A Day Late and Twenty Dollars Short

About two weeks ago, while I was out and about enjoying my summer weekend, I was given this: I didn't notice at the time, but clearly when I got home to do my "how much did THAT weekend cost me?" assessment, I realized the issue.

Digging through my purse, wallet and pockets, I quickly surmised that the missing half was not on my person and I had been given this half of a twenty in error. Or on purpose. Either way, I had a completely split bill, and the other half was not to be found.

I have been carrying it around with me, partly out of forgetfulness to do something about it, and partly because I didn't know WHAT to do with it. Several unethical and immoral solutions came to mind:

1. Switch it out for a good $20 in a restaurant bill booklet and hightail it off the premises as quickly as possible.


2. Try to pass it off in a stack of money at a store, tucking it in gently behind other bills of full size.


3. Attempt to buy a large Giordano's pizza with it, hiding the fragment in between the hefty driver's tip.


4. Clutch it in my fist and wave it as a "bartender flag" for quick attention and prompt service, only to shove it back inside my wallet when served.


5. Send it to my sister and tell her to buy $10 worth of gas on me.


6. Give it to the homeless man in front of Starbucks in the hopes that his dazzling smile of gratitude will be worth the deception.

Clearly, none of these options work. They're either too mean, too illegal, too cunning or too difficult to pull off.

The legal, government-approved solutions were far less entertaining. I knew that I could go to the bank and see what they'd say. One idea was to try to claim that the ATM spit it out in a stack of other twenties, but the audience to whom I put this idea immediately shot that one down, saying that the ATM is a computer and computers don't make mistakes like that.

For fear of having the Chase Bank representative humiliatingly catch me in that twisted and unreasonable web of deception, I went for the real truth. Ok, so the doctored truth.

Yesterday, I walked over to the branch near my office, and planned to approach the friendly male teller. I smiled, shook my hair, and sashayed up to the counter, and put the mangled bill on the desktop in front of him. I announced, "I just got this as change, and when I realized it, the store told me to come into the bank, that there was nothing they could do." Brilliant smile, hair shake, eyelash bat.

He snickered, and said, "Man, that sucks," and followed up his honest response with, "Where did you say this happened?" I had to lie here, since it was two weeks ago and I have no freaking idea.

"Walgreens," I stated firmly. Serves 'em right for hiring lousy customer service reps over there at my local drugstore. He smiled (the knowing smile of someone who's been there) and said, "I'm sorry, but since this is clearly not more than 50% of the bill, we can't exchange it for you, much as I'd like to be able to. You'll have to visit this site for instructions on what to do."

Okaaay.

The government. The U.S. Treasury. Not exactly known for their flexible negotiating or understanding sympathetic personalities.

The website basically states that if it is a "mutilated currency" I can send it in by registered mail and see if they can refund it. The kicker is this: the only way it is legally exhangable for a new bill is if it is clear that the other half is destroyed. Basically, they don't want to pay you for a $20 if someone else out there could potentially claim that, too. URGH.

So, I think I'm screwed, and out $20. Which is 10 morning coffees, 3 lunchtime salads, 1 cute shirt at XXI, two pairs of earrings at Target or 4.5 gallons of gas. Depending on how I would have spent it. I'm voting on the caffeinated choice.

Blah. Should I reconsider options 1-3?

Side note for the curious: when I scanned this on our printer, and tried to open the PDF in Photoshop to resave it as a JPEG to upload it here, immediately I got a Photoshop message box indicating that it is illegal to print banknotes and the print function was therefore disabled. Interestingly smart for a computer program. Maybe that was true about the ATM after all?

A Coke and a Smile

After watching hours and hours of the Olympic coverage the past week, I have noticed and enjoyed several cultural differences between how all of the countries handle the pressure, the publicity, the wins and the losses.

One thing is clear: the smile is universal.

Everyone has different styles of congratulating or consoling their teammates—be it the Chinese version of the double high-five (very stiff and tent-like), or the Russian version of the embrace (a rather formal hug), or the European countries' version of the double cheek kiss, or the American version of the fist pump (we saw Phelps doing this all week)—but one thing unites them all.

The smile.

When the competitor learns they are in the lead, or is proud of the performance they've just delivered, the smile tells it all.

Some spread slowly across the face of the athlete and some smiles simply burst to the surface and radiate pure joy. Some can hardly be detected even with a camera close-up and some are visible from across the court/field/gym/arena. But, when all is said and done, the smile is the one gesture that seemingly links the entire world.

Isn't it gratifying to know that in a world of conflict, pain, upheaval and fear that something as simple as some facial muscles moving can give you goose bumps and restore your faith in humanity?

I feel like a Coke commercial.

Home State Shame?

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

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

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

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

See his latest stabs:

Georgia woman collects outhouses.

Georgia men claim hairy, frozen corpse is Bigfoot.

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

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

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

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

Oh. Dear. God.

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

You Drive the Wagon, I'll Ride Shotgun

With the non-stop coverage of the Olympics on television, and the water cooler talk everywhere focused on Michael Phelps Mania, it is hard not to at least be sensitive to, or tuned into, the madness and excitement that is the Olympics in Beijing.

Two weeks ago 90% of the American population probably couldn't name two swimmers, and now the whole country is signing up for swim team and hankering to own a Speedo. My red, bleary eyes are a dead giveaway that I've been staying up way too late to catch the action.

A moment of reflection is due, however, for all of the other bandwagons I've willingly climbed up on, and the few I've deftly managed to avoid.

Bandwagons I've Joined:

College Football - This is not one I'm ashamed of. Despite not having grown up a Dawgs fan (my parents weren't southern, and I only got turned onto it in high school), when you take one look at an SEC tailgate, with the Dawgs gear out in full glory, you fall instantly in love. I'm not apologizing for this one, and keep my Official Bandwagon Member Certification in my top drawer. Go Dawgs!

iPods - Embarrassingly, I still tote around the first generation iPod. It's vintage! And, it is by today's standards, enormous and weighs about 10 lbs. The battery won't hold a charge but it plays great if it is plugged into a dock or my car's adapter. And, what kind of commuter would I be without those clever little white earbud headphones?

The Cubs - I live 4 blocks from Wrigley Field and therefore it would be illegal not to like them, and all kidding aside, those Kosher hot dogs are just too damn delicious.

The Bears - Who doesn't like sitting outside in the wet snowy icy rain when it is 14 degrees outside? And talking smack about our own (lame) quarterback?

