Chicken for Breakfast: I'm Lovin' It

While at painting class last night, with the class full and busily man-handling their color still lifes (oh wait, that was just me), the radio was on and playing all sorts of fun 1970s classic rock.

And then a commercial promoting McDonald's new breakfast treat—chicken biscuits—came on and interrupted the quiet. The class all simultaneously reacted negatively, with the teacher even saying aloud, "who eats chicken for breakfast?"

Uh...have you EVER been to Chick-fil-A? The fast food chain that is healthier than the rest, tastes better, smells delicious and is torturously NOT in the Midwest yet? Ok, so apparently there are a few franchise spots up in Wisconsin, but even I haven't had that much of an urge. Yet.

At Atlanta-based Chick-fil-A, you eat chicken for breakfast, and you wash it down with a giant lemonade. That's just what you do. Then you go back at lunch and get the nuggets and waffle fries, and wash that down with a sweet tea. HEAVEN.

So now when I'm seeing the article in the Chicago Tribune today asking, "Will the chicken for breakfast work in the North?" it just upsets me. At least one observer, quoted in the article, was smart enough to give credit where credit was due saying, "They may not admit this, but it looks like they copied this a little from Chick-fil-A."

Give it a chance. I'm not sure that Midwest-based McDonald's will do it the way that Chick-fil-A does, or half as well, but let's not knock it before you've tasted the delicious salty chicken resting on a buttery, flaky biscuit.

McDonald's is giving them out free tomorrow, and Costa-Rica-trip-diet be damned, I'll be in line.

Wishing it were the real thing, but willing to take one for the team, and sacrifice a little something for a taste. I'll let you know.

Act Up Already, Chicago!

I've been asked recently why my blog hasn't been much about commuting lately, and there is just one answer to that.

People have been behaving! I can't take it anymore.

Where are the rude passengers, the terrible drivers, the butt pivoters, the horrendous smells, or the really fat people?

All this well-behavin' gives me no material for dissection, no topics for fodder. Did everyone get a copy of Emily Post's book while I wasn't looking? Is the threat of summer infecting everyone with such good vibes that we're actually being POLITE to one another? Are we just so glad that we're able to ride public transit while the gas prices are nearing $6 a gallon?

Can't someone just throw a fit on the 145 bus? Could I get a traffic incident that incites the mob mentality? May I please have a cranky old person to yell at a young, fit passenger rudely sitting in the disabled/priority seating?

Great, thanks.

*Side note: Due to the unfortunate lack of commuting material, I've been pondering changing the name of the blog to something more universal. Thoughts?

Wouldn't Fit on the Card

Mom teaching me things even then. Christmas morning circa 1978.
In honor of Mother's Day, I'd like to honor mine. I'm one of those women you envy. One who has a fantastically fun mother with whom she can share stories, clothes, laughs and a bottle of wine. Or two.

As I age, I catch myself more and more saying things that we used to tease her for, or waving my hands the way she does, or crinkling my nose to stop the impending tears during a sappy movie, or raising my voice into a ridiculously high pitch to squeal excitedly about something fabulous.

I'm becoming her.

And I couldn't be more thrilled.

For her pleasure, on her day, here are a few highlights from my life with my Mom. Heads up, Mom—go grab a Kleenex. I'm just saying. I know you.

• The woman is THE PERSON you want while renovating or doing any number of house projects. There is just nothing she can't figure out, dream up, paint over or make happen. My condo is proof of her magic ability to take an ugly, empty, pink stove and fake-wood-metal-cabinets kitchen look amazing. And, the woman looks hot wearing an apron from Home Depot covered in paint. I promise.


• My Mom took great pleasure in making childhood memories and holidays special for me and my sister. Every year for St. Patrick's Day she would dig deep into her Irish-ness and dye all of our dinner foods bright green, distribute green paper leprechaun ears and toast her heritage with green glasses of milk. Our personal favorite was macaroni, and we were convinced it tasted different when it was green.


• As a woman who grew up in a household of 10 kids, my Mom is resourceful and industrious. She used to not only wow us with her pumpkin carving skills, but she handmade every Halloween costume we wanted, and they were WAY BETTER than the ones at the store. Lauren somehow got the shaft one year when she had to go as a book character, as Laura Ingles Wilder isn't all that cool, especially when your sister gets to be a punk rocker with pink hair. Sorry, Laur.


• In keeping with the above holiday theme, every Easter, while we girls were at church, she ensured that my Dad would be placing the plastic eggs all over our yard. We loved getting our new dresses, and giggled with Mom when Dad inevitably chopped up one lone purple egg with his riding lawn mower the following weekend.


• Ever the crafty one, my Mom is the queen of homemade birthday cards, and I gotta tell you, most of the time the message inside is funnier and more meaningful that the ones from Hallmark. When you care enough to send the very best, you go to Eileen's house and use her printer.


• I'll never forget the look on her face when she handed me the bouquet of bright red roses on the day of my college graduation. It was a combination of pride in what had been gained, sadness for what was lost, anticipation for what was to come, and reflection on where we'd been. I was proud to be the cause for that look, and will be continuing to make her proud as long as I can.


• My Dad gets credit for this one, too, but I have to apologize now for the "bleacher butt" they both suffered for years. Those gyms all look the same, smell the same, and have the same ridiculously hard wooden bleachers, and they sat there, yelling out my name, for years and years, during every season there was. The Norcross High School Blue Devils sweatshirt, however, has seen better days, and we're glad that it is now relegated to the back of the closet.


• It is only now, as an adult with a car and a huge city in which to run errands, that I fully appreciate the efforts of the driver. Captaining a mini-van full of kids, driving us all over the state, could NOT have been how she wanted to spend her weekends, but she did. With no complaints, and great oldies tunes. To which she always said, "I was in 7th grade when this came out!" or "I danced with Charlie Jacoby to this one in 1970!" We loved thinking of our Mom that young and free.


