The Beauty of Cleaning the Hall Closet

With a little more time on my hands, I'm getting a lot done. Besides sending out resumes and responding to recruiters that seem to think I'd be a "perfect fit to sell insurance in the Western Suburbs!" that is.

I decided I'd first make a long to-do list of all of the projects that I have been putting off for some time now. Then, I drew little boxes next to each task, with the expressed purpose of celebrating each achievement as I finished said task, with a large black X next to the line completed.

It has been rewarding to see the progress. I feel productive! Accomplished! Sadly, OCD and happy about it!

Today's tasks included reorganizing my hall closet, which meant a sweaty trip to the upstairs storage unit dragging a wobbly luggage cart with two huge Rubbermaid bins of summer clothes up to the cage that is dedicated to my excess junk.

It also meant re-filing all my files into a fancy new plastic two-drawer storage bin.

Additionally, it meant putting away all of the knick-knacks from my office that were in banker's boxes.

And, finally, it meant going through the old costume bin I have been saving, adding to and laughing at over the years. In one spot, nestled in the back of the hall closet, sat the aforementioned haven for old outfits used for costume parties, Halloween affairs and other events that required me to be someone else.

Apparently, my personal history of costuming has been quite eclectic. I found the following items, in no particular order:

• a handmade fringed 1920s flapper outfit complete with garter belt, feathered headband, pink satin elbow length satin gloves, a plastic tommy gun and an enormous pink/purple 4' feather boa


• a cowboy denim shirt and a matching cowboy hat


• a leprechaun hat, green belt, green plaid butterfly-collared shirt, a shamrock sash and coordinating shamrock jewelry of the blinking and non-blinking design


• a red plaid Hugh Hefner robe, a set of pink satin pajamas, white/pink fuzzy slippers, a plastic diamond, fake boobs and a purse dog


• a dress made of a Twister board, a spinner hat, red fishnet hose and white go-go boot covers


• a hard hat from the inaugural season of Atlanta's Philips Arena


• an authentic Atlanta Hawks with the number 00 and my last name stitched on the back


• a smashed margarita-sticky straw hat


• 19 Mardi Gras beaded necklaces, 7 plastic blinking bracelets, 1 random red feather boa and 1 pair of plastic Devil horns


• a Boy Scout camp shirt, a reflective vest, white gloves, a stop sign and a City of Chicago police hat


• and, a red shoulder length wig, a long curly blonde wig and a ratty chin-length black bob wig.

For the record, I did try on most items today, and had a good laugh at myself as I did. Wigs and all. The itchy head and sticking-up-hair was worth every minute.

The XXXtra large plastic boobs (circa Anna Nicole Smith, pre-death) were a tad busted, forgive the pun, and I put them secretly in the hallway recycling bin. They're plastic! I'm pretty sure I will have given a neighboring old lady a heart attack when she spots body parts in with the newspapers and aluminum cans.

The various costume items I have chucked out in the last few years also include a full satin prisoner outfit with metal handcuffs and a dorky little hat; a head-to-toe camouflage outfit including orange wristbands and a fake rifle; a 60s mod dress with coordinating 6" headband and white gloves; and a hooker-like outfit that I just don't want to explain.

I'm either a Halloween buff, a reformed sorority girl or a grandma in the making. All of the above, quite possibly? I will have one mean dress-up-clothes trunk by the time I'm 80.

*Photos and full details of this year's Halloween party to come next week. No hints on what I'm going to be...you'll just have to wait patiently. Pass the candy corn, please.

Good Night and Good Luck

You may have been wondering where I've been. Why I've been silent for the last week or so, save an occasional post about electronics (still unsolved, by the way). Why you've not heard any great stories out of me.

That's because it has been a rough week or so.

Frankly, it has been going on longer than that, but the proverbial shit hit the fan last week.

I was laid off on Friday.

At the risk of sounding like a sycophant, I really am sad to leave that company. I harbor no ill will towards them for choosing me to be one of the latest laid off. I hold no one responsible for the situation. In fact, I credit the leadership with having tried everything they could to stave off the layoffs. To keep the wolf from the door.

