Long Story Short...

Just Another Manic...Month

2009-12-07T19:51:00.009-06:00

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

2009-11-25T07:00:00.003-06:00

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

2009-11-20T21:08:00.003-06:00

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

2009-11-19T06:59:00.002-06:00

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

2009-11-18T07:03:00.001-06:00

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

2009-11-17T06:59:00.001-06:00

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

2009-11-16T07:04:00.003-06:00

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

2009-11-13T20:18:00.012-06:00

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

2009-10-30T14:27:00.014-05:00

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

2009-10-16T20:19:00.003-05:00

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.

Emily Post Does Email

2009-10-15T07:04:00.001-05:00

My team at work had a meeting today to try to improve the general process we employ as we embark on a very busy time at work. We talked about scheduling meetings, general workflow, project management and communication.

Now, I'll have you know that I work on a team that consists of nine women full time. More if you throw in the additional people that we interface with on a regular basis.

That's a lot of estrogen.

It's also a lot of communication. Most of it necessary, and a lot of it is done over email. Which means that we conduct business using a tool that has virtually changed the face of how we work. Literally.

In light of this, compounded by a hilarious conversation I took part of a few weeks ago at a baby shower (that highlighted many of the challenges of this reality), I was spurred to think about it. I have outlined the basic understanding and rules for each element in an email, and I believe that the rest of it will find itself useful and rather self-explanatory.

As with any email sent, received or drafted, please note that it is impossible to discern tone of voice in type, so please know this: I am not taking myself, or this post, all that seriously.

Email Etiquette and Usage—A Starter Course

To:
If your name is here, it means that you and I are having a conversation, and the same general rules apply regarding politeness, grammar, punctuation and chronology. If I'm talking directly to you, it requires some sort of acknowledgement or response. See also, Commonly Misused

Cc:
If your name is here, it means that I'm dragging you down the hall to hear what I am saying to someone in the "To:" category, because you should hear this also and why not kill two birds with one stone. See also, Commonly Misused

Bcc:
If your name is here, it means that I'm stashing you under my desk so you can eavesdrop on this, but no one will know. It's an ideal way to tattle on someone else, include others that may not be fully "part" of the team, or just generally make things more complicated. See also, Caution

Priority Red Exclamation Mark:
If you see this on an email you receive, it means that I'm stomping into your office to make sure I have your full and immediate attention to this issue right this second. Over anything else that you currently have on your plate. See also, Ego Issues

Medium-priority Orange Exclamation Mark:
If you see this on an email you receive, it means that I'm not so confident that you'll think this is high priority, but I'm selfish enough to think it deserves your attention, say, before lunch. See also, Ego Issues

Return Receipt:
If this tactic is employed, it means that I'm a practiced stalker and I want to know at the precise moment that you've read my email so I can begin my next round of stalking to make sure you respond. See also, Crazy

Timestamp:
If you see that the timestamp is bolded, it means that I am bolding the timestamp on this email so that you can see how early/late I was working at the office/home and I get brownie points that will override the nine out of 10 days that I'm late to work in the morning. See also, Kissing Up

Out of Office:
If you see this, then it means that I'm either traveling for work or on vacation. Either way, you're not high on my list of priorities and you may want to be patient. And if I'm sitting on a beach somewhere with a Mai Tai and a good book, I'll see to responding sometime next week. Oh, and here's my assistant's contact information. Maybe she can help. See also, Lucky You

CC'ing Someone that Wasn't included, and Over Your Head:
If you see that I'm doing this, it means that I'm tattling on you and want a written record of it so you get burned later. And there's nothing you can do about it. You clearly weren't capable of solving the problem without my controlling interference. See also, Tattling

Removing Key People Before Replying to "Almost All":
If you see this, it means that I didn't figure all of them wanted to see my response and I know who needs to actually hear and respond to this issue. But hey, I decided that, and it may mean that you have to add them back on because I don't know what I'm talking about and just added more work to your day. See also, Control Freak

Inappropriate Reply All:
If you see this, it means that I believe that my joke/response is so important and/or funny that I wanted to ensure the broadest possible audience before I let it out there; or, I'm totally lazy and don't feel like responding just to the one appropriate person who should be in receipt of my thought. See also, Loudmouth

Fwd:
If you see this, it means that I received a forward that you just have to see and I'm sending it your way and I don't care if you've seen it 496 times from other people, and I haven't figured out yet that the whole "sending on forwards" expired back when AOL was still the top way to access the trusty little Internet. And I sure as heck haven't taken the time (who's got time?) to delete all of the other junk below the actual message, because why is it my problem to spare all of those people the privacy and courtesy of not exposing their email address? See also, Chain Letters

ALL CAPS:
If you see this, it means that I'm yelling, or else my caps lock button is coated in coffee and I can't be bothered to ask it to fix it or replace my keyboard. Either way, it's not pretty. See also, Meltdown

So there. Those seem to be the basics. Anyone else in the class want to submit their own personal thoughts on proper email etiquette?

Feel free to Reply All. In ALL CAPS if you want. Go crazy.

Billboard Bears

2009-10-14T06:59:00.001-05:00

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

2009-10-13T06:58:00.009-05:00

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

2009-10-12T07:03:00.001-05:00

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)

2009-10-09T07:01:00.002-05:00

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)

2009-10-08T07:07:00.002-05:00

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.

Napkin Notes (A Vortex Tale)

2009-10-07T07:43:00.006-05:00

Day three of Tales of the Vortex week. I'll just roll right on, okay?

