In Time for Valentine's Day!

As my "fan base" for this blog grows, so do the suggested topics. I couldn't avoid this one today, provided by my friend Josh.

The above photo is of a couch crafted by an art student in San Francisco, who is now trying to unload this lovely creative venture on an unsuspecting (pervy?) buyer.

It is a va-ja-jay couch.

It can be yours for the low-low price of $600, plus a flight to California, and a U-Haul rental back to Chicago or wherever you reside (in your couchless apartment).

The best part is the description: "the couch has some scuffmarks and stains around the bottom from being moved." Yeah, that's what they all say.

I don't think I can write much more. Just go to Craig's List and see for yourself. There's even an "action shot" of someone sitting in it. And they don't look very comfortable. It makes the utterly unstylish papasan chairs look relatively normal, roomy and chic.

And, yes, I just typed va-ja-jay. Get over it.

You probably own a papasan.

Miscommunication

I recently ordered new blinds for my condo, through the help of my lovely interior designer (aka my mother) and they called me to confirm delivery this morning.

It was 7:30 am, and I'd just turned my phone on, and was still shaking the groggy out of my cobwebby morning head. I answered, and in a gruff voice, said, "Hello?" He explained that he was calling from B&W Manufacturing, and that my order was ready.

I said, "What?" He patiently repeated it.

Honest-to-God I thought he said, "I'm calling from BMW to inform you that your order is ready."

For a painfully long second there I thought I was getting a new imported luxury sedan, clearly ordered and paid for by someone other than yours truly.

Can I help it that new blinds don't seem that exciting now?

I'm a Terrible Person

Why do those "Children International" people always hit me up? I tell myself it is because I am approachable, and seem friendly.

More likely, I look like a sucker.

Alas, I try to walk fast, look straight down, and not make eye contact. Hell, half the time I even have my phone in my hand pretending to read a very important email.

But, no.

They still say, religiously, in their chipper voices, "Do you have a minute for children?" forcing me to reply, "Uh, no, sorry."

I don't have a minute for children.

Well, when you put it that way, I just sound like an evil wretched human being.

Of course if a small child were on the sidewalk, in need, I would help. I would dive into action, trying to do anything I could to save the little tyke. Probably while cooing and uttering comforting, kind words to them so they wouldn't be scared. (That sounds creepy, but I assure you I'm good with kids).

But, when I am forced to say yes or no to the leafletters on the sidewalk, I come off like a witch. (See Monica's blog "Ramblings of a Crazy" for more on this subject.)

Nope. No time for cute kids today. I'm selfish that way. Now move over.

Urine Luck

You know those nights when you just can't catch a break? The commute seems too much to bear, and the weather is trying to totally kick your ass?

Thursday was a night like that.

I think I must've blocked it out entirely, to save my mental health and well-being, because I have just had flashbacks to the entire event, and now feel a groundswell urge to share it with you.

Then it can be your gross memory, too.

After having a quick after-work drink with a friend, I trudged over to Michigan to catch the usual bus heading north. I shall remind you, as we milk these early morning spring-like temps today, that the HIGH that day was about 2 degrees. So by 7:15 or so when I was leaving the restaurant, it was downright miserable.

Standing alone at the bus stop, I make all sorts of mental pleas with God, little inner charades, overtly ridiculous bargains like, "If the next bus is an even number, then it means that mine will be right behind it." No dice. And, "I promise to volunteer more if you just send me a freaking 145 or 146 bus in the next 30 seconds." No way, Jose.

So, when the 151 finally approaches, I unstick my frozen feet from the sidewalk, and pull a "wet dog maneuver" and try to shake my bones free from the pain, stiffness and dampness to which they are quickly succumbing, and step towards the curb.

As the bus slows to the curb, my frozen brain can't compute that there is a puddle there. It just didn't happen. The tires bounce through the potholes along the curb, and the dirty, snowy, grimy, salty, nasty puddle becomes my new outerwear. I'm covered in it. Wearing that puddle like it is the new black.

Shaking, once again, I dejectedly board the bus. (For those of you that don't ride the bus, the 151 is the last resort. The go-to bus when nothing else comes. Mostly because it stops EVERY BLASTED BLOCK all the way up the inner drive, circling slowly through the park).

I didn't care. God held up his bargain and sent me a bus. I had to get on, dripping wet coat and all.

