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.

A Favor to all Chicagoans

An open letter to all Chicago cab drivers:

Dear Cabbies,

I have been your passenger on a regular basis now for almost eight years, and frankly, I have a few things to say. Take them with a grain of salt, but seriously, you guys could use a little advice.

1. Wear deodorant. Or invest in one of those hanging things that smells like a rotten cherry. This one goes without necessary explanation, but is for the betterment of all those who enter.

2. Toughen up. Don't be afraid of a few harmless sneezes. I cover my mouth every time.

3. Obey, or at least hover in the vicinity of, the speed limits posted. Otherwise, your passenger may get sick in the back of your cab, and no one wants that. Your name is not Dale Earnhardt Jr.

4. Know where you're going. If I sat at my desk and acted as clueless as you guys are on the job, I'd be fired.

5. Be prepared. Don't get mad at me for having only a $20 bill. It is part of your job description to make change, and until you can force ATMs to spit out smaller bills, make the change. Or be prepared to receive a half of a twenty.

6. Lay off the horn. It isn't necessary, it doesn't help, and it is supremely annoying to those inside and outside your vehicle.

7. Cool your jets. The selfishness and animosity you express towards your fellow drivers when you're racing for your next fare is only causing you grief. There will be someone else ready to hail you for your services right behind me, and I saw that guy first. No, still not a good enough reason to honk. Or stare. Or wave those little finger(s). Trust me, this much anxiety isn't good for you.

8. Leave me be. Don't honk at me while I'm standing/walking/loitering on the sidewalk. If I need a cab, I'll hail one. I was blessed with two arms for a reason.

9. Fix the air conditioning. It says right there on that little plastic city-issued plaque that a passenger reserves the right to ride in comfort, and when I'm sticking to the pleather seats and the windows are all down, my hair sticks in my lip gloss, and that's just unpleasant all around.

10. Pony up. Get used to the idea that people are going to take advantage of the credit card option. It is a law for you to accept them, and I don't appreciate the moaning when I do need to use one, either for business or personal travel (mostly to the airport where the fare is $40). I'll tip you better if I'm not digging for change with which to do so. The credit card purchase never feel like real money anyway.

11. Please, please, get your anger under control. When you have an argument and a near fist fight with an airport traffic cop while I'm in the back seat, it is just awkward for everyone.

12. Lay off the Johnson. Under no circumstances should you be fondling yourself while you drive. If you need some alone time with your thingy, please pull over and take a break. And, wash your hands afterwards, if you please.

13. Stay awake. I feel like this one doesn't require further explanation, seeing that you're operating a heavy piece of vehicular machinery, but clearly I must remind you of that fact.

14. Sum it up. Hit the total button on the meter when we arrive at the destination. That pesky city-approved gas add-on just throws me off, and the fees for extra passengers aren't helping. I can do math on a normal Tuesday afternoon, but after a few beers on a Saturday night? Let's not push it.

There you have it. My simple advice to you, from the heart. I'm a good tipper—you'll like me if you give my suggestions a fighting chance.

Now let's all just get along.

Kind regards,

Chicago Commuter Colleen

Tuesday Morning Cartoons

Sometimes it doesn't take much to get me to giggle. Take this morning, for instance.

As the bus pulled up, I anticipated the usual monotone, computerized voice to tell me what route I was boarding. Instead, I was treated to a case of the cartoon voice in a garbled, Chipmunks high-speed, high-pitched delivery. You couldn't even make out one word.

I laughed out loud. The bus driver just smiled, shook his head and said, "I'm driving the Looney Toons bus today."

Then, I tried to pass my ChicagoCard in front of the card reader to pay my fare, and the bus driver chimed in again, "It's broken. Free ride on the Looney Toons express, honey." Score!

So, I giggled again and sat down.

The best part was when the automated, computerized messages came on every block or so. The entire bus broke into laughter as the Chipmunks on crack delivered some standard message about being polite while using your cell phone, or exiting through the rear of the bus. It is nice to hear a large group of usually quiet, grumpy and introverted commuters giggling in a symphony of pleasant noises. Rare, and nice.

It was a great way to start the day.

I only wish I had audio recorded the message so you could all bear witness, and get a free laugh outta me.

Next time, I promise. That's all folks!

