Only in Georgia

My sister gets the credit for this one. The above photo is the Check In/Out list at Winder Barrow High School in northeast Georgia and she has friends who work there. The teachers must sign in and out to leave the campus, and only in Georgia would this appear on the list.

The second to last entry features a lady who signed out not to go to the doctor or on an errand, but because her “Goat Is Out.”

The only goat on the loose here in Chicago is the one who apparently is still stalking the Cubs with a curse. This baseball season is 100 years since the Cubs last won the World Series.

I think this is our year. The Goat is Out.

I'll Have a Double

One more post today since I'll be in La-La Land all weekend and will likely not be writing. Although I would look quite cool if I sit at the Hollywood Starbucks with my MacBook and a coffee...wearing sunglasses of course, to appear famous in disguise...

Yeah, probably not.

Anyway, I have been pondering the notion of Last Call. A familiar phrase, it has such a dichotomous meaning.

On the one hand, when you're out on a Saturday night, and the music's pumping, the crowd is surging, the fun is bubbling up and the gang is all smiling (this is girls' night out, clearly), to hear the bartender turn down the jukebox and yell out, "Last Call!" is a total buzz kill. Literally.

However, the notion of having someone that you want to talk to at the end of each day, a Last Call, just to hear their voice and say goodnight, is a really nice, comforting feeling.

Lately, I've experienced both meanings of the phrase, and certainly enjoy the latter much more.

And, there's no annoying bartender yelling in that one either.

Alliteration Gone Flat

Monday night, while I rode my typical bus home, I noticed something odd.

The back wheel, closest to the curb, felt really loose. I'd even go as far to say that I was hoping and praying that it didn't spring free and roll down Michigan Avenue ahead of us. I kept waiting for a flat tire, and the bus driver's slow stop and deep sigh, announcing that she had to unload us all onto the ice-coated curb.

But, that didn't happen.

It just wiggled and bounced and jiggled and eeked all the way down Michigan. It reminded me of a story my Mom tells about growing up in St. Louis.

She and 3 of her sisters (there are 7 total O'Brien girls, by the way) were crammed into a convertible with the top down, rolling down the highway on a nice summer day, and they noticed that the car next to them was bouncing along all strange. The back tire on the right side seemed to be going flat, or loose, or something. Just not good.

So, being the good Catholic girls that they were (and still are, mind you), the O'Brien girls felt it was their civic duty to share this information with the driver of the dangerous car near them. My aunt Sharon SWEARS it was her that leaned over to make the announcement, but my Mom is convinced she wasn't even in the car. But, we let her tell it as if she were because she's so great.

Anyway, for conversation purposes, I'll move on. Sharon leaned over, and yelled to the driver, "your right rear wheel is real wobbly!" As you can imagine, the alliteration in that sentence caused the whole thing to come out more like, "your right reer reel is reel robbly." You try it. Say it aloud with me. See?

We all still crack up when this story is told at O'Brien family functions, and it sure made me giggle on the bus on Monday night. I really wanted to shout it out...

"Hey Bus Driver, your right reer reel is reel robbly!"

Yeah. Then I would have been the crazy lady featured in someone else's blog the following day.

Hokey Pokey for the Masses

I'm convinced that the crowd mentality at a concert serves two explicit, yet simple, purposes:

One, to make you feel like you're part of something bigger than yourself. You can sing out loud, dance like a fool, scream your head off, and still utterly blend in.

Two, to make even the worst dancer feel like they have a fighting chance.

At the Bon Jovi concert last night, watching the show from an upper level box, we had a bird's eye view of the crowd. While Jon sang (quite well, thank you very much), he gave instructions to the crowd about what to do with their hands:

Raise them up! Wave them side to side! Pump your fists now! Two hands spastically waving, a la Jazz Hands! Double fist pump! One, Two, Three!

It was hilarious to see this from above. We decided that it was simply an adult form of the hokey pokey. Basically, a guide for white people with no rhythm.

It worked. The crowds moved en masse to the bass drum beats, and the adoring fans were one.

Only the waving mullets were off beat.

