One Year & Counting

Today is my one-year anniversary of working at DDB, dedicated to the AVEENO^® account for Johnson & Johnson. It is a hugely exciting, fast-paced, overwhelmingly challenging and totally fun opportunity, and I am ever so grateful. I actually love my job.

Let's take a moment to reflect.

In the blog post I wrote exactly one year ago, on January 27th, 2009, I recapped how I was feeling on that very first day. I was a combination of shy, scared, nervous, embarrassed, awkward, confused, lost and all-around intimidated.

Yet, after expressing all of those emotions, I ended the post with this sentence:

"I can't wait to go back tomorrow."

It is a pleasant surprise to know that I still feel the same way.

Now, let's be honest. Work is called work because it is hard. But, unlike so many friends, I enjoy what I do. I feel fortunate to get to interact with passionate, smart, creative people every day. And, I actually like and respect my clients and colleagues. That is rare, and a true gift in any industry.

To be totally honest, though, the perks are pretty great, too. In the last two weeks alone, I have experienced some really amazing things, seen some fantastic places, and met some incredible people. Including, but surely not limited to:

• Flying all-expenses paid to L.A. where I rented a brand-new, tricked out SUV to drive around town.


• Eating a lovely Italian dinner with my beautiful cousin Kelly, listening with rapture to the joys of her life.


• Spending two nights in a $600-a-night hotel room at Casa del Mar in Santa Monica, waking up to walk for two hours on the beach with a coworker.


• Dining with clients and laughing about our work, our families, our lives and our passions, all over delicious Mexican food and chilled margaritas.


• Bonding with my favorite client over mojitos at the hotel bar, laughing so hard we almost lost track of time and stayed out way past our bedtimes.


• Witnessing a talented photographer and a gorgeous model make it all look so easy.



• Traveling inland to Hollywood in red convertible sportscar, accompanied by aforementioned favorite client (who was wearing the "friend hat" for a fun Friday night.


• Being hosted by a charming and approachable celebrity for the weekend, in his home, where he hosted a dinner party for 12 that was "catered" by world-famous seafood chef Paul Bartolotta, where I was encouraged to sample all kinds of scary and yet wonderful fresh Mediterranean fish prepared in gourmet fashions.



• Spending quality time with my other beautiful cousin Molly, watching her sparkle in the midst of great happiness and lovely friends.



• Waking to the sounds of birds chirping and the sun shining in the quiet of the Hollywood Hills, only to meet my favorite television actor, John Krasinski, on the sidewalk while driving to the drugstore.


• Meeting Paul Reubens, better known as Pee-wee Herman, backstage after his new stage show.



• Shopping in Los Angeles, warming my face to the sun, after eating brunch of crepes with Nutella at the Farmer's Market.


• Flying, all expenses paid, to Salt Lake City, to attend the launch party for the new AVEENO^® POSITIVELY NOURISHING line of body care, at the 2010 Sundance Film Festival event for celebrity and media guests, including the talented John Legend who dropped by to visit.



• Eating at five-star, prixe fixe dinners, while enjoying the company of the client team and senior management, laughing and getting to know one another over candlelight.



• Attending the world-premiere of "Sympathy for Delicious," Mark Ruffalo's directorial debut, and listening to the Q&A with him, Orlando Bloom, Juliette Lewis and Chris Thornton, after the show.



• Getting coiffed by the celebrity NYC hair stylist Patrick Melville in our branded salon at the Village of the Yard hospitality suites.



• Spotting Paris Hilton, James Franco, Marisa Tomei, Ricki Lake, Shane West, Mary Lynn Rajskub, Kenneth Cole, Heidi Montag, and many more celebrities and reality stars on Main Street in downtown Park City, while dodging the snow.


• Dancing the night away to talented DJs, including Danny Masterson at the GenArt and Stella Artois VIP parties, thanks to the generous team at RPR.


• Staying up until 5 am cavoriting with colleagues, clients and friends, not caring how much it was going to hurt the next day, convinced that a smorgasboard of Burger King breakfasts from the drive through (in the taxi van, of course) would help ease the pain (it did).



• Shopping in the boutiques and the Sundance Festival Store, choosing just the right souvenirs from this lovely little ski town.



• Packing so many goodies into my bag that I had to add a carry on to accompany the excess so that my team could try the new products at work today.


• Smiling as I posted the photos, sharing them all (with minor edits!) with the team of lovely people that I can now honestly say are more than coworkers, they're my friends.


• Reliving it all as I write this blog post.

As you can see, I have many great perks at work, and after getting urged to write about it all and share the excitement of my last few weeks of hectic and fun work chaos, I am eternally grateful. Forgive me for what may seem like bragging—it is just an honest reflection, for you and for myself, of how privileged I am to enjoy my work.

And, I am not too proud to encourage, no, beg you to go out and try the new AVEENO^® products when they hit your stores in April.


Seriously, people, I don't want this fun to end. Trust me. My blogs are much more fun, albeit more infrequent, when I am employed.

Home is Where the Spackle Is

In this economic climate, I know that there is a lot of intelligent discussion about how best to spend your money. There are experts that debate the rent vs. own situation all the time.

I am not one of those experts.

Sometimes I wish, and wonder, if I'd be better off if I were still flushing $1,000+ in monthly rent.

I bought a condo, however, in 2005. In the peak of the market. But, I had vision and saw past the dingy and the old and the dirty and the unkempt to see the potential in a condo. I looked for space, location and features that couldn't be changed. I knew what I would and wouldn't compromise on, and bent my 'rules' where necessary.

In short, I spent a grueling 3 months looking for the right place with my amazing realtor, Tom, who, in a lot of ways, served as the 'male point of view,' which was sorely needed. He encouraged me to seek a place that had the space that I wanted, and that had the bare bones with which I could work.

My parents, being handy and dandy altogether, were kind enough to give up almost two weeks of their time to come to Chicago (driving the 13 hours with a carload of stuff, tools, furniture and the rest) to assist me in the complete and utter renovation of my new condo.

I should start at the beginning, to give you a real sense of with what I was really dealing. My condo was owned by a 104 year-old woman who'd just recently died in hospice. She'd been in a wheelchair, and clearly hadn't updated her decor in, oh, say, 20 years. Which is to be expected for a woman who was born in 1901. Yes, turn of the century, people.

