Next Up, Skydiving

This may come as a surprise, but I'm an extreme sport athlete.

Don't believe me?

Have you ever tried to ride the 135 bus home wearing stiletto boots?

That were slippery from the ice packed around the bus shelter?

Were you there when the driver took the Oak Street curve going upwards of 50 mph?

Hanging on to the bar with one gloved hand?

While reading a book?

That you couldn't put down?

Wishing you could sit?

Knowing that sooner or later you would end up in someone's lap?

That is extreme...

Lest you still disbelieve my extreme sport skills, I give you this:


Me. Surmounting the crest. In 14" of snow. Wearing snow shoes. Winded, smiling, triumphant. At the top. Completing the journey.

(Of the 3rd hole on the Waveland Park golf course.)

Ok. I am not that extreme. But, I may have to take extreme measures.

I am considering investing in cleats for my bus ride home.

Thou Shalt Not Be a Jerk

The 10 Commandments of using the Subway [or bus]? Genius.

Thanks to this guy at Cracked.com, maybe a handful of people will learn how to use public transportation, and maybe they will live in my city, and maybe this domino effect will improve my commute to and from work.

And, maybe it won't.

In the interim, I believe there are a few commandments that the author left off:

• Thou shalt not sit in the priority seating and act like you don't see the old lady that just boarded and needs a seat.


• Thou shalt not perform the Butt Pivot when I'm trying to squeeze past you and you're too darn lazy to stand up to let me out.


• Thou shalt not wear a purse that is the size of my bedroom closet and act surprised when I tell you it is slamming me in the head every 4 seconds, and I ask you to move it.


• Thou shalt not put your bag on the seat next to you, and harumph loudly when I ask if I can sit down. These dogs are barking and I could use the rest.


• Thou shalt not use pennies to board the bus. The fare is $2.00, not $200 pennies. That is just annoying.


• Thou shalt not box me out while we're standing at the bus stop. It is a double-length bus, and we'll both get on, with or without your elbows getting involved.


• Thou shalt not wave your RedEye paper in my face, flipping each page into my cheek as you read the latest dirt on Lindsay Lohan. Or I may just pull a celebrity freak-out move on you.

There. That is a few extra commandments from yours truly.

Any more that Moses and I forgot?

*Thanks, Monica, for sharing the cartoon!

Our Cup Runneth

I have told this story (both live and here) many times, but I FINALLY found the photos to accompany the tale. Monica, this one's for you.

Enjoy.

The year was 2001. I had lived in Chicago just over 12 months and had a pretty active and fun social calendar. Each November, we were invited to a Flippy-Cup Tournament hosted by a friend of my roommate's, and there were big cash prizes. The teams were five people deep, and each person had to be dressed in costume and participating.

If you never went to college, are over the age of 45 or have been stationed on a submarine or living under a rock, I'll explain the rules. Flippy-Cup is a drinking game where each team lines one side of a banquet table. Each person has a plastic cup in front of them, and for each turn, the cub is filled with nasty, sometimes hot, beer. Upon "go," the first person on each side chugs their portion of beer, and then sets the cup on the edge of the table, upright and empty, and then uses one hand to "flip" the cup upside down landing on the table. When that task is complete, it is now the next person's turn, and so on. The team who has successfully chugged the beer and flipped the cups over first wins.

At this particular party, the game was set up into a tournament, with brackets built like those used in NCAA basketball, leading down to one champion team of cup flippers (and beer chuggers, quite frankly).

Even more fun, this party had clever hostesses. Held long after Halloween, they instituted the costume rule. And, the costumes, and therefore the party, was always themed around a funny angle.

One year it was "come as your favorite holiday" and we went as Ash Wednesday (two priests and three Catholic school girls all with ashes on our forehead), and one year it was "come as your favorite acronym." As a wordsmith and a lover of all things costumed, I was excited.

My team decided (upon a stroke of commuting-inspired brilliance by none other than moi) to dress up as the CTA. Perfect!

Then it was time to address the costumes. Never one to shy away from going all out, we began the brainstorming, and the tasks began.

With loads of commuting experience, the CTA was an easy one to define. You consistently have a good mix of stereotypes present at any given point in time.

