Remember that time I told you I almost maced some sucker because I mistook his cellphone for a gun? This would lead you to believe that I am always aware of my surroundings and lead a safe life (or as safe as possible) in this pretty little ghetto.
Welp, apparently all it takes is a few shots if tequila (my favorite) and I own the world. Or at least the north side.
Here is the dilemma. The bar closes at 1:30am. The McDonalds dining room closes at midnight. The golden arches refuse service to anybody not in a car, as made perfectly clear in the posters displayed in the drive-thru windows reading, "No Walk Ups." These posters were obviously prompted by drunk kids trying to "walk up."
I have a memory from freshmen year of getting into a "car formation" with three other friends; we lined up with a driver, passenger, and two people in the back seat. Unfortunately for us, the sensor (that lets employees know of a car waiting to order) is magical and mystical and knew we weren't a real automobile. Blows my mind. We were in formation and everything! Mind you, as we are pretending to be a Ford Taurus the rest of the parking lot is chock full of other bar-goers desperate for some salty fries and chicken selects. Finally, we timid frosh got the nerve to tap on the window and politely ask for some tasty treats, and they served us.
Oh, how the times have changed. Apparently those posters mean business.
Here is my story.
Tequila: check
(here is where I would like to add other factors contributing to my behavior, but... all it takes is tequila.)
George, Kathryn and I leave the bar and have to pass McDonalds to get home. We want some. It is too late, the dining room is closed.
Not for Ali Kelly. I decide those posters don't apply to me. I tap on the drive-thru window. They ignore me. I knock. They ignore me. I bang on the window. The male manager walks over and opens up, quickly says, "No walk ups," and closes the window. But not before I could jam my arm in it to keep it open.
"Can we just have some fries please? And three double cheeseburgers?"
"No walk ups."
"I know, but this once. It's not hard."
"No walk ups."
*Deny Ali Kelly once, and all is forgiven. Deny Ali Kelly twice, and you are an idiot who has just unleashed a whole fit of sass and rage that could reduce a grown man to tears.
"Seriously?!?!? I know you have it in there? Why won't you just serve me?"
"Ma'am, we don't serve walk ups."
"OH, so I need a car to eat here? Is that what you are telling me?!?!?!"
"Yes ma'am."
"OH. OK. Really? I want to get this straight: you won't serve me unless I am in a car. Is that correct?"
"Yes."
"SERIOUSLY?!?! THAT IS DISCRIMINATION AND I WON'T HAVE IT! THIS IS RIDICULOUS! JUST GIMME SOME FRIES AND BURGERS! IT WON'T TAKE THAT LONG! YOU COULD HAVE ALREADY GIVEN ME THE GOODS, AND I COULD ALREADY BE OUT OF YOUR FACE! JUST STOP BEING AN ASSHOLE AND STOP DISCRIMINATING AGAINST ME BECAUSE I DON'T HAVE A CAR!"
"I'm sorry."
"YEAH, WELL YOU SHOULD BE. BECAUSE YOU JUST GOT YOURSELF A LAWSUIT! I AM SUING YOU FOR DISCRIMINATING AGAINST ME BECAUSE I DON'T HAVE A CAR. THIS IS BULLSHIT. Let me ask you something: do you think it would be easier to serve me, or go to court? Because I will seriously sue this establishment."
"OK. Sue us."
"SERIOUSLY? FINE. I WILL."
Then I walked to the front of the joint and waved down the first car that pulled into the drive-thru lane. I walked over, he rolled down his window.
"Hi. Can I get in? They won't serve me without a car."
"Sure."
Then I got into a male stranger's car. In the ghetto. While sober, I'll mace some muh-fucker with a cell phone. While inebriated, I'll crawl into the nearest vehicle on my quest for fried food. George and Kathryn were standing by the order-speaker-thing and they crawled into the back seat and we all got to talking, Our chauffeur's name was Milo, he was driving a new, red Focus, he was eastern European, has lived in Chi for ten years, and had been at the same bar as us. He was very nice. After we got our food, Kathryn said, "We're already in your car, surely you can drive us home." And he did. And that's that.
