Just Another Manic...Month

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

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

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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

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

Ok. Maybe the wine.

Billboard Bears

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

WHAT? You don't like Fall?

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

Football.

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

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

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

Clever. Witty. To the point.

There. Sometimes, the long story IS short.

Get Outta Here

I've gotta be honest.

I will not be sorry to see January come to an end.

It has been brutally painful.

It has been nightmarishly cold, covered with snow, blustery winds, salt covered sidewalks, negative temperatures, broken down buses, grimy snow piles, dirty boots and soggy jeans.

But, for those of you that have been reading for awhile, it has also been tough emotionally.

One of the roughest months I've endured in quite some time.

It has been brutally painful.

It has consisted of joblessness, financial stress, borrowing money from my parents, filing unemployment every two weeks, the meager check from the government, waiting for call backs, interviews, more interviews, more waiting and more waiting.

Sadly, it has also consisted of a broken heart, loneliness, wishing to turn back the clock, sobbing, questioning myself, anger, frustration, lack of affirmation, unanswered questions, missing something so badly that you know you can't have and self-doubt.

So, no. I won't be sorry to say goodbye to the miserable month that is January 2009.

I just wish that welcoming February into my life didn't include stealthily dodging the Walgreens aisle and the Victoria's Secret window filled with pink and red hearts, sappy cards, romantic dinners and candy. I've already lined up my girls to get together that night and drink too much, eat too much and laugh too much.

Let's hope that this time, too much will be just enough.

Goodbye January. Get outta here. Wave your urban snowman arms one last time.

You won't be missed.

Flip Flops and Goose Down?

In light of the changing seasons, I figured I'd take this opportunity to note a few things that have been on my mind.

It's that time of year when...

...people don't know how to dress, so you see some of everything. I passed a woman today in a sundress who was immediately followed by a man in a fleece coat and scarf.

...the allergies are fired up, and you hear people sniffling and sneezing all the way down the hall. Tis a good time to bring antibacterial gel on the CTA bus.

...it isn't warm, and it isn't cold, and it feels just right. Do I sound like Goldilocks? Well, I am.

...clients begin to panic because they haven't met their goals for the year, or they've spent all the money, or the didn't get the budget that they thought they would, and it is not that long until 2009, despite how far away that sounds.

...college football fans flock to the varied sports bars, dive bars and hole-in-the-wall bars to cheer on their favorite team. Alma mater be damned, sometimes you just want to cheer for the underdog. And, sometimes you are pitted against your friends. All in the name of a BCS championship.

...the retail market begins to glitter with the anticipation of all the holiday decor they have been waiting months to use. Well, at least since the last flags and other vestiges of July 4th came down. It is only a matter of time before there are pumpkins and witches and cauldrons everywhere, immediately followed by turkeys, only to be totally outdone by Santa and Christmas trees.

...it is much chillier in the morning and the evenings than it is in the middle of the day, making people dress in layers, strip off the top ones mid-day, only to redress before going home.

...the election coverage fills the broadcasts and the debates cause rifts between friends and family members across the good ole U.S. of A. I suppose we should be thankful that people are paying attention this year.

...the office buildings haven't yet adjusted to the changing temperatures, and are still pumping in the AC as if it were August 2nd. Which, incidentally, is almost always the hottest weekend of the year in Chicago, if my Lollapalooza experiences tell me anything.

...teachers finally have to go back to work, and they no longer bug you to go out for "just one drink" during the week because they've been so bored having to do nothing but read, shop and tan all day while you were at work.

...summer hours at the agency have come to an end and nothing feels longer than your first full 5-day work week after the Labor Day weeks go by. Counting down the hours until Friday.

...families begin to think about holiday travel, and my bank account goes into a near hyperventilative state in anticipation of all the plane tickets to buy.

...it would be wise to start making secret Christmas shopping lists, but that just seems way too organized. Unless the lists are gifts that I'd like to receive, since it is never to early to do that.

...you start thinking about your boyfriend's milestone birthday that is coming up and wondering how on earth you are going to surprise and/or excite the guy who isn't really looking forward to "getting old."