• Able to control her own work schedule, my Mom was great about dragging us girls on cool spring break vacations to Destin, Florida, where we were allowed to bring a friend. Now THAT made us feel grown up. As a family, we have fond memories, and silly photos from, Disney World, Grant's Farm, Busch Gardens, Six Flags, Hilton Head and Gulf Shores. The bathing suits were terribly cool at the time, but looking back, man were the styles funny. Mom, you were one hot mama!


• With a birthday that is just 3 days after Christmas, my Mom always made sure that I still felt special. She always used purple birthday wrapping paper (or some other non-holiday shade) and kept them a secret until the big day. We got to use the big, red, round plate that said, "You are special today" while we ate whatever meal we'd requested. I felt special then, and still do, thanks to her thoughtfulness.


• I think she was crazy to do it, but she let me have a HUGE birthday sleepover in 5th grade, and invited 12 or so girls to the house. Pretty sure they didn't sleep that night, but that kind of sacrifice for our happiness was never forgotten. She even painted EVERY girl's fingernails. Crazy woman.


• As an adult, I have even better memories, ones that go deeper than sporting events, holidays or family vacations. Now, my Mom is my best friend, the woman I long to become and a huge supporter of my dreams. Even when I can't afford them, and she has to sneak me a loan.


• Driving up in a U-Haul to move me to Chicago, it was almost as if my Mom didn't have a totally ruined hand, and a full set of prescription painkillers, from an unfortunate run-in with a Hunter Douglas blind. Despite the wrecked hand, huge cast and undoubtedly, the pain, she put on a smile and rode in the center all the way from Atlanta to Chicago, laughing the loudest when the U-Haul broke down halfway across Indiana. She's strong and resilient like that.


• When my vacation plans fell apart a few years ago, she immediately volunteered to get away with me. We boarded flights for Miami, and jetted off on to our cruise ship to the Caribbean. Just us girls. We dressed up, ate too much, drank buckets of beer by the pool, played games of Scrabble where I trounced her repeatedly, and we laughed and laughed and laughed. Only part of that laughter was AT her for trying to beat me at a word game.

As mothers do, mine has always been supportive of my dreams, even when I've lost hope. She has been there for me as I battled through a difficult job situation, and cheered the loudest when I moved on to better things. She's consistent with her encouragement during the MANY heartaches I've experienced, and is the best friend I could ask for. She asks the tough questions, the ones that I'm avoiding with full force, and when the answer comes out, and she softens the blow, I often have to just concede that she's right. She knew when I moved to Chicago that it wasn't likely that it would be "just for two years," and yet she is still convinced it was the right thing to do.

Distance is only on the roads, love reaches across the miles, and Mom, your opinion is still the most important to me. I hope I'm making you proud.

Before we got sauced at a Wine Fest in St. Louis in '05.
I love and miss you every day. I hope to become half the woman you are, and every bit the mother.

Happy YOU Day!

Beer, Beer and More Beer (European Vacation, part two)

Welcome back, and all aboard for part two of my European vacation. If you're lost on when, where and why I am traveling, read this first.

I hope you brought your Passport and it is tucked away in that dorky little flat fanny pack someone talked you into buying, snuggling in there with your Eurorail pass and student travel ID that makes you look OH SO AMERICAN and really, quite young and naive.

After Prague, the journey continued...

Vienna
Taking a much needed break from alcohol, we decided to veer off course and go to Vienna without our new friends. We rented yet another amazing apartment from Frau Gajdo, who cooked us breakfast the next morning and threw in a side of grandma talk in broken English. It felt good to be in a home. Needing some nightlife that we could enjoy without the bubbly, we visited Prater, a huge amusement park. Thrill rides are different there, and we seated ourselves in the "Slingshot" ready for an adventure. The ride operator was giving everyone instructions, but we clearly didn't speak the language, so it was clear when everyone was raising their arms and obeying his rules that we were the American Idiots. He laughed, pointed, and made us the butt of the jokes. We didn't mind, but buddy, can you still come over here and buckle us in before you shoot us 200 feet into the sky? Great, thanks.


The vending machines in Austria were amazing, enormous refrigerated mini-stores operated by the long arm of a fancy robot. Really fun—we ate stuff we couldn't identify JUST to see the thing in action. Touring the Schonbrunn palace (home of the Hapsburgs during their rule), we worked off the vending machine delights wandering the mansion and the gardens. I recall getting lost several times in Vienna, and even have photos of Anna and Mandi carefully studying a map (with clenched brows and no clue). Time to head on. So long, farewell, Vienna. The 9-hour overnight train with the sleeping cars was fun and interesting, but being awoken in the middle of the night by a train guard demanding your Passport and shining a flashlight in your face wasn't so nice. Those Germans can be a bit brash, you see.

Munich
Our arrival in Munich meant a return to the beer. And lots of it. Those Germans really do knock them back. We started our time there with a visit to the Hofbrauhas, the world's largest beer garden. Alas, who is there tipping back the 1-litre beer steins but The Michigan Boys! We dragged them with us the next day on the traditional Munchen Bike Tour, which included a ride through the English Gardens where adults like to sunbathe naked. Trust me, German men should NOT do that. I am pretty sure it frightens children. Bavarian lions were everywhere, and I'm pretty sure this induced some "Wizard of Oz" singing.


We took a bus ride out to Dachau, one of the biggest concentration camps during the Nazi regime, and were moved to tears, and definitely were the quietest we'd been since landing in Europe. To uplift, we watched the Glockenspiel in the Marienplatz do its little dance, and made it back to the beer garden. I am pretty sure I barfed up my sausage dinner on the way back to our hostel, but can you blame a girl? The beer steins took two hands to hold, and the alcohol levels are not even close to Bud Light.

