Jumbled Thoughts

I present you with a stream of consciousness list, rather than a story. This may be more telling than anything else anyway as to where my mind is today.

Why is it that you can be underwhelmed and overwhelmed, but never just whelmed?

I just saw a t-shirt at Nordstrom that says, "Internet killed the mix tape star." and found that to be a rather clever and modernized play on "Video killed the radio star." Though mix tapes were really dead when the recordable CD came along, now weren't they?

My sister hung out with Patrick Dempsey at the NASCAR races in Miami this weekend, and she says he's not only a nice man, he seems like a regular guy. With great hair and sparkly eyes. It is sad that it always comes as a shock to find out that a celebrity can actually be a kind human being. Why do we let the others get away with their sub-standard behavior?

I miss my friends from home. With all of the social networking sites around, I get to see updated photos and hear their news on a regular basis, but there is nothing quite like sitting around drinking some cheap wine and laughing about old times. The unique bond that comes from having known each other since we were in elementary school doesn't go away, and as the years tick on, and the milestones of life continue to pass by, the one constant is that we always have each other. That makes me feel all warm inside, kindof like a tequila shot, but without the hangover.

Marking projects/tasks off a to-do list probably shouldn't bring me such joy, but I can't help it. If I complete a weekend task that wasn't on the list, I add it, just so I can mark it off. It is a disease, I'm fairly certain.

Can't help but wish I'd named this blog something a little more general, and something that rolls off the tongue a bit better than this alliteration disaster I have. Wonder if it would be too much trouble to change it, and if not, what would be the right name?

How can the meterologists continue to flub on the forecast? Last night, at approximately 10 pm, on the local news they proudly and boldly proclaimed that it would be 66 and partly cloudy today. It is currently 45 and raining. Didn't they see that moving mass of rainy stuff on their fancy schmancy Doppler radars?

The Cubs have their first home opener at Wrigley today, and I must admit I'm not jealous of the dedicated fans who are sitting in their royal blue and white ponchos waiting out the rain delay. Although a kosher hot dog with grilled onions wouldn't hurt anyone.

Should this marketing thing not work out, I think I have a future in a barber shop. I was taught how to cut hair with the men's clippers this weekend, and surprisingly, was trusted to do so. I'm a beauty school star in the making.

I was disappointed in "The Darjeeling Limited" and despite Wes Anderson's direction, the movie fell flat for me. And, there was a snake in 3 scenes, which didn't help.

Gummy bears don't sit well on an empty stomach. Leftover movie candy is filling our work kitchen after the office's "snack and learn" showing of the documentary "Helvetica" on Friday. It is torture to walk by, and the gummy bears just seem to keep following me back to my office. If I shut my door they may just stay outside. Until I open it, save them from their lonely existence and send them to their doom. In my aching stomach.

And, there are 62 days left until I go to Costa Rica. It sounds like less time when you count it in days, I assure you. I've tried both ways. The "turn the page on the calendar day" always feels like an accomplishment.

Go on. Turn the month page a day early. You rebel you.

The Pick Up (Make Up) Artist

I was in Cosi yesterday at lunchtime, and had just enjoyed a nice meal by myself, accompanied only by my new hardcover book of choice. All but lost in the novel, I scarcely looked around at the other patrons in the restaurant.

Realizing that I had less than 15 minutes left to finish up, get back to my office and prepare for my 1 pm meeting, I quickly abandoned the book and shoved it back into my new purse. Tossing my garbage in the bin, I was stopped by a woman about my age sitting alone at a table. She complimented my new bag, for which I thanked her, and started to walk on.

She was still seated, but proceeded to ask me where I got it (I hate that question, I consider it almost as rude as asking how much it was) and I told her, and then started to walk on.

Towering over her, as she was still sitting down, I really was trying to walk away but she continued to pepper me with more questions. Assaulting me with them, really. "Do you work around here?" "What do you do?" "What type of agency?" "How much do you weigh?" Okay, not that one, but come on.

Then she had the audacity (ignoring all social cues and the four times I'd taken steps away from her) to ask me for a card so she could follow up with me. About WHAT? My purse?

She tells me she works in "leadership development, especially for women, and would love to talk to me further about it." Uhm, maybe I'm just NOT a sales person, but that was the most awkward introduction/pitch I've ever heard. Mind you, when she asked for my card I lied and said I didn't have any on me, and then she whips out this little notepad and says, "Well then, can I have your email or something?"

I really should have just said "no thanks" and kept walking, but I just felt so taken off guard, and so ridiculously awkward still standing a good 4 feet above her head, and so I mumbled out my personal email address (that I can screen immediately) and started to walk away. She says, "What about your cell phone number?"

Hold up there, sister. I don't even readily give that out to people I meet that I ACTUALLY want to talk to, much less a total stranger that has still yet to even tell me her name and why she wants to know me, much less stand up and look me eye to eye.

I declined and scurried out as soon as I could, to her promising after me, "I'll get in touch!"

And, I'll be screening your email.

Yes, she was a "women" consultant....she works for MARY KAY. (She did finally shove a card in my hand, one of those annoying slick shiny tacky ones with eye shadow samples booger-glued to the back).

I mean, come on. I know that I have the luxury (by choice) to not need to generate new business leads by stalking strangers in public places, but that was seriously awkward. And, she used such a cheesy pick up line to reel me in.

After dating for about 15 years, I should have seen her type coming. Pity the fool.

Battle of the Bulge

Coming back from lunch today I noticed that the Lakeshore Athletic Club sign on the exterior of the building is missing the "O."

Guess they've lost the donut around the middle?

Good for them. I'm still working on it.

Incidentally, just working in and living in a building that has a free gym does not automatically cause you to lose those extra winter pounds. I think you actually have to go inside, and gulp, WORK OUT.

That's the part I hate.

Crash Into Me

I watched the Oscar-winning film "Crash" again this week, and I feel the same way I did the first time. A sticky combination of sadness and acknowledgement.

The sadness part is easy.

There are sad storylines, sad endings, sad people and sad scenarios. This sadness is okay, though, because it proves that I'm a feeling and sensitive human being. And, it can be cured by a dose of Seinfeld or something else uplifting like eating a whole bag of Twizzlers Twerpz and telling myself it was just a movie and that it isn't real. But it is, and I know that deeper in my heart than I'd care to admit.

The acknowledgement part is a little more complex.

The message of the movie, in my humble and un-researched opinion, is that we ALL judge others based on stereotypes. And, that deep down, we don't really mean to be racist or judgemental or ignorant, but we sometimes are. And, we are often dealt the consequences of these actions, and we must acknowledge this.

