With Flying Colors in Chicago

It’s girl’s day in Chicago. Zoelle and I are new dress this and tight jeans that, fantastic spring blouses and lace-lined panties. We are idiculous hair ties, wide belts and leather purses. We are throw pillows and lip gloss, herringbone tights and too-fab headbands. Sweater vests, sweater jackets, sweater skirts, and sweater tights. We are hair salons and permanent dye, razor cuts and scissors cuts, trims and romantic slanting bobs. We are picture this and picture that, knees bent, lips pursed at the camera just so. We are charge it, charge it, charge it, on this day, our only day, of “nothing counts.”

Later, there is food. Goat cheese and chicken enchaladas in extra dark chocolate mole sauce, buffalo chili with homemade cornbread, flourless chocolate cake, green papaya salad, plum sauces and red duck and oh, oh, oh there is coffee. Black forest mocha coffee and Austrian espresso and Alterra drip and the best of the best purist Americanos when in doubt.

We tip well. We sing loudly walking down Addison Street. We hail a cab. We walk the dog. We drink too much. We order more. And we laugh, laugh, laugh all the way home.

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