It Rings True

It's a double-edged sword, to say the least.

When I'm meeting clients, vendors or prospects in a business setting, the conversation, usually over copious amounts of wine, turns to the elements of our personal life (like tonight, so please forgive anything I say from here on out). It is at this point that I feel like we really "connect." I get to see the true personality—the hobbies, interests, passions and pursuits that make these people who they really are—not just during the week, but in real life.

Unfortunately, for me, the conversation almost inevitably, and so it should, turns to children. How many, what ages, what sports they play, what talents they possess, and so on.

Genuinely, I ask, listen and nod along. I review the photos, ask the ages, record mentally their names. I do care—it is these conversations that often evoke a simple secret, a small nugget of truth, with which I can connect to the client, vendor or prospect at a later date. These factoids come in handy, and I am blessed with a strong enough short-term memory to invoke them when needed. It serves me well.

Ironically, then, that it is the exact same conversation that often reveals to me the stark contrast between what clients, vendors or prospects THINK of me, and what is real.

Most obviously, my age.

Because I do not have a husband and children (more so the latter), I am often judged as far younger than I am. I know, this seems a small price to pay and one that carries no pity from you all out there. However, in the early-to-mid part of my career, with more than 11 years under my belt and far more to come, I feel that I have worked hard to overcome many such judgments and age-based discriminations thus far.

I have risen to the occasion, met the challenge, exceeded the expectations. I have put myself, or been placed inadvertently or on purpose, in positions that will force me to "mature professionally" quickly, and have proven myself to be worthy of the opportunity. I am proud of where I stand in my career, and have nothing to hide.

But, since I don't talk openly of my little girl in first grade, or my darling son in pre-school, the aforementioned clients, vendors and prospects all assume immediately that I am younger than I am. Which, in turn, leads to a preconceived notion of my experience, or more precisely, the lack thereof.

I know I shouldn't care. I should be flattered by the impartial assummtpion that I am 25 or 26 (because, seriously, have they seen the lines on my face?). But, frankly, after working this hard for the past decade and more, I wish that it didn't require having birthed a small person to earn their trust and respect.

Because at this point, I'm practically willing to buy a CZ ring and fill my wallet and memory bank with images and stories of children that I don't yet know, if only to validate the respect and trust that I have earned through my hard work with such professional contacts.

If you're a mother, working outside the home or within, I hope you're not offended. But, please know that you're immediately granted some level of "wisdom" that I'm certain you've earned—through potty training or breastfeeding or diaper-changing—that subconsciously imparts that you are world-wise (and possibly world-weary!) in a way that cannot be transcribed to us simple working women. I can't explain it, but it's true. I see it on their faces, and then hear it in their voices when they make jokes about me being just a handful of years past college graduation. (As if. I can't even recall most of my college experience.)

I'm not claiming to know it all—or more than any of my mothering friends—but frankly, the natural assumption of business contacts that I am less of a 'mature woman' because I'm not yet fortunate to be a mother and wife assumes that I don't want that, have passed that by, aren't interested, or, frankly, wouldn't willingly leave all this behind in a heartbeat to find that privilege.

Not so fast.

The ring and the baby stroller may not be in my immediate present, but I assure you, they will be in my future. And until then, I'll continue to be the best client service professional you've ever met. And will celebrate my 26th birthday 7 more times over.

Oh wait. I have. I'll have to make that 8+.

These Small Hours

As a follow up to my very personal and humbling post Sunday night that expressed the pain I have been going through, I wanted to share this. I heard this song on the radio today and think it can say better than I could how I'm feeing right now.

As a meager attempt in my own words, let me say that I'm optimistic, hopeful, informed, comforted and bearing no regrets. It is a new day.

--
"Little Wonders" by Rob Thomas

Let it go,
Let it roll right off your shoulder
Don't you know
The hardest part is over
Let it in,
Let your clarity define you
In the end
We will only just remember how it feels.