...you realize, quickly thereafter, that you also have a Q4 birthday and it is a tiny teeny smidge bit painful to admit what number you'll be checking on those pesky little doctor's office sign-in forms. This "early-thirties box" isn't all it is cracked up to be.

...the flowerpots and decorative landscaping on Michigan Avenue begin to transition from summery floral to late-year green, which will soon migrate into basic Christmas trees/winter pines/Northwoods greenery planters.

...the Cubs begin to lose and the entire North Side is still hopeful, silently praying, that the curse is broken and that this will still be our year. October just has to be ours!

...the Bears begin to play, and somehow manage to offer up a win against a top-tier team in the first week. Chicagoans know better than to count out a return to hibernation for the team.

...everything and everyone and every day is practically frozen in anticipation, fear and dread for what Old Man Winter will bring us this year. Chicagoans like to have the weather to complain about, granted, but seriously? We don't really need five straight months of snow and frigid wind to fill that blank void in our conversations. We'll figure out something else to discuss with strangers on the bus.

...Starbucks brings back the Pumpkin Spice Latte and their autumn color palette on the point-of-service materials, and somehow, that makes everything else seem okay.

It is really that time of year.

How to Commute to Chicago...in a Snowstorm

In an effort to share the highs and lows of blogging, as well as to momentarily travel back to the commuting theme, I present to you today a guest blogger. Yes, that pun was intended.

You know her from my previous posts. Elizabeth is one of The Posse, was part of the Costa Rica adventure, and has been featured many other times in blog posts, stories and references. She is a regular reader and a hilarious commenter. We've been friends since the 9th grade, despite the fact that at first, we were like oil and water. She quickly became one of my favorite people in the whole world, and I couldn't be happier that we're now in our 17th year of friendship.

So, I am proud to offer up today's post from Liz, in her words. My notes are in italics, because you know I can't keep quiet THIS LONG without saying at least a few things.

--
How to commute to Chicago...in a snow storm!
By Elizabeth Norris

In August 2006, Colleen's friends in Chicago, Jill and Josh, began contacting her friends, family and coworkers about throwing a surprise 30th birthday for her in December. Four months before the party date, there were 15 out of towners who had booked plane tickets for the big surprise. The bulk of the party goers were traveling from Atlanta, LA and St. Louis. Needless to say, everyone was very excited and found it challenging to keep the secret from Colleen. She's quite the crafty, nosy, smart girl...whatever you want to call it.

I'd call it sly and brilliant, but that's just me.

The party was scheduled for a Friday night, the first weekend in December, so most guests had plane flights departing their respective cities early in the morning. The Thursday before the party, a massive snow storm decided to visit Chicago.

Slam into the city is more like it!

This created a huge mess for travelers all over the country. Four girls traveling from Atlanta (me ---> Liz, Mandi, Heather, Lauren) were lucky to get on the 8 AM flight to Midway. This was the ONLY Delta flight out of Atlanta heading to Chicago that was not canceled that day. Lauren was using a buddy pass and made it on the flight at the last minute and was forced to ride First Class with our world traveler and Delta Sky Mile collector, Heather. Rough life.

We were so excited to be on our way to Chicago because a great panic had set in that we may not make it. The flight was marvelous and the smells of poop filled the plane. It seemed a passenger had a "grumpy" in the bathroom and it circulated throughout the air system of the plane. It even made its way to the cockpit and the pilots were phoning the Flight Attendants in the cabin asking what the hell was going on out there.

The plane made it to Chicago and circled and circled and circled. And then..landed in Indianapolis! Yeah! This is where everything got interesting.

The flight crew informed the passengers that:

a) the plane was returning to Atlanta, and
b) nobody was allowed to get off the plane.

Angry passengers began shouting and some finally just bailed past the flight attendants and left. One man, with carry-on luggage, kept saying that he'd rented an SUV and was driving to Chicago and demanded they let him off. He was quite attractive and was standing next to our first class passengers, Heather and Lauren.

In his frustration he began talking to Heather and explaining to her that he had a car and they could not hold him on the plane. Heather jokingly asks "well, can you take us to Chicago, too?" "No problem," he says, and pushes past the flight attendant and onto the jetway.

