Good Night and Good Luck

You may have been wondering where I've been. Why I've been silent for the last week or so, save an occasional post about electronics (still unsolved, by the way). Why you've not heard any great stories out of me.

That's because it has been a rough week or so.

Frankly, it has been going on longer than that, but the proverbial shit hit the fan last week.

I was laid off on Friday.

At the risk of sounding like a sycophant, I really am sad to leave that company. I harbor no ill will towards them for choosing me to be one of the latest laid off. I hold no one responsible for the situation. In fact, I credit the leadership with having tried everything they could to stave off the layoffs. To keep the wolf from the door.

Unfortunately, in this economic crisis, those efforts were not enough. Holding companies are vicious and sometimes it comes down to numbers on a spreadsheet. Times are tough and I am feeling it more than ever.

I know that the prices of gas have been at all time highs, but I don't drive my car that much. I know that groceries are costing families more and more each week, but since I am just one woman living alone, I don't feel the pinch that much.

This turn of events, however, hit me in the gut.

And, the heart.

I know that it sounds trite to say that I had found the right "place" for me, but I did. I mean it. I was really happy at that agency, and felt like I was contributing. I was learning, growing and making a difference. I enjoy the people there and respect the culture that was in effect there. It was more than "corporate speak" and lines of the employee handbook—the culture was real. It likely still is, but it has certainly taken its fair share of blows this year.

Without a doubt, I was meant to be working there. I knew it in the first interview, and it was even more confirmed in the second. I'd found a home. A family. A place where I could be the best version of me. I trusted the leadership, and found out only later how well-respected they were in the industry. I saw the rows and rows of awards the agency had won, but only realized later how good it felt to be a part of a winning team like that.

And, it was a team. As someone who spent her formative years playing team sports, I appreciate and value the very meaning of being on a team.

To me, and the others at my agency, being on a team meant dropping everything to help out a colleague. It meant pulling more than your share of weight sometimes, knowing the favor would be returned tenfold. It meant staying late some nights, and leaving early other days. It meant celebrating the wins together, and commiserating the losses together. It meant everyone doing their part to make the agency, and the work, great. It meant not ever being "above" a task, or delegating things to those deemed "below" you. It meant we were all in it together. As a team.

Interestingly, it meant doing it all without realizing you were. Making the effort while enjoying the process.

Knowing that, I ache even more for the loss. The loss I feel for not having gotten up to go to work there today. The loss I feel knowing that my books, photos, mementos and business card holder will sit on another desk soon. The loss I feel knowing that I won't be interacting with such creative and strategic geniuses, who also made me laugh on a regular basis, each day.

I will miss them, and the work we created together, more than they realize.

Here's hoping that the tide is shifting. That the worst is past. That the horizon holds a bright future. For me and for my team. Here's knowing that the family will circle in tight to protect its own. I have faith that that much is true. Good night and good luck.

As for me, I'm on to something else. Something bigger? Maybe.

Something better? I doubt it.

The bar has been set extremely high. I know what I'm looking for and what I won't settle for. I know what I deserve and what is possible. I know the types of people that I want to work for, and alongside, in my next adventure.

I just don't know their names yet.

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.

Elevator Low and Rydell High

Last night was the last Movie in the Park in Grant Park for the season, and they were showing "Grease." We had a group of six girls there, spread across three blankets, and good food and many bottles of wine for the occasion.

The crowds filled the park, covering every square inch of grass possible, facing the enormous drive-in-style screen. The sound was good, and people actually quieted during most of the dialogue to let everyone hear the movie that has been a girl's night staple since 1978. The musical parts, however, became a virtual sing-a-long and it was just hilarious hearing thousands sing about "Summer Lovin'" and "Grease Lightning." There were even a few in shiny pink satin Pink Ladies jackets and bobby socks. Well done, ladies!

Even before I made it to the park to meet Jill, I had to bring the preparations. I had a blanket in my office for the occasion, and left in such a hurry that I got down to the lobby floor and remembered it, and went back up to grab it. Boarding the elevator for the second time, I pushed the lower level lobby button, and watched the doors close.