Warmth immediately spreads through me like a stealth fire, and I'm taken back by how my fingers feel disconnected to my body. I see an off-white-wool-coat-wearing-Lincoln-Park-trixie standing over an empty seat. I nod to her, and offer her the chair. She gratefully takes it. And then, just as quickly, jumps up. Right as the offending odor hits my nose.

The entire bus smelled like urine. Not old, it's been there for days urine. NEW URINE.

Then I see her. The woman who I can only presume is the offender. Yes, I suppose I'm a terrible person and a horrible stereotyper. Don't go there. She's seated next to (and halfway in) the white-coat girl's seat. White-coat girl and I quickly surge towards the back of the bus, trying desperately to avoid the smell.

Smells aren't that cooperative, however. They are far more pushy than that.

This bus wasn't a double-bus, not an accordian bus, so it didn't have those extra 30 or so feet in which to hide. I regrettably take a seat in the mid-section of the bus, and see that everyone around me is what I'll call "scarfing it." Meaning, wearing their scarf as a face mask. Thank God I wear perfume and the scent sticks to the scarf.

White-coat girl and I couldn't help but make eye contact as I mentally send her apologies for even THINKING of offering her into that smell pit.

And then I see it.

As the bus lurches forward to the next stop, I look up to see a fast-moving puddle of liquid heading toward the back of the bus. "Please, God, no, don't let that be what I think it is" my brain thinks. I might have even said it aloud.

Yep. A yellow trail of smelly hell.

Urine.

I can't say any more for fear of losing my breakfast.

It Should Always Be This Funny

After indulging on way too much delicious pasta last night during our Sunday Funday, my good friend Brenna reminded me last night of how great these little guys, Hoops & YoYo, are. They're characters in a whole line of Hallmark e-cards, and they deserve more than their 15 minutes of fame.

I can't help but giggle like an idiot while watching them move around in their color-blocked animated world. I can't help but have fun while I listen to their tiny, high-pitched silly voices take the joke just about 10 seconds too far.

They are just one of life's simple pleasures that must be shared.

We laughed as we discussed how the programmers are probably geeky, hairy, twenty-something guys, who use a digital voice recorder with a tricky little knobby that serves as a voice compresser (can you tell I have no idea what I'm talking about?) to record these things. We also decided that they most likely make most of them on the weekends, at 4 am, likely very, uhm, altered. (see post below)

No matter who it is behind these little colorful friends, I salute them. I'm a big fan.

Hoops & YoYo in '08!

Just Hit Vend

As a loyal user of the vending machine in my office, and a huge fan of the fancy ones they have in European train stations, this CNN.com news story caught my eye.

There are now L.A.-based herbal medicine shops that are going to be selling marijuana to patients from a vending machine. Sure, they have swipe cards (based on a prescription), finger-printing technology and a security camera, but this just seems odd to me.

Maybe it is that I haven't yet gotten used to the "medical marijuana" thing (not that I would argue it) but I think that vending machines are meant for, well, munchie delights, things you want but certainly don't need and splurges.

Oh. I see the parallel.

The Other Side

I often write about the silly, funny, amusing or generally odd occurrences that I observe while using public transportation here in Chicago. I like those stories. The ones that make you feel good, proud to live in a big city like this, excited by the energy, the crowds and the passing of life.

Today's post is not that type of story.

I was riding the Red Line down to a friend's house, and we got on the train at Addison heading south.

The train was somewhat full, so I walked through the train car to find two seats together. We sat, and only then did we notice a young twenty-something girl hunched over, sleeping/passing out, drool hanging from her lips, crushed eyeglasses and a soda at her feet, and a bookbag to her left.

She was more than "napping" on the train. She was full-fledged passing out, and I don't mean the type of "passing out" you see where it is a homeless person riding the train to stay warm.

This girl was clearly going somewhere, or had begun a trip with those intentions, but now she was just a mess. A train wreck, if you'll excuse the unintended pun. Her hair was a slimy, tangly mess, though her clothes were clean and matching. It was a sad dichotomy to witness—someone whose appearance didn't really seem to match her behavior.

With her eyes closed, mouth hanging agape, she kept nodding into the bar of the seat in front of her, and was just lolling forward, and then back, and the forward again. She was completely out of it, unaware of her body or the stares she was receiving.

My friend and I tried not to stare, but my heart was just breaking for her. She clearly was on serious drugs, but who am I to say what we were witnessing. She was drawing nervous glances or downright glares from everyone on the train, and I just felt saddened by the whole experience.

Evidence sometimes presents itself in a jolting way of the many types of people that comprise this city, the disparate places from where people hail, and the challenges that they face every day.