So long, Mr. Cute Man with the Rental Car.

At this point, it was clear that the crew could not hold us captive on the plane so we began crafting our getaway plan. We needed to know what would happen to our luggage if we got off in Indianapolis. Originally, Delta told us our luggage was going back to Atlanta—no questions asked. While this was not 100% appealing to us, we were ready to bail on our luggage and make-up for the entire weekend and hit the first H&M we saw. The excuse for a shopping spree was thrilling to us.

Side note: then, I broke the plane.

It was a very nice new plane but my booty broke it. I'm packin' some heat in the "trunk" for those of you that don't know me. Therefore, I plead genetic defect.

To sum it up, I was up in first class with Heather and Lauren, trying to feel superior and rich, leaning against the wall of the plane. I was leaning over with my hands on my knees, so I was applying a decent amount of pressure to the cabin wall. Next thing we heard was "POP" and the wall collapsed in a little. I have concaved the wall and separated a seam of the airplane wall. Freaking genius. I knew Delta was gonna make me clean out barf bags and pick up tiny peanuts 'til I paid for the damage. Luckily, I used my massive rear to conceal the damage from the crew.

Remember, this is Liz talking. My booty isn't quite this powerful.

At this time, 45 minutes had passed since we'd landed and Delta finally said that we could all get off the plane. They agreed to unload all our luggage and said they were trying to organize buses to Chicago. These buses were going to be there to pick us up who knows when (they were predicting 3+ hours). The plane was still going back to Atlanta for those who would like that option.

Poor Lauren, with her buddy pass status, knew that her chances of getting on a flight back to Atlanta from Chicago on Sunday were slim. She could have been stranded there 'til mid- week. So we waved good bye to our friend as she headed off to complete the most pointless plane trip of her life.

We exited the plane, celebrating our escape, but wondering how we were supposed to get to Chicago. As we left the jetway we saw a beam of light from the sky that created a glow around...Mr. Cute Man with the Rental Car!

The Hallelujah Chorus was heard in the background and we ran in slow motion toward him with our arms outstretched. Ok...not really, but that's how it felt when we saw him still waiting at the gate for us. He was with a flight attendant who had been riding as a passenger next to Heather and Lauren. She also needed a ride to Chicago. The two of them had waited on me, Mandi and Heather, and we could not believe our luck.

Doesn't hurt that I have attractive friends.

We grabbed our luggage and all piled into the mid-size SUV rental car. There was a snowstorm going on and we had a two-hour drive to Chicago. A two-hour ride with strangers is something I recommend everyone do. It was quite the experience. I learned that Indiana is flat...VERY flat. We talked a lot about Colleen's party and how we'd been friends for so long. We knew almost all flights into Chicago were canceled and were keeping our fingers crossed that all the other party guests were going to make it.

Throughout the ride, Rob (AKA Mr. Cute Man with the Rental Car) was getting a lot of business phone calls. We could tell he had an interesting job so we all began quietly trying and figure it out amongst ourselves. Even the flight attendant in the front seat was turned around whispering to us. It was very funny.

Finally, one of us just asked him what line of work he was in. He replied, "I'm a reporter for Dateline." THE Dateline we were all thinking? Yep...THE Dateline that, at the time, was on NBC two or more times a week. His name is Rob Stafford, and he lived in Chicago. He currently does the weekend news for NBC5 News in Chicago, and yes...he's pretty darn cute and charming.

We talked about some of the stories he'd covered. In Georgia, he did a special on the Bart Corbin trial and the Amy Yates investigation. He explained that his phone calls were with a P.I. he was working with trying to locate a suspect. They were plotting how they could approach him with cameras at his job and confront him about the murder of his girlfriend. Rob had worked for Dateline for ten years and knew Stone Phillips, Chris Hanson and Ann Curry quite well. He was a mini-celebrity who had saved us from Indianapolis and nicely driven us to Midway.

He dropped the four of us off and Midway and rode off into the sunset.

Considering that we had gotten about 12 inches of snow that morning, let's assume this is the proverbial sunset, ok?

