In Your Dreams

I've been having the craziest dreams lately.

I haven't been sleeping well, and have been spending a lot of time in the middle of the night staring at the clock in a sheer panic about how few hours remain until my alarm will go off for work.

And I often wake, before said alarm, and wonder that the heck my subconscious is trying to tell me. I have a few theories, primarily since my dreams have been of long-past ex-boyfriends.

Are my dreams the expressions of my....

deepest desires?

subconscious regrets?

unfulfilled plans?

secret wishes?

mental reminders?

underlying nudges?

could'veshould'vebegladyoudidn't situations?

Or...more likely, a triggered memory from long ago that rises up, bubbles to the surface, awakens me with surprise, and fills me with odd feelings.

You've all been there. You have a dream about someone—be it a fight, or a love affair, or a heated discussion, or a telling moment—and when you wake up, you cognitively KNOW that it wasn't real, and that the other person doesn't know what happened, but when you see that person next, you feel odd. Intimate. Strangely connected, irrationally upset, rationally aware, yet embarrassed all the same.

In my recent dreams, I have experienced boyfriends from years, I mean decades, ago; they came to me as they'd be now (married, kids, successful, balding, OLDER) and yet the feelings that I'd had during our relationship were alive and present. One even offered me an extra-marital affair. I didn't partake.

One slightly more recent one, came to me with questions that haunt me to this day—if I hadn't moved away, would things be different?

One in the less distant past finally expressed all of what I'd been waiting for; yet, when I awoke, I felt nothing but relief that he was, in fact, an ex.

What are our dreams trying to tell us? And why do I keep visiting with and remembering my ex-boyfriends of years past? Is this like a drawn-out version of "The Christmas Story" as it relates to my love life?

God, I hope not. If so, I am not going to sleep tonight for fear of which ex-boyfriend will visit me this evening.

But, it does make me wonder what my brain is doing to me—is this a slideshow of the "things that could have been and you should be glad they didn't happen?" or the "see how great life was and you blew it?" or the reminder, in full-color and 3-D, of how badly mismatched we were in the first place?

I have no idea, but I'm not taking Tylenol PM ever again.

That stuff makes you have crazy night "memories."

And you? Don't visit me asking for an affair. In your dreams.

In the Weeds

Tonight after work, I got into the elevator at my condo building with four others. Three young men in their late teens or early twenties in casual dress, and one older woman in what looked like a church pot-luck dinner dress and pearls. I slid in the front, closest to the elevator door.

I smelled it instantly.

As soon as the metal door slid shut, the whiff of marijuana was so strong that it almost made my eyes water. If I hadn't known better, I'd thought that it was being smoked IN the elevator. I suspect it was just in a pocket, or sticking to clothes from a recent smoke, but I'm not sure. I couldn't help but smile to myself and think how the offender must have been either super-conscious of the scent, or oblivious to it entirely.

For risk of drug profiling, I won't commit immediately to which character I believe was carrying the pot and the corresponding smell.

But let's just be fair. Unless this lady goes to some seriously happening pot-lucks, I think we all know who had the weed.

The best part is this.

As we reached floor three, the little old lady, standing to my left in the corner by the elevator buttons, said brightly, "My my. It sure smells like grass in here!"

I almost swallowed my tongue.

And then she, with a happy grin, continued, "You boys must have been out there playing in the park, huh?"

Oh. That kind of grass.

Nope, Grandma, pretty sure you were right the first time.

The boys didn't respond to either statement. But when she exited the elevator on the 11th floor, and the doors slid closed, they broke out in a fit of laughter, bumping each other and generally just cracking up. It took everything in my power not to turn around and laugh with them, but I'm pretty sure they'd have just told this story later and included the part where the middle-aged lady laughed with them like she was a hip young thing.

So I refrained.

Grandma's reaction reminds me of the naivete that I experienced in high school, on the subject of weed.

I was a pretty solid goody-two-shoes. I know, you're shocked. It goes against every tough girl image you have of me. But, it's true. I had never smelled, seen or much less smoked pot. I was 14 years old, and living a very 14-year old life of innocence and childish joys. I recall vividly asking my mom what pot smelled like. (I have no idea what prompted that question.)

