Chicago was... exactly like taking a trip to a really great city to go to a fancy wedding with people you don't know and spending the rest of your time driving around in a full mini van with all of Josh's really loud, Jewish family. It was a great trip. Although I didn't see Oprah or John Cusack or Jeff Tweedy, I did see this crazy giant mirror bean thing. It's in this place called Millennium Park, which is home to a lot of really interesting and accessible art. In fact, it seemed like everywhere we turned there was art. From Frank Lloyd Wright to Picasso to the bean in the park, it was inspiring. But it also forced me to consider Portland, and how lackluster our public art is. I've always thought of Portland as arty, especially for it's size, and there is really no reason why there shouldn't be more public art. Note to self: look up Kevin Donahue's email.
Seeing as though I work in a non-profit that helps wheelchair bound people, it shouldn't have been too shocking to see there was a convention at the hotel of more than a hundred wheelchair confined people zooming and parking everywhere. However, my job is to answer the phone, not hang out with our clients, so I might not be as "PC" as I thought... I told all of my boyfriend's family that it's actually okay to call them "electric chairs" until I realized with horror that electric chairs preform capital punishment, and don't move you from point a to point b.
The majority of the weekend was spent in the minivan with four of Josh's closest relatives, his sister's boyfriend, and myself. It was a seven-passenger minivan. For some reason, every time we had to get in or out of the car, a timely enough process as it was, Josh's father insisted on opening the side doors with his remote control. Every time. Each time the car was in motion, no more than ninety seconds passed without Josh's mom exclaiming, "Look at that!" Which was innocent enough, aside from that no one except the people sitting on the same side of the van could see what she was looking at. I could only see the floor, ceiling, and guardrail from the opposite side. Everyone ooed and aaahed while I pretended not to hear. Everyone in the family, with the exception of maybe his sister, talks at an incredible volume. Additionally, we only ever vaguely knew where we were going. Josh and his father knew the area well enough not to have a map, but not well enough to miss turns and such. At the end of nearly an entire day bound to the backseat, Josh's sister finally pleads, "Mom, every time you say Look at that, Ryan dies a little inside."
The food was incredible. I had swordfish and spaghetti squash for the first time. There were a lot of free drinks, more drinks, frittatas, extremely phallic artichokes, and carrot cake. At a place Josh knew I'd love, which was like the Friendly Toast meets a carnival, I had the most delicious salad. It was delicious. A salad. Salads are not supposed to rock my world, but it kind of did. And it would be a shame to forget to mention my Chicago dog. Like the salad, it had a lot of vegetables. Which I'd rather just, save for the salad.
When I returned to work from my luxurious three-day weekend, there was bad news in the Men's Room. Someone had explosive diarrhea which splattered onto the rim of the bowl, meaning, the part that doesn't get flushed. And let me tell you, there is nothing funnier to try and talk about than someone else's uncontrollable bowel movements. Through the process of elimination, we figured out that it's probably one of the two new temps in the office. Firstly, this hasn't happened since the current staff line-up fell into place. And for the first time in months, there are men in the office. Which means it's got to be one of the two new men in the office. Most of the ladies have been using the Men's Room, due to lack of men. I know it was not any of us, because without asking, everyone offered their willingness to clean up after themselves if they had a poop explosion. My cleaning guy called today to tell us that he make a special trip last night to take care of business.