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 is also a Chicago one. I'm telling you, ladies of the Midway, there are many men out there in our fine city. The ones that haven't gotten sucked into the Vortex, that is.

Shall we begin?

It was a typical Saturday night in late September, about four years ago. Laura and I decided to make the evening not-so-typical, and agreed to go out and actually TALK to other people besides ourselves.

We were (and still are, frankly) notorious for going out with our girls, sitting in a booth and talking only to one another all evening. That's great for girls' night out, and we all need that, don't get me wrong. But if you're two single ladies in the city, you can't expect that the guys are going to be willing to come over, bust into that and make their move.

It's just not fair.

So, we agreed to be more open. Chatty. Approachable.

We sat at the bar at Mystic Celt, a nice Irish bar on Southport where the service is good, the crowd is fun and the music is loud.

After a drink or two, the bartender handed me a cocktail napkin, gestured over her shoulder, and said, "It's from the guy at the end of the bar."

Hmmmm....interesting.

I looked up from the napkin to see a fair-haired, nice-looking, conservatively dressed guy sitting where she motioned. He smiled my way, and then looked down in a hint of embarrassment.

Glancing back at the napkin, I realized he'd written a message on it. Now, I'd love to recall it word-by-word, or even better yet, to still have it saved in my desk drawer for precisely this occasion, but let's be honest. When the story went where the story is bound to go, those napkins went out with yesterday's garbage.

But, for the time being, I'll give you a general sense of the course of the dialogue.

He'd said something cute, charming and witty. Penned it right there on the napkin. I laughed, probably out loud, showed it to Laura, and together we penned something back. Equally witty, of course.

The communication went back and forth like that for a few rounds, with him eventually asking my name, commenting on it being of Irish descent, told me he was a Notre Dame grad and that he'd been raised Catholic (as was I) and to that we made a few joking references. Oh, and his name was Andrew. Why spare him that, right?

At one point, I wrote back, and then passed through the very patient bartender, something about going to checking yes or no. He checked yes. He referenced the awkwardness of grade school dances. He even made the "leave room for the Holy Spirit" joke. I knew of it, but since I'd escaped parochial school, I couldn't exactly relate beyond the movies.

Ultimately, he stopped the paperwork and just came over. Made some charming introduction, was kind enough to include my friend, and kept up the witty banter. We were both pretty charmed at this point.

He asked me for my number, and I obliged. Anyone that went to that much trouble, and through that many cheap bar napkins, was worth a shot.

When the evening ended, and the lights came on, Laura and I said our goodbyes, and he offered to share a cab home (he lived within two blocks of me) and I allowed that. Arriving at my house, he paid the cab driver and got out of the car. I wasn't about to invite him up, so we took a seat on the edge of the fountain that is in my condo's driveway. In full view of the two doorman, in case anything shady was going to go down.

I remember talking about our love of travel, U2, the city, our work (he was an investment banker), our family and our college days long past. I was fairly sure a kiss was coming, and that was fine by me. Right when he leaned in to make his move, he laughingly, deftly, put an arm behind my back and lowered me (quickly, all at once) into the fountain. I was dripping wet, and cracking up. Way to go, buddy. I liked that he felt comfortable enough to joke with me that way. It was good chemistry, all around.

We went out to dinner a few nights later, and all I can recall is that the conversation was perfect. It was as if we'd known one another for years, but at the same time, had so much to learn. Andrew seemed hungry to know more, and I let him in just enough to keep him interested, but not enough to feel like he knew it all.

Can't let a man open ALL the Christmas presents right away, you know.

Three, four, five dates went by, and things were just getting good. We talked occasionally on the phone, but mostly it was sporadic emails, primarily to set up the next date. I was fine with that—we were both busy professionals that didn't have much free time. A few weeks passed, and I realized that he worked insane hours. Not just long days.

Brutal days.

He worked, to close a deal, until 3 and 4 in the morning quite regularly. I wouldn't believe him, except he was good about calling to "say hi" and emailing me at odd hours—always from his work account when I was fast asleep. He didn't break plans, necessarily, but he was definitely working more than we were dating.

I wasn't quite sure when he poor guy was sleeping or eating, frankly.

Then it was this weekend—the Chicago marathon. We watched it together, huddled on my sidewalk in fleece and blue jeans, drinking the hot coffee he'd brought over with bagels, and I felt like we were a couple. It was just easy. He laughed at my stories, and I at his. He told tales of his life, and I of mine. He mentioned future plans and hopes and travels and things he "wanted to show me/experience with me."

Isn't that what any girl longs to hear?

He left that day to go into the office for a bit to wrap up a few things before the week started, saying he'd call later when he was free from work's obligations. We made plans for dinner that coming Wednesday, after work, to try out a new restaurant downtown we'd both read about. I smiled all the way through the laundry to which I likely devoted my time that day.

I never got to try that restaurant. Needless to say, I still haven't been there.

He was never to be heard from again.

VORTEX.

I don't have an explanation for this one. He may be married by now, with kids of his own. I have no idea, and that's okay. He wasn't going to be my future, but for those few great weeks in the Fall of 2005, I was having fun. It was Fall, and I was headed in the right direction.

But really? The hot coffee and bagels and future plans?

I could have done without.

Goodbye Baby Blues (A Vortex Tale)

2009-10-06T08:02:00.007-05:00

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 comes to you from Chicago, the home of many, many Vortex victims.

I met Frank about 6 years ago through a couple friend of mine. My friend said that Frank was known for being smart, kind, funny and extremely conservative. In fact, within 10 minutes, he and I had already compared political notes and had a lively chat. He was charming and flirtatious. He was handsome and older. Just what I needed.

