but I found a driver and that's a start

My impromptu trip to Chicago, in photographic form.

Let's start at the beginning, shall we?
[Apologies in advance for any bizarre spacing or formatting here. It's my first post involving extensive photographs on Blogger. I used to post pics on Xanga pretty regularly, but this site is slightly different to operate, as I'm sure some of you know. And when I say some of you, I mean my lone reader. Irrelevant tangent over: on with the show!]

Chillaxing in Fort Wayne "International" Airport. Blogging it up. Note how the hair actually looks decent at this early point in the day.

Reading all the hotel literature. I have to admit, I LOVE hotel amenities. I steal the pens and paper from every hotel room I've ever stayed in. And my family is really into traveling... so that rather makes for a lot of hotel pens. But they always write so well... [that makes it okay, says KleptoHolly. You all agree, right?]

What I love about my trip: I went with absolutely no idea what I was going to do upon my arrival in the city. I browsed some of the touristy literature available in the hotel lobby; that, combined with my memories of my fifth-grade field trip to Chi-town led to choose Navy Pier as my evening destination. The front desk clerk was extremely helpful and called a cab for me and everything. I adore people-watching.

I took this for my dad. Well, my whole family, really. We're really into cycling as a sport; my family recorded every single day's full coverage of the Tour de France on Versus. My dad and sister created fantasy teams [it's a real contest online during the Tour, they're not just insane] to compare to the winners, and we made predictions each day. We've been doing it for years. The commentators are bloody brilliant. I did immediately think of my dad when taking this photograph though; this is a bike rental shop, and they have a veritable HORDE of Treks! Those are REALLY EXPENSIVE BIKES! No wonder renting them is pricey, too.

I found a place to eat at the rail of Charlie's Ale House, inside the Pavilion at Navy Pier. It was a small, but bustling restaurant (I think it had a much larger outside patio, but I didn't really look that closely, I must admit. Too much fodder for observation indoors). The bartenders were both Hispanic, and the one that waited on me in particular was Francisco and spoke at approximately ninety miles an hour. He moved about that quickly, too. Very thorough, though, and quite funny as well. I struck up a conversation with a woman who inquired what I was eating and ordered the same thing for takeaway. She informed me there were fireworks that night at nine-thirty; naturally, I had to stay for the show, mainly because I love fireworks. And also Strongbow. If you haven't had it before, it's hard cider from England, and is TASTY. Best on draft, second best in a bottle, worst in a can. Unfortunately, it's rather hard to come by here in the States. Trust me, though, it's worth the effort.

I realize it's blurry, but I have to admit, after staring at it for awhile, I realized this photograph is perfect the way it is. This is exactly what it was like on the Pier. I was strolling along, basically letting the crowd shunt me along as people flew by in all directions. I love how the woman in white in the left foreground looks like she's just flying. It's amazing how a place that's meant for entertainment and, presumably, a good time, turns into such an occasion for stress and hurry for some people. It's definitely enjoyable to watch the hustle and bustle whilst meandering along, letting the cool breeze off the lake play with my skirt. Beautiful.

Snarky self-portraint on my way out of the hotel the next morning. I have a really crappy camera and shiny skin, okay? Step off. Seriously, though, I've been meaning to get a new camera for years. Mine is ancient and bulky and slow. But I do desperately love that jacket I'm sporting. Mmm. Nice and cheap, too! I've had it for months and haven't really had an occasion to wear it, so I'm glad I finally got to.

I'm quite confident I have one more post coming out of this random adventure of mine, but I did want to experiment with posting a series of photos, so I'll go ahead and let this one end nicely. Also, I've been watching "Friends," and the disc ended, so I have to switch it out for a fresh one. I work a double tomorrow at the 'bee's, so that'll be a fun one. Oy. Back to the real world, I suppose.

nothing you can do but you can learn how to be you in time

I woke up this morning dissatisfied with my lot in life, and by the time I got Starbucks, had decided to leave town for twenty-four hours. That's right, this self-declared spontaneous gypsy is finally living up to her name. I felt a strong pull to get out, to just up and leave, pack a small bag and hit the road. I've felt restless before, but never in such a tangible way. It suddenly occurred to me that I can really do this. It's Wednesday morning and I don't have to be at work at the 'bee's until Friday morning, and the work I have to do for the office can be done in a hotel room or on a plane or wherever the hell I want, and the possibility of just up and leaving like I so desperately desire to do is a VERY REAL ONE.

So I did it.