Not sure if Rob even knows what his generosity meant to us that day. How many grown men would even volunteer for a long car ride with some giggly girls excited about a surprise party, drinking the night away and a cheap clothing store? Brave soul. I bet his wife is pretty cool...like us.

We shared a taxi to the city with the flight attendant and made our way to our friend Jenny's Dad's condo on LaSalle St. Jenny had arrived the day before and avoided Snow Storm '06.

Sadly, the four of us were the only out of town guests who made it. Colleen's parents and sister were stranded in the Atlanta airport for more than 13 hours, Aunts and cousins never left St. Louis, a friend didn't make it out of South Carolina, an Aunt and Uncle didn't make it from Michigan and old friends and more cousins never made it off the ground in LA.

What was going to be 15 strong had become only 4 visitors from out of town. But, three of us had managed to write our own version of planes, trains and automobiles. Quite the unexpected but memorable adventure!

Luckily, Colleen is blessed with a wonderful group of friends in Chicago. There was no shortage of people at the party and we had a great time. If Colleen is brave enough she'll post the video of her running in and seeing the four members of "The Posse" in the room. I highly recommend watching this bit of comedy. Judging by her reaction it's probably a good thing all 15 out of town guests weren't there. I'm not sure she could have taken it!
--

Thanks, Liz! She's right. However, it was one of the best days of my life. What a surprise. And, what amazing friends I have! Somewhat embarrassingly begrudgingly, here's the video of my arrival. All my friends are tucked behind the camera-girl hiding behind the bar. Laugh away.

Yes. I'm prancing. That is some gen-u-wine emotion, people. And, my guest blogger Liz is the one in the black short sleeved blouse with the loud contagious laugh.

Happy Birthday Colleen


The best girlfriends anyone could ask for
Even considering the foot of snow and the ruined travels, it was fabulous. Everyone should be so lucky.
-Colleen

It Is More than Just the Corn Dog

For those in my life who continuously ask me why I put up with Chicago's dreadful winters, I have one simple answer.

Summer.

This weekend was the epitome of why Chicagoans stay. Why we can stand it. Why we suffer through six (eight?) long months of torturously cold air, deep snow drifts, mushy melting snow, ice falling off of city buildings, wind gusts that kidnap your best new winter fuzzy hat and all other things Chicago.

Friday meant summer hours. Which is the adult equivalent to early release you had as a grade-schooler. Ha ha! The teachers have to stay late to finalize report cards?! Ha ha! I'm off to frolick in the neighborhood, pick up a huge game of kick-the-can and eat a melty snow cone on the driveway bought for a dollar from the ice cream man.

Leaving work at 3:30 on Friday meant for me, that I could wander down Michigan Avenue, leisurely window shopping (I'm on personal-spending-sabbatical since returning from Costa Rica), and hopping on the uncrowded, air conditioned bus to head north, while passing by the lake, the beach and the park, all filled with summer tourists and hookey-players.

Arriving at home, I was almost at a loss for how to spend my time. I voted for taking the book up onto the roof deck to enjoy the last few rays of sunshine before the clouds rolled in. Delightful. The breeze and the view combined made it hard to stay focused on the book's rather dry plot, but I endured.

Then it was time to grocery shop for dinner, the long slow meal I'd prepare for my adorably willing eating participant. He arrived to find me gloating about my fresh fruit purchases, only to have me hand him a Goose Island Summertime Ale (brewed right here in the best city on earth) and sit on the sofa to luxuriate in the delicious summer breeze.

Brett makes cooking fun—mostly because I am a total rookie, and when I manage to get it all finished on time, hot all at once!, served on a plate with some sense of artistic flourish, he rants and raves and licks his lips and asks for seconds and thirds and rubs his belly in satisfied bliss after the meal, stating that I was the next Julia Childs. I'd prefer Giada de Laurentiis, but I'm not picky.

Anyway, the meal was great (thanks to Liz's recipe for ranch chicken, Jill's recipe for couch potatoes and Jewel's freshest asparagus and fluffy breads), and we both marveled at my growing domesticity. Movie night with the air conditioning on, under a blanket, was the perfect way to unwind after a newly busy week (the first one back from vacation hurts a lot, to be honest).