The Bulls - I tried. the games are pretty boring these days, and the United Center is just too hard to get home from. Raise your hand if you couldn't give a damn about a league of thugs who make too much money and act like idiots off the court? However, buy me a few $8 beers and spring for the ticket, and I'm in.

Gyms - Egad. I tried it for a few years here and realized that just paying the $60 monthly fee doesn't make you lose weight. If only. I'm pretty sure that my checkbook was the only thing getting any skinner during those long and torturous years of bandwagon-ness.

Sororities - I did it. So sue me. I also wore pearls and jean jackets, date party t-shirts and frat party sweatshirts. Forgive me for my sins, but it sure was one helluva way to meet people at a huge school. Sorority Rush was one giant sanctioned bandwagon, wasn't it?

Halloween - Despite looking hideous most years, I have dutifully concocted a silly costume and tromped all over town like an oversized (and overserved) child. It was much more fun than that a the time, but maybe that was the vodka talking?

Vintage Posters - You know the ones. Yes you do. Turn around in your living room and you'll likely see it, touting a wine or a European destination. They quickly became the rage in about 2000, and I have a huge one in my dining room. I love it, but it isn't that clever when everyone else has one, too.

Hair - Where do I begin? I permed it in elementary school (Lord help me). I teased and sprayed my bangs in middle school. I hot-rolled my hair every morning before high school, and wore it long because that's what the popular girls did. I got to college and in a pseudo-rebellious move, I cut it all off (oooh wasn't I brave?). Then, when I accidentally ended up with a mullet, I started growing it back out. then I moved to Chicago and realized I could use a shorter 'do to seem older in business meetings. Cut it to my chin. Then realized (and was told a former not-so-tactful colleague as much) that I looked better with it long. It's been long since. Should the trend swing back short, I sure hope I miss out. Because I'm clearly not ready (or in the station of life) for the Mom Haircut just yet.

Leather Pants - I think it is still too soon to discuss this one. I'm pretty emotionally scarred by the memories (and the photographic evidence), but at least I never had a Ross Gellar experience while wearing (or removing) them.

Politics - Not as much of a bandwagon-fan there, but inspired by what this election offers. Change is good, and needed, so I'm game. If the wagon makes young people vote, I'll drive.

Blackberry - I confess. Mine is not a Blackberry, but a Blackjack. Yet I'm addicted just the same.

Thongs - Yes. Underwear. I said it. And, I'm admitting it. I turned from a thong-hater, to a swears-by-it thong wearer. Too much information? I know. But, if you give the Hanky Panky brand a try, and can get a second mortgage to cover it, buy some. You'll thank me.

Oversized Shades - I feel a bit like Paris or Nicole, but in my huge sunglasses, I look cool.

Going Green - I recycle. Isn't that enough? No. I know. But I'm working on it. I have just been asked to participate in an interactive marketing program for the household brand method, so I'm gonna up my participation in the green movement. How globally conscious of me.

Facebook - Not afraid to announce that I love it. I'm not a creepy stalker, or a pedophile, or a mom with four gorgeous kids on display. Just your average user who likes to see how people are, who got married to whom, and where everyone lives. Ok, and stalk the occasional ex. Isn't that part of it?

Mac Revolution - Maybe "revolution" gives it too much credit, but I do love my Mac. And, I swear I'll never own a PC again. And the store? So fun and gadgety.

Harry Potter - While I wasn't the fan that was in the Border's Bookstore at midnight, I did read the first three or four, and actually was quite surprised at how much fun they were to read. Until I got publicly ridiculed by a mother to her six-year old on the bus one day for "reading a kid's book." I lost interest shortly thereafter. Coincidence?

Jewelry - Slap bracelets, jelly bracelets, chandelier earrings, chunky plastic necklaces, fake diamond studs, Swatch watches, braided ribbon barrettes, grosgrain ribbons in our hair, scarves in the summer, stone jewelry, turquoise jewelry, etc. I could keep going. I know that most of these are trends in fashion (brief, painful and fleeting) but they seem like a bandwagon at the time. I couldn't swing a cat outside on Michigan Avenue right now without knocking over at least a dozen sporting the latest jewelry or fashion bandwagons.

Weddings & Babies - I fully admit this isn't a bandwagon, but given the number of bridal showers, bachelorette parties, weddings, engagement parties and baby showers I've been to, and the sheer volume of announcements and invitations littering my stainless steel fridge, I'd have to say that something's in the water. I'm going thirsty for now.

Stainless Steel Appliances - Didn't occur to me until I wrote the above, but its true. I'm a convert and cringe a little when I think of the pre-renovation brown fridge and pink stove. Shudder.

Chicago - You'd think I was the president of the tourism office here, I love this place so much. I think that is a healthy addiction, no? I am pretty sure the city loves me back. Besides those few parking tickets...

Blogging - This one is clear. But you're here, aren't you? And still having fun? I'm good enough, smart enough and funny enough? And, gosh darnit, people like me? (Maybe add a comment here just to confirm my suspicions that someone other than my mom, sister and Jenny are reading me daily).


Bandwagons I've Avoided:

Footwear - Those Greek lace-up sandals look painful, cowboy boots and skirts just look ridiculous. Oh, and if you live in L.A.? UGGs aren't for you. Personally, I always thought they were hideous (and sortof still do), but then I tried on my friend Brenna's and dear God in heaven I have to own some. At least the weather here warrants the ugliness.

Jeans - Let's call a spade a spade. Those high-waisted things are atrocious - don't those girls own a mirror? I don't need anything accentuating my girl-pooch, or drawing attention to my crotch.

Alternative Medicine - Short of a pleasant massage, I've never been treated in anything resembling Eastern Medicine. I've not tried cupping (too vain), herbal supplements (too cheap), chiropractic care (too skeptical), acupuncture (too afraid) or those God-awful fish that eat the dead human flesh on your feet (too disgusted).

Tattoos - We've already covered how this is not my thing. I'm just ever so glad that I was strong enough not to cave in high school.

Belly button piercings - Short of almost getting dragged into it in Amsterdam (I blame Mandi and the 12 beers), I didn't succumb to the pressure. My stomach is so glad - I'd probably have to dig it out and have it surgically removed from the gentle rolls I'm gathering down there now, and that's not sexy one bit.

Hybrids - Mostly because I'm fond of my Jeep Liberty, and far too lazy to sell the thing. It's possible that I'll convert after this one is paid off, or when gas prices go to $10 a gallon. At that point I'll have no choice. (I do have a bike in case you're wondering, but I'm far too wimpy to bike to work).

What other bandwagons have you jumped aboard, or deftly avoided? That's all I can think of.

Maybe I'm a joiner, not a rebel?