Hello Mr. Johnson

If you've been keeping up with the blog comments, you'll note that there have been multiple requests for me to detail the stories of my many penis sightings while commuting in Chicago.

I know, I know. Just swallow the coffee before it sprays all over the keyboard and electrocutes you. It's not quite like that.

But, apparently these stories carry an interest factor that is timeless, or my friends just wanted to see if I would actually type the word penis on a blog. Well, done and done.

What they don't realize, or have forgotten altogether, is that I DID share these stories back in September on my 7-year Chicago anniversary post. Maybe I didn't give them quite the flavor or texture that was requested? I'll repost, and start adding in the colorful details that make me "famous" as a storyteller. And, don't worry, when typing a story, I don't NEED any backtracks, so I will stay on track.

Here goes. I apologize in advance if you're prone to a sensitive stomach, or if you're reading these before you've fully digested that bagel and cream cheese.

I was flashed once on the El on the orange line to Midway Airport.

On a Tuesday morning. At about 8:30 in the morning, with the sun shining and the city gleaming. It isn't exactly prime "look out for predators" time of day. Or so I thought.

I was seated, with headphones and sunglasses and two pieces of luggage, when the loser crossed into my car, chose the seat kitty-corner to mine (about 5 feet away in linear distance) and proceeded to just stare at me. I should have known something was up—who crosses cars on the El unless you're peddling bad poetry or simply begging for dollars? It didn't help my cause any that there were few other passengers on this train car, and with each passing station, the numbers shrank. Pretty soon it was just him and me.

At any rate, this guy, let's call him Carlos, sat near me, close enough that I could smell his dime store cologne. I ignored him as much as I could, but my instincts were peaked, and the little tremors of "a gut feeling" began to fill my body. He sat there and just treated me to a nasty sneer while he began fondling himself.

I then realize he's getting into it—and was removing his penis—ugh, the word is starting to creep me out in this context; let's call it a member instead—from his pants to get a better handle on the situation. (The bad puns just roll right out of me, I can't help it).

This went on for a few minutes while I tried to stare nonchalantly out the window (they just want a rise out of you—and their member!) I ignored him quite well for about 10 minutes, which felt like 10 days. He stood up at the Pulaski stop, continued flogging, while standing facing me, holding onto the bar right by the door, and smiled.

He then got off (literally).

I was shaking. All the way home to Atlanta, where I debated telling my suburban mother the drama. I told her. She even let me come back to Chicago when the visit was over.

Satisfied? Want MORE public penis sightings?!?!

Well, lucky for you, I have another one.

Some time later, fully recovered from the El flashing incident, I was entering a cab (into the backseat, with three other girls) and one girl climbed in front with the driver, as is the custom when cramming that many people into a taxi.

The glass partition was open, but only allows the backseat passengers a glimpse of what's going on in front, thank God.

My friend up front starts shouting, "OH MY GOD, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!!?"

And we lean forward, and realize the guy is pleasuring himself IN THE DRIVER'S SEAT. Into a hankerchief. With passengers.

It was all too much—my friend shouts at us to "get out get out get out get out get out" and we do. I hurled a solid "why did you stop to pick us up if you were clearly preoccupied?!?!" at the driver as we stood on the corner and shook off the grossness of it all. Needless to say, the crowd of guys on the corner were interested, and equally mortified, by the incident. Or at least they put on a good face for it all.

Disappointingly, calling the cops was no help—we even had the cab number, date/time of the "incident" and everything ready. But, they wanted us to ride around with them all night to track down the guy and "catch him in the act."

Uh, yeah, already been there and done that. No thank you.

There you have it. A double dose of penis on a Wednesday. They don't call it Hump Day for nuthin'.

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?

Almost Famous

I walked right through the set of a motion picture this morning.

No, I didn't miss my flight back from LA. And, yes, I was fully awake.

In fact, I was dressed and on my way to work. Sure throws off that "she was just having a dream" theory. I had just crossed the bridge over the Chicago River, and then I see the ginormous movie camera on a huge black pivoting thingy. My cousin "in the biz" says that's called a crane camera. Ok then.

I see the crane camera, and then spot the sign below that says something about a motion picture being filmed, and that they're not held responsible if you are caught on camera doing something stupid like picking your nose. Or wearing ugly shoes. They're not liable.

