Flip Flops and Goose Down?

In light of the changing seasons, I figured I'd take this opportunity to note a few things that have been on my mind.

It's that time of year when...

...people don't know how to dress, so you see some of everything. I passed a woman today in a sundress who was immediately followed by a man in a fleece coat and scarf.

...the allergies are fired up, and you hear people sniffling and sneezing all the way down the hall. Tis a good time to bring antibacterial gel on the CTA bus.

...it isn't warm, and it isn't cold, and it feels just right. Do I sound like Goldilocks? Well, I am.

...clients begin to panic because they haven't met their goals for the year, or they've spent all the money, or the didn't get the budget that they thought they would, and it is not that long until 2009, despite how far away that sounds.

...college football fans flock to the varied sports bars, dive bars and hole-in-the-wall bars to cheer on their favorite team. Alma mater be damned, sometimes you just want to cheer for the underdog. And, sometimes you are pitted against your friends. All in the name of a BCS championship.

...the retail market begins to glitter with the anticipation of all the holiday decor they have been waiting months to use. Well, at least since the last flags and other vestiges of July 4th came down. It is only a matter of time before there are pumpkins and witches and cauldrons everywhere, immediately followed by turkeys, only to be totally outdone by Santa and Christmas trees.

...it is much chillier in the morning and the evenings than it is in the middle of the day, making people dress in layers, strip off the top ones mid-day, only to redress before going home.

...the election coverage fills the broadcasts and the debates cause rifts between friends and family members across the good ole U.S. of A. I suppose we should be thankful that people are paying attention this year.

...the office buildings haven't yet adjusted to the changing temperatures, and are still pumping in the AC as if it were August 2nd. Which, incidentally, is almost always the hottest weekend of the year in Chicago, if my Lollapalooza experiences tell me anything.

...teachers finally have to go back to work, and they no longer bug you to go out for "just one drink" during the week because they've been so bored having to do nothing but read, shop and tan all day while you were at work.

...summer hours at the agency have come to an end and nothing feels longer than your first full 5-day work week after the Labor Day weeks go by. Counting down the hours until Friday.

...families begin to think about holiday travel, and my bank account goes into a near hyperventilative state in anticipation of all the plane tickets to buy.

...it would be wise to start making secret Christmas shopping lists, but that just seems way too organized. Unless the lists are gifts that I'd like to receive, since it is never to early to do that.

...you start thinking about your boyfriend's milestone birthday that is coming up and wondering how on earth you are going to surprise and/or excite the guy who isn't really looking forward to "getting old."

...you realize, quickly thereafter, that you also have a Q4 birthday and it is a tiny teeny smidge bit painful to admit what number you'll be checking on those pesky little doctor's office sign-in forms. This "early-thirties box" isn't all it is cracked up to be.

...the flowerpots and decorative landscaping on Michigan Avenue begin to transition from summery floral to late-year green, which will soon migrate into basic Christmas trees/winter pines/Northwoods greenery planters.

...the Cubs begin to lose and the entire North Side is still hopeful, silently praying, that the curse is broken and that this will still be our year. October just has to be ours!

...the Bears begin to play, and somehow manage to offer up a win against a top-tier team in the first week. Chicagoans know better than to count out a return to hibernation for the team.

...everything and everyone and every day is practically frozen in anticipation, fear and dread for what Old Man Winter will bring us this year. Chicagoans like to have the weather to complain about, granted, but seriously? We don't really need five straight months of snow and frigid wind to fill that blank void in our conversations. We'll figure out something else to discuss with strangers on the bus.

...Starbucks brings back the Pumpkin Spice Latte and their autumn color palette on the point-of-service materials, and somehow, that makes everything else seem okay.

It is really that time of year.

Break Down

It must be the heat.

CTA buses are breaking down everywhere. I was on not one, but TWO that broke down in ONE 25-minute commute home last week. It is quite an ordeal to chase down the next one, convince the driver you already paid the fare once, and find a new seat on the recovered bus. And, then the second bus repeats the first's breakdown, and the process starts all over.

