The biggest problem with being a parent is not the day to day questioning of one’s parenting decisions and the lifelong repercussions from not buying your child a Star Wars blaster for his fourth birthday. The biggest problem with being a parent is that it cuts into your drinking in Chicago on St. Patrick’s weekend.
(Please take note of the past tenses.)
Kit and I were heading up to Chicago this weekend to visit our friend John whom we haven’t seen for five years and won’t see at least in the next 72 hours. We were leaving at noon today to get up there by 6:00pm. We would have laughed and laughed on the way up and drank and laughed once we got there. The Sunday drive home would have been filled with Kit reminding me of what I did and explaining why a green, leprechaun beard was super-glued to my face.
But last night around 8:30pm, little Miss Ann took her last bottle of the night and as I rocked her to sleep she started to wheeze. She fell asleep and the wheezing became a gentle sigh. Two hours later she awoke with a savage barking cough and labored breathing. Croup. Croup is scary because the explosive barking noise that comes out of such a little body is frightening. She had croup before, but not like this.
A call to the emergency line had us taking her out into the night air whenever she woke up with her coughing fits. Oddly, taking your child out in the 24 degree night air actually does help. She’d sleep for 45 minutes, wake up barking, we’d take he outside for 5 – 10 minutes until she fell asleep again. Rinse. Repeat.
So, the plan to leave at noon is shot. Leaving tomorrow morning and driving 7 hours to arrive in Chicago at the peak of the St. Patrick’s Day celebration is not worthwhile. It’s just not going to happen.
I called Kit this morning and he was very understanding. I left a message from John and am awaiting the return call verbal beating.
Greg called to tell me I was an asshole (he couldn’t go on the trip) and I shared the news with him that the trip was off. He was happy that we might reschedule on a weekend he could go.
Maybe we’ll be able to go up on a weekend that is more than 20 degrees.
Sorry John. Sorry Kit. Sorry Chicago.
At least my liver is happy.
For now, I'm taking Ann into the doctor just to make sure she doesn’t need steroids or some kind of treatment that isn't covered by our insurance. Perhaps there is balance in the universe and the $425 I would have spent this weekend will go towards the medical industry directly instead of the 20 year plan I’m working on.
Showing posts with label Chicago. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Chicago. Show all posts
Friday, March 16, 2007
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
Room for One in Chicago
I love Chicago. My buddies Doob, Doug (not Dave) and Paul all live there. Great food. Great people. Lots to drink and all hours of the night to drink it in.
I had the fortune of heading up there for a work related training in the Summer of 2005. My boss and I drove up from Columbus. The hotel was in one of the 23,546 suburbs of Chicago that ends in the word Park. We were meeting the client at a Cubs’ game so we threw our bags on the floor and drove a number of miles over to a friend’s house. At the house, we picked up three other guys and took someone else’s car to a train station. We rode the train for 40 minutes and got off at a very non-descript station. We walked about 8 blocks to a bar and had a quick three drinks. (Drink count: 3) We tumbled out of the bar and crammed into a cab (Note: we = 6. Luckily, I was the only fat fucker.)
The cabbie was kind enough to take a few short cuts and the locals accused him of trying to find the worst traffic to raise the meter. I don’t think Apeluriphediakni spoke much English. We made it downtown via curbs and sidewalks to the Cubs’ game.
Ah, the Game! The Cubs were playing the Red Sox for the first time since 1918. I’m not a huge fan of baseball, but this was a big game and everyone in town teemed with excitement. Our company paid for all the guys plus the client to go to the game. (Client = smoking hot MILF in her very early 40’s.) Todd, one of my boss’ friends, explained that we would be “standing on the curb” at the game.
Standing on the curb turns out to be exactly that. There is a concrete curb that spans the bleacher seating area. A chain link fence follows down the middle of the curb around the upper walkway and dead ends into the stands. There is standing room only along the walkway, so to gain an additional 6” above everyone else’s head, you can stand on the curb. The problem is that there is only about 3” of curb to stand on, so it is necessary to hold on with one hand to keep your balance. This proves tricky when attempting to drink your fifth draft beer (Drink count: 8) and eat a brat with mostly everything on, beside and under it.
