A Maven is Ravin'

The marketing world is an interesting one. And, combine that with the blogosphere in which I reside, and it compounds that interest factor even more.

About two months ago, I was approached through Facebook by a woman in Los Angeles that has been reading my blog and wanted to talk to me. She works for a company called Brand About Town who has been hired by Method to create an interactive panel, or a social network, of people who are "connected" in their respective communities. In the marketing world, we call these people "social influencers."

Justine, my initial contact at Brand About Town, had been following my blog and thought I seemed like a person that could be "connected" to other women in my life, and thought this blog's personality and the topics I write about were a good fit. Hence, the introduction. She asked me to interview with another colleague, Jamie, while she was in Chicago. I went to the W Hotel (after doing my due diligence on what this was all about) and we had a lovely chat that confirmed a few suspicions I already had about the program.

First, Jamie was a gal that I could be friends with here in Chicago. We laughed, shared stories and found coincidences in our life. And, we both agreed that this type of "buzz marketing" was quite smart—me from an agency perspective, and her on behalf of her client—when the client didn't want to dump loads of money into traditional advertising media (i.e., commercials, print campaigns, etc.). Finally, we both were confident that Method's line of eco-friendly, non-toxic cleaning products lived up to their promise of helping women, namely, rethink cleaning.

I was on board. After sending a silly personal bio and a photo, I was officially deemed a "Method Maven." While the maven part may be a bit of a stretch (seeing as the defnition states it as "an expert or connoisseur") since I was fairly new to the product line, I was game to try.

So, Jamie and Justine sent me a really fancy welcome kit with products to try around my house. And, I have. I'm not here to sell you anything or tempt you into buying into anything, but just to share my experiences, as I do here every day. And, frankly, I'm not a paid spokesperson or anything like that (and there are no pyramids or creepy sales brochures in this program), so don't think anything is wonky here.

To the contrary, this was a straight up genius plan. Get women across the U.S. to host a party, sponsored by Method and produced by Brand About Town, and invite a group of friends. Show up on the designated evening with said women, and have fun. It's that simple.

Last night was our chance. Fifteen of my friends came and we conquered. The entire experience happens in what they call a "pop-up-shop," a temporary location with a store in the front and a "living room" in the back. The Chicago shop is centrally located in Lincoln Park on Halsted near Armitage. It is a fantastic little boutique store that is only open until mid-October. And, you'd never know it was temporary. Photos below will convince you of that.

But more importantly, we were treated like the special VIP guests for the evening. We were ushered in by the hostesses, offered wine or other beverages and asked to partake in the delicious heavy appetizers that were spread throughout the hip, modern and comfy space. We were then seated around a large high-top table where the demonstrations and "class" would be held. We ooohed and aaahed at the cute decor—most of which was made of eco-friendly or recycled materials such as wood, muslin, wicker, bamboo, etc., with a global feel—and settled in for the main event.

With the luxe curtains closed behind us, separating us from the front half of the shop, we began. Our "teacher" for the evening was the lovely Joan Morais, an aromatherapist from California. She led us as we made our own organic beauty products—a lip balm, a spa facial tea, and a bottle of deliciously scented bath salts. We all got to take part in the process, and take the goodies home with us when we left.

Joan also shared recipies, ideas and resources for how to make the items on our own, with other ingredients to our chosen tastes. She and her beautiful daughter Brittany were gracious and friendly, and taught us all quite a bit. I feel smarter and more green just having met them! I can email any of you the recipes she gave us if you just leave a comment with a request.

With my marketing hat on, I must say, the brand experience was solid, seamless, friendly and pleasant. We were invited as guests, hosted by the brand, and allowed to enjoy a very fun and girly evening at no expense. And, no pressure. On the way out, we were asked if we'd like to be a "brand advocate" for Method, and if so, would we opt-in for future communication. Yes? Great, here's a cute funky t-shirt in exchange. (It says "cleans like a mother" on it). This company sure knows how to make this easy.