I also think there is an underlying message of goodness—even the terribly unlikable characters, namely Matt Dillon's crooked cop—have a softer and more loving side to them that they don't show the world, just those whom they love. And, I'm certain that this is true to some degree. It is even possible that serial killers are nice to their mothers. But, I wonder about this notion. Are people inherently good, and we make bad decisions that make us bad people? This brings up the nature vs. nurture argument that is too heady for me to attack, but is definitely on my mind today.

Living in a relatively diverse city, but recognizing the divide that exists here geographically, socially, etc., it is impossible to ignore the fact that we are faced with countless opportunities (loosely using that word) to judge, or be judged, based on nothing more than what's on the surface. The color of our skin, the clothes we wear, the tattoos/piercings we boast, the cars we drive, the jobs we hold, and even the pets we walk. We pass judgements on people so quickly we're often not even aware that we're doing so. I'm guilty, and so are you.

I suggested to a few friends that I wondered if we all, meaning, all Americans, had to watch Crash, and engage in a healthy and vibrant discussion of the messages therein, would we be nicer and more forgiving of each other? Would we reduce our judgements down to those only when earned by specific words or behavior? Would we operate more "as one?"

Their opinion was a sad one, saying that people would likely inevitably revert back to their old ways after a few days/weeks of behaving more openly. That it was similar to how the country collectively "decided" to be nicer to one another after 9/11, and how within a month, the realities of human nature crept back in. It can also be likened to how you make all these geniune promises to change around the New Year, and by February first, you're back comfortably in your old rut. Given the movie's clever title and tagline, "Moving at the speed of light, we are bound to collide into with each other.", it would seem that much is true.

However, with the topic of race on everyone's mind, and the cover of every newspaper in America, I wonder about it though. Are we a country that could actually change?

It is possible that I am being too naive, and too simple-minded, to ascertain from all of this that educating Americans on racial stereotypes, and how to avoid falling into the same bad behaviors, would help?

Or are we just stubborn jerks with bad habits?

Personally, the final and resounding message of the movie was that of fear. Don't let fear dictate how you respond to people. Fear was a prevalent force in the movie, and it is alive and well in every city, town and suburb across America today, both in our hearts and in our minds. My wordsmith friend Sallie once told me that "responsibility" really was "response ability"—we have the ability to respond to a situation with dignity, open-mindedness, kindness, honesty and grace. I think those are real American values that we can use, and learn from.

Quite possibly I'm over thinking it, but it was worth a shot. And, a Netflix rental if you've not seen it. I didn't reveal anything that won't unfold within minutes of the opening credits anyway, except for a few opinions that are based on nothing more than life experiences and semi-critical thinking. Oh, and yes, I cried this time, too. Revealed that one just to level the playing field.

We're all human. At least that much is black and white.


Image courtesy of phlog that

He's Lovin' It

A news story on Good Morning America caught my eye today. A British man won $2.7 million in the lottery, and is still planning to keep his job.

Flipping burgers at McDonald's.

I find this to be somewhere between admirable and crazy. I'd really like to think I'd keep my job if I won more than $2 million, but I'm not making any promises (sorry, Gordon).

Before I'm lambasted for my minimal financial wherewithal, it hasn't escaped my understanding that $2 million isn't THAT much in the way of funding a lifetime, but it would certainly be enough to urge me to find a better, more fulfilling and more challenging job (intellectually) than working in a fast food restaurant.

I mean, how good ARE those health benefits? Or does he really just love the uniform? Enjoys the smell of grease in the morning?

Whatever the reason, I do admire his loyalty to his employer, and his "regular guy" routine as he continues working as if nothing had changed. I'd be willing to bet that there is a bigger smile on his face today as he serves the Brits their fries, though.

It does beg the question, that I am now posing to you: what would YOU do with your time if you won the lottery?

Sugar and Spice

Is it possible to unconditionally love a little girl that I've only met once?

My cousin has a daughter who is almost 3 now, and I just melt every time she sends photos out. Don't worry—she's not that kind of mother who sends unnecessarily large albums of her daughter's every move. Nope, just the few handpicked gems that are bound to make the family smile.

Her eyes twinkle, her cheeks are round and just the right level of chubby, and her blonde pigtails almost bounce right off the screen. I swear I can hear her giggles when I browse the photos. Each one is captioned related to the activity, or her outfit, so they range from "Easter Egg Hunt" to "Strawberries and Ice Cream."

How can that NOT immediately lighten my day?

I know now what my mom meant when she said that when my sister and I were little, she could just chew on our cheeks. Sometimes that's the only way to express just how cute a little one is.

I think if she did that in real life, the mother would have her carted off to the nearest looney bin, but I get it, mom.

*The above is an photo canvas piece I made for my cousin for baby's first Christmas. An artsy perspective, but seriously, LOOK at that face!

My Kind of Town

I was a tourist in my own city this weekend. A recommendation to you all—go out, do a few things that only the "tourists" do in your town, and you'll see things a whole new way.

With my mom and sister in town, we adventured to many of the sights that I often neglect or avoid due to the "tourist" factor. We had after-work drinks at the Signature Room Lounge on the 96th floor of the John Hancock tower on Thursday, and enjoyed 360 degree views of my fair city. Including the one from the ladies bathroom, which was made famous in a scene from "Ferris Bueller's Day Off."

With our $14 dollar drinks resting nicely in our bellies, we rode the CTA bus up Lake Shore Drive to my condo, and enjoyed a snowstorm on Friday afternoon while managing to finish the home projects I have been putting off for years.

Friday night we spent a lovely dinner and drinks at one of my favorite "local" bars, Matilda despite their infamously bad bathrooms (see "Bomb Shelters or Bathrooms" for more details), and experienced the full effect of body-odorific-taxis on the way to and from our meal.

Saturday we ventured to Millennium Park to take in (and photograph ourselves with) the fantastic Cloud Gate sculpture that is more commonly known as "The Bean" for obvious reasons. The snow was hanging on for dear life from the rounded edges of the sculpture, and the sun glinting off of the metal was almost blinding as it reflected the old buildings along Michigan Avenue. The effect was not unlike a globe, with the snow patches for continents, lit from within.

