Remember the Time

My aunt asked me last weekend at my cousin's baby shower, over a plateful of brunch food and a glass of lemonade, why the "fuss over Michael Jackson's death?" She wasn't trying to be disrespectful to his memory, or to his legacy. She just wasn't aware. She didn't know.

Since she is of a generation or two in front of me, as the oldest of my mom's nine siblings, I respectfully paused, thought, and then replied.

First, I likened his death to the passing of Elvis. But that wasn't quite right.

Then, I compared it to the death of Princess Diana. While the global impact and enormity of the loss was similar, that still wasn't quite it.

I was forced away from the comparisons, or the draws on historical figures, and moved to just say, "he changed music, and the entertainment field, forever, for everyone."

While I don't pretend that was so profound, it was true. At least for me, this thirty-something white girl born in the Midwest and raised in the South.

Having heard all of the accolades, seen all the coverage, witnessed the outpouring of celebratory love for him in the past ten days. I have to admit, I was pretty moved by the memorial service today, and even nodded in agreement with the oft-strange Reverend Al Sharpton as he acknowledged how, in his life, Michael Jackson broke boundaries and changed our world.

For me, however, I have to say that a few Michael Jackson-related memories rise to the top of my mind today. I'll share them with you, if nothing else, to see if you nod and smile with acknowledgement, recognition and familiarity.

And, if not, enjoy laughing at the vision of me in these moments. I'm pretty sure if you'd seen my outfits, my dance moves or my bangs back then, you'd be laughing pretty hard.

It was 1982. "Thriller" had been released, but for a five year old living in Kinston, North Carolina, that news didn't exactly register with me. My teenage babysitter, however, made sure to rent the video on VHS and bring it over to my parents' house when she was watching me and my two year old sister. After Lauren had gone to bed, I assume, I got to stay up late with her and watch the "movie." Expecting a cartoon or a kid's movie, I was quite shocked, and not in the "look what I can do while Mom and Dad aren't here" kind of way. We watched it, and I likely hid behind pillows on the sofa. At least that's what my memory tells me. Needless to say, I blame the nightmares and the "night terrors" that followed for a few years on the visions of that video. While I can't prove that "Thriller" was the cause of my late-night visions, I still get a creepy feeling when I see clips of it. Thanks, Babysitter.

I am pretty sure, if I have my dates right, we moved to Atlanta after that. Maybe I'm all backward and we lived in Atlanta when Thriller premiered, and if that is the case, simply shift the location - the story remains the same. Several years later, Lauren, my friends in the neighborhood and I wanted to let loose - as eight year olds can do, right? So we went down to our partially finished basement and danced. My grandmother had been a square dancer and had many big skirts and fun costumes, and my older cousin had handed down many ballet and dance outfits, too. The girls and I would don these get-ups, put on some music, and just dance around the room. When I was allowed to spend some "allowance money" I remember buying the 45 of "Beat It." I think I liked the intro the best - the slow beats leading up to the fast background music. Whatever, I was hip before my time. The below-ground playroom had two of those metal poles in the middle - dividing two rooms - and they served as the perfect dancing apparatuses. Luckily for my parents and my future career choices, I never got too comfortable pole dancing, and instead tried to perfect my Michael Jackson moves while the record played on. Thank God this was before everyone had video cameras.

In 1985, I was a young girl of nine, and "We Are the World" came out. Once again, I had to splurge on the record. My dad thankfully shared his record player with us girls, and this time, even he liked the tune. After seeing the video on the newly minted MTV at a friend's house (my parents still had me convinced that our TV only got about 3 public broadcasting channels), I would sit on the floor of the family room, put on my Dad's oversized (on my pea-head) headphones with the squishy plastic-coated ear pieces, and listen to the anthem at full volume. I am pretty sure I swayed back and forth, and quite possibly sang out loud. I'm sorry for my Mom, who was likely in the nearby kitchen making dinner.

In seventh grade, in 1989, my girlfriends and I (who, interestingly enough, are still in the Posse and are still the best of friends) were all invited to go with Jenny to her grandparent's house in Florida. Why those two sweet elderly people wanted four rambunctious teenagers to come down for a week to spend at their retirement community, I'll never know. But, we did. And, I will forever think of that trip when I hear the song "Man in the Mirror." Mostly it is an image of Ashley and Jenny singing at the top of their lungs into a hairbrush, making up words when they didn't know what Michael was saying. Which was a lot. Which explains why, to this day, I still sing "And no message could have bent any clippers" when he says "And no message could have been any clearer" to myself, and then laugh. When we all gathered for Liz's bachelorette weekend a few years ago, we re-enacted this, and by default, all still sang the wrong lyrics to most of the song. Sorry, Michael. I blame Jenny. I can still see the look on her face while she performs this one.

Speaking of Jenny, later that year (I think), we were all dressing up for a Halloween party and Jenny got it in her head to go as Michael Jackson. Yes, she did. We put face paint (what WAS that stuff?) all over her face and hands, and put her in a shiny grey shirt, black pants, white scrunch socks, black shiny shoes, a silver glove, a microphone and a top hat, and wet-styled her dark shoulder-length hair into messy curls to resemble his look (at the time). It was perfect. Evidence lives on in the confines of Facebook, but I couldn't bring myself to further ruin Michael's legacy, or my own vanity, by putting it up here. (I was dressed as the taller, dorkier version of Minnie Mouse).

