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No trip of mine is ever complete without a) getting heckled or b) getting propositioned because people think I'm a prostitute.
After walking from Millennium Park down the Magnificent Mile shopping stretch, Evan gave me directions to get back by bus. It was pretty exciting! Mainly because I got on at the tail end of rush hour and could pretend to be a young professional heading home from a busy day out on the town.
Two things wrong with this scenario.
1. I didn't bring a purse to Chicago and "had" to buy a new one. But for my trek around Millennium Park and down most of the Magnificent Mile, I had been swinging a pretty sweet canvas tote bag from Trader Joe's. The purse I ended up buying still had tags on it. I didn't realize they were visible/hanging out until a bit into the ride.
2. I was scared to death. The bus driver seriously hit like 80 mph in heavy traffic and the bus was swerving and hitting bumps and I was sliding all over the place and flying through the air. Clearly not someone used to Chicago's public transportation.
Evan said to keep riding the bus and it'd stop near the train station near their apartment. I had been in the area before and knew what to look for/expect. However, in the middle of nowhere, the bus driver comes on the intercom and announces, "This is the last stop. Everyone must get off."
I sit there and hope he just lets me ride around with him because this is NOT where I'm supposed to be. He stares at me in the rearview mirror. We are close enough that he can talk to me just fine and I can hear him. Instead, he picks the intercom back up and announces, again, very slowly and very clearly, "This. Is. The. Last. Stop. Get. Off."
I get off and call Evan. I am standing on a corner. Only a few cars are passing by. Evan says he'll come get me.
This is the corner I stood on. See. It's a legit corner at a not-real intersection. Some mensfolks drove by reeaal slow and rolled down their windows to ask me, "What're you doing? You looking good." My face must have registered disgust, but I'm not sure because I was trying not to say something stupid. Like, "That makes one of us." Or "Ew. Ew. Ewwwwwwwww VOM."
This was across the street. If you can't make it out, that building is a "Pregnancy Clinic."
Haha, this was right next to it:
RIDICULOUS. It's a Christian video and book store. All I can think of is the pregnancy clinic is one of those make-believe places that promises a lady some significant guidance and health... via the Bible. Except they don't tell you the last part until you're cornered in an exam room. I saw a Law and Order on it once.
Or it's like competing stores. Like a RadioShack and a Circuit City. Which one has the better price for that baby?
Thankfully, Evan came to pick me up rather quickly. He rolled up withou a shirt on because he was getting in the shower when I called. Fearing for my life (and my possible rural farm naivette being demolished), he came to my rescue.
Haha, cops on segways are fairly common. I tried to run after this cop to get a better picture.
Y.E.S.
Which is totally my excuse for STILL not completing the Chicago trip updates. Keep you coming back for more.
I am heading to Vegas next week. In a very poorly planned (and even worse budgeted) trip, I expect a great number of adventures. Especially since my plane is scheduled to arrive about 5-6 hours before I can check-in to the hotel. And especially since my hotel is going to be safari themed. It was that or Hooters.
Do I have anything planned? No, but that is nothing out-of-the-ordinary.
What is particularly disturbing is how long I will have to go without internet access. Mostly because I refuse to pay $12 for 24 hour access. AND there are no free wireless hot spots near the strip.
I can only hope my casino winnings will be enough to cover the internet. Sigh.
Chicago's struggling for important people:
While wandering around downtown Chicago, I walked by a building offering "Free Admission." Not even bothering to see what it was, I pushed through the revolving door and asked the security guard where I could get a "free thing." He pointed me to a counter. I looked through a brochure and discovered I was about to enjoy the McCormick Freedom Museum.The McCormick Freedom Museum is the first museum in the country dedicated to freedom and the First Amendment. It opened in April 2006 and is dedicated to educating Americans about freedom and the First Amendment. Vague, but intriguing. Like an unexplained stain on the carpet.
The woman at the counter gave me a purple token and asked me all sorts of questions. I refused to answer because I'm pretty sure personal questions like "Where are you from" violate my freedoms. There was a sign that said "No Cameras." It did not specify cell phones.
The first room you enter is a theater that talks about freedoms. I don't really remember what the movie was about. I was too busy scouting the other patrons. Sitting in the row in front of me was a couple of older ladies who kept whispering about something. I tried to scoot closer to listen in, but they caught me! This is as close as I could get. I also had to use the flash for this picture, which is probably what gave me away.