Two others boarded on lower floors (my office is up on 27) and then we made it to the express portion of the ride where we zoomed from the 19th floor down to the lobby. Inevitably, my ears popped.

This time, however, when the elevator car passed the lobby, it jerked, bounced, and went quiet. We hung there. We were literally suspended between the two floors. Granted, we were only one (and a half!?) floors off the ground, but I couldn't help but envision a Bourne Identity-style crash to the ground, with someone inside the elevator shaft standing atop the car hanging on to the steel cables.

Or, I couldn't help but think of the guy in New York who was caught in an elevator on the weekend for 41 hours. The link shows a time-elapsed video of his ordeal. I didn't want to be THAT guy.

We used the emergency call button to talk to the lobby, and had to yell in order for them to hear us. That was a ridiculous scene—three people standing in a tiny box, yelling at the wall. If only someone could see us now.

After we identified the elevator car we were in, they urged us to wait. We did. About five minutes passed, and I felt as if we were moving. The mind does weird things, especially as one starts to panic, so I wasn't sure if I was inventing the movement or if we were really sliding downward.

We must have been sinking that last 1/2 floor (10 feet?), because all of a sudden, the doors slid open and we were there. In the lower level, safely.

Relieved, we poured out and went on our way. It had crossed my mind that I had snatched some candy from our vending machine, so that could tide me over. And, I had the blanket and a book, so I could at least be cozy and occupied.

But, I did realize that I was leaving to go buy the wine for the movie in the park, so I didn't yet have that on my person. The cups and the corkscrew? Yep, had those. Maybe we could have pulled a MacGuyver with those and gotten ourselves free?

Luckily we didn't have to, and I made it to the park in time to see Danny and Sandy frolicking on the beach.

Sidenote/tangent: did anyone else realize, as you watch Grease as an adult, that a) there are a lot of subtle sexual innuendos in the movie that went right over my head as a pre-teen, and b) Danny and Sandy and all the T-Birds and Pink Ladies look WAY older than high schoolers. They look more like they're 30. I'm just pointing it out.

Grease is the word! (for an elevator cable, too?)

"I Have No Privacy"

Lately, each day at work, at about 3:45 in the afternoon, I get this creepy feeling that somebody's watching me.

Rockwell was right. It's creepy. So is he, incidentally.

Anyway, it freaks me out each day. Slowly, the shadow comes across my window, behind me, and I see the reflection of something huge in my laptop screen.

The skin on my arms crawls and the hair stands up on my neck.

I turn around, only to be faced with this:


Yeah. I know. He's not scary, but his arrival each day sure is.

Shall I remind you that I'm on the 27th floor?

*I should clarify—they are doing cement work on the building's exterior. We do not get our windows washed every day. THAT would be a waste!

Judgment Day

Human behavior is just amazing, isn't it?

This weekend, continuing right on through today at lunch, proved to me what I've always known...people are strange. Weird. Curious. Interesting. Annoying. Fascinating. So Very Different.

With a summer weekend fully in swing, we had a large group go down to Taste of Chicago, the annual event that brings people of all shapes and sizes into the city. They literally SWARM in from the 'burbs. Which makes it interesting, and all of those other adjectives. Plus a few I can't type here.

Walking through the throngs along Jackson, in the shadow of the Sears Tower and with the lake breeze cooling you off, you saw small people, tall people, fat people, skinny people, people of all races, people of all ages, people who haven't showered since before Bush was in office, people who will dance to anything, people who clearly don't own a mirror, people who's self-confidence far outweighs their ability to judge fashion choices, people who will pick fights for no reason, people who can't handle the heat, people who can't handle their alcohol and people who just plain can't dance.




And, people who should have just stayed home. (Not the above pair, mind you). Of course, with Stevie Wonder playing, who's judging?