I'm writing this in the Fort Wayne International Airport, which is kind of hilarious for those from around this area, simply because "international" refers to a flight to Canada that's available approximately once every few weeks. There are only eight gates; four downstairs, next to the single convenience store/deli/bar, and four upstairs, near the "museum" consisting of about twelve framed photographs stuck on mobile display cases. When you fly in to Fort Wayne and head to the baggage claim, a trio of old ladies greets you with individually wrapped sugar cookies. When you depart, you are probably the only person in line for security, and the employee who helps you find your ring after you drop it [apparently the metal detectors are so sensitive these days, a freaking underwire bra might set them off. That could get awkward.] strikes up a conversation about how women should remove bracelets when going through the metal detectors, but rings are usually okay, because he wears his wedding ring every day when he goes through and is almost always fine.

I can't believe I did it.

After I got Starbucks, I returned to my apartment and immediately started texting the BFF, who, in true KM fashion, encouraged me wholeheartedly to DO IT, JUST GO. I decided on Chicago as a destination rather quickly, due to proximity/travel time/excitement and whatnot, and immediately started Googling like a fiend - hotels near the airport, flights out of Fort Wayne, the balance of my bank account. I have to admit, after the initial rush of ohmygosh this could actually happen, doubts settled in, as they are wont to do. However, justification crept in right afterward... my roommate is out of town... she won't be fretting about me [she lives to fret]... the bf [look for another post in the future regarding why I hate the term "boyfriend," but that's what he is, bless his heart] is seriously sleep-deprived/working really hard on multiple projects/seemed kind of put off that I wanted to hang out with him so much last night that I went over to his place at bloody twelve-thirty in the morning/and therefore could probably use a break from such an insane girlfriend. It's perfect timing.

For the past few years I have felt a call to travel. I spontaneously decided to study abroad in London, and I loved it. It was exactly what I needed at the time; although I was also using it as an excuse to run away from all that was troubling me at that time. As a result, it helped, but it didn't. Paradoxical, I know. In the end, it was an incredible, worthwhile, culturally enriching experience, but only served to increase my thirst for travel and adventure and spontaneity. Ever since then, I have claimed to love spontaneity, to be a gypsy at heart, to live for the thrill of the chase of adventure - but I have done nothing to live up to those titles. Last fall, a friend I was getting close to at the time constantly retorted that I couldn't be random at heart, as I insisted I was - I didn't do anything but work, and go home, and read, and consume the occasional glass of wine. He declared that he was more random than I, due mostly to his impulsive desire to learn a musical instrument, upon which he purchased a ridiculously expensive bass and proceeded to teach himself a song way out of his talent margin.

Who's random now, bitch?

I'll keep you posted on my adventures. I hear my hotel has free internet tonight... gotta love this technologically savvy world we live - and travel - in these days.

she's got a ticket to ride, but she don't care

[This post was written two days ago whilst chillaxing on a bench at a park near my apartment. It started with a memory and evolved into something like introspective wordplay. Not quite sure how the final result appears. You decide...]


I'm sitting on a bench in my apartment's neighborhood and out of nowhere, I can smell the ocean. I live in northeastern Indiana, so it's not like I'm anywhere near a significant body of water. I was dreaming about the ocean just the other day; perhaps this sensual anomaly is an answer to my prayers. I can almost taste the sea spray, hear the constant call of seabirds and children shrieking as they splash joyfully in the surf.

I miss traveling. The thrill that accompanies walking into an airport and inhaling the stale scent of leather luggage, constantly recycled air, and countless intermingled fast food restaurants. It is the scent of new books and magazines, freshly purchased for whatever journey their owner may be taking them on, combined with a million accompanying sounds -- countless backpacks and pocket-books and laptop cases zipping and unzipping in a neverending quest to retrieve boarding passes and passports and itineraries, bottle after bottle of overpriced soda releasing its carbonation in one swift burst; and of course, hundreds of voices chattering in excitement or questioning destinations in hushed tones or assuaging young fears. The cacophony of such a place has always been soothing to me, a gypsy at heart.

I look at the floor and I see it needs sweeping

At work we have a series of two or three CDs that are constantly playing on repeat during work hours. Because of how often I am present at work, I know all the words to a large number of both mid-90's and recent pop/soft rock Top 40 hits. In addition, I have come to loathe more than a few of said hits. I don't know the names or artists of half the songs we play, but I DO know I harbor a deep, unnatural hatred towards them. There's one song in particular that I think they play ON PURPOSE once I walk in the door, as it is ALWAYS ON when I'm opening the bar, and proceeds to get stuck in my head for the remainder of the day. Say it with me now: ARGH.