And, of course, you need someone in charge. So, we assigned our friend Saneel the task of driving the bus. Yes, we were going to be the CTA as exemplified by a transit bus. The cast of characters included:

The Harried Bus Driver
Saneel happily donned the full outfit we constructed for him out of Salvation Army finds and Home Depot projects. He sported fingerless navy wool driving gloves; an official City of Chicago CTA hat; navy wool dress pants, a light blue dress shirt and a navy wool sweater with the official CTA patches and the City of Chicago flag. (That was interesting as I sat up front on the bus and tried to reproduce on a sketchpad the exact look of the CTA logo patches!) And of course, he toted with him at all times a portable, yet oversized steering wheel made of a plastic tube wrapped in black duct tape. Brilliant!

The Curious Tourist
Erin volunteered to serve as our resident non-resident. She epitomized the Chicago tourist in a backpack-toting, map-reading, Chicago shirt-wearing, American-flag-bearing getup. She wore her transit cards in a plastic case on a lanyard around her neck, and generally looked lost wherever she was. She asked a lot of questions, and never knew which stop was hers.

The Snappy Executive
As you may have guessed, I was the corporate executive commuter. I wore my finest black skirt suit, panty hose, silk shirt and black high heels. I carried a newspaper and a Starbucks coffee cup (filled with beer, of course) and had an iPod attached to my ear most of the time that my phone wasn't there. Not the most exciting character, but a stereotype that deserved representation all the same.

The Elderly Shopper
Jill served as our grey-haired, well-heeled, old-monied shopper, and wore a wool blazer, dress pants, high heels and a gold broach. She spray-dyed her silky brown hair to a grey misty shade, and wore tortoise shell glasses to complete the transformation. Of course, she toted shopping bags from all of Michigan Avenue's finest.

The Confused Homeless
True to form, our comedienne Molly agreed to play the part of the angry, confused and probably intoxicated homeless person. I know, I know. Totally offensive. But, board one bus in Chicago and tell me that you don't see at least one of these Mollys seated up front. She fit the part with multiple, unwashed and un-matching layers of clothing, messy hair, a mangled Streetwise and a wet crotch. She brown-bagged it with a 40-oz bottle of beer inside. Colt 45, probably. In character, she hollered, acted strangely, sang to herself and simply acted out-of-sorts.

The Brilliant Props
The kicker is this: we even had the bus bar. All five of us cruised around the party while grasping desperately to the shower curtain turned bus rod with silver duct tape, hanging on and swaying as if the bus were truly in motion. We only came to a complete stop when Saneel, the driver, shouted off the "next stop, Chestnut!"

Proof, in all of its pre-party and post-party glory, is posted below.

Team CTA, L to R: Colleen, Erin, Molly, Jill and Captain Saneel
The CTA, apparently breaking down toward the end of the night.
It made going to the bathroom or the bar a bit challenging, but we definitely attracted some attention as the CTA is known to do. And, clearly, the longer we were in motion, the more outrageous the stories became. Which, as evidenced by many of my posts herein, is also true about the CTA.

How we didn't win that contest is totally beyond me.

Break Down

It must be the heat.

CTA buses are breaking down everywhere. I was on not one, but TWO that broke down in ONE 25-minute commute home last week. It is quite an ordeal to chase down the next one, convince the driver you already paid the fare once, and find a new seat on the recovered bus. And, then the second bus repeats the first's breakdown, and the process starts all over.

But, seriously, they're everywhere. Go three blocks down Michigan Avenue, Lake Shore Drive or any other main thoroughfare, and you'll inevitably see one, pulled over, hazard lights flashing, and all passengers off the bus.

The telltale sign of a breakdown is the back flap open in the rear showing the mechanical innards to all passersby.

Maybe I'm too empathetic to these public transit monsters, but whenever I see one of the buses with its engine flap open, it makes me sad.

It feels like I am spying on a surgery and the doctor has stepped away from the table momentarily, and the patient, knocked out and with a gown stretched open, is on display without shame or modesty.

Or maybe I watch too much Grey's Anatomy?

Darth Vader to the Rescue

This morning, I learned something new. Shocking that this type of education could come into my life before 9 am, but it is true.

The CTA bus drivers have a small screen above their heads, within arm's reach, that displays several options for the pre-recorded public service announcements. They can actually CHOOSE which messages they want to cycle up next, and which ones they feel that this busload of people doesn't need to hear.

