A Standing Ovation

I must admit I was one of the guilty ones yesterday. You know the ones...the people in Chicago that see the forecast for warmer temps, and push the season a bit with their wardrobe selections.

Given that we've been in a deep freeze for months now, the prospect of the temperature hitting the upper forties made me very happy. So did the unending sunshine that accompanied it. Therefore, it seemed perfectly natural to shed the socks/boots and put my bare feet into pumps for the first time all season. I did it.

Walked at lunchtime for quite a few blocks, and noticed the rubbing on the insides of my feet. These are not new shoes, mind you, but my poor winterized feet just weren't ready. By the time I left the office to head home, they were practically raw.

My aching feet and I got onto the bus, and it was already full. I stood near the back, on those pained and blistered feet, and plotted, planned and prayed for a logical new CTA bus/El amendment:

I propose: a single row of seats behind the existing priority seating for those poor souls that have made poor footwear choices that day.

Those with feet that are swollen, pinched, blistered or raw. Those sporting stilletos, new shoes, pointy fashions or just cheap imitations of comfortable. The chair, instead of having the universal handicap sign of the wheelchair on the upholstered back, could just have a footprint on it. Very graphic, simple, and universally translated to mean 'feet.' This row could feature ladies or gentlemen who just need to sit. Who can't imagine the ride home teetering, balancing or otherwise contorting any longer in their footwear mistake.

Now that's a CTA proposal I could really stand behind.

My Bags Aren't Packed Just Yet

I read many blogs each day, but two of my favorites have to be those of two couples, dear friends of mine, who have left Chicago (and realites of urban life) to tour the world.

One couple, Tracy and Vytas, is touring by boat on their beloved Sunshine Daydream and they have traveled north through the Great Lakes, out to the Atlantic Ocean via the St. Lawrence Seaway, and down the Intercoastal Waterway to arrive in the Carribean. They've been in the Bahamas for a few months now, and will be crossing the Atlantic to the Mediterranean Sea in a few months.

Lucky for us landlubbers, they post blogs and email updates as they go. Even luckier, they post amazing photos not unlike the above, taken during their trek down the Intercoastal near Charleston; Tracy promises she could hear the dolphins crying out, "Come on! Warmer weather this way!" While perusing their photos, I sometimes sit and stare (at my laptop) and can almost taste the saltwater. I swear I can hear the sound of the surf.

The other blog belongs to a former client of mine, Melissa, who became a friend. She and her husband, Klas, both having descended on America in college to play collegiate tennis in Tennesee (she from Australia, he from Sweden), have been "on the road" now for over a year. They have been to countless countries in Europe and have eaten and drank and toured their way through that continent, often meeting up with friends and family who either live abroad, or have flown to visit them.

After Europe, they flew to Asia and toured Thailand and they are now exploring New Zealand. The below picture is from their recent adventure ice climbing there on the Franz Josef Glacier. It takes me a moment to catch my breath while staring at that photo, and all I am left with is awe. I'm a tad bit afraid of heights, and the courage it takes to put yourself out there, quite literally, to do something like this is impressive to me.


After I finish praying for their continued safety, satisfaction and good health, I can't help but feel jealous. That's normal, I fear. But the more nagging emotion is one that results in a flood of questions: when is the right time to "retire" to explore this beautiful world? To put yourself in situations that truly test your character? To aggressively go in search of your spirited side? To capture memories that will last long after the suntan fades and the photos are put away?

For my two sets of friends, the time is now. As I stare at my laptop, still, I think they must be doing something right.

Why wait? (If my bosses are reading this, don't worry. I can't quite pull off this early retirement thing just yet. I'll be here tomorrow. And the next day.)

I know what you're thinking.

Yes, I plan to visit Sunshine Daydream and will hopefully alight on the boat when they hit Greece or Croatia. I have always wanted to see those countries, and how better to do so than by boat? The timing of the trip will depend entirely on their schedule, which, incidentally, depends entirely on the wind. As a control freak/organizer/planner, I will have to just sit tight and make plans as they come.

Maybe that's the first step to truly letting go?

I'll Drink to That

As St. Patrick's Day nears, I get more and more excited. And, more and more Irish, to tell you the truth. This entire city claims any percentage of Irish blood they have and wears it proudly.