Still today, when I'm fiddling with my iPod, compiling a road trip mix, or a workout mix, or a high school memories mix, to listen to at the appropriate time, I find myself naturally including the Michael Jackson favorites. There are so many to choose from, and that, in some small part, answers my aunt's question.

Maybe it is a generational thing. Maybe it is just a music thing. Maybe it is a human nature thing, to celebrate and 'legendize' and immortalize someone after they are gone. I know he wasn't perfect. I know he was a bit strange. I know he had a lot of question marks surrounding his life.

But I also know is this: Michael Jackson will forever mark certain moments in my life. And, I'll forever regret not having seen him in concert.

Because I probably could have borrowed Jenny's outfit for the show.

Rest in Peace, Michael Jackson. Your music has been with me a long time, and I suspect will stick around forever. A lot longer than my 45s did.

Big People, Beer, Babies and Blankets

My mom's side of the family, the O'Briens, got together in St. Louis this weekend (her hometown) and I drove in from Chicago, and my parents, Lauren and George drove in from Atlanta. It was a great time, and I learned a few things along the way.

We reconvened on Friday evening at my Aunt Mickey's house, which she shares with her charming and sweet husband Jerry, and laughed at dinner as we collectively tried to solve the world's problems - first the mortgage crisis, then immigration issues, then relationship battles and then corporate frustrations. We were not always in agreement, yet at the end of the night, we all knew where we stood. Together.

Saturday afternoon we toured The Gateway Arch, which is quite an engineering marvel, and all stifled our own bouts of claustrophobia as we boarded the tiny 5-person capsules to elevate to the top of the 630-foot monument where we could see far and wide, east and west. In the trek up into the sky, we had fun trying to squeeze all five of us into the car, equaling almost 30-feet of legs into one tiny little space. We are big people. Being inside the monument brought back memories of that very same visit from about 25 years ago, when we cousins were all little kids leaning on the carpeted observation platforms to look down into the city below. When we stood at the base and took photos along the stainless steel, reflecting in the metal and in each other's faces.

That evening, we gathered at my cousin Carrie's lovely house to celebrate and surprise my Aunt Maureen's 60th birthday. At one point in the evening, while we were all chugging Anheuser-Busch products just to stay cool, I stopped pounding the city's staple beer long enough to realize that eight of my mom's nine siblings were there - and one look around the room confirmed it. They all look so much alike, like carbon copies of the others, really, that it fascinates me. Genetics were good to the O'Briens, and it is fun to see them all in the room together.

Even their voices are the same - except Uncle Terry's this weekend as he was suffering from laryngitis - and more than once I mistook one of my aunts for my own mother. As for the noise? Wow. The din rose to nearly deadly decibels at times, causing many of us to wince at least once. Terry, I think you're free from blame this time.

My favorite thing about these gatherings is to sit with a cousin that I may not see very often and really connect - find out what's been going on since Christmas, or the last wedding, and how life is treating them. It is always interesting to acknowledge how much alike we all are, too, in the second generation - having been raised by parents with the same values and ethics and moral compass - so we all seem to respond to life's challenges and celebrations in the same way. And, we all like a good party. Michelle - I have no doubt we'll figure it all out and look back on this time and laugh - let's just enjoy it now while we can. The rest of them are probably envious of what we have!

All in all it was a great visit, capped off by a girly bridal shower for my cousin Maureen in San Francisco at my sweet Aunt Sharon's house. It was our first "virtual" shower as we had her on the phone (Skype was being finicky) and showed the gifts to one another before wrapping them, all to go into a large postal box headed west. That will be one fun box to receive! Hopefully it arrives before the baby girl does. I spent much of the day marveling and my cousins' beautiful children - but when naptime was long overdue, was not too sorry to give them back to their mothers.

Yesterday's drive back to Chicago was fairly uneventful, albeit long and boring. After leaving St. Louis, and the hilly green lush landscapes near the Missouri River, I was treated to 4 and a half hours of flat, brown fields of farmland, with vegetables and grains that this city girl is hard pressed to identify. Either way, when I passed Midway airport and could finally make out the skyline in the distance, I felt a sigh of relief.

I'd had a lot of time to think while trekking north through my state. It felt good to walk into my apartment and drop the bags at the door. While I love leaving town every now and then for a fun weekend filled with family, witnessing great monuments, surprise celebrations, technologically savvy parties and shocking road-trip moments, I'm always thankful to be home. I already missed my family, and looked forward to the next time we'll all be together, which thankfully is in September for Lauren and George's wedding.

I can't help but compare family to a blanket, though. As I had plenty of time to think in the car on the way back, I realized that family, no matter the size, is as reliable and comfortable as a blanket you've had for years. Not the nubby one that your mom cut up into smaller and smaller pieces to wean you off of it, or the scratchy one at a cheap hotel, but the one that is lovingly draped across the arm of your favorite couch.

Forgive me as I explore this metaphor.

With family, as with every good blanket, there are areas that are frayed and showing wear and tear, and there are holes where the knots aren't as tight as they used to be, and there are stains that show the history of its use, but one thing holds true.

Just as with a blanket, where it pulls tighter and the threads stay woven close together, family has a way of pulling together when it is important to do so. I witnessed this phenomenon in several instances this weekend, some happy and some sad, and feel reassured that when in doubt, family pulls together and comforts us when we need it.