This isn't that big of news unless you consider the implications and the historical references to these pre-recorded messages in the past. First, there was this girl who talked on her phone so loudly and the "ironic" timing of the message about how that type of behavior should be avoided while on the bus. Or there was the time the bus kept stalling on Michigan Avenue and the announcement about where to direct your compliments or complaints about CTA service was also "ironically" timed. Who knows, maybe it was all in the hands of the bus driver?

Kindof changes my point of view on these announcements. And, makes me wonder...

Wouldn't it be nice to have an omnipresent, omniscient voice to follow you around and say the things that you wish you could say without being a total jerk? In that pre-recorded, banal voice?

I suspect they'd start out professional and public service-y, and end up getting nasty, cutthroat and personal.

Here are a few that MY personal public service announcement recorder would play:

• Please don't stand so close to the person in front of you when in line at the grocery store, a bar, the bus stop or anywhere else where people congregate. It is annoying for you to be up in my business, breathing on my neck.


• Please don't walk in large groups across while going down the sidewalk on Michigan Avenue. While we appreciate that you all want to experience this fair city together and at the SAME EXACT MOMENT, is it really necessary for you to link arms and walk 6 deep? This isn't an offensive line, and you're just plain offending me.


• Please don't chew gum with your mouth open. The sound is distracting, it looks disgusting and I'm pretty sure your momma taught you better.


• Please don't talk through the movie as it is shown in Grant Park on the big screen. If you wanted to just talk to each other, you should have gone to a restaurant. This is for, you know, watching the MOVIE.


• Please don't leave your dishes in the public sink at work as it can spread germs and increase other levels of unsanitary bacteria. And, I'm pretty sure your momma doesn't work here.


• Please replace the paper towel roll in the kitchen if you are the last person to use it. It only takes a second, and it is common sense and common courtesy. Clearly you are deficient in both areas.


• Please use turn signals to indicate the direction of travel you intend to take so I don't ram into the back of your bumper as you jerk to a stop. I can't read minds, and if I could, I'd say that there didn't seem to be much activity in there anyway.

See, wouldn't it be nice for some automated voice to express all of those pesky pet peeves and don'ts to the unsuspecting public around you? I'd like to request James Earl Jones to complete my voice-over, thank you.

What would your public service announcement say? And, more importantly, who would voice it?

Act Up Already, Chicago!

I've been asked recently why my blog hasn't been much about commuting lately, and there is just one answer to that.

People have been behaving! I can't take it anymore.

Where are the rude passengers, the terrible drivers, the butt pivoters, the horrendous smells, or the really fat people?

All this well-behavin' gives me no material for dissection, no topics for fodder. Did everyone get a copy of Emily Post's book while I wasn't looking? Is the threat of summer infecting everyone with such good vibes that we're actually being POLITE to one another? Are we just so glad that we're able to ride public transit while the gas prices are nearing $6 a gallon?

Can't someone just throw a fit on the 145 bus? Could I get a traffic incident that incites the mob mentality? May I please have a cranky old person to yell at a young, fit passenger rudely sitting in the disabled/priority seating?

Great, thanks.

*Side note: Due to the unfortunate lack of commuting material, I've been pondering changing the name of the blog to something more universal. Thoughts?

My Kind of Town

I was a tourist in my own city this weekend. A recommendation to you all—go out, do a few things that only the "tourists" do in your town, and you'll see things a whole new way.

With my mom and sister in town, we adventured to many of the sights that I often neglect or avoid due to the "tourist" factor. We had after-work drinks at the Signature Room Lounge on the 96th floor of the John Hancock tower on Thursday, and enjoyed 360 degree views of my fair city. Including the one from the ladies bathroom, which was made famous in a scene from "Ferris Bueller's Day Off."

With our $14 dollar drinks resting nicely in our bellies, we rode the CTA bus up Lake Shore Drive to my condo, and enjoyed a snowstorm on Friday afternoon while managing to finish the home projects I have been putting off for years.

Friday night we spent a lovely dinner and drinks at one of my favorite "local" bars, Matilda despite their infamously bad bathrooms (see "Bomb Shelters or Bathrooms" for more details), and experienced the full effect of body-odorific-taxis on the way to and from our meal.

Saturday we ventured to Millennium Park to take in (and photograph ourselves with) the fantastic Cloud Gate sculpture that is more commonly known as "The Bean" for obvious reasons. The snow was hanging on for dear life from the rounded edges of the sculpture, and the sun glinting off of the metal was almost blinding as it reflected the old buildings along Michigan Avenue. The effect was not unlike a globe, with the snow patches for continents, lit from within.