And, as if that weren't enough loot, each guest was able to then pluck a eco-friendly reusable shopping tote back from the giving hands of the staff, and was excited to see the load. Each bag featured a full-size bottle of the surface cleaner, the toilet bowl cleaner, the hand soap and dish gel. Full size bottles! No trial sizes here. And, from a strictly aesthetic point of view, these bottles are WAY cuter than Scrubbing Bubbles any day.

Before departing, we all swung by the "cleaning confessional" photo booth. The booth printed two sets of the photo strips—one for you to keep, and one for you to hang on the booth wall with your "dirty little secret"—many of which said things like "I secretly love to iron." and "I brush my dog's teeth twice a week." and other silly things related to the brand's niche. Not that they urged us to do that—but it was just there.

Overall, I was honored to have been asked to host, excited to get to invite and expose fifteen great girls to such a fun experience, lucky to have met and worked with Joan, and thrilled to tote home even more fun Method products.

Photos of the escapades are below, including a capture at the bottom of all the loot (including the wire basket of lavender products they sent me in the welcome kit). I've not yet tried all of the items (a girl's gotta sleep!) but plan to scour the home in a non-toxic way as soon as I'm able.

If the hand soap is any indication, my entire condo will smell delightful when I'm through.

As any good Maven's should!




































































Thanks to the hip girls who made the Method "Detox Chicago" event a fun part of their week:

Brenna
Brittany
Caroline
Clare
Jenna
Jill
Katie
Kim
Kristen L.
Kristen M.
Laura
Libby
Nilsa (who wrote this cool post about the party)

Sharon
Tammy

Now, get cleaned up!

I Won't Quit My Day Job

As many of you probably know, video games have really taken off. Quite like this handy Internet thing.

I've never been a big fan of the gaming world, however. Yes, I fell into the spell of Super Mario back in the day, but wasn't quite cool enough to get past that game or Duck Hunt. I think we had four games total including Top Gun, which was mostly for my Dad's benefit.

So, it came as no surprise that I've not bought a Playstation, or a Wii, or an Xbox, as these systems continued to grow, expand and get even more complex.

However, I must come clean on this one.

I am quite a fan of Rock Band. If you're not familiar, then you're truly missing out. It is like karaoke for your home. Yet the best part is that you can involve others—there's someone on guitar, someone on bass and someone banging away on the drums. That even have a foot pedal!

While I've tried all of the instruments (miserably failing at each—it was worse than trying to pat my head and rub my belly simultaneously), I must say that singing sure is my bag.

Before you get all excited and send me items to autograph, let me be clear. I'm terrible.

But oh is it fun to wail and screech and stretch for the high notes and sink into the low notes. It is a total gas to sing along with the words as they jet across the top of the screen, matching pitch and annunciation and holding notes as needed. All while being backed by a real life band! One with plastic, color-coded instruments, but who's judging. A real life band!

The microphone feels good in my hand, and the volume controls allow me to turn up the sensitivity when I'm confident about my skills on a certain song, and turn it down to allow the backup track to overpower me if I'm not so sure.

It is a powerful thing, that rush.

Many of you were there, or have witnessed on YouTube the joyous disaster that was my 30th birthday in Chicago. A surprise weekend that included my favorite cover band (who has since retired!?) dragging me on stage at Joe's Bar to sing, not accompany, to SING the LEAD on "Every Rose Has its Thorn" to more than 1,000 drunk strangers.

I didn't know the words and the lead singer had to feed them to me line by line. I blame that on the fear, or the tequila shot that my friend T-Money had just bought me. I was mortified and thrilled all at once. Just recalling the story sends thrills of adrenaline pulsing through my body. Jill totally orchestrated it so I could live out my "dream."

It was fantastic, and the culmination of many years of saying, "Man, I wish I was a rock star." Now, I don't really mean it, but sometimes watching the VMAs or the Grammys did I wish that I could pull that off. Wearing the cool outfits, jamming with a great band, belting out the notes to a perfectly written song, watching the fans sing along with me—that was heaven.


My experience at Joe's wasn't quite like that, but time has allowed the memory to gel into what I want to remember. People were gleefully singing along with me while I held their rapt attention in my sparkly top and hip jeans. They liked me, they really really liked me!

