O.K., I'll admit it. I've lived in the Chicago area my entire life and I've never been to the Taste of Chicago. But with two children gone (see below) I wanted to do something fun with the one who was left behind.
The whole thing kind of freaks me out, to tell you the truth. Here's what I picture:
- lots of rather large men with beer bellies drinking, well . . . beer!
- same said men eating polish sausage until they look like they themselves are about to pop out of their casings.
- skin, lots and lots of skin. Makes mine want to crawl.
- Crowds. I don't do well with them. I had enough of crowds for the rest of my life on the Paris Metro this spring.
- Port-a-potties. Or Honey Buckets. Or Drop Zones. Whatever you like to call them, I just don't do them. I refuse. Could be interesting.
- Deep fat frying. I love the smell, but I don't like what it does to my already mid-life, flabby arms. I picture myself floating home like the marshmallow puff guy in "Ghostbusters" or the Bob's Big Boy balloon from "Austin Powers." That'll be me--Wildmom, as big as a house, floating on strings to get home.
So I'm picturing a crowded day of people from all sorts of walks of life bumping into me and eating like pigs. An adventure will be had, that's for sure!