No Guarantee

Benjamin Franklin is known for having once said, "In this world, nothing is certain but death and taxes."

Some of you can only recall a gorgeous, Devilish Brad Pitt uttering that phrase at the conclusion of the painfully slow movie "Meet Joe Black." But trust me, the grey-haired Constitutionalist said it first. (Don't hate me for the gratuitous photo above...he's better looking than Mr. Franklin any day.)

I have been thinking about that notion lately—that nothing is certain, that nothing is guaranteed.

For example, we assume, as growing women, that getting pregnant when we're ready is a guarantee. That it will happen, when we're prepared, and on our terms. Lately, I have experienced a friend who painfully, and patiently, has faced that uncertainty with grace and optimism as she and her husband have entered into the not-so-certain world of infertility treatments and blood tests and hormone shots and implantation. All with the hope against hope that they, like so many, can be assured of a result that goes against all uncertainty in life.

There's no guarantee.

Similarly, a family circumstance has occurred where we all put trust and faith in the judicial system under which we're protected, and hoped, against hope, that there would be a certain outcome. That the evidence, or the partiality of the judge, would reign and the result would be what is logical, rational and, well, guaranteed.

There's no guarantee.

Likewise, I've been faced recently with my own realization that in my own personal search for lifelong love, and therein a future marriage, would come to fruition in due course. The cold, hard and painful truth is that we're not sure. No one can promise that the outcome will result in lifelong happiness—even if one does find what they deem to be lifelong love, a partner forever. People can change, or not, and the life you'd envisioned may not turn out the way you planned. Or, conversely, the life you'd planned may never come to be. And you have to find a way to be satisfied by the life that is—the one that you are currently living. You may actually never find that type of love; it may just not be in the cards for you.

There's no guarantee.

And, quite frankly, maybe that's the hardest part.

If someone told the hopeful couple, trying to conceive a child, that it wasn't going to happen for them naturally, ever, they'd feel more resolute, more comfortable with that fact. I believe that the lack of knowing the outcome, in this case especially, is the most difficult fact to swallow. Those same two people, who wanted so badly to be parents, to conceive and give birth to a child of their own genetic strands and through the natural and most functional of ways, may in fact come to the more restful conclusion if they were just told up front that it wasn't going to happen. I believe, through my conversations with such people, that it is the uncertainty that is the most unsettling.

If it was clear, up front, that the law was the law, and that there was no way to undo that, no matter what efforts you made to the contrary to prove that the proper course of action would be something different, you may be better able to accept that course. To understand that it was meant to be, for good reason, would be easier to identify with, and therefore, would set your mind to rest.

If you knew, upon your wedding day, that the marriage had an expiration date, and that you were going to have a great life for thirty years, but that eventually things would dissolve and unravel, it may be easier to accept when that finally comes to be. And, if it was clear, at a certain age, that you were destined to live alone, and that you best find a way to be satisfied with that, it may not be as difficult to manage each day just not knowing. In a more positive approach, if someone pulled you aside, at a crucial point in your life's search for a partner, that it would happen someday—guaranteed—and that you were charged with just enjoying the station you were in at the time, for now, I'm certain that that level of certainty would grant you a peace inside.

Clearly, I'm wrestling with my own level of uncertainty. And unwillingness to give in to that—I just wish there was a guarantee. Obviously, I want to find that special someone with whom I'm going to spend my life, and I am unhappy with the unknowing that accompanies the process. Evidently, I'm searching for something, and feel that I'd be more resolute with the present, if someone could just guarantee the future.

I'm pretty sure, however, that Ben Franklin was right. The only guarantee in my future is taxes (made certain by my residence in the city of Chicago) and my ultimate death.

Hopefully, I can count on one sooner than the other.

In the meantime, I can promise that I won't give up hoping, praying, wanting and looking.

That much I can guarantee.

Benched (A Vortex Tale)

Day five of Tales of the Vortex week. You thought I had run out of stories?

Ha.

Let's face it: I have CLEARLY had my fair share of horrible dating experiences, and have coined the phrase "The Vortex" to describe a possible explanation for where men go when they stop calling, and fall off the planet, out of nowhere.

Where necessary, due to proximity of time or location, names have been changed to protect the guilty.

Today's tale is, sadly, also coming at you from Chicago.

It wasn't long after things with Tim had come to a close. Summer had come and gone in 2006, and the Fall meant one thing.

College Football.

Now, as many of you know, I'm a huge fan. And, a willing fan for my friends who went to other schools. Namely, my girls and their love of Ohio State football. This particular late-October day, we'd decided to buy tickets to the McGee's party/bus the OSU alumni club used for close road games—it was headed to Champaign-Urbana to the University of Illinois. We met at the bar, decked out in red and winter coats, and had a few starter drinks. Then boarded the luxury bus and claimed our seats somewhere near the middle.

There were four of us girls, and we were hip to mingle. By mid-way down the highway, we had made friends, and engaged in silly conversations, with all the people near us. Namely, for me, a guy that was seated directly behind me. Since this one's a tad more recent, I'll call him Brian.

Brian was not my typical type, physically, but he was cute, tall (enough) and funny. We laughed and shared stories and generally got to know each other, in the strange context of a 3-hour bus ride downstate Illinois. He worked in sports marketing, and I'd done that in my pre-Chicago life, so we bonded quickly.

Brian was with a buddy, too, and the lot of us bounded off the bus to tailgate with others. Things were perfect, save for the ridiculously chilly Fall air. Puffy coats abound. And no one really looks all that cute and glamorous in a puffy coat, let's be honest.

The day was fantastic, and we all boarded the bus home in a crazy delirium, right as the rain/ice/snow started to fall. The bus left us at the bar, after the return 3-hour trip, and we all parted ways. The next day, Brian called. We had dinner, then another date, and quickly we were seeing each other quite a bit.

He was sweet—almost too nice. But, having been burned (you've been reading this week, right?!?) a few times, I was game to be treated kindly. And, I was a tiny bit more wary to meet "the parents" too soon. That was not a good move last time, so we kept things light.

After about three weeks of pretty constant dating, talking, phone calls and long conversations, he asked me if I was his "girlfriend." Putting it in writing makes it sound cheesy—but at the time it was pretty cute and rather reassuring. I am pretty sure I made some wise-crack about wearing his letter jacket. He laughed, and nodded. He felt it too! We had a great connection (now I feel like I'm on "The Bachelor") and it was going well.

My friends liked him, and of course extended the invitation for him to attend my surprise party that was being held for my 30th birthday the first weekend in December (a good 4 weeks before my actual birthday, to throw me off the scent).

He, unfortunately, was traveling with his job (sports team) and couldn't attend the party Friday night, but promised me he'd be there for part two on Saturday night. He came, and my friends (from Atlanta and Chicago) loved him. I was beaming. That may have been the fresh tequila shot and the glow of singing "Every Rose Has its Thorn" in front of 1,000 people with a live band, but who knows.

Yes. I did. No. You can't see the video.

Moving on.

All was good. Easy, even. I was happy. Christmas was coming up, and we were all feeling festive. My friends Jill and Josh were hosting a dinner party on Tuesday night, to get rid of all of the excess food from the party (due to the enormous snowstorm that kept 13 people trapped in various airports nationwide and NOT at our party eating it).

Brian lived on the way, so I picked him up. He'd met Jill and Josh, so I thought this night would be a snap. We walked in, and settled into the cozy living room and poured some wine. The chatter was friendly and light, and then a few more folks came in. A couple. Then another couple. Then a married couple. Then a married couple with a new baby in tow.

I didn't realize it, because frankly, we're getting older and that's what people do (couple off). But, quickly (and again, unnoticed by me) the party was all couples. One guy, being funny, started joking about marriage. He and his wife have a great relationship, but they've been married a long time (like 15 years?) so he had lots of material. We laughed.

Then the baby started to wake up (she was only 2 weeks old) so we passed her around and oohed and aahed and cuddled her.

Dinner was served, and it was delicious (Josh is a great cook!) and the night was delightful. Until, unbeknownst to me, things went badly for Brian. In his head.

We said our goodbyes, and left to face the bitter cold and walk back to my car. He was uncharacteristically quiet. I figured he was tired, as it was only Tuesday.

