The Joy of Airport Bathrooms

Random vent alert:

Why in God's name do the bathroom doors at airports swing inside?

When you're trying to get in there, you struggle to get the door, and your ever-growing hips, inside the toilet stall, without accidentally touching the nasty public toilet?

And the stupid door doesn't open wide, to let you in freely.

Nope. It opens inward. Where there is already a severe lack of square footage.

And of course there is your suitcase. The one that is on wheels, yet still behaves as if it has a mind and an engine all to its own?

(We'll go ahead and let go of the fact that then you have to squat, sway and huddle over the public toilet in the not-so-rare event that the magic "fresh seat cover" doesn't appear despite the African anteater dance you just performed in front of the sensor. And the fact that while you're in there performing Olympic-qualifying squats, the automatic flusher feels the need to flush EVERY THREE SECONDS just because you flinched, or shifted your weight, or breathed out through your nose. While soaking the back of your work pants with sprays of who-knows-what-liquids-and-free-germs while you genuflect ever-so-gracefully in front of its automatic-sensor-from-hell.)**

It is enough to make a grown (classy, sortof) woman cuss out loud.

Seriously. I am just glad no one has yet figured out how to post online the security videos of airport restrooms.

I'm pretty sure the *stuff* that comes out of my mouth is worse than what's left there by some classy person who can't quite grasp that whole flushing escapade.

Sorry. I hope you were finished with your breakfast.

**I'll save the whole "automatic faucet water dispensing" diatribe for a whole 'nother vent. Seinfeld already covered that little piece of American technology quite well. Check out the whole thing, but if you're late for your flight, skip ahead to 1:26. You won't be disappointed. At least not until you get to O'Hare.

Step One: Connect A to B

This world is an interesting one.

The advent of technology has made our lives better, yet it has also crippled the essential truths of our lives.

We are so completely connected, yet we still keep our distance.

We are so totally visible, yet we still hide behind so much.

We are terribly open, yet we still seize up when someone gets too close.

We reach out, yet are not really touching each other.

These observations came to me full hilt today as I communicated back and forth with someone that I've never met in person, a blog reader from thousands of miles away, but with whom I was being startlingly honest.

I write a blog. I have a Facebook page. I have not one, or two, but three email accounts. I have an instant messenger account with a lengthy buddy list. I have a LinkedIn profile for professional networking. I have three iPods in varying sizes and capacities. I have two laptops, one on each platform. I pay bills online. I have a TiVo and a DVD player. I have a cell phone that is also a Blackberry. I have photo sharing accounts with Picasa, Flickr, Snapfish and Kodak Gallery. I have a Twitter account that I barely understand.

I text. I type. I write. I call. I answer.

I'm always connected, always available, always visible, always communicating, always ready.

Yet, I find myself still dodging the eye contact of strangers in an elevator, for fear that they'll strike up a painfully awkward casual conversation.

Yet, I still wear headphones, connected to a miniature iPod, to drown out the hum of the buses, the vibrations of my own mind, and most importantly, the idle chatter of strangers on the bus.

Yet, I dodge calls when I am unable to make the chatty pleasant conversation that the friend so desperately deserves.

Yet, I read about everyone else's lives, through blogs or Facebook status updates, but don't reach out to actually talk to those that I'm so seemingly interested in.

None of this likely makes me different.

It just makes me sad.

We're so visible, yet desire an invisibility.

We're so in touch, yet often go days without touch.

We're so open, yet live with such closed minds.

We're so starving for relationships, yet we refuse to put ourselves out there.

We're so communicative, yet we don't know how to talk to each other.

We're so free, yet behave so restrictedly.

We're in hiding, aided, supported and facilitated by the very technology that is intended to create a seamless, interconnected, highly transparent world.

We're so connected, yet so afraid to connect.

What kind of technology will it take to get us to be what we should innately know how to be?

What will it take for us to, finally, be in touch?

Headed for a Shrink's Couch

I would love to be writing a new blog post every day, telling you all the latest and greatest adventures I've been having.

But, the truth is, there is not much to tell.

Most days the greatest accomplishment I make is to actually shower before about 5 pm. And, if I watch one more HGTV show, I may start demolition in my already-remodeled kitchen, just to give me something to do.

