Just Shoot Me

On the way home today, the bus was crowded, even though it was only 3:15 pm. I raced to catch it, and sat at the front near an old man. He had a cane, and was neatly dressed.

As the traffic slowed on Lake Shore, heading north, he started to mumble under his breath. Then it grew louder. And louder.

Then it was full out talking to himself, or anyone who was within a mere 10 foot range.

But clearly he didn't want, or need, a response. Just an audience.

He was not pleased with the bus driver. He was disappointed in the sluggish traffic. He was not happy with the soggy falling snow. He was cranking about the woman to his left's perfume. He was not overjoyed with the salt truck weaving in our lane. He wasn't happy with the Bears' season. (ok, that was mine, but it seemed fitting)

I could really only make out every 5th word or so, but we all got the gist.

This guy was one grumpy old man.

My mom, sister and I made a pact over this holiday: we promised that if we ever got really sore and crabby and grumpy and crazy as we aged, that we'd just shoot each other. Get us (and, frankly, everyone else) out of the misery. Save us the trouble of ending up as that old person on the bus that everyone is glaring at, and that is oblivious to it all.

Did I mention he was wearing a clinical face mask?

Hippy Dippy

With 3 flights, 3 airlines and 4 airports in 7 days, and NO TRAVEL DELAYS, I know I have absolutely no right to complain.

But I must.

Flying from Chicago Midway to Atlanta on the 23rd, I was on an Airtran flight, and had booked the aisle when I checked in 24 hours in advance like the good little traveler that I am. I boarded the plane, with my group, and make my way back to my seat, only to see that a woman is occupying it. Fully.

I say, in that nice casual but borderline annoyed voice, "I think you're in my seat." And she says, while nodding at the middle seat, "would you mind sitting in the middle?"

I paused. The polite southerner in me wanted to say that of course I would, that it would be no problem, that I wouldn't mind at all.

I didn't.

With a controlled politeness, I said, "Well, actually, I'm very tall and would prefer the aisle." (THAT I BOOKED, LADY.) She harumphs, and says, "Okay then, you're going to have to deal with these hips."

I look down.

She has the BIGGEST HIPS I'VE EVER SEEN.

They blossomed out from under her rather large chest. Buffooned out from each side, stretching out at least 12 inches to and fro. I know, I'm a terrible person, but she brought it up.

I said, "Okay." and sat down. In the aisle seat, as planned.

Here's the breaking point. My big mistake. Huge.

I didn't put down the arm rest.

For everyone that has ever boarded a plane, and all those that will travel in the future, this is your warning. Your note to self.

Put down the arm rest.

If I had done it after the fact, it would have bruised her, I'm convinced. So, I spared her that pain and left it up. All this meant for me was that she was more than 1/3 of the way into my seat with those hips. Her body heat and mine combined to create a friction that warmed the entire back half of the plane. For more than 2 hours.

With my 6' self contorted to avoid the sheer suction effect of sharing that much body with another woman, I was practically curved into an "S" the whole trip. I am not sure I am still back to normal.

You'd think that I'd have learned my lesson, and would have boarded earlier, more aggressively, and more attuned to the passengers around me from then on.

I guess not.

I boarded a plane on the 27th for St. Louis, a little American Airlines express flight, and found myself in the window seat on a 2-person row on a tiny little jet.

In the process of sitting, rearranging, and stowing my carry-on fully beneath the seat in front of me, I make the same grave mistake.

No arm rest down-putting. Big mistake. Huge.

Then I see her.

She is young, pausing, looking at me, and I immediately know she's going to be in my aisle. She, too, has the biggest hips I've seen (okay, since the first flight, but still).

I pity her immediately because she's red-faced, sweating, and young. Like 17. She sits down, and then I realize my tragic error.

Again, it is too late.

We, too, shared body heat and personal space the entire way from Atlanta to St. Louis. By the time we got there, I was quite familiar with her body odor. Her scent, if you will.

Merry Christmas to me.

Empty Promises

While celebrating the holidays with extended family, the innocent question "So, Colleen, are you seeing anyone?" keeps coming up. It is practically the first question I'm asked. I'm sometimes not even fully in the door. The coat has definitely not even been yet hung in the closet.

This casual, yet loaded, inquiry inevitably leads to a laughing, joking, somewhat cynical conversation of The Vortex that has sucked in (and sometimes spit back out) the guys in my life, and the lives of my other single cousins.

The stories are piling up (I made notes on the plane and realize I currently have no less than 11 stories to tell) of the myriad vortex tales. The airplane napkin is chock full of my love disasters.

I promise the publishing of these stories is coming soon. For now, begin to collect yours, and send them my way.

Just be sure that you change the guys' names, to protect the guilty.

Two Birthdays, Tiny Bottles

Ever the efficient lady, I love when you can knock out several celebrations at once. With my birthday landing just three days after the birth of Jesus, it always gives us days of reasons (excuses) to party. I'm now in St. Louis, celebrating even more.

Last night was my birthday, and seeing as I'm with my mom's ginormous family, there was no shortage of fun.

My aunt offered us "girl beers"—small, 7 oz. holiday dressed Bud Lights—and while they are petite and cute, I must admit that they make me a tad self-conscious.

It didn't take long for me to have several dead soldiers of "girl beers" lined up next to my place at the table. Had to move the evidence so no one counted them and started the "you must be the birthday girl" conversation. Not that anyone can blame me—I'm in a huge Irish family and right after taking your coat, you're handed a drink.

Tonight is O'Brien Christmas, which means yet another party.

There will be approximately 70 people there, I kid you not, ranging from 2'5" to 6'5"—and 15 months to, ahem, the older set. Lots of blondes, lots of freckles, lots of cute fashions, lots of loud voices, lots of hugging, lots of laughter.

There are doctors, pilots, writers, lawyers, designers, realtors, artists, marketers, web gurus, sales executives, retirees and hardworking stay-at-home moms. Oh, and one cousin that is so smart and successful but that no one quite understands what he does for a living. All we know is that is passport is full of stamps from countries that end in "stan." And I am pretty sure he's fluent in 9 languages. The rock climbing hydrogeologist will not be here this year, and that is a shame. His stories rock.

Gotta love family. I need to read up on everyone's kid's names just to be sure. Maybe I'll hold off on the girl beers until we've said our hellos, to ensure that no one is erroneously greeted.

Because tonight is NOT my birthday, and I can't play the birthday girl card anymore.

Life is Like...

I kid you not, I saw Forest Gump in Midway airport yesterday.

As I undressed down to my skivvies for the security lines, I hear one of the TSA agent saying to the other, "Did you see that guy? What a Forest Gump."

I wasn't sure if he was referring to a passenger that had a thick southern accent, severly doofus behavior, or a hippie long beard. (Forest Gump had lots of attributes that one could recall).

To avoid blocking traffic flow, I keep moving.

I get to Potbelly, buy a sandwich, and head toward my gate. As I walk to the A10 area, I see him.

Forest Gump.

He was dressed EXACTLY like the above photo—blue and white checked shirt, light tan suit, brown leather briefcase and a close shave haircut. Ramrod straight posture, he carried said briefcase through the gate area.

Mind you, he had no coat on, and it isn't exactly the season for such summer attire.

I have no explanation. I just was waiting for someone to yell, at the top of their lungs in support, "Run, Forest, Run!"

(Which is what people were yelling at me, Kristen and Laura as we raced through the Cancun airport trying not to miss our flight back from Mexico).

Would've been appropriate to hear it yesterday.

UPDATE AS OF 12/28:

I have been informed that the cheesy chain, Bubba Gump Shrimp Co., employs men to dress as Forest Gump and cruise public places to promote the restaurant. And, while in public, even when not working, they must remain in character. So, that was likely what I saw...

I've been Gumped.