Saturday, the sun was shining and the beach was beckoning. When I tell people I live on Lake Shore, I mean it. I literally live on the street that lines Lake Michigan, and that equals beach front. We filled a cooler with aforementioned Goose Island beer (contraband, but we brought Solo cups!) and walked to the beach. Spreading out the towels, I couldn't help but feel in awe of this amazingly situated beach—directly at the base of the city's footprint, though luckily, not in its shadow—and the people that filled it to the water's edge. Which, incidentally, was freezing. The breeze made the 83 degree temps downright lovely.

That evening I co-hosted a 30th birthday/bachelorette party for my dear friend Jill, consisting of berry vodka spritzers (from an O magazine recipe), lingerie (Hanky Pankys galore!) and great snacks. We then walked through the tree-lined streets over to Bucktown's famed six-corner intersection for a lovely meal at Francesca's Forno. We dined and dined and dined, leaving the table fully sated and a little sleepy, at 11 pm.

Heading next door, we entered The Violet Hour, a hip new bar that resembles a SoHo club with no signage, velvet curtains, crystal chandeliers and cyan leather booths. The cocktails are specialty, and you pay a premium. The highlight may be the fact that while we waited in line (all part of the strategy) to enter, we captured part of the Chicago Naked Bike Ride, an annual event that protests oil dependence and fosters positive self image. Hilarious. Put it this way—very few people look good naked on a bike. Not a good day to be a bike seat, let me tell you. It was a wonderful girls evening to celebrate a very special friend and her many 2008 milestones.

Sunday was yet another gorgeous day. Despite the "threat" of storms, the clouds held off and provided an ample breeze for our attendance at the Wells Street Art Festival, one of my favorite Chicago events. Traipsing through the tents, we were able to Ooh and Aaah at the variety of artistic talents, even buying a small piece here and there. I do think that Brett and Mark enjoyed the food tents the best, but I was happy with the entire day's selections. And, I had a corn dog. When's the last time you had a corn dog?!

Capping off a fabulous Chicago summer weekend, we walked down Michigan Avenue to the closest movie theater, and enjoyed the cool breeze of the air conditioned theater. The movie totally sucked, but the evening was great and my mood couldn't be altered by such a lame excuse for cinema. Walking home, we plotted to order some yummy dinner, which was enjoyed while watching a great TV movie with the breezes blowing in through the opened windows.

All in all, this weekend was filled with good friends, amazing weather, cultural activities, lots of walking, beach time, city time, excellent foods and great beverages.

That, my friends, is why I live here.

Vibrant Reality, Short-lived

As is traditional for the month of May in Chicago, the tulips are in full bloom up and down Michigan Avenue. They are a gorgeous metaphor for summer in this city, in my mind.

You anticipate their arrival for months, waiting as the snow melts, the landscapers prepare the beds, the sun warms the frigid pavement and the bulbs are planted.

When the do arrive, they burst onto the scene with a delightful vengence, causing tourists and Chicagoans alike to proclaim their beauty, wear silly shorts and Cubs hats, capture their wide range of colors on film, soak in as much time outdoors as they can and revel in their brilliance.

They don't stick around for long, however, so you best enjoy them while they last. Milk their presence here as much as you can. Treasure the days that are full of vibrant color, long hours of sunlight and the abundance of leisurely outdoor activities.

Toward the end of their time, the tulips begin to wilt, sway in the wind and sag towards the ground, bowing down to the inevitable reality that is their demise. The calendar doesn't lie, despite our every effort to delay the reality of the seasonal change. The expense of having planted them is questioned, as the time they were here was so brief. But deep in your heart, you know it was worth it.

And, then they're gone.

Sadly, and yet patiently, you must wait a full year to experience their glory yet again. But the anticipation is sweet, the countdown is boisterous and the sheer fact of their existence in the city makes it all worthwhile.

If only summer arrived in May along with the gorgeous flowers. Can a landscape crew get on that, please?

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.

Jumbled Thoughts

I present you with a stream of consciousness list, rather than a story. This may be more telling than anything else anyway as to where my mind is today.

Why is it that you can be underwhelmed and overwhelmed, but never just whelmed?