Last night I saw the U2 3D IMAX movie at Navy Pier, and while the proximity to St. Patrick's Day was a coincidence, it sure did reinvigorate my love of the renowned Irish rockers. Their sound is timeless, the guitar work is incredible, and I just plain feel good while listening. Don't judge. You likely have some mainstream music floating around on your iPod.

The movie was great fun—life sized Bono, giant Larry Mullen, enormous Adam Clayton, and of course, an unwieldy version of The Edge. You could see everything, the band sounded amazing, and it really was like you were at the concert in Buenos Aires. Or Rio. Minus the sweating, crowd surfing, body shuffling and likely 12 hours in line outside to get in the arena.

[Author's side note/plea, I beg you not to comment by ripping on Bono's political rants, activism or lyrical world views. At least he puts his money, and his time, where his mouth is.]

Back to the tunes. In honor of the impending holiday (a.k.a. public drinkfest and excuse to wear the oft under-appreciated shade of kelly green), I give you my list of top Irish bands, in my particular order:

U2 (quite obviously)
The Cranberries
Snow Patrol
The Chieftans
Van Morrison
The Pogues
Sinead O'Connor
Flogging Molly—they definitely get best name, right?
Enya
The Corrs
Westlife
Thin Lizzy*
Boomtown Rats*

And, an honorary mention for Dropkick Murphy's. Yes, I'm aware they're from Boston (thanks, Janine). But their music makes me think of the sweaty Irish dancing scene from the dregs of the Titanic. And that can't be all bad, right?

*I had to look these up. Knew the names, knew one or two songs, but frankly, that's all. I confess.

Sliante!

Out of the Closet

I just saw on one of the entertainment websites that Katie Holmes has a 1,500 square-foot walk-in closet in the $30 million house to which they're making $15 million in renovations.

I'm going to need a little time to get over the jealousy that is searing through my bones. That closet is larger than my entire apartment, by the way.

But, alas, I don't have to live with, and pretend to love, Creepy Tom Cruise. The baby is cute, though.

Wonder how big HER closet is?

Airport Red Rover

My sister has been emailing me all week torturous messages from her travels in Los Angeles, courtesy of her Blackberry.

I keep getting ones like, "Sitting in a tank top in Santa Monica on the beach—it is so sunny here!" or "Just saw the girl from 'Bend it Like Beckham' while touring the Warner Brothers Studio!" or "Heading to a big party for our cousin, can't wait to meet Jimmy Kimmel and Sara Silverman to ask them why Ben Affleck isn't at the party!"

My personal favorite included a funny deformed photo of herself which I'm assuming was captured in the wiggly fun house mirrors at Ripley's Believe it Or Not Museum where she said, "Had some time to myself so I stopped into a Beverly Hills Salon and got some work done."

It was frightening. I barely recognized her pretty little face. I urged her to come home before she ended up looking like a bad rendition of an Orange County Housewife. Which, in itself, is a bad rendition of a normal American middle aged woman, if you ask me.

And, the final email featured her sitting patiently in the LAX cell phone waiting area for her boss' plane to land. She and I both agree that the cell phone waiting lots are a genius idea—a very simple solution to a really annoying problem. See how this comes back to commuting? Patience, people, patience.

In Atlanta, my hometown and arguably the busiest airport in the country, when you're flying in, you must either have an uncanny sense of timing or ESP in order to meet your party outside the arrivals gates at just the exact moment when they choose to drive by, or you have to have them park somewhere near the airport, which can only be described as the 'hood, only to wait for your "I've just landed!" call to get them moving. Otherwise, the driver tries to deploy a stealth operation designed to stall along the arrivals gate, idling in the lane while the Atlanta Police yell at you, scream obscenities and threaten tickets, fines, or promise to steal your first born.

The cell phone waiting lot allows you to avoid all of that, and to wait for your party, but in a civilized, uniformed and efficient manner. Atlanta Hartsfield and O'Hare airports, get on that, wouldja?

Lauren claims that at the LAX lot, all the cars starting up and leaving her one by one made her feel like she was playing a giant cosmic game of Red Rover, and she was the fat, sweaty, scary and overly tall kid of whom everyone was afraid.

She's not, for the record.

