pseudostoops

It seems in my life that there are two kinds of weekends.  Type 1 is filled with vast stretches of nothingness, no plans, plenty of opportunity for lazing and laundry and cooking dishes that require hours of stove time, like osso bucco.  (You know, if osso bucco didn’t gross me out.)  Type 2 is the polar opposite, filled with social engagements and parties and plans, dashing from thing to thing, and waking up on Monday only to realize that you have no (a) clean underpants; (b) clean dishes, and (c) groceries.  Stale graham crackers for breakfast it is!

This weekend fell decidedly, deliciously in the Type 2 column, and as I sit here munching on a leftover third of a burrito from lunch (see “no groceries,” supra), I can’t really believe what-all I crammed into the hours between 5pm on Friday and 6:30 frickin am this morning.  (Why yes I DID go to work at 6:30 am! How did you guess?  And no, I’m not in the least bitter about it, thanks for asking!)  There was happy hour and brunch with friends and a coffee date and another brunch with friends and a superbowl party featuring homemade wings and gumbo and soft pretzels, plus a cutie 3 month old baby.  Not too shabby.

But the highlight, unsurprisingly, was the lovely day and night I spent with a truly, astonishingly fun group of women who’d come in from ALL OVER THE WORLD (what, we had a canadian, that makes us international) to hang out.  Being a total moron I forgot my camera, and being a totally exhausted space case I’m forgetting all the nice things I wanted to say about them but suffice it to say that hanging out with these women was the kind of experience I used to daydream about when I was a teenager- a smart, racaously funny group of women who can talk about things both silly and serious for hours and hours while drinking wine and enjoying cheese fondue.  A little cliche and predictable for a girls weekend, you say, with the wine and the fondue?  DO NOT CARE.  WAS BLISS.

Making friends as an adult is hard, yo, and I feel incredibly fortunate to have found these ladies.

Then, after an evening where I mixed beer, whiskey, baileys (ew), wine, tequila (not my idea) and more beer, I somehow woke up with a headache.  I cannot fathom why.

Dear Birmingham, Alabama: you are surprisingly hilly.  Substantially hillier than I expected.  Also: rainy. Remind me not to sign up for any marathons that take place in your fair city.

But for a wedding, the rolling hilliness of Birmingham is a perfect backdrop.  The rain cleared up right before the ceremony, leaving behind a perfect chilly clear fall day.  As the bride and we bridesmaids were taking pictures, a group of trick or treaters walked by, and we took a bunch of pictures with little girls dressed as witches and fairies and Hannah Montana.  It was hard to tell who was most tickled: the wedding party, the trick or treaters who got to feel special taking pictures with the bride, or their mothers who caught the whole thing on their cameras.

All in all: a lovely, joy-filled, happy wedding.  It was my first experience as a bridesmaid, and I think I did a pretty good job.  I buttoned difficult wedding dress buttons, I mended hems, I brought Swedish Fish into the bridal preparation suite.  Really, what more could I do? Now the happy bride and groom are off in Peru, and the rest of us are back to Chicago, where it is cold and not hilly, thinking fondly of Halloween weddings with costume party rehearsal dinners and bright, bright orange shoes.

Now, as happened the last time I went to a wedding in a non-local place, I have some questions.  Specifically, questions about Alabama:

• Are vegetables prohibited, or merely discouraged?
• The wedding emcee insisted that toasts at the reception aren’t a tradition in the South.  I call bullshit.  Southerners: is this really true?  I mean, no one likes a trainwreck wedding toast, but it doesn’t really feel like a wedding unless there’s SOME talk of the couple, toasting, wishing them well, etc.
• What is the average age of a couple getting married in Presbyterian churches in Alabama?  Because the church’s wedding coordinator lady insisted on treating us like we were 19, and it was kind of tiresome.  Example:  “you girls can pray beforehand if you want, but you’ll need to find a responsible older woman to lead you in the prayer.”  News flash: bride and all bridesmaids were in their 30s.  Really?  We can’t pray on our own?  I’m not super-churchy, but I thought one of the tenants of Protestantism was that everyone can pray.  Right?

