Easy Target

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

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

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

I know that women dress for other women. Period.

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

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

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

Am I that shallow?

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

Or, maybe I just like new shoes.

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

More Woo Hoo

I was standing outside the back door of my office today, talking on the phone and trying to end the call so the elevator didn't eat it, and I looked up to see Ronnie Woo Woo (see previous post "Fallen Angel") walking down the street.

In full Cubs game day attire.

Carrying a Barack Obama sign.

He called me cutie.

I think he's strange.

I quickly hung up on my mom, took this blurry too-far-to-fully-appreciate-it photo, and called my mom back.

Somehow, the ironic hilarity of it all was lost in translation, but I guess you had to be there.

"Obama Woo! Obama Woo!" doesn't have quite the same one-breath spirited ring to it as "Cubs Woo! Cubs Woo!"

Everything but the Kitchen Sink

This gives new meaning to bringing a brand to life. And, I must credit Kristen for bringing this article to my attention.

IKEA, the Swedish company known for its cheap, put-it-together-yourself furniture and funky styles of art and housewares is letting a comedian live in its 700 square foot display room while his NYC apartment is fumigated for cockroaches.

Apparently it is being documented for his website. He claims it has more living space than his regular apartment, which given New York's real estate situation, I don't doubt. But, the sinks and toilets (or TVs, for that matter) don't function, causing him to need to use the staff faciltities.

Oddly, his wife isn't too keen on the idea, and chose to stay elsewhere.

I can hear that conversation now.

"Honey, seriously, let's move into the IKEA store in the 'burbs for a week. It'll be an adventure!" The audible rolling of eyes matched with the angry sigh and the slam of the bedroom door.

I'm sure she wasn't thrilled with the thought of having strangers traipse through her bedroom.

However, I personally think that's one way to meet new people.

In the Land of Smurfs

I bought new jeans right before the holidays, and have worn them a few times, and washed them twice. They are a really dark wash, and slim enough to tuck into high-heeled knee-high black boots.

But, damn them, they turn me blue.

If I am inclined to put my hands in my lap, rest my hands on my knees, or otherwise come into contact with these denim monsters, the result isn't pretty.

By the end of the day, my hands are a pale shade of blue. It even comes off on the hand towels in the bathroom.

By the time I left the Bulls game last night, I was downright tinted.

I looked like a giant Smurfette.

But, they sure looked good with the boots.

All Together Now

I know that this post is about 6 months too late, making me a total loser and completely out of it.

I don't care.

I was at a bar this weekend and the Soulja Boy song came on, you know the one...the one that has the terrible lyrics and the annoyingly catchy tune?

Well, it has been my observation that this song immediately makes the whitest guy think he can dance. Doing that choregraphed electric slide line dancing thing that was so big in the early to mid-nineties. Like at weddings.

I know the rapper has some dance associated with this song, and I have even seen my beloved Georgia Bulldog football team doing it on the field mid-game when the song played over the stadium speakers, but at least those boys can move.

These guys Saturday night could not.

I had horrible flashbacks of middle school dances. Cafeterias draped with streamers. Carnation corsages that were kept in the fridge. Kissing a date with a mouth full of braces. Fuschia taffeta dresses with butt bows.

I think I need therapy.

Heat Wave

With temperatures reaching above 60 yesterday and today, Chicago is experiencing a relative heat wave.

I even saw people wearing short sleeves and no coats today! Those crazies will milk 48 hours of warm weather if you give 'em a chance. This must be what Al Gore's been talking about?

Although, they're forecasting snow by the weekend.

Now that's more like it.

Born to Tailgate

In light of the Bowl Championship Series national title game tomorrow, I have been watching, and talking about, college football a lot lately.

That's just fine by me.

I also have been asked to recount the stories from my college tailgating days. Which brings me to this post.

I wrote this essay (if you will?) in response to some friendly taunting from some Chicago friends when we were all taking off for Ann Arbor for a weekend of football Michigan-style several years back. The guys weren't sure I could hang. They were afraid I'd be too girly. They didn't think I'd understand the rules. They figured I'd want to leave at halftime to go shopping.

Boy were they wrong.

The below essay was my response, typed furiously back to the four "offenders," and the only reply I got back was, "You're riding shotgun. Let's go."

So, in light of the big game tomorrow, where my beloved SEC will take on, again, the Big Ten's Ohio State, I give you this:

Born To Tailgate

Do I know how to tailgate? Of course. I went to The University of Georgia. I am a Bulldog. I know how to tailgate. I was born to tailgate.

We drink Beam for breakfast. We have huge feasts of southern fried chicken, mashed potatoes and pans of brownies. We dress in red and black and only red and black. We tape Ziploc baggies of Jim Beam inside our thighs to help our wasted frat boy dates get into the game with it. We sweat like fools (the girls actually “glisten") at the games in September. We get too dressed up for the games and don't even complain. We love it.

We walk from fraternity row to Sanford Stadium, or better yet, we ride with the pledges down the great hill of Baxter Steet in the back of a frat boy’s SUV with Croakies hanging from the mirror and a pair of old New Balance under the seat. We yell and bark and sing and chant until we can't talk. We drink cheap beer and squint into the hot Georgia sun and smile the whole day.