All I could think, while trying not to stare, was that she was someone's daughter. Someone's sister. Someone's neice.

Where are these people when she clearly needed them so much? I don't pretend to understand the circumstances, but one thing is painfully clear.

My heart still aches for her.

She will be in my prayers tonight, and hopefully she can get help.

One Milkshake Please

It is just too cold to be clever or smart today.

I stood outside for 25 minutes waiting for the bus that would never come. The windchills are somewhere near deathly cold below zero sneaking up on hypothermia stage why am I not in bed under my down comforter degrees. Yes, that is a real measurement.

Each passing cab I let go by I just cursed myself for being too cheap to spend the $15 to get to work.

As you can guess, I finally got here, and am just now thawing out. My mind, however, is still on "brain freeze" like when you slurp a milkshake too quickly.

Yum. Maybe a cold milkshake would make the weather seem not so brutal?

Do they deliver?

Who Knew?

Before I even go into this one, I must explain the genesis of this post. Since the high today is 1 degree with windchills at approximately -14 degrees (I know, totally ridiculous), I am wearing not only my standard go-to wool scarf tucked underneath my North Face down coat, but also a fuzzy "magic scarf" tied over the coat to add extra warmth.

If you're unfamiliar with the appearance of the magic scarf, let me explain.

It is a scarf made of this hilariously furry, stretchy synthetic material that greatly resembles a Muppet. Mine is yellow, but if it were red, I'd look like I had Elmo tied around my neck.

Which brings me to this comment.

My coworker Chris, while kindly ripping on my scarf choice, noted that Elmo has quite a bit of mystique for such a lightweight, tiny-voiced puppet. The man who voices the Sesame Street icon, Kevin Clash, is not a small person, not a tiny, youthful effeminate vocal talent, but a large, handsome, distinguished black man in his 40s. (Evidence above).

I love this. The aforementioned coworker likened him to the AllState celebrity endorser—you know the one—that man whose deep baritone voice and commanding presence not only make you want to switch your car insurance, but makes you trust him implicitly with all of your life-changing decisions.

Or maybe that's just me.

But, this hidden gem about Elmo reminds me, yet again, to never judge a book by its cover.

Or, a muppet by its vocal range.

As if I Needed This

Last night, I reached into the pocket of a lightweight coat I haven't worn in a while, and found the lip balm that I purchased while vacationing in the Mayan Riviera, Mexico, in early November.

It's a great, basic lip balm, with a solid 30 SPF, and I was glad to find it. It's a Mexican brand, and the words are all in Spanish, which lends it some "international coolness."

I immediately open the cap to put some on my sadly winterized chapped lips, only to realize something very bittersweet.

It was covered in sand.

Not pocket lint. Not dust. Not dirt.

Mexican beach sand.

Torture. As if I needed that, while the snow and temperatures continue to fall here in Chicago. All I could do was take that opportunity to daydream about how perfecto our trip was, and mentally plan my next warm weather vacation.

And, yes, I used it anyway. That's what thumbs are for.

Hole in One (Street)

A 36-inch, 100-year-old water main burst overnight, leaving a 15-foot-deep hole in Montrose Avenue that measures about 80 feet in diameter.

This could be blamed for some of today's horrendous traffic. Or, it could be that people took MLK day off, and somehow, over the course of the 3-day weekend, totally forgot how to drive?

Because it just couldn't be the not-even-2-inches of snow we got last night.

Could it?

Snow Right

While riding home in a cab last night, skirting past the beaches along Lake Michigan, this thought occurred to me.

Snow doesn't look quite right on sand.

It almost looks like God got distracted while in the middle of that whole weather thing and mixed up his elements. As if he was busy with other tasks, and just forgot where he was. Might've even left the room for a bit only to return with a confused look on his face, and no idea where to start again. Kindof like when I burn the macaroni.

I know, I know, he's omniscient and shouldn't have these problems, but let's give the guy a break.

Now, if only the sand here (in January) felt as warm as sand is clearly, certainly, heavenly-dictated to feel between your toes...

Right before the hypothermia kicks in.

This is What it is About?

Wow. See soapbox. Step up on soapbox. Say your peace.

From CNN.com today: "Black women voters face tough choices: Analysts say black women never have held such power in determining the Democratic nominee for president. Black women are expected to make up more than a third of all Democratic voters in South Carolina's primary in five days. These women face a unique dilemma: Should they vote their race, or should they vote their gender?"

