Okay. Let’s all take a deep breath here and begin.
I cannot possibly write about everything that happened in Chicago, during our 1st Annual Girls’ Weekend (the “girls” being Scamp, Cy, and myself). So, since we ended up with nearly one hundred photos in the space of not quite seventy-two hours, I thought I’d cherry-pick the best—and I use the word best cautiously, folks—and tell the story of this fabulous weekend via pictures.
Day One: Dressed in lovely neutrals, Scamp, Cy, and I hit the little pub of Mrs. P & Me in the suburb of Mount Prospect. (I am the one in glasses, FYI…if y’all haven’t memorized my face by now.) While sitting at the bar discussing female orgasms, we unwittingly drew the attention of a trio of young men—Jared, Dan, and Jim (at least, I think his name was Jim…he sort of flitted about, like a drunk frat-boy butterfly). I would like to take this opportunity to specifically thank Jared, should he be reading this blog—the blog he didn’t believe I had, I’ll add—for his honest answers during our little game of Twenty Questions: The Secret Sex-Lives of Handsome Young Men. What a trooper. And he only blushed a little bit.
Day Two: Scamp and Cy outside Capannari, a “Best of Chicago” ice cream joint in the suburbs. I had a sugar cone of ice cream that tasted like malted milk balls. Or should I say, malted milk ballz? It was seriously about 100 degrees outside, absolutely sweltering heat and humidity, and Scamp made us eat outside (in the beautiful butterfly garden). I don’t think I’ve ever licked anything so fast in my life.
Cursed how, you say? I fell. Twice. I didn’t even trip over anything, just tipped backward and forward and fell on my ass in the most undignified ways possible. That’s not even counting the times I wobbled; Scamp told me I’m top-heavy (har har, babe…tell me something I don’t know). And it’s not like I escaped unscathed—oh, no. I tore open my knee (the restaurant manager at Hub 51 provided me with a bandaid, thankfully) and twisted my ankle, making my foot swell up until it didn’t fit into my amazing blue-suede stilettos. But that biting pain didn’t dull the fun of the evening, I swear.
Scamp and Cy, looking beautiful on the L headed toward Chi-town. I won’t show you their end-of-night pics, but let’s just say that I was the DD from the station to Scamp’s place, even with my gimpy driving foot.
My delish dish at Hub 51 was jalepeños, edamame, and green beans, with a side of sweet-potato fries. Might be the best dinner I’ve had all year. Also, the inside of the bill folder-thingy—how did they know I had a spare nanny goat in my clutch?
Twilight in the city, as we leave the restaurant and head to our second stop of the evening, my favorite piano bar, Howl At The Moon. Unfortunately, while the music was amazing, the air-flow and ventilation was not; talk about “glistening” and “perspiration”…because a lady never sweats, right?
If anyone from Howl At The Moon is reading this (though I have no plausible explanation for why they might be), I just want it to be known that my affections are now torn between the raffish, scruffy Brit whose smoker’s voice makes my knees all melty and the new girl with the shaggy pixie-cut and the most adorably sly smile when she belts out Ke$ha’s “Blow”. [Side-note: I will not explain the sign, but the guys sitting beneath tried to convince us they were Brian and Mike.]
This is Ryan. Ryan is a bouncer at English, a converted three-floor historic building that is now a totally rockin’ club/bar/lounge. And yes, all the bouncers wear that jeans-vest-tie combo with the sexy rolled-up sleeves. And yes, they are all ridiculously attractive; in fact, everyone at English was hott, but Ryan holds an extra-special place in my heart for his perfectly off-kilter smile and his big, rough hands. He very kindly took this full-body shot of us, but we never got to ask we could do full-body shots off of him.
…And since Ryan was occupied—y’know, doing his job and all, being bouncy—this is the most action my limping self got all night. Did I mention I’m never wearing high heels again? I’m perfectly content to just be short for the rest of my life.
Day Three: You can’t do hangover food (though I did not have a hangover, as I was not drunk…dammit) in Chicago and not have it be Giordano’s pizza. We didn’t make it out of the apartment until two in the afternoon, seeing as we got in after three that morning, but that spinach-mushroom-black olive deep-dish went down real nice.
After hopping the L back down to Wicker Park, we situated ourselves on the outdoor patio in front of Pint, an Irish pub, and got our drink on for the second time in twenty-four hours. Another wonderful part of socializing at dusk? The temp had gone down to approximately 75 degrees—Dad’s favorite weather!
Our night ended pretty spectacularly, as well: Carlos, the Venezuelan motorcycle-riding bartender from English that’s crushing on our Scamp, met up with us at Pint. Ah, just look at those smiles! And because my friends love me, they came with me to get gelato and cannoli from Caffé Gelato—just like Sasha brings home for Kitt in my current weekly serial, Spring Heat! Now, to find my own Kitt…
Major love to Cy and Scamp for making our mini-vacay beyond awesome. I can’t wait for next year.