I drag myself out of bed, eat a bowl of cereal, watch the news while I check emails, touch base with a few people, re-send emails that people are clearly ignoring, look in on LinkedIn, poke around on Facebook and talk to my Mom.

Lunchtime signals an exciting milestone, and something to do. Dishes to put away. Crumbs to clear. Trash to empty. It's bigtime!

And, then the afternoon drags.

Today, with the huge downfall of snow, I did a lot of gazing out the window, watching it pile up, amazed at how quiet the streets are when they are coated with sticky, powdery snow. With the recession at full tilt, even the snow plowers are quiet, so it took several hours before there was any city employee action on my street today.

I drive myself crazy wishing, waiting and hoping. Knowing that at this point, nothing is going to hit until January at the earliest, I've resigned myself to that fact, but now what?

Now that the presents are all bought, wrapped, nestled under the tree, photographed for my Mom, and then today, shipped to Atlanta and Tampa for their recipients' delights, now what?

I have already planned, organized, emailed, evited, and plotted some surprises for Brett's big birthday party this weekend, and all that is left is a little more surprise-making (including flour, sugar and icing), which actually may fill most of the afternoon on Friday, knowing my less than stellar culinary skills.

I'm so bored that I even put those types of activities on my electronic calendar on my phone, just so it feels like something is going on. I put "laundry" and "grocery" and "clean" on my calendar for crying out loud. The calendar that is just a wide open expanse of time.

When Brett finally gets off work, if we have plans to hang out, I drive him bonkers with my incessant chatter—realizing that the only person that I spoke to that day was my doorman, or the convenience store guy in my building, or the parking garage attendants.

Today, I found myself making small talk with the UPS Store workers just because, hey, I'd showered, and was feeling chatty.

My clothes are clean. Organized. Folded. My apartment is clean. Organized. Dusted. My Facebook profile is clean. Organized. Updated. My brain is empty.

If there was every any doubt that I'm a great project manager, communications specialist, planner, strategist, organizer and worker bee, I hope that this time (and these stories) obliterate that kernel of doubt. Because it is clear that inactivity makes me crazy.

C.R.A.Z.Y.

Oh, and the shadowed person in the building across from me that I was just certain was staring at me for upwards of 15 minutes while I made dinner tonight?

Yeah, that was an unlit Christmas tree.

Will Work for Food

Yes. I am alive.

I realize that after over a year of posting a blog almost every day, the last month of quiet must seem like a decade. I certainly would have to agree.

The thing is, honestly, this unemployment thing is just no fun at all. And it is loaded with cliches.

I don't resent the support, but it is a bit hard to believe anyone anymore.

Everyone keeps telling me to keep my head up (or chin, take your pick) and that something will come my way, and that doors close and windows open, and that blessings come in disguise, and that good things are just around the corner and that I should be grateful for this time off, and that I am great and super and fantastic and fabulous and the next best thing and blah blah blah.

I just don't believe it anymore.

The thing is—I like work. I like being busy. I like feeling like I'm contributing. And, I think most of all, I like feeling like I accomplished something each day. Big or small, it was just nice to feel like I achieved something after getting out of bed.

These days, a shower is a true accomplishment.

Not to say that I'm being totally lazy; no, it is more like an eternal quest to nowhere. A bridge, perhaps.

Each day, after crawling reluctantly out of bed, I toil on the computer (borrowed, and now mine) and stare at job boards, and decline sales jobs, and refresh my resume, and tweak my portfolio, and send emails to everyone I know in the industry, and inquire about any possible opportunities, and network in every way I know how, and then I start all over again.

And, I wait. I wait for the recruiter to call. I wait for the HR department to decide. I wait for the response to the email. I wait for the interviewer to come get me in the lobby. I wait for the bus afterwards and wonder how it went. I wait for the unemployment office to return my call. I wait for them to see me at the unemployment office. I wait for the weekend when other people are free to play. I wait for the call.

At the end of the day, I just don't feel accomplished. I think this is the hardest part of being unemployed, save for the long hours of no interaction that I have while toiling and waiting and toiling and waiting on my own.

