Not So Magnificent

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

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

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

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

Who knew shopping could be such an adventure sport?

I'm Such a Tease

Yes. You are seeing that correctly.

I have embarked, though slowly, on a new blog. Not to replace this one, but in addition to it (because I have the time!?!?).

This one is big. Huge. Legendary. I feel obligated, like I owe it to girls everywhere, to do this.

And, yes, I will provide an ample, and well-crafted definition of this theory of mine about the vortex.

Tales of the Vortex will be about, and comprised of, the world-class, hilarious, painful, ridiculous, nail-biting, boot-stomping, mind-numbing, frustrating, stupid situations that have happened to me or to one of my fabulous friends as we traverse the dating universe.

These tales make great "let's have a glass of wine and talk about men" kind of stories, but they make truly finding happiness in dating virtually impossible. Laughable even.

Maybe, just maybe, with me displaying this kind of "flirty, easy, teasing attitude," you'll actually drop in and visit when I'm ready. You'll settle in, share a laugh, and find some kindred-spiritness to it all.

You know, like you said you would.

As you said goodnight.

After introducing me to your parents.

And never did.

If Only...

The CTA is proposing, or threatening a walk out.

Meaning, the workers are planning to just get up, and leave their jobs. To prove a point.

Wouldn't that be nice?

After a three week span of you-must-be-crazy long hours, terribly awful to receive first thing in the morning emails, budget requests, deadlines we can't possibly meet, and, ultimately, just plain dealing with clients who seemed to miss out on the "common sense" gene, and definitely are lacking in polite etitquette (can I get a "thank you?" anyone??), it only seems right that I should be able to just...

walk out.

Not that I'm complaining about my job. I love my work, my company is great, and all in all, I've very happy. Even on cold mornings, it isn't that hard to drag myself out of my cozy warm bed and into the office.

But, lately, things have been different.

Instead, I just rant, rave, pace my office, close the door and put my head down on the desk, walk the block in the 25 degree wind, just to get some perspective.

A walk out.

Now THERE'S a Christmas wish I could stand fully behind.

The Cluster

I am privileged to host a guest blogger tonight...my brilliant, funny, charming colleague and friend, Monica. She is a writer/muser/rambler on her own, so do check her out.

For now, here are her thoughts/comments that relate to the general theme of this blog:

The CTA is a constant source of misery, entertainment and confusion for me. So I was thinking about something...

Let's call it "The Cluster."

Here's the thing, when you get on the train alone, you go for a seat that is as far away from others as possible, so that you don't have to sit with any of them. The next person who gets on alone does the same. Then when a group or couple gets on, they can't sit together because all of the seats have one person in them. So you have all of these people sitting alone so that they don't have to sit by other people, and all of these people who WANT to sit together who cannot.

Now, with most trains, someone is eventually going to sit with you. It is going to get crowded. Enter "The Cluster." If people would just kindof get on the train and immediately start filling up from the front or always sitting next to someone else, then groups of people and couples can always sit with their parties.

Logically, if you know that someone is going to sit next to you at some point, why postpone the inevitable, right? And by immediately choosing someone to sit next to on your own, you maintain the power!

By "clustering" someone else, you prevent someone else from "clustering" you! Likely, if you leave it to chance, you will be "clustered" by someone who is extremely unpleasant. They will be eating cured meats and barbecue sauce. They will have trouble breathing. They will be hot (in the warm sense, not the attractive one). They will cough. They will yawn. They will scratch and pick at themselves. They will do a butt pivot rather than stand up to let you off at your stop...

"The Cluster" is never gonna happen. If you randomly go and sit next to someone on an empty train, you will get punched in the face.

--Thanks, Monica!

My New Man

I must admit it isn’t my style to take strange men home from bars, but Fonzie was the exception.

I found him laying, face down on the bar, after everyone had gone home from my company holiday party. Someone must've left their gag gift for the taking.