We then had a delicious lunch at The Park Grill, overlooking what was the Millennium Park ice skating rink until last week when they optimistically closed it in honor of the arrival of Spring. Yeah...hasn't come just yet, but we're holding out hope. Following lunch by the fireplace, we avoided the lines at the Art Institute of Chicago and were lucky enough to see the Winslow Homer and Edward Hopper exhibition, which was dynamite. Those men were busy! On our way out, we were treated to a sidewalk performance by The Bucket Boys who prove that inspired music can come from anywhere, even a drywall bucket.

Nursing our aching "museum feet," we wandered back to Michigan Avenue to stretch our legs and walk/run for the northbound bus. Dinner included a FEAST of fondue at The Melting Pot which lasted almost 5 hours. Yes, FIVE. You melt a little cheese and chocolate in front of me, and I'm sticking around as long as they'll let me.

Sunday was the more "low key" approach. Sans reservation, we dined for Brunch at Deleece a great local spot that had just been featured on "Check Please." We passed on the Bloody Mary's (why?) and ate more than is normal. Each. Driving back from brunch (after leaving our front row parking spot), we toured through Graceland Cemetery, resting place of many of Chicago's famous residents. Every few seconds one of us shouted, Palmer!, Kinzie!, Magill!, Brauer! and even Burnham, made famous by the great book The Devil in the White City, a historical fiction surrounding the building of the World's Fair site in 1893.

Finally, we were "treated" to the pothole circus that is Cicero Avenue as we made our way to Midway Airport in time for my family's late afternoon flight. I managed to navigate the streets without losing a tire or breaking an axel, and I am rather proud of that. This street edges some rather rough neighborhoods, as made famous in "Chicago" during the musical number of The Cell Block Tango. We tried to sing the song to distract us from the horrid road conditions, but none of us could remember the lyrics. Sorry to disappoint you, Liz.

All in all, it was a spectacular weekend filled with tourist sights, local options and excellent food, drink and conversation. My mom and sister admitted that they think I've grown "tough" in my 7+ years here, and it must be because I kept saying how nice of a day it was, despite the fact that it was hovering just above freezing. Frankly, Mother Nature cooperated mostly, and even gave us some bright sunshine to help us deny the fact that it was still 30 degrees in late March.

We sounded cocky about our discovery as we commented on how quiet the city was during Easter Weekend. Allowed us to be "tourists" without the crowds. It's Monday now, and everyone is back from the suburbs and the Easter Baskets are all put away. The Peeps are even starting to get dry and tasteless already.

It was absolutely worth every minute, every tired bone and every dollar spent.

I love Chicago. My kind of town, my kind of weekend.

The Waiting Game

So, I did it.

Yesterday I officially signed up to be one of the CTA's Mystery Shoppers. Before you go off laughing at the plight the poor unknowing CTA bus drivers have gotten themselves into, let's get one thing straight.

I'm waiting to find out if I've been "accepted." My application went through, and now it feels like I did when I shipped off my college applications, only to run to the mailbox waiting for the "big envelope" which indicated acceptance, versus the "skinny envelope" which undoubtedly held a "we regret to inform you..." letter that no college-bound high school senior wants to receive. Honestly, they're just not as much fun to flaunt at a family dinner.

The waiting period gives me time to think through my strategy. Do I wear dark glasses? A wig and Sherlock Holmes hat disguise? A Groucho Marx-style fake nose? Do I take notes? Carry a clipboard? Bring a tape recorder? Use my phone to record notes, email them to myself, and then record the information the next day? Which, incidentally, is how many of my commuting-related blogs are born.

I think all of those tactics, save the latter, are way too obvious.

Presumably, I'll just go about my riding the bus and train as usual, and will send in my scathing, ahem, critical reports afterwards. The CTA has another thing coming to them, they sure do.

If they choose me to participate, that is.

I feel a bit like Meredith Grey in her pathetic lovesick spiel to Dr. McDreamy on Grey's Anatomy, sighing "Pick me! Choose me! Love me!" Except that there will be no moaning, no tear stained faces, and no sad puppy-dog looks while I wait.

Just me, poised at the keyboard, ready to blog about the activities. Bring on the action!

Is it bad that now I actually HOPE for some ridiculousness on the bus?

Jaclyn and I are In!