I know, I know. Hide your surprise.

Time is of the Essence

There seems to be one unifying, constant, ever-present plane-leveler in the giant game of life.

Time.

We can likely all agree on several things about the concept of time:

• There never is enough time in a day.


• Even if you had more, you'd still find a way to waste time.


• People have a tendency to procrastinate to fill a space of time to complete a given task.


• No one can stop time, despite surgical and cosmetic efforts to mask the results of it.


• Try as you may, sometimes you misjudge the amount of time it takes to get somewhere, and you're just not on time.


• Time on the weekends moves at mach speed, where a Tuesday after lunch during a boring day at the office can stretch out for eternity.


• Time heals. Not everything, but does a pretty good job at helping you move on.


• We all age. Period.


• Time takes its toll, on relationships, careers, bodies, homes, cars and people.


• Death and taxes. Both are unavoidable, and both will hit you in due time.


• Time flies when you're having fun; cliched, but true.

I have been thinking a lot about time lately, due to several factors:

Summer
Because of the short span of summer in Chicago, it all feels like a race against time. I have 'summer guilt' if I spend a sunny Saturday inside rather than outside enjoying the many activities this city offers. Self-inflicted guilt, but real nonetheless. There aren't enough Saturdays in the three short months of this glorious stretch of weather, and the feeling of the summer slipping away that grips me as we approach mid-August is tangible.

Ask any Chicagoan—they know exactly what I mean. I'm pretty sure if we could, we'd all add at least one more month to summer, giving us more precious time to lay on North Avenue Beach, wander Millennium Park and stare at The Bean's reflection of the skyline, leisurely shop the boutiques along Armitage Avenue, dine al fresco at any number of sidewalk cafes that spring up in the summer, catch an old movie classic in Grant Park, enjoy a concert under the stars on a picnic blanket at Ravinia, ooh and aah at the Navy Pier fireworks from land or the lake, leave town for a delicious weekend on the shores in Michigan, attend that perfect outdoor wedding, or any other fabulous outdoor summer treats.

Reunions
My younger sister just had her 10-year high school reunion in Atlanta. How did time go so fast that my little sister, with whom I shared a childhood, a car, school memories, a sorority and post-college experiences, get old enough that she's celebrating TEN YEARS out of high school?

While looking at her photos, I realized that time can also work wonders. Some good, some bad. Those popular girls? Still cute, but not earth shatteringly so, anymore. The dorks? Turned out that they were pretty cool folks and have made great successes out of themselves. The "fast" crowd? They're all burned out. The skinny girls? Put on weight. The fat girls? Most lost it. Things all tend to even themselves out. I was impressed and amazed how great her whole group looked—some with children, some with husbands, some with girl/boyfriends, but all with big smiles. I think they collectively realize that time has changed them, but mostly for the better.

Networks
As with the above, the incredibly addictive spread of the social networking sites has proven yet one more thing about time to me. Time changes people, and levels out the playing field quite a bit. It appears that cliques from high school still exist to some degree, but the rules are more flexible, the edges of the circle are blurry and the groups are all interchangeable.

Basically, people are all anxious to see how everyone has enjoyed/spent the time since high school when we were all young, naive and insecure. Life has been good to most of the people I've reconnected with, and I'm happy to see how positively time has treated them. I do, on one hand, feel like I blinked twice and all these years have flown by. I'm guessing it wasn't quite that fast, but who's to say.

Loss
Two people in my office have recently lost their mothers, one due to age and one who succumbed sadly to cancer at far too young of an age. It chokes me up to even think about what I would do in this situation, and how I would even manage to get out of bed. Not just right after the death, but for a long time afterwards. I can't fathom, but must believe that the human spirit triumphs and keeps you going. Time heals, but I must believe that that loss is never very far from your mind and your heart.

My mom lost her mother when I was just eight months old, when my mom was just 26, and I can't imagine. For quite some time I was too young to comprehend what this would mean, and how I'd feel, but now, as a young woman in my own right, it is impossible for me to think about losing someone so close to you without having them be in your thoughts every day. I hope that time begins to soften the blow of loss, even if it can never fully erase it.

Relationships
As I mentioned in my post about faith, time has a serious affect on relationships, of the romantic and platonic nature. Time can be a blessing or a curse, sometimes both at the same time. Friendships can fizzle out over time, those bonds that you thought were indestructible, those friends with whom you shared everything, proved to be just a moment in time. Those friends were there to be a part of your life, and then they're gone.

On the flip-side, those friendships that you made very young, like my Posse, still hold true, and the strength of the bond grows even more powerful with time on its side. These are the friends that can go six months and not talk, and when they do, it is as if no time has passed at all. I treasure that feeling.

My parents celebrated 35 years of marriage on Monday, and it is amazing to them how fast that has gone by. My mom always says that she looks in the mirror with the mind of a 25 year old and has a moment of shock and disbelief when the woman that is her now looks back at her. I can already feel her pain—seeing old high school photos of me recently made me realize that time has changed me, too, and sometimes I'm surprised by just how much.

Time to Get to the Point
So, the lessons to me are simple:

Enjoy the time I have. Life is short, change is inevitable and it is up to me to make the most of my time here. Whether that is to mean my time in Chicago (I may not be here forever), the time in my (relative) youth, my time with friends and family and my time on Earth.

I also need to be patient. Rest assured that time will bring with it the desired events, the experiences I crave and the joys I anticipate. I'm not missing out because my schedule isn't the same as the next gal's. Time is out of my hands and I should enjoy today and stop thinking about tomorrow. As the refrain goes in RENT, there really is "no day but today."

Thank you, Father Time. I still believe you know best.

(Though I wouldn't turn down an extra month of summer in Chicago).

Men vs. Women: The Camping Edition

Harassing Indians at Chippewa Landing
I've decided that a weekend camping with mostly couples is one way to psychoanalyze how different men and women are on so many levels. (Male readers, don't go getting defensive now. This is all in good fun.)

Don't go jumping to conclusions either. The weekend was great, the people were amazing, the location was spectacular, my packing list was perfect, and the entire experience lived up to every promise that had been made about it. Without a doubt or hesitation, I would go back again (with the same people!) tomorrow if I could.

However...I would be remiss if I didn't comment on this one aspect.

NEWSFLASH (at least to me):
Men and women are pretty different and handle most tasks in a totally opposite manner.

EXHIBIT A:
We arrived at the campsite on Friday afternoon, and several of the people were already there and were set up (tents up, coolers out, chairs set around fire, etc.) and were already in "happy hour" mode. Despite the fact that it was only in the 3 o'clock hour. We were on vacation!

