Headed for a Shrink's Couch

I would love to be writing a new blog post every day, telling you all the latest and greatest adventures I've been having.

But, the truth is, there is not much to tell.

Most days the greatest accomplishment I make is to actually shower before about 5 pm. And, if I watch one more HGTV show, I may start demolition in my already-remodeled kitchen, just to give me something to do.

I drag myself out of bed, eat a bowl of cereal, watch the news while I check emails, touch base with a few people, re-send emails that people are clearly ignoring, look in on LinkedIn, poke around on Facebook and talk to my Mom.

Lunchtime signals an exciting milestone, and something to do. Dishes to put away. Crumbs to clear. Trash to empty. It's bigtime!

And, then the afternoon drags.

Today, with the huge downfall of snow, I did a lot of gazing out the window, watching it pile up, amazed at how quiet the streets are when they are coated with sticky, powdery snow. With the recession at full tilt, even the snow plowers are quiet, so it took several hours before there was any city employee action on my street today.

I drive myself crazy wishing, waiting and hoping. Knowing that at this point, nothing is going to hit until January at the earliest, I've resigned myself to that fact, but now what?

Now that the presents are all bought, wrapped, nestled under the tree, photographed for my Mom, and then today, shipped to Atlanta and Tampa for their recipients' delights, now what?

I have already planned, organized, emailed, evited, and plotted some surprises for Brett's big birthday party this weekend, and all that is left is a little more surprise-making (including flour, sugar and icing), which actually may fill most of the afternoon on Friday, knowing my less than stellar culinary skills.

I'm so bored that I even put those types of activities on my electronic calendar on my phone, just so it feels like something is going on. I put "laundry" and "grocery" and "clean" on my calendar for crying out loud. The calendar that is just a wide open expanse of time.

When Brett finally gets off work, if we have plans to hang out, I drive him bonkers with my incessant chatter—realizing that the only person that I spoke to that day was my doorman, or the convenience store guy in my building, or the parking garage attendants.

Today, I found myself making small talk with the UPS Store workers just because, hey, I'd showered, and was feeling chatty.

My clothes are clean. Organized. Folded. My apartment is clean. Organized. Dusted. My Facebook profile is clean. Organized. Updated. My brain is empty.

If there was every any doubt that I'm a great project manager, communications specialist, planner, strategist, organizer and worker bee, I hope that this time (and these stories) obliterate that kernel of doubt. Because it is clear that inactivity makes me crazy.

C.R.A.Z.Y.

Oh, and the shadowed person in the building across from me that I was just certain was staring at me for upwards of 15 minutes while I made dinner tonight?

Yeah, that was an unlit Christmas tree.

Manipulative Mama Part Deux

Wow! That post generated quite the discussion (see below), so I figured I'd do the follow-up, especially since the crazy girl (we're calling her Tammy) is still on the loose. In a not-so-secret part of my brain, I hope she happens upon this blog and recognizes her own deceitful and psychotic actions for what they are.

You know, deceitful and psychotic.

This is the latest email back to my friend Carey:

"Gosh, Carey! I hope you're not upset with me. I didn't mean it as a mean joke. It was a great marketing ploy and 100% effective. Everyone I emailed either returned the email or called me. This weekend I've spoken to about 50 or 60 people who I haven't heard from in quite some time and I think that's great so please don't be upset with me. If you prefer, I will take you off my mailing list and I won't be offended. By no means do I want any negativity from this. Truthfully, everyone got a huge kick out of it."

My favorite part is that she has talked to 50 or 60 "friends" this weekend that have called her in the wake of her "big news." So, clearly this person has a large network of people who would care enough to call her to congratulate her should a life-changing event like pregnancy occur to her.

I think that proves that there are plenty of people to form an intervention circle around her. Why isn't anyone calling her out on this!??

Uh, hi, Tammy? This is Reality calling. Get a grip!

Not So Foreign

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

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

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

The language of her discontent, however, was.

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

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

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

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

Cheers!

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.