Then, yesterday was the annual Pride Parade in Chicago. I heard on the news that there were approximately 300 floats/groups in the parade, and more than 450,000 spectators lining the streets. There were similar observations about people than the day before, but this time the extremes were out.

Watching the masses from a third floor balcony, you saw straight people, gay people, he/she transvestite people, she/he transvestite people, naked people, small people, tall people, skinny people, fat people, trans-gendered people, drag queen people, pasties-on-boobs people, thongs-on-men people, leather fanatic people, cowboy people, cheerleader people, S+M people, motorcycle people, questionable gendered people and people who clearly started boozing far earlier in the day than we had.




And, most of the people who were naked, well, just shouldn't have been. Of course, it is the Pride Parade, so who's judging?

Today, however, was back to the grind. Back to the office, despite the glorious weather and the insatiable urge to be outside reading a book in the grassy park.

I treated myself to a salad from the cafe across the street, and while I did, I had the chance to observe even more of Chicago's people.

One couple in particular.

She was leading him (a leash may have been present, though subtle) through the salad bar line as she narrated every last move she made, and dictated every last item he should/could/would and shouldn't/couldn't/wouldn't eat. Seriously.

EVERY ITEM she put on her plate she discussed. You know, "I love green peppers. You don't love green peppers?" and "Don't you dare eat the tomatoes. They still haven't figured them out yet." and "Don't even think about getting blue cheese. It's fattening." and "Oooh. Cous cous. I love this stuff. Not sure what it is made of, but I love it."

He just moseyed through the line, listening to (or more likely ignoring) her every word. He had a wooden expression and dead eyes, but I'm just saying.

It took everything in my power not to tell her to grab a huge green pepper and bite it. Isn't a salad bar the culinary equivalent of freedom of choice? Shouldn't the poor guy have been entitled, by the sheer nature of the course of a salad bar, to choose whatever damn vegetable he liked, without her running narrative?

That's just my two cents.

Of course, it is Monday in a holiday week, so who's judging?

Fat Chance

There is a Corner Bakery going into the lobby of my office building.

This CANNOT be good for my wallet, or my waistline.

It sure will be convenient in the winter, however, when the temperature is at a balmy 9 degrees with galeforce winds whipping around Michigan Avenue.

I'll be fat enough by then to ward off the chill, though, I suspect.

Back to Reality

I've been back from Costa Rica for four days now, and have already worked two full days in the office, and it is really much harder to get back into the swing of things than I expected.

When you spent a week with your best friends and cute boyfriend staring at sights like the one shown above (Jaco beach), it is terribly painful to go back to stuff like client service, responding to emails, business meetings and account billing.

And, unfortunately, blogging.

So, bear with me, and I'll be back in no time to update you all on the fabulous stories (or the highlight reel) from the trip. Trust me, if the sheer volume of photos is any indication, you'll want the highlights only. Our full album has in excess of 700 photos in it. The country is just far too beautiful to edit or delete.

Until then...

take a deep breath, and think about the sound of the ocean.

It's helped me immensely.

When that fails to do the trick, try a margarita.

Awards Show Jenga

Our industry had its first of many awards shows last night, and it was nothing short of kick-ass.

Upon arrival, you don a plastic nametag. Instead of the traditional and BO-RING work titles, my company decided to go the fun route and give everyone silly "titles" ranging from Resident Bulldog (me, referencing my alma mater) to Twerpz Distributor (Jamie, referencing her favorite tangy candy), to Miss Nebraska (Carey, referencing allegiance to her home state), to Interpretive Dancer (Amy, for no real reason), to Lord High Chancellor (Chris, referencing his ambivalent attitude towards it all), and more like that. It was pretty clear we were there to have fun.

And, to win tons of awards. Let's be honest.

Overall, though, the event itself is sortof calm. There is no red carpet, the podium isn't even on a real stage, you don't give a speech after you win, the crowd is pretty docile, and the awards are just acrylic engraved plaques housed in black boxes. Balloons adorn each table, as do samples and chotchkes from various vendors.