Problem Solved

Not to brag, but I think I've found the source of the problem that Atlanta is facing regarding the water crisis:

The upstairs toilet at my parents' house.

It just runs and runs and runs. It flushes three full times before it is done. It sounds like an ocean when it flushes. And it doesn't stop flushing for about 10 minutes.

I'm seriously thinking of calling the Core of Engineers and having them come out and take the matter into their own hands.

Wouldn't it be nice to save the day for millions of people, not to mention the mollusks or whatever is part of the issue down in Florida?

Lake Lanier, the man-made lake we grew up boating on, is now a depressing sight. I think the water that is left is pulling into a sad spiral...

directly from the Snell family toilet.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good flush!

On a Wing and a Prayer

I'm traveling south for Christmas...and leaving the beauty of Michigan Avenue at the holidays behind.

Given the wind blowing outside, it may be a quick trip. I'm saying quiet prayers now that the plane can handle it.

However, knowing Chicago's airports, it is possible (and maybe more likely) that I'll be stationed at the gate at Midway for most of the day. At least I can take comfort in knowing I won't be alone.

And there's nothing quite like airport-people-watching to pass the time (and boost my self-confidence).

I'm certain that there will be at least one group of travelers, one lone passenger, one badly dressed individual, one family fighting, one kid crying, or one disgruntled service worker to make my day by providing me fodder for a later post.

Stay tuned, and safe travels!

Number Two

This story puts a whole new spin on commuting.

My dear friends Tracy and Vytas have quit their jobs, sold their home, and are traveling on their cruising sailboat. They're seeing amazing sights, experiencing cultures and worlds beyond their own, and they're milking their youth instead of waiting until retirement to truly live life.

With Christmas this week, they flew home from The Bahamas to spend some quality time with friends and family. I had the privilege of hosting them for a few days, and we had a wonderful time. Caught up on sailing tales, saw their photos, exhanged sagas of the ups and downs of our respective lives, and talked and talked and talked.

Then, at a happy hour specifically in their honor last night, they were barraged with questions like, "Where have you been?" and "What's it like to live on a boat?" They kindly, and proudly, answered each one with gusto, to laughs and sighs all around (the laughs are in appreciation, the sighs are in envy).

My favorite answer had to be in response this one:

"So, what is the one thing that you're not enjoying?"

Tracy laughed, thought for about a millisecond, and told a funny tale involving the head (aka, the bathroom). When your boat is 350 square feet of interior space, the head is a omnipresent part of your life. It is at the foot of their bed for crying out loud. You get to know each other very quickly, and very well.

The gist is, without getting too gross or technical, that on the ocean, a sailboat basically carries the waste underneath, in the hull, and disposes of it overboard at some point when it is full (yes, it is gross, but yes, it is legal). Said waste hold is, pleasantly, located beneath the bed.

With a smile, and a tilt of the head, she said to the inquiring party, "So, basically, we travel with our poo."

That requires no more commentary. Just a repeat.

We travel with our poo.

Pass the Ravioli

With the political correctness of most companies these days, and people at work focused exclusively on getting really creative and fantastic work done on time and under budget (of course!), there isn't much time for decorating the office space.

So, you may end up being left to your own devices.

At our office, this was the team-generated, company-approved result of one simple inquiry to help decorate the desk at reception, emailed to the entire directory. It was a plea...come decorate my desk, she said.

At least the can was red to begin with—truly set the stage for some tasty holiday cheer.

Too Much

At Costco, even the snow comes in bulk.

And, yes, I was insane enough to venture there last weekend, with a headache, to try to find one last gift that I've been seeking.

Big mistake. Huge.

I push my oversized card through their oversized aisles, and am trying my best to remember that this is the holiday season, and that means good cheer and tidings to men and all that, but I was on the verge of a breakdown.

Too hot, too many people, too few registers open, too much to drink the night before, too loud, too hard to find a parking space, too crabby.

And then I hear it. Holiday music tinkling out above the rest of the din. I look around, and realize it is a a young boy, seated at the upright keyboard, and he was playing songs for the passersby. He couldn't have been more than 10, and he was playing brilliantly. Sweet look on his face, calm manner, just playing away.

He moved on from holiday numbers to assorted compositions you'd recognize (but that I can't name). It was beautiful.

I was moved, and momentarily forgot my distaste for the oversized giant of a headache-inducing place that is Costco on a Saturday in December.

I grabbed a case of beer, loaded the lumpy box into the cart, and made it to the checkout aisle. The bottom of the box was curiously weak, and somewhat damp, and I could only imagine what was hiding out on the bottom of my Stella Artois. But, it was the last case, and I had special friends coming in town that preferred the beer, so I went for it.

When I got home, and began to unload the beer into the fridge, I realize that not one, but TWO of the bottles were broken in their place, and the beer had clearly soaked through the box. Little dead soldiers still in their cardboard cells.

It was very sad. But, not worth driving back to Costco for, that's for sure. Tried to recall the sound of the music the boy played. I needed it to erase the sad sight of two broken bottles amidst all of the lovely green glass.

Drank one. That did the trick.

Mary Lou Retton I am Not

Picture this:

Crowded Michigan Avenue bus. Shopping bags lay at every person's feet. Hats, gloves, scarves all making people sweat. More people get on. Crowd inches to the back. Bust driver shouts. Shuffling of the bags. People stamping their boots to rid them of the clumped, mushy snow. More people get on.

I am standing, with my gloves off (to avoid aforementioned sweating) and am gripping the pole that is just above my head, running horizontally all the way to the back of the bus. Metal, slimy, sticky, shiny. Lovely.

As the crowd surges, and the bus lurches, one must tighten her grip.

I was practically swinging from the bar. Would've been if God hadn't graced me with extra long Go-Go-Gadget arms.

By the time I got home, I had those little white half moon blisters on my palms.

Team USA Gymnastics is CLEARLY not in my future.

It's Serious Out There

As a follow up to yesterday's post "Not So Magnificent," I just ran some last minute, lunch time errands on Michigan Avenue to finish my holiday shopping...

...brief celebration for THAT right here...

and realized that the melting snow/ice from the buildings is really gettin' serious out there.

It was like one giant game of Frogger—using real life tourists!

And, it is the best social analysis of the psychology of mob activity. If one person looks up, then everyone begins to look up.

Don't these people realize that if they look UP, then snow falling will hit them directly in the FACE?

I'd say keep your Frogger head down, and move quickly. When in doubt, carry a child on your shoulders for protection.

I'm just saying...

Better Than Licking the Pole

With the lovely white snow turning to grey mushy mess, and the holiday cards stacked on my table begging me to stay in and address them all, I did what any smart, seasonally-spirited woman would do.

I poured myself a glass of wine, turned on the Christmas lights, and reintroduced myself to my old friend Tivo.

Tivo has been good to me this season. He's loyal, dedicated, generous and, most of all, thoughtful. He records things he thinks I might like, based on other shows I've watched or recorded, and saves them for me to review.

Sometimes I am a bit embarrassed by what is in the list from Tivo.

For a while there, it was full of nothing but HGTV shows—"Divine Design," "My First Pace," "ReDesign," "Color Splash," and more. I am a huge fan, but, there is a limit to how many DIY decorating shows I can watch—especially given that I live in a 1,000 square feet apartment, that is totally decorated. Meaning, not much more I can do to it.

I digress.

So, the Tivo list lately has included some questionable doses of reality TV—"The Hills" (shameful, Tivo, but I love you for it), "The Girls Next Door" (can't do it), and "A Shot of Love" (wouldn't touch it with a ten foot pole).

But, this weekend, Tivo was extra special kind to me. He recorded, one after another, all of the cheesy, sappy, romantic and all around silly Christmas movies. Makes you wonder what tipped him off?

I had a list of about 12 different ones, featuring titles like, "Under the Mistletoe," "A Christmas Romance," "The Christmas Shoes," "Christmas in Paradise," "Holiday in Handcuffs" (not kidding), and "Snowglobe."