The exhibits were pretty interesting and brought up issues I hadn't thought about since AP Government in high school. Like which of the following countries has freedom of press:
1. China
2. Cuba
3. USA
It hurt my head (and heart). The woman in front of me, aka one of the women from the theater, got it wrong. She picked China.We need this museum in every major city.At one point, you could take a test to become an Official Freedom Agent. Of course I took that! I even got to print out a badge and wear it for the rest of my tour around the museum.
That's right. I am freedom. Once my badge printed, I thought about legally changing my name to "I am freedom." I had already researched the project because a few months ago, while trying to order business cards, I had mistakenly used "Wnnie" as my name. It's easier to legally change your name than it is to deal with customer service.
Another exhibit showed t-shirts worn by high school students. One was "gay? fine by me." The other was, "CRIMES COMMITTED AGAINST... GOD"It caused a huge controversy, but apparently encouraged the high school students to sit down and talk it out. Here's a news story about it.
I'm not one to judge, but one of the shirts makes no sense to me. "gay? fine by me." is very clear. The other shirt... it's very intimidating. "CRIMES COMMITTED AGAINST" dotdotdot "GOD" almost seems like it should be accompanied by some scary movie music. The back of the shirt apparently has the 10 Commandments listed. Cool. No problem.What do the 10 Commandments have to do with being gay? I went to Wikipedia, the source of all things accurate and real, and searched for the 10 Commandments. Then, too lazy to read through the whole thing, searched the text for the word "gay." Pretty sure that is not a real commandment. So really, as an "anti-gay" t-shirt... not that great. Instead, those shirts should be sold specifically for divorce proceedings. Especially when there's infidelity involved. Emphasize the adultery and the neighbor's wife parts. Judges really go for visual aids like this.At the very end of the exhibits, you put your purple token into these clear plastic boxes. It was a simulation of the upcoming election. You could "vote" for your candidate.
What the whole thing looked like.
McCain's sweet take. Pretty decent. I wouldn't be surprised if some stodgy old guy pressured the museum to put all those tokens in. And by pressured, I mean he threatened to call it the museum of terrorism unless they supported the true values of freedom as defined by President Bush.
Obama's even better take. Probably from all those liberal hippie students backpacking on the "Free" admission. I'm glad to see that even though "hope" won't put food on the table, it will put purple token votes into a plastic box in a fake election.
Reason #5857393948 why I ruin everything.
We finally got back to the apartment. We came up the backstairs into the kitchen, which was filled with delicious treasures. B and Evan had cleaned out the cupboards, the fridge, and anywhere else they had secretly stashed food. Everything was sitting on the counter, waiting for a loving home.
They sent out an SOS to friends nearby, who came over to get "Free Food." Two came with the intention to gather handfuls or only enough for that night's dinner. Instead, thanks to tag-team salesman skills, they left with 5 paper bags full of food and supplies.
"Oh? You got a new grill? You know what would impress the ladies? Some delicious marinated chicken. Oh wait, here's some balsamic vinegar. You can use that on chicken."
"Why waste time making dinner when you can whip up amazing pancakes from this opened, partially empty, Bisquick box? Don't worry, the exposure to air means the pancakes will be extra fluffy. And delicious."
"I know what it's like to be vegetarian. Sometimes it's hard to get all the protein you need. Take this bottle of Ranch dressing. That's better than vitamins."
I think the only things we weren't able to get rid of were household cleansers, a jar of jalapeno jelly (which I talked them out of taking because I secretly wanted it), a roll of aluminum foil, and boxes of tampons. We wrote "Free Surprises!" on the paper bags and brought them down into the courtyard of their apartment building. And left it as a reward/treasure for others to find.
Seriously. If you came home from a busy day and you were stressed out, wouldn't you be happy to find a free box of tampons?
Later, B and I went to Loyola's campus for a photo shoot. Mainly, we took hundreds of pictures of the two of us posing, pretending to be fashion models. We took breaks (modeling is hard work) to watch this girl run around on the track. Since Loyola's a smaller school, the track is two lanes. This girl went with an older woman and all of a sudden yelled, "START" and took off running.
She sprinted probably the straight away, and as soon as she got to the curve, was struggling. Everytime she ran by the older woman, she would yell "TIME!" It was a very husky voice. I couldn't tell if she had a naturally deep voice or if she was just hoarse from her labored breathing. I think it took her like 25 minutes to run a mile.