Our lives are made
In these small hours
These little wonders,
These twists and turns of fate
Time falls away,
But these small hours,
These small hours still remain.

Let it slide,
Let your troubles fall behind you
Let it shine
Until you feel it all around you
And I don't mind
If it's me you need to turn to
We’ll get by,
It's the heart that really matters in the end.

Our lives are made
In these small hours
These little wonders,
These twists and turns of fate
Time falls away,
But these small hours,
These small hours still remain.

All of my regret
Will wash away somehow
But I cannot forget
The way I feel right now.

In these small hours
These little wonders
These twists and turns of fate
These twists and turns of fate
Time falls away but these small hours
These small hours, still remain,
Still remain
These little wonders
These twists and turns of fate
Time falls away
But these small hours
These little wonders still remain.
--

These small hours have been tough for me, but I'm healing and moving on to bigger and better things.

I'm hopeful that the job front will open an opportunity this week, and I have reason to believe that is true, and with that, I begin again. I will start something fresh, while putting to bed the memories that the last year enabled, the relationships I have made and the joys that I experienced. Those I will treasure forever.

I refuse to feel regretful for sharing, loving, giving and opening myself up to being vulnerable. I know now that I can and will love again, and a new start, a new president, a new job and a new day will help me see things more clearly.

Little wonders still remain.

Hoping Santa Arrives Early

Today was a good day, as unemployed days off in the middle of December with a huge storm forecast for tonight go.

I heard back from a company that I'm dying to work for, and while I wasn't quite right for the one position, they liked me so much that they want me to come and talk to some other people for another position on what sounds like an even more interesting account, and I'm going in tomorrow at 1 pm.

This is the part where I must admit that I jumped up and down in my bedroom (the only place in my apartment that doesn't currently drop every single call I make) and actually let out a "whoop" that would have scared small children if I were the type to keep small children hanging around in my apartment.

I realized I haven't shared with you the photos from my friends' Ugly Christmas Sweater Party last weekend, so here's the best. Brett and I were in the front of the "portrait" and clearly were going for "serious faces" while the back row went with "jazz hands." We're grown-ups, I swear.


Ok, now that that's done, back to today.

Much to my surprise (since when do eBay and UPS ever do you any favors?), the two long-awaited packages came that are the final two parts to a very complicated, but extremely thoughtful, gift for Brett's birthday this weekend. With not a minute wasted, I tore open the packing boxes, put the entire gift together, and wrapped it all up with shiny non-Christmas paper and matching ribbons. We Christmas-week birthdays get sortof ticked off when people do the "it's wrapped in Christmas paper but it is really a birthday gift, I promise" kind of thing. Trust me.

More to come on the sad state of affairs when your birthday is wedged in between Christmas and New Years next week.

Then I placed the gift under the tree (the Christmas/Birthday rule doesn't apply when it comes to placement of the gifts until the giving happens, especially when you want your tree not to get lonely), and I figured now would be as good as time as any to share the photo I took last week before my gifts were all shipped off. Here you go. My little tree, with the bright star on top that I cut off inadvertently. Not in real life, just in the photo, silly.


Finally, I ran to the store for the final ingredients (culinary and otherwise) to complete Brett's birthday surprise tomorrow night. We're having the party at one of my favorite bars, Matilda, and the owner is so cool that he's offered us 50 free drink tickets and I can bring my own food (hint, hint) so I will be stopping by there tomorrow if the snow will allow that.

So, I'm bought, wrapped, lists made and ready for tomorrow's culinary expedition, which will now come after my interview. Woohoo! Yep, there it goes again. That outward burst of excitement.

After the fun weekend we have planned, if I have any brain cells left, we're celebrating Christmas early here together, and then I will leave him to his holiday with his family in Michigan, and I will head south like a snowbird to my family in Atlanta. I'm looking so forward to time with them, and my mom's mini-cheesecakes, not necessarily in that order.