We spent the weekend in Quebec City, at the lovely wedding of one of John’s closest college friends.  The wedding was held at the Chateau Frontenac, a small, rustic, casual, no big deal kind of place:

You know, just like my house.

This was my first trip to Quebec, and it raised some questions for any Canadians in the audience:

1.  As you likely know, they speak French in Quebec.  I also speak French, in a sort of vaguely above-average schoolgirl kind of way.  Thing is, I LOVE speaking and practicing French, which makes a trip to Quebec particularly appealing.  But: Canadians also speak English, typically WAY better than I speak French, and I struggle sometimes to understand the Quebecois accent, so my French skills are even less sharp in Canada then elsewhere.  So I ask you, francophone Canadians: is a friendly, enthusiastic American girl who wants to practice her French charming, or tiresome and annoying?  I couldn’t quite decide whether everyone I talked to was happy to see me trying, or simply resigned to put up with my amateur efforts.

2. When we were driving from Montreal to Quebec City, we encountered several traffic lights that would blink green for a while before turning to solid green.  What does that mean? We kept worrying we were violating traffic laws when we just treated them like regular green lights.

3. During the wedding reception, there was a large video screen assembled over the dance floor.  It was first used for a slideshow of childhood pictures of the bride and groom (awwww) then for a running slideshow of photos that had been taken of wedding guests during the cocktail hour (cool).  But then, when the dancing portion of the evening started, the screen started showing the music video for whatever song the DJ was playing at the time.  Have you ever seen the music videos for We Like to Party, or 500 Miles, or Celebration?  I have!  (Who knew “The Gang”in Kool & the Gang was so large?)

I have to admit, I found it a little distracting- instead of dancing my fool head off, I ended up watching a lot of really strange music videos.  “Like a Prayer” might be a fun song to play at a dance party, but the whole burning crosses/ black Jesus imagery was a little much for a wedding reception.  Is this “showing of music videos” thing normal at Canadian weddings?  Am I the one who is out of the loop, that I have never seen a DJ who brings his own video feed before?  I mean, yes, I was distracted, but on the whole I would have to say it was a good thing, if only because it led me to the following video, which I had never seen before, which I demand you all watch immediately.  There are so many good parts! The fur suit! The dancing on the seat of the motorcycle! The earnest fist pumping in the shiny blazer!  If it weren’t for Canadian wedding DJs and their extensive music video collections, I’d still be in the dark!  So thank you, Canadian DJ.  My life is richer because of you.

I cashed the check, and wrote them a newsy note thanking them and giving them life updates.  As many of you noted, I’m certain that they were not trying to be snarky jerks with the note, that it was just an ill-conceived and poorly executed attempt to reach out.  They are nice people, just a little brusque.  (My godmother, for example, once counseled against going to law school in Chicago, also known as the city where I grew up, because “God, Chicago is such an effing backwater, you might as well go to law school in Nebraska.”  Helpful!)

Am I the only one who feels like a total moron when writing chatty letters with life updates? It feels narcissistic, to assume that people are going to care where I went on my three-day weekend or what my plans are for this summer.  I know that family and friends want these updates, so I’m working on getting better about writing more regularly, but I struggle to write them without feeling life a doofus, is all I’m saying.

Speaking of feeling like a total doofus:  I had the first ticklings of a cold on Saturday morning, made worse by all the dust I kicked up doing our annual spring cleaning.  How did I respond to those tickings of a cold?  Did I take to my bed early, rest, push fluids?  No! Instead I went to a bar where a friend and I were cohosting a birthday party, drank more adult beverages than I have consumed in a single evening in at least a year, and ended the night with an embarrassing, if predictable, Very Serious Conversation with a friend, complete with crying from both parties.  Needless to say, I woke up Sunday morning with a full-fledged case of Death By Headcold.  If you need me, I’ll be the one snurfling into a kleenex and pounding gatorade.

I feel obligated to clarify after my last post:

Sharp knives are your friend! Do not fear your sharp knives! They are actually way less likely to injure you than dull knives, which have a tendency to slip or snag on food and slice your fingers off.  The only reason they served me ill in this case was that I decided to try to preserve the newly sharpened blade by using the dull side of the knife to slide under the box flap.  Dumb!  If I’d used the sharp side, it would have slipped through the glue no problem and I would not have a large (and, as of this morning, worryingly puffy) gash on my hand.