But, seriously, they're everywhere. Go three blocks down Michigan Avenue, Lake Shore Drive or any other main thoroughfare, and you'll inevitably see one, pulled over, hazard lights flashing, and all passengers off the bus.

The telltale sign of a breakdown is the back flap open in the rear showing the mechanical innards to all passersby.

Maybe I'm too empathetic to these public transit monsters, but whenever I see one of the buses with its engine flap open, it makes me sad.

It feels like I am spying on a surgery and the doctor has stepped away from the table momentarily, and the patient, knocked out and with a gown stretched open, is on display without shame or modesty.

Or maybe I watch too much Grey's Anatomy?

I Wanted to Smack Him with His City Map

Last night, while walking down Michigan Avenue toward my bus stop, I overheard some tourists trying to figure out where to go to dinner. Immediately, thoughts of all of the fantastic restaurants I could recommend flooded my mind, but I was polite enough to keep my opinions to myself.

And then I heard it.

The dad said, "It's too bad there isn't a Chili's or an Applebee's on Michigan Avenue."

Ohhhh-Kaaay.

First of all, that is so incredibly sad. With all of the highly rated, fantastically reviewed, best-in-class, top-in-the-world restaurants in Chicago, at every price point and every "level," it is a total shame that someone would even CONSIDER going to a chain for a dinner in Chicago. Much less a chain like those two, restaurants that appear on every corner near every strip mall in every suburb in America.

Second of all, maybe try the deep dish pizza? Or the polish sausages? Or the kosher dogs? Or the Italian beef sandwiches? Or the steaks and potatoes and salads at any number of restaurants? Or the sushi? Or anything but THAT?

Third of all, go back to Oklahoma. Or Arkansas. Or Iowa. Or whatever middle-America suburb you came from. We appreciate the tourists that appreciate Chicago. Which is to say, we appreciate those who will indulge in, take a bite of, experience and enjoy the culture, cuisine and class that Chicago has to offer.

If you're looking for plastic table cloth covers, kitchy yet duplicated a million times across the country decor, bad fried foods at cheap prices served fast, then we're not the city for you. And, Michigan Avenue is not your place to roam.

Go home. And take your whiny husband with you.

Darth Vader to the Rescue

This morning, I learned something new. Shocking that this type of education could come into my life before 9 am, but it is true.

The CTA bus drivers have a small screen above their heads, within arm's reach, that displays several options for the pre-recorded public service announcements. They can actually CHOOSE which messages they want to cycle up next, and which ones they feel that this busload of people doesn't need to hear.

This isn't that big of news unless you consider the implications and the historical references to these pre-recorded messages in the past. First, there was this girl who talked on her phone so loudly and the "ironic" timing of the message about how that type of behavior should be avoided while on the bus. Or there was the time the bus kept stalling on Michigan Avenue and the announcement about where to direct your compliments or complaints about CTA service was also "ironically" timed. Who knows, maybe it was all in the hands of the bus driver?

Kindof changes my point of view on these announcements. And, makes me wonder...

Wouldn't it be nice to have an omnipresent, omniscient voice to follow you around and say the things that you wish you could say without being a total jerk? In that pre-recorded, banal voice?

I suspect they'd start out professional and public service-y, and end up getting nasty, cutthroat and personal.

Here are a few that MY personal public service announcement recorder would play:

• Please don't stand so close to the person in front of you when in line at the grocery store, a bar, the bus stop or anywhere else where people congregate. It is annoying for you to be up in my business, breathing on my neck.


• Please don't walk in large groups across while going down the sidewalk on Michigan Avenue. While we appreciate that you all want to experience this fair city together and at the SAME EXACT MOMENT, is it really necessary for you to link arms and walk 6 deep? This isn't an offensive line, and you're just plain offending me.


• Please don't chew gum with your mouth open. The sound is distracting, it looks disgusting and I'm pretty sure your momma taught you better.