He traveled the following day, and for a few days in a row, including some of the weekend (sports doesn't work M-F, 9-5), and we talked occasionally. Lighter than normal, though.

When he returned, he didn't make moves to see me again. I didn't want to push him since I knew that his work schedule at that time of year was a killer. He let another full week go by, with only an occasional IM or text message. No calls.

Certainly, I'd grown aware of it, and now realized something must've happened. I didn't trace it back to the party, not at first.

It had been about 10 days since then, and we still hadn't gotten together. And this was after seeing one another 4-5 days a week since for the past two months.

I asked him what was up. He denied anything was up.

Later, I asked if he was ok. He said he was ok.

Finally, I put it out there. We were on Instant Messenger for crying out loud.

I said, "Did I miss something?"

He paused. Long pause. On IM it is more like you sit waiting, staring at an empty box, while the taunting little cursor is waiting. It didn't even say, "So-and-so is typing" like it does if there's a long response coming your way.

Nada.

He said he'd call later. Well, ok. That's more like it. Let's be adult about it.

He didn't call that night, or the next. Or the next three. Finally, about a week later, I heard from him. It was almost Christmas, and I had pretty much given up on the fact that I'd be hearing from him at all.

Still, I was baffled. Another VORTEX in the same calendar year?

He finally called, and all he could say was, "I just don't think we want the same things." I know now, in all my infinite wisdom, that that is a cop-out. It means, I don't like you enough to see myself WITH those things with you.

I stuttered out something, and then realized I wanted more of an explanation than that. Give me something to hold on to, buddy.

He reluctantly told me that the party was too much for him.

What? That little 10-person gathering on a TUESDAY NIGHT was too much for you?

Well then. You'd never survive O'Brien Christmas. That's settled.

Apparently it was "too obvious to him" that because "all of my friends are married with kids" that he wasn't ready for that. While I SWEAR to you, Internet readers, I had not ever mentioned marriage, kids, joint checking accounts or even meeting his mother, that was his reason.

Because six people on a Tuesday night happened to be happily in relationships and they happened to be in my large circle of friends and they happened to be happy, I was dumped.

He said he'd think about it, and that he'd miss me, and that he'd call me in the New Year.

Yeah. Right. Let's all say it together, now, shall we?

VORTEX.

I wish I could say that I've never seen him again. It would be easier that way. But, I did run into him at a bar that I never frequent on a part of town that neither he nor I live in, but I was protected by my girls and only barely noticed him.

As he was ducking out the door with his head down.

Seriously.

And then another time, last January, when I was on a date at said sporting event, and there he was. But I was on a date, and he was at work. I had that going for me.

We talked, briefly and it was only sortof awkward.

But, seriously.

I was pulled from the game and benched because I had a few friends who wore rings on their left hands.

NOT a slam dunk.

Easter Funny (A Vortex Tale)

Day four of the Tales of the Vortex.

Let's face it: I have had my fair share of horrible dating experiences, and have coined the phrase "The Vortex" to describe a possible explanation for where men go when they stop calling, and fall off the planet, out of nowhere.

Where necessary, due to proximity of time or location, names have been changed to protect the guilty.

Today's tale, as you've come to expect, is live from Chicago, the playing field for so many of my dating stories.

And, this one started on St. Patrick's Day.

How fitting, for an Irish girl living in this town.

At an annual St. Patrick's Day party, hosted by my friend Patrick (no relation), I was gently "nudged" in Tim's direction. I was open to meeting new people, as it had been a dry spell. It was March 2006, and the green beer was aplenty.

Tim and I hit it off. We had similar personalities, a like sense-of-humor, and enjoyed many of the same things. He was a fantastic cook, and I was a mean dishwasher. He worked in a related field, and was a creative and curious mind—leading to many interesting debates about all things creative. And curious.

We talked for hours on the phone, as I was traveling a ton to Montana back then—and was relieved to have a familiar voice on the end of the phone while I wiled the hours away in the Billings Sheraton.

After a three weeks filled with great dates, including dinners, game night out with my friends, and a concert or two, he invited me to accompany him to a wedding, and I was happy to attend. Where else can you see a guy get dressed up, on his 'best behavior' and be forced to dance? Fan-tastic. We looked good, and had a great time.

At the wedding, I met his close guy friend and his wife. I instantly bonded with her, and her input and approval seemed very important to Tim. I enjoyed them immensely.

The wedding reception was being held in a funky cool art gallery on the west side. While we were touring the paintings, tucked away in a private back gallery, he stopped on a dime. Turned around. And asked me what I was doing the following weekend.

It took me a minute. (The wine was lovely, give me a break).

I paused, coyly of course, and said, "Oh, next weekend?" And he replied, "Yes. Easter."

Now, I hate to admit this in the public forum called the Internet, but I don't typically go home to Atlanta to spend Easter with my family. Even though I'm Catholic, and apparently Easter is one of the TWO times most lapsed go to mass, I just don't see fit to spend $300 to go home to attend church in Georgia. Even though my mom's ham is pretty outstanding.

I said, knowing where this was going, "Nothing...why?"

He invited me home to his parents' house for the holiday. In Milwaukee. Where, he promised, his brothers (2) and their wives (2) and kids (2) would be hanging out, drinking beer, eating too much and playing yard sports.

I was in.

When Saturday came, we piled into his car, and headed north. Crossing the border into Wisconsin, I was looking forward to meeting his family. And spending this amount of time with him. His family, truth be told, was charming. His hometown was cute. His brothers were hilarious. Even when they pushed me up against the kitchen wall and whipped out the tape measure to "prove" I was 6' tall.

Seriously. It happened.

Anyway, we had a great afternoon, replete with beers (it was Milwaukee, mind you), cornhole, chasing toddlers, horseshoes, and a sunny (snow-free) April day. We laughed, and his mother was just charmed. I know it. She told me so.

Tim was at home in this environment, and I was honored to have been asked to see it. I liked it. We seemed to fit.

After Saturday dinner, and the drinks that ensued, it was time to adjourn to the sleeping quarters. When getting the "tour," his mother had gestured at the single beds in the basement, with a stack of folded fresh towels on each, and said, "You guys can sleep down here."

Waaaaait a second.

I knew a "Mom test" when I saw one.

Leaving Tim downstairs, and following Mom back up, I said, quietly, "I think I'd prefer to sleep upstairs in the guest room."

She literally smiled so hard I thought she was going to pull a facial muscle.

I laughed, and said, "My Mom raised me right."

That was settled.

Tim wasn't all that thrilled, but he'd survive.

The next morning, I awoke to clanging, showered and dressed and entered the kitchen. Mom was making a "bunny cake." You know, the kind that is complete with tall pointy ears and covered in coconut shavings (fur), jelly beans (eyes, buttons), licorice strings (whiskers) and a variety of colors of icing (bowtie).

AAH! I've made this cake before! I immediately dove in and helped out. Pretty soon I had icing on my elbows, coconut on my shirt and a smile on my face. Needless to say, Mom was happy. We talked (she has three sons, for crying out loud!) and laughed and were like Easter Eggs in a basket by the time Tim woke up.

After Mass, and brunch, we settled in to play their family's annual trivia game, where the questions/answers were divided into Jeopardy-like categories that included Music, Current Events, History and Family. Not long into the game, where Tim and I were partnered as a team, did it occur to me that he'd called for research. He knew too much—my family was included in these! I couldn't believe it.

I revealed where my parents had met (a mixer), what my Mom's favorite car was (Fiat), where they'd gotten engaged (KFC) before it finally hit me.

He'd called my Mom.

I couldn't believe it. She didn't tell on him! He called my Mom!!!

The day ended with a family flag football game in the yard, and a few loving tackles of our own.

On the drive back to the city, I wanted nothing more than to bask in the weekend. To ask him what he thought. To find out what his Mom had told him about me. To see how he was feeling. What he thought of the Easter Lily I'd brought his Mom. To discuss the Easter basket his mother had given me.

I didn't barrage him with questions, but it was clear very soon that he wanted nothing to do with that line of questioning. Or conversation at all for that matter.

It was the quietest 1.5 hour drive ever.

A few days went by, and it became clearer and clearer that something was amok.

We talked once or twice, and then I had to travel and the chats grew more sporadic.

Ultimately, we'd made plans for dinner about 10 days later, and I raced home from work excited to see him.

Our plans were for 6:30 pm.