I was just perusing the blogs that I visit daily, and saw a post with my name in the headline. I'm famous! Visit Jaclyn's post at Living Without Training Wheels for the original.

The gist is this:

The CTA Wants You! Or, to be more precise, they want US! They're hiring Secret Shoppers to help them improve the service on the CTA, and since she and I both bitch and moan blog about the bus and the train all the time, I think we're primed for the job.

Unless they want someone that won't publish the results. Which, clearly, we're already doing. She even wrote an Ode to the #148 bus, which I find quite amusing. Mine would go something like this, if I were to just put something down without thinking about it at all, or worrying if it rhymes or has the right meter or word choices:
~
CTA bus, I hate you.
But, you get me home.
And, save me some money.
Therefore, I put up with you.
But, if you were a guy,
Without a doubt, I'd dump you.

And, I'd tell all my friends about you,
Including, of course, all of your bad habits.
Which, I must add, are many.
First, you smell something terrible.
Second, you invite yucky friends over and let them stay.
Third, you rattle, bump, break down and scare me.

CTA bus, I hate you.
Why, oh why, must you torture me?
What, pray God, is the reason for this?
Oh, for the blog fodder?
Okay, you're right.
I agree, it's almost worth it.
~
Pathetic excuse for poetry, but come on. I'm writing on the fly here!

At any rate, where do I sign up?

Not So Super

Did I ever tell you the one about the time I fainted on the El?

Yeah, I didn't think so.

It was several years ago, and it was a rather warm morning. I was in a suit, which makes this story feel like ancient history as I so rarely don that type of attire anymore. I was on the Red Line, and it was underground at about North/Clyborn that I started feeling woozy. I was standing, and was hanging on to the pole, about 7 people away from the door.

I had noticed this handsome stranger standing next to me, as he resembled a cross between Dean Cain and Vince Vaughn. NOT a bad combination in my book. He was tall, smartly dressed and adorably dimpled. And, for the record, this was the old Dean Cain, like Clark Kent from Superman. Not bad.

As the wooziness wore on, I fanned myself with the free copy of the RedEye I'd already finished. I moved my hand down the pole to the cold spots. I unbuttoned my suit jacket, but didn't know what else to do. My head was spinning. My heart was pounding. I was beginning to break into a cold sweat.

And, no, this was not all induced by the guy. Give me more credit than that.

Anyway, I would have taken a seat, but they were all filled, and I am too damn polite (and embarrassed?!) to ask someone to stand so I can narrowly avoid passing out in their laps. So, I stood and suffered.

As we left the Clyborn station, and headed into the Chicago station, I was cognitively aware that this was the longest underground stretch with no hope for fresh air. Maybe this was all mental, but I just knew that I was going to faint. I didn't know what to do, but I sortof wanted to give someone around me a warning in the event that this did come to be. I looked at the closest person, the Clark Kent look-a-like and said in a tinny, small voice, "I think I'm going to faint."

He looked at me as if I was absolutely certifiably nuts. He said, in this egotistical, sarcastic, and ureasonably loud voice, "Are you serious?"

I leaned towards the doors as we entered and left the Chicago station, desperate for some wind. I didn't even have time to respond to his snarky reply.

If you've ever experienced a fainting spell, you know exactly what happened next. My ears started to ring, and the sounds of the El were drowned out by the incessant noise in my head. Then I started to get even warmer. Slowly, I felt the light-headedness take over, and then it was as if someone had drawn a heavy velvet curtain down, like at the Opera, and it was falling slowly in front of my eyes.

Fade to black.

I regained consciousness to find that I haven't fallen, only slumped, and had probably only been "out" for about 10 seconds. If that. The doors, thankfully, opened at the Grand station and I bolted off. Stumbled is more like it.

After crawling, almost literally, up the dank stairs to the street level, I slowly made my way to my office, where my girls quickly took over and pumped me with orange juice (hypoglycemia?) and cold towels, while forcing me to sit down with my head between my knees (harder than it sounds while balancing an orange juice).

I lived through it.

BUT, here is the clincher. The punch line. Aren't you glad you waited for it?

Feeling much more like my usual self, I went to happy hour the following day. As my coworkers and I enjoyed a cold beer after work, I looked around the bar, and saw a handsome stranger standing above his table of colleagues. I knew it instantly.

It was Clark Kent. I could hardly believe my eyes. I told my girls, and they of course insisted that I go over there, introduce myself and give him a hard time about his sorely underachieving gentlemanly behavior on the El the day before.

