Recently I visited Chicago for a business trip and stayed at an elegant hotel in Millennium Park. My room was on the nineteenth floor with a scenic city view.
When I arrived in my room, as is my custom, I opened every closet, cabinet and drawer to see if there was anything interesting. All I found was the bible, the TV remote and a dry cleaning bag.
On the bathroom sink I discovered two tiny bars of soap, three miniature shampoos and a three ounce bottle of hand lotion. Pay dirt. I made a mental note to pack the unused items to take home with me the next day.
The following morning as I was strolling through the lobby, the smell of fresh coffee tickled my nose and led me into a shi-shi coffee joint on the first floor. I’m fairly certain I ordered a café grande with cream and sugar. But what I received was a ten ounce cup of mud and a bill for four dollars and fifty cents, plus tip.
I used the coffee cup as a hand warmer until I arrived at my conference. Then I traded the designer java for a plain cup of joe that the conference planners were giving out for free.
Just before entering the conference, I stopped to admire a piece of artwork. It looked like someone lit a napkin on fire. In fact, the only reason I knew it was art was because it had been placed in a frame and tacked to the wall. It probably represented “man’s inhumanity to man” or “the plight of our souls.” Either way, I wasn’t impressed.
Spending a day in Chicago made me realize something important. I’m a hick.
If you put a 1997 Bolligner Blanc De Noir in one glass, Mad Dog 2020 in another and a cup of tap water mixed with dish soap in a third, I’m pretty sure I couldn’t tell the difference. And when it comes to dining out, you're more likely to find me chowing down at Boo Boo’s Hot Dog Hut than at Ruth’s Chris Steak House. It’s because my inner hick prefers it that way.
I’ve come to like my inner hick.
She's a swell gal from a small town. She has a a saucy grin and a can-do attitude. In my mind’s eye, she looks like Marlo Thomas from “That Girl.” But her name isn’t Marlo. It’s Betty Jo.
Betty Jo is very practical. She would never pay four bucks for a cup of java. Betty Jo would pick the beans, grind the beans and serve it with homemade apple pie.
Betty Jo regularly argues with my other inner self. Her name is Shelby.
Shelby is a successful career woman trying to climb the corporate ladder and stomp on the glass ceiling. She wears neatly pressed pant suits and stylish brown pumps. Shelby tells it like it is and doesn’t take any crap. I imagine Shelby looks a lot like Candice Bergen (a.k.a. Murphy Brown).
Shelby would never pay four bucks for coffee either. But she would tell the barista where he could put his beans.
My favorite inner self these days isn’t Betty Joe the hick or Shelby the corporate climber. My favorite inner self is Florence. You can call her Flo.
Flo is a suburban Mom. She enjoys PTO meetings, playgrounds, and science fair projects. Flo drinks lemonade and shops at garage sales. Flo likes to wear floral print capri pants with a smart top and flip flops. I picture Flo as looking exactly like Florence Henderson (a.k.a. Carol Brady).
Unlike Shelby and Betty Jo, Flo might buy a four dollar cup of coffee. But only if she had a coupon.
You might think it gets a bit crowded in my inner being with Shelby, Flo and Betty Joe. But I’ve found that they’re great company when I’m traveling. Betty Joe takes care of stealing the shower cap from the hotel bathroom. Shelby gets to argue with cabbies and push through crowds. And Flo is in charge of picking out a little treat to bring home to the kids.
And all three of them like to join me in making fun of the burnt napkin artwork hanging on the walls of a swanky metropolitan hotel.
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