Anyway, more to the point, and the recent past, Rock Band has allowed that feeling to not be so fleeting. Now I can experience that joy and that rush every weekend! In my friends' home! With a real life band! And wigs! (Sometimes I raid my Halloween closet and bring them over. Everyone loves wigs—you'd be surprised.)

This past Friday was no exception. We gathered about 15 people or so at about 7 pm, and the games began. Taking turns of course, we rotated through old classic rock songs, newer pop songs, alternative hits and other great covers. We handed the mic around and took turns cheering each other on.

Brett held the crowd's attention while mastering The Talking Heads' Psycho Killer and managed to slip into the low notes with ease. The middle lyrics in the chorus, however, did throw him for a bit of loop.

You see, part of that song is in French. And, despite his pretty good vision, when those strange words started running 'cross the top of the screen, he was confused. Dismayed. Though temporarily.

Before I knew it, he'd turned the French phrases into his own comedy routine—saying, "Psycho Killer, here comes French, Fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa far better; Run run run run run run run away." and "Psycho Killer, this part is French..." and "Psycho Killer, here comes French, obligatory weird sounds...Run run away."

We were dying laughing and could barely make it through the song. I'm pretty sure David Byrne (the lead singer) would have rolled over to hear it. Though he's not dead, just hasn't been heard of since 1988.

Otherwise, I'm certain we made him and all of the other aging rock stars proud. I must say, Rock Band has made my (pretend) dream of being a rock star come true.

If only on Friday nights on W. Diversey.

Love in the Frozen Food Aisle?

I feel like I must preface this post with a reason. Otherwise, this comes way out of left field.

This post was prompted when I read one by a blogger in Canada (a single male) who mentions his frustration at meeting women today after the love of his life ended things so abruptly. He's quite quirky and hilarious, and his post today made me think. And comment something, albeit shorter and more rambly, like this.

Whoever said you should, or could, meet singles in the grocery store has never followed me while I'm there. I go so infrequently because I hate it so much. I miserably enter the store, but I always follow the same pattern of behavior while inside.

I hurriedly scour the aisles, in the same order each time. I go quickly from produce (the far right of my store) and circle around through bread, soups and condiments, to the cereal aisle (where I always buy at least 2 boxes of Special K with Red Berries, unless it is on sale and then I really stock up looking like the crazy cereal woman), and then I make my way past the butcher and the seafood guy and curve towards the dairy aisle. There I scoop up about 10 yogurts, grab some cottage cheese, and haul a gallon of milk and a carton of OJ into my basket.

Oh, and I'm usually dragging that little plastic "yes I cook for one" basket over my arm with the handles stretched beyond the norm into bendy-dom and my right arm has huge, red, swollen indentations in it from loading too much into that little guy and I am nearing a state of misery when I finally find my way in the liquor and beer aisle (the far left of my store) and I grab a few must-haves from over there.

Then I skate past the 3-for-$12 bouquets (oh how I wish someone else was buying the fresh cut flowers) and head over to the checkout lane. I'm scanning the gossip headlines while I secretly rue the day I chose the 15 year-old checkout person's line who has to radio over the speaker for a "21" to come ring up my wine, causing the whole checkout line to sigh and harumph while we wait for that person to casually make their way over to my lane to help out the rude youngster, and I can't really blame them. I should have gone with the self-checkout line since I'm only buying about 12 things that will inevitably cost me $75.

Shaking my head at the lack of customer service that is present anywhere in America today (except super-duper Nordstrom lady), I storm out of there because I'm so hungry and my feet hurt and I just can't get home fast enough to open the bottle of wine that made my basket so heavy. The four block walk makes my arms ache, just proving the need to work out more. Which is an activity that I dislike even more than grocery shopping.

Yeah. Not the time to get hit on. Note to my single male readers: the grocery store is a horrible, awful place and I can't imagine that most women would like to be asked out over a stack of Lean Cuisines.

But maybe that was just me.

(And, yes, it feels good to say that last line in the past tense.)

