Public Announcement

I may be the only one, but let's find out.

When I am in a pubic restroom, and there are multiple stalls, and one of them is a handicapped stall with its own sink, mirror and paper towels, and there is no one waiting for that one and I end up using it, I find that the same thing happens every time.

I take care of my business, wash my hands, dry my hands and head out into the main "sink area." And for whatever reason, I feel the need to make a big show of the "I just washed my hands" bit so they know. I practically sing it and/or shake the invisible excess water off my hands so that no one thinks I am one of those gross people that doesn't wash their hands before they return to their table. Employees must wash their hands, by the way.

Seriously, though. I practically make an announcement.

"Hey ladies! I just washed my hands in there - yes, I had my own sink! - so don't you go thinking I'm disgusting and unsanitary and not clean and passing along my germs to my friends/coworkers/clients/flavor of the evening out there at the bar/restaurant/table. Just in case you were wondering!?"

I'm pretty sure that no one even notices, thinks about it, or cares, but I am telling you the truth.

I had my own sink in there. Promise.

Fiber Failure: A Tale of Two Muffins

If blog posts came with ratings like the movies, this one would definitely require a PG-13. Not suitable for all audiences, for offensive references, disgusting visuals and raunchy memories.

Short of apologizing to my mother for telling this one, I'm gonna just get right to it. She's heard it live, which is probably worse.

I take that back. I need to set up a few things first.

This is a true story. I know you'll doubt that, and me as I tell it, but I promise. I swear. On my aforementioned mother.

It's true.

And, unlike some of those "I have a friend who..." stories, this is NOT my story. It did not happen to me. Because if it did, I assure you that I'd never tell a soul. I wouldn't be writing it here, that's for certain. Maybe it would come out in a drunken fit, over the last in a long line of draft beers or vodka cocktails, but I wouldn't be willingly stepping up to reveal such embarrassment.

I'd be too, well, embarrassed.

So, here goes. I'd say you may want to grab a beverage or a snack for this one (it's not the shortest of the Long Story Short varieties), but given the nature of the tale, you best not. It's long, and it's disgusting.

I was at a business meeting years ago, and it was pretty far north of the city. We needed a rental car, my colleague and I, so I got one in my name and we rode up there together, separate from our boss.

The meeting was planned for really early in the morning - as clients are prone to do - to get all of the talking out of the way first thing, to leave more time for the doing that the day entailed. We arrived, dressed in our business suits and casual coordinates, and set our bags down by the door. Since this was before budgets were slashed and corporations no longer spent money on frivolous things such as catering, the client urged us to help ourselves at the breakfast spread that was along the back wall of the mid-sized conference room. We had about 10 minutes before the meeting was to begin.

My colleague, Sue*, cruised through the buffet before I did. She helped herself to a few spoonfuls of fruit salad, a small cinnamon tart, and an oversized bran muffin. She glanced at me, mouthed "I'm a little hungover, so I don't care" and grabbed another bran muffin for good measure (and its inherent alcohol soaking properties).

Before taking her seat at the tables that were arranged in a large U-shape, she got a small cup of coffee, with two creams and two sugars. I followed behind her, but wasn't keen on muffins - I'd just read the stats on how much fat is in those things and was trying to pretend I was on a health kick - and settled for the fruit, yogurt and granola instead. Coffee and water, and I was set.

The meeting was long, arduous and typical. Besides Sue's muffins, there wasn't anything big on the table. We, the agency folks in the suits, were pleased with the Board's approval of the new marketing plan, so the day was off to a great start. My boss and I were finished, and needed to get back to the deadlines in the office, so we were going to head back to the city. I looked at Sue, and she indicated that she had booked a separate, smaller meeting following the Board, so she was going to stay and would keep my car. Not a problem, as long as she returned it to the Enterprise before coming back to the office.

My boss and I left, and were back in the city in under an hour. Smooth sailing.

More than four hours pass, and I kept wondering why Sue hadn't come back yet. Her separate meeting was only to be an hour - and we knew that her particular client wasn't going to have much more than that to give in his busy schedule - so why wasn't she back yet? A fleeting thought, but noted all the same.

And then she arrived.

In a different outfit than what she'd left in that morning. I was just sure of it. She'd been in a black suit, pants and jacket, and a red collared shirt underneath. Now, under her winter coat and scarf, she had on jeans and a sweater.

I was confused. Had she gone shopping on her way back south? Stopped for a quick change at her house?

And then I saw the look on her face.

She slipped into the office that I shared with Kristen, and closed the door. The look on her face told us that she was somewhere between stifling a laugh and suffering extreme mortification. I didn't realize the latter just yet.

And then she began telling her story.

Sue, following her breakfast of champions of two extra-large bran muffins and a medium sized coffee, had had the drive of her life back to the city. The worst drive of her life, that is.

She felt the gurgling deep in her stomach while she met with the other client following the Board meeting. Luckily, the client talked loudly and didn't hear the audible argument going on inside her digestive system. The bran muffins clearly weren't the wisest choice from the breakfast buffet.

It wasn't until the meeting adjourned, promptly at the hour's mark, when Sue was walking back to the rental car registered in my name, that she felt a little more than gurgling. She felt a tad bit icky. Convinced it would pass, she got into the car and slowly left the parking lot and headed south to the city. The drive, on a good day, takes about 40 minutes. Just enough time to clear her head before making it back to the OH MY GOD GURGLING.

Frantic, she looked left, right and in the rearview mirror. She knew she had to find a bathroom, and quickly. It was one of THOSE situations.

Seeing no exits coming up, and knowing that the smaller four-lane road was going to quickly become a highway into the city, she OH MY GOD GURGLING. Now it was like something was erupting within her bowels. Deep and troubling were the noises, and the feelings, that emitted from her stomach.

She swerved off to the side of the road and slowed the rental car to a stop. She couldn't believe she was about to do this, but she had no choice. The muffins were coming out.

[I really, really, really don't think I could have done this. But, given the circumstances, I'm not sure what other choice she had.]

Leaving the car running, with the hazards on, she raced into the light woods that edged the highway. She ducked behind a tree, and felt the immediate OH MY GOD GURGLING relief of having taken steps towards healing the monster within her posing as two digested extra-large bran muffins.