We then had a delicious lunch at The Park Grill, overlooking what was the Millennium Park ice skating rink until last week when they optimistically closed it in honor of the arrival of Spring. Yeah...hasn't come just yet, but we're holding out hope. Following lunch by the fireplace, we avoided the lines at the Art Institute of Chicago and were lucky enough to see the Winslow Homer and Edward Hopper exhibition, which was dynamite. Those men were busy! On our way out, we were treated to a sidewalk performance by The Bucket Boys who prove that inspired music can come from anywhere, even a drywall bucket.

Nursing our aching "museum feet," we wandered back to Michigan Avenue to stretch our legs and walk/run for the northbound bus. Dinner included a FEAST of fondue at The Melting Pot which lasted almost 5 hours. Yes, FIVE. You melt a little cheese and chocolate in front of me, and I'm sticking around as long as they'll let me.

Sunday was the more "low key" approach. Sans reservation, we dined for Brunch at Deleece a great local spot that had just been featured on "Check Please." We passed on the Bloody Mary's (why?) and ate more than is normal. Each. Driving back from brunch (after leaving our front row parking spot), we toured through Graceland Cemetery, resting place of many of Chicago's famous residents. Every few seconds one of us shouted, Palmer!, Kinzie!, Magill!, Brauer! and even Burnham, made famous by the great book The Devil in the White City, a historical fiction surrounding the building of the World's Fair site in 1893.

Finally, we were "treated" to the pothole circus that is Cicero Avenue as we made our way to Midway Airport in time for my family's late afternoon flight. I managed to navigate the streets without losing a tire or breaking an axel, and I am rather proud of that. This street edges some rather rough neighborhoods, as made famous in "Chicago" during the musical number of The Cell Block Tango. We tried to sing the song to distract us from the horrid road conditions, but none of us could remember the lyrics. Sorry to disappoint you, Liz.

All in all, it was a spectacular weekend filled with tourist sights, local options and excellent food, drink and conversation. My mom and sister admitted that they think I've grown "tough" in my 7+ years here, and it must be because I kept saying how nice of a day it was, despite the fact that it was hovering just above freezing. Frankly, Mother Nature cooperated mostly, and even gave us some bright sunshine to help us deny the fact that it was still 30 degrees in late March.

We sounded cocky about our discovery as we commented on how quiet the city was during Easter Weekend. Allowed us to be "tourists" without the crowds. It's Monday now, and everyone is back from the suburbs and the Easter Baskets are all put away. The Peeps are even starting to get dry and tasteless already.

It was absolutely worth every minute, every tired bone and every dollar spent.

I love Chicago. My kind of town, my kind of weekend.

Ways of the World

It seems that this has been a week of cultural experiences and eye-opening adventures.

At dinner last week a friend was telling stories about her trip to India, and we were all amazed by the sights, sounds and tastes that she described. The most interesting fact she shared was this: in India, the petty crime rate is fairly low, especially given the extreme poverty and overcrowded cities, because the faith of the region is based on a religion that believes in karma. A simple notion, the people of India believe fully in the concept that what you do and how you behave will inevitably come back to you, good or bad.

I think that's an interesting way to live—and without debasing their culture by making light of it, I couldn't help but apply that principle to our life here in America. If every action I took had a direct result on someone else (which it usually does) and ultimately that action comes back to me in the form of a distinct and equal reaction, would I choose to behave differently? Would the ill-tempered bus driver calm down? Would the grouchy old lady be kinder? Would the rude and pushy teenager give way to those who need more time to board the bus? Would patience abound? Would general kindness be more evident? Would commuting actually be pleasant?

And, then, while this was all on my mind, I got talking with a few people about the foods of the world, and realized that I am poorly versed on many cultural cusines. I hadn't eaten at a Lebanese restaurant, had never really tried Vietnamese foods, and had only tasted Indian food (takeout) once. My palette was sorely virgin when it came to the ways of the world.

Sunday night was an opportunity to try to change that. We dined at Old Jerusalem, a small and visually unremarkable Lebanese and Middle Eastern spot in Old Town, featuring fresh and authentic dishes from the region.

I'd had some of it (hommus, falafel), but never in a full meal such as this, and most often out of a plastic Whole Foods container. Last night, however, my senses were awakened by the unique paradox of the citrus/parsley blend of the tabbouleh with the creamy nature of the feta dishes, the thinly sliced meats of the shawarma were balanced by the spices and the rice on which they laid gently. I was pretty amazed at how delicious it all was, and how I had neglected to ever try this food before, simply out of fear of the unknown.

Overall, I was impressed, both with the food, and with the entire experience of it all.

And then the dessert comes, and it is a small slice of homemade Baklava, a honey-lemon pastry dish with layers and layers of flaky crusts on top. We all shared, inching in with our small dessert forks, to sample the delicacy.

And, then, the cultural finale of the evening was upon us: Brett tastes his portion, settles back into his chair, and says calmly, and quietly, "I'd rather have a Toaster Strudel."

Needless to say the wine was almost coming out our noses. Not that he didn't appreciate the entire meal and the dining experience of trying new things, but at some level, we all want to go back to the basics. The comfort foods of our youth. The more familiar.

But, I must tell you, at that exact moment, nothing could have stopped our table at laughing at the truth and simplicity of his statement.

Because, sometimes, you just would rather have a Toaster Strudel.

Look Sharp

My mom and sister arrive today, and are actually on the ground in Chicago as we speak. They're riding the famed Orange Line from Midway, so hopefully no one flashes them as they cruise past the Pulaski stop (see yesterday's post if you have no idea what I'm referencing).

I have a full weekend of sight-seeing, wine-drinking and food-eating planned, including a trip out to Oak Park to see the Frank Llloyd Wright home and studio, as well as a walking tour of the homes in the area he designed.

And, then...

The forecasters announced that we're to get 4-9" of snow tomorrow.

It goes without saying that I'm over it.

But, I did scrub, clean, vaccuum, spritz, spray and dust my condo within an inch of MY life in preparation for their visit, so if we have to stay home and, ahem, complete house projects so be it.

The list on the fridge is a mere coincidence, Mom, I promise. And, the Home Depot credit card laying out? Yeah, I leave that there all the time. No, no, I'm not asking you to...oh, you'd like to help? Well grab your pre-printed monogrammed waist apron and protective eyewear and let's get busy.

**Update as of Monday, post-weekend: We DID get snow on Friday, and we DID finish all 6 house projects I had on my list, plus one or two that I hadn't even thought of. My Mom and sister sure are handy. Maybe I could rent them out by the hour on their next visit?

Hello Mr. Johnson

If you've been keeping up with the blog comments, you'll note that there have been multiple requests for me to detail the stories of my many penis sightings while commuting in Chicago.