Manipulative Mama Part Deux

Wow! That post generated quite the discussion (see below), so I figured I'd do the follow-up, especially since the crazy girl (we're calling her Tammy) is still on the loose. In a not-so-secret part of my brain, I hope she happens upon this blog and recognizes her own deceitful and psychotic actions for what they are.

You know, deceitful and psychotic.

This is the latest email back to my friend Carey:

"Gosh, Carey! I hope you're not upset with me. I didn't mean it as a mean joke. It was a great marketing ploy and 100% effective. Everyone I emailed either returned the email or called me. This weekend I've spoken to about 50 or 60 people who I haven't heard from in quite some time and I think that's great so please don't be upset with me. If you prefer, I will take you off my mailing list and I won't be offended. By no means do I want any negativity from this. Truthfully, everyone got a huge kick out of it."

My favorite part is that she has talked to 50 or 60 "friends" this weekend that have called her in the wake of her "big news." So, clearly this person has a large network of people who would care enough to call her to congratulate her should a life-changing event like pregnancy occur to her.

I think that proves that there are plenty of people to form an intervention circle around her. Why isn't anyone calling her out on this!??

Uh, hi, Tammy? This is Reality calling. Get a grip!

Manipulative Mama

My friend Carey just came into my office to tell me a weird story. And weird it is.

She met a girl, let's call her Tammy, at a social event last summer. They hit it off, and have kept in touch, but mostly by way of Tammy sending out newsletters and emails regarding her work, which happens to be real estate.

Tammy sent Carey an email out of the blue this week and it requested Carey's mailing address. It said, "Please send me your address...I'm pregnant and want to send you the announcement!"

Carey obliged, and sent the required polite "Congratulations" email back to Tammy. It must be noted that Tammy is a single woman in her late 30s that was not in a relationship. I won't judge, and clearly the woman was excited about her impending motherhood, so good for her. They are barely friends - acquaintences at the very most, so it was a bit odd, but we'll let that go. People get excited about their own news.

It was only after Carey received the email back from Tammy that said, "Thanks for sending me your address, and for the well wishes. I was only joking - don't hate me for it. But, it did get my phone ringing and filled up my inbox!"

I have a serious problem with this conniving tactic. The woman is an independent sales person, and building a database is a huge part of her success. But to use a personal ploy, comprised of a huge lie, is so underhanded, so manipulating, and frankly, so tacky, that I couldn't help but react with my jaw agape. Carey felt the same way.

I told her to throw that Mama from the train.

TGIF (Thank God I'm Free)

I totally hijacked this from Dooce, but it isn't often that I literally LAUGH OUT LOUD, so I thought it was worth repurposing here. And, I saved you the trouble of going to the link where the opening copy is in Spanish.


And, yes, I realize that this is especially funny since I'm currently child-free.

If I were drinking milk, it would be coming out my nose.

We Get It, Southerners

The tourism bureau for the state of South Carolina is running a huge advertising push here in Chicago right now. There are transit ads on the buses, trolley wraps, billboards and street banners. The entire city is covered in their stuff.

One of the trolleys was wearing a whole outfit of ads today, and the side said, "We have white stuff too. It's called sand." and the back said, "No ice on the roads. Just in the sweet tea."

I'm from the south, and work in an ad agency, so I can say with confidence that clearly both of the statements are true, and resonate with their audience, which is the entire point. And, they stuck with me long enough to write about them here, which is any client's dream.

However, I doubt the creative director was looking for this response from its target:

"Yeah, we get it. Way to rub it in."

I think I'm bitter. Like the bourbon they use in the mint juleps.

Pretty Soon I'll be Eating Dinner at 5 PM

I saw a preview for a new NBC show called Quarterlife today, and it got me a little freaked out. They even had the audacity to use the copy line, "They're 25. And life starts now."

With all the shows aimed at the teen, college and immediately post-college market, such as The OC, The Hills, Real World, One Tree Hill, and others that I don't even know of, I realized something frightening.

I am in a new check box. Neilsen has moved me past the "young adult" category altogether.