Here's an idea: vote for the candidate that is best suited to run this country?

Just my two cents.

Dismount soapbox.

Curious Combination Y'all

A fried-food-loving (beautifully thin) friend at work was proudly cooking her chicken fries today for lunch. When we looked at the box, we saw that they were Dwight Yoakam's brand of foods. They are only a dollar at Walgreen's, so what do you expect.

But I must say that I find this hilarious—I know that Paul Newman has long since promoted his dressings and other foods under his name, but come on.

A country star? What does he know about chicken?

Well, I guess now that I type that sentence, anyone from a small, rural town like he probabaly calls home likely does know a thing or two about frying up some chicken.

But, still. I'm in branding, and I think this goes a bit far.

What's next?

Kelly Clarkson Texas-sized onion rings?

Britney Spears fatty cheese doodles?

Ok. Actually, these start to make sense.

However, I'm still not buying them.

Down the Drain

This post proves that love is sometimes thicker than...

sewage?

A guy in Virgina and his wife were cleaning an office building this weekend for extra money, and in preparation of the job, the wife took off her wedding ring while walking across the parking lot. She dropped it, and it rolled right into a sewer.

She panicked, and her husband dove into action. Quite literally.

He stripped down to his skivvies, took off the metal sewer grate, and climbed down in. He told the news reporter who covered the story that there were fish and "unidentifiable floaty things" down there in the mucky, murky, nasty water.

No luck.

The guy, clearly a devoted husband or supremely stubborn, goes to the store, buys a scuba-diving wet suit, fashions a metal screen MacGyver style, and goes back down the drain.

Still no luck.

He calls the professionals in, and they go to town pumping out the water using a sifting screen, and they eventually score the ring. (What did THAT cost the taxpayers?) By this time Wife was watching this all unfold on the local news. Husband (and his clever determination) saves the ring!

Seven years of marriage has either taught him that the ring is the symbol for their love and it was worth saving, or that his wife is not one to mess with, or that diamonds are clearly worth their weight in...sewage?

Husband clearly gets to milk this one for quite some time, and I'd bet he's having fun while doing so. I'm picturing lots of remote-control-hogging, guilt-free boys nights out, no-dishes duty, fatty-food-laden-dinners, and lots and lots of lovin'.

Cause that's what he deserves.

Don't Discount the Irish Jig

Say what you will about my musical tastes, but I love U2.

I think they have an amazing (albeit historically similar) sound to their songs, and they can really rock out a live show.

And, now they are available in 3-D at your local IMAX Theater. (Bigger-than-Life Bono! Large Larry! Enormous Edge!)

I must admit that I will be going to see this, and will likely have to bite my tongue not to sing along out loud (now wouldn't THAT be fun for the rest of the theater-goers?)

Reading the article on cnn.com about this today, my favorite line was Bono's response to what it has been like to play for such amazing crowds all over the world. He commented that it was incredible to play in Mexico City, Rio de Janeiro and other Latin cities. He states, "Irish people are essentially Latin people who don't know how to dance."

As an Irish woman, who has partied for St. Patrick's Day many a time here in Chicago, I'll have to agree.

But then, on St. Patty's Day, isn't everyone Irish?

Speaking of Munchkins

Before I post this, I want to put this disclaimer out there:

I know that Senator McCain was a POW. I know he was tortured and cruelly treated and is a decorated U.S. war hero. I am not trying to be insensitive to that at all, or take anything away from what he clearly endured.

I'm just saying that his arms are short.

And, color me naive, but I don't believe that even breaking your arms, or other horrific torturous situations, can actually shorten (in exact proportion to the other) your arms.

Ok. There. On to the intended post, which was pulled down (Catholic guilt) and then now is getting re-posted by popular demand (satirical, funny friends' encouragement).

I was watching TV the other night and noticed that John McCain's arms are really short. I mean, super compact. Awkwardly disproportionate to his body. Apparently this is common knowledge, and fodder for late-night comedians, but I had never noticed.

I am actually surprised he can even reach into his pockets at all...

...though that is where the campaign funding is found.

For reference, and your own guilty pleasure (Catholic or otherwise), please see for yourself:

I'm likely going to hell for this. I'll borrow Dorothy's handbasket.

Victorious!

In a photo finish, the Chicago transit bill passed yesterday and, despite the Governor's attempt to slow things down, the city is celebrating today.

At least the 250,000 riders that would have had to find other modes of transportation each day.

