Happy birthday to me! Yesterday I turned 25 years old– one whole quarter century. I spent the weekend in Chicago following a work trip to Wisconsin and left feeling exhausted and full and slightly hungover after 4 days of excellent quality time with friends and family. I’m a damn lucky girl.
Wisconsin was as you can expect Wisconsin to be– full of cheese curds and Leinenkugel and locally made meat sticks. It was mostly uneventful, but involved a highlight or two.
There was a net set up in the backyard where we were staying. After a BBQ Monday night and a handful of beers a piece, we decided to try our hand at a friendly game of volleyball. First play of the game, old co-worker KT hit current co-worker K smack in the face in an overhand serve. They were on the same team.
It’s a good thing K wasn’t hurt because it was a whole 5 minutes before we’d composed ourselves to ask if she was OK. Another 10 degree turn to the head and she would have had a broken nose for sure. And none of us were the least bit curious about seeing the inside of the Wisconsin hospital.
We rented out a bar Wednesday night for a work party. Part of the deal was that we were in charge of manning the door, so I got to try my hand at bouncing. Which was not nearly as awesome as I’d imagined it to be.
The cops came mid-way through the night. Not because we were causing a ruckus, but because there was a black Mustang that needed to be moved. I was sitting at the door, minding my own business a half hour later when an old man came up to me and got all up in my face. Might I add, he’d recently eating a whole shit ton of crackers.
“YOU’RE BREAKING FIRE CODE WITH ALL THESE PEOPLE!” he said.
“Huh?” is what I responded. Because yeah, there were a lot of people in the bar, but I’ve seen worse.
“There are people everywhere! There is no aisle to move! The cops were here!” he yelled angrily. Crackers flying everywhere. Mostly into my face.
It took me a minute to realize he wasn’t fucking with me and then as politely as one could be when one is getting spit on and within 4 feet of one’s CEO, mumbled something about the Mustang and that he should maybe leave if he didn’t like it. His buddy pulled him out by the shirt collar mere seconds before I lost my patience.
I know one thing. If that old man, I believe Ernie is his name, shows up on the same red polo next year I will 86 him before he steps foot in the door. No one over the age of 2 is allowed to spit in my face. And that’s final.
Chi-town was everything I needed it to be– fun, relaxing, fun, drunk. I like to joke that Chicago is where to go when I need to be around the people who love me the most (save for my parents) and this weekend did everything to support that statement.
Lou and I had a whole tartare course (steak and salmon!) at a fancy restaurant located directly across the street from where they park the city garbage trucks. I drank beers at my college hangout with my little brothers. Took shots of Jameson. Read my book in bed until late in the morning. Enlightened by my 9 year old cousin that when she grows up she’d like to be either a singer, Broadway performer, lawyer or president of the United States. Watched She’s All That on the couch. Gifted a wonderful pair of new boots. Smiled until my face hurt.
Essentially– an excellent excellent weekend. I left feeling completely whole. And damn, did I need it. Thanks, friends.