I was smitten.

He asked for my number. I gave it to him with a smile. He called after the required three days. We went to dinner, and had a lovely time. The line of questioning was typical, and he was open, candid and interesting. The conversation was fresh and rewarding. His blue eyes sparkled when he talked.

Dessert came and we felt like it was too soon to call it a night. He had already locked in the second date, so the pressure was off. We laughed, toasted and shared stories of our lives that brought us to Chicago. At one point, he said with a smile, "how are you single?" I laughed off that question, and continued to bask in his company.

On our second date, the pleasant chatter continued. We each opened up more and more, and he interrupted my story with, "where exactly did you come from?" I laughed, knowing he meant more than geography, and said, "Georgia." He smiled, and we both looked away to avoid the clear chemistry that was building. At the end of the evening, the kiss was more than nice.

We went out a few more times, and his 'admiration' seemed to build, as did mine of him. I reveled in the fact that I knew he thought I was classy, interesting and fun. I felt the same about him. Things were looking up!

He traveled a little bit for work, and at the time, I did not, so I didn't realize how hard that really made your social life. He went out of town for a week, and then stayed through the weekend. We emailed a bit while he was gone, and I looked forward to his return to Chicago. He'd asked me for another dinner that week, and I'd happily agreed.

I'm glad I didn't starve myself for that one.

Because I'd still be hungry.

I never heard from him again.

VORTEX.

Until I saw him last year, while entering Soldier Field with my friend Tim on a November Sunday.

We were in a huge crowd, shivering in the snowy cold, and I was pushed gently up against the throng of people in front of me. Tim said something loud and funny, and the guy in front of me, wearing a Bears ski cap, turned around to comment, and Frank and I were face to face, inches apart in a crowd of thousands.

He was holding hands with a little boy whose eyes were the exact same color blue of Frank's.

We both blinked, smiled, and looked away.

That was it. No words were exchanged, but we both knew what was behind that look. Tim inquired who it was, and I shrugged and said, "I don't know him."

It was true.

I linked arms with Tim and walked into the stadium.

A Burp on the Radar (A Vortex Tale)

2009-10-05T07:00:00.002-05:00

I've been promising a week of Tales from the Vortex, and folks, it is time for me to deliver.

I kicked this off last week and I shared this naked story awhile back, and this week, will attempt to fill all five days with posts that describe my best various and sundry dating tales.

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.

This story is an oldie but goodie. It happened when I was a junior in college. I didn't even realize the extent of the horrors of dating. I didn't yet know of the Vortex, and I certainly hadn't experienced it. I'd dated a few guys in college, including my high school boyfriend, and hadn't yet realized that guys would say all kinds of things and then fall into a hole never to be heard from again.

I had a lot to learn.

His name was Matt. I'd been introduced to him by a sorority sister, and I had heard the stories. I knew he was older and had a reputation for dating a lot. I was flattered he chose me—and had fun being the center of attention at Sunday breakfast in the sorority house. Girls wanted to hear stories about him, how much fun were we having? and who did we hang out with the night before?

Our "relationship" was brief, but we had fun. I knew he wasn't the man of my dreams, but he taught me how to enjoy the attentions of someone besides my high school boyfriend. He was loud, funny, silly and smart. When we went out, people wanted to be near him. He was known.

Things were going well, and we had had a fun few months hanging out. I was asked to go with him to his fraternity weekend in the mountains of North Carolina, and we doubled with my friend and her boyfriend. After a great weekend, we were pulling back into Athens, and had just turned on to Milledge Avenue, right by my house. Matt was driving, and I was in the front seat, gleaming with the glow of attention, attraction and excitement.

He burped loudly, and didn't excuse himself. All of us laughed—in that Will Ferrell stupid humor kind of way—and then I jokingly said, "Hey, aren't you supposed to be trying to impress me at this stage?"

The car's atmosphere changed. The air grew cold. Not a sound was made.

I'd clearly made some sort of dating faux pas, but for the life of me, I wasn't sure what it was.

We pulled into the sorority parking lot, and my friend and I got out. Matt gave me a brief, yet chilly hug, and we said goodbye.

I didn't hear from him for about 10 days, which in college time, was the equivalent of 10 years. When your social life didn't just revolve around weekends, you saw people more often.

I asked my friend, the girl who'd witnessed the freeze-out in the car, and she shrugged it off claiming he was just busy.

This guy was something like a 6th year senior. How busy was he, exactly? It was doubtful.

The following Thursday, I saw him at the local hangout, the one where you got to take the previously purchased 22-ounce plastic mug with you and for $3 you could fill the thing up with ice cold draft beer. I approached him gingerly, with a smile.

His reaction was clear. His face didn't break into the smile he'd normally given me.

It was over. I knew it, and so did he. Inquisitively, and frankly, naively, I asked him what was wrong? He shrugged, and said casually, "I just am not feeling it."

Uh, ok. I thought we were joking about a burp, but maybe that was just me.

I walked away, shaking my head.

I never saw him again.

VORTEX.

Not two weeks later, though, I heard that he was dating someone and it was "serious." He eventually married her and had kids with her. I haven't really thought of him much since, and I do realize that he wasn't really in the Vortex.

He just wasn't interested. And, considering his likable qualities were most often enhanced by him drinking 48 PBRs out of a can, I don't really mind.

But it taught me one thing.

Men will close up, walk away and fall off the planet if they so choose. And you will be left wondering.

It was a tough lesson for a rookie dater, but it paved the road of many, many Vortex tales to come.

