Just Another Manic...Month

As you can see, it's Monday. it was a long week/weekend, and I am not able to synthesize all of what's been tangling in my head. So, you get a list. Forgive me.

Random thoughts by Colleen, in no particular order. That's why they call it random, people.

• Why do some guys just ask for phone numbers? And then not call? I'm going to dub them "digit junkies." And here I was thinking the hardest part was asking for the phone number. Apparently the hardest part is actually scrolling through the phone on Monday morning, assessing the damage, identifying the victim and pressing the green button. Yep, sounds pretty hard to me.


• That tryptophan stuff that they claim is what is in turkey that makes us tired really is pretty awesome. Why doesn't Nyquil just bottle that and sell it? It would rid the market of Ambien and all other sleep-disorder medications. I mean it. After Thanksgiving, I could barely keep my eyes open for an hour. The four glasses of wine had NOTHNG to do with it, swear.


• Is it normal that I'm a little disappointed to have slept through the first winter snowfall? I saw the remnants at 7 o'clock this morning, but it really is much prettier falling than it is when it is puddling by the curb waiting for me to step squarely into it. Trust me. Rubber boots season it is.


• Three nights in a row this weekend (starting Thursday, as if I was 24 again), I attended various holiday parties. However, unique to my (not 24) years, I hurt more today than I could imagine. I know what you're thinking - it wasn't the hangover. It was my legs. I danced so much Saturday night at a benefit event that I could hardly get out of my office chair. I feel like I ran a marathon. Barefoot. Getting old blows.


• I put up half of the Christmas decorations last night. I dreaded it all weekend, and then just had to bite the proverbial bullet and go upstairs to the storage room, drag the crap out of the caged space and lug it to my apartment. As I unwound the knots that are the Christmas lights, I plugged them in to test them (thanks, Dad, for that lesson, otherwise this story would have been even that much more frustrating). I wanted nothing more than to just get it all done, decorate the piddly six-foot tree that I have, and call it a day. Nope. Who wants to guess how many strands, of the four that I have, worked? Yep. Two. I'm batting .500 and as Christmas decorating goes, that's a lousy average. Off to CVS today to replace them. Now they're in the box right near me just taunting me. I think it is because decorating by yourself, for yourself, isn't as much fun as you'd think. I'll get it done eventually. Or, I'll pass out from the overwhelming smell of the 'holiday spice' candles that were on sale at CVS. Whichever comes first, frankly, is fine by me.


• I'd love to put a stop to it, but because my team at work is cramming as much pre-production work into the few remaining weeks before Christmas, we keep having conference calls at ungodly hours of the day. Specifically, in the wee hours of the morning. Today's began at 7:30, so it was conducted from my couch. You know why they call them the "wee" hours? Because that's how your voice sounds. Especially if you live alone, and haven't uttered a word until you dial in, and the entire crowd on the phone is witness to your raspy, small, pre-coffee voice. I couldn't get the Mr. Coffee to work fast enough to save my professional reputation. Next time? I'm singing scales in my kitchen while the pot brews.


• And, in another note from the "it's now winter" files, I lost a glove this weekend. Exiting a cab, I suspect. I am telling you. There's a cottage industry of gloves out there on the sidewalk, primed for the taking. I guess I took it off to pay the fare, and then placed it on my lap (in a safe place, obviously) and then exited the cab (curb side only!) and it fell to the ground. It wasn't until I was leaving the party that I realized I was a one-woman black-leather-glove tribute to our late Michael Jackson. Rats. Mom, can you add that to the Christmas list? Yes, this year. Again. Thanks.


• Jay Cutler and the Chicago Bears won one! It was during the day! And not on primetime TV! I am pretty sure that Jay Cutler's mom has sent him contacts. Maybe he needs a pair of night vision goggles for the rest of the season? Just in case? Yes, Jay. We're the ones in navy. Or white. Just look down first, and then throw to the guy wearing the same shirt as you. There you go, buddy.


• This weekend, I had the privilege of attending a fundraising event for Angleman Syndrome hosted in part by my friend Laura's co-worker's lovely wife. They have a young daughter that has it, and I really knew nothing about it prior to the evening. I was amazed to hear the stories of parents who suffer the trials and joys of having a child who has been diagnosed, often improperly at first, with the syndrome. Wikipedia (if you aren't feeling the link above) says this about the disorder: Angelman Syndrome (AS) is a neuro-genetic disorder characterized by intellectual and developmental delay, sleep disturbance, seizures, jerky movements especially hand-flapping, frequent laughter or smiling, and usually a happy demeanor. And happy they were. The few grown men that were seated at the table nearest ours were grinning, clapping and all-in-all just enjoying themselves. I grew teary, not listening to the parents talk about the uncertainty of the diagnosis, or fearing a seizure (while that is all terrible and sad in itself) but when I heard, and then realized, that the children with AS most often don't speak. Ever. The young men near us were likely in their mid-twenties. And were expressive, and happy, but communicating solely in gestures and looks. As a communicator, and one who relies on and treasures words and verbal expression, my heart just broke for their parents. Can you imagine never hearing the sound of your own son or daughter's voice? As they express themselves and tell you they love you? Neither could I. If you can, or want to, participate to help fund and find a cure, please visit the link and see how you can get involved. I'll step off my soapbox, because tears have once again made it hard for me to see.


• My condo building hallway smells like burgers. From the grill. In December. In a high-rise. Doesn't that seem unfair to a girl that is trying to eat healthy prior to the "it's winter and the clothes are puffy so you may as well pack on 12 extra pounds" season? I thought so, too. And, seriously. If that is off your George Foreman Grill, it is just rude, cruel and unusual not to share. I'll bring the ketchup?

That's all I've got. Sorry you waited a whole week for this one, but the brain's a bit mushy these days. And not just from the aforementioned work, turkey and wine.

Ok. Maybe the wine.

Oh, and Turkey & Stuffing

In honor of this week's holiday, here is my Long Story Short list of things/people that I'm thankful for this year. Don't judge me for being shallow some of the time; a girl's gotta get by.

Giving Thanks

• My family. Which, this year, includes a new addition. A very tall, extraordinarily kind, gentle yet hilarious addition. I am grateful for my parents, my sister, her new husband, my grandma, my aunts, my uncles, my (many) cousins and my cousins' children. It's a big, wild, disparate yet connected family and I'm gonna claim it forever. I have no real choice in that matter, do I?


• College Football. Despite the pitiful season that the Georgia Bulldogs have endured, and the sad loss of Uga VII, I will remain forever grateful for what college football has brought to my life, and subsequently, my Saturdays.


• Work. Unlike many, I love what I do and am thankful that there are people who a) employ me this holiday season (unlike the dreaded season of 2002 and 2008) and b) that continue to inspire me, challenge my thinking, teach me new things and provide me with a medicine cabinet full of great (free) skin and haircare products. I also have to give thanks for my smart, interesting, fun, kind and accessible clients—without whom this Account Supervisor would have little to do.