I know that this is disgusting, but keep in mind that as she was telling us this story, she was somewhere caught between howling from laughter and howling from crying. So were we, as we listed, mouths agape. Frankly, I was already nearing that hysterical place where laughter is paired with tears pouring down my face - but I couldn't even believe how this story was going to go.

And go it did.

#2. On the side of the road. In a business suit. In December. With very few leaves on the trees, and snow around her ankles. Boots sinking into the wet ground cover, she copped a squat right there in North Chicago.

Clearly she wasn't carrying Charmin in her coat pocket, so it was a grab and go situation. She zipped up and ran, split-legged and hobbly from the embarrassment and the pain in her stomach, ran back to the car.

She decided that in this case, going well above the speed limit was not only acceptable, it was required. For God's sake, she needed to be home.

Shaking her head, she kept driving, careening between cars and listing from one lane to the left as if she was drunk off more than fiber, she made slight headway OH MY GOD GURGLING and realized that the worst was not over.

Frantic, Sue assessed her options. The bear in the woods thing wasn't for her, so she zoomed off at the next exit. Now that the highway had expanded into a typical 4-lane-divided-by-a-cement-median type, she had more options when it came to exits. She peeled off at the next one, and swerved right towards the first business she saw.

Her choices were clear. A factory, a mechanic and a hotel. Hotels have bathrooms in the lobby, she thinks with overzealous glee.

[At this point, her voice was nearing fever pitch as she regaled us with the play-by-play. We were balled up on the floor dying laughing at this point, just trying not to wet our pants to add insult to injury.]

Coming in hot and coasting on two wheels, she brought the car to a sudden stop in the turn-about driveway by the lobby front door. Again, she left the car running and the door likely hanging wide open - she didn't care anymore about that damn car - and leapt out of the vehicle. The sudden movement was not a good idea, clearly.

As she rose, the OH MY GOD GURGLING got worse and she realized that as she took her third step towards the front door, the #2 bathroom, the runny variety, was now running down her legs. Inside her expensive suit pants. Into her boots.

She ran - shouting "WHERE IS THE BATHROOM?!?" to the poor unsuspecting hotel employee behind the chest-high registration desk. Not waiting for an answer, she stutter-stepped one way, and then seeing the plastic wall sign with the gender-specific visual cues, she raced to the right. Not before slip-sliding on her own, well, excrement.

It had now made its way out her pant legs and onto the floor in tiny, lingering drips.

Glancing down, she ignored the visible sign of her shame, and kept running. Relieved to have made it to the safety of a real bathroom, she slammed shut the green MDF door and gave up on the latch. She pulled down her pants to realize the disaster that was her appearance, and her gastrointestinal state.

Mopping up the mess with toilet paper, she panicked. She didn't think there was any salvaging the underwear at this point, and took them off and threw them away. Using as much TP as was possible, she tried to remedy the situation without much success. The pants were covered, wet and smelled horrible, as you can (and don't want to) imagine.

[Don't forget, I swear on my mother that this is true, as it was told to me, and I have no reason to believe it isn't true. Bear with me. If you're not gagging yet.]

In her panic, Sue decided that her winter coat was long enough to cover her assets, if you will, if she were to lose her pants. Literally.

So, that's what she did. She took off her pants. Everything was bare below the waist except for her knee high winter boots. Her wool coat was the pea coat variety, not the floor length kind, so it wasn't hiding much. But, she didn't care. She was in the northern 'burbs and knew no one.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

She cleaned up herself and the area, and decided to venture back out. At top speed, while holding down the bottom edges of her coat as best she could.

Spotting the, well, evidence of her visit on the floor, she jumped and dodged them and just bolted back to the car. Which, need I remind you, is a rental. In my name.

Seated back in the relative safety of her car, she left the parking lot in a full speed ahead kind of mode. Headed straight home to change clothes. And at least put on pants.

At this point, nearing literal hysteria, Sue realizes that no one is going to believe her story. Not one person would truly believe that she'd TAKEN OFF HER PANTS and left them in the garbage at a Renaissance Inn in North Chicago.

Unless she had proof.

Which is when she pulled out her cell phone, aimed it at her lap, properly positioned her wool scarf to cover anything offensive, and photographed her naked-as-a-bluejay-bare legs, scarf strategically placed, and coat hem, sitting just below the bottom circle of the steering wheel.

I promise. I saw it myself.

[I'm sure you can picture the scene in the office now - door closed, Kristen and I rolling around on the floor, clutching our stomachs, grabbing for the phone to see the evidence, and tears making total wrecks of our faces. We couldn't even contain ourselves. I'm pretty sure we were screeching.]

As if that wasn't bad enough, the bran muffins from hell had packed one more punch.

She sped onto the highway, made it past a few exits, and OH MY GOD GURGLING and tears began to roll down Sue's face. She couldn't believe that this was happening. I'm fairly certain she was using expletives that, if repeated, would amp this post up to a Rated R label. At top volume.

All I could say was, "Are you kidding me?" over and over in that 'sarcastic because I know you're telling me the truth because who would make up this horrifying story about themselves' kind of way.

The next exit was upon her, and she steered the car off the exit ramp and at full speed, turned it into the first business she spotted.

An Animal Hospital.

The parking lot was small, and unusually crowded for midday on a Tuesday, but she squeezed in and left the car in park right out front. She raced through the front door, and at fever pitch yelled, "Do you have a bathroom?!?!" in that 'I'm a crazy woman wearing no pants with poop on my boots so don't mess with me' style that was now the norm.

The poor kid at the front desk stood, mouth hanging wide open, and just pointed towards the back of the room. She ran, naked butt and all, into the bathroom and took care of business. Again.

With nothing left to leave behind but her insides, dignity and pride, she made it out of the bathroom to find a woman entering the waiting area with her two dogs leashed walking in front of her. Catching what I must assume was a whiff of Sue's, well, breakfast, they excitedly jumped up and tried to lick, kiss and nip at her legs as she high-jumped them and made it to the door, not without pulling a Sharon Stone for all to see.

She made it to the car. Embarrassment was no longer even on the table. This had slid quite a bit farther into sheer and terrifying mortification, and couldn't possibly get worse. Right?

Wrong.