Game ends. Cubs lose. (Drink count: 9ish)
We immediately head over to a bar called Sluggers. Sluggers is an all-in-one alcoholic stop. It’s got batting cages, dance floors, pool tables, dueling pianos and Capt. Morgan’s. And jell-o shots. And Bacardi. And various liquors that when mixed together taste like either a candy apple or Dr. Pepper. (Drink count: unknownish) We got hammered as my boss flirted with the client.
At some point later in the evening, I decided that I wanted Taco Bell. Ta-da, there was a Taco Bell next door. I did not tell anyone that I was going to go to Taco Bell because that would involve me actually speaking. At the Taco Bell, I used a number of mumbles and various hand signals to order about 14 burritos. I took them back over to Sluggers and sat outside on the step and ate. And ate.
Minutes passed and no one I knew came out of the bar. I stumbled into the bar and looked around for about ten minutes. No one I knew was there. I was alone in Chicago.
I called my boss on his cell phone. We both slurred at each other for a minute or two. The rough translation of the conversation is as follows:
“You leave me alone at bar.”
“You not in bar. We go.”
“You bang client lady?”
“Me bang client lady soon.”
That son of a bitch. In an effort to get back to the hotel to fuck the client, he left a soldier behind. Fucker. He said that the hotel was a Marriot in something something Park. I repeated, OK, Marriot something something Park.
I stopped at an ATM and got money. At least I have a timestamp. 2:47am. I stopped a cab and asked him to take me to the Marriot in something something Park. He had no idea what the heck I was talking about. I attempted to explain that it was in a suburb. I let him move on and called my boss to get better directions. He wouldn’t answer. He did not answer for the rest of the night. Banging the client does that to you.
In my drunken state, I assumed I could walk to my friend Doob’s apartment. I mean, how big could Chicago be? As I stumbled through the neighborhoods and surrounding shops, I called my boss several times to explain how I was discontented and that I wanted to no longer continue our work relationship. (I said that he was a fucker and that I was quitting and flying home the next day and that he was FUCKED.) I tried calling Doob, but he didn’t answer.
After about another hour of walking, I gave up. I wasn’t going to find Doob’s and my boss wasn’t going to answer his phone. So this is what I did:
Found a house that was under construction. There was an alley next to the house. There was a pile of gravel, a stack of 2x4’s and some demolition materials next to the house that was next to the alley. I stole a newspaper off a neighbor’s porch. I spread out a layer of newspaper in the center of these construction materials. A nest. I lay down. I covered myself in the rest of the newspaper. I slept.
I woke up at about 6:00am. I had no idea where I was except that it was outside. That was fucked up.
Sat up and it all (well, some of it) came oozing back. The game. The bar. The taco bell. The walk. The quitting. The nest.
I got up and started walking. Again. This time, I listened for the L and found a set of tracks and followed them to a station. I bought a ticket (how the hell did I get $200 cash?) and rode the train west to the last station. I got off and re-boarded on the eastbound to downtown Chicago. Once I made it downtown, it was about 7:00am and I called into the office back in Ohio. I got the address of the hotel from Lori who didn’t ask any questions. I had to write the address down using a cigarette butt and the ATM receipt. Stopped a cab and he drove me $75 to the hotel in Orland Park.
When I got there my boss was not in the room. He was still with the client, taking one for the team. (He took another one for the team the next night, too.) I slept again.
I did not quit. I did not fly home. Later that evening, at the training, my boss mentioned how funny my messages about quitting were. I laughed, knowing I had meant every word.
I had the fortune of heading up there for a work related training in the Summer of 2005. My boss and I drove up from Columbus. The hotel was in one of the 23,546 suburbs of Chicago that ends in the word Park. We were meeting the client at a Cubs’ game so we threw our bags on the floor and drove a number of miles over to a friend’s house. At the house, we picked up three other guys and took someone else’s car to a train station. We rode the train for 40 minutes and got off at a very non-descript station. We walked about 8 blocks to a bar and had a quick three drinks. (Drink count: 3) We tumbled out of the bar and crammed into a cab (Note: we = 6. Luckily, I was the only fat fucker.)
The cabbie was kind enough to take a few short cuts and the locals accused him of trying to find the worst traffic to raise the meter. I don’t think Apeluriphediakni spoke much English. We made it downtown via curbs and sidewalks to the Cubs’ game.
