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Monday, July 18, 2011

Chicago's Paris Club: Major letdown

I started this blog about a year and a half ago as a way of describing what it's like for a small town girl living in Chicago. I try to explain, with some humor, my experiences on the L train (like ending up going the wrong way) meeting crazy cabbies (and having them explain their philosophical beliefs to me) and seeing some pretty crazy stuff (more on that later.)

But sometimes as a blogger, I just like to vent. To call out someone or someplace that did me wrong. Yes, to complain. So to you-- Paris Club in Chicago-- I'm calling you out right here, right now.

It's Saturday night and my girlfriends from Indy are in town, so we decide to get dressed up and hit the town. We have a rockin' sushi dinner, and then decide to hit Hubbard Street. I tell them we should go to the new hot spot, the Paris Club, because I haven't been there yet and I've heard it's fun. When we get there, the line isn't too bad, about 15 people deep (pretty standard on a Saturday night), so we decide to wait.

As we are waiting, we see 20-something girl after 20-something girl go to the front of the line, chat up the doorman, and then he lifts the rope and lets them in. We witness about 20 women cutting in line in front of us. Annoying, but not that surprising. Eventually, everyone in front of us has either gotten in the club or decided to give up, so we are next in line.

At last.

Just as we're expecting to get in, the 20-something doorman says to us with a snotty tone, "If you don't know someone inside, you might as well leave, because we're full."

Are you serious? Not only are we not getting in, I'm getting 'tude from a snotty kid making $9 an hour.

Now, take a look at this picture. This is what we looked like that night. Not bad, right? Sure, a couple of us are in our 30's and have rings on our fingers, but we're still fun! We can shake our tail feathers with the best of 'em. And the best part is? Unlike most of the 22-year old girls you just let in, we won't end up crying at the end of the night.

So to you Paris Club....when one of my girlfriends ends up being the CEO of her own company, or I get my first book published, we will not be celebrating at your establishment. And when someone asks me where they should go in Chicago, it won't be your club.

To the 20-something doorman who wouldn't even make eye contact with me: you'd better be careful who you don't let in, because she just might have a blog.

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