As she yanked the rental car into reverse, she was too frantic to do a full cursory check of the surrounding area.

SMASH.

She had backed into a car parked behind her. In a full-on, total tizzy of a state of mind, the normally law-abiding, polite citizen Sue just did what most of us would have done in this situation.

Hauled ass.

[Bare ass, but still.]

Luckily for Sue, the gurgling was over. Finished.

Without further incident, she made it home to her north side apartment. Ran inside. Took off the remaining articles of clothing, put every item in a bag and tied it tight. Showered. Changed into the sweater and jeans that would make an appearance later, and walked back outside.

[Pretttttty sure at this point I would have said, 'Screw it. This day is done.' and gone back inside to bed.]

But, the day was not over, and we were on a deadline. Sue knew that.

And, she wanted to tell us her story.

On the way to the car, she walked into her neighborhood dry cleaners, dropped the tied-closed bag of clothes on the counter, and said, as more of an announcement than an apology, "A dog shit on me. Sorry." Left her name and walked out.

Keep in mind, she still had to return to the same rental car where the gurgling had occurred. I didn't even dare ask the question that may be on your mind about, uhm, stains on the seats. She didn't offer that information up, and at this point, I think she'd done well to share the gory details of the saga.

I did ask her, though, what happened when she got to Enterprise to return the car. She said, in her cool way, "You know how it goes. You pull up, and get out. They charged your credit card. Not so sure about the rear bumper though. It was pretty banged up."

After the laughing and crying and screeching and mortification on her behalf came to a slow, shuddering halt, I finally did ask her if she'd gotten a receipt for the rental that I could turn in with my expenses.

And, she said, with a smile, "For that piece of shit? No way."

And walked out of the room.

Needless to say, I've never looked at a bran muffin the same way ever again. And I certainly haven't helped myself to one. You've been warned.

*Names have been changed to protect the digestively challenged. I think she was already embarrassed enough. Lucky for me (or her?) we are no longer in touch and frankly, I'm fine with that. Story's told.

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!

Next Up, Skydiving

This may come as a surprise, but I'm an extreme sport athlete.

Don't believe me?

Have you ever tried to ride the 135 bus home wearing stiletto boots?

That were slippery from the ice packed around the bus shelter?

Were you there when the driver took the Oak Street curve going upwards of 50 mph?

Hanging on to the bar with one gloved hand?

While reading a book?

That you couldn't put down?

Wishing you could sit?

Knowing that sooner or later you would end up in someone's lap?

That is extreme...

Lest you still disbelieve my extreme sport skills, I give you this:


Me. Surmounting the crest. In 14" of snow. Wearing snow shoes. Winded, smiling, triumphant. At the top. Completing the journey.

(Of the 3rd hole on the Waveland Park golf course.)

Ok. I am not that extreme. But, I may have to take extreme measures.

I am considering investing in cleats for my bus ride home.

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.

This One's On Me

I didn't even recognize it at first.

It had been so long since I've heard it or seen it in action. I wasn't sure it still knew how to find me. The echoes of the doubt and questions in my mind had drowned out anything like it. Weeks had passed with none of it in my life.

When I was with my girls the other night, it appeared. Surprised us all.

I laughed. Out loud.

True, real, genuine laughter.

And I look forward to the day that it isn't rare, unusual or symbolic.

I should probably admit that the laughter came as a result of Comcast OnDemand TV Karaoke.

But that may be embarrassing.

Almost as bad as getting my Jeep Liberty stuck in a huge pile of snow today after an interview. I mean it. It is downright humiliating to drive what is probably the only Jeep vehicle in the Midwest that isn't equipped with four-wheel drive.

I bought it in Atlanta, get over it.

Anyway, teetering across the railroad tracks, after leaving the warehouse loft the design firm occupies, I slipped, slid and careened to my car, which was not so delicately entrenched in about 14" of snow, ice and general asphalt-grime. (Chicagoans know what I mean.)

I tip-toed through the snow, trying to avoid my heels digging in too far, and finally flung myself against the doorframe. Wiping the salt and snow dust debris from the front of my wool overcoat, I opened the car door and settled into the leather that was practically still warm.

It wasn't a long interview, thankfully.

I turned the car on, and put it into reverse. Turned around to back up, only then realizing how closely the yahoo behind me had parked. See how he likes a spare tire nudge. (Again, Chicagoans know what I mean.)

I gassed it, and went absolutely positively nowhere. I could feel the tires spinning in place. Since it is not my first rodeo (aka Winter), I put the car in drive and lurched forward. Or attempted to. I knew I needed to create some motion, to rock myself out of the miserable spot I'd landed myself into.

Drive. Gas. Brake. Reverse. Gas. Brake. Drive. Gas. Brake. Reverse. Gas. Brake.

The tires were useless. Is this thing on? Anyone?

Finally, I get out, wielding my plastic scraper (yeah, that's for windshields, Blondie) and headed to assess the back tire situation. There appeared to be a lot of snow everywhere (well duh) but nothing particularly icy or precarious or deep or treacherous blocking the tires.

I looked like a fool trying to scrape and hack my back tire out of the icy nothingness it was lodged into, but I had to try. Otherwise I'm helpless. In heels.

Then I get back in and repeat the method/madness again.

Drive. Gas. Brake. Reverse. Gas. Brake. Drive. Gas. Brake. Reverse. Gas. Brake.

Then, on one of my many forward motions, I actually caught myself lurching, leaning and stretching MY BODY forward to see if that would help. You know, like when you scoot forward a chair and use your body weight to help it move across the floor.

Yeah. Blondie? You're inside a 4,000-lb Jeep. I know you've eaten a few "I'm feeling sorry for my unemployed self and am lonely and bored too" candy bars, but come on sister.

You're not moving the Jeep with your BODY WEIGHT and will power.

I laughed out loud.

The sound rang out. The surprise must've caused a brief interruption in the drive/reverse/gas/brake method, and the car literally sprang out of the parking spot, and dismounted the mountain of hard-packed and slippery snow I'd gotten myself into.

The laughter bubbled up inside again when I realized I'd been parallel-parked in front of the back door of a police station. Complete with a window with lead-plated glass. And curtains. They probably were all inside munching donuts laughing at me.

But, I was laughing too, so that's okay.