As you may expect, I love movies, television and am especially fond of anything that involves showing Chicago off to the world. Only if it makes our fair city look good. Which, incidentally, half the time it does not. It was NEVER summer on "ER" and "Save the Last Dance" makes this city appear totally and completely dank, dark, scary and gang-infested. Which a lot of it is not.

I digress.

So, back to the set. I was quite pleased that they didn't stop me from walking through, but rather allowed me to enter the set, and cross through the "action" even after the director shouted just that.

Quiet on the set! We have a REAL LIVE CHICAGO COMMUTER COMING THROUGH. Oooh. I add authenticity.

Anyway, I didn't recognize the actors, but did notice that one guy had fake tears running down his face. Or was that the cold wind? The female actor was watching me walk, and in my head, she was thinking "that's just what I would be wearing if I worked at a cool Michigan Avenue ad agency." Yeah, probably not. She was probably eyeing the craft services table and was musing on her next latte purchase from Starbucks. But a girl can imagine, can't she?

I was secretly thrilled to be wearing my sunglasses (for that added vibe), and was really glad I'd put in the extra 10 minutes to straighten my hair. And put on lipstick.

Because you just can't risk looking dowdy, homely or otherwise unhip when your 10-seconds of fame hits the editing room floor.

Plain By Comparison

I thought my life here in Chicago was pretty interesting.

Eventful and noteworthy, even.

That was until I got a text message last night from my beautiful and hilariously talented cousin Molly who now lives in L.A., works in television writing for one of the late night comedians. She hob-nobs with stars so often that she doesn't even think the stories are worth telling anymore.

The text said this, word for word:
___

Just nearly got plowed over by paparazzi. Four choppers circling above. Hundreds of people racing on Sunset. Britney is on the loose. That girl is crazy.
___

Yeah. Commuting on the CTA doesn't compare.

And, something tells me that my trips down Michigan Avenue won't ever appear on Extra or TMZ.

Thank God. I'd hate for someone to shove a camera in my face each morning and post the evidence in magazines under the caption, "Stars are Just Like Us - they hate winter!"

Or something far worse. Like a comment about my outfit (ok, so I didn't really try this morning) or my frizzy hair (it's dry out, people!), or the fact that I'm wearing last year's shoes (the horror!), or my comings-and-goings on a Saturday morning (can't comment for fear that my mother will read this).

Yeah. I'd rather just be little 'ol unfamous me.

Door #2

After a relatively quiet commuting week, I figured it was time for something interesting to happen.

I board a double-length bus this morning, move to the back to stand near the door. I'm teetering on new stiletto heel red boots (yes, they are fabulous) and don't want to stand the entire way, but I must.

The back doors are hanging at a strange angle, and won't seem to close all the way. They are electronic or powered or whatever you'd say about doors that are connected to the bus' electrical system, so the bus driver can't really leave without them closing properly. Door AJAR. Door AJAR. Or something like that.

I doubt it was for fear that the commuters would slide out and become well-dressed road kill on Lake Shore Drive, but I could be wrong.

Anyway, the bus driver gets out, walks to the back (on the outside) and nudges, prods, slams, pushes, pulls, bangs and kicks (he literally kicked them shut, like a 12-year old boy would) and, dejected, goes back to his perch.

No go.

Repeat the steps above.

Door #2 won't close. Just won't do it. Stubborn little sucker.

Driver gets on the microphone and says the dreaded words, "Passengers, you're gonna have to get off this bus. The doors are broke (his words, not mine) and you can't stay on."

Seriously? This keeps happening to me. If I had this much bad luck in automobiles, I'd be banned from them altogether.

We get off, race to the bus behind us, and begin piling on. I'm still standing.

Oh, and did I mention, this all happened right in front of my building? Hadn't even made it one inch towards work.

I think it was a sign that I should have gone back inside, past the doorman, up the elevator, and not passing go, gone back to bed.

Door #2 should have had a sign like THAT.

Commuting Below the Mason-Dixon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm back. To stay?

Vintage

I saw the cutest guy on the bus last night.

Before you start thinking this is THAT kind of "I met a guy on the bus and we're having coffee after work" story, it isn't. He was probably on the downhill slide from 80. Years old.

He had that perfect Grandpa look—kind, gentle eyes hidden slightly behind big bifocals; a sweet face; skinny and freckly but not icky arms and hands; and a slightly hunched posture that made me want to protect him.