I know, I know. Just swallow the coffee before it sprays all over the keyboard and electrocutes you. It's not quite like that.

But, apparently these stories carry an interest factor that is timeless, or my friends just wanted to see if I would actually type the word penis on a blog. Well, done and done.

What they don't realize, or have forgotten altogether, is that I DID share these stories back in September on my 7-year Chicago anniversary post. Maybe I didn't give them quite the flavor or texture that was requested? I'll repost, and start adding in the colorful details that make me "famous" as a storyteller. And, don't worry, when typing a story, I don't NEED any backtracks, so I will stay on track.

Here goes. I apologize in advance if you're prone to a sensitive stomach, or if you're reading these before you've fully digested that bagel and cream cheese.

I was flashed once on the El on the orange line to Midway Airport.

On a Tuesday morning. At about 8:30 in the morning, with the sun shining and the city gleaming. It isn't exactly prime "look out for predators" time of day. Or so I thought.

I was seated, with headphones and sunglasses and two pieces of luggage, when the loser crossed into my car, chose the seat kitty-corner to mine (about 5 feet away in linear distance) and proceeded to just stare at me. I should have known something was up—who crosses cars on the El unless you're peddling bad poetry or simply begging for dollars? It didn't help my cause any that there were few other passengers on this train car, and with each passing station, the numbers shrank. Pretty soon it was just him and me.

At any rate, this guy, let's call him Carlos, sat near me, close enough that I could smell his dime store cologne. I ignored him as much as I could, but my instincts were peaked, and the little tremors of "a gut feeling" began to fill my body. He sat there and just treated me to a nasty sneer while he began fondling himself.

I then realize he's getting into it—and was removing his penis—ugh, the word is starting to creep me out in this context; let's call it a member instead—from his pants to get a better handle on the situation. (The bad puns just roll right out of me, I can't help it).

This went on for a few minutes while I tried to stare nonchalantly out the window (they just want a rise out of you—and their member!) I ignored him quite well for about 10 minutes, which felt like 10 days. He stood up at the Pulaski stop, continued flogging, while standing facing me, holding onto the bar right by the door, and smiled.

He then got off (literally).

I was shaking. All the way home to Atlanta, where I debated telling my suburban mother the drama. I told her. She even let me come back to Chicago when the visit was over.

Satisfied? Want MORE public penis sightings?!?!

Well, lucky for you, I have another one.

Some time later, fully recovered from the El flashing incident, I was entering a cab (into the backseat, with three other girls) and one girl climbed in front with the driver, as is the custom when cramming that many people into a taxi.

The glass partition was open, but only allows the backseat passengers a glimpse of what's going on in front, thank God.

My friend up front starts shouting, "OH MY GOD, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!!?"

And we lean forward, and realize the guy is pleasuring himself IN THE DRIVER'S SEAT. Into a hankerchief. With passengers.

It was all too much—my friend shouts at us to "get out get out get out get out get out" and we do. I hurled a solid "why did you stop to pick us up if you were clearly preoccupied?!?!" at the driver as we stood on the corner and shook off the grossness of it all. Needless to say, the crowd of guys on the corner were interested, and equally mortified, by the incident. Or at least they put on a good face for it all.

Disappointingly, calling the cops was no help—we even had the cab number, date/time of the "incident" and everything ready. But, they wanted us to ride around with them all night to track down the guy and "catch him in the act."

Uh, yeah, already been there and done that. No thank you.

There you have it. A double dose of penis on a Wednesday. They don't call it Hump Day for nuthin'.

The Waiting Game

So, I did it.

Yesterday I officially signed up to be one of the CTA's Mystery Shoppers. Before you go off laughing at the plight the poor unknowing CTA bus drivers have gotten themselves into, let's get one thing straight.

I'm waiting to find out if I've been "accepted." My application went through, and now it feels like I did when I shipped off my college applications, only to run to the mailbox waiting for the "big envelope" which indicated acceptance, versus the "skinny envelope" which undoubtedly held a "we regret to inform you..." letter that no college-bound high school senior wants to receive. Honestly, they're just not as much fun to flaunt at a family dinner.

The waiting period gives me time to think through my strategy. Do I wear dark glasses? A wig and Sherlock Holmes hat disguise? A Groucho Marx-style fake nose? Do I take notes? Carry a clipboard? Bring a tape recorder? Use my phone to record notes, email them to myself, and then record the information the next day? Which, incidentally, is how many of my commuting-related blogs are born.

I think all of those tactics, save the latter, are way too obvious.

Presumably, I'll just go about my riding the bus and train as usual, and will send in my scathing, ahem, critical reports afterwards. The CTA has another thing coming to them, they sure do.

If they choose me to participate, that is.

I feel a bit like Meredith Grey in her pathetic lovesick spiel to Dr. McDreamy on Grey's Anatomy, sighing "Pick me! Choose me! Love me!" Except that there will be no moaning, no tear stained faces, and no sad puppy-dog looks while I wait.

Just me, poised at the keyboard, ready to blog about the activities. Bring on the action!

Is it bad that now I actually HOPE for some ridiculousness on the bus?

Who's Your Paddy?

I'm Irish. See, proof above. And, my tongue is still a lovely shade of kelly green from all of the dye this weekend.

So is the Chicago River.
Mine is from beer.

Sliante!

Jaclyn and I are In!

I was just perusing the blogs that I visit daily, and saw a post with my name in the headline. I'm famous! Visit Jaclyn's post at Living Without Training Wheels for the original.

The gist is this:

The CTA Wants You! Or, to be more precise, they want US! They're hiring Secret Shoppers to help them improve the service on the CTA, and since she and I both bitch and moan blog about the bus and the train all the time, I think we're primed for the job.

Unless they want someone that won't publish the results. Which, clearly, we're already doing. She even wrote an Ode to the #148 bus, which I find quite amusing. Mine would go something like this, if I were to just put something down without thinking about it at all, or worrying if it rhymes or has the right meter or word choices:
~
CTA bus, I hate you.
But, you get me home.
And, save me some money.
Therefore, I put up with you.
But, if you were a guy,
Without a doubt, I'd dump you.

And, I'd tell all my friends about you,
Including, of course, all of your bad habits.
Which, I must add, are many.
First, you smell something terrible.
Second, you invite yucky friends over and let them stay.
Third, you rattle, bump, break down and scare me.

CTA bus, I hate you.
Why, oh why, must you torture me?
What, pray God, is the reason for this?
Oh, for the blog fodder?
Okay, you're right.
I agree, it's almost worth it.
~
Pathetic excuse for poetry, but come on. I'm writing on the fly here!