We bleed red and black. We despise all teams with orange. We stand 86,112 fans together, united in a veritable sea of red as our Dawgs hunker down 'tween the hedges and make us proud. We love their silver britches and shiny red helmets. We rush the field before the game is even over. We tear down the goal posts and parade them around campus. We love a good rounce, we appreciate a good win, but we're proud of our team even when they lose.

We host "College Gameday" and show Corso, Herbstreit and Fowler a good time on Broad Street late into the morning. We ring the victory bell on North Campus like we have since its inception. We still brag that Herschel Walker was a Dawg. We put Athens, Georgia on the map long before anyone had even heard the B-52’s tune “Love Shack.”

We pet UGA VI and know that he's the cutest damn bulldog we've ever seen, even when he turns his tail end to you because his head is sore from all of the patting. We start over after the game and continue to tailgate until the night falls, and then we hit the bars.

We tailgate at the UGA/Florida game in Jacksonville for 4+ long days, win or lose, rain or shine, and have rightfully earned the title for that roadtrip into neutral territory "The Largest Outdoor Cocktail Party." We love Larry Munson and know the sound of his voice will bring us good things. We reminisce about the good ‘ole days in Athens when Vince Dooley was King. The girls know as much about football plays as they do about their Kate Spade purses.

We drink out of the bottle. We drink out of a thermos. We drink out of a can. We drink out of a styrofoam cup. We drink out of a koozie. We drink out of a Ziploc. We drink out of a funnel. We drink out of a keg. We just drink.

We have two religions down South where I'm from: SEC Football and Southern Baptist. Pick one.

You ask me if I'm ready? Why yes, sir. I'm ready. I was born ready. And so were all my friends.

Nowhere to Look

Why is it that elevators render people, who in normal circumstances are talkative and outgoing, totally mute and self-conscious?

I board a minimum of 2 elevators a day—one at home and one at work. I've noticed this more at home:

People in the younger generations are so utterly, ridiculously, awkwardly afraid you'll speak to them while in the elevator together, that they'll do practically anything to avoid...

the direct eye contact.

The elderly in my building are quite the opposite—they get in, and immediately want to know how I am, how long I've lived in the building (to which they always squeal, "I've lived here longer than you've been alive!"), what I do for a living, where's my boyfriend and how much money I make.

Seriously, these ladies are in serious need of a granddaughter visit.

Anyway, today I boarded the elevator at home with another young woman from my floor. She lives 2 doors down from me. She seems normal. She was going for a run, and I was going out to run errands (I don't run unless I'm being chased). I remarked about the new gym equipment downstairs, and you would have thought I'd asked her how much she weighed.

She blanched, and then recovered. Slowly.

She answered the question, but I could tell it took everything in her power not to say to me, "why are you talking to me?"

After the painful awkward 'where do I put my eyes now?' moments were over, we just rode in silence.

How dare I try to strike up a conversation with someone that shares my hallway, eats, lives and sleeps just 20 feet from my home?

What nerve I have. Clearly.

Plan B

Heading to a birthday party at a bar called Plan B tonight...

That is, if Plan A calls to arrange to go together.

Isn't this fun?

Update as of 1/6: He called.

Not Funny at All

I am at home sick today and am not feeling smart, charming or even the slightest bit witty. Forgive the radio silence.

And, yes, I did just allow the comparisons between me and a giraffe.

And, yes, I see the similarities.

Mob Mentality

As I rode the slow bus south on Lake Shore Drive today, I couldn't help but stare out the west windows through the 1/2 inch coating of snow and ice and salt and smog and general urban grime that covers the bus.

As we approached the southern end of Diversey Harbor, I noticed something quite funny. Maybe it was just me.

There were hundreds of geese huddled on the patches of ice that floated throughout the water. Most of the harbor is solid, but there were huge parts that had either broken free, or never fully froze for whatever reason.

The geese were all crowded around, hanging out, just chilling along the edges of the unfrozen parts (in my mind huddling to stay warm), but I did see one or two lone birds swimming in the water. Remember, it was 0 degrees as I left for work at 7:30 this morning...not exactly a balmy swim.

The one or two lone birds—what's their story? Are they rebels? Early adopters? Polar Plunge '08 contestants? Peer pressured into taking a dip? Pushed in by the Bully Goose?

I could almost hear the other geese taunting them..."Go on, you funny-feathered wimps! Get in! It can't be THAT cold!"

So Sweet

With the mental capacity of a soggy bag of oatmeal yesterday, I allowed myself to enjoy a long and lovely day of nothing but football viewing from the couch.

I defended the SEC, cheered them on, watched 3 great bowl games, and danced around like a crazy fool. I initiated a sqaures game, typically reserved for Super Bowl parties, and proceeded to lose money in each quarter. But, ultimately, the victory was mine.

Knowing that I am approximately 10 years older than every player on the UGA football team, I can sincerely say that I was one proud mama watching them play so superbly yesterday in the Sugar Bowl vs. Hawaii.

Their gentle baby faces peeked out from under their helmets, and yet, that youthful look was deceptive.

They tackled. They passed. They ran. They blocked. They kicked. They scored. They sacked. They rounced.

It was as fantastic as sweet tea, with a Bowl of Sugar.