As soon as my car full arrived, I began to unload the stuff (SO MUCH STUFF) and began to logically and in an organized fashion pull stuff out, set in on the ground, and begin the process of "setting up camp."

For me, this was no different than moving day. I want to do as much as I am physically and humanly able to the first day, right away, so it feels like home as quickly as possible.

Camp was no different. This meant setting up the tent, putting on the rain fly, inflating the air mattress (I know, cheaters), making the bed, moving all of our bags into the tent, and getting things generally organized in there.

Then, I wanted to deal with the food. Pull coolers over to the camp kitchen, put the dinnerware and serving-ware out on picnic table, put paper products in appropriate areas (kitchen, outhouse, you know the drill), etc.

Finally, I envisioned us setting up our folding chairs around the fire (in a nice orderly circle) and grabbing a beer to relax and unwind. I could see myself really kicking back, knowing that the work was all finished, long before nightfall, dinner or the onset of our drunk stupors.

THEN I would relax and have a beer.

Here is where men and women differ.

I turn around, with both hands full of stuff, trudging across camp back and forth (finally got wise and backed the car up closer) and spotted my two male counterparts doing just the opposite.

They were drinking beer. Standing around. Totally idle. Chatting with everyone. Not working at all. Too soon! We're not ready!

I took a deep breath and kept on my way. It was not that big of a deal. I'd handle it myself. I'm domestic, I am powerful, I can do this. On my own. Without your help. Umm...this is heavy. I'm sweating. I only have two hands. I can't reach that alone. I need help already. I'm thirsty too, damn it!

GET OVER HERE AND HELP ME!

Yeah, it didn't go quite like that, and most of the above OCD ramblings were in my head, and not said out loud, so I'm not a total crazy. But, I must admit, that it just struck me as funny how different we are. The other girls in the group concurred—their approach was get unpacked and set up first, THEN relax.

SUV: Some Ungodly Volume (of junk)
EXHIBIT B:
When setting up the incredibly enormous and fairly complicated 6-man tent, my approach was to lay the whole thing out, get my bearings, choose the appropriate poles, and work my way around the tent and get it together in an organized way.

The two guys wanted to just jab the bendy poles in wherever and see what stuck. Then fix it if it fell over. They were happy to be in charge of the big giant heavy hammer that was used to drive the stakes into the ground, but when it came to deciphering the tent poles (sans instructions), they were more of the "just shove 'em in!" philosophy.

The tent ended up going up smoothly, and there was no bendy-pole-to-the-eye injuries to report.

Jessica and I did a great job at it, thank you very much.

Jess and I working on the tent, Brett "helping"
EXHIBIT C:
Men are hungry most of the time. On this camping trip, they were holding beers in one hand for 99% of the time that we were awake, and the other hand was often used to swat a mosquito or pry open a plastic container with a rainbow-colored Jello shot inside. They were BUSY.

Women, however, were also hungry at the appropriate times. You know, like dinner. When the hunger struck, we began to move through the process of getting out of the boxes/bins/trunks the necessary items (read: buns, burgers/brats, cheese, chips, pasta salad, potato salad, condiments, plates, plastic silverware and cookies).

Men, well, they sat there.

Dinner was served, and enjoyed by all. I'd bet that 7/8 of the men on the trip don't even remember how the meal got to the table, or where it came from, but they could tell you how good it tasted and how quickly it was devoured.

How's the brat, Brett?
EXHIBIT D:
Saturday's activities were all about canoeing. Waking up to rain, we were not pleased with the sky's gray hues, but soldiered on. Boarded a school bus and made it to the river. Two by two we climbed into enormous metal canoes (not so smart immediately following a storm, in retrospect) and pushed off the landing.

Primarily, the men were in the back (the steering) and the women were in the front (the power). The back person does most of the strategic maneuvers, and the front person does most of the rowing for speed. I'm not sure WHY we had it set up with me in the front and Brett in the back, but we did. As did most of the other couples.

Brett and I are rookie canoers. And by rookie, I really mean totally clueless and partially terrified. The weather wasn't all that warm, and even after the rain stopped, we had no desire to accidentally tip into the Manistee River.

Nonewhatsoeverthankyouverymuch.

So, we moved along the river at a turtle pace, out rowed by everyone in our group (the other 8 canoes) and were quickly left to our own devices at the back of the pack, running into trees, bumping into rocks and heading straight for each bank. Again and again.

Seated in the front, I was quickly advised (read; told under no circumstances should I touch the thing) not to paddle. That he'd take care of it. So I sat like a lame duck.

I gently tried (I promise, it was not controlling, bossy nagging!) to impart the few quick over-the-river lessons that the other guys had shared as we boarded, but they were not really welcome. HE'S GOT IT.

Okaaaay.

And into another tree we went.

I then realize, as I was biting my tongue, holding my oar dead in my lap, and dodging the 13th branch thus far, that this was no different than driving a car. Men want to figure it out, and women want to stop to ask directions. Just different approaches.

Yes, we finally got caught up, but only after getting "rescued" off an enormous log submerged just below the surface (onto which we proceeded to get ourselves stuck and rock back and forth like a see-saw), and re-joined the group.

My side of the story was this: we sucked, and our relationship may not have withstood the pressures for five hours; every girl in the group nodded, laughing, stating that their first time canoeing with their boyfriend/husband was just the same.

His side of the story was this: it wasn't fun, and he was cursing at the river, not at me (which may have been true, but who was there to translate!?) and that it wasn't that bad, and that we would have gotten the hang of it eventually.

Like, on Tuesday. (in my estimation)

Despite the early challenges, we barged up with the rest of the canoes with bungee cords, and proceeded to have a wonderful day of it on the river, drinking beer, chewing Jello shots and laughing with everyone.

And, we never tipped. And, we never discussed the first 15 minutes on the river again.

I'm wise enough not to bring THAT one up.

What happens on the river...
CONCLUSION:
So, despite our companionship, love and laughter, it truly is amazing that men and women get along at all. We just function so differently, think differently, react differently and approach life differently.

I should probably get used to the differences and find a way to laugh at them. While drinking. Because everything is funnier with a beer. And, then you have a prop to throw at the male in question should the need arise.

I'm just saying.

Part of the male/female group on the way out of town

Stirs the Soul

In honor of the Olympics starting today in China, I want to share this video. Gives you goosebumps, doesn't it?



“MAKE NO SMALL PLANS”

This is a city that reversed the flow of a river. A city that rose from the Great Fire of 1871. A city that works, but also a city that plays…with world-class festivals, museums, sports teams and more.

