I’m back!!!

My weekend in the Windy City (which I now know is a political reference, and not a meteorological description) was super!  It flew by, and wore me OUT.  I have been meaning to blog since I arrived home on Sunday night, but to be honest…the task of walking up the steps to the desktop computer was entirely too daunting.  I learned a whole lot this weekend (yoga is not at all relaxing, how to Juliane vegetables, German cigarettes are horrible…) but perhaps the most valuable lesson is this:

I’m fucking old. 

I said no to shots and was the first one to retire to the hotel room (at 12:15!!!) on Saturday night.  Who am I?  I can still drink like a fish…I lost count of how many glasses of red, white, and “bubbly” I had that night…but damn.  Recovery is much longer (and more painful) now than it has ever been before. 

he fun began on Friday with a crowded and extremely bumpy 30 minute flight to Charlotte.  We arrived late, and of course my connecting flight was as far away from where we landed as you could get.  So I was one of those lunatics sprinting down the moving sidewalks, pushing old ladies out of my way.  By the time I arrived at my gate I was hobbling from shin splints, my bra was totally hanging out (modesty was not a priority while barreling over small children), and I was completely drenched with sweat.  They were closing the doors so I had to attract even more attention to myself by screaming, “WAIT!!! I”M HERE!!!” as if the entire flight had been waiting for me.  I was that passenger.  The sweaty one stumbling in after everyone’s all comfortably seated, sipping their drinks, and wondering why the hell they’re still sitting there.  I found my seat next to a pimply 15 year old who had bathed in some sort of awful cologne (or AXE body spray, as my Sis later suggested) and got comfy.  The flight to Chicago was nice…I got a fantastic book and was dehydrated enough that I didn’t have to disturb AXE man and his snoring mom at all to get up and pee.   When I got to O’Hare, my Jenny and her 3 monkeys greeted me at baggage claim and it was SO great to see them!  I have missed those little people so much and it was so wonderful to throw my arms around one of my bestest friends ever.  The boys helped me look for my bag.  And look.  And look.  But it wasn’t there.  Seems that I was able to run to the opposite end of the Charlotte airport faster than one of those little carts could drive there and my luggage didn’t make it.  I reported it, and they told me it was on the next flight and would arrive in about an hour and could be delivered to me shortly after.  Shortly my ass.  I got my bag a little after midnight…which completely sucked because 1) I wanted to take out my contacts, B) My jeans were no longer comfy, and tres) my giant penis cake pan was in there.  Perhaps that was a bit of a security hold up, ey?  An 18″ metal penis…ya think?  If nothing else…hopefully it provided a few laughs for the x-ray folks. 

So anyway…while we waited for my bag, we shopped in the most fantabulous beer and wine store I’ve ever been to, consumed our purchases, caught up on girl-talk, and Snoop’s girlfriend told me quite a few “bedtime stories” while T-man climbed all over me.  It was quite relaxing and nice:

Once the bag was delivered (complete with missing wheel. Grr…) my Jenny and I set to work creating the most fantastic penis I’ve ever laid eyes on:

I never thought I could make icing look that much like skin. 

The next morning we woke up, finished up the cake, and headed out to the first planned event.  Manis and pedis.  Anyone who knows me knows that this is so NOT a “me” thing.  My nails are a barely existent mess all the time, and I really really hate feet.  But it was nice to be able to sit and be pampered and the bagels provided were quite yummy.  I’ve never met any of the other party-goers, and I don’t know if I’ve ever met a group of nicer girls.  Good Midwestern values, indeed. 

We left the nail place and walked down the street to a private yoga class.  Again…yoga is not a “me” thing.  And I can safely say that after this class…it still isn’t.  The maid of honor, K, had assured us that this was a “laid back” class.  If that’s the case…I am officially retarded in the art of relaxation.  The instructor was adorable and sweet and kept saying things in a weird Buddha-ish foreign language with each pose.  Future Sis is a yoga pro, so i just kinda watched her and tried to copy.  It didn’t go too badly until she wanted us to get up on our hands and put our legs on our arms in that tri-pod position thing.  Yeah.  Not happening.  I tried, and I fell straight forward onto my head.  My motivation to continue completely fell apart in the next move when we were supposed to do one of those back bridges.  I remember doing that with ease when I was a kid, so i really didn’t think it was hard.  Ha.  So I decided it was a perfect time for a drink of water and a picture. 

Unfortunately the bridge fiasco was over by then, and we were all just rolling around “stretching our hips.”  I was pretty good at that one.  And I was really good at “feeling my breath” at the end of the session.  I felt it all the way to a nap. 

When I woke up from my sweaty two minute nap, we walked down the street (read: a million city blocks) to a scrumptious little place called

where I enjoyed these

and shared some of this with Sis

 

We then left, and walked the million city blocks back, making our way to the hotel. But not before stopping for a group pic…here were are looking sweaty and stuffed:

Back at the hotel, Sis was presented with the Penis Cakel

And I passed out some Penis Pops

 

We  all got cleaned up, and braved the yucky weather, on our way to the Chopping Block. 

The Chopping Block is a giant kitchen-type place, where we had a 3 hour cooking class.  Add this to the list of “so not me” things I experienced this weekend.  I really don’t cook…I have a few signature dishes I can do, and my repertoire of toddler food is quite extensive, but real grown-up cooking from scratch isn’t exactly something I do often.  I had already downed several glasses of wine prior to getting started, and I’m aware of my culinary weakness, so when we divided into teams to divvy up the responsibilities, I quickly jumped on this:

I don’t know exactly what to do with cabbage, and I sure as hell didn’t want to touch the shittake mushrooms floating in water, but I’m confident in my ability to peel and chop a carrot.  So peel and chop I did.  Those eggrollswere by far the best I have EVER had, and I’d like to think that my carrot skills had something to do with that. I wasn’t off the hook, though, and eventually found myself cooking up some shrimp.  Ew.  I had no interest in eating it, but if I ever decide to run for Wife of the Year I can now tell you why I will only use grapeseed oil in my pan when sauteing shrimp. 

**Note to self…never again wear a white apron.  You look like a f’in whale.**

The feast was amazing.  Granted…I only ate the eggrolls and chocolate mousse, but it was awesome.  Here we are in our matching aprons, standing over our masterpieces:

Just in case the wasted grin smeared across my face in the above picture doesn’t give it away…I was pretty trashed by the end of the class.  Remarkably, there were no injuries the whole time, which is surprising given the bottomless bottles of wine and freakishly sharp knives.  I don’t remember much about the rest of the night…there were some bars, somehow I totally trashed one of my very cute shoes, and I got really really tired.  I woke up the next morning next to Sis, and thanked God for the technology of cell phones while I learned about the events of the previous night from my cryptic text messages.  Everyone laid around on the beds, moaning and avoiding their own reflections in the mirror,  and talked about the night.  We all had a great time, Sis had a wonderful time, and most importantly…she had her way with the penis:

A few of the other girls and I split a cab back to the airport that morning and I had a little while to sit around and let a greasy McD’s lunch work it’s magic on my queasy stomach. There was no sprinting involved in the return trip, no broken luggage, and no stinky teenagers. I got back on Sunday night, bearing the expected airport gift-shop presents for the kiddos, and was welcomed home by my crazy family.

So…even though it took me a solid three days to recover from the weekend…it was well worth it. I had such a great time, got to pretend to be a girly girl for a day, tested (and failed) my limits as a party girl, and learned that even though I might think this life I have here is a little too “boring” at times…it’s exactly where I want to be.

Awwwwww….