But, if I wasn't a tiny bit afraid of her, I'd be posting the fun house mirror photo for you all to see.

Bomb Shelters or Bathrooms

I have a vent. A group of us gathered at my favorite little local bar this weekend, and enjoyed a nice evening of conversation, drinks, random intrusions by a drunk guy named Kevin, and good juke tunes.

But, why is it that even in this nice bar, with cool decor, good un-bar-like food, a friendly staff and clean furniture, does the bathroom resemble a dusty bomb shelter in 1940s Germany?

It is a treat to make it down the steep metal stairs alive, and when you do, you think a rewarding trip to the ladies room is in your future. After you stand in line, of course.

Instead, you get to battle a dank, nasty, low-ceilinged bathroom with only two stalls, one of which leaks something rank all over the floor. As if that isn't bad enough, on one of the stalls, the door is gone, so they've installed a trusty little curtain hanging on the outside of the stall, but it is just resting up there on two little posts, and it inevitably falls on your head as you slide the curtain aside to gain some privacy. It fell twice for me and bounced once off my head...it was my lucky day.

Lucky is what you call yourself if there actually is toilet paper left in there. I'm convinced that not once in the course of a Saturday night does anyone actually check the state of affairs in a ladies room, much less replenish the provisions.

After the stall incident is complete (and you're very possibly drip-drying), you are treated to sinks with no hot water, and paper towel dispensers that are almost falling off the wall. The pile of trash was overflowing, so most of the newer towels are on the floor (maybe soaking up the toilet's leakage?).

It is an all around disgusting adventure. If only I hadn't ever broken the seal.

Come on, at $5 a beer and $8 a cocktail, can't a lady get a cleaner, more pleasant bathroom experience?

70% is Almost Failing

Today's news announced that in the last 61 days, it has snowed 43 of them in Chicago. Not all of that was big snows, but some traceable amounts have been recorded in 43 of 61 days. That's 70%.

And is it any wonder that people get a tad bit crabby around this time? It FEELS like it should be Spring, the calendar makes us THINK it is around the corner, and turning back the clocks made it even SEEM closer than ever.

But I think we're all fooling ourselves.

Pretty hard to believe that Lake Michigan ever gets warm enough to swim in it—if you're willing to dodge the garbage and ignore the E. Coli, that is.

Photo taken in Waveland Park yesterday. I resisted the urge to lick the posts.

She Does it Her Way

Holy impressive, Batman. And she glorifies Chicago, showing many facets of this fair city.

Check out the website of the artist, Karin Jurick and watch the iMovie of her painting a New York City street scene.

Man, I wish I could paint. I have an artist mother, and the best that I can do is paint my radiator cover.

It's in the Bag

I left the office late tonight, carrying the agency's big black leather portfolio, and waited for what felt like forever for the bus. In between my office building and my front door, three different people asked me about the big case.

One older lady eyed the bag, and loudly commented, "I would love to see what's in THAT bag!" like I was in a gameshow, and was carrying around the silver metal case with her ticket to millions inside. I'll chalk her up to just being confused. I doubt she really meant that she'd love to see my new business presentation as we stood underneath the bus shelter.

When I got onto the bus, and wedged the large case as close to my knees as I could, the bus filled up, and a thirty-something girl leaned over me and said, "So, they're making YOU drag the pitch boards?" and I just laughed out loud, and nodded. How'd she know?!? Was my exhaustion written all over my face? Was it the mid-week jeans? Or was my business card hanging out of my purse?

As I got off the bus, a guy was walking towards my building alongside me, and he glanced at the bag, then at me, and snidely says, not quite under his breath, "ooooh, you must be in advertising..." like it was the same thing as saying, "ooooh, you must kick small puppies and push children down the stairs."

Uh, yeah.

We in "the agency biz" have one heck of a reputation, don't we? Granted, I own a Tivo, too, but enjoy a good giggle inspired by clever writing, compelling images, smart commercials and other products of my industry.

And, yes, I'm the pitch board mule.

But as I travel north to Newark (eek) tomorrow to nail this pitch, I'll have on a killer suit and a power pair of heels.

All the better to kick puppies with, my dear.

Almost Famous

I walked right through the set of a motion picture this morning.

