Swedish flop.

CCL is originally from Chicago.  So, it would stand to reason that when she learned that I was yet again heading off to the Windy City for a trade show, she had plenty of input and advice for me.  Each year this happens, in fact.  And it’s always the exact same stories and requests—that I go to this place and eat that, that I go to another place and try this, that I bring her home this and that, and if I happen to make it to this place, I have to make sure I devour that.  (Keep in mind that the “this” and “that” are foods that don’t sound particularly appealing.)  Then I get to hear about her cruel-sounding grandmother (she died a few years back) and the Chicago uncle who is so bent on annoying his Jewish wife and neighbors that he makes sure he puts his automated rotating Christmas tree in the front window and covers it in animal themed ornaments. 

It doesn’t matter that I’ve explained, on countless occasions, that my time in Chicago is spent between the hotel and the convention center, with rare escapes to area restaurants.  I am madly in love with Giordano’s pizza, for instance, so I make sure I go there.  (There’s also one in Orlando, which is great.)  But, I’m not likely to spend my time perusing for a local bakery so I can eat “Swedish flop” (which sounds particularly disgusting when she says it, but based upon a picture she sent me today in an email with the subject line of “What you missed…” looks surprisingly tasty) and I’m not about to go to some random deli to order hamburger and eat it raw.  And I don’t care if I don’t make it to the corner hot dog stand.  I had dinner at Morton’s—a delicious double-cut, melts-like-butter filet mignon with every amazing accompaniment known to man.  Why on earth would I say to the friend who treated me to this heavenly dinner, “Please don’t make me eat at Morton’s.  I’d rather find a lovely hot dog stand on a street corner somewhere.  Come!  Let us wander in the dark to find one.”?!  Yet, because I didn’t do that, I am a failure at touring Chicago.  (Which is why I got the “What you missed…” email.) 

What CCL doesn’t know is that I didn’t entirely fail at Chicago.  I brought her a gift—on behalf of one of her secret fans, no less.  It’s a lovely car magnet that reads “One cat away from being a crazy cat lady.”  (I hope she finds as much joy in receiving it as I did when it was given to me to pass on to her!)  Sure, it’s not entirely accurate, as it really only took one cat to make her a CCL, but it’s the thought that counts.

I shall report back on her reaction once I remember to bring it to the office with me.  Meanwhile, I’m off to find something to distract me from the sound of her saying “Swedish flop” that is currently running through my mind.  Repeatedly.