She said, and she was right, "When you smell it, you'll know. It smells sickly sweet, and nothing else smells quite like it."

Fast forward a few months. It was 1991 and I was a high school freshman. A bunch of kids decided to go to Lakewood Amphitheater to see Aerosmith. I went along. Brought my blanket and my hooded sweatshirt—you know, the innocent's essentials.

During the show, perched on the lawn littered with colorful blankets, fans of all ages and beer cans and other trash, I sat with my friends and jammed to the show.

At one point, as the sun started to slip behind the theater, I turned around to realize that someone was sitting on the back edge of our blanket. It appeared they were holding a small pottery souvenir. And? Lighting it. Hmmm.

I was unsure. I mean, I wasn't a total imbecile, but again, I was pretty naive to all things illegal.

Quietly asking a friend nearby, I remember asking what that kid was doing.

My friend looked at me incredulously, "Uhm, he's smoking a bowl." Like I was the biggest idiot ever.

He may have been right, but I didn't know. I nodded like I knew that and of course that miniature piece of pottery was a bowl. That you smoked with. I knew that.

I got home that night, in time for my 11 pm curfew, and told my mom the story.

The first question she asked wasn't, "Did you do it?!?!" with horror. Nope. She said, with a knowing smile, "So now you know what it smells like. Sickly sweet, isn't it?"

She was right. Just one of the many life lessons I learned from my mom in those pivotal years.

I guess no one ever taught Grandma that one.

It Rings True

It's a double-edged sword, to say the least.

When I'm meeting clients, vendors or prospects in a business setting, the conversation, usually over copious amounts of wine, turns to the elements of our personal life (like tonight, so please forgive anything I say from here on out). It is at this point that I feel like we really "connect." I get to see the true personality—the hobbies, interests, passions and pursuits that make these people who they really are—not just during the week, but in real life.

Unfortunately, for me, the conversation almost inevitably, and so it should, turns to children. How many, what ages, what sports they play, what talents they possess, and so on.

Genuinely, I ask, listen and nod along. I review the photos, ask the ages, record mentally their names. I do care—it is these conversations that often evoke a simple secret, a small nugget of truth, with which I can connect to the client, vendor or prospect at a later date. These factoids come in handy, and I am blessed with a strong enough short-term memory to invoke them when needed. It serves me well.

Ironically, then, that it is the exact same conversation that often reveals to me the stark contrast between what clients, vendors or prospects THINK of me, and what is real.

Most obviously, my age.

Because I do not have a husband and children (more so the latter), I am often judged as far younger than I am. I know, this seems a small price to pay and one that carries no pity from you all out there. However, in the early-to-mid part of my career, with more than 11 years under my belt and far more to come, I feel that I have worked hard to overcome many such judgments and age-based discriminations thus far.

I have risen to the occasion, met the challenge, exceeded the expectations. I have put myself, or been placed inadvertently or on purpose, in positions that will force me to "mature professionally" quickly, and have proven myself to be worthy of the opportunity. I am proud of where I stand in my career, and have nothing to hide.

But, since I don't talk openly of my little girl in first grade, or my darling son in pre-school, the aforementioned clients, vendors and prospects all assume immediately that I am younger than I am. Which, in turn, leads to a preconceived notion of my experience, or more precisely, the lack thereof.

I know I shouldn't care. I should be flattered by the impartial assummtpion that I am 25 or 26 (because, seriously, have they seen the lines on my face?). But, frankly, after working this hard for the past decade and more, I wish that it didn't require having birthed a small person to earn their trust and respect.

Because at this point, I'm practically willing to buy a CZ ring and fill my wallet and memory bank with images and stories of children that I don't yet know, if only to validate the respect and trust that I have earned through my hard work with such professional contacts.

If you're a mother, working outside the home or within, I hope you're not offended. But, please know that you're immediately granted some level of "wisdom" that I'm certain you've earned—through potty training or breastfeeding or diaper-changing—that subconsciously imparts that you are world-wise (and possibly world-weary!) in a way that cannot be transcribed to us simple working women. I can't explain it, but it's true. I see it on their faces, and then hear it in their voices when they make jokes about me being just a handful of years past college graduation. (As if. I can't even recall most of my college experience.)

