Sweet Home Chicago

After five long years, I was heading back to my favorite city – Chicago. I missed the steamy hot summer, the stanky smell that seeped up through the alleys, the fast-paced feeling of the city, the food, unparalleled shopping, and the great friends I left behind.

For those of you that know me well, I’m sure it goes without saying that I was not looking forward to the plane ride. Because it was going to be such a short trip, I opted to leave right out of Yakima and take the direct flight from Seattle into O’Hare. The Yakima flight left at 6 a.m. which hardly gave me much time to perseverate on my impending demise. I also felt that it was a little too early to take any medications – I mean it was 6 a.m. after all – and the 30 minute flight is a dry one. Despite the fact that I was wedged next to a very nice woman who probably should have bought both seats, dare I say, the flight was both smooth and pleasant?

Upon landing in Seattle, I only had a brief moment to grab a quick bite to eat, pop some pills and settle in at the nearest bar to slam a double Captain and Diet. With a mere three strips of crispy bacon in my stomach, a Xanax, a stiff drink and a sleeping pill, I was ready to tackle the world. I was even ready to tackle this four hour flight on American Airlines (and we all know their track record).

With my carry-on bag in hand, I patted the exterior of the airplane three times and headed down the narrow aisle pushing my way to the very back of the plane. Yes, the very back - the very last row to be exact.  Like some sort of curse from God, as I zeroed in on my seat – 32A – I couldn’t help notice that it was a Dad and his two, 2-year-old twins, flying solo for the very first time in his life. Occupying the window seat was 2-year-old number one, the terrified Dad who looked like he was about ready to wet himself was occupying the middle seat, and 2-year-old number two was sitting on his lap. I use the term “sitting on his lap” lightly as it was more like “riding his Dad like a bucking bronco.” But, as a mother of three, I felt a twinge of pity for this poor man. That only lasted a few seconds and then I prayed that my first solo flight sans children would be deftly quiet.

Hahahahahhaha….I’m sure you know how this turned out. Just as my drug-induced coma was comfortably setting in, I had to take the two year old girl to the bathroom. Once I passed that painful hurdle, the lunch cart reared its ugly head. The poor Dad had to use my tray to hold the three open-container apple juice cups that he ordered for his children, 3 bags of pretzels, their coloring crayons, napkins, and cookies. Now I was trapped with a stock pile of children and their plethora of accouterments holding me hostage. I mean…what if I had to go pee? What if there was an emergency? What if I needed to go ape shit on some terrorist hijacker trying to bring the plane down? Fortunately for me, and the other passengers, my OCD compulsion to pat the plane’s exterior, followed by my ritualistic prayer, must have saved us all from doom. I did not have to do any of those things. I just had to be a “mom” on my “mom-less” vacation.

We landed at O’Hare uneventfully. Since my husband is now managing our budget, I decided to take the train into the city. It was nearly 3 p.m. on a Friday, and I really didn’t feel like sitting in a cab watching the meter tick. I would rather use those funds for a Giordano’s pizza or a Potbelly’s sandwich.  Just like old times I scurried down to the bowels of O’Hare where I fought with the CTA machine that relentlessly tried to take one of my dollar bills. I sat above the tracks just hoping to see a rat scurry by – I always found that fascinating. The train was packed and I found myself falling into old habits…wedging my luggage next to me so that a urine-soaked bum wouldn’t sit by me…not making eye contact with anyone…especially someone trying to beg for money, pretending to know where the hell I was going although I really had no idea. And loving every minute of it.

I ended up transferring from the Blue line over to the Red line and getting off somewhere in the “Viagra Triangle” – that’s what we used to call the area anyway. I had to hoof it several blocks to the W Hotel on Lake Shore and I had forgotten how hot and humid the city was in August. I secretly peered down the alleys to see if I could spot any of my old favorite bums – but just like Weezy and George Jefferson – I guess they had moved on up.

