Early Riser

While waiting at O'Hare airport at an ungodly early hour on Tuesday morning, I had a few basic observations that I'd like to share with you. It only seems fitting. Consider them my gift to you.

• Everything is easier to navigate at the airport if you arrive at 5 am. It is quiet, empty and peaceful.


• The TSA people are not crabby yet at 5 am, and that alone is worth getting up really early. The man practically helped me put my boots back on. Seriously.


• When they de-ice the plane three times before you board, and once before you get to the tarmac, it is a tad bit disconcerting. And, it smells pretty strange when the fumes get pumped into the air vents before takeoff.


• The airports HAVE to be the only place left you can find that printer paper that is all connected with the tear-off holes on each side. Those people are ready for just about anything—if they need a "Welcome Home, John!" or a "Happy Birthday, Mom!" sign, they're ready at a moment's notice.


• Coffee is the only thing I'm ready to put in my body before boarding a 6 am flight. And even that doesn't help when the alarm went off at 3:20 am.


• ALWAYS check which Chicago airport you're flying out of—a trip to O'Hare, only to find out that you need to be at Midway, and then getting rebooked back onto a flight at O'Hare will ruin your day. And your husband may find clever ways to rename Midway (MDW). This wasn't me, but I am so sorry for my friends!


• They must put something else in the air when they pressurize the cabin for takeoff. Seriously, I can't even stay awake long enough to make it to the end of the tarmac. Are we being collectively drugged?


• No matter how old I get, there is something so nice about being picked up at the airport by my Mom. I even forgive her for taking a photo of me as soon as she got out of the car to hug me (evidence below). I would rather have had her grab my suitcases, but I'll let her slide.

I got lucky enough to get out of Chicago before the delays hit O'Hare and people had to wait hours and hours to get out of town. And, I arrived without incident in Atlanta, where the "low" temperatures are about 50.

NOT complaining.

Merry Christmas to me! And to you, of course. Especially if you work at TSA or United Airlines.

The Weekend of Fs

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

--

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

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

It Still Makes Me Blush

I've been asked to further explain the story about Jimmy Connors that I mentioned in yesterday's post.

As a proud storyteller, I'll expound. And, I'll ridiculously embarrass myself in the process. Be patient, I have to start at the beginning. Heck, grab a soda.

It was the summer before my senior year in college. I was doing the "right thing" and getting a summer internship at an ad agency. During the interview for a boring account service position, the guy looked at my resume and said, "You have an awful lot of sports on your resume. Would you rather be doing that?" I looked around, and half-nodded, insecurely, and asked what he meant. He explained that they had a sports marketing division that needed some help.

Sign. Me. Up.

So, I go to work for this guy John. As his right hand gal. He's the VP of Sports Marketing, and I even got my own little office. Which was big, considering I was 21-years old and an intern. Two weeks into the job, he pulls me into his office and admits that he's leaving the agency.

Uhm, what? Couldn't have told me that three weeks ago before I sacked any chance I had at working in the agency's account service department?

He offers for me to come with him. In the ten-second pause, he then spits out, "I'll pay you three times whatever they're paying you."

Okaaaay.

Sign. Me. Up.

Off we go, into the Jerry McGuire-like situation that entailed a fancy schmancy office space in the King Plow Arts Center in Atlanta. We frantically furnish the place and get started.

We were scheduled to bring the Nuveen Tour of Champions to Atlanta. The tournament, held nationally now under another name, featured senior men's tennis stars like Jimmy Connors, John McEnroe, Bjorn Borg, and others, was coming to Atlanta and we were in charge of promoting, selling, and running the event. It was nothing short of a HUGE FREAKING DEAL and it was just me and John. I even flew to Pennsylvania to train on the Ticketmaster program. It was my first business trip, and John made me GO ALONE.

I survived, and the event week arrived.

The hardest part, physically, of the job included what I affectionately called "schlepping ice." This was code for all of the event operations that had to be done that week—driving a golf cart, wearing a walkie-talkie, holding a clipboard, and moving heavy stuff from one location to the other, telling people where to put things and where to hang signs and where to park your huge food van and where to NOT park your gigantic beverage truck. Oh, and moving ice from one tent to another in the blistering Georgia heat.