Wearing the exact type of shirt my Gramps used to wear (the short sleeved cotton shirt with the double breasted pockets and the stiff collar) in lemon yellow, he boasted a little notepad and a pen in his front breast pocket.

For whatever reason, I had a momentarily-difficult-to-contain urge to hug him. He seemed so peaceful and quiet, almost timid and scared, but something tells me that it would take a lot of strength to live in Chicago as an elderly person.

It is exhausting here.

I mean that as a compliment, sortof, but it is. The drain of the commuting, the noise of the city, the hustle of the crowds, the throng of tourists, the roar of the sirens...it is just tiring.

While I can see that the bus/train/cab lifestyle is easier than driving when you can't hear, reach the pedals or see the signs anymore, but seriously. Many people don't even budge to give them priority seats. At least in your own car you have that much guaranteed!

Therefore, I must give major props to those vintage folks who make it around this city solo. I promise not to hug any strangers...don't worry.

Change of Heart

I have renewed faith in the kindness of strangers.

(except for Lady Box-out)

This morning a young woman got on the bus, having forgotten to inspect her wallet before boarding, stands at the machine and realizes all she has is a $10 bill and doesn't want to waste that on the $2 fare (it may not even take $10 bills, who knows?!?).

She boldly turns to the seated riders and asks, loudly, "Does anyone have change for a ten?"

I thought for sure everyone would ignore her request like we all ignore the cries for "spare change" on the sidewalks. (Admit it, we all avoid eye contact. It isn't just me.)

But, to my pleasant surprise, no less than 11 people immediately began digging in their purses/bags. Opening their hearts and their wallets to this damsel in distress.

Yes, I looked to see what dollars I had, too. I'm not THAT much of a hypocrite.

Some kind soul, clearly desirous of some good karma for the day, handed her a $5 bill and five ones. It was a kind exchange, peppered with "please" and "thank you" and just the right amount of "polite gush."

Very proud of my fellow riders.

I know you're wondering. I didn't have anything less than a $20. No really, I promise.

That's just how I roll.

Boxed Out

This morning I was boxed out. Literally.

I was waiting patiently at my bus stop (the one situated right in front of my building, my home, where I have lived gently and quietly for 2 years now) and was standing amongst other people, whom I presume were my neighbors, community members, other fellow commuters. Meaning, we'd all treat each other with respect seeing as we all shared common space, common neighborhood and common bus routes.

Boy, was I wrong.

While standing at the stop, a woman had her haunches set squarely in front of the 2-foot area in which she anticipated the bus was going to stop, placing her RIGHT in front of the door when it opened. She was crouching. Seriously.

She looked over her shoulder not once, not twice, but five times to ensure that no one was coming near her "claimed real estate." God forbid I stand within 3 linear feet from her. She inched closer to the curb to avoid me intruding.

When the bus eventually rolled to a stop, and opened its doors, she was in fact right in front. Good for you, lady! Way to be, lady!

She boards, and proceeds to take out 1 rumpled dollar, 1 wrinkly transit pass, 1 Walgreens receipt, 1 hairpin, 1 spearmint, and several handfuls of change. To get her bus ticket, her transfer, the return voucher, her voting registration card, her unborn grandchild's return trip voucher, etc.

You get the drift. She took forever.

Meanwhile, she has her crouch going on. I mean it, she was boxing us out.

Let me segue to further explain the geographic dynamics of this situation: the entire design of the new buses is one that should allow the Chicago Card users to board more quickly, in the left side of the door (it's called the GO LANE!), while the slower more annoying cash/old-fashioned-card-users can take their sweet time on the right side with the machine that sounds like R2-D2 with indigestion while being stared at by the marginally unfriendly bus driver.

This use of efficient bus design was utterly impossible. Her stance wouldn't allow it.

So I waited patiently, while the line of unsuspecting people behind me (without a first-row glimpse of the boxing-out-action) stood on the sidewalk.

She finally finishes, I take a very cautious and patient step forward to finally tap my speedy-efficient-fully-paid-up Chicago Card on the reader, and she raises her elbow at me as she walks toward the back. Elbow. At me. In my face, to avoid me getting anywhere close to her.

It was inches from my head.