All wrapped in plastic, he seemed harmless and safe. Nice, even. He is wearing a mechanics outfit (fix my car, Fonz?) and he was dressed and ready for work (in coordinating top and pants, he totally matched!)

He even fit in my purse! What a guy.

He’s not much of a conversationalist, by the way.

However, upon further consideration, that may be the best kind of boyfriend.

Fallen Angel

Tonight as I drove home in the cold sleet and fog from having a lovely, cozy dinner with Jill and Josh, I pulled up to the stoplight at Addison and Clark Street. This, for you Chicago residents, is the corner that boasts the legendary Wrigley Field.

The sleet was thick on the windshield, so I engaged the wipers, and saw a white figure in the dark. At first, I thought I was seeing a ghost. I pulled up a little bit, into the street lamps of Clark Street, and realized it wasn't a ghost, it was a Chicago icon, teetering about in the mist. Bouncing off of the cement of the Field's back walls.

It was Ronnie Woo Woo.

He was, and I kid you not, wearing his full Cubs uniform (the home jersey) and was wearing a red, floppy felt Santa hat, and a frayed, wooly blue Chicago Bears scarf. But, with the white jersey and the striped tight pants, there was no mistaking him.

It was Ronnie Woo Woo.

(For you non-Chicago residents or non-Cubs fans, Ronnie Woo Woo is a Chicago sports legend, one that ranks, in fame at least, up there with Ryne Sandberg and Harry Caray. He's the fan, who was once a homeless alcoholic, who convinced his way into so many Cubs home games that he became a part of the Field. Sortof like the ivy. Or the beer stench. He was always there. He roamed the outfield bleachers, shouting, "Cubs Woo. Cubs Woo. Cubs Woo." in the same monotone, high-pitched voice of a strange fan. He is dedicated. And, a bit strange.)

About 2 years ago, I had been invited to the game by my friend Tim, and we went for post-game drinks at the local Cubs bar across the street after the final inning (and the invevitable Cubs loss.) There, we had the rare and celebrated opportunity to meet Ronnie Woo Woo in person.

Kristen and I, both the ever-curious writers who had imbibed a few that day, asked him..."Why the Woo, Ronnie?" He explained, through his newly purchased dentures (Care of Cubs Care, the philanthropic arm of the Clubhouse), that he hadn't missed a home game since the early 60's. He means it. He began his famous chant, "Cubs Woo. Cubs Woo. Cubs Woo." many years ago, and keeps it up today.

I don't know how he does it, or why, more to the point, but he is now famous for this role. And his claim to fame still stands. I think a movie was even made about him.

So, tonight, you can imagine the disappointment. I was shocked, saddened, and a little grieved to see him wandering alone on the sidewalk, in the shadow of his beloved home field, in the cold mist on a Sunday night in the dark. He had claimed to have been a recovering alcoholic (that night at the bar he only chose to sip lemonade) and I believed him. Every slippery word.

But, tonight, a cold night in December, mind you, the sullen truth is, who knows. I was sad. I was a bit surprised. I wanted to pick him up, warm him up, sober him up, and take him home for some warm cider and shelled peanuts. But, it was not to be.

Truthfully, it was like the day I found out Santa wasn't real.

Frankly, I still choose to believe. In Santa, and Ronnie Woo Woo.

Welcome to My Office

My friend Laura and I were driving behind a cab last night, watching as he stopped in the middle of the lane, no warning, no blinker, no hazard lights. Just came to a complete stop. For no apparent reason.

It got us talking about our cab pet peeves, and apparently we have plenty. In a fit of giggles, Laura and I collectively decided one of the most annoying things cab drivers do is this:

You get in, give the address, and then they sit still. It is evident that they have absolutely no idea where to go to get you there. They pause. They turn their head back to you, and say, "uhm, where is that?"

I realize that no one is perfect. No one knows everything, but this is an issue.

The cab driver's entire job is designed around getting you to your destination, safely, efficiently and in the most direct way.

