Just a quick note on two events that I experienced within the last week:
1. I paid my first visit to Green Street’s Urban Outfitters. You can call me uncultured if you want, but I don’t really think I’ve ever known what this store was or that it existed as a chain until it showed up on the U of I drinking route’s front lawn. Smack in the middle of Green Street, surrounded by bars and nasty pizza shops, the store is an anomaly and sticks out like a kitschy sore thumb. But it seems like a nice addition, in theory, since having a clothing store for college students within walking distance from campus is a benefit.
To backtrack a tiny bit, the day of my Urban Outfitter’s excursion was also the day of my boyfriend’s parents Champaign-Urbana visit, coupled with a completely coincidental day-long visit from my dad and our close family friend from Australia, Mike Westerman. It was a day of first-times all around, since Dima’s family has never, not once, met mine. (More than once I made the joke to Dima before they arrived that his dad and dad’s mate would be meeting my dad and his mate…yes, I actually made sure that Dima heard by multiple repeatings, rife with finger pokes, eye winks, and haha, get it’s?, MATE!) All of the visiting went well, and smoothly (isn’t it always kind of awkward trying to decide what to DO with family, let alone its version in the plural?), but I suggested to my dad that he could take me to buy a sweater at Urban Outfitters (I had earlier mentioned my dearth of sweaters for the upcoming winter). So me, Mike Westerman, and my dad all footed it to Green Street. (Mind you: Mike Westerman and my dad are colleagues as zoologist professors. Mike looks like a Santa Claus type, whereas I’ve always sort of thought that my dad was a balding David Tomlinson, Mr. Banks type, except in jeans and a t-shirt he’s had since college.)
Why should I have NOT expected the immediate blast of thumping pop music, crowds of sorority chicks, and intrusive door dudes? The dichotomy threw me for a total loop and in my embarrassment for having subjected Mike Westerman and my dad to THIS, I looked at a couple of price tags, any price tags, all in a fluster and shouted, “$145!”…I repeated this several times with other items and then ran to the back of the store, stranding the two zoologists in the hubbub of tiny trendy Asian girls. I figured if I could just find the sales rack (which in and of itself is pretty hilarious, with a sign that says “$39.99 and down”, where every single item is $39.99) try something on in the middle of the store over my shirt and get them the hell out. It took me one test-round of this theory of trying on a button-up sweater in the middle of the store to realize it would not work; I would not be able to take care of them if I operated this way. So I found another rack with some crap on it also for $39.99, grabbed something appealing without trying it on at all, and found my dad. We bought that shit and were out of there in about 20 minutes or less.
Don’t get me wrong, I actually do like the store and its products (besides the fact that they are effing expensive and solicit in general only to a certain demographic of people either A.) supplied by their parents for clothing funds or B.) completely OK with spending money on something out of their “price-range” [I might be this B. group, maybe most on campus are].) In any case, I’ll probably go back, completely alone, and do my shopping in peace.
2. The second event that happened to me was that I finally paid my first ever visit to Boltini. My friend Melissa was having a birthday get-together Wednesday night, and instead of doing the heaps of homework that always piles up by a Wednesday night after work, I found a large menu of martini’s and a quaint selection of bathroom mints. My impression of Boltini is a mixed review. The atmosphere, when initially arriving there for the first time ever, was, “This place is weird.” Like so many other businesses that house themselves in the buildings of downtown Champaign, the ceiling is HIGH and decorated with designs in the plaster. But the lights were either turned to extremely dim, or off altogether, and the dining areas were lit primarily by candlelight and funky, cheetah-pattern gourd-shaped lanterns. The places to sit consist of half-circle booths, or lounge couches. I had a hard time making out if and when any of my friends sitting around the couch area our group opted for were making eye contact with me. The other clientele was also somewhat strange. My favorite group was a booth squeezed tight with exclusively fat people making out, some wearing devil ear headbands. The other observation to make is that the women’s bathroom has hanging baskets of mints and tampons (and hair spray, but I’ve seen this at other restaurants). I think I like this, but, then again, when I returned from the bathroom with mints in hand, I distributed them with the best tag-line I could think of: “Here’s some nasty toilet mints for you.” The sanitary issues are somewhat distressing. But no biggie, inebriated people don’t care. In fact, they were angry that I didn’t bring back any toilet sandwiches. “Where’s my salad, Jenny, jeeze?”
And in closing, I will say that the Zen-tini, which I bought for Melissa’s birthday drink, was quite good. And from what I heard from the others there, so are the warm nuts.
ttfn,
Jenny