***Tonight I am going to a club (and I really don't like that whole scene, but the drinks are free and the tools who get all pomade-ed up will make for some good material... and victims). And get this... Euro Rifikki (the cheek-kissing, winking Polish delight from two nights ago) is going to be there. Can't wait to see what happens. And tomorrow night is Adriana's 21st birthday extravaganza, which is going to be both a hoot and a holler.
Can't wait to keep you updated, dear two readers.
peace, love, and ponies.
"I took down his license plate number in my phone just in case he took off with you."
-Kathryn
Friday, January 25, 2008
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Will Work for Ritalin
A few things...
1. I know one other Patriots fan in Chicago. He is a fan because he is from NE. I am a fan because Tom Brady is my future husband. He may be more legit than me, but at least I know the right times to cheer and yell.
2. Speaking of, did you know a woman's Tom Brady jersey is impossible to find in any color other than glittery pink? And costs $60?
3. I am DYING to get to Miami for spring break. I have all the costs figured out, and without food, the trip will be a mere $446. (Airport, airport shuttle, hostel). I've said it before, but this time I really will sell my soul to get what I want. I love Miami so much it is dunb.
4. I, Ali Kelly, am part of a private PR council that has submitted a non-profit PR plan in a contest here at Loyola. This makes me feel like a real adult, as the contest is mainly for GSB students.
5. KMFP goes to France today, and I am not okay with that. MLA, we need a replacement just as badly as we need to come to terms with the fact that she will never come back.
6. I almost pulled my mace on somebody yesterday. He was acting all creepy and then I noticed he was holding a flat, silver thing across his body, pointing at me. I thought it was a gun, but quickly realized it was a cell phone. Still, bastard almost got it.
7. Funny story: At the bar last night for wings, and this kid I don't know, but who knows my friends because they all studied in Rome together, sits with us. Later when we were leaving, my friends were wandering around the bar saying goodbye to everybody and I was in front of a mirror, trying to get an eyelash out of my eye. He tapped my shoulder,
"Kelly, right?"
I simply shook my head.
Puzzled look.
"Ali... Kelly is my last name."
"A-l-l-i-e?"
head shake.
Puzzled look.
"A-l-i."
"Well, Ali, it was nice to meet you (grabs my hand to shake it)"
"Nice to mee-------" (This is where he surprised the hell out of me and came in and kissed me on the cheek. To me, this guy is a stranger and I am not entirely sure that cheek-kissing is appropriate for people who have mutual friends and nothing else.)
(seeing the shock on my face) "Oh, sorry. European thing."
(flustered, kinda mad) "No, it's fine."
Later, outside the bar with my friends George and Devin, I say, "Is that kid really European? Because he didn't have an accent AT ALL."
friends: "He's Polish, but he was born and raised here. Why?"
"Because he just kissed my cheek goodbye." He also winked at me when we were introduced.
Mind you, all my friends who studied in Rome love this cheek-kissing, winking guy. They think he is great. Maybe he is, but I don't really respect people who wink and scare the hell out of girls with European customs that aren't even relevant to the location you're in; college bar in Rogers Park?? We can be friends without the schmoozing, thanks. And then blaming it on your Europeanness, when you are a corn-fed Wisconsinite? It would be like me saying, "Sorry, I drink so much beer because I'm Irish, or at least my great-great-great grandpa was."
To top it all off, I can't remember his name. Rifiki? Rafalli? Ticky-Tacky? No idea.
But that's the life I lead. I get kissed by random men whilst standing in the middle of well-lit bars. Why can't I at least find a dark corner so that not every patron in the bar has to witness my awkwardness and shock?
peace, love, and ponies.
"Ali, David described you perfectly the other day."
"Yeah, how?"
"He said, 'She'll be your best friend, but she'll also be your biggest critic.'"
"...Yeah, I guess that's true. But I only criticize you if I love you."
"I know. That's why it feels so good."
-George and I
1. I know one other Patriots fan in Chicago. He is a fan because he is from NE. I am a fan because Tom Brady is my future husband. He may be more legit than me, but at least I know the right times to cheer and yell.
2. Speaking of, did you know a woman's Tom Brady jersey is impossible to find in any color other than glittery pink? And costs $60?
3. I am DYING to get to Miami for spring break. I have all the costs figured out, and without food, the trip will be a mere $446. (Airport, airport shuttle, hostel). I've said it before, but this time I really will sell my soul to get what I want. I love Miami so much it is dunb.