• Please don't talk through the movie as it is shown in Grant Park on the big screen. If you wanted to just talk to each other, you should have gone to a restaurant. This is for, you know, watching the MOVIE.


• Please don't leave your dishes in the public sink at work as it can spread germs and increase other levels of unsanitary bacteria. And, I'm pretty sure your momma doesn't work here.


• Please replace the paper towel roll in the kitchen if you are the last person to use it. It only takes a second, and it is common sense and common courtesy. Clearly you are deficient in both areas.


• Please use turn signals to indicate the direction of travel you intend to take so I don't ram into the back of your bumper as you jerk to a stop. I can't read minds, and if I could, I'd say that there didn't seem to be much activity in there anyway.

See, wouldn't it be nice for some automated voice to express all of those pesky pet peeves and don'ts to the unsuspecting public around you? I'd like to request James Earl Jones to complete my voice-over, thank you.

What would your public service announcement say? And, more importantly, who would voice it?

Real Estate Battles

Outside at lunch today, I overheard several groups of The Bucket Boys arguing vehemently as they walked south. Heads were hanging low, empty buckets hanging lower, jeans barely hanging on.

Apparently, they had been "relocated" by the Chicago Police, and were disagreeing about which group "owned" which corner. I heard one guy shout, peppered with some expletives that I'm too polite to reprint here, "The Erie corner is ours, buddy! You get the Loop, south of the River! We get the Michigan Avenue parts!"

It seemed like an urban parody of gang warfare and territory battles, which isn't a laughing matter here in Chicago. Or, a Bucket Boys satire of "West Side Story."

Sounds like they need a real estate agent, or a negotiator at least.

And, a handful of belts.

Vibrant Reality, Short-lived

As is traditional for the month of May in Chicago, the tulips are in full bloom up and down Michigan Avenue. They are a gorgeous metaphor for summer in this city, in my mind.

You anticipate their arrival for months, waiting as the snow melts, the landscapers prepare the beds, the sun warms the frigid pavement and the bulbs are planted.

When the do arrive, they burst onto the scene with a delightful vengence, causing tourists and Chicagoans alike to proclaim their beauty, wear silly shorts and Cubs hats, capture their wide range of colors on film, soak in as much time outdoors as they can and revel in their brilliance.

They don't stick around for long, however, so you best enjoy them while they last. Milk their presence here as much as you can. Treasure the days that are full of vibrant color, long hours of sunlight and the abundance of leisurely outdoor activities.

Toward the end of their time, the tulips begin to wilt, sway in the wind and sag towards the ground, bowing down to the inevitable reality that is their demise. The calendar doesn't lie, despite our every effort to delay the reality of the seasonal change. The expense of having planted them is questioned, as the time they were here was so brief. But deep in your heart, you know it was worth it.

And, then they're gone.

Sadly, and yet patiently, you must wait a full year to experience their glory yet again. But the anticipation is sweet, the countdown is boisterous and the sheer fact of their existence in the city makes it all worthwhile.

If only summer arrived in May along with the gorgeous flowers. Can a landscape crew get on that, please?

Act Up Already, Chicago!

I've been asked recently why my blog hasn't been much about commuting lately, and there is just one answer to that.

People have been behaving! I can't take it anymore.

Where are the rude passengers, the terrible drivers, the butt pivoters, the horrendous smells, or the really fat people?

All this well-behavin' gives me no material for dissection, no topics for fodder. Did everyone get a copy of Emily Post's book while I wasn't looking? Is the threat of summer infecting everyone with such good vibes that we're actually being POLITE to one another? Are we just so glad that we're able to ride public transit while the gas prices are nearing $6 a gallon?

Can't someone just throw a fit on the 145 bus? Could I get a traffic incident that incites the mob mentality? May I please have a cranky old person to yell at a young, fit passenger rudely sitting in the disabled/priority seating?

Great, thanks.

*Side note: Due to the unfortunate lack of commuting material, I've been pondering changing the name of the blog to something more universal. Thoughts?

Dental Assault

It was a classic case of the Michigan Avenue dentist.