No, I didn't miss my flight back from LA. And, yes, I was fully awake.

In fact, I was dressed and on my way to work. Sure throws off that "she was just having a dream" theory. I had just crossed the bridge over the Chicago River, and then I see the ginormous movie camera on a huge black pivoting thingy. My cousin "in the biz" says that's called a crane camera. Ok then.

I see the crane camera, and then spot the sign below that says something about a motion picture being filmed, and that they're not held responsible if you are caught on camera doing something stupid like picking your nose. Or wearing ugly shoes. They're not liable.

As you may expect, I love movies, television and am especially fond of anything that involves showing Chicago off to the world. Only if it makes our fair city look good. Which, incidentally, half the time it does not. It was NEVER summer on "ER" and "Save the Last Dance" makes this city appear totally and completely dank, dark, scary and gang-infested. Which a lot of it is not.

I digress.

So, back to the set. I was quite pleased that they didn't stop me from walking through, but rather allowed me to enter the set, and cross through the "action" even after the director shouted just that.

Quiet on the set! We have a REAL LIVE CHICAGO COMMUTER COMING THROUGH. Oooh. I add authenticity.

Anyway, I didn't recognize the actors, but did notice that one guy had fake tears running down his face. Or was that the cold wind? The female actor was watching me walk, and in my head, she was thinking "that's just what I would be wearing if I worked at a cool Michigan Avenue ad agency." Yeah, probably not. She was probably eyeing the craft services table and was musing on her next latte purchase from Starbucks. But a girl can imagine, can't she?

I was secretly thrilled to be wearing my sunglasses (for that added vibe), and was really glad I'd put in the extra 10 minutes to straighten my hair. And put on lipstick.

Because you just can't risk looking dowdy, homely or otherwise unhip when your 10-seconds of fame hits the editing room floor.

Confidence, then Panic

Someone asked me for directions to RL tonight. RL is the signature restaurant by Ralph Lauren that I've never been to, but have heard the food is good. I assume it is located near the Ralph Lauren clothing store, on the corner of Michigan Avenue and Chicago Avenue, but that was just a guess. An educated one, but still a guess.

So this guy turns to me on the bus and asks how to find the place. I immediately begin to tell him which stop to get off at (Superior) and to walk north one block, to cross the street, and to look for the restaurant on the corner. I think he was actually listening (which is good, since half the time people don't) and I have a pretty high level of confidence that he found it.

But then he got off the bus and began his Colleen-directed trek. That's when the panic set in.

What if I was mistaken? Did I send him to the wrong restaurant? Is he going to wander the streets of Chicago aimlessly? Probably not, but that cold fear struck me as he left the bus.

It happens every time someone asks me for directions. I love to help, and am happy to send them on their merry way, but then I stand there questioning my knowledge of the streets, addresses or landmarks.

Oh well. If anyone sees that guy still walking around looking for RL, please point him in the right direction. Send him towards the khaki pants, at the very least. He'll find the cafe from there.

Patent it Already

I saw a woman on the bus who boarded wearing her full winter regalia. She had on the heavy coat, the scarf, the hat and the gloves. When it came time to pay, she didn't even flinch. She held her gloved hand up to the circular CTA pass reader and it beeped, and she boarded the bus.

I think she probably has her CTA card stuck inside her glove, so she doesn't have to search for it or put it away after using it, but I thought it was pretty brilliant. A little pocket inside the front of the left gloved hand. It could be sold and making this woman millions! Maybe I should get on that?

This made me ponder what other inventions I'd use on the bus, and I think the Magic Remote must be number one. Similar to the Tivo remote, it would be multi-functional, make funny little beeping noises, and would have a green thumbs up and a red thumbs down button.

That way I could mute the rude lady on her cell phone, fast forward through the heavy traffic, rewind and pause the interesting scenes that I'd like a closer look at (like the guy with the tattoo of music and poetry I wrote about last year), thumbs up and down people at random (and for totally surface/material things, such as great shoes or a bad body odor), and turn the volume down on those annoying CTA pre-recorded alerts. Although those sometimes make me laugh when they ironically come on when they are most needed...

What would you invent to make your commute more bearable? I'd be willing to bet $100 that someone in Atlanta immediately thought, "a Hovercraft."