Can you tell my mood is significantly better today? I can barely type as fast as my little brain is going today, and it is all good news. Thank you, Interweb, for the kind words, support and good vibrations. It's working!

Even the 10" of snow we're expecting tonight can't dim my bulb. This was the view of the lake from my apartment on Tuesday, and it will be even whiter out there tomorrow, if what Tom Skilling says is true. And, isn't it always? (Chris, you are nodding, aren't you?)



And, as the final sign of my mental improvement, I haven't given dirty looks to any unlit holiday decorations* today, so I'm clearly on the up and up.

*See Tuesday's post if you have no idea what I'm talking about.

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.

Rolling the Dice

In the age of online social networks, online job boards, online recruiting, online job seeker communities and online unemployment filing, I figured I'd resort to the online world once again.

So, here goes. I'm rolling the dice. Being open. Vulnerable. Honest.

I'm still looking for the right job. In this tough economy, bad time of year and holiday season, it has been tough to get interviews, tough to get good leads and even tougher to get calls back. In the rare instance of a successful connection, it is tough to get them to make a decision on a job quickly, even when the candidates are right, ready and anxious to start working.

I have officially sent resumes to, applied for jobs at, interviewed at and made contacts with the following agencies, most to no avail (listed in alphabetical order):

Abelson-Taylor
Anthem
Biersma Creative
Bluedog Design
Corbett
Cramer-Krasselt
Current Lifestyle Marketing
DDB
Design Kitchen
Draftfcb
Egg Strategy
Element 79
Euro RSCG/Euro RSCG Life
Evolution Point
Hoffman York
HSR Business to Business
iCrossing
Interbrand Health
Laughlin Constable
Leo Burnett
MarketSense
Momentum Worldwide
Ogilvy
Point B Communications
Razorfish/Avenue A Communications
Remedy
Rivet
RPM Advertising
S2 Marketing Communications
Schawk
Slack Barshinger
Upshot
Wunderman

Here's what I'm hoping. I am hopeful that one of the hiring managers, talent scouts, or recruiters at one of these agencies will get a Google Alert or a ping that their agency's name was posted here, and will look me up. I'm hoping, dreaming, praying that one of them will contact me and will be interested in talking to me about my experience.

I've got 10 years in this business. Ten years representing clients and managing their accounts. Ten years learning and perfecting integrated marketing communications. Ten years developing brand strategies and plans to invigorate or invent brands. Ten years dealing with the challenges of ROI, media plans, deadlines, flexing budgets, internal marketing groups, external agency partners and vendor contacts.

And, believe it or not, I still love this business.

So, if there was ever a time for me to strike it rich in the employment lottery, the time is now.

Come on, Internet, let's make this happen. If you (yes, you) are reading this and you have a friend, an aunt, a neighbor, a past colleague, a cousin, a lover or a postman who knows someone in this business, please let me know. If you have any "in" at any of the above agencies, now is the time to make the call, send the email or check the Rolodex. I'm begging.

I'm antsy, my condo is spotless, my files are color-coded and organized, my (meager) Christmas shopping is almost complete, and my Tivo has given up on me. I'm running thin on funds and even thinner on patience.

I need a job, and need your help to find it. In fact, I want more than a job, and maybe that's my problem. I want a career step. I still have the optimism and the faith that this search will land me in the right spot, in the right company, working on the right business and making a difference.

Thanks for indulging me. I assure you that if I do find a job, you will be graced with funny stories, life observances and commuting sagas to make the posts I've dedicated to this sorry search worth it!

I have faith, blind or otherwise.

Until then...I do what I've been doing best.

I wait.

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.)

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.

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?*

A Maven is Ravin'

The marketing world is an interesting one. And, combine that with the blogosphere in which I reside, and it compounds that interest factor even more.

