…come closer. I need to whisper this. I love you. I think you’re one of the greatest cities that I’ve ever visited. The architecture is fabulous. Your food is to die for. Your people have big city confidence with Midwestern friendliness.

Okay, so your weather can be pretty freakin’ sucky for 6 months of the year…but otherwise, you’re the kind of place that I could settle down in someday.

If I won a lottery.

or divorced Mr. Hot and married The Donald.

or found out that I’m really the long-lost daughter of Bill Gates.

Until then, I’m happy to come visit you. At least I have an expense account.

But Chicago? Hey. I need to tell you something. It’s important. (No, you don’t have bad breath or spinach stuck in your teeth.)

Up at Oak Street Beach? - someone stole your sand.

Dude. It’s gone. Seriously. I went up to the running path this morning to watch the sun rise over Lake Michigan. I walked down Lakeshore Drive and crossed over using one of the pedestrian tunnels. I walked up the stairs and back out into the fresh air and took a deep breath. I wanted to smell the water and the sand and the faint scent of Coppertone.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Then I looked. No sand.

What the fuck?

Just thought, y’know, you may want to file a police report. They may be able to find it if you bring them pictures for identification. Because I don’t think you can call it a beach without, y’know, sand.

Love,

The Hotfessional

—- P.S. I’m blogsitting for Marie Millard today. She asked me to pull something out of my archives to share some history with her readers. I picked another travel post. Go see, okay? —-

in a long, long time. And then there was last night.

That conference that I mentioned here started Tuesday night with a reception. So, I went to the hotel after spending a full day at the office (I did the responsible thing and worked from another desk - and I still don’t know whether they ever got my workspace reconnected.), I logged in and checked some email and then headed down to the registration desk.

I had a couple of glasses of wine, some appetizers, and called it an early night. I’d been up and moving for about 19 hours at this point. I was exhausted and breakfast the next morning was at 6:30. No, unfortunately, that was not a typo. Six-thirty.

My cute shoes that were so comfortable the day before when I put them on, made my feet cry when I put them BACK on that morning. But, a good Hotfessional perseveres, and I am nothing if not a good Hotfessional.

A full day of speakers from the ginormous company that bought me and my corporate family followed. Senior executives that have already told me and mine that we will only be working with them a few months. However! Good Hotfessional (see above) that I am, I knew this was an excellent opportunity to network and champion myself and my team.

So, I focused and asked pertinent (not impertinent!) and probing questions. I participated in the activities and made sure that I engaged appropriately.

When cocktail hour started at 5:30 (eleven hours after I put the fucking shoes on) - I should have heard “warning, warning, warning” reverberating through my head. I actually heard “vodka, vodka, vodka” blaring. The bars were set up outside the room where we were going to have dinner. I met up with a couple of friends who were also attending, and went to see the cute little bartender. (Little = “short, tiny” Cute = “75 years old with an accent”) The cute little bartender was VERY liberal with the vodka. Since they didn’t have lemonade, I had my second favorite - cranberry juice.

I had been talking all day, so was a bit parched. I finished my first drink, and was having a second when we got the call to be seated. Since I don’t eat red meat, I had to wait for the chef to fly to the Northwest and catch, kill, and prepare my salmon. While everyone else was eating their filet mignon, I was sipping my white wine. When the after-dinner activities started mere minutes after the arrival of my food, I was on my third glass. And since I’m a good Hotfessional (see above), I didn’t complain when the waitress plucked my 1/2 eaten meal out from under my chin.

When the fun and games were done, we adjourned to the hallway bars again. I had a little chat with my cute little bartender. He was even more generous with the vodka. Maybe he wanted to get rid of it before last call.

Someone (no, not me) suggested going down to the “regular bar” to finish our scintillating conversations. At that point, I’m sure I was channeling Kristabella. So, of course I went. It’s a good thing the “regular bar” wasn’t trying to empty the entire bottle of vodka down my throat, because by the time I made it back to my room (at 1 a.m.), I was sure that I had had enough cranberry juice to ensure that I will never have a Urinary Tract Infection for the rest.of.my.life.

When my alarm went off a mere 4 hours later (just kill me), and I stretched my legs out, my left calf knotted up into one of those cramps that make you sure that pulling your lower lip up over your head hurts less. For those other guests on the 23rd floor? Please accept my apologies. It wasn’t a screaming banshee that you heard. It was me. As I tried to straighten my leg enough to stand up.

I made it to the shower - considered getting into a fetal position in the tub and just letting the water drown me - and got dressed for another 6:30 breakfast. I turned on the news. This is the story I heard. My flight was included in the 900 cancellations for today. I am sitting at O’Horror writing this with a confirmed replacement flight though, so, that is good. Because otherwise, I’d be emailing Poppy to see if I could sleep at her house tonight.

—- And yes, I actually did NOT post yesterday. But, I was awake for 20 hours, two days in a row. That should count for something. Blog365 be damned. —-

(The Good vs. The Bad)

4:15 a.m. - The driver backs up ever so slowly into my very long driveway. Mr. Hot comes into the bathroom where I have just stepped out of the shower.