• Confidence. It's a big notion, and one that has been tested this year both on a personal and professional level. Being dumped, and the 'new man' at work has forced me to re-evaluate, and therefore, be proud of, who I am. I am smart enough, I am pretty enough, and gosh darnit, people like me. Oh, and I have new hair, in case you missed it. I'm still working on the "who has more fun: blondes or brunettes" theory. Stay tuned.


• Wine. Let's be honest. Half of the aforementioned confidence is initially derived from the grape. And, frankly, the ability to enjoy family, college football and work has been drenched in the stuff. Weekends are good. Gotta give thanks where thanks are due.


• Weddings. With cousins, friends and my sister celebrating their marriages this year, it has been a great excuse to attend fun bachelorette parties, travel on the weekends, buy new cocktail dresses, put on high heels, write mushy toasts, buy luxurious presents, laugh really hard, dance with random people, take fun photo-booth candids, meet lovely parents-of-the-groom/bride, ask out a guy, converse with new people, network for future job opportunities, take amazing photos and post them to the internet, and laugh about it all the following Monday. Who's up for a 2010 union?


• Facebook. Without it, I'm not sure my friends would be able to fill their days. Or, their gossip quota. But, it's all in good fun, and we all can acknowledge the use/strategy/stalking that is made possible by the site. I'm guilty, and am not ashamed. I do, however, believe firmly that no one cares to see your status get updated 38 times a day, because, let's face it. No one cares what you ate for lunch.


• Prayer. As with any year, this one has been replete with blessings and shortfalls, and I've turned to prayer at many a time to counter the good, the bad, or the uncertain. I'm hoping that some of my prayers will get answered, and that some will not. Either way, it's clear that I'm not in charge, and I'm just fine with that.


• This Blog. If you've never had the urge to write a letter/diary entry/email just venting out or expressing yourself, than you won't understand my need to be thankful for this site; however, I'm guessing, if you're still reading, then you at least can identify with the basic reward that can be found in creative writing. Or, at times, not so creative writing. Either way, it feels good, and I'm thankful for you readers that stick with me, talk to me, encourage me, plod me along, and remind me I'm not alone.


• A Tame Fall. I'm pretty sure this will jinx it, but Chicago has seen a remarkably snow-free season thus far, and I'm not complaining. Though I do have some cute snow boots...


• True Friends. At the risk of sounding trite, the friends I have made, kept, selected, met and hung on to throughout the years are the family I've chosen. And for that I, and my social calendar, are truly thankful. Who else would I talk to on Facebook? Or watch college football with? Or pray for? Or laugh about work with? Or write about here? Or ease my pains, drink through the hard times, celebrate the good ones, cherish the sunny days and dread the snow with? Point taken.


• Another Year. Since nothing is a given, I'll send out to the universe a public thanks for yet another year as a part of this crazy ride. My health is good, my outlook is better and the future is looking up. No complaints here.

So, as you can see, I have much for which, and whom, to be thankful.

And that includes you.

I wish you and your families a wonderful Thanksgiving, and safe travels where you may go. At least O'Hare won't be delayed this year! (Risking another jinx there, aren't I?)

Kind regards and many thanks,

Colleen

No Guarantee

Benjamin Franklin is known for having once said, "In this world, nothing is certain but death and taxes."

Some of you can only recall a gorgeous, Devilish Brad Pitt uttering that phrase at the conclusion of the painfully slow movie "Meet Joe Black." But trust me, the grey-haired Constitutionalist said it first. (Don't hate me for the gratuitous photo above...he's better looking than Mr. Franklin any day.)

I have been thinking about that notion lately—that nothing is certain, that nothing is guaranteed.

For example, we assume, as growing women, that getting pregnant when we're ready is a guarantee. That it will happen, when we're prepared, and on our terms. Lately, I have experienced a friend who painfully, and patiently, has faced that uncertainty with grace and optimism as she and her husband have entered into the not-so-certain world of infertility treatments and blood tests and hormone shots and implantation. All with the hope against hope that they, like so many, can be assured of a result that goes against all uncertainty in life.

There's no guarantee.

Similarly, a family circumstance has occurred where we all put trust and faith in the judicial system under which we're protected, and hoped, against hope, that there would be a certain outcome. That the evidence, or the partiality of the judge, would reign and the result would be what is logical, rational and, well, guaranteed.

There's no guarantee.

Likewise, I've been faced recently with my own realization that in my own personal search for lifelong love, and therein a future marriage, would come to fruition in due course. The cold, hard and painful truth is that we're not sure. No one can promise that the outcome will result in lifelong happiness—even if one does find what they deem to be lifelong love, a partner forever. People can change, or not, and the life you'd envisioned may not turn out the way you planned. Or, conversely, the life you'd planned may never come to be. And you have to find a way to be satisfied by the life that is—the one that you are currently living. You may actually never find that type of love; it may just not be in the cards for you.

There's no guarantee.

And, quite frankly, maybe that's the hardest part.

If someone told the hopeful couple, trying to conceive a child, that it wasn't going to happen for them naturally, ever, they'd feel more resolute, more comfortable with that fact. I believe that the lack of knowing the outcome, in this case especially, is the most difficult fact to swallow. Those same two people, who wanted so badly to be parents, to conceive and give birth to a child of their own genetic strands and through the natural and most functional of ways, may in fact come to the more restful conclusion if they were just told up front that it wasn't going to happen. I believe, through my conversations with such people, that it is the uncertainty that is the most unsettling.

If it was clear, up front, that the law was the law, and that there was no way to undo that, no matter what efforts you made to the contrary to prove that the proper course of action would be something different, you may be better able to accept that course. To understand that it was meant to be, for good reason, would be easier to identify with, and therefore, would set your mind to rest.

If you knew, upon your wedding day, that the marriage had an expiration date, and that you were going to have a great life for thirty years, but that eventually things would dissolve and unravel, it may be easier to accept when that finally comes to be. And, if it was clear, at a certain age, that you were destined to live alone, and that you best find a way to be satisfied with that, it may not be as difficult to manage each day just not knowing. In a more positive approach, if someone pulled you aside, at a crucial point in your life's search for a partner, that it would happen someday—guaranteed—and that you were charged with just enjoying the station you were in at the time, for now, I'm certain that that level of certainty would grant you a peace inside.

Clearly, I'm wrestling with my own level of uncertainty. And unwillingness to give in to that—I just wish there was a guarantee. Obviously, I want to find that special someone with whom I'm going to spend my life, and I am unhappy with the unknowing that accompanies the process. Evidently, I'm searching for something, and feel that I'd be more resolute with the present, if someone could just guarantee the future.

I'm pretty sure, however, that Ben Franklin was right. The only guarantee in my future is taxes (made certain by my residence in the city of Chicago) and my ultimate death.

Hopefully, I can count on one sooner than the other.

In the meantime, I can promise that I won't give up hoping, praying, wanting and looking.

That much I can guarantee.

