll post the video of her running in and seeing the four members of "The Posse" in the room. I highly recommend watching this bit of comedy. Judging by her reaction it's probably a good thing all 15 out of town guests weren't there. I'm not sure she could have taken it! --
Thanks, Liz! She's right. However, it was one of the best days of my life. What a surprise. And, what amazing friends I have! Somewhat embarrassingly begrudgingly, here's the video of my arrival. All my friends are tucked behind the camera-girl hiding behind the bar. Laugh away.
Yes. I'm prancing. That is some gen-u-wine emotion, people. And, my guest blogger Liz is the one in the black short sleeved blouse with the loud contagious laugh.
Sometimes the lessons in life teach you only what you already knew but hadn't yet admitted to yourself.
I re-learned one again last week, and figured I'd share it with you. This blog has served a great purpose in my life. I have always known I loved to write. I've been a voracious reader my entire life, and have a serious appreciation for talented writers. I don't consider myself a "writer" per se, but I do enjoy greatly the satisfaction of putting words to thoughts, pen to paper and, more frequently, typed words to a cyber page.
When Doogie Howser used to type away in his computer-journal, I was jealous. Yes, even back then. I'd never been very good at keeping up with a daily written journal, and I never got into the "keep one in a word document on your computer" thing, despite having tried it in college. But I really wanted to be the type of person who would journal. Not the "I am happy today" or "I like so-and-so this week" kind of things, but the observances and stories of life. I wish I had stacks of weathered old journals of creative and not-so-creative writing hidden in my closet.
But, alas, that's not me.
Blogging, though, has proven to be the spark that I needed to energize the wordsmith in me. The creative juices were there, but needed to be nurtured. Given a place to stretch out and grow stronger. The writing that I wasn't doing for work anymore (which is a sign that I'm now at an agency where they employ truly gifted creative/corporate communications writers to do those things) created a gap in my brain that went unfilled for over a year. I was missing something. I didn't even know that it was a lack of an outlet for a true creative expression until I began to jot and blog about things that made me laugh.
At the beginning, this blog was just that. A place to tell the stories that happened to me as I explored and experienced Chicago from a commuter's perspective. More precisely, the hilarious and ridiculous incidents that occurred on public transportation, or in cabs, as I made my way through life in Chicago. Hence, the highly un-clever, highly tongue-twisterish name.
But, as time went on, I realized that there were far funnier things that happened, and more frequently too, that didn't have anything to do with commuting. It felt like there had to be a way to infuse the two ideas together—basically, I'm a Chicagoan, I'm a Commuter, and I have a Commentary on a few things. Hey—that still works!
So, I began to write. I began to feel the stories bubble to the top of my consciousness. I looked at the world around me differently, through a lens of a creative writer, a recorder of events, a commentator on all things possible. It opened up the entire city (and my life in general) to a new perspective, and a new outlet for storytelling, which is the entire point of this. I knew that I was a storyteller—I've blogged many times about how my 20+ year friendships have thrived on them teasing me for my backtracks, my segues and my long-windedness. But, I loved it. It gave me a forum in which to tell my stories. Alone, and without censorship or interruptions.
While I knew that going in people would read this, or at least I hoped, I wasn't quite expecting the viral connectivity that results from having your thoughts "out there" in cyberspace. I didn't realize that so many people would literally stumble upon my page, and therefore, into my life, by merely searching out keywords, topics or by clicking other people's blogrolls of authors they like. I knew that my mother would pass it on to her neighbors, that my sister would share it with her friends, that my father would share it with his family, and that my colleagues would soon find out about it. I knew all of that, but the reality of it is entirely different.
Now, people are actually bookmarking my words? Referring to them daily as a source of laughter, amusement, or to satisfy a simple curiosity or fill a bored moment in time? Wow. That's entirely different. And, I realized that some level of censorship MUST happen as I detail the events of my life, and the events of those I am fortunate enough to meet along the way. I respected people's inherent privacy issues and need for some boundaries. I use first names only wherever required, and always let someone know that the story will be told. The intimacies are left off the table, and the details are only there when needed to fully elucidate my point. All in all, people are proud to be included, as you can see in some of the blog comments that feature phrases like "blog mention!" by the said mentioned friend. They love it, and so do I.
I also, however, have learned the consequences of doing so in a public forum such as this. I wasn't quite prepared.
The good news is that of the reactions I've received, 99.9% of them have been positive, rewarding, encouraging and supportive. Last week, however, proved to me that when you put yourself out there, sometimes the feedback isn't so pretty.
