The Magic of Chicago in January

Remember going to Chuck E Cheese when you were a kid? Man, that was the best. 

Full disclosure: I just googled Chuck E. Cheese to see if they were still around and was shocked to see that it's not Chucky Cheese. That mouse has a middle initial? Color me shocked.

My favorite thing to do was that red bucket seat that you strapped into and went around in a circle against the wall. That description makes it sound really lame, but if you know what I'm talking about, you know it was the shit.

The real MVP of Chuck E. Cheese is the ball pit. What a totally weird concept, heaping a bunch of hollow plastic balls into an enclosure and telling kids to jump around in it. Kids sure are amused easily.

Cue me, two weeks ago, when we're planning what we want to do in Chicago and my sister tells us there's a ball pit exhibit at Navy Pier and I lose my shit.

Which is how we ended up waiting in line for almost an hour to jump around a ball pit with approximately half of the kids in Chicago. 

You know what I don't remember from the ball pit at Chuck E. Cheese's? The grime. Kids are gross. There was hair stuck to balls and band-aids floating around and more than a few smelly kids. Maybe I was just smelling myself; it was "The Beach" after all and pretty hot for a January day in the Midwest. Luckily for us and all the patrons of the places we visited that day, I packed a travel deodorant in my purse and we freshened up before leaving.

After a lunch of hastily made PB&J's in the Navy Pier food court and waiting a million years for our Uber to find us (Navy Pier hasn't mastered the ride share), we went to the Field Museum. We were just in time for a "Museum Favorites" tour, which means whatever favorites of the docent giving the tour, and our tour-guide Bruce was the every guy, and his tour included the mummy's, the man-eating lions, and of course, Sue the T-Rex. 

We finished up at the Field Museum just in time for happy hour, which was no coincidence. I love living in New England, but there are some really strange laws. Like no happy hour; I'm not lying, this is a very real thing, at least in Massachusetts. We were definitely going to take advantage of all things Happy Hour while in Chicago, so we googled "best happy hour" and ended up at the Walton Street Kitchen and Bar. $5 drinks and $5 apps? Yes, please.

The night gets a little blurry from there. Our server was AMAZING and brought us over drinks she poured "accidentally" and let us order a few more rounds right before the cut-off time. We suggested she meet us out at the Hangee Uppe and she asked when we were going to end up there. We said we were headed there next and she laughed like that was the funniest thing she'd heard all day. When she realized we were serious, she said she was having a sober January and wouldn't be able to make it.

If you've been to the Hangee Uppe, you get it. 

Over the years, I've been to the Hangee Uppe a handful of times. It's not a place you go before midnight. But Brent had never been and was excited from all our stories, which is how we ended up at the Hangee Uppe at 8 o'clock on a Friday night. With the exception of the staff, we were the only ones there. For over an hour. We spent that time talking to the bartender, who gave us jello shots and informed me the correct pronunciation was the hang up. Not the hangee uppee, emphasis on the "e's" way we'd always said it, and I nearly stormed out. In my drunkeness, who knows, I might have. 

It was a night that will live in infamy for the McCarthy sisters for a number of reasons, not the least being that several people had war wounds the next day, and I don't mean a garden variety hangover. We were trying to hash it out the next morning during our Uber to McDonald's, where we sat eating greasy hash browns and drinking Sprite. One thing was abundantly clear: no one would be drinking at Abby's baptism reception, even though it was open pitchers of beer. When you're feeling the effects two days later, you know it was a good night at the Hangee Uppe.