I’m wicked crispy, so bear with me on this post. Also, you’re going to want to wash your hands before you read any farther.
All clean? Then let me hit you with the highs and lows of my thirty hours in Chicago.
Chicago didn’t start out well for me. Upon arrival at the hotel, I opened my luggage to hang up my clothes for my big meeting the following morning.
High: My skirt didn’t need ironing.
Low: My white top was somehow covered in a mysterious yellow fluid. Clearly the baggage claim guys had had some sort of circle jerk into my open suitcase. Awesome.
I checked my watch. I had exactly an hour and a half before I had to leave to set up my dinner event. Fortunately I was only a block away from some quality Chi-town shopping.
I’m just going to skip over the whole work thing with the horrible conference room, the poor setup and forty-five minutes lost in the pursuit of missing boxes. Just know that your favorite Elly was not exactly in a tranquil state of zen. (Read: I was a wild eyed stabbity ball of sleep-deprivation, adrenaline, caffeine, and low impulse control.)
Twenty minutes later, still clutching a box cutter menacingly, I sprinted to the Loehmann’s less than a block away.
High: I managed to find a decent replacement for my defiled shirt in under ten minutes and under $30.
Low: It took over fifteen minutes to check out.
Still, I had just enough time to sprint back to my hotel, slip my new prize on a hanger, smear some concealer atop of the blue pools under my eyes, and smack on another couple layers of mascara before sprinting back to the lobby to pick up the laptop for the evening’s presentation and yell at the banqueting staff about my missing boxes one last time as I hurried out the front door.
Blah, blah, blah lots of work stuff, then a failed attempt at drinks atop theWitt, a sad attempt at sleep, moment of horror when my raccoon-eyed ass realized that the mysterious yellow fluid was actually eye-makeup remover and now I would have to pretend that I always look like Adam Lambert at 7am before a crowd of 175 people, put on my foxy new white shirt, got my conference on *yawn*…and then I was done.
I had an hour or so to kill before meeting my dear Aunt Sharon for lunch, so I decided to stroll through Millennium Park. Before long, the wave of exhaustion hit me. I flopped on the closest available bench, pleased by my good fortune to find one in the shade.
High: I spent forty lovely minutes switching my attention back and forth between the book I was reading and the interesting characters walking by. I checked my watch and thought, “I’ll just sit here five minutes longer and bask in this beautiful weather.”
Low: Four minutes later a bird shit all over my nice new shirt. A myriad of colors and consistencies updated my ensemble. A yolk like substance sat on my collar and ran down my back. More of the yolk cascaded over my right boob punctuated by a hard, dark, worm-like chunk. In my lap, I noticed a mealy pile of weirdness in a tan color. As I leapt up in horror, a chunk of the tan mealy substance plopped onto the leather of my sandal. Awesome. I scraped off the chunks with the business cards in my pocket and wandered towards the restaurant.
After an afternoon of lunching and shopping with Sharebear, we headed back to the rooftop of theWit to meet…
Ok, so it isn’t exactly a great picture of either of us, but I blame it on the drunken hooch that took the photo. (No, it wasn’t Aunt Sharon. She was still sober. Ba dum CHING!)
High: SubWow leaning over to ask, “Do we need some sort of cover story for your Aunt on how we know each other?” Seriously, that girl is a-frickin-dorable.
High: Hearing my aunt yell the word “G-spot” loud enough to be heard over bad techno music and hipster chatter.
Our conversation weaved it’s way from oil spills, to viagra, to tantric sex, and randomly to Dr. Oz. (Seriously, this is your last chance to wash your hands.) I made some flippant comment about all the ladies in the audience wantonly trying to seduce him as they pranced about the stage in an over-sized lab coat. Aunt Sharon said, “I know why,” and proceeded to tell us all about this episode.
High: Three grown women sitting on a rooftop bar fingering the roofs of their mouths between sips of cocktails and giggling inappropriately.