Chicago has always been associated with fire.

This time, it would be at the end of an Olympic torch…

Into the (Michigan) Wild

I'm heading north back to Michigan tonight to go camping for the weekend. We'll be up in Manton, Michigan (where?) about 5 hours from Chicago. And, I'll be canoeing, for the first time ever, down the Manistee River on Saturday. Can you believe it? I've never done that.

Yes, I'm going back to Michigan yet again. At this point my car can find itself over the skyway and onto 94, so the drive should be a breeze.

The last time I went camping I am pretty sure I had braces. Or hair sprayed bangs. Either way, it has been awhile. As an adult, things are different now. I'm a little higher maintenance, a little more prepared and a little more thoughtful about what I bring.

So...the camping packing checklist went as follows:

• college dorm comforter because I don't own a sleeping bag and can't justify $300 for one, clearly


• sheets and a pillow/pillowcase from a matching third tier sheet set, because they can't clash


• handtowel, washcloth and a beachtowel, which unfortunately, doesn't go with the others


• plastic serving things, plates, silverware, etc. for all of that fancy on-the-grill foods we're cookin'


• bug spray, citronella bucket candles and itch relief (have you ever been to Michigan in the summer?)


• fabric headbands, my Cubs hat and a hankerchief because I look really bad the second day, and even worse the third


• a giant, 6-person, borrowed tent with no instructions, only a color photo on the carrying case; this should be the highlight of the trip


• a flashlight, which has been getting some use lately with the lightning and storms in Chicago; forgot the extra batteries which renders it hardly useful


• sunscreen in varying superpowers, if only to protect the fierce strapless-dress-worthy tan I've built this summer


• paper towels, toilet paper, kleenex, handi-wipes and Charmin wipes, because apparently all I'm going to be doing is wiping something


• deodorant, because I've finally admitted that I do more than glisten, I sweat


• snacks, snacks and more snacks because there's no reason to starve


• water bottles, which will likely get neglected due to my affinity for its better-looking cousin, beer


• enormous hard plastic cooler on wheels and soft-sided cooler for canoe trip because beer is more important than anything else I'm packing

That's the highlights. As I mentioned, the tent-up-putting could be the single-most hilarious event I've endured this summer. I will be sure to video capture it for you. Which, incidentally, could get me out of the actual process of constructing the vinyl monster. We'll see.

For now, please pray that there are no snakes in the river, no raccoons in my tent, no rogue wild livin-off-the-land crazies in our campground and no serious gas pump hikes in Michigan.

And, God please grant me buckets of patience and marginally less greasy hair for the weekend.

Amen.

Our Cup Runneth

I have told this story (both live and here) many times, but I FINALLY found the photos to accompany the tale. Monica, this one's for you.

Enjoy.

The year was 2001. I had lived in Chicago just over 12 months and had a pretty active and fun social calendar. Each November, we were invited to a Flippy-Cup Tournament hosted by a friend of my roommate's, and there were big cash prizes. The teams were five people deep, and each person had to be dressed in costume and participating.

If you never went to college, are over the age of 45 or have been stationed on a submarine or living under a rock, I'll explain the rules. Flippy-Cup is a drinking game where each team lines one side of a banquet table. Each person has a plastic cup in front of them, and for each turn, the cub is filled with nasty, sometimes hot, beer. Upon "go," the first person on each side chugs their portion of beer, and then sets the cup on the edge of the table, upright and empty, and then uses one hand to "flip" the cup upside down landing on the table. When that task is complete, it is now the next person's turn, and so on. The team who has successfully chugged the beer and flipped the cups over first wins.

At this particular party, the game was set up into a tournament, with brackets built like those used in NCAA basketball, leading down to one champion team of cup flippers (and beer chuggers, quite frankly).

Even more fun, this party had clever hostesses. Held long after Halloween, they instituted the costume rule. And, the costumes, and therefore the party, was always themed around a funny angle.

One year it was "come as your favorite holiday" and we went as Ash Wednesday (two priests and three Catholic school girls all with ashes on our forehead), and one year it was "come as your favorite acronym." As a wordsmith and a lover of all things costumed, I was excited.

My team decided (upon a stroke of commuting-inspired brilliance by none other than moi) to dress up as the CTA. Perfect!

Then it was time to address the costumes. Never one to shy away from going all out, we began the brainstorming, and the tasks began.

With loads of commuting experience, the CTA was an easy one to define. You consistently have a good mix of stereotypes present at any given point in time.

And, of course, you need someone in charge. So, we assigned our friend Saneel the task of driving the bus. Yes, we were going to be the CTA as exemplified by a transit bus. The cast of characters included:

The Harried Bus Driver
Saneel happily donned the full outfit we constructed for him out of Salvation Army finds and Home Depot projects. He sported fingerless navy wool driving gloves; an official City of Chicago CTA hat; navy wool dress pants, a light blue dress shirt and a navy wool sweater with the official CTA patches and the City of Chicago flag. (That was interesting as I sat up front on the bus and tried to reproduce on a sketchpad the exact look of the CTA logo patches!) And of course, he toted with him at all times a portable, yet oversized steering wheel made of a plastic tube wrapped in black duct tape. Brilliant!

The Curious Tourist
Erin volunteered to serve as our resident non-resident. She epitomized the Chicago tourist in a backpack-toting, map-reading, Chicago shirt-wearing, American-flag-bearing getup. She wore her transit cards in a plastic case on a lanyard around her neck, and generally looked lost wherever she was. She asked a lot of questions, and never knew which stop was hers.

The Snappy Executive
As you may have guessed, I was the corporate executive commuter. I wore my finest black skirt suit, panty hose, silk shirt and black high heels. I carried a newspaper and a Starbucks coffee cup (filled with beer, of course) and had an iPod attached to my ear most of the time that my phone wasn't there. Not the most exciting character, but a stereotype that deserved representation all the same.

The Elderly Shopper
Jill served as our grey-haired, well-heeled, old-monied shopper, and wore a wool blazer, dress pants, high heels and a gold broach. She spray-dyed her silky brown hair to a grey misty shade, and wore tortoise shell glasses to complete the transformation. Of course, she toted shopping bags from all of Michigan Avenue's finest.

The Confused Homeless
True to form, our comedienne Molly agreed to play the part of the angry, confused and probably intoxicated homeless person. I know, I know. Totally offensive. But, board one bus in Chicago and tell me that you don't see at least one of these Mollys seated up front. She fit the part with multiple, unwashed and un-matching layers of clothing, messy hair, a mangled Streetwise and a wet crotch. She brown-bagged it with a 40-oz bottle of beer inside. Colt 45, probably. In character, she hollered, acted strangely, sang to herself and simply acted out-of-sorts.