Embarrassed to admit it, but I watched each one.

At some point in the last week and a half, I have practically overdosed on these flicks. I mean, there is a reason that most of them are on ABC Family channel. Because the only people who can stand that much MUSH are those with suburban homes, 12-foot pine trees, loving husbands, adorable children, jovial neighbors and, okay, overbearing in-laws.

Otherwise, you're just a sad single gal who should be out drinking spiced rum cider with her joyous single friends. Right?

I can't be blamed. I think Tivo has had it planned all year—get her nestled snug on the sofa, under a blanket and the glow of the fake Christmas tree, arms distance from the assorted wrapped gifts for loved ones, and spread red and green greeting cards all around the table—and then hit her with the holiday lineup.

All in all, I learned a few things from this cinematic overdose. (I'll share with you so you don't become trapped in the holiday movie marathon like I did, and waste the last precious moments of good shopping mayhem pre-Christmas):

• whatever you wish for while closing your eyes, staring out into the snowy yard, will come true

• if your husband dies or leaves you, by next Christmas you'll be back dating again (but only after you've been visited by his ghost and he's given you his blessing to "find love again")

• the malls in movies are never as unpleasant, crowded, hot or filled with crabby shoppers as they are in real life

• matching mittens, scarf and hat look pretty damn cute on actresses who are a size 2, but I still suspect I'd look like an overgrown doll who was left in the hands of Carson Kressley as a child

• snow doesn't melt on the hair or shoulders of people in the movies—just rests there, glistening—and it definitely never gets grey and mushy

• I'll take a Thanksgiving turkey over a Christmas goose any day

• Santa could use a few months on Weight Watchers, but then what would be the point of the big black belt?

• dimples are still a turn-on (ok, that was because of Mario Lopez, so sue me)

• B-list actors are making holiday movies by the dozen, with no apparent shame

• snow angels are definitely always going to be awesome, no matter how they try to ruin them in Hollywood

All in all, there are really valuable lessons to be learned there. Consider it my gift to you this season.

Totally biased side note: "The Christmas Story" is still the all-time best holiday movie, with markedly less fake cheer, mushy romance and a solid dose of a realistic, grumpy Santa. Apparently I cried when my Mom and Dad took me to see it in the theater as a kid—guess I didn't like the fist-fight scene. What a wimp. Maybe my parents can be blamed for my affinity towards cheesy Christmas movies?

Now get out there and go caroling, stay inside and bake cookies for your friends, or something else very suburban and spirited.

Your jovial neighbors will thank you.

Not So Magnificent

So I was just escaping the work grind for a short break at the food court at Nordstrom, just down the Magnificent Mile from my office. After a quick lunch, I walked toward the front doors only to realize that there were cops there, blocking all traffic from exiting. Not one to miss a moment of the action, I stuck around long enough to realize they were shuttling all holiday shoppers out other exits, but you absolutely were not able to use the Michigan Avenue-facing revolving doors.

Normally, a girl with an affinity for shopping would love the opportunity (or excuse!) to be stuck inside a sale-laden, holiday-decorated retail venue, but this time was just plain baffling. You mean I can't leave? Mustn't return to work?

They had roped off the outside entrance and there were huge shards of ice laying broken in pieces on the sidewalk, surrounded by crowds looking up.

Apparently the sun had warmed the ice on the roof just enough to send it crashing to the pavement down below. This happens a lot here, and there was even a death a few years ago when a woman was hit by a huge slice of ice from above.

Who knew shopping could be such an adventure sport?

I'm Such a Tease

Yes. You are seeing that correctly.

I have embarked, though slowly, on a new blog. Not to replace this one, but in addition to it (because I have the time!?!?).

This one is big. Huge. Legendary. I feel obligated, like I owe it to girls everywhere, to do this.

And, yes, I will provide an ample, and well-crafted definition of this theory of mine about the vortex.

Tales of the Vortex will be about, and comprised of, the world-class, hilarious, painful, ridiculous, nail-biting, boot-stomping, mind-numbing, frustrating, stupid situations that have happened to me or to one of my fabulous friends as we traverse the dating universe.

These tales make great "let's have a glass of wine and talk about men" kind of stories, but they make truly finding happiness in dating virtually impossible. Laughable even.

Maybe, just maybe, with me displaying this kind of "flirty, easy, teasing attitude," you'll actually drop in and visit when I'm ready. You'll settle in, share a laugh, and find some kindred-spiritness to it all.

You know, like you said you would.

As you said goodnight.

After introducing me to your parents.

And never did.

If Only...

The CTA is proposing, or threatening a walk out.

Meaning, the workers are planning to just get up, and leave their jobs. To prove a point.

Wouldn't that be nice?

After a three week span of you-must-be-crazy long hours, terribly awful to receive first thing in the morning emails, budget requests, deadlines we can't possibly meet, and, ultimately, just plain dealing with clients who seemed to miss out on the "common sense" gene, and definitely are lacking in polite etitquette (can I get a "thank you?" anyone??), it only seems right that I should be able to just...

walk out.

Not that I'm complaining about my job. I love my work, my company is great, and all in all, I've very happy. Even on cold mornings, it isn't that hard to drag myself out of my cozy warm bed and into the office.

But, lately, things have been different.

Instead, I just rant, rave, pace my office, close the door and put my head down on the desk, walk the block in the 25 degree wind, just to get some perspective.

A walk out.

Now THERE'S a Christmas wish I could stand fully behind.

The Cluster

I am privileged to host a guest blogger tonight...my brilliant, funny, charming colleague and friend, Monica. She is a writer/muser/rambler on her own, so do check her out.

For now, here are her thoughts/comments that relate to the general theme of this blog:

The CTA is a constant source of misery, entertainment and confusion for me. So I was thinking about something...

Let's call it "The Cluster."

Here's the thing, when you get on the train alone, you go for a seat that is as far away from others as possible, so that you don't have to sit with any of them. The next person who gets on alone does the same. Then when a group or couple gets on, they can't sit together because all of the seats have one person in them. So you have all of these people sitting alone so that they don't have to sit by other people, and all of these people who WANT to sit together who cannot.

Now, with most trains, someone is eventually going to sit with you. It is going to get crowded. Enter "The Cluster." If people would just kindof get on the train and immediately start filling up from the front or always sitting next to someone else, then groups of people and couples can always sit with their parties.

Logically, if you know that someone is going to sit next to you at some point, why postpone the inevitable, right? And by immediately choosing someone to sit next to on your own, you maintain the power!

By "clustering" someone else, you prevent someone else from "clustering" you! Likely, if you leave it to chance, you will be "clustered" by someone who is extremely unpleasant. They will be eating cured meats and barbecue sauce. They will have trouble breathing. They will be hot (in the warm sense, not the attractive one). They will cough. They will yawn. They will scratch and pick at themselves. They will do a butt pivot rather than stand up to let you off at your stop...

"The Cluster" is never gonna happen. If you randomly go and sit next to someone on an empty train, you will get punched in the face.

--Thanks, Monica!

My New Man

I must admit it isn’t my style to take strange men home from bars, but Fonzie was the exception.

I found him laying, face down on the bar, after everyone had gone home from my company holiday party. Someone must've left their gag gift for the taking.

All wrapped in plastic, he seemed harmless and safe. Nice, even. He is wearing a mechanics outfit (fix my car, Fonz?) and he was dressed and ready for work (in coordinating top and pants, he totally matched!)

He even fit in my purse! What a guy.

He’s not much of a conversationalist, by the way.

However, upon further consideration, that may be the best kind of boyfriend.

Fallen Angel

Tonight as I drove home in the cold sleet and fog from having a lovely, cozy dinner with Jill and Josh, I pulled up to the stoplight at Addison and Clark Street. This, for you Chicago residents, is the corner that boasts the legendary Wrigley Field.