The event was fun, though not sold out, and Jimmy Connors won as he was expected to do. The Atlanta Athletic Club was a beautiful host site, and the weather cooperated. My favorite player was Mansour Bahrami, the Iranian entertainer on the court. His mustache alone was worth taking a photo with him. I did. I'd show it here, but my bad haircut makes it look like I have a mullet, and I can't bear that on top of what is to happen next.

Jimmy wins, and heads to the clubhouse to sit and relax. As the crowds leave, my operations cohort and I (there was another company on hand to help facilitate the event, aka "schlep ice" with me) go into the clubhouse to check on the players and see if there was anything they needed. Mostly, we wanted to mingle with them. On the job, of course.

I'm in front of my operations cohort (we'll call him Brad), and Brad holds the door open for me and I enter first. Masking my shyness (that I've since overcome), the 21-year old Colleen says, with a smile, "Can I get you guys some beer to celebrate?" before I notice that Jimmy is sitting with John McEnroe and Bjorn Borg, two of the other three most famous men's tennis players. Ever.

They all accept my beer offer, of course, and ask for me to bring it to them as they had their aching knees elevated. Brad and I exit the clubhouse, make our way in the pitch-black dark (now that the tennis stadium lights were off) in the parking lot to the beer truck. Brad hoists me up inside, and then climbs up after me. We don't have flashlights, and walkie-talkies don't do much in the way of illuminating the truck's inside. I fumble around for beer, find a case that still feels cold, and push it towards the truck door. Brad does the same with his case. We jump down, and schlep the cases towards the clubhouse.

Brace yourself. You're going to be embarrassed FOR ME.

I jimmy the door open with my foot, hold the door with my butt, swing the case around into the door frame, and walk in, leaving Brad to fend for himself. He makes it inside just in time to hear Jimmy Connors and John McEnroe bellow, "YOU BROUGHT US NON-ALCOHOLIC BEER?!?!"

I look down, and lo and behold, I'm holding a case of Sharp's beer. At that age, I didn't know MGD from PBR from Natty Light (I was a pretty lame drinker) and wasn't aware that the brand I found in the darkened truck was sold to pregnant ladies, old men who just "liked the taste" and others who didn't imbibe in the real thing anymore.

I blushed purple. Stammered a dorky explanation. Set the case on a nearby bar. Turned around, mumbling that I'd go find something else.

And, proceed to trip down the stairs leaving the clubhouse.

Yep. Insult—meet Injury.

I must admit, when I returned from the beer truck with a replacement ALCOHOL-FILLED case of beer, the guys were really nice, and made me feel marginally less stupid for the double whammy of embarrassing moments. And, signed a bunch of cool stuff for me.

And, asked me for my phone number at college because "we really would like to come to a UGA football game this fall." And, Jimmy Connors did actually call me and ask for tickets to the Georgia v. Tennessee game that fall. I hooked him up, and he didn't show. Sent me a basket of food and alcohol-filled wine to apologize for the no-show.

I saved his number on caller id the entire year.

Chicken for Breakfast: I'm Lovin' It

While at painting class last night, with the class full and busily man-handling their color still lifes (oh wait, that was just me), the radio was on and playing all sorts of fun 1970s classic rock.

And then a commercial promoting McDonald's new breakfast treat—chicken biscuits—came on and interrupted the quiet. The class all simultaneously reacted negatively, with the teacher even saying aloud, "who eats chicken for breakfast?"

Uh...have you EVER been to Chick-fil-A? The fast food chain that is healthier than the rest, tastes better, smells delicious and is torturously NOT in the Midwest yet? Ok, so apparently there are a few franchise spots up in Wisconsin, but even I haven't had that much of an urge. Yet.

At Atlanta-based Chick-fil-A, you eat chicken for breakfast, and you wash it down with a giant lemonade. That's just what you do. Then you go back at lunch and get the nuggets and waffle fries, and wash that down with a sweet tea. HEAVEN.

