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.

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.

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.

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.

In Severe Denial

I saw the forecast for this coming week, and it sure looks interesting. The week view had a lot of those precious dancing snowflakes spattered across every other day.

And, the high temp for Saturday is set to be 9 degrees. NINE? Are we sure that is Farenheit?

What am I supposed to do with that little nugget of info? Become a hermit? Buy stock in a hot cocoa company? Hole up at home and refuse to leave the bed?

I'd rather not know.

Mob Mentality

As I rode the slow bus south on Lake Shore Drive today, I couldn't help but stare out the west windows through the 1/2 inch coating of snow and ice and salt and smog and general urban grime that covers the bus.

As we approached the southern end of Diversey Harbor, I noticed something quite funny. Maybe it was just me.

There were hundreds of geese huddled on the patches of ice that floated throughout the water. Most of the harbor is solid, but there were huge parts that had either broken free, or never fully froze for whatever reason.

The geese were all crowded around, hanging out, just chilling along the edges of the unfrozen parts (in my mind huddling to stay warm), but I did see one or two lone birds swimming in the water. Remember, it was 0 degrees as I left for work at 7:30 this morning...not exactly a balmy swim.

The one or two lone birds—what's their story? Are they rebels? Early adopters? Polar Plunge '08 contestants? Peer pressured into taking a dip? Pushed in by the Bully Goose?

I could almost hear the other geese taunting them..."Go on, you funny-feathered wimps! Get in! It can't be THAT cold!"

Fallen Angel

Tonight as I drove home in the cold sleet and fog from having a lovely, cozy dinner with Jill and Josh, I pulled up to the stoplight at Addison and Clark Street. This, for you Chicago residents, is the corner that boasts the legendary Wrigley Field.

The sleet was thick on the windshield, so I engaged the wipers, and saw a white figure in the dark. At first, I thought I was seeing a ghost. I pulled up a little bit, into the street lamps of Clark Street, and realized it wasn't a ghost, it was a Chicago icon, teetering about in the mist. Bouncing off of the cement of the Field's back walls.

It was Ronnie Woo Woo.

He was, and I kid you not, wearing his full Cubs uniform (the home jersey) and was wearing a red, floppy felt Santa hat, and a frayed, wooly blue Chicago Bears scarf. But, with the white jersey and the striped tight pants, there was no mistaking him.

It was Ronnie Woo Woo.

(For you non-Chicago residents or non-Cubs fans, Ronnie Woo Woo is a Chicago sports legend, one that ranks, in fame at least, up there with Ryne Sandberg and Harry Caray. He's the fan, who was once a homeless alcoholic, who convinced his way into so many Cubs home games that he became a part of the Field. Sortof like the ivy. Or the beer stench. He was always there. He roamed the outfield bleachers, shouting, "Cubs Woo. Cubs Woo. Cubs Woo." in the same monotone, high-pitched voice of a strange fan. He is dedicated. And, a bit strange.)

About 2 years ago, I had been invited to the game by my friend Tim, and we went for post-game drinks at the local Cubs bar across the street after the final inning (and the invevitable Cubs loss.) There, we had the rare and celebrated opportunity to meet Ronnie Woo Woo in person.

Kristen and I, both the ever-curious writers who had imbibed a few that day, asked him..."Why the Woo, Ronnie?" He explained, through his newly purchased dentures (Care of Cubs Care, the philanthropic arm of the Clubhouse), that he hadn't missed a home game since the early 60's. He means it. He began his famous chant, "Cubs Woo. Cubs Woo. Cubs Woo." many years ago, and keeps it up today.

I don't know how he does it, or why, more to the point, but he is now famous for this role. And his claim to fame still stands. I think a movie was even made about him.

So, tonight, you can imagine the disappointment. I was shocked, saddened, and a little grieved to see him wandering alone on the sidewalk, in the shadow of his beloved home field, in the cold mist on a Sunday night in the dark. He had claimed to have been a recovering alcoholic (that night at the bar he only chose to sip lemonade) and I believed him. Every slippery word.

But, tonight, a cold night in December, mind you, the sullen truth is, who knows. I was sad. I was a bit surprised. I wanted to pick him up, warm him up, sober him up, and take him home for some warm cider and shelled peanuts. But, it was not to be.

Truthfully, it was like the day I found out Santa wasn't real.

Frankly, I still choose to believe. In Santa, and Ronnie Woo Woo.