Unfortunately, in this economic crisis, those efforts were not enough. Holding companies are vicious and sometimes it comes down to numbers on a spreadsheet. Times are tough and I am feeling it more than ever.

I know that the prices of gas have been at all time highs, but I don't drive my car that much. I know that groceries are costing families more and more each week, but since I am just one woman living alone, I don't feel the pinch that much.

This turn of events, however, hit me in the gut.

And, the heart.

I know that it sounds trite to say that I had found the right "place" for me, but I did. I mean it. I was really happy at that agency, and felt like I was contributing. I was learning, growing and making a difference. I enjoy the people there and respect the culture that was in effect there. It was more than "corporate speak" and lines of the employee handbook—the culture was real. It likely still is, but it has certainly taken its fair share of blows this year.

Without a doubt, I was meant to be working there. I knew it in the first interview, and it was even more confirmed in the second. I'd found a home. A family. A place where I could be the best version of me. I trusted the leadership, and found out only later how well-respected they were in the industry. I saw the rows and rows of awards the agency had won, but only realized later how good it felt to be a part of a winning team like that.

And, it was a team. As someone who spent her formative years playing team sports, I appreciate and value the very meaning of being on a team.

To me, and the others at my agency, being on a team meant dropping everything to help out a colleague. It meant pulling more than your share of weight sometimes, knowing the favor would be returned tenfold. It meant staying late some nights, and leaving early other days. It meant celebrating the wins together, and commiserating the losses together. It meant everyone doing their part to make the agency, and the work, great. It meant not ever being "above" a task, or delegating things to those deemed "below" you. It meant we were all in it together. As a team.

Interestingly, it meant doing it all without realizing you were. Making the effort while enjoying the process.

Knowing that, I ache even more for the loss. The loss I feel for not having gotten up to go to work there today. The loss I feel knowing that my books, photos, mementos and business card holder will sit on another desk soon. The loss I feel knowing that I won't be interacting with such creative and strategic geniuses, who also made me laugh on a regular basis, each day.

I will miss them, and the work we created together, more than they realize.

Here's hoping that the tide is shifting. That the worst is past. That the horizon holds a bright future. For me and for my team. Here's knowing that the family will circle in tight to protect its own. I have faith that that much is true. Good night and good luck.

As for me, I'm on to something else. Something bigger? Maybe.

Something better? I doubt it.

The bar has been set extremely high. I know what I'm looking for and what I won't settle for. I know what I deserve and what is possible. I know the types of people that I want to work for, and alongside, in my next adventure.

I just don't know their names yet.

Electronics Grudge Match

Last week, I was given a digital converter box for each TV in my condo by the friendly local RCN representative who had stationed herself in the community room of my building's lobby. The instructions were simple. The activation was immediate. The results were easy.

Even when I threw in the curveball that I currently have a Tivo box in my living room. She assured me that it wouldn't be more than a call to Tivo to get them to "read the new signal." All was supposed to go well.

Instead, it was pretty much like this:



For four hours last night, plied with a homemade salad and two bottles of shiraz, my friend Mike was kind enough to help. He immediately rolled up his sleeves and buried his head inside my armoire. Cables were flying, dust was everywhere. He reattached everything, streamlined a few unnecessary plug-ins, relocated my wireless internet router and cable modem for maximum efficiency, and hid it all nicely behind plants and photo frames.

He even made the dreaded phone call to RCN to ask the techie questions that I don't understand. And to initiate a new "ping" of my cable boxes (which trust me, sounds far sexier than it was in real life). The best part of the evening was this, and forgive me, but it was just funny. Don't judge.

The RCN guy was asking Mike to test a few channels on the living room TV to ensure that the signal was coming through properly to give me extended cable. He asked Mike to confirm that WBBM was on Channel 2. Yes. He asked Mike to confirm what was appearing on Channel 101, which was supposed to be BET.

Mike paused, turned toward the TV from his spot near the window (the only place to get clear cell phone reception in my condo, don't get me started) and replied, "On 101, it should be BET? Well, it's totally black."

Brett, occupying himself quietly on the lounge chair, muttered under his breath, "No pun intended."