The building was converted to condos in the 80s, but had been built as apartments in the 60s. I'd bet anything that the previous and aforementioned tenant had lived here that whole time, and hadn't changed much in the way of decor or finishes since then.

She had, in no particular order of favor, a pink stove, brown metal cabinets with wood-grain stickers, a brown fridge, a beige wall-mounted rotary phone, velvety linoleum tiles in the dining room, two mismatched folding doors to the kitchen, a rickety wooden "pantry," a full-length mirror on the outside of the bathroom door facing the living room, and generally just tired paint. The walls looked like she'd run that wheelchair right up on them, and the carpet was no better off.

All in all, I had to have SERIOUS vision.

The light was great. There were full-length windows facing north, where the "look left" was Wrigley Field and the sunsets, and the "look right" was Lake Michigan and Waveland Park. The space was pretty good—fairly large for a 1-bedroom. The bones were there, but man, the filling was bad.

BAAAAD.

So, my parents and I ripped it out. Dismantled the kitchen. Gutted the bathroom. Replaced the flooring in the kitchen and dining room. Updated the fixtures, the lighting, the appliances. Painted every surface that wasn't carpeted, including the radiators and covers. The only thing we salvaged (literally, the only thing) was the crystal chandelier in the dining room. My sister (who, to her own detriment, arrived later to help) cleaned it and painted the brass parts black. It is gorgeous now.

Overall, we sweat and swore and sweat and swore some more for more days than we'd like to recall.

The work was worth it. I show you the bad so you can appreciate the good. Which, I'm not showing just yet. I know, what a tease. In the true spirit of reality shows, I'm not revealing the results just yet. I have more photos to come because I'm receiving some final furniture pieces and I'll post final photos then. Come on....the dessert is just not ready yet!

Please "enjoy" the before pictures:

Love that poo-brown fridge!
Rotary phone dialing, anyone?

Yes, the tiles are fuzzy.

Ooh. Laminate! Brown metal wood sticker cabinets!

Pink stovetop and oven, anyone?

The dining room, with the fixture in its brass beginnings.

Grey tile and wraparound counters, yes!

The furniture was probably valuable...

How would you sleep in that rocking chair?

See? VISION.

And, I bring all of this up so you can understand where I am coming from this week.

Awhile back, I noticed that in my bathroom, the paint on the ceiling was starting to crack a bit. I chalked it up to the fact that the moisture was trapped—there isn't a working vent, and there isn't a window. Aaaand, I put it off.

And then it got worse, as things that you ignore tend to do.

Last week, I noticed a new crack in the kitchen paint. The sage green painted wall was actually peeling off, a bit like nail polish. Then I looked around more carefully, and spotted a few more places on the wall, and now the kitchen ceiling, where the paint was behaving just as badly.

I was not altogether pleased.

So, on my birthday last week, I rented a Zipcar and ran some errands. Two phone calls to my Dad from the aisles of Home Depot later, I came home with the spackle, rollers and sandpaper to repair the said ceilings and walls.

Luckily, I saved the extra paint from 2005. I was praying that the color actually matched after four years of living.

I put off the project as long as possible.

And then, this weekend, I started. Sanding the edges of the cracking/peeling paint. Spackled it right up. Sanded it down. And then...got derailed.

The spackle was forcing the cracking/peeling paint up again. like a disobedient child. I, like a sad child, was almost in tears. The problem had just taken a turn for the worse. Part of me wanted to just stick the peeling parts down with super glue. Part of me wanted to just ignore them and spackle on like a brave project engineer. And part of me wanted to just give up and go get a beer.

The beer won.

After the beer and the project settled, I sanded the spackled areas (which were getting larger and more aggressive as I went along) and then stood up on the granite countertops, with the upright vacuum cleaner next to me, using all sorts of vacuum attachments, and sucked up all the sanding dust that had settled all over the top of my kitchen cabinets, my refrigerator, the granite island, and everywhere else that dust did and possibly could travel. I'm fairly certain that the neighbors across the way had a field day watching me (curiously no doubt) dancing on the countertop. Well, dancing might be a stretch when you consider that my head was titled at a right angle to fit under the ceiling, and the outfit wasn't exactly club attire.

I digress, but I hope you're at least laughing at that vision. I said I had vision, right?!

Then, where the spots were ready, I painted them. Luckily, they succumbed and the process was fairly painless—and, the spots were covered. Can I get a wahoo!?

Tonight, in a sad, dejected effort to finish what I'd started, I took a trip to the hardware store tonight to get more spackle. I guess a little foresight would have served me well when the optimist in me bought the smallest freaking jar of spackle to begin with. I am now armed with more.

However, ABC foiled my efforts by unveiling the new season of "The Bachelor" and I have now had almost two glasses of wine. Not even this homeowner fearless spackle warrior is willing to tackle the cracking devil with that much cabernet in me.

So, I delay the project's impending completion while I travel north to my second home (New Jersey, of course) tomorrow for the rest of the week. I'll post more photos when the project is complete, just to give you all the same sense of completion and closure that I'll no doubt feel.

Until that rascally paint starts peeling again.

Maybe I can sell this place and move before that can happen. After all, isn't 2010 the promised 'market bounceback?'

Yeah. I know. I bought a bigger jar of spackle this time.

Where's the landlord when you need 'em?

Oh yeah. She's had 2 glasses of red wine and is getting into her PJs now.

So Long, 2009! Hellllooo 2010.

In the spirit of New Year's, it's not uncommon to reflect on the highs and lows of 2009, and the fresh start that we all hope 2010 will provide. To that end, here's a nostalgic and silly look back at the year that has just come to a close.

First, I'll take a stab at the numbers game. I am much more comfortable with words (they never have those silly little commands like "find X." Isn't X right there?) But, with the new year comes the realization that we must take stock, and often face the challenges that we've denied and ignored so long. With that, I'll start with the numbers.