To Stress My Point

I was saddened today to hear on the news that Chicago has been ranked by Forbes magazine as the #1 Most Stressful City in America.

They based the rankings on many variables, including: unemployment rate, cost of living, number of days of sunshine, the cost of gasoline and the air quality. They called many of the top 10 (or losing 10?) urban monsters, and my favorite: "human bee hives."

My defenses went up. If you've read more than one of my posts, you know that I love this city and really reach out and enjoy many corners of it. I love the diversity of the people, the neighborhoods, the architecture, the nightlife, the sporting events, the cultural activities and the sheer feel of it. I love it.

And, that doesn't stress me out at all.

In order to defend her, I looked up a few facts about Chicago that you may not know. We boast the:

World’s largest commercial office building (Merchandise Mart)
World’s busiest airport (O'Hare)
World’s largest public library (Harold Washington)
World’s largest Tiffany dome (Chicago Cultural Center)
World’s largest free-admission food festival (Taste of Chicago)
World’s largest illuminated fountain (Buckingham Fountain)
World’s largest convention facility (McCormick Place)
World’s largest parochial school system (Archdiocese of Chicago)
World's largest outdoor block party (Old St. Pat's)

I could go on, but no one wants to read a list of measly items like that. Those aren't the things that truly make this My Kind of Town.

I love this city, and will defend her, for so many reasons that make life LESS stressful. Not the least of these are the fact that this is a beautifully planned, organized, gridded city. It makes sense. It is logical. Eight blocks is a mile. Everything starts at 0 at State and Madison in the heart of the Loop. Addresses on the north and west side of the street are even, the others are odd. It just is easy.

The highways are a tad bit more confusing, and of course they're filled with traffic, but eventually you get used to the fact that they refer to them in names, not numbers, here. After some time you realize that the Kennedy is 90 to O'Hare, and that the Edens is 94 up to the north shore. It eventually dawns on you that the highways going north and south, while sporting the same number, don't always have the same name. I consider it a tourist-check. Just seeing if they're paying attention.

As you clearly know from my many posts about the Chicago Transit Authority (CTA), this city is also home to a fairly big and easy-to-conquer system of public transportation. It's not perfect, and it's not as good as other cities I've visited, but it gets me to and from work for under $4 and under 30 minutes door-to-door each way, so I can't complain.

People, including myself, complain about the weather, the traffic and the lack of free parking (available or non-paid). Gas is almost $4.50 a gallon and despite any denials to the contrary, the snow is coming. But...

It also doesn't stress me out that much. It provides great fodder for this blog, and for a storyteller like me, that actually is decreasing the stress of finding something to write about each day.

Back to the facts, ma'am, you ask? Okay. This city is also the global headquarters to some seriously famous and large companies, including, but obviously not limited to:

Boeing
Sears
Walgreens
Caterpillar
Motorola
Allstate
Kraft Foods
Abbott Laboratories
McDonald’s
Sara Lee
Exelon
CNA Financial
OfficeMax
CDW
Wrigley

So, in summary, in one fell swoop in this city, you can get an airplane, a dishwasher, shampoo, a tractor, a cell phone, insurance, macaroni 'n cheese, pharmaceuticals, a cheeseburger, natural gas, investments, a ream of paper, a computer and a pack of gum.

You can also visit a building with its own zip code, catch an international flight, check out a book, see stained glass, eat more than you can handle, see a fountain that was a gift from a husband to his wife, go to the sales conference, visit a nun, and drink outside at a street festival where you're likely to meet the love of your life (or so they claim).

Not bad! Kindof, well, de-stresses you to have all those things taken care of, no?

That's what I thought.

In case you're still not sold, or you're too ADD to read all of this, you can simply look at the visual aids below (although I guess if you've gotten this far, you must've read something).

In the borrowed words of Stevie Wonder, isn't she lovely?



























































*special thanks to Spudart for some of the gorgeous photos above!*

Forbes, take a hike. Go back to New York. What do you know?