Interlaken
Switzerland looks like a postcard, the entire time. It was colder here than we expected, and our traveler's outfits got more and more ridiculous. Shorts with a sweatshirt? Sure! I recall buying some warmer items, and a Swiss Army watch that is still on my wrist today. The architecture of the houses tucked into the mountains, complete with the window boxes, flags and pitched roofs, made me feel like Maria Von Trapp yet again. Or Heidi. I think we yodeled. Our first bar experience included a man stamping a huge black circle on your cheek (before you even realized what's happening) and him promising if "you come back tomorrow with that on your face you get a free beer!" Uh, thanks buddy.


Mandi convinced us to go Canyoning. I had no idea what this meant, but the brochure made me nervous. I'm much more content in a museum or picnicking in the park, but this involved rock climbing, rock sliding, cliff jumping and rappelling. For three and a half hours. In the Swiss Alps. Yeah, and I paid for it. Our group consisted of 9 guys and us. Putting on the cold, damp, skintight wet-suits was interesting, and Mandi's zipper was a stubborn little sucker, to say the least. POP! As we neared the top of the Gorge, the guys were just as scared, and I begged them to fake it, to put on a brave face for us. Crossing myself with the Sign of the Cross, we went. I hated it the whole time, but was pretty proud of myself afterwards. The scariest part was the jump off a cliff, between two rocks, out above a whirlpool, and into water that was fast-moving and only about 5 feet deep. SOMEHOW we didn't drown. Sadly, when I arrived back in the US, my mom found an article in the USA Today that revealed that 19 travelers in the EXACT SAME GORGE with the EXACT SAME CREW as us had perished due to flash floods. We are lucky. And, drank beer to celebrate.


Hiking up to Lauterbrunnen with a riverside picnic was more my style, and riding the cable car up to Gimmewald was nothing short of spectacular. No cars, no noise, just you and the Alps. And a handful of goats. We said goodbye to the Michigan Boys, whom we'd re-encountered here, and were on our way. This overnight train experience was so much better than the first, and included a handsome Italian man waking us up with tea, fruit and hot cloths. I love Italy already.

Florence
This city is incredible, and it was just such a dream to finally be in Italy. ITALY! So romantic. Hey girlfriends, come on, there's sightseeing to do. Michelangelo was one talented man, and we sure did soak up his greatness. Mandi, while standing in front of the David, said loudly, "He's so huge!" The already quiet room went totally silent. I don't think THAT is what you say when standing in front of a naked male form. Or maybe you do? The pink, green and white tiles of the Duomo are so ornate and it makes this whole post-modern architecture seem sort-of, well, lazy. These guys tiled and tiled and tiled and painted and painted and sculpted. The buildings may have taken 100 years to build, but man, are they worth it. Firenze brought us gelato, and for that I will forever be thankful. We had it three times a day, and that was just for snacks. Touring the piazzas was never quite as good without a cup of gelato in your hand.


While in the train station in Interlaken we read that the Festival of San Giovanni was being held while we were in town, and we wanted to be a part of it. Whatever IT was. Turns out the festival means closing off a huge piazza, filling it with sand and bleachers and gates and nets and crowds, and hosting a village vs. village grudge match that was a cross between rugby and wrestling, with the crowds shouting Green Team or Red Team the whole time. I am pretty sure it was an Italian version of Medieval Times. We didn't have tickets, and I only knew the word for ticket in Spanish, so I wandered around saying it with an Italian lilt at the end to see what happened. I was handed 2 tickets by some guy. We had run into 2 American guys so we needed 5 total tickets. So, we scalped our freebies, and drank the profits, which totaled about the equivalent of $350 in lire. Who knew? After drinking all day at the bar nearby, our liquid courage pushed us through the gates, over a fence and into the crowd, sans ticket. I'm so lucky I didn't end up in Italian prison, as that would have been one phone call my parents wouldn't have liked receiving. Fireworks over the Arno River that night capped off a fabulous day. Bella!

Rome
Riding through Tuscany on the train, we planned the rest of our Italian adventures. Arriving in Roma, we hit all the usual spots. The Spanish Steps (don't try to negotiate with an artist about price, it offends their delicate personalities), the Colosseum (so gross when you think about how many people perished there, for sport) and the Roman Forum. We conquered it all again on a night walking tour, and tossed in our coins to the Trevi Fountain, wishing to return to Rome again someday, in love. The sheer antiquity of the city and the life that bustles above ground, nestled ever so gently among the ruins of a lost era, is extremely cinematic. "Roman Holiday" is a favorite, and I loved seeing the spots Audrey toured on her motorbike. Which, incidentally, are EVERYWHERE. Somehow, we managed not to get run over. Piedro sure wasn't slowing down for us, bella or no.


We happened upon the Vatican on the day when the Pope was giving his blessings to the people, so after touring the Vatican Museum (AMAZING), and experiencing spiritual centered-ness (for me) and the incredible St. Peter's Basilica, we stood among thousands to hear the Pope speak from his quarters. Mandi was starting to feel ill, but the good sport that she was suffered through the 99 degree temps, the black dresses and cardigans (had to cover the knees and the shoulders) and trudged along. The photos capture her uneasiness, though, and the LONG train ride to Vernazza, in the Cinque Terra, was nothing short of miserable for her. Anna and I, however, didn't get a seat, so we had to STAND in the aisles near the W.C. smelling like sweat and urine for something like 7 hours. It was awful, but the result was worth it.