The sleet was thick on the windshield, so I engaged the wipers, and saw a white figure in the dark. At first, I thought I was seeing a ghost. I pulled up a little bit, into the street lamps of Clark Street, and realized it wasn't a ghost, it was a Chicago icon, teetering about in the mist. Bouncing off of the cement of the Field's back walls.

It was Ronnie Woo Woo.

He was, and I kid you not, wearing his full Cubs uniform (the home jersey) and was wearing a red, floppy felt Santa hat, and a frayed, wooly blue Chicago Bears scarf. But, with the white jersey and the striped tight pants, there was no mistaking him.

It was Ronnie Woo Woo.

(For you non-Chicago residents or non-Cubs fans, Ronnie Woo Woo is a Chicago sports legend, one that ranks, in fame at least, up there with Ryne Sandberg and Harry Caray. He's the fan, who was once a homeless alcoholic, who convinced his way into so many Cubs home games that he became a part of the Field. Sortof like the ivy. Or the beer stench. He was always there. He roamed the outfield bleachers, shouting, "Cubs Woo. Cubs Woo. Cubs Woo." in the same monotone, high-pitched voice of a strange fan. He is dedicated. And, a bit strange.)

About 2 years ago, I had been invited to the game by my friend Tim, and we went for post-game drinks at the local Cubs bar across the street after the final inning (and the invevitable Cubs loss.) There, we had the rare and celebrated opportunity to meet Ronnie Woo Woo in person.

Kristen and I, both the ever-curious writers who had imbibed a few that day, asked him..."Why the Woo, Ronnie?" He explained, through his newly purchased dentures (Care of Cubs Care, the philanthropic arm of the Clubhouse), that he hadn't missed a home game since the early 60's. He means it. He began his famous chant, "Cubs Woo. Cubs Woo. Cubs Woo." many years ago, and keeps it up today.

I don't know how he does it, or why, more to the point, but he is now famous for this role. And his claim to fame still stands. I think a movie was even made about him.

So, tonight, you can imagine the disappointment. I was shocked, saddened, and a little grieved to see him wandering alone on the sidewalk, in the shadow of his beloved home field, in the cold mist on a Sunday night in the dark. He had claimed to have been a recovering alcoholic (that night at the bar he only chose to sip lemonade) and I believed him. Every slippery word.

But, tonight, a cold night in December, mind you, the sullen truth is, who knows. I was sad. I was a bit surprised. I wanted to pick him up, warm him up, sober him up, and take him home for some warm cider and shelled peanuts. But, it was not to be.

Truthfully, it was like the day I found out Santa wasn't real.

Frankly, I still choose to believe. In Santa, and Ronnie Woo Woo.

Welcome to My Office

My friend Laura and I were driving behind a cab last night, watching as he stopped in the middle of the lane, no warning, no blinker, no hazard lights. Just came to a complete stop. For no apparent reason.

It got us talking about our cab pet peeves, and apparently we have plenty. In a fit of giggles, Laura and I collectively decided one of the most annoying things cab drivers do is this:

You get in, give the address, and then they sit still. It is evident that they have absolutely no idea where to go to get you there. They pause. They turn their head back to you, and say, "uhm, where is that?"

I realize that no one is perfect. No one knows everything, but this is an issue.

The cab driver's entire job is designed around getting you to your destination, safely, efficiently and in the most direct way.

If they don't know where to go, or how to get there, it is basically a complete failure of doing their job.

We decided that this absolute inability to perform is the taxi driver equivalent of us not knowing how to do our job, but yet sitting in our office and pretending that we do.

Here's the mental image: I'm seated in my office, behind my computer, hands on the keyboard. Possibly sipping on the free coffee provided by the company. Someone comes into the office, takes a seat, and patiently yet firmly asks me to do something, and I say, "uhm, yeah, how do I do that?"

And, the unsuspecting person has to detail the steps for me, piece by piece, and explains the nuances of that part of my job. Basically does it for me.

And, yet, when they are finished, and I meagerly do the task as requested, I put out my hand and still demand my paycheck. For nothing.

Then I say, "Oh, and here's my body odor for your sensory pleasure. Thanks for coming by."

It just doesn't work. The cab driver's entire job is built around the idea that they can get you to where you want to go. Not knowing the streets of Chicago just renders them completely unsuccessful at their job. Yet, they still want to get paid.

Not sure that would fly in most offices. Right, Jim?

The Zoo

I had the distinct privilege of going to the Bears game yesterday, and despite the crappy weather, and the fourth quarter "we gave up the game by letting you score 9 points while we sat idly by" behavior, I had a great time.

I'm sure the four cold beers had nothing to do with it.

Shortly after arriving, as the rain died down and the wind picked up, I walked into the ladies restroom, the one that was nearest our amazing 200 level seats in the end zone, and stopped dead in my tracks.

Animal reference intended.

It had a strange smell. I couldn't place it at first, and then it hit me.

The entire bathroom smelled like a zoo. You know the one—the aroma of straw, dirty floors, animal waste and too many people? Yep. That one.

I looked left. Glanced right.

Nope.

No animals held in captivity below the dripping sinks. No zookeeper lurking in one of the empty stalls. No reasonable explanation for the gross stench.

And that was the LADIES room. I can only dare to imagine what fragrance the men can muster.

Needless to say, the smell lingered for awhile, trapped in my four layers of clothing possibly, or maybe drafting over to our seats from behind us. So, I did what any self-respecting, solid, lived-here-awhile-and-now-I'm-tough, Bears fan would do.

I devoured a Chicago-style hot dog, laden with smelly grilled onions, to make me (and everyone seated within a four-seat radius) forget about the zoo smell.

I think it was pretty damn polite of me, personally.

Blame Game

Good thing the wine is only $2.99 a bottle, because I sure am plowing through it these days.

I personally blame it on clients.

Anyone with me? Yeah. I thought so.

Cheers.

Recycled

A few weeks ago, my friend Katie told me a cute, sweet story of mid-day urban romance.

She was walking to get lunch, the sun was out, and a handsome stranger approached her. "Excuse me, this may be kindof weird, but life is short, so I figured what the heck. Are you single?"

She laughed, shyly, and said, "Well, kindof." This is the every-girl answer that gives everything and nothing away all at once.

Handsome stranger sticks out his hand, introduces himself (Scott) and says, "I never do this kind of thing, but I couldn't resist - you're so adorable!"

She giggled, nervously, and allowed him to give her his phone number after he says, "We should get lunch, or coffee, sometime. I work at the Tribune right nearby." (He had no cards on him, and she was clutching her phone, so this all seemed normal). He entered his digits into her cell, and then they parted ways. Not before Katie had noticed that he was well-dressed, outwardly normal, and was heading back to the office at the Chicago Tribune, which, incidentally, is across the street from our office.

Satisfied by the unexpected compliment, Katie shared her story humbly and we had a good laugh. We were actually quite proud of Handsome Stranger for his nerve, his suave yet unrefined ways, and his all-around general likability.

Katie was pretty sure she'd call him. And by call him, I'm sure I mean that she'd play coy and text him. Whatever. Not all of us have the nerve...

Anyway. A few weeks go by and Katie has yet to call him, text him, or send a carrier pigeon to the Tribune offices.

Yesterday, I'm at work really early and have just left Starbucks at 6:30 A.M. to head downstairs to meet my colleague for a long trek to central Illinois.

As I turn, clutching my coffee, I hear a guy say, "Excuse me, this may be kindof weird, but life is short, so I figured why not. Are you single by chance?"

I literally am taken off guard JUST long enough to notice that he is nice looking, well-dressed and seemed likable. And then it hits me.

It is THE SAME GUY AND THE SAME LINES. Rings a bell. Loud and clear.

I say, "Well, no, I'm not actually," to avoid the awkward denial of his phone number. He says, in return, "Well, okay. I never do this kind of thing, but I couldn't resist - you're so adorable!"