Sadly, it was the highlight. We laughed so hard that I moved too quickly and kicked the trunk at the foot of my bed while racing back into the living room to laugh with them. I think I broke my pinkie toe. No, seriously. I'm limping.

Back to Mike and his superpowers. In short, he was very cheap tech support. Who actually knew what he was doing. And was willing to stay for dinner.

I didn't lift a finger. I found the right cable in my "box o' cables" when called upon to do so. I dug out my TV's instruction manual when that was necessary. I handed him the dustrag and the spray cleaner and I am pretty sure he (or Brett) even did that part for me.

All in all, it was a stressful night of electronics vs. man.

Unfortunately, my electronics seem to have a communications problem. They don't get along.

The free digital cable converter box that RCN provided me clearly is a closed-minded snob. He doesn't want to cooperate with the foreign outsider that is my Tivo component box. Who, incidentally, is a stubborn pile of silver plastic. Maybe they need couples counseling? Maybe I should throw them into the ring to see who would win?

Bottom line?

The RCN box will only send out one signal. The Tivo needs two in order to record two things at once. To make matters worse? The Tivo won't read a channel changed on the cable box without a fancy $18.98/month box from RCN. Which is added to the monthly cable payment that is already a bit on the high side.

So, my solution was clear. Ditch Tivo, and convert to a RCN DVR for my Tivo-like needs.

Sounds simple enough, no? I call Tivo to cancel the arrangement with them. Not so fast, little lady. Tivo has me locked into a 3-year contract, in which I've only completed two years. It would cost me $155 and change to get out of it. Basically, the $12.95 a month for a year for a service I can't use because my electronics are disagreeable.

I can only imagine how the little old ladies in my building are handling this "simple transition" to digital cable.

I'm in a building where I have no choice over the cable provider. I can't change the way the building is wired. I can't do much except call RCN and beg them to send me a fancy new converter box on the off chance that it will play nicely in the sandbox with my Tivo, which may be a lost cause.

In summary, I can't do anything but throw components and their matching remotes out the 13th story window. Which would have been my idea of "solving the problem" had Mike not stopped me.

Clearly that doesn't fix anything.

But it would have felt really good to see a host of electronics smashed to smithereens down on the sidewalk, wouldn't it?

I should have had more wine.

The Weekend of Fs

Like the snowbirds in January, I'm heading South!

Even though it isn't quite winter yet, this Chicago gal is flocking southward for the weekend.

Brett and I alight on Atlanta this weekend for Family, Friends, Football and Food and I can't wait. It seems to be the F weekend. Let's examine:

F#1: Family
We will be staying with my parents, and he'll be meeting my Dad. Let's hope the men in my life get along, and are on their best behavior. I'm sure it will go smoothly...but in the deep, dark recesses of my mind, I have visions of my Dad answering the door in overalls polishing a shotgun. I have visions of him asking, "What are your intentions with my daughter?" or asking Brett to detail the branches on his family tree, and Brett flushing redder than my shoulders after a long day in the sun.

My Family Tree?
I get to meet my sister's darling new boyfriend, George, this weekend. I've heard so much about him, seen so many photos, and been on the receiving end of some great stories of their time together, and now I get to put him to the test in real life. What kind of questions are the responsibility of the older (questionably wiser) sibling? Do tell, I'm curious. And taking notes.

F#2: Friends
As you've read in many a post, I have a great group of friends with whom I've been linked (for better or worse!) since we were all single digits, wearing braces and rookies in all things life. We've experienced highs (graduations, marriages, babies, birthdays, new houses, new jobs and great haircuts) and lows (deaths, moving away, car accidents, illness, job losses, heartbreaks and our favorite shows going off the air) together. All while managing to keep things interesting (read: Posse Grudge Matches every so often) and fun (read: vacations to foreign lands together).

The Posse, on our best behavior.
I will have the fortunate privilege to re-introduce Brett to many friends that he met in June when we were in Costa Rica, and introduce him for the first time to many new faces. I'm not making a PowerPoint deck to brief him this time (yes, I did), so he's on his own. He can call them all "Buddy" and "Dude" and it will go just fine.