I realize, too, that not everyone feels that way, and even I doubt it sometimes, but I do believe that our family does it well. We can all recognize that we're threaded together in different patterns, taking various paths and making unique choices, but at the end of it all, we're all interwoven, made from similar fabric. Sometimes it just feels good to shrug that blanket onto your shoulders and bask in its warmth, and sometimes you don't need one, and are better off on your own.

But, we all would be lost without the others - no one has ever warmed themselves in winter with just a scrap of fabric or a few loose threads - we are better together for certain. Our family is built on, proud of, and strengthened by the traditions that are handed down through the generations, and we will ride out the areas of life that are wearing us thin. We'll show off the beauty of our clan and celebrate the milestones as one cohesive unit. We truly are a beautiful blanket to behold.

And, quite frankly, we all look good laying on the couch.

Perennially Unsatisfied

I finally figured it out.

People in Chicago like to have something to complain about.

The weather, specifically.

The very same people that bitch and moan all winter because it is too cold, too dry, too windy and too unbearable outside are the ones that, now with summer here, are complaining that it is too hot, too humid, too stifling and too unbearable outside.

Did you see the ironic paralells there? No? I'll point them out more overtly:

cold vs. hot...
dry vs. humid...
windy vs. stifling...
...all equal unbearable.

I know people in Chicago are considered tough characters. One look at the crowd at a Bears Game, one study in history of the famous Chicagoans, or one glance at the current Chicago Tribune headlines proves that people here are made of sturdy stock.

But, I think the complaining about the weather is part of that charade. Part of the deal.

I've even fallen victim to it - I have seen temperatures of 105 and -11 register on my car thermostat. I have flown into Chicago from Phoenix in February and had the pilot actually LAUGH as he tells us that after leaving the 80 degree weather in Arizona, we were touching down in Chicago to temperatures of 20 below zero with a windchill. Which, for all of who not having gone to math camp, is a ONE HUNDRED DEGREE swing in the matter of four hours. I have called my Dad to laugh about the ridiculous swings in the weather here. I have even put my random complaints in various posts here. Maybe I'm just trying to blend in and sound native.

But, I mean, really? You never want it hot? Or cold? Or windy? Or still? Or humid? Or dry?

Seriously.

Where should these people live?

Where should I tell them to go? (Besides straight there.)

And, frankly, is there a train that will shuttle them there?

'Cause the one way ticket is on me.

Swap and Sweat

Last night I hosted my first swap party. A sweaty one, but a swap nonetheless.

The idea was generated as my co-worker and friend Meredith and I flew home from one of our many business trips, with that month's issue of Real Simple in our laps. The suggestion was a recession friendly one - have a gaggle of girls over, ask them to bring between 7 and 10 items of clothing or housewares that they like, but no longer wear/use, and share them with the other guests.

As we compiled our guest list, the numbers of possible attendees topped 15 girls - we knew lots of ladies who seemed to fit the bill between us. We added her friend Rachel to the mix as a co-host, and all of a sudden we had a plan. We crafted an invitation and sent it out to our friends.

With the crazy travel schedule that Meredith and I deal with, and the fact that we work together and often have to go to New Jersey together, we had to reschedule the party more than once. Finally, the date worked for all of us, and it was set.

As I changed over my closet from winter clothing to spring/summer clothes, the bag of giveaways and give-to-friends items became larger and larger. In fact, I had collected WAY more than the recommended 7-10 items. Never fear, I felt confident that the party would be a success.

And then, as you read, my air conditioning unit in my living room went out unexpectedly on Saturday. Unfettered, I bought a $15 box fan from CVS, opened the windows, and opened my front door.

At 6:45 tonight, the doorman announced my girls had arrived. Well, not MY girls, but Meredith and Rachel's girls. My friends' schedules were all of a sudden as crazy as mine - with deadlines, work functions, sailing events and freelance jobs, the list had dwindled down to six attendees, none of whom I knew before except Meredith.

They all walked into my sweltering living room with loads of stuff. And immediately flew into action. While I uncorked the wine and served the cold beverages, the girls dove into action, sorting the clothing by style (tops over here, skirts over here, jeans over here, and shoes lined up against the wall here) and laid out the items on every available space in my 1,000 square foot condo. Before I could even pour six glasses of chilled wine, the "store" was ready for shopping.

We realized, at this moment, that the chatter had not even paused, and that everyone was socializing at a rapid, frenetic pace you don't often find at girls' functions where not everyone knows each other. We believed, at that moment, that we'd solved the "networking challenges" of social outings - throw a bunch of girls in a room with wine and tell them that they get to give away stuff they don't want and they can take home more than one thing they do want? And, they're all suddenly insta-friends.

Now, let me remind you - this was not unlike any typical shopping adventure. You had to first browse, then take a few items into the bedroom and try them on and come out and model them for everyone else to vote on. And, you had to spin in front of the full-length mirror a few times first.

Need I remind you that my air conditioning wasn't working? And that it was 90 degrees with a blazing hot sun setting over the western sky? Yes. It was brutally hot, and these new friends were too kind, and far too polite, to embarrass me with their sweat. Everyone just brushed off the glistening parts and kept moving.

By the end of the fourth round, taking turns by number, we had each amassed about 6 or 7 things that we got to keep - in exchange for things that we were thrilled to see find a new owner and a new future home. We bragged about our clothes, and told stories of their wear. We sampled each other's items, and oohed and aahed when the right item landed on the right body.