House of Pain

I really believe it when I hear people say that women's threshold for pain is higher than men's. I'm not just talking about the pain of giving birth, even though that certainly is a good argument to have on your side.

No, I'm talking about the typical, every-so-often pain.

I get migraines. Not all that often—maybe once every six weeks or so—and I've gotten so used to the searing pain, the nausea and the sensitivity to light that half the time I can just pop a few Excedrin and go to work. I still hurt, and feel pretty miserable, but I manage.

Then there's the other times, though, that I just have to give in and take an Imitrex. It literally puts me out, though, so it has to be a careful decision to take one. I have to then go back to sleep for a few hours, or just commit to lie down in a dark room for a bit. My doctor mentioned that they were "hard on the heart," so I go easy on 'em. Oh, and they're about $9 a pill, so I don't go randomly popping them.

And, frankly, there's the cramps. I won't go into detail since I know I have a lot of loyal and faithful (though quiet!) male readers, but seriously? Is that necessary? To squeeze and ache and sear like that? ON A REGULAR BASIS? I'm not kidding. Some days I just want to call it and go back to bed. Before I've even left the bed. I keep a heating pad stored under my bed, just like Mandi did in college, so it is always at the ready.

That was probably still more detail than most men want. But at least I didn't mention that it feels like your insides are being tightened by a vice grip, or that you're seeing blue stars swirling around your head, so I'm all good.

This time, though, it is a pain in my neck. Quite literally.

I got a pretty severe head cold about two weeks ago, and true to form, I denied going to the doctor and just stuck to the Gatorade, Orange Juice, Zycam, Vitamins, Soup and Sleep prescription. My mom always told me that a cold lasts a week if you treat it, and seven days if you don't.

She's my mom, and she's usually right. So, I believe her.

But this time, the cold mysteriously came along with a freebie pain. In my neck. I woke up one morning and thought I'd just slept funny. You know the kind, the 'ole crick in the neck.

Apparently it is more than that. I either pinched a nerve or strained a muscle (coughing?!) or wrenched something out of whack (was I ever IN whack?) and now it still hurts, more than 10 days later.

I know. Go. To. The. Doctor.

But after the spring's whole wrist debacle, I'm hesitant. And I'm still paying off that stupid MRI. That proved nothing. And solved nothing.

So, for now I self medicate. Not to the extent of Michael Jackson, mind you, but the safe Colleen way. I have been taking Excedrin during the day (once) and one Tylenol PM at night before bed. If I've had wine, I don't do the PM route because I am too scared of becoming a headline.

But I have to admit. It still is a pain in the neck.

I feel like one of those blinking red lightning bolts from pharmaceutical ads is poking me right in the head.

However, true to my opening argument, I just keep on trucking, like nothing is wrong. And then I turn my head suddenly, or lay down on my side on the couch facing the TV, and realize how MUCH it aches. Maybe that whole theory about women's threshold for pain is not so good because it just means we deny and ignore and avoid dealing with it?

So, here's your chance. Everyone likes to give advice, especially of the medical nature. What do you think is going on? It hurts down the right side, on the muscle/tendon (??) that runs from under my hair down to my shoulder. And sometimes it is dull, and sometimes it is sharp.

I know. Don't say it.

I should just...

...I don't know, look it up on WebMD?

It's a Gift

I am a shopper. Guilty as charged.

I like a good sale. I enjoy browsing solo, fingering all of the fabrics, trying on clothes, imagining all the places I'd wear them. I love jewelry and shoes and purses and coats. I enjoy the feeling of bringing home bags full of bargains, pulling them all out and laying them on the bed. I immediately hang up new items, taking pleasure in how they'll look when paired with old pieces.

However, this time of year, the shopping turns outward.

Not that I don't give gifts throughout the months, but this season I really do enjoy thinking not of myself, but of what those in my life want, and wouldn't buy for themselves. There's nothing quite like the feeling of knowing you've selected just the right gift, and watching that person open it with glee. I get a certain sparkle in my eye as I witness someone enjoying the present that was selected just for them.

I think it is funny how when someone is opening your gift, you get all nervous. People tend to get a little apologetic, even before you've gotten it out of the tissue paper. Have you noticed that? You know, "well, I just thought you may like it, but if you don't, there's a receipt inside and you can take it back, no hard feelings, I promise." They hardly breathe, and it is one giant run-on sentence.

The truth is, just having someone go to all that trouble is enough. It is flattering to think that they took the time to choose, buy, and gift wrap something with you in mind.

At our unwrapping ceremony, which we've somehow managed to make last about four hours, complete with mimosas and a breakfast casserole break, my Dad undoubtedly sticks a bow to his head, with a totally straight face. Last year, George's first Christmas with our family, when he put a bow on his head, I knew he was the one for my sister.

One of my favorite parts of the holiday shopping season is all of the secrets. The projects, mentally plotted and meticulously crafted, all designed to fit that certain person's character. The gifts, thought-out, budgeted for, and purchased with just one person in mind. The boxes, stuffed full and gift wrapped carefully (though it's not my greatest skill) with names attached for Christmas morning.

I keep a list each year, in this flimsy little notebook, of each person on my Christmas list, and what I have bought for them. It's a tally, of sorts, to make sure everything is kept fairly even (and to make sure that my Dad doesn't get pajama pants every year). I tend to spoil my family, as I just go overboard in finding lovely things that I just know they'll adore.

This year, which will come as no surprise, we've all committed to "take it easy" and "pare down" and "go light" on the gift giving. My family has hosted a wedding, and several trips, quite a few parties and showers and 30th birthday parties and other festivities, so we're all tightening our wallets.

Or so we say.

It can't be helped, really. It's not about the money for me. I just love giving gifts.

My family has never been one to draw names, or just give one present per person. Our tree, quite frankly, on Christmas morning, looks like something that belongs in a mall. With a fake Santa seated on a plush club chair nearby. See?

That doesn't really even do it justice. What you can't see, off to the left, is the 50 other gifts hiding under the base of the tree. The poor nutcrackers and reindeer that decorate the base of the steps in the foyer are just about drowning in there.

I can't wait.

Let the projects, secrets, sales and list-making begin.

I'm in the spirit.

Murphy's Law

It has finally happened.

I've lived here in Chicago for over nine years.

I've been a registered voter for 14 years.

I've had a driver's license in the state of Illinois since September of 2000.

And, now, my time has come.

I have jury duty today.

At the Criminal Court. On the Southside of Chicago. Right next door to the Cook County Jail.

I'm a little nervous.

Should I mention that my aunt worked in the police department in New Jersey for her entire career? Talk about how I feel about punishment and retribution and justice? Keep quiet, and hope they don't notice me? Play by the rules because I'm not likely to be chosen that way?

No idea.

I just know that, without a doubt, this would happen one month after I've sold my car. My only means of transportation that didn't require two buses, a train and a 3-block walk through a totally unsafe neighborhood. When the sun is now setting at 4:30 pm.