Now, look. I played basketball for something like 1200 hours a year, for 14 years. While I wasn't the meanest, or the biggest, or the toughest, my entire job was to use my legs to BOX PEOPLE OUT while using my bony-ass ELBOWS to double the protection. I know her game.

But come on. On the bus? In the morning? Before I've had my coffee?

Where was Coach Teague when I needed him, screaming wacky Southern phrases of encouragement like "don't let those chickens run around you like they own your coop! Be the wolf!" I could have used him.

Boxed out on the bus. It was a disgrace.

Celebration & Rearview Mirror

Today is my 7-year anniversary of moving to Chicago. It is almost impossible to believe that I've been here that long. I told myself, and more importantly my family, that this was a 2-year whim that I had to get out of my system...

...but the city sucked me in.

I still love the sounds of the city waking up, the roar of the crowd at Wrigley Field, the crash of the waves of Lake Michigan on the shore, the rustle of the trees in Lincoln Park, the busy chatter of shoppers on Michigan Avenue and the hum of the cars on Lake Shore Drive out my window.

The sounds that I have grown accustomed to, but will never love, are the sounds of taxi cabs honking, the screeching of tires at red lights, the wail of the sirens and the blast of the fire truck horns, the jackhammering of road construction on the Dan Ryan Expressway, and the solitary requests for me to buy this week's issue of Street Wise from the guy in front of Walgreens.

But, those sounds are what make Chicago the city that it is...and my home for the last seven years.

Strictly from a commuter sense, it has been an interesting ride. Let's look in the rearview mirror for some of the commuting highlights, or lowlights, if you will:

• As I sold "Rhonda the Honda" to a kind woman named Phyllis before I left Atlanta, I arrived here by U-Haul. It broke down in Indianapolis and my parents and I were stranded in a Wal-Mart parking lot for about 3 hours before the part came to fix the old orange and white clunker carrying everything I owned (which, frankly, wasn't much).

• Without a car to use and abuse my first three years here, I was forced to make my way on the CTA (that sounds like a slogan!) and was constantly digging for change to pay the $1.50 bus fare, riding the wrong route only to realize that I was now going to walk 3/4 of a mile in the snow (barefoot, uphill both ways) before arriving home. It was interesting, to say the least.

• The bus proved full of fodder for our late-night gab sessions in the apartment, which inevitably resulted in Molly doing renditions of the latest "crazy-lady-yelling-on-the-bus" scenario encountered. Crazy things happen on those buses—I even overheard, commuting late in to work one day, a mommy tell her 6-year old that "that girl is too old to be reading Harry Potter." I was sitting right across from them, and clearly within earshot. Mommys don't know everything.

• We dressed up as the CTA at the annual Flippy-Cup Tourney where the theme was "come as your favorite acronym." We had a bus driver with gloves, a hat and his own steering wheel; an old gray-haired lady with shopping bags; a homeless hag with layers of clothing, messy hair and a wet crotch; a corporate executive in a suit with a Starbucks cup (full of beer, mind you); and a backpack-toting, map-reading, Chicago flag-bearing tourist. All five of us cruised around the party while grasping desperately to the shower curtain turned bus rod with silver duct tape, only stopping when Saneel the driver shouted off the "next stop, Fullerton!" How we didn't win that contest is totally beyond me.

• I was flashed once on the El on the orange line to Midway. On a Tuesday morning. I was seated, with headphones and sunglasses and two pieces of luggage, when the loser crossed into my car, chose the seat kitty-corner to mine (about 5 feet away in linear distance) and proceeded to sneer while fondling himself. I then realize he's getting into it—and was removing his member from his pants to get a better handle on the situation. This went on for a few minutes while I tried to stare nonchalantly out the window (they just want a rise out of you—and their member!) I ignored him quite well for about 10 minutes, which felt like 10 days. He stood up at the Pulaski stop, continued flogging, and then got off (literally). I was shaking. All the way home to Atlanta, where I debated telling my suburban mother the drama. I told her. She even let me come back to Chicago when the visit was over.