I have to admit - I wish I were a few sizes smaller with much smaller feet - because this was some kind of grab 'n go. There were designer jeans, clothes with tags still on, hip and trendy choices and even a few good "church dresses" and "work outfits" to grab onto.

Overall, it was a hit.

The pizza delivery guy looked quizzically at me as I stood in the doorway, refusing to open it too wide for fear of showing him a REAL SIGHT of several hot, sweating girls in various states of undress. The neighbors in the building to the north of me likely got a real show tonight - as we all grew more comfortable, it became like the Filene's Basement tag sale - girls stripping down to their skivvies in the middle of the living room - lost wine glasses sweating on side tables and pizza long since forgotten.

The long and the short of it was that we all got a few new things, emptied our closets of those "guilty items" that never got worn, and the Salvation Army will get two ENORMOUS bags of very nice donations when I can finally drag the leftovers to the store for a drop-off and tax write-off. And, we all made new friends (which we've all seen now in our underwear, so that already levels the playing field).

As for the leftover pizza? When I stop sweating, I may consider eating that for dinner tomorrow night.

Just to ensure that I'll never fit in the clothes that show up at the next swap party, for certain.

The air conditioner saga will be resolved on Friday, when the ABT delivery guy comes to install my new wall unit - which, much to my dismay - is significantly more expensive than your typical window unit.

But the chilly temps that will follow are sure to make the wine and the various states of undress all that more delicious.

I told you I was back.

Breakdown

It always seems to be the case that everything is working just fine. And then it isn't.

(Never fear, Mom, this post is not about my mental state. Refer to the earlier posts this week, I'm doing great.)

Nope. Instead it is about the sheer fact that everything seems to breakdown just when you need it most.

How is it possible that I have two window air conditioning units, and the one that is old as the hills, and looks to be on its very last breath, seems to work just fine...and the newer one that is shiny and white, that sits in my living/dining room, doesn't want to work?

I haven't turned it on since at least September, and I did so on Saturday to cool the place off for a bit since it was 85 degrees out, and what would you know? Nothing. Nada.

Not even a hint of a breeze, cold or lukewarm. I had maintenance in my condo building come check out both of them yesterday, and to my dismay, the newer of the two is kaput. Finished. I have to get it replaced.

And, it is slated to be near or above 90 degrees all week.

Delightful. Did I mention that I'm 13 floors up, and the window unit fits into the small space in the radiator, which seems to require someone with the appropriate skill level (and brute strength, I'd imagine) to remove the existing one and replace it with the new model that I've yet to purchase?

Which leaves me to ask the obvious: Can I hire a husband for the day?

To make matters worse, in May, I just made my very last car payment on my little beloved Jeep Liberty. Proudly, I can attest that I have not had to dump any money into her for the life of my ownership - which is just over 4 years, mind you. The 2003 model has served me well, and hasn't cost me much beyond the occasional oil change and a monthly (or so) tank of gas.

Until now.

Right as I consider the option to sell her (egad!) because of how rarely I drive, and the unnecessary nature of those three or four trips per month (can anyone say needless Target trips? Outlandishly silly IKEA visits?), the computer in the car seems to be on the fritz. It was approximately 85 degrees on Saturday when I ran out to aforementioned Target and the in-dash thermostat read 74 degrees. Now, I am a true southern girl who loves her mid-seventies days as well as anyone - but I''m no fool.

74 degrees feels a whole lot different than 85 and humid. It wasn't even close to the more affable mid-seventies range on Saturday. But my Liberty insisted it was. The compass seemed to be on track, facing West as I caroused down Addison to heaven, I mean, Target, and East as I made my way through the Wrigley Field throngs past the stadium towards home, but the temperature? Stuck at 74.

I'm devastated.

Either I have to plunk money into a car that I really ought to sell (only to sign up for Zipcar for Target runs), which just is no fun at all, or I have to sell my "excellent condition" Jeep for something less. I'm still hoping for a computerized miracle - that she was just in a mid-seventies kind of mood on Saturday and that the next time I climb inside her and nestle on the lovely leather seats, that she'll have readjusted to the normal temperature. And temperament.

But given my recent luck with electronics/machinery (you remember the Tivo fiasco, don't you?), I doubt it.

It breaks my little car and condo owner heart to admit that things just have a way of breaking down when you need them the most.

In the immortal words of Alanis, 'Isn't it ironic? Don't you think?'

Kool & The Gang is Stuck in My Head Now

As I indicated in my previous blog this week, a lot has been going on. Not just to me, but to those around me.

It seems that there are many things to be thankful for, and quite a few events to CELEBRATE! Please allow me to turn the focus off of myself for once and shed some congratulatory light on those that I love.

And, I apologize in advance if Kool & the Gang's standard wedding hit of "Celebration" is in your head now. Mine too. Yes, it is annoying. Sorry.

Lauren and George:
I couldn't be happier for you. Engaged! I can't believe my little sister is getting married. I am so thrilled that you two are planning a marriage and focusing on the real deal, rather than spending so much time and energy on planning a wedding. While we'll all enjoy a lovely weekend celebration of your marriage in early September, I'm so proud of how you two are handling it all. It seems that you have it all figured out, and I'm excited for you as you begin your life together. You are a blessing in my life, both of you, and I am honored to be a part of your special event. And, George, welcome to the family. The birthday gift (of a bike helmet) may come in handy as you graciously join the Snell clan. We're a rowdy crowd! Welcome to the family.