Vernazza
We didn't have reservations for a hostel, plans of what to see or do, when we arrived in this cliffside Mediterranean town. The laundry hanging from the windows fluttered, and the sun bounced off the brightly colored stucco houses, all set into the face of the hill. The water glistened at the bottom of the steep cobblestone street, and the sailboats masts rocked gently in the wind. THIS was a vacation from our vacation, and we milked it. Because you may have not had the luxury or privilege to go, here's a scene from our window:


Eating fresh pasta and drinking red wine down on the rocks by the water at sunset, listening to local musicians play quietly as you walk past their cafe, enjoying the lilting sound of the locals talking to one another in the early hours of the morning, all of it was postcard worthy.


We rented a small hostel with a lone traveler from Ireland, met a ton of people from all over the world, and together had a wonderful 4 days of nothing. No churches, no museums, no clubs, no palaces, no trains, no crowds. Anna and her friend who was visiting hiked to some of the other cliff towns, but Mandi and were content to don bathing suits, sun on the rocks, and dive into the salty Med when we needed to cool off. The entire experience felt something like being in a movie, where you just don't ever want the credits to roll, you're enjoying it so much. We made friends there, from all over, and everyone felt the same thing: the Cinque Terra is a little slice of heaven.

Nice
Regrettably, we had to depart Italy, but our reward for doing so was a venture along the Mediterranean to Nice. The French Riviera is everything you imagine: spectacular, wealthy, warm, beach-ish, ritzy, electric, tasty, shiny and fun. The beaches aren't made of sand, but small rocks, and when you stand up (without the recommended beach mat) you have little red circles all over your back and legs, but it is worth it. The topless and nude bathers aren't as obvious as you may think, but the sight of a middle-aged mom frolicking topless in the waves with her young son is a little disconcerting at first, but then you shed your American judgments and enjoy the day.


We met some handsome guys in town and dined well with them at Chez Wayne's. Not your classiest name, but we were 22, what'd you expect? Dressing up and experiencing these things made us feel quite classy, and then I scooted back too fast from the table, tipped backwards and my legs went up over my head as I tumbled into the cobblestone street. Oops. Chez Classy.

Monaco
A day trip from Nice, we explored this wealthy little principality, and took photos of and near the casino in Monte Carlo, the flowers, the mansions and the villas. I could live there, just call me Grace Kelly.


Frankly, I don't recall much from this day, but the sun was out, the riches were glittery and the people were friendly. Good enough for me. Next time I go, I'm bringing more diamonds, sequins and a fancy sportscar, because the baseball hat and ponytail didn't quite cut it.

Barcelona
Spain was to be our last country on the trip, and by this time we were ALMOST ready to go back to our regular life and not be an American in Europe any longer. Oh how I wish that I was in that situation now. Barcelona is an exciting city, a blend of the really old with the really new and shiny and we walked and walked and walked. At the base of the Gotic Catedral, in the shadow of the steeple, the flamenco dancers put on quite a show. The Arena de Barcelona, home of many Olympic events, was something to see, and the view from the steps of the Museum laid the city out beneath us. Gaudi's Temple de la Sagrada Familia looks JUST like a drippy castle of sand, and the mosaic tiled park benches proved not only beautiful, but a great spot to rest your legs. Mandi was succumbing to her ever-worsening condition, and we took it easy that night. By easy, I mean we dined on paella and sangria along Las Ramblas and then headed to Maremagnum, the hot spot at night, for some dancing. What a trooper. I recall this being the 4th of July, which clearly had no significance in Spain, but we partied and celebrated on our own. Fiesta!


The next morning, Mandi finally conceded that she needed to see a doctor, so we trudged across town to a hospital. Scary enough at home, this experience was NOT what we'd envisioned for our trip. Using high school Spanish, I communicated Mandi's woes to the doctor, who proceeded to bang on her back, declare her sick with a kidney infection (too much beer, not enough water) and admit her to the hospital for the day. The doctor must have seen the fear on our faces and tried his best to calm us. The second physician looked EXACTLY like John, the man that Mandi was engaged to be married to the following May, and we were comforted by that odd coincidence. Anna and I toured the city some more, after calling Mandi's family in Georgia with the news, and enjoyed what we saw. We brought back postcards, candy and treats for our little invalid, who was laid up with an IV all day. Alas, she was fine, but Anna and I witnessed some gruesome fights and bloody men in the waiting room, who apparently were NOT getting along on the streets so well. I never told Mandi's family about that part.

Departure
Cutting short our trip to spare Mandi any more traveling, we decided not to go on to Madrid. Another time, for certain. Delta changed our flights with no penalty (after a 2 hour conversation where I pretty much begged, cried and pleaded, and threatened to get my Million-Miler Frequent Flier Dad involved) and we boarded a plane the following day.


Heading home to Atlanta, we were all tanner, 10 pounds lighter, exhausted, and happy. Our backpacks were filled with dirty clothes, souvenirs, ticket stubs, napkins and random coins. Our passports were filled with stamps and memories.

I found a cartoon in the paper the next day, while I was sitting at my parents' kitchen table, that says, "Traveling to places like this definitely changes you...always for the better."

I couldn't agree more.

Look Kids, Big Ben! Parliament! (European Vacation part 1)

Brett's parents are in Europe on a fabulous two-week vacation, and just hearing about the cities they are visiting reminded me of my European vacation back in the summer of 1999.

Mandi, Anna and I boarded a plane from Atlanta bound for Europe. Our backpacks weighed 34 pounds each, we had our walking shoes on and we were ready.

We had nearly six weeks of travel in front of us, and we sure did make the most of it. Since it has been 9 years next month, I figured a few stories were in order. I've even pulled pages from my scrapbook and scanned in key photos to prove our existence in each city.