About two months ago, I was approached through Facebook by a woman in Los Angeles that has been reading my blog and wanted to talk to me. She works for a company called Brand About Town who has been hired by Method to create an interactive panel, or a social network, of people who are "connected" in their respective communities. In the marketing world, we call these people "social influencers."

Justine, my initial contact at Brand About Town, had been following my blog and thought I seemed like a person that could be "connected" to other women in my life, and thought this blog's personality and the topics I write about were a good fit. Hence, the introduction. She asked me to interview with another colleague, Jamie, while she was in Chicago. I went to the W Hotel (after doing my due diligence on what this was all about) and we had a lovely chat that confirmed a few suspicions I already had about the program.

First, Jamie was a gal that I could be friends with here in Chicago. We laughed, shared stories and found coincidences in our life. And, we both agreed that this type of "buzz marketing" was quite smart—me from an agency perspective, and her on behalf of her client—when the client didn't want to dump loads of money into traditional advertising media (i.e., commercials, print campaigns, etc.). Finally, we both were confident that Method's line of eco-friendly, non-toxic cleaning products lived up to their promise of helping women, namely, rethink cleaning.

I was on board. After sending a silly personal bio and a photo, I was officially deemed a "Method Maven." While the maven part may be a bit of a stretch (seeing as the defnition states it as "an expert or connoisseur") since I was fairly new to the product line, I was game to try.

So, Jamie and Justine sent me a really fancy welcome kit with products to try around my house. And, I have. I'm not here to sell you anything or tempt you into buying into anything, but just to share my experiences, as I do here every day. And, frankly, I'm not a paid spokesperson or anything like that (and there are no pyramids or creepy sales brochures in this program), so don't think anything is wonky here.

To the contrary, this was a straight up genius plan. Get women across the U.S. to host a party, sponsored by Method and produced by Brand About Town, and invite a group of friends. Show up on the designated evening with said women, and have fun. It's that simple.

Last night was our chance. Fifteen of my friends came and we conquered. The entire experience happens in what they call a "pop-up-shop," a temporary location with a store in the front and a "living room" in the back. The Chicago shop is centrally located in Lincoln Park on Halsted near Armitage. It is a fantastic little boutique store that is only open until mid-October. And, you'd never know it was temporary. Photos below will convince you of that.

But more importantly, we were treated like the special VIP guests for the evening. We were ushered in by the hostesses, offered wine or other beverages and asked to partake in the delicious heavy appetizers that were spread throughout the hip, modern and comfy space. We were then seated around a large high-top table where the demonstrations and "class" would be held. We ooohed and aaahed at the cute decor—most of which was made of eco-friendly or recycled materials such as wood, muslin, wicker, bamboo, etc., with a global feel—and settled in for the main event.

With the luxe curtains closed behind us, separating us from the front half of the shop, we began. Our "teacher" for the evening was the lovely Joan Morais, an aromatherapist from California. She led us as we made our own organic beauty products—a lip balm, a spa facial tea, and a bottle of deliciously scented bath salts. We all got to take part in the process, and take the goodies home with us when we left.

Joan also shared recipies, ideas and resources for how to make the items on our own, with other ingredients to our chosen tastes. She and her beautiful daughter Brittany were gracious and friendly, and taught us all quite a bit. I feel smarter and more green just having met them! I can email any of you the recipes she gave us if you just leave a comment with a request.

With my marketing hat on, I must say, the brand experience was solid, seamless, friendly and pleasant. We were invited as guests, hosted by the brand, and allowed to enjoy a very fun and girly evening at no expense. And, no pressure. On the way out, we were asked if we'd like to be a "brand advocate" for Method, and if so, would we opt-in for future communication. Yes? Great, here's a cute funky t-shirt in exchange. (It says "cleans like a mother" on it). This company sure knows how to make this easy.