The Brilliant Props
The kicker is this: we even had the bus bar. All five of us cruised around the party while grasping desperately to the shower curtain turned bus rod with silver duct tape, hanging on and swaying as if the bus were truly in motion. We only came to a complete stop when Saneel, the driver, shouted off the "next stop, Chestnut!"

Proof, in all of its pre-party and post-party glory, is posted below.

Team CTA, L to R: Colleen, Erin, Molly, Jill and Captain Saneel
The CTA, apparently breaking down toward the end of the night.
It made going to the bathroom or the bar a bit challenging, but we definitely attracted some attention as the CTA is known to do. And, clearly, the longer we were in motion, the more outrageous the stories became. Which, as evidenced by many of my posts herein, is also true about the CTA.

How we didn't win that contest is totally beyond me.

75,000 is a Crowd

Attending all three days of Lollapalooza just wasn't in my plans this year. I decided a one-day pass was enough, and I think I made a good decision. I am just not that into Rage Against the Machine or Nine Inch Nails, and those were the headliner bands for Saturday and Sunday. I know, I know. Don't judge my taste. I'm just a little "softer" than that.

Friday, however, boasted a great lineup, so my friend Katie and I walked down there after leaving work early at about 3. Standing in line at the box office (since they'd never emailed me my ticket), we just melted, sweltered and waited. And waited.

We finally got in, and I bought the cold beer that I'd promised Katie for her patience, and we planted ourselves on the ground near the Playstation stage to see Cat Power perform. The Black Keys were just finishing up behind us, and the crowd was beginning to surge our way. We secured our ground space, and sent the requisite text messages to our friends onsite to see if they could/would find us, rather than us finding them.

They did, and we kicked off a great afternoon of really cool music. I must admit, however, that I made several observations while there, and am happy to share them with you. Maybe we can discuss?

Observations from a People Watcher

1. Tattoos.
What is up with the tattoos? Our entire generation is covered in them, and I just don't get it. I'm all for freedom of expression, and personal creativity, and generally showing off your personality, but with INK? On your skin? It just doesn't do it for me.

I feel like I am the exception these days because I don't have a Chinese character inked on my lower back, or a four-leaf clover hidden on my hip, or a butterfly by my ankle, or a sunshine on the nape of my neck. Even girls that don't look like they'd be covered, are. And don't get me started on the tats the guys are sporting! I felt like I was standing in a NBA locker room.

I only wonder...what will we look like as octogenarians in the nursing homes, when these tattoos start to sag, wrinkle and fade?

2. Kids.
I am torn on this one. I saw several young people holding kids, or with kids riding on their shoulders above the crowds. The sweaty, feisty, fun-loving crowds of people drinking heavily, smoking even more and toking quite a bit. What I'm torn about is this: are those the really cool parents who are raising kids that will enjoy life's action? Or should those kids have been left at home with a babysitter engaging them in more age-appropriate activities?

I can't decide. Part of me thinks it is super cool to expose children to all types of people, music, learnings and life's ups and downs, many of which can be seen and experienced in a crowd like that. But all the noise? And smoke? And swearing?

That part I'm not so sure about. But they sure will be tougher when they get to kindergarten. When they turn up their nose at Sesame Street in favor of Radiohead, though, I'm pretty sure that their teacher won't appreciate their musical influences.

3. Sweating.
I always claim, as a G.R.I.T.S. (Girl Raised in the South) that I don't sweat, I glisten.

That is just a bold-faced lie. Friday's high temps reached past 90, and it was just plain sticky. Everyone was sweating instantly, and it just didn't quit. Any hope of being cute, or well made-up, or with coiffed hair, was just shot.

It was hot, and I was sweating. There, I said it.

4. Beer.
This one goes unsaid, but I have to say it anyway. When it is hot, and you are sweating (see #3), beer just tastes GOOD. And better than it ever has before.

Paying $5 for a plastic cup of it, 30% of which will be spilled by some drunk reveler on your way back to your group, however, isn't so fun.

But, when the deliciousness of the cold beverage hits your lips, you forget that your legs are covered in the sticky substance and just guzzle away. Because then at least you don't notice the crowd-sludge down there, or quite frankly, your legs much at all.

5. Live.
Doesn't everyone sound much better live than you'd expect them to? I even enjoyed some random bands that I normally wouldn't tune in to. Maybe it is the noise, or the crowd's energy, or the aforementioned beer (see #4), but I just like live music.

The louder the band, the better the experience. And isn't that most of the point?

Or maybe the crowds just drown out those bands that aren't so good, or whose singer is overly digitized in the sound studio because they can't carry a tune, but the drums and the guitar and the other instruments make it all sound ok.

6. Service.
Can I just put a call out to all people who work in Customer Service positions?

If you hate people, can't stand talking to strangers, and are totally unhappy with life, then maybe a customer-facing job isn't for you?

Just my two cents.

7. Karma
If you read Friday's post, you know that I'm angling for a little good karma to swing back my way.

Which is precisely why, when I saw a stranded cell phone on the ground as we left the show Friday night, I picked it up. I answered the next call, and realized that the owner was desperately in search of it. Dreaming of big rewards (or at least a good Thank You hug), I agreed to take it home and return it (with Brett) on Saturday to the Lost & Found tent. I promised I wouldn't sell it, throw it away, or give it to anyone else.

I didn't even get a rousing Thank You on the phone on Saturday when we spoke. Maybe the healthy deposit in the good karma bank is thanks enough?

8. Dancing.
I think I figured this one out in 7th grade at a boy-girl party, but it is still true.

It is really fun to slow dance to music with a cute (taller than you!) boy dancing behind you with his hands around your waist.

Makes even the sweatiest (see #3), drunkest (see #4), tattoo-free (see #1) girl feel special.

9. Standards.
As I discovered when I backpacked across Europe nearly 10 years ago, when you're hot, tired and need a rest, you'll just sit down anywhere.

In total disregard for my outfit, my cleanliness or my safety, I found that on Friday, in the midst of 75,000 people, would just cop a squat wherever my heart desired.

I didn't even lose a hand or get kicked in the head. Now isn't that great?

10. Energy.
There is just something so very special about the energy of Chicago in the summer.

Everyone knows it, everyone feels it, and everyone contributes to it. The crowds are literally humming with the good vibes of great weather, and smiles grace everyone's faces. This could have something to do with the $5 beers (see #4), but I'll go with a more positive spin.