The whole point of this story is that to-day, the quintessential Abba song, "Dancing Queen," came on the soundtrack, and it was during a slower time in the afternoon, so they had the music turned up in the back so the cooks could be entertained whilst preparing the typical daytime lunch combos and half-size salads. The mid cook, J, immediately perked up when Abba started wailing, and loudly asked the kitchen manager to turn it up. Keep in mind, the kitchen manager is a young, bald guy who was drinking black coffee out of a Harley Davidson mug whilst working expo all day, and promptly gave J a look and a half that read something along the lines of: "Hi, are you a man? ABBA? REALLY?" J tried to defend himself by declaring that everyone is permitted a secret, guilty pleasure when it comes to music.

Which brings me to my main point. Is this true for all, both male and female? Presently, in my car, I have a number of CDs in the glove compartment (I know, I know. My dad keeps telling me this is a break-in waiting to happen. Especially since I have a new car. New Car + CDs Not-So-Subtly Stowed Away in Glove Compartment = Obvious Heist Target). Including in said compartment are Colbie Caillat [gift from Jaime K], The Beatles Blue Album (1967-1970) [self-purchased], Sara Bareilles [gift from Kathryn], Counting Crows [self-purchased], Linkin Park [stolen from my sister], the soundtrack to the Beatles rock-musical Across the Universe [self-purchased; also a freaking AWESOME movie if you like the Beatles and know some of their history/trivia], and Anberlin [also stolen from my sister]. Just to name a few. Oh yeah, and Natalie Grant. Self-purchased. I think that's a somewhat random mix. Any guilty pleasures in there? Not really. I have no shame in admitting to the kinds of music I like. Is it only a guilty pleasure if you are afraid to admit it, no matter what company you may be partaking of at the moment?

Example Two: my older brother was aptly born in the early 80's. He loves Metallica, Pink Floyd, Tool, Bush, Pearl Jam, and Live. However, he also loves "medieval rock" (no really, they take 16th-century tunes and vamp them up. It's both completely insane and strangely fascinating. Try it out, he recommends this band to get a feel for the genre), the Beatles, Phil Collins, and Billy Joel. One would think a hardcore Metallica fan, who has seen them in concert and loudly declares his devotion to ROCK, would not be willing to admit love for Phil Collins and Billy Joel. Nay, HE DOES. Maybe it's just my family.... totally didn't consider that angle. Hmm. This changes everything...

Guilty pleasure tunes? Anyone?


In other news, I cleaned my bathroom to-day, and immediately started disinfecting all the common surfaces in the APT. My roomie has been ill all week with a "throat infection and respiratory infection." This is a woman who is constantly sick, but never with ordinary ailments. All things require some form of medical attention, and she always knows exactly what will make her feel better. I admire her moxie. I fear all germs, illness, medical buildings/personnel, etc. And my sister wants to be a doctor. I will never understand her. This is just one more example of how I'm harboring Monk-ish tendencies. Which brings us to the main event of the evening... the SEASON PREMIERE of Monk and Psych. Two quality television programs that you should start watching immediately, if you don't already. If you have a sense of humour and enjoy a good detective/mystery story, then you will love them. Scout's honour. And I was never a Scout of any kind, so you know my word is gold.

Happy Friday!

picture yourself in a boat on a river

I love waking up in the morning hours and hearing the birds chirp as the world comes to life. This is quite a paradox, considering I am the very antithesis of a morning person. I. Need. Sleep. If I could sleep in with no alarm clock interrupting my beautiful slumber every day I totally would. Alarms are evil little devices, possibly invented by a masochistic cult. NAY, DEFINITELY invented by a masochistic cult. You never know.

I have to get ready for work soon, but all you working people will appreciate a slight feeling of apprehension I have due to a missed social engagement with some co-workers. Social interaction with one's co-workers can be a rather sticky conundrum, for sure. In this particular instance, a guy I rather enjoy working with - extremely good at his job, always willing to help me learn more about bartending, horrid gossip, not always exactly in line with authority, flamboyantly homosexual - was having his first cross-dressing dance performance at his favorite club downtown last night. I suppose that's a drag show. Hello, I'm naive! Nice to meet you.