I waited. And waited. And waited.

VORTEX?

It was now about 8 pm. With visions of ditches and accidents and police officers and ambulances, I finally called him.

Voicemail.

By 8:30, it was clear I'd been stood up. Brenna called and offered for me to join the girls at a bar, and I couldn't help it. I had to get out, or I'd sit on the sofa and cry. Wasting the makeup I'd just re-applied.

In a last ditch effort, I looked at my Blackberry once more.

And there it was.

The breakup email.

Huh? It was as bad as a post-it note, Carrie Bradshaw.

It explained that he couldn't do it anymore, that he knew I was the type of woman he should be with, that he thought I was smart, funny, interesting, great, charming, lovely and beautiful, and that it was clear how much my family liked him, and that may be what scared him the most, and that he knew he shouldn't end it, but he just had to.

And he was sorry.

And, that was it.

I never saw him again. Still haven't, actually.

VORTEX.

To this day, I can't look at an Easter Bunny cake the same way.

Don't feel the need to make me feel better about this one. It hurt, it sucked, I was mad, I got drunk that night, I think he's a small-minded chicken-shit, but I moved on. I'm better off. Just wanted to let you off the hook.

Napkin Notes (A Vortex Tale)

Day three of Tales of the Vortex week. I'll just roll right on, okay?

Let's face it: I have had my fair share of horrible dating experiences, and have coined the phrase "The Vortex" to describe a possible explanation for where men go when they stop calling, and fall off the planet, out of nowhere.

Where necessary, due to proximity of time or location, names have been changed to protect the guilty.

Today's tale is also a Chicago one. I'm telling you, ladies of the Midway, there are many men out there in our fine city. The ones that haven't gotten sucked into the Vortex, that is.

Shall we begin?

It was a typical Saturday night in late September, about four years ago. Laura and I decided to make the evening not-so-typical, and agreed to go out and actually TALK to other people besides ourselves.

We were (and still are, frankly) notorious for going out with our girls, sitting in a booth and talking only to one another all evening. That's great for girls' night out, and we all need that, don't get me wrong. But if you're two single ladies in the city, you can't expect that the guys are going to be willing to come over, bust into that and make their move.

It's just not fair.

So, we agreed to be more open. Chatty. Approachable.

We sat at the bar at Mystic Celt, a nice Irish bar on Southport where the service is good, the crowd is fun and the music is loud.

After a drink or two, the bartender handed me a cocktail napkin, gestured over her shoulder, and said, "It's from the guy at the end of the bar."

Hmmmm....interesting.

I looked up from the napkin to see a fair-haired, nice-looking, conservatively dressed guy sitting where she motioned. He smiled my way, and then looked down in a hint of embarrassment.

Glancing back at the napkin, I realized he'd written a message on it. Now, I'd love to recall it word-by-word, or even better yet, to still have it saved in my desk drawer for precisely this occasion, but let's be honest. When the story went where the story is bound to go, those napkins went out with yesterday's garbage.

But, for the time being, I'll give you a general sense of the course of the dialogue.

He'd said something cute, charming and witty. Penned it right there on the napkin. I laughed, probably out loud, showed it to Laura, and together we penned something back. Equally witty, of course.

The communication went back and forth like that for a few rounds, with him eventually asking my name, commenting on it being of Irish descent, told me he was a Notre Dame grad and that he'd been raised Catholic (as was I) and to that we made a few joking references. Oh, and his name was Andrew. Why spare him that, right?

At one point, I wrote back, and then passed through the very patient bartender, something about going to checking yes or no. He checked yes. He referenced the awkwardness of grade school dances. He even made the "leave room for the Holy Spirit" joke. I knew of it, but since I'd escaped parochial school, I couldn't exactly relate beyond the movies.

Ultimately, he stopped the paperwork and just came over. Made some charming introduction, was kind enough to include my friend, and kept up the witty banter. We were both pretty charmed at this point.

He asked me for my number, and I obliged. Anyone that went to that much trouble, and through that many cheap bar napkins, was worth a shot.

When the evening ended, and the lights came on, Laura and I said our goodbyes, and he offered to share a cab home (he lived within two blocks of me) and I allowed that. Arriving at my house, he paid the cab driver and got out of the car. I wasn't about to invite him up, so we took a seat on the edge of the fountain that is in my condo's driveway. In full view of the two doorman, in case anything shady was going to go down.

I remember talking about our love of travel, U2, the city, our work (he was an investment banker), our family and our college days long past. I was fairly sure a kiss was coming, and that was fine by me. Right when he leaned in to make his move, he laughingly, deftly, put an arm behind my back and lowered me (quickly, all at once) into the fountain. I was dripping wet, and cracking up. Way to go, buddy. I liked that he felt comfortable enough to joke with me that way. It was good chemistry, all around.

We went out to dinner a few nights later, and all I can recall is that the conversation was perfect. It was as if we'd known one another for years, but at the same time, had so much to learn. Andrew seemed hungry to know more, and I let him in just enough to keep him interested, but not enough to feel like he knew it all.

Can't let a man open ALL the Christmas presents right away, you know.

Three, four, five dates went by, and things were just getting good. We talked occasionally on the phone, but mostly it was sporadic emails, primarily to set up the next date. I was fine with that—we were both busy professionals that didn't have much free time. A few weeks passed, and I realized that he worked insane hours. Not just long days.

Brutal days.

He worked, to close a deal, until 3 and 4 in the morning quite regularly. I wouldn't believe him, except he was good about calling to "say hi" and emailing me at odd hours—always from his work account when I was fast asleep. He didn't break plans, necessarily, but he was definitely working more than we were dating.

I wasn't quite sure when he poor guy was sleeping or eating, frankly.

Then it was this weekend—the Chicago marathon. We watched it together, huddled on my sidewalk in fleece and blue jeans, drinking the hot coffee he'd brought over with bagels, and I felt like we were a couple. It was just easy. He laughed at my stories, and I at his. He told tales of his life, and I of mine. He mentioned future plans and hopes and travels and things he "wanted to show me/experience with me."

Isn't that what any girl longs to hear?

He left that day to go into the office for a bit to wrap up a few things before the week started, saying he'd call later when he was free from work's obligations. We made plans for dinner that coming Wednesday, after work, to try out a new restaurant downtown we'd both read about. I smiled all the way through the laundry to which I likely devoted my time that day.

I never got to try that restaurant. Needless to say, I still haven't been there.

He was never to be heard from again.

VORTEX.

I don't have an explanation for this one. He may be married by now, with kids of his own. I have no idea, and that's okay. He wasn't going to be my future, but for those few great weeks in the Fall of 2005, I was having fun. It was Fall, and I was headed in the right direction.

But really? The hot coffee and bagels and future plans?

I could have done without.

Goodbye Baby Blues (A Vortex Tale)

Let's face it: I have had my fair share of horrible dating experiences, and have coined the phrase "The Vortex" to describe a possible explanation for where men go when they stop calling, and fall off the planet, out of nowhere.

Where necessary, due to proximity of time or location, names have been changed to protect the guilty.

Today's tale comes to you from Chicago, the home of many, many Vortex victims.

I met Frank about 6 years ago through a couple friend of mine. My friend said that Frank was known for being smart, kind, funny and extremely conservative. In fact, within 10 minutes, he and I had already compared political notes and had a lively chat. He was charming and flirtatious. He was handsome and older. Just what I needed.

I was smitten.

He asked for my number. I gave it to him with a smile. He called after the required three days. We went to dinner, and had a lovely time. The line of questioning was typical, and he was open, candid and interesting. The conversation was fresh and rewarding. His blue eyes sparkled when he talked.

Dessert came and we felt like it was too soon to call it a night. He had already locked in the second date, so the pressure was off. We laughed, toasted and shared stories of our lives that brought us to Chicago. At one point, he said with a smile, "how are you single?" I laughed off that question, and continued to bask in his company.

On our second date, the pleasant chatter continued. We each opened up more and more, and he interrupted my story with, "where exactly did you come from?" I laughed, knowing he meant more than geography, and said, "Georgia." He smiled, and we both looked away to avoid the clear chemistry that was building. At the end of the evening, the kiss was more than nice.

We went out a few more times, and his 'admiration' seemed to build, as did mine of him. I reveled in the fact that I knew he thought I was classy, interesting and fun. I felt the same about him. Things were looking up!