2009: My Year in Numbers

# of Unemployment Checks I Received: 2

# of Interviews Attended: 5

# of Really Great Jobs Secured: 1

# of New Things Learned at DDB: 87 (a low estimate)

# of Client Presentations I Gave Before I Knew What I Was Talking About: 3 (Fooled 'em!)

# of Clients Managed: 27 (a huge team of smart people I actually really like)

# of Flights I Took: 48 (holy frequent flier miles)

# of Flight Delays I Endured: 46 (Yep. Pretty much every flight.)

# of Days Crying Alone: 15 (a rough estimation—January was a tough month)

# of Road Trips: 5 (St. Louis, MO; Madison, WI x 2; Lake Geneva, WI; Lake Delavan, WI)

# of First Dates: 4 (I'm trying!)

# of Second Dates: 1 (says it all, doesn't it?)

# of States Slept In: 8 (NJ, NY, WI, FL, MO, GA, CA, IL)

# of Trips to New Jersey: 16 (I couldn't believe it either)

# of Times Lost on NJ Turnpike: 3 (Even with GPS)

# of In-town Guests: 5 (Tracy/Vytas, Mandi, Jenny, Molly)

# of Concerts Attended: 18 (Kings of Leon was the best)

# of Fancy Schmancy Hotels Stayed In: 5 (Shore Club/Miami, Palace Hotel/NY, Casa del Mar/Santa Monica, Hotel InterContinental/NY)

# of Musicals Attended: 2 (Wicked and Jersey Boys)

# of Media/Digital/PR/Hispanic/Promotional Agencies Interacted With: 7 (And it actually works!)

# of Men Who Lied to Me: 3 (Seriously. If you're not available, don't hit on me.)

# of Trips to the Hospital: 1 (stupid, awful MRI)

# of Sporting Events Attended: 6 (Cubs=4, Bears=1, Bowling Championship=1)

# of Trips to the DMV: 2 (why do they always have the B-team working there?)

# of Cars Sold: 1 (after just one day posted on Craig's List!)

# of Bottles of Sweet Tea Vodka Purchased (this southern girl was happy when that came north of the Mason-Dixon): 3

# of AVEENO(R) Products Distributed to Friends: 31 (shhh)

# of Tragic Events Endured by Me/Close Friends/Family: 6 (I'm praying for you all)

# of Disappointing Chicago Bears or UGA Bulldog Games: 14 (don't get me started)

# of Freak-outs at a Hair Salon: 2 (no tears, just panic)

# of Beaches Stepped On: 2 (Santa Monica and South Beach, Miami—both on business trips)

# of Friends/Family Who Gave Birth: 7 (just close to me)

# of Angels on My Christmas Tree: 29 (I love my mom's tradition)

# of New TV Shows I Now DVR Regularly: 3 (Castle, Lie to Me, Glee)

# of Gap Jeans Given Away: 48 (great perks of blogging!)

# of Days Wearing a Brace for Stupid Wrist: 18 (in addition to helping the pain, turns out it was good for sympathy)

# of True Vacations Taken: 0 (huge mistake; changing that in the coming year)

# of Weddings Attended (down from my usual average): 2 (glorious, fabulous and fun!)

# of Wedding Toasts Given: 2 (I hope I did ok!)

# of Vortex Tales Told: 7 (including the Naked Guy story)

# of Mean Blog Comments: 3 (Eh. At least they're reading, right?)

# of Blog Posts (an embarrassing new yearly low): 76 (I'm sorry. Blame my job?)

# of New Year's Resolutions for 2010: 4 (keeping these mostly a secret)

# of Resolutions I'll Likely Keep: 1 (I have to. I'm afraid my friends will stop talking to me if I don't make more of an effort).

# of Prayers, Hopes and Optimistic Thoughts I Have for 2010: A gazillion. (Really. Don't know how that looks in numeric figures, though.)


So, as you can see, my year was a little different.

It started off rough—heartbreak, unemployment and January Chicago temperatures don't make a great month. The writing here told that story loud and clear, when I was able to make myself write. Thanks to those of you who stuck it out with me and kept reminding me that something better was around the corner.

You were right.

At the end of January, I did start the new job at DDB Chicago and found a new home in consumer advertising. I'm proud to say that while at first, I felt like they were all speaking in tongues, I did quickly get into the groove and now am very, very happy to be a part of such an amazing, creative and well-respected organization. I'm also thrilled to get to work with such brilliant marketers as those who are employed by Johnson & Johnson on the AVEENO(R) team. I'm fortunate and having fun. And, my skin has never looked better.

Let's get to the words. My comfort zone.

2009: My Year in Words

Since the entire planet is on Facebook, and not a day goes by that something doesn't happen there that I just must know about, tell someone about, share, laugh about, or discuss covertly on the phone with my girlfriends, mother or coworkers, I decided to post this. A trusty little word application that shows my "Year in Facebook Statuses."



I know. It is pretty ridiculous. And, frankly, this cut off many months of great status updates, but you get the drift.

Other new words that I added to my vocabulary this year? Here's a topline list:

Brother-in-Law: I never had a brother. And now I do. I couldn't be happier for my sister, Lauren. And, for my family. We get to have George be a part of it. We're so blessed.

ZipCar: I sold my Jeep Liberty this year, and realized the freedom from car payments (well, it was paid off in April), car insurance and parking fees. And, the horrific struggle of finding parking spots while out running errands that doesn't cost you as much as the car is worth. You folks that have driveways and free parking lots—you have no idea how good you have it. So, I sold my car to a lovely little 20-something girl who promised she'd take care of it (and take it to Wisconsin to see a show at Alpine Valley once a year to let her run wild in the muddy parking lots). And, I joined ZipCar, where I get to rent (by the hour) all sorts of little gems. Monday, for my birthday, I rented an adorable red BMW sedan. I felt sassy. And, it was only $9 an hour. All in. Can't beat that.

Flash Mob: I didn't know this phrase. I would have guessed, with no context clues, that it had something to do with naked Italians. However, that's not the case. It was even added to the Webster's Dictionary this year. What is it, you ask? This is a perfect example:



Isn't it just infectious? I can hardly sit still while I watch this type of thing. Want another one? Why of course:



Gotta love dancing in public. I do it a lot, but there aren't usually hundreds (or in Oprah's case, thousands) of people dancing alongside me. Usually just Laura.

So, finally, without further ado, let's get on to the images. Sometimes they just tell the whole story, without any words necessary.

2009: My Year in Pictures




I'm very blessed to have such wonderful friends, beautiful family, generous readers, kind clients, creative co-workers, healthy parents, dollars in my bank account, a home that I still love, a lake view that is covered in snow, and a life that is worth smiling about.