This one's on me.

Year in Review

Just like the TVs and magazines do, I'm using today's post to reflect on and share my highlights from 2008.

I have definitely had loads of fun with plenty of laughs, miles traveled and experiences shared. I will also link you to my best blog of the month, in my own opinion (and influenced by your comments).

Enjoy!

Colleen's Best of 2008:

January
I started the year by beginning a new relationship, which always sets things in a good light. Brett and I had our first official date (Bulls Game) on January 9th, and we're still enjoying getting to know each other. I also met his family pretty soon after in celebration of his Dad's birthday, and it has been a pleasure getting acquainted with them, too.

The best blog of the month had to have been the one about the Vagina Couch.

February
This month brought the end of an era: Then Again, the local cover band who has been a staple in my social life (and that of Kristen, Laura, Jill, etc.) for several years now retired. Mandi even came to town for their last show, and it was an absolute riot. My girls and I also got to see Bon Jovi's concert from the United Center box suite, which was a rockin' good time, too. It snowed a ton this month, so a trip to LA allowed me to celebrate Molly's 30th birthday while escaping the weather.

The best blog of the month had to have been the one about SPAM.

March
As a good Irish girl, of course this month included wild and raucous celebrations for St. Patrick's Day, as only Chicago can do. It also brought my Mom and sister Lauren to town, where we rendezvoused all over town and made our way to a fondue dinner with Brett's entire family, bringing both sides together over melted foods. The snow wasn't melting just yet, though.

The best blog of the month had to have been the one recapping the time I fainted on the El.

April
With the cold days and snow lingering on, Brett and I got creative for our date nights, including an Olympic-sized trip to Dave and Busters that resulted in an Olympic-length blog. We also saw Seinfeld live at the Chicago Theatre and I started a painting class with Katie and presented at the Direct Marketing Association's International Marketing Exchange, both activities which brought out skills I didn't know I had before.

The best blog of the month had to have been the one Celebrating my Dad for his birthday. At least he thought so.

May
With (slightly) warmer temps, we made our way to several Cubs games, and I participated in a charity walk for the American Cancer Society with a team of strong and resilient women. The summer of Wonderful Trips began with a long Memorial Day Weekend in Michigan capped off by the final planning for the Costa Rica trip. We were now counting down the DAYS not months!

The best blog of the month had to have been the one honoring my Mom for Mother's Day. At least she thought so. (I'm seeing a trend, here).

June
Without a doubt, the headline for this month is COSTA RICA! The Posse, the Men and Brett and I had a wonderful time in the land of Pura Vida. The rest of the month was filled with booze cruises, Kristen and Katie's birthday parties, beach volleyball and trying to stop myself from daydreaming about Imperials on the beach in Jaco.

The best blog of the month had to have been the one about fighting urges.

July
This month was busy, and included several more trips back to Michigan, most notably for Jill and Josh's Wedding in Mackinac Island. I also hosted Jenny, a 20-year bestest, and Brittany, Katie and I dragged our guys to see Feist at Ravinia in the Park. The weather was perfect, and summer was in full swing.

The best blog of the month had to have been the sensitive one about a friend's stepmother who is ill, putting everything in perspective.

August
As is typical, this month was full of fun outdoor activities, such as Lollapalooza, Camping in Northern Michigan, the Air & Water Show, and my cousin Maureen's gorgeous wedding in Golden Gate Park in San Francisco over the long Labor Day weekend. I had a minor flood from the condo upstairs' renovation, but I survived. All in all, a fantastic end to a Summer to Remember. Time for college football to begin!

The best (or most popular) blog of the month was clearly the one about the half of a $20 bill I somehow ended up with. (It is still in my wallet).

September
Besides my Georgia Bulldogs starting the season at #1 (which sadly, was short-lived), this was the month of weddings. Starting with my cousin's, I then attended two family-friend weddings with Brett, and we danced, drank and partied with his family and their hilarious friends. Watching the Bears struggle at the end of each game made me realize that you win some, you lose some. I hosted a fantastic Method Party, and went to several Cubs games (back when they still had hope).

Without a doubt, the best blog of the month was the one where my colleague saved a man's life with his ding dong.

October
Starting the month off right, Brett and I went to Atlanta to visit my friends, tour my hometown, and introduce him to my Dad. We had a blast and even saw the Bulldogs win vs. Tennessee, and I got to spend time with most of my Posse and Lauren and George and it was all just perfect. Back in town, we saw a few concerts this month, including TV on the Radio and the Jimi Hendrix Experience. Sadly, though, October will be remembered mostly as the month I was laid off from work and took some time to get over the sadness of it all. Writing this helped.

The best blog, except the one saying goodbye to my job, was the one that recounted my hectic business trip to NYC.

November
We voted this month, and I couldn't have been more proud to live in Chicago—and to have voted for the person I believe in—than now. Braving the cold, we had a huge group tailgate in Evanston for the OSU v. Northwestern game and that day I believed mostly in spiked apple cider and pocket-sized hand warmers. I interviewed like mad for a few weeks and was supremely motivated in the job search. I was still optimistic that something would hit before Thanksgiving.

The best blog, from a writer's perspective, must've been the one where I moped about being unemployed.

December
The month has been busy personally, not professionally, and I have used my extra time to play Santa and an Elf, get creative with my job search, spike more apple cider, plan Brett's 30th birthday party and use frequent flier miles to book an obscenely early in the morning flight to Atlanta for Christmas (I missed all delays at ORD, it was a Christmas miracle!) There are group plans in the works for New Year's Eve that include a party at a warehouse that used to be Al Capone's speakeasy in the 20s, so I'm busting out the costume bin to find my flapper gear once again. And, I'm still braving the cold and wind to revel in the gorgeous holiday decorations that this city sports this time of year.

The best blog of this month is likely the one where I fought off a reality TV producer who wanted to audition me for a show he was doing. I don't make this stuff up. Apparently my relationship status as of late rendered me unacceptable casting; not that I was actually considering it. Unless they'd pay me. Right?

Thanks for a wonderful year. I'm a tad choked up just thinking about all of what I've experienced in 2008.

A year of ups, downs, awards, loss, laughs, cries, memories, music, challenges, new friends, old friends, family, love and 220 blog posts.