• Some time later, fully recovered from the flashing incident, I was entering a cab (into the backseat, with three other girls) and Libby climbed in front with the driver, as is the custom when cramming that many people into a taxi. The glass partition was open, but only allows the backseat passengers a glimpse of what's going on in front, thank God. Libby starts shouting, "OH MY GOD, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!!?" And we lean forward, and realize the guy is pleasuring himself IN THE DRIVER'S SEAT. Into a hankerchief. With passengers. It was all too much—Libby shouts at us to get out get out get out and we do. I hurled a solid "why did you stop to pick us up if you were clearly preoccupied?!?!" as we shook off the grossness of it all. Calling the cops was no help—they wanted us to ride around with them all night to track down the guy and "catch him in the act." Uh, yeah, already been there and done that. No thank you.

• The move north to Lakeview resulted in the use of the El, rather than the bus. Thinking this was a lovely reprieve from the smelly bus with crazy people, I was thrilled. Then I realized that I had to ride the red line. It is a moving, silver-bullet of smells, sounds and slimy people. And, it goes underground, making you feel totally and utterly trapped with the aformentioned slime. The sound is so loud of the squealing rails on the tracks, in a high pitch that is borderline dog-torture, that you can't think or have a conversation, let alone hear your music. Lovely way to start and end your day, no?

• I have two separate stories of fainting on the El, but those are worthy of their own blog post, so stay tuned for that excitement.

• At this time, the CTA decided to hike the fares up to $1.75 a ride, and then up to $2.00 a ride, which is where they currently stand. That is, unless the Illinois state government can get their act together and approve a budget which will bail out the CTA of the $100 million they are lacking to properly run and fun the program. Supposedly this will happen tomorrow, but I'm not holding my breath. Otherwise, fares will go up to $3.00 a ride and 600 drivers will be laid off, and 36 bus routes will be cancelled, including one that I use regularly. All of this means that this city is in a total panic. For people that complain, cry out and well, let's face it, blog about how miserable/funny/ridiculous the commute on public transportation is, this is a scary thought. It just means more content for this blog, I fear.

Anyway, happy 7-year anniversary Chicago to me. I loved every minute of it. Well, all except for the penis spotting spree I had going on there. And I don't mean in my bedroom.

Watch the Road

Last night, after a concert let out, I waited for a bus on busy Michigan Avenue for quite some time...and eventually gave up and hailed a cab. Michigan Ave at night is still pretty busy, and there are lights on every block, which kept stopping us as we went along.

Most cab drivers speed off the line 1/2 second before the light even changes, and immediately begin honking incessantly if anyone in front of them doesn't do the same.

My guy was different.

Light changes.

He sits. And sits. And sits.

I finally say, politely, "Sir?"

And look up at him from the back seat, by the window, and realize his eyes are closed.

Uhm...are you sleeping? While driving me home?

He jolts "awake" and begins to accelerate through the green light. We make it further north on Michigan, and come to another red light. It happens again. Light changes, and we sit still.

I say, not so politely this time, "Sir, are you sleeping?!?! Are you ok to drive?" And he says, in his broken accent and not a hint of shame, "I'm fine, thank you."

Not so sure about that.

As we approach the Lake Shore Drive entrance tunnel, I'm having a scolding, angry argument with myself in my head about the rationality and safety of continuing to stay in this cab, where my driver is practically snoring at each red light.

Luckily there are no lights of any kind on Lake Shore Drive, between the Hancock and Belmont. I keep my eyes on him, the road, and his driving. I'm like his mean stepmother eagle-eyeing his every move, ready to pounce and give him a piece of my mind. All goes well.

Then we approach the exit ramp at Belmont and it happens a third time. The "Sir" business is officially over.

I use my best "I'm still a polite southern lady but now I'm really ticked off" voice and say, "Enough. You shouldn't be driving if you can't hold your eyes open. That is why people PAY YOU to drive them home!"

He turns slowly onto inner Lake Shore, turns his head to me and says, languidly and with a sick smile, "What, do you wanna watch my face?" And I shout, practically shaking, "NO! I want you to WATCH THE ROAD!"

Scared quiet, or just surprised that a seemingly nice passenger has begun to lecture him on his skills and attitude, he respects my wishes and watches the road.

Inner Lake Shore has about 57 lights and stop signs in the few short blocks between Belmont and my house, so I'm watching him like a hawk. Luckily (for him, by now, not me) he doesn't snooze at any of them. Barely stops - just genuflects and keeps going - which is marginally less frustrating and equally as unsafe.