I received a comment on a post last week, that I have reproduced below that made me feel so differently about this whole blog thing that I needed a few days to calm down. I was hurt, ticked off and, sadly, I allowed it to "get to me" for a few days. I must credit my sister, and my dear friends Liz and Jenny for taking my side (atta girls!) and for believing in me enough to bolster me back up and kick me up onto the horse again. And, publishing their support of me. As they should. Thank God for old friends, right?
The comment in question was this:
Anonymous said... You know, I've read a few entries on your blog due to the link on Facebook. I'm not sure if there's an actual theme anymore and I'm not sure why people keep a blog who don't have a purpose for it. Saying that, there's a difference between snarky in a clever way (i.e., gawker.com) and being judgmental and critical in a way that's not particularly funny. I think your recent entries seem to have tones of superiority and are less about laughing at you than laughing at others. I suppose I should stop reading it. July 2, 2008 3:29 PM
Now, on some levels, I do hate to give this Anonymous (read: wimpy) reader and commenter any more credit, or time in the spotlight, than he/she likely deserves. I resent the rude nature of the opinion; however, I know that it is just that. ONE OPINION. What burns me up the most is the sheer refusal to a) own up to his/her identity, giving me some sense of where he/she is coming from and b) the complete lack of understanding that I believe is demonstrated in this comment.
First of all, if you found my link on Facebook, then that means you're one of my listed "Friends." I don't befriend strangers, and therefore, the author of the comment is someone that I know. At least, it is someone that I used to know. It could be a high school friend, a childhood friend, a past work acquaintance, a Chicago friend, a relative, a college buddy or a sorority sister. Wherever he/she came from, I wish he/she would have come all the way forward. Give me a name so I can at least respect your opinion.
Secondly, the author clearly is a blog rookie. An amateur. A blog, as my friend Liz put it, is a place for an "author" (word used loosely) to express opinions, thoughts, stories or comments about things that interest him or her. In this case, I am the vulnerable one, but also I am the one that is brave enough to go there.
My blog is my place to share my opinions and my stories in my voice in my tone and with my choice of words and pictures. Note the repeated use of "my." Yes, this is my forum. If you don't like it, Anonymous, then don't read. I appreciate the free speaking nature of this world where you can express your thoughts to someone else, and be heard for it, but I resent the fact that you come to this forum in an uneducated manner.
While I can't respond to the "tone" comment he/she made (because that is his/her opinion), and I'm sorry if the humor I expressed (or at least attempted to express) was lost on the reader.
I can say this, though: the "theme" of this blog has been explained. I'm a Chicagoan. I'm a Commuter. And I'm Commenting. Period. The "theme" has not changed. The course of my life has expanded the breadth of topics that fall into my commenting scope, and therefore, the range of issues/stories I discuss has reached beyond simply the CTA. Besides, there is only so much you can say about crazy cab drivers, broken down busses, loud passengers, rude people, trains and planes. Right? I refuse to defend for one more moment why my blog discusses what my blog discusses.
Let's move on, shall we?
The beauty of our world is this: I can write what I want, when I want, and I can publish it here for free. Who reads it is another story. I hope that my true readers (I shall not use the word "fans" for fear of sounding any more superior than my Anonymous commenter already has accused me of) will continue to support me and provide me with the fodder, the fun and the foundation from which I write.
And, if I can make at least one person smile today, isn't that enough?
Last night, while walking down Michigan Avenue toward my bus stop, I overheard some tourists trying to figure out where to go to dinner. Immediately, thoughts of all of the fantastic restaurants I could recommend flooded my mind, but I was polite enough to keep my opinions to myself.
And then I heard it.
The dad said, "It's too bad there isn't a Chili's or an Applebee's on Michigan Avenue."
Ohhhh-Kaaay.
First of all, that is so incredibly sad. With all of the highly rated, fantastically reviewed, best-in-class, top-in-the-world restaurants in Chicago, at every price point and every "level," it is a total shame that someone would even CONSIDER going to a chain for a dinner in Chicago. Much less a chain like those two, restaurants that appear on every corner near every strip mall in every suburb in America.
Second of all, maybe try the deep dish pizza? Or the polish sausages? Or the kosher dogs? Or the Italian beef sandwiches? Or the steaks and potatoes and salads at any number of restaurants? Or the sushi? Or anything but THAT?
Third of all, go back to Oklahoma. Or Arkansas. Or Iowa. Or whatever middle-America suburb you came from. We appreciate the tourists that appreciate Chicago. Which is to say, we appreciate those who will indulge in, take a bite of, experience and enjoy the culture, cuisine and class that Chicago has to offer.
If you're looking for plastic table cloth covers, kitchy yet duplicated a million times across the country decor, bad fried foods at cheap prices served fast, then we're not the city for you. And, Michigan Avenue is not your place to roam.
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