In a city like Chicago where the agency world is dominant, and the business-to-business agency sector is even smaller and more close knit, it is fairly competitive. We have three or four main competitors in this town, and last night we showed them what was what.

We won 26 awards and took home the big prize at the end for Best in Show, meaning, the best work of any submitted. It was awarded to the account that I worked on for all of 2007, and the Creative Director and I dragged each other up there in shock to accept it. We kissed the awards, and even took photos with it in the Getty Images photo booth. Without a speech platform, we didn't get to thank God, our Mama or the little people, but they know who they are, and they know how much they worked to make the magic happen.

As for the crowd, we were the rowdiest, too. Our table quickly became a huge wobbly stack of award boxes, and the OCD personality in me kept stacking and restacking the boxes from biggest to smallest (Gold being the biggest, and those pesky Bronzes as the smallest), and facing all the labels one direction. It was like a giant game of Awards Show Jenga, comprised of the blood, sweat and tears of the creative, strategy and account teams for the last year.


We were boisterous, but the truth is, we weren't a wreck. Only ONE wine glass got shattered (no one was hurt, thank you for asking) and just three chocolate-covered strawberries were harmed in the incident. The Getty Images rep hit on ONLY TWO of my beautiful colleagues, the bartenders poured heavy-handed all night, the band sounded a step above a wedding act, and no one cried. Well, maybe one tear.

To top off the evening, the valet at the afterparty lost my coworker's swanky Mercedes (toting the awards in the trunk) for just an hour and a half. Didn't stop us from creating, and taping to his office door, a "Dude, Where's My Car" movie poster. (It was either that, or we steal his office chair and leave a valet ticket behind. We thought that may be pushing it.)

The entire company chowed on McDonald's greasy breakfast sandwiches this morning in the usual tradition, and are finally through with gloating.

At least until the press release comes out, announcing our domination to the entire industry.

Damn, it feels good to be on top.

Will be Burning the Outtakes

I survived. And, will have a host of photos to prove it.

We are in the midst of redesigning and restructuring our website at work and it will include a full update of the section that features all of our friendly faces, in a section cleverly called "The Lunatics"—in what I think is a reference to Clockwork Orange about how the lunatics run the asylum. Or something like that.

The bulk of the current employees are not on there now, and some of the faces that ARE on there date back to the 90s. That doesn't sound like that long ago, but frankly, I was still in high school, so I think these people have long since moved on.

So, this means videos have been recorded with some key people talking about business branding issues, and I had to suffer through that unbearably strange situation back in the fall. They are live now, so if you're really curious what I have to say, feel free to wander over there. Trust me, the work isn't worth it. Except for you, Mom. You'll probably like them. I'll decode the marketing jargon later.

My one main thought during that shoot was that I had no idea how hot it was to sit under those lights. This isn't surprising seeing as my experience to date at photo shoots has been the "client manager" role. This roughly translates to "keep the client as far from the ditsy and artistic photographer as possible while he captures the image" and "schmooze the client as much as you have to to keep them happy and forgetting the exorbitant day rate everyone around you is making."

Today, however, was the still photo shoot, and it was equally as uncomfortable. My mom tells me I'm photogenic, and by and large I feel pretty comfortable in photos taken on the weekends, but this type of setup is hard. Two huge lights, a big white screen, loud funky music to try to relax you, and four people, including the photographer, telling you that "you're doing great." Hand me a vodka tonic, and then I'll be doing great. Trust me.

Beads of sweat on the forehead aside, it didn't help that the rain came this morning, making the ladies' straightened hair a total mess. Even the stylist we hired didn't quite know what to do, and we don't have the time/budget to really fix the major issues.

Wrinkly Shirt? Check. Frizzy Hair? Check. Pale Winter Skin? Check.

Ignoring all of this, we shoot.