He traveled a little bit for work, and at the time, I did not, so I didn't realize how hard that really made your social life. He went out of town for a week, and then stayed through the weekend. We emailed a bit while he was gone, and I looked forward to his return to Chicago. He'd asked me for another dinner that week, and I'd happily agreed.

I'm glad I didn't starve myself for that one.

Because I'd still be hungry.

I never heard from him again.

VORTEX.

Until I saw him last year, while entering Soldier Field with my friend Tim on a November Sunday.

We were in a huge crowd, shivering in the snowy cold, and I was pushed gently up against the throng of people in front of me. Tim said something loud and funny, and the guy in front of me, wearing a Bears ski cap, turned around to comment, and Frank and I were face to face, inches apart in a crowd of thousands.

He was holding hands with a little boy whose eyes were the exact same color blue of Frank's.

We both blinked, smiled, and looked away.

That was it. No words were exchanged, but we both knew what was behind that look. Tim inquired who it was, and I shrugged and said, "I don't know him."

It was true.

I linked arms with Tim and walked into the stadium.

A Burp on the Radar (A Vortex Tale)

I've been promising a week of Tales from the Vortex, and folks, it is time for me to deliver.

I kicked this off last week and I shared this naked story awhile back, and this week, will attempt to fill all five days with posts that describe my best various and sundry dating tales.

Let's face it: I have had my fair share of horrible dating experiences, and have coined the phrase "The Vortex" to describe a possible explanation for where men go when they stop calling, and fall off the planet, out of nowhere.

Where necessary, due to proximity of time or location, names have been changed to protect the guilty.

This story is an oldie but goodie. It happened when I was a junior in college. I didn't even realize the extent of the horrors of dating. I didn't yet know of the Vortex, and I certainly hadn't experienced it. I'd dated a few guys in college, including my high school boyfriend, and hadn't yet realized that guys would say all kinds of things and then fall into a hole never to be heard from again.

I had a lot to learn.

His name was Matt. I'd been introduced to him by a sorority sister, and I had heard the stories. I knew he was older and had a reputation for dating a lot. I was flattered he chose me—and had fun being the center of attention at Sunday breakfast in the sorority house. Girls wanted to hear stories about him, how much fun were we having? and who did we hang out with the night before?

Our "relationship" was brief, but we had fun. I knew he wasn't the man of my dreams, but he taught me how to enjoy the attentions of someone besides my high school boyfriend. He was loud, funny, silly and smart. When we went out, people wanted to be near him. He was known.

Things were going well, and we had had a fun few months hanging out. I was asked to go with him to his fraternity weekend in the mountains of North Carolina, and we doubled with my friend and her boyfriend. After a great weekend, we were pulling back into Athens, and had just turned on to Milledge Avenue, right by my house. Matt was driving, and I was in the front seat, gleaming with the glow of attention, attraction and excitement.

He burped loudly, and didn't excuse himself. All of us laughed—in that Will Ferrell stupid humor kind of way—and then I jokingly said, "Hey, aren't you supposed to be trying to impress me at this stage?"

The car's atmosphere changed. The air grew cold. Not a sound was made.

I'd clearly made some sort of dating faux pas, but for the life of me, I wasn't sure what it was.

We pulled into the sorority parking lot, and my friend and I got out. Matt gave me a brief, yet chilly hug, and we said goodbye.

I didn't hear from him for about 10 days, which in college time, was the equivalent of 10 years. When your social life didn't just revolve around weekends, you saw people more often.

I asked my friend, the girl who'd witnessed the freeze-out in the car, and she shrugged it off claiming he was just busy.

This guy was something like a 6th year senior. How busy was he, exactly? It was doubtful.

The following Thursday, I saw him at the local hangout, the one where you got to take the previously purchased 22-ounce plastic mug with you and for $3 you could fill the thing up with ice cold draft beer. I approached him gingerly, with a smile.

His reaction was clear. His face didn't break into the smile he'd normally given me.

It was over. I knew it, and so did he. Inquisitively, and frankly, naively, I asked him what was wrong? He shrugged, and said casually, "I just am not feeling it."

Uh, ok. I thought we were joking about a burp, but maybe that was just me.

I walked away, shaking my head.

I never saw him again.

VORTEX.

Not two weeks later, though, I heard that he was dating someone and it was "serious." He eventually married her and had kids with her. I haven't really thought of him much since, and I do realize that he wasn't really in the Vortex.

He just wasn't interested. And, considering his likable qualities were most often enhanced by him drinking 48 PBRs out of a can, I don't really mind.

But it taught me one thing.

Men will close up, walk away and fall off the planet if they so choose. And you will be left wondering.

It was a tough lesson for a rookie dater, but it paved the road of many, many Vortex tales to come.

Oh, and I'm still not a fan of wild burpers who don't excuse themselves. I can't help it.

Your vs. You're (The Online Edition)

And, to continue on last night's blog post tradition (can it be a tradition yet? Too soon?) of writing blog posts inspired by watching TV, here's a new one.

I was watching ABC's Castle last night, and the storyline was about a murder where the victim's face was covered with phrases that made the point the murderer was anxious to make.

The murderer wrote crazy short blurbs intended for the people that discovered the body. The police were left wondering. The author character, Rick Castle, who follows the NYPD around for research purposes, and to add just a dash of "sexy banter" to the show, was more perplexed by the improper and offensive use of grammar used in said blurbs.

At the crime scene, he even dropped the line, "The person that did this not only murdered our doc here, but he or she murdered the English language, too.

The victim's face read, "Your out of time."

ARGH.

I couldn't decide whether to nod in agreement, shake my head in disgust, or raise my fists to the TV.

I settled on all three, which led me to looking like a total crazy person on my couch, trying not to spill my wine.

I digress...

Castle, I feel your pain. Yes, your. Not "you're" because I quite like you and all your rugged handsomeness.

Readers, I cannot tell you how often this, well, issue, hits me in the face. I'm so tired of reading emails, cover letters, resumes, documents and online come-ons that have misused grammar in them. It is a downright atrocity how few grown adults know the proper use of the language. They've likely never even written a complete sentence, much less diagrammed one. Mrs. Rog would be so disappointed.

And, in this era of spellcheck, I know I've gone soft, but I can almost forgive a spelling error. But, I'm pretty sure not even the latest version of Vista or iLife comes with a program to tell you if you are bastardizing the English language.

I'm not embarrassed to admit that I've had an online dating profile out there. It's not pretty, but it does serve as some fodder for laughs, some time-killing distraction and some flattering come-ons.

But, in light of tonight's grammar-centric episode, I went in to my inbox to pull a few recent ones. And these are just from the last week!!

Hey you, just wondering if you would like enjoy a night on on the town before the snow buries us in. =( I would love to meet you, call me and let chat, -K

(Emoticons are in that grey area of male-speak. Ok? Annoying? Cutesy? You decide.)

Your really pretty and have a grate smile. Just thought you should know. Lets go out sometime? - D

(Two for the price of one!)

How long have you lived in Chicago? I grew up down south and I loved it their. -M

(So glad you moved up here to give Chicagoans a taste of what a "real" Southerner is capable! Thanks, buddy.)

You said you were tall and looking for someone to look up to. Thats me, in all cents of the word.

(I so wish I was inventing these, but alas, I'm not.)

I know, right?

Inexcusable.

Buried deep in my profile (you know, like 3 short paragraphs in, God forbid) is this sentence, which I believe should guide a man who wishes to contact me:

I am a sucker for a well-written email, and have to admit that I'm a stickler for proper grammar, too.

It hasn't helped.

I will remain single. Based on the supplied evidence, I do not hereby believe that the single men of Chicago know the difference between "your" and "you're" and "there" and "they're" and "their."

And, until they do, I'd prefer to just watch "Castle" and drink cheap wine on the couch by myself.

At least I know you're reading and rooting for me. Yes, you are. Get out there. See if your grammar can top theirs. I'm pretty sure it can't get worse. (See, now I'm just showing off).

He's at the Gym (A Vortex Tale)

Tonight I was watching CBS' How I Met Your Mother, and the storyline was about Ted going on a blind date, and only halfway through the date did he realize that he'd gone on a blind date with the same girl 7 years before. They both realize it, over their food, and laugh about how much they'd changed and what was different now.