So now when I'm seeing the article in the Chicago Tribune today asking, "Will the chicken for breakfast work in the North?" it just upsets me. At least one observer, quoted in the article, was smart enough to give credit where credit was due saying, "They may not admit this, but it looks like they copied this a little from Chick-fil-A."

Give it a chance. I'm not sure that Midwest-based McDonald's will do it the way that Chick-fil-A does, or half as well, but let's not knock it before you've tasted the delicious salty chicken resting on a buttery, flaky biscuit.

McDonald's is giving them out free tomorrow, and Costa-Rica-trip-diet be damned, I'll be in line.

Wishing it were the real thing, but willing to take one for the team, and sacrifice a little something for a taste. I'll let you know.

Ahoy and Aquestion

My sailor friends have landed back in town for a quick refresh week before they plan to head north from Ft. Lauderdale, up to Charleston and over to Bermuda. Then, in mid-May, they will make their Atlantic Crossing towards the Azores, an island chain off the coast of Portugal.

With them back in Chicago after being on the water since September, casually seated in my living room with beers in hand, it felt like nothing had changed. No time had passed, and our conversations and laughter flowed as normal. So did the beer, incidentally.

As we talked about how good it felt for them to come "home" (neither actually grew up here in Chicago, but have lived much of their adult life in the city) and how they appreciate what they had that much more—it got me thinking.

Can you actually have both roots and wings?

Can you still be "from somewhere" but move on to experience something new, and call a new place "home," without sacrificing the old?

People ask me all the time, "Will you ever move back to Atlanta?" These are likely the people that stood at my going away party in September of 2000 when I promised, loudly and assertively, that I was only moving to Chicago for two years to "get it out of my system." I vowed to come back before their lives had even blinked, much less changed that much.

In the 7 1/2 years that I have been gone, the "roots" of my soul, the deep connections that have made me who I am today, the people have changed, grown, morphed and twisted far more than I could have imagined. All moving in positive, healthy, lifelong directions, but yes, there was much change.

Quite the turn of events:

graduates turned into professionals...
jobs turned into careers...
apartments turned into houses...
boyfriends turned into husbands...
hobbies turned into profits...
twinkly-eyes turned into babies...
infants turned into children...
twenty-somethings turned into adults...(sortof)
and plans turned into reality.

All this turning and growing and changing makes me wonder about the events of my own life. Do you give up the strength of your past to explore the freedom of something new?

Can you have roots and wings at the same time, or are they mutually exclusive characteristics? Does a desire to have a "sense of place" preclude you from enjoying both the foundation from which you came AND the future toward which you're heading?

Either way, I suppose I am comfortable knowing where I'm from, and enjoying where I am now, despite the fact that I can't be sure where my wings will have me soaring next.

Or if the roots will take hold again. Y'all.

Hopefully it's Better than Cake

Dear Daddio,

Since today is your birthday, and I can't be there to celebrate with you, instead I'm treating you to a slow walk through memory lane. It'd be a jog, but with our bad knees, we'd both be hurting. A walk will do.

• My earliest memory of music is you playing the Eagles album in our old house—the one with the brown paperboard cover that had the name of the band embossed on it. I recall sitting there rubbing the letters while you sang the words out loud. I don't recall any dance moves, and given your "hands above the shoulders" style at weddings of late, that may be for the best.


• Your musical tastes today often are the subject of fodder for us now—I am pretty sure you are the only person who loves Jon Secada, Rick Astley, Pilot of the Airwaves, and that obnoxious Six Flags commercial song. You redeem yourself slightly with your steadfast appreciation of good acapella tunes, and any rendition of Amazing Grace that iTunes has to offer.


• Ever since I can remember, you have opened Christmas presents with the glee usually reserved for small children, and the biggest, floppiest bow usually ends up stuck to your head. I wouldn't trade that for anything.


• Summers meant airshows, and I can thank you for my love of the fighter planes zooming overhead every August at the Chicago Air & Water Show. The sound alone makes me smile, and recall hot Atlanta summers standing in the middle of a field staring straight up. My skinny legs always itched from the tall grasses, we inevitably got cricks in our neck from the frozen posture, and my shoulders grew increasingly more freckled over the years, but the time spent with you was undoubtedly worth it.


