The Jungle

So, y'all know how I'm dumb right? Like how I went to Boston in December? Well, that was work enforced, so it's not like I could decide, right? That (weather related) stupidity was not my fault, right?

Well damnit Courtney, it is your fault when you fucking decide to go to Chicago. In January. For vacation.

A few months ago Delta was running a special on Atlanta to Chicago tickets. $89! How could I resist, knowing that my own dear Brent had moved back to the city and was only working part-time, so as to have more time to show me around town? I called him, got approval for the time off and booked the damn tickets. For some reason, I kept thinking, "Hey, how bad could it be?"

Chicago Travel Tip #1: Don't go there in January. Ever. Even after another 100 years of global warming. I said "Never", motherfucker!

The trip started off well enough, as I got good parking, the plane left on time, and I had one of those delightful seatmates that didn't talk until he had to turn off his laptop for the descent. I came down those escalators at O'Hare and there was Brent, blazing orange in (nearly) head to toe UT gear, for all of those damn Midwesterners to see. Yeah, fuck those damn, um, uh...the University of Chicago? Do they have sports?

Chicago Travel Tip #2: Always eat with a Polish man.

Oh Lord, the food. We did Little India, Greektown, a Greek diner (as Brent says, "All the diners are run by Greeks. Unless they're Armenians pretending to be Greeks."), the world's greatest metal bar/burger place, Chicago-style pizza, and, of course, Chicago-style hot dogs. All amazing. Oh, and those last two? They were breakfast and lunch on my last day in town. With a visit to a Chinatown bakery in between. Yeah, yeah, I gained some weight.

We also did actually touristy stuff like going to the Art Institute to see all the Ferris Bueller paintings, drive through the Batman tunnels, get really drunk in Brent's favorite bar, see some avant garde theater, visit Brent's suburb of origin, visit Wrigley and the Cell, and, my favorite, take a driving tour at night. The view of downtown at night from Lakeshore Drive is absolutely stunning.

I could seriously write paragraphs about our "orgy of meat and cheese", but I don't want to bore anyone with my reliving of every meal that I had (I think I covered that in my Boston post), but I do want to share the oddest story from the trip.

So Saturday night Brent takes me to meet his new girlfriend, Amanda (awesome, beautiful, funny, total fucking bitch, but in the best possible way-he calls it "sassy"), and then head to some desolate pit of a bar for a punk show. I'm not the biggest fan of that newfangled music the kids call "punk", but whatever, I'm on vacation and want to check out the Chicago scene.

Chicago Travel Tip #3: As of January 1, there is no smoking inside in Chicago. This means that when you go in a bar that used to be filled with smoke, it now smells like the bar.

Vomit. The smell of vomit EVERYWHERE. If you ever want to go to a show at The Mutiny in Chicago (and that name alone should tell you something), come armed with air freshener.

After a long bout of bitching, Brent sent me and Amanda up the street to a less offensive smelling bar while he played with his punk friends. We were happy to leave him for sweeter climes, and I was happy to get some one-on-one time with Amanda. I already knew that I liked her, but I had to make sure that she was really good enough for my little Brenty. He may have a dick like a Coke can (his description-apparently Polish men carry their girth everywhere), but he's quite tender at heart. She passed; she's awesome. And she bought me breakfast the next day. Big points there.

We grab some beers and take the only available seats, which happen to be at a table with two guys who clearly worked at the Summer's Eve factory. (I do love that everyone in Chicago says "douchebag". It's non-stop and it's awesome!) Finally we scored a table in the bar proper, deliciously near the old-fashioned popcorn machine where patrons can get free snacks while they drink.

Brent arrives and I manage to make friends with the only guy in the bar from Mississippi, who had also been at The Mutiny, but was driven out by the smell, the crowd, and the lack of music starting on time. He and his friends were sweet, and we had a big, drunken talk about the surface differences between racism in the South and the North. And when I say he was sweet, I mean that I probably could have gone home with him if I tried even a little bit. I wouldn't have, and had I been that drunk Brent would have stopped me, but I mention it only because it was kind of nice to get some male attention.