Then and Now

A lot can be (and has been) said about Google, MySpace, LinkedIn and Facebook, and much of it can center on cyber-stalking, deviance and other negative things involving sad, pathetic, creepy, middle-aged men sitting alone in their bedrooms in various states of undress.

This story is NOT about that.

These days, when I think of these Internet-based search and social networking tools is this: reunions. I have been fascinated at how these sites have enabled reunions to happen that I thought would never be.

Take yourself back to 1987.

Madonna was just getting started, Dirty Dancing was at the box office and Baby Jessica was the talk of every news program in the country. Reagan and Gorbechav were meeting for the first time and gas was $.95 a gallon.*

I was 11 years old, living at the end of a hilly street in a safe and friendly subdivision in a suburb about 20 miles northeast of Atlanta. Having moved in at the cusp of the city's boom, we'd watched the neighborhood grow and change. We'd watched as it evolved from a handful of houses on dirt roads on an old lady's farm land to a thriving community of friends and neighbors, over 100 houses, boasting a pool and tennis court facility whose opening was the biggest thing we'd known in the hood.

Life was good.

We played Kick the Can and Ghost in the Graveyard with the neighborhood kids until we heard our parents ringing bells or calling us home for dinner. The street lights were our guides home, and we waved goodbye to our buddies knowing we'd see them on the school bus in the morning. Unless it was summer, and then it would be back in the streets or on the easement playing softball, driveway basketball or tag until dinnertime came around again.

Crickets were our soundtrack and bikes were our mode of transportation.

I was lucky enough to have four or five good girl friends in the neighborhood, all roughly my age, with whom I could enjoy the escapades of a grade-school goodie two-shoes kid. We traded stickers, collected jelly bracelets, braided each other's hair and re-enacted musicals like Annie and Grease in the basement with dress-up clothes and mom's makeup.

We rode the bus to school together, protecting one another from the neighboring bully girls who mocked us out of envy, for our 'hood was nicer and newer than theirs, and so were our clothes. Our moms drove us in their Dodge Caravans to Six Flags, Fuddrucker's or the movies. We cheered each other on in swim meets, and flounced around the court in our new tennis skirts at the beginning of each season.

Life was good. I had friends and we had fun. And, one of these dear friends was Marcie. She was darling and little and sweet and pretty. I towered over her.

(If you're new here, I'll just say it. I'm tall, and have been extraordinarily tall for my age since, well, forever. Read this post and you'll get a hint of what that's like).

I remember doing all of the things I mention above with Marcie (and others) at my side. We played, planned, danced, rode, traded, sang, dressed-up and knocked around. We had good clean fun.

And then she moved. To Texas. Which, to a fifth-grader, felt like she moved to Siberia.

We lost touch, as kids do. We didn't email (didn't exist), we didn't text (didn't exist) and we didn't call (we were 11). We didn't even pen pal for that long, if at all (short attention spans).

And then, about 8 weeks ago, her name came into my mind out of the blue. Like it was planted there, it just popped into my head and I wondered where she was, and how she was doing, and what her life had been like in the 20 years since we were just kids in the south playing games.

So, I looked her up. Yep - I Googled her. And found her LinkedIn profile. And learned that she'd gone to Indiana University, and then moved up to Minneapolis to work as a buyer for a major corporation. Minneapolis? She's close! Then, I went a step further and looked her up on Facebook.

VOILA!

There she was, 20 years later, staring right back at me, with the same smile and freckles and energy as I remembered.

Only hesitating for a second, I emailed her and we started exchanging messages about where we were, what life was like now, and how long it had been. And then, she got offered a job in Chicago. Two weeks after we'd started talking.

And, she took it. And moved here. Five blocks from my house.

So, we reconnected and it was like no time had passed. We didn't trade stickers or share jelly bracelets, but the connection was there. We reminisced at how silly we'd been and laughed about how silly we still were.

Proof is below.

Then.
Now.
This Internet thing is really handy, no? Welcome to Chicago, Marcie. We're glad you're here.

*ouch.

Stalling on a Friday

My thoughts at the end of a Friday at the end of a long week are minimal.