Oh, and I'm still not a fan of wild burpers who don't excuse themselves. I can't help it.

The Naked Truth

2009-05-28T20:10:00.001-05:00

When I first moved to Chicago, I ran with a pretty great, and huge, crowd of people who had all gone to the same college. Yes, I just said "I ran with..." like I was 87 years old. Moving on.

What this meant for my social life was that I had friends always crowding the corner of the bar at the local pub, our house parties were legendary, and we even had a rousing men vs. women Cranium tournament. Life was good.

The only drawback to this deep and tightly knit circle was that they all knew each other. And the others that lived in town.

Meaning, as a newly transplanted southern girl looking to meet new people (read: hot guys), I was cautious about my actions. Not that I would have been a raging fool if it weren't for their guidance, but you know, it just cause me to think harder about on whom I turned my attention.

Case in point. At a bar one night, I'm approached by a very nice looking, well-dressed guy. We make casual small talk. We laugh. And flirt. And then, while he leaned down to tie his shoe, I notice my three guy friends standing behind him giving me the "we'll slit your neck if you do something stupid" gesture combined with hearty head shakes.

I'm not an idiot - I could read that message loud and clear. When nice looking, well-dressed guy went to the bar, I slid over to the guys and asked what was the reason for their red flag signal. They imparted some insider information about Said Guy's antics, and ahem, reputation, in college.

I was turned off, and promptly finished up my chat with Said Guy and went back to my friends.

I escaped that time.

Over the next few years, as I became more and more comfortable with my Chicago surroundings, I realized that I saw Said Guy all over town. For a good long summer, it seemed that I ran into him every Saturday night. Not always in the same place, either. I even thought at one point that he may be following me.

He always approached, flirted and chatted me up. I flirted back (as I said before, I'm not a total idiot) because I enjoyed the attention, and then left him wondering why I hadn't fallen prey to his wily charm. He clearly wasn't used to getting turned down.

Not that he was asking every time, but it was clear that if I'd given him even the slightest hint of a green light, he'd ask me out.

It became my own little version of the cat and mouse game, and it was awfully good for the ego. Especially when my girlfriends (new to me, and to him) would nod and smile excitedly as he approached, and look at me with huge silver-dollar-sized-eyes as I inevitably turned down his advances.

Explaining that his reputation preceded him, they allowed me to cut him off.

And so it went. For years.

Finally, it became funny. Said Guy would show up at the same place as I; we would laugh, talk, hug and then flirt. And joke about which one of us was stalking whom. I'm still convinced I was the stalkee, but that's just my take.

In the fourth or fifth year I'd lived here, I saw Said Guy yet again. He seemed especially charming that night. Or I'd had especially too many vodka lemonades. When my friends were itching to leave early, and he asked if I'd go with him to a party nearby, I obliged. I know, I know. Slow learner.

Anyway, we got in a cab and went towards the building where the party was being held. As we entered the lobby of the building, I noticed that the doorman gave him a nod of what I could only deem was recognition. There was no hesitant fumbling and "uhm, which way is the elevator" or anything that indicated he hadn't been there before.

I chalked it up to his having been to this buddy's house before. It happens.

As we exited the elevator on the third floor, I heard the distinct sound of keys tinkling in his hand. I looked up at him, and said with a great deal of sarcasm in my voice, "you have keys to this party?" In his full-on cocky manner, he said, "uh, no. I want to drop my coat off first."

Hell-o? Where are we doing said drop-off? Oh, right. In your condo. Which, conveniently is right here.

I fall for it a bit, mostly out of curiosity to see his place. Not many guys I knew at the time (or now, for that matter) live alone, in a condo, and live well. I was curious if the well-dressed man equaled a well-appointed condo.

Uh, yeah.

It did. As he held the door open for me, I entered the hallway onto dark cherry hardwood flooring. Then noticed what had to be 20-foot ceilings. And a perfect kitchen complete with Viking appliances and granite counter tops from here to there. With an island the size of my living room. And gorgeous cabinets.

My eyes drifted past that to the walls with the enormous artwork. Real stuff - not posters of sports figures or neon beer signs. Nope. This guy had hired a decorator. There were two bedrooms, and a hall bathroom resplendent with marble and dark wood and a mirror without even a trace of toothpaste on it.

Just past the perfectly dressed living room, with just the right blend of modern and transitional furniture, I see the wrap around semi-circle balcony with a grill, tables, chairs, lounges and potted plants. And, just beyond, the skyline view that encapsulated every key building in Chicago from the Hancock Building to the Sears Tower. Bookend to bookend, this view had it all.

Said Guy drank in the look on my face, and continued the tour.

Then, I saw the master closet. He proudly opened the door, and I sucked in my breath. It looked like Brooks Brothers. The store on Michigan Avenue...NOT the outlet mall. Every shelf was dark wood, and the hangers were matching and evenly spaced to allow his beautiful clothing to hang just so. His shoes all faced the same direction, and his ties hung neatly in a row. Even his t-shirts had a neatly organized home.

I could not decide if this guy was a dream man or was undoubtedly gay, pretending to be straight. Come on. It could happen.

Either way, he fixed me a drink as I remember that we're supposed to be going to a party upstairs. When I mentioned it, he laughed and said with an evil grin, "there is no party." I have blond hair, but I'm hardly stupid. I still thought this was a fancy pit-stop on the way to his buddy's place.

Maybe it was the closet, or maybe it was the drink he fixed me, but I was a little more than curious. And, felt a little amorous. After all, Said Guy talked the talk, clearly walked the walk, and made me feel just the right combination of powerful and powerless.