I checked in, unpacked my bag, and quickly ordered up a bottle of champagne. A bunch of my girlfriends from KPMG were going to meet me in the lobby bar at 6 p.m. to try to recreate the old days. We had the best team ever back in the day. First, there is Lora, my favorite Jewish event planner. I mean, she plans events and happens to be Jewish…not that she plans Jewish parties for a living. She is well traveled, loves horses and always sports the most impeccable pink manicure. Regina, the brilliant Irish-Catholic redhead, puts the capital “A” in Type A personalities. She can “strategize” until the cows come home, but we all love her despite her uptight ways and poor choices in footwear.  Then there is Fales.  Her name is Jennifer and she likes to say that her middle name is “never.” Jennifer Never Fales. You get it. And that is exactly her personality. She was the alumni coordinator while I worked at KPMG which was perfect for her bubbly, outgoing, Hello-Kitty loving ways. Tracy, our favorite Minneapolis gal pal, lived the kind of life you only read about in romance novels. She had interesting trysts, a killer rack, and a body to die for. I only use the word “had” because she is now engaged. All other things are still presently valid. Kathy, another Irish Catholic converted Southsider, is a tall, blonde bombshell who makes rearing four kids look effortless. And I mean EFFORTLESS. She sends out this great Christmas newsletter every year that details how her oldest son (age 10) has fallen into drugs and alcohol, and how they accidentally left their youngest daughter with Lupe, the Mexican maid, while on vacation in Mexico. No, the stories are never true and it’s just the best letter ever.

Lora & Amy

Regina & Amy

Fales, Amy & Kathy

We hadn’t seen each other in five long years and we more than made up for it. We started at the lobby bar, ate an amazing dinner, stumbled upon a Karaoke bar, and somehow found ourselves in the midst of a quinceanera. How is that for a diverse evening? Drunk and tired, I found myself back in my room by 1 a.m. which was pretty early for Chicago standards.

Saturday I was to meet up with good ole’ November Rain. She and her family had just moved back to Chicago and I was so excited to see her.  Because she had to schlep herself in from the burbs, we agreed to meet at Nordstrom’s around 2 ish – giving me just enough time to feed my hangover a Potbelly sandwich. I always enjoy ordering the vegetarian and then asking them to put turkey on it. I know, it defeats the purpose just a tad, but it’s oh so delicious.

Inhaling my sandwich and planting myself smack dab in the middle of Nordstrom’s shoe department, I shopped while I waited for November. And then, in the distance, there she was. To me, she seems about 6 ft tall with her super long legs. When you add the 6 inch stilettos to her already tall frame, it can make a 5 foot nothing girl feel slightly frumpy.  We walked toward each other and as we leaned in for the hug, my head barely reached her armpits. Some might call us an odd pair, but I call us friend-mates.  In the short time we have known each other, she has seen me through some pretty sub par times. So, it was great to reconnect in Chicago. We even got lucky enough to weather one of Chicago’s famous summer storms. The rain in Chicago comes down with a vengeance. Forget an umbrella  - those are for sissy’s. If you are brave enough to attempt an umbrella in a summer storm, it usually ends up inside out from the wind, hail and rain. Meanwhile, don’t even think about putting on a rain coat. The downpour, paired with the steamy and humid temperature, creates this sauna sensation. You are wet and comfortably warm at the same time. I imagine it feels a little like being in the womb…or something like it anyway.

We ate, shopped, drank and chitchatted our day away. We had to head back to the W Hotel to get ready for our evening festivities – each of us had separate dinners to go to. I met back up with my KPMGers for our final hurrah. When you visit Chicago, you can pretty much guarantee that you are going to eat and drink your way through the city…and day two was no exception. Regina, our Type A friend, brought her cousin, Sara to our dinner. We had a lot in common. We both were in relationships with Mexicans and we were both white. That’s about all you need to have in common when you’re partying in Chicago. We grew so close that evening that she even attempted to “motorboat” me on the Matchbox patio. That could have been a “win-win” situation, but it never actually escalated to that point.

Fales, Tracy, Lora, Regina, & Amy

After my final night in Chicago ended, I had to get back up the next morning and catch my 11 a.m. flight back to Yakima. It always amazes me how easy it is to reconnect with friends after so much time has passed. Our circumstances were all so much different when we first met. Some were married, others weren’t. A couple of us were just starting to have children, and now we have 9 between us. Some still work at KPMG, and others have moved on to other things. Despite time, distance, and life’s changing circumstances, it was just like yesterday. I have met so many amazing friends in Chicago. There is just something about that city, the people who live there, and the friends you make.

As I boarded the plane, I tapped the exterior three times and took one last look at O’Hare airport. The plane lifted off and drifted up into the sky. Below me I could see the Lakefront, Wrigley Field, the Magnificent Mile, Lincoln Park, and the millions of cars, trains, and people that make the City what it is…Sweet Home Chicago.

Just a Girl and Her Ice Axe

I am a firm believer in the philosophy - Just because you CAN, doesn't mean you should. This saying holds true in so many situations. For example, have you ever seen a 40-something year-old woman in cut-off shorts? Sure, her legs might be skinny, but the contrast of her white skin against her bulging varicose veins far outweighs the fact that she can still squeeze into a size six.