I'm yammering away to this Mississippian, and suddenly I feel something pinching and biting me on my arm. On my arm down the sleeve of my long-sleeved shirt. On my arm that is facing toward the bar. And away from the old-fashioned popcorn machine from which a hot kernel cover in burning oil has flown out of the machine and down my sleeve, where it is burning me to the point that I had a blister with a minute.  The mark is still there; it's going to scar. I told Brent that I was going to tell everyone he burned me with a cigarette 'cause I was bad.

Chicago Travel Tip #4: Go with me. Apparently I am incredibly good luck for finding cabs and strategically placed parking spots. Seriously, when we left that bar, Brent stepped to the corner and raised his hand. Mississippi, who was smoking on the same corner, said "You'll never get a cab here." One rolled up within seconds. That happened ALL weekend. It made the town that much more awesome.

(Side note about my good luck: Brent got the call from CPL while I was there for a full-time position. I'm just that good.)

All was great until I tried to leave on the 5pm flight back to Atlanta. It got cancelled, I was shifted to a later flight,  which then got delayed repeatedly. Brent had scheduled work around my original flight, so he couldn't hang out with me. I didn't make it back until late, and didn't get to bed until midnight. I know that's not that late, but after all of the traveling, sleeping on a couch for three days, and being sick (yeah, I was sick the entire trip), I really needed an early night.

Chicago Travel Trip #5: Eat at the Parthenon in Greektown (get the brandy-soaked feta that gets flambeued at your table), Pequod's for pizza (whole wheat deep dish), Kuma's Corner for burgers (try the Metallica, it's spicy as fuck), and The Wiener's Circle for char dogs with everything (a pun that I didn't get until it was too late to not be embarrassed). Orgy. Meat. Cheese.

Fallen Angel

Seriously, is he trying to kill me?

Now I Can Die in Peace

In December I had the good fortune to be "forced" to go to Boston for work. To be honest, my partner and  were too happy about making the trip, as we were both feeling pretty slammed at work, and three days out of town really cramped our already overcrowded schedule. But like a lot of things in life, the trip we were dreading turned out to be pretty awesome.

First off, I have to give props to the library for allowing us to do so much traveling, especially in such a good style. Not being a syncophant here, it really is a pleasure to have someone schedule your flight, book your room, and cover the expenses. It's the only time that I get to use the good parking at the airport AND order in a slightly higher style then I am accustomed too.

Secondly, uberprops to our hosts in Boston, who really roll out the good food and open bar for guests. Y'all know what an open bar is to me: like a first-class ticket to my cold, dead heart.

Third, don't ever go to Boston in December. Ever.

After an easy flight and a colorful car ride into town, we checked into the fabulous Hotel Commonwealth, located on Commo

nwealth Avenue very near to Boston University, with a back view of Fenway Park. Seriously, this was the view from one of our rooms:

 

I'm not used to a lot of luxury in my hotel room, but this place really brought it. My favorite feature was that turn-down service included a full ice bucket. This really came in handy when I would wake up every morning at about 2:30-3 am with a pounding head and parched mouth. Melted ice water can do wonders for those first shooting hangover pains.

First day, we had lunch in the hotel's fine restaurant. Lobster crepes for me, which is an awesome way to start off a three-day trip that involves having lobster EVERY DAY. Sometimes twice. Lobster.

Boston travel trip #2 (if we consider #1 to be "never go in December"), do not attempt the death march from one's hotel to Boston University in cowboy boots. They lack traction and do not perform well on the following surfaces: ice, snow, icy sidewalks, snowy sidewalks, icy roads or snowy roads. Imagine my surprise to learn that Tony Llama was not designing with these conditions in mind.

BU's archives, the Howard Gottlieb Archival Research Center, our hosts and collaborative partners is a very nice place. The Center itself is in the BU library and keeps a lot of pieces from its' collections on display. I was very pleased to learn that not only did the lovely and talented Van Johnson donate his papers to BU, but he had the world's gaudiest stationary:

We got a nice little tour from the staff, including my partner in ridiculously hot curry eating, Sean, and then headed back to the hotel before our first social event, a book-signing/reading/excuse to drink for Ethel Merman biographer Brian Kellow. The presentation was very good, but all I really remember was trays of sushi, fried goat cheese, some sort of bacon on a stick, and, of course, the open bar. And Allah Bless BU, not just an open beer and wine bar, but an open full bar. Free martinis and bacon? What, no oral?