Brenna and John:
You're married! It was one of the loveliest, most thoughtful and fanciest party weekends of all time, and I was honored to be included in your wedding party. I enjoyed meeting your friends, your families and your extended families. I even enjoyed the part where you tried to set me up with every man over six feet tall who attended the wedding. (John, you know you're guilty.) After what I can imagine was two glorious weeks in Spain, I welcome you back to the city. It's a bit muggy, but at least you can find restaurants selling chicken.


Jill:
A special congratulations to Jill for passing your professional HR certification test! I know how hard you studied - and how difficult it is to stay awake while reading that boring material! - but it all paid off and now you are finished and fancy schmancy professionally official. I'm so proud of you and your new job. I hope that it brings you all the success you deserve, especially given how much you give to everything you do. They are lucky to have (the newly certified) you!


Mandy and Dave:
Again, a baby!! I can't believe how God works - isn't it such a glorious and wonderful miracle to behold? Peyton is one lucky little lady to have had you all to herself for four years now, and I am certain she will enjoy playing Big Sister to your impending arrival. I couldn't be happier for you all. And, if Peyton's darling little face is any indication, your second child will be a stunner!


Bethy and Guy:
Congratulations on baby number 3! I can't believe you guys have three kids. All I've accomplished in that amount of time is three different jobs, a few haircuts and a couple of extra pounds. Brendon is darling and I'm sure your girls are so happy to have a baby brother to pick on, I mean, spoil rotten. Spare the kid some pain and avoid too many pink hand-me-downs. Enjoy him!


Katie and Jeff:
I love your new place, and I love the fact that I've already been invited over twice to celebrate fun times with you. I am glad you forgive me, Jeff, for rearranging your bedroom before you'd even unpacked all the way. It is just who I am, I can't help it. I hope that by putting together the wine rack in the kitchen I earned another invitation. I promise not to touch the electronics or to hang any more pictures. Scout's honor.


Mandi and John:
Congratulations on the impending arrival of baby girl #3 in the family. John, I am sorry that I live too far away for you to teach me how to throw a football - I'm pretty sure you'll have to train at least one of your daughters on the finer points of how to QB and call plays. Because three girls? God Bless You.


Tracy and Vytas:
After 21 months, approximately 20,000 nautical miles, two trans Atlantic passages and visiting 19 countries - I am so thrilled that your adventure at sea is complete and you are back safe and sound in Chicago. It is so great to have you back, and I will keep a watchful eye on you and Sunshine Daydream at home in Monroe Harbor from my office window. Prepare yourself for unannounced visitors arriving by tender! I promise to come bearing (fancy imported) beer.


Elizabeth and Walton:
Now that it is out in the open (or at least it has hit the Internet!), congratulations on your impending baby boy!! I can't believe it, and am so happy for you. Now, the big question on everyone's mind is, what color will your son wear during football season? My personal preference is red, but I'm pretty sure there will be some orange items in his repoitoire. I wish you a healthy and easy pregnancy, a healthy and happy baby boy, and a national championship Bulldogs 2010 season. I may be getting ahead of myself here. Two out of three?


Peter:
Now, this isn't all that well-timed, but after having finished your novella I am fully convinced of your enormous talent for capturing the everyday moments that most of us miss. I'm impressed with your turn of the words, and wish there were more men like Brandon out there. Congratulations, and keep writing - for the good of all!
Heather and Kristen:
Happy birthday to you both! That was timed nicely, now wasn't it? Heather, this birthday wish is early since you're quite a few hours ahead of us here in the States, but oh how I would love to with you to share a basket of fish and chips for your day. Frankly, I just wish we could sit in the back of a London pub all day and laugh about our lives. Enjoy it without me! And, Kristen, I'm looking forward to toasting you tonight. Two girls' dinners in a handful of days is just delicious. And, I hope that soon we'll be toasting your new status as a first-time homeowner...



Okay, so I said it would be about everyone else this time, but here's one reason I'm celebrating a little bit these days.

Lil' Old Me:
I am finally over him. I don't miss him anymore. I still miss the comforts and fun of a relationship, but I realized two weeks ago that it isn't him that I miss anymore. It hurt so much for so long, and then as quietly as the heartbreak came, it left. I feel 100 pounds lighter, mentally healthier and emotionally settled again. I even replaced all of the framed photos in my home with lovely, and positive, evidence of my girlfriends and family. It felt great to put his images in a drawer. I'll forever be grateful for our time together, I'll miss his parents dearly and will envy the girl who gets to have them as her in-laws, and I will cherish our memories. However, I will not cry anymore about him ending things so abruptly and without a sliver of explanation, and it will not stab me in the gut to see him at parties anymore. I'm in a much better place now, and that's reason enough to celebrate. I can even handle the news that he is dating someone. Honestly? I am over it. And freedom from that ache feels so good.


How lucky am I to be surrounded by such great people and exciting things?

Cheers to all!

Anything else we should be celebrating?

(The fact that the song is finally out of your head, maybe?)

(Great. Now it's back. RATS!)

Oddly Enough

As a blogger, I have taken to noticing strange human behavior a little more regularly than I used to. It makes for good fodder and I cannot help but share the little tidbits that I see along the way.