Anyway, he made up these fancy invitations with a somewhat frightening photograph and all the details, and then sent out text messages reminding everyone yesterday, and wrote about it in the bar book at work, and basically was extremely excited. Understandable, there's a certain rush that comes from performing in front of a group of people. It helps to have a lot of friendly faces in the audience. Although for some that makes it more nerve-wracking. I replied to his text message last night with the cop out, "I hope to make it! Have fun!" And he came back with, "You will make it, everyone will be there!"

Enter the conundrum. In order to really, truly be part of the clique or the "in" crowd or whatever the hell you want to call it that exists at the 'bee's, you have to A. Drink like a bloody fish pretty much every night of the week, and/or B. Attend every single social event you are invited to that is remotely work-related. Meaning, another fellow bartendress had a 5th of July party at her humble domicile last Saturday. It started at 6. I didn't get off work until 8. Had I gone, I would have seen a few people from work, but since I lacked anyone to attend said shindig with me, there would have been extreme awkwardness.

Don't get me wrong. I've gone out with work people a few times before. Just a few weeks ago, after closing on a Monday night, I went out with J, S, and J's friend, later to be joined by three/four more 'bee's workers and a whole slew of bar regulars. I had a margarita. A rather strong beverage, I might point out. And then J bought a round of shots for "his Applebee's bitches." Rather sweet of him, actually. That got pretty pricey. I took one. Then drove to Daniel's house and proceeded to get REALLY LOOPY. Kind of fun, not gonna lie.

The point of all of this is not my poorly worded sentences or strange social agenda. I am not opposed to drinking alcohol. I like it. I have had multiple glasses of wine this week. I have an enormous container of margarita mix made with Jose Cuervo in the fridge right now. It's GLORIOUS. The point is that in order to really feel included by my co-workers, I would have to basically become an alcoholic, or sacrifice any semblance of a sleep schedule in order to come in to work hung over and exhausted every day, and I can't do that. I have a life that consists of much healthier social options than such bar-hopping and excessive boozing. I go out to Bdubs and have a margarita while my roommate and brother both have beers and we have a few laughs and go home and drink a bit more before cashing out NOT in the wee hours of the morning. It's possible to have responsible fun without turning into a complete lush.

I sound like a complete and total fogey now, don't I? Maybe I should've just gone to the drag show. Even though I was hanging out with my roommate and her sister last night. And was tired. And I have no idea where the club downtown is located. It's really not important to be "included" that much at work, right? I get along very well with 99% of my co-workers, and if someone isn't overly friendly to me, it's not because of any drama I stirred up.

My sister had an interview at the 'bee's yesterday. Do I really want to submit my sibling to this madness?

writing the words of a sermon that no one will hear

To conclude my previous post, as delayed a conclusion that might be, my guest informed me that I was an extremely talented server, and that it really takes skill to perform my tasks as well as I did. In addition, she asked me what I ultimately wanted to do with my life, and when I informed her I wished to pursue a career in publishing, she declared to her dining companion, "Oh yes, she'll go far. You'll succeed. I can tell. It'll happen." Even though this woman's interaction with me spanned a total of about forty minutes, it gave me a wee little boost of confidence to hear such encouragement. I wish I had asked her name. It would have made the encounter seem more personal.

It's an absolutely gorgeous day, and I am troubled in heart. A recent conversation, completed in snippets over the Interwebs, left me feeling both belittled and guilty. I felt attacked, and when I reciprocated in what I thought was a diplomatic way, I was only brought further down. This from a person who I used to be rather close to, albeit for a short while. Apparently being careful and gentle with my words no longer pays off. I was met with sarcasm and derison. And it hurt.

No one appreciates or deserves to have possible insecurities or real inadequacies thrown in their face. No one. I wouldn't tell F, R, or J, guys I work with at the 'bee's, that they are inappropriate and vulgar and have poor hygiene, respectively. I wouldn't tell them that. This isn't me being passive. I have told people off before. Unfortunately, I have a bit of a temper. But if someone has been nothing but civil and/or cordial to me, and I have no reason whatsoever to point out their flaws, and doing so would only cause hurt, then I wouldn't. It's. Not. Kind.

I feel these sentiments hold especially true for someone you used to know well. You can tell your best friend when he or she is annoying you or really needs to shower or should probably lay off the liquor because wow that was a seriously offensive joke. However, there is a very murky, gray area in which lies "previously quasi-close friends/acquaintances," to whom social niceties should still be shown.

Not everyone shares my feelings in this matter.

Am I completely off here? Or is this whole post too vague to invite comment?