You'll want to grab coffee and a comfy seat. I've never been known to be brief.

Arrival
The long flight was a first for me, and we certainly didn't ride first class. Ten hours from Atlanta, lined up across a row with the bathrooms nearby, was a bit of a challenge. We pocketed the Delta blankets, however, only to re-use them again and again as everything from a pillow, to a shawl to a picnic blanket. We knew we weren't supposed to go to sleep when we landed, so we used the facilties in Heathrow to freshen up for our big adventures. We wouldn't have been able to sleep anyway.

London
From the moment we stepped aboard the touristy red double-decker bus, I knew that I could live there and be very happy. Poor, and underfed, but happy. Do NOT stay in a hostel near the Victoria Station—ours was scary and ugly and our bedroom was half-underground. Pretty sure 2 of us shared a single bed that night. It's not worth it to skimp and save quite that much. These few days in London was the first experience with Red Bull as it hadn't gotten approved in the U.S. yet, and I recall drinking it out of pitchers, mixed with ice and vodka, and it glowing in the dark while we danced and shimmied our way through the Zoo Bar. We saw "Les Miserables" at the Globe Theater, and the accents threw me a bit from the Broadway production.


Singing as we walked drew attention to us, but come on...it was impossible NOT to sing "London Bridge" a few times. Even though the one that everyone THINKS is the London Bridge actually goes by Tower Bridge. Who knew? Guess the other one fell down. One thing we noticed at this early point in our trip was our ability to completely MISS the biggest monuments/buildings while desperately looking for it. Case in point, we were wandering the streets, looking for Parliament, and then, behold, we were standing in front of it and didn't quite see it. Big Ben, where are you?

Paris
Since we had the Eurorail passes, we took the train everywhere, and it sure was an interesting way to travel. The bullet train across the Chunnel was our introduction to the train life, and we shouldn't have set our expectations there—that train was far nicer than anything else we'd encounter. We stayed at an amazing hostel in Montmartre, and experienced the "Hostel Nazi" who liked to shout and control our curfews, but the place was really fancy. Walking up the hill to Le Sacre Couer, we heard singing, and entered the church at twilight to hear nuns singing hymns in French, and it was hard not to be moved by the glorious music and sights.


Parisians eat dinner at about midnight, so we just added extra meals in there to make sure we didn't go hungry, God forbid. One memorable meal involved eating fondue out of a ceramic bowl and drinking wine out of baby bottles. Our time in Paris also introduced us to the smart cars, which I'm still convinced wouldn't fit my head and long legs simultaneously, and the "on the street toilettes, where you pay a coin and then the door slides open and you take care of business right there on the sidewalk. It rained and rained and rained in Paris, though not a drop in London, ironically. The tourism union was on strike, so most of the monuments and museums were on strike, but luckily we were still able to ascend the Eiffel Tower and ride the Metro; the Louvre and the Musee de Orsay were clearly not happening. Guess I will have to go back...

Brugge
Next stop, a small town about 10 miles off the coast of the North Sea. Cobblestone streets and red roofs make this town aesthetically pleasing, and the canal rides prove the age of the place. We ate french fries with mayonnaise and bought chocolate and lace, because that's what ladies in Belgium do. Climbing the 396 steps of the Belfort tower, we were still young enough not to be totally out of breath, and met a silly little music man with a rolling cart at the base.


Renting bikes for the day, the three of us (sporting our inadvertently matching blue wind-breakers) took to the streets and rode out of town a bit to ogle the windmills and sing even more loudly. I remember standing on a sidewalk at 4 am trying to figure out the phone card and the international phone booth. My parents were convinced I was drunk. I might have been.

Amsterdam
Arriving in Amsterdam on the weekend, we thought we were in for a huge party; however, the Heineken brewery was closed, and the town was pretty quiet. Until we found the one bar run by Australians: Mister Coco's. It became our home for the next few days, and we even donned black afros to pour beers for the guests. We made our mark there, I am afraid. Lunch by the canals featured amazing cheeses, fruits and breads, and flowers filled the window boxes hanging above our heads. Quick studies that we were, we realized that we'd just sit anywhere to eat. Give me a square on a train station floor and I'm happy. Sleeping quickly became that way, too. While in Amsterdam, we explored the high-tech internet cafes to connect with our families, and loved having great beer with us while we did.


The crowds rolled into the city to celebrate, ironically, the Tibetan Freedom Concert, and we found ourselves in the middle of the mayhem, feeding pigeons (and being scared by them when they took flight) in Dam Square. The Anne Frank House was a must-see, and we made a visit to a contemporary museum, a coffee shop and a night out for dancing, which ended up being at the African Roots Festival at Melkweg. Walking into the warehouse-sized bar, we realized quickly we stood out and ignored the looks we received, and made our way to the front row to dance all night with the tribal robe-wearing, face-painted locals. Killing time before our train, we went to the movies (we couldn't bring ourselves to drink any more) and saw "Cruel Intentions" subtitled in Dutch.

Berlin
We hadn't heard great things about Berlin, so we only planned to be there for a day, and then move on. We did a Walking Tour with a tour guide that reminded us of Gilligan, and saw the Brandenburg Gates, Checkpoint Charlie, Humboldt University and the New Museum (where I tried to climb into the sculptural bowl outside and it wasn't a smart idea). We read about how book burning happened here, led by the Nazis, and ended our tour with the Berlin Wall. Complete with stories and movie clips, the Wall's meaning and historical impact was loud and clear.


While standing at the Wall, we met three backpacking guys from Michigan, and proceeded to sit at the pizza place so long we almost missed our train to Prague. All six of us were running through the train station only to realize we had misjudged the schedule and had time to waste. The 3 of them, the Michigan Boys, ended up being our travel buddies throughout the rest of Europe, and one of them, Sam, is still one of my best friends today, and lives here in Chicago.