“You won’t need to worry about Metro Cars being late. They’re already here.”
“What? An hour early?”

9:15 a.m. - Mr. Hot calls me.

“Remember when I told you the driver was backing up really slowly this morning? He broke off about a 15-foot piece of driveway - not just cracked it, broke it completely, fucking off. The asphalt is laying in the grass and you can see where his tires went right into the yard.”

I told him to take pictures so I can call the car company. Dumbshit drivers. Why they feel the need to back up a driveway they’ve never been to before is beyond me. In the dark. Thank you, Mike-the-asshat-driver who so kindly introduced himself and thanked me for the tip. You’ve probably just cost me $200 in driveway patching and repair. Bite me.

7:00 a.m. - Pilot comes on intercom:

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to O’Horror International Airport. Since we’ve arrived 10 minutes early, there is an airplane at our gate. We’ll taxi to the gate as soon as they leave.”

7:20 a.m. -

“Ladies and gentlemen, please remain seated. We’re about 50 feet from the jetbridge due to some equipment that was left and needs to be moved.”

Excuse me, Mr. Airport-Wave-the-Stick-Thingie worker? Could you please move your shit? Pretty please with sugar on top? I’ve had 2 cups of coffee and I’m about to piss my pants, and since we got here so freakin’ early, the flight attendant wouldn’t let me use the bathroom, and now I’ve been sitting here for a whole hell of a lot longer than I expected. Someday, after you have had children or your prostate decides to start growing, you’ll know exactly what you’ve done. Bite me.

7 :45 a.m. - Calling home to check in.

“Hey sweetie. We just landed. How’s the weather there?”
“It’s supposed to rain. Hold on, let me see what it’s going to be like in Chicago today.”
“No, really, it’s okay. I’ll find out when I get down to the city.”
“No, really, it’s no problem, just let me, wait, damn it, why isn’t this thing working? Hold on.”
“But I need to get to the train.”
“It’s going to rain there.”
“Oh, okay, well, I’m heading downstairs I’ll talk to you later.”

7:55 a.m. - The Hotfessional gets to the bottom of the escalator for the Blue Line. She hears: “All Aboard. Doors closing.” And runs in her cute heels, dragging her suitcase and lugging her laptop towards the train which is a mere 10 feet away. Then it’s 12 feet away. Then it’s 15 feet away. Oh, and Mr. Train Conductor? Bite me.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Next time, remember. Do not call Mr. Hot before you get on the train. It will only screw with your timing and you’ll end up sitting next to the woman with the hacking cough and snot-filled handkerchief. The one she keeps waving around as she talks to her “friend” (and by “friend” I mean the imaginary being that apparently followed her onto the train).

Oh, did I mention? I’m in Chicago. For 1 day in the office, and 2 in an “Executive Leadership” conference in a hotel.

8:45 a.m. - At my desk, finally. I hang up my coat, stow my suitcase out of the way, get some money to buy a bagel and coffee. I try logging on before I head down to the cafeteria. No connection. No network at my desk. The desk with my name plate and my phone and all of my stuff.

“Hello, helpdesk? I’m having problems connecting to the network. Looks like my network jack has been disabled.”
“Okay, what’s your jack #? What floor are you on? North or South side? What color underwear are you wearing today?”
“N38-2876, the 20th floor, North side, and black lace.”
“Alright Hotfessional. Your ticket # is 973262 and the ETA for resolution is 2 - 3 business days.”

8:46 a.m. -

“Excuse me, did you say 2-3 business DAYS? To get me connected to the network? To be able to do my job? This isn’t a new setup. This is broken. If it’s going to be 2-3 days, I’ll be back home.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry, but this vendor takes 24 hours to process a request.”
“Okay, whatever. Just put a Sev 1 on it, and get them here as quickly as possible.”

Y’all? WTF? Two to three business days to flip a friggin’ switch in a closet somewhere to re-enable something that obviously should not have been shut down? I’m thinking about calling it a day, heading over to my hotel and ordering a bottle of top-shelf vodka and some grapefruit juice. I’ll hook up my wireless, order room service, smoke, and blog. Because, y’all? It’s only 9:57. a.-fucking-m. Hey Network Vendor? Bite me.

—- However, someone did search for “replacement knees deKuyper” and ended up here. I don’t know about you, but anything made with deKuyper does make me wish for replacement knees. —-

… and so I went shopping. Since I still had today off and oh mah holy hell people - enough with the togetherness already - I went down to the local strip mall (sigh - I miss my old mall) and hit Dress Barn and DSW. Three hours later, I called Mr. Hot to tell him I was still alive and heading home. “Get your sweet ass outside and be ready to help me carry in my haul,” were my exact words, I think.

I found a couple of floaty tops - very springy. A blue/black/white one and a gray/black/white version. They probably make me look pregnant, but they’ll be nice for working from home - not too dressy but more “work inducing” than my usual sweats/t-shirts and shorts. (What? You don’t think that’s a valid excuse for buying new tops? Snirk.)

