Born to Tailgate: 2008 Remix

Uga V with a new fan
In honor of the University of Georgia's home opener today—Go Dawgs!—I figured I'd repost an oldie but goodie.

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

Boy were they wrong.

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

The irony was that my Atlanta friends found this re-posted (way back when) on several fan sites all over the country, so it is clear that good things (topics, not my writing), spread fast.

So, in light of the game tomorrow, I give you this:

Born To Tailgate
By: Colleen Snell

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You ask me if I'm ready?

Why yes, sir. I'm ready. I was born ready. And so were all my friends.

Hippy Dippy, Revisited

In honor of my flight to San Francisco today for my cousin's wedding this weekend, I'll leave you with this flashback to another time and another flight. I wrote this back before I had many newbie readers, and would hate for them to miss out on all the fun.

Wish me luck as I travel to the West Coast and back (via Boise, of all places). Pray for on-time departures, kind gate agents (gotta get the Exit Row upgrade!) smooth flights, skinny passengers, or at least the good sense for me to put the armrest down.

Happy Labor Day weekend, all!

A Favor to all Chicagoans

An open letter to all Chicago cab drivers:

Dear Cabbies,

I have been your passenger on a regular basis now for almost eight years, and frankly, I have a few things to say. Take them with a grain of salt, but seriously, you guys could use a little advice.

1. Wear deodorant. Or invest in one of those hanging things that smells like a rotten cherry. This one goes without necessary explanation, but is for the betterment of all those who enter.

2. Toughen up. Don't be afraid of a few harmless sneezes. I cover my mouth every time.

3. Obey, or at least hover in the vicinity of, the speed limits posted. Otherwise, your passenger may get sick in the back of your cab, and no one wants that. Your name is not Dale Earnhardt Jr.

4. Know where you're going. If I sat at my desk and acted as clueless as you guys are on the job, I'd be fired.

5. Be prepared. Don't get mad at me for having only a $20 bill. It is part of your job description to make change, and until you can force ATMs to spit out smaller bills, make the change. Or be prepared to receive a half of a twenty.

6. Lay off the horn. It isn't necessary, it doesn't help, and it is supremely annoying to those inside and outside your vehicle.

7. Cool your jets. The selfishness and animosity you express towards your fellow drivers when you're racing for your next fare is only causing you grief. There will be someone else ready to hail you for your services right behind me, and I saw that guy first. No, still not a good enough reason to honk. Or stare. Or wave those little finger(s). Trust me, this much anxiety isn't good for you.

8. Leave me be. Don't honk at me while I'm standing/walking/loitering on the sidewalk. If I need a cab, I'll hail one. I was blessed with two arms for a reason.

9. Fix the air conditioning. It says right there on that little plastic city-issued plaque that a passenger reserves the right to ride in comfort, and when I'm sticking to the pleather seats and the windows are all down, my hair sticks in my lip gloss, and that's just unpleasant all around.

10. Pony up. Get used to the idea that people are going to take advantage of the credit card option. It is a law for you to accept them, and I don't appreciate the moaning when I do need to use one, either for business or personal travel (mostly to the airport where the fare is $40). I'll tip you better if I'm not digging for change with which to do so. The credit card purchase never feel like real money anyway.

11. Please, please, get your anger under control. When you have an argument and a near fist fight with an airport traffic cop while I'm in the back seat, it is just awkward for everyone.

12. Lay off the Johnson. Under no circumstances should you be fondling yourself while you drive. If you need some alone time with your thingy, please pull over and take a break. And, wash your hands afterwards, if you please.

13. Stay awake. I feel like this one doesn't require further explanation, seeing that you're operating a heavy piece of vehicular machinery, but clearly I must remind you of that fact.

14. Sum it up. Hit the total button on the meter when we arrive at the destination. That pesky city-approved gas add-on just throws me off, and the fees for extra passengers aren't helping. I can do math on a normal Tuesday afternoon, but after a few beers on a Saturday night? Let's not push it.

There you have it. My simple advice to you, from the heart. I'm a good tipper—you'll like me if you give my suggestions a fighting chance.

Now let's all just get along.

Kind regards,

Chicago Commuter Colleen

Elevator Low and Rydell High

Last night was the last Movie in the Park in Grant Park for the season, and they were showing "Grease." We had a group of six girls there, spread across three blankets, and good food and many bottles of wine for the occasion.

The crowds filled the park, covering every square inch of grass possible, facing the enormous drive-in-style screen. The sound was good, and people actually quieted during most of the dialogue to let everyone hear the movie that has been a girl's night staple since 1978. The musical parts, however, became a virtual sing-a-long and it was just hilarious hearing thousands sing about "Summer Lovin'" and "Grease Lightning." There were even a few in shiny pink satin Pink Ladies jackets and bobby socks. Well done, ladies!

Even before I made it to the park to meet Jill, I had to bring the preparations. I had a blanket in my office for the occasion, and left in such a hurry that I got down to the lobby floor and remembered it, and went back up to grab it. Boarding the elevator for the second time, I pushed the lower level lobby button, and watched the doors close.

Two others boarded on lower floors (my office is up on 27) and then we made it to the express portion of the ride where we zoomed from the 19th floor down to the lobby. Inevitably, my ears popped.

This time, however, when the elevator car passed the lobby, it jerked, bounced, and went quiet. We hung there. We were literally suspended between the two floors. Granted, we were only one (and a half!?) floors off the ground, but I couldn't help but envision a Bourne Identity-style crash to the ground, with someone inside the elevator shaft standing atop the car hanging on to the steel cables.

Or, I couldn't help but think of the guy in New York who was caught in an elevator on the weekend for 41 hours. The link shows a time-elapsed video of his ordeal. I didn't want to be THAT guy.

We used the emergency call button to talk to the lobby, and had to yell in order for them to hear us. That was a ridiculous scene—three people standing in a tiny box, yelling at the wall. If only someone could see us now.