Ah, the Game! The Cubs were playing the Red Sox for the first time since 1918. I’m not a huge fan of baseball, but this was a big game and everyone in town teemed with excitement. Our company paid for all the guys plus the client to go to the game. (Client = smoking hot MILF in her very early 40’s.) Todd, one of my boss’ friends, explained that we would be “standing on the curb” at the game.
Standing on the curb turns out to be exactly that. There is a concrete curb that spans the bleacher seating area. A chain link fence follows down the middle of the curb around the upper walkway and dead ends into the stands. There is standing room only along the walkway, so to gain an additional 6” above everyone else’s head, you can stand on the curb. The problem is that there is only about 3” of curb to stand on, so it is necessary to hold on with one hand to keep your balance. This proves tricky when attempting to drink your fifth draft beer (Drink count: 8) and eat a brat with mostly everything on, beside and under it.
Game ends. Cubs lose. (Drink count: 9ish)
We immediately head over to a bar called Sluggers. Sluggers is an all-in-one alcoholic stop. It’s got batting cages, dance floors, pool tables, dueling pianos and Capt. Morgan’s. And jell-o shots. And Bacardi. And various liquors that when mixed together taste like either a candy apple or Dr. Pepper. (Drink count: unknownish) We got hammered as my boss flirted with the client.
At some point later in the evening, I decided that I wanted Taco Bell. Ta-da, there was a Taco Bell next door. I did not tell anyone that I was going to go to Taco Bell because that would involve me actually speaking. At the Taco Bell, I used a number of mumbles and various hand signals to order about 14 burritos. I took them back over to Sluggers and sat outside on the step and ate. And ate.
Minutes passed and no one I knew came out of the bar. I stumbled into the bar and looked around for about ten minutes. No one I knew was there. I was alone in Chicago.
I called my boss on his cell phone. We both slurred at each other for a minute or two. The rough translation of the conversation is as follows:
“You leave me alone at bar.”
“You not in bar. We go.”
“You bang client lady?”
“Me bang client lady soon.”
That son of a bitch. In an effort to get back to the hotel to fuck the client, he left a soldier behind. Fucker. He said that the hotel was a Marriot in something something Park. I repeated, OK, Marriot something something Park.
I stopped at an ATM and got money. At least I have a timestamp. 2:47am. I stopped a cab and asked him to take me to the Marriot in something something Park. He had no idea what the heck I was talking about. I attempted to explain that it was in a suburb. I let him move on and called my boss to get better directions. He wouldn’t answer. He did not answer for the rest of the night. Banging the client does that to you.
In my drunken state, I assumed I could walk to my friend Doob’s apartment. I mean, how big could Chicago be? As I stumbled through the neighborhoods and surrounding shops, I called my boss several times to explain how I was discontented and that I wanted to no longer continue our work relationship. (I said that he was a fucker and that I was quitting and flying home the next day and that he was FUCKED.) I tried calling Doob, but he didn’t answer.
After about another hour of walking, I gave up. I wasn’t going to find Doob’s and my boss wasn’t going to answer his phone. So this is what I did:
Found a house that was under construction. There was an alley next to the house. There was a pile of gravel, a stack of 2x4’s and some demolition materials next to the house that was next to the alley. I stole a newspaper off a neighbor’s porch. I spread out a layer of newspaper in the center of these construction materials. A nest. I lay down. I covered myself in the rest of the newspaper. I slept.
I woke up at about 6:00am. I had no idea where I was except that it was outside. That was fucked up.
Sat up and it all (well, some of it) came oozing back. The game. The bar. The taco bell. The walk. The quitting. The nest.
I got up and started walking. Again. This time, I listened for the L and found a set of tracks and followed them to a station. I bought a ticket (how the hell did I get $200 cash?) and rode the train west to the last station. I got off and re-boarded on the eastbound to downtown Chicago. Once I made it downtown, it was about 7:00am and I called into the office back in Ohio. I got the address of the hotel from Lori who didn’t ask any questions. I had to write the address down using a cigarette butt and the ATM receipt. Stopped a cab and he drove me $75 to the hotel in Orland Park.
When I got there my boss was not in the room. He was still with the client, taking one for the team. (He took another one for the team the next night, too.) I slept again.
I did not quit. I did not fly home. Later that evening, at the training, my boss mentioned how funny my messages about quitting were. I laughed, knowing I had meant every word.
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