If they don't know where to go, or how to get there, it is basically a complete failure of doing their job.

We decided that this absolute inability to perform is the taxi driver equivalent of us not knowing how to do our job, but yet sitting in our office and pretending that we do.

Here's the mental image: I'm seated in my office, behind my computer, hands on the keyboard. Possibly sipping on the free coffee provided by the company. Someone comes into the office, takes a seat, and patiently yet firmly asks me to do something, and I say, "uhm, yeah, how do I do that?"

And, the unsuspecting person has to detail the steps for me, piece by piece, and explains the nuances of that part of my job. Basically does it for me.

And, yet, when they are finished, and I meagerly do the task as requested, I put out my hand and still demand my paycheck. For nothing.

Then I say, "Oh, and here's my body odor for your sensory pleasure. Thanks for coming by."

It just doesn't work. The cab driver's entire job is built around the idea that they can get you to where you want to go. Not knowing the streets of Chicago just renders them completely unsuccessful at their job. Yet, they still want to get paid.

Not sure that would fly in most offices. Right, Jim?

The Zoo

I had the distinct privilege of going to the Bears game yesterday, and despite the crappy weather, and the fourth quarter "we gave up the game by letting you score 9 points while we sat idly by" behavior, I had a great time.

I'm sure the four cold beers had nothing to do with it.

Shortly after arriving, as the rain died down and the wind picked up, I walked into the ladies restroom, the one that was nearest our amazing 200 level seats in the end zone, and stopped dead in my tracks.

Animal reference intended.

It had a strange smell. I couldn't place it at first, and then it hit me.

The entire bathroom smelled like a zoo. You know the one—the aroma of straw, dirty floors, animal waste and too many people? Yep. That one.

I looked left. Glanced right.

Nope.

No animals held in captivity below the dripping sinks. No zookeeper lurking in one of the empty stalls. No reasonable explanation for the gross stench.

And that was the LADIES room. I can only dare to imagine what fragrance the men can muster.

Needless to say, the smell lingered for awhile, trapped in my four layers of clothing possibly, or maybe drafting over to our seats from behind us. So, I did what any self-respecting, solid, lived-here-awhile-and-now-I'm-tough, Bears fan would do.

I devoured a Chicago-style hot dog, laden with smelly grilled onions, to make me (and everyone seated within a four-seat radius) forget about the zoo smell.

I think it was pretty damn polite of me, personally.

Blame Game

Good thing the wine is only $2.99 a bottle, because I sure am plowing through it these days.

I personally blame it on clients.

Anyone with me? Yeah. I thought so.

Cheers.

Recycled

A few weeks ago, my friend Katie told me a cute, sweet story of mid-day urban romance.

She was walking to get lunch, the sun was out, and a handsome stranger approached her. "Excuse me, this may be kindof weird, but life is short, so I figured what the heck. Are you single?"

She laughed, shyly, and said, "Well, kindof." This is the every-girl answer that gives everything and nothing away all at once.

Handsome stranger sticks out his hand, introduces himself (Scott) and says, "I never do this kind of thing, but I couldn't resist - you're so adorable!"

She giggled, nervously, and allowed him to give her his phone number after he says, "We should get lunch, or coffee, sometime. I work at the Tribune right nearby." (He had no cards on him, and she was clutching her phone, so this all seemed normal). He entered his digits into her cell, and then they parted ways. Not before Katie had noticed that he was well-dressed, outwardly normal, and was heading back to the office at the Chicago Tribune, which, incidentally, is across the street from our office.

Satisfied by the unexpected compliment, Katie shared her story humbly and we had a good laugh. We were actually quite proud of Handsome Stranger for his nerve, his suave yet unrefined ways, and his all-around general likability.

Katie was pretty sure she'd call him. And by call him, I'm sure I mean that she'd play coy and text him. Whatever. Not all of us have the nerve...

Anyway. A few weeks go by and Katie has yet to call him, text him, or send a carrier pigeon to the Tribune offices.