I know that I'm one of them. Three miles down Lake Shore Drive is a long hike in subzero temps. And stileto boots.

Yeah! More complaints to come. Stay tuned...and in the meantime, help a girl out and someone...

PLEASE WASH THE BUSES!

I can't even recognize where we are on the drive anymore because they are so dirty.

See?

I'm back. Commuting fodder carries on.

The Power of the Upsell

With it being Friday and all, and the sun actually making a rare Winter appearance, the mood is light today.

Therefore, a few girls from work and I decided to treat ourselves to a cheeseburger at lunch. There is a renowned Chicago landmark food establishment just below our building, nestled in the underground areas on lower Michigan Avenue.

It is the Billy Goat Tavern.

Famed for lines such as "Cheezborger! Cheezborger!" "No fries, cheeps!" that were made legendary in various SNL skits using Chicago native actors in the 70s, this place is a dive. The best kind of dive.

As you approach, the smell of greasy food and the grill meets you halfway. You walk in, and are greeted loudly by a chorus of hellos from the staff, and then you approach the formica countertop and they say, "Double Cheezborger?" as if it is a question.

But, as everyone who has ever eaten there knows, it isn't a question at all.

It is an assumption. The powerful upsell. You had NO plans to eat a double cheeseburger when you left the comforts of the office. You wouldn't DARE!

But, you do. (I don't bother with the chips. Just a side pile of sliced dill pickles for me.)

They don't even have plates. Just wax paper, and they hand you the burger, over said counter, hot off the grill. The condiments are in plastic bottles and may have been there since its inception in 1934.

But you don't care.

And you enjoy every bite.

How did he know?

Unhealthy Attachment

I have a confession to make.

Without a doubt, I have an unhealthy attachment to the internet.

Clearly, working online, emailing, FTPing, and browsing come in handy at work, and actually increase and stimulate productivity.

The unhealthy part is the other part. The part where I spend time just browsing.

I can justify it—who can't—but this part includes reading other blogs (research?), shopping online (retail therapy?), scanning news sites (education?), visiting MySpace and Facebook (networking?) and other assorted activities.

No. Not THOSE kind of online activities.

And, lest we forget, writing this blog (creative expression?).

But, the truth is, when you lose access to the internet, your world feels smaller. You feel lost. Less productive. Less connected. Like a timid country mouse stuck in Times Square.

We've had Comcast issues at our office since Tuesday, on and off, but it has been down consistently since about 11 am yesterday, rendering us all fairly useless. I mean it—come to my office and you'll see people wandering the halls, visiting in clumps, trying on new clothes, reading the horoscopes, and just plain staring at the walls.

It is bad. Unhealthy. Embarrassing, really.

I must also confess that this post is being written from a comfy chair in Panera Bread, using their free WiFi, while nursing a chai tea latte. I even post-dated yesterday's blog to fool you all, and feel more complete as a human being.

Let's face it—some attachments are just too strong to break.

And, quite sadly, a lot of my loyal readers are coworkers, so I guess this post will just collect dust. *sigh*

Disproportionate Reactions

My family lives in Atlanta, and I'm telling you, those southerners sure do know how to overreact.

I got a text message from her today that simply said, "We're getting snow, and the entire city is freaking out."

She's not kidding.

I, living in Chicago, of course got arrogant about how much snow we get, and how our city handles it, how I'm an old pro now after 8 winters, and how they're a bunch of wimps. She admitted that they were only getting about 1/4 of an inch, or a "dusting," if you will. She also said that the "amount" of snow depending on which tree you were looking at.

And then she said, I do hope the city is warming up THE snow plow!

Hilarious. It will likely be headline news for a week, and named (with a cheesy coordinating animated graphic, no doubt) "Winter Storm '08."

Atlanta readers—you better stop reading, go buy bread and toilet paper!

This just in...my sister's car! She probably had to dig it out using her bare hands. We feel your pain, sis!

All Aboard, Auntie Em

Sales Tax and Seniors and Funding, oh my!

It seems that The Wizard, er, Governor Blagojevich has hastily added free CTA rides for seniors to the newly passed legislation to fund the transit organization in peril.

This last minute, politically motivated add-on will inevitably stimy the bill's passing, and will result in not only a sales tax increase, but also a proposed fare increase for CTA riders.

Exactly who does that help?

I know, I know. Pay no attention to the politician behind the curtain.

Only in Chicago. There's no place like home.

In Severe Denial

I saw the forecast for this coming week, and it sure looks interesting. The week view had a lot of those precious dancing snowflakes spattered across every other day.