Of course. Murphy's got a sense of humor, that one.

Don't worry. I'm borrowing my friend's car. Thank goodness.

I just hope I return it with all four hubcaps.

It All Depends

People always talk about love as "unconditional."

Turns out, there's nothing unconditional about it.

Even the love shared between family members has conditions put on it. With long-term friendships, there are rules to the game. Boundaries you must respect, actions you have to take, protocol you must follow, lines in the sand you must draw.

People will hurt you. They will pull away. Friends need time to heal and figure out their own issues. Family will say things that they don't mean. Loved ones will act as if they are less than that, loved ones.

The conditions of the love are there, whether or not we're willing to acknowledge them.

You have to call every so often, so the friend knows that they're in your thoughts. You have to say the right thing, so the person knows how you feel. You have to be honest with yourself, to own you role in the disaster that has become normal. You have to respect the facts that face you, even if they tell you that everything you know is based on misconceptions. You have to try, put forth the effort, to go the extra mile, to answer the phone, to reach out. To give.

There's nothing unconditional about love.

Like anything else worth having in life, it comes fraught with conditions.

If only there was a manual for this game.

She Was There

She was there to tuck me in at night, reading me a story over and over.

She was there to pluck me out of the closet when I was having nightmares.

She was there to put bread bags over my tennis shoes, when Atlanta got a rare snowstorm.

She was there to make my lunches, while I ate breakfast before school.

She was there to dye the macaroni green on St. Patrick's Day, just for giggles.

She was there to drive us to Six Flags over and over one summer, so we girls could hang out all day.

She was there to take us to the mall on Saturday, to put up with our wanting and wishing.

She was there to teach us how to walk with confidence, even with a shopping cart.

She was there to coach basketball, or softball, or tennis, whatever we were playing that season.

She was there to help me pick out just the right outfit, so that she could take our photo on the first day of school.

She was there to make sure we were doing our homework, propped on our bed with a lapdesk firmly in place.

She was there to decorate my room, resplendent in Pepto-Bismol pink, because that was how I wanted it.

She was there to repair the hole in the wall after I'd slammed the door open one too many times.

She was there to let me put posters and clippings from Teen Beat and Tiger Beat and Seventeen magazine on my walls.

She was there to tell me that one day, I would grow into my height, if you know what I mean.

She was there to teach me right from wrong, but give me enough room to figure it out myself.

She was there to listen while I cried from a heartbreak, without saying that it was just puppy love.

She was there to teach me how to drive, reminding me to look in the mirrors at more than my lip gloss.

She was there to answer my questions about sex and love, even when it made her blush ever so slightly.

She was there to laugh at my jokes and put up with my stories, despite the fact that I'd lost track of the point.

She was there to witness my graduations, ceremonies and awards shows, to tell me she was proud.

She was there to cheer from the sidelines, and drive me home from the far away basketball games on Friday nights.

She was there to cry with me over romantic comedies, and Christmas commercials, in the dark of the living room.

She was there to drive me to college, setting up my dorm room and leaving me to grow up on my own.

She was there to give me the space freshman year, because she'd read a book that advised parents to do that.

She was there to support me, to teach me, to let me make my mistakes as I should.

She was there to move me into my first apartment, and my second, and my third, and my fourth...without looking back.

She was there to say goodbye, as I left my hometown for a bigger, brighter future in a new city.

She was there to listen while I sobbed after getting laid off, being dumped, or just plain hurting.

She was there to spackle, paint, refinish, tile, reorganize, decorate my new condo, even when nothing seemed right.

She was there to calm my nerves, ease my worries, comfort my doubts, just when I needed her.

She was there to remind me that being smart was more important than being pretty, that being confident was more valuable than being right.

She was there to urge me to be myself, to love me no matter what and to always answer the phone when I call.

She was there.

And, today is her birthday, and I have nothing, not enough money, not enough time, to tell her properly how much she has meant to me.

Because, like mothers should be, she has always been there.

Our relationship has ebbed, flowed and changed, and I am so thankful that we've arrived at this new place. Where we're friends, equals, partners, peers, and family.

Today, on her birthday, I celebrate my Mom. I know that I inherited a lot from her—on the outside, yes, but more importantly, on the inside where it really counts.

I love you, Mom. On your birthday, and always.

Thank you for being there.

A Bit Like the Hokey Pokey

Everyone knows what people say. That change is good. It makes life interesting. Keeps us guessing.

It was a Friday night, in June of 2000. I was at a wedding in St. Louis. My cousin Mike was getting married, and it was a fun O'Brien party—lots of laughs, dancing and, yes, wine.

After my second glass, I leaned over to Molly, my cousin who was a year behind me in school and had just graduated from KU, and asked her what she was planning to do now.

With a huge grin, she announced that she was moving to Chicago in August and couldn't wait to get to the big city. She'd been to Chicago many times before, and loved the energy and the opportunities there.

I sat quietly, and then, somewhat jokingly said, "Can I come?"

She thought I meant for a visit.

I meant to live there, too.

Laughing it off, as one would do to someone who'd made such a wild request, she said, "Of course!"

She was moving here to live with her high school friend Shannon and her college friend Jill. They were going to find an apartment, find jobs and find out who they really were, post-graduation.

At the time, I was working in Atlanta, had an apartment in Buckhead with two girls from college, and had a pretty good life. Tons of friends, a great social calendar, and the sort of familiar routine that comes with living in the city where you'd grown up. I knew that Trivia was on Tuesdays, where we'd be on Friday nights, that Athens for the Saturday games was just an hour away.

I was comfortable with my choices, but somehow just felt bored. Unfulfilled. Strangely, and unknowingly, dissatisfied that I'd done the expected. Moved to Atlanta after college. Ran with the same crowd, did the same activities and talked about the same things as everyone else whom I'd known for most of my life.

I was itching for a change.

Taking a long, slow sip of my wine, I leaned back over to Molly, and shouted over the band's lead singer, "No, I'm serious. What if I moved there with you?"

She looked at me like I was crazy. At first. Then a slow smile spread across her face. And, she told me to get another glass of wine. She didn't believe I was serious.

A few glasses later, I was that much more positive that a move from Atlanta was just what I needed to shake things up. By the following morning, the idea had done more than just plant a seed in my head—it had blossomed into a whole tree of possibility.

I asked her again what her plans were. Desperate for a few more specifics. She laughed—was I really serious? I'd never even been to Chicago.

By Sunday evening, when I was on the plane home with my parents and sister, I said to them, casually but loaded with meaning, "What would you guys say if I said I wanted to move to Chicago with Molly?"

They looked at me like I was crazy, or joking, and then realized I was dead serious. They said, almost together, that they'd support my decision. If I were serious.

Which, clearly I was. On Monday at work, I Googled Chicago. Perused through the images of the city, the parks, the lake, the surrounding areas. Checked it out on a map. Read reviews of the city, and checked out the comparisons to Atlanta—cost of living, demographics, population, etc.