So, there you have it.

Let's do this. All together now.

GO AWAY 2009. (You were kindof brutal.)

COME ON IN 2010. (We have high hopes for you.)

Starting with a confetti-covered evening with lovely friends.

Talk to you next year! Thanks, Internet, for making this worth it.

-Colleen

Just Another Manic...Month

As you can see, it's Monday. it was a long week/weekend, and I am not able to synthesize all of what's been tangling in my head. So, you get a list. Forgive me.

Random thoughts by Colleen, in no particular order. That's why they call it random, people.

• Why do some guys just ask for phone numbers? And then not call? I'm going to dub them "digit junkies." And here I was thinking the hardest part was asking for the phone number. Apparently the hardest part is actually scrolling through the phone on Monday morning, assessing the damage, identifying the victim and pressing the green button. Yep, sounds pretty hard to me.


• That tryptophan stuff that they claim is what is in turkey that makes us tired really is pretty awesome. Why doesn't Nyquil just bottle that and sell it? It would rid the market of Ambien and all other sleep-disorder medications. I mean it. After Thanksgiving, I could barely keep my eyes open for an hour. The four glasses of wine had NOTHNG to do with it, swear.


• Is it normal that I'm a little disappointed to have slept through the first winter snowfall? I saw the remnants at 7 o'clock this morning, but it really is much prettier falling than it is when it is puddling by the curb waiting for me to step squarely into it. Trust me. Rubber boots season it is.


• Three nights in a row this weekend (starting Thursday, as if I was 24 again), I attended various holiday parties. However, unique to my (not 24) years, I hurt more today than I could imagine. I know what you're thinking - it wasn't the hangover. It was my legs. I danced so much Saturday night at a benefit event that I could hardly get out of my office chair. I feel like I ran a marathon. Barefoot. Getting old blows.


• I put up half of the Christmas decorations last night. I dreaded it all weekend, and then just had to bite the proverbial bullet and go upstairs to the storage room, drag the crap out of the caged space and lug it to my apartment. As I unwound the knots that are the Christmas lights, I plugged them in to test them (thanks, Dad, for that lesson, otherwise this story would have been even that much more frustrating). I wanted nothing more than to just get it all done, decorate the piddly six-foot tree that I have, and call it a day. Nope. Who wants to guess how many strands, of the four that I have, worked? Yep. Two. I'm batting .500 and as Christmas decorating goes, that's a lousy average. Off to CVS today to replace them. Now they're in the box right near me just taunting me. I think it is because decorating by yourself, for yourself, isn't as much fun as you'd think. I'll get it done eventually. Or, I'll pass out from the overwhelming smell of the 'holiday spice' candles that were on sale at CVS. Whichever comes first, frankly, is fine by me.


• I'd love to put a stop to it, but because my team at work is cramming as much pre-production work into the few remaining weeks before Christmas, we keep having conference calls at ungodly hours of the day. Specifically, in the wee hours of the morning. Today's began at 7:30, so it was conducted from my couch. You know why they call them the "wee" hours? Because that's how your voice sounds. Especially if you live alone, and haven't uttered a word until you dial in, and the entire crowd on the phone is witness to your raspy, small, pre-coffee voice. I couldn't get the Mr. Coffee to work fast enough to save my professional reputation. Next time? I'm singing scales in my kitchen while the pot brews.


• And, in another note from the "it's now winter" files, I lost a glove this weekend. Exiting a cab, I suspect. I am telling you. There's a cottage industry of gloves out there on the sidewalk, primed for the taking. I guess I took it off to pay the fare, and then placed it on my lap (in a safe place, obviously) and then exited the cab (curb side only!) and it fell to the ground. It wasn't until I was leaving the party that I realized I was a one-woman black-leather-glove tribute to our late Michael Jackson. Rats. Mom, can you add that to the Christmas list? Yes, this year. Again. Thanks.


• Jay Cutler and the Chicago Bears won one! It was during the day! And not on primetime TV! I am pretty sure that Jay Cutler's mom has sent him contacts. Maybe he needs a pair of night vision goggles for the rest of the season? Just in case? Yes, Jay. We're the ones in navy. Or white. Just look down first, and then throw to the guy wearing the same shirt as you. There you go, buddy.


• This weekend, I had the privilege of attending a fundraising event for Angleman Syndrome hosted in part by my friend Laura's co-worker's lovely wife. They have a young daughter that has it, and I really knew nothing about it prior to the evening. I was amazed to hear the stories of parents who suffer the trials and joys of having a child who has been diagnosed, often improperly at first, with the syndrome. Wikipedia (if you aren't feeling the link above) says this about the disorder: Angelman Syndrome (AS) is a neuro-genetic disorder characterized by intellectual and developmental delay, sleep disturbance, seizures, jerky movements especially hand-flapping, frequent laughter or smiling, and usually a happy demeanor. And happy they were. The few grown men that were seated at the table nearest ours were grinning, clapping and all-in-all just enjoying themselves. I grew teary, not listening to the parents talk about the uncertainty of the diagnosis, or fearing a seizure (while that is all terrible and sad in itself) but when I heard, and then realized, that the children with AS most often don't speak. Ever. The young men near us were likely in their mid-twenties. And were expressive, and happy, but communicating solely in gestures and looks. As a communicator, and one who relies on and treasures words and verbal expression, my heart just broke for their parents. Can you imagine never hearing the sound of your own son or daughter's voice? As they express themselves and tell you they love you? Neither could I. If you can, or want to, participate to help fund and find a cure, please visit the link and see how you can get involved. I'll step off my soapbox, because tears have once again made it hard for me to see.


• My condo building hallway smells like burgers. From the grill. In December. In a high-rise. Doesn't that seem unfair to a girl that is trying to eat healthy prior to the "it's winter and the clothes are puffy so you may as well pack on 12 extra pounds" season? I thought so, too. And, seriously. If that is off your George Foreman Grill, it is just rude, cruel and unusual not to share. I'll bring the ketchup?

That's all I've got. Sorry you waited a whole week for this one, but the brain's a bit mushy these days. And not just from the aforementioned work, turkey and wine.

Ok. Maybe the wine.