4. I, Ali Kelly, am part of a private PR council that has submitted a non-profit PR plan in a contest here at Loyola. This makes me feel like a real adult, as the contest is mainly for GSB students.
5. KMFP goes to France today, and I am not okay with that. MLA, we need a replacement just as badly as we need to come to terms with the fact that she will never come back.
6. I almost pulled my mace on somebody yesterday. He was acting all creepy and then I noticed he was holding a flat, silver thing across his body, pointing at me. I thought it was a gun, but quickly realized it was a cell phone. Still, bastard almost got it.
7. Funny story: At the bar last night for wings, and this kid I don't know, but who knows my friends because they all studied in Rome together, sits with us. Later when we were leaving, my friends were wandering around the bar saying goodbye to everybody and I was in front of a mirror, trying to get an eyelash out of my eye. He tapped my shoulder,
"Kelly, right?"
I simply shook my head.
Puzzled look.
"Ali... Kelly is my last name."
"A-l-l-i-e?"
head shake.
Puzzled look.
"A-l-i."
"Well, Ali, it was nice to meet you (grabs my hand to shake it)"
"Nice to mee-------" (This is where he surprised the hell out of me and came in and kissed me on the cheek. To me, this guy is a stranger and I am not entirely sure that cheek-kissing is appropriate for people who have mutual friends and nothing else.)
(seeing the shock on my face) "Oh, sorry. European thing."
(flustered, kinda mad) "No, it's fine."
Later, outside the bar with my friends George and Devin, I say, "Is that kid really European? Because he didn't have an accent AT ALL."
friends: "He's Polish, but he was born and raised here. Why?"
"Because he just kissed my cheek goodbye." He also winked at me when we were introduced.
Mind you, all my friends who studied in Rome love this cheek-kissing, winking guy. They think he is great. Maybe he is, but I don't really respect people who wink and scare the hell out of girls with European customs that aren't even relevant to the location you're in; college bar in Rogers Park?? We can be friends without the schmoozing, thanks. And then blaming it on your Europeanness, when you are a corn-fed Wisconsinite? It would be like me saying, "Sorry, I drink so much beer because I'm Irish, or at least my great-great-great grandpa was."
To top it all off, I can't remember his name. Rifiki? Rafalli? Ticky-Tacky? No idea.
But that's the life I lead. I get kissed by random men whilst standing in the middle of well-lit bars. Why can't I at least find a dark corner so that not every patron in the bar has to witness my awkwardness and shock?
peace, love, and ponies.
"Ali, David described you perfectly the other day."
"Yeah, how?"
"He said, 'She'll be your best friend, but she'll also be your biggest critic.'"
"...Yeah, I guess that's true. But I only criticize you if I love you."
"I know. That's why it feels so good."
-George and I
Sunday, January 6, 2008
I am the MOST easily influenced person alive
Somebody give my a task, as I can't stick to the ones I think I want to finish. (Not whining). The only constants in my life: I love horses and barns and getting dirty with those horses in those barns (since age 3) and that I have wanted to travel and live abroad (since age 14).
I can be easily swayed.
Last Christmas I saw The Holiday and was ready to drop everything and head to England, imagining a life in a little cottage with a slate roof, padding around the hardwood floors in soft, cashmere sweaters and delicate necklaces. Oh, there would also be an incredibly handsome, crazy-about-me Englishmen who had inherited grand amounts of money from dead relatives so neither of us would have to work. We could stay inside by the fire all day and talk about how amazing I am, among other things.
I am sure that throughout the course of Christmas 2006 to Christmas 2007 I read a few books and saw a few movies that made me yearn to lead a life similar to one inked across spaced pages of a script, acted out in front of a camera. But nothing like P.S. I Love You.
I think P.S. I Love You Fever may be worse than The Holiday Fever was. These upcoming months are going to be rocky.
For the unaware: P.S. is about a 29 year-old New Yorker whose Irish husband dies. The rest of the movie is about her moving on, and lots of flashbacks of them together.
It will move the coldest, most frigid woman to cry.
It doesn't help that the husband is Gerard Butler and INSANELY charming and funny and handsome and HAS AN ACCENT. (Seeing this movie has further strengthened my If You Don't Have an Accent, Needn't Apply standard).