And, as if that weren't enough loot, each guest was able to then pluck a eco-friendly reusable shopping tote back from the giving hands of the staff, and was excited to see the load. Each bag featured a full-size bottle of the surface cleaner, the toilet bowl cleaner, the hand soap and dish gel. Full size bottles! No trial sizes here. And, from a strictly aesthetic point of view, these bottles are WAY cuter than Scrubbing Bubbles any day.

Before departing, we all swung by the "cleaning confessional" photo booth. The booth printed two sets of the photo strips—one for you to keep, and one for you to hang on the booth wall with your "dirty little secret"—many of which said things like "I secretly love to iron." and "I brush my dog's teeth twice a week." and other silly things related to the brand's niche. Not that they urged us to do that—but it was just there.

Overall, I was honored to have been asked to host, excited to get to invite and expose fifteen great girls to such a fun experience, lucky to have met and worked with Joan, and thrilled to tote home even more fun Method products.

Photos of the escapades are below, including a capture at the bottom of all the loot (including the wire basket of lavender products they sent me in the welcome kit). I've not yet tried all of the items (a girl's gotta sleep!) but plan to scour the home in a non-toxic way as soon as I'm able.

If the hand soap is any indication, my entire condo will smell delightful when I'm through.

As any good Maven's should!




































































Thanks to the hip girls who made the Method "Detox Chicago" event a fun part of their week:

Brenna
Brittany
Caroline
Clare
Jenna
Jill
Katie
Kim
Kristen L.
Kristen M.
Laura
Libby
Nilsa (who wrote this cool post about the party)

Sharon
Tammy

Now, get cleaned up!

Home State Shame?

I get pretty ridiculed at work for being from Georgia. Do I hide the fact? No. And I suppose that is my problem...

My clever colleague thinks it is hilarious to give me a lot of grief for having grown up in the south. Not only does he shout "Go Packers!" every time he sees my Georgia flag (featuring the super-G logo that resembles Green Bay), but he takes it a step further.

He manages to print out and tape every ridiculous, embarrassing, silly and totally weird news article that involves a Georgia resident on my door. Today he found one and handed it to me saying it was something I'd left on the printer.

I laughed, but secretly wondered...is this what the world thinks of us?

See his latest stabs:

Georgia woman collects outhouses.

Georgia men claim hairy, frozen corpse is Bigfoot.

Armless Georgian head-butts man to death.
(He was later cleared from murder charges—apparently the head-butting sent the victim into cardiac arrest).

I don't have a leg to stand on in defending my home state when this type of stuff continues to make national news.

As a related sidenote: with all this talk of (The Republic of) Georgia in the news, I even heard one woman on the bus say, "Wow—I had no idea that Georgia was under attack. Did they come all the way over from Russia?"

I still wasn't sure she was as confused as she apparently was. Until she kept going with, "Do you think Aunt Lynn in Atlanta is alright?"

Oh. Dear. God.

It is small comfort to know that there are idiots everywhere. Not just in my home state.

I'm Afraid it is True

Hold onto your hats people, because this is big news.

Are you ready?

You sure?

I'm not feeling it...you positive?

Here goes.

I have nothing to say.

Literally. The day is crawling, as was yesterday (the poem was the best I could do to express how slowly) and I have no stories, no anecdotes, no commentaries, no shares.

NADA.

So, you'll have to wait until tomorrow. Until then, could someone please wake me up when it is 5 pm?

That'd be great, thanks.

First, it Crawls

It is like a raindrop, gently sliding down a glass pane window.

It is like a spider, slowly climbing south on the intricate web.

It is like a stream, quietly gurgling over smooth pebbles in the silt.

It is like a syrup, sweetly dripping over the edge of a pancake.

It is like a breeze, softly blowing through the trees in the park.

It is like a turtle, deftly edging along toward a puddle.

It is like a baby, silently drifting off to a restful peace.

It is like a flower, naturally forming new veins as it matures.

It is like a sunset, gradually sinking into the edge of the horizon.

It is like a mind, languidly melting into a vast nothingness.

The time, it just crawls.

"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!