A Standing Ovation

I must admit I was one of the guilty ones yesterday. You know the ones...the people in Chicago that see the forecast for warmer temps, and push the season a bit with their wardrobe selections.

Given that we've been in a deep freeze for months now, the prospect of the temperature hitting the upper forties made me very happy. So did the unending sunshine that accompanied it. Therefore, it seemed perfectly natural to shed the socks/boots and put my bare feet into pumps for the first time all season. I did it.

Walked at lunchtime for quite a few blocks, and noticed the rubbing on the insides of my feet. These are not new shoes, mind you, but my poor winterized feet just weren't ready. By the time I left the office to head home, they were practically raw.

My aching feet and I got onto the bus, and it was already full. I stood near the back, on those pained and blistered feet, and plotted, planned and prayed for a logical new CTA bus/El amendment:

I propose: a single row of seats behind the existing priority seating for those poor souls that have made poor footwear choices that day.

Those with feet that are swollen, pinched, blistered or raw. Those sporting stilletos, new shoes, pointy fashions or just cheap imitations of comfortable. The chair, instead of having the universal handicap sign of the wheelchair on the upholstered back, could just have a footprint on it. Very graphic, simple, and universally translated to mean 'feet.' This row could feature ladies or gentlemen who just need to sit. Who can't imagine the ride home teetering, balancing or otherwise contorting any longer in their footwear mistake.

Now that's a CTA proposal I could really stand behind.

Victorious!

In a photo finish, the Chicago transit bill passed yesterday and, despite the Governor's attempt to slow things down, the city is celebrating today.

At least the 250,000 riders that would have had to find other modes of transportation each day.

I know that I'm one of them. Three miles down Lake Shore Drive is a long hike in subzero temps. And stileto boots.

Yeah! More complaints to come. Stay tuned...and in the meantime, help a girl out and someone...

PLEASE WASH THE BUSES!

I can't even recognize where we are on the drive anymore because they are so dirty.

See?

I'm back. Commuting fodder carries on.

Easy Target

It doesn't take much to put a smile on my face.

I was at Starbucks this morning, and a girl complimented my new boots. I mean, she wanted to chat about them. In depth.

Admittedly, this is the first time wearing them and I like them too, but the real story is this:

I know that women dress for other women. Period.

We choose our outfits based on our environment, and if women are around, we know that the choices will be recognized.

That's probably why the compliment made me smile. It was like an acknowledgement of the obvious—new boots are not going to be noticed by men, but women will see them, and make a remark. Strangers, even. I work in a very female-dominated, creatively artistic, casual and funky environment. And, they kindly notice.

It isn't going without my notice that this is my third post in so many weeks about boots.

Am I that shallow?

I prefer to think that it is just that people have been behaving themselves on public transportation, rendering me utterly blank, without issues to report, or stories to tell, or people to hate.

Or, maybe I just like new shoes.

(And, speaking of shoes, does anyone notice how the Google ads hilariously shift content to match what I write about? Yesterday they were all about politics because of my lame reference to Obama. Today they are shoe ads. I find this funny, even though I know this is the entire Google ad business model).

In the Land of Smurfs

I bought new jeans right before the holidays, and have worn them a few times, and washed them twice. They are a really dark wash, and slim enough to tuck into high-heeled knee-high black boots.

But, damn them, they turn me blue.

If I am inclined to put my hands in my lap, rest my hands on my knees, or otherwise come into contact with these denim monsters, the result isn't pretty.

By the end of the day, my hands are a pale shade of blue. It even comes off on the hand towels in the bathroom.

By the time I left the Bulls game last night, I was downright tinted.

I looked like a giant Smurfette.

But, they sure looked good with the boots.