Back to the main point: I become infatuated very easily. I've played Galway Girl at least 27 times a day since seeing the film. I checked prices on airfare to Dublin for 30 minutes today. ($450 for spring break... too much). Incidentally, I was helping my mom clean out the basement today and found a write-up on my Irish ancestors. It went back to 1802, and I was psyched. My great-great-great grandpa, Raymond James Kelly (of County Clare) married my great-great-great grandma, Margaret Rohan (of County Kerry) in 1843; she was 39 years-old and had six children over the following 15 years--- giving birth to her youngest at 54 years-old. She lived to be 98. I always knew we Kelly women were a hardy bunch, but now I know why: Margaret Rohan.
Anywho, they actually married in Ontario; Margaret came in 1823 (at 19) and Raymond came in 1839. They had a farm and an apple orchard. In 1860, they moved to Niagra Falls, NY, but then financial strain from the Civil War caused them to move westward to "the wilderness of Allegan County, Michigan."
From there, there were more farms, more Civil War, World War I/II, and Korean war soldiers with uniforms bearing the Kelly name. From Allegan, they came to Flint, where I was born.
Here I am, 20 minutes south of where we landed in the 1940s.
Anyway, this post is long and scatter-brained, so I'll cut-to-the-chase:
-Easily swayed/ no focus
-finds Gerard Butler ungodly handsome
-had a really good book idea today
-moving to Ireland to write that book
Case Closed.
peace, love, and ponies.
"My shoes are all over the place. I have to pick them up, or they'll think I don't love them."
-Holly, P.S. I Love You
I can be easily swayed.
Last Christmas I saw The Holiday and was ready to drop everything and head to England, imagining a life in a little cottage with a slate roof, padding around the hardwood floors in soft, cashmere sweaters and delicate necklaces. Oh, there would also be an incredibly handsome, crazy-about-me Englishmen who had inherited grand amounts of money from dead relatives so neither of us would have to work. We could stay inside by the fire all day and talk about how amazing I am, among other things.
I am sure that throughout the course of Christmas 2006 to Christmas 2007 I read a few books and saw a few movies that made me yearn to lead a life similar to one inked across spaced pages of a script, acted out in front of a camera. But nothing like P.S. I Love You.
I think P.S. I Love You Fever may be worse than The Holiday Fever was. These upcoming months are going to be rocky.
For the unaware: P.S. is about a 29 year-old New Yorker whose Irish husband dies. The rest of the movie is about her moving on, and lots of flashbacks of them together.
It will move the coldest, most frigid woman to cry.
It doesn't help that the husband is Gerard Butler and INSANELY charming and funny and handsome and HAS AN ACCENT. (Seeing this movie has further strengthened my If You Don't Have an Accent, Needn't Apply standard).
Back to the main point: I become infatuated very easily. I've played Galway Girl at least 27 times a day since seeing the film. I checked prices on airfare to Dublin for 30 minutes today. ($450 for spring break... too much). Incidentally, I was helping my mom clean out the basement today and found a write-up on my Irish ancestors. It went back to 1802, and I was psyched. My great-great-great grandpa, Raymond James Kelly (of County Clare) married my great-great-great grandma, Margaret Rohan (of County Kerry) in 1843; she was 39 years-old and had six children over the following 15 years--- giving birth to her youngest at 54 years-old. She lived to be 98. I always knew we Kelly women were a hardy bunch, but now I know why: Margaret Rohan.
Anywho, they actually married in Ontario; Margaret came in 1823 (at 19) and Raymond came in 1839. They had a farm and an apple orchard. In 1860, they moved to Niagra Falls, NY, but then financial strain from the Civil War caused them to move westward to "the wilderness of Allegan County, Michigan."
From there, there were more farms, more Civil War, World War I/II, and Korean war soldiers with uniforms bearing the Kelly name. From Allegan, they came to Flint, where I was born.
Here I am, 20 minutes south of where we landed in the 1940s.
Anyway, this post is long and scatter-brained, so I'll cut-to-the-chase:
-Easily swayed/ no focus
-finds Gerard Butler ungodly handsome
-had a really good book idea today
-moving to Ireland to write that book
Case Closed.
peace, love, and ponies.
"My shoes are all over the place. I have to pick them up, or they'll think I don't love them."
-Holly, P.S. I Love You
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