wearing sun glasses. Hit it! It’s amazing how a week away from home can run together, despite the absence of daily routines to homogenize each day. The only working day that stands out was Thursday, because I was as jumpy as a blonde slutty girl in a horror movie. I had purposely kept Wednesday night free so that I could work on my project with a coworker, but then his wife drove down so instead I went to Mitsuwa (mmm… freeze-dried tiny fish to eat like popcorn!) and Ikea (mmmm… um, storage boxes!) and then drove around in the rain, fretting and plotting elaborate kidnapping scenarios wherein I wouldn’t have to present the next day. Or maybe faking an injury. A groin pull, perhaps. There was a moment of zen when I pulled into a wet parking lot, the rain cascading in the spotlights, and the radio kicked out a Smiths song. God, what I wouldn’t do for a decent alternative radio station instead of the local stations which play “Photograph” twelve times during my morning commute. Then I stayed up late on Wednesday, cursing my need for steamed red bean buns, and sweated over my presentation.
Before the presentation, I actually started using stress management techniques including creative visualization and memorization. It’s sort of ridiculous that I’ve suddenly developed stage fright after so many years of theatrical performances. My family wouldn’t even believe me if I told her how freaked out I was, because they remember the four-year-old who played the adorable little Virgin Mary and didn’t even flinch over the line that contained the word “Centurion.” But later, my mentor told me that my presentation was fantastic compared to the rest and when the committee had questions or suggestions, I either rolled with them or explained why we had taken their concern into context and it wasn’t applicable in this situation. In reality, apparently they couldn’t hear my voice shaking for the first five minutes or see the moment in which I felt like I was going to faint, so looked at the drop ceiling grid, took a deep breath and willed myself to not faint. I kept talking through the rushing sound in my ears and then it went away. And the big important guys liked it, or didn’t fire me anyway. Which is really great. Or sort of sucks, because now I have to make fourteen thousand graphs and not one of them about zombies. Hi. My career is a TPS report.
On Friday morning, I packed up and checked out of my yucky pseudo-suitey mid-range hotel (where I swear they must have bed bugs because I’ve been getting progressively itchier all week, but it might have been their burlap sheets or lye soap in the shower) and went into the office for a few hours of busy work until they dismissed us. It was very “Last Day Of School” when I hit the parking garage and jumped onto the highway. My One Flight Stand and all around beautiful person really wanted me to come down and see his magazine’s headquarters, but he had meetings until 3 pm. I called Esteban, told him I’d be late getting home, and then headed toward the city, where I was bound and determined to find the Stuart Weitzman and Kate Spade stores.
The weather had warmed up considerably compared to the beginning of the week, and by the time I was halfway to the Gold Coast, I opened my sunroof and enjoyed the warm glob of yellow for the first time in months. I forget sometimes how good it feels, even though it’s bad for you and undoubtedly encouraging countless melanomas to get together and form a cheerleading squad. Traffic was a bit hellacious, but nothing too dreadful and I made it into the city in half an hour. For the record, driving in downtown Chicago during the weekday makes me insane. The cabs are a health hazard. They are insane. I wouldn’t have cared as much had I been driving a rental, but driving my own car was a little scarier. I drove around on Michigan Avenue, but couldn’t find a reasonable place to park. I ended up driving until I found a place on the street. As I was getting out of the car, I heard brakes squealing on pavement and then a big bang. Thirty feet away, two cabs had smacked into each other, throwing pieces of cab everywhere. The passersby were shrugging and going on with their day and as I was getting into my own (unharmed) cab, the last thing I saw was one disgusted cabbie throwing a piece of his car through his passenger window.
I memorized the cross streets and then headed to 900 North Michigan, which is, quite frankly, much like Satan’s Corner in San Francisco. Gucci. Weitzman. Max Mara. Bloomies. Up the block: Hermes, Kate Spade, Armani, Ralph Lauren, Saks. I could have spent all afternoon there, but I only had two hours on the meter and had to leave to meet David anyway. I blew through the mall to use the restroom (passing three ladies wearing fur… hello, 60 degrees outside!) and then hit on my boyfriend Stuart. When I asked where they kept the giantess shoes, Mimi said she had a few size 12s up there, but she could bring me to the shoe vault and just let me go crazy. Which is what she did, only I was crazy in a very proper, ladies who lunch kind of way. While we were in the vault, she once again diagnosed me with a high arch and instep, and then took foot measurements and said that I am not really a size 12, but only need it for the room in the instep. Which is why some size 11s fit perfectly: it all depends upon the cut of the shoe. I did find a pair of black loafers that fit like a dream though, because they avoided the instep issue completely. And then she let me in on a secret: Stuart Weitzman is having a trunk show in May, at which point they will make the shoes to my specifications, so if I need to accommodate for the instep, they can do it. She wrapped up my shoes and told me that she’d ship them, so that I wouldn’t have to pay the sales tax. Love Mimi!