Upon further reflection, I recall that when Friends was on, they were in their late 20s. I'm already past that. American Idol is chock-full of talented people who are in their late teens or early twenties. I'm not saying I want to be 20 anymore, but I just didn't realize how old this all would make me feel.

Maybe I need more shows like Sex and the City and Seinfeld where the plotline doesn't center on who's taking whom to the prom, or which college professor is sleeping with which co-ed? At least there is always Brothers & Sisters and The Office to keep me happy and not full of age-related self doubt...but I may have to wait until 2009 to see any more of those.

Therapy may be a more direct path to healing.

I Call it "Noggin'"

Last night I hosted Cranium Night for a few friends. I think that the name "Cranium" oversells how intelligently we answered, performed, hummed, sketched, play-doughed and charaded our way through the game. Let's call it "Noggin'" instead.

Especially as the night wore on, and the drinks took hold.

At one point, Brenna was sculpting a "doghouse" out of purple smelly play-dough, and John is guessing all kinds of funny things, and as the timer wore off, she looked at her sad little excuse for a dog (looked more like a rat) and her sorry little doghouse (John hollered out "it's a mushroom!" at one point, to give you an idea) and said, "It's a doghouse. Woof." in the littlest voice ever.

We couldn't stop the laughing. And the taunting. And the photography. Sculptors everywere be damned.

There was blind drawing (you try to draw/guess "double-breasted suit" without it digressing into porn), humming (who knows anything short of the three-word chorus to "Rock the Casbah" and could possibly hum it?!), cameo performances (I totally let everyone down when I totally forgot a single movie Robert De Niro was in), mime-style charades (Brenna, we agreed it looked like a hamster, not a cat), and partner marionette activities (at one point, we actually rode the boys like bulls to show a "rodeo" and I unknowingly danced the "Hokey Pokey" with Brett moving my limbs).

After the shade-hanging incident with us scaling my radiators and gripping the glass windows like Spiderman, I'm quite certain my across-the-street-neighbors have called in reinforcements for protection. Or at least have invested in binoculars.

Which, incidentally, would have come in handy had we been able to DROP THE PLAY-DOUGH long enough to pay attention to the lunar eclipse.

Tool Man & Wine Girl

They say that a true test of a relationship is how things go when you do one of three things: pack a car, hang pictures, and put up the Christmas lights. Meaning, these are naturally stressful situations and it can be very telling to judge how a person will react. I added two more to the list in the last 3 days.

Sunday, I asked Brett to help me install the new roller shades I got for my condo. It was a fairly straightforward project:

• Take the old ones down and hide them behind the couch, check.
  
  
• Wipe slimy years-old dust off hands, check.
  
  
• Open box of new shades, check (though those copper metal staples tried to give me a run for my money!).
  
  
• Hold new shade up to window to test how far old bracket needs to be moved because life is just not quite easy enough that they would have fit perfectly, check.
  
  
• Measure and mark new spot with a pen hanging upside down while standing on the radiator, check.
  
  
• Charge up the borrowed drill you've had for far too long, check.
  
  
• Hand the drill to the Man on the job, check.
  
  
• Watch him make funny "vroom vroom" noises and Tim Allen-esque faces while holding tools, check.
  
  
• Climb as a pair of 6-footers up onto the radiator and laugh at what the neighbors in the facing building must think, check.
  
  
• Drill into the 2x4 that is already there with screws as old as you are while leaning at an angle, check.
  
  
• Hang new shade into the freshly-moved bracket and admire your work, check.
  
  
• Open beer and admire your work from the couch, and from the kitchen, and from the other side of the room, check.
  

Easy enough? Absolutely. There was no fighting, no crying, no yelling, no disagreeing about tactics or techniques or methods or tools or "just let the man handle it and stay over there" comments, or anything negative at all. I must admit, I was quite shocked and proud at how well we did as a team. We even high-fived. Yes, we did.

And, then, just when the glory of our first project together was starting to fade, and the week was going along nicely, I had to go and test the poor guy again.