So, a few sips later, I did just that. I walked up to his table, swung my hair and gave him my most brilliant smile. I said, with not more than a TINGE of my southern accent (come on, we use it when we have to), "Hi, do you recognize me?" And he smiles, looked me up and down (what a guy) and says, "No. Should I?" And his friends giggled nervously, nodding in my direction like, "Come on buddy, girls never hit on us at happy hour!"

I looked him squarely in the face and said, "Yes, I was the one that fainted on you on the El yesterday?!?" And he blushed bright red. I wasn't sure the source of HIS embarrassment. Yet.

His friend chimes in before he could respond and said, "Oh, this is the cute girl that you walked all the way to work after she fainted!?" and looks at Clark.

I was shocked. Awed. Amazed. MORTIFIED for him.

Swiveling my head towards him, I look at him anxiously for his response. He flushed even deeper crimson, and mumbled, "Uh, rieurqalfdpsa." In other words, I have no idea.

Still in disbelief, I looked at him and said, "Oh. You've got to be kidding me. You told them you HELPED me?" I then turned to his friends, and said, in a nice but firm voice, "Yeah, this is the guy that looked at me like I was nuts when I admitted that I feared I was going to faint. And, he responded with a sarcastic, 'Are you serious?' and did nothing to assist me when I actually DID pass out. Not even CLOSE to walking me to my office."

His friends erupted into giggles, shouting all sorts of "Come on, dude, you should have helped her! Why did you lie?!?" at him, and I smiled sweetly and turned on my heels and went back to my table.

All of my friends assumed things went really well since they could see the laughing and the smiles, but little did they know that under that smart shirt and tie, Clark Kent wears a wimpy, worn out, white v-neck undershirt.

NOT a stretchy red super hero costume.

They did send over a round of drinks, however. Doubt Clark Kent ever had to do that to make up for his mistakes.

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.

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."

Not So Foreign

There haven't been many commuter incidents lately, and therefore I've been subjecting you all to nuggets from my personal life: my TV viewing habits, my friendships, my weekend tales and my floral deliveries.

However, the CTA doesn't let me down for long.

This morning, a woman on the bus was hunched over, and mumbling under her breath. NOT unusual.

The language of her discontent, however, was.

She was switching back and forth between what sounded like German, Spanish, English, French and something I'll call Fritish. Not quite French, not quite British. You get the drift. (And, to a special group of lifelong friends, this "dialect" is quite familiar).

Back to my crazy lady. Based on the tone of her voice, and the inflection she placed on each word, I'm guessing she was cussing a blue streak.

Lady was clearly ranting and raving about something, but either I have an untrained (and guillible) ear, or she was fluent in at least 4 languages, down to the swear words. So, I'm left to assume she is a really smart crazy lady, or just making stuff up.

Either way, it was fun to hear. It felt like I was invited to the "behind the scenes" party at the U.N., after the tequila had run dry.

Cheers!

Isn't It Ironic?

On the bus last night, during the treacherous 55 minute trek home in the snow (uphill both ways barefoot), the accordian bus I was on was packed to the gills. I was standing, balancing a shoulderbag, holding onto the pole above, and reading, which I've gotten very good at doing.

A young girl was seated by the window, in the front 1/3 of the bus. I was standing just one and a half rows in front of her, facing her side. She got a phone call.

Flipping open her jeweled cell phone, she loudly answered and began a conversation that was peppered with "like" and "uhm, yeah, totally!" and the volume just got louder and louder. She went on to talk about "how, like, I'm a great manager and I just, like, don't understand why that guy got so mad! I'm, like, really good with people, and can almost always, like, help the customer! I, like, am organized and like, get things done, and totally help out."

She was talking so loudly that everyone, like, knew her business.

Instead of glaring at her, I prefer to watch the other passengers. Silent grumbling. Wrinkled brows. Exchanged looks between couples. Smirks shared by strangers. And, the occasional old person who just doesn't give a hoot about what other people think anymore just loudly ranting about how rude that girl is. Well, rudeness goes both ways, but you're old, so I'll let you get away with it.

Anyway, my only complaint is this: when you're reading, it is hard to have a loud conversation infiltrating your mind while you concentrate on the written words. The story gets jumbled, and you end up re-reading the same paragraphs over and over. All the while you could care less about the stupid chatter you're hearing, but you just can't avoid it. So, I would have just liked to tell this "like, little, rude great manager" to just turn down the chatty volume a touch.