I spotted the fancy furniture in the lobby, and couldn't miss the wall-sized oil paintings and abstract sculptural pieces in the waiting room. Even the reception desk was spectacular.

I should have known it would be all about money.

Sitting down in the premium leather luxury reclining dental chair, I prepared myself for the usual recitations on flossing, and not brushing my teeth so hard. That I can handle. Lecture me all you want, I am still working on my flossing habit, or lackthereof, and can totally take it.

What I wasn't prepared for was the onslaught of upsell. First, the dentist suggested I get the laser teeth whitening. Then he frowned, and poked around in my mouth, only to mention that "to fix this mess in here, I think you may need Invisalign."

Uhm. Hold up.

"This mess" in here? Are we talking about the same smile that is a result of two years and thousands of dollars in 1989? Yes, I wore braces, buddy, and do NOT plan to go back there again. Taking note of the photo below, would you?!?! I know, the bangs are a bit distracting.


To this day, I have one stinking crooked-ish tooth on the bottom row, and I quite like the character it gives my face. As for the miniscule space between my front teeth, I was thinking that wearing a retainer at night would do the trick.

"But a retainer is supposed to just keep things in place, not fix major dental issues."

WHAT major dental issues? Are we seeing the same set of pearly whites? My teeth aren't exactly "summer teeth—you know, summer here and summer there." They're not just creating a smile only a mother could love. My smile happens to be the thing that I get compliments on the most. And, yes, my teeth are pretty damn white, mind you. Thanks to good genes and a little home whitening, I'm okay with it. It's not like they still look like this:


I mean me, not the pumpkin. Although he could use a little dental work...

As for the appointment, I hated every minute of it. After he led in the child-prodigy of an orthodontist who proceeded to further demolish my self-esteem, suggesting a full set of braces to correct the slippage of my once-precious teeth, I was fuming.

Steam coming out my ears mad. I was more angry at myself for letting them get to me.

Swinging my stilleto boots off the dental chair, and placing them firmly on the imported travertine tile, I realized what we had here was a scam. A game to make women feel less beautiful, and more "broken" in order to cross-sell the revenue-generating products and services. Those that AREN'T covered by insurance.

Hey Doctor—I work in marketing, and spent four years at a healthcare agency. I know your game.

So, with a flip of the hair, I'm taking this smile outside onto Michigan Avenue, back to work and to my computer where I'll research a new dentist. One whose waiting room furniture is totally paid for, and he actually practices ethical patient care.

This was a year ago. I put off finding a new dentist for so long that finally I caved and made an appointment for a cleaning at this jerk's office again. It is today at 2:00 pm. But, if he even THINKS about insulting my dental status, I'll set him straight.

Kindof like my teeth.

Ask Not What Chicagoans Can Do for You

A crazy homeless lady that I see pretty often trolling the tourist briagde on Michigan Avenue stopped me this morning. Not unusual. She asked me for a dollar. Also not strange.

Her approach, or strategy, was totally unique today however.

She said, "Can you give me a dollar for JFK's birthday?"

Uhm...if it is JFK's birthday, why do you get the money? Shouldn't I be sending one of those little dollar bill cards to his family trust or something? Pretty sure you don't have any affiliation to the Kennedy clan. But, you clearly are crazy, so maybe there's the link?

JFK was a Democrat, and therefore supportive of providing funds for the disadvantaged, but I was left wondering how the request made any sense at all. And, when I said no, she mocked me for half a block. Loudly.

Should have tossed my $2.15 Starbucks at her. In honor of JFK's birthday, that is. I'll show YOU what Chicagoans can do for you.

God is in the Vanity Plates?

Walking back from lunch, I always manage to spot at least one oddity that is deemed blog worthy. Today's entry is this:

A black Mercedes, complete with tinted windows, shiny rims and a vanity plate that said, "THKUGOD."

I, too, believe that God is good, is all around us, and answers our prayers. But unless that woman had been praying for a new 4-door sedan, I'm not quite sure I understand the connection.

