Where am I?

Greetings from . . . wait, where the hell am I?  Tucson!  Hello from the Wild West.  It's been a quite a week of travel, beginning last Friday when we hoofed it (well, plane-d) to Chicago, made a few failed attempts to leave Chicago on the day we were actually scheduled to leave Chicago, finally got home to New York, and then yesterday, I winged it out here.  I am tired of the airplanes, but I am always happy to be someplace that is sunny and offers "sunset" tequila shots to guests at 5:30 every evening.  I work at perhaps the most retreat-happy firm in America and am at yet another one (just for mid-levels! to talk about mid-levely things!).  I have to admit, they totally work on me.  Four days at some nice resort with a bunch of my friends?  I really do end up feeling all warm and fuzzy and damn it, all appreciated and shit.  Of course, my cynicism bone is rather small and undeveloped (the metacarpal as opposed to the femur).

This has to be quick since the cocktail hour starts . . . in three minutes.  Then dinner.  Then an outdoor movie by the pool in fancy new monogrammed robes and flip-flops (the firm's initials, which, well, is taking firm pride perhaps a step too far.)  And I need to iron my dress, which I am not ashamed to admit to y'all that I love and was thrilled to get to pull out of summer storage.  It's like reconnecting with a past crush – oh hello there, lovely!  Of course, the strappy fun of the dress is somewhat undermined by the gleaming red of my sholders. I have been here less than 24-hours and am already sunburned.  I blame a run I took this morning.  Sunscreen did not occur to me until I was 600 vertical feet above the hotel, panting, sweating and realizing that that sun was damn hot.  Poor red collarbone and shoulders and improbably, backs of knees. 

So Chicago.  AWESOME.  We had a ball at the art fair and saw so many wonderful things.  Things waaaaayyyyyy out of our price league (and forever out of our price league unless I manage to strike Texas Tea in the backyard, Clampett style).  But beautiful, beautiful things and paintings and photographs.  We did buy a very small little drawing by a British artist that we love, so that's exciting. 

And the food.  Whoa.  Seeing as I shamelessly stole suggestions from Holly's comments section, we too ate the delectable lemon ricotta pancakes with gingersnap butter at the Bongo Room (holy moses.)  although we had to walk a few miles in order to feel human again and I was then forced to retire to bed for a digestive nap, they were worth it. And pizza at Gino's East with sausage and mounds of cheese and good cold beer.  But the real food experience was at this little place called Avec.  It was one of the most memorable food delights in recent memory.  We sat at the counter and drank far too much wine and ate and ate and ate.  They don't take reservations, so we arrived at 6:15 in the hopes we'd get a table – but sister, I would wait for hours for that food.  Smooches to you, Avec.  kiss, kiss.

We also had the ridiculous delight of running into Holly and Sean on the streets of Chicago.  I espied an adorable haircut out of the corner of my eye and turned to look more closely and realized, Hey! Her!  I know her!  Holly!  DK afterwards asked me (1) who was that again?  A law school friend? and then (2) How did you know her if you've never met?  You wouldn't notice Brad Pitt if you rode up an elevator with him (sad, but true.  I am . . . uh, notoriously unobservant.  Lost in my lala land).  What can I say?  A cute haircut gets my attention.  We had pizza the next night and it was great to finally meet person to person.  She and Sean were just as delightful as I'd always assumed. 

So Chicago: awesome.  O'Hare?  Hell.  Our American flight was canceled, our attempt to get on a United connection was unsuccessful.  Everything else was booked.  There were many many unfortunate conversations with incredibly unhelpful and unpleasant people.  And I behaved . . . poorly.  I don't do extremely well with frustration, especially when I get the distinct feeling that the airline employees are trying to send me to an early grave.  So I said some things I regret, including several shrill demands of "What is your name, sir!"   I suspect I believe that someone will somehow be filled with a renewed sense of responsibility if he/she is identifiable, or that my not-so-implied threat of a angry letter detailing them personally as (the greatest of Nancy insults) particularly rude will miraculously turn them into affable and helpful employees.  You know what doesn't work as an inducement to good service?  That.  Wow.