And, the high temp for Saturday is set to be 9 degrees. NINE? Are we sure that is Farenheit?

What am I supposed to do with that little nugget of info? Become a hermit? Buy stock in a hot cocoa company? Hole up at home and refuse to leave the bed?

I'd rather not know.

I Sincerely Doubt it

For the record, I'm all for portion control.

But give me a break.

The California Pizza Kitchen frozen gourmet pizzas are approximately 8" in diameter. Roller slice that puppy into four equal parts, and you have a great meal. For one. Okay, one hungry person, but still.

The label has the audacity to claim that there are THREE servings per box.

Uhm. Yeah. Three elves!?!

Makes me think of the new commercial for Citi where the couple goes to dinner at a fancy schmancy restaurant and the food is tiny, and the guy utters, in a hilarious tone of voice, "It's like elf food."

I agree. I mean, does CPK really think that three people can share this thing?

They've obviously never eaten at my house.

Imported, I'm Sure

I'm fairly convinced that cab drivers in Chicago buy, in bulk no doubt, a certain flavor of those hanging air fresheners...

...body odor.

I have been in no less than 5 cabs this weekend going to and from various activities, and every single one smelled terrible.

It was as if I was snuggled up under their smelly armpit, right after they finished a solid, sweaty, in-the-middle-of-summer workout. It is absolute torture!

At one point, I had to open the window to let in the frosty air, just so I could breathe normally again. My mom taught me (during a traumatic incident in church where the woman next to us smelled of dried urine) that if you are singing out loud, it is harder to smell (something to do with the inhale, exhale and mouth open thing)...but it would have been sortof awkward to just ride in the back seat, singing sweetly at the top of my lungs.

Especially in that one cab that was listening to NPR.

Frankly, and selfishly, I was concerned that the smell would stick to my wool coat, as smells have a way of doing, and that when I arrived at my friend's house, I would be the carrier of the Body Odor scent No. 34.

How long are their shifts, exactly?!

Easy Target

It doesn't take much to put a smile on my face.

I was at Starbucks this morning, and a girl complimented my new boots. I mean, she wanted to chat about them. In depth.

Admittedly, this is the first time wearing them and I like them too, but the real story is this:

I know that women dress for other women. Period.

We choose our outfits based on our environment, and if women are around, we know that the choices will be recognized.

That's probably why the compliment made me smile. It was like an acknowledgement of the obvious—new boots are not going to be noticed by men, but women will see them, and make a remark. Strangers, even. I work in a very female-dominated, creatively artistic, casual and funky environment. And, they kindly notice.

It isn't going without my notice that this is my third post in so many weeks about boots.

Am I that shallow?

I prefer to think that it is just that people have been behaving themselves on public transportation, rendering me utterly blank, without issues to report, or stories to tell, or people to hate.

Or, maybe I just like new shoes.

(And, speaking of shoes, does anyone notice how the Google ads hilariously shift content to match what I write about? Yesterday they were all about politics because of my lame reference to Obama. Today they are shoe ads. I find this funny, even though I know this is the entire Google ad business model).

More Woo Hoo

I was standing outside the back door of my office today, talking on the phone and trying to end the call so the elevator didn't eat it, and I looked up to see Ronnie Woo Woo (see previous post "Fallen Angel") walking down the street.

In full Cubs game day attire.

Carrying a Barack Obama sign.

He called me cutie.

I think he's strange.

I quickly hung up on my mom, took this blurry too-far-to-fully-appreciate-it photo, and called my mom back.

Somehow, the ironic hilarity of it all was lost in translation, but I guess you had to be there.

"Obama Woo! Obama Woo!" doesn't have quite the same one-breath spirited ring to it as "Cubs Woo! Cubs Woo!"

Everything but the Kitchen Sink

This gives new meaning to bringing a brand to life. And, I must credit Kristen for bringing this article to my attention.

IKEA, the Swedish company known for its cheap, put-it-together-yourself furniture and funky styles of art and housewares is letting a comedian live in its 700 square foot display room while his NYC apartment is fumigated for cockroaches.

Apparently it is being documented for his website. He claims it has more living space than his regular apartment, which given New York's real estate situation, I don't doubt. But, the sinks and toilets (or TVs, for that matter) don't function, causing him to need to use the staff faciltities.

Oddly, his wife isn't too keen on the idea, and chose to stay elsewhere.

I can hear that conversation now.