And, spending so much time in the airports lately has given me plenty of time for some good quality people watching. In fact, I think it is the best place to witness the strange melding of cultures, ages and demographics that comprise this great country of ours.

I will say, however, that there are quite a few oddballs out there.

Case in point:

I was sitting at Newark Liberty International Airport, my second home these days, waiting patiently for a seriously delayed flight. I saw a well-dressed 30-something man with a backpack walk over to the bank of pay phones that were flanking the wall behind my seat. At first my thought was, 'Huh. I didn't know people still used pay phones anymore.' And then I watched him. He slowly, but deliberately, put his finger and thumb inside each change slot and felt around for a spare quarter, dime or other un-retrieved coin. One by one, he checked the change return of each phone. Finding nothing, he just walked away and sat down to await his flight. Three men and I were all watching him, and we all exchanged glances and made faces of 'Okaaay. That was strange.' while we pondered his rationale. Then the man nearest to me, who was likely 60+ in a neatly tailored business suit, said aloud, "Now that's going on my Facebook page." I wasn't sure whether to laugh, or nod in agreement. This is one strange and amusing world.

And yet another example:

While wandering around in SoHo last Wednesday, enjoying the fact that I had a day of no meetings, only one conference call (that I conducted while sipping a cold drink seated on a park bench bask in in the shade of a large tree) and no travel companions or clients to entertain, I explored an area of NYC that I'd never seen before. I traipsed up and down side streets, got intentionally lost only to consult my pocket map unabashedly playing the role of tourist, I window shopped at the fancy stores and actually shopped at the affordable boutiques, and I luxuriated in a long lunch inside a cafe with the garage-door-style front wall wide open, sipping chilled white wine and loving the taste of a ladylike lunch by myself. As I stopped at a Starbucks to use their restroom (I bought a drink out of sheer and unnecessary guilt), I waited patiently in the line for the use of one of the unisex bathrooms. A scruffy and unwashed man in many layers of dirty clothing was in line in front of me. Having a full-blown conversation with himself. As I eavesdropped, I could tell that at least one of his personalities was not happy with the other. There seemed to be a fight on the verge of breaking out. I stepped back, cautiously, in the event that words became blows. Lucky for me, the restroom door opened, and the man entered the one-seater restroom and locked the door, revealing the 'Occupied' sign above the door handle. Silently thinking (and feeling a bit ashamed for feeling it), I looked longingly at the other door in clear hopes that the door would open before the one with our fighting man inside. No such luck - the door of the stall with the man inside opened wide, and in a loud voice, he announced to me that I should beware that the man before him must have "peed all over the walls in there" and that I "shouldn't touch anything or sit down." Now I'm all in favor of a friendly stranger's heads up, and would certainly heed his advice. I gingerly opened the door (I was desperate, and couldn't stand to wait for the other room to become available) and saw that nothing seemed out of place. The walls, fortunately, were not dripping, and the floors were scrubbed clean and dry. Since I know better than to ever sit on a public restroom seat, I took normal precautions, finished up and washed and dried my hands. Exiting the restroom, my 'restroom advisor' was standing outside the room waiting for me. He loudly berated me for not listening to him and for using the restroom despite his advice. I scurried past him, hoping to avoid a confrontation. The Starbucks employees watched me leave in a hurry, only to have my "friend" shout across the entire coffee shop - which was full - "I hope you get a VD for not listening to me!" Yep. That's what he said. I didn't look back - I can only imagine what the other patrons must have thought. Shaking from anger and shame, I stepped out into the sunshine and continued my trek through the unfamiliar neighborhood. Without a VD to speak of, mind you.

So, if nothing else, being a frequent business traveler has reminded me of one truth in life:

There are a lot of really strange people out there. Some act funny. Some talk to themselves. Some yell at you. Some don't shower. Some have quirky habits. Some give you unsolicited advice.

And, some cute young gentlemen will sit next to you in first class, while you're gloating about the surprise upgrade into the larger seat with free wine, and will offer you a pen with which to embark on your crossword. And, he will celebrate with you when you solve the tough clues. He will smell manly and good seated elbow to elbow with you, and his eyes will sparkle in the dim overhead lighting as he smiles at you, and he will remind you (without saying a word) that you are attractive, and will find other men attractive again. He will not, however, encourage you to work up the nerve to ask him his name, or where he's from, or where he's going.

I guess that makes me the oddball here.

Next time.

The Naked Truth

When I first moved to Chicago, I ran with a pretty great, and huge, crowd of people who had all gone to the same college. Yes, I just said "I ran with..." like I was 87 years old. Moving on.

What this meant for my social life was that I had friends always crowding the corner of the bar at the local pub, our house parties were legendary, and we even had a rousing men vs. women Cranium tournament. Life was good.

The only drawback to this deep and tightly knit circle was that they all knew each other. And the others that lived in town.

Meaning, as a newly transplanted southern girl looking to meet new people (read: hot guys), I was cautious about my actions. Not that I would have been a raging fool if it weren't for their guidance, but you know, it just cause me to think harder about on whom I turned my attention.

Case in point. At a bar one night, I'm approached by a very nice looking, well-dressed guy. We make casual small talk. We laugh. And flirt. And then, while he leaned down to tie his shoe, I notice my three guy friends standing behind him giving me the "we'll slit your neck if you do something stupid" gesture combined with hearty head shakes.