At the end of the date, they shared a nice kiss, and he promised to call. And she froze.

She'd heard that line before. He had promised, as his 2002 self, to call her, and never did. He realized what had happened, and why they'd not continued seeing each other back then.

And she was mad.

He, awkwardly, eeked out, "I have been reaaaaally busy since then."

I laughed, not because the line was that funny, or the scene that well-written, but that it was just so damn familiar.

No, I haven't yet dated the entire circle of single men under 40 in Chicago, and therefore have not yet re-dated the same guy just yet. Not without consciously deciding to, at least.

More precisely, I recalled the story of the birth of the "Vortex." If you're unfamiliar with my Vortex theory, the quick story is that it is a place where guys "go" when they just up and fall off the planet. It involves all kinds of male treats, ranging from video games to 24/7 sports, to free beer and buffalo wings to sex all the time and no real jobs. You get the idea.

Anyway, my friends and I use the term to describe, or just to explain quickly, where a guy "went" when they stop calling randomly, out of the blue. My friend Meredith says that he "fell in the black hole." Same thing, different name.

So the year was 2001. It was late Fall, and I'd only lived here a year. I was in the throes of enjoying single life the way a 24-year old in the city does. Meaning, dating, going out a lot, having tons of fun and eating way too many meals from the rotating incubator grill at the 7-Eleven below my apartment.

I met a guy named Chris through a guy friend of mine. Chris was tall, ridiculously good looking (in fact, he "modeled" and turned out to be far more vain than I), funny and fun to be around. I'm pretty sure he wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed, but we had a good time together.

We "dated" the way that 24-year olds do—in groups, in bars, at keg parties and with lots of other people for distractions. Only on a few occasions did I ever truly go on a "date" with Chris, but we did make it to Sunday mass a few times with dinner afterwards.

One Saturday, we went to lunch and then he dropped me off at my apartment. He said, as I got out of the car, "I'm going to go to the gym for a bit and then I'll call you. Wanna go see a movie tonight?" I replied that I'd love to, and that I'd see him in a few hours.

Saturday evening came and went. As did Sunday. And the next four years.

Needless to say, the poor fellow got sucked into the Vortex and I never heard from him.

Until one day, when I was on my lunch break downtown, and I saw him across the way. I sped up and walked over to him. Smiling, I approached him slowly.

"Uh, Chris?" I said, kindly. He said, "Colleen! How are you?" with a look that was a hybrid of embarrassment, surprise and, frankly, appraisal. I was definitely being 'assessed.'

I said, "I"m great - and so pleased you made it out of the gym! After all this time!" and walked on.

He didn't get my joke, or my insult, or whatever it was. I knew he wouldn't, but it felt so good to say. So, now, when I ever think about the Vortex, he's the first thing that comes to mind.

If I hadn't seen him that day, I'd just have had to assume he was still at the gym. In fact, most men that don't ever call, or stop calling all of a sudden, or just vanish into thin air, I assume have gone to the gym. Maybe it's the front door to the Vortex?

He didn't look as tired as I'd be if I'd spent nearly four years at the gym.

Maybe I'll make this Vortex Week 2009 and will dust off all the old Vortex stories for your reading pleasure. Whatcha think? Shall I put out a call for entries? Anyone?

Amended: maybe this week will have to be "how TV sitcoms and dramas remind Colleen of things in her real life." Also known as, someone get that girl off the couch during the week. Changed my mind. Stay tuned for the next TV-inspired post.

If Only

This summer, my aunt was making me laugh as we talked about driving, getting lost, and wishing we weren't lost.

She's a realtor, so she's constantly in new areas, neighborhoods or towns, crisscrossing all over metro St. Louis.

I'm just in New Jersey.

Lost.

On the Turnpike.

Anyway, she mentioned that she's had the same GPS unit for years - why don't I have one of those installed around my neck? - and has always liked how the unit works, but had a few complaints.

It had a woman's voice with an American accent on it. She joked that she wasn't too fond of the tone or quality of the voice, but that the machine got her to her destination on time, and without sidetracking *unlike my stories* and was reliable to boot.

But she didn't really like having that lady, and her voice, accompany her on all of her ventures.

Until the day she dropped it.

The unit bounced across the floor, and she scrambled to retreive it, hoping that the damage wasn't irrevocable. The next time she plugged it into her car, headed for an appointment, the voice came on and announced the next move.

In a male voice. With a British accent.

She was startled, and then pleased. No one minds taking directions from a voice with such a lovely accent. And the Brits always sound smarter, so she trusted him immmensley.

Now, given my love for all things European, she suggested that if I didn't like a man I was dating, and dropped him on his head, the incident may quite possibly result in him speaking to me in British tones.

I may have to give that one a try. Any takers?

The Naked Truth

When I first moved to Chicago, I ran with a pretty great, and huge, crowd of people who had all gone to the same college. Yes, I just said "I ran with..." like I was 87 years old. Moving on.

What this meant for my social life was that I had friends always crowding the corner of the bar at the local pub, our house parties were legendary, and we even had a rousing men vs. women Cranium tournament. Life was good.

The only drawback to this deep and tightly knit circle was that they all knew each other. And the others that lived in town.

Meaning, as a newly transplanted southern girl looking to meet new people (read: hot guys), I was cautious about my actions. Not that I would have been a raging fool if it weren't for their guidance, but you know, it just cause me to think harder about on whom I turned my attention.

Case in point. At a bar one night, I'm approached by a very nice looking, well-dressed guy. We make casual small talk. We laugh. And flirt. And then, while he leaned down to tie his shoe, I notice my three guy friends standing behind him giving me the "we'll slit your neck if you do something stupid" gesture combined with hearty head shakes.

I'm not an idiot - I could read that message loud and clear. When nice looking, well-dressed guy went to the bar, I slid over to the guys and asked what was the reason for their red flag signal. They imparted some insider information about Said Guy's antics, and ahem, reputation, in college.

I was turned off, and promptly finished up my chat with Said Guy and went back to my friends.

I escaped that time.

Over the next few years, as I became more and more comfortable with my Chicago surroundings, I realized that I saw Said Guy all over town. For a good long summer, it seemed that I ran into him every Saturday night. Not always in the same place, either. I even thought at one point that he may be following me.

He always approached, flirted and chatted me up. I flirted back (as I said before, I'm not a total idiot) because I enjoyed the attention, and then left him wondering why I hadn't fallen prey to his wily charm. He clearly wasn't used to getting turned down.

Not that he was asking every time, but it was clear that if I'd given him even the slightest hint of a green light, he'd ask me out.

It became my own little version of the cat and mouse game, and it was awfully good for the ego. Especially when my girlfriends (new to me, and to him) would nod and smile excitedly as he approached, and look at me with huge silver-dollar-sized-eyes as I inevitably turned down his advances.

Explaining that his reputation preceded him, they allowed me to cut him off.

And so it went. For years.

Finally, it became funny. Said Guy would show up at the same place as I; we would laugh, talk, hug and then flirt. And joke about which one of us was stalking whom. I'm still convinced I was the stalkee, but that's just my take.

In the fourth or fifth year I'd lived here, I saw Said Guy yet again. He seemed especially charming that night. Or I'd had especially too many vodka lemonades. When my friends were itching to leave early, and he asked if I'd go with him to a party nearby, I obliged. I know, I know. Slow learner.

Anyway, we got in a cab and went towards the building where the party was being held. As we entered the lobby of the building, I noticed that the doorman gave him a nod of what I could only deem was recognition. There was no hesitant fumbling and "uhm, which way is the elevator" or anything that indicated he hadn't been there before.

I chalked it up to his having been to this buddy's house before. It happens.

As we exited the elevator on the third floor, I heard the distinct sound of keys tinkling in his hand. I looked up at him, and said with a great deal of sarcasm in my voice, "you have keys to this party?" In his full-on cocky manner, he said, "uh, no. I want to drop my coat off first."

Hell-o? Where are we doing said drop-off? Oh, right. In your condo. Which, conveniently is right here.

I fall for it a bit, mostly out of curiosity to see his place. Not many guys I knew at the time (or now, for that matter) live alone, in a condo, and live well. I was curious if the well-dressed man equaled a well-appointed condo.

Uh, yeah.