F#3: Football
We will be caravanning east from Atlanta, heading towards the cutest little big college town in the world, Athens Georgia. I love nothing more than showing off this amazing gem to a virgin visitor. Especially in the fall, with all of the grasses green, the leaves changing and the winds lightly blowing. Campus will be at her best. I can't wait to exit off Highway 316 and revel at the new construction and say "That wasn't there when I was here!" a hundred times, to tread softly across the North Campus Quad, to duck behind the East Campus Railroad bridge for a moment in the shade, to drive slowly down Milledge Avenue gawking at the antebellum mansions we Greeks called home, to hoof it over to the new(ish) Student Center Quad to marvel at the new developments there, to stand on Gillis Bridge looking into the end zone of Sanford Stadium where the hedges lie in wait.

Heaven on Earth.
And, there my friends, will be the game. The Georgia Bulldogs vs. the Tennessee Volunteers. We at UGA hate the color orange for a reason (UT, UF, Auburn, etc.) and it will be a Red Sea like no other on Saturday. I long to hear Brett laugh as I call the Dawgs. Despite the season's one disappointment (a memory I'm trying to erase), the Dawgs make us proud, and the SEC colleges know how to tailgate properly to prepare for it. It will be glorious. Go Dawgs!

There is still an outside chance that we'll be able to see the Chicago Bears take on the Atlanta Falcons in the Georgia Dome on Sunday. Not sure if my sister's ticket contacts are going to pull through, but wouldn't that be cool? And, oddly enough, both teams are in first place in their respective division, so it could even be a good game. Go Bears!

F#4: Food
Living in the country's third largest city, one would think we'd have access to everything. Sadly, this is not true for a few critical items of culinary deliciousness. Sweet tea, for example. Can't get it here. In fact, they think you're weird if you ask for it. McDonald's is trying, but who goes to McDonald's for a cold one? I'm hearing rumor of a new treat in the south called Sweet Tea Vodka (STV for short) that is making its rounds. I plan to test it and will share my thoughts. If I have any that are worth repeating.

If only I had a porch and a rocker.
And then there's Chick-fil-A. I've talked about my love for this fast-food but not-fast-food outlet before. I just can't understand why it would be so hard to franchise them here in the city limits of Chicago? Ponder that while I dream about the waffle fries, the lemonade and the lightly breaded, not fried, chicken sandwich. Or chicken biscuit, if you're there early enough in the day. You can practically taste it, can't you?

We may also have a chance to stop by The Varsity, on our way through downtown, tomorrow before we do the touristy things I have planned, or on Sunday on our way back to the airport. Nothing like leaving town with a full belly of hot dogs and french fries at one of the country's oldest drive-throughs, smelling like grease all the way back on your Airtran flight.

--

As you can see, I'm ready. Real photos and stories will be shared when I return.

I think this will be one great "F-ing" weekend. Probably NOT the example they'd use on Sesame Street on the "F" day.

Bridges, Tunnels and Taxicabs

I would love to write a blog post today about something other than painful commuting/travel experiences. However, fresh off another 15-hour day consisting of two metropolitan cities, two flights, two flights delayed, four cabs and three meals at the airport, I just don't have it in me.

Yesterday's second trek to New York City for a meeting was nothing short of eventful. Rather than to repeat Friday's post about dreadful experiences in lengthy detail, I decided I'd treat you all to a highlight reel. Making it real for you.

Away we go.

• On the way to O'Hare at 7:30 yesterday morning, my cab driver was doing just fine until we got onto the expressway. As we neared O'Hare on the Kennedy, I could see his eyes getting droopy in the rearview mirror. I noticed he wasn't moving very much, if at all. We were in stop and go traffic, and I heard him start to "mouth snore." I leaned forward and said, loudly, "Sir, are you falling asleep??!?" and he snapped awake and said no. Then it started again, and he was slowly drifting off toward the left heading at the center median. I was freaking out, trying to figure out what to do. I was on the highway for crying out loud! Miles away from the airport! The radio was playing NPR softly, so I asked him to turn it up and turn on some music, and to open his window. I mean, come on! I'm paying you NOT TO DIE. We finally made it but I was NOT happy to have to pay him for that ride. And, yes, this is NOT the first time that I've had a cab driver fall asleep while driving me around. Am I really that boring?