I'm not an idiot - I could read that message loud and clear. When nice looking, well-dressed guy went to the bar, I slid over to the guys and asked what was the reason for their red flag signal. They imparted some insider information about Said Guy's antics, and ahem, reputation, in college.

I was turned off, and promptly finished up my chat with Said Guy and went back to my friends.

I escaped that time.

Over the next few years, as I became more and more comfortable with my Chicago surroundings, I realized that I saw Said Guy all over town. For a good long summer, it seemed that I ran into him every Saturday night. Not always in the same place, either. I even thought at one point that he may be following me.

He always approached, flirted and chatted me up. I flirted back (as I said before, I'm not a total idiot) because I enjoyed the attention, and then left him wondering why I hadn't fallen prey to his wily charm. He clearly wasn't used to getting turned down.

Not that he was asking every time, but it was clear that if I'd given him even the slightest hint of a green light, he'd ask me out.

It became my own little version of the cat and mouse game, and it was awfully good for the ego. Especially when my girlfriends (new to me, and to him) would nod and smile excitedly as he approached, and look at me with huge silver-dollar-sized-eyes as I inevitably turned down his advances.

Explaining that his reputation preceded him, they allowed me to cut him off.

And so it went. For years.

Finally, it became funny. Said Guy would show up at the same place as I; we would laugh, talk, hug and then flirt. And joke about which one of us was stalking whom. I'm still convinced I was the stalkee, but that's just my take.

In the fourth or fifth year I'd lived here, I saw Said Guy yet again. He seemed especially charming that night. Or I'd had especially too many vodka lemonades. When my friends were itching to leave early, and he asked if I'd go with him to a party nearby, I obliged. I know, I know. Slow learner.

Anyway, we got in a cab and went towards the building where the party was being held. As we entered the lobby of the building, I noticed that the doorman gave him a nod of what I could only deem was recognition. There was no hesitant fumbling and "uhm, which way is the elevator" or anything that indicated he hadn't been there before.

I chalked it up to his having been to this buddy's house before. It happens.

As we exited the elevator on the third floor, I heard the distinct sound of keys tinkling in his hand. I looked up at him, and said with a great deal of sarcasm in my voice, "you have keys to this party?" In his full-on cocky manner, he said, "uh, no. I want to drop my coat off first."

Hell-o? Where are we doing said drop-off? Oh, right. In your condo. Which, conveniently is right here.

I fall for it a bit, mostly out of curiosity to see his place. Not many guys I knew at the time (or now, for that matter) live alone, in a condo, and live well. I was curious if the well-dressed man equaled a well-appointed condo.

Uh, yeah.

It did. As he held the door open for me, I entered the hallway onto dark cherry hardwood flooring. Then noticed what had to be 20-foot ceilings. And a perfect kitchen complete with Viking appliances and granite counter tops from here to there. With an island the size of my living room. And gorgeous cabinets.

My eyes drifted past that to the walls with the enormous artwork. Real stuff - not posters of sports figures or neon beer signs. Nope. This guy had hired a decorator. There were two bedrooms, and a hall bathroom resplendent with marble and dark wood and a mirror without even a trace of toothpaste on it.

Just past the perfectly dressed living room, with just the right blend of modern and transitional furniture, I see the wrap around semi-circle balcony with a grill, tables, chairs, lounges and potted plants. And, just beyond, the skyline view that encapsulated every key building in Chicago from the Hancock Building to the Sears Tower. Bookend to bookend, this view had it all.

Said Guy drank in the look on my face, and continued the tour.

Then, I saw the master closet. He proudly opened the door, and I sucked in my breath. It looked like Brooks Brothers. The store on Michigan Avenue...NOT the outlet mall. Every shelf was dark wood, and the hangers were matching and evenly spaced to allow his beautiful clothing to hang just so. His shoes all faced the same direction, and his ties hung neatly in a row. Even his t-shirts had a neatly organized home.

I could not decide if this guy was a dream man or was undoubtedly gay, pretending to be straight. Come on. It could happen.

Either way, he fixed me a drink as I remember that we're supposed to be going to a party upstairs. When I mentioned it, he laughed and said with an evil grin, "there is no party." I have blond hair, but I'm hardly stupid. I still thought this was a fancy pit-stop on the way to his buddy's place.

Maybe it was the closet, or maybe it was the drink he fixed me, but I was a little more than curious. And, felt a little amorous. After all, Said Guy talked the talk, clearly walked the walk, and made me feel just the right combination of powerful and powerless.

I excused myself to the restroom to freshen up and I heard him follow me into his bedroom (he wanted me to see his master bathroom - showoff - so I went in there) and listened while he took off his shoes. No biggie, I desperately wanted to ditch my heels, so I could understand.

Not more than three minutes later, as I dried my hands off on his Egyptian cotton towels, I turned off the light in the bathroom and opened the door.

It was dark in his bedroom, but in the light of the city glow, I could see that he was laying on the bed.

Asleep.

Completely naked.

Uhm, hell-o?

What exactly did he think was going to happen here?

Needless to say, I walked into the kitchen, half laughing and half mortified, and got my coat.

Thinking quickly, I decided I wanted to leave him a note to remind him, when he woke up (in case he had a propensity to forget things while imbibing) that I'd been here, but was not here anymore.