I excused myself to the restroom to freshen up and I heard him follow me into his bedroom (he wanted me to see his master bathroom - showoff - so I went in there) and listened while he took off his shoes. No biggie, I desperately wanted to ditch my heels, so I could understand.

Not more than three minutes later, as I dried my hands off on his Egyptian cotton towels, I turned off the light in the bathroom and opened the door.

It was dark in his bedroom, but in the light of the city glow, I could see that he was laying on the bed.

Asleep.

Completely naked.

Uhm, hell-o?

What exactly did he think was going to happen here?

Needless to say, I walked into the kitchen, half laughing and half mortified, and got my coat.

Thinking quickly, I decided I wanted to leave him a note to remind him, when he woke up (in case he had a propensity to forget things while imbibing) that I'd been here, but was not here anymore.

I scrambled in the kitchen to locate a pen. I found one, and then tore off a paper towel (who doesn't keep a notepad with the pens?) and scribbled, "SAID GUY, I left. -Colleen."

I used his name. But not here. I changed his name to protect the not-so-innocent.

And naked.

I exited the building, gave the doorman a sardonic smirk, and hailed a cab home.

I never heard from the guy again.

Several years passed, and I started seeing him occasionally, mostly from a distance, on Michigan Avenue. Near my office. In the lobby of a building. Walking in front of Nordstrom. Leaving Starbucks.

And, each time, I got embarrassed and looked away, turned around, or otherwise diverted the situation.

Not sure why I was the embarrassed one, but I was. Time was kind, and I hadn't seen him in years.

Until last Wednesday.

In the lobby of my office building.

Again, I repeated the "dodge his eye and go the other way" move and managed to avoid a run-in. Because really? What would I have said?

Good to see you again, this time with your eyes open and clothes on?

Yeah, I don't think so.

So, I'm having lunch with my co-worker today, and something reminds me to tell her that story. She'd been traveling last week or she would have heard it immediately. I told her the entire story, (long story is never really short, come on) and we get quite a good belly laugh about the whole thing.

We even played the name game to see if her friend who works in Said Guy's industry may know him. We plotted a call to her as soon as we get back upstairs to our office. We conceded that maybe he was here in our building for a meeting - he was in a suit at the time - and she laughed again about the sheer nakedness of it all.

Leaving lunch, I dropped my tray off at the garbage can, gathered my purse and fountain drink, and walked with her to the lobby.

I looked up, and not 25 feet away, is Said Guy. In a suit. Walking through the turnstiles that indicate that his office is in THIS building.

He glanced in our direction right as I noticed him. I squealed quietly, grabbed my friend's arm and whisper-yelled to her, "that's him! Oh my God, that's him!"

She can hardly believe it, and I can hardly believe it when she starts to speed up. She wanted a closer look, naturally.

We zoomed through the turnstile about 10 feet behind him. I didn't see him turn left into our elevator bank, so as we careened around the corner, I finally am face-to-face him, with two other suit-clad guys, right as the elevator door opened.

Now, if I'd had MY way, there's no chance in hell I would have voluntarily boarded the elevator with them. But my friend wanted to. She needed "a good view."

Mortified, and unsure why I continue to be the embarrassed one, I followed her. I dodged his eye, and positioned myself right in front of the elevator door with my back to him and his buddies.

We stood there, staring ahead, while the guys talked amongst themselves behind us. I couldn't even think I'm trying so hard not to laugh. I may not have breathed the entire way up to the 39th floor.

We exited at our floor, about six floors below his, and waited until the door closes behind us before we burst.

Laughing out loud, folded over, barely breathing, neither of us could speak.

What are the odds?

I am pretty sure God has a sense of humor.

Let's just be glad this guy fell into the Vortex.

Public Announcement

2009-10-02T23:02:00.000-05:00

I may be the only one, but let's find out.

When I am in a pubic restroom, and there are multiple stalls, and one of them is a handicapped stall with its own sink, mirror and paper towels, and there is no one waiting for that one and I end up using it, I find that the same thing happens every time.

I take care of my business, wash my hands, dry my hands and head out into the main "sink area." And for whatever reason, I feel the need to make a big show of the "I just washed my hands" bit so they know. I practically sing it and/or shake the invisible excess water off my hands so that no one thinks I am one of those gross people that doesn't wash their hands before they return to their table. Employees must wash their hands, by the way.

Seriously, though. I practically make an announcement.

"Hey ladies! I just washed my hands in there - yes, I had my own sink! - so don't you go thinking I'm disgusting and unsanitary and not clean and passing along my germs to my friends/coworkers/clients/flavor of the evening out there at the bar/restaurant/table. Just in case you were wondering!?"

I'm pretty sure that no one even notices, thinks about it, or cares, but I am telling you the truth.

I had my own sink in there. Promise.

Your vs. You're (The Online Edition)

2009-09-29T19:02:00.001-05:00

And, to continue on last night's blog post tradition (can it be a tradition yet? Too soon?) of writing blog posts inspired by watching TV, here's a new one.

I was watching ABC's Castle last night, and the storyline was about a murder where the victim's face was covered with phrases that made the point the murderer was anxious to make.

The murderer wrote crazy short blurbs intended for the people that discovered the body. The police were left wondering. The author character, Rick Castle, who follows the NYPD around for research purposes, and to add just a dash of "sexy banter" to the show, was more perplexed by the improper and offensive use of grammar used in said blurbs.

At the crime scene, he even dropped the line, "The person that did this not only murdered our doc here, but he or she murdered the English language, too.