This inspired a sense of curiousity and wonder in us. Later, B would show me her Adam's apple. It's subtle and apparently, a source of her deep voice.
a) I am pretty sure there's no Adam's apple. I think she was just trying to get me to look down her shirt. Or get me to freak out Evan.
b) She does NOT have a deep voice. I have heard many women with deeper voices. One of which I once mistook for a man on the phone and referred to her as "Mr."
c) That's nothing. One time, at an internship at an unnamed and unknown Government location, a woman came in to fix my computer. She was wearing a jersey that said "Baby" and had a rotund body shape. I figured the limitations of stylish and affordable maternity wear was the reason for her jersey dress. I congradulated her on her baby. Awkward silence. "You must have me mistaken for someone else." Awk.ward.
Fact: Chicago does NOT have a lottery for rich people furniture.
After we finished eating our giant sandwiches, B walked me past the giant building she used to work in. Then she pointed across the river at this shimmering oasis, with promises of luxury bathroom fixtures and kitchens designed by NASA. She told me that's where people go to buy furniture when they win the lottery. Somehow, I misunderstood that statement and believed (all the way until we left Chicago) that Chicago had a magnificent lottery for furniture. Like scratch cards that awarded chandeliers and cashmere cushions.
The first floor of LuxeHome is the Merchandise Mart, which they stress as "Open to the Public."
1. LuxeHome makes no sense at all. Is it supposed to be an abbreviation for luxury homes? Or deluxe homes? Either way, it fails. Instead of triggering my imagination to conjure up magical home furnishings, all I can picture are scenes from when I studied abroad and Asian stores tried to appeal to Western pockets by combining random English words. Here are a couple of examples:
2. "Open to the Public." That's a really fantastic marketing strategy. "Our merchandise is so expensive, you probably can't afford it, but it's ok to come look." Ikea has an "open to the public" strategy as well. They also name their merchandise fancy foreign names. Like Svetlana. If it wasn't for the fact that one of your kitchen designs costs more than Sweden's worth, I would say Ikea wins this round.
This is like some amazing dream kitchen of mine from Iron Chef America + Top Chef + Food Network + $1 million. It's basically all stainless steel and makes me want to challenge someone to a food battle, secret ingredient: water!
As we continued walking around, browsing and peering through the windows (I left face prints on a few display windows, as I shed tears of regret that I didn't earn my M.R.S. degree and marry rich when I was a young, naive, undergrad), I came to the realization that rich people have WAY too much time and money on their hands.
How does something like this even come to exist? A billboard sized image of a young naked girl. In one of the rooms, this was all there was. Just this giant picture on the wall. She's not even dressed up as a flower or a bee or anything. Some people collect antiques. Some people collect books. Some people collect naked pictures of small children. Creep.y.
B then leads me to this special case and tells me to look at the mosaic. I think she's referring to these bad boys. I take the obligatory picture, kind of feign excitement over the multi-colored tiles. If this is what she wants to spend her scratch ticket winnings on, I'm not one to question her (awful) life choice. If you look closer, you can see the multitude of rainbow tiles in the back. I like the brown one in the lower right hand corner. When I'm in my bathroom, I want nothing more than to be surrounded by that color brown.
Then, as I turn to leave, I catch something out of the corner of my eye. Oh. My. God. This is what B was actually referring to.
If you can't tell, that is a naked woman's behind. Probably Dara Torres.
My "aunt" (aka really close family friend) is retiring this week from some government agency. She had invited my parents to her retirement party/dinner/gathering. When she found out I would be in town this weekend, she extended the invite. I asked my dad what the dress code was and he said "casual."
Well, thankfully I dressed to impress (read: have not done any of the piles of travel laundry and was left with nice clothes) because by "casual" my dad meant "Banana Republic store mannequin casual." This one woman had this absolutely gorgeous necklace on and I kept staring at it and it was awkward because every time she looked over I was obviously staring at her chest. I finally went and introduced myself and explained that I was in love with her necklace. She said she makes jewelry in her spare time. In the kiln. That she had apparently custom built into her house. And then she and my "aunt" had this obscenely long conversation about their retirement plans. Like how they are going to be masseuses.
