T h e A d v e n t u r e s o f C h i c a g o J o
The Extended Weekend
|2007-01-29 – 7:46 p.m.|
I know that you’re all waiting, ready to giggle at whatever it is that someone gifted me at the stupid work luncheon. I ended up with a bottle of wine. I don’t care if it is a $5-bottle with a strong possibility of tasting like super-tart berries, I could have ended up with a golf ball-shaped stress ball instead. Give me the booze any day.
After a Thursday workday where nothing got accomplished because of a myriad of meetings and the above-mentioned lunch, I attended a work function that night at Whirlyball. No matter the location, the jolly out-of-towners who I haven’t seen since August turn any night out into something ridiculous.
After repeatedly using my bumper car to T-bone people who had the ball, we made the executive decision to head back into the heart of the city. After one drink at the hotel bar so people could drop off their suitcases and laptops, we were out in the Gold Coast, ending up at our usual quarterly meeting haunt.
The very bad bar and I have a long-standing relationship, having lived right above it for my first year and a half in Chicago. With friendly bartenders, good music, and people willing to shake it until 4 a.m., there’s not much to complain about when you only go there once every few months. Unlike my previous days where there was line-skipping, no cover, and complete reign of the bar and DJ booth, this is not a place I now frequent.
However much I eschew this place that I know good and well that I love in one of those deep-down and keep-it-quiet ways, our night out was ridiculously fun. Everyone was on the dance floor, and we closed that place down.
Being the every-ready professional, I made it to the 8 a.m. meeting looking as refreshed and fabulous as I always do. The meetings were boring, but I was alive and kicking. Many thanks to the box of granola bars I purchased mid-morning.
When the meetings finished, I headed home for a nap. I was hosting a Super Fantastic Happy Hour (this is what I refer to my twice-monthly rallying the troops to show face and check out a new bar), so I rested my eyes momentarily to help recharge my internal batteries.
Thirteen hours later, I woke up. The cell contained 26 missed calls and text messages galore. Apparently most people met up (having met at a previous Super Fantastic Happy Hour or actually knowing each other), with exception to one addition who I’d never brought out to meet my friends before. I feel a bit badly about that, but he was a tentative Yes to begin with. In a short two weeks’ time, he’ll find himself part of the crew at another Super Fantastic Happy Hour, and all will be good. No biggie.
Speaking of something that will be good, I think I’ve finagled my way onto an out-of-state project. Because I get away with a lot around here, I said that I’d gladly go on a project so long the place is warm and I only have to be there for 3-6 months.
And with the merger between Super-big Client #1 and Super-big Client #2 going absolutely FUBAR and lil ol’ me with all of this configuration management, quality management, and content management experience, Hotlanta is high on the list of places I could end up.
The world laughs at me, and I shake my fist at its ridiculousness.
That aside (and only if the planets align and I end up there instead of Bumblefuck, Mississippi), Catie, Tiffany, and Heather had better be ready for long-term Jo-ness in their city. It’s gonna be nothing besides flip-flops and tank tops, Miller Lights and Klondike bars, and plenty of drunk text messaging.
Bring it on.
So, the rest of the weekend. [sigh]
I had a voice audition on Saturday, so I took the morning to practice like mad. I finally nailed down one song really well and the other decently, much to my surprise. However, when it came time to audition, I bombed it. Laughably bombed it.
At least I have a sense of humor about these things, right?
On the upside, I never have to do a voice audition again, having crossed that off my to-do list.
After scurrying from the audition site, I met up with Leigh at her work. We cabbed it back to her place, where I stole two pair of jeans that are too big for her with the promise that she gets to pick through the jeans I have at my house.
With all of this working out lately, I can’t fit into any of my jeans. My thigh muscles are getting all muscle-y, making it nearly impossible to pull the pants over that part of my leg. I know that’s what’s going on, but I sometimes get that nutty girl brain where I freak out a little because the number on my pants is further exceeding my previous pants number.
And once I get over the initial (and, yes, idiotic) shock, I realize that I look like crap in pants that are two sizes bigger than my previous sizes since my waist and tush are still the same as before. So I can choose to squeeze my legs into the pants that make my hips shimmy like Shakira’s, or I can sag in the tush and not feel like a sausage. It’s lose-lose either way.
After some text messaging as Leigh was elsewhere occupied, we finally left the house and headed to dinner. Somehow the few drinks I had hit me especially hard, and I awoke the next morning to check my phone see the damage. Only two drunk dials were made, and both were to people who would get a giggle out of it. No big deal.
I spent the early part of Sunday feeling especially emo, putzing around the house, reading a book, and napping here and there. By time my dance audition for chorus snuck up on me, I had to make a run for the el.
In all previous auditions, I’ve gotten a giggle out of the guys who show up in gym gear and with special shoes. Usually there’s a quick four eight counts taught, reviewed, and then showed. No biggie.
However, this time was different. The usual four eight-counts were spot-on. Then they cleared the floor for the Advanced version. Add another four eight-counts with two kicks and two turns, a bit of hesitation here, and jazz hands it up at the end.
So here I am, surrounded by the guys who wore gym clothes and bendy shoes, looking like an overly confident asshat in jeans, a sweater, and three-inch heeled boots.
But let me tell you... I nailed the audition.
And when on a whim the person in charge said that she needed to check flexibility, I lined up to high kick (ever thankful that my jeans have *some* spandex in them) and then went down to the floor in the middle splits. Ta-da.
It was nice to have that follow up my horrendous singing audition. Quite the confidence boost.