It is amazing to realize that when you're employed, you identify yourself by what you do, where you work, what industry you're in, and how long you've been doing it. It is the first question that comes up at a party, and when you don't have an answer, you just feel like you're the one that showed up to the party naked. With a funny hat on your head.

I have no identity right now, and I'm bored and lonely and sick of making lists of the small house projects that I can do that don't cost anything and laundry and dishes and vacuuming and making the bed only take up so much time.

I'm going a little bit nuts, by the minute, by the day. I can't even bring myself to update my Facebook status all that regularly. What would I write? "Colleen is...still unemployed." "Colleen is sick of unemployment." "Colleen is staring at her computer." "Colleen wishes she could afford to go Christmas shopping."

Or, the most accurate, "Colleen is waiting."

And then there is the screwy unemployment office. This is the U.S. Government at work, people. I have officially only received payment for one of the last four weeks that I've been filing, and the payment was apparently for week two. Where the heck is the meager pittance for week one? Calling the offices are not productive, either, and sitting in their waiting room, you realize how many people are in this boat and that there is no chance that you're going to get called by the time they close at 5 pm. I believe that it is clear that they need more clerks—because one is just not appropriate—and ironically, I can count, uh, let's say, 400 people in the waiting room staring at you that may be willing to work here?

It is that bad.

Yep. Life as an unemployed person is just not so much fun. Therefore, I have been silent on the blog. I don't think there is much else I can say. But, with access to a computer now, I'll try to come up with something.

In the meantime, I go back to waiting. And, unfortunately, so must you.

(Mom, don't worry. I haven't made a cardboard sign just yet. I can't afford the Sharpies.)

Electronics Grudge Match

Last week, I was given a digital converter box for each TV in my condo by the friendly local RCN representative who had stationed herself in the community room of my building's lobby. The instructions were simple. The activation was immediate. The results were easy.

Even when I threw in the curveball that I currently have a Tivo box in my living room. She assured me that it wouldn't be more than a call to Tivo to get them to "read the new signal." All was supposed to go well.

Instead, it was pretty much like this:



For four hours last night, plied with a homemade salad and two bottles of shiraz, my friend Mike was kind enough to help. He immediately rolled up his sleeves and buried his head inside my armoire. Cables were flying, dust was everywhere. He reattached everything, streamlined a few unnecessary plug-ins, relocated my wireless internet router and cable modem for maximum efficiency, and hid it all nicely behind plants and photo frames.

He even made the dreaded phone call to RCN to ask the techie questions that I don't understand. And to initiate a new "ping" of my cable boxes (which trust me, sounds far sexier than it was in real life). The best part of the evening was this, and forgive me, but it was just funny. Don't judge.

The RCN guy was asking Mike to test a few channels on the living room TV to ensure that the signal was coming through properly to give me extended cable. He asked Mike to confirm that WBBM was on Channel 2. Yes. He asked Mike to confirm what was appearing on Channel 101, which was supposed to be BET.

Mike paused, turned toward the TV from his spot near the window (the only place to get clear cell phone reception in my condo, don't get me started) and replied, "On 101, it should be BET? Well, it's totally black."

Brett, occupying himself quietly on the lounge chair, muttered under his breath, "No pun intended."

Sadly, it was the highlight. We laughed so hard that I moved too quickly and kicked the trunk at the foot of my bed while racing back into the living room to laugh with them. I think I broke my pinkie toe. No, seriously. I'm limping.

Back to Mike and his superpowers. In short, he was very cheap tech support. Who actually knew what he was doing. And was willing to stay for dinner.

I didn't lift a finger. I found the right cable in my "box o' cables" when called upon to do so. I dug out my TV's instruction manual when that was necessary. I handed him the dustrag and the spray cleaner and I am pretty sure he (or Brett) even did that part for me.

All in all, it was a stressful night of electronics vs. man.

Unfortunately, my electronics seem to have a communications problem. They don't get along.

The free digital cable converter box that RCN provided me clearly is a closed-minded snob. He doesn't want to cooperate with the foreign outsider that is my Tivo component box. Who, incidentally, is a stubborn pile of silver plastic. Maybe they need couples counseling? Maybe I should throw them into the ring to see who would win?

Bottom line?