They were talking about this one massage parlor where the guy did all these different kinds of "massages." He combines different techniques. I didn't ask if one of the techniques was "exotic" because (a) ew and (b) the woman already thought I was a creeper for eyeing her age-defying bosom. Hm. I really hope she never reads this blog.
Also this weekend:
My sister and I went to visit our grandparents. I am pretty sure my grandma thinks I'm some big drug dealer that has to travel the country to buy/sell my delicious commodity. Which is better than my grandpa, who didn't have his glasses on when I first came in. He thought I was my cousin. Who is a boy.
My grandma told me I looked taller. Then my sister hugged her and my grandma said, "Oh God, your arm is so thick. You've gotten fat." The inside joke is that every time she sees Vicky, without fail, she makes a reference to how she's gotten fatter. As Vicky puts it, "According to grandma, I'm the size of a whale now."
My dad likes to try to defend the fat comments.
D: You know, in different cultures, different things have different meanings.
V: What other meaning for "fat" is there?
D: She's not saying you're fat. Just... there are a lot of Chinese people who are... (at this point, he is motioning with his hands and making a skinny person outline)
V: So it's ok because I'm not really "fat," just "fat" compared to other Chinese people?
D: No, no. In Chinese... she's just saying you're healthy.
V: That's the polite way of saying "fat."
D: Healthy, she just likes to tell you how healthy you look.
V: Right. God forbid she ever has to think of another "compliment." At least she hasn't started calling me ugly yet.
Obviously, I found the whole thing hilarious. Until later when my mother pointed out that my jacket makes me look pregnant.
"No, really. You should thank you. I'm your mother and I'm the only one who will be honest with you. Those people who tell you that you look nice are lying. You look pregnant."
Those are TWO different guys wearing madras shorts at the airport. Related to my previous entry about flying to Chicago.
This is not creeper at all. Maybe just a little.
I bet if there was an Olympic event for good looking people, I would maybe win silver.
I have been honked at/heckled at in every city I've visited, including Chicago (which I am soooo behind in updating).
I was in Charlottesville the past few days, and even in a deserted college town in the middle of the night, while a friend and I are chatting on a street corner in the midst of stores that closed hours ago, SOMEHOW we still get honked at 4-5 times. We were also serenaded.
The next day, while getting coffee at Barnes and Nobles with the Fox, we're hit on. It started because all the tables were filled, except for one next to this kind of sketchy man. Whatever. I sit down. This man is sporting an afro and a bald spot. How is that possible, I don't know. Imagine an afro and then shave off the entire top part. He is wearing this fashionable three piece tan/camel colored suit straight from the 70s. He leans over and introduces himself. I smile, respond, ignore him.
According to the Fox, he told his colleague (I can't even describe what this woman looks like) that I was pretty. Fox tried not to laugh and wanted to tell me that the man of my dreams was sitting right next to me. I heard them talking, continued to ignore them. Then the man's colleague pointed out that Fox was also very pretty and that we were probably sisters.
At this point, while I'm in the middle of a long-winded rant and pouring my heart out, he leans over and introduces himself. He leaves out the part about him finding me attractive and only says, "My friend here thinks you're both very pretty. Are you sisters?"
I quickly say no and try to ignore him/continue the conversation. Fox responds that we're kind of like sisters, which is true, and this somehow encourages him to re-introduce himself. His name is Garland. He shook our hands. Told us again how we were pretty. I try very very hard to ignore him some more.
This tactic has failed me before, as Comer so kindly pointed out when we told her this story. For a while, every time I went into Harris Teeter this woman would follow me around or conveniently appear next to me and ask if I needed help or try to make conversation. She'd always point out samples and I'd always nod politely and try to ignore her. I just figured she was really really socially special.
Then Comer and I went to pick up a birthday cake. We were in a rush and I was signing for the cake and the woman, who HAPPENED to show up to collect the cake for me from the back bakery, kept asking me if it was for a birthday, if we were having a party, etc. I gave her one word answers and kept talking to Comer because we had more important things to discuss - like whether or not I should eat the regular or lowfat sugar cookie in the "for children only" box.
APPARENTLY, this woman had been trying to hit on me and the whole time was shooting dagger glares at Comer. Since then, every time I've returned to Charlottesville and gone to the Harris Teeter, I've seen her. I've brought many a witness with me and this woman stalks me with her eyes. As if she were a giant bear and I was a salmon, swimming upstream with the hopes of finding a dream salmon to mate with and not a bear that wants to devour me. Ugh. Those last few words made me vomit in my mouth.