Just then, God interfered.

Ok, so it wasn't God. It was the CTA pre-recorded voice. But, to the masses on the bus, it was divine intervention.

"Please be courteous to others around you while talking on your cell phone." the automated female-voiced announcement said, to an almost-silent -except-for-her bus of people.

Everyone started laughing. Cracking up, actually.

She didn't even hear it. She was still, like, totally, uhm, talking too loud.

Urine Luck

You know those nights when you just can't catch a break? The commute seems too much to bear, and the weather is trying to totally kick your ass?

Thursday was a night like that.

I think I must've blocked it out entirely, to save my mental health and well-being, because I have just had flashbacks to the entire event, and now feel a groundswell urge to share it with you.

Then it can be your gross memory, too.

After having a quick after-work drink with a friend, I trudged over to Michigan to catch the usual bus heading north. I shall remind you, as we milk these early morning spring-like temps today, that the HIGH that day was about 2 degrees. So by 7:15 or so when I was leaving the restaurant, it was downright miserable.

Standing alone at the bus stop, I make all sorts of mental pleas with God, little inner charades, overtly ridiculous bargains like, "If the next bus is an even number, then it means that mine will be right behind it." No dice. And, "I promise to volunteer more if you just send me a freaking 145 or 146 bus in the next 30 seconds." No way, Jose.

So, when the 151 finally approaches, I unstick my frozen feet from the sidewalk, and pull a "wet dog maneuver" and try to shake my bones free from the pain, stiffness and dampness to which they are quickly succumbing, and step towards the curb.

As the bus slows to the curb, my frozen brain can't compute that there is a puddle there. It just didn't happen. The tires bounce through the potholes along the curb, and the dirty, snowy, grimy, salty, nasty puddle becomes my new outerwear. I'm covered in it. Wearing that puddle like it is the new black.

Shaking, once again, I dejectedly board the bus. (For those of you that don't ride the bus, the 151 is the last resort. The go-to bus when nothing else comes. Mostly because it stops EVERY BLASTED BLOCK all the way up the inner drive, circling slowly through the park).

I didn't care. God held up his bargain and sent me a bus. I had to get on, dripping wet coat and all.

Warmth immediately spreads through me like a stealth fire, and I'm taken back by how my fingers feel disconnected to my body. I see an off-white-wool-coat-wearing-Lincoln-Park-trixie standing over an empty seat. I nod to her, and offer her the chair. She gratefully takes it. And then, just as quickly, jumps up. Right as the offending odor hits my nose.

The entire bus smelled like urine. Not old, it's been there for days urine. NEW URINE.

Then I see her. The woman who I can only presume is the offender. Yes, I suppose I'm a terrible person and a horrible stereotyper. Don't go there. She's seated next to (and halfway in) the white-coat girl's seat. White-coat girl and I quickly surge towards the back of the bus, trying desperately to avoid the smell.

Smells aren't that cooperative, however. They are far more pushy than that.

This bus wasn't a double-bus, not an accordian bus, so it didn't have those extra 30 or so feet in which to hide. I regrettably take a seat in the mid-section of the bus, and see that everyone around me is what I'll call "scarfing it." Meaning, wearing their scarf as a face mask. Thank God I wear perfume and the scent sticks to the scarf.

White-coat girl and I couldn't help but make eye contact as I mentally send her apologies for even THINKING of offering her into that smell pit.

And then I see it.

As the bus lurches forward to the next stop, I look up to see a fast-moving puddle of liquid heading toward the back of the bus. "Please, God, no, don't let that be what I think it is" my brain thinks. I might have even said it aloud.

Yep. A yellow trail of smelly hell.

Urine.

I can't say any more for fear of losing my breakfast.

The Other Side

I often write about the silly, funny, amusing or generally odd occurrences that I observe while using public transportation here in Chicago. I like those stories. The ones that make you feel good, proud to live in a big city like this, excited by the energy, the crowds and the passing of life.

Today's post is not that type of story.

I was riding the Red Line down to a friend's house, and we got on the train at Addison heading south.

The train was somewhat full, so I walked through the train car to find two seats together. We sat, and only then did we notice a young twenty-something girl hunched over, sleeping/passing out, drool hanging from her lips, crushed eyeglasses and a soda at her feet, and a bookbag to her left.