After we identified the elevator car we were in, they urged us to wait. We did. About five minutes passed, and I felt as if we were moving. The mind does weird things, especially as one starts to panic, so I wasn't sure if I was inventing the movement or if we were really sliding downward.

We must have been sinking that last 1/2 floor (10 feet?), because all of a sudden, the doors slid open and we were there. In the lower level, safely.

Relieved, we poured out and went on our way. It had crossed my mind that I had snatched some candy from our vending machine, so that could tide me over. And, I had the blanket and a book, so I could at least be cozy and occupied.

But, I did realize that I was leaving to go buy the wine for the movie in the park, so I didn't yet have that on my person. The cups and the corkscrew? Yep, had those. Maybe we could have pulled a MacGuyver with those and gotten ourselves free?

Luckily we didn't have to, and I made it to the park in time to see Danny and Sandy frolicking on the beach.

Sidenote/tangent: did anyone else realize, as you watch Grease as an adult, that a) there are a lot of subtle sexual innuendos in the movie that went right over my head as a pre-teen, and b) Danny and Sandy and all the T-Birds and Pink Ladies look WAY older than high schoolers. They look more like they're 30. I'm just pointing it out.

Grease is the word! (for an elevator cable, too?)

A Summer to Remember, Photos to Forget?

As I reflect (*sigh*) on the dwindling days left of summer, I do realize that my friend Jill's label of me is true. She called me "The Queen of Summer" and she may just be right.

No, I'm not wearing any silk sash across my chest, and I wasn't given a dozen roses or a tiara, but the title fits. I do love this time of year, and I have eeked out every moment of fun that I could these past few months. I'm exhausted (in the good way), broke (in the bad way) and fatter (in the reality way). But I wouldn't change a thing.

This has been a summer to remember. And, in case I can't (brain cells dead from all the fun and all), I'll recap it here. A highlight reel, as I'm known to do, of the activities since May:

Travel

• Costa Rica—a week in the sun in Central America with my boy and my girls and their boys. Beaches, wildlife, ziplining, fruity drinks, fresh fish/fruit, a private chef, lazy days at the pool, fun souvenirs and loads of laughs. What more could you ask for? Pura vida.


• Michigan—with Brett's parents living there, a friend's wedding hosted there and a camping trip up there, we've spent a lot of time (and money on the Skyway!) going back and forth five times this summer, and I have loved every minute of it. Except the traffic on 94—I'd ditch that in a Michigan Minute.


• California—went for a two day business trip, but had fun nonetheless. Finally saw the Crystal Cathedral from evangelistic fame, glimpsed Disney Land, and visited the Real O.C. For a day.

Music

• Stevie Wonder—was lucky enough to see/hear him at Taste of Chicago. What a great musical influence and kind spirit he is—I ran out and bought his Greatest Hits and recommend you doing the same.


• Symphony—heard the St. Joseph Symphony playing across the St. Joe river in Michigan during the 4th of July fireworks. Spectacular!


• Feist—went to Ravinia to enjoy her lilting voice and the gorgeous setting in Highland Park with a few bottles of wine and two amazing couples. What a night!


• Lynne Church—was treated to the solo vocals of Lynne as she sang during a wedding in Mackinac Island, and as a former member of the cast for Phantom, it truly was a treat!


• Ty Maxon—at the Venetian Festival in St. Joe, Michigan, we got to see Ty perform. What a talent! The carnies, however, were just creepy.


• Cat Power, The Raconteurs, Radiohead—saw 'em all at Lollapalooza, and they were worth the sweat, the sunburn, the crowds and the long lines. Fabulous. Especially Radiohead, during "Fake Plastic Trees" when the fireworks lit up the night.


• The Spice Girls, The Indigo Girls and Evan & Jaron—the Posse doing our renditions atop the swim-up-bar in Costa Rica was the closest I'll come this summer to seeing these shows. We're not half bad.

Parties

• Roofdecks—I have a great one, Brett's has an awesome view of Oak Street Beach and my friends Brenna and John recently renovated theirs with fabulous outdoor furniture and gorgeous wood planter boxes and furniture, so we have had several great parties looking at the few stars we can see in the city. And, trying to convince people not to throw stuff over the railing.


• Wedding Schtuff—with so many weddings comes so many parties. And celebrations. And drinks. Enough said.


• Backyards—oh, how I wish I had a backyard. My own little patch o' grass to host a great outdoor party on. Alas, I don't have one, but thank goodness I have friends that do! Granted, the one Katie and Jess had in late May, we were all wearing heavy jackets, but who's judging.

Events

• Taste of Chicago—gotta go at least once, gotta eat something greasy and fattening, and gotta buy a few overpriced beers to sip on while you navigate the crowds and people watch. I'm convinced most of America is really rude and classless, but I'm still pleasantly surprised when someone actually says "excuse me" when they slam into you and spill your aforementioned overpriced beer all down your front.


• Ravinia—how can you not enjoy sitting in a grassy lawn under a canopy of trees spotted with lampposts and twinkly lights listening to great music while munching on a fantastic picnic and sipping great wine? Yeah, didn't think so either.


• Wells Street Art Fair—one of my favorites, and this year's foreboding weather couldn't keep us from trolling Wells Street, drinking pink vodka lemonades and admiring the artwork. And the strange people. And the strange stuff people thinks is artwork.


• 4th of July and Venetian Festival in St. Joseph, Mi—both were great excuses to make the trek over to Brett's hometown along the "other side of the Lake" and enjoy a slower pace and a reunion with old buddies. And, great fireworks!


• Gay Pride Parade—this one is almost beyond description. But a must see to believe!


• Booze Cruises—we did one for Kristen's Birthday in June that had us on a 200-passenger dance-floor sporting lone-line-at-the-bar-having rocking party that took us up and down the river and out onto the lake. We sported neon jelly necklaces and basically acted like drunk 12-year olds. No one fell in, though. The other was with a vendor outing for Brett's work, and while it was more subdued (it was a 30 passenger party aboard an old guy's yacht), it was still a great view of the city at night.