Okay, so the decent, publishable ones are minimal. The garbage, you can't say that to anyone out loud, probably shouldn't be thinking that at work, is it Friday at 9 pm yet kindof thoughts are rampant, but you don't want to read those.

Or maybe you do, but I won't let you. Hi Mom.

So, here's what I will give to you on this miserable, humid, sticky, rain-soaked Friday:

Why is it that bathroom space planners for office buildings don't understand the concept of every-other-stall-usability?

When entering the ladies' bathroom on my office floor (in an environment that hosts three female-dominant agencies), I always, always without fail see if someone is using a stall, and go two stalls over for my business.

Not into the stall immediately next to the other person. They were there first, so I like to be polite and give them room.

I try to leave a stall between us. Girls most often aren't like our male counterparts (and I've witnessed this first hand, I assure you) where we take reading material in and settle in for awhile. We get in, do our thing, and get out.

But still. I like a little room to breathe. Literally.

So, why is it that our bathroom, and many others I've seen in office buildings, retail stores, restaurants, bars, etc., don't understand the every-other-stall-usability concept?

Why is our bathroom only sporting FOUR STALLS? That way, it is really hard if there are more than two people in there to respect the every-other-stall rules. It makes it impossible.

There's my gripe. And request. Let's only build public bathroom stalls with ODD numbers of stalls from here on out. Not so hard, I don't think?

And, ladies, let's conform to the rules. Don't park it right by your neighbor. Otherwise she'll blame you for the offensiveness she leaves behind.

Trust me. It is brutal in there.

On the Other Hand

He didn't see me struggle as I reached around and up my back one way, and down and over my shoulder the other. Silently, I looked pleadingly at him for assistance and he immediately came over and zipped up the back of the dress, and spun me around to admire the front view. The look on his face confirmed that the splurge was worth every penny.

I stood in my closet, where the bulging jewelry pouches hang, with my back to the bedroom. Trying and failing, my fingers just couldn't get the clasp to connect while holding my hair up and out of the way. He stepped up behind me, moved my hair off my shoulder, and took the beaded strand from my trembling fingers. With a gentle touch that belies his manliness, he clasped the necklace and let my hair fall back in place.

He arrived in time to have a glass of wine before dinner, and before he'd even sat down, I mentioned the broken glass that was littering the bathroom. I'd been clumsy again, and hadn't been paying attention while I reached for the moisturizer in the medicine chest, not realizing that the short drinking glass was teetering precariously on the edge. As I dodged the open mirror door for a better view of the mirror, the glass upended itself and fell to the countertop, shattering and dispersing the tiny shards of glass everywhere within five feet. He offered to sweep, while I held the bag, as it was clearly more than I could do all at once. He grabbed the paper towels and suggested that we dampen them to scoop out the invisible pieces that lingered in the sink, protectively and gently cautioning me not to touch the sink or the countertops.

While teetering on high heels, with one leg lifted while the other held the weight of my body, he lent me his shoulder, without having been asked, so I could find balance and adjust the strap of the offending shoe. It was as if he'd always been standing there, just waiting to be needed for support.

With an aching back and a large purse full of whoknowswhat, I slid to the edge of the sticky leather bench seat in the back of the warm taxi cab. Wincing as I swung my legs around, I placed my feet on the cement and looked up to see a hand outstretched to assist me. I reached for the hand, allowed my weight to lean into it, and I pulled myself to a standing position and lifted my handbag back up onto my shoulder. I looked into his eyes, smiled, and uttered a subtle, yet genuine, comment of thanks.

As an independent woman who has lived on her own, alone, for three years now, it is a welcome change to find that when I need an extra set of hands, one is right there, ready to help. I can't do it all on my own, and shouldn't have to. Despite my quiet stubbornness and insistence that I can handle it, sometimes I must admit that, quite frankly, I can't.

I'm so grateful that my life now includes a second set of hands.

Flip Flops and Goose Down?

In light of the changing seasons, I figured I'd take this opportunity to note a few things that have been on my mind.

It's that time of year when...