Prague
We took the 8-hour train from Berlin and filled the time playing Euker with the Michigan Boys, enjoying the party car along the way. This was my favorite city in all of Europe. A guy in Amsterdam, a traveler from St. Louis, passed us a business card of a great guy in Prague who, with his wife, rents apartments to traveling students. We called him, arranged it, and he picked us up at the train station with pastries, sandwiches, water (with gas and without) and drove us in his tiny car to the apartment, which was fabulous. Enormous, high ceilings, incredible architecture, and it was $33 a night. TOTAL.

The key-ring he gave us had about 9 color-coded keys on it, with each one corresponding to a different door as you entered from the street (red key) to the interior lobby (orange key) to the top of the stairs (yellow key) to the interior hallway (green key) to the front of the apartment (blue key) to the back door of the apartment (purple key). Since we'd had a few Staropramen beers that first night (they were only $.60 each, and the Michigan Boys were buying), when we got back "home," the key challenge began. I recall Mandi accidentally dropping the keys from halfway up the curvy staircase, down all they way to the bottom, which was past one of the three original gates, so she had to shimmy down the stairs, we had to hold the spring-loaded gate open, and she had to climb back up and save the day. She lived to tell about it, thank God, and forgave us for laughing so hard we couldn't talk.


For four days we wandered the St. Charles Bridge over the Vlatva River (singing the theme from "Mission Impossible"), purchased paintings from local artisans and danced all night long at Lavka, an enormous multi-level riverside club. The Praha Castle was an incredibly authentic version of the Magic Kingdom castle and the St. Vitus Cathedral blew us away. If you've never been to Prague, I have two words. GO NOW.

Part two of this blog to come later today. I'm doing you the favor and letting you stand up, step away from the computer and stretch your legs.

Go get more coffee...there's nine more cities to tour!

Awards Show Jenga

Our industry had its first of many awards shows last night, and it was nothing short of kick-ass.

Upon arrival, you don a plastic nametag. Instead of the traditional and BO-RING work titles, my company decided to go the fun route and give everyone silly "titles" ranging from Resident Bulldog (me, referencing my alma mater) to Twerpz Distributor (Jamie, referencing her favorite tangy candy), to Miss Nebraska (Carey, referencing allegiance to her home state), to Interpretive Dancer (Amy, for no real reason), to Lord High Chancellor (Chris, referencing his ambivalent attitude towards it all), and more like that. It was pretty clear we were there to have fun.

And, to win tons of awards. Let's be honest.

Overall, though, the event itself is sortof calm. There is no red carpet, the podium isn't even on a real stage, you don't give a speech after you win, the crowd is pretty docile, and the awards are just acrylic engraved plaques housed in black boxes. Balloons adorn each table, as do samples and chotchkes from various vendors.

In a city like Chicago where the agency world is dominant, and the business-to-business agency sector is even smaller and more close knit, it is fairly competitive. We have three or four main competitors in this town, and last night we showed them what was what.

We won 26 awards and took home the big prize at the end for Best in Show, meaning, the best work of any submitted. It was awarded to the account that I worked on for all of 2007, and the Creative Director and I dragged each other up there in shock to accept it. We kissed the awards, and even took photos with it in the Getty Images photo booth. Without a speech platform, we didn't get to thank God, our Mama or the little people, but they know who they are, and they know how much they worked to make the magic happen.

As for the crowd, we were the rowdiest, too. Our table quickly became a huge wobbly stack of award boxes, and the OCD personality in me kept stacking and restacking the boxes from biggest to smallest (Gold being the biggest, and those pesky Bronzes as the smallest), and facing all the labels one direction. It was like a giant game of Awards Show Jenga, comprised of the blood, sweat and tears of the creative, strategy and account teams for the last year.


We were boisterous, but the truth is, we weren't a wreck. Only ONE wine glass got shattered (no one was hurt, thank you for asking) and just three chocolate-covered strawberries were harmed in the incident. The Getty Images rep hit on ONLY TWO of my beautiful colleagues, the bartenders poured heavy-handed all night, the band sounded a step above a wedding act, and no one cried. Well, maybe one tear.

To top off the evening, the valet at the afterparty lost my coworker's swanky Mercedes (toting the awards in the trunk) for just an hour and a half. Didn't stop us from creating, and taping to his office door, a "Dude, Where's My Car" movie poster. (It was either that, or we steal his office chair and leave a valet ticket behind. We thought that may be pushing it.)

The entire company chowed on McDonald's greasy breakfast sandwiches this morning in the usual tradition, and are finally through with gloating.

At least until the press release comes out, announcing our domination to the entire industry.

Damn, it feels good to be on top.

She's No Country Cousin

This post serves a fairly selfish purpose. Only about seven people in my life will care about the contents of this blog, but I'm okay with it.

I'd like to take this opportunity to brag about my cousin Molly McNearney. Memorize the name now, trust me. She was recently promoted to Head Writer at Jimmy Kimmel Live, and in the male-dominated world of late night comedy, this is one giant feat. A success, of course, but also a speedy ride to the top. She now is queen of the jungle out there, and given that her officemates are prone to fart, burp, swear, sweat and guffaw while in brainstorming meetings, that is saying something.

If the show isn't currently set up in your Tivo, then I'd suggest you get on that. It comes on at 12:05 am here, so clearly I'm not up to see it, but rest assured I watch most of the shows in the following days. Jimmy is a riot (and much thinner in real life!), and the bits the writers dream up are ridiculous, funny, clever and culturally relevant, if not always culturally reverent.

When I was in LA in March, I even got to rub Guillermo's tummy for good luck. Jimmy's relationship with Cousin Sal has got nothing on us, babe.

