Sunday, June 11, 2006
Holding Patterns
It's been a frustratingly non-productive couple of days. Thursday night my sister and I spent an hour and a half driving around the same six streets in Wrigleyville trying to find a parking spot before finally deciding just to pay $12 for eight hours of asphalt. There were so many signs restricting parking that I have to believe they were making some of them up (there's no such thing as a "Robert Goulet Zone," right?). And promising stretches of virgin curbside kept turning into hydrant zones, making me want to set a few fires of my own. As with so many of my family memories, the whole thing ended with us vowing never to speak of it again.
Then yesterday we went to the Old Town Art Fair, which is typically one of my favorite events of the summer. This year, however, it ended up being several hours of standing around in the cold, feigning interest in watercolors and wishing the corpulent man eating a funnel cake at least two inches into your personal space would have seen fit to not wear shorts. So we ditched out for an evening of playing Taboo ("So there was this guy, Adolf BLANK, and he killed a lot of BLANKS, and we call that the BLANK.") and eating bar food so fatty it should be served with a heart pump. We definitely live hard and fast in my family.
So far, today's not exactly a firestorm of activity, either, although I did wake up at 8:30 because several girls were talking loudly about someone's penis on one of the balconies next door. If that's not a sign of great things to come, I don't know what is.
It's been a frustratingly non-productive couple of days. Thursday night my sister and I spent an hour and a half driving around the same six streets in Wrigleyville trying to find a parking spot before finally deciding just to pay $12 for eight hours of asphalt. There were so many signs restricting parking that I have to believe they were making some of them up (there's no such thing as a "Robert Goulet Zone," right?). And promising stretches of virgin curbside kept turning into hydrant zones, making me want to set a few fires of my own. As with so many of my family memories, the whole thing ended with us vowing never to speak of it again.
Then yesterday we went to the Old Town Art Fair, which is typically one of my favorite events of the summer. This year, however, it ended up being several hours of standing around in the cold, feigning interest in watercolors and wishing the corpulent man eating a funnel cake at least two inches into your personal space would have seen fit to not wear shorts. So we ditched out for an evening of playing Taboo ("So there was this guy, Adolf BLANK, and he killed a lot of BLANKS, and we call that the BLANK.") and eating bar food so fatty it should be served with a heart pump. We definitely live hard and fast in my family.
So far, today's not exactly a firestorm of activity, either, although I did wake up at 8:30 because several girls were talking loudly about someone's penis on one of the balconies next door. If that's not a sign of great things to come, I don't know what is.