I smiled, tilted, angled, leaned, crossed my arms, hands on my hips, laughed my fake laugh, tossed a prop tennis ball back and forth off-screen, rolled my eyes, peered over my shoulder and leaned on my knees while one foot propped up on a stepstool ladder. The whole thing felt just shy of Glamour Shots from the mall, and trust me, I didn't go for those even when they WERE semi-cool.

Coworkers kept sliding the door open to peek, and trust me, THAT didn't help either. Dancing around—trying desperately to be casual—only resulted in eyes closed, lips pursed "dancing face" shots, and those don't exactly convey "business branding professional."

In one of the frames, towards the end, I fiddled with my hair, closed my eyes, hands in hair, inadvertently pouted my lips, and POOF! Porn shot. Bad 1983 porn, but still.

I have no immediate plans to give Kate Moss a run for her money. Modeling isn't really my thing. I like cheeseburgers and beer too much, and I am not a big fan of narcotics.

Bad dance videos or cheesy hair commercials, however? I'm in.

No. It's not me.

Gotta be Honest

Work just got in the way of any good post today.

My brain is zapped completely dry in advance of tomorrow's big new business pitch. My eye makeup is smudged to all hell, my really cute outfit is no longer even attractive, and my stomach is growling so loudly that I can barely hear my iTunes. It didn't help that I wore fancy high heels today and my feet hurt from about the knee down. I am pretty sure that I no longer have a bloodstream. My body is working strictly off of coffee and Dr. Pepper.

Admit it. You're humming the tune to "Nine to Five" now, aren't you? Go with Dolly, and enjoy your night. I'll toast to that.

I'm going home to faceplant in some Shiraz. If only we had THAT in the free vending machine.

Relocation Excitation

I was asked to move offices a few weeks ago, and have been waiting for our transient IT guy to be in town long enough to actually move all my corded things and plug them back in so they all work when he walks out.

He was here today, and hence, I'm in my new digs.

This office is literally 4 doors down from my old one, but it has a much better view of the sliver of Lake Michigan that I can see (facing north, the southernmost tip of North Avenue Beach), and the same view of the Allerton Hotel Tip Top Tap sign that I could always see. I have a full view of the uppermost 60% of the John Hancock Building, and that is just nice.

All in all, the view's the same.

However, the perspective is totally different.

Since it is a slightly bigger office, I have...drum roll....a bookshelf. With NINE shelves. Spanning the entire length of the wall to my right. Industrial by nature, they are a combo of black shelving, wood ends and raw metal piping. But, it isn't their design that excites me.

It is their function.

I hadn't had a bookshelf in the last office, and therefore, wasn't able to properly display my SCHTUFF. And by schtuff, I mean, my framed photos, knickknacks, cool collateral samples, gimmicks from vendors, candles and such. Some of it is crap, some of it is memory-laden, and some of it is filler. You always have a little filler when you have NINE shelves to cover. Spare me the judgement.

And, not the least of it, on this bookshelf marvel, I get to show off my books on branding, advertising, marketing, the consumer, strategy and other things that make me look smart when people snoop. Dressed, on either side, by the fancy schmancy bookends that my Mom gave me for Christmas—made of heavy silver, one is an "@" and one is an "*" and they are very cool. Reminds me that I can be a writer, if not by trade, by hobby.

To my left is what I'd guess is a 12-foot cork-board wall. I've already tacked photos, my calendar, sticky-notes, phone lists, etc. to it, and will be dressing it even further as I grow into the space. At the very top, and in just the right angle, hangs my Georgia Bulldogs flag. Since it is the super G logo, despite the red and black color combo, people often ask me if I am a Green Bay fan. They chuckle. I scowl.

Behind me is a sad excuse for an office credenza, and I'm guessing the floor in here is uneven, because two of the drawers—containing my file folders—keep sliding open. I've pulled a MacGuyver on that one and taped them shut with black mockup tape. I'm pretty sure that's a symbol of how often I go back through things once they are filed neatly away. Yeah...never.

