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Nov. 2nd, 2010 02:13 pm
Civic doody
Hopefully before this day ends I'll have something good to say about it. Everything was going swimmingly until about 5 a.m., when I woke up and couldn't get back to sleep. As I was nodding off more than an hour later, I thought, It's Election Day! I can sleep in and still make it to work at a reasonable time. It was a nice thought, and one that allowed me to nod off peacefully. But I woke up again at 9:30 instead of 8:30, and so by the time I made it to the polls, I'd already missed the 10:30 shuttle.
No matter, there was another one at 11:15. Flush with time, I stopped into CVS for some omeprazole. Leaving, I saw the shuttle whiz past, but I thought No problem, it's just running a bit early. It'll still be there when I arrive at the stop. So I was livid as I watched it pull out early from half a block away. I called the service number, ready to give them a piece of my mind...only to find that I'd gotten the schedule wrong.
Twenty-five minutes until the next one, so I decided to throw wisdom and experience to the winds and take the el instead. But it's been so long since I've taken it northbound from the Loyola station that I autopiloted to the southbound platform. (I don't know if any of you are familiar with this most unintuitive of CTA stations, but it's the only I know of where the northbound and southbound platforms are completely separate. Once you've made your choice, the only way to change it is to go back down to the station and come back up.) I stood there helplessly cursing my idiocy as the train left without me.
At this point, fifteen minutes had passed, so there was no percentage in waiting for the next one instead of going back down to the shuttle station. I called my supervisor, told him I was getting lunch, and rode the shuttle to Davis, visions of a well-poured Guinness swirling in my head. When I got to the Celtic Knot a few moments later, I found the door blocked by a bar chair, forcing me to use the revolving door. I don't know if you've had to use a revolving door on crutches, but trust me: You don't want to.
Inside, I found three men at the bar...and no one behind it. I took a seat, expecting the bartender would be back any moment. I never saw him, but I did see a maitre d', who stepped out from the kitchen at intervals to survey the near-empty dining room and then head back. He even came near the bar to pour a soda for one of the two diners without checking on me. Infuriated, I hunted him down and asked him to open the door for me so I could "go somewhere where I can get service". He seemed confused as he politely complied. Dude, no wonder your restaurant is empty at noon.
Things went much better at Lulu's. Despite a touch of confusion over my drink order, I had a frosty beer and a steaming bowl of soup within ten minutes of making it through the door (which the maitre d' helped me with, thankyouverymuch). The soup was tasty, but could've used more kabocha. And I liked the sauce on the yakisoba, but I thought the misnamed "crispy pork" was overseasoned. It tasted like it had been soaked in soy sauce overnight.
Still, between that and a side trip to Amaranth for more desperately needed reading material, after which I caught the next northbound shuttle with three minutes to spare, things have begun looking up. Of course, maintaining that depends crucially on my ability not to do anything moronically stupid in the next several hours, despite having just drunk the equivalent of two beers. What are the chances?
ETA: Oh, and I managed to leave my Swedish textbook at the restaurant. Thankfully, they're holding it for me at the front counter. STUPID DAY, END ALREADY!
No matter, there was another one at 11:15. Flush with time, I stopped into CVS for some omeprazole. Leaving, I saw the shuttle whiz past, but I thought No problem, it's just running a bit early. It'll still be there when I arrive at the stop. So I was livid as I watched it pull out early from half a block away. I called the service number, ready to give them a piece of my mind...only to find that I'd gotten the schedule wrong.
Twenty-five minutes until the next one, so I decided to throw wisdom and experience to the winds and take the el instead. But it's been so long since I've taken it northbound from the Loyola station that I autopiloted to the southbound platform. (I don't know if any of you are familiar with this most unintuitive of CTA stations, but it's the only I know of where the northbound and southbound platforms are completely separate. Once you've made your choice, the only way to change it is to go back down to the station and come back up.) I stood there helplessly cursing my idiocy as the train left without me.
At this point, fifteen minutes had passed, so there was no percentage in waiting for the next one instead of going back down to the shuttle station. I called my supervisor, told him I was getting lunch, and rode the shuttle to Davis, visions of a well-poured Guinness swirling in my head. When I got to the Celtic Knot a few moments later, I found the door blocked by a bar chair, forcing me to use the revolving door. I don't know if you've had to use a revolving door on crutches, but trust me: You don't want to.
Inside, I found three men at the bar...and no one behind it. I took a seat, expecting the bartender would be back any moment. I never saw him, but I did see a maitre d', who stepped out from the kitchen at intervals to survey the near-empty dining room and then head back. He even came near the bar to pour a soda for one of the two diners without checking on me. Infuriated, I hunted him down and asked him to open the door for me so I could "go somewhere where I can get service". He seemed confused as he politely complied. Dude, no wonder your restaurant is empty at noon.
Things went much better at Lulu's. Despite a touch of confusion over my drink order, I had a frosty beer and a steaming bowl of soup within ten minutes of making it through the door (which the maitre d' helped me with, thankyouverymuch). The soup was tasty, but could've used more kabocha. And I liked the sauce on the yakisoba, but I thought the misnamed "crispy pork" was overseasoned. It tasted like it had been soaked in soy sauce overnight.
Still, between that and a side trip to Amaranth for more desperately needed reading material, after which I caught the next northbound shuttle with three minutes to spare, things have begun looking up. Of course, maintaining that depends crucially on my ability not to do anything moronically stupid in the next several hours, despite having just drunk the equivalent of two beers. What are the chances?
ETA: Oh, and I managed to leave my Swedish textbook at the restaurant. Thankfully, they're holding it for me at the front counter. STUPID DAY, END ALREADY!
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