Oh, and Turkey & Stuffing

In honor of this week's holiday, here is my Long Story Short list of things/people that I'm thankful for this year. Don't judge me for being shallow some of the time; a girl's gotta get by.

Giving Thanks

• My family. Which, this year, includes a new addition. A very tall, extraordinarily kind, gentle yet hilarious addition. I am grateful for my parents, my sister, her new husband, my grandma, my aunts, my uncles, my (many) cousins and my cousins' children. It's a big, wild, disparate yet connected family and I'm gonna claim it forever. I have no real choice in that matter, do I?


• College Football. Despite the pitiful season that the Georgia Bulldogs have endured, and the sad loss of Uga VII, I will remain forever grateful for what college football has brought to my life, and subsequently, my Saturdays.


• Work. Unlike many, I love what I do and am thankful that there are people who a) employ me this holiday season (unlike the dreaded season of 2002 and 2008) and b) that continue to inspire me, challenge my thinking, teach me new things and provide me with a medicine cabinet full of great (free) skin and haircare products. I also have to give thanks for my smart, interesting, fun, kind and accessible clients—without whom this Account Supervisor would have little to do.


• Confidence. It's a big notion, and one that has been tested this year both on a personal and professional level. Being dumped, and the 'new man' at work has forced me to re-evaluate, and therefore, be proud of, who I am. I am smart enough, I am pretty enough, and gosh darnit, people like me. Oh, and I have new hair, in case you missed it. I'm still working on the "who has more fun: blondes or brunettes" theory. Stay tuned.


• Wine. Let's be honest. Half of the aforementioned confidence is initially derived from the grape. And, frankly, the ability to enjoy family, college football and work has been drenched in the stuff. Weekends are good. Gotta give thanks where thanks are due.


• Weddings. With cousins, friends and my sister celebrating their marriages this year, it has been a great excuse to attend fun bachelorette parties, travel on the weekends, buy new cocktail dresses, put on high heels, write mushy toasts, buy luxurious presents, laugh really hard, dance with random people, take fun photo-booth candids, meet lovely parents-of-the-groom/bride, ask out a guy, converse with new people, network for future job opportunities, take amazing photos and post them to the internet, and laugh about it all the following Monday. Who's up for a 2010 union?


• Facebook. Without it, I'm not sure my friends would be able to fill their days. Or, their gossip quota. But, it's all in good fun, and we all can acknowledge the use/strategy/stalking that is made possible by the site. I'm guilty, and am not ashamed. I do, however, believe firmly that no one cares to see your status get updated 38 times a day, because, let's face it. No one cares what you ate for lunch.


• Prayer. As with any year, this one has been replete with blessings and shortfalls, and I've turned to prayer at many a time to counter the good, the bad, or the uncertain. I'm hoping that some of my prayers will get answered, and that some will not. Either way, it's clear that I'm not in charge, and I'm just fine with that.


• This Blog. If you've never had the urge to write a letter/diary entry/email just venting out or expressing yourself, than you won't understand my need to be thankful for this site; however, I'm guessing, if you're still reading, then you at least can identify with the basic reward that can be found in creative writing. Or, at times, not so creative writing. Either way, it feels good, and I'm thankful for you readers that stick with me, talk to me, encourage me, plod me along, and remind me I'm not alone.


• A Tame Fall. I'm pretty sure this will jinx it, but Chicago has seen a remarkably snow-free season thus far, and I'm not complaining. Though I do have some cute snow boots...


• True Friends. At the risk of sounding trite, the friends I have made, kept, selected, met and hung on to throughout the years are the family I've chosen. And for that I, and my social calendar, are truly thankful. Who else would I talk to on Facebook? Or watch college football with? Or pray for? Or laugh about work with? Or write about here? Or ease my pains, drink through the hard times, celebrate the good ones, cherish the sunny days and dread the snow with? Point taken.


• Another Year. Since nothing is a given, I'll send out to the universe a public thanks for yet another year as a part of this crazy ride. My health is good, my outlook is better and the future is looking up. No complaints here.

So, as you can see, I have much for which, and whom, to be thankful.

And that includes you.

I wish you and your families a wonderful Thanksgiving, and safe travels where you may go. At least O'Hare won't be delayed this year! (Risking another jinx there, aren't I?)

Kind regards and many thanks,

Colleen

No Guarantee

Benjamin Franklin is known for having once said, "In this world, nothing is certain but death and taxes."

Some of you can only recall a gorgeous, Devilish Brad Pitt uttering that phrase at the conclusion of the painfully slow movie "Meet Joe Black." But trust me, the grey-haired Constitutionalist said it first. (Don't hate me for the gratuitous photo above...he's better looking than Mr. Franklin any day.)

I have been thinking about that notion lately—that nothing is certain, that nothing is guaranteed.

For example, we assume, as growing women, that getting pregnant when we're ready is a guarantee. That it will happen, when we're prepared, and on our terms. Lately, I have experienced a friend who painfully, and patiently, has faced that uncertainty with grace and optimism as she and her husband have entered into the not-so-certain world of infertility treatments and blood tests and hormone shots and implantation. All with the hope against hope that they, like so many, can be assured of a result that goes against all uncertainty in life.

There's no guarantee.

Similarly, a family circumstance has occurred where we all put trust and faith in the judicial system under which we're protected, and hoped, against hope, that there would be a certain outcome. That the evidence, or the partiality of the judge, would reign and the result would be what is logical, rational and, well, guaranteed.

There's no guarantee.

Likewise, I've been faced recently with my own realization that in my own personal search for lifelong love, and therein a future marriage, would come to fruition in due course. The cold, hard and painful truth is that we're not sure. No one can promise that the outcome will result in lifelong happiness—even if one does find what they deem to be lifelong love, a partner forever. People can change, or not, and the life you'd envisioned may not turn out the way you planned. Or, conversely, the life you'd planned may never come to be. And you have to find a way to be satisfied by the life that is—the one that you are currently living. You may actually never find that type of love; it may just not be in the cards for you.

There's no guarantee.

And, quite frankly, maybe that's the hardest part.

If someone told the hopeful couple, trying to conceive a child, that it wasn't going to happen for them naturally, ever, they'd feel more resolute, more comfortable with that fact. I believe that the lack of knowing the outcome, in this case especially, is the most difficult fact to swallow. Those same two people, who wanted so badly to be parents, to conceive and give birth to a child of their own genetic strands and through the natural and most functional of ways, may in fact come to the more restful conclusion if they were just told up front that it wasn't going to happen. I believe, through my conversations with such people, that it is the uncertainty that is the most unsettling.

