Thou Shalt Not Be a Jerk

The 10 Commandments of using the Subway [or bus]? Genius.

Thanks to this guy at Cracked.com, maybe a handful of people will learn how to use public transportation, and maybe they will live in my city, and maybe this domino effect will improve my commute to and from work.

And, maybe it won't.

In the interim, I believe there are a few commandments that the author left off:

• Thou shalt not sit in the priority seating and act like you don't see the old lady that just boarded and needs a seat.


• Thou shalt not perform the Butt Pivot when I'm trying to squeeze past you and you're too darn lazy to stand up to let me out.


• Thou shalt not wear a purse that is the size of my bedroom closet and act surprised when I tell you it is slamming me in the head every 4 seconds, and I ask you to move it.


• Thou shalt not put your bag on the seat next to you, and harumph loudly when I ask if I can sit down. These dogs are barking and I could use the rest.


• Thou shalt not use pennies to board the bus. The fare is $2.00, not $200 pennies. That is just annoying.


• Thou shalt not box me out while we're standing at the bus stop. It is a double-length bus, and we'll both get on, with or without your elbows getting involved.


• Thou shalt not wave your RedEye paper in my face, flipping each page into my cheek as you read the latest dirt on Lindsay Lohan. Or I may just pull a celebrity freak-out move on you.

There. That is a few extra commandments from yours truly.

Any more that Moses and I forgot?

*Thanks, Monica, for sharing the cartoon!

Look Sharp

My mom and sister arrive today, and are actually on the ground in Chicago as we speak. They're riding the famed Orange Line from Midway, so hopefully no one flashes them as they cruise past the Pulaski stop (see yesterday's post if you have no idea what I'm referencing).

I have a full weekend of sight-seeing, wine-drinking and food-eating planned, including a trip out to Oak Park to see the Frank Llloyd Wright home and studio, as well as a walking tour of the homes in the area he designed.

And, then...

The forecasters announced that we're to get 4-9" of snow tomorrow.

It goes without saying that I'm over it.

But, I did scrub, clean, vaccuum, spritz, spray and dust my condo within an inch of MY life in preparation for their visit, so if we have to stay home and, ahem, complete house projects so be it.

The list on the fridge is a mere coincidence, Mom, I promise. And, the Home Depot credit card laying out? Yeah, I leave that there all the time. No, no, I'm not asking you to...oh, you'd like to help? Well grab your pre-printed monogrammed waist apron and protective eyewear and let's get busy.

**Update as of Monday, post-weekend: We DID get snow on Friday, and we DID finish all 6 house projects I had on my list, plus one or two that I hadn't even thought of. My Mom and sister sure are handy. Maybe I could rent them out by the hour on their next visit?

Hello Mr. Johnson

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He then got off (literally).

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

Satisfied? Want MORE public penis sightings?!?!

Well, lucky for you, I have another one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not So Super

Did I ever tell you the one about the time I fainted on the El?

Yeah, I didn't think so.

It was several years ago, and it was a rather warm morning. I was in a suit, which makes this story feel like ancient history as I so rarely don that type of attire anymore. I was on the Red Line, and it was underground at about North/Clyborn that I started feeling woozy. I was standing, and was hanging on to the pole, about 7 people away from the door.

I had noticed this handsome stranger standing next to me, as he resembled a cross between Dean Cain and Vince Vaughn. NOT a bad combination in my book. He was tall, smartly dressed and adorably dimpled. And, for the record, this was the old Dean Cain, like Clark Kent from Superman. Not bad.

As the wooziness wore on, I fanned myself with the free copy of the RedEye I'd already finished. I moved my hand down the pole to the cold spots. I unbuttoned my suit jacket, but didn't know what else to do. My head was spinning. My heart was pounding. I was beginning to break into a cold sweat.

And, no, this was not all induced by the guy. Give me more credit than that.