I'm guessing this is why Lollapalooza isn't hosted in January? Oh, that and the threat of frostbite, but I'm going with the increased summertime energy.

11. Skyline.
Not that I needed convincing, but now I'm literally sold all-in on the fact that the Chicago skyline is the best in the country.

Lit up at night, sparkling through the light clouds, the skyline makes you feel small enough to respect the city, and big enough to feel a part of it all.

I do wonder, though, are those cleaning crews leaving all the lights on, or do people in a big city really work that much?

12. Mob.
No, not the mob that Chicago used to be known for, this observation is less Italian, less black-leather-jacket-wearing and doesn't drive a Cadillac.

This mob is the one that will follow each other into any line, for any reason, without question. Oh, a line? Great, I'm in. What am I waiting for? Who knows—these people were all doing it! I'm standing here and maybe when I get to the front of it, I'll figure out what it is for.

Even when the signs hanging above their heads indicated otherwise, people will stand in the wrong line only to feign ignorance (or annoyance at their own stupidity) after the service person indicates they're in the wrong place.

But, that guy was doing it!?!

13. Hydration.
It does help the headache the next day if you actually drink something other than beer (see #4) during the day while you sweat to death (see #3).

I did it, and survived. My mother, and my internist, would be so proud.

Though, when the beer kicks in and the crowd surges in unison (see #12), the water bottles (empty or full) don't feel good if they clock you in the head.

14. Outtage.
For AT&T to have been a major title sponsor of the event, their service coverage was atrocious.

Not a good brand experience to be standing UNDER the AT&T sign while receiving or sending text messages to friends only to realize that they are arriving over an hour delayed.

Yeah, that doesn't really help the "let's meet here at X time" texts get through. Note to AT&T: GET MORE COVERAGE.

15. Movement.
This one is obvious. When you see 75,000 people leaving an event all together, it looks like an ocean rippling with a stiff breeze.

See the above photo—that probably is only half of those in attendance, and if they were all walking toward you, you'd agree. Gives crowd surfing a whole new meaning for me.

16. Exit.
I'm not a urban engineer, an event host or a city official, but this one seems pretty clear to me.

Maybe if you are in charge of an event where that many people are expected, and you know that the final show will conclude at approximately 10:30 pm, and you know that every single person out of the 75,000 that attended will be leaving all at once, it would be a good idea to have more than ONE exit?

I'm fairly sure the shrubbery that I mounted and climbed over (along with 15,000 of my closest friends) will never look the same. And, the National Fence company fencing? Yeah, not so hard to get around.

17. Polite.
When passing through a crowd, it is pretty incredible how far a little politeness goes.

Slam through the crowd with no regard to people's feelings, or feet, and you're likely to get stonewalled.

Gently nudge, needle, slide and dance your way through, while distributing a fair amount of "I'm sorry" and "Excuse me" and you're likely to see the seas part like Moses was behind you.

18. Fireworks.
Even though I've had the distinct privilege of seeing fireworks no less than 10 times this summer, over Chicago's lakefront and Michigan's beaches, I still get a little tingly every time.

The outburst during the Radiohead set, over the water to the southeast side of the stage, just reinforced what was already an explosive show. Thanks, Chicago, again.

19. Mirrors.
I know I'm getting older. Pretty aware that I have had a few birthdays to confirm the fact. I know I'm not 16, or 18, or even 21 anymore. I just forget it until I'm in a crowd, faced with 16-, 18- and 21-year olds.

As much as I'd like to pretend, it just isn't the case, and I just don't look that young anymore. Mirrors try to prove to me what I suspect is true, but it isn't until I'm standing in a sea of high school or college-aged kids that it really hits me.

However, I bought my beer legally, am not going home to the suburbs to Mom's house and won't have any homework due this fall.

20. Advantage.
As you may have read, I am tall.

And, boy, doesn't it come in handy. Not only can I see the stage when most people are staring at aforementioned tattooed necks, I'm also the one that people can spot in a crowd.

Sure makes that whole concert experience more enjoyable. And I can breathe better, too.

##

That's it. My top 20 observations from inside a crowd of 75,000.

Are you sorry you missed it? Or glad you did?

Bad Luck o' the Irish

Last night, I walked in my front door at about 9 pm and heard dripping. Heavy dripping.

I wander around, ears perked, silently creeping, trying to find the source of the sound. I walk near the radiator (which is handsomely covered by a casing and hardwood at the floor) and hear what sounds like Niagra Falls.

Hm.

I grab a flashlight, stick it into the radiator cover and check out the situation. No water. That I can see at least.

Then I begin to traipse through the rest of the unit, holding out the flashlight, looking high and low.

Oh, high.

There I see this:


A huge water bubble behind the paint in my living room. And, water spots on the ceiling. And, a continuous flow of water coming down the wall.

OH, goodie. On both sides - in the living room AND the kitchen. Here's the kitchen wall beside the fridge with the peeling green paint and water pooling below my fridge:


The hardwood floor was warping already, and discoloring, and just laying there in a flood. The carpet is soaked, even though it only looks like one spot was wet. That just happens to be where I stepped on it to test it. It squirted up to my knees. It is soaked:


I called the emergency maintenance in my building, and within 10 minutes they were up there, agreeing with me and my assessment of the damage (aka "this sucks!"), and went upstairs to the condo above me that was under construction.

They came back down to tell me that the unit was being renovated, they'd just put down hardwoods, and the painters had left the hot water valve on, so it was flooded. UGH.

My damage is bad, but they've already contacted me and are claiming it on their insurance. Incidentally, they are from Ireland, are contractors, and are renovating the unit for their friends who still live in Ireland.

How's that for luck o' the Irish?? The poor thing answered the phone in her Celtic brogue and I empathized with her, and she offered to do whatever it took to make me happy this weekend even before the insurance company assessor could come check out the damage.

Uhm, how 'bout a bottle of vino, a pan of brownies and a massage?

No?

Ok. Then I'll settle for fixing the floors/ceiling/walls and maybe, just maybe, new carpet?

Ironically, one of the bloggers I read each day posted a story today about an almost exact incident happening to her last night. I commented, sending her good karma.

I sure hope that karma is riding a boomerang.

Keeping the Faith

For whatever reason, I don't feel like writing about commuting, or Chicagoans, or even about the weather today. I am heading to Lollapalooza later, and I'm sure that at least one story will arise from the sea of sweaty music fans congregating down in Grant Park to hear Radiohead tonight. Stay tuned for those on Monday. Pun entirely intended, Jenny.