• Arriving at O'Hare early, as is my usual, I soon find out that my plane is missing a part and the flight that was supposed to take off at 10 am will not leave now until noon. I tried to get the travel agent we use to change us to another airline, to no avail. I had to call the prospect, with whom we were meeting in New York that day, and ask him to push back the meeting to accommodate this delay. Luckily, he was available.


• Never one to miss a meal, I grabbed a sandwich and a bag of chips at O'Hare before boarding—since I knew we'd land in just enough time to make it to the meeting. I realized quickly that even if it says "Wolfgang Puck" on the label, it is still a a deli sandwich wrapped in plastic, and it just isn't going to be good. Traveling is not good for the diet.


• When we landed at Laguardia, I de-plane and turn to stand and wait for my colleague. I notice two little people in the line to board our plane after it emptied. Then I realized they were THE little people from Little People, Big World on TLC! The mom and the dad! People left them alone, but a few nodded and smiled in their direction. Seeing them in person proved to me that I am blessed—life would just be so much harder that way. They seemed happy and relaxed, however, so good for them. Probably because no cameras were following them!


• The cabs in NYC now accept credit cards through a handy little swiper machine installed in the backseat. It felt like being at a 7-Eleven. Smelled about the same, too. Thanks to Nilsa for alerting me to this new convenience! Now if only Chicago would get these installed.


• Nothing like leaving a meeting at New York's rush hour, which happens to be just after the infamous (and secret?) cab shift change. We stood forever waiting, on Madison Avenue, for a cab. Then we cruised to Park Avenue to wait there. Finally, the new shift of cabbies must have been on the loose, so we hailed one and made it to Laguardia. Interestingly, in the two visits to NY in the past five business days, to the exact same address from the exact same airport, the cabbies have gone three different ways. I've now been over the Triborough Bridge, in the Queens-Midtown Tunnel, and over the Queensboro bridge. I feel so cultured. I'm still not claiming to be a B&T person just yet.


• The very nice gate agent at United in Laguardia that hooked up all four of us last week on an earlier flight (with good seats to boot!) was there again, and was still nice. He hooked my colleague up with a great standby seat, and then did the same for me. Good karma was working in my favor!


• But good karma only lasts so long. After boarding the earlier flight, we were then delayed on the tarmac for a bit, with claims of Chicago's rain delaying arrivals into O'Hare. Then, later as we finally neared Chicagoland, the pilot came on to say that Air Traffic Control had put us into an in-flight delay/hold pattern and that we only had 20 minutes of fuel to play with before he had to make a decision. About 10 minutes later (I'm guessing we were circling the northern suburbs?) he comes back on to say that we'd been cleared for landing and that we'd be on the ground in 30 minutes. The irony of his two conflicting statements was not lost on anyone, and the entire plane laughed aloud. I'm pretty sure everyone was just punch drunk from their travels, too.


• With two feet back on the ground in Chicago, I was forced to eat my third meal of the day from a stand at O'Hare. Dinner comprised of a yogurt parfait and a bottled water, consumed in the back of the fourth cab of the day, was all I could handle at 9:30 pm. My poor digestive system.

All in all, it was yet again a 15-hour travel day for a 60-minute meeting. I hope it turns out to have been worth it!

At least I saw the Little People in real life.

Crime, Punishment and Air Travel

Air travel is a test of human character. It is just simply out of hand. And sometimes it feels like a crime against human nature.

I flew in and out to New York on Wednesday for a 1 1/2 hour meeting, and the entire process took me 15 hours. Long day, but sometimes it is best to meet face-to-face.

But, let's face it. The whole shebang is just plain exhausting. While waiting for our flight, hoping for standby on an earlier one, sitting in Laguardia's measly little United gate area, I told my colleagues the story of my worst flight experience ever.

And, now I feel that to complete the cathartic circle of this story, I must share it with you. I'm warning you—it dredges up some pretty unpleasant memories, but it is worth it. You're worth it.