It did. As he held the door open for me, I entered the hallway onto dark cherry hardwood flooring. Then noticed what had to be 20-foot ceilings. And a perfect kitchen complete with Viking appliances and granite counter tops from here to there. With an island the size of my living room. And gorgeous cabinets.

My eyes drifted past that to the walls with the enormous artwork. Real stuff - not posters of sports figures or neon beer signs. Nope. This guy had hired a decorator. There were two bedrooms, and a hall bathroom resplendent with marble and dark wood and a mirror without even a trace of toothpaste on it.

Just past the perfectly dressed living room, with just the right blend of modern and transitional furniture, I see the wrap around semi-circle balcony with a grill, tables, chairs, lounges and potted plants. And, just beyond, the skyline view that encapsulated every key building in Chicago from the Hancock Building to the Sears Tower. Bookend to bookend, this view had it all.

Said Guy drank in the look on my face, and continued the tour.

Then, I saw the master closet. He proudly opened the door, and I sucked in my breath. It looked like Brooks Brothers. The store on Michigan Avenue...NOT the outlet mall. Every shelf was dark wood, and the hangers were matching and evenly spaced to allow his beautiful clothing to hang just so. His shoes all faced the same direction, and his ties hung neatly in a row. Even his t-shirts had a neatly organized home.

I could not decide if this guy was a dream man or was undoubtedly gay, pretending to be straight. Come on. It could happen.

Either way, he fixed me a drink as I remember that we're supposed to be going to a party upstairs. When I mentioned it, he laughed and said with an evil grin, "there is no party." I have blond hair, but I'm hardly stupid. I still thought this was a fancy pit-stop on the way to his buddy's place.

Maybe it was the closet, or maybe it was the drink he fixed me, but I was a little more than curious. And, felt a little amorous. After all, Said Guy talked the talk, clearly walked the walk, and made me feel just the right combination of powerful and powerless.

I excused myself to the restroom to freshen up and I heard him follow me into his bedroom (he wanted me to see his master bathroom - showoff - so I went in there) and listened while he took off his shoes. No biggie, I desperately wanted to ditch my heels, so I could understand.

Not more than three minutes later, as I dried my hands off on his Egyptian cotton towels, I turned off the light in the bathroom and opened the door.

It was dark in his bedroom, but in the light of the city glow, I could see that he was laying on the bed.

Asleep.

Completely naked.

Uhm, hell-o?

What exactly did he think was going to happen here?

Needless to say, I walked into the kitchen, half laughing and half mortified, and got my coat.

Thinking quickly, I decided I wanted to leave him a note to remind him, when he woke up (in case he had a propensity to forget things while imbibing) that I'd been here, but was not here anymore.

I scrambled in the kitchen to locate a pen. I found one, and then tore off a paper towel (who doesn't keep a notepad with the pens?) and scribbled, "SAID GUY, I left. -Colleen."

I used his name. But not here. I changed his name to protect the not-so-innocent.

And naked.

I exited the building, gave the doorman a sardonic smirk, and hailed a cab home.

I never heard from the guy again.

Several years passed, and I started seeing him occasionally, mostly from a distance, on Michigan Avenue. Near my office. In the lobby of a building. Walking in front of Nordstrom. Leaving Starbucks.

And, each time, I got embarrassed and looked away, turned around, or otherwise diverted the situation.

Not sure why I was the embarrassed one, but I was. Time was kind, and I hadn't seen him in years.

Until last Wednesday.

In the lobby of my office building.

Again, I repeated the "dodge his eye and go the other way" move and managed to avoid a run-in. Because really? What would I have said?

Good to see you again, this time with your eyes open and clothes on?

Yeah, I don't think so.

So, I'm having lunch with my co-worker today, and something reminds me to tell her that story. She'd been traveling last week or she would have heard it immediately. I told her the entire story, (long story is never really short, come on) and we get quite a good belly laugh about the whole thing.

We even played the name game to see if her friend who works in Said Guy's industry may know him. We plotted a call to her as soon as we get back upstairs to our office. We conceded that maybe he was here in our building for a meeting - he was in a suit at the time - and she laughed again about the sheer nakedness of it all.

Leaving lunch, I dropped my tray off at the garbage can, gathered my purse and fountain drink, and walked with her to the lobby.

I looked up, and not 25 feet away, is Said Guy. In a suit. Walking through the turnstiles that indicate that his office is in THIS building.

He glanced in our direction right as I noticed him. I squealed quietly, grabbed my friend's arm and whisper-yelled to her, "that's him! Oh my God, that's him!"

She can hardly believe it, and I can hardly believe it when she starts to speed up. She wanted a closer look, naturally.

We zoomed through the turnstile about 10 feet behind him. I didn't see him turn left into our elevator bank, so as we careened around the corner, I finally am face-to-face him, with two other suit-clad guys, right as the elevator door opened.

Now, if I'd had MY way, there's no chance in hell I would have voluntarily boarded the elevator with them. But my friend wanted to. She needed "a good view."

Mortified, and unsure why I continue to be the embarrassed one, I followed her. I dodged his eye, and positioned myself right in front of the elevator door with my back to him and his buddies.

We stood there, staring ahead, while the guys talked amongst themselves behind us. I couldn't even think I'm trying so hard not to laugh. I may not have breathed the entire way up to the 39th floor.

We exited at our floor, about six floors below his, and waited until the door closes behind us before we burst.

Laughing out loud, folded over, barely breathing, neither of us could speak.

What are the odds?

I am pretty sure God has a sense of humor.

Let's just be glad this guy fell into the Vortex.

Dear Mr. President

I'd like to make a teensy weensy request of President Obama.

Just a small one.

It doesn't require Congressional support, media coverage, lots of zeros or even a fancy suit, tie and podium.

Nope.

So, here goes.

Dear President Obama,

I am a faithful, law abiding, concerned citizen of your hometown state of Illinois. I reside and pay hefty taxes and ridiculous gas prices in your banner city of Chicago.

I wear my seat belt, I use my blinker, I park legally and I drive with caution.

I vote in elections, even in the lame Alderman and Court Judge ones, despite the political corruption that you've luckily (and hopefully) evaded thus far.

I put up with the snowy winters, short summers and crowded street festivals, all in the name of living in this great city.

I read books (and not just online blogs), I buy newspapers (and not just for the crossword puzzles), I watch public television (and not just for the celebrity charity concerts) and I legally buy music (and not just the iTunes free download on Tuesdays).

I work hard, filed unemployment legally, pray at night and call my parents regularly.

I give money to homeless people (who in turn use it to buy not so nice things, I'm sure) and I help little old ladies cross the street and board the bus (and not just so I can get out of the cold faster).

Basically, I'm a good person.

So, with all of that said, I ask a tiny little insignificant favor of you, Mr. President.

Can you please just create a ban to outlaw advertising of all things Valentine's Day? Just this year?

This would include, for your reference and convenience (I know you're a busy man) the following products and categories:

-jewelry companies
-lingerie brands
-florists
-vacation getaways
-chocolatiers
-fancy restaurants
-all boutique gift stores
-Walgreens, CVS, Hallmark, American Greetings and local card shops
-Match.com, Chemistry.com, eHarmony.com and even those late night infomercials for tele-loving

That would be great, thanks. Could you please enact this bill immediately?

My single friends and I appreciate you. David Plouffe? If you're reading this, I owe you one. And a hefty donation.

It would be worth it.

Kind regards,

Lonely in Lakeview

Enclosures: Bittersweets Candy, shown below in this year's "dumped" edition!

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.

Published!

I totally missed it, but looky here, people.

When I was feeling particularly broke, desperate and creative one day, I responded to a Craigslist ad that mentioned paying people for blog rants.

Uh, Craigslist?

I've got a blog here, and I'm pretty sure I could dig up some posts that qualify as rants.

So, I went to the site, RantBlogger and submitted a fair amount of old posts. And, I got an email response confirming that I was the author, that they were true stories, and that I was comfortable with being paid for a post.

Uh, RantBlogger?

Yes. Please.

So, I have been waiting, watching and curiously checking back on the site to see if it ever got published.

Nada.

Until today. I just saw this.

Apparently I missed it from last week. So, here it is. Enjoy.

And, do me a favor. Comment on it? Show me some RantBlogger love? And maybe berate the gross guy (who is misusing the Tribune site) who commented on it?