I scrambled in the kitchen to locate a pen. I found one, and then tore off a paper towel (who doesn't keep a notepad with the pens?) and scribbled, "SAID GUY, I left. -Colleen."

I used his name. But not here. I changed his name to protect the not-so-innocent.

And naked.

I exited the building, gave the doorman a sardonic smirk, and hailed a cab home.

I never heard from the guy again.

Several years passed, and I started seeing him occasionally, mostly from a distance, on Michigan Avenue. Near my office. In the lobby of a building. Walking in front of Nordstrom. Leaving Starbucks.

And, each time, I got embarrassed and looked away, turned around, or otherwise diverted the situation.

Not sure why I was the embarrassed one, but I was. Time was kind, and I hadn't seen him in years.

Until last Wednesday.

In the lobby of my office building.

Again, I repeated the "dodge his eye and go the other way" move and managed to avoid a run-in. Because really? What would I have said?

Good to see you again, this time with your eyes open and clothes on?

Yeah, I don't think so.

So, I'm having lunch with my co-worker today, and something reminds me to tell her that story. She'd been traveling last week or she would have heard it immediately. I told her the entire story, (long story is never really short, come on) and we get quite a good belly laugh about the whole thing.

We even played the name game to see if her friend who works in Said Guy's industry may know him. We plotted a call to her as soon as we get back upstairs to our office. We conceded that maybe he was here in our building for a meeting - he was in a suit at the time - and she laughed again about the sheer nakedness of it all.

Leaving lunch, I dropped my tray off at the garbage can, gathered my purse and fountain drink, and walked with her to the lobby.

I looked up, and not 25 feet away, is Said Guy. In a suit. Walking through the turnstiles that indicate that his office is in THIS building.

He glanced in our direction right as I noticed him. I squealed quietly, grabbed my friend's arm and whisper-yelled to her, "that's him! Oh my God, that's him!"

She can hardly believe it, and I can hardly believe it when she starts to speed up. She wanted a closer look, naturally.

We zoomed through the turnstile about 10 feet behind him. I didn't see him turn left into our elevator bank, so as we careened around the corner, I finally am face-to-face him, with two other suit-clad guys, right as the elevator door opened.

Now, if I'd had MY way, there's no chance in hell I would have voluntarily boarded the elevator with them. But my friend wanted to. She needed "a good view."

Mortified, and unsure why I continue to be the embarrassed one, I followed her. I dodged his eye, and positioned myself right in front of the elevator door with my back to him and his buddies.

We stood there, staring ahead, while the guys talked amongst themselves behind us. I couldn't even think I'm trying so hard not to laugh. I may not have breathed the entire way up to the 39th floor.

We exited at our floor, about six floors below his, and waited until the door closes behind us before we burst.

Laughing out loud, folded over, barely breathing, neither of us could speak.

What are the odds?

I am pretty sure God has a sense of humor.

Let's just be glad this guy fell into the Vortex.

Not Much and Everything

I graduated from college 10 years ago today.

Just saying that makes me feel old. College feels like forever ago. More than a decade, actually.

But, at the same time, it has flown by. It feels like yesterday that I packed up my senior year apartment and moved home to my parents house. For the summer only, mind you.

In true "Long Story Short..." fashion, I offer up to you, this May 2009, a 10-year retrospective on the last 10 years of my life. I hope you enjoy walking back down this very long, often crooked, always scenic walk down memory road with me. It's more than a lane, I'll confess. It's a long road.

1999:
We were partying like it was 1999. I graduated from college, drove the 60 miles back from Athens, Georgia to my hometown of Atlanta, clutching my Summa Cum Laude diploma, crying the whole way. I was gainfully employed, scheduled to start two days later, at the Atlanta Hawks, fulfilling what I thought at the time was my dream career. I worked for three weeks, then set off on the pre-arranged backpacking tour through Europe with Mandi and Anna. I learned a lot, drank a lot, walked a lot, and slept very little as we saw 12 countries in less than six weeks. After that trip, I knew I could conquer the real world. I had another thing coming. My first year as a "marketing professional" was met with long hours, minimal pay, challenging clients, sexism in a 'boys club' environment and my very first post-college apartment with two girls that I didn't know very well. My Honda Accord was reliable, my "kissing makes me claustrophobic" boyfriend was not.

2000:
The work with the NBA was eye-opening in so many ways as I traversed the sports world with a level of combined naivete and knowing. I met interesting people, made barely enough money to cover my rent, and balanced living with roommates with missing college. At a cousin's wedding in June, I made the pivotal decision that would pave the path of my next decade: I ordered another glass of wine. That wine led to a tipsy conversation, with me emboldened and curious, with Molly as to what life would be like if I moved with her to Chicago. Five days later, I'd pulled the trigger, signed a lease and was making big plans. I'd never been to Chicago, but in September of 2000, after quitting my job, selling Rhonda the Honda to a little lady named Phyllis, saying a very tearful and heartfelt goodbye to my family and the Posse, I moved there in a U-Haul with all of my belongings. Living with Molly, Jill and Shannon changed my life. I laughed more than I knew was possible, saw more snow than I knew existed, drank more Appletinis than was normal, prank called the 7-Eleven all too often, dominated the boys in Cranium, hosted parties with our four young (cute) neighbor guys, cheered for a host of KU games and befriended many people with whom I would share many a bