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.