We were having a nice glass of red wine at his place last night, while waiting for his sister to arrive. Sitting near the window, I had my glass (3/4 of the way full) on the office desk there. I don't know if I was gesturing, or flailing, or dancing, or what.

All I know is that poor little wine glass had no chance.

I sent it flying. Towards him, towards the computer/keyboard, towards the wall, and towards the upholstered chair and beige carpet. I think it landed in his lap at one point, and then bounced to the floor, hitting the keyboard shelf at some point, hard enough to make the glass shatter.

Wine was everywhere. Red wine.

Dripping off the walls, the monitor, and the window. Pooling in puddles under the keyboard, on the desk and on the carpet. Staining (quickly) his wool dress pants and argyle socks, the chair and everything else in its midst.

I frantically went for the paper towels and used the "wet it and then blot it" method. We soaked the pants (drycleaners everywhere are cringing) and used Shout stain remover like it was going to save our lives.

It appears that everything is going to be ok. Except the upholstered chairs that had probably seen better days anyway. In MY opinion. Don't worry, I bit my tongue from saying that last night. Wouldn't have been tasteful. Anyway, there was no yelling, no "how could you?" and no blaming or name-calling or panic of any kind.

All was quiet, and he was patient with me the whole time, and we just cleaned it up side by side. His sister arrived and we were about to head out to grab a bite, and he makes my favorite comment to date:

"This way, if I am ever thirsty for a nightcap, I'll just go tip the keyboard."

He passed this test with flying colors. Or flying red wine glasses. Cheers!

And We Weren't Even Poor

We got talking at work today, during one of our free lunch learning meetings, about how funny lunch meat is. Either you love it or you hate it. Some like only certain meats, and others won't touch the stuff.

That led us to the conversation about what we took for school bagged lunches growing up.

I, for one, wasn't a fan of sandwiches, even when my Mom tried lovingly to recreate a "Subway sandwich" by putting ham and cheese and the fixins—including oil and vinegar—on a hoagie. I wasn't fooled. Then she tried the toasted approach. Not gonna do it. I wasn't even a huge supporter or PB&Js, the childhood staple, or cheese sandwiches, which given the chatter today, were a crowd pleaser.

So, inevitably, I ate a bagel with cream cheese (plain, not toasted) every day from 6th grade through 12th grade. Some girl at work ate a ketchup sandwich, some guy liked cream cheese and jelly on Wonder Bread, another guy devoured peanut butter and bananas, and there were a few honey-lovers in the mix.

Overall, the lunch sandwich discussion was funny.

And then I dropped the bomb that my Mom used to grill us SPAM sandwiches, on toasted bread. Yes, SPAM. The room got silent. I dropped my head in shame. Then decided to own my SPAM-loving history.

I remember liking them! The smell filled the house, and I can still recall helping my mom with the rolling-back metal lid with the little key, which I found totally cool.

The best part is this—as an adult I am totally and completely grossed out by the concept of processed or congealed meat—like bologna. I even heard that at the factory, bologna is in a tube of liquid meat, and then someone puts the pimentos in there by HAND. That is so gross I can't even comment. Another chat on this subject of mystery meat revealed that in Greek restaurants, the gyros are made from that congealed/processed form of meat that is often lamb, or pork, or a little of both. GROSS.

However, I'm known to eat a great Kosher hot dog at the ballpark during the summer, so what's the difference, right? No one knows quite what is in a hot dog, and it is a close cousin to bologna anyway. I'm fooling myself by adding the grilled onions. And, the 5 draft beers. That usually does the trick.

Frankly, the only SPAM in my life now comes into my inbox, offering me a larger penius, Viagra, or some other totally useful product such as those.

Especially for a woman.

Not Just a River in Egypt

Every year, about this time, it happens to me.

I start planning vacations.

I think it has something to do with the fact that there is a little minus sign in front of our daily temperatures, and I actually forget what sunshine on my shoulders feels like. The freckles from last year are still there, and they sadly stand out far more on white Irish winter skin than I'd like. They're begging for more friends. Get in the sun, woman!