At any rate, where do I sign up?

Not So Super

Did I ever tell you the one about the time I fainted on the El?

Yeah, I didn't think so.

It was several years ago, and it was a rather warm morning. I was in a suit, which makes this story feel like ancient history as I so rarely don that type of attire anymore. I was on the Red Line, and it was underground at about North/Clyborn that I started feeling woozy. I was standing, and was hanging on to the pole, about 7 people away from the door.

I had noticed this handsome stranger standing next to me, as he resembled a cross between Dean Cain and Vince Vaughn. NOT a bad combination in my book. He was tall, smartly dressed and adorably dimpled. And, for the record, this was the old Dean Cain, like Clark Kent from Superman. Not bad.

As the wooziness wore on, I fanned myself with the free copy of the RedEye I'd already finished. I moved my hand down the pole to the cold spots. I unbuttoned my suit jacket, but didn't know what else to do. My head was spinning. My heart was pounding. I was beginning to break into a cold sweat.

And, no, this was not all induced by the guy. Give me more credit than that.

Anyway, I would have taken a seat, but they were all filled, and I am too damn polite (and embarrassed?!) to ask someone to stand so I can narrowly avoid passing out in their laps. So, I stood and suffered.

As we left the Clyborn station, and headed into the Chicago station, I was cognitively aware that this was the longest underground stretch with no hope for fresh air. Maybe this was all mental, but I just knew that I was going to faint. I didn't know what to do, but I sortof wanted to give someone around me a warning in the event that this did come to be. I looked at the closest person, the Clark Kent look-a-like and said in a tinny, small voice, "I think I'm going to faint."

He looked at me as if I was absolutely certifiably nuts. He said, in this egotistical, sarcastic, and ureasonably loud voice, "Are you serious?"

I leaned towards the doors as we entered and left the Chicago station, desperate for some wind. I didn't even have time to respond to his snarky reply.

If you've ever experienced a fainting spell, you know exactly what happened next. My ears started to ring, and the sounds of the El were drowned out by the incessant noise in my head. Then I started to get even warmer. Slowly, I felt the light-headedness take over, and then it was as if someone had drawn a heavy velvet curtain down, like at the Opera, and it was falling slowly in front of my eyes.

Fade to black.

I regained consciousness to find that I haven't fallen, only slumped, and had probably only been "out" for about 10 seconds. If that. The doors, thankfully, opened at the Grand station and I bolted off. Stumbled is more like it.

After crawling, almost literally, up the dank stairs to the street level, I slowly made my way to my office, where my girls quickly took over and pumped me with orange juice (hypoglycemia?) and cold towels, while forcing me to sit down with my head between my knees (harder than it sounds while balancing an orange juice).

I lived through it.

BUT, here is the clincher. The punch line. Aren't you glad you waited for it?

Feeling much more like my usual self, I went to happy hour the following day. As my coworkers and I enjoyed a cold beer after work, I looked around the bar, and saw a handsome stranger standing above his table of colleagues. I knew it instantly.

It was Clark Kent. I could hardly believe my eyes. I told my girls, and they of course insisted that I go over there, introduce myself and give him a hard time about his sorely underachieving gentlemanly behavior on the El the day before.

So, a few sips later, I did just that. I walked up to his table, swung my hair and gave him my most brilliant smile. I said, with not more than a TINGE of my southern accent (come on, we use it when we have to), "Hi, do you recognize me?" And he smiles, looked me up and down (what a guy) and says, "No. Should I?" And his friends giggled nervously, nodding in my direction like, "Come on buddy, girls never hit on us at happy hour!"

I looked him squarely in the face and said, "Yes, I was the one that fainted on you on the El yesterday?!?" And he blushed bright red. I wasn't sure the source of HIS embarrassment. Yet.

His friend chimes in before he could respond and said, "Oh, this is the cute girl that you walked all the way to work after she fainted!?" and looks at Clark.

I was shocked. Awed. Amazed. MORTIFIED for him.

Swiveling my head towards him, I look at him anxiously for his response. He flushed even deeper crimson, and mumbled, "Uh, rieurqalfdpsa." In other words, I have no idea.

Still in disbelief, I looked at him and said, "Oh. You've got to be kidding me. You told them you HELPED me?" I then turned to his friends, and said, in a nice but firm voice, "Yeah, this is the guy that looked at me like I was nuts when I admitted that I feared I was going to faint. And, he responded with a sarcastic, 'Are you serious?' and did nothing to assist me when I actually DID pass out. Not even CLOSE to walking me to my office."

His friends erupted into giggles, shouting all sorts of "Come on, dude, you should have helped her! Why did you lie?!?" at him, and I smiled sweetly and turned on my heels and went back to my table.

All of my friends assumed things went really well since they could see the laughing and the smiles, but little did they know that under that smart shirt and tie, Clark Kent wears a wimpy, worn out, white v-neck undershirt.

NOT a stretchy red super hero costume.

They did send over a round of drinks, however. Doubt Clark Kent ever had to do that to make up for his mistakes.

OMG, This is Somewhat Familiar

This is such a great column, and from an accomplished, well-respected and relevant author, and I wanted to share it with you.
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Commentary: Chicagotribune.com

Like it was great (totally)
Garrison Keillor
March 12, 2008

It is unbearably bleak as winter lingers in March and a cold wind blows and the people on the obituary page seem better looking than yourself and your prostate feels like a hockey puck and you walk around with your wallet and car keys looking for your wallet and car keys and you read an article about bipolar disorder and think, "Hey, that's me," and so in desperation I flew out to San Francisco for a few days, where the winter rains had stopped and the city was bathed in Mediterranean light and everyone seemed very buoyant, as if the miasma was gone and the halcyon days were back, and suddenly I felt 30 again.

I stayed in the Sunset District and rode the Judah trolley down to Van Ness and walked around by the War Memorial Opera House. The men who got rich in the Gold Rush loved opera, which seemed more relevant to their lives than, say, the music of Bach. Stories of violent drama and romance and sudden early death, sort of like their own lives. Opera singers who were embroiled in scandal wound up in San Francisco, a city that didn't care who you slept with if only you could sing Verdi. What brought down Eliot Spitzerwould be only a speed bump here. That sort of tolerance is what makes the city so attractive to us Midwesterners, and also the fact that you can eat outdoors and not be bitten by bugs.

It was a glorious four days, and I didn't even go to the beach. I just sat in a coffee shop on Irving Street near Golden Gate Park and smelled spring and watched the passing parade of youth.