• Air & Water Show—where else can you be sitting at your desk on Michigan Avenue with a wall of windows behind you showing the Blue Angels fighter jets soaring past, causing you to spill your coffee and get your heart racing? Watching the air portion from my roofdeck wasn't half bad either.


• "My Boys" Cast Party—my friend Molly works in PR for movies/tv, so we got invited to the cast party for the TBS show set in Chicago. The cast was really cool and very friendly. The only disappointment was not having Jim Gaffigan there so we could taunt him with "Hot Pocket" the whole time.

Movies

• "Sex and the City"—great!


• "Dark Knight" at IMAX—AMAZING and so cool to see so much of Chicago in it.


• Great Netflix rentals—some good, some snores


• "The Happening"—the worst movie I've seen EVER

Transportation*

• Car (own and rental)


• Bus


• Taxi


• Ferry


• Power boat


• Horse-drawn carriage


• Bike


• Plane


• Train (elevated and subway)

*If only I'd ridden a motorcycle, soared in a hot air balloon, been pushed in a stroller or chartered a donkey, I think I'd have covered them all.

Sports

• Cubs—I've been lucky enough to attend a few games this year, treated by Brett and his workplace ticket connections. This is OUR YEAR! Pass the Kosher Dogs.


• Ziplining—careening down a wire through the jungle, above the rooftops, reaching speeds of up to 60 mph over a seemingly death-defying length of nearly 2,500 feet, this was as much of an extreme sport as I can usually muster.


• Volleyball—watch one game of our volleyball team play on North Avenue Beach and you'd be hard-pressed to call it a sport. But we had a really good time, and only occasionally moaned and groaned as the other team smashed us into the sand.


• Biking—riding rented beach cruiser bikes the 8-mile trek around Mackinac Island in northern Michigan was well worth the $5/hour and the sore butt the next day.


• Canoeing—you've already been treated to my take on the canoe experience, but let's just say that I'm lucky I didn't end up with a broken rib or an oar to the head.


• Cornhole—a Midwestern game and I love it. If I went to the Olympics tomorrow, I'd be a contender.


• Ladder Golf—I only recently got turned on to this game, but it is a blast on the beach. Just look out for flying balls on rope.


• College Football—ok, so it hasn't started yet, but our trash-talking about the pre-season rankings is anything but sportsmanlike. I have remained somewhat quiet about our #1 ranking in all three recognized pre-season polls (so much for subtlety) but come August 30, we'll see how it goes.

So there you have it. My summer in a nutshell. Well, more precisely, a generous handful of nuts. To complete the summer sharing, here's a highlight reel of the best/funniest/worst photos that depict the above activities. These may not all be framers, but they sure make me smile.

Mom, I told you they wouldn't get stuck like this.

We sucked, but it sure was fun.

Is it a bird? A plane? A monkey? Nope, just Colleen conquering her fear of the jungle zipline.

The musical stylings of Ty and Brittany at Venetian Fest.

Isn't she lovely? Our dance moves would make Stevie Wonder proud.

Radiohead was my favorite at Lollapalooza this year.

They aren't "My Boys" but they're cute.

You can't tell from the photo, but it is blistering hot and super crowded at Lollapalooza this year. Oh wait, every year.

Things slow down a tad in Michigan.

What you don't get from the photo is the omnipresent smell of horse poop on Mackinac Island.

If only ladder golf was an Olympic sport.

John is built like this and he can cook, too!

Jack White + Chicago summer = sweaty rockstar.

Jill and I fit together like backwards spoons.

Enjoying a hooky day beer on North Avenue Beach with visiting Jenny.

As Brett's guest on the vendor booze cruise; does it look like I'm afraid of being pushed overboard?

Gotta love gay men in red speedos.

His zipline fear is real. Mine is exaggerated (slightly).

Shown here wrestling Laura at a backyard BBQ early in the season. Shortly afterwards, she surfed on my crumpled body.

Enacting cheesy couple poses, Elizabeth & Walton have it down.

You may kiss your bride!

The wheels fell off at about this time in the party.

Go Cubs Go!

We always make the guys carry things like this. Strong like Cox!

Central American pineapples make him a teeny bit crazy.

Brenna gone wild during Cranium night.

Apparently Brett's family is in a gang.

Gotta love boozing at the office for a bridal shower.

So adult. Incredibly mature. Pretty ugly.

The very famous, mostly infamous, Flip Cup Tourney at Chippewa Landing.

Sipping vodka lemonades after Kim's shower at Fireplace Inn with Jamie, Kim and Katie.

Hanging out at a tiki bar in Jaco, Costa Rica.

Life in the city. Can't complain.

Palm trees in Chicago? Check.

Riding in our bridal party carriage in Mackinac Island.

Mocking Mike while camping.

Some of the girls gathered on Brenna & John's new roofdeck.

The booze cruise to celebrate Kristen's birthday.

Goodbye summer, thanks for playing!
Now it's time to enjoy the fall, which is anchored by football season and brace for winter, which is blanketed in snow.

Rotting Peaches?

Last night I got together with a handful of girls for a lovely dinner on Julia's roof-deck. Julia and her husband live in Lincoln Park, so the view from up there is fantastic—brownstone roofs in the foreground, with the Chicago skyline at night in the back. The planters were overflowing with blooms and the music drifted at just the right volume from the surround sound speakers, providing the perfect backdrop to our girls night conversations.

We settled around the patio table with dinner of grilled steak and shrimp kabobs, fresh summer salads and sparkling rose wine, and finished with a homemade peach pie a la mode (yes, she's an incredible hostess), it was nothing short of fantastic. Catching up with these girls is only a quarterly occasion, if that, as most of them are married with children, and schedules are just hectic.