Or, another example. Any episode of Jack Ass. Or, another. Buying size 16 "skinny" jeans. You get the picture.

So, when Larry casually mentioned that we should climb Mt. Adams over a two-day period, I should have stuck to my guns and ran the other way. The conversation started nonchalantly, "Mt. Adams is a really easy climb. I've read that it is really good for beginners." In my head I am thinking...Well, that's good. Considering I haven't climbed any mountain, or the hill behind our house, I guess I would be considered a beginner.

He let me stew on that for a few hours and then he casually mentioned, "If you think you might want to do it, we really need to rent you an ice axe and some crampons."

What? Why the hell would I need an ice axe and crampons? And what the hell are crampons, anyway?

In a very calm, soothing manner he explains that I might need to "self arrest" during a fall down the glacier. The crampons, which strap to the bottom of my hiking boots will keep me from slipping and the ice axe can be used to save myself during an out of control fall to my impending demise.

This really isn't sounding so "beginner-like" to me anymore. Sure, I am flattered that he has so much confidence in me, but seriously? What makes him think I can hike up 12,000 feet and get myself down safely without the help of a rescue crew?

I must have been high because I agreed to this insane adventure. First, we had to hunt for our backpacks that were buried deep in the bowels of our garage, somewhere under the "high school memorabilia" boxes. Once he located mine, I had to remove the Spanish Air luggage tag from the shoulder straps that carbon dated back to 1999 - which was the last time I ever had on a backpack.

We had to take a quick trip down to the Tri-Cities to rent a 2-person tent - one that was suitable for the side of a glacier at 9000+ feet. I was in desperate need of a very warm, sub-zero sleeping bag because this sissy does not like to be cold. And, I had to rent my crampons and ice-axe of course!

We encountered one small hiccup at REI when we found out they gave away the crampons we had reserved. Larry, being extremely resourceful (he was a boyscout after all), managed to locate a man who rents crampons out of his Richland, WA home. When we pulled up to this guy's door, you would have never known he had any love for the outdoors. His lawn was a fire hazard and all of his windows were blacked out and/or had the blinds completely shut. I was a little scared sending Larry in there by himself, but I wasn't about to take my three children in there. We both thought the whole scenario was reminiscent of that scene from Silence of the Lambs at Buffalo Bill's house. After being in there for 15 minutes or so, I finally had to text Larry, "Does Precious want a biscuit?"

Luckily, he escaped without becoming this man's new dress. But, when he showed me our crampons, I about died. Let me explain... Larry's were very state-of-the-art, easy on, easy off crampons. My crampons, however, consisted of these very old, weathered, leather straps that connected to a pair of the rustiest, metal spiky things that looked as if they were the first crampon ever invented. The pictures are below. I'll let you guess which crampons were mine.

So, this was worrisome to say the least. But the plan was already set into motion, and there was no turning back now. We had the gear, we packed our bags, and we were driving to the base at zero-dark-hundred the very next morning.

Once we made it to the Ranger Station, we had to "check-in" and purchase a permit to climb. The Ranger asked,"You have a GPS, right?" Uh. No. She cringed ever so slightly and handed us our forms to fill out. Apparently a few people had gotten lost recently and a GPS device was strongly suggested. Nahhhh. Who needs it? Not this beginner.

When we got to the trail head, Larry handed me my back pack. This felt somewhat like a small adult hanging on my back. Within the first 5 minutes I was thirsty, panting, and seriously doubting whether I was going to pull this off. I think Larry was a little worried to. It turns out, I have an extremely long adjustment period. It takes quite awhile to get my groove on. And you can't really call it a groove.We soon learned that there is "average time" and "Amy time" - it takes me nearly twice as long as the average newbie to go the same distance. But that aside, I did push through it.

I found myself day dreaming about ham and brie sandwiches with spicy honey mustard on a hard baguette. Wouldn't that be nice to eat at base camp? Or, how about a smudge of foie gras on a cracker. Yummo. In between my food daydreaming, I thought about my next eyelash appointment - which was long overdue. I really hoped I the sweat wouldn't adversely affect the last remaining lash extensions that clung to my eyelids for dear life.