Dinner was an orgy of food and alcohol that lasted late into the night. It was at a private club, the Algonquin, and involved three courses, one of them being steak and lobster, an endless supply of wine, and, you guessed it, an open bar before dinner. I was drunk, drunk, drunk all night and enjoyed every minute of it AND managed not to embarrass myself or my coworkers. Within reason.

We were actually up there for training and not just to party, so our days were full 8-5 training sessions, broken up only with long 2-hour lunches. Some sweet person on the staff even had Texas-style BBQ brought in one day, and I was ordered to go first and report back on the state of the brisket. Um, yeah, I didn't say it, but outside of Texas, there really isn't any brisket. I mean it was good, but come on; they ain't smokin' meat on mesquite in urban Boston.

After the first day of training, I got personally escorted over to the Fenway shops by Sean, which was both sweet (he didn't complain that his boss was making him drive me around) and terrifying (dude, your Honda is not a race car and you are not in a video game). It also gave me time to get busted on, yet again, by a member of HGARC's staff for my dubious representation in local press (a post of its own). Alas, all the souvenir stores close at 5 (!), so my quest to buy Dad some authentic Red Sox gear was postponed until the next day, when another staff member took the time to take me during our lunch break.

Ah, then the night. Another dinner that involved large hunks of meat and cheese and glorious butter (French restaurant, natch), and an unending flow of liquor. Again, no oral? What kind of heathen Yankees are these people? 

After dinner, which ended at a reasonable hour, one of the trainers and I decided we had to push it further and visit the bar in the hotel, which was far more happening that I would have imagined on a Thursday night. One of the HGARC staff joined us as well, and we threw down a couple of rounds before calling it a night. I unfortunately, did not realize that "a couple of rounds" was enough to push me from being pleasantly drunk to being uselessly drunk, so I had another nice hangover to deal with in the morning.

Last day and it finally snowed. It started after dark (5ish) and was very, very beautiful, but it coincided with out driver showing up late to take us to the airport and made the traffic crazy. We booked it through Logan to make up for the delay, only to find that our flight was postponed. So I got drunk in the airport and passed out on the plane, impressing all of my coworkers, including our Deputy Director. Bravo, Courtney. Bravo.

At one point while we were trapped in traffic, I looked out of the window and realized that we were parked directly in front of the Robert Shaw monument. It was dark and snowing and peacefully beautiful. It made me feel better about not getting to any of the tourist spots in town and hopeful that I'll get to go back and actually see some of the city. It was a perfect moment (even if I was in a car), and one of my favorite memories of the trip.

Oh, Dad loved it: 

Member of the Wedding

Okay, so not an original blog post title, considering I'm talking about, um, a wedding. That I was a member of. My superfriend Kristy got married back in November and I served as a bridesmaid, my first time to ever perform that duty.It was a pretty good trip: all of the wedding stuff was fun, and not too stressful, lots of drinking and professional beauty treatments, but some personal-life stuff got in the way of me truly enjoying the trip.

First off, I'm an idiot. I've flown out of Hartsfield-Jackson many times at this point, so I know the airport pretty well, but I still managed to start off my trip by missing my flight. In my defense, there was a fire in the terminal.

Like always, I got to the airport approximately ten and a half hours before my flight (one of my many crazy tendencies is to be waaay to early for travel), found my gate and was standing in line for coffee when the lights went out. We all stood around like jerks for about five minutes until the cashiers told us to get lost; no power no registers means no sale. So I roll on down to the gate and realize that I only checked the gate number against what was on my boarding pass, printed the day before, so I approach the desk and ask the THREE Delta employees if that was the correct gate for Flight # XYZ to Austin. They said YES. It turns out that that was not the correct gate for Flight # XYZ, but for Flight # ABC. So I missed my flight.

