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.

--

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.

Born to Tailgate: 2008 Remix

Uga V with a new fan
In honor of the University of Georgia's home opener today—Go Dawgs!—I figured I'd repost an oldie but goodie.

I wrote this essay (if you will?) in response to some friendly taunting from some Chicago friends when we were all taking off for Ann Arbor for a weekend of football Michigan-style several years back. The guys weren't sure I could hang. They were afraid I'd be too girly. They didn't think I'd understand the rules. They figured I'd want to leave at halftime to go shopping.

Boy were they wrong.

The below essay was my response, typed furiously back to the four "offenders," and the only reply I got back was, "You're riding shotgun. Let's go."

The irony was that my Atlanta friends found this re-posted (way back when) on several fan sites all over the country, so it is clear that good things (topics, not my writing), spread fast.

So, in light of the game tomorrow, I give you this:

Born To Tailgate
By: Colleen Snell

Do I know how to tailgate? Of course. I went to The University of Georgia. I am a Bulldog. I know how to tailgate. I was born to tailgate.

We drink Beam for breakfast. We have huge feasts of southern fried chicken, mashed potatoes and pans of brownies. We dress in red and black and only red and black. We tape Ziploc baggies of Jim Beam inside our thighs to help our wasted frat boy dates get into the game with it. We sweat like fools (the girls actually “glisten") at the games in September. We get too dressed up for the games and don't even complain. We love it.

We walk from fraternity row to Sanford Stadium, or better yet, we ride with the pledges down the great hill of Baxter Steet in the back of a frat boy’s SUV with Croakies hanging from the mirror and a pair of old New Balance under the seat. We yell and bark and sing and chant until we can't talk. We drink cheap beer and squint into the hot Georgia sun and smile the whole day.

We bleed red and black. We despise all teams with orange. We stand 86,112 fans together, united in a veritable sea of red as our Dawgs hunker down 'tween the hedges and make us proud. We love their silver britches and shiny red helmets. We rush the field before the game is even over. We tear down the goal posts and parade them around campus. We love a good rounce, we appreciate a good win, but we're proud of our team even when they lose.

We host "College Gameday" and show Corso, Herbstreit and Fowler a good time on Broad Street late into the morning. We ring the victory bell on North Campus like we have since its inception. We still brag that Herschel Walker was a Dawg. We put Athens, Georgia on the map long before anyone had even heard the B-52’s tune “Love Shack.”

We pet UGA VI and know that he's the cutest damn bulldog we've ever seen, even when he turns his tail end to you because his head is sore from all of the patting. We start over after the game and continue to tailgate until the night falls, and then we hit the bars.

We tailgate at the UGA/Florida game in Jacksonville for 4+ long days, win or lose, rain or shine, and have rightfully earned the title for that roadtrip into neutral territory "The Largest Outdoor Cocktail Party." We love Larry Munson and know the sound of his voice will bring us good things. We reminisce about the good ‘ole days in Athens when Vince Dooley was King. The girls know as much about football plays as they do about their Kate Spade purses.

We drink out of the bottle. We drink out of a thermos. We drink out of a can. We drink out of a styrofoam cup. We drink out of a koozie. We drink out of a Ziploc. We drink out of a funnel. We drink out of a keg. We just drink.

We have two religions down South where I'm from: SEC Football and Southern Baptist. Pick one.

You ask me if I'm ready?

Why yes, sir. I'm ready. I was born ready. And so were all my friends.

What I Know Now?

I just got an email from the UGA Alumni Association asking for submissions to a "brochure" of sorts that they distribute to both incoming freshman and graduating students. It is intended to be a collection of advice from alumni, fellow Dawgs sharing the "if onlys" that ring in their ears now, that would have made their lives easier if they'd known them earlier.

Somehow I don't think my list would get published. But, damn, ain't they the truth.

If Only I Knew Then:

• That the beer taps at Georgia Theater have not been cleaned since the early century, and drinking draft beer there is a bad idea, unless you really like puking.
  
  
• That the classes that stress you out the most are likely the ones that are filling your head (albeit temporarily) with nonsense that will have absolutely no bearing on your real "adult" life. NO ONE has ever stood in the grocery store and thought, man, this recipe would have been much harder to shop for if I hadn't taken Advanced Physics.
  
  
• That being in the right sorority or fraternity isn't half as important as the group of friends you make while in college. Whether they were your sisters, your neighbors, your teammates or your classmates, the friendships you form while in school aid you through an amazing, challenging, interesting, crazy-fun time in your life.
  
