Jiggety Jigg

There's a whole series of neuroses present in homecoming. I experienced them for the first time when very young, and they continue to dog me to present day: did the house burn down? Did I forget something? Did someone die? Did I forget to pay something, and we're going to come home to a cold,dark place infested with buggies? Did I leave the iron on and burn a hole through the floor?  Did the bananas I left out on the counter grow initiative of their own and stage an attack on the rest of the fridge? Did everyone forget I exist while I was gone?

Actually, that last one was the real kicker, because frequently, everyone had forgotten my existence. Or else they hadn't noticed I was gone. This was, of course, the time that preceded my discovery of shouting, dancing about and the occasional paintbomb to remind people of who they are dealing with and why it is unwise to forget her. 

Happily, none of my neuroses were paid in full, so the last traveling hour of antsy jiggling and chantings of "homehomehomehome" proved to be meaningless. 

There is a smell to a house that hasn't been lived in in a few days, and I used to wonder if that is what I smell like to other people. Have you ever wondered that, if the smell of your house is your smell? I ask because there is a good chance that my sense of smell is the only thing about me that works well anymore, and I've noticed that most people smell like their houses. Not that I go about sniffing people. Because I don't.

Look, it's not my fault people give off scents. Stop looking at me like that. You know what, NEVER MIND. 

Chicago was lovely, the company was wonderful, the food! Crows, I could write BOOKS about the food. Also the drinks. I had this one thing, it tasted like grapefruit and it had vodka in it and it was the single best incarnation of vodka I have ever tasted EVER IN MY LIFE, and I have had a lot of vodka mixed into a lot of things, let-me-tell-you. 

It was called a Trick Pony. It was the bestest thing. I would marry the Trick Pony if I weren't already married and if it weren't stupendously silly to marry alcoholic beverages. For one thing, it would be remarkably short-term a relationship, so why bother with the ceremony? 

That's right. I used them and I used them well and I never made any promises, so don't you judge me. It's not like I left a string of Trick Ponies by the side of the road crying their hearts out because I left them for a Thick As Thieves and a hot buttered rum.

Ohhhhhhhhhh, hot buttered rum. After a day of wandering around in freezing fog, a hot buttered rum is pure paradise. And Chicago is a city that loves wrapping itself in fog. Hot buttered rum. Go. Have some.

The beers of Chicago are many and varied and offer a wide variety of tastes and experiences. You don't want to get drunk off of these beers, because you want to keep on tasting them forever and getting drunk means there will be no more beers. Luckily, the places that give you beers (and stouts and ales) are also willing to give you oh my god so much good food to compensate. 

We have eaten boar and pheasant and yak, incidentally. All at the same hot-dog place, yes you heard that correctly.  Hot Doug's, it was called. Gourmet hot-dog stand. I took pictures of the line we had to stand on to get in. Two-hour wait. There are not many things that are worth a two-hour wait. These sausages were damn close to being worth it. Damn close.

Other stuff happened, there was a zoo and a lion and a Bean and oh so much walking and an Art Institute and some Frank Lloyd Wright and a Navy Pier but WHO CARES, LET'S TALK ABOUT THE FOOD SOME MORE.

Cheeeeeseburgers. They made me melt into a puddle of happy goo. 

The sandwich place that named all their dishes after authors or written works (Andrew had a The Sun Also Rises and I had a Thoreau and Chris had a Merchant of Venice and I don't remember what Patty's was)

The same place that served the hot buttered rums also served a Jameson-based drink called the Dubliners that I tried in spite of the recent discovery that whiskey is essentially Susie-kryptonite of the likes of which I can't even smell without shuddering. It was one of those moments:

Chris: Honey, did you see this? <points at menu>

Me: Oh, hey, Dubliners!

Everyone: <stares expectantly>

Me: But it's got whiskey in it.

Everyone: But it's a Joyce reference.

Patty: Irish whiskey is milder blah blah blah something complicated about whiskey that I didn't listen to! 

Andrew: Blah blah blah whiskey talk that I also didn't listen to! (hi, Andew and Patty, I love youuuuuu)

The Dubliners: Your own fault, you know, for talking about me so much.

James Joyce: I will be so disappointed in you, Susie.

Me: OH FINE JUST STOP STARING AT ME YOU FREAKY JAMES JOYCE.

Hot Buttered Rum: I thought you said you loved me..... <sobs>

Trick Pony: She's a bitch, man. She's a heartless bitch. Let's go somewhere and have a...

If the ordinary response to being used and tossed aside is to drink, what do drinks do?

Huh.

Tired of blogging now. Will post pictures later, which I do not expect you to look at because looking at pictures of other peoples' vacations is listed as Boring, right under Listening To People Talk About Their Dreams.

Of course, I spend an inordinate amount of time talking to people about my dreams, too, so make of that what you will.