When my phone rang later that day, and it was Molly, she asked me a pretty big question. She said, "On Wednesday, my Mom, Shannon and I are driving up to Chicago to look at apartments. Are we looking for a three bedroom or a four bedroom??"

I sat, covering the receiver with my hand, at my desk at work and answered the question that would change the course of the next decade, and likely the rest, of my life.

"A four bedroom. I'm in."

They called me from Chicago on Wednesday and told me about the apartments they'd seen. One especially great one on Clark Street in a place called Lincoln Park. It had four bedrooms, two bathrooms, a huge deck, a large overhead skylight and great views of the street down below. And, four guys living next door.

With my approval, and that of Jill's, who was home in Minnesota, they got a copy of the lease and read me the details over the phone. By Friday, I signed my portion of the lease and faxed it in to the management company. I'd been to the bank, gotten a certified check for the deposit, and it was a done deal. I bought a city book on Chicago, earmarked the pages, places and things I wanted to see, and began to search for jobs in my future town.

Seven days that completely changed my life.

My lease wasn't up in Atlanta until September, so I knew I had a few months to ride it out. Over the course of the next 60-75 days, I sold my car, gave notice at work and hired/trained my replacement, bought a new winter coat, applied for jobs, updated my resume and began packing up my life.

My friends held a great going-away party for me, and I cried as I said my goodbyes to those that I'd known for months, years and most of my life. As the taxi pulled away from the party, I didn't question my decision, but silently prayed I'd be happy. I cried all the way home.

When I landed in Chicago for a short "interview/get acquainted visit," I immediately loved the city. So much life! Energy! So many people! High-rises! Such a gorgeous lake, park, Navy Pier! As the cab rounded the curve at Oak Street Beach, I knew that I'd made the right decision.

I was 23, almost 24, and I just knew.

This change would do me good.

Nine+ years later, I have to admit. That decision paid off. Four jobs, three apartments, loads of old and new friends, many loves gained and lost, and lots of memories later, I am still here. I thought two years would be enough to "get it out of my system" but that's just it.

This change, this move to Chicago, was probably just what my system needed.

Apparently I don't do things halfway.

A bit like the Hokey Pokey, either I'm in or I'm out.

And, this time, the change was a little less overwhelming, and yet dramatic all the same.

Last weekend, I dyed my hair. DARK. I've always been the tall blonde. My hair, while gradually going darker over the years, has always been blonde. My eyebrows have always been darker than my hair (that's the O'Brien thing, I got it from my mom's side) and my stylist has been trying to convince me to do it for years.

So, I did.

And, you can see the proof of the process below.











I still give myself a bit of a start every time I look in the mirror, and I haven't recognized my reflection as I walked past a window just yet, but I think it's growing on me.

Change is good. It keeps thing interesting. And, if that last picture is any indication, I will grow to like the spunky new brunette me. Until I get used to it, I'll just fake it.

That's what I did in Chicago—while I loved it right away, I didn't feel like I fit in right away. It took time to get comfortable. I didn't call it home immediately, and now I can't imagine living anywhere else.

I guess that's what change is. A risk, a gamble and a giant step forward into the unknown.

With a bit of an attitude to boot.

Right?

Healing Words

I can't bring myself to write a funny, clever or silly post today. I just can't do it.

Just when you think you have it bad, life throws a curveball into the mix. I don't want to imply that God does it to remind us that things are good, and that we are blessed, but I will say that when times are good, and I have the inability to see it, I find that something reminds me of how lucky I am.

To those of you in my family that are struggling and are dealing with something grave, huge, insurmountable and painful, please know that I am praying for you and am asking for you to be granted strength, comfort, patience and love at this time. Surround yourself with those that love you—it is the only thing to do at this time.

For those that read my blog regularly, but with whom I'm not personally acquainted, I ask that you read this, and instead of focusing on the "whats" and the "whys" of what's going on in my life, and to which I refer, I hope that you'll focus on the people that surround you and the things that make you happy, rather.

Hug your children. Smile at your significant other. Love your parents. Acknowledge your blessings.

That's what I'm doing, and I am finding small comfort in knowing that this too shall pass.

Babies are born each day—new lives brought into this world with a clear conscience, an unblemished heart and a loving disposition. That alone should make us all feel good. (Unless you're Mandi, and the sweet little one just refuses to come out!)

Since I am not a poet, and often cannot find the right thing to say, I turn to Maya Angelou, the giver of great words of wisdom and comfort.

To one that hurts, by no doing of her own, I offer this:

an excerpt from Still I Rise
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.


To one that mourns, and knows not how to heal, I offer this:

an excerpt from Touched by an Angel
We, unaccustomed to courage
exiles from delight
live coiled in shells of loneliness
until love leaves its high holy temple
and comes into our sight
to liberate us into life.
...We are weaned from our timidity
In the flush of love's light
we dare be brave
And suddenly we see
that love costs all we are
and will ever be.
Yet it is only love
which sets us free.


To one fears what's coming, and knows not how to recover, I offer this:

an excerpt from Alone
Now if you listen closely
I'll tell you what I know
Storm clouds are gathering
The wind is gonna blow
The race of man is suffering
And I can hear the moan,
'Cause nobody,
But nobody
Can make it out here alone.

I find comfort in the beautifully crafted words of Maya Angelou, and I hope that those in my life who hurt will too.

I love you all and will continue to pray for your healing.

Billboard Bears

In light of the excellent time of year we're currently enjoying...

WHAT? You don't like Fall?

Fall gives us so many great things. Leaves changing, brisk temperatures, caramel apples, new coats, hot cider, pumpkin patches, leather gloves, Halloween parties, apple and cinnamon candles, the MLB playoffs, tall boots, hay rides, chilly nights for sleeping, down comforters, cute scarves, back-to-school sales, Charlie Brown, candy corn, holiday planning and...

Football.

Whether you're more of a rowdy and loyal college football fan or a spirited and brave NFL fan, this time of year is rich with opportunity. Gridiron is upon us, people, and the getting is good.

Speaking of, I saw the best billboard I've seen in a while. That says a lot coming from a girl with an advertising degree and a paycheck from one of the world's largest agencies.

It was on my bus shelter, rotating in and out for the last few weeks. Featuring two of the Chicago Bears players, it said, "If you're not a fan, you're a tourist."

Clever. Witty. To the point.

There. Sometimes, the long story IS short.

Spit it Out

People, we have a situation.

It's dire.

It's critical.

It's ridiculous.

I have been briefed of said situation by a secret, covert informant and specially trained operative that chooses to keep his/her identity anonymous.

Ok.

It is my mother.

She mentioned to me, in casual passing, that there is a grave uncertainty out there.

A frightening misunderstanding taking place.

It is a frank, misguided perception that I must address.

So, here goes.

You don't have to have anything funny, clever, insightful, interesting to say if you'd like to make a comment on a blog post.

And, you don't even have to say much of anything to have made a difference.

There. I've said it. It's out there.