Everybody in my coffee shop seemed to be in their 20s, locked into laptops, clicking and dragging, jumping to new links, sending instant messages while text-messaging with the left hand, and the sheer volume of communication was impressive to behold. Here I was, chugging along writing a novel in which a guy meets up with his own mortality and is shocked into an outburst of passion, a sort of coming-of-old-age novel, typing taptaptaptap, and all around me beautiful young people were disseminating information in all directions by all media.

My generation was secretive, brooding, ambitious, show-offy, and this generation is congenial. Totally. I imagine them walking around with GPS chips that notify them when a friend is in the vicinity, and their GPS systems guide them to each other in clipped electronic lady voices and they sit down side by side in a coffee shop and text-message each other while checking their e-mail and hopping and skipping around Facebook to see who has posted pictures of their weekend.

Sitting in my coffee shop, I heard a dude discussing his hangover at greater length than I would've thought possible, all about how his expectations for the night before had been too high and that there was an emotionally needy side to him that sort of ambushed him and led to his debacle, which he then described in too much detail, and then he said, "Mom, I've got to run. Later." And then "Love you too." And went back to reading e-mails.

To my generation, hangovers were the result of drinking alcohol, often in unwise combinations, and you took a glass of bitter Bromo-Seltzer and suffered in silence. You didn't discuss them with your mother. But this generation craves closeness. They are not snarky in the slightest. Montessori taught them to cherish themselves, and Ritalin and Prozac came just in time to smooth out the harsh edges of adolescence. They are capable of writing a term paper on James Joyce and then running a couple miles and then going to a Bad Hair party, meanwhile keeping in touch with eight of their closest friends. They cover the waterfront.

The young are towing a barnful of credit-card debt, and they mumble and talk that weird stuttery talk of y'know like so anyway like awesome or whatever, and they don't know how to do arithmetic by hand or use a dictionary, but they have a great attitude. They're OK about themselves. They're really into their friends. Wassup? That's wassup. They're totally connected. Like a colony of ants. I sat in their vicinity for a few days and tapped at my novel and got into a halcyon mood and then duty called and I came back to the miasma. I am now good and depressed again, but hey, I'm OK with it. Gotta run. Love you too.

~Garrison Keillor is a radio host and author.
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Some of the characteristics are familiar, and some of them I believe are of the generation(s) younger than I. However, in the spirit of full disclosure, I was sent a text with a reference to another news story, and went online to research it (all on my handheld mobile device), and then read this column on the same phone, sent it to my work email address from my home email address so I could blog about it today...all while manipulating the Tivo remote with the other hand. Watching American Idol, incidentally.

Guess I'm relevant after all. Like, totally.

**I felt the need to point out that the OMG in the title is a play on the topic. I'm not that lame. Yet.**

A Standing Ovation

I must admit I was one of the guilty ones yesterday. You know the ones...the people in Chicago that see the forecast for warmer temps, and push the season a bit with their wardrobe selections.

Given that we've been in a deep freeze for months now, the prospect of the temperature hitting the upper forties made me very happy. So did the unending sunshine that accompanied it. Therefore, it seemed perfectly natural to shed the socks/boots and put my bare feet into pumps for the first time all season. I did it.

Walked at lunchtime for quite a few blocks, and noticed the rubbing on the insides of my feet. These are not new shoes, mind you, but my poor winterized feet just weren't ready. By the time I left the office to head home, they were practically raw.

My aching feet and I got onto the bus, and it was already full. I stood near the back, on those pained and blistered feet, and plotted, planned and prayed for a logical new CTA bus/El amendment:

I propose: a single row of seats behind the existing priority seating for those poor souls that have made poor footwear choices that day.

Those with feet that are swollen, pinched, blistered or raw. Those sporting stilletos, new shoes, pointy fashions or just cheap imitations of comfortable. The chair, instead of having the universal handicap sign of the wheelchair on the upholstered back, could just have a footprint on it. Very graphic, simple, and universally translated to mean 'feet.' This row could feature ladies or gentlemen who just need to sit. Who can't imagine the ride home teetering, balancing or otherwise contorting any longer in their footwear mistake.

Now that's a CTA proposal I could really stand behind.

My Bags Aren't Packed Just Yet

I read many blogs each day, but two of my favorites have to be those of two couples, dear friends of mine, who have left Chicago (and realites of urban life) to tour the world.

One couple, Tracy and Vytas, is touring by boat on their beloved Sunshine Daydream and they have traveled north through the Great Lakes, out to the Atlantic Ocean via the St. Lawrence Seaway, and down the Intercoastal Waterway to arrive in the Carribean. They've been in the Bahamas for a few months now, and will be crossing the Atlantic to the Mediterranean Sea in a few months.

Lucky for us landlubbers, they post blogs and email updates as they go. Even luckier, they post amazing photos not unlike the above, taken during their trek down the Intercoastal near Charleston; Tracy promises she could hear the dolphins crying out, "Come on! Warmer weather this way!" While perusing their photos, I sometimes sit and stare (at my laptop) and can almost taste the saltwater. I swear I can hear the sound of the surf.

The other blog belongs to a former client of mine, Melissa, who became a friend. She and her husband, Klas, both having descended on America in college to play collegiate tennis in Tennesee (she from Australia, he from Sweden), have been "on the road" now for over a year. They have been to countless countries in Europe and have eaten and drank and toured their way through that continent, often meeting up with friends and family who either live abroad, or have flown to visit them.

After Europe, they flew to Asia and toured Thailand and they are now exploring New Zealand. The below picture is from their recent adventure ice climbing there on the Franz Josef Glacier. It takes me a moment to catch my breath while staring at that photo, and all I am left with is awe. I'm a tad bit afraid of heights, and the courage it takes to put yourself out there, quite literally, to do something like this is impressive to me.


After I finish praying for their continued safety, satisfaction and good health, I can't help but feel jealous. That's normal, I fear. But the more nagging emotion is one that results in a flood of questions: when is the right time to "retire" to explore this beautiful world? To put yourself in situations that truly test your character? To aggressively go in search of your spirited side? To capture memories that will last long after the suntan fades and the photos are put away?

For my two sets of friends, the time is now. As I stare at my laptop, still, I think they must be doing something right.

Why wait? (If my bosses are reading this, don't worry. I can't quite pull off this early retirement thing just yet. I'll be here tomorrow. And the next day.)

I know what you're thinking.