We recalled fond memories of other gatherings, some to watch the UGA football games (as most of the group are alum) and others to celebrate a new baby or a marriage proposal. Basically, we're a group of Georgia Peaches who are a long way from home.

One evening in particular was mentioned, from about 2 years ago, as someone remembered there being a few "new" girls there that time, but not one of us could really place it. It was a chorus of, "Oh, yeah. Who were they?" and "I think I was here?" and "Was it here at Julia's? Or someone else's house?" as we tried to piece together the story, and recall when/where/who the new girls were. And how they fit in.

While mocking ourselves for being old and already losing our memory, one girl said, "What are we, 80?" and we all laughed. And then sighed in unison, because it is already happening. Details are slipping, events are blurry and memories are clouded. When did this happen? Is it age? Are we too selfish to remember something that was just on the periphery of our life, rather than central to its plot?

Tangent: My mother swears that as she crept (delicately, and of course recently) towards "middle age," she started losing these types of details. She is so good with directions and recalling past clients, but sometimes a name or a word will just slip her mind. Ironically, though, she can almost always, without fail, recall the first letter.

As in, "I have no idea where I know that woman from, but I know her name starts with an M." Or something like that. Her biggest fear is that this will continue, and worsen, as she continues to age. She's terrified that one day she'll walk into a cocktail party at the neighborhood clubhouse and say, "Hi, My name is E. And this is my husband, R."

When she told this story we were all in fits of giggles just picturing it. And acting it out. Wine may or may not have been involved.

Back to the story at hand.

No matter what's to blame, be it nature, time, environment or the alcohol served at the party, we never could recall those women. And, it was a funny realization. Especially when Darby inquired, while scrunching up her brows and thinking hard, "Was that the time that I brought Leroy (aka Leroy Brown, her bulldog) over as a puppy?"

We all thought hard, nodded uncertainly, and honestly, didn't know for sure. The entire memory/lack thereof was punctuated most profoundly when Stephanie piped in with, "Oh! I remember that night! I brought my ham dip."

And, there you have it.

We don't remember the two lovely young women that had joined us for an entire evening's game watching festivities, but we remembered the ham dip.

I couldn't help but chant Leroy and Ham Dip all the way home. It sounded like a dirty joke in the making, or an alternative country band at the very least.

Admit it: right now you have "Bad, bad Leroy Brown. The baddest man in the whole damn town. Badder than old King Kong. And meaner than a junkyard dog." rattling around in your head. No? Well, now you do.

A Day Late and Twenty Dollars Short

About two weeks ago, while I was out and about enjoying my summer weekend, I was given this: I didn't notice at the time, but clearly when I got home to do my "how much did THAT weekend cost me?" assessment, I realized the issue.

Digging through my purse, wallet and pockets, I quickly surmised that the missing half was not on my person and I had been given this half of a twenty in error. Or on purpose. Either way, I had a completely split bill, and the other half was not to be found.

I have been carrying it around with me, partly out of forgetfulness to do something about it, and partly because I didn't know WHAT to do with it. Several unethical and immoral solutions came to mind:

1. Switch it out for a good $20 in a restaurant bill booklet and hightail it off the premises as quickly as possible.


2. Try to pass it off in a stack of money at a store, tucking it in gently behind other bills of full size.


3. Attempt to buy a large Giordano's pizza with it, hiding the fragment in between the hefty driver's tip.


4. Clutch it in my fist and wave it as a "bartender flag" for quick attention and prompt service, only to shove it back inside my wallet when served.


5. Send it to my sister and tell her to buy $10 worth of gas on me.


6. Give it to the homeless man in front of Starbucks in the hopes that his dazzling smile of gratitude will be worth the deception.

Clearly, none of these options work. They're either too mean, too illegal, too cunning or too difficult to pull off.

The legal, government-approved solutions were far less entertaining. I knew that I could go to the bank and see what they'd say. One idea was to try to claim that the ATM spit it out in a stack of other twenties, but the audience to whom I put this idea immediately shot that one down, saying that the ATM is a computer and computers don't make mistakes like that.

For fear of having the Chase Bank representative humiliatingly catch me in that twisted and unreasonable web of deception, I went for the real truth. Ok, so the doctored truth.

Yesterday, I walked over to the branch near my office, and planned to approach the friendly male teller. I smiled, shook my hair, and sashayed up to the counter, and put the mangled bill on the desktop in front of him. I announced, "I just got this as change, and when I realized it, the store told me to come into the bank, that there was nothing they could do." Brilliant smile, hair shake, eyelash bat.

He snickered, and said, "Man, that sucks," and followed up his honest response with, "Where did you say this happened?" I had to lie here, since it was two weeks ago and I have no freaking idea.

"Walgreens," I stated firmly. Serves 'em right for hiring lousy customer service reps over there at my local drugstore. He smiled (the knowing smile of someone who's been there) and said, "I'm sorry, but since this is clearly not more than 50% of the bill, we can't exchange it for you, much as I'd like to be able to. You'll have to visit this site for instructions on what to do."

Okaaay.

The government. The U.S. Treasury. Not exactly known for their flexible negotiating or understanding sympathetic personalities.

The website basically states that if it is a "mutilated currency" I can send it in by registered mail and see if they can refund it. The kicker is this: the only way it is legally exhangable for a new bill is if it is clear that the other half is destroyed. Basically, they don't want to pay you for a $20 if someone else out there could potentially claim that, too. URGH.

So, I think I'm screwed, and out $20. Which is 10 morning coffees, 3 lunchtime salads, 1 cute shirt at XXI, two pairs of earrings at Target or 4.5 gallons of gas. Depending on how I would have spent it. I'm voting on the caffeinated choice.

Blah. Should I reconsider options 1-3?

Side note for the curious: when I scanned this on our printer, and tried to open the PDF in Photoshop to resave it as a JPEG to upload it here, immediately I got a Photoshop message box indicating that it is illegal to print banknotes and the print function was therefore disabled. Interestingly smart for a computer program. Maybe that was true about the ATM after all?