And, finally, in front of my behemoth of a black MDF desk, is a lovely pair of 80s-inspired fabric guest chairs, flanking a metal table where I have the "doctor's office fan" going with the latest magazines. All in all, it's homey, and welcoming. As best as it can be without the new furniture coming in yet. Which, from what we hear, is eventual. As in, eventually, if you wait long enough.

The corner is empty and needs a plant. A fake tree will do, right? The walls are bare save the corkboard one, and are yearning for some framed photos—I have just the set. Black and whites of the beach in Chicago will do. Remind me where I'd rather be.

All this rearranging, decorating and decluttering makes me feel good. Accomplished, organized and happy. Probably too much so. But, I have two guest chairs in here if you'd like to stop by and discuss my neuroses in person.

I'll be the one moving things on my shelf to the left one inch...no, to the right two inches...

Dance Like No One Is Watching

The Office comes back to television tonight, and I'm so excited I am doing a little dance in my office. Seriously, I am.

If only you could see it. On second thought, it is probably for the best that you can't. (The lady staying in the Marriott Michigan Avenue, on the 24th floor facing south, doesn't think my dance is very funny. I think she's scared.)



I feel pretty certain you'd be looking at me with a Jim face, and I think it is too early in the morning for that.

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.

Manipulative Mama

My friend Carey just came into my office to tell me a weird story. And weird it is.

She met a girl, let's call her Tammy, at a social event last summer. They hit it off, and have kept in touch, but mostly by way of Tammy sending out newsletters and emails regarding her work, which happens to be real estate.

Tammy sent Carey an email out of the blue this week and it requested Carey's mailing address. It said, "Please send me your address...I'm pregnant and want to send you the announcement!"

Carey obliged, and sent the required polite "Congratulations" email back to Tammy. It must be noted that Tammy is a single woman in her late 30s that was not in a relationship. I won't judge, and clearly the woman was excited about her impending motherhood, so good for her. They are barely friends - acquaintences at the very most, so it was a bit odd, but we'll let that go. People get excited about their own news.

It was only after Carey received the email back from Tammy that said, "Thanks for sending me your address, and for the well wishes. I was only joking - don't hate me for it. But, it did get my phone ringing and filled up my inbox!"

I have a serious problem with this conniving tactic. The woman is an independent sales person, and building a database is a huge part of her success. But to use a personal ploy, comprised of a huge lie, is so underhanded, so manipulating, and frankly, so tacky, that I couldn't help but react with my jaw agape. Carey felt the same way.

I told her to throw that Mama from the train.

Pretty Soon I'll be Eating Dinner at 5 PM

I saw a preview for a new NBC show called Quarterlife today, and it got me a little freaked out. They even had the audacity to use the copy line, "They're 25. And life starts now."

With all the shows aimed at the teen, college and immediately post-college market, such as The OC, The Hills, Real World, One Tree Hill, and others that I don't even know of, I realized something frightening.

I am in a new check box. Neilsen has moved me past the "young adult" category altogether.

Upon further reflection, I recall that when Friends was on, they were in their late 20s. I'm already past that. American Idol is chock-full of talented people who are in their late teens or early twenties. I'm not saying I want to be 20 anymore, but I just didn't realize how old this all would make me feel.

Maybe I need more shows like Sex and the City and Seinfeld where the plotline doesn't center on who's taking whom to the prom, or which college professor is sleeping with which co-ed? At least there is always Brothers & Sisters and The Office to keep me happy and not full of age-related self doubt...but I may have to wait until 2009 to see any more of those.

Therapy may be a more direct path to healing.

And We Weren't Even Poor

We got talking at work today, during one of our free lunch learning meetings, about how funny lunch meat is. Either you love it or you hate it. Some like only certain meats, and others won't touch the stuff.

That led us to the conversation about what we took for school bagged lunches growing up.

I, for one, wasn't a fan of sandwiches, even when my Mom tried lovingly to recreate a "Subway sandwich" by putting ham and cheese and the fixins—including oil and vinegar—on a hoagie. I wasn't fooled. Then she tried the toasted approach. Not gonna do it. I wasn't even a huge supporter or PB&Js, the childhood staple, or cheese sandwiches, which given the chatter today, were a crowd pleaser.