  
• That under no uncertain circumstances should you graduate in 4 years with no summers spent on campus. It is just a cryin' shame to leave college that soon.
  
  
• That double vodkas WILL make you black out. Or throw up. No questions asked.
  
  
• That it would be worth giving up a football season or a spring on campus to study abroad. I still regret this, and wish someone had just put me on a plane with a map and a backpack. I'd have figured it out.
  
  
• That while the freedom from your parents will be exhilirating, at some point about halfway through college you realize that you miss them, and like being with them. Even if they're not handing you money. I think it is a hint at "adulthood," but I could be wrong. It may just be because your mom lets you bring home a huge bag of laundry, and always homecooks a meal for you.
  
  
• That no one, not even your first job interview, will give a rats ass about what your GPA was, or what you scored on your SATs. Not one person. What they ought to teach you is more "Office Life 101" or "Interviewing Skills 200." Those things would be much more educational and beneficial than high scores or fancy Latin titles after your name on graduation day.
  
  
• That there is nothing that can make Jim Beam taste good in the morning. No, not even fried chicken at a football tailgate. Nothing.
  
  
• That while staying up 'til 2 in the morning every night is fun, but you'll most likely catch up on your sleep in class (the pen may also leak through your notepad and you may drool) and professors will notice you more this way than if you just stayed in bed.
  
  
• That no matter how good at them you are, in the end, keg stands and beer bongs are meant for, and should be left to, boys. Period.
  
  
• That the four (five, six, seven?) years you spend in college is the easiest time in your life. You are still on your parents' health insurance, you don't have real responsibilities, you don't have to remember the drycleaning/doctor's appointments/credit card bills/mortgage payments/kids. You may not even have a job, because ultimately, school is your job. And that is the easiest job you'll ever have.
  
  
• That it is a powerful and useful life-long skill to master "flippy cup" and it is a good investment in your social future. Especially if you plan to move to the Midwest. Heck, throw in a few corn hole training sessions and you'll be a party hit for life.
  
  
• That just because he says he will call you if you do it, he won't, and you'll be sorry you did. And, everyone will know about it by the time you make it to your 10 am class.
  
  
• That there is absolutely no reason to wear giant Greek letters across your chest. I know, I know, they tell you it is in good spirit, and that you'll feel a sense of belonging, but really, it is an immature way to express yourself. Go buy a University sweatshirt and just enjoy being a part of something even bigger.
  
  
• That your body will likely never look as good as it does now, so stop obsessing, starving yourself and comparing your body to other girls—this is the time you should be celebrating your youthful looks and just get the heck over it.
  
  
• That under no uncertain circumstances should you EVER let your counselor talk you into taking a class that starts before 9 am. You'll regret it, you'll hate your counselor, and your grades (and your partying) will suffer.
  
  
• That even if you don't like football, there is something quite powerful about being one in a crowd of thousands all rooting for the same thing. I think they call it pride, and it gives me goosebumps even today. And, no, you don't have to let this pride make you crazy and paint your chest, do the wave, or run naked across the field. The word fan came from "fanatics" for a reason.
  
  
• That you shouldn't deny the fact that every day of the week has a great reason to socialize, and that you should be there. Maybe it is $1 burger Mondays, or $2 taco Tuesdays, or $.25 beer Thursdays, or live music Sundays, but there's always a good reason. And you should milk 'em before life comes at you and the hangovers hurt more and the deadlines are more real and your boss doesn't like you rolling in late. Just go.
  
  
• That it would be really hard to leave. I mean, crying as you close the door to your senior apartment hard. Literally sobbing as you drive down the street and pull onto the highway difficult. Seeping sadness all the way down the (short, 60 mile) road to "home," which, quite frankly, just feels different.
  

I may try to submit a few of these. I wish someone had done it for me.

More Room in the Fridge

Ok, I'll admit it. I'm an optimist.

I like to see the best in every situation, and sometimes it takes a bit of hard work to find it, and other times you just know.

This time was obvious.

Forget the wet jeans. Ignore the grey slush along every curb. Just disregard the salty roads and filthy cars. Totally let yourself get past the fridgid wind and horrid temperatures.

Enter: the optimist.

One reason to love huge snow storms, and the cold winters here in Chicago, is the simple fact that when hosting a party you can fit more in the fridge.

Why is that, you ask? Are the refrigerators bigger here? Nope.

Because there are front balconies* and back porches that keep your beer nice and cold. Throw a cooler out there filled with beer, and let the snow do its thing.