A Coke and a Smile

After watching hours and hours of the Olympic coverage the past week, I have noticed and enjoyed several cultural differences between how all of the countries handle the pressure, the publicity, the wins and the losses.

One thing is clear: the smile is universal.

Everyone has different styles of congratulating or consoling their teammates—be it the Chinese version of the double high-five (very stiff and tent-like), or the Russian version of the embrace (a rather formal hug), or the European countries' version of the double cheek kiss, or the American version of the fist pump (we saw Phelps doing this all week)—but one thing unites them all.

The smile.

When the competitor learns they are in the lead, or is proud of the performance they've just delivered, the smile tells it all.

Some spread slowly across the face of the athlete and some smiles simply burst to the surface and radiate pure joy. Some can hardly be detected even with a camera close-up and some are visible from across the court/field/gym/arena. But, when all is said and done, the smile is the one gesture that seemingly links the entire world.

Isn't it gratifying to know that in a world of conflict, pain, upheaval and fear that something as simple as some facial muscles moving can give you goose bumps and restore your faith in humanity?

I feel like a Coke commercial.

Home State Shame?

I get pretty ridiculed at work for being from Georgia. Do I hide the fact? No. And I suppose that is my problem...

My clever colleague thinks it is hilarious to give me a lot of grief for having grown up in the south. Not only does he shout "Go Packers!" every time he sees my Georgia flag (featuring the super-G logo that resembles Green Bay), but he takes it a step further.

He manages to print out and tape every ridiculous, embarrassing, silly and totally weird news article that involves a Georgia resident on my door. Today he found one and handed it to me saying it was something I'd left on the printer.

I laughed, but secretly wondered...is this what the world thinks of us?

See his latest stabs:

Georgia woman collects outhouses.

Georgia men claim hairy, frozen corpse is Bigfoot.

Armless Georgian head-butts man to death.
(He was later cleared from murder charges—apparently the head-butting sent the victim into cardiac arrest).

I don't have a leg to stand on in defending my home state when this type of stuff continues to make national news.

As a related sidenote: with all this talk of (The Republic of) Georgia in the news, I even heard one woman on the bus say, "Wow—I had no idea that Georgia was under attack. Did they come all the way over from Russia?"

I still wasn't sure she was as confused as she apparently was. Until she kept going with, "Do you think Aunt Lynn in Atlanta is alright?"

Oh. Dear. God.

It is small comfort to know that there are idiots everywhere. Not just in my home state.

You Drive the Wagon, I'll Ride Shotgun

With the non-stop coverage of the Olympics on television, and the water cooler talk everywhere focused on Michael Phelps Mania, it is hard not to at least be sensitive to, or tuned into, the madness and excitement that is the Olympics in Beijing.

Two weeks ago 90% of the American population probably couldn't name two swimmers, and now the whole country is signing up for swim team and hankering to own a Speedo. My red, bleary eyes are a dead giveaway that I've been staying up way too late to catch the action.

A moment of reflection is due, however, for all of the other bandwagons I've willingly climbed up on, and the few I've deftly managed to avoid.

Bandwagons I've Joined:

College Football - This is not one I'm ashamed of. Despite not having grown up a Dawgs fan (my parents weren't southern, and I only got turned onto it in high school), when you take one look at an SEC tailgate, with the Dawgs gear out in full glory, you fall instantly in love. I'm not apologizing for this one, and keep my Official Bandwagon Member Certification in my top drawer. Go Dawgs!

iPods - Embarrassingly, I still tote around the first generation iPod. It's vintage! And, it is by today's standards, enormous and weighs about 10 lbs. The battery won't hold a charge but it plays great if it is plugged into a dock or my car's adapter. And, what kind of commuter would I be without those clever little white earbud headphones?

The Cubs - I live 4 blocks from Wrigley Field and therefore it would be illegal not to like them, and all kidding aside, those Kosher hot dogs are just too damn delicious.

The Bears - Who doesn't like sitting outside in the wet snowy icy rain when it is 14 degrees outside? And talking smack about our own (lame) quarterback?

The Bulls - I tried. the games are pretty boring these days, and the United Center is just too hard to get home from. Raise your hand if you couldn't give a damn about a league of thugs who make too much money and act like idiots off the court? However, buy me a few $8 beers and spring for the ticket, and I'm in.

Gyms - Egad. I tried it for a few years here and realized that just paying the $60 monthly fee doesn't make you lose weight. If only. I'm pretty sure that my checkbook was the only thing getting any skinner during those long and torturous years of bandwagon-ness.

Sororities - I did it. So sue me. I also wore pearls and jean jackets, date party t-shirts and frat party sweatshirts. Forgive me for my sins, but it sure was one helluva way to meet people at a huge school. Sorority Rush was one giant sanctioned bandwagon, wasn't it?

Halloween - Despite looking hideous most years, I have dutifully concocted a silly costume and tromped all over town like an oversized (and overserved) child. It was much more fun than that a the time, but maybe that was the vodka talking?

Vintage Posters - You know the ones. Yes you do. Turn around in your living room and you'll likely see it, touting a wine or a European destination. They quickly became the rage in about 2000, and I have a huge one in my dining room. I love it, but it isn't that clever when everyone else has one, too.

Hair - Where do I begin? I permed it in elementary school (Lord help me). I teased and sprayed my bangs in middle school. I hot-rolled my hair every morning before high school, and wore it long because that's what the popular girls did. I got to college and in a pseudo-rebellious move, I cut it all off (oooh wasn't I brave?). Then, when I accidentally ended up with a mullet, I started growing it back out. then I moved to Chicago and realized I could use a shorter 'do to seem older in business meetings. Cut it to my chin. Then realized (and was told a former not-so-tactful colleague as much) that I looked better with it long. It's been long since. Should the trend swing back short, I sure hope I miss out. Because I'm clearly not ready (or in the station of life) for the Mom Haircut just yet.