THEN tonight, at an ABC store in northern Virginia, a bunch of guys were at the register and one of them asked if I needed help. I responded, "No thanks, I'm good."
And then I hear, "Damn right you are. Mmm."
Maybe it's a tactic to make women buy more alcohol than they need. A kind of "if I drink 3 handles by myself and right before I pass out, I lose my ability to see/hear/talk/think, then maybe you'll be attractive" mentality.
Haha. Joke's on him. My prison name isn't "Scrumptious" for no reason.
B, having read this blog, wanted to take me someplace that seemed to match the theme: food.
She worked a few blocks away from this place called Perry's Deli, rumored and advertised to have sandwiches as big as your head. Yes, I was told, even as big as my giant melon. I was warned ahead of time that there is absolutely NO cell phone use. Not just when you're ordering, but none in the deli at all.
B had suggested and strongly recommended the corned beef with Russian dressing on rye. I got that, with some provolone, lettuce and tomato. I have never seen a sandwich that size.
The reason why there seems to be a thousand pickles on my plate is when I tried to look around to see if I could use my cell phone camera, B dumped all hers onto my plate. Please also note that this is a picture of HALF. I saw the size of the sandwich and panicked and B said to just ask for the other half to go. Apparently it's fairly common for people not to finish. It was sandwich was cold and really really good. The only downside was that it's so big, it just falls apart. The corned beef isn't melt in your mouth, but it's tender and extremely flavorful. Evan got the double decker monstrosity with brisket. 
Notice his sandwich falling apart. The giant thing still on the plate is HALF. Here are a couple more pictures to detail the size of these "sandwiches."
We got there at the perfect time. As soon as we sat down, the deli started to fill. The line stretched out the door. We were sitting next to all these business guys with their ties thrown over a shoulder or tucked into their shirts. I am pretty sure being able to finish your entire sandwich is a statement to your manhood. The guys at the table next to us kept watching each other's sandwiches, trying to match bite for bite. B and I were also one of 4 ladies in the entire establishment. One of the other ladies was working the register, and the 4th was sitting off in the corner booth with a guy. I am pretty sure they were breaking up.
What does that say about a relationship to break up in a deli during lunchtime, over a giant corned beef sandwich? "Hey, how about you stop talking now so I can finish my sandwich?" I at least hope she was dumping him. Then he could re-establish his manhood by finishing his sandwich and the menfolks would all admire and want to be him.
I thought about taking more pictures and had my cell phone in my hand when this HORRIBLE alarm went off. It was a fire alarm, a police siren, and a dying cat all combined and projected from speakers. Everyone stopped eating and looked around. I shoved my phone back into "Soul Rebel." Thankfully, it was because some guy in line was texting. His friend called him out.
Hahaha, I bet they are BFF.
Rewind.
Probably due to the number of unhygienic places I've been in the past few weeks (I feel like there's always the smell of urine around me now), I've been suffering from some horrible urine-caused disease. Like monkeypox.
But thankfully, I kept careful notes of my Chicago adventures post-flight.
The train takes forever. Apparently, the tracks are undergoing major construction. I'm assuming normal construction delays would be a few minutes stopped here and there. Instead, Chicago has decided it's more efficient and effective to not only stop trains, but to keep them running no faster than 3 MPH. How do I know this? As the train from Midway got closer and closer to the loop (the trains come from all around Chicago and then merge on this giant track that loops around and above downtown), it got slower and slower... to the point that I watched a pedestrian below walk faster. I am also pretty sure that pedestrian had a walker.
I got to the stop I needed about 10-15 minutes before Becky and her lovely manfriend Evan got there. I headed down to street level and saw a lovely CVS. Not as if I'm speaking from personal experience or anything, but if you ever, for some reason, need a pair of underwear, some lady products, Shout wipes, etc., this is the place to go.
And after reading that last sentence, I realize what sort of situation that implies. NOT TRUE. Those were all necessities from separate trips and separate circumstances.
As I walk up to the checkout counter, who should come strolling in? Becky! I run over to her with my giant "Soul Rebel" bag on one shoulder, a box of lady things in the other hand, and hug her. The two of us are screaming and laughing and hugging and I look at Evan. I realize how absurd this looks. I wave at him, awkwardly, with my lady box hand. Becky takes one look at them and winks and "whispers" (nothing between me and B is ever just a "whisper") and says, "Oh, don't worry. I have tons of those I'm trying to give away."