The victim's face read, "Your out of time."

ARGH.

I couldn't decide whether to nod in agreement, shake my head in disgust, or raise my fists to the TV.

I settled on all three, which led me to looking like a total crazy person on my couch, trying not to spill my wine.

I digress...

Castle, I feel your pain. Yes, your. Not "you're" because I quite like you and all your rugged handsomeness.

Readers, I cannot tell you how often this, well, issue, hits me in the face. I'm so tired of reading emails, cover letters, resumes, documents and online come-ons that have misused grammar in them. It is a downright atrocity how few grown adults know the proper use of the language. They've likely never even written a complete sentence, much less diagrammed one. Mrs. Rog would be so disappointed.

And, in this era of spellcheck, I know I've gone soft, but I can almost forgive a spelling error. But, I'm pretty sure not even the latest version of Vista or iLife comes with a program to tell you if you are bastardizing the English language.

I'm not embarrassed to admit that I've had an online dating profile out there. It's not pretty, but it does serve as some fodder for laughs, some time-killing distraction and some flattering come-ons.

But, in light of tonight's grammar-centric episode, I went in to my inbox to pull a few recent ones. And these are just from the last week!!

Hey you, just wondering if you would like enjoy a night on on the town before the snow buries us in. =( I would love to meet you, call me and let chat, -K

(Emoticons are in that grey area of male-speak. Ok? Annoying? Cutesy? You decide.)

Your really pretty and have a grate smile. Just thought you should know. Lets go out sometime? - D

(Two for the price of one!)

How long have you lived in Chicago? I grew up down south and I loved it their. -M

(So glad you moved up here to give Chicagoans a taste of what a "real" Southerner is capable! Thanks, buddy.)

You said you were tall and looking for someone to look up to. Thats me, in all cents of the word.

(I so wish I was inventing these, but alas, I'm not.)

I know, right?

Inexcusable.

Buried deep in my profile (you know, like 3 short paragraphs in, God forbid) is this sentence, which I believe should guide a man who wishes to contact me:

I am a sucker for a well-written email, and have to admit that I'm a stickler for proper grammar, too.

It hasn't helped.

I will remain single. Based on the supplied evidence, I do not hereby believe that the single men of Chicago know the difference between "your" and "you're" and "there" and "they're" and "their."

And, until they do, I'd prefer to just watch "Castle" and drink cheap wine on the couch by myself.

At least I know you're reading and rooting for me. Yes, you are. Get out there. See if your grammar can top theirs. I'm pretty sure it can't get worse. (See, now I'm just showing off).

He's at the Gym (A Vortex Tale)

2009-09-28T19:45:00.008-05:00

Tonight I was watching CBS' How I Met Your Mother, and the storyline was about Ted going on a blind date, and only halfway through the date did he realize that he'd gone on a blind date with the same girl 7 years before. They both realize it, over their food, and laugh about how much they'd changed and what was different now.

At the end of the date, they shared a nice kiss, and he promised to call. And she froze.

She'd heard that line before. He had promised, as his 2002 self, to call her, and never did. He realized what had happened, and why they'd not continued seeing each other back then.

And she was mad.

He, awkwardly, eeked out, "I have been reaaaaally busy since then."

I laughed, not because the line was that funny, or the scene that well-written, but that it was just so damn familiar.

No, I haven't yet dated the entire circle of single men under 40 in Chicago, and therefore have not yet re-dated the same guy just yet. Not without consciously deciding to, at least.

More precisely, I recalled the story of the birth of the "Vortex." If you're unfamiliar with my Vortex theory, the quick story is that it is a place where guys "go" when they just up and fall off the planet. It involves all kinds of male treats, ranging from video games to 24/7 sports, to free beer and buffalo wings to sex all the time and no real jobs. You get the idea.

Anyway, my friends and I use the term to describe, or just to explain quickly, where a guy "went" when they stop calling randomly, out of the blue. My friend Meredith says that he "fell in the black hole." Same thing, different name.

So the year was 2001. It was late Fall, and I'd only lived here a year. I was in the throes of enjoying single life the way a 24-year old in the city does. Meaning, dating, going out a lot, having tons of fun and eating way too many meals from the rotating incubator grill at the 7-Eleven below my apartment.

I met a guy named Chris through a guy friend of mine. Chris was tall, ridiculously good looking (in fact, he "modeled" and turned out to be far more vain than I), funny and fun to be around. I'm pretty sure he wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed, but we had a good time together.

We "dated" the way that 24-year olds do—in groups, in bars, at keg parties and with lots of other people for distractions. Only on a few occasions did I ever truly go on a "date" with Chris, but we did make it to Sunday mass a few times with dinner afterwards.

One Saturday, we went to lunch and then he dropped me off at my apartment. He said, as I got out of the car, "I'm going to go to the gym for a bit and then I'll call you. Wanna go see a movie tonight?" I replied that I'd love to, and that I'd see him in a few hours.

Saturday evening came and went. As did Sunday. And the next four years.

Needless to say, the poor fellow got sucked into the Vortex and I never heard from him.

Until one day, when I was on my lunch break downtown, and I saw him across the way. I sped up and walked over to him. Smiling, I approached him slowly.

"Uh, Chris?" I said, kindly. He said, "Colleen! How are you?" with a look that was a hybrid of embarrassment, surprise and, frankly, appraisal. I was definitely being 'assessed.'

I said, "I"m great - and so pleased you made it out of the gym! After all this time!" and walked on.

He didn't get my joke, or my insult, or whatever it was. I knew he wouldn't, but it felt so good to say. So, now, when I ever think about the Vortex, he's the first thing that comes to mind.