Does God pay the monthly lease payments? Did the money for the car come from the church collection plates? Did she pray every night for God to fill her empty driveway? Did He Himself drive it up into the 4-car garage?

Either way, I am reminded of a reverend in Atlanta my Mom worked with to decorate his home.

His name, and you can't make this stuff up, is Reverend Creflo Dollar, and he is quite "famous" for his work as the head of the World Changers International Church just south of Atlanta.

Claiming that he doesn't preach love of money, only God, he is under inquisition by the Senate for his Rolls-Royces, private Learjets, million-dollar Atlanta home and $2.5 million Manhattan apartment, all tax-exempt gifts from the ministries and his congregations. He claims that his wealth furnishes proof to his followers of the validity of his teachings and is a leading apostle of what is known as the “prosperity gospel.”

In a DVD put out by his church, called Does God Want You to be Poor?, Dollar says that Jesus was not poor and his disciples were not poor. He says faith can transform poverty into an abundant life. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't recall any mention of Jesus and his apostles living life of the wealthy. Most Bible stories include references to love, compassion and forgiveness, not of riches, clothing, and abundance.

When you click on the home page for his ministries, the first box of content you see says, "A Plea for Support for Our Ministries." Off to the side, you can pledge your "love gift" and in the center, you can buy Dollar's books, support his online broadcast, or buy downloads of his videos. Not exactly the compassionate, love-filled prayerful messages I'd hope would appear front and center on MY church's website.

No matter what your opinion on this mixing ministry with money, my favorite part of my Mom's decorating story was that he wanted my mother, a classy, conservative, talented and all-too-kind interior decorator (with a fine arts degree and a love of fine furnishings) to decorate his entire house using only purple, black and gold. I think my Mom had to work really hard not to laugh when he insisted that she work in some "gold lamé into the scheme."

I kindof hoped he'd pay her not in cash, but in a one-year lease on a gold Rolls Royce. Then, the vanity plate could have read "THKUREV$$" and brought her all kinds of prosperity.

Her suburban neighbors would have loved that one.

My Kind of Town

I was a tourist in my own city this weekend. A recommendation to you all—go out, do a few things that only the "tourists" do in your town, and you'll see things a whole new way.

With my mom and sister in town, we adventured to many of the sights that I often neglect or avoid due to the "tourist" factor. We had after-work drinks at the Signature Room Lounge on the 96th floor of the John Hancock tower on Thursday, and enjoyed 360 degree views of my fair city. Including the one from the ladies bathroom, which was made famous in a scene from "Ferris Bueller's Day Off."

With our $14 dollar drinks resting nicely in our bellies, we rode the CTA bus up Lake Shore Drive to my condo, and enjoyed a snowstorm on Friday afternoon while managing to finish the home projects I have been putting off for years.

Friday night we spent a lovely dinner and drinks at one of my favorite "local" bars, Matilda despite their infamously bad bathrooms (see "Bomb Shelters or Bathrooms" for more details), and experienced the full effect of body-odorific-taxis on the way to and from our meal.

Saturday we ventured to Millennium Park to take in (and photograph ourselves with) the fantastic Cloud Gate sculpture that is more commonly known as "The Bean" for obvious reasons. The snow was hanging on for dear life from the rounded edges of the sculpture, and the sun glinting off of the metal was almost blinding as it reflected the old buildings along Michigan Avenue. The effect was not unlike a globe, with the snow patches for continents, lit from within.

We then had a delicious lunch at The Park Grill, overlooking what was the Millennium Park ice skating rink until last week when they optimistically closed it in honor of the arrival of Spring. Yeah...hasn't come just yet, but we're holding out hope. Following lunch by the fireplace, we avoided the lines at the Art Institute of Chicago and were lucky enough to see the Winslow Homer and Edward Hopper exhibition, which was dynamite. Those men were busy! On our way out, we were treated to a sidewalk performance by The Bucket Boys who prove that inspired music can come from anywhere, even a drywall bucket.