...people don't know how to dress, so you see some of everything. I passed a woman today in a sundress who was immediately followed by a man in a fleece coat and scarf.

...the allergies are fired up, and you hear people sniffling and sneezing all the way down the hall. Tis a good time to bring antibacterial gel on the CTA bus.

...it isn't warm, and it isn't cold, and it feels just right. Do I sound like Goldilocks? Well, I am.

...clients begin to panic because they haven't met their goals for the year, or they've spent all the money, or the didn't get the budget that they thought they would, and it is not that long until 2009, despite how far away that sounds.

...college football fans flock to the varied sports bars, dive bars and hole-in-the-wall bars to cheer on their favorite team. Alma mater be damned, sometimes you just want to cheer for the underdog. And, sometimes you are pitted against your friends. All in the name of a BCS championship.

...the retail market begins to glitter with the anticipation of all the holiday decor they have been waiting months to use. Well, at least since the last flags and other vestiges of July 4th came down. It is only a matter of time before there are pumpkins and witches and cauldrons everywhere, immediately followed by turkeys, only to be totally outdone by Santa and Christmas trees.

...it is much chillier in the morning and the evenings than it is in the middle of the day, making people dress in layers, strip off the top ones mid-day, only to redress before going home.

...the election coverage fills the broadcasts and the debates cause rifts between friends and family members across the good ole U.S. of A. I suppose we should be thankful that people are paying attention this year.

...the office buildings haven't yet adjusted to the changing temperatures, and are still pumping in the AC as if it were August 2nd. Which, incidentally, is almost always the hottest weekend of the year in Chicago, if my Lollapalooza experiences tell me anything.

...teachers finally have to go back to work, and they no longer bug you to go out for "just one drink" during the week because they've been so bored having to do nothing but read, shop and tan all day while you were at work.

...summer hours at the agency have come to an end and nothing feels longer than your first full 5-day work week after the Labor Day weeks go by. Counting down the hours until Friday.

...families begin to think about holiday travel, and my bank account goes into a near hyperventilative state in anticipation of all the plane tickets to buy.

...it would be wise to start making secret Christmas shopping lists, but that just seems way too organized. Unless the lists are gifts that I'd like to receive, since it is never to early to do that.

...you start thinking about your boyfriend's milestone birthday that is coming up and wondering how on earth you are going to surprise and/or excite the guy who isn't really looking forward to "getting old."

...you realize, quickly thereafter, that you also have a Q4 birthday and it is a tiny teeny smidge bit painful to admit what number you'll be checking on those pesky little doctor's office sign-in forms. This "early-thirties box" isn't all it is cracked up to be.

...the flowerpots and decorative landscaping on Michigan Avenue begin to transition from summery floral to late-year green, which will soon migrate into basic Christmas trees/winter pines/Northwoods greenery planters.

...the Cubs begin to lose and the entire North Side is still hopeful, silently praying, that the curse is broken and that this will still be our year. October just has to be ours!

...the Bears begin to play, and somehow manage to offer up a win against a top-tier team in the first week. Chicagoans know better than to count out a return to hibernation for the team.

...everything and everyone and every day is practically frozen in anticipation, fear and dread for what Old Man Winter will bring us this year. Chicagoans like to have the weather to complain about, granted, but seriously? We don't really need five straight months of snow and frigid wind to fill that blank void in our conversations. We'll figure out something else to discuss with strangers on the bus.

...Starbucks brings back the Pumpkin Spice Latte and their autumn color palette on the point-of-service materials, and somehow, that makes everything else seem okay.

It is really that time of year.

Thou Shalt Not Be a Jerk

The 10 Commandments of using the Subway [or bus]? Genius.

Thanks to this guy at Cracked.com, maybe a handful of people will learn how to use public transportation, and maybe they will live in my city, and maybe this domino effect will improve my commute to and from work.

And, maybe it won't.

In the interim, I believe there are a few commandments that the author left off:

• Thou shalt not sit in the priority seating and act like you don't see the old lady that just boarded and needs a seat.


• Thou shalt not perform the Butt Pivot when I'm trying to squeeze past you and you're too darn lazy to stand up to let me out.