It was practically WORD for WORD.

Now, either that guy has some serious creativity issues, or he's a total Michigan Avenue player and figures he'll play his odds.

Not sure. I was left holding my recycled coffee cup, a recycled newspaper and the mental replay of recycled pick up lines.

Policia

When preparing for our trip to Mexico, we kept hearing about the Mexican Police (Policia). Apparently they are nasty fellows, and not interested in making your vacation any lovelier. In fact, they have a terrible reputation for picking on American tourists.

So, I carefully observed the speed limit (to the best of my ability) and tried to make heads and tails of the lanes, the speed bumps and the Retorno lane (u-turns). See the previous post for more.

All was going well, until we decide to take a taxi into Playa del Carmen for the evening. Had a great dinner, a lovely time at a local bar, and then a rousing ending to the night at the Blue Parrot, where we danced, made sand angels (don't ask) and watched fire dancers.

Got into the tiny taxi, prepared to shell out our 150 pesos for a safe ride home.

We head out onto the highway, laughing, joking with the driver (in broken, high school Spanish) and were all feeling good (we love tequila).

Then, in the dark, as we rode along through the jungles (literally), with zero street lamps to illumniate our way, we see blue lights flashing.

Now, let's all be honest. Even if you're not driving, those blue lights are enough to make your heart race and palms sweat. Now add to that the urban legends/rumors we'd heard about the Mexican Policia, and the fact that we're 4 American chicks in this tiny taxi, and we're literally freaking out.

Janine is up front with the driver, and knows a little Spanish (un poquito) and she's glancing nervously at the driver. Smart enough to wait it out, we all sit quietly.

He gets out. Walks back toward the cop.

Uh, sir? That's not what we do. We wait, roll down the window and DON'T MOVE.

I crane my neck around (hoping the blue light glare will hide any activity in the car from police view) and see him back there, joshing with the cop.

Uh, sir? This isn't funny.

The cop comes around to us, machine gun in hand (yes, I said machine gun) and rounds the car, with a flashlight in the windows. I manage a feeble smile. Not a "we're guilty, sir" smile, but a "see, we're harmless, sir" smile.

He goes back. Cab driver gets back in. The whole thing lasted about 6 minutes.

The lights go off, we drive away.

Silence.

Janine looks at me. I look at the girls. We say to him, together (as if that's not complicated), in really bad Spanish, "what happened?" (for sake of blog readability, I'll use English here). He replies, in even worse English, "marjiuana."

Uh, sir? Please tell me we're not in a car with you while you're toting drugs across town, or whatever?

Apparently he was clean, but the cop pulled us over because he saw 4 girls, presumably white American girls, and was suspicious. I have no idea how the "flashlight in the eyes" from outside the car was supposed to clear our names, but apparently it did.

Frankly, it all worked out fine (somehow) and we didn't end up going to Mexican prison.

But, damn, wouldn't THAT have been one heck of a blog?!

Driving in Mexico

I've been back from Mexico for less than a week, and I'm still prone to breaking out in giggles over the absolute nightmare that driving was in Mexico.

We were in Puerto Aventuras, which is about 45 minutes south of Cancun. Straight down the coastal highway. Sounds simple, right?

Wrong.

Maybe it is a national joke they play on the tourists, or just some crazy old-fashioned, contrived way to maintain control, but they put SPEED BUMPS on the highway. Yes, speed bumps.

Some are humps, some are those rounded parking-lot style cement knots on the ground, all lined up.

Some just damn near take out the undercarriage of the car.

Or maybe that was just with me at the wheel?

Let's just say this. While I was careening down the Mexican highway, trying desperately to figure it all out, they would crop up out of nowhere. Before I explain the bumps, let's talk about the confusing speed limits. Not to sound totally blonde, but come on.

The speed limits are obviously posted in kilometers, and the rental car was clocking my speed in kilometers, but the sheer math of it all was just too much. You expect me to drive, sing, entertain my fellow passengers AND do math? Yeah right.

I, for one, didn't go to math camp.

The conversion of MPH to KPH is not easy. Something about multiplying by 2, adding 7, subtracting 11 and topping it off with a green X, and there you have it. Your speed. Tu velocidad, if you will.

Now, let's say this. The speed limits went up and down up and down up and down with little to no regard for what was going on. It seemed like the construction guys just got bonuses for every sign they installed, so they went nuts. 80 KPH, 90 KPH, 60 KPH, 100 KPH, all within the span of about 1/4 mile. Or kilometer. Or whatever.

So, in between speeding up and slowing down, I thought "Okay, maybe I'll get the hang of this."

Not so fast, my friend.

Now, add into the mix that the construction guys clearly didn't care much for lines. Lanes be damned. There were NO lane markers in most places. No little friendly white or yellow dashed lines (or solid for that matter) to let you know if it was a two-laner, or a three-laner or a one-laner. Nothing. Nada.

So, the end result was that every driver was all over the place. Feel like passing? Go ahead! Feel like taking a left here? Fine by me - just hit up the Retorno for a trusty U-turn. Feel like driving three cars wide? Have at it.

Then, there were the buses. Apparently the buses pick up and drop off the local workers (construction of the major resorts, mostly) along the road, and there doesn't seem to be any rhyme or reason (and sure as heck there were no bus stops) to when they stopped, or why. All I know is that you'd be riding along doing just fine in the right lane, tucked in nicely behind a bus, and all of a sudden, he'd careen off to the right, ending on the shoulder, kicking up dust and slowing at a rapid pace (does that even make sense?)

And when they entered back onto the highway, it was all I could do to swing wide into the left lane(s) to get out of the way.

Being the organized Capricorn that I am, it was all a bit too wonky for lil' old me.

Which brings us back to the speed bumps.

They call them topes. (I have no idea what that translates to, but we decided it was "boobies.") Let me explain.

The signs that they post to indicate a speed bump have either two bumps (boobies) or three bumps (medical mystery). They have a down arrow pointing at the street, where the topes are located. Yeah, that helps. I'm already flying over them at 100 KPH at that point.

Occasionally, there was a topes sign about 100 yards in front of the second one (featuring the aforementioned arrow), and this was your warning. Since I spent half the time worrying about my speed, and half the time worrying about the lanes, this left no brain capacity for Topes Watch '07. So, we coined the phrase "Boobies!" to indicate that there were bumps ahead.

I know, totally mature.

So, the backseat drivers (or front seat passenger, when her eyes weren't squeezed shut in fear) were charged with hollering "Boobies!" at the top of their lungs when this first sign was spotted, giving me time to slow down appropriately, so as not to shred the bottom of our little blue Altima.

Worked great. Just grand. Then, for whatever reason, my Topes Watch team was otherwise occupied, and I didn't see the sign. Maybe that sign wasn't installed yet. But, alas, we went flying over the topes at about 60 KPH (I saw it at the last second and it was just too late). I think that is about 40 miles per hour, but I have no idea (see note about math camp attendance).

Heads hit the roof. Jaws hit the floor. And shit hit the fan. We died laughing. "BOOBIES!"

Must be a Good One

Yep. I've lived in Chicago 7 years. I have never done this before.

Last night, on the bus (of course), I was reading my new book. It isn't even that interesting, but still.

I looked up as we turned the corner at Belmont, and knew that I had about 5 more stops.

Turned the page. Kept reading.

Turned the page. Kept reading.

Turned the page. Kept reading.

Turned the page. Kept reading.

(I am a speed reader).

Looked up and I was 5 blocks (3 stops) past my stop.

Uhhh...yeah. Pulled the cord. Laughing, mad at myself, and making a ridiculous display of shoving offending book into my bag as I descended the steps, I sheepishly got off in unfamiliar territory. Walked the five blocks south back home. Embarrassed. (Though not sure exactly WHO I was embarrassed in front of).