You've been a fantastic crowd, and I hope you'll join me in the new year as I tackle 2009 (and all that comes with that) head on.

Until then,

Happy New Year!

Stuck in the Middle with You

I have officially published 280+ blog posts, and I can't believe it hasn't occurred to me yet to write about this yet.

Let's chalk that up to to timing, shall we?

This time of year, it is all about Christmas (or Hanukkah) and New Year's. Nothing more, nothing less.

And I get it, alright?

But, some of our parents got freaky in the months of March or April (spring fever, anyone?) and therefore, a few of us unlucky ones have a birthday that is square in the middle of the holidays.

And, don't go telling me that would be so great because:

a) you were never in school on your birthday

b) you are not working on your birthday, likely

c) all those presents at once? egad!

Because the truth is, it is hard.

As I get older (eek, it keeps happening to me!), the pain lessens, but seriously, it is tough to have a birthday that is wedged perfectly, symmetrically, evenly between Christmas and New Years.

For you geniuses, and those of you that went to Math Camp (Laura!), this means my birthday falls every year on December 28th. Three days after Christmas, and three days before New Years.

What does that mean for me?

It means that when my birthday hits, people are:

a) out of town

b) tired of eating too much fattening delicious food

c) over the whole "presents thing"

d) saving up for New Year's Eve

e) not interested in buying you a drink, they're hungover and broke

f) who are you - you're not Baby Jesus - why do I care?

So, the bottom line is this. It sucks.

And, even as I age past 30, a few birthdays past 30 that is, I still feel like it is a lousy time to be saddled with a birthday. I have never had cupcakes for the whole class on my birthday, I have never had a pool party birthday, I have never gotten to spread the gift haul out over the course of a year, I have never known what it was like not to be wedged between two more important holidays.

I will say this. As an adult, it is nice to be at home (or on vacation with my family) celebrating the "holidays" while we tack on my birthday at the end. I appreciate that. I realize it is far better than being stuck at work in an office with fake "happy birthdays" and bad store-bought cake.

I get it.

But, I urge you all (you June birthdays especially!) to recognize the hardships we late December birthdays have endured. It has been rough. Tough. Painful. Touch and go, even.

The one saving grace is this: (ok, it is a few things)

a) my Mom and Dad have always made it a big deal no matter what month it was

b) they even chose "birthday paper" instead of the leftover Christmas wrapping paper

c) they hid the birthday gifts until the morning of, to build suspense

d) I got to eat off the red "You are special today" plate every year

e) it is still in that time of year when we eat whatever we want and that includes two pieces of cake

So, I'll be ok. I'll survive. I'll even manage to make it a whole "fun day for us all" if you insist.

But, just remember. Don't ever, under any circumstances, combine gifts. Don't try to pass that off on us, we're smarter than that. It doesn't matter that you spent more this way. That whole "I thought you'd get more this way" shenanigan is not lost on us.

We know we got screwed, and you know you got off easy. Does this look like a kid who wants to be messed with?


Yes, today is my birthday, and now you feel so guilty that you're obligated to say something. Anything. Just put it in the comments and I will feel so loved.

Just don't use green or red wrapping paper when you do.

You'll Shoot Your Eye Out

It's Christmas. The season for thinking kind thoughts about those we know, love and read daily.

In case you for one split second thought, "my, that Colleen seems so normal and well adjusted. I bet her family is sweet, calm and lovably vanilla." I offer you the below as evidence to the contrary.


This was a self-timer family photo (plus my sister's beau, George) that we took before Christmas Eve mass last night. Are we normal, slightly strange or really, really off-center?

And, how does the poor reindeer feel to be used like this?

Would little Ralphie be mortified or proud of us?

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good 'jazz hands' photo!!

Shoe Crazy

Am I a cynic or a realist?

I keep seeing this commercial:



and all I can think of is:

How would I ever end up with matching pairs?

Would they be in my size?

And, wouldn't that dent the car?

This, my friends, is what happens when you're a trained marketer/advertiser with far too much time on your hands.

Someone take the remote away. Now.

Plus One

Oh. My. God.

It has come to this.

I open my Facebook account today, and have a new message in my inbox. And this was it.

--
Hi Colleen,

I am a TV producer in New York and I am looking to profile several single women who have been a bridesmaid many times over and who are now ready to finally be a bride.

At this juncture, we are looking to showcase one woman in her quest to find the right man to walk down the aisle with. Yes, it's a bit like 27 Dresses. The subject should be outgoing and have a close network of friends and family who share the common goal. Can you tell me a little about yourself? Family? Friends? Your job? How actively involved are the people close to you in your dating life?

If this sounds like it may be of interest to you or someone that you may know, or if you would simply like to hear more about it, please reply to this message. Thank you and I look forward to hearing from you.

Thanks,

Phil
Executive Producer, Kingfish Productions
--

First of all, how did this guy find me? Did he see my "Weddings and More Weddings" Album on Facebook? Has he been monitoring my status updates that say "off to a wedding" or some other helpful clue? Has he been stalking me on the Interweb?

Now, I fully admit that I have been a bridesmaid like a gagillion times. I have been to trizillion weddings.

I have worn light pink, dark pink, light pink with dark pink, grey, navy, black, and brown dresses. I have had to have every one of them altered, and have had to pay through the nose for the added 10 inches of fabric that constitutes "extra length."

I have bought dyed shoes in brown, black and taupe, and have sported heels, demi-heels and near flats.

I have worn my hair down, up, half up half down and somewhere else in between.

I have had my nails filed, buffed and painted in a variety of "approved shades" to match the other ladies.

I have been the MOH (maid of honor for those uninformed), the COB (cousin of the bride), a reader, a greeter, and the token sorority sister, college friend, childhood friend, Chicago friend and tall friend.

I have stood at the front of the congregation on the far left (tallest to smallest), on the far right (MOH duties prevail), on the far middle (a bell curve was desired) and everywhere else in the row of beauties.

I have entered the church, one step (slow down!) at a time, to trumpets, violins, piano, organ, keyboard, a three-part harmony, and a choir.

I have carried floral arrangements ranging from the delicate to the monstrous in spring, summer and fall hues of pink, purple, blue, orange, yellow, red, white, peach, maroon and green.