I just saw a t-shirt at Nordstrom that says, "Internet killed the mix tape star." and found that to be a rather clever and modernized play on "Video killed the radio star." Though mix tapes were really dead when the recordable CD came along, now weren't they?

My sister hung out with Patrick Dempsey at the NASCAR races in Miami this weekend, and she says he's not only a nice man, he seems like a regular guy. With great hair and sparkly eyes. It is sad that it always comes as a shock to find out that a celebrity can actually be a kind human being. Why do we let the others get away with their sub-standard behavior?

I miss my friends from home. With all of the social networking sites around, I get to see updated photos and hear their news on a regular basis, but there is nothing quite like sitting around drinking some cheap wine and laughing about old times. The unique bond that comes from having known each other since we were in elementary school doesn't go away, and as the years tick on, and the milestones of life continue to pass by, the one constant is that we always have each other. That makes me feel all warm inside, kindof like a tequila shot, but without the hangover.

Marking projects/tasks off a to-do list probably shouldn't bring me such joy, but I can't help it. If I complete a weekend task that wasn't on the list, I add it, just so I can mark it off. It is a disease, I'm fairly certain.

Can't help but wish I'd named this blog something a little more general, and something that rolls off the tongue a bit better than this alliteration disaster I have. Wonder if it would be too much trouble to change it, and if not, what would be the right name?

How can the meterologists continue to flub on the forecast? Last night, at approximately 10 pm, on the local news they proudly and boldly proclaimed that it would be 66 and partly cloudy today. It is currently 45 and raining. Didn't they see that moving mass of rainy stuff on their fancy schmancy Doppler radars?

The Cubs have their first home opener at Wrigley today, and I must admit I'm not jealous of the dedicated fans who are sitting in their royal blue and white ponchos waiting out the rain delay. Although a kosher hot dog with grilled onions wouldn't hurt anyone.

Should this marketing thing not work out, I think I have a future in a barber shop. I was taught how to cut hair with the men's clippers this weekend, and surprisingly, was trusted to do so. I'm a beauty school star in the making.

I was disappointed in "The Darjeeling Limited" and despite Wes Anderson's direction, the movie fell flat for me. And, there was a snake in 3 scenes, which didn't help.

Gummy bears don't sit well on an empty stomach. Leftover movie candy is filling our work kitchen after the office's "snack and learn" showing of the documentary "Helvetica" on Friday. It is torture to walk by, and the gummy bears just seem to keep following me back to my office. If I shut my door they may just stay outside. Until I open it, save them from their lonely existence and send them to their doom. In my aching stomach.

And, there are 62 days left until I go to Costa Rica. It sounds like less time when you count it in days, I assure you. I've tried both ways. The "turn the page on the calendar day" always feels like an accomplishment.

Go on. Turn the month page a day early. You rebel you.

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.

70% is Almost Failing

Today's news announced that in the last 61 days, it has snowed 43 of them in Chicago. Not all of that was big snows, but some traceable amounts have been recorded in 43 of 61 days. That's 70%.

And is it any wonder that people get a tad bit crabby around this time? It FEELS like it should be Spring, the calendar makes us THINK it is around the corner, and turning back the clocks made it even SEEM closer than ever.

But I think we're all fooling ourselves.

Pretty hard to believe that Lake Michigan ever gets warm enough to swim in it—if you're willing to dodge the garbage and ignore the E. Coli, that is.

Photo taken in Waveland Park yesterday. I resisted the urge to lick the posts.

We Get It, Southerners

The tourism bureau for the state of South Carolina is running a huge advertising push here in Chicago right now. There are transit ads on the buses, trolley wraps, billboards and street banners. The entire city is covered in their stuff.

One of the trolleys was wearing a whole outfit of ads today, and the side said, "We have white stuff too. It's called sand." and the back said, "No ice on the roads. Just in the sweet tea."

I'm from the south, and work in an ad agency, so I can say with confidence that clearly both of the statements are true, and resonate with their audience, which is the entire point. And, they stuck with me long enough to write about them here, which is any client's dream.

However, I doubt the creative director was looking for this response from its target:

"Yeah, we get it. Way to rub it in."