We leave through the revolving door. B and Evan later explained to me that basically every building in Chicago uses revolving doors because in the winter, when it's absolutely freezing out, it keeps the warm air in and the cold air out. This is no good news for me since, as Big can attest to, I don't like touching doors. I always tell her to "push me through." I tell B the same thing, and she understands and gets a running head start to really give that sucker a big shove.
However, Evan and I have stopped walking because we see a man coming in... B runs on. As he is taking his first step, B slams into the door and sends it revolving, squishing him. Somehow caught with his lower body outside and his upper body inside, he's struggling to breathe and call out. B is confused and thinks the door is stuck (stuck on some trash, not stuck on a person. There's an 80% chance she wouldn't have pushed if she thought it was a person). She continues pushing until Evan points out that a man is stuck in the door. I am laughing and can't breathe. She apologizes. He thinks she is crazy and walks into CVS and hurries down an aisle.
One of the many reasons B and I are such good friends.
My flight left at 6:40. I was supposed to be at the airport at 5:30.
I woke up at 5 AM. In panic, I stumbled around my room in the dark, tripping over J. Crew bags, kit bags, running shoes. Perhaps it was fate or perhaps my mind was functioning at "genius" level thanks to the crisis at hand, but I fell and ripped a J. Crew bag. And remembered that I had bought a lovely dress in Jersey. Since I was flying stand by, I had to dress up and this was perfect. I don't remember the name of the color, but it was something bizarre like persimmon or golden watercress or Kentucky Fried Chicken red.
I grabbed my lovely L.L. Bean tote. Over the summer, a few friends and I had gone outlet shopping. L.L. Bean was one of the stores and they had a bin in the back with embroidered totes that had been returned for whatever reason. We bought a tiny "Abigail Emergency Anaphylactic," a medium "Miss Bunjun," and a GIANT "Soul Rebel." Me and my sweet Soul Rebel bag made it through security, where the man in front of me was pulled aside for security check and where the security guard left him to flirt with me.
When I told a friend later, her reply was, "How do you know he was flirting with you? How do you know it wasn't racial profiling and Homeland Security had marked you?" Well, for one, he complimented me on my dress. He said the dress was beautiful. Then said I was beautiful. And then said my eyes were beautiful. I smiled, awkwardly, and went to grab my Soul Rebel bag.
I figured I had plenty of time, so I went to the bathroom to get my face did. I had read online that if you fly stand by, you should always look super good to impress the airline people into letting you on if there were open seats. I really wanted to make this flight, so I went and did my face. When I got to the gate, the waiting area was empty. Because everyone else had already boarded. I went up to the desk and asked what the chances were of getting on this flight. She looked me over, told me to wait. 30 seconds later, she gave me a seat assignment. As she checked me in, she commented on the lovely color of my dress and how cute I looked.
All I have to say is this dress must be smoking hot because I flew first class. And this trip to Atlanta was much better than last time I flew to Chicago by way of Atlanta. Last time, I sat next to two men who were deeply religious. I didn't realize it at first, until they started making small talk. And giving me a talk about finding God and going to a Billy Graham revival and reading from their Bibles. One guy gave me a Bible comic about making good life choices, right after he asked me (very very loudly), "If this plane went down right now, would you be scared? Would you be afraid of going to Hell?" The other guy talked about his wife. Who he met when they got married because he was introduced to her on the phone. She was his sister's neighbor or something, and they met because of their love for God.
This all ties in together because on the plane, I sat next to a man who saw my Soul Rebel bag and asked me if I was a "sinner." Awkward. I read some magazines, drank my unlimited supply of soda and my complimentary alcoholic beverage. All the drinking caught up with me. As soon as the "buckle seatbelt" sign came on, I realized I had to use the restroom. I got up and headed toward the bathroom when all of a sudden, a flight attendant screamed at me, "What are you doing?! We're landing?! Sit down, sit down!!! You're not allowed to stand up! BUCKLE YOUR SEATBELT." It was like we were going down or it was some sort of landing emergency. She had already strapped herself into the flight attendant's seat.
I went back to my seat, and a few minutes later, another flight attendant came down the aisle to see if I was ok. She asked if it was an emergency, if I needed anything, etc. I told her I was fine, she smiled her polite smile and went off to get the woman across from me another bloody mary.