I have danced the Macarena, the Electric Slide, the Shag, the "high school dance with shoulders apart," the Posse Dance, the ZTA Sisters dance, the Two Step and even participated in the Limbo.

I have flown to weddings, bachelorette parties, engagement parties, bridesmaid luncheons, post-wedding barbecues, showers, showers and more showers.

I have bought presents off the registry, from a small boutique, from a huge department store, from a local gift shop and from the Internet.

I have a registered login and password to TheKnot.com and WeddingChannel.com, NOT to plan my wedding, but to buy presents for brides and grooms.

I have loved all of it, by the way.

But, does all of this qualify me to be on a reality show? A sad over-produced television program not-so-loosely-based on a successful movie with that chick from Grey's Anatomy in it? Always a bridesmaid, never a bride?

I'd be mortified.

But, wait.

Maybe I could register? And hold a huge TV premiere party where people have to send back a pre-stamped RSVP card, bring a guest, sit at round tables according to small place setting notes, eat chicken or steak, dance to a local band, drink too much, make out with my cousins/friends/college buddies, crash in a hotel nearby and bring me gifts?

Now, for that, I'll RSVP yes. Plus one.

**The photo above the post is from my friend Liz's bachelorette weekend at the lake. Somewhat mocking tradition, and somewhat paying homage to outdated and unflattering fabrics, we all brought and wore an old bridesmaid dress, fixed our hair in outdated and unflattering fashions and put on hot pink (or mauve, as it may be) lipstick. Liz bought a wedding dress on eBay for $5 and sported it with style. We held a mock bouquet toss and even took group photos according to the hue of the aforementioned offending dress. Always a bridesmaid? Absolutely.**

Bowl Me Over

It was a neon lit room, with sparse out-of-date and ugly decorations. The only ones present were those with me.

My hair was a solid color of offensive orange, puffy on the sides and parted dead in the middle. My eyes were brown, chocolate almost, and I was wearing what appeared to be plastic black-rimmed glasses. My shirt was bright yellow with no pattern and dorky short sleeves and my pants were blue solids and about two inches too short. People were calling me Coach, and I'm not quite sure why. I was quite a character, to say the least.

But, man, could I bowl.

In a riverside dive bar called The Boathouse the other night in St. Joe, Michigan, I was one mean Wii bowler.

I got strikes (more than one in a row, even!), spares and the occasional good spin on the ball. The ball steered clear of the gutters, and I had power in my roll that I didn't know I could possess. I reached the incredible personal best score of 170 and did a little dance around the bar on the sticky hardwood floor.

My arm, however, the next day was so sore that I'm pretty sure I have no spot on the Pro Bowling League.

Seriously. It still hurts to wash my hair.

Something is wrong with that picture, besides the multi-colored outfit and orange split part hair.

Time Warp

While plotting to find my next big thing, I have also allowed myself to have the TV on in the background. When I'm not watching (or just listening to, as it may be) HGTV, I discovered a little guilty pleasure.

Reruns of Beverly Hills 90210.

The original.

They run back-to-back on the SOAP channel in the afternoon, and I am sucked in. I feel like I'm 14 again, watching the premiere episode on a luxury bus while on the 8th Grade Trip to Savannah. The poor driver. He wanted to go home, and yet we wouldn't get off the bus after dinner for fear of missing on glance at Brandon's hair, one outfit sported by Kelly, one mean comment by Brenda.

The topics hold up okay 16 years later, and the acting isn't THAT bad. For what it was. I still think Andrea was too old to be cast as a high school/college student, because she was my age now back then. She has mom hair for crying out loud.

The clothes, however, make me laugh out loud. The denim shirts! The cut off shorts! The shiny black vests over white t-shirts! The baggy jeans cinched with a braided leather belt! They look so ridiculous now, but I have to admit back then I was smitten.

Today, I caught myself, leaving the room to put my lunch dishes away, humming along to the theme song and double-fist-pumping in the air during THAT part of the song. You know you've done it.

So embarrassed. I really hope my neighbors didn't see that.

Crime, Punishment and Air Travel

Air travel is a test of human character. It is just simply out of hand. And sometimes it feels like a crime against human nature.

I flew in and out to New York on Wednesday for a 1 1/2 hour meeting, and the entire process took me 15 hours. Long day, but sometimes it is best to meet face-to-face.

But, let's face it. The whole shebang is just plain exhausting. While waiting for our flight, hoping for standby on an earlier one, sitting in Laguardia's measly little United gate area, I told my colleagues the story of my worst flight experience ever.

And, now I feel that to complete the cathartic circle of this story, I must share it with you. I'm warning you—it dredges up some pretty unpleasant memories, but it is worth it. You're worth it.

The year was 2006. The employer was different, and we had a client in Billings, Montana. I know you haven't heard of it—it isn't the picturesque destination in the great state of Montana that you're hoping to visit. There are no mountains, no ski slopes, no beautiful nature trails, no hot springs, no spa resorts, nothing. Billings is what Montanans often refer to (Ok, so one did) as "the armpit of Montana."

The beginning.
That may be a little harsh, but there it is. Billings is only reached via other places. You have to go to Salt Lake City or Denver to get there from here. And, the getting home from there is the problem.

I was traveling to Billings for the account at least once a month, often for 3-, 4- or 5-day trips. It was not a highlight of my business traveling career, but the work we were doing, and the people we were working with, made it worth it.

The flights to Denver on United were pleasant. Often we got upgraded to Business Class on the huge planes, and the hot nuts and warm towel and bottomless red wine made it seem just right. Fun, even.

Upon arrival in Denver, however, the earth grounded to a shattering and noisy halt. That airport is crazy, and this is coming from someone who has logged many an hour in O'Hare. It is loud, long and always active. And, since I was constantly flying in and out of two snow-filled cities, there were always delays due to weather.

This one time was no exception. We had just finished a 4-day meeting in Billings, and were boarding the tiny 50-seater Cessna operated by SkyWest to head to Denver. The weather in Billings was fine, and we weren't sure of what else the country's forecast had to offer.

My travel companions were Liz, on her first business trip ever, and my boss, who never handled travel with that much ease or comfort. So, I hoped and prayed for the best. We were all exhausted and just ready to be home in Chicago.