We hiked, and hiked, and hiked, and hiked some more. Our goal was to get to about 9000 feet where we would stay the night at the "lunch counter." I thought to myself, "This sounds fabulous!" It just sounded like Mel's Diner. I envisioned Flo serving me hot coffee and powdered doughnuts. And to get there, we had to put on our crampons and pull out our ice axes and hike up Crystal glacier. We reached the lunch counter at about 6 p.m. We did not see Flo. We did not have doughnuts. Instead of coffee, we had water that Larry pumped from a small glacial run-off. And we ate freeze dried spaghetti and meatballs for dinner. My lower abdomen was so sore from carrying that dang pack up the mountain that it felt like my uterus might fall out of my vagina. Hunkered down in our tent, on the side of Mt. Adams, we would awake the next morning to begin our climb to the summit.

We got up early, but probably not as early as we should have. Out in the distance you could see fifty or so stick figures beginning their climb up the false peek. I was definitely nervous and contemplating what the hell I was doing there, but I had made it this far and I was not about to give up.

With my archaic crampons and ice-axe in had, we started for the top. At some point you just start climbing up these ice steps that other's have created before you. First, you throw down your axe into the snow, and then step up as you lean down on the axe to help you take your step up. It is so steep and so high, that I had to take 10 steps at a time and then rest. I repeated this over and over. Annoyingly enough, there seemed to be one buzzing bee by my side the entire climb. It is the only time in my life that I did not flail out of control at the prospect of having a bee near my face.

Did I mention I am afraid of heights?
Did I mention it's near impossible for a woman to pee or poop in any sort of privacy when you are on a glacier?

So, here I was. Ice axe. Crampons. An annoying bee. Vertical ice steps up a steep glacier. I had to pee. The freeze dried spaghetti and meatballs were making me have to poop. And at this point, there was no where else to go but up. Step...one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, REST! I essentially climbed Mt. Adams in 10 step increments with a full bladder and bowel and refused to look down. I couldn't. I was terrified.

But, as they say, what goes up, must come down. The entire trip Larry kept saying how amazing, fun and easy the "down" would be. I didn't really give it too much thought. But, when you take off the crampons - the only thing that makes you feel safe and stable on a body of ice, and you look down from the top of Mt. Adams, it pretty much scared the shit out of me. You don't just walk down either. You "glissade" or slide down on your ass. When you get going out of control, you wield your ice-axe like lumberjack, bury it in the glacier, and pray to GOD it slows you down. This was not as easy as it sounds. I also cannot describe how cold your butt cheeks get and the size and sheer magnitude of the snow wedgie that builds up in your vaginal area. Not so good.

We glissaded down to the lunch counter where we were supposed to break camp, put our packs back on and hike all the way back down the mountain to our car. I wasn't feeling so hot by the time we got back to our tent. Larry was worried that I was both exhausted and experiencing elevation sickness - and I think he was right. I could barely think and I was shuffling my way down the mountain in typical Amy time. On our last little bit of glacier, I tumbled down a steep embankment and did not wield my ice axe correctly. My "self-arrest" occurred by slamming into Larry at the bottom which luckily broke my fall just in time. It was then and there that the mama drama began. I was terrified and started crying. I knew we had so much longer to go and I was feeling horrible. The only good news was the fact that we had made it off of the snow and had hit dry land once again. Teary and practically hysterical, we only had approximately 2 more hours of daylight to get off the mountain.

My skin flushed. I was hot, clammy, and super nauseous. I could only shuffle my feet down the mountain at a snail's pace. And, no, I am not exaggerating! Larry is trying to politely coax me down faster because we were going to be screwed if we didn't get to our car. And then it happened. The "911" of diarrhea emergencies. There is no portapotty. There are very few trees. There is absolutely no privacy. Larry had to re-con the area to find me a suitable rock to sit on. At this point, I didn't care who saw me. I was so sick. And on my way to humiliate myself on this rock, I started vomiting profusely. I couldn't stop. There I was, halfway down Mt. Adams, leaving tiny little bits of myself everywhere- from both ends. I really just wanted Larry to throw that sub-zero REI sleeping bag at me and leave me under a tree. I was in no position to go anywhere.

At about 7000 feet, Larry made a decision that probably saved my life. He carried his backpack on his back, and he carried my backpack on his front. He was literally wedged between two human-sized backpacks so that I could walk a little faster. This went on and on...and on and on. But, it seemed to work. It took us an hour and a half to get to our car from that point. Poor Larry was exhausted, and I was barely feeling better myself.

When we finally reach our car, I was over-joyed. Elated. Amazed. Proud of myself. Grateful for my husband. I felt victorious. Like million bucks! Larry loaded our packs and got in the Jeep. As I mustered the strength to get in the passenger's seat, I looked at him and asked, "So...when do you want to climb Rainier?"