The RCN box will only send out one signal. The Tivo needs two in order to record two things at once. To make matters worse? The Tivo won't read a channel changed on the cable box without a fancy $18.98/month box from RCN. Which is added to the monthly cable payment that is already a bit on the high side.

So, my solution was clear. Ditch Tivo, and convert to a RCN DVR for my Tivo-like needs.

Sounds simple enough, no? I call Tivo to cancel the arrangement with them. Not so fast, little lady. Tivo has me locked into a 3-year contract, in which I've only completed two years. It would cost me $155 and change to get out of it. Basically, the $12.95 a month for a year for a service I can't use because my electronics are disagreeable.

I can only imagine how the little old ladies in my building are handling this "simple transition" to digital cable.

I'm in a building where I have no choice over the cable provider. I can't change the way the building is wired. I can't do much except call RCN and beg them to send me a fancy new converter box on the off chance that it will play nicely in the sandbox with my Tivo, which may be a lost cause.

In summary, I can't do anything but throw components and their matching remotes out the 13th story window. Which would have been my idea of "solving the problem" had Mike not stopped me.

Clearly that doesn't fix anything.

But it would have felt really good to see a host of electronics smashed to smithereens down on the sidewalk, wouldn't it?

I should have had more wine.

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?*

Love in the Frozen Food Aisle?

I feel like I must preface this post with a reason. Otherwise, this comes way out of left field.

This post was prompted when I read one by a blogger in Canada (a single male) who mentions his frustration at meeting women today after the love of his life ended things so abruptly. He's quite quirky and hilarious, and his post today made me think. And comment something, albeit shorter and more rambly, like this.

Whoever said you should, or could, meet singles in the grocery store has never followed me while I'm there. I go so infrequently because I hate it so much. I miserably enter the store, but I always follow the same pattern of behavior while inside.

I hurriedly scour the aisles, in the same order each time. I go quickly from produce (the far right of my store) and circle around through bread, soups and condiments, to the cereal aisle (where I always buy at least 2 boxes of Special K with Red Berries, unless it is on sale and then I really stock up looking like the crazy cereal woman), and then I make my way past the butcher and the seafood guy and curve towards the dairy aisle. There I scoop up about 10 yogurts, grab some cottage cheese, and haul a gallon of milk and a carton of OJ into my basket.

Oh, and I'm usually dragging that little plastic "yes I cook for one" basket over my arm with the handles stretched beyond the norm into bendy-dom and my right arm has huge, red, swollen indentations in it from loading too much into that little guy and I am nearing a state of misery when I finally find my way in the liquor and beer aisle (the far left of my store) and I grab a few must-haves from over there.

Then I skate past the 3-for-$12 bouquets (oh how I wish someone else was buying the fresh cut flowers) and head over to the checkout lane. I'm scanning the gossip headlines while I secretly rue the day I chose the 15 year-old checkout person's line who has to radio over the speaker for a "21" to come ring up my wine, causing the whole checkout line to sigh and harumph while we wait for that person to casually make their way over to my lane to help out the rude youngster, and I can't really blame them. I should have gone with the self-checkout line since I'm only buying about 12 things that will inevitably cost me $75.

Shaking my head at the lack of customer service that is present anywhere in America today (except super-duper Nordstrom lady), I storm out of there because I'm so hungry and my feet hurt and I just can't get home fast enough to open the bottle of wine that made my basket so heavy. The four block walk makes my arms ache, just proving the need to work out more. Which is an activity that I dislike even more than grocery shopping.

Yeah. Not the time to get hit on. Note to my single male readers: the grocery store is a horrible, awful place and I can't imagine that most women would like to be asked out over a stack of Lean Cuisines.

But maybe that was just me.

(And, yes, it feels good to say that last line in the past tense.)

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

The Lies Hurt

I'm not feeling very funny today, and I don't have any charming stories or little observations to share.

Just this tiny little diatribe, vent and plea:

Someone very close to me has been very, deeply hurt by gossip. Widespread gossip. Hurtful, horrible, humiliating gossip. Gossip that is based on nothing but lies, misjudgment, accusations and backhandedness. Jealousy is a very ugly thing, and it makes people do very inhumane things.