Yesterday, I'm at work really early and have just left Starbucks at 6:30 A.M. to head downstairs to meet my colleague for a long trek to central Illinois.

As I turn, clutching my coffee, I hear a guy say, "Excuse me, this may be kindof weird, but life is short, so I figured why not. Are you single by chance?"

I literally am taken off guard JUST long enough to notice that he is nice looking, well-dressed and seemed likable. And then it hits me.

It is THE SAME GUY AND THE SAME LINES. Rings a bell. Loud and clear.

I say, "Well, no, I'm not actually," to avoid the awkward denial of his phone number. He says, in return, "Well, okay. I never do this kind of thing, but I couldn't resist - you're so adorable!"

It was practically WORD for WORD.

Now, either that guy has some serious creativity issues, or he's a total Michigan Avenue player and figures he'll play his odds.

Not sure. I was left holding my recycled coffee cup, a recycled newspaper and the mental replay of recycled pick up lines.

Policia

When preparing for our trip to Mexico, we kept hearing about the Mexican Police (Policia). Apparently they are nasty fellows, and not interested in making your vacation any lovelier. In fact, they have a terrible reputation for picking on American tourists.

So, I carefully observed the speed limit (to the best of my ability) and tried to make heads and tails of the lanes, the speed bumps and the Retorno lane (u-turns). See the previous post for more.

All was going well, until we decide to take a taxi into Playa del Carmen for the evening. Had a great dinner, a lovely time at a local bar, and then a rousing ending to the night at the Blue Parrot, where we danced, made sand angels (don't ask) and watched fire dancers.

Got into the tiny taxi, prepared to shell out our 150 pesos for a safe ride home.

We head out onto the highway, laughing, joking with the driver (in broken, high school Spanish) and were all feeling good (we love tequila).

Then, in the dark, as we rode along through the jungles (literally), with zero street lamps to illumniate our way, we see blue lights flashing.

Now, let's all be honest. Even if you're not driving, those blue lights are enough to make your heart race and palms sweat. Now add to that the urban legends/rumors we'd heard about the Mexican Policia, and the fact that we're 4 American chicks in this tiny taxi, and we're literally freaking out.

Janine is up front with the driver, and knows a little Spanish (un poquito) and she's glancing nervously at the driver. Smart enough to wait it out, we all sit quietly.

He gets out. Walks back toward the cop.

Uh, sir? That's not what we do. We wait, roll down the window and DON'T MOVE.

I crane my neck around (hoping the blue light glare will hide any activity in the car from police view) and see him back there, joshing with the cop.

Uh, sir? This isn't funny.

The cop comes around to us, machine gun in hand (yes, I said machine gun) and rounds the car, with a flashlight in the windows. I manage a feeble smile. Not a "we're guilty, sir" smile, but a "see, we're harmless, sir" smile.

He goes back. Cab driver gets back in. The whole thing lasted about 6 minutes.

The lights go off, we drive away.

Silence.

Janine looks at me. I look at the girls. We say to him, together (as if that's not complicated), in really bad Spanish, "what happened?" (for sake of blog readability, I'll use English here). He replies, in even worse English, "marjiuana."

Uh, sir? Please tell me we're not in a car with you while you're toting drugs across town, or whatever?

Apparently he was clean, but the cop pulled us over because he saw 4 girls, presumably white American girls, and was suspicious. I have no idea how the "flashlight in the eyes" from outside the car was supposed to clear our names, but apparently it did.

Frankly, it all worked out fine (somehow) and we didn't end up going to Mexican prison.

But, damn, wouldn't THAT have been one heck of a blog?!

Driving in Mexico

I've been back from Mexico for less than a week, and I'm still prone to breaking out in giggles over the absolute nightmare that driving was in Mexico.

We were in Puerto Aventuras, which is about 45 minutes south of Cancun. Straight down the coastal highway. Sounds simple, right?