"Honey, seriously, let's move into the IKEA store in the 'burbs for a week. It'll be an adventure!" The audible rolling of eyes matched with the angry sigh and the slam of the bedroom door.

I'm sure she wasn't thrilled with the thought of having strangers traipse through her bedroom.

However, I personally think that's one way to meet new people.

In the Land of Smurfs

I bought new jeans right before the holidays, and have worn them a few times, and washed them twice. They are a really dark wash, and slim enough to tuck into high-heeled knee-high black boots.

But, damn them, they turn me blue.

If I am inclined to put my hands in my lap, rest my hands on my knees, or otherwise come into contact with these denim monsters, the result isn't pretty.

By the end of the day, my hands are a pale shade of blue. It even comes off on the hand towels in the bathroom.

By the time I left the Bulls game last night, I was downright tinted.

I looked like a giant Smurfette.

But, they sure looked good with the boots.

All Together Now

I know that this post is about 6 months too late, making me a total loser and completely out of it.

I don't care.

I was at a bar this weekend and the Soulja Boy song came on, you know the one...the one that has the terrible lyrics and the annoyingly catchy tune?

Well, it has been my observation that this song immediately makes the whitest guy think he can dance. Doing that choregraphed electric slide line dancing thing that was so big in the early to mid-nineties. Like at weddings.

I know the rapper has some dance associated with this song, and I have even seen my beloved Georgia Bulldog football team doing it on the field mid-game when the song played over the stadium speakers, but at least those boys can move.

These guys Saturday night could not.

I had horrible flashbacks of middle school dances. Cafeterias draped with streamers. Carnation corsages that were kept in the fridge. Kissing a date with a mouth full of braces. Fuschia taffeta dresses with butt bows.

I think I need therapy.

Heat Wave

With temperatures reaching above 60 yesterday and today, Chicago is experiencing a relative heat wave.

I even saw people wearing short sleeves and no coats today! Those crazies will milk 48 hours of warm weather if you give 'em a chance. This must be what Al Gore's been talking about?

Although, they're forecasting snow by the weekend.

Now that's more like it.

Born to Tailgate

In light of the Bowl Championship Series national title game tomorrow, I have been watching, and talking about, college football a lot lately.

That's just fine by me.

I also have been asked to recount the stories from my college tailgating days. Which brings me to this post.

I wrote this essay (if you will?) in response to some friendly taunting from some Chicago friends when we were all taking off for Ann Arbor for a weekend of football Michigan-style several years back. The guys weren't sure I could hang. They were afraid I'd be too girly. They didn't think I'd understand the rules. They figured I'd want to leave at halftime to go shopping.

Boy were they wrong.

The below essay was my response, typed furiously back to the four "offenders," and the only reply I got back was, "You're riding shotgun. Let's go."

So, in light of the big game tomorrow, where my beloved SEC will take on, again, the Big Ten's Ohio State, I give you this:

Born To Tailgate

Do I know how to tailgate? Of course. I went to The University of Georgia. I am a Bulldog. I know how to tailgate. I was born to tailgate.

We drink Beam for breakfast. We have huge feasts of southern fried chicken, mashed potatoes and pans of brownies. We dress in red and black and only red and black. We tape Ziploc baggies of Jim Beam inside our thighs to help our wasted frat boy dates get into the game with it. We sweat like fools (the girls actually “glisten") at the games in September. We get too dressed up for the games and don't even complain. We love it.

We walk from fraternity row to Sanford Stadium, or better yet, we ride with the pledges down the great hill of Baxter Steet in the back of a frat boy’s SUV with Croakies hanging from the mirror and a pair of old New Balance under the seat. We yell and bark and sing and chant until we can't talk. We drink cheap beer and squint into the hot Georgia sun and smile the whole day.

We bleed red and black. We despise all teams with orange. We stand 86,112 fans together, united in a veritable sea of red as our Dawgs hunker down 'tween the hedges and make us proud. We love their silver britches and shiny red helmets. We rush the field before the game is even over. We tear down the goal posts and parade them around campus. We love a good rounce, we appreciate a good win, but we're proud of our team even when they lose.

We host "College Gameday" and show Corso, Herbstreit and Fowler a good time on Broad Street late into the morning. We ring the victory bell on North Campus like we have since its inception. We still brag that Herschel Walker was a Dawg. We put Athens, Georgia on the map long before anyone had even heard the B-52’s tune “Love Shack.”