I sent this person my love and support, but my heart literally breaks as I empathize with the pain and humiliation that gossip can bring. My stomach churns with the pain of knowing how hurtful this is.

So, Internet, I beg you. Please do NOT believe everything you read. Most of it is garbage, trash created and disseminated to sell magazines, make money or cause trouble. Most of it has very little to do with the truth. And, the people who associate themselves with it are just as low as you can be.

And, please silently send good karma out there into oblivion for my loved one. Today is the day for the loving and kind thoughts of strangers to lift one up from the depths of yuck.

This person knows how I feel, how much I care, and how much I faith, belief and support I have, and for that, I am proud.

Nasty gossip, and authors/spreaders of it, be damned. You'll get your due.

The Keyboard is Mightier than the Sword

Sometimes the lessons in life teach you only what you already knew but hadn't yet admitted to yourself.

I re-learned one again last week, and figured I'd share it with you. This blog has served a great purpose in my life. I have always known I loved to write. I've been a voracious reader my entire life, and have a serious appreciation for talented writers. I don't consider myself a "writer" per se, but I do enjoy greatly the satisfaction of putting words to thoughts, pen to paper and, more frequently, typed words to a cyber page.

When Doogie Howser used to type away in his computer-journal, I was jealous. Yes, even back then. I'd never been very good at keeping up with a daily written journal, and I never got into the "keep one in a word document on your computer" thing, despite having tried it in college. But I really wanted to be the type of person who would journal. Not the "I am happy today" or "I like so-and-so this week" kind of things, but the observances and stories of life. I wish I had stacks of weathered old journals of creative and not-so-creative writing hidden in my closet.

But, alas, that's not me.

Blogging, though, has proven to be the spark that I needed to energize the wordsmith in me. The creative juices were there, but needed to be nurtured. Given a place to stretch out and grow stronger. The writing that I wasn't doing for work anymore (which is a sign that I'm now at an agency where they employ truly gifted creative/corporate communications writers to do those things) created a gap in my brain that went unfilled for over a year. I was missing something. I didn't even know that it was a lack of an outlet for a true creative expression until I began to jot and blog about things that made me laugh.

At the beginning, this blog was just that. A place to tell the stories that happened to me as I explored and experienced Chicago from a commuter's perspective. More precisely, the hilarious and ridiculous incidents that occurred on public transportation, or in cabs, as I made my way through life in Chicago. Hence, the highly un-clever, highly tongue-twisterish name.

But, as time went on, I realized that there were far funnier things that happened, and more frequently too, that didn't have anything to do with commuting. It felt like there had to be a way to infuse the two ideas together—basically, I'm a Chicagoan, I'm a Commuter, and I have a Commentary on a few things. Hey—that still works!

So, I began to write. I began to feel the stories bubble to the top of my consciousness. I looked at the world around me differently, through a lens of a creative writer, a recorder of events, a commentator on all things possible. It opened up the entire city (and my life in general) to a new perspective, and a new outlet for storytelling, which is the entire point of this. I knew that I was a storyteller—I've blogged many times about how my 20+ year friendships have thrived on them teasing me for my backtracks, my segues and my long-windedness. But, I loved it. It gave me a forum in which to tell my stories. Alone, and without censorship or interruptions.

While I knew that going in people would read this, or at least I hoped, I wasn't quite expecting the viral connectivity that results from having your thoughts "out there" in cyberspace. I didn't realize that so many people would literally stumble upon my page, and therefore, into my life, by merely searching out keywords, topics or by clicking other people's blogrolls of authors they like. I knew that my mother would pass it on to her neighbors, that my sister would share it with her friends, that my father would share it with his family, and that my colleagues would soon find out about it. I knew all of that, but the reality of it is entirely different.

Now, people are actually bookmarking my words? Referring to them daily as a source of laughter, amusement, or to satisfy a simple curiosity or fill a bored moment in time? Wow. That's entirely different. And, I realized that some level of censorship MUST happen as I detail the events of my life, and the events of those I am fortunate enough to meet along the way. I respected people's inherent privacy issues and need for some boundaries. I use first names only wherever required, and always let someone know that the story will be told. The intimacies are left off the table, and the details are only there when needed to fully elucidate my point. All in all, people are proud to be included, as you can see in some of the blog comments that feature phrases like "blog mention!" by the said mentioned friend. They love it, and so do I.