If I hadn't seen him that day, I'd just have had to assume he was still at the gym. In fact, most men that don't ever call, or stop calling all of a sudden, or just vanish into thin air, I assume have gone to the gym. Maybe it's the front door to the Vortex?

He didn't look as tired as I'd be if I'd spent nearly four years at the gym.

Maybe I'll make this Vortex Week 2009 and will dust off all the old Vortex stories for your reading pleasure. Whatcha think? Shall I put out a call for entries? Anyone?

Amended: maybe this week will have to be "how TV sitcoms and dramas remind Colleen of things in her real life." Also known as, someone get that girl off the couch during the week. Changed my mind. Stay tuned for the next TV-inspired post.

Invasion of the Laundry Snatchers

2009-09-23T19:03:00.001-05:00

Invasion of the Body Snatchers
Has something small, non-crucial, tiny and not a big deal in the grand scheme of things ever really BURNED you up?

That would be where I am right now.

About three weeks ago, as I prepared to leave town for Atlanta, I did some laundry. Four or five loads, I think. I live in a high rise building, that has the debit-card-operated machines in a laundry room on the top floor. You put your things in, pay to start the machine, and go back down to your unit to wait the 35 minutes for wash, 45 minutes for dry.

The benefit to this system, which at times is a bit of a chore, is that you can successfully wash/dry up to five loads of laundry in an hour and a half. With folding time, you're at two hours - and you can watch a movie in the meantime.

I do my laundry pretty regularly. I travel a lot, so it is often unpacking, into the hamper, washing and re-packing. I know the drill.

I don't, however, sit upstairs and watch my clothes as they wash and dry. My first two years in Chicago, we had to lug our clothes to the laundromat five blocks away, and that was enough laundry-watching for anyone's taste.

(That reminds me, there was a hilarious laundry push-cart incident when Jill's cart met a cracked piece of sidewalk and her 5' little body got thrown over the top of the cart, leaving her upside down on Webster Avenue. I know I shouldn't laugh at the image of her body splayed out across her white metal 'granny cart,' but I just can't help it.)

I digress.

So, this laundry night a few weeks back. I didn't realize it at the time, but as I went to pack for a trip, and subsequently un-pack, I realized that I was missing a few things. A black cardigan and a pair of black Michael Kors jeans, to be specific. Trying to be thorough, I retraced my steps. Which led me to New Jersey, naturally. I called the hotel in Princeton to no avail. They went all the way back to June to assess if I had any "found items" attached to my hotel room records, and I did not.

I then scoured my closet. I'm a neat person and tend to put things back after they've been worn, so it was unlikely that I'd find them there. It's not like I've been sleeping over at anyone else's place lately, so where could they be?

Then I realized, as I dressed one night for bed, that I was missing a pair of black PJ shorts that match a set I have. Never mind, I'll reach for the grey pair. Also missing. Both coordinating tank tops were in my drawer, which is a hefty clue to the fact that the shorts were missing. I'd never pack/wear the mismatched set. (That fact likely sounds far more unusual than it is, I assure you).

Then what?

A few days later, I realized I was missing my grey leggings and a navy tank top, which also goes with PJ pants.

Now I was just annoyed. Ticked off to no end. I had now counted SIX items of clothing, all in the dark wash family, that were missing.

Without suspicion, I drafted a little "Missing Laundry" sign for the bulletin board in the laundry room. Promptly went up and tacked it there. Offered a reward, even. Gave a "no questions asked" line. Suggested several ways to get in touch with me, and ways to return the items for said reward. Come on, you ladies KNOW how hard it is to find pants you like - and these were Michael Kors jeans that fit me perfectly!!

Anyway. I just went up to the laundry room to put a few loads in while I wait in anticipation for the ABC fall shows to premier.

AND....my sign is gone.

Did the clothing thief realize that I was hot on their (his? her?) trail and take it down!? Who would do that, unless they feared getting caught? The sign removal isn't until the end of the month! And it's only the 23rd!

(And yes, I'm totally staring at every person that is even remotely close to my size who wears black jeans to see if they're sporting an MK on the butt pockets. Just don't ask me what I'll do if I DO spot them!)

I couldn't be more annoyed right now. I immediately grabbed a piece of paper, a Sharpie marker, and made a new sign, listing the items and once again offering a reward and return options. I'm taking it back up there in 17 minutes when my loads are finished washing.

Please don't tell me I'm going to have to watch condo channel 94, the one that spies on the laundry room, from now on when I put clothes in? To keep an eye on the machines, on a look-out for clothes-snatchers AND sign-stealers?!

That would bring my single-living to a whole new low.

Changing the channel now...

A Toast to Lauren & George

2009-09-19T13:49:00.012-05:00

Photos by Tom Smarch of A Wedding Tale where noted.

As you likely saw awhile back, my sister Lauren and her lovely George were engaged to be married, and the big day finally has come and gone. The week at home was really wonderful, but man, was it a whirlwind of activity!

George is from Czech Republic, and his parents, brother and sister-in-law were in town to celebrate the wedding with us, and it was such a joy to meet and get to know them. I know now very clearly where George gets his good looks, kind heart, gentle nature and sharp sense of humor. I also more fully understand what people mean when they say that a wedding is a merging of families, not just two people. We are fortunate to be a part of this union.

It was an emotional whirlwind - we met the family, prepared the details, put together the floral bouquets (which is quite a feat, but clearly feasible with some patience and creativity!), bought the party supplies, set up the venue and got ready for the big day. Friday, September 11th was the date for the wedding, and it was incredibly fun, hectic and beautiful.