The year was 2006. The employer was different, and we had a client in Billings, Montana. I know you haven't heard of it—it isn't the picturesque destination in the great state of Montana that you're hoping to visit. There are no mountains, no ski slopes, no beautiful nature trails, no hot springs, no spa resorts, nothing. Billings is what Montanans often refer to (Ok, so one did) as "the armpit of Montana."

The beginning.
That may be a little harsh, but there it is. Billings is only reached via other places. You have to go to Salt Lake City or Denver to get there from here. And, the getting home from there is the problem.

I was traveling to Billings for the account at least once a month, often for 3-, 4- or 5-day trips. It was not a highlight of my business traveling career, but the work we were doing, and the people we were working with, made it worth it.

The flights to Denver on United were pleasant. Often we got upgraded to Business Class on the huge planes, and the hot nuts and warm towel and bottomless red wine made it seem just right. Fun, even.

Upon arrival in Denver, however, the earth grounded to a shattering and noisy halt. That airport is crazy, and this is coming from someone who has logged many an hour in O'Hare. It is loud, long and always active. And, since I was constantly flying in and out of two snow-filled cities, there were always delays due to weather.

This one time was no exception. We had just finished a 4-day meeting in Billings, and were boarding the tiny 50-seater Cessna operated by SkyWest to head to Denver. The weather in Billings was fine, and we weren't sure of what else the country's forecast had to offer.

My travel companions were Liz, on her first business trip ever, and my boss, who never handled travel with that much ease or comfort. So, I hoped and prayed for the best. We were all exhausted and just ready to be home in Chicago.

Not so fast, my friend.

We get close to Denver, and the pilot informs us that thunderstorms had wreaked havoc on the city, shutting down Denver's airport. Okaaay....so we were diverted to Colorado Springs which is only about 30 minutes by plane away.

Fine. Whatever. Just get us there safely and in time for us to make our connection in Denver.

And, we land in Colorado Springs and find out there is not ONE open gate. The entire airport had planes just sitting, on hold, waiting at the gates, so they couldn't get us into one. We were parked out on the tarmac. Waiting.

Which was fine for a while. Then it started to get warm and sticky on the plane, because they'd shut off the AC. Then the bathroom started to smell, which is just highly unpleasant on a 50-seater plane.

And, we wait. An hour passes. Two hours pass. People are begging for beverage service, but water is all she has that is cold. No food, nothing. Three hours pass. The natives are growing restless, and the bathrooms stink even worse. Four hours pass. Now it is just ridiculous. By this point, it was about 10:30 pm, and we've long since missed our connection in Denver to Chicago. We'd been sitting there since 6 pm or so.

Liz, while leaning over into my seat to watch the DVD on my laptop (which soon became entertainment for about 4 aisles worth of people), looked over at me and said, with sad eyes, "is business travel always like this?" and I assured her that this was just bad. A four and a half hour interruption in our life. I was just sure that we'd be moving soon.

Boy was I wrong.

At this point, the pilot comes on and offers for anyone that has available transportation in the Colorado Springs area (i.e., someone to pick them up) that wants to de-board, can. Since there was not ONE rental car to be had at the Colorado Springs airport, that left anyone else (like those with connections) no choices.

The 10 or so anxious people raced to the front, climbed down the stairs and boarded a van that would drive them to the airport where they could be picked up (and saved from the rest of the mess).

We were so jealous.

The 40 people left just waited.

Another hour passed. The sixth hour came and went. By now it was after midnight, and there was absolutely no hope of getting to Denver, and out to Chicago, that night. We resigned to that fact.

But, we were still on the stinking tarmac in Colorado Springs!

Finally, they re-opened the Denver airport and we made our way there, arriving at approximately 1:00 in the morning. Per our instructions, we approached the re-book gate and stood for 45 minutes to talk to someone. They re-booked us (at 1:45 am) onto the next flight out in the morning, at 8:30 am.

The crime scene.
Fine. But, I should remind you that we've not eaten anything, and we're all still in suits from that morning's last meetings. Luckily, Liz and I had our bags with us and were able to change into jeans and comfy shoes. Our boss, however, was none to happy to be stuck in his suit and tie.

We take the hotel voucher and begin to call the 800# for a hotel that night. It was 2 am at this point, and the lady said everything was booked. That the entire city of Denver was booked because of some conventions, and the weather.

