Let me just cut right to the chase: we were accosted by a lunatic. In the underwear section. Of Saks Fifth Avenue.
I was aware of what appeared to be some manageable absurdity while I was being rung up for a new bra. (“I don’t know, the underwire seems to have… evaporated,” “Mmhmm, yes, Miss Carey, I sure have had this happen to me before. Now take that old thing off; and don’t worry, I’m a fitter, not a looker.”) I could hear bits and pieces—“I just, I can’t seem to keep my emotions in check, but you are just such a dear, dear girl… someone sent you here to me. A higher power.”
I hustled the check-out process, grabbed my undies, and walked into what can only be described as—man, you know when you want to laugh so bad but aren’t supposed to? What a delicious feeling. This mother of the bride was certifiable—we saw her dress, heard her speech, offered synonyms, watched her try on her jewelry, and felt sincere empathy for the bride to be. I put her earrings in her ear holes because her hands were shaking so bad. Before you say “Oh, poor woman,” rent The Exorcist and insert words like “Whole Foods” and “volcano boarding” in for the swears.
[High in the sky.]
[Humboldt-happy, pre-dinner, bottle-splitting, blow-drying hours of fun.]
[Adelsheim Pinot Noir at Girl & The Goat, owned by Stephanie Izard, my first Top Chef celebrity sighting, and a meal of absolute bliss.]
[Sushi Wabi. Magnificent rolls, plum wine sake, and good-looking sushi chefs to boot. We sat at the bar and took the conversation straight to Girl Town.]
Then we popped next door-ish to the most sensational, subway-tiled, Hemingway-haunted bar/French restaurant, Maude’s Liquor Bar, and ordered a slew of mystery beverages from an astoundingly cute bartender. Keep your eye out for Archimedes the owl next time you’re in:
Also: order the Smoky Violet from the Smashes menu. I credit that purple fairy drink with my total, inexplicable lack of a hangover the next day. I could live inside Maude’s.
[View from the John Hancock Signature Lounge, where I dragged Mary—who was definitely the only local in the room—on Sunday. See that tall, white-striped building that looks like all the rest, midway to the left? That was my building, once upon a time.]
Then, I had a brief run-in with Gollum—pausing to wonder if the Blue Line actually had a separate run that diverted from O’Hare to Mordor—who showcased his impressive long-armed squeegee and babbled to himself until he got off at Montrose:
I know how he feels, though. About his precious. Saying goodbye was tough.
Thanks for the incredible weekend, bravest, kindest, sweetest girl.