SHENANIGANS

I’d like to apologize for the delay since my last blog. It wasn’t my fault. Leprechauns pulling shenanigan pranks ran amok and I was forced to endure their evil punishments (aka, having fun in a major city with a million other shenanigan-ers).  

Maybe if my Californian friend hadn’t been in the neighborhood, I would have kept the weekend on the down-low. Probably not. He did have to purchase flight tickets and after I tidied up the spare bedroom, it was my job to pick him up from the airport. Maybe he wasn’t quite in the neighborhood and just dropped in. It might have been planned. But still, I don’t think it was my fault.  

Okay, I might have purchased a few new kelly-green shirts, and some plastic green beads, and shamrock hats, and leprechaun earrings (one needs to accessorize). I didn’t, however, buy the sash, which is partially upsetting because I think it would have really added to my outfit. Maybe next year.

For those of you who have never experienced partying with a million other people, I’d like to take the time to explain both the pros and cons of a day in Chicago during St. Patrick’s Day weekend.

First, everyone was happy…for the most part.

On the train ride into the City, we met a lovely couple whom had recently moved from Texas and Oklahoma to the Midwest. It seemed like a long story and I was only half listening. (Cheers to you, my new friends.) They seemed like nice people. Heck, we even exchanged business cards. And no matter what anyone thinks, our casual conversation would have been a bit more extravagant had we met on the train ride back home. Just thinking out loud here.

Once on solid ground and looking for the first place to set up shop, high-fives to strangers passing over Wabash Street bridge was a common occurrence. This is the perfect time to open your ears, look around, and take in the green river. I may or may not have photo bombed a few tourists, but hey, it’s fun, so no hard feelings, right? Somehow, I landed free tickets to the House of Blues. It must be my charming personality.

It was there that I experienced my first angry person. If you know me at all, you know that I like talking to people. Any people. Any person. Doesn’t matter. Sometimes bunnies, birds, and squirrels, depends on the day. Either way, I’ll figure out how the conversation will go. No worries.

On the bench was a happy guy and his not-so-happy friend was buried deep in his phone screen. I made a comment, something light and cute. His response was and almost verbatim, “I didn’t hear you, sweetheart, and I don’t care what you’re saying.” He never looked up from his phone.

SWEETHEART!?! Do you have any idea how much of a jerk you have to be to call a forty year old a sweetheart?

I think I’ll save you, my fine readers, and let you use your imagination as to the most sarcastic response I could muster. This interaction could have ruined my day. Some crabby dude could have taken the sail out of my kite and I could have divebombed into that green river never to be found again. But guess what? That didn’t happen. Why? Because I realized how miserable a person he was if disrespect and distain fell so easily from his mouth, especially during a million-person party.

 We visited four more restaurants after this incident. I know because I still have the stamps on my hand that won’t wash off. And if it doesn’t wash off, either I’m not using the right soap, or that ink isn’t holistic. Feel free to make your own determination. Within those next few hours of shenanigan-ing, I met people from Portugal, Brazil, and South Africa. All were wonderful, unlike Mr. Sweetheart, and our conversations were partially eye-opening. I have a tendency to ask a lot of questions.

At some point, a trash can, overflowing with garbage, seemed like it could have been sighted in the art district. Each paper cup placed with perfect balance. Each cup a different color. Different shapes and sizes of paper plates, wads of to-go containers, all set as if each trash-thrower-outer maintained a different vision of artistry by adding to the slotted metal barrel. A few hours later, it just looked like a heap of garbage overflowing onto the concrete leaving a city worker with the burden.

There is actually no point to this story. I just wanted to show off one of my sweetheart-looking shenanigan hats.

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