Pulling into my driveway, he turns to me and puts out his hand. It took everything in my power to give over the measly 10 bucks. With no tip. (Side note: in 7 years of living in Chicago, I've only not tipped a cab driver twice, and both times it was warranted).

I get out, slam the door, and go inside. It occurs to me that the reason I'm so angry, besides the safety factor (I know, Mom!) is that if someone were to come to MY office and I was snoozing every five minutes during a meeting, it would severely hinder my success. Staying awake is just ONE of the many job requirements for both of us, I'd say.

At least he knew where he was going. I guess that's at least better than some of his counterparts.

I slept like a baby last night. But, at least I wasn't driving anyone home while doing so.

Music and Lyrics, in Ink

It never gets old living in a city with millions of other people. I appreciate seeing all walks of life each day as I make my way through this concrete jungle.

Lately, I have taken to seeing things I may not have noticed before—maybe it is writing this blog, maybe I'm growing up—but I seem to have sharpened my observation skills.

On the way home last night, I was casually glancing around (taking notice, in case there were blog-worthy subjects) and didn't notice anything out of sorts. Went back to my book.

A few stops later, I see a young guy get on the bus and make his way to the back near me. I was struck. I couldn't stop staring. I had to literally pull my eyes away.

No, it wasn't Brad Pitt. (He's already in New York by now).

This guy had tattoos all over. I know, we've all seen the "sleeve" tattoos where they cover the skin. No, this was diifferent.

He had WORDS written all over his front, covering his arms, legs, neck with lines and lines of text. Nice script font, poetic in its arrangement (slight angle, heading north up his legs in verses), wrapping each arm in neatly organized lines and phrases.

I inched, leaned and craned forward to see the words "La Vie Boheme" in one spot, and other Latin phrases that I didn't recognize. The guy didn't fit the typical "Rent" fan stereotype, so I'm guessing his ode to poetry was deeper and less culturally iconic.

That's not all.

Have you ever had a song in your head and it follows you around all day, popping up at the most inconvnenient of times?

Well, this guy had that. But worse.

On the backs of his legs, neck and arms he had music. I mean it. Not just random stray notes with no pattern or semblance of meaning. It looked like sheet music had been photocopied on his skin. Nice and orderly, straight across, only bending with the body, as if a composer had been with him in the tattoo parlor.

This guy literally liked a song so much that he had it inked onto his body. Forever.

I relish books and music as much as the next guy, but I have to admit, I've never loved a song or a story enough to permanently display it on my skin.

Maybe it is just me.

The looks on the other passengers faces confirmed it is not just me that feels this way.

Whistling his own tune, the guy got off the bus and headed for home. With his reading material leading the way.

One Reason to Like Winter

Last night on the way home, I witnessed first-hand one reason to be thankful for winter here in Chicago.

On the bus, there was a family of 5. Four kids, all under what I would guess to be the age of 6. (Can you say handful?!?)

One of the littler ones, about 3 years old, was out of mom's line of sight. Side note: she had on an iPod and wasn't really paying much attention...

The aforementioned 3-year old started LICKING the metal pole. You know, the hang-on-while-the-bus-careens-around-corners-pole.

Made me thankful for winter.

At least then, when I'm on the bus and hanging on to the pole, I'm wearing gloves.

Sensory Overload

The joy of commuting continues.

Today was like any other morning - scrambling to the bus stop, and glaring at the newcomers to the stop who find it not at all insulting, obvious or rude to push their way to the front of the sidewalk as if they were there all along - and the bus came on time.

I board, along with 50 of my closest friends (and by close, I mean physically jammed up against each other).

As I make my way to the back of the double-length, accordian bus, I grab an inch of the pole and brace myself for another wild ride.

And that's when my nose perks up. Starts to itch. My eyes start to water.

The gentleman next to me, decked out in a suit as if he's ready for an interview, must have showered in cologne. BAD cologne. Not the kind that when you smell it in an elevator or a fancy restaurant makes you ponder all sorts of un-ladylike things about the wearer.

No. The bad kind that they sell at Walgreen's behind the makeup counter.

I am face-to-face with a young guy who, thank God, was sans-cologne. He's secretly, inwardly, dying laughing as my eyes well up, my face starts to scrunch up and the sneezes start.

And I mean sneezes. Multiple ones. I tend to sneeze in threes (like my mom) and today was no exception. I had a good 9 or 12 out before I started to giggle.