Leather Pants - I think it is still too soon to discuss this one. I'm pretty emotionally scarred by the memories (and the photographic evidence), but at least I never had a Ross Gellar experience while wearing (or removing) them.

Politics - Not as much of a bandwagon-fan there, but inspired by what this election offers. Change is good, and needed, so I'm game. If the wagon makes young people vote, I'll drive.

Blackberry - I confess. Mine is not a Blackberry, but a Blackjack. Yet I'm addicted just the same.

Thongs - Yes. Underwear. I said it. And, I'm admitting it. I turned from a thong-hater, to a swears-by-it thong wearer. Too much information? I know. But, if you give the Hanky Panky brand a try, and can get a second mortgage to cover it, buy some. You'll thank me.

Oversized Shades - I feel a bit like Paris or Nicole, but in my huge sunglasses, I look cool.

Going Green - I recycle. Isn't that enough? No. I know. But I'm working on it. I have just been asked to participate in an interactive marketing program for the household brand method, so I'm gonna up my participation in the green movement. How globally conscious of me.

Facebook - Not afraid to announce that I love it. I'm not a creepy stalker, or a pedophile, or a mom with four gorgeous kids on display. Just your average user who likes to see how people are, who got married to whom, and where everyone lives. Ok, and stalk the occasional ex. Isn't that part of it?

Mac Revolution - Maybe "revolution" gives it too much credit, but I do love my Mac. And, I swear I'll never own a PC again. And the store? So fun and gadgety.

Harry Potter - While I wasn't the fan that was in the Border's Bookstore at midnight, I did read the first three or four, and actually was quite surprised at how much fun they were to read. Until I got publicly ridiculed by a mother to her six-year old on the bus one day for "reading a kid's book." I lost interest shortly thereafter. Coincidence?

Jewelry - Slap bracelets, jelly bracelets, chandelier earrings, chunky plastic necklaces, fake diamond studs, Swatch watches, braided ribbon barrettes, grosgrain ribbons in our hair, scarves in the summer, stone jewelry, turquoise jewelry, etc. I could keep going. I know that most of these are trends in fashion (brief, painful and fleeting) but they seem like a bandwagon at the time. I couldn't swing a cat outside on Michigan Avenue right now without knocking over at least a dozen sporting the latest jewelry or fashion bandwagons.

Weddings & Babies - I fully admit this isn't a bandwagon, but given the number of bridal showers, bachelorette parties, weddings, engagement parties and baby showers I've been to, and the sheer volume of announcements and invitations littering my stainless steel fridge, I'd have to say that something's in the water. I'm going thirsty for now.

Stainless Steel Appliances - Didn't occur to me until I wrote the above, but its true. I'm a convert and cringe a little when I think of the pre-renovation brown fridge and pink stove. Shudder.

Chicago - You'd think I was the president of the tourism office here, I love this place so much. I think that is a healthy addiction, no? I am pretty sure the city loves me back. Besides those few parking tickets...

Blogging - This one is clear. But you're here, aren't you? And still having fun? I'm good enough, smart enough and funny enough? And, gosh darnit, people like me? (Maybe add a comment here just to confirm my suspicions that someone other than my mom, sister and Jenny are reading me daily).


Bandwagons I've Avoided:

Footwear - Those Greek lace-up sandals look painful, cowboy boots and skirts just look ridiculous. Oh, and if you live in L.A.? UGGs aren't for you. Personally, I always thought they were hideous (and sortof still do), but then I tried on my friend Brenna's and dear God in heaven I have to own some. At least the weather here warrants the ugliness.

Jeans - Let's call a spade a spade. Those high-waisted things are atrocious - don't those girls own a mirror? I don't need anything accentuating my girl-pooch, or drawing attention to my crotch.

Alternative Medicine - Short of a pleasant massage, I've never been treated in anything resembling Eastern Medicine. I've not tried cupping (too vain), herbal supplements (too cheap), chiropractic care (too skeptical), acupuncture (too afraid) or those God-awful fish that eat the dead human flesh on your feet (too disgusted).

Tattoos - We've already covered how this is not my thing. I'm just ever so glad that I was strong enough not to cave in high school.

Belly button piercings - Short of almost getting dragged into it in Amsterdam (I blame Mandi and the 12 beers), I didn't succumb to the pressure. My stomach is so glad - I'd probably have to dig it out and have it surgically removed from the gentle rolls I'm gathering down there now, and that's not sexy one bit.

Hybrids - Mostly because I'm fond of my Jeep Liberty, and far too lazy to sell the thing. It's possible that I'll convert after this one is paid off, or when gas prices go to $10 a gallon. At that point I'll have no choice. (I do have a bike in case you're wondering, but I'm far too wimpy to bike to work).

What other bandwagons have you jumped aboard, or deftly avoided? That's all I can think of.

Maybe I'm a joiner, not a rebel?

I know, I know. Hide your surprise.

Time is of the Essence

There seems to be one unifying, constant, ever-present plane-leveler in the giant game of life.

Time.

We can likely all agree on several things about the concept of time:

• There never is enough time in a day.


• Even if you had more, you'd still find a way to waste time.


• People have a tendency to procrastinate to fill a space of time to complete a given task.


• No one can stop time, despite surgical and cosmetic efforts to mask the results of it.


• Try as you may, sometimes you misjudge the amount of time it takes to get somewhere, and you're just not on time.


• Time on the weekends moves at mach speed, where a Tuesday after lunch during a boring day at the office can stretch out for eternity.


• Time heals. Not everything, but does a pretty good job at helping you move on.


• We all age. Period.


• Time takes its toll, on relationships, careers, bodies, homes, cars and people.


• Death and taxes. Both are unavoidable, and both will hit you in due time.


• Time flies when you're having fun; cliched, but true.