Here's a photo from a skit she acted in with Pat O'Brien from "The Insider", spray-tanned orange to look like his offspring on Take Your Daughter to Work Day:


Molly is funny, charming, witty and one of the best writers I have ever experienced. Her timing is impeccable, and she can do accents like nobody's business. When she was my roommate here in Chicago, she went through all levels of classes at Second City, and even graduated from Improv Olympic with flying colors.

Here's a photo from a skit where Jimmy had "the girls" together to mourn the last "Sex and the City" episode airing:


Molly, there on the far right, with her hand firmly clasping the cosmo, is the type that has 42 irons in the fire at all times, and never really sits still. I am pretty certain she's writing a screenplay and a book as we speak. While drinking a sissy latte and scarfing a chocolate scone with the other hand.

Tina Fey—look out. Your job security may be in jeopardy.

And, Molly, please remember those that knew you "back when"...or else.

Or else I'll tell everyone I know that you:

• Can make a fierce siren noise by banging on your throat.


• Used to love to dress up as a geek and act out skits as the character "Bertha."


• Are a lightweight drinker. Or at least, you used to be.


• Locked yourself out of our apartment once a week. On a good week.


• Molested me in a photo booth once.


• Got "lessons" at our dining room table. With a candlestick.


• Are a hack at an indoor water fight. Using a iced tea pitcher IS cheating.


• Once, for a shining moment, held a golden phone.


• Impersonated the 7-Eleven cashier. Perfectly.


• Prank called our neighbors, only to listen through the walls for their reactions.


• Participated in, and possibly won, the "no shower" contest at your all-girls high school.


• Send sweet, verbose, sappy birthday cards that make me cry.


• Mocked my Dad at a Second City show while on all fours.


• Made a 6-month long pro/con list before moving to California.

Look where that pro/con list got you after all. Is the mic warmed up yet? Can I get a mic check? Miggity mic check. Congratulations, Molls. We knew you could do it. Go show those men who's boss.

I'm a dead woman when you make it big, aren't I?

Will be Burning the Outtakes

I survived. And, will have a host of photos to prove it.

We are in the midst of redesigning and restructuring our website at work and it will include a full update of the section that features all of our friendly faces, in a section cleverly called "The Lunatics"—in what I think is a reference to Clockwork Orange about how the lunatics run the asylum. Or something like that.

The bulk of the current employees are not on there now, and some of the faces that ARE on there date back to the 90s. That doesn't sound like that long ago, but frankly, I was still in high school, so I think these people have long since moved on.

So, this means videos have been recorded with some key people talking about business branding issues, and I had to suffer through that unbearably strange situation back in the fall. They are live now, so if you're really curious what I have to say, feel free to wander over there. Trust me, the work isn't worth it. Except for you, Mom. You'll probably like them. I'll decode the marketing jargon later.

My one main thought during that shoot was that I had no idea how hot it was to sit under those lights. This isn't surprising seeing as my experience to date at photo shoots has been the "client manager" role. This roughly translates to "keep the client as far from the ditsy and artistic photographer as possible while he captures the image" and "schmooze the client as much as you have to to keep them happy and forgetting the exorbitant day rate everyone around you is making."

Today, however, was the still photo shoot, and it was equally as uncomfortable. My mom tells me I'm photogenic, and by and large I feel pretty comfortable in photos taken on the weekends, but this type of setup is hard. Two huge lights, a big white screen, loud funky music to try to relax you, and four people, including the photographer, telling you that "you're doing great." Hand me a vodka tonic, and then I'll be doing great. Trust me.

Beads of sweat on the forehead aside, it didn't help that the rain came this morning, making the ladies' straightened hair a total mess. Even the stylist we hired didn't quite know what to do, and we don't have the time/budget to really fix the major issues.

Wrinkly Shirt? Check. Frizzy Hair? Check. Pale Winter Skin? Check.

Ignoring all of this, we shoot.

I smiled, tilted, angled, leaned, crossed my arms, hands on my hips, laughed my fake laugh, tossed a prop tennis ball back and forth off-screen, rolled my eyes, peered over my shoulder and leaned on my knees while one foot propped up on a stepstool ladder. The whole thing felt just shy of Glamour Shots from the mall, and trust me, I didn't go for those even when they WERE semi-cool.

Coworkers kept sliding the door open to peek, and trust me, THAT didn't help either. Dancing around—trying desperately to be casual—only resulted in eyes closed, lips pursed "dancing face" shots, and those don't exactly convey "business branding professional."

In one of the frames, towards the end, I fiddled with my hair, closed my eyes, hands in hair, inadvertently pouted my lips, and POOF! Porn shot. Bad 1983 porn, but still.

I have no immediate plans to give Kate Moss a run for her money. Modeling isn't really my thing. I like cheeseburgers and beer too much, and I am not a big fan of narcotics.

Bad dance videos or cheesy hair commercials, however? I'm in.

No. It's not me.

Makes Me Hum Lionel Richie

Isn't it strange when someone reaches out of your past, and connects with you today? Hello? Is it me you're looking for?

I have had this happen twice in the last three days, one on a social networking site, and one on this little blog (and I'm guessing this involved some fancy use of Google). One was a childhood friend and one was a former boss whom I respected and liked very much, who incidentally now lives 2 hours from here.

I can't help but ponder where I am today, how much has changed since we last spoke, and what I have learned in the years past.

It makes me want to sit up straighter, suck in my tummy, shake back my hair and clear my throat. I HAVE grown and changed a lot since I knew you, person from my past, and I am a better person for it.

Time has changed me, I'll concede.

Yes, I look older and have fine lines and wrinkles to show for it. My hair sports a few greys now, but my hairdresser is a killer colorist and I will be naturally blonde forever, dammit.

