In yesterday's post, I told the epic tale of my epic fail to turn lemons into lemonade during a 14-hour layover in Minneapolis. But this was only the tip of the iceberg, the Thursday night of a long Friday-to-Monday holiday weekend. Allow me to regale you now with the rest of the story.
4:15am. A full 15 minutes before my wake-up call, I was wide awake in bed. It was just as dark out as it was when I'd gone to sleep. And I was just as famished. (And no, 4:15am Central Daylight Time is no easier than 4:15am Eastern. It's an ungodly hour no matter what time zone you're in.)
On the upside, once seated on the plane, I closed my eyes just before the flight attendants began their safety spiel. And when I opened them? The wheels were touching the tarmac at O'Hare. Now that is what I'd call an unmitigated success. From there, all that was left was to get the rental car and trek the three hours south to Decatur.
(Let me spare you the details of that part of the story. I'll sum it up in one word: corn. Lots and lots of corn. And when the corn gets boring, you can always entertain yourself by scrolling through the radio dial and trying to find Lady Gaga amidst the Christian rock and preachers. You'd be amazed how entertaining that can be.)
Once in Decatur, things really did start to pick up. Having met the wedding party in Denver for the bachelor party, I knew they'd all be stand-up guys. And with a rehearsal dinner at a combination bar-and-bowling alley, what could go wrong?
Try having there be only one operating lane. And that lane hasn't been oiled in, oh, seven years at least. So much for that.
But really, though I'm being cynical, Friday was fun. I bailed early from the after-party on account of my exhaustion, figuring that I could get some extra rest and make Saturday count. And boy, did I ever.
(Fun fact: when you're in the guys' side of the wedding party, you get to hang out, watch sports, and order subs in the hours just before the ceremony. The ladies were insanely jealous when we told them this story. Just one of the perks of having a penis, kids.)
As for the wedding, it was spectacular. Bride and groom were beautiful, the pictures were entertaining, and the reception was off-the-chain. I know this because I woke up the next morning with a hangover the likes of which I have rarely experienced. It was so worth it.
But unfortunately, this meant a super-slow start to my day. A day that I had planned to spend sightseeing in Chicago. But since I wasn't going to be at 100% until much later than I'd planned, I decided to give up on all the sightseeing and focus exclusively on one thing: getting a burger at Kuma's Corner.
(I don't need to tell you about Kuma's. Just check out the menu on the Web site. FOODGASM TO THE MAX.)
When I finally left around 3:00pm CDT, I knew I'd be arriving in Chicago right around dinner time. And I was anticipating a super-long wait. All of which, naturally, had my stomach growling.
Finally I pulled up to building, and managed to luckily find a spot right up front! And only two kids waiting outside! It was almost too good to be true!
Except...um...it was.
Kuma's was closed. For July 4th.
Now, I know what you're wondering. Hey asshole, how'd you forget it was July 4th?! To which I answer: easily. Because it was on Sunday, the Federal holiday fell on Monday, and that was my day off of work. So I had conditioned myself to believe that the 4th was on Monday.
And with this, my spirit was officially defeated. But, just like in Minneapolis, karma wasn't through with me yet. Here's what else happened in the 24 hours before I finally landed again in Washington:
- Let's start with the fact that I decided to go right to the hotel (which was a mile from O'Hare) rather than drop my rental car off, save a few bucks, and take advantage of the complimentary hotel airport shuttle. So instead of saving maybe $50-ish, I spent an extra $22 to park the car in the garage overnight. Ugh.
- I had a marvelous hotel for the night, and the woman at the front desk told me I had a "city view" room, so I might be able to see the fireworks. Upon entering my room, I opened the shades and saw...trees. It took me three minutes to find the city skyline--and by "city skyline," I mean "the very tippy top of the Sears Tower, the only building visible."
- Sub-item: Fuck Willis. It will always be the Sears Tower.
- The only restaurants at this hotel were The Capital Grille and McCormick & Schmick's, both way too upscale for me. So I opted to order a room service salad and burger for $33. And only after it arrived did I do some research and learn that McCormick & Schmick's has a bar menu...featuring a half-pound burger for $2.95. MONEY SAVING FAIL.
- While I did see the fireworks from my window (all two hours of them), I decided I needed to get to bed. Which was easy enough. But you know what's challenging? Getting back to sleep when you're woken up at 2:00am by some drunk/angry/who knows? guy in the hallway pounding on a nearby door over and over and over again and screaming, "Debbie! Hey Debbie! Debbie, let me in! Hey Debbie!"
- Sub-item: Should I have called the front desk? Probably. But at the moment, I'd figured my only recourse was to go out there myself. And frankly, I wasn't prepared to walk into what I was sure was a domestic-dispute-waiting-to-happen.
- And just when it should have been all over, I got on the plane to Detroit, my layover, and quickly learned the hour in the air would pass with a young girl behind me, kicking my seat and shrieking and howling in Spanish the whole. damn. flight. And, even better, that her mother was either mute, indifferent, or both. Puta.
I mean, let's face it. When a three-hour layover in Detroit is the highlight of your day, you know you're in trouble. But then, I was in trouble, on account of the fact that I realized, an hour before takeoff, that I had no ride home from the airport.
What more, karma? What more?!
Fortunately, for once that weekend, my luck turned. I was saved by my good friend Alicia, who graciously offered to transport me from National back to my home. (Thanks, 'leesh!) By the time my plane landed, the last snag had been unhooked. All that was left was to walk into the house, drop my crap on the floor, and face-plant on my sweet, glorious, horribly missed bed.
I mean, don't get me wrong. The weekend wasn't all that bad. But it's certainly given me something to think about next time a destination wedding invite arrives in my mailbox.
And to think, it all started with that darn helmet cup...
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