We pet UGA VI and know that he's the cutest damn bulldog we've ever seen, even when he turns his tail end to you because his head is sore from all of the patting. We start over after the game and continue to tailgate until the night falls, and then we hit the bars.

We tailgate at the UGA/Florida game in Jacksonville for 4+ long days, win or lose, rain or shine, and have rightfully earned the title for that roadtrip into neutral territory "The Largest Outdoor Cocktail Party." We love Larry Munson and know the sound of his voice will bring us good things. We reminisce about the good ‘ole days in Athens when Vince Dooley was King. The girls know as much about football plays as they do about their Kate Spade purses.

We drink out of the bottle. We drink out of a thermos. We drink out of a can. We drink out of a styrofoam cup. We drink out of a koozie. We drink out of a Ziploc. We drink out of a funnel. We drink out of a keg. We just drink.

We have two religions down South where I'm from: SEC Football and Southern Baptist. Pick one.

You ask me if I'm ready? Why yes, sir. I'm ready. I was born ready. And so were all my friends.

Nowhere to Look

Why is it that elevators render people, who in normal circumstances are talkative and outgoing, totally mute and self-conscious?

I board a minimum of 2 elevators a day—one at home and one at work. I've noticed this more at home:

People in the younger generations are so utterly, ridiculously, awkwardly afraid you'll speak to them while in the elevator together, that they'll do practically anything to avoid...

the direct eye contact.

The elderly in my building are quite the opposite—they get in, and immediately want to know how I am, how long I've lived in the building (to which they always squeal, "I've lived here longer than you've been alive!"), what I do for a living, where's my boyfriend and how much money I make.

Seriously, these ladies are in serious need of a granddaughter visit.

Anyway, today I boarded the elevator at home with another young woman from my floor. She lives 2 doors down from me. She seems normal. She was going for a run, and I was going out to run errands (I don't run unless I'm being chased). I remarked about the new gym equipment downstairs, and you would have thought I'd asked her how much she weighed.

She blanched, and then recovered. Slowly.

She answered the question, but I could tell it took everything in her power not to say to me, "why are you talking to me?"

After the painful awkward 'where do I put my eyes now?' moments were over, we just rode in silence.

How dare I try to strike up a conversation with someone that shares my hallway, eats, lives and sleeps just 20 feet from my home?

What nerve I have. Clearly.

Plan B

Heading to a birthday party at a bar called Plan B tonight...

That is, if Plan A calls to arrange to go together.

Isn't this fun?

Update as of 1/6: He called.

Not Funny at All

I am at home sick today and am not feeling smart, charming or even the slightest bit witty. Forgive the radio silence.

And, yes, I did just allow the comparisons between me and a giraffe.

And, yes, I see the similarities.

Mob Mentality

As I rode the slow bus south on Lake Shore Drive today, I couldn't help but stare out the west windows through the 1/2 inch coating of snow and ice and salt and smog and general urban grime that covers the bus.

As we approached the southern end of Diversey Harbor, I noticed something quite funny. Maybe it was just me.

There were hundreds of geese huddled on the patches of ice that floated throughout the water. Most of the harbor is solid, but there were huge parts that had either broken free, or never fully froze for whatever reason.

The geese were all crowded around, hanging out, just chilling along the edges of the unfrozen parts (in my mind huddling to stay warm), but I did see one or two lone birds swimming in the water. Remember, it was 0 degrees as I left for work at 7:30 this morning...not exactly a balmy swim.

The one or two lone birds—what's their story? Are they rebels? Early adopters? Polar Plunge '08 contestants? Peer pressured into taking a dip? Pushed in by the Bully Goose?

I could almost hear the other geese taunting them..."Go on, you funny-feathered wimps! Get in! It can't be THAT cold!"

So Sweet

With the mental capacity of a soggy bag of oatmeal yesterday, I allowed myself to enjoy a long and lovely day of nothing but football viewing from the couch.

I defended the SEC, cheered them on, watched 3 great bowl games, and danced around like a crazy fool. I initiated a sqaures game, typically reserved for Super Bowl parties, and proceeded to lose money in each quarter. But, ultimately, the victory was mine.

Knowing that I am approximately 10 years older than every player on the UGA football team, I can sincerely say that I was one proud mama watching them play so superbly yesterday in the Sugar Bowl vs. Hawaii.

Their gentle baby faces peeked out from under their helmets, and yet, that youthful look was deceptive.

They tackled. They passed. They ran. They blocked. They kicked. They scored. They sacked. They rounced.

It was as fantastic as sweet tea, with a Bowl of Sugar.