I also, however, have learned the consequences of doing so in a public forum such as this. I wasn't quite prepared.

The good news is that of the reactions I've received, 99.9% of them have been positive, rewarding, encouraging and supportive. Last week, however, proved to me that when you put yourself out there, sometimes the feedback isn't so pretty.

I received a comment on a post last week, that I have reproduced below that made me feel so differently about this whole blog thing that I needed a few days to calm down. I was hurt, ticked off and, sadly, I allowed it to "get to me" for a few days. I must credit my sister, and my dear friends Liz and Jenny for taking my side (atta girls!) and for believing in me enough to bolster me back up and kick me up onto the horse again. And, publishing their support of me. As they should. Thank God for old friends, right?

The comment in question was this:

Anonymous said...
You know, I've read a few entries on your blog due to the link on Facebook. I'm not sure if there's an actual theme anymore and I'm not sure why people keep a blog who don't have a purpose for it. Saying that, there's a difference between snarky in a clever way (i.e., gawker.com) and being judgmental and critical in a way that's not particularly funny. I think your recent entries seem to have tones of superiority and are less about laughing at you than laughing at others. I suppose I should stop reading it. July 2, 2008 3:29 PM

Now, on some levels, I do hate to give this Anonymous (read: wimpy) reader and commenter any more credit, or time in the spotlight, than he/she likely deserves. I resent the rude nature of the opinion; however, I know that it is just that. ONE OPINION. What burns me up the most is the sheer refusal to a) own up to his/her identity, giving me some sense of where he/she is coming from and b) the complete lack of understanding that I believe is demonstrated in this comment.

First of all, if you found my link on Facebook, then that means you're one of my listed "Friends." I don't befriend strangers, and therefore, the author of the comment is someone that I know. At least, it is someone that I used to know. It could be a high school friend, a childhood friend, a past work acquaintance, a Chicago friend, a relative, a college buddy or a sorority sister. Wherever he/she came from, I wish he/she would have come all the way forward. Give me a name so I can at least respect your opinion.

Secondly, the author clearly is a blog rookie. An amateur. A blog, as my friend Liz put it, is a place for an "author" (word used loosely) to express opinions, thoughts, stories or comments about things that interest him or her. In this case, I am the vulnerable one, but also I am the one that is brave enough to go there.

My blog is my place to share my opinions and my stories in my voice in my tone and with my choice of words and pictures. Note the repeated use of "my." Yes, this is my forum. If you don't like it, Anonymous, then don't read. I appreciate the free speaking nature of this world where you can express your thoughts to someone else, and be heard for it, but I resent the fact that you come to this forum in an uneducated manner.

While I can't respond to the "tone" comment he/she made (because that is his/her opinion), and I'm sorry if the humor I expressed (or at least attempted to express) was lost on the reader.

I can say this, though: the "theme" of this blog has been explained. I'm a Chicagoan. I'm a Commuter. And I'm Commenting. Period. The "theme" has not changed. The course of my life has expanded the breadth of topics that fall into my commenting scope, and therefore, the range of issues/stories I discuss has reached beyond simply the CTA. Besides, there is only so much you can say about crazy cab drivers, broken down busses, loud passengers, rude people, trains and planes. Right? I refuse to defend for one more moment why my blog discusses what my blog discusses.

Let's move on, shall we?

The beauty of our world is this: I can write what I want, when I want, and I can publish it here for free. Who reads it is another story. I hope that my true readers (I shall not use the word "fans" for fear of sounding any more superior than my Anonymous commenter already has accused me of) will continue to support me and provide me with the fodder, the fun and the foundation from which I write.

And, if I can make at least one person smile today, isn't that enough?

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.

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?

Roll Call (a.k.a. Commentapalooza)

Hey everyone,

I know this sounds very self-serving, and it just might be. Lately, I've noticed my sitemeter count is up to more than 8,000 hits. And those can't all be my Mom.

And, at a recent networking event and a social event and a company meeting, people have mentioned reading the blog. So, what I'm putting out there is this.