Nursing our aching "museum feet," we wandered back to Michigan Avenue to stretch our legs and walk/run for the northbound bus. Dinner included a FEAST of fondue at The Melting Pot which lasted almost 5 hours. Yes, FIVE. You melt a little cheese and chocolate in front of me, and I'm sticking around as long as they'll let me.

Sunday was the more "low key" approach. Sans reservation, we dined for Brunch at Deleece a great local spot that had just been featured on "Check Please." We passed on the Bloody Mary's (why?) and ate more than is normal. Each. Driving back from brunch (after leaving our front row parking spot), we toured through Graceland Cemetery, resting place of many of Chicago's famous residents. Every few seconds one of us shouted, Palmer!, Kinzie!, Magill!, Brauer! and even Burnham, made famous by the great book The Devil in the White City, a historical fiction surrounding the building of the World's Fair site in 1893.

Finally, we were "treated" to the pothole circus that is Cicero Avenue as we made our way to Midway Airport in time for my family's late afternoon flight. I managed to navigate the streets without losing a tire or breaking an axel, and I am rather proud of that. This street edges some rather rough neighborhoods, as made famous in "Chicago" during the musical number of The Cell Block Tango. We tried to sing the song to distract us from the horrid road conditions, but none of us could remember the lyrics. Sorry to disappoint you, Liz.

All in all, it was a spectacular weekend filled with tourist sights, local options and excellent food, drink and conversation. My mom and sister admitted that they think I've grown "tough" in my 7+ years here, and it must be because I kept saying how nice of a day it was, despite the fact that it was hovering just above freezing. Frankly, Mother Nature cooperated mostly, and even gave us some bright sunshine to help us deny the fact that it was still 30 degrees in late March.

We sounded cocky about our discovery as we commented on how quiet the city was during Easter Weekend. Allowed us to be "tourists" without the crowds. It's Monday now, and everyone is back from the suburbs and the Easter Baskets are all put away. The Peeps are even starting to get dry and tasteless already.

It was absolutely worth every minute, every tired bone and every dollar spent.

I love Chicago. My kind of town, my kind of weekend.

It's in the Bag

I left the office late tonight, carrying the agency's big black leather portfolio, and waited for what felt like forever for the bus. In between my office building and my front door, three different people asked me about the big case.

One older lady eyed the bag, and loudly commented, "I would love to see what's in THAT bag!" like I was in a gameshow, and was carrying around the silver metal case with her ticket to millions inside. I'll chalk her up to just being confused. I doubt she really meant that she'd love to see my new business presentation as we stood underneath the bus shelter.

When I got onto the bus, and wedged the large case as close to my knees as I could, the bus filled up, and a thirty-something girl leaned over me and said, "So, they're making YOU drag the pitch boards?" and I just laughed out loud, and nodded. How'd she know?!? Was my exhaustion written all over my face? Was it the mid-week jeans? Or was my business card hanging out of my purse?

As I got off the bus, a guy was walking towards my building alongside me, and he glanced at the bag, then at me, and snidely says, not quite under his breath, "ooooh, you must be in advertising..." like it was the same thing as saying, "ooooh, you must kick small puppies and push children down the stairs."

Uh, yeah.

We in "the agency biz" have one heck of a reputation, don't we? Granted, I own a Tivo, too, but enjoy a good giggle inspired by clever writing, compelling images, smart commercials and other products of my industry.

And, yes, I'm the pitch board mule.

But as I travel north to Newark (eek) tomorrow to nail this pitch, I'll have on a killer suit and a power pair of heels.

All the better to kick puppies with, my dear.

Almost Famous

I walked right through the set of a motion picture this morning.

No, I didn't miss my flight back from LA. And, yes, I was fully awake.

In fact, I was dressed and on my way to work. Sure throws off that "she was just having a dream" theory. I had just crossed the bridge over the Chicago River, and then I see the ginormous movie camera on a huge black pivoting thingy. My cousin "in the biz" says that's called a crane camera. Ok then.