The Atlanta airport is a nightmare. I bought yogurt from one of the vendors because it looked delicious with granola and berries. The stupid thing cost me $6.27. WHAT KIND OF YOGURT IS $6?! Yogurt laced with gold. Which this was not. There was one saving grace: madras shorts! Everywhere!
Here are my undercover pictures.
Well. Apparently pictures aren't working right now, but when they do...
At around 7 in the morning on Monday, Voorhees dropped me off at the train station on the way to work. She said I'd be fine, just follow the crowds and I'd end up in New York City, there was no way to mess this up. It was easy getting from her part of Jersey to Newark Penn Station. That's when it got complicated.
I saw a giant crowd flood out of the train and head down the stairs and onto another platform. Of course I followed them. After standing there for 10-15 minutes, I looked up at the monitor explaining what trains where heading where at what platform. The train I was supposed to take into NYC was not on the screen. Probably because it had already left. From another platform. A train pulled up and I asked a man next to me if it was headed into New York. He stared at me and I was about to repeat the question when he said, "No... it's going to Hoboken. But there are a lot of trains going to New York."
Fabulous. So after that, I stood and waited on the platform until I saw OBVIOUS tourists and followed them to the right train. How did I know they were tourists? The sneakers with the high socks, the American flag t-shirt, the fanny-pack. Perfect. They led me straight to Penn Station.
I had an hour to kill before the bus left, so I went to Borders and browsed around. Half an hour later, I headed back to the bus stop and this is the Hell I saw:
I asked the two people in front of me if this was the Megabus to DC. They were both Asian and the woman nodded and said really loudly, in a slow voice, "Yes, we're in line." Thank you. I don't really care that you're in line. I can see that. Also, maybe if you speak louder and slower, I'll pay more attention to what you're saying and less attention to how stupid you sound. After like 5 minutes, the Asian man in front of me turns and holds up a banana peel. "I'm just going to go throw this away, ok? I'll be back. Throwing this away in the trash can. Over there." Ridic.
As soon as he gets back, the Megabus guy looks over at us and yells out, "Yo, where y'all going?" The guy behind me yells back DC, and the Megabus guy hollers that we're in the wrong line. At this point, I don't even care anymore and use my bags to knock the two Asians out of my way.
I still don't understand how everyone is going to fit on the bus until this monstrosity pulls up in front of us.
Yes, that is in fact a giant double decker bus. Huge. I got on and went upstairs. While I was waiting and staring out the window, I saw one of the sketchiest things I've seen in NY.
The first picture is of a man talking to a cop with a drug sniffing dog. The dog all of a sudden went insane and lunged at the man. It was snapping it's teeth and pulling on its leash. The cop kept having to restrain the dog, pulling it back, pushing it down to the ground and basically disciplining it. The dog would absolutely not stop. It was barking and pulling and generally going nuts and drawing attention to the man. Finally, the man kind of backed away and took off running (as you can see in the second picture). And then the dog was fine and just stood there like nothing was wrong.
Total sketch.
I just hung out with the sisters for a long time.
We were sharing our high school stories with the little one and Vicky decided to give us a glimpse into how she scored so poorly on her AP Government and AP English Lang exams.
AP English Lang: She thought the writing section was meant to show off your cleverness rather than test for skills like "grammar" and "spelling." She decided to write it like a blog entry. The prompt asked, "If you could uninvent something, what would it be?" Her response was some nonsense about how obvi wooden clogs and Uggs should have never been invented, but if she could uninvent anything, it'd be the ladder. She got a 3.
AP Government: The prompt for the essay used the word "litigation." Vicky didn't know what the word meant. She still doesn't because she referred to it as "ligation, you know, having to do with law-y things." And she pronounced it "lie-gation." Assuming it meant the grassroots movement, she wrote her essay about eliminating cold calls and turning to the internet. She then explained how this wasn't all that unexpected based on the final paper she wrote for her AP class. She didn't understand the assignment, and somehow ended up writing an essay about how the government should take money from Hurrican Katrina efforts to fund a space program sending men to Mars. The essay was supposed to be about... space? I'm not really sure, but she said she needed to come up with a funding source and thought about where the government was wasting money. Somehow, by the grace of any and all higher beings, she pulled off a 3.
If the relation wasn't obvious before, it most definitely is now.