Not so fast, my friend.

We get close to Denver, and the pilot informs us that thunderstorms had wreaked havoc on the city, shutting down Denver's airport. Okaaay....so we were diverted to Colorado Springs which is only about 30 minutes by plane away.

Fine. Whatever. Just get us there safely and in time for us to make our connection in Denver.

And, we land in Colorado Springs and find out there is not ONE open gate. The entire airport had planes just sitting, on hold, waiting at the gates, so they couldn't get us into one. We were parked out on the tarmac. Waiting.

Which was fine for a while. Then it started to get warm and sticky on the plane, because they'd shut off the AC. Then the bathroom started to smell, which is just highly unpleasant on a 50-seater plane.

And, we wait. An hour passes. Two hours pass. People are begging for beverage service, but water is all she has that is cold. No food, nothing. Three hours pass. The natives are growing restless, and the bathrooms stink even worse. Four hours pass. Now it is just ridiculous. By this point, it was about 10:30 pm, and we've long since missed our connection in Denver to Chicago. We'd been sitting there since 6 pm or so.

Liz, while leaning over into my seat to watch the DVD on my laptop (which soon became entertainment for about 4 aisles worth of people), looked over at me and said, with sad eyes, "is business travel always like this?" and I assured her that this was just bad. A four and a half hour interruption in our life. I was just sure that we'd be moving soon.

Boy was I wrong.

At this point, the pilot comes on and offers for anyone that has available transportation in the Colorado Springs area (i.e., someone to pick them up) that wants to de-board, can. Since there was not ONE rental car to be had at the Colorado Springs airport, that left anyone else (like those with connections) no choices.

The 10 or so anxious people raced to the front, climbed down the stairs and boarded a van that would drive them to the airport where they could be picked up (and saved from the rest of the mess).

We were so jealous.

The 40 people left just waited.

Another hour passed. The sixth hour came and went. By now it was after midnight, and there was absolutely no hope of getting to Denver, and out to Chicago, that night. We resigned to that fact.

But, we were still on the stinking tarmac in Colorado Springs!

Finally, they re-opened the Denver airport and we made our way there, arriving at approximately 1:00 in the morning. Per our instructions, we approached the re-book gate and stood for 45 minutes to talk to someone. They re-booked us (at 1:45 am) onto the next flight out in the morning, at 8:30 am.

The crime scene.
Fine. But, I should remind you that we've not eaten anything, and we're all still in suits from that morning's last meetings. Luckily, Liz and I had our bags with us and were able to change into jeans and comfy shoes. Our boss, however, was none to happy to be stuck in his suit and tie.

We take the hotel voucher and begin to call the 800# for a hotel that night. It was 2 am at this point, and the lady said everything was booked. That the entire city of Denver was booked because of some conventions, and the weather.

Grrreeeat.

So, my boss, refusing to take "no" for an answer, insists that we get into a cab, and take the 40-minute ride into Denver, where he would "find a hotel, because I have so many connections." Uhhhh, yeah. No rooms at the inn, buddy.

We stopped by, and were turned away from, no less than 5 hotels (with the cab running in the drive) before finally admitting defeat. Told you so.

The cab driver turns around, and takes us all the way back to the Denver Airport. With the meter running. It was about $120 by the time we were through with him. I'm sure we made his night.

Dejectedly, we re-enter the airport and realize that now it was 3:00 am and we had still not eaten, and yet, we're outside of the security lines in the main atrium. Where nothing was open.

Finally, we see a mad rush to a deli where they had wisely decided to send some Joe Schmoe over there to sell us some sandwiches. Everyone happily stood in line. Okay, so happily wasn't true, but we were deliriously hungry. And tired.

This part burns me up—we waited AN HOUR for a sandwich. A pre-wrapped, pre-made sandwich. With the choices all lined up on the menu board above us. Easy, right? Not even close. Some people, at 3:30 in the morning—nearing 4 am, had the AUDACITY to ask for custom-made sandwiches. I'm pretty sure this Schmoe normally empties trash cans—he had no idea what he was doing, and thus the line just snaked further and further around the lobby.

It was horrendous. We finally get our food, and eat, with our eyes burning, our hair greasy, our minds numb.

But we still can't go through security. Not until 5:30 am.

So, Liz and I assess the situation, and determine that the carpeted area in front of the Budget Rental Car desk was the softest landing. We use our sweatshirts as pillows, and stupidly lay down. We were just simply stupid by this point. Our boss chose a seated position.

And, just when the tiredness reached its peak, and we almost slipped into a deep, coma-like sleep, the noise started.

HUMMMM. HUMMMMM. HUMMMMM.

What the?

Oh, as I look over my shoulder, past the sleeping families and drowsy crowds, I see that guy. The one. Who has been assigned to wax the atrium floors. During the night shift.

The offender.
Did he not realize that there were hundreds, no, thousands of people sleeping in the airport RIGHT where he was waxing? I'm pretty sure common sense should have kicked in and guided him to his manager where he could do some QUIETER job that night.

Nope. Between the HUMMMM of his waxing machine, and the constant, ever-present, super-annoying voice of the female PA announcing safety updates and the like (the pre-recorded ones), we didn't get much "sleep."

Finally, at 5:30 in the morning, about an hour after laying down by the Budget desk, it was time to go through security. We did, with no issue.

Our 8:30 flight to Chicago never looked so good. We didn't get upgraded, and we didn't care.

I've never slept so well on a plane. The guy next to me was lucky he didn't have drool stains. And, the cab driver here in Chicago had to wake me again when we arrived at my house that next afternoon, at about 2:00 pm.

Needless to say, I "worked from home" that day.

Billings, Montana—you can't be blamed.

Denver International Airport—I hate you.

*Side note: this is not the only time I have been stranded in Denver and had to sleep at the airport. Does my anger make more sense now?*

Why the Cleats, Lou?

Heads up—shortest post ever. For me, that is. I promise! It is earth-shatteringly short.

Just an observation, really.

Why is it that in Major League Baseball, the managers wear the same uniforms as the players? Think hard. It is the only professional sport where that exists. I know that in the old days, there was often a player/manager, so he needed to be dressed for play, but that is not the case now.