The dossier on the situation illuminated the gravity, the enormity, of the falsehood to which my readers have fallen prey. There is a painful, inappropriate, extraordinary pressure to say something witty in the comment box. To share your personal identity with the Internet. To willingly, to knowingly, reveal your innermost thoughts and feelings to those out there that you can't see.

I assure you.

That is not true.

A comment on a blog post can be as short, insignificant, or silly as, "Hi. Bye. -Jane Doe"

Or, "You're funny." Or, "You're not funny." Or, "You're right." Or, "You're wrong."

Or even, "You're my niece." Or, "You're my tennis partner's daughter." Or, "You're my high school classmate's eldest."

Why does it have to be all about me?

Turn that little comment on a dime. Tell me about you! I'd love to hear it.

And, come on. If you're being honest, you want to talk about yourself! Go on! Do it!

I dare you.

It's freeing, I tell you.

AND. The catch is, you don't even have to sign your name.

I know! Right?

So easy.

Here's a little Commenting 101 lesson for you.

Free of charge.

I know. Too kind.

First, you click here below the post where you see this (shown here in Exhibit A as "2 comments" in that red hyperlink. A hyperlink is a lesson for another day, but really it means it is words that actually DO something. Take you somewhere. I know. Contain your excitement. Anyway, click on the "X comments" link that looks like this:


Then, you get a new window, where this will be off to the right of the existing blog comments (those brave souls who have gone before you).


That's where you can:

• Say hello. I even gave you a few entry lines above.


• Criticize, disagree with or just plain be mean to me.*


• Chime in on what you've just read.


• Challenge me in a debate, an argument, a discussion or a duel.


• Wax poetically about your current passion, your lifelong dreams, or the one that got away.


• Get off your chest that one big secret that you've been carrying. Yes, that one.


• Share with the world that THING that you've been dying to say, but are too shy to shout at work.


• Justify your existence. Make a name for yourself!


• Or just drop your name, so I know you've been there. It's like the guest book at a huge wedding.

See? Lots of choices.

*That last part, while welcome due to the First Amendment, isn't ideal. It hurts my feelings if you're rude. Especially if you do so anonymously. Have a little backbone! Step up to it, and own your feelings Anonymous! And, frankly, I'm pretty aware I'm not always funny. Or witty. Or trying to be a New York Times columnist or a novelist or even a real professional writer. I'm just writing a blog. Which equates to an online, public diary of sorts. So there's no need to get feisty or mean or anything. But, I can accept it if your comment needs to argue with me, disagree with my thoughts or dissuade public opinion. I welcome the opportunity to start a real debate, here. It may even force me to step up my game.

Ok. After you've typed in your deepest desires, or your latest thought, you'll see this:


And that's where the computer asks you to type in the funky, twisted, auto-generated letters that appear in a random, non-Webster's Dictionary way to prove you're a human being. If you're a dog, and you've made it this far in the process, more power to you.

Then, you'll see this below it:


And that's where you get to OWN your thought. It's powerful. It's like the proverbial soapbox on the campus quad. Step right up, shout it out, and own it. Leave your calling card. Ask for questions. You know you want to. Choose your identity? How empowering is that?!?

The computer will allow you to enter your comment Anonymously (it's the one that is marked Anonymous, so cleverly), or with an account that you may have already (do you have a Gmail account? If so, use that!) or don't have but can set up, or don't want to bother with, so you can just leave it under Anonymous and then sign your name (I'm talking to you, Dad). This whole Anonymous thing is so underrated. It's like getting something for nothing! Who doesn't like that? I won't go as far as saying it's like seeing your name in lights, but you get to be a part of cyber-history.

I know. It all sounds so complicated.

This is the easy part. Two buttons. You make WAY harder choices than that just leaving the house in the morning. I hope.

You'll see this:


And, you'll choose one. You can preview, just to self-censor or spellcheck your reply, or you can just throw caution to the wind and pick that crazy, wild orange one on the left that just PUBLISHES your comment.

See?

So freeing.

And now you can't play the whole "I don't know HOW to post a comment on Colleen's blog" card. That excuse is no longer welcome here. The dog may have eaten your homework, and you may have lost the girl's number, or dropped your cell phone in the toilet, but the instructions are here.

I know. The men that read this aren't still reading it because it included instructions.

Sorry, Uncle Terry. It was only a joke! That will only offend you if you're still reading, and if that's the case, I was so wrong about you and all of mankind.

You can do it. If you've made it this far, then I beg you. Urge you. Pleading with you.

Leave a comment.

It'll make me happy.

And it didn't cost you anything but the 1:49 of time that it took you to read this post. Let's be honest, you waited longer than that for the coffee pot to stop brewing before you could pour your coffee this morning. Or the Starbucks barista to hand it to you.

It's your right, privilege and duty. Stand up and be counted!

At the very least. Do it for me.

It's good for my ego. And, then my Mom can consider this Mission Accomplished.

(Deer Lake Tennis Team, Tim's Mom in Wisconsin, Stranger in Van Nuys, O'Brien Siblings, SJA Class of '69, Random People of the World, I'm talking to you! You are valued readers and I'd love to hear what you think.)

Thanks. You've made my day. Don't say I never taught you anything.

The Joy of Airport Bathrooms

Random vent alert:

Why in God's name do the bathroom doors at airports swing inside?

When you're trying to get in there, you struggle to get the door, and your ever-growing hips, inside the toilet stall, without accidentally touching the nasty public toilet?

And the stupid door doesn't open wide, to let you in freely.

Nope. It opens inward. Where there is already a severe lack of square footage.

And of course there is your suitcase. The one that is on wheels, yet still behaves as if it has a mind and an engine all to its own?

(We'll go ahead and let go of the fact that then you have to squat, sway and huddle over the public toilet in the not-so-rare event that the magic "fresh seat cover" doesn't appear despite the African anteater dance you just performed in front of the sensor. And the fact that while you're in there performing Olympic-qualifying squats, the automatic flusher feels the need to flush EVERY THREE SECONDS just because you flinched, or shifted your weight, or breathed out through your nose. While soaking the back of your work pants with sprays of who-knows-what-liquids-and-free-germs while you genuflect ever-so-gracefully in front of its automatic-sensor-from-hell.)**

It is enough to make a grown (classy, sortof) woman cuss out loud.

Seriously. I am just glad no one has yet figured out how to post online the security videos of airport restrooms.

I'm pretty sure the *stuff* that comes out of my mouth is worse than what's left there by some classy person who can't quite grasp that whole flushing escapade.

Sorry. I hope you were finished with your breakfast.

**I'll save the whole "automatic faucet water dispensing" diatribe for a whole 'nother vent. Seinfeld already covered that little piece of American technology quite well. Check out the whole thing, but if you're late for your flight, skip ahead to 1:26. You won't be disappointed. At least not until you get to O'Hare.

Benched (A Vortex Tale)

Day five of Tales of the Vortex week. You thought I had run out of stories?

Ha.