Wrong.

Maybe it is a national joke they play on the tourists, or just some crazy old-fashioned, contrived way to maintain control, but they put SPEED BUMPS on the highway. Yes, speed bumps.

Some are humps, some are those rounded parking-lot style cement knots on the ground, all lined up.

Some just damn near take out the undercarriage of the car.

Or maybe that was just with me at the wheel?

Let's just say this. While I was careening down the Mexican highway, trying desperately to figure it all out, they would crop up out of nowhere. Before I explain the bumps, let's talk about the confusing speed limits. Not to sound totally blonde, but come on.

The speed limits are obviously posted in kilometers, and the rental car was clocking my speed in kilometers, but the sheer math of it all was just too much. You expect me to drive, sing, entertain my fellow passengers AND do math? Yeah right.

I, for one, didn't go to math camp.

The conversion of MPH to KPH is not easy. Something about multiplying by 2, adding 7, subtracting 11 and topping it off with a green X, and there you have it. Your speed. Tu velocidad, if you will.

Now, let's say this. The speed limits went up and down up and down up and down with little to no regard for what was going on. It seemed like the construction guys just got bonuses for every sign they installed, so they went nuts. 80 KPH, 90 KPH, 60 KPH, 100 KPH, all within the span of about 1/4 mile. Or kilometer. Or whatever.

So, in between speeding up and slowing down, I thought "Okay, maybe I'll get the hang of this."

Not so fast, my friend.

Now, add into the mix that the construction guys clearly didn't care much for lines. Lanes be damned. There were NO lane markers in most places. No little friendly white or yellow dashed lines (or solid for that matter) to let you know if it was a two-laner, or a three-laner or a one-laner. Nothing. Nada.

So, the end result was that every driver was all over the place. Feel like passing? Go ahead! Feel like taking a left here? Fine by me - just hit up the Retorno for a trusty U-turn. Feel like driving three cars wide? Have at it.

Then, there were the buses. Apparently the buses pick up and drop off the local workers (construction of the major resorts, mostly) along the road, and there doesn't seem to be any rhyme or reason (and sure as heck there were no bus stops) to when they stopped, or why. All I know is that you'd be riding along doing just fine in the right lane, tucked in nicely behind a bus, and all of a sudden, he'd careen off to the right, ending on the shoulder, kicking up dust and slowing at a rapid pace (does that even make sense?)

And when they entered back onto the highway, it was all I could do to swing wide into the left lane(s) to get out of the way.

Being the organized Capricorn that I am, it was all a bit too wonky for lil' old me.

Which brings us back to the speed bumps.

They call them topes. (I have no idea what that translates to, but we decided it was "boobies.") Let me explain.

The signs that they post to indicate a speed bump have either two bumps (boobies) or three bumps (medical mystery). They have a down arrow pointing at the street, where the topes are located. Yeah, that helps. I'm already flying over them at 100 KPH at that point.

Occasionally, there was a topes sign about 100 yards in front of the second one (featuring the aforementioned arrow), and this was your warning. Since I spent half the time worrying about my speed, and half the time worrying about the lanes, this left no brain capacity for Topes Watch '07. So, we coined the phrase "Boobies!" to indicate that there were bumps ahead.

I know, totally mature.

So, the backseat drivers (or front seat passenger, when her eyes weren't squeezed shut in fear) were charged with hollering "Boobies!" at the top of their lungs when this first sign was spotted, giving me time to slow down appropriately, so as not to shred the bottom of our little blue Altima.

Worked great. Just grand. Then, for whatever reason, my Topes Watch team was otherwise occupied, and I didn't see the sign. Maybe that sign wasn't installed yet. But, alas, we went flying over the topes at about 60 KPH (I saw it at the last second and it was just too late). I think that is about 40 miles per hour, but I have no idea (see note about math camp attendance).

Heads hit the roof. Jaws hit the floor. And shit hit the fan. We died laughing. "BOOBIES!"