At least I didn't snooze through my stop, as I know one fellow Chicago commuter (who shall remain nameless) does on a regular basis. I'm too afraid of what would happen to me in public if I slept on the bus.

I'd for sure be the one that would wake up, a la frat house, with magic marker on my face.

Overlap & Wafting

It's amazing how, in an urban environment, the lives of others seep quietly, quickly and forcefully into our own.

We overlap, we intermingle, we mix together, we stand too close, we say more than we should, we bump shoulders, we brush hands while reaching for bus pole/newspaper/creamer at Starbucks, we guide strangers with street directions, and we ultimately and utterly blend together.

Last night on the bus home, a regular guy gets on. By regular, I mean, he had no outstanding, ridiculous or hilarious characteristics for me to notice. I didn't even notice him, actually, until I smelled it.

The seeping, surging, overpowering smell of...

Toilet Paper.

Brand new, in the package, a Jumbo 12-pack of Charmin Ultra.

The smell is recognizable. You know it. You can recall it right now, probably. It took over the bus. (Remember the fried chicken? This was a close second to the way that tasty smell overtook).

He had to keep moving it around, settled in at his feet, to let people out, to move back, to stand closer to the pole, to finally land a seat nearby. The constant movement simply shook up the odor even more. Wafting was a word that came to mind.

Just got me thinking about how intimate, close and personal, and yet so distinctly cold and separate, living in the city can be.

Spiked

Construction on the Lake Shore on-ramp at Belmont. New "no turns except buses" signs. Diggers, pipes the size of my apartment and road workers milling about. CTA supervisors doing little supervising. Gravel on road, dust everywhere, noise like you can't believe.

All of this means that it now takes 40 minutes to go 4 blocks down Inner Lake Shore.

I should start spiking my coffee before boarding the bus.

My Guy Doesn't

I can't believe I forgot to post this story right after it happened.

Maybe I was still stunned.

Not that I should be shocked anymore by the actions of cab drivers here in the city, but somehow I still am. The decorum of normal, decent human behavior doesn't seem to apply to taxis, their owners, their insides, their smells, or much of anything that touches the entire experience.

On my way to a business trip to DC a few weeks ago, I took a cab to O'Hare like normal. Normal being defined as this:

• rough 'stop and go' driving all the way down Addison towards the expressway

• a really fuzzy radio playing almost too quietly to even make out anything, but not quietly enough to feel like a peaceful silence

• vicious bodily odor filling the 4 square feet that this stranger and I occupy

• awkward semi-English conversations had across a chest-high plastic partition covered in handprints, stickers, Braille and city maps labeled with Mayor Richard M. Dayley's name

• 45-minutes of traffic even at the painful hour of 6 am on a Sunday morning (following a day-drinking fest for college football the day/night before)

So...now that we've established normalcy, I arrive at the United terminal at O'Hare, weary and war-torn for a 8 am flight to Regan National airport. We sidle up to the Departures doors, I pull out my credit card, and hand it to the driver as he navigates the traffic cops, taxis, limo drivers and kiss-ride drivers bidding farewell to traveling family members.

My Guy (you do tend to form a sort of bond in 45 smelly, jerky, awkward minutes together) slows to a stop not quite 15 feet from the car in front of us. I would have pulled all the way up, but that's just me.

Apparently the traffic cop was more like me. He whistles (do they REALLY need those things?) and waves his arm wildly and indicates that My Guy should pull all the way up. Make room for one more obnoxious cab behind us.

My Guy doesn't.

The traffic cop (who isn't armed by the way, unless you count the neon yellow jacket and orange mesh reflective vest) isn't having any of this. He whistles, waves and yells "Pull all the way up!"

My Guy doesn't.

Again. The entire fiasco repeats itself, while my credit card is "authorizing..." and I just sit in the back, praying silently for My Guy to obey the innocent, yet slightly overbearing, traffic cop.

My Guy doesn't.

And, by now, he's not a silent objector. He's mad.

He starts to yell back. "NO! I'm fine right here! Shut up! No! I'm not moving! Don't you have more important things to do? Is your job even important? Who needs you?!"

I'm flushing with shame, and I'm totally innocent. Just too close for comfort, mind you.

The traffic cop whips out his trusty little notepad and starts to write My Guy a ticket. For sitting too far back in the lane of departure drop-offs. Okay, I'm sure the insults about job necessity didn't help.

My Guy starts yelling expletives, sprinkled with foreign phrases that I'm pretty sure didn't translate to "Your vest is becoming in this early dawn sunlight, sir."

The cop starts to hand him a ticket, and My Guy does the unthinkable.

He rolls up the window.

On the ticket, and partially on the cop's arm.

I'm gasping.

And, that is only partially to cover the embarrassed, shameful giggles that are threatening to erupt.

My Guy continues to yell (despite the semi-closed window) and now it is just me that is truly absorbing his over-inflated, multi-lingual rage.

My blasted credit card FINALLY authorizes and My Guy finishes the paperwork. Hands me the two tiny little child-size receipts to sign, and I pocket the credit card as fast as you can say "ticked off traffic cop."

I fling the door open, curb side of course, and begin my exit. My Guy is still yelling. Has rolled down and back up the window. The ticket fell in his lap, and he ripped it in thirds, threw it on the ground outside the car, and continues his crazy-talk tirade.

My bag was in the trunk.

I have to interrupt the lunatic driver now, and ask (politely, using my pleases and thank yous) to pop the trunk. He does.

Using a feat of super-human strength, in one swift motion I grab my suitcase, fling the trunk closed, and hip-check the back door closed, all while dodging the verbal attacks that are aimed at the traffic cop.

Now, admittedly, the traffic cop was on an ego trip. (Wouldn't you feel a bit sassy in not one, but TWO neon reflective articles of city-issued, Daley-stamped, official-looking clothing?!)

But still. Just give me the blasted receipt and let me be on my way.

The entire experience made TSA, the 3-1-1 rule, the weekend tourist crowds and the O'Hare security line seem like child's play. I think it was pretty normal.

My Guy doesn't.

Chicken Torture

No, this is not a post about the terrors of cock-fighting.

Last night, on the way home from a brief bout of shopping, I was feeling the stomach growling as I made my way home on Michigan Ave. The bus was fairly empty, and I had a seat, a new book and my iPod tunes. I was happy.

Then a woman boarded at the last stop before the Lake Shore Drive underpass with the worst thing to bring on a bus. Terrible. Cruel and unusual.

She was toting a large take-out bag of fried chicken.

You think it is safely sealed in those plastic containers? Yeah, no.

The smell of fresh, crispy, warm, seasoned fried chicken flooded the bus. People looked around, noses perked up, stomachs audibly responded.

As a girl from the south, I know some good fried chicken when I smell it. And that was finger lickin' good chicken.

I had to use everything in my power keep myself from getting off at her stop and following her home for dinner.

Transit Crisis

It seems odd not to mention this since the blog is basically about what it is like to get around in this city.

We have a problem. The CTA is an issue now, and will even be worse if this happens. If you're reading this blog, and you live and work in Chicago, please click here and send an auto-generated message to the politicians: www.savechicagolandtransit.com

Latest doomsday article:
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From chicagotribune.com, October 12, 2007
CTA, Metra unveil plans for fare hikes, service cuts
By Jon Hilkevitch and Rich Wronski

The Chicago Transit Authority plans to eliminate 43 more bus routes and hike fares to as high as $3.25 per ride in January under the 2008 "doomsday" budget announced today.

On the CTA, regular cash fares would increase from the current $2 rate to $2.50 on Nov. 4. As of Jan. 6, that would go up again to $2.75. The cash fare would top out at $3.25 on trains during peak travel periods.

The January round of proposed cuts, combined with those already announced for next month, would also mean the elimination of more than half the CTA's bus routes.