I'm not claiming to know it all—or more than any of my mothering friends—but frankly, the natural assumption of business contacts that I am less of a 'mature woman' because I'm not yet fortunate to be a mother and wife assumes that I don't want that, have passed that by, aren't interested, or, frankly, wouldn't willingly leave all this behind in a heartbeat to find that privilege.

Not so fast.

The ring and the baby stroller may not be in my immediate present, but I assure you, they will be in my future. And until then, I'll continue to be the best client service professional you've ever met. And will celebrate my 26th birthday 7 more times over.

Oh wait. I have. I'll have to make that 8+.

Small Spaces, Big Laughs

Since I mentioned recently that I was getting the itch to get back into the real estate game, I've been spending a lot of time thinking about life in the city.

A few things have occurred to me, and I am not sure you'd understand unless you've:

a) lived in a huge city,

b) lived in a high-rise,

c) lived without a car or

d) lived on your own for a really long time.

So, here's to us. The apartment dwellers. The high-rise residents. The world-weary urbanites. The soloists.

With that in mind:

You know you live alone in an urban, high-rise apartment when...

...you now understand the idiom "not enough room to swing a cat" quite literally.

…you only have two small lamps and the whole room is bright.

…your social events have a max load capacity requirement guest list.

....you had to choose one color palette for every 'room' in your house since you can pretty much stand in the 'foyer' and see every corner of the joint.

...your next-door neighbor is a quiet Portuguese woman who cares for her not-so-quiet Portuguese wheelchair-bound mother.

...you have invented stories, and names, for the neighbors you see in the building next door.

...your arms are sore from the full-contact sport that is grocery shopping and walking the two-blocks and up the elevator and down the hallway and into the apartment only to dump it on the floor because your kitchen is too small before it gets put away and who's hungry anymore fact of the matter.

…you have to switch out the clothes in closet seasonally because only one season fits at a time.

...you recognize that privacy must be planned, as in, "I'm going into the bathroom for awhile, okay?"

...you have scheduled a luggage or a shopping cart from the front desk, a la the bellstand at a hotel, just to get your shopping treasures inside.

...you know that your upstairs neighbors are new parents and like to make love at about 9 pm on Tuesdays.

...you have experienced the 'use the stairs only in an emergency' down 13 flights when you awoke to the fire alarm, only to find out that the billowing smoke was luckily coming from the south tower of the building, not the north (yours).

…you can carry on a full conversation with someone in the kitchen from your bedroom.

...you see someone downtown, on the sidewalk, and you think you know them from somewhere, all before you realize that they run the 'volunteer library' in your building, which says something about your lack of social life.

...you have to dust the kitchen countertops and the dining room table more than once a week because of the dust from Lake Shore Drive.

...you know when your downstairs neighbor is cooking Italian, and you smell it long into the night.

...you have ridden in an elevator upwards of 12 times in one day.

...you have three overnight guest options—a pull out sofa, an Aerobed and to spoon with you.

...you know precisely how much laundry you can manage to carry in an elevator up to the 26th floor laundry room without wincing in pain.

...your wingspan is wider than your bathroom.

...you have towels and sheets folded into a linen closet that doubles as storage for your hotel-stolen-toiletries, your feather duster, your ace bandages, your laundry detergent and your extra lightbulbs.

...you live, shower, sleep, eat and drink within 4 yards of at least 12 people and you could neither recall their names or pick them out of a lineup.

...you know the Cubs are playing a night game because of the neon glow it makes in your bedroom and the sullen admission that, no, the applause is not for you.

...you have actually felt jealousy, no, rage, at the sheer envy that bubbles up inside when you overhear someone talking about their "backyard," "garden," "driveway," "deck," "patio," "garage," or, God forbid, their "cul-de-sac."

...you've decided that it no longer matters if the neighbor building sees you in your skivvies while you iron in the living room.