• Playing sports was our way to make up for you not having a son, and we loved being out there on the court/field/pool to represent your love of the game. Hearing you call out "Come on, Tiger!" was enough to make me forget the lousy shot I'd just taken, and hustle my way back into the action. If only I'd been as good at any of those sports as another famed "Tiger," I may have been able to give you a bigger gift this year.


• Road trips, typically to St. Louis, were long and arduous, but you always knew how to earn some giggles. With your extra long arms (yet another trait I inherited), you'd reach back and grab our ankles from the driver's seat, causing us to erupt and shriek, making the stretch across the Chattanooga mountains more interesting.


• You remain the only grown adult I've known to consistently order a glass of milk with your dinner at a restaurant. The look on the waiter's face is often worth more than the tip.


• The smell of Home Depot will forever remind me of those Saturdays when Mom gave you a "honey do" list and you decided to drag us along, letting us ride the big orange flat carts, while you shopped. Who knew sawdust and plywood could be so much fun?


• As with your car building obsession now, I was always the only girl I knew who could wander down to "Dad's shop" and find model airplanes stretched across the basement, made of balsa wood and super glue, featuring two Barbie pilots—one blonde and one brunette—proving once again that you liked having your girls along while you explored your hobbies. I finally have recovered from the time that you admitted you had to chop off Barbie's legs to get her to fit in the cockpit.


• In addition to car building, your devotion to X-Files, Star Trek, Grease and Speedvision ensures that you are a unique individual. With control of the remote.


• Getting emails from you now guarantees a laugh as you explore the hilarious world of text lingo. OMG, I'm not sure who in your office taught you, but I'm guessing their daughter is 14. LOL.

Since I'm not there, I can't run in the room and give you a giant bear hug, only to curl up later and sit as your "lap dog" despite the fact that I'm way too old for it and the club chair creaks under our combined weight. I can't help you grill the burgers with the screen door standing open, doing anything I can to evoke your Woody Woodpecker laugh. I can't fight over the last piece of chocolate cake, only to succumb because it's your birthday, and you're bigger than I am. I can't share in your latest achievements on the hot rod, and tease you for your Einstein-wacky eyebrows. I do, however, know that you're proud of your girls, and your encouragement means so much to me, even across the miles.

Happy Birthday, Daddio!

Much love, ("You heart me?!?")

Colleener Machiner

God is in the Vanity Plates?

Walking back from lunch, I always manage to spot at least one oddity that is deemed blog worthy. Today's entry is this:

A black Mercedes, complete with tinted windows, shiny rims and a vanity plate that said, "THKUGOD."

I, too, believe that God is good, is all around us, and answers our prayers. But unless that woman had been praying for a new 4-door sedan, I'm not quite sure I understand the connection.

Does God pay the monthly lease payments? Did the money for the car come from the church collection plates? Did she pray every night for God to fill her empty driveway? Did He Himself drive it up into the 4-car garage?

Either way, I am reminded of a reverend in Atlanta my Mom worked with to decorate his home.

His name, and you can't make this stuff up, is Reverend Creflo Dollar, and he is quite "famous" for his work as the head of the World Changers International Church just south of Atlanta.

Claiming that he doesn't preach love of money, only God, he is under inquisition by the Senate for his Rolls-Royces, private Learjets, million-dollar Atlanta home and $2.5 million Manhattan apartment, all tax-exempt gifts from the ministries and his congregations. He claims that his wealth furnishes proof to his followers of the validity of his teachings and is a leading apostle of what is known as the “prosperity gospel.”

In a DVD put out by his church, called Does God Want You to be Poor?, Dollar says that Jesus was not poor and his disciples were not poor. He says faith can transform poverty into an abundant life. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't recall any mention of Jesus and his apostles living life of the wealthy. Most Bible stories include references to love, compassion and forgiveness, not of riches, clothing, and abundance.

When you click on the home page for his ministries, the first box of content you see says, "A Plea for Support for Our Ministries." Off to the side, you can pledge your "love gift" and in the center, you can buy Dollar's books, support his online broadcast, or buy downloads of his videos. Not exactly the compassionate, love-filled prayerful messages I'd hope would appear front and center on MY church's website.