I've put in long hours at work managing many a client crisis; I have dealt with and moved on from unhealthy work situations, romantic relationships and difficult friendships. I have gone into debt, and am battling back from it. Traveling for work has taken its toll, but I'm a wiser and more efficient passenger (with premium status!) now.

My body has changed, and I treat it differently now. This includes giving in to the desires for french fries—if loving deep fried potatoes is wrong, I don't want to be right.

Of course I have learned from many mistakes, some of which I am proud of having made in the first place just to know that I could. Having few regrets, I have grown up, taken charge of my life, and have improved my status in the world, even if only visible to me.

I have acquired things, but more importantly, I now can boast ownership of a little pieces of paper that make me proud: a car title, a healthy 401(k) statement, a deed to my condo, health/dental/life insurance cards and an acceptable credit score, all of which prove (on paper at least!) that I've grown up.

Maybe I'm proving this all to myself, but it feels good to self-validate every now and then. With each season comes a new wardrobe and a new perspective. New challenges, but with that comes the accolades of triumph.

Having missed my 10-year high school reunion, and not making it "home" that often to wander the halls of the local mall hoping to spot the old boyfriend or ex-friends, and not having been the one to get married and have two beautiful children, the insecurities of looking back are far fewer just knowing that I'm moving forward.

I was voted, in the highly unscientific poll amongst my closest high school girlfriends, the most likely to have a great career, and most likely to get married first.

Well, a girl can't have everything, now can she? Unless it's on sale...

Either way, I'm happy to pick up my string-attached tin can and connect. Because, gosh darnit, you got older too, person from my past.

Dental Assault

It was a classic case of the Michigan Avenue dentist.

I spotted the fancy furniture in the lobby, and couldn't miss the wall-sized oil paintings and abstract sculptural pieces in the waiting room. Even the reception desk was spectacular.

I should have known it would be all about money.

Sitting down in the premium leather luxury reclining dental chair, I prepared myself for the usual recitations on flossing, and not brushing my teeth so hard. That I can handle. Lecture me all you want, I am still working on my flossing habit, or lackthereof, and can totally take it.

What I wasn't prepared for was the onslaught of upsell. First, the dentist suggested I get the laser teeth whitening. Then he frowned, and poked around in my mouth, only to mention that "to fix this mess in here, I think you may need Invisalign."

Uhm. Hold up.

"This mess" in here? Are we talking about the same smile that is a result of two years and thousands of dollars in 1989? Yes, I wore braces, buddy, and do NOT plan to go back there again. Taking note of the photo below, would you?!?! I know, the bangs are a bit distracting.


To this day, I have one stinking crooked-ish tooth on the bottom row, and I quite like the character it gives my face. As for the miniscule space between my front teeth, I was thinking that wearing a retainer at night would do the trick.

"But a retainer is supposed to just keep things in place, not fix major dental issues."

WHAT major dental issues? Are we seeing the same set of pearly whites? My teeth aren't exactly "summer teeth—you know, summer here and summer there." They're not just creating a smile only a mother could love. My smile happens to be the thing that I get compliments on the most. And, yes, my teeth are pretty damn white, mind you. Thanks to good genes and a little home whitening, I'm okay with it. It's not like they still look like this:


I mean me, not the pumpkin. Although he could use a little dental work...

As for the appointment, I hated every minute of it. After he led in the child-prodigy of an orthodontist who proceeded to further demolish my self-esteem, suggesting a full set of braces to correct the slippage of my once-precious teeth, I was fuming.

Steam coming out my ears mad. I was more angry at myself for letting them get to me.

Swinging my stilleto boots off the dental chair, and placing them firmly on the imported travertine tile, I realized what we had here was a scam. A game to make women feel less beautiful, and more "broken" in order to cross-sell the revenue-generating products and services. Those that AREN'T covered by insurance.

Hey Doctor—I work in marketing, and spent four years at a healthcare agency. I know your game.

So, with a flip of the hair, I'm taking this smile outside onto Michigan Avenue, back to work and to my computer where I'll research a new dentist. One whose waiting room furniture is totally paid for, and he actually practices ethical patient care.

This was a year ago. I put off finding a new dentist for so long that finally I caved and made an appointment for a cleaning at this jerk's office again. It is today at 2:00 pm. But, if he even THINKS about insulting my dental status, I'll set him straight.

Kindof like my teeth.

It's Friday and I'm in Love (with Target)

I have taken the day off today from work, solely to accomplish those personal to-do list items that you rarely get to when the weekend hits. And, the traffic to maneuver this city is so much better on a Friday than mid-day chaos on a Saturday.

I spent 2 hours (and way too much money) at Target this morning. I think I touched at least one item on every rack, and scanned each aisle, just in case. People stared at me because I was just so, well, happy. Just to be there. I'm fairly sure that one store shouldn't bring someone so much pleasure. Even the pouring rain and heavy bags couldn't damper my mood.

So, while you twitter away the last few working hours of the week, I'm off to cross things off my to-do list, begin the four loads of laundry staring at me, affix the wheels to my spanking new granny cart and switch out the seasonal wardrobes.

Before you go picturing me standing in a Gap-sized organized closet with remote controlled moving racks, please know that this process is more like this: grab the Rubbermaid totes from the creepy storage unit upstairs, unload the cute spring and summer clothes I forgot I owned, drag them back up filled with sweaters and boots, and pray the whole way down that the weather won't turn nasty again.

Because I just can't handle snow in May. Or, another trip to the storage unit before October.

Oooh! I just spotted my flip flops! A gift from God, especially after a winter where we got 75 days of snow.

Love in an Elevator

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

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

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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

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

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

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