Also, we did briefly consider going to the ER, but our thinking went something like this:

• This looks like it might need stitches
• Yeah, it definitely needs stitches.  There is some serious skin gaping going on here.
• Where does one get stitches at 8pm on a Saturday night?
• The emergency room, that’s where.
• Going to the emergency room on a Saturday night with a comparatively minor flesh wound seems like a recipe for a verrrrry long wait.
• Also: ER on a Saturday night?  Could be kind of a crazy scene.
• Also: our insurance blows.  We’d probably end up paying like $1000 for three stitches.
• On second thought, this cut doesn’t look so bad.

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Also, I forgot to mention- mere hours before the ill-fated cereal box incident of ought-nine, I was at the first birthday party for this fetching fellow:

Good times- a large group of adults watching Theo try to eat all the wrapping paper while he studiously ignored most of the toys.

Also, since the people I knew at this party consisted of: birthday boy, mother of the birthday boy, and father of the birthday boy (all of whom were a little busy) I was SO delighted and relieved to finally meet Kristen and hit it off immediately, so that we could stand by the Fritos table and chat and I didn’t have to stand awkwardly in a corner by myself.  Thanks, Kristen!

Thursday, I flew to New York for work and stayed through the weekend. In my experience (and I’ve been to New York a bunch) there are two kinds of trips to New York: those that make you wonder why anyone lives in such a busy, crowded, dirty, frustrating place, and those that make you wonder why people live anywhere else.

This trip was the latter.  I actually sort of started thinking through in my head ways that John and I could swing a move.  (Answer? We can’t.)

I did a lot in four days, too much to recount in any way other than a boring recitation, which I’ll spare you. There were some tremendous highlights from the resumes of the hundreds of students I met at the career fair I was attending, which I might assemble into a separate post sometime this week. (Seriously, people, have we learned nothing from my past posts on resumes? DO NOT list your character and avatar and screen names for WoW on your resume! Just don’t!)

Some longtime readers might remember the summer of 2006, when I lived in New York and worked an unpaid legal internship and lived in a series of very grimy apartments. (Remember my roommate Jonas? The cockroach? What I didn’t tell you at the time was that I actually had a pretty robust debate with myself about whether I could afford NOT to eat the food from the roach-infested fridge. That’s how tight my budget was.)

This weekend I was that neighborhood again for two days, and it was a total delight to be able to go into the delicious coffee shop and order an amazing latte without stressing about money.  See also: delicious bagel shop, delicious deli selling delicious black and white cookies, delicious Belgian beer bar, and delicious eggs benedict at place where brunch comes with 3 free mimosas.

Um, so yeah- recommitment to healthy eating starts TODAY!  Or, more likely, starts tomorrow, after John and I finish the black and white cookie I brought home as a souvenir.  (WHAT? I like black and whites and you can’t get them here.  Don’t you judge me!)

Saturday night, to recover from Friday night’s Milk and Honey-induced hangover, Murphy and I decided to lay low and go to the movies.  We were waiting outside for the theater doors to open (this is apparently a Thing in New York: you have to wait in a line that snakes around the block to get into the movies) when this woman who looks AWFULLY FAMILIAR walks by me.  I do a double take, then whisper to Murphy “Did you see that?  That was Kelly Rutherford!”

“Who?” she said.

“Kelly Rutherford!  Lily van der Woodsen! Just walked by us!”

“Probably wasn’t her,” said Murphy.

We made our way into the theater, got our seats, and were chatting as we waited for the movie to start when who should walk up the steps and seat herself in the row immediately in front of us?  Lily van der Woodsen!  No question about it- it was her.  She was totally like 6 feet away from us!  And because we were seeing the chick-iest of all chick flicks, the theater was 98% women, all of whom probably watch Gossip Girl, and you could hear the buzz rising as everyone realized who it was.  The girls in front of us actually tried to strike up a conversation with her (”oh my god, we LOVE your work!”) which struck me as awfully rude- let the woman go to the movies in peace!