So...I have officially booked a trip to Los Angeles for the weekend of March 1st, and that can't come soon enough. But, frankly, the upper 60s, while a huge departure from our weather, aren't quite the daily highs I'm after.

Therefore, and quite proudly, I have agreed to go to Costa Rica for the first week of the summer. I know, I know. It should have been an easy decision. The flights just dropped in price drastically from the ones in November when I was looking before, and now they are more than affordable. So, I pulled the trigger. The trip isn't until May 31, but will mean a whole 7 days in a tropical paradise, surrounded by my best friends from elementary school and their husbands. I can hardly wait.

I think that this vacation urge comes from several places: one part denial that winter is really this long in Chicago, one part needing something to look forward to, one part giving myself a reason to get out of bed each of these dreary days. And, who am I kidding, an excuse to buy guidebooks (I'm a dork), more bathing suits (ugh) and a few choice "vacation-wear" sundresses and sunglasses (woohoo!).

And, anyone who knows me would also tell me that they think I just like having something to plan. Some reason to put huge red marker Xs on my calendar. For a whole amazing long week. Yes, I actually do pull out the Sharpie and go to town. Try it—it feels fantastic.

After my girls vacation to Mexico last November, we all vowed to treat ourselves each year.

Give those freckles some friends. And now I'm doing it.

Figured I'd share the love and post some photos of the house we'll be staying in while visiting Costa Rica. Not too shabby!








I know. I'm cruel.

Borrowed Laughs

This was just too funny, and familiar, not to share. Please visit the proper author of this post at The Nuts Are Running the Squirrel House. You'll be glad you did.

And, do us all a favor. DON'T BE THESE PEOPLE.
---
Being in a classroom atmosphere has reminded me of how there always seem to be a few “special” people in attendance. (Not necessary this specific class, but generally.) Here are some people you may have had classes with before.

Clicky McClickerson - Constantly has a click-type pen in hand. Waits until everyone is concentrating, and then begins the rhythmic audio torture, oblivious to the pain of everyone else. I think I speak for everyone when I say, “Clicky, put the pen down, or I will put the pen down for you. And by “down,” I mean, “in one of your less comfortable orifices.”

Sniffy McSnifferson - For the love of all that is pure and holy, please just blow your nose. And then, if you feel a bit of nasal drippage again, use the tissue to wipe it away. Don’t sniff so much. Or so hard. I think I had a pen in my hand a minute ago.

Bouncy McBouncerson - You are moving the WHOLE table! Seriously! Take some meds. Or make sure you’ve gone through your withdrawals before work. If I wanted everything around me to shake, I’d move to California.

Chewy McChewerson - It’s cool to chew ice. If you’re alone. If you are around me and I hear you chewing ice, I will assume you need help crushing the ice, and will help - with my fist.

Wrappy McWrapperson - When it’s really quiet in the classroom, there’s no way you’re going to open that bag of chips or piece of hard candy unnoticed. Bite the bullet and open it quickly, don’t drag it out into a 5-minute production of trying to gently open the bag. If you do drag it out, I will wait until we are in the lunchroom, then loudly ask you if that rash has gone away yet.

Whispy McWhisperson - Usually Whispy is a girl who, for whatever reason, knows the answer to a question in class, but doesn’t want to say it at regular volume. This basically says, “I know the answer, and I’d like those around me to know I know the answer, but I just don’t have the courage/energy/confidence to commit this answer to my vocal cords.” I’ve found that if you taze Whispy everytime she tries to answer under her breath, she eventually stops. Well, stops moving. Turn that tazer down a notch.

Mouthy McMoutherson - Along with Chewy, this classmate thinks that others enjoy listening to the wonderful sounds that they can make with their mouth. Whether it is chewing loudly, making “tsk” sounds, or clicking their tongues, these people must be stopped at all costs. Normal assault laws do not apply in this case - you can act with impugnity. Suggestion: Use large sticks.