Let's face it: I have CLEARLY had my fair share of horrible dating experiences, and have coined the phrase "The Vortex" to describe a possible explanation for where men go when they stop calling, and fall off the planet, out of nowhere.

Where necessary, due to proximity of time or location, names have been changed to protect the guilty.

Today's tale is, sadly, also coming at you from Chicago.

It wasn't long after things with Tim had come to a close. Summer had come and gone in 2006, and the Fall meant one thing.

College Football.

Now, as many of you know, I'm a huge fan. And, a willing fan for my friends who went to other schools. Namely, my girls and their love of Ohio State football. This particular late-October day, we'd decided to buy tickets to the McGee's party/bus the OSU alumni club used for close road games—it was headed to Champaign-Urbana to the University of Illinois. We met at the bar, decked out in red and winter coats, and had a few starter drinks. Then boarded the luxury bus and claimed our seats somewhere near the middle.

There were four of us girls, and we were hip to mingle. By mid-way down the highway, we had made friends, and engaged in silly conversations, with all the people near us. Namely, for me, a guy that was seated directly behind me. Since this one's a tad more recent, I'll call him Brian.

Brian was not my typical type, physically, but he was cute, tall (enough) and funny. We laughed and shared stories and generally got to know each other, in the strange context of a 3-hour bus ride downstate Illinois. He worked in sports marketing, and I'd done that in my pre-Chicago life, so we bonded quickly.

Brian was with a buddy, too, and the lot of us bounded off the bus to tailgate with others. Things were perfect, save for the ridiculously chilly Fall air. Puffy coats abound. And no one really looks all that cute and glamorous in a puffy coat, let's be honest.

The day was fantastic, and we all boarded the bus home in a crazy delirium, right as the rain/ice/snow started to fall. The bus left us at the bar, after the return 3-hour trip, and we all parted ways. The next day, Brian called. We had dinner, then another date, and quickly we were seeing each other quite a bit.

He was sweet—almost too nice. But, having been burned (you've been reading this week, right?!?) a few times, I was game to be treated kindly. And, I was a tiny bit more wary to meet "the parents" too soon. That was not a good move last time, so we kept things light.

After about three weeks of pretty constant dating, talking, phone calls and long conversations, he asked me if I was his "girlfriend." Putting it in writing makes it sound cheesy—but at the time it was pretty cute and rather reassuring. I am pretty sure I made some wise-crack about wearing his letter jacket. He laughed, and nodded. He felt it too! We had a great connection (now I feel like I'm on "The Bachelor") and it was going well.

My friends liked him, and of course extended the invitation for him to attend my surprise party that was being held for my 30th birthday the first weekend in December (a good 4 weeks before my actual birthday, to throw me off the scent).

He, unfortunately, was traveling with his job (sports team) and couldn't attend the party Friday night, but promised me he'd be there for part two on Saturday night. He came, and my friends (from Atlanta and Chicago) loved him. I was beaming. That may have been the fresh tequila shot and the glow of singing "Every Rose Has its Thorn" in front of 1,000 people with a live band, but who knows.

Yes. I did. No. You can't see the video.

Moving on.

All was good. Easy, even. I was happy. Christmas was coming up, and we were all feeling festive. My friends Jill and Josh were hosting a dinner party on Tuesday night, to get rid of all of the excess food from the party (due to the enormous snowstorm that kept 13 people trapped in various airports nationwide and NOT at our party eating it).

Brian lived on the way, so I picked him up. He'd met Jill and Josh, so I thought this night would be a snap. We walked in, and settled into the cozy living room and poured some wine. The chatter was friendly and light, and then a few more folks came in. A couple. Then another couple. Then a married couple. Then a married couple with a new baby in tow.

I didn't realize it, because frankly, we're getting older and that's what people do (couple off). But, quickly (and again, unnoticed by me) the party was all couples. One guy, being funny, started joking about marriage. He and his wife have a great relationship, but they've been married a long time (like 15 years?) so he had lots of material. We laughed.

Then the baby started to wake up (she was only 2 weeks old) so we passed her around and oohed and aahed and cuddled her.

Dinner was served, and it was delicious (Josh is a great cook!) and the night was delightful. Until, unbeknownst to me, things went badly for Brian. In his head.

We said our goodbyes, and left to face the bitter cold and walk back to my car. He was uncharacteristically quiet. I figured he was tired, as it was only Tuesday.

He traveled the following day, and for a few days in a row, including some of the weekend (sports doesn't work M-F, 9-5), and we talked occasionally. Lighter than normal, though.

When he returned, he didn't make moves to see me again. I didn't want to push him since I knew that his work schedule at that time of year was a killer. He let another full week go by, with only an occasional IM or text message. No calls.

Certainly, I'd grown aware of it, and now realized something must've happened. I didn't trace it back to the party, not at first.

It had been about 10 days since then, and we still hadn't gotten together. And this was after seeing one another 4-5 days a week since for the past two months.

I asked him what was up. He denied anything was up.

Later, I asked if he was ok. He said he was ok.

Finally, I put it out there. We were on Instant Messenger for crying out loud.

I said, "Did I miss something?"

He paused. Long pause. On IM it is more like you sit waiting, staring at an empty box, while the taunting little cursor is waiting. It didn't even say, "So-and-so is typing" like it does if there's a long response coming your way.

Nada.

He said he'd call later. Well, ok. That's more like it. Let's be adult about it.

He didn't call that night, or the next. Or the next three. Finally, about a week later, I heard from him. It was almost Christmas, and I had pretty much given up on the fact that I'd be hearing from him at all.

Still, I was baffled. Another VORTEX in the same calendar year?

He finally called, and all he could say was, "I just don't think we want the same things." I know now, in all my infinite wisdom, that that is a cop-out. It means, I don't like you enough to see myself WITH those things with you.

I stuttered out something, and then realized I wanted more of an explanation than that. Give me something to hold on to, buddy.

He reluctantly told me that the party was too much for him.

What? That little 10-person gathering on a TUESDAY NIGHT was too much for you?

Well then. You'd never survive O'Brien Christmas. That's settled.

Apparently it was "too obvious to him" that because "all of my friends are married with kids" that he wasn't ready for that. While I SWEAR to you, Internet readers, I had not ever mentioned marriage, kids, joint checking accounts or even meeting his mother, that was his reason.

Because six people on a Tuesday night happened to be happily in relationships and they happened to be in my large circle of friends and they happened to be happy, I was dumped.

He said he'd think about it, and that he'd miss me, and that he'd call me in the New Year.

Yeah. Right. Let's all say it together, now, shall we?

VORTEX.

I wish I could say that I've never seen him again. It would be easier that way. But, I did run into him at a bar that I never frequent on a part of town that neither he nor I live in, but I was protected by my girls and only barely noticed him.

As he was ducking out the door with his head down.

Seriously.

And then another time, last January, when I was on a date at said sporting event, and there he was. But I was on a date, and he was at work. I had that going for me.