A favor. I know, I know. On a Friday, even.

If you visit, stop by, or linger and stay awhile, do you mind leaving me a comment, just to let me know you're here? It isn't a way of me pulling a Big Brother, but on the contrary. More of a "who's who" of the visitors. If you want to remain anonymous, by all means.

It's like the guest book at a wedding. The bride and groom know who they invited. They may have even stopped by your table to greet you. They saw the photos of the reception. And laughed at the drunk uncle or the scantily clad cousin. But it can never hurt to see the names of those who attended in writing, documented forever in the cheesy white padded puffy guest book now, can it?

But, please don't stress yourself out by thinking "I can only comment if I have something witty to say." Not at all. Here, I'll do YOU a favor and provide you with some standard auto-fill comments you can cut and paste into yours next time you drop by.

Sample "generic" comments

• Hey Colleen! Signed, X


• Boo! It's X.


• Gotcha! Tag, you're it. From, X.


• Your blog is fun. Best, X.


• This blog sucks. No love from, X.


• Who cares about that topic? Sincerely, X.


• Go back to your real job. Seriously, X.


• Can we get a new header? Bored, X.


• Why the funky thumbnail profile headshot? Over it, X.


• I'm your secret admirer. Openly, X.


• I know you. I'm X.


• I've never met you. Hello, my name is X.

Ok. See? Not so hard.

This presumes I have a lot of fans, friends or foes named X, but go with it. Heck, you can even tell me where you are visiting from. Or how you found me (I don't read those sitemeter reports all that closely). Or, that you think I should stay off the Internet to spare you any more pain. I'm fine with that.

You're on. Comment away!

Geniunely,

Colleen

Famine, Poverty, Death & Whole Milk

I am saddened by a story I saw today on the news.

No, it wasn't anything to do with animal cruelty, natural disasters, gang violence, diseases or orphaned children in Africa. (Though, those things DO make me sad, of course.)

Nope. The news item that caught my eye, and then turned my stomach, is reproduced below from MSNBC.com. Instead of linking you, and taking the risk that you'd not read the article, I've reprinted it here. It's short. Then we'll discuss.

Olsen twins’ Starbucks scandal
By Courtney Hazlett, The Scoop

De facto Starbucks spokes-twins Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen might have a scandal on their hands. A former barista from the Olsen’s oft-frequented Starbucks in New York’s West Village allegedly used to swap out skim milk for the full-fat variety when the girls came by for their caffeine fix, reports OK! magazine.

The twins regularly ordered Grande nonfat lattes, but according to the Starbucks snitch, “the barista thought the Olsens were too thin, so whenever they ordered their usual drink, he would replace the skim milk with full-fat,” the source told the magazine.

The Olsen’s rep responded to the latte lunacy saying, “This is ridiculous.” Yes, it is, but one fellow latte-lover close to the Olsens (who requested anonymity) said that she sympathizes with the twins—to an extent. “It’s also my worst nightmare—that and getting a huge diet fountain soda that is mistakenly regular Coke—but I can def(initely) taste the difference, so it’s their own fault if they fell victim.”
__

Ok. Let's dissect. Several key words stand out to me, making this "scoop" item utterly and completely ridiculous:

-Scandal. Uhm, really?
-Snitch. Are we in high school?
-Allegedly. What? Is this going to trial?
-Victim. Of what, being fed?

But, my absolutely favorite part is the quote, from an anonymous "friend" of the Olsens, who claims that her "worst nightmare" is getting a diet drink from a soda fountain, only to realize, the shock, the horror, that it is regular Coke.

I'm sorry. If THAT is her WORST NIGHTMARE, I want to live her life.

At the very least, I'd put Mary-Kate and Ashley's fashion choices up there in the list of nightmares, but that's just me.

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.

Love in an Elevator

Elevator etiquette, or lack thereof, is a big part of an urban dweller's life. I live in a 26-story high-rise building, on the 13th floor. I work in a 36-story high rise building, on the 27th floor. My boyfriend lives in a 20-story high-rise building, on the 15th floor.