So, inevitably, I ate a bagel with cream cheese (plain, not toasted) every day from 6th grade through 12th grade. Some girl at work ate a ketchup sandwich, some guy liked cream cheese and jelly on Wonder Bread, another guy devoured peanut butter and bananas, and there were a few honey-lovers in the mix.

Overall, the lunch sandwich discussion was funny.

And then I dropped the bomb that my Mom used to grill us SPAM sandwiches, on toasted bread. Yes, SPAM. The room got silent. I dropped my head in shame. Then decided to own my SPAM-loving history.

I remember liking them! The smell filled the house, and I can still recall helping my mom with the rolling-back metal lid with the little key, which I found totally cool.

The best part is this—as an adult I am totally and completely grossed out by the concept of processed or congealed meat—like bologna. I even heard that at the factory, bologna is in a tube of liquid meat, and then someone puts the pimentos in there by HAND. That is so gross I can't even comment. Another chat on this subject of mystery meat revealed that in Greek restaurants, the gyros are made from that congealed/processed form of meat that is often lamb, or pork, or a little of both. GROSS.

However, I'm known to eat a great Kosher hot dog at the ballpark during the summer, so what's the difference, right? No one knows quite what is in a hot dog, and it is a close cousin to bologna anyway. I'm fooling myself by adding the grilled onions. And, the 5 draft beers. That usually does the trick.

Frankly, the only SPAM in my life now comes into my inbox, offering me a larger penius, Viagra, or some other totally useful product such as those.

Especially for a woman.

Borrowed Laughs

This was just too funny, and familiar, not to share. Please visit the proper author of this post at The Nuts Are Running the Squirrel House. You'll be glad you did.

And, do us all a favor. DON'T BE THESE PEOPLE.
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Being in a classroom atmosphere has reminded me of how there always seem to be a few “special” people in attendance. (Not necessary this specific class, but generally.) Here are some people you may have had classes with before.

Clicky McClickerson - Constantly has a click-type pen in hand. Waits until everyone is concentrating, and then begins the rhythmic audio torture, oblivious to the pain of everyone else. I think I speak for everyone when I say, “Clicky, put the pen down, or I will put the pen down for you. And by “down,” I mean, “in one of your less comfortable orifices.”

Sniffy McSnifferson - For the love of all that is pure and holy, please just blow your nose. And then, if you feel a bit of nasal drippage again, use the tissue to wipe it away. Don’t sniff so much. Or so hard. I think I had a pen in my hand a minute ago.

Bouncy McBouncerson - You are moving the WHOLE table! Seriously! Take some meds. Or make sure you’ve gone through your withdrawals before work. If I wanted everything around me to shake, I’d move to California.

Chewy McChewerson - It’s cool to chew ice. If you’re alone. If you are around me and I hear you chewing ice, I will assume you need help crushing the ice, and will help - with my fist.

Wrappy McWrapperson - When it’s really quiet in the classroom, there’s no way you’re going to open that bag of chips or piece of hard candy unnoticed. Bite the bullet and open it quickly, don’t drag it out into a 5-minute production of trying to gently open the bag. If you do drag it out, I will wait until we are in the lunchroom, then loudly ask you if that rash has gone away yet.

Whispy McWhisperson - Usually Whispy is a girl who, for whatever reason, knows the answer to a question in class, but doesn’t want to say it at regular volume. This basically says, “I know the answer, and I’d like those around me to know I know the answer, but I just don’t have the courage/energy/confidence to commit this answer to my vocal cords.” I’ve found that if you taze Whispy everytime she tries to answer under her breath, she eventually stops. Well, stops moving. Turn that tazer down a notch.