By the time I figured out what had happened and stopped crying (when you're the kind of girl that gets to the airport at 6 am for a 10 am flight, you cry when you miss it),I went to the Delta service desk where the very nice, but very frazzled employees explained that they could not get me on another flight, because no power means no computers means no flight changes. I used the courtesy phone and got another, later flight. It had to be from another terminal though because, although there were other, earlier flights leaving for Austin from the terminal I was in, no power means no computers means no boarding pass.

It was a good thing though, as the other Delta terminal was the big, clean, nice one, with a coffee place next to the gate and happy employees who had computers. I did learn two interesting things about an airport fire, one, even though the lights are off and the back-up power comes on, the Muzak NEVER goes away, and, two, the manual check-in of passengers is a skill still taught to airline employees but it really freaks people out. Old-fashioned stewardessing is pretty impressive.

I made it to Austin at about noon, which was cutting it close for the 1 pm lunch my Mom had planned for Kristy, her sister, their Mom and Rob's Mom. It was very nice, as it meant that my drinking started no more than two hours after my plane touched the ground. Other than the airport fiasco and some minor drama with Mooky (I always end up crying at some point during my visits home), it was a good weekend and Kristy seemed really pleased with the ceremony and reception. You can (I think) check out the very lovely pictures online. Kristy and Erin, her sister and maid of honor, both looked beautiful, and I managed not to break any cameras. See:

On the Road

So back in October, before Sparkle died and I temporarily became completely opposed to the world of blogging, I had to travel to Palo Alto, CA for work. My partner (work partner, you dog) and I flew into and out of San Francisco in a whirlwind three-day trip that had me totally stressed because Sparkle was at the vet, then with a sitter, during that time, and because on both 5-hour flights I had the middle seat. And on the way back they showed . Pure. Torture.

But the King Institute at Stanford is pretty cool, as is the campus itself. The museum has a shitload of Rodan's, including the "Gates of Hell", as seen above.

We did stay at a really nice green hotel, the Stanford Terrace Inn, that has, along with all organic products and environmental filters in each room, also has tinted skylights in the bathrooms, so that you can wake up to a pleasant pink glow rather than pitch black. Also, awesome cedar decks completely landscape with flowering plants, so the air smells amazing.

All of Palo Alto smells amazing. It's lovely, but far too clean for me., which is why, In December, I was happy to travel to Boston for three days. Ah the filth of that city and it's inhabitants! I'll have to save that orgy of excess (and believe me, when someone else is paying, I am all over the excessive behavior) for its' own post, as that was one that needs a lot of description.

I'm headed over to Traci's (still my only "real" friend; although I have made some tentative friends) for chicken mole and beer. More later, sorry for not posting in forever.

Vertigo

This morning I picked up Sparkle's ashes from a perfectly coiffed Southern Lady with a gold brocade pantsuit and ivory cane. Scarlett O'Hara as an elderly pimp. She was very nice about Sparkle, though; total class.

So this weekend is already off to a depressing and bizzaro start. Last night I drank way too much and watched Talk To Her, which is not a combination that I reccomend for those in an already delicate state of mind. Follow immediately with crying and Benadryl. Luckily, I was able to come home from the crematory (can anyone explaine why those people insist on using the word "cremains"? I mean, come on, can we all just start making up words?), and get laugh from the fact that there is someone in American manufacturing plush, smiling internal organs.

Feel free to pick me up a liver.

Middlesex

Y'all probably don't want to here about depression, but as you may be able to tell from the last post, I am pretty darn depressed. To boot, I found out last night that a friend lost her special kitty too.

Sparkle was really my best friend, and a great companion. It's hard to come home and not see her jumping out of her chair to greet me, hard to wake up in the morning and not hear her talking to me, and hard to go to sleep at night without her beside me. Even watching a movie sucks, because she's not in my lap purring. All of this is made worse by me being in Atlanta, where I have exactly one friend (I don't count my coworkers, neighbor or bartender as actual friends). I am entirely alone now, and the lonliness is crushing me. I just don't know how to be at home without her.

Next weekend I'll be headed back to Austin for a wedding. I don't think being at home right now is a good idea, as my parents house is full of nothing but places that Sparkle and I lived in together, but it's not like that's a reason to miss a friend's wedding. Sad, sad me.