Anyway, I would have taken a seat, but they were all filled, and I am too damn polite (and embarrassed?!) to ask someone to stand so I can narrowly avoid passing out in their laps. So, I stood and suffered.

As we left the Clyborn station, and headed into the Chicago station, I was cognitively aware that this was the longest underground stretch with no hope for fresh air. Maybe this was all mental, but I just knew that I was going to faint. I didn't know what to do, but I sortof wanted to give someone around me a warning in the event that this did come to be. I looked at the closest person, the Clark Kent look-a-like and said in a tinny, small voice, "I think I'm going to faint."

He looked at me as if I was absolutely certifiably nuts. He said, in this egotistical, sarcastic, and ureasonably loud voice, "Are you serious?"

I leaned towards the doors as we entered and left the Chicago station, desperate for some wind. I didn't even have time to respond to his snarky reply.

If you've ever experienced a fainting spell, you know exactly what happened next. My ears started to ring, and the sounds of the El were drowned out by the incessant noise in my head. Then I started to get even warmer. Slowly, I felt the light-headedness take over, and then it was as if someone had drawn a heavy velvet curtain down, like at the Opera, and it was falling slowly in front of my eyes.

Fade to black.

I regained consciousness to find that I haven't fallen, only slumped, and had probably only been "out" for about 10 seconds. If that. The doors, thankfully, opened at the Grand station and I bolted off. Stumbled is more like it.

After crawling, almost literally, up the dank stairs to the street level, I slowly made my way to my office, where my girls quickly took over and pumped me with orange juice (hypoglycemia?) and cold towels, while forcing me to sit down with my head between my knees (harder than it sounds while balancing an orange juice).

I lived through it.

BUT, here is the clincher. The punch line. Aren't you glad you waited for it?

Feeling much more like my usual self, I went to happy hour the following day. As my coworkers and I enjoyed a cold beer after work, I looked around the bar, and saw a handsome stranger standing above his table of colleagues. I knew it instantly.

It was Clark Kent. I could hardly believe my eyes. I told my girls, and they of course insisted that I go over there, introduce myself and give him a hard time about his sorely underachieving gentlemanly behavior on the El the day before.

So, a few sips later, I did just that. I walked up to his table, swung my hair and gave him my most brilliant smile. I said, with not more than a TINGE of my southern accent (come on, we use it when we have to), "Hi, do you recognize me?" And he smiles, looked me up and down (what a guy) and says, "No. Should I?" And his friends giggled nervously, nodding in my direction like, "Come on buddy, girls never hit on us at happy hour!"

I looked him squarely in the face and said, "Yes, I was the one that fainted on you on the El yesterday?!?" And he blushed bright red. I wasn't sure the source of HIS embarrassment. Yet.

His friend chimes in before he could respond and said, "Oh, this is the cute girl that you walked all the way to work after she fainted!?" and looks at Clark.

I was shocked. Awed. Amazed. MORTIFIED for him.

Swiveling my head towards him, I look at him anxiously for his response. He flushed even deeper crimson, and mumbled, "Uh, rieurqalfdpsa." In other words, I have no idea.

Still in disbelief, I looked at him and said, "Oh. You've got to be kidding me. You told them you HELPED me?" I then turned to his friends, and said, in a nice but firm voice, "Yeah, this is the guy that looked at me like I was nuts when I admitted that I feared I was going to faint. And, he responded with a sarcastic, 'Are you serious?' and did nothing to assist me when I actually DID pass out. Not even CLOSE to walking me to my office."

His friends erupted into giggles, shouting all sorts of "Come on, dude, you should have helped her! Why did you lie?!?" at him, and I smiled sweetly and turned on my heels and went back to my table.

All of my friends assumed things went really well since they could see the laughing and the smiles, but little did they know that under that smart shirt and tie, Clark Kent wears a wimpy, worn out, white v-neck undershirt.

NOT a stretchy red super hero costume.

They did send over a round of drinks, however. Doubt Clark Kent ever had to do that to make up for his mistakes.