If it was clear, up front, that the law was the law, and that there was no way to undo that, no matter what efforts you made to the contrary to prove that the proper course of action would be something different, you may be better able to accept that course. To understand that it was meant to be, for good reason, would be easier to identify with, and therefore, would set your mind to rest.

If you knew, upon your wedding day, that the marriage had an expiration date, and that you were going to have a great life for thirty years, but that eventually things would dissolve and unravel, it may be easier to accept when that finally comes to be. And, if it was clear, at a certain age, that you were destined to live alone, and that you best find a way to be satisfied with that, it may not be as difficult to manage each day just not knowing. In a more positive approach, if someone pulled you aside, at a crucial point in your life's search for a partner, that it would happen someday—guaranteed—and that you were charged with just enjoying the station you were in at the time, for now, I'm certain that that level of certainty would grant you a peace inside.

Clearly, I'm wrestling with my own level of uncertainty. And unwillingness to give in to that—I just wish there was a guarantee. Obviously, I want to find that special someone with whom I'm going to spend my life, and I am unhappy with the unknowing that accompanies the process. Evidently, I'm searching for something, and feel that I'd be more resolute with the present, if someone could just guarantee the future.

I'm pretty sure, however, that Ben Franklin was right. The only guarantee in my future is taxes (made certain by my residence in the city of Chicago) and my ultimate death.

Hopefully, I can count on one sooner than the other.

In the meantime, I can promise that I won't give up hoping, praying, wanting and looking.

That much I can guarantee.

House of Pain

I really believe it when I hear people say that women's threshold for pain is higher than men's. I'm not just talking about the pain of giving birth, even though that certainly is a good argument to have on your side.

No, I'm talking about the typical, every-so-often pain.

I get migraines. Not all that often—maybe once every six weeks or so—and I've gotten so used to the searing pain, the nausea and the sensitivity to light that half the time I can just pop a few Excedrin and go to work. I still hurt, and feel pretty miserable, but I manage.

Then there's the other times, though, that I just have to give in and take an Imitrex. It literally puts me out, though, so it has to be a careful decision to take one. I have to then go back to sleep for a few hours, or just commit to lie down in a dark room for a bit. My doctor mentioned that they were "hard on the heart," so I go easy on 'em. Oh, and they're about $9 a pill, so I don't go randomly popping them.

And, frankly, there's the cramps. I won't go into detail since I know I have a lot of loyal and faithful (though quiet!) male readers, but seriously? Is that necessary? To squeeze and ache and sear like that? ON A REGULAR BASIS? I'm not kidding. Some days I just want to call it and go back to bed. Before I've even left the bed. I keep a heating pad stored under my bed, just like Mandi did in college, so it is always at the ready.

That was probably still more detail than most men want. But at least I didn't mention that it feels like your insides are being tightened by a vice grip, or that you're seeing blue stars swirling around your head, so I'm all good.

This time, though, it is a pain in my neck. Quite literally.

I got a pretty severe head cold about two weeks ago, and true to form, I denied going to the doctor and just stuck to the Gatorade, Orange Juice, Zycam, Vitamins, Soup and Sleep prescription. My mom always told me that a cold lasts a week if you treat it, and seven days if you don't.

She's my mom, and she's usually right. So, I believe her.

But this time, the cold mysteriously came along with a freebie pain. In my neck. I woke up one morning and thought I'd just slept funny. You know the kind, the 'ole crick in the neck.

Apparently it is more than that. I either pinched a nerve or strained a muscle (coughing?!) or wrenched something out of whack (was I ever IN whack?) and now it still hurts, more than 10 days later.

I know. Go. To. The. Doctor.

But after the spring's whole wrist debacle, I'm hesitant. And I'm still paying off that stupid MRI. That proved nothing. And solved nothing.

So, for now I self medicate. Not to the extent of Michael Jackson, mind you, but the safe Colleen way. I have been taking Excedrin during the day (once) and one Tylenol PM at night before bed. If I've had wine, I don't do the PM route because I am too scared of becoming a headline.

But I have to admit. It still is a pain in the neck.

I feel like one of those blinking red lightning bolts from pharmaceutical ads is poking me right in the head.

However, true to my opening argument, I just keep on trucking, like nothing is wrong. And then I turn my head suddenly, or lay down on my side on the couch facing the TV, and realize how MUCH it aches. Maybe that whole theory about women's threshold for pain is not so good because it just means we deny and ignore and avoid dealing with it?

So, here's your chance. Everyone likes to give advice, especially of the medical nature. What do you think is going on? It hurts down the right side, on the muscle/tendon (??) that runs from under my hair down to my shoulder. And sometimes it is dull, and sometimes it is sharp.

I know. Don't say it.

I should just...

...I don't know, look it up on WebMD?

It's a Gift

I am a shopper. Guilty as charged.

I like a good sale. I enjoy browsing solo, fingering all of the fabrics, trying on clothes, imagining all the places I'd wear them. I love jewelry and shoes and purses and coats. I enjoy the feeling of bringing home bags full of bargains, pulling them all out and laying them on the bed. I immediately hang up new items, taking pleasure in how they'll look when paired with old pieces.

However, this time of year, the shopping turns outward.

Not that I don't give gifts throughout the months, but this season I really do enjoy thinking not of myself, but of what those in my life want, and wouldn't buy for themselves. There's nothing quite like the feeling of knowing you've selected just the right gift, and watching that person open it with glee. I get a certain sparkle in my eye as I witness someone enjoying the present that was selected just for them.

I think it is funny how when someone is opening your gift, you get all nervous. People tend to get a little apologetic, even before you've gotten it out of the tissue paper. Have you noticed that? You know, "well, I just thought you may like it, but if you don't, there's a receipt inside and you can take it back, no hard feelings, I promise." They hardly breathe, and it is one giant run-on sentence.

The truth is, just having someone go to all that trouble is enough. It is flattering to think that they took the time to choose, buy, and gift wrap something with you in mind.