And these:

Gray pants, black ballerina neckline t-shirt and crinkly pink/black/cream and gray overblouse. I have a cream colored sleeveless tank to wear underneath this, too, but since it’s still flippin’ winter around here, I’m going with black.

Black Slacks and a red self-belt cowl neck. I have a great red/white/black scarf to wear with this (I may replace the belt with the scarf). I’m never sure how to do the cowl neck though. Mine always look more like an overstretched turtle neck.

Navy slacks. I’ve had the argyle sweater and the lilac t-shirt that I’ll wear underneath it. The sweater was a gift from my sister-in-law (aka The Bitch Who Stole Christmas) for…Christmas(!) several years ago. I love the pants - they have 4 buttons on each hipbone - like sailor pants. (And the plaque to the left? Says, “Kiss Often, Lips Never Wear Out.” Just in case you were wondering. Snort.)

———————

Why yes, I am packing to go to Chicago, thank you very much! I leave at six-fucking-fifty a-in-the-m tomorrow morning. Let the whining commence. (And considering Mr. Hot just brought me a glass of lovely Chardonnay, let the wine-ing commence, too!)

Oh, and for Kelley and Lys and Candy and CookieBitch and the rest of my shoe whores:

Nine West. I love the straps - and the heel is black patent - while the rest is black leather. Yum.

- And -

The box says “Crown Vintage”. I love these. They’re gorgeous and comfortable. They were $79.99 - but on clearance - 30% off. The thing is, I can’t find “Crown Vintage shoes” anyplace. I was trying to Google the name because I fell in love with these and other pairs I saw there, but they don’t seem to actually exist. And I’m not the only one looking!

I only got black shoes this time because my normal two pair need to be tossed out now. I did scope out a beautiful pair of green patent flats and red patent slingbacks that I may just go back for the next time I need some “Me time.”

—- Okay y’all. Car reservations made. Boarding pass printed. Clothing packed. Wine glass filled. O’Horror? Bring it, mutha. I’m ready. —-

Here we go y’all.

After all my whining and moaning and bitching and crying about travel fiascoes in months past, Laurel and Sonia and I thought we should come up with a contest. A contest in which three of you (3! Damn. Wish I could enter.) will get rewarded for surviving a really effed-up travel experience.

Here are the rules:

• Blog about your absolute worst travel experience (train? plane? automobile? camel-back? the mode of transportation doesn’t matter - the sheer horror of it all does. Or the funny. We like to laugh.)
• Link to us (Sass Attack - And the Pursuit of Happiness - The Hotfessional) and display the badge above (with a link to this contest*)
• Get your entry written and posted before February 3rd, 2008.
• Email us at TravHellContest@gmail.com with the link to your post.

We’ll judge 1st, 2nd, and 3rd places for Excellent Prizes. (Y’know, there was Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure - hence, Excellent Prizes.)

The Excellent Prizes (something to wear, something to display, something to keep you sane) will be announced soon after February 3rd (y’all, that’s the deadline, in case you missed it up top there).

*If you need the code to link the badge, send an email to the TravelHell Contest address. We’ll get you the code.

—- Because, sometimes getting there sucks. —-

- A new contest

- News about 24 (the stepson, not the show)

And surely,

- How I am going to be stuck at O’Horror this evening trying to get home since it’s foggy and rainy here and incoming flights are delayed.  I know you’re tired of travel stories, but y’all?  I promise I’ll be back to normal soon.

—- Now I’m off to get into a cab so I can sit in the airport for a few hours, ya’ll. —-

And Bossy was right. I set myself up. But only by an hour. Once we got on the plane, and the ground crew decided to hurry us out to get de-iced (a 20 minute procedure all by itself), a “light” came on in the cockpit. This is what happens when Hotfessional gets cocky about her ass, a plane, and leaving.on.time.

I think the pilot’s exact words were, “Uh, ladies and gentlemen, we were just finishing our status check when a light started flashing in here, so we’ve called for maintenance to come out and see what it is.” There may or may not have been a murmured, “Oh Shit!” in the background.

At that point, I tried to sleep. I’ve been on planes waiting for maintenance before. Once, 3 hours after maintenance got there, they decided that the replacement part was fucked up too, so “Let’s go find another plane!”.

Surprisingly, about 30 minutes after our scheduled departure (they really need to come up with another phrase for that, because, y’know, there’s nothing departure about that schedule), we were headed out for de-icing.

Off the plane, onto the train from O’Horror into the city, a 10 block walk to the office, and ta-da! I’m here.

I’m having dinner with all of my boyfriends tonight (re: the other managers), where I’m sure there will be much drinking and bullshitting. I’ll take notes. I’m sure they’ll provide some interesting tidbits.

—- In the meantime, I’m off to a meeting with someone that I’ve really, truly disliked (abhorred, hated, detested, despised) for about 11 years. I know you wish you were me. —-