I have been thinking a lot about time lately, due to several factors:

Summer
Because of the short span of summer in Chicago, it all feels like a race against time. I have 'summer guilt' if I spend a sunny Saturday inside rather than outside enjoying the many activities this city offers. Self-inflicted guilt, but real nonetheless. There aren't enough Saturdays in the three short months of this glorious stretch of weather, and the feeling of the summer slipping away that grips me as we approach mid-August is tangible.

Ask any Chicagoan—they know exactly what I mean. I'm pretty sure if we could, we'd all add at least one more month to summer, giving us more precious time to lay on North Avenue Beach, wander Millennium Park and stare at The Bean's reflection of the skyline, leisurely shop the boutiques along Armitage Avenue, dine al fresco at any number of sidewalk cafes that spring up in the summer, catch an old movie classic in Grant Park, enjoy a concert under the stars on a picnic blanket at Ravinia, ooh and aah at the Navy Pier fireworks from land or the lake, leave town for a delicious weekend on the shores in Michigan, attend that perfect outdoor wedding, or any other fabulous outdoor summer treats.

Reunions
My younger sister just had her 10-year high school reunion in Atlanta. How did time go so fast that my little sister, with whom I shared a childhood, a car, school memories, a sorority and post-college experiences, get old enough that she's celebrating TEN YEARS out of high school?

While looking at her photos, I realized that time can also work wonders. Some good, some bad. Those popular girls? Still cute, but not earth shatteringly so, anymore. The dorks? Turned out that they were pretty cool folks and have made great successes out of themselves. The "fast" crowd? They're all burned out. The skinny girls? Put on weight. The fat girls? Most lost it. Things all tend to even themselves out. I was impressed and amazed how great her whole group looked—some with children, some with husbands, some with girl/boyfriends, but all with big smiles. I think they collectively realize that time has changed them, but mostly for the better.

Networks
As with the above, the incredibly addictive spread of the social networking sites has proven yet one more thing about time to me. Time changes people, and levels out the playing field quite a bit. It appears that cliques from high school still exist to some degree, but the rules are more flexible, the edges of the circle are blurry and the groups are all interchangeable.

Basically, people are all anxious to see how everyone has enjoyed/spent the time since high school when we were all young, naive and insecure. Life has been good to most of the people I've reconnected with, and I'm happy to see how positively time has treated them. I do, on one hand, feel like I blinked twice and all these years have flown by. I'm guessing it wasn't quite that fast, but who's to say.

Loss
Two people in my office have recently lost their mothers, one due to age and one who succumbed sadly to cancer at far too young of an age. It chokes me up to even think about what I would do in this situation, and how I would even manage to get out of bed. Not just right after the death, but for a long time afterwards. I can't fathom, but must believe that the human spirit triumphs and keeps you going. Time heals, but I must believe that that loss is never very far from your mind and your heart.

My mom lost her mother when I was just eight months old, when my mom was just 26, and I can't imagine. For quite some time I was too young to comprehend what this would mean, and how I'd feel, but now, as a young woman in my own right, it is impossible for me to think about losing someone so close to you without having them be in your thoughts every day. I hope that time begins to soften the blow of loss, even if it can never fully erase it.

Relationships
As I mentioned in my post about faith, time has a serious affect on relationships, of the romantic and platonic nature. Time can be a blessing or a curse, sometimes both at the same time. Friendships can fizzle out over time, those bonds that you thought were indestructible, those friends with whom you shared everything, proved to be just a moment in time. Those friends were there to be a part of your life, and then they're gone.

On the flip-side, those friendships that you made very young, like my Posse, still hold true, and the strength of the bond grows even more powerful with time on its side. These are the friends that can go six months and not talk, and when they do, it is as if no time has passed at all. I treasure that feeling.

My parents celebrated 35 years of marriage on Monday, and it is amazing to them how fast that has gone by. My mom always says that she looks in the mirror with the mind of a 25 year old and has a moment of shock and disbelief when the woman that is her now looks back at her. I can already feel her pain—seeing old high school photos of me recently made me realize that time has changed me, too, and sometimes I'm surprised by just how much.

Time to Get to the Point
So, the lessons to me are simple:

Enjoy the time I have. Life is short, change is inevitable and it is up to me to make the most of my time here. Whether that is to mean my time in Chicago (I may not be here forever), the time in my (relative) youth, my time with friends and family and my time on Earth.

I also need to be patient. Rest assured that time will bring with it the desired events, the experiences I crave and the joys I anticipate. I'm not missing out because my schedule isn't the same as the next gal's. Time is out of my hands and I should enjoy today and stop thinking about tomorrow. As the refrain goes in RENT, there really is "no day but today."

Thank you, Father Time. I still believe you know best.

(Though I wouldn't turn down an extra month of summer in Chicago).

Men vs. Women: The Camping Edition

Harassing Indians at Chippewa Landing
I've decided that a weekend camping with mostly couples is one way to psychoanalyze how different men and women are on so many levels. (Male readers, don't go getting defensive now. This is all in good fun.)

Don't go jumping to conclusions either. The weekend was great, the people were amazing, the location was spectacular, my packing list was perfect, and the entire experience lived up to every promise that had been made about it. Without a doubt or hesitation, I would go back again (with the same people!) tomorrow if I could.

However...I would be remiss if I didn't comment on this one aspect.

NEWSFLASH (at least to me):
Men and women are pretty different and handle most tasks in a totally opposite manner.

EXHIBIT A:
We arrived at the campsite on Friday afternoon, and several of the people were already there and were set up (tents up, coolers out, chairs set around fire, etc.) and were already in "happy hour" mode. Despite the fact that it was only in the 3 o'clock hour. We were on vacation!

As soon as my car full arrived, I began to unload the stuff (SO MUCH STUFF) and began to logically and in an organized fashion pull stuff out, set in on the ground, and begin the process of "setting up camp."

For me, this was no different than moving day. I want to do as much as I am physically and humanly able to the first day, right away, so it feels like home as quickly as possible.