Clearly I spend a LOT of time in elevators each day. I consider this my informal training at assessing the elevator behaviors I observe. I'm practically an expert. Here are my observations, to date:

• Old people not only like to talk to you in the elevators, they EXPECT it. Don't even think about ignoring them, or mumbling an answer, or you're bound to get a lecture on manners or e·nun·ci·a·tion.


• The younger generation is so utterly uncomfortable on elevators that they will do ANYTHING to avoid looking at each other. They will pick at their fingernails, pretend to do stuff on their phone (despite the widely held knowledge that phones don't work on an elevator), adjust their iPod or play with their hair. Anything to avoid having to look at you, much less exchange words.


• Business people judge one another while confined in this airless space. They assess suits, overcoats, hats, handbags, body odors, and (since most are staring at their feet), shoes.


• Don't you often wish you could hear a stranger's thoughts while standing within arm's length of them for 15 floors. I'm fairly certain sometimes it would include things like, "She smells like vodka, and it is 2 pm on a Sunday." or "I can't believe she's leaving the house to do laundry wearing her slippers. Has she no respect for herself?" or "Man, she's really tall. Is she wearing really high heels? Nope. Just a giant." or the like.


• The elderly women in my elevator at home like to talk to me, and I have myself convinced it is because I remind them of their granddaughter, daughter-in-law, childhood friend, or just maybe, themself at 30 years old. Conversation with these ladies is inevitable, and usually begins with something sweet like, "I do declare! I believe I've lived in this building longer than you've been alive!" She's probably right. Incidentally, there are far more old ladies in my buidling than old men. I suspect this was where the old bitties moved after the death of their loving husbands. Sad, but true.


• Don't shower in your cologne or perfume. It ruins the morning for the rest of us. And, if I wanted to smell like Chanel No. 5, I'd wear it. Or rub up against a rich granny on the bus.


• There is much debate about the protocol for the door holding move. It is my belief that if someone is later to arrive to the bank of elevators, it is my friendly obligation/favor to hold the door for them. If I can hear them hurrying, scrambling and shuffling to get to the open elevator, it would just be obnoxious to let it slide closed in their face.


• Others I've discussed this with feel quite the opposite—that if someone isn't on, they're not on. Let it close. They can wait, rather than keeping the passengers waiting. That is just a tad bit cold and selfish for me, and when I'm the one hurrying for the door, I know that I appreciate the moment of fleeting kindness by a random stranger. Especially since as soon as we board, we'll ignore each other once again.

All in all, riding in an elevator is a strange cultural situation, a paradox of close proximity and distanced behavior, that results in some strange observations of humanity.

When in doubt, say hello, look each other in the eye, and talk about the weather. It gets 'em every time. And maybe next time you're holding two loaded bags of groceries, they'll kick out their leg or risk a limb to hold the door for you.

They HAVE been living/working in that building longer than you've been alive, you know.

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.

So Tacky

Now that the weather is warming up, and the wool coats have been (optimistically?) put away for the season, women everywhere are sporting their new spring coats. Trenches, lightweight jackets, and coats in all sorts of lovely spring colors are the new "black wool" replacement.

I have a pet peeve related to this wardrobe item. I know, I know. Who has a pet peeve about spring coats?

The peeve is actually about ALL coats, but seems like a good thing to mention now. I consider this post a favor to all females, a "do good" moment for me towards all humanity.

UNTACK the back flap. Seriously, ladies. The manufacturer puts weak string in a little X down at the bottom of the back flap to protect the flap from tearing while it is shipped, unwrapped and sold to unsuspecting women. The threads are supposed to be cut before wearing the coat. It's called a kick pleat for a reason. You should be able to kick backwards through it! (See it up there on the right? NOT tacked together. Separate.)

I can't tell you how many women are running around Chicago (and likely all across this great country) wearing the back flap still tacked down. It looks silly, MUST make it harder to walk, and doesn't show off the cute little details that make these women's coats so fashionable.

Do me (and all of your fellow ladies) a favor. Because, let's face it, men don't even notice you're WEARING a coat, much less get the minutae involved. Just UNTACK the flap before wearing it.

I have other things to be peeved about, and trust me, I'll share them with you. Until then, just consider yourself warned. I'm half tempted to go up to women I see on the street and rip the offending flaps apart.

Now THAT wouldn't win me any friends in public.