The elimination of 43 bus routes in January—announced today by CTA President Ron Huberman—would come on top of the 39 bus routes to be cut effective Nov. 4. If both those rounds of cuts took place, that would leave the CTA with only 72 bus routes. It currently has 154 bus routes.

In addition, Huberman said the CTA would lay off nearly 1,800 employees in January. That would be in addition to the approximately 620 CTA employees already notified of layoffs effective in November. Those combined layoffs represent about 22 percent of the CTA work force of about 11,000.

The likelihood of the CTA contingency plan actually having to being implemented has increased because of a lingering stalemate in the Illinois legislature over how to fund Chicago-area mass transit as well as road and bridge repairs statewide.

But the deadline clock is ticking, with CTA customers facing uncertainties about their travel options starting in about three weeks, if lawmakers fail to make progress on funding.
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Great. Just what we need. MORE PROBLEMS. LESS BUS ROUTES.

Total chaos.

Car Windows

I heard this on Good Morning America today and thought it was brilliant, and worth sharing:

The reason we have a big windshield and a small rearview mirror is on purpose. We’re supposed to spend more time looking forward, with hope and optimism, and less time looking behind us at what has caused us pain, our mistakes, unhealthy relationships, bad choices, etc.

I guess "The Power of Now" guy would say that we should use our side windows to enjoy today, where we are right this minute.

I'm gonna try just that. On the bus home, that is.

Sneeze Guard

We've all seen the clear acrylic sneeze guards at salad bars.

Turns out they come in all shapes and sizes.

I was in a cab with friends on Saturday night, and was seated on the left side, behind the driver. After climbing in, telling the driver our destination address, we settle back for a nice (herky jerky, death defying) ride.

The sun was trying its best to poke through the clouds on the very gray day we were having, and when it did, I caught a glimpse. The kind of glimpse that tickles your nose and makes you...

SNEEZE. Two times. Three. Four.

(I always sneeze in even numbers.)

The driver, without even hesitating, takes his right hand off the wheel, grips the plastic partition wall behind his head, and slides it closed.

Thhhhhhhhhhhumpt.

As if my sun-in-the-eyes-made-me-sneeze sneezes were firing germs off all over his head. I mean, I covered my mouth! Said excuse me! Didn't wipe my hands on his shoulders!

My friends and I died laughing. Apparently This Guy is sick of getting sick.

Varsity Club

Sometimes the posts just can't be about commuting. This one is no exception.

Friday night I was entertaining two freinds from Atlanta, and in an effort to keep up the facade that Chicago is hip, young and trendy, we decided to have afterdinner cocktails at the very swanky Japonais lounge. We arrive, stand outside the red velvet rope for all of 3 minutes while the refrigerator-sized bouncer (fully decked out in a velvet suit and a curly-cue plastic corded earpiece headset) assesses if we're cool enough to enter.

We made the cut.

Heading down the stairs to the lounge, I assuredly report that the "scene here" was worth seeing. Skinny gals, hot men, great outfits (and the premier of everyone's new fall hottest items) were abound. I didn't tell a lie.

Snaking a table despite the "reserved" sign, we take our seats for some primo people watching. It isn't long before we are highly intrigued by a man wearing an interesting jacket chioce.

It was a varsity letter jacket. You know the ones—in fact, you may have one hanging in the closet at your parents' house—navy felt flannel front and back with cream leather sleeves, and a huge orange "B" letter on the front breast panel. We look at each other, and quizzically raise our eyebrows. Mind you, he was easily in his 30s, making him long since a graduate of any place that hands out varsity letter jackets.

A group of 8 or so girls is seated behind us (they were apparently VIP as they, too, had a "reserved" sign on their table) and it is clear to all three of us that they are talking about this guy's choice of outerwear. My friend Walton, the husband of an old and dear friend Elizabeth, is seated closest to the gaggle of girls. He overhears them saying things like, "What is he wearing?" and "I don't get it. A letter jacket?"—very similar comments to what we're saying at our table, nestled below the uber-hip and hottie-filled bar.

Not to disappoint, the girls flag the guy down. Waving him over, you can hear one say, "We just have to know." That is girl code for "We've been talking about you for 30 minutes and it is just killing us to not understand the mindset of a grown man that would actively choose that jacket to go with his flat-front grey wool trousers."

He leans over, desperate for the attention of these fine ladies, and says, "yes?" with a smile and a twinkle of the eyes.

Walton was doing a great job very slyly leaning back, perking up the ears, intercepting the conversations and relaying them to me and to Elizabeth, only to be repeated over and over by our little corner of the bar...we couldn't help ourselves.

They say it again, "We just have to know—why the letter jacket?" He, unknowingly, thinks they are flirting. He throws his head back, laughs, shakes his cocktail in a vain way, and says, "It is simple. Three reasons: One, it is Fall. Two, it is football season. [insert painful, awkward long-pause.] And, Three: it just looks cool."

Confusion abounds. Girls recover their facial expressions and just nod and smile in that way where you're agreeing on the outside, and dying of laughter on the inside.

He backs aways, cocky and eager to rejoin his buddies to recount the story. Mind you, there was a very nice looking woman with their group, begging the question of his "status." Was he married? Single? Clueless?

The group of inquiring minds giggle, laugh, point. Elizabeth, at this point, is laughing so hard and grabs for her digital camera. Yes. He had become a tourist attraction for my visiting guests. She angles the camera so it looks as if she's snapping a quick shot of me, and captures the outfit in full glory. Leather arms and all.

At this point, in between repeating the One, Two and Three reasons he's wearing the letter jacket in a bar in Chicago, we're trying to determine if it is a Bears jacket (not the right logo, but the orange, blue and white, combined with the "B" made it a good guess), is he a high school football coach out with the varsity cheerleading coach and is just doing it to be funny? Other jokes we made at his expense are not acceptable to print here.

Note: there weren't even any "awards" or years or accolades on the jacket, making me wonder if he'd bought it at Abercrombie & Fitch in a teenage-focused effort to look vintage-high-school-suave.

Nope.

The girl in his group gets the urge to explain. Thank God for her!

She leans over the group of girls, who have just now let the laughter die down, and says "Come on, deep down he's a really good guy. He's almost 34, he graduated from high school in Montana, and sometimes I just let him do what he wants."

Yeah. Like wear black socks with navy shoes. NOT a varsity high school letter jacket to a restaurant/bar that is constently written up for its excellent food, notable atmosphere and high end clientele!

We laughed. We cried. We captured photos to remember him by.

And, we used the One, Two, Three reasons all weekend. Turns out it is an all-purpose explanation.

Q: Why did Elizabeth and Walton have fun in Chicago this weekend?

A: One, it is Fall. Two, it is football season. Three - it is just cool.

Door #2

After a relatively quiet commuting week, I figured it was time for something interesting to happen.

I board a double-length bus this morning, move to the back to stand near the door. I'm teetering on new stiletto heel red boots (yes, they are fabulous) and don't want to stand the entire way, but I must.

The back doors are hanging at a strange angle, and won't seem to close all the way. They are electronic or powered or whatever you'd say about doors that are connected to the bus' electrical system, so the bus driver can't really leave without them closing properly. Door AJAR. Door AJAR. Or something like that.

I doubt it was for fear that the commuters would slide out and become well-dressed road kill on Lake Shore Drive, but I could be wrong.

Anyway, the bus driver gets out, walks to the back (on the outside) and nudges, prods, slams, pushes, pulls, bangs and kicks (he literally kicked them shut, like a 12-year old boy would) and, dejected, goes back to his perch.

No go.

Repeat the steps above.

Door #2 won't close. Just won't do it. Stubborn little sucker.

Driver gets on the microphone and says the dreaded words, "Passengers, you're gonna have to get off this bus. The doors are broke (his words, not mine) and you can't stay on."

Seriously? This keeps happening to me. If I had this much bad luck in automobiles, I'd be banned from them altogether.