I see the crane camera, and then spot the sign below that says something about a motion picture being filmed, and that they're not held responsible if you are caught on camera doing something stupid like picking your nose. Or wearing ugly shoes. They're not liable.

As you may expect, I love movies, television and am especially fond of anything that involves showing Chicago off to the world. Only if it makes our fair city look good. Which, incidentally, half the time it does not. It was NEVER summer on "ER" and "Save the Last Dance" makes this city appear totally and completely dank, dark, scary and gang-infested. Which a lot of it is not.

I digress.

So, back to the set. I was quite pleased that they didn't stop me from walking through, but rather allowed me to enter the set, and cross through the "action" even after the director shouted just that.

Quiet on the set! We have a REAL LIVE CHICAGO COMMUTER COMING THROUGH. Oooh. I add authenticity.

Anyway, I didn't recognize the actors, but did notice that one guy had fake tears running down his face. Or was that the cold wind? The female actor was watching me walk, and in my head, she was thinking "that's just what I would be wearing if I worked at a cool Michigan Avenue ad agency." Yeah, probably not. She was probably eyeing the craft services table and was musing on her next latte purchase from Starbucks. But a girl can imagine, can't she?

I was secretly thrilled to be wearing my sunglasses (for that added vibe), and was really glad I'd put in the extra 10 minutes to straighten my hair. And put on lipstick.

Because you just can't risk looking dowdy, homely or otherwise unhip when your 10-seconds of fame hits the editing room floor.

Confidence, then Panic

Someone asked me for directions to RL tonight. RL is the signature restaurant by Ralph Lauren that I've never been to, but have heard the food is good. I assume it is located near the Ralph Lauren clothing store, on the corner of Michigan Avenue and Chicago Avenue, but that was just a guess. An educated one, but still a guess.

So this guy turns to me on the bus and asks how to find the place. I immediately begin to tell him which stop to get off at (Superior) and to walk north one block, to cross the street, and to look for the restaurant on the corner. I think he was actually listening (which is good, since half the time people don't) and I have a pretty high level of confidence that he found it.

But then he got off the bus and began his Colleen-directed trek. That's when the panic set in.

What if I was mistaken? Did I send him to the wrong restaurant? Is he going to wander the streets of Chicago aimlessly? Probably not, but that cold fear struck me as he left the bus.

It happens every time someone asks me for directions. I love to help, and am happy to send them on their merry way, but then I stand there questioning my knowledge of the streets, addresses or landmarks.

Oh well. If anyone sees that guy still walking around looking for RL, please point him in the right direction. Send him towards the khaki pants, at the very least. He'll find the cafe from there.

Life Lesson

This morning I went out to get a coffee at Starbucks, and on my way back to the office, a guy on the street stopped me and asked for $10. TEN BUCKS? I don't even have ten dollars in my wallet right now (I know, the coffee habit could help that issue), but come on!

That sure raises the game from "spare a little change?" I mean, I know times are tough, and the recession is bound to hit us all, but I don't walk up to people on the street and ask them for things.

And, frankly, I want a little whitewashed house in the Greek Islands, nestled in the cliffs of Santorini, but we don't always get what we want.

I know. I'm a cold-hearted person.

But, a realist.

*This is my 100th post! Happy anniversary to me. Thanks for continuing to read and comment on my crazy life here in Chicago. Please keep up the support, and I'll do my best to keep the hits coming.

I'm a Terrible Person

Why do those "Children International" people always hit me up? I tell myself it is because I am approachable, and seem friendly.

More likely, I look like a sucker.

Alas, I try to walk fast, look straight down, and not make eye contact. Hell, half the time I even have my phone in my hand pretending to read a very important email.

But, no.

They still say, religiously, in their chipper voices, "Do you have a minute for children?" forcing me to reply, "Uh, no, sorry."

I don't have a minute for children.

Well, when you put it that way, I just sound like an evil wretched human being.

Of course if a small child were on the sidewalk, in need, I would help. I would dive into action, trying to do anything I could to save the little tyke. Probably while cooing and uttering comforting, kind words to them so they wouldn't be scared. (That sounds creepy, but I assure you I'm good with kids).