Although, to be honest, there have been a few frozen bottles when you forget about the poor beverages too long, but hey, a beer slushie never hurt anyone.

Maybe 7 Eleven should serve that flavor?

*Yes, that is an actual photo taken on the front balcony of a friend's apartment last night during the Super Bowl. Made the trips to the fridge a lot less frequent, and cut down on the chances that you'd lose your seat on the couch. I love snow.

Born to Tailgate

In light of the Bowl Championship Series national title game tomorrow, I have been watching, and talking about, college football a lot lately.

That's just fine by me.

I also have been asked to recount the stories from my college tailgating days. Which brings me to this post.

I wrote this essay (if you will?) in response to some friendly taunting from some Chicago friends when we were all taking off for Ann Arbor for a weekend of football Michigan-style several years back. The guys weren't sure I could hang. They were afraid I'd be too girly. They didn't think I'd understand the rules. They figured I'd want to leave at halftime to go shopping.

Boy were they wrong.

The below essay was my response, typed furiously back to the four "offenders," and the only reply I got back was, "You're riding shotgun. Let's go."

So, in light of the big game tomorrow, where my beloved SEC will take on, again, the Big Ten's Ohio State, I give you this:

Born To Tailgate

Do I know how to tailgate? Of course. I went to The University of Georgia. I am a Bulldog. I know how to tailgate. I was born to tailgate.

We drink Beam for breakfast. We have huge feasts of southern fried chicken, mashed potatoes and pans of brownies. We dress in red and black and only red and black. We tape Ziploc baggies of Jim Beam inside our thighs to help our wasted frat boy dates get into the game with it. We sweat like fools (the girls actually “glisten") at the games in September. We get too dressed up for the games and don't even complain. We love it.

We walk from fraternity row to Sanford Stadium, or better yet, we ride with the pledges down the great hill of Baxter Steet in the back of a frat boy’s SUV with Croakies hanging from the mirror and a pair of old New Balance under the seat. We yell and bark and sing and chant until we can't talk. We drink cheap beer and squint into the hot Georgia sun and smile the whole day.

We bleed red and black. We despise all teams with orange. We stand 86,112 fans together, united in a veritable sea of red as our Dawgs hunker down 'tween the hedges and make us proud. We love their silver britches and shiny red helmets. We rush the field before the game is even over. We tear down the goal posts and parade them around campus. We love a good rounce, we appreciate a good win, but we're proud of our team even when they lose.

We host "College Gameday" and show Corso, Herbstreit and Fowler a good time on Broad Street late into the morning. We ring the victory bell on North Campus like we have since its inception. We still brag that Herschel Walker was a Dawg. We put Athens, Georgia on the map long before anyone had even heard the B-52’s tune “Love Shack.”

We pet UGA VI and know that he's the cutest damn bulldog we've ever seen, even when he turns his tail end to you because his head is sore from all of the patting. We start over after the game and continue to tailgate until the night falls, and then we hit the bars.

We tailgate at the UGA/Florida game in Jacksonville for 4+ long days, win or lose, rain or shine, and have rightfully earned the title for that roadtrip into neutral territory "The Largest Outdoor Cocktail Party." We love Larry Munson and know the sound of his voice will bring us good things. We reminisce about the good ‘ole days in Athens when Vince Dooley was King. The girls know as much about football plays as they do about their Kate Spade purses.

We drink out of the bottle. We drink out of a thermos. We drink out of a can. We drink out of a styrofoam cup. We drink out of a koozie. We drink out of a Ziploc. We drink out of a funnel. We drink out of a keg. We just drink.

We have two religions down South where I'm from: SEC Football and Southern Baptist. Pick one.

You ask me if I'm ready? Why yes, sir. I'm ready. I was born ready. And so were all my friends.

So Sweet

With the mental capacity of a soggy bag of oatmeal yesterday, I allowed myself to enjoy a long and lovely day of nothing but football viewing from the couch.

I defended the SEC, cheered them on, watched 3 great bowl games, and danced around like a crazy fool. I initiated a sqaures game, typically reserved for Super Bowl parties, and proceeded to lose money in each quarter. But, ultimately, the victory was mine.

Knowing that I am approximately 10 years older than every player on the UGA football team, I can sincerely say that I was one proud mama watching them play so superbly yesterday in the Sugar Bowl vs. Hawaii.

Their gentle baby faces peeked out from under their helmets, and yet, that youthful look was deceptive.

They tackled. They passed. They ran. They blocked. They kicked. They scored. They sacked. They rounced.