Thanks. And, yes, this really did happen to me. I wrote about it way back when.

Men amaze me. And not always in the good way.

10,000 Maybes

Maybe I'm impatient.

Maybe I'm a perfectionist.

Maybe I'm a control freak.

Maybe I'm eager.

Maybe I'm intolerant.

Maybe I'm an idealist.

Maybe I'm hard on myself.

Maybe I'm too analytical.

Maybe I'm unwilling to wait.

Maybe I'm stubborn.

Maybe I'm unable to see tomorrow.

Maybe I'm antsy.

Maybe I'm used to things coming easily.

Maybe I'm frustrated.

Maybe I'm losing it.

Maybe I'm lonely.

Maybe I'm bored.

Maybe I'm pessimistic.

Maybe I'm tired of myself.

Maybe I'm annoying.

Maybe I'm abnormal.


Maybe I just need to know when it will stop hurting so much.

I'm Just Not There, Yet

I've been asked a lot lately why I haven't been writing. There are several answers to that very complicated question, and my normal storytelling self would want to get into them all, but the simple truth is this:

I haven't felt like it. I'm just not there. Yet.

It is not that I don't miss the feeling of a great post, when the words are spilling out of me faster than I can type them, or the reactions that your amazing comments provide me, or the increasing pride I feel as I realize that people are actually affected by, amused by, or intrigued by the silly, mundane, casual life observations I make.

But, I'm just not myself lately.

On the upside, there have been some good things. Christmas was wonderful with my family and my sister's lovely boyfriend. We lounged, ate homecooked meals, watched movies, fixed computer issues, went to church, shopped, saw a movie, enjoyed the 60 degree days with walks around the neighborhood, played board games and opened gifts with relish.

New Year's Eve was far more fun than I could have hoped for, and included dressing in 1920s garb for a speakeasy party in a renovated warehouse on Randolph Street. The party hosts had planned for rides home, and the warm sedan has never been more welcome. I ushered in the new year with a kiss and a toast with my friends. Unlike years past, the tick tock of the clock at midnight was a blessing, not a curse.

The Bulldogs got a win at their bowl game on New Year's Day. The birthday gifted tickets to "Wicked" were wonderful, and the show didn't disappoint. The snow couldn't put a damper on the celebration that entire weekend. For my birthday in Chicago, the girls and I closed down dinner at the lovely Jane's restaurant in Bucktown, and owned Marie's Riptide for several hours dominated by silly songs on the jukebox and cheap drinks from an 80 year-old bartender. All in all, my birthday was a week-long celebration with family and friends, and I feel so fortunate to be loved by so many, and so deeply. I ate well, drank well, dressed up and danced like no one was watching. Despite the 394 photos I know were taken to prove otherwise.

Lately, the job search is getting better, so that is a plus. I have two final last round "chemistry check" interviews this week, with two very different agencies, and am feeling like an offer is near. I also have two other interviews, one as a follow-up to a phone interview in early December, and one that is a "let's get creative and find a position for you because you're great" kind of thing. So, overall, this week could be it for the job search. I may actually get to open the bottle of Vueve Cliquot champagne that I've been saving for this occasion. The toast I will make, after twelve weeks without employment, will be with gusto and meaning.

On the downside, winter has been rough the past few weeks. It has been cold, bitter, disastrous, brutal, disheartening and far beyond any definition of cold that Webster's has ever drafted. It has sucked. Lucky for me, I haven't had to leave the couch all that often in the sub-zero temps. My car has remained put in the toasty warm garage, and my condo has never been cleaner.

But, the combination of the post-holiday blues, the unemployment blues and the winter blues is enough to make anyone feel not quite like themselves.

Frankly, I'd love to blame it on that.

The bitter truth is this: I'm heartbroken.

I won't divulge the personal, raw or painful details, but the fact is that I'm not quite myself in this role. I'm good at being the optimist. The positive thinker. The generous friend. The compassionate buddy. The loving and generous girlfriend.

I'm not good at being the one left behind. With so many questions. And so few answers.

I don't know how to begin. I'm waiting for the day when it isn't the first thing on my mind when I wake up, and the last thing on my mind when I go to sleep. I'm anticipating the moment when I can almost forget the pain.

I feel raw, opened up, exposed, vulnerable and ripped apart at the seams. I ache. I burn. I tire from running through all of the memories. I have forced myself to delete the images from my digital photo frame, to relieve myself of the 'kick in the gut' feeling that I had every time I entered the kitchen, faced with the past year of my life.

While I'm happy to recall the good times, they are the most painful of all. So much was good, rewarding, loving, kind, fun, hilarious, silly, comforting, generous, familiar, unfamiliar, new, fantastic, crazy, friendly, familial and great. But, apparently, that wasn't enough.

I'm ready to feel better. I'm anxious to feel normal. I desire to move on.

But, I'm just not there yet.

So, forgive my silence. My bitterness. My complete and total lack of ability to write about something else. Something funny, absurd, mundane and normal.

I'm just not there yet.

This too shall pass. Time will heal. Everything happens for a reason. Good things come to those who wait. I deserve someone who loves me fully, without abandon, devoid of reservation, as much as I do them.

Blah blah fricking blah.

I know this.

I'm just not there yet.

So, please—respectfully, painfully, honestly—I beg you.

Spare me the cliches. Save the "atta girl" comments. Keep the relationship advice to yourself. I can't take it. Just say hi to show your support. That is enough, for now. I'll know what you meant.

Trust me when I say that while it means a lot that so many people care, and want me to know how great I am, and how this will just be a blip on the radar someday, and how if this is not right, something else will be, and all that jazz...

I'm just not there.

Yet.

I Had a Dream

I had a dream about Obama the other night.

I know, that almost sounds like a poorly-scripted mashup of historical statements and I don't mean any disrespect to Dr. King.

But, I did. Sunday night I spent the evening watching the "60 Minutes" interview with the Obamas and on my lap rested a handful of recent magazines (Time, Rolling Stone, People) all featuring his charming face on the cover. I'm guessing that it all seeped into my sub-conscious, and created a very active imagination in my sleep.

Before you go thinking I'd be interested in having an extra-marital affair with the President-elect, let me clarify. In my dream, he wasn't married, but he was most definitely the soon-to-be leader of the free world. I don't recall much, as I'm prone to do with dreams no matter how vivid, but it felt pretty real at the time.

I recall being shuttled in and out of back doors under the protection of the U.S. Secret Service, and I was dressed up in ball gowns, pants suits and other fancy outfits that befitted a woman dating the man who was to live at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. I remember standing off-stage while he commanded a podium, and receiving him as he exited the spotlight. I remember sitting across from him at a dimly lit restaurant talking for hours. I remember telling my friends, in hushed and excited tones, that I was dating the President-elect.

Maybe I've seen "The American President" one too many times?

When I told Brett about the dream, instead of feeling self-conscious about the state of our relationship, he rather said, "I'm guessing you're not the only woman in America who is dreaming about Obama." He may be right.

But, frankly, I'm content to have him be my President, not my date. However appealing that mega-watt smile, calm persona and sharp intellect may be.

The Weekend of Fs

Like the snowbirds in January, I'm heading South!

Even though it isn't quite winter yet, this Chicago gal is flocking southward for the weekend.

Brett and I alight on Atlanta this weekend for Family, Friends, Football and Food and I can't wait. It seems to be the F weekend. Let's examine:

F#1: Family
We will be staying with my parents, and he'll be meeting my Dad. Let's hope the men in my life get along, and are on their best behavior. I'm sure it will go smoothly...but in the deep, dark recesses of my mind, I have visions of my Dad answering the door in overalls polishing a shotgun. I have visions of him asking, "What are your intentions with my daughter?" or asking Brett to detail the branches on his family tree, and Brett flushing redder than my shoulders after a long day in the sun.

My Family Tree?
I get to meet my sister's darling new boyfriend, George, this weekend. I've heard so much about him, seen so many photos, and been on the receiving end of some great stories of their time together, and now I get to put him to the test in real life. What kind of questions are the responsibility of the older (questionably wiser) sibling? Do tell, I'm curious. And taking notes.