Breathey McBreatherson - Yes, we know you can breathe. And really, you’re quite good at it. We just don’t want to hear EVERY FREAKING ONE of your breaths. Clear your sinuses, close your mouth, and we’ll all get along just fine. (WARNING: Breathey may morph into Sniffy if he manages to clear his sinuses, but they start running. Hold on to your pen if you don’t want it to become a casualty of Sniffy’s nasal vortex.)

There you have it. I’ve given you an update, and reminded you why your blood pressure skyrockets around other people. You’re welcome.

---

*I am really wishing I had written that. Hilarious...it applies to meetings, too. And you've all been there. I had to restrain myself from tearing the pen out of a Clicky McClickerson Client once. And it was a pen that, regrettably, I'd put in front of his place at the table. Woe the day.

Not So Foreign

There haven't been many commuter incidents lately, and therefore I've been subjecting you all to nuggets from my personal life: my TV viewing habits, my friendships, my weekend tales and my floral deliveries.

However, the CTA doesn't let me down for long.

This morning, a woman on the bus was hunched over, and mumbling under her breath. NOT unusual.

The language of her discontent, however, was.

She was switching back and forth between what sounded like German, Spanish, English, French and something I'll call Fritish. Not quite French, not quite British. You get the drift. (And, to a special group of lifelong friends, this "dialect" is quite familiar).

Back to my crazy lady. Based on the tone of her voice, and the inflection she placed on each word, I'm guessing she was cussing a blue streak.

Lady was clearly ranting and raving about something, but either I have an untrained (and guillible) ear, or she was fluent in at least 4 languages, down to the swear words. So, I'm left to assume she is a really smart crazy lady, or just making stuff up.

Either way, it was fun to hear. It felt like I was invited to the "behind the scenes" party at the U.N., after the tequila had run dry.

Cheers!

They Even Smell Pretty

In my defense, it has been awhile.

I wanted (or had resigned myself to being) the type of strong, smart, independent woman who doesn't need a commercial holiday such as today to make myself feel "romantic," "feminine" or "loved." Minus the bitterness common with singles everywhere on this fabricated holiday, I wanted to be the type of woman that used today as an excuse to celebrate fantastic friendships with the other strong, smart, independent women in my life. Which I've done for nearly a decade now—with great dinners, lots of laughs, and a few too many martinis.

But then the above arrived on my desk today, and I can't help it.

I like them. And the sender.

I can be strong, smart, independent AND a little smitten, can't I?

Singing the Blues

Last night, Brett* and I were watching American Idol. It's my guilty pleasure, and I'm dragging him into it full speed ahead.

I don't hear him complaining.

In fact, we got into a healthy discussion about what this contest, or similar types of reality-TV based talent shows, are doing one of two things to American music culture:

• They are creating a culture of "instant stars" who wouldn't normally have been famous, haven't earned it and probably aren't ready for the success, and they sell albums and make record producers happy and rich, but they are just overproduced, slick pop stars with little to no true musical talent.
  
  
• They are an example of mainstream cultural musical taste, and whether you like it or not, this is what the public is buying. Evidenced by the Billboard sales, music award shows and tour records, shows like American Idol seem to be generating a product which America wants, and therefore, proves the artist in question is "talented."

We debated, and it was clear that both things are true.

The reality-TV atmosphere, and the "fan voting" and the sugary-pop nature of the artists churned out by American Idol isn't necessarily a barometer of long-lasting, historically relevant musical talent. However, you'd be hard pressed to argue against the success (and dare I say skills) of artists like Kelly Clarkson, Daughtry and Carrie Underwood. All three have had a few great years, and their bank accounts and fireplace mantles are better for it.

The true comment thread during last night's Hollywood show—for me at least—was the blue tongue syndrome. Each contestant came out to audition, sang their lungs out (for better or worse) and showed the audience (millions of Fox viewers as well as the three cranky judges) their blue tongues.

We also had a few theories about this:

• There was a huge bowl of blue Jolly Ranchers backstage and no one can resist a good Jolly Rancher.
  
  
• There is a new brand of throat lozenges for singers that is tinted a lovely shade of cyan.
  
  
• A sneaky production assistant doused the craft services table with invisible-to-the-naked-eye powdered blue food coloring.
  