No matter what your opinion on this mixing ministry with money, my favorite part of my Mom's decorating story was that he wanted my mother, a classy, conservative, talented and all-too-kind interior decorator (with a fine arts degree and a love of fine furnishings) to decorate his entire house using only purple, black and gold. I think my Mom had to work really hard not to laugh when he insisted that she work in some "gold lamé into the scheme."

I kindof hoped he'd pay her not in cash, but in a one-year lease on a gold Rolls Royce. Then, the vanity plate could have read "THKUREV$$" and brought her all kinds of prosperity.

Her suburban neighbors would have loved that one.

The Fever

I officially have spring fever.

Growing up in Atlanta, April was the month of fabulous 75+ degree days and eternal sunshine. I'm sure it rained quite a bit, but those soggy days don't stick in my memory quite like the warm days where the sun is blinding, the birds are chirping, and the car windows are left down all day.

April in Atlanta is that perfect time, where it isn't yet July and your back isn't yet sticking to the car seats. You can go all day with the house windows open, no heat and no AC, and it just feels nice. The grill gets a good workout, and the back deck is the new living room.

Baseball games are the background music to a Saturday afternoon, and long naps are required, commenced long before the 7th inning stretch. The mosquitos haven't yet found their way to your backyard, and the trees are starting to look green again. Sunday mornings are complete with the sound of lawn mowers firing up and doing their thing all across the neighborhood, and kids play football in the street stopping only to yell "CAR!" as the neighbors come home from Pike's Nursery to plant the pansies in the empty pots on the front porch.

With the added hours of daylight, the dinnertimes start later, and the family is all smiles. Placemats are dragged out to the back deck, where the wrought iron table is wiped clean of pollen for the feast off the grill. Screen doors are oiled and prepped for a long summer of use, and flip flops and sandals replace the boots of the earlier months.

The flowers are all in full bloom, and the softball leagues are out practicing. People know that this is the best time of year, save for September when the football season begins, and take advantage of it. April in Atlanta is spectacular, and I do think it is a gorgeous month. One of the best.

On the flip side, April in Chicago is a temperamental woman.

Some days she's lovely—encouraging all residents to abandon their down coats and woolen mittens for a light spring jacket and a pair of Ray Bans—and the city sidewalksare full of families pushing strollers, couples holding hands, and kids playing games. Cornhole games are dragged to the front yard, and the Cubs jerseys are worn with pride. Cold beer is poured into red Solo cups as the gang predicts a winning Cubs season, dripping with optimism and hope. The tulips planted by the tens of thousands that line Michigan Avenue finally come into bloom, and you are shocked by the range of colors that exist there. Tourists fill the streets, but the wind is light, so you don't mind.

The anticipation of summer in Chicago is reason enough to get out of bed in April. You can almost taste the warm months, and the sounds of the street festivals begin to flood your mind. You know that summer is close, and the winter clothes are down to the last few wearings before shoving them to the back of the closet for a few glorious months. The eve of summer is almost as good as the three months that this season gets here in the Midwest. People know that time in the sun is a cherished, special thing, and no one here wants to miss a moment of it. Pushing the season, the beaches and lake paths are full of people grasping onto the few fantastic and unseasonably warm days here, and you can almost convince yourself that there will not be any more questionable days.

Then April turns nasty, revolts against the beauty of spring, and has a cold flash for a few days, making you wish you hadn't jumped the season and pulled off the boots. The down coat seems more appropriate on these days, but you just can't bring yourself to wear it, so you just go cold. Clothing is confusing on these crabby April days, and summer feels a long time away. Fans at Wrigley look more like fans at a Bears game, bundled and shivering against the harsh wind off Lake Michigan. Optimism wanes but hope remains. The plants you eagerly bought and potted into your balcony flower boxes wilt and look sad, while the frost glistens on the deck rails. The windows haven't yet been cleaned and the remains of winter are everywhere. The park is sad and lonely, and the beaches call out for visitors who are brave enough to go there.

So we wait.