I then sashayed up the street to Kate Spade. I haven’t been having a lot of luck with Kate recently. Aside from the imperfect zebra print that caught my eye last December, nothing but the cute basket purse (and really, who is going to pay $300 for a lime green basket? Not this girl.) has really caught my eye. And in truth, I really have needed a new purse for a long time, but the past few purse seasons have been really awful. I hate hobo bags and things with too much stuff on them.. In fact, I’m so desperate for a new purse that I almost (ALMOST!) got seduced by a silver Coach bag, and as a rule, I despise most Coach bag offerings. I don’t despise them on other people, but rather, they are just not my style. I don’t want dangly bits on my purse. I don’t want it to look like it might be seen at a biker rally. Just give me classic lines and quality hardware and I am a happy girl. While I’m not married to Kate Spade, her line’s fashion mantra most closely matches my own. However, lately most of her cutest things have flappy closures and my propensity to fling my purse around demands a zipper
I walked around Kate’s prissy Oak Street showroom with an arched eyebrow. The staff was very courteous and I give them props for dressing to appeal to the aesthetic of their customer, as there were circle skirts and Anthropologie hair accessories and scarves tied jauntily around lithe throats. But then I spied the sweetest aqua purse and fell in love, ready to eschew my zipper requirement all together. But wait, there was a zipper! Would my wallet fit? It did! And wait!
ON SALE.
Did I just hear a choir of angels? No, that was actually coming from my own mouth. So sorry, Kate Spade Employees, please forgive my moment of rapture and resume prancing around the store on your kitten heels.
They must know that the average Kate Spade enthusiast enjoys matching, because as soon as they brought out the aqua leather accessories, they had their upsell quota in the bag. (HA! Sorry, that was completely unintentional but it amused me). I caught another cab, went back to my car and immediately switched everything out of the old Kate and into the new. And then I may have squealed, but only because I realized that it matched the t-shirt I was wearing under my sweater. I am broken, but in a very girly twee way.
I hit Lake Shore Drive (which is apparently a no man’s land of cellular reception) and found my way to Andersonville, which looked really familiar to me. I later figured out that it looked familiar because Chiara, Jessamyn, Jen, Kelly and I had all met for brunch at Ann Sathers up the street last year. After finding a place to park, I phoned David and told him that I was standing outside of his office’s locked front door. He chuckled and sent one of his employees to let me in. I recognized Jason immediately from his picture on his byline and was excited to talk to him because he’s the guy who sends me comp issues. Jason got me some water, set me up at a Mac and encouraged me to surf while waiting for David to finish busting balls or whatever he was doing on the phone. As he was walking back to his desk, Jason pointed at my new Kate and said “LOVE the bag!” In my possession for less than an hour and already scored points with a gay guy. Totally worth it.
After David got off the phone, we both did little excited dances and then he introduced me to his staff of hot gay men. He needed to take another call, so I just sat back and listened to the drama and the banter around the editorial office. It was very entertaining. After his last call, he announced to everyone that he had a very important meeting with me and then we walked up the street and had tea and scones and talked about sex, San Francisco and products as the setting sun through the windows cast us in a rosy glow. Or maybe it was all the sex talk.
David really wanted me to stay the night, but I already knew that Esteban was putting on an Ophelia act three hours to the north, so I had to decline. However, I did stay until 6, figuring that had I left at 5, I would have been sitting in traffic until at least 6 anyway, and it was much nicer to sit in a cafe chatting with a multi-millionaire. By the time I had to leave, he was adding me to the guest list for a launch party in San Francisco in two weeks. I’m never going to be able to get the time off to fly out for it, but it’s still very cool to know that my name will be on the same list with a handful of Bay Area luminati. At some point, my real life and my rock star existence are going to catch up with each other and when that happens, my head may explode.
After several kisses and hugs, we parted, and I walked back up the street to my car, and headed back to Lake Shore Drive, this time automatically employing the directionally clueless method of going backwards in order to go forwards. The outer areas of Chicago proper confuse me, but downtown, I am golden. I got stuck in a bit of traffic once I hit downtown, but contented myself with looking out over the dark undulating waters of Lake Michigan. The ferris wheel at Navy Pier was winking at me, and the lights to my left were guiding the way home. I really love large cities: the hum and energy is exuberating. Even though I don’t so much enjoy Chicago the way that I love San Francisco, it has its moments. While San Francisco is a lithe, slightly aging woman sipping tepid green tea while looking out across the hills, Chicago is a plump grandmother of twelve singing in a Gospel choir before going home to cook up a nice plate of ribs. Or maybe Chicago is a beefy guy who smells a bit like sauerkraut and a bit like cigar smoke who wants to know how you like your dog. Chicago is a tough old broad, with visible roots and a harsh voice but she means well, really she does. Or maybe it’s a 110 ton mirrored metal sculpture meant to reflect everything right back at you, only upside down and twisted until everything ugly becomes beautiful. I zip up Michigan, up to whichever street it is that runs parallel to Ohio, and then hit 90/94 at 65 miles per hour. In my rearview, the city is fighting the dying light with everything she has and the John Hancock building is throwing rock and roll devil hands in victory. Chicago knows that it will never be first in my heart, but it also knows that I’d never turn it down. The Morton Salt building squats along the side of the highway and then it was all behind me much too quickly, the city of broad shoulders. I can’t say that I don’t feel a bit sad to be leaving. Chicago, Chicago, when you’re good to Mama, Mama she’s good to you.