She was more than "napping" on the train. She was full-fledged passing out, and I don't mean the type of "passing out" you see where it is a homeless person riding the train to stay warm.

This girl was clearly going somewhere, or had begun a trip with those intentions, but now she was just a mess. A train wreck, if you'll excuse the unintended pun. Her hair was a slimy, tangly mess, though her clothes were clean and matching. It was a sad dichotomy to witness—someone whose appearance didn't really seem to match her behavior.

With her eyes closed, mouth hanging agape, she kept nodding into the bar of the seat in front of her, and was just lolling forward, and then back, and the forward again. She was completely out of it, unaware of her body or the stares she was receiving.

My friend and I tried not to stare, but my heart was just breaking for her. She clearly was on serious drugs, but who am I to say what we were witnessing. She was drawing nervous glances or downright glares from everyone on the train, and I just felt saddened by the whole experience.

Evidence sometimes presents itself in a jolting way of the many types of people that comprise this city, the disparate places from where people hail, and the challenges that they face every day.

All I could think, while trying not to stare, was that she was someone's daughter. Someone's sister. Someone's neice.

Where are these people when she clearly needed them so much? I don't pretend to understand the circumstances, but one thing is painfully clear.

My heart still aches for her.

She will be in my prayers tonight, and hopefully she can get help.

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.

All Aboard, Auntie Em

Sales Tax and Seniors and Funding, oh my!

It seems that The Wizard, er, Governor Blagojevich has hastily added free CTA rides for seniors to the newly passed legislation to fund the transit organization in peril.

This last minute, politically motivated add-on will inevitably stimy the bill's passing, and will result in not only a sales tax increase, but also a proposed fare increase for CTA riders.

Exactly who does that help?

I know, I know. Pay no attention to the politician behind the curtain.

Only in Chicago. There's no place like home.

If Only...

The CTA is proposing, or threatening a walk out.

Meaning, the workers are planning to just get up, and leave their jobs. To prove a point.

Wouldn't that be nice?

After a three week span of you-must-be-crazy long hours, terribly awful to receive first thing in the morning emails, budget requests, deadlines we can't possibly meet, and, ultimately, just plain dealing with clients who seemed to miss out on the "common sense" gene, and definitely are lacking in polite etitquette (can I get a "thank you?" anyone??), it only seems right that I should be able to just...

walk out.

Not that I'm complaining about my job. I love my work, my company is great, and all in all, I've very happy. Even on cold mornings, it isn't that hard to drag myself out of my cozy warm bed and into the office.

But, lately, things have been different.

Instead, I just rant, rave, pace my office, close the door and put my head down on the desk, walk the block in the 25 degree wind, just to get some perspective.

A walk out.

Now THERE'S a Christmas wish I could stand fully behind.

The Cluster

I am privileged to host a guest blogger tonight...my brilliant, funny, charming colleague and friend, Monica. She is a writer/muser/rambler on her own, so do check her out.

For now, here are her thoughts/comments that relate to the general theme of this blog:

The CTA is a constant source of misery, entertainment and confusion for me. So I was thinking about something...

Let's call it "The Cluster."

Here's the thing, when you get on the train alone, you go for a seat that is as far away from others as possible, so that you don't have to sit with any of them. The next person who gets on alone does the same. Then when a group or couple gets on, they can't sit together because all of the seats have one person in them. So you have all of these people sitting alone so that they don't have to sit by other people, and all of these people who WANT to sit together who cannot.

Now, with most trains, someone is eventually going to sit with you. It is going to get crowded. Enter "The Cluster." If people would just kindof get on the train and immediately start filling up from the front or always sitting next to someone else, then groups of people and couples can always sit with their parties.

Logically, if you know that someone is going to sit next to you at some point, why postpone the inevitable, right? And by immediately choosing someone to sit next to on your own, you maintain the power!

By "clustering" someone else, you prevent someone else from "clustering" you! Likely, if you leave it to chance, you will be "clustered" by someone who is extremely unpleasant. They will be eating cured meats and barbecue sauce. They will have trouble breathing. They will be hot (in the warm sense, not the attractive one). They will cough. They will yawn. They will scratch and pick at themselves. They will do a butt pivot rather than stand up to let you off at your stop...

"The Cluster" is never gonna happen. If you randomly go and sit next to someone on an empty train, you will get punched in the face.

--Thanks, Monica!