We get off, race to the bus behind us, and begin piling on. I'm still standing.

Oh, and did I mention, this all happened right in front of my building? Hadn't even made it one inch towards work.

I think it was a sign that I should have gone back inside, past the doorman, up the elevator, and not passing go, gone back to bed.

Door #2 should have had a sign like THAT.

PIVOT!

One gripe that always hits me when it happens, but that I seem to let go, is the Commuter Butt Pivot.

You know it. You've experienced it. You may even be guilty of it. You just hadn't thought about it.

You're seated in the inside, by the window, and need to get out. You say politely, "excuse me." to your neighbor on the aisle, and then gather your stuff to stand up.

The person doesn't stand.

They pivot.

I call it the Commuter Butt Pivot. They turn their knees to the side, into the aisle, without ever leaving their seat.

This assumes many things:

1) that my butt is small enough to slide by your pivoted body without slamming into you the entire way past
2) that my hands are empty, and I'm not dragging a purse, laptop bag or shopping bag, that will hinder my movement
3) that I want to be that close to you, and have you feeling the literal weight of my body in your face
4) that it won't annoy the crap out of me that you can't even bring yourself to stand up to let me by
5) that I am a sane passenger with extraordinary amounts of patience

All of which aren't true. You know what they say about assuming!?!

All I can hear in my head is Ross Gellar shouting "PIVOT! PIVOT!" as I squeeze my 6' body, my purse, bag, crapola, etc. past you only to rocket out into the aisle like a shotput from an Olympic arm.

(For you non-"Friends" fans, I'm sorry. Can't help you with the old pop-cultural reference. You should have watched more Must See TV in the 90s.)

Anyway. The butt pivoters have to go. I mean, really. Is it THAT hard to stand up to kindly let me out?

Yeah, didn't think so.

One more time for good measure. All together now.

PIVOT!

Sense of Humor

On the way home on Tuesday, the bus kept stalling. Right there on Michigan Avenue.

I know, I know - you faithful blog readers think this stalling busines is old news by now since I've already experienced it many times.

However, this time was unique in the "audience response."

And, yes, we are an audience. I have begun to think and react differently to the trials commuting, knowing that I can use it as blog material (can't you see me on there just scripting in my head?) Totally different mindset now.

Anyway, so the accordian-style bus keeps slowing to the bus stop, shuddering, and then everything goes quiet. The air goes off, the hush falls over the crowd. With anticipation (and prayers) we mentally cheer for the huge-bus-that-could as the driver patiently restarts it.

It goes! Yay. Only to dissapoint us at the next block. And the next one. And the next one. You see the pattern. Still, this dogged driver never gave up (better man than most).

The second to last block before the end of Michigan Avenue comes, and the bus stop approaches. We ease up, and the shuddering begins. It was almost like our poor bus was just sobbing, and couldn't help it. Just the mere weight of all of the Chicagoans and tourists was too much for it to bear. (Ok, that may be taking it a little too far. More likely the tax dollars just aren't there to properly maintain the beasts, but bear with me while I romanticize it a touch.)

Shuddering to a stop, it got quiet. Everyone (cynics, elderly, clueless, totally annoyed) just looked around. Making eye contact was almost more than we could handle. Then, out of the radio silence comes a stale, recored, distant male voice: "Thank you for riding the CTA. If you ever have comments or complaints about our service, please call XXX or email us at XXX@transitchicago.com."

The irony overtook us. Timing is a bitch, huh? The entire bus cracked up. Even the cynics. Possibly even the clueless. Some guy shouted, "Did anyone catch that number?" More laughs. Everyone's a comedian.

Not being able to see our bus driver's face at this moment, I'm left to the devices of my own imagination.

I can practically hear him talking to God. "God, please just let me get past Delaware. I just want to pass the Drake Hotel and accelerate onto the Lake Shore Drive underpass and then I'm golden. Come on God, help me out here, buddy!"

So we do. (Guess he and God are close.) As we make our way north, and the traffic builds, I know he must have been chanting that prayer over and over.

Maybe we should get that prayer on a recording, to kick in when it is most needed, and in the silence of the stalled bus?

Just a thought. I could suggest it.

Did anyone catch that email address?

Commuting Below the Mason-Dixon

As I mentioned, I was in Atlanta and Athens, Georgia this weekend. It was a quiet, calm, pleasurable weekend away from CTA buses, taxi cabs, tourists on Michigan Avenue, backups on Lake Shore Drive and other commuter nightmares.

You'd think, based on the speech patterns, affinity for bourbon and Scarlett O'Hara/Rhett Butler historical references, that the south would be slow. About everything.

Yeah. That person has never been on highway 75/85. We're talking the U.S. Autobahn.

My mom has always said that "people drive as fast as the conditions will allow in Atlanta." which must be true, since I'm telling you what. Those conditions clearly allow German-driving-machine-style maneuvers and cop-racing-past-you as you tailgate your fellow drivers speeds.

Maybe people drive faster because the roads are better? Maybe it is that the roads aren't as bad because they don't get snow? Maybe the politicians are actually spending the tax dollars on road construction instead of financing their North Shore mansion or their son's/nephew's/neighbor's college education?

Who knows. But they are smoother down there. I digress.

After sitting in traffic to get from place to place, watching the strip malls fly by between stop lights, entering/exiting the same 3 highways (and 55 minutes) just to get anywhere, and avoiding the highway patrol cars every 400 feet, I was almost ready to get back to Chicago and our gritty, tourist-filled commuter nightmare.

At least here the furthest away I ever am is about 3 miles. My entire commuting life is in a radius of about 5 miles.

And they're MY 5 miles and I love 'em.

I'm back. To stay?

Southern Style

Heading to Atlanta and Athens this weekend, so I'll be free of the Chicago commuting for 3 whole days.

What willl I do without the annoying bus people? The screeching cabs? The stinky trains? Drunk or sleepy taxi drivers?

Who knows.

Let me grab a sweet tea and think about it for a bit, y'all.

Bold Move

On the bus home from a happy hour drink, I saw the boldest move I've seen on the bus in quite some time.

A young guy, slightly post-collegiate, maybe 24 if a day, was wearing a crisp new navy blue t-shirt that said "Tradition...Notre Dame Football."

A Tradition of what? Losing? Starting seasons 0-3? Of not joining a freaking conference?

Yeah, I thought so. Bold move, buddy.


(For this post I boldly apologize to the Neuner family, Kathy & Murray Olsen, and any other Golden Domers that I love dearly.)

Vintage

I saw the cutest guy on the bus last night.

Before you start thinking this is THAT kind of "I met a guy on the bus and we're having coffee after work" story, it isn't. He was probably on the downhill slide from 80. Years old.

He had that perfect Grandpa look—kind, gentle eyes hidden slightly behind big bifocals; a sweet face; skinny and freckly but not icky arms and hands; and a slightly hunched posture that made me want to protect him.

Wearing the exact type of shirt my Gramps used to wear (the short sleeved cotton shirt with the double breasted pockets and the stiff collar) in lemon yellow, he boasted a little notepad and a pen in his front breast pocket.

For whatever reason, I had a momentarily-difficult-to-contain urge to hug him. He seemed so peaceful and quiet, almost timid and scared, but something tells me that it would take a lot of strength to live in Chicago as an elderly person.

It is exhausting here.

I mean that as a compliment, sortof, but it is. The drain of the commuting, the noise of the city, the hustle of the crowds, the throng of tourists, the roar of the sirens...it is just tiring.

While I can see that the bus/train/cab lifestyle is easier than driving when you can't hear, reach the pedals or see the signs anymore, but seriously. Many people don't even budge to give them priority seats. At least in your own car you have that much guaranteed!

Therefore, I must give major props to those vintage folks who make it around this city solo. I promise not to hug any strangers...don't worry.