• Thou shalt not wear a purse that is the size of my bedroom closet and act surprised when I tell you it is slamming me in the head every 4 seconds, and I ask you to move it.


• Thou shalt not put your bag on the seat next to you, and harumph loudly when I ask if I can sit down. These dogs are barking and I could use the rest.


• Thou shalt not use pennies to board the bus. The fare is $2.00, not $200 pennies. That is just annoying.


• Thou shalt not box me out while we're standing at the bus stop. It is a double-length bus, and we'll both get on, with or without your elbows getting involved.


• Thou shalt not wave your RedEye paper in my face, flipping each page into my cheek as you read the latest dirt on Lindsay Lohan. Or I may just pull a celebrity freak-out move on you.

There. That is a few extra commandments from yours truly.

Any more that Moses and I forgot?

*Thanks, Monica, for sharing the cartoon!

Baby Got Back Pain

It takes a lot to keep a storyteller like me away from the forum I've created, but frankly, this one has got me.

I have been aching in my lower back for a few weeks now, but took turns blaming it on my bed, my office chair, long walks, bad shoes, PMS—you name it.

When I got back from the weekend in San Francisco and went to bed Monday night, I had no pain, and practically no memory of it at all. My back had not been an issue all weekend and for that I am grateful.

Tuesday morning, however, I woke up and realized that I could barely sit up in bed. Bending over to get my shoes on was impossible. Leaning to the coffee table to retrieve the Netflix I wanted to return almost sent me head over heels, and not in the good way.

I was in trouble.

Boarding the bus (stubborn, aren't I?) I took a seat near the back, and winced and moaned over every crack in the road or bump in the highway. I was almost in tears by the time the bus arrived at my office. I limped inside, feeling and looking 90 years old, and eased my way into my very pricey Herman Miller chair. Only to cry out in pain.

At this point, I could no longer deny there was a problem. I made an appointment to see my all-knowing internist at Northwestern, and raced over (ok, hobbled is a more appropriate description) that afternoon. She declared that she believes that I have a dislocated disc (L5/S1) and that a course of steroids and a round of physical therapy would be enough. She hesitated to send me into X-ray due to the radiation (that may come too close to my woman-things-on-the-inside) and didn't want to subject me to a MRI just yet.

I also received a prescription for a codeine generic to deal with the pain, but she advised me against taking it if I was going to be back at work. What with that whole "it'll make you drowsy" thing. So I didn't.

Needless to say, Tuesday night and yesterday at work were sheer misery. Replacing my Herman Miller with a shorter, harder, more upright model was just the first step. Really I should be standing up, as that doesn't hurt as much. My coworker suggested roping me to a dolly so I could stand upright, and be wheeled to the lunchroom or a meeting room, should that be necessary. I didn't give in. The image was far to Mummy for me.

Anyway, I'm now taking the codeine, while at work, and despite having less feeling in my arms that I'm totally comfortable with, it has helped. A little. Meaning, I don't audibly moan every three minutes. Incidentally my office-neighbor thought I was enjoying myself FAR too much in here until I limped over and explained that the exact opposite was true.

So, those great blog posts about my San Fran trip, or other interesting things that have happened to me since we last spoke? Yeah, those aren't going to happen.

I'm tempted to just write about how sympathetic I now feel towards those I've known with back pain before (Shannon!) and for all of those people who wince as they get up from a seated position, or struggle to bend to retrieve something dropped. And, for the record, I drop a lot of things, apparently.

Finally, I have a whole new sensitivity to old people if this is any indication of how it feels when your back starts to give out and your body starts to go.

Thank God the mind's all there.

I think? Could be the narcotics talking.

(Photo at top? Not me.)


Update as of 9/5 at 1 pm - it is NOT a dislocated disc! It is mechanical - according to my adorable physical therapist. Which means my vertebrae aren't cooperating and going back where they are supposed to when I move, so it hurts. But, the good news is that with PT and anti-inflammatory meds, I should be back to normal within 2 weeks. Yippeee!