I believe that April in Chicago is a true test of the human spirit. Teases you just enough to wet your appetite, then takes it all back and reminds you that it won't be consistently beautiful weather until the middle of June. Shows you just what you can expect, and then makes you hold out for the reality of it all.

But, it sure is worth it when it arrives. I remain optimistic, full of hope, and a tad bit chilly without my down coat.

Patent it Already

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

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

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

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

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

22 Years and Counting

One of my oldest and dearest friends, Mandi, arrives today from Atlanta, and I must admit I'm a little over the moon about it.

There is something so special about having friendships that precede life today, even from the era before college, friends from way before you had mortgages, jobs, cars and insurance. Heck, this friendship is pre-braces for both of us.

We met in Girl Scouts in the 4th grade (even back then I hated sales), and have stayed extremely close ever since. For one crazy summer in about 6th grade, we even looked alike. Same height, same coloring, same cotton-candy bangs and badly permed hair, same mouth-full-of-metal, same skinny chicken legs. So much so that when we played softball together, with her dad and my mom coaching, they would confuse us as they cheered for us running around the bases. Our own parents.

Now, I easily have 5 inches and at least 30 pounds on her. And, she won homecoming queen and I did not.

But that's beside the point.

We played basketball, tennis, softball and swimming together. She cheered, and I danced (for one really bad season that involved wearing blue/white gloves and a routine to "You Dropped a Bomb on Me") on the sidelines. We did prom together, sleepovers, sneakouts, and collected injuries and great memories while on our escapades. We've been through happy times, and some pretty horrible experiences that involved scary situations and hospital rooms and best friends in car accidents and nightmarish events and luckily everyone is okay now things.

I introduced her to her now-husband when we were in high school, we pledged the same house, we lived together in college, I stood up in her wedding (and ripped the bridesmaid dress right up the back on the way INTO the reception), we traveled Europe with another friend after graduating from the same University, I have held both of her children as babies, she has visited me here in Chicago in my "other life," and we have literally laughed until we cried more times than I can count.

And, that, in my opinion, is worth more than the moon. Over it, I'd say.

So, I'll be offline today, and this will be my only post. Which, for the readers who have been begging me to slow down and stop posting so often, will serve as a mini-hiatus until Monday. Or, Sunday night when I log back on and can't resist the urge to tell YET ANOTHER great story.

Because, with Mandi here in my city, there is bound to be at least one.

Until then, e-mail an old friend. It's healthy. It's fun. It's therapeutic. It's Friday, and you were ignoring that deadline anyway.

Disproportionate Reactions

My family lives in Atlanta, and I'm telling you, those southerners sure do know how to overreact.

I got a text message from her today that simply said, "We're getting snow, and the entire city is freaking out."

She's not kidding.

I, living in Chicago, of course got arrogant about how much snow we get, and how our city handles it, how I'm an old pro now after 8 winters, and how they're a bunch of wimps. She admitted that they were only getting about 1/4 of an inch, or a "dusting," if you will. She also said that the "amount" of snow depending on which tree you were looking at.

And then she said, I do hope the city is warming up THE snow plow!

Hilarious. It will likely be headline news for a week, and named (with a cheesy coordinating animated graphic, no doubt) "Winter Storm '08."

Atlanta readers—you better stop reading, go buy bread and toilet paper!

This just in...my sister's car! She probably had to dig it out using her bare hands. We feel your pain, sis!

Hippy Dippy

With 3 flights, 3 airlines and 4 airports in 7 days, and NO TRAVEL DELAYS, I know I have absolutely no right to complain.

But I must.

Flying from Chicago Midway to Atlanta on the 23rd, I was on an Airtran flight, and had booked the aisle when I checked in 24 hours in advance like the good little traveler that I am. I boarded the plane, with my group, and make my way back to my seat, only to see that a woman is occupying it. Fully.

I say, in that nice casual but borderline annoyed voice, "I think you're in my seat." And she says, while nodding at the middle seat, "would you mind sitting in the middle?"

I paused. The polite southerner in me wanted to say that of course I would, that it would be no problem, that I wouldn't mind at all.

I didn't.

With a controlled politeness, I said, "Well, actually, I'm very tall and would prefer the aisle." (THAT I BOOKED, LADY.) She harumphs, and says, "Okay then, you're going to have to deal with these hips."