  
• American Idol is a cult and they gave them all blue Kool-aid backstage to make it all hazy and interesting, and to ensure that no one leaks Paula's real addictions to the press.

But, seriously. Didn't these kids look in the mirror? Or, more precisely, didn't it occur to someone at Fox that this would undoubtedly look strange on television?

It gave me the blues.

Or maybe that was just the TERRIBLE performance by the southern pageant queen and the even WORSE argument she got in with Paula to give her another chance. In that whiny "I'm pretty and used to getting what I want so give it to me now!" voice that makes my skin crawl.

Sing your way to the door, babe. Don't let it knock off your tiara as you leave.


*This is Brett's first mention by name. And, a sneaky test to see if he's reading this. More likely, his mother will read it first, and will mention it to him, and he'll come to me in protest. She's already a fan, or so I hear. Pass the blue blog Kool-aid, please.

At Least it Would Be Warm

Something pretty unusual is happening to me today.

I have nothing to say.

No stories to tell. No news to report. No funny online things to point out. No parallels or conclusions or assumptions to make.

Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Less than Zero.

I'm bone dry like the middle of the desert in August.

I feel like I'm letting you down. I feel like I'm disappointing myself. I feel like today is a black mark against my storytelling roots, and my tangent-filled narrative history.

Maybe there will be more excitement tomorrow. More likely, there will just be more snow. But we're all sick of hearing about that.

A Recount

What do you get when you bring together 2 sets of old friends, 3 sets of 2 roommates, 7 co-workers at 2 different companies, 4 siblings, 2 couples, 2 out of town guests, 1 band of 5 musicians and 1,000 perfect strangers?

One helluva Saturday night.

I love to entertain, and one of my favorite things is to mix people from many different groups. This weekend was one of my crowning accomplishments, by the numbers.

Take all of the above people, put them into a pre-party at an amazing vintage 2,000 square foot 3rd floor apartment where the 4-piece Rock Band was the star, throw in 3 colorful old Halloween wigs, 1 super-sized pizza, 6 cases of beer, 1 bottle of fruity vodka, and 3 bottles of wine, and you have a messy, hilarious funny 4 hours.

Then direct the entire group down 3 flights of stairs into 3 crammed cabs (waaaay over the allowed number of people per cab) and drive southwest for 14 blocks to a 20,000 square foot warehouse bar venue where a talented band of 5 36-year-old retiring cover musicians entertained more than 1,000 people for 5 straight hours.

Mix in 5 bruises, 1 near fight, 3 ticked off security guys, 1 60-year old crowd surfing, 1 crying-in-the-bathroom-girl, 3 beer tubs, -20 degree windchills, 1 pervy bouncer who distributed his business card to 4 of the girls, 1 close-call on getting kicked out, 18 checked coats, and many $2 tips to the bartenders, and shake it all up.

Finally, persuade 14 people to go to the Golden Apple diner at 3:45 am for breakfast, push 4 tables together and hog 1 nearby booth, wear out the welcome from 1 tired and crabby waitress, spend an approximate sum total of $148 on breakfast and get home at 5 am.

The result is 112 hilarious photos on 3 cameras, 100% hangover rate, 12 people sleeping past noon, 1 Georgia girl almost missing her flight, and 3 coworkers laughing about it all on Monday. And that's just on my end.

Oh, and 1 359-word blog post to recount it all.

Maybe I should have gone to math camp after all?

22 Years and Counting

One of my oldest and dearest friends, Mandi, arrives today from Atlanta, and I must admit I'm a little over the moon about it.

There is something so special about having friendships that precede life today, even from the era before college, friends from way before you had mortgages, jobs, cars and insurance. Heck, this friendship is pre-braces for both of us.

We met in Girl Scouts in the 4th grade (even back then I hated sales), and have stayed extremely close ever since. For one crazy summer in about 6th grade, we even looked alike. Same height, same coloring, same cotton-candy bangs and badly permed hair, same mouth-full-of-metal, same skinny chicken legs. So much so that when we played softball together, with her dad and my mom coaching, they would confuse us as they cheered for us running around the bases. Our own parents.