Mouthy McMoutherson - Along with Chewy, this classmate thinks that others enjoy listening to the wonderful sounds that they can make with their mouth. Whether it is chewing loudly, making “tsk” sounds, or clicking their tongues, these people must be stopped at all costs. Normal assault laws do not apply in this case - you can act with impugnity. Suggestion: Use large sticks.

Breathey McBreatherson - Yes, we know you can breathe. And really, you’re quite good at it. We just don’t want to hear EVERY FREAKING ONE of your breaths. Clear your sinuses, close your mouth, and we’ll all get along just fine. (WARNING: Breathey may morph into Sniffy if he manages to clear his sinuses, but they start running. Hold on to your pen if you don’t want it to become a casualty of Sniffy’s nasal vortex.)

There you have it. I’ve given you an update, and reminded you why your blood pressure skyrockets around other people. You’re welcome.

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*I am really wishing I had written that. Hilarious...it applies to meetings, too. And you've all been there. I had to restrain myself from tearing the pen out of a Clicky McClickerson Client once. And it was a pen that, regrettably, I'd put in front of his place at the table. Woe the day.

On the Job

The weather forecasters predicted that we would get 6-12" of snow starting at 6 pm last night. They made a huge deal about how bad the commute would be last night, and again this morning.

They, once again, were wrong. Even Tom Skilling on WGN was all mixed up! Who can you trust?!

We awoke to find nothing more than some wet pavements, light sleet and heavy winds. Not the huge snowfall they'd promised (or scared us with).

It got me thinking. What other jobs can you be so bad at, and wrong so much of the time, and yet still get paid? I recall a story about the mayor in Moscow declaring that he was going to begin fining the weathermen if they were wrong, to raise funds for more weather data centers. A little harsh, but hey, it's Russia.

Seems like kindof a keen idea. Hold people accountable. I know that if I were completely unprepared and incorrect in fulfilling the entirety of my job description, I'd be looking elsewhere for employment.

And, while on the topic of jobs, employment and total failures, I was thinking about how strange it would be to be the current President of the United States. Politics aside (sortof), President Bush has been doing a job for a little over 7 years now. For the next 10 months he has to (or rather, gets to?) watch others battle ferociously for his job.

Wouldn't that be awkward in the typical office situation?

Sure, take my job. Battle that guy for it. Spend all your money doing it, and make a fool of yourself once or twice along the way. Heck, drag your entire families through the mud while you're at it. Don't sleep for nearly a year, and travel on huge busses, planes and trains to every small dinky little town in America, pretending you care (or know where the heck you are). Watch as your former classmates, lovers, roommates, and distant family members unveil your dirty little secrets and shed light on all of the skeletons in your closet. Pack all of your things, and just move right in. To my office, and my home. Kick me completely to the curb.

Just take my job. Please?

The "please" is how I assume President Bush must feel. At least the election takes the spotlight, and some of the pressure, off of him.

For now.

At least until his next live (candid or otherwise) speech.

Easy Target

It doesn't take much to put a smile on my face.

I was at Starbucks this morning, and a girl complimented my new boots. I mean, she wanted to chat about them. In depth.

Admittedly, this is the first time wearing them and I like them too, but the real story is this:

I know that women dress for other women. Period.

We choose our outfits based on our environment, and if women are around, we know that the choices will be recognized.

That's probably why the compliment made me smile. It was like an acknowledgement of the obvious—new boots are not going to be noticed by men, but women will see them, and make a remark. Strangers, even. I work in a very female-dominated, creatively artistic, casual and funky environment. And, they kindly notice.

It isn't going without my notice that this is my third post in so many weeks about boots.

Am I that shallow?

I prefer to think that it is just that people have been behaving themselves on public transportation, rendering me utterly blank, without issues to report, or stories to tell, or people to hate.

Or, maybe I just like new shoes.

(And, speaking of shoes, does anyone notice how the Google ads hilariously shift content to match what I write about? Yesterday they were all about politics because of my lame reference to Obama. Today they are shoe ads. I find this funny, even though I know this is the entire Google ad business model).