Camp was no different. This meant setting up the tent, putting on the rain fly, inflating the air mattress (I know, cheaters), making the bed, moving all of our bags into the tent, and getting things generally organized in there.

Then, I wanted to deal with the food. Pull coolers over to the camp kitchen, put the dinnerware and serving-ware out on picnic table, put paper products in appropriate areas (kitchen, outhouse, you know the drill), etc.

Finally, I envisioned us setting up our folding chairs around the fire (in a nice orderly circle) and grabbing a beer to relax and unwind. I could see myself really kicking back, knowing that the work was all finished, long before nightfall, dinner or the onset of our drunk stupors.

THEN I would relax and have a beer.

Here is where men and women differ.

I turn around, with both hands full of stuff, trudging across camp back and forth (finally got wise and backed the car up closer) and spotted my two male counterparts doing just the opposite.

They were drinking beer. Standing around. Totally idle. Chatting with everyone. Not working at all. Too soon! We're not ready!

I took a deep breath and kept on my way. It was not that big of a deal. I'd handle it myself. I'm domestic, I am powerful, I can do this. On my own. Without your help. Umm...this is heavy. I'm sweating. I only have two hands. I can't reach that alone. I need help already. I'm thirsty too, damn it!

GET OVER HERE AND HELP ME!

Yeah, it didn't go quite like that, and most of the above OCD ramblings were in my head, and not said out loud, so I'm not a total crazy. But, I must admit, that it just struck me as funny how different we are. The other girls in the group concurred—their approach was get unpacked and set up first, THEN relax.

SUV: Some Ungodly Volume (of junk)
EXHIBIT B:
When setting up the incredibly enormous and fairly complicated 6-man tent, my approach was to lay the whole thing out, get my bearings, choose the appropriate poles, and work my way around the tent and get it together in an organized way.

The two guys wanted to just jab the bendy poles in wherever and see what stuck. Then fix it if it fell over. They were happy to be in charge of the big giant heavy hammer that was used to drive the stakes into the ground, but when it came to deciphering the tent poles (sans instructions), they were more of the "just shove 'em in!" philosophy.

The tent ended up going up smoothly, and there was no bendy-pole-to-the-eye injuries to report.

Jessica and I did a great job at it, thank you very much.

Jess and I working on the tent, Brett "helping"
EXHIBIT C:
Men are hungry most of the time. On this camping trip, they were holding beers in one hand for 99% of the time that we were awake, and the other hand was often used to swat a mosquito or pry open a plastic container with a rainbow-colored Jello shot inside. They were BUSY.

Women, however, were also hungry at the appropriate times. You know, like dinner. When the hunger struck, we began to move through the process of getting out of the boxes/bins/trunks the necessary items (read: buns, burgers/brats, cheese, chips, pasta salad, potato salad, condiments, plates, plastic silverware and cookies).

Men, well, they sat there.

Dinner was served, and enjoyed by all. I'd bet that 7/8 of the men on the trip don't even remember how the meal got to the table, or where it came from, but they could tell you how good it tasted and how quickly it was devoured.

How's the brat, Brett?
EXHIBIT D:
Saturday's activities were all about canoeing. Waking up to rain, we were not pleased with the sky's gray hues, but soldiered on. Boarded a school bus and made it to the river. Two by two we climbed into enormous metal canoes (not so smart immediately following a storm, in retrospect) and pushed off the landing.

Primarily, the men were in the back (the steering) and the women were in the front (the power). The back person does most of the strategic maneuvers, and the front person does most of the rowing for speed. I'm not sure WHY we had it set up with me in the front and Brett in the back, but we did. As did most of the other couples.

Brett and I are rookie canoers. And by rookie, I really mean totally clueless and partially terrified. The weather wasn't all that warm, and even after the rain stopped, we had no desire to accidentally tip into the Manistee River.

Nonewhatsoeverthankyouverymuch.

So, we moved along the river at a turtle pace, out rowed by everyone in our group (the other 8 canoes) and were quickly left to our own devices at the back of the pack, running into trees, bumping into rocks and heading straight for each bank. Again and again.

Seated in the front, I was quickly advised (read; told under no circumstances should I touch the thing) not to paddle. That he'd take care of it. So I sat like a lame duck.

I gently tried (I promise, it was not controlling, bossy nagging!) to impart the few quick over-the-river lessons that the other guys had shared as we boarded, but they were not really welcome. HE'S GOT IT.

Okaaaay.

And into another tree we went.

I then realize, as I was biting my tongue, holding my oar dead in my lap, and dodging the 13th branch thus far, that this was no different than driving a car. Men want to figure it out, and women want to stop to ask directions. Just different approaches.

Yes, we finally got caught up, but only after getting "rescued" off an enormous log submerged just below the surface (onto which we proceeded to get ourselves stuck and rock back and forth like a see-saw), and re-joined the group.

My side of the story was this: we sucked, and our relationship may not have withstood the pressures for five hours; every girl in the group nodded, laughing, stating that their first time canoeing with their boyfriend/husband was just the same.

His side of the story was this: it wasn't fun, and he was cursing at the river, not at me (which may have been true, but who was there to translate!?) and that it wasn't that bad, and that we would have gotten the hang of it eventually.

Like, on Tuesday. (in my estimation)

Despite the early challenges, we barged up with the rest of the canoes with bungee cords, and proceeded to have a wonderful day of it on the river, drinking beer, chewing Jello shots and laughing with everyone.

And, we never tipped. And, we never discussed the first 15 minutes on the river again.

I'm wise enough not to bring THAT one up.

What happens on the river...
CONCLUSION:
So, despite our companionship, love and laughter, it truly is amazing that men and women get along at all. We just function so differently, think differently, react differently and approach life differently.

I should probably get used to the differences and find a way to laugh at them. While drinking. Because everything is funnier with a beer. And, then you have a prop to throw at the male in question should the need arise.

I'm just saying.

Part of the male/female group on the way out of town