It was as fantastic as sweet tea, with a Bowl of Sugar.

Varsity Club

Sometimes the posts just can't be about commuting. This one is no exception.

Friday night I was entertaining two freinds from Atlanta, and in an effort to keep up the facade that Chicago is hip, young and trendy, we decided to have afterdinner cocktails at the very swanky Japonais lounge. We arrive, stand outside the red velvet rope for all of 3 minutes while the refrigerator-sized bouncer (fully decked out in a velvet suit and a curly-cue plastic corded earpiece headset) assesses if we're cool enough to enter.

We made the cut.

Heading down the stairs to the lounge, I assuredly report that the "scene here" was worth seeing. Skinny gals, hot men, great outfits (and the premier of everyone's new fall hottest items) were abound. I didn't tell a lie.

Snaking a table despite the "reserved" sign, we take our seats for some primo people watching. It isn't long before we are highly intrigued by a man wearing an interesting jacket chioce.

It was a varsity letter jacket. You know the ones—in fact, you may have one hanging in the closet at your parents' house—navy felt flannel front and back with cream leather sleeves, and a huge orange "B" letter on the front breast panel. We look at each other, and quizzically raise our eyebrows. Mind you, he was easily in his 30s, making him long since a graduate of any place that hands out varsity letter jackets.

A group of 8 or so girls is seated behind us (they were apparently VIP as they, too, had a "reserved" sign on their table) and it is clear to all three of us that they are talking about this guy's choice of outerwear. My friend Walton, the husband of an old and dear friend Elizabeth, is seated closest to the gaggle of girls. He overhears them saying things like, "What is he wearing?" and "I don't get it. A letter jacket?"—very similar comments to what we're saying at our table, nestled below the uber-hip and hottie-filled bar.

Not to disappoint, the girls flag the guy down. Waving him over, you can hear one say, "We just have to know." That is girl code for "We've been talking about you for 30 minutes and it is just killing us to not understand the mindset of a grown man that would actively choose that jacket to go with his flat-front grey wool trousers."

He leans over, desperate for the attention of these fine ladies, and says, "yes?" with a smile and a twinkle of the eyes.

Walton was doing a great job very slyly leaning back, perking up the ears, intercepting the conversations and relaying them to me and to Elizabeth, only to be repeated over and over by our little corner of the bar...we couldn't help ourselves.

They say it again, "We just have to know—why the letter jacket?" He, unknowingly, thinks they are flirting. He throws his head back, laughs, shakes his cocktail in a vain way, and says, "It is simple. Three reasons: One, it is Fall. Two, it is football season. [insert painful, awkward long-pause.] And, Three: it just looks cool."

Confusion abounds. Girls recover their facial expressions and just nod and smile in that way where you're agreeing on the outside, and dying of laughter on the inside.

He backs aways, cocky and eager to rejoin his buddies to recount the story. Mind you, there was a very nice looking woman with their group, begging the question of his "status." Was he married? Single? Clueless?

The group of inquiring minds giggle, laugh, point. Elizabeth, at this point, is laughing so hard and grabs for her digital camera. Yes. He had become a tourist attraction for my visiting guests. She angles the camera so it looks as if she's snapping a quick shot of me, and captures the outfit in full glory. Leather arms and all.

At this point, in between repeating the One, Two and Three reasons he's wearing the letter jacket in a bar in Chicago, we're trying to determine if it is a Bears jacket (not the right logo, but the orange, blue and white, combined with the "B" made it a good guess), is he a high school football coach out with the varsity cheerleading coach and is just doing it to be funny? Other jokes we made at his expense are not acceptable to print here.

Note: there weren't even any "awards" or years or accolades on the jacket, making me wonder if he'd bought it at Abercrombie & Fitch in a teenage-focused effort to look vintage-high-school-suave.

Nope.

The girl in his group gets the urge to explain. Thank God for her!

She leans over the group of girls, who have just now let the laughter die down, and says "Come on, deep down he's a really good guy. He's almost 34, he graduated from high school in Montana, and sometimes I just let him do what he wants."

Yeah. Like wear black socks with navy shoes. NOT a varsity high school letter jacket to a restaurant/bar that is constently written up for its excellent food, notable atmosphere and high end clientele!

We laughed. We cried. We captured photos to remember him by.

And, we used the One, Two, Three reasons all weekend. Turns out it is an all-purpose explanation.

Q: Why did Elizabeth and Walton have fun in Chicago this weekend?

A: One, it is Fall. Two, it is football season. Three - it is just cool.