Uncontrollably.

The unsuspecting cologne assassin was not the wiser. The young stranger near me was. We avoided eye contact for fear of really losing it.

The ride (30 minutes door to stop on a good day) was hell. Sensory overload. Sneeze-a-licious.

I have never been so glad to get off the bus and be greeted by exhaust fumes and the smell of the baking dirty sidewalk in summer.

It was heaven to my nose.

Hiding Behind Shades

Why is it when I'm wearing sunglasses I feel like no one can see me?

Today I was on the bus to work and I saw an old colleague, one that I didn't favor all that much back then. She's changed a lot since then so I didn't recognize her instantly, but then realized it was her as she sat right across from me.

We both had our free RedEye newspapers to hide behind, and I had my big sunglasses on so I was double-protected. I just didn't feel like doing the "across the aisle with everyone listening small talk" this morning.

So, I used my shades as a weapon and just plain ignored her. I prefer to say "I didn't see her" but she and I both know that's not the truth.

I shouldn't feel too badly—she didn't talk to me either.

Just ruminating on the sunglass protection theory. That's all.

Meaty in the Morning

I'll probably go to hell for this one.

I'll take a chance.

I race out my front door this morning, in heels and the 87% humidity, to board the 145 bus downtown. I stroll to the back of the bus (it was a single, not an accordian bus, so seats were premium) and I find a seat at the back. On the back row, in the center. Lots of leg swinging room, if a gal was keen to do that. I was just happy to sit my heeled feet and read my book in peace.

For you non-Chicago readers, this bus style has 5 seats across the back. Facing forward. The seats are those lovely molded plastic ones that show you where to put your tush. Mine fits nicely. (It won't for much longer at the rate I'm eating, but for now, I fit.)

There was a rather large woman (ok, she was huge) sitting to the left, in the seat by the window nearest the lake. In contrast, there was a rather thin man (ok, he's never had a late night pizza in his life) sitting to the right, in the seat by the window nearest the buildings.

I wisely choose the middle seat, leaving an open seat on either side of me, for the fool that wants to be squashed. To my left, where the large lady sits, I note that she's spilling out of her molded plastic seat into about 1/3 of the next seat over. Pity the fool that chooses that one.

The lean man is flanked by not only the seat to my right, but God blessedly, about 1/3 of HIS seat is blank due to his sore lack of backside.

Lo and behold (and how often do you get to say Lo about anything?), the bus fills up and my bookend seats, closest to my elbows, begin to get eyed by the early morning, already weary, needing their coffee, travelers.

Then I spot her. The largest woman I've seen outside of a 20/20 special in quite some time. And, yes, she's making her way towards my row.

She chooses, NOT wisely, the seat to my left. To refresh, that is the seat that is already 1/3 filled by some kind lady's thigh. And, she's down. Squeezes (how?) into that spot, pushing me literally up and over the molded plastic ridge into the empty seat to my right. I gently move over.

I had no choice.

As if that wasn't bad enough...then I spot her friend. She is even bigger. I kid you not.

She chooses, of course, the seat to my right. Even with the 1/3 loaner seat from Thin Guy, she is spilling out like the not-so-hot pale-skinned muffin tops over jeans.

Now I am literally squished, squeezed, smashed between two thighs of the largest diameter that I've seen. It is 87% humidity today, please remember. I can barely see out the windows past all of this weight.

I rise up, by no doing of my own, into the sky...literally smooshed upwards to accomodate their extra baggage.

I ride for 28 minutes, the entire way to my office, perched atop their thighs. Balanced, actually. It took everything in my power not to laugh. Or cry.

All I know is that I was sweaty. And I don't sweat.

I had to peel myself out. It was painful. I think I have bruises, but that isn't saying much. I bruise like a peach.

Did I mention that they were both drinking supersized drinks - you know the ones - the kind that says BIG GULP on the side, but are filled with caramel-high-fat-full-whip-with-an extra shot of-sugary-glaze-on-top-machiatos? Yes. Both of them.

Even the cups were sweating.

Side note: I heard recently that Americans drink 60% of their calories each day. I think between the two of them they have me covered until January.

I did survive, bruises and all. I blamed the humidity on the sweat marks on my skirt.

I know. I'll have a CTA pass for a one-way bus pass to hell, please. Thank you.