Okay, my left hand is seriously handicapped this week. It literally pains me to write this post. I have some sort of carpal tunnel thing going on and it’s driving me beserk.

and its verry hard to type wthg rights hand only.

I want to say things to the intertubes! And my metacarpals are muffling me! Only Twitter works because I can type with my thumbs on the phone.

This is about all I can handle for today. Chicago bloggers, Saturday? Shall I drink to ease the pain? Because you know, THAT usually works.

I’ll start at the end with lessons learned on Wednesday, Day 1 of my Chicago adventure.

• Dora the Explorer will ruin a perfectly good train ride. She incites mayhem in toddlers and will cause them to revolt, a la Ray Bradbury’s “The Veldt.”
• Four-dollar train beers are worth every penny.
• The hotel lobby is not always on the main level of the hotel.
• The shower curtain liner is not always tucked into the tub as it should be.
• Remember to pack pantyhose when packing skirts for a business trip.
• Your favorite beer might not follow you on your travels.
• Your URL might be just as dangerous as your phone number.

As it is every morning, Amtrak was late on Wednesday. This caused me to arrive at my beautiful, beautiful hotel half an hour too late to enjoy the free evening wine reception. I swear, I’m going to sue. But I shook it off, and after unpacking and learning lesson number 5, I set out to explore The Loop for someplace that would sell me pantyhose.

CVS fit the bill, and with that matter well in hand, I went in search of a cheeseburger. I do love good cheeseburgers, the thick ones you can only get at bars with sports on every television, beer that comes in buckets, and at least one video trivia game on the counter. “Stocks and Blondes” fit the bill, and the video trivia was open, much to my delight. I smooshed myself into the corner barstool and began feeding dollar bills into the machine.

The bartender approached me. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Yeah, can I get a Bud Select and a menu, please?”

Crickets.

“A what?”

I turned around. A neon Bud Light sign glowed in the window, and I raised an eyebrow. “The one lighter than Bud Light,” I explained.

“No, no I know what it is,” he said, shaking his head. “But man, no one’s asked me for that for like, six months. We don’t have it.” He raised an eyebrow back at me as if to ask what planet I am from.

I read the eyebrow. “I’m from Saint Louis.”

“Aw, man, whaddya think about that whole Anheuser-Busch buyout thing?” he asked, leaning on the bar. “Aren’t you people pretty pissed? I mean, that’s gotta SUCK for you guys.” He had a big, snarky grin on his face.

“Yes, thank you for pointing that out. I’d like a Bud Light and a menu, please,” I say drily. The guy was cute, but come on. Salt in the wound, pal.

I turn and start in on the video machine, playing the games while ordering a cheeseburger, medium, no onions, out of the corner of my mouth. Unusually for me, I was sucking at WordBuilder so I turned to a trivia game and started kicking ass. Every time I got on the top score list (not to brag, but this was quite often), I signed as “Rebekah STL” in a silent protest against the bartender’s mockery of my beloved AB.

After finishing my cheeseburger and freeing up both hands, I switched to Taipei. This tile-matching game can start to get a little funny after two pints – so of course, I ordered a third. I played two games and got to level 2 on each, signed the winners’ board, and started another. Just when I got to level 3 (finally!) I heard a voice behind me.

“Wow, you’re really good at that.”

I turned around for a split second and saw a guy in a yellow button-down, kicking back on the barstool next to me. “Thanks,” I say quickly, turning back. “It’s timing me.” My fingers flew across the screen and I squinted to see the pairs, using both hands to tap them and run out of time just before the end of the level. Second place on the winners’ board – not too bad! And as I signed my name…

“Sorry I interrupted you before.” He’s still there… and rather cute, so we do introductions. On telling me his last name, he immediately says “No, it’s not Dutch.”

“I didn’t ask. It doesn’t sound Dutch.”

“It’s German.”

“Um, okay.”

So Not-Dutch and I sit, drinking beer and talking of nothing much. His friend joins us and introduces himself as Tim. Maybe it was three pints of beer talking, maybe it was repressed rage, maybe I just thought I was funnier than I actually am, but I loudly proclaimed that there are too many Tims in the world already, and no one should be called that anymore. He laughs and Not-Dutch looks at me funny (Have you noticed a theme here? People looking at me funny? Welcome to my life.) while Tim explains to me that he had a roommate in college with the same name and blar blar blar.

There was much flirting and witty banter going on, the three of us laughing and tossing out the one-liners and comebacks like Shriners toss candy from those little bikes in parades. Not-Dutch flirts with me and I flirt back. An older man around the corner of the bar from us caught us in a brief moment of silence and said:

“You guys should be recording this. This is some funny shit.”

I’m sure it was. We were all laughing and smiling and in just enough of a buzzy frame of mind that none of our zingers were insulting. Everything was funny. I wish I could share it with you, but I have a slight problem… I cannot remember what on earth we were talking about. Zero. Zip. Nada. And I would have remembered, I think, if I hadn’t had four pints of Bud Light. But if I hadn’t been four pints in, would that conversation have been such “funny shit?” Pause for a second and ponder that.

We went on. Another Guinness, another Black and Tan, another Bud Light. By this point I had forgiven the bartender for his indiscretions and was ready to hug him for being such a delightful and ready source of alcohol. But steam was running low and I vaguely recalled that I had to get up early for a conference in the morning, so I decided to go back to home sweet hotel, a few blocks away.

Not-Dutch walked with me. Well, he walked, I may have been just slightly on the staggering side. But no matter. Fun times, new city, it was all good and the evening ended in a happy haze.

At about 4 am I sat straight up in bed, head pounding, and remembered part of the conversation from the bar.

“What are you doing tomorrow night?” Not-Dutch asked me.

“I’m meeting a friend for dinner.”

“Oh, that’s cool you know people to hang out with while you’re up here for work.”

“Well, I haven’t actually met her yet, she’s one of my blog friends.” (I know, I know. Why did I bring this up?)

“You have a blog?” I nodded. “What do you write about?”

“Boys.” (It just fell out of my mouth. I think the alcohol dissolved my filter.)

“So are you going to write about me?”

“Probably.” (Crap!)

Not-Dutch laughs. “Can I read it?”

AND I GAVE HIM MY URL. IN THE STUPIDEST POSSIBLE FASHION. I TEXTED IT TO HIM.

That was Day One in Chicago.

————

(Not-Dutch, if you’re reading this… hi there, what’s up, had a great time Wednesday, and sorry about those drunk texts on Friday night when I was out with the girls.)

I’m going to keep the boy update to one paragraph because I have given it too much attention already. For the time being, disregard Tim’s “friend” status and consider the possibility that Navy may not be entirely able to curb his own cake hole. And imagine, if you will, that these two plus Fireman plus my own incredibly bad judgment have detonated a craptacular inferno of rumor and rage, and my phoenix may not rise from the ashes for some time. That pretty much sums it up.

Moving on.