I look down.

She has the BIGGEST HIPS I'VE EVER SEEN.

They blossomed out from under her rather large chest. Buffooned out from each side, stretching out at least 12 inches to and fro. I know, I'm a terrible person, but she brought it up.

I said, "Okay." and sat down. In the aisle seat, as planned.

Here's the breaking point. My big mistake. Huge.

I didn't put down the arm rest.

For everyone that has ever boarded a plane, and all those that will travel in the future, this is your warning. Your note to self.

Put down the arm rest.

If I had done it after the fact, it would have bruised her, I'm convinced. So, I spared her that pain and left it up. All this meant for me was that she was more than 1/3 of the way into my seat with those hips. Her body heat and mine combined to create a friction that warmed the entire back half of the plane. For more than 2 hours.

With my 6' self contorted to avoid the sheer suction effect of sharing that much body with another woman, I was practically curved into an "S" the whole trip. I am not sure I am still back to normal.

You'd think that I'd have learned my lesson, and would have boarded earlier, more aggressively, and more attuned to the passengers around me from then on.

I guess not.

I boarded a plane on the 27th for St. Louis, a little American Airlines express flight, and found myself in the window seat on a 2-person row on a tiny little jet.

In the process of sitting, rearranging, and stowing my carry-on fully beneath the seat in front of me, I make the same grave mistake.

No arm rest down-putting. Big mistake. Huge.

Then I see her.

She is young, pausing, looking at me, and I immediately know she's going to be in my aisle. She, too, has the biggest hips I've seen (okay, since the first flight, but still).

I pity her immediately because she's red-faced, sweating, and young. Like 17. She sits down, and then I realize my tragic error.

Again, it is too late.

We, too, shared body heat and personal space the entire way from Atlanta to St. Louis. By the time we got there, I was quite familiar with her body odor. Her scent, if you will.

Merry Christmas to me.

Problem Solved

Not to brag, but I think I've found the source of the problem that Atlanta is facing regarding the water crisis:

The upstairs toilet at my parents' house.

It just runs and runs and runs. It flushes three full times before it is done. It sounds like an ocean when it flushes. And it doesn't stop flushing for about 10 minutes.

I'm seriously thinking of calling the Core of Engineers and having them come out and take the matter into their own hands.

Wouldn't it be nice to save the day for millions of people, not to mention the mollusks or whatever is part of the issue down in Florida?

Lake Lanier, the man-made lake we grew up boating on, is now a depressing sight. I think the water that is left is pulling into a sad spiral...

directly from the Snell family toilet.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good flush!

Commuting Below the Mason-Dixon

As I mentioned, I was in Atlanta and Athens, Georgia this weekend. It was a quiet, calm, pleasurable weekend away from CTA buses, taxi cabs, tourists on Michigan Avenue, backups on Lake Shore Drive and other commuter nightmares.

You'd think, based on the speech patterns, affinity for bourbon and Scarlett O'Hara/Rhett Butler historical references, that the south would be slow. About everything.

Yeah. That person has never been on highway 75/85. We're talking the U.S. Autobahn.

My mom has always said that "people drive as fast as the conditions will allow in Atlanta." which must be true, since I'm telling you what. Those conditions clearly allow German-driving-machine-style maneuvers and cop-racing-past-you as you tailgate your fellow drivers speeds.

Maybe people drive faster because the roads are better? Maybe it is that the roads aren't as bad because they don't get snow? Maybe the politicians are actually spending the tax dollars on road construction instead of financing their North Shore mansion or their son's/nephew's/neighbor's college education?

Who knows. But they are smoother down there. I digress.

After sitting in traffic to get from place to place, watching the strip malls fly by between stop lights, entering/exiting the same 3 highways (and 55 minutes) just to get anywhere, and avoiding the highway patrol cars every 400 feet, I was almost ready to get back to Chicago and our gritty, tourist-filled commuter nightmare.

At least here the furthest away I ever am is about 3 miles. My entire commuting life is in a radius of about 5 miles.

And they're MY 5 miles and I love 'em.

I'm back. To stay?