...you've felt self-conscious while putting your it-was-more-than-one-week-I-swear stash of wine bottles into the recycling bin in the trash chute room.

...you know your bus is coming because you can hear it before it arrives, and you may actually make it downstairs and out the front door before it pulls up to your stop, sortof like in grade school when you stood at the base of your driveway.

...your morning showers are affected by the untimely flush of your upstairs neighbor.

...you just vacuumed your entire apartment while plugged into one outlet.

That last one actually just happened to me and I laughed out loud.

Because it helps to have a sense of humor while trapped in a 900-square foot, 4-room looney bin.

Trust me.

Any other small-space urban dwellers that want to chime in?

By all means.

In fact, shout it aloud—I can probably hear you through the walls.

I'm a Sport

Once upon a time, I was quite sporty.

Athletic, even.

And now, after a 30-minute workout video, I can hardly move.

Sitting down was hard today.

Getting up was even worse.

Muscles I didn't even know I had hurt.

My hair may even be sore.

I hate you, Jillian Michaels.

It almost hurts to type.

With summer on its way, I know cognitively I should be exercising to rid my body of the layer of fat (layers?) that have accumulated through the last six months (nine?).

But I just have to be honest.

I HATE working out.

Does that make you cringe? Feel pity for my aging body? Think of me differently?

Yes, there were these days when I exercised religiously every day for 3 hours to achieve near-State-champion greatness:


I'm #30, the one usually in the back with a grosgrain ribbon-tied ponytail, for those of you that weren't there to witness the madness that was the Lady Blue Devils.

For you, especially, I will tell you that the days of my high school basketball career were some of the best. I walked on to a team, as a very tall, quite skinny freshman, that was bad. Really bad. Something like 2-12 bad. I have no idea how bad exactly, but bad.

I know what you're thinking. It was GIRLS BASKETBALL. Of course it was bad.

You'd be wrong.

I was 6' tall and lanky. "Weak as water," as my coach would say, replete with his southern twang and tweedy jacket. But, he saw promise. Potential. I proceeded to start as a freshman, and then every game thereafter. Eventually I would go on to be quite a defensive player with a good run at the region's record for most blocks. I never was strong, but I was a team player and a Merit Player for my good attitude, stamina and ability to, well, block their team of shorties.

The best part, at the beginning, was the varsity gear. The slicky track suits that we got to wear on game day, embarrassingly modeled below.


The separate outfits that we got to wear while warming up, pre-game, to the tunes of "Whoomp There it Is" and the like.

I could have been happy just with that. But, then there was the camaraderie. The joy of being on a team. The thrill of winning, and decorating our coach's front lawn with toilet paper and spirited signage. The dance parties (with our coach and his fabulous comb-over-do and effervescent cologne) in our tiny, yet colorful locker room, exhibited below, with our regional championship trophy.




And winning like mad.

We went from 2-12 or whatever to winning the subregions my junior year. And then winning the regions that same year. And then going on to have a record-breaking senior year. Selling out the gymnasium, bringing in even more fans than the boys team, who "supposedly" were the headliners after our games, but who didn't draw half the crowd we did.

We went all over the state of Georgia, knocking down opponents in all corners of the AAAA division. We had fun. We won games. Kids got scholarships. And we all were toned, in shape and fast.

Aaaaaannnnnndddd.

Then time caught up with us.

And now, here I am, 15 years later, hurting after one stupid 30-minute workout video showed me who's boss.

Needless to say, I miss the days when a 3-hour practice was routine, running suicides was just an appetizer before the team pasta dinner, a bus ride meant you were on to something great, and each Friday meant you were a star member of the winning team and cheerleaders decorated your locker and brought you cookie cakes that said things like, "Kick Cass" to rile you up for that night's game.

We had a good run. We learned the meaning of teamwork. We went the distance together. We achieved greatness, going something like 13-1. Lost a crucial one in the last seconds of the overtime buzzer, but we had the crowd on our side. Ended up #8 in the entire state of Georgia, in a very competitive division of girls' high school basketball.


And today I'll drink a toast to that.

From my sofa, in the fetal position.

Damn you Jillian Michaels.

