Well I sure had a good weekend. How about all y'all? Maybe it was losing the stabbing stress that comes with having a job (although that was replaced by the dull, slow-burning stress of unemployment.) Maybe it was this thing people have been talking about lately called "sunshine." Whatever it was, this weekend felt good. It felt REAL good.
Let me tell you about my adventures. They were threefold.
First of all, we have MysteryDate. I came up with an idea for a 1-year date with Joe that would be fun and save us some bucks, but I was keeping it a secret from him for the past 3 weeks or so. We've been referring to it as MysteryDate since its inception in my head.
Do I know what inception means? No I do not. It sounded right, though. Is it right? Searching...searching... WOO HOO! Once again, Emily's guessing abilities prevail! Take THAT, "making ends meat." TAKE THAT. Oh my God, I've never told you guys about making ends meat. How is that possible?? Okay. Another time. Save it. SAVE IT.
ANYWAY, MYSTERYDATE. So what was the mystery date? Well, I had researched to the best of my ability (aka, googled once) all the locations of photo booths around Chicago. I thought it would be fun to travel around the city, taking pictures and commemorating just who we were 1 year in. I also brought props including ninja turtles and cardboard mustaches. I'm not going to lie, I am not the best gift giver. But this one was good. Walking around with the b on a beautiful day, stopping occasionally to take some pictures and drink a beer? Pretty much my heaven. Slap some cheese on that situation and you've got an Emily Party.
The only problem was when we hit Wrigleyville. Here's the deal, to all you not from Chicago: Wrigleyville is the area surrounding the Cub's stadium, Wrigley Field. While in this area, you can't throw an aluminum bottle of Bud Light without hitting a dude bro. Joe and I accidentally happened upon Wrigleyville while on MysteryDate. We weren't really paying attention, just passing from one photo booth to the next, when all of a sudden I was filled with a feeling of inadequacy. We sniffed the air and looked at each other. I turned to Joe. "Why does it smell like Victoria's Secret perfume, beer-soaked bean bags and regret?" Joe looked around. "Oh...oh no. Are we on Clark?" "*GASP!* Wait...I think I hear...yes. OAR. We'll never make it out alive! RUUUUUUUN!!"
Luckily we did get out alive, and made it back to Wicker Park, aka Hipster Town USA. We put on our skinniest jeans, our biggest headphones, and drank our PBRiest PBRs and acted as pretentious as possible for the rest of the night.
Ohhhhhhhh stereotypes FTW.
Actually, no. We didn't do that. Because what we DID do for the rest of the night was way more awesome: ROLLER DERBY! I got to relive all my previous emotions about the subject, and we even went out to the bar that all the roller girls were at. And if you are wondering, no. I did not get up the gumption to talk to a-one of them. Not even Jackie Daniels. Although I'm pretty sure Joe is in love with her/starstruck by her, MysteryDate be damned. But Jessica and I (the only two girls in our group) decided that we WOULD become star roller derby girls. I would be the hip-checking badass, and she would be the tiny zipping flash of light you see whizzing past your face. I have to say, she and I would put the "cute" in "Roller Derby Girls Are Cute." It's a fact.
Last on my weekend adventure was going to an amazing, amazing restaurant/diner: Eleven City Diner. It's a large Jewish deli in the South Loop. Oh, shit. Am I not allowed to call it "Jewish"? Is that racist? Er, religionist? Okay, it's a "delicatessen" that serves insane amounts of pastrami on rye, matzoh ball soup, and "guilt" (for $0. Seriously it's on the menu.) So...that's all I'm saying. I mean, they also have a million other things that are all totally delicious. But what was AMAZING about this place is that Jessica (of flash-of-light-whizzing-past-your-face-while-roller-derbying fame) is the mayor of the place on Four Square.
(QUICK EXPLANATION OF FOUR SQUARE: It's a smartphone app where you "check in" to whatever place you're at, just to announce to the internet that you are actually out and have a life and do things beside sitting on your computer looking at weird things. Just another way to overshare your life via social media, really. But when you are the person to most frequenly check in to a place, you become the mayor. EXPLANATION OVER.)
SO Jess and Taylor (her bf) go there about once a week and are also Four Square crazy; ergo, Jess is the mayor. Well, the owner got in touch with her and told her to let him know next time she came in so he could introduce himself. WOW, pronouns. I hope that last sentence makes sense. Sorry if it doesn't.
As I'm sure you deduced, the next time Jess went was with us, yesterday morning. We got the VIP booth, we got a whole lecture from the owner's mother (who was wearing amazing glasses shaped like flowers) about how we all need to appreciate life to the fullest. I KNOW. And when he found out none of us had ordered the french toast, he may or may not have made sure our table was well-stocked. It was awesome. The best part, says Taylor, is that they really are pretty much that friendly to anyone, even if you aren't the Four Square mayor. But I'm not going to lie, I felt a little like a celebrity's posse. They kept bringing over new people and introducing them to Jessica, bringing complimentary items, coming by to talk or say hi...yeah. It was superb. And the fact that the food was awesome didn't hurt neither. High fives all around. I'm glad Joe and I are probably going to move down there. I think it might have to be an often-frequented place for us, too.
Okay, this is officially a very lengthy, rambling kind of post with next to no point and definitely no theme. Sorry, this really should just have gone in my livejournal now that I look back on it. Too late. You're stuck with this one. Anyway, happy Monday everyone. Let's hope this one goes better than the last two, eh?