At our unwrapping ceremony, which we've somehow managed to make last about four hours, complete with mimosas and a breakfast casserole break, my Dad undoubtedly sticks a bow to his head, with a totally straight face. Last year, George's first Christmas with our family, when he put a bow on his head, I knew he was the one for my sister.

One of my favorite parts of the holiday shopping season is all of the secrets. The projects, mentally plotted and meticulously crafted, all designed to fit that certain person's character. The gifts, thought-out, budgeted for, and purchased with just one person in mind. The boxes, stuffed full and gift wrapped carefully (though it's not my greatest skill) with names attached for Christmas morning.

I keep a list each year, in this flimsy little notebook, of each person on my Christmas list, and what I have bought for them. It's a tally, of sorts, to make sure everything is kept fairly even (and to make sure that my Dad doesn't get pajama pants every year). I tend to spoil my family, as I just go overboard in finding lovely things that I just know they'll adore.

This year, which will come as no surprise, we've all committed to "take it easy" and "pare down" and "go light" on the gift giving. My family has hosted a wedding, and several trips, quite a few parties and showers and 30th birthday parties and other festivities, so we're all tightening our wallets.

Or so we say.

It can't be helped, really. It's not about the money for me. I just love giving gifts.

My family has never been one to draw names, or just give one present per person. Our tree, quite frankly, on Christmas morning, looks like something that belongs in a mall. With a fake Santa seated on a plush club chair nearby. See?

That doesn't really even do it justice. What you can't see, off to the left, is the 50 other gifts hiding under the base of the tree. The poor nutcrackers and reindeer that decorate the base of the steps in the foyer are just about drowning in there.

I can't wait.

Let the projects, secrets, sales and list-making begin.

I'm in the spirit.

Murphy's Law

It has finally happened.

I've lived here in Chicago for over nine years.

I've been a registered voter for 14 years.

I've had a driver's license in the state of Illinois since September of 2000.

And, now, my time has come.

I have jury duty today.

At the Criminal Court. On the Southside of Chicago. Right next door to the Cook County Jail.

I'm a little nervous.

Should I mention that my aunt worked in the police department in New Jersey for her entire career? Talk about how I feel about punishment and retribution and justice? Keep quiet, and hope they don't notice me? Play by the rules because I'm not likely to be chosen that way?

No idea.

I just know that, without a doubt, this would happen one month after I've sold my car. My only means of transportation that didn't require two buses, a train and a 3-block walk through a totally unsafe neighborhood. When the sun is now setting at 4:30 pm.

Of course. Murphy's got a sense of humor, that one.

Don't worry. I'm borrowing my friend's car. Thank goodness.

I just hope I return it with all four hubcaps.

It All Depends

People always talk about love as "unconditional."

Turns out, there's nothing unconditional about it.

Even the love shared between family members has conditions put on it. With long-term friendships, there are rules to the game. Boundaries you must respect, actions you have to take, protocol you must follow, lines in the sand you must draw.

People will hurt you. They will pull away. Friends need time to heal and figure out their own issues. Family will say things that they don't mean. Loved ones will act as if they are less than that, loved ones.

The conditions of the love are there, whether or not we're willing to acknowledge them.

You have to call every so often, so the friend knows that they're in your thoughts. You have to say the right thing, so the person knows how you feel. You have to be honest with yourself, to own you role in the disaster that has become normal. You have to respect the facts that face you, even if they tell you that everything you know is based on misconceptions. You have to try, put forth the effort, to go the extra mile, to answer the phone, to reach out. To give.

There's nothing unconditional about love.

Like anything else worth having in life, it comes fraught with conditions.

If only there was a manual for this game.

She Was There

She was there to tuck me in at night, reading me a story over and over.

She was there to pluck me out of the closet when I was having nightmares.

She was there to put bread bags over my tennis shoes, when Atlanta got a rare snowstorm.

She was there to make my lunches, while I ate breakfast before school.

She was there to dye the macaroni green on St. Patrick's Day, just for giggles.

She was there to drive us to Six Flags over and over one summer, so we girls could hang out all day.

She was there to take us to the mall on Saturday, to put up with our wanting and wishing.

She was there to teach us how to walk with confidence, even with a shopping cart.

She was there to coach basketball, or softball, or tennis, whatever we were playing that season.

She was there to help me pick out just the right outfit, so that she could take our photo on the first day of school.

She was there to make sure we were doing our homework, propped on our bed with a lapdesk firmly in place.

She was there to decorate my room, resplendent in Pepto-Bismol pink, because that was how I wanted it.

She was there to repair the hole in the wall after I'd slammed the door open one too many times.

She was there to let me put posters and clippings from Teen Beat and Tiger Beat and Seventeen magazine on my walls.

She was there to tell me that one day, I would grow into my height, if you know what I mean.

She was there to teach me right from wrong, but give me enough room to figure it out myself.

She was there to listen while I cried from a heartbreak, without saying that it was just puppy love.

She was there to teach me how to drive, reminding me to look in the mirrors at more than my lip gloss.

She was there to answer my questions about sex and love, even when it made her blush ever so slightly.

She was there to laugh at my jokes and put up with my stories, despite the fact that I'd lost track of the point.

She was there to witness my graduations, ceremonies and awards shows, to tell me she was proud.

She was there to cheer from the sidelines, and drive me home from the far away basketball games on Friday nights.

She was there to cry with me over romantic comedies, and Christmas commercials, in the dark of the living room.

She was there to drive me to college, setting up my dorm room and leaving me to grow up on my own.

She was there to give me the space freshman year, because she'd read a book that advised parents to do that.

She was there to support me, to teach me, to let me make my mistakes as I should.

She was there to move me into my first apartment, and my second, and my third, and my fourth...without looking back.

She was there to say goodbye, as I left my hometown for a bigger, brighter future in a new city.

She was there to listen while I sobbed after getting laid off, being dumped, or just plain hurting.

She was there to spackle, paint, refinish, tile, reorganize, decorate my new condo, even when nothing seemed right.

She was there to calm my nerves, ease my worries, comfort my doubts, just when I needed her.

She was there to remind me that being smart was more important than being pretty, that being confident was more valuable than being right.

She was there to urge me to be myself, to love me no matter what and to always answer the phone when I call.

She was there.

And, today is her birthday, and I have nothing, not enough money, not enough time, to tell her properly how much she has meant to me.