I think I'm bitter. Like the bourbon they use in the mint juleps.

Not Just a River in Egypt

Every year, about this time, it happens to me.

I start planning vacations.

I think it has something to do with the fact that there is a little minus sign in front of our daily temperatures, and I actually forget what sunshine on my shoulders feels like. The freckles from last year are still there, and they sadly stand out far more on white Irish winter skin than I'd like. They're begging for more friends. Get in the sun, woman!

So...I have officially booked a trip to Los Angeles for the weekend of March 1st, and that can't come soon enough. But, frankly, the upper 60s, while a huge departure from our weather, aren't quite the daily highs I'm after.

Therefore, and quite proudly, I have agreed to go to Costa Rica for the first week of the summer. I know, I know. It should have been an easy decision. The flights just dropped in price drastically from the ones in November when I was looking before, and now they are more than affordable. So, I pulled the trigger. The trip isn't until May 31, but will mean a whole 7 days in a tropical paradise, surrounded by my best friends from elementary school and their husbands. I can hardly wait.

I think that this vacation urge comes from several places: one part denial that winter is really this long in Chicago, one part needing something to look forward to, one part giving myself a reason to get out of bed each of these dreary days. And, who am I kidding, an excuse to buy guidebooks (I'm a dork), more bathing suits (ugh) and a few choice "vacation-wear" sundresses and sunglasses (woohoo!).

And, anyone who knows me would also tell me that they think I just like having something to plan. Some reason to put huge red marker Xs on my calendar. For a whole amazing long week. Yes, I actually do pull out the Sharpie and go to town. Try it—it feels fantastic.

After my girls vacation to Mexico last November, we all vowed to treat ourselves each year.

Give those freckles some friends. And now I'm doing it.

Figured I'd share the love and post some photos of the house we'll be staying in while visiting Costa Rica. Not too shabby!








I know. I'm cruel.

On the Job

The weather forecasters predicted that we would get 6-12" of snow starting at 6 pm last night. They made a huge deal about how bad the commute would be last night, and again this morning.

They, once again, were wrong. Even Tom Skilling on WGN was all mixed up! Who can you trust?!

We awoke to find nothing more than some wet pavements, light sleet and heavy winds. Not the huge snowfall they'd promised (or scared us with).

It got me thinking. What other jobs can you be so bad at, and wrong so much of the time, and yet still get paid? I recall a story about the mayor in Moscow declaring that he was going to begin fining the weathermen if they were wrong, to raise funds for more weather data centers. A little harsh, but hey, it's Russia.

Seems like kindof a keen idea. Hold people accountable. I know that if I were completely unprepared and incorrect in fulfilling the entirety of my job description, I'd be looking elsewhere for employment.

And, while on the topic of jobs, employment and total failures, I was thinking about how strange it would be to be the current President of the United States. Politics aside (sortof), President Bush has been doing a job for a little over 7 years now. For the next 10 months he has to (or rather, gets to?) watch others battle ferociously for his job.

Wouldn't that be awkward in the typical office situation?

Sure, take my job. Battle that guy for it. Spend all your money doing it, and make a fool of yourself once or twice along the way. Heck, drag your entire families through the mud while you're at it. Don't sleep for nearly a year, and travel on huge busses, planes and trains to every small dinky little town in America, pretending you care (or know where the heck you are). Watch as your former classmates, lovers, roommates, and distant family members unveil your dirty little secrets and shed light on all of the skeletons in your closet. Pack all of your things, and just move right in. To my office, and my home. Kick me completely to the curb.

Just take my job. Please?

The "please" is how I assume President Bush must feel. At least the election takes the spotlight, and some of the pressure, off of him.

For now.

At least until his next live (candid or otherwise) speech.

More Room in the Fridge

Ok, I'll admit it. I'm an optimist.

I like to see the best in every situation, and sometimes it takes a bit of hard work to find it, and other times you just know.

This time was obvious.

Forget the wet jeans. Ignore the grey slush along every curb. Just disregard the salty roads and filthy cars. Totally let yourself get past the fridgid wind and horrid temperatures.

Enter: the optimist.