F#2: Friends
As you've read in many a post, I have a great group of friends with whom I've been linked (for better or worse!) since we were all single digits, wearing braces and rookies in all things life. We've experienced highs (graduations, marriages, babies, birthdays, new houses, new jobs and great haircuts) and lows (deaths, moving away, car accidents, illness, job losses, heartbreaks and our favorite shows going off the air) together. All while managing to keep things interesting (read: Posse Grudge Matches every so often) and fun (read: vacations to foreign lands together).

The Posse, on our best behavior.
I will have the fortunate privilege to re-introduce Brett to many friends that he met in June when we were in Costa Rica, and introduce him for the first time to many new faces. I'm not making a PowerPoint deck to brief him this time (yes, I did), so he's on his own. He can call them all "Buddy" and "Dude" and it will go just fine.

F#3: Football
We will be caravanning east from Atlanta, heading towards the cutest little big college town in the world, Athens Georgia. I love nothing more than showing off this amazing gem to a virgin visitor. Especially in the fall, with all of the grasses green, the leaves changing and the winds lightly blowing. Campus will be at her best. I can't wait to exit off Highway 316 and revel at the new construction and say "That wasn't there when I was here!" a hundred times, to tread softly across the North Campus Quad, to duck behind the East Campus Railroad bridge for a moment in the shade, to drive slowly down Milledge Avenue gawking at the antebellum mansions we Greeks called home, to hoof it over to the new(ish) Student Center Quad to marvel at the new developments there, to stand on Gillis Bridge looking into the end zone of Sanford Stadium where the hedges lie in wait.

Heaven on Earth.
And, there my friends, will be the game. The Georgia Bulldogs vs. the Tennessee Volunteers. We at UGA hate the color orange for a reason (UT, UF, Auburn, etc.) and it will be a Red Sea like no other on Saturday. I long to hear Brett laugh as I call the Dawgs. Despite the season's one disappointment (a memory I'm trying to erase), the Dawgs make us proud, and the SEC colleges know how to tailgate properly to prepare for it. It will be glorious. Go Dawgs!

There is still an outside chance that we'll be able to see the Chicago Bears take on the Atlanta Falcons in the Georgia Dome on Sunday. Not sure if my sister's ticket contacts are going to pull through, but wouldn't that be cool? And, oddly enough, both teams are in first place in their respective division, so it could even be a good game. Go Bears!

F#4: Food
Living in the country's third largest city, one would think we'd have access to everything. Sadly, this is not true for a few critical items of culinary deliciousness. Sweet tea, for example. Can't get it here. In fact, they think you're weird if you ask for it. McDonald's is trying, but who goes to McDonald's for a cold one? I'm hearing rumor of a new treat in the south called Sweet Tea Vodka (STV for short) that is making its rounds. I plan to test it and will share my thoughts. If I have any that are worth repeating.

If only I had a porch and a rocker.
And then there's Chick-fil-A. I've talked about my love for this fast-food but not-fast-food outlet before. I just can't understand why it would be so hard to franchise them here in the city limits of Chicago? Ponder that while I dream about the waffle fries, the lemonade and the lightly breaded, not fried, chicken sandwich. Or chicken biscuit, if you're there early enough in the day. You can practically taste it, can't you?

We may also have a chance to stop by The Varsity, on our way through downtown, tomorrow before we do the touristy things I have planned, or on Sunday on our way back to the airport. Nothing like leaving town with a full belly of hot dogs and french fries at one of the country's oldest drive-throughs, smelling like grease all the way back on your Airtran flight.

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As you can see, I'm ready. Real photos and stories will be shared when I return.

I think this will be one great "F-ing" weekend. Probably NOT the example they'd use on Sesame Street on the "F" day.

Love in the Frozen Food Aisle?

I feel like I must preface this post with a reason. Otherwise, this comes way out of left field.

This post was prompted when I read one by a blogger in Canada (a single male) who mentions his frustration at meeting women today after the love of his life ended things so abruptly. He's quite quirky and hilarious, and his post today made me think. And comment something, albeit shorter and more rambly, like this.

Whoever said you should, or could, meet singles in the grocery store has never followed me while I'm there. I go so infrequently because I hate it so much. I miserably enter the store, but I always follow the same pattern of behavior while inside.

I hurriedly scour the aisles, in the same order each time. I go quickly from produce (the far right of my store) and circle around through bread, soups and condiments, to the cereal aisle (where I always buy at least 2 boxes of Special K with Red Berries, unless it is on sale and then I really stock up looking like the crazy cereal woman), and then I make my way past the butcher and the seafood guy and curve towards the dairy aisle. There I scoop up about 10 yogurts, grab some cottage cheese, and haul a gallon of milk and a carton of OJ into my basket.

Oh, and I'm usually dragging that little plastic "yes I cook for one" basket over my arm with the handles stretched beyond the norm into bendy-dom and my right arm has huge, red, swollen indentations in it from loading too much into that little guy and I am nearing a state of misery when I finally find my way in the liquor and beer aisle (the far left of my store) and I grab a few must-haves from over there.

Then I skate past the 3-for-$12 bouquets (oh how I wish someone else was buying the fresh cut flowers) and head over to the checkout lane. I'm scanning the gossip headlines while I secretly rue the day I chose the 15 year-old checkout person's line who has to radio over the speaker for a "21" to come ring up my wine, causing the whole checkout line to sigh and harumph while we wait for that person to casually make their way over to my lane to help out the rude youngster, and I can't really blame them. I should have gone with the self-checkout line since I'm only buying about 12 things that will inevitably cost me $75.

Shaking my head at the lack of customer service that is present anywhere in America today (except super-duper Nordstrom lady), I storm out of there because I'm so hungry and my feet hurt and I just can't get home fast enough to open the bottle of wine that made my basket so heavy. The four block walk makes my arms ache, just proving the need to work out more. Which is an activity that I dislike even more than grocery shopping.

Yeah. Not the time to get hit on. Note to my single male readers: the grocery store is a horrible, awful place and I can't imagine that most women would like to be asked out over a stack of Lean Cuisines.

But maybe that was just me.

(And, yes, it feels good to say that last line in the past tense.)

On the Other Hand

He didn't see me struggle as I reached around and up my back one way, and down and over my shoulder the other. Silently, I looked pleadingly at him for assistance and he immediately came over and zipped up the back of the dress, and spun me around to admire the front view. The look on his face confirmed that the splurge was worth every penny.

I stood in my closet, where the bulging jewelry pouches hang, with my back to the bedroom. Trying and failing, my fingers just couldn't get the clasp to connect while holding my hair up and out of the way. He stepped up behind me, moved my hair off my shoulder, and took the beaded strand from my trembling fingers. With a gentle touch that belies his manliness, he clasped the necklace and let my hair fall back in place.

He arrived in time to have a glass of wine before dinner, and before he'd even sat down, I mentioned the broken glass that was littering the bathroom. I'd been clumsy again, and hadn't been paying attention while I reached for the moisturizer in the medicine chest, not realizing that the short drinking glass was teetering precariously on the edge. As I dodged the open mirror door for a better view of the mirror, the glass upended itself and fell to the countertop, shattering and dispersing the tiny shards of glass everywhere within five feet. He offered to sweep, while I held the bag, as it was clearly more than I could do all at once. He grabbed the paper towels and suggested that we dampen them to scoop out the invisible pieces that lingered in the sink, protectively and gently cautioning me not to touch the sink or the countertops.

While teetering on high heels, with one leg lifted while the other held the weight of my body, he lent me his shoulder, without having been asked, so I could find balance and adjust the strap of the offending shoe. It was as if he'd always been standing there, just waiting to be needed for support.

With an aching back and a large purse full of whoknowswhat, I slid to the edge of the sticky leather bench seat in the back of the warm taxi cab. Wincing as I swung my legs around, I placed my feet on the cement and looked up to see a hand outstretched to assist me. I reached for the hand, allowed my weight to lean into it, and I pulled myself to a standing position and lifted my handbag back up onto my shoulder. I looked into his eyes, smiled, and uttered a subtle, yet genuine, comment of thanks.

As an independent woman who has lived on her own, alone, for three years now, it is a welcome change to find that when I need an extra set of hands, one is right there, ready to help. I can't do it all on my own, and shouldn't have to. Despite my quiet stubbornness and insistence that I can handle it, sometimes I must admit that, quite frankly, I can't.

I'm so grateful that my life now includes a second set of hands.