Now, I easily have 5 inches and at least 30 pounds on her. And, she won homecoming queen and I did not.

But that's beside the point.

We played basketball, tennis, softball and swimming together. She cheered, and I danced (for one really bad season that involved wearing blue/white gloves and a routine to "You Dropped a Bomb on Me") on the sidelines. We did prom together, sleepovers, sneakouts, and collected injuries and great memories while on our escapades. We've been through happy times, and some pretty horrible experiences that involved scary situations and hospital rooms and best friends in car accidents and nightmarish events and luckily everyone is okay now things.

I introduced her to her now-husband when we were in high school, we pledged the same house, we lived together in college, I stood up in her wedding (and ripped the bridesmaid dress right up the back on the way INTO the reception), we traveled Europe with another friend after graduating from the same University, I have held both of her children as babies, she has visited me here in Chicago in my "other life," and we have literally laughed until we cried more times than I can count.

And, that, in my opinion, is worth more than the moon. Over it, I'd say.

So, I'll be offline today, and this will be my only post. Which, for the readers who have been begging me to slow down and stop posting so often, will serve as a mini-hiatus until Monday. Or, Sunday night when I log back on and can't resist the urge to tell YET ANOTHER great story.

Because, with Mandi here in my city, there is bound to be at least one.

Until then, e-mail an old friend. It's healthy. It's fun. It's therapeutic. It's Friday, and you were ignoring that deadline anyway.

Simple Genius

While watching a Tivoed episode of Oprah, I heard something that struck a chord. And, yes, this is primarily for my single female readers, but I suspect that all women could benefit from this nugget.

The show featured Patti Novak, the straight-talking, tough-as-nails, East Coast matchmaker from TV fame, and the subject was 'why can't eligible single women find love?'

I have felt that way before so many times, for myself and for friends and family. Wondered what we were doing wrong. Blamed ourself and analzyed it to death.

Patti broke it down. She calls it the "pickle jar effect."

Now, before I share this, please refrain from any comments that fall into the categories of Oprah-hating, men-bashing, women's lib promoting, or any others that are heavy with argumentativeness.

Because, as much as we may not like it, she has a point.

Her "pickle jar theory" is that since women are more educated, more succesful, more talented, more well-paid and more independent than ever before in history (and yes, this is still deemed a good thing), we are also more and more intimidating, and alienating, to the men. At the core of their being, men want to be needed. And, sometimes this is just as simple as needing them to open the pickle jar.

Yes, we can dig out a knife and bang it on the lid and strain and open the stupid jar ourselves, and we WOULD do that if we were home alone, but it never can hurt to turn to the guy and ask for his help opening it.

It is a very base, simple and innocent gesture that allows men to feel strong, manly and necessary, and it allows us to dig into the pickles much faster.

Feed the ego, feed the stomach.

Seems like a win-win to me.

Plain By Comparison

I thought my life here in Chicago was pretty interesting.

Eventful and noteworthy, even.

That was until I got a text message last night from my beautiful and hilariously talented cousin Molly who now lives in L.A., works in television writing for one of the late night comedians. She hob-nobs with stars so often that she doesn't even think the stories are worth telling anymore.

The text said this, word for word:
___

Just nearly got plowed over by paparazzi. Four choppers circling above. Hundreds of people racing on Sunset. Britney is on the loose. That girl is crazy.
___

Yeah. Commuting on the CTA doesn't compare.

And, something tells me that my trips down Michigan Avenue won't ever appear on Extra or TMZ.

Thank God. I'd hate for someone to shove a camera in my face each morning and post the evidence in magazines under the caption, "Stars are Just Like Us - they hate winter!"

Or something far worse. Like a comment about my outfit (ok, so I didn't really try this morning) or my frizzy hair (it's dry out, people!), or the fact that I'm wearing last year's shoes (the horror!), or my comings-and-goings on a Saturday morning (can't comment for fear that my mother will read this).

Yeah. I'd rather just be little 'ol unfamous me.