If only you said things like Coach Teague used to say, in his thick and loud southern twang, "Y'all don't know whether to wind your butt or scratch your watch" or "You couldn't hit water if you fell out of a boat" or "You girls make chickens with their heads cut off look organized," at least I would feel at home. I would understand that the pain was all worth it.

Even if I didn't know what half those phrases meant.

Reunion?

Why hello there, Internets.

I know, I know.

I just up and left you all.

Hanging. Wondering. Waiting.

Well, I apologize.

I owe you that much at least.

What I also owe you is an explanation.

Unfortunately, I can't do that.

So, instead, I'm going to just say, please. Welcome me back.

Will you have me?

I sure hope so. My how I've missed you.

Please be patient with me. Like with anything, it will take some time to heal the pain of our parting. But, I am confident that we'll get back to the way we were.

Remember the good days? The fond memories we shared? The joys that we endured?

See? It's possible to forgive and not forget.

I'm so glad to see you again. Now, let's just hope some of you haven't forgotten what brought us together in the first place.

In the interim, here's a few nuggets to nibble on while you lick your wounds.

Since we last met, a few things have transpired. A lot is different.

And, yet, nothing has changed.

• I am working hard, with long hours and challenging stuff. I enjoy the people that surround me daily, and I have a lot to learn. And much to teach. And loads to give.


• I have decided to go back to being blonde. It is just more 'me' and I miss that. I will keep you updated. It's not a matter of national security or anything, but I know I will just feel more right in my own skin.


• Summer is almost here. It's knocking on our doors, or the open windows, rather. Can you taste the optimism? Can you feel the hope? After an extremely mild winter, and a quite lovely spring, I hardly feel worthy. But, I'll take it.


• I helped out a photographer friend, Tracy Petersen as she built her lifestyle portrait business, and the above shot is one of her best from our time touring Chicago with her lens and my embarrassment. We sure had fun, and the resulting business (oh the power of the random Facebook post!) has been so gratifying.


• The coming months should be named the summer of concerts. I have plans to see many, many live shows, and I'm brushing up on my download skills, making room on my iPod and plotting the morning afters. To name a few, I will be seeing U2 live at Soldier Field (to make up for the tickets I had to sell for my sister's wedding this past September), Kings of Leon (sadly, at a suburban amphitheater), Bon Jovi (also at Soldier Field, good little rockers), O.A.R. (at the fantastic Northerly Island venue on the lake). And then there's the granddaddy of concerts, Lollapalooza. I still haven't made up my mind if the ever-so-strange lineup will call me to be present, but there's still a chance.


• Sadly, I said goodbye to a great friend as she took her leap of faith and moved across the country to find her own big mountain in Denver, CO. I'm so proud of her, and know that doing such a thing 10 years ago changed my life, as I suspect this will for her. It just begs the question, is it time for the next round of Chicago departures to happen? I hate that.


• So many pregnancies! One of my dearest is about to give birth to her very first, and I can't wait to go for the VERY FIRST TIME to the hospital to meet the baby on his or her birthday. I just can't wait. I only hope I don't give in to my biological urges and snatch a baby from the hallways. I should definitely not be left unattended.


• I have the real estate itch. I have found myself spending hours on a Sunday trolling the websites looking at properties. An email even went out to my realtor asking where and when we should start. He urged me to wait until this summer, but I'm antsy and excited. I long for two bedrooms (one for a guest bed and an office) and possibly, dare I say, a second bathroom for guests? In-unit washer and dryer, a garbage disposal and a balcony would complete the package. After five years without those things, who knew how important they'd be to me now? Stay tuned for what only promises to be more exciting, and less stressful, than the first go-round.

And that's about it. I'm not traveling as much, if at all, for work now, so that's a relief. Sadly, that means no more flight delays, hotel room service, late nights, early meetings and getting lost on the New Jersey Turnpike, but I'm not complaining. No, really, I'm not.

Until the next time (it may take me a bit to get back in the groove), I thank you for your patience, continued support and you welcoming me home with open arms.

I've really missed you. It's been a challenge. You have no idea.

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.

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.