I am proud to say that Murphy and I were much more nonchalant, and waited until the movie was over and we were out of the theater to announce via Twitter and facebook that we were, like, totally besties with a famous actress now.

All weekends need to be three days long, because when weekends are three days long you are able to have houseguests AND go out of town for a wedding in the same weekend and still feel okay and almost well rested when you go back to work on Monday. Almost.

One of John’s best friends was in town with some other folks for the weekend. (Brief detour in this story: um, hi guys! if you’re reading this! Because you referred to me as “pseudo” all weekend, which makes me think that you might be reading, in which case the next time I make a typo or do something else embarrassing and you’re tempted to laugh, remember who it was who gave you beer and homemade turkey burgers and ice cream and very explicit directions on how to get back to your hotel on the el so you didn’t get lost.)

I love having people in town. Chicago is, I think, a totally underappreciated city, especially among people who live on the West coast. Our California friends come in town and are so surprised that there are, like, tall buildings and paved roads and stuff here, because isn’t the midwest just the region you fly over on your way to New York?

But because I love this town so much I feel all this PRESSURE to show people the BEST TIME IN CHICAGO EVER. When I have picked all the restaurants and bars and attractions that we go to, I feel completely responsible for whether my friends like the food, or are enjoying the activity. I find myself apologizing for things that are just a part of life- surly waiter, long wait for an el train, mysterious inability to hail a cab in an area that is normally cab central. I worry any little hiccup will sour their experience with my city, and they will go home to San Francisco and tell all their friends in their designer jeans and thrift store t-shirts that they were right all along, Chicago is just some hick backwater.

Which is, of course, ridiculous. After all, Chicago has its own entire neighborhoods populated by hipsters in designer jeans and thrift store t-shirts. Plus (yesterday at least) we have weather that breaks 75 degrees.* Take that, San Francisco.

* (I woke up this morning and it was 45 degrees. We’re not talking about it.)

Ten years ago, after much begging, cajoling, pouting, and crying, my parents let me go away for the weekend with my friends to Michigan. We had just graduated high school and were desperate to go be off on our own, unable to wait the two months until we went off to our various colleges to try living without our parents.

We were a group of boys and girls then, and this co-ed sleepover aspect was doubtless a big part of what made my parents so apprehensive about giving me permission to go. Ultimately, they realized that 12 boys and girls sleeping in sleeping bags in one communal living room was about the worst place for teenage sex, so they finally caved.

I got a horrible sunburn; the worst I’ve ever had. My then-crush threw my nice new sunglasses in the lake and was mad at me for being mad at him when we couldn’t find them. Princess’s brother had bought us pre-mixed strawberry daquiris in freezer pouches, and when we split the six pouches between the 12 of us, Murphy took two sips and asked, “Am I drunk yet?” It was an awesome time, an exhilarating freedom that I can still vividly remember a decade later.

Three years ago, the core group of girls from that trip decided to revive the tradition, and ever since we’ve had a girls weekend in Michigan every year. Horty flies out from Seattle, bless her heart, Murphy comes in from New York, and the rest of us, who are all based in Chicago, pile into cars with loads of beach crap and games and wine and tequila and head to Murphy’s grandparents house in Michigan.

So it was that this weekend I piled myself into Princess’s little Subaru and drove to the Third Annual Girls Weekend in Michigan. We drank too much wine, cooed over Horty’s newly-pregnant belly, skewered marshmallows on sticks and roasted them, and marveled that we’ve managed to keep alive, through six different colleges, three different grad schools, six totally divergent career paths, three marriages, two babies (one in utero) and two cats, this tradition of getting together every year for a weekend.  I’m amazed and blessed to know such an interesting, smart, funny group of women, and we’re all lucky to be able to make this a priority, to preserve these friendships that would be so easy to let fall by the wayside.

Our 10-year high school reunion is scheduled for some time this fall. They’ll rent out a bar, we’ll pay some absurd amount for open bar cocktails and a few hours of awkward chitchat with the people we knew back when- but for me, the real reunion, the one that matters- that happened this weekend.