We talked, briefly and it was only sortof awkward.

But, seriously.

I was pulled from the game and benched because I had a few friends who wore rings on their left hands.

NOT a slam dunk.

Easter Funny (A Vortex Tale)

Day four of the Tales of the Vortex.

Let's face it: I have had my fair share of horrible dating experiences, and have coined the phrase "The Vortex" to describe a possible explanation for where men go when they stop calling, and fall off the planet, out of nowhere.

Where necessary, due to proximity of time or location, names have been changed to protect the guilty.

Today's tale, as you've come to expect, is live from Chicago, the playing field for so many of my dating stories.

And, this one started on St. Patrick's Day.

How fitting, for an Irish girl living in this town.

At an annual St. Patrick's Day party, hosted by my friend Patrick (no relation), I was gently "nudged" in Tim's direction. I was open to meeting new people, as it had been a dry spell. It was March 2006, and the green beer was aplenty.

Tim and I hit it off. We had similar personalities, a like sense-of-humor, and enjoyed many of the same things. He was a fantastic cook, and I was a mean dishwasher. He worked in a related field, and was a creative and curious mind—leading to many interesting debates about all things creative. And curious.

We talked for hours on the phone, as I was traveling a ton to Montana back then—and was relieved to have a familiar voice on the end of the phone while I wiled the hours away in the Billings Sheraton.

After a three weeks filled with great dates, including dinners, game night out with my friends, and a concert or two, he invited me to accompany him to a wedding, and I was happy to attend. Where else can you see a guy get dressed up, on his 'best behavior' and be forced to dance? Fan-tastic. We looked good, and had a great time.

At the wedding, I met his close guy friend and his wife. I instantly bonded with her, and her input and approval seemed very important to Tim. I enjoyed them immensely.

The wedding reception was being held in a funky cool art gallery on the west side. While we were touring the paintings, tucked away in a private back gallery, he stopped on a dime. Turned around. And asked me what I was doing the following weekend.

It took me a minute. (The wine was lovely, give me a break).

I paused, coyly of course, and said, "Oh, next weekend?" And he replied, "Yes. Easter."

Now, I hate to admit this in the public forum called the Internet, but I don't typically go home to Atlanta to spend Easter with my family. Even though I'm Catholic, and apparently Easter is one of the TWO times most lapsed go to mass, I just don't see fit to spend $300 to go home to attend church in Georgia. Even though my mom's ham is pretty outstanding.

I said, knowing where this was going, "Nothing...why?"

He invited me home to his parents' house for the holiday. In Milwaukee. Where, he promised, his brothers (2) and their wives (2) and kids (2) would be hanging out, drinking beer, eating too much and playing yard sports.

I was in.

When Saturday came, we piled into his car, and headed north. Crossing the border into Wisconsin, I was looking forward to meeting his family. And spending this amount of time with him. His family, truth be told, was charming. His hometown was cute. His brothers were hilarious. Even when they pushed me up against the kitchen wall and whipped out the tape measure to "prove" I was 6' tall.

Seriously. It happened.

Anyway, we had a great afternoon, replete with beers (it was Milwaukee, mind you), cornhole, chasing toddlers, horseshoes, and a sunny (snow-free) April day. We laughed, and his mother was just charmed. I know it. She told me so.

Tim was at home in this environment, and I was honored to have been asked to see it. I liked it. We seemed to fit.

After Saturday dinner, and the drinks that ensued, it was time to adjourn to the sleeping quarters. When getting the "tour," his mother had gestured at the single beds in the basement, with a stack of folded fresh towels on each, and said, "You guys can sleep down here."

Waaaaait a second.

I knew a "Mom test" when I saw one.

Leaving Tim downstairs, and following Mom back up, I said, quietly, "I think I'd prefer to sleep upstairs in the guest room."

She literally smiled so hard I thought she was going to pull a facial muscle.

I laughed, and said, "My Mom raised me right."

That was settled.

Tim wasn't all that thrilled, but he'd survive.

The next morning, I awoke to clanging, showered and dressed and entered the kitchen. Mom was making a "bunny cake." You know, the kind that is complete with tall pointy ears and covered in coconut shavings (fur), jelly beans (eyes, buttons), licorice strings (whiskers) and a variety of colors of icing (bowtie).

AAH! I've made this cake before! I immediately dove in and helped out. Pretty soon I had icing on my elbows, coconut on my shirt and a smile on my face. Needless to say, Mom was happy. We talked (she has three sons, for crying out loud!) and laughed and were like Easter Eggs in a basket by the time Tim woke up.

After Mass, and brunch, we settled in to play their family's annual trivia game, where the questions/answers were divided into Jeopardy-like categories that included Music, Current Events, History and Family. Not long into the game, where Tim and I were partnered as a team, did it occur to me that he'd called for research. He knew too much—my family was included in these! I couldn't believe it.

I revealed where my parents had met (a mixer), what my Mom's favorite car was (Fiat), where they'd gotten engaged (KFC) before it finally hit me.

He'd called my Mom.

I couldn't believe it. She didn't tell on him! He called my Mom!!!

The day ended with a family flag football game in the yard, and a few loving tackles of our own.

On the drive back to the city, I wanted nothing more than to bask in the weekend. To ask him what he thought. To find out what his Mom had told him about me. To see how he was feeling. What he thought of the Easter Lily I'd brought his Mom. To discuss the Easter basket his mother had given me.

I didn't barrage him with questions, but it was clear very soon that he wanted nothing to do with that line of questioning. Or conversation at all for that matter.

It was the quietest 1.5 hour drive ever.

A few days went by, and it became clearer and clearer that something was amok.

We talked once or twice, and then I had to travel and the chats grew more sporadic.

Ultimately, we'd made plans for dinner about 10 days later, and I raced home from work excited to see him.

Our plans were for 6:30 pm.

I waited. And waited. And waited.

VORTEX?

It was now about 8 pm. With visions of ditches and accidents and police officers and ambulances, I finally called him.

Voicemail.

By 8:30, it was clear I'd been stood up. Brenna called and offered for me to join the girls at a bar, and I couldn't help it. I had to get out, or I'd sit on the sofa and cry. Wasting the makeup I'd just re-applied.

In a last ditch effort, I looked at my Blackberry once more.

And there it was.

The breakup email.

Huh? It was as bad as a post-it note, Carrie Bradshaw.

It explained that he couldn't do it anymore, that he knew I was the type of woman he should be with, that he thought I was smart, funny, interesting, great, charming, lovely and beautiful, and that it was clear how much my family liked him, and that may be what scared him the most, and that he knew he shouldn't end it, but he just had to.

And he was sorry.

And, that was it.

I never saw him again. Still haven't, actually.

VORTEX.

To this day, I can't look at an Easter Bunny cake the same way.

Don't feel the need to make me feel better about this one. It hurt, it sucked, I was mad, I got drunk that night, I think he's a small-minded chicken-shit, but I moved on. I'm better off. Just wanted to let you off the hook.