But, when I am forced to say yes or no to the leafletters on the sidewalk, I come off like a witch. (See Monica's blog "Ramblings of a Crazy" for more on this subject.)

Nope. No time for cute kids today. I'm selfish that way. Now move over.

The Power of the Upsell

With it being Friday and all, and the sun actually making a rare Winter appearance, the mood is light today.

Therefore, a few girls from work and I decided to treat ourselves to a cheeseburger at lunch. There is a renowned Chicago landmark food establishment just below our building, nestled in the underground areas on lower Michigan Avenue.

It is the Billy Goat Tavern.

Famed for lines such as "Cheezborger! Cheezborger!" "No fries, cheeps!" that were made legendary in various SNL skits using Chicago native actors in the 70s, this place is a dive. The best kind of dive.

As you approach, the smell of greasy food and the grill meets you halfway. You walk in, and are greeted loudly by a chorus of hellos from the staff, and then you approach the formica countertop and they say, "Double Cheezborger?" as if it is a question.

But, as everyone who has ever eaten there knows, it isn't a question at all.

It is an assumption. The powerful upsell. You had NO plans to eat a double cheeseburger when you left the comforts of the office. You wouldn't DARE!

But, you do. (I don't bother with the chips. Just a side pile of sliced dill pickles for me.)

They don't even have plates. Just wax paper, and they hand you the burger, over said counter, hot off the grill. The condiments are in plastic bottles and may have been there since its inception in 1934.

But you don't care.

And you enjoy every bite.

How did he know?

Mary Lou Retton I am Not

Picture this:

Crowded Michigan Avenue bus. Shopping bags lay at every person's feet. Hats, gloves, scarves all making people sweat. More people get on. Crowd inches to the back. Bust driver shouts. Shuffling of the bags. People stamping their boots to rid them of the clumped, mushy snow. More people get on.

I am standing, with my gloves off (to avoid aforementioned sweating) and am gripping the pole that is just above my head, running horizontally all the way to the back of the bus. Metal, slimy, sticky, shiny. Lovely.

As the crowd surges, and the bus lurches, one must tighten her grip.

I was practically swinging from the bar. Would've been if God hadn't graced me with extra long Go-Go-Gadget arms.

By the time I got home, I had those little white half moon blisters on my palms.

Team USA Gymnastics is CLEARLY not in my future.

It's Serious Out There

As a follow up to yesterday's post "Not So Magnificent," I just ran some last minute, lunch time errands on Michigan Avenue to finish my holiday shopping...

...brief celebration for THAT right here...

and realized that the melting snow/ice from the buildings is really gettin' serious out there.

It was like one giant game of Frogger—using real life tourists!

And, it is the best social analysis of the psychology of mob activity. If one person looks up, then everyone begins to look up.

Don't these people realize that if they look UP, then snow falling will hit them directly in the FACE?

I'd say keep your Frogger head down, and move quickly. When in doubt, carry a child on your shoulders for protection.

I'm just saying...

Not So Magnificent

So I was just escaping the work grind for a short break at the food court at Nordstrom, just down the Magnificent Mile from my office. After a quick lunch, I walked toward the front doors only to realize that there were cops there, blocking all traffic from exiting. Not one to miss a moment of the action, I stuck around long enough to realize they were shuttling all holiday shoppers out other exits, but you absolutely were not able to use the Michigan Avenue-facing revolving doors.

Normally, a girl with an affinity for shopping would love the opportunity (or excuse!) to be stuck inside a sale-laden, holiday-decorated retail venue, but this time was just plain baffling. You mean I can't leave? Mustn't return to work?

They had roped off the outside entrance and there were huge shards of ice laying broken in pieces on the sidewalk, surrounded by crowds looking up.

Apparently the sun had warmed the ice on the roof just enough to send it crashing to the pavement down below. This happens a lot here, and there was even a death a few years ago when a woman was hit by a huge slice of ice from above.

Who knew shopping could be such an adventure sport?