For now, though, I have a more serious (or personal?) topic to write about. It's been on my mind, and I'm now dumping it out on the table, for all of you to read. Or not. If not, see you Monday when the times are lighter and the posts are funnier. I hope!

Faith is a much discussed, oft debated issue. Especially in election times, the subject of faith is on the evening news, embedded into people's thoughts and often drifts into everyday chatter.

I do not plan to discuss, debate or criticize religion here, or even express my current religious views, relative to politics or otherwise. This isn't that kind of post, and frankly, I'm not that kind of writer.

The subject of faith, for me, is less religious, and more a recognition of the intangibles in life. Those things that we trust, even though we can't see, hear, touch or taste. Those things we just know.

My question is this though: why do we call it a 'leap of faith?' Isn't it really more gradual than that? You grow into it, just as you may grow into a manner of self-confidence, and it grows bigger and deeper and wider the more you languish in it?

I know that the phrase means that you leap, with faith, but really, it has always seem so jolting, and scary, for me. A leap off a cliff comes to mind. Not a pleasant image.

No, for me, faith—and the gradual acceptance of all that we cannot see—grows with time. Warms like a cozy fire, comforts like a bubble bath, seeps in like happiness. Often, the changes and comfort with the notion of faith are subtle and they appear only as we mature.

Faith can be a trust in what is supposed to be—knowing that things will work out the way they should, if you let them. Faith can be a deep-seeded knowledge that you're making the right decision and the confidence to move forward not looking back. Faith can be a gentle nodding, acknowledging the changes in life that make us who we are. Faith can be allowing those who know and love you to be a guide. Faith can be a recognition that we can't change everything, or anyone, and that is okay. Faith can be a gentle nudge that pushes you to try something new, giving up on old insecurities or fears that have kept you from growing.

Defined as such, faith is a big part of who I am. From a spiritual perspective, faith has meant that even when I can't define something, or explain it, I trust and have faith that it is real. When a friend struggled to understand faith as a teenager, I asked the priest to help me help her. His explanation was simple.

"Faith is something that you believe in, and know is true, even though you can't prove it. Ask you friend if she loves her mother," he said, "and when she says yes, ask her to prove it. When she can't, tell her that is faith. Believing with your whole heart that something is real, despite the lack of scientific proof, evidence, or even simple appearances. That, my dear, is faith."

I have faith that he knew what he was talking about, and still rely on that definition today.

When a friendship feels changed, and you're not sure that things will be the same, and that time or circumstances or distance has created a crevice in the friendship that feels to large to surmount, to deep to cross, to painful to admit, I have faith that the friendship will heal if it is meant to be.

When a career feels uncertain, and you're not sure if the good that has been will continue to be, I have faith that the decisions I've made have led me to here and that much I can trust and count on, and that I can't always understand why things happen, but I have to admit that on the other side of these obstacles will be something greater than where I am now.

When a relationship feels unsteady, and fear is getting the best of you as you plunge headfirst into a state of general vulnerability, I have faith that what will be will be, and that we'll survive. I have faith that instincts are there for a reason, and that a good feeling in your gut sometimes is enough reason to go on. I have faith in the fact that I am worth loving and that what I can offer to another person is something they should treasure and value, even if it is scary at the time.

I have faith that things happen for a reason, and often those reasons aren't revealed to us until much later. Only then does the light of recognition shine, and we nod silently and think, "Oh, yes. That explains it all."

I have faith that people come into your life, for a short period or for a lifetime, with a purpose. We learn new things, experience highs and lows, and often, we have to decide to let that person go and live with the memories and the joys of growing stronger for having known them.

Having grown up in the Catholic Church, faith meant believing in God, living a good life with good works, and being a person that trusted God's will, and lived a life that He would be proud of. Faith also meant believing in things that seemed too unlikely to be true, miracles or stories or historically based events that meant something and had application today.

But, faith's very definition can be shaken up and revealed to us in a more practical manner.

After college, I went on a trip with two girls to Europe, and we had a ball visiting all of the churches, museums, monuments, parks, pubs, hotels and hostels we could find. One incident stands out in my mind, and to me, is the definition of faith.

We were in Rome, and it was a hot July day. Steamy and damp, the air was nearly strangling us as we waited to enter St. Peter's Basilica. Having been on the road for a month or so, I was missing my family and feeling the faint stirrings of homesickness. I needed a few moments to myself—as much as I loved traveling with these two special friends, I knew I could use some quiet "me" time there in that sacred church.

I stepped off to the side, into one of the smaller chapels, and glanced around, only to notice that there were hardly any tourists in this area. Needing some privacy for my quiet time, I chose a pew that was empty, and clear of anyone in front, to the side, or behind me. I crossed myself and knelt onto the fabric kneeler. At first, I just allowed myself to enjoy the cool air, the darkness and the damp, quiet space.

As was my habit, I quietly bowed my head with closed eyes and placed my hands folded in front of me, with elbows resting on the cold wooden pew in front of me. I asked God to clear my mind, to allow me to be "with myself' there in that place. I must've said a few quiet prayers for safe travels, my family and other personal requests for blessings. I remember distinctly then asking God to be with me. To come to me, and to be with me.

It was at that moment that I felt someone kneel right next to me. The bench cushion dipped to my right, and I felt the warmth and the weight of another person as they entered into their prayer moment. Frankly, I was surprised they'd chosen to sit so close to me, and a little annoyed that now my thoughts were on their proximity, rather than on my prayers. Ever the easily distracted, I managed to keep my eyes closed, but was still supremely aware of this person next to me, just to my right.

I finished up, crossed myself, and slowly opened my eyes.

There was no one sitting next to me.

I couldn't believe it. I blinked a few times, looked around me, and just stared at the empty pew, the blank cushion, and the bare kneeler.

Not a soul.

At that moment, I was covered in goosebumps and realized that God had answered my faithful prayers. He was with me, and would stay with me and protect me and my friends as we traveled on through Europe, and likely, throughout my life.

Tears filled my eyes, and poured down my face. I couldn't explain it, and I didn't try.

It took me a few hours to get back to my normal self, and my friends allowed me the privacy of that moment. They didn't ask, and at first, I didn't share. Later, as we dined in Rome against a backdrop of such beautiful buildings steeped in history, I told them my story. Embarrassed that they'd think I was being dramatic, I downplayed it as much as I could.

But, that was almost 10 years ago and I can still feel the presence of someone next to me on the pew as readily as I could that hot summer day in Rome.

That, my friends, is how I define faith. A gradual acceptance of those things we can't always understand, explain or prove, but an acknowledgement that sometimes that is okay.

Not a leap at all.