There is so much to update about! The turnaround between getting back from NY/NJ and heading off to Chicago was approximately 12 hours.
New Jersey was a trip full of shenanigans! The trip was originally made under two assumptions: I would get to visit the Tick Tock Diner, because it was showcased on Food Network, and I would get to go to a sketchy batting cage.Tick Tock Diner ended up being further away than we thought, so I accepted Spinning Wheel Diner instead. Our waitress was seriously doing lines of coke in the bathroom or something. There was an ornamental plant hanging in the window, and every time she walked to our table, she'd slam her head into it and she always seemed confused afterwards. She kept forgetting parts of our order and would laugh about it and say, "Sorry, I walk away and just forget." I saw prosciutto omelet on the menu and asked her whether it was delicious or not, where did the diner get the prosciutto from, etc. She stared at me blankly (probably coked out of her mind) and said, "Um. I don't know, I'm a vegetarian."
Awkwardly, I ordered the farmer's omelet. The omelets are giant (also, if you haven't noticed, I only recently learned how to spell "omelet" and I apologize for all previous awful spellings) and they share a huge platter with a mound of hash browns. The hash browns were a little bit of a let down, not a lot of crisp. More greasy and soggy than anything else. I thought about taking half of it home because there was so much, but the Jersey kids made fun of me for wanting to bring home leftover diner food. To show them who's boss, I ate the whole thing. And then promptly almost died.
The second goal was to head over to the batting cages. By the time we worked out our coordinating outfits and ventured to what seemed like an abandoned warehouse in the backwoods of Jersey, the place had closed. In an effort to salvage the day, Voorhees kept driving down the road. Distraught and overwhelmed with silent tears, I looked up to see my salvation.
I demanded she pull over, which she did, and I climbed up this massive hill to pose with the billboard.
While she tried to get everything in the frame, these kids on bikes rode by and heckled me. They were probably like 9, 10 years old (unless evolution has delayed male puberty since last I took sex ed) and one of them was riding a girl's bike. It was pink with pom poms tied to the handlebars, which I didn't think they made anymore. Well, I take that back. Just because it's pink with pom poms does not make it a "girl's bike."
They rode around and kept saying things like, "You're going to get arrested!" and "Do you like breaking the law?" and "What do you think you're doing?!" Hooligans! Then they rode off into the street and I secretly hoped they caused an accident so that I could yell at them as we drove off, "You're going to get arrested! Do you like breaking the law? WHO'S LAUGHING NOW?!"
Then we drove around some more and found this amazing "free" yard sale. The reason it was free was because it was all crappy leftovers that the family couldn't sell. Like broken vases and toys from the 1960s. Our disappointment in the "free" stuff was quickly forgotten as we sprinted across the street to a PLAYGROUND.
We played on it and I demanded Voorhees take an obscene amount of pictures of me. Out of guilt more than anything else, she obliged and snapped pictures of me riding a seesaw, laying all over the playground equipment, playing in the sand, falling down the slide (I am too big. My legs got stuck while my butt kept swirling around and I ended up flying out head first. Probably in large part due to gravity pulling the biggest parts of my body, like my head and butt, down fastest). The whole time, this family was sitting off to the side staring at us.
Then we went over to the swing set made for toddlers. The ones where the seat looks like a high chair. Voorhees swore she could fit in it, so she climbed in and promptly got stuck. I laughed and when the family wanted to help her out, I yelled at them and told them that she got herself into it, she sure as hell can get herself out. Hahaha, well she definitely could NOT get herself out. Her feet ended up lodged in the seats while the rest of her body hung down from the swing. We had to take off her shoes to get her out, which she originally refused to do because the shoes were new. She finally caved when she started losing feeling in her limbs.
Later, as the family's small child started to run after us to play, her mother pulled her back and said that we were "teenagers" taking pictures. Hooligans.
Here is a picture of my unfortunate tumble down the slide. It was traumatic and scarring.
This is the corner I stood on. See. It's a legit corner at a not-real intersection. Some mensfolks drove by reeaal slow and rolled down their windows to ask me, "What're you doing? You looking good." My face must have registered disgust, but I'm not sure because I was trying not to say something stupid. Like, "That makes one of us." Or "Ew. Ew. Ewwwwwwwww VOM."
This was across the street. If you can't make it out, that building is a "Pregnancy Clinic."