One reason to love huge snow storms, and the cold winters here in Chicago, is the simple fact that when hosting a party you can fit more in the fridge.

Why is that, you ask? Are the refrigerators bigger here? Nope.

Because there are front balconies* and back porches that keep your beer nice and cold. Throw a cooler out there filled with beer, and let the snow do its thing.

Although, to be honest, there have been a few frozen bottles when you forget about the poor beverages too long, but hey, a beer slushie never hurt anyone.

Maybe 7 Eleven should serve that flavor?

*Yes, that is an actual photo taken on the front balcony of a friend's apartment last night during the Super Bowl. Made the trips to the fridge a lot less frequent, and cut down on the chances that you'd lose your seat on the couch. I love snow.

One Milkshake Please

It is just too cold to be clever or smart today.

I stood outside for 25 minutes waiting for the bus that would never come. The windchills are somewhere near deathly cold below zero sneaking up on hypothermia stage why am I not in bed under my down comforter degrees. Yes, that is a real measurement.

Each passing cab I let go by I just cursed myself for being too cheap to spend the $15 to get to work.

As you can guess, I finally got here, and am just now thawing out. My mind, however, is still on "brain freeze" like when you slurp a milkshake too quickly.

Yum. Maybe a cold milkshake would make the weather seem not so brutal?

Do they deliver?

Who Knew?

Before I even go into this one, I must explain the genesis of this post. Since the high today is 1 degree with windchills at approximately -14 degrees (I know, totally ridiculous), I am wearing not only my standard go-to wool scarf tucked underneath my North Face down coat, but also a fuzzy "magic scarf" tied over the coat to add extra warmth.

If you're unfamiliar with the appearance of the magic scarf, let me explain.

It is a scarf made of this hilariously furry, stretchy synthetic material that greatly resembles a Muppet. Mine is yellow, but if it were red, I'd look like I had Elmo tied around my neck.

Which brings me to this comment.

My coworker Chris, while kindly ripping on my scarf choice, noted that Elmo has quite a bit of mystique for such a lightweight, tiny-voiced puppet. The man who voices the Sesame Street icon, Kevin Clash, is not a small person, not a tiny, youthful effeminate vocal talent, but a large, handsome, distinguished black man in his 40s. (Evidence above).

I love this. The aforementioned coworker likened him to the AllState celebrity endorser—you know the one—that man whose deep baritone voice and commanding presence not only make you want to switch your car insurance, but makes you trust him implicitly with all of your life-changing decisions.

Or maybe that's just me.

But, this hidden gem about Elmo reminds me, yet again, to never judge a book by its cover.

Or, a muppet by its vocal range.

As if I Needed This

Last night, I reached into the pocket of a lightweight coat I haven't worn in a while, and found the lip balm that I purchased while vacationing in the Mayan Riviera, Mexico, in early November.

It's a great, basic lip balm, with a solid 30 SPF, and I was glad to find it. It's a Mexican brand, and the words are all in Spanish, which lends it some "international coolness."

I immediately open the cap to put some on my sadly winterized chapped lips, only to realize something very bittersweet.

It was covered in sand.

Not pocket lint. Not dust. Not dirt.

Mexican beach sand.

Torture. As if I needed that, while the snow and temperatures continue to fall here in Chicago. All I could do was take that opportunity to daydream about how perfecto our trip was, and mentally plan my next warm weather vacation.

And, yes, I used it anyway. That's what thumbs are for.

Hole in One (Street)

A 36-inch, 100-year-old water main burst overnight, leaving a 15-foot-deep hole in Montrose Avenue that measures about 80 feet in diameter.

This could be blamed for some of today's horrendous traffic. Or, it could be that people took MLK day off, and somehow, over the course of the 3-day weekend, totally forgot how to drive?

Because it just couldn't be the not-even-2-inches of snow we got last night.

Could it?

Heat Wave

With temperatures reaching above 60 yesterday and today, Chicago is experiencing a relative heat wave.

I even saw people wearing short sleeves and no coats today! Those crazies will milk 48 hours of warm weather if you give 'em a chance. This must be what Al Gore's been talking about?

Although, they're forecasting snow by the weekend.

Now that's more like it.