My Winter Getaway

As promised, your photo montage of how I spent my weekend. Ladies, don't worry, you all look beautiful. No blackmail pictures here! Nope, those are all still safely stored on my camera. Also, I'd like to take this opportunity to say I love, love, love my digital camera. Take pictures, show pictures off, re-take pictures, post pictures to the Internet. No waiting! Instant gratification! Huzzah! (OK, I lied. The posting-to-the-Internet part takes approximately two years, five months and sixteen hours and, Blogger, it's way past my bedtime and I hate you for it. But it's still faster than developing real live film.)

I flew to Indianapolis for two-hour meeting of the alumni board of my grad program (of which I am a member) and spent the rest of the time running around Indy and Cincy seeing as many people as possible. It was cold and gray and overcast and everything was dead and brown. It was exactly what a Midwestern winter should be, and it was beautiful.

And then it snowed! (That would be Lori, at the door, oblivious to the snowball Christal just threw at her.)


First stop: Heather M. Heather and I spent a lot of quality time together, me waiting in the reception area for a professor who was routinely running behind schedule. Like, by a week or two. Heather, the lucky girl, was his secretary at the time, so she saw me several times a week, often for an hour a pop, before I gave up or had to go to class. Good times. Heather later got back at me, in her capacity as the Alumni Coordinator, by roping me into doing this alumni board thing.

We hadn't even gotten to dinner Thursday night when Heather dropped the f-bomb for the second time. (She usually sticks to four-letter words like "darn.") Naturally, she blamed me, despite the fact that I hadn't used any foul language in her presence. I must just give off some kind of "Fuck Vibe." (Not to be confused with a "Fuck Me Vibe," nor a "Fuck You Vibe," both of which are entirely different creatures.) We spent Friday gettin' ourselves some culture at the Indianapolis Museum of Art. Yes, there really is culture to be had in Indy, and not just of the NASCAR variety. (Though, yes, I do know that NASCAR is an acronym and therefore comprised of all capital letters. Ahem.)

My time in Cincinnati was spent mainly with Lori, who lives there, and Christal, who was visiting from the Dallas area. We got ourselves some culture as well, only this time it was at the Hustler store, which reminds you to "Relax, it's just sex." This catchphrase, in addition to being painted on a wall, was proclaimed over the P.A. system several times during the course of our visit, by a woman who did not sound at all comfortable with the fact that she was telling us to "Relax, it's just sex." Perhaps she would benefit from an instructional video.

Anyway, onto the good stuff: t-shirts to die for and Christal's favorite stripper shoes. And for the record, no, no purchases were made. But you can pretend.



Also, there was a shirt that stated, "Will Fuck for Shoes." I thought it was a bit, well, vulgar. I mean, shoes deserve a little more respect than that.

Saturday was our big night out. We had The World's Greatest Ribs at the Montgomery Inn at the Boathouse. Once stuffed with ribs, our waitress tied us down and force-fed us some of the most delicious ice cream I've had outside of Wisconsin. You, too, can share in the creamy goodness that is Graeter's. I highly recommend the Black Raspberry Chip. Or Chocolate Almond. Or Vanilla. Hell, I'm sure they're all good. And calorie-free, of course. Here we are, unable to get up from the table.

But, thoughts of alcohol, loud music and a bunch of nineteen-year olds with fake IDs motivated us to move along. The Blue Note played host to the rest of our evening. Margaret eventually joined in the Grad School Reunion Fun, having opted to do her taxes instead of gorging herself at dinner like the rest of us. Stupid grown-up responsibility-ness. What was she thinking?


Lori's friend knows one of the night's early performers and the end of the lineup featured a wonderful Power-Pop Hair Punk Rock band from Madison, Wisconsin called Sunspot. I resisted the urge to throw myself at the lead singer, because (a) I had not consumed nearly enough alcohol for that kind of behavior and (b) he's probably 19. And I? Am so not. Also because they didn't show up until shortly before they went onstage, so my opportunities were quite limited. But if they make it big...well, let's just say nothing's off the table.


Finally, back to Indianapolis for another Heather encounter. This time, it was Heather R., whose fertility never ceases to amaze me. She gets pregnant just thinking about having another kid! (Sorry Jeremy, your services are no longer needed.) Baby #2 is a girl and I'm not sure what's more likely – that she hates all things pink and girly and instead plays in the dirt and cusses like a sailor (like her Mommy) or that she turns out to be a girly girl. That second scenario will be far more entertaining, that's for sure. I would pay actual cash money to see Heather dragged around the city searching for the perfect Homecoming dress. And shoes. And purse. And makeup.

Heather: I don't see what the big deal is, it's just a dance. Wear something you already own.
Daughter: But Mo-om!
Heather: I wore a dress once, it was called my wedding. Maybe you can wait until then, huh?

And then Heather's mom will take the poor girl shopping, 'cuz lord knows she's got thirty years of pent-up girly-girlness to expend on this child that Heather never appreciated.

So, that's that. Five fun-filled days in "flyover country." (Can I tell you how much I hate that expression? Despite having lived on both coasts?) Not the warmest winter getaway imaginable, and no beach in sight, but you gotta go where the people are. And for me, that's the Midwest.