It’s been almost six months since I uprooted myself from our nation’s capital and moved back to Chicago.
I know, right? I can’t believe it’s been that long, either. It’s been a blurry, hazy time of frenzy, wondering, stress and intrigue—and that’s just me trying to get ready for work in the morning!
<blinks a few times, wondering if anyone is going to say anything about terrible jokes, or if should just move on>
<going with just moving on>
I’ve been able to get out and about around this crazy city, and while I haven’t had my camera with me at all times I’ve ate least managed to capture some images of my reintegration to Chicago.
The Swede was in town recently and his parents graciously bestowed their White Sox/Yankees tickets on us. Nevermind that the Sox lost miserably (sad trombone, wah waaahhhh), let’s talk about how there is a bar in Bridgeport that has a pre-game raspberry woo-woo cocktail special. And how said bar also has a free shuttle to and from Comiskey. And how said shuttle had this sign on board.
Damn. I knew I forgot something.
Speaking of Bridgeport—a few weeks ago, while The Swede and I were in separate cities and pining for each other (well, I was pining, Swede was most likely wondering seriously about whether or not to make another pot of coffee, which is, in Swede-world, practically akin to pining), he set up a fantastic pub crawl for me and His Pal Dave.
The crawl took me and His Pal Dave to three different bars around Bridgeport (with others on the list that we unfortunately didn’t make it to), including Mitchell’s, which had a tremendously wonderful and deserted beer garden where His Pal Dave and I sat, sharing stories and His Pal Dave smoking luxury cigarettes.
Soon enough, a group of girls joined us in the beer garden, along with a couple of guys dragging the bags boards out for play. Instead of taking one of the many empty tables dotting the beer garden, the girls sat down practically in my and His Pal Dave’s laps, at a table approximately 12 inches from us.
Which was odd.
But at least made me privy to the following tidbit of conversation from one of the girls telling the rest of the table:
“….so he shows up at my work, and I’m like, what are you doing here? And he’s like, Oh, your last name is German? I didn’t know that. And I’m like, how have you been fucking me for a year and a half and you don’t even know my last name? And why are you showing up at my work?…”
These are questions for the ages, my friends. And also, life lesson #475: If you are banging someone for more than a year, it’s imperative you know their last name. (Though under a year, is okay.)
Keep it classy, Chicago.
And finally, the other week Swede and I met the funeral directors for drinks and a night of delicious debauchery starting at Schubas. As Swede and I parked the car, wondering whether or not the spot was legal, then deciding we really didn’t care, I realized we’d parked right in front of this place.
I love this place. Sister #1 used to take me here every time I’d visit her when she was a cool, hip, 20-something, and I was a pre-/early teen. Someday I’ll tell the story about Bat Hats, too-tart cranberry juice and a hipster café before there even were hipsters. But for now, WATCH OUT, WORLD! McPolish is…erm…well, I don’t actually know what McPolish is. Except jazzed that this store is still around.