Grrreeeat.

So, my boss, refusing to take "no" for an answer, insists that we get into a cab, and take the 40-minute ride into Denver, where he would "find a hotel, because I have so many connections." Uhhhh, yeah. No rooms at the inn, buddy.

We stopped by, and were turned away from, no less than 5 hotels (with the cab running in the drive) before finally admitting defeat. Told you so.

The cab driver turns around, and takes us all the way back to the Denver Airport. With the meter running. It was about $120 by the time we were through with him. I'm sure we made his night.

Dejectedly, we re-enter the airport and realize that now it was 3:00 am and we had still not eaten, and yet, we're outside of the security lines in the main atrium. Where nothing was open.

Finally, we see a mad rush to a deli where they had wisely decided to send some Joe Schmoe over there to sell us some sandwiches. Everyone happily stood in line. Okay, so happily wasn't true, but we were deliriously hungry. And tired.

This part burns me up—we waited AN HOUR for a sandwich. A pre-wrapped, pre-made sandwich. With the choices all lined up on the menu board above us. Easy, right? Not even close. Some people, at 3:30 in the morning—nearing 4 am, had the AUDACITY to ask for custom-made sandwiches. I'm pretty sure this Schmoe normally empties trash cans—he had no idea what he was doing, and thus the line just snaked further and further around the lobby.

It was horrendous. We finally get our food, and eat, with our eyes burning, our hair greasy, our minds numb.

But we still can't go through security. Not until 5:30 am.

So, Liz and I assess the situation, and determine that the carpeted area in front of the Budget Rental Car desk was the softest landing. We use our sweatshirts as pillows, and stupidly lay down. We were just simply stupid by this point. Our boss chose a seated position.

And, just when the tiredness reached its peak, and we almost slipped into a deep, coma-like sleep, the noise started.

HUMMMM. HUMMMMM. HUMMMMM.

What the?

Oh, as I look over my shoulder, past the sleeping families and drowsy crowds, I see that guy. The one. Who has been assigned to wax the atrium floors. During the night shift.

The offender.
Did he not realize that there were hundreds, no, thousands of people sleeping in the airport RIGHT where he was waxing? I'm pretty sure common sense should have kicked in and guided him to his manager where he could do some QUIETER job that night.

Nope. Between the HUMMMM of his waxing machine, and the constant, ever-present, super-annoying voice of the female PA announcing safety updates and the like (the pre-recorded ones), we didn't get much "sleep."

Finally, at 5:30 in the morning, about an hour after laying down by the Budget desk, it was time to go through security. We did, with no issue.

Our 8:30 flight to Chicago never looked so good. We didn't get upgraded, and we didn't care.

I've never slept so well on a plane. The guy next to me was lucky he didn't have drool stains. And, the cab driver here in Chicago had to wake me again when we arrived at my house that next afternoon, at about 2:00 pm.

Needless to say, I "worked from home" that day.

Billings, Montana—you can't be blamed.

Denver International Airport—I hate you.

*Side note: this is not the only time I have been stranded in Denver and had to sleep at the airport. Does my anger make more sense now?*

Why the Cleats, Lou?

Heads up—shortest post ever. For me, that is. I promise! It is earth-shatteringly short.

Just an observation, really.

Why is it that in Major League Baseball, the managers wear the same uniforms as the players? Think hard. It is the only professional sport where that exists. I know that in the old days, there was often a player/manager, so he needed to be dressed for play, but that is not the case now.

Can you picture the NBA coaches not wearing their traditional suits or tie and sport coat, and instead wearing silky uniforms and breakaway cover-up pants? Hilarious.

Could you imagine the NFL coaches sporting tight pants, pads, cleats, a jersey and a helmet? Would give play-calling a whole new meaning. And, it would make wearing that Motorola headset a little difficult.

It seems clear to me that the Cubs manager Lou Piniella could avoid the baseball pants, knee-high socks and cleats. Don't think he's going to make it onto the playing field anytime soon. It breaks me into giggles picturing him rounding the bases.

Though, on second thought, the Cubs could use the help?