Yes, I plan to visit Sunshine Daydream and will hopefully alight on the boat when they hit Greece or Croatia. I have always wanted to see those countries, and how better to do so than by boat? The timing of the trip will depend entirely on their schedule, which, incidentally, depends entirely on the wind. As a control freak/organizer/planner, I will have to just sit tight and make plans as they come.

Maybe that's the first step to truly letting go?

I'll Drink to That

As St. Patrick's Day nears, I get more and more excited. And, more and more Irish, to tell you the truth. This entire city claims any percentage of Irish blood they have and wears it proudly.

Last night I saw the U2 3D IMAX movie at Navy Pier, and while the proximity to St. Patrick's Day was a coincidence, it sure did reinvigorate my love of the renowned Irish rockers. Their sound is timeless, the guitar work is incredible, and I just plain feel good while listening. Don't judge. You likely have some mainstream music floating around on your iPod.

The movie was great fun—life sized Bono, giant Larry Mullen, enormous Adam Clayton, and of course, an unwieldy version of The Edge. You could see everything, the band sounded amazing, and it really was like you were at the concert in Buenos Aires. Or Rio. Minus the sweating, crowd surfing, body shuffling and likely 12 hours in line outside to get in the arena.

[Author's side note/plea, I beg you not to comment by ripping on Bono's political rants, activism or lyrical world views. At least he puts his money, and his time, where his mouth is.]

Back to the tunes. In honor of the impending holiday (a.k.a. public drinkfest and excuse to wear the oft under-appreciated shade of kelly green), I give you my list of top Irish bands, in my particular order:

U2 (quite obviously)
The Cranberries
Snow Patrol
The Chieftans
Van Morrison
The Pogues
Sinead O'Connor
Flogging Molly—they definitely get best name, right?
Enya
The Corrs
Westlife
Thin Lizzy*
Boomtown Rats*

And, an honorary mention for Dropkick Murphy's. Yes, I'm aware they're from Boston (thanks, Janine). But their music makes me think of the sweaty Irish dancing scene from the dregs of the Titanic. And that can't be all bad, right?

*I had to look these up. Knew the names, knew one or two songs, but frankly, that's all. I confess.

Sliante!

Out of the Closet

I just saw on one of the entertainment websites that Katie Holmes has a 1,500 square-foot walk-in closet in the $30 million house to which they're making $15 million in renovations.

I'm going to need a little time to get over the jealousy that is searing through my bones. That closet is larger than my entire apartment, by the way.

But, alas, I don't have to live with, and pretend to love, Creepy Tom Cruise. The baby is cute, though.

Wonder how big HER closet is?

Airport Red Rover

My sister has been emailing me all week torturous messages from her travels in Los Angeles, courtesy of her Blackberry.

I keep getting ones like, "Sitting in a tank top in Santa Monica on the beach—it is so sunny here!" or "Just saw the girl from 'Bend it Like Beckham' while touring the Warner Brothers Studio!" or "Heading to a big party for our cousin, can't wait to meet Jimmy Kimmel and Sara Silverman to ask them why Ben Affleck isn't at the party!"

My personal favorite included a funny deformed photo of herself which I'm assuming was captured in the wiggly fun house mirrors at Ripley's Believe it Or Not Museum where she said, "Had some time to myself so I stopped into a Beverly Hills Salon and got some work done."

It was frightening. I barely recognized her pretty little face. I urged her to come home before she ended up looking like a bad rendition of an Orange County Housewife. Which, in itself, is a bad rendition of a normal American middle aged woman, if you ask me.

And, the final email featured her sitting patiently in the LAX cell phone waiting area for her boss' plane to land. She and I both agree that the cell phone waiting lots are a genius idea—a very simple solution to a really annoying problem. See how this comes back to commuting? Patience, people, patience.

In Atlanta, my hometown and arguably the busiest airport in the country, when you're flying in, you must either have an uncanny sense of timing or ESP in order to meet your party outside the arrivals gates at just the exact moment when they choose to drive by, or you have to have them park somewhere near the airport, which can only be described as the 'hood, only to wait for your "I've just landed!" call to get them moving. Otherwise, the driver tries to deploy a stealth operation designed to stall along the arrivals gate, idling in the lane while the Atlanta Police yell at you, scream obscenities and threaten tickets, fines, or promise to steal your first born.

The cell phone waiting lot allows you to avoid all of that, and to wait for your party, but in a civilized, uniformed and efficient manner. Atlanta Hartsfield and O'Hare airports, get on that, wouldja?

Lauren claims that at the LAX lot, all the cars starting up and leaving her one by one made her feel like she was playing a giant cosmic game of Red Rover, and she was the fat, sweaty, scary and overly tall kid of whom everyone was afraid.

She's not, for the record.

But, if I wasn't a tiny bit afraid of her, I'd be posting the fun house mirror photo for you all to see.

Bomb Shelters or Bathrooms

I have a vent. A group of us gathered at my favorite little local bar this weekend, and enjoyed a nice evening of conversation, drinks, random intrusions by a drunk guy named Kevin, and good juke tunes.

But, why is it that even in this nice bar, with cool decor, good un-bar-like food, a friendly staff and clean furniture, does the bathroom resemble a dusty bomb shelter in 1940s Germany?

It is a treat to make it down the steep metal stairs alive, and when you do, you think a rewarding trip to the ladies room is in your future. After you stand in line, of course.

Instead, you get to battle a dank, nasty, low-ceilinged bathroom with only two stalls, one of which leaks something rank all over the floor. As if that isn't bad enough, on one of the stalls, the door is gone, so they've installed a trusty little curtain hanging on the outside of the stall, but it is just resting up there on two little posts, and it inevitably falls on your head as you slide the curtain aside to gain some privacy. It fell twice for me and bounced once off my head...it was my lucky day.

Lucky is what you call yourself if there actually is toilet paper left in there. I'm convinced that not once in the course of a Saturday night does anyone actually check the state of affairs in a ladies room, much less replenish the provisions.

After the stall incident is complete (and you're very possibly drip-drying), you are treated to sinks with no hot water, and paper towel dispensers that are almost falling off the wall. The pile of trash was overflowing, so most of the newer towels are on the floor (maybe soaking up the toilet's leakage?).

It is an all around disgusting adventure. If only I hadn't ever broken the seal.

Come on, at $5 a beer and $8 a cocktail, can't a lady get a cleaner, more pleasant bathroom experience?

70% is Almost Failing

Today's news announced that in the last 61 days, it has snowed 43 of them in Chicago. Not all of that was big snows, but some traceable amounts have been recorded in 43 of 61 days. That's 70%.