The weather held out and we were able to have the ceremony outside on the green grass of the golf course, and the blue sky was revealed right before we descended onto the lawn. I was strong and not emotional until the very last moment - when I walked down the aisle ahead of the flower girls and my sister, on the arm of my Dad, it was at that moment that the emotions hit me. I began to shake, and tears welled up in my eyes.

As I watched my sister, younger than I by three years, walk down the aisle looking radiant, happy, gorgeous and smiling, I could hardly keep it together. It was as if there was no one else there, just her, as she walked our way. Time had stood still. Thank goodness Jill had the forethought to give me a monogrammed hanky before I left town - I needed it more than ever. Gripping my lime green roses with one hand, I dabbed at the tears that tried to fight their way down my face, and snuck a glance at George. His grin was genuine, heartfelt and huge - which was all it took to send me into a happy cry.

The wedding ceremony was lovely, special and intimate. The party afterwards, held in the gorgeous ballroom that was graced with all of Lauren's special and thoughtful touches, was part fun and part a blur. You know that feeling when you are in a moment, but can't seem to slow it down enough to really notice all of the detail? That was how I felt. My Mom and I wish we could go back and rewind it all and attend as a guest - just to take part in it all again.

My toast was sincere, and I managed not to sob as I delivered it. I believe it states concisely (yet not fully) how it feels to watch your sister marry the man of her dreams - it is not enough to say that you love her. She is part of who I am, and I am happily, willingly, letting go enough to watch her walk into her new life with George. I am fuller now, with him in our family, and know that lifelong happiness is headed our way.

I reprint the toast here, to share it with my family again for posterity, but also to try to capture in writing how I felt at that moment. For those of you that don't know us personally, George is a very tall man and fits in nicely with my tall family - anchoring us if you will. You'll get more out of the below you if you know that up front.

I am so honored, proud and in love with my sister, and couldn't be happier to have been a part of the day celebrating her love with George.

Congratulations to you both! I love you so much.

--

I am pretty sure they call you the Maid of Honor to make you feel better about having to get up here and spill your guts to a large crowd of people. No, really, it IS an honor to be a part of this day celebrating Lauren and George.

Having a sister is a strange thing – and by the time I started to figure out how lucky I was to have one, I had moved away.

First to college, leaving her to take over my bedroom and drive my car (both of which kind of irked me at the time). Then, to an apartment downtown, while she was still in Athens living life and growing up. And finally, I moved 1,000 miles away to Chicago, and we became closer than ever.

Life is funny that way.

But for most of our lives, Lauren and I struggled to cherish how incredibly fortunate we were to have a built-in, God-given friend living under the same roof.

We fought, likely over who got to be in charge, bad 80s clothes, use of the phone, and mirror time curling our bangs and spraying them into something unrecognizable. It felt like we were either too far apart in age to have anything in common, or too close to want to admit it. We were clumsy as sisters, and I’m talking about more than just that time that I accidentally ran over her with the riding lawnmower.

Come on, the blade was turned off…

But then, it all changed. When I was in college and Lauren was in high school, she met a lot of the people who are here today, and I remember looking at her differently. She was not following my footsteps, she was forging her own. Then she joined me at Georgia and continued to grow up. (Not just taller). I liked her not only as a sister, but also as a person. Which was a far cry from trying to kick her out of the car on the way to high school for being grouchy in the morning.

Sorry ‘bout that one, kiddo.

It wasn’t really until I moved to Chicago, and found myself missing her point of view, or her stories, or her wide-mouthed belly laugh, that I realized that Lauren was my friend. As she got a new job, I filled with pride as I knew how impressed her bosses would be. When she bought a new condo, I was anxious to see how she’d decorated it (in under 2.5 hours flat). When she met a new guy, however …that was harder.

As the parents or older siblings in the room can attest – there is this instant feeling of panic. Not that she’d make the wrong decision, or do something stupid – more that she’d get lost in the moment and get hurt. I wanted to protect her, to teach her, to help her avoid the heartbreak that comes with dating. And it wasn’t like I’d had it down to a science. But Lauren, true to her personality, grew smarter and savvier, and pretty soon had it all figured out.

I’m still waiting for her to teach me….

When she met George, she talked about him in a way that suggested that she’d found a mate. Not just someone with whom she could see eye to eye (well, almost!), but also someone that could challenge, balance, teach and love her. Someone who could protect, advise, laugh with, and adventure with her.

Apparently, it was true.

I’ve always been inextricably linked to Lauren. I now realize that I was never fully me without her. And now I’m willingly letting go, just a little bit, to share her with George. I figure it’s a win-win. We needed another man around the house, and I’ve always wondered what it would be like to have a brother. Given the amount of legroom the five of us take up, though, it should be interesting just trying to GO ANYWHERE in the car together.

George, I couldn’t be happier to welcome you to the family, and know that you and I will become the best of friends – as well as family. You are a kind soul with a heart of gold and I know you will take care of my sister always. You probably won’t run her over with a lawnmower, either.

Lauren, I have never been more proud of you than I am today, and I have never been more certain about something than I am about you and George choosing each other. I have never been more thrilled to be included, and I have never been more honored to offer up this toast, to my beautiful sister, my friend.

I’m so lucky to have you in my life, and I know George feels the same way.

So let’s raise a glass to Lauren and George:

I wish you both a lifetime of lasting love, belly laughs, good health, smart kids...

and…extra legroom.

Na zdraví!
(Cheers in Czech)