Because, like mothers should be, she has always been there.

Our relationship has ebbed, flowed and changed, and I am so thankful that we've arrived at this new place. Where we're friends, equals, partners, peers, and family.

Today, on her birthday, I celebrate my Mom. I know that I inherited a lot from her—on the outside, yes, but more importantly, on the inside where it really counts.

I love you, Mom. On your birthday, and always.

Thank you for being there.

A Bit Like the Hokey Pokey

Everyone knows what people say. That change is good. It makes life interesting. Keeps us guessing.

It was a Friday night, in June of 2000. I was at a wedding in St. Louis. My cousin Mike was getting married, and it was a fun O'Brien party—lots of laughs, dancing and, yes, wine.

After my second glass, I leaned over to Molly, my cousin who was a year behind me in school and had just graduated from KU, and asked her what she was planning to do now.

With a huge grin, she announced that she was moving to Chicago in August and couldn't wait to get to the big city. She'd been to Chicago many times before, and loved the energy and the opportunities there.

I sat quietly, and then, somewhat jokingly said, "Can I come?"

She thought I meant for a visit.

I meant to live there, too.

Laughing it off, as one would do to someone who'd made such a wild request, she said, "Of course!"

She was moving here to live with her high school friend Shannon and her college friend Jill. They were going to find an apartment, find jobs and find out who they really were, post-graduation.

At the time, I was working in Atlanta, had an apartment in Buckhead with two girls from college, and had a pretty good life. Tons of friends, a great social calendar, and the sort of familiar routine that comes with living in the city where you'd grown up. I knew that Trivia was on Tuesdays, where we'd be on Friday nights, that Athens for the Saturday games was just an hour away.

I was comfortable with my choices, but somehow just felt bored. Unfulfilled. Strangely, and unknowingly, dissatisfied that I'd done the expected. Moved to Atlanta after college. Ran with the same crowd, did the same activities and talked about the same things as everyone else whom I'd known for most of my life.

I was itching for a change.

Taking a long, slow sip of my wine, I leaned back over to Molly, and shouted over the band's lead singer, "No, I'm serious. What if I moved there with you?"

She looked at me like I was crazy. At first. Then a slow smile spread across her face. And, she told me to get another glass of wine. She didn't believe I was serious.

A few glasses later, I was that much more positive that a move from Atlanta was just what I needed to shake things up. By the following morning, the idea had done more than just plant a seed in my head—it had blossomed into a whole tree of possibility.

I asked her again what her plans were. Desperate for a few more specifics. She laughed—was I really serious? I'd never even been to Chicago.

By Sunday evening, when I was on the plane home with my parents and sister, I said to them, casually but loaded with meaning, "What would you guys say if I said I wanted to move to Chicago with Molly?"

They looked at me like I was crazy, or joking, and then realized I was dead serious. They said, almost together, that they'd support my decision. If I were serious.

Which, clearly I was. On Monday at work, I Googled Chicago. Perused through the images of the city, the parks, the lake, the surrounding areas. Checked it out on a map. Read reviews of the city, and checked out the comparisons to Atlanta—cost of living, demographics, population, etc.

When my phone rang later that day, and it was Molly, she asked me a pretty big question. She said, "On Wednesday, my Mom, Shannon and I are driving up to Chicago to look at apartments. Are we looking for a three bedroom or a four bedroom??"

I sat, covering the receiver with my hand, at my desk at work and answered the question that would change the course of the next decade, and likely the rest, of my life.

"A four bedroom. I'm in."

They called me from Chicago on Wednesday and told me about the apartments they'd seen. One especially great one on Clark Street in a place called Lincoln Park. It had four bedrooms, two bathrooms, a huge deck, a large overhead skylight and great views of the street down below. And, four guys living next door.

With my approval, and that of Jill's, who was home in Minnesota, they got a copy of the lease and read me the details over the phone. By Friday, I signed my portion of the lease and faxed it in to the management company. I'd been to the bank, gotten a certified check for the deposit, and it was a done deal. I bought a city book on Chicago, earmarked the pages, places and things I wanted to see, and began to search for jobs in my future town.

Seven days that completely changed my life.

My lease wasn't up in Atlanta until September, so I knew I had a few months to ride it out. Over the course of the next 60-75 days, I sold my car, gave notice at work and hired/trained my replacement, bought a new winter coat, applied for jobs, updated my resume and began packing up my life.

My friends held a great going-away party for me, and I cried as I said my goodbyes to those that I'd known for months, years and most of my life. As the taxi pulled away from the party, I didn't question my decision, but silently prayed I'd be happy. I cried all the way home.

When I landed in Chicago for a short "interview/get acquainted visit," I immediately loved the city. So much life! Energy! So many people! High-rises! Such a gorgeous lake, park, Navy Pier! As the cab rounded the curve at Oak Street Beach, I knew that I'd made the right decision.

I was 23, almost 24, and I just knew.

This change would do me good.

Nine+ years later, I have to admit. That decision paid off. Four jobs, three apartments, loads of old and new friends, many loves gained and lost, and lots of memories later, I am still here. I thought two years would be enough to "get it out of my system" but that's just it.

This change, this move to Chicago, was probably just what my system needed.

Apparently I don't do things halfway.

A bit like the Hokey Pokey, either I'm in or I'm out.

And, this time, the change was a little less overwhelming, and yet dramatic all the same.

Last weekend, I dyed my hair. DARK. I've always been the tall blonde. My hair, while gradually going darker over the years, has always been blonde. My eyebrows have always been darker than my hair (that's the O'Brien thing, I got it from my mom's side) and my stylist has been trying to convince me to do it for years.

So, I did.

And, you can see the proof of the process below.











I still give myself a bit of a start every time I look in the mirror, and I haven't recognized my reflection as I walked past a window just yet, but I think it's growing on me.

Change is good. It keeps thing interesting. And, if that last picture is any indication, I will grow to like the spunky new brunette me. Until I get used to it, I'll just fake it.

That's what I did in Chicago—while I loved it right away, I didn't feel like I fit in right away. It took time to get comfortable. I didn't call it home immediately, and now I can't imagine living anywhere else.

I guess that's what change is. A risk, a gamble and a giant step forward into the unknown.

With a bit of an attitude to boot.

Right?