And is it any wonder that people get a tad bit crabby around this time? It FEELS like it should be Spring, the calendar makes us THINK it is around the corner, and turning back the clocks made it even SEEM closer than ever.

But I think we're all fooling ourselves.

Pretty hard to believe that Lake Michigan ever gets warm enough to swim in it—if you're willing to dodge the garbage and ignore the E. Coli, that is.

Photo taken in Waveland Park yesterday. I resisted the urge to lick the posts.

She Does it Her Way

Holy impressive, Batman. And she glorifies Chicago, showing many facets of this fair city.

Check out the website of the artist, Karin Jurick and watch the iMovie of her painting a New York City street scene.

Man, I wish I could paint. I have an artist mother, and the best that I can do is paint my radiator cover.

It's in the Bag

I left the office late tonight, carrying the agency's big black leather portfolio, and waited for what felt like forever for the bus. In between my office building and my front door, three different people asked me about the big case.

One older lady eyed the bag, and loudly commented, "I would love to see what's in THAT bag!" like I was in a gameshow, and was carrying around the silver metal case with her ticket to millions inside. I'll chalk her up to just being confused. I doubt she really meant that she'd love to see my new business presentation as we stood underneath the bus shelter.

When I got onto the bus, and wedged the large case as close to my knees as I could, the bus filled up, and a thirty-something girl leaned over me and said, "So, they're making YOU drag the pitch boards?" and I just laughed out loud, and nodded. How'd she know?!? Was my exhaustion written all over my face? Was it the mid-week jeans? Or was my business card hanging out of my purse?

As I got off the bus, a guy was walking towards my building alongside me, and he glanced at the bag, then at me, and snidely says, not quite under his breath, "ooooh, you must be in advertising..." like it was the same thing as saying, "ooooh, you must kick small puppies and push children down the stairs."

Uh, yeah.

We in "the agency biz" have one heck of a reputation, don't we? Granted, I own a Tivo, too, but enjoy a good giggle inspired by clever writing, compelling images, smart commercials and other products of my industry.

And, yes, I'm the pitch board mule.

But as I travel north to Newark (eek) tomorrow to nail this pitch, I'll have on a killer suit and a power pair of heels.

All the better to kick puppies with, my dear.

Almost Famous

I walked right through the set of a motion picture this morning.

No, I didn't miss my flight back from LA. And, yes, I was fully awake.

In fact, I was dressed and on my way to work. Sure throws off that "she was just having a dream" theory. I had just crossed the bridge over the Chicago River, and then I see the ginormous movie camera on a huge black pivoting thingy. My cousin "in the biz" says that's called a crane camera. Ok then.

I see the crane camera, and then spot the sign below that says something about a motion picture being filmed, and that they're not held responsible if you are caught on camera doing something stupid like picking your nose. Or wearing ugly shoes. They're not liable.

As you may expect, I love movies, television and am especially fond of anything that involves showing Chicago off to the world. Only if it makes our fair city look good. Which, incidentally, half the time it does not. It was NEVER summer on "ER" and "Save the Last Dance" makes this city appear totally and completely dank, dark, scary and gang-infested. Which a lot of it is not.

I digress.

So, back to the set. I was quite pleased that they didn't stop me from walking through, but rather allowed me to enter the set, and cross through the "action" even after the director shouted just that.

Quiet on the set! We have a REAL LIVE CHICAGO COMMUTER COMING THROUGH. Oooh. I add authenticity.

Anyway, I didn't recognize the actors, but did notice that one guy had fake tears running down his face. Or was that the cold wind? The female actor was watching me walk, and in my head, she was thinking "that's just what I would be wearing if I worked at a cool Michigan Avenue ad agency." Yeah, probably not. She was probably eyeing the craft services table and was musing on her next latte purchase from Starbucks. But a girl can imagine, can't she?

I was secretly thrilled to be wearing my sunglasses (for that added vibe), and was really glad I'd put in the extra 10 minutes to straighten my hair. And put on lipstick.

Because you just can't risk looking dowdy, homely or otherwise unhip when your 10-seconds of fame hits the editing room floor.

Confidence, then Panic

Someone asked me for directions to RL tonight. RL is the signature restaurant by Ralph Lauren that I've never been to, but have heard the food is good. I assume it is located near the Ralph Lauren clothing store, on the corner of Michigan Avenue and Chicago Avenue, but that was just a guess. An educated one, but still a guess.

So this guy turns to me on the bus and asks how to find the place. I immediately begin to tell him which stop to get off at (Superior) and to walk north one block, to cross the street, and to look for the restaurant on the corner. I think he was actually listening (which is good, since half the time people don't) and I have a pretty high level of confidence that he found it.

But then he got off the bus and began his Colleen-directed trek. That's when the panic set in.

What if I was mistaken? Did I send him to the wrong restaurant? Is he going to wander the streets of Chicago aimlessly? Probably not, but that cold fear struck me as he left the bus.

It happens every time someone asks me for directions. I love to help, and am happy to send them on their merry way, but then I stand there questioning my knowledge of the streets, addresses or landmarks.

Oh well. If anyone sees that guy still walking around looking for RL, please point him in the right direction. Send him towards the khaki pants, at the very least. He'll find the cafe from there.

Patent it Already

I saw a woman on the bus who boarded wearing her full winter regalia. She had on the heavy coat, the scarf, the hat and the gloves. When it came time to pay, she didn't even flinch. She held her gloved hand up to the circular CTA pass reader and it beeped, and she boarded the bus.

I think she probably has her CTA card stuck inside her glove, so she doesn't have to search for it or put it away after using it, but I thought it was pretty brilliant. A little pocket inside the front of the left gloved hand. It could be sold and making this woman millions! Maybe I should get on that?

This made me ponder what other inventions I'd use on the bus, and I think the Magic Remote must be number one. Similar to the Tivo remote, it would be multi-functional, make funny little beeping noises, and would have a green thumbs up and a red thumbs down button.

That way I could mute the rude lady on her cell phone, fast forward through the heavy traffic, rewind and pause the interesting scenes that I'd like a closer look at (like the guy with the tattoo of music and poetry I wrote about last year), thumbs up and down people at random (and for totally surface/material things, such as great shoes or a bad body odor), and turn the volume down on those annoying CTA pre-recorded alerts. Although those sometimes make me laugh when they ironically come on when they are most needed...

What would you invent to make your commute more bearable? I'd be willing to bet $100 that someone in Atlanta immediately thought, "a Hovercraft."