Can you picture the NBA coaches not wearing their traditional suits or tie and sport coat, and instead wearing silky uniforms and breakaway cover-up pants? Hilarious.

Could you imagine the NFL coaches sporting tight pants, pads, cleats, a jersey and a helmet? Would give play-calling a whole new meaning. And, it would make wearing that Motorola headset a little difficult.

It seems clear to me that the Cubs manager Lou Piniella could avoid the baseball pants, knee-high socks and cleats. Don't think he's going to make it onto the playing field anytime soon. It breaks me into giggles picturing him rounding the bases.

Though, on second thought, the Cubs could use the help?

Ding Dong to the Rescue

This one is just too good to keep on the shelf. Pun intended.

As you've likely read, I work in an agency. Which means that I'm surrounded by people that are far more brilliant and creative than I could possibly imagine. And, they are silly, funny tricksters.

A colleague of mine, John, is very outgoing, friendly and talkative. He's in new business development, so that is a convenient mix of traits for him to boast. He's a storyteller like me, and I can only imagine his friends teasing him the same way mine do.

For whatever reason, John finds himself in some pretty outrageous and hilarious situations sometimes, and I can hardly wait to tell you this one. I only hope it translates to be as funny as it was when I was listening to it fly around the office today.

And I was really listening. I heard roaring gales of laughter coming from the cubicles and just had to know the source.

John was the source.

So, he was waiting for the bus at the train station yesterday morning, having just arrived in on his commuter train from the 'burbs. Yes, he's one of THEM. Don't judge.

Anyhoo, he was standing with his trusty little leather commuter briefcase, minding his own business (which in John speak means he was making idle conversation with a stranger with whom he'd soon be exchanging numbers and making dinner plans) when it happened.

A man and a woman were crossing the street together in front of him. The man, in his full business attire, dropped to the pavement. The woman bent down, frantically, over him and began rifling through her oversized handbag, in a sheer panic. She then turned to the crowd over her shoulder and shouted, "He is in a diabetic coma! I need something sweet!"

John, ever the Boy Scout, looked into aforementioned trusty briefcase to find the lunch nestled there inside between his Wall Street Journal and Ad Age. He quickly ripped open the brown bag (likely packed by his wife, but this detail is unconfirmed) to discover he had one! A sweet! A treat!

He held it above his head, moving towards the downed man and the frantic woman. He shouted, out loud as most shouts are, "I have a Ding Dong!"

(author's forced pause for inevitable inappropriate giggles)

Now, of course he was referencing his individually wrapped Hostess Ding Dong, but who knew. It is the city, mind you.

She looked up, and said, "Is it sweet?"

(another pause for inappropriate giggles)

Oh is it.

Not to mock this woman in her time of need, but come on lady, haven't you ever heard of a Hostess Ding Dong!? Surely she's graced the inside of a supermarket, a convenience store, a pantry, a school cafeteria or even seen a vending machine since 1967?

I digress. She was flustered, so I'll give her a pass.

John stepped forward, waving his Ding Dong (sorry, too easy) and said, "Yes! This thing is sweet enough to bring a horse out of a diabetic coma!" and thrusts the treat in her direction. (sorry, WAY too easy)

The frantic woman, growing less frantic as she mashed the Hostess cakes into the poor fellow's mouth, probably failed to miss the ridiculously apparent humor in the situation. In fact, I'm quite sure she did.

But, the office here didn't miss a beat.

Oh - you want to hear how the story ends? Geez, you're so thorough.

The diabetic man was fine. He got up, brushed himself off and resumed his day on a better note than it had apparently started. Both he and his lady friend thanked John profusely for his kindness, timeliness, and convenient possession of an individually wrapped sweet treat. He even had a sweet woman, who'd watched the whole event, say to him when they'd finally boarded the bus, "Things will surely go your way today" implying some sort of cosmic or karmic retribution.

I'll let him get away with the fact that he's a grown man, ahem, carrying a Hostess cake in his lunch.

But, the office, as I mentioned, never misses an opportunity to tease. Promptly, the designers were whipping up a "King Dong" medallion which was then printed out, pasted to foam core, trimmed neatly and affixed to glistening blue beads. He was pronounced the King Dong for the day (apparently it was actually King Don, but that's not as funny). And the rest of the office was trying (unsuccessfully) not to cross that line TOO far when making jokes. Retorts. Some of which HR probably wouldn't like.

Let's put it this way.

When a colleague claims he saved a man's life, and it involves putting a Ding Dong in the other man's mouth, it is just too easy.

Stalling on a Friday

My thoughts at the end of a Friday at the end of a long week are minimal.

Okay, so the decent, publishable ones are minimal. The garbage, you can't say that to anyone out loud, probably shouldn't be thinking that at work, is it Friday at 9 pm yet kindof thoughts are rampant, but you don't want to read those.

Or maybe you do, but I won't let you. Hi Mom.

So, here's what I will give to you on this miserable, humid, sticky, rain-soaked Friday:

Why is it that bathroom space planners for office buildings don't understand the concept of every-other-stall-usability?

When entering the ladies' bathroom on my office floor (in an environment that hosts three female-dominant agencies), I always, always without fail see if someone is using a stall, and go two stalls over for my business.

Not into the stall immediately next to the other person. They were there first, so I like to be polite and give them room.

I try to leave a stall between us. Girls most often aren't like our male counterparts (and I've witnessed this first hand, I assure you) where we take reading material in and settle in for awhile. We get in, do our thing, and get out.

But still. I like a little room to breathe. Literally.

So, why is it that our bathroom, and many others I've seen in office buildings, retail stores, restaurants, bars, etc., don't understand the every-other-stall-usability concept?

Why is our bathroom only sporting FOUR STALLS? That way, it is really hard if there are more than two people in there to respect the every-other-stall rules. It makes it impossible.

There's my gripe. And request. Let's only build public bathroom stalls with ODD numbers of stalls from here on out. Not so hard, I don't think?

And, ladies, let's conform to the rules. Don't park it right by your neighbor. Otherwise she'll blame you for the offensiveness she leaves behind.

Trust me. It is brutal in there.

A Favor to all Chicagoans

An open letter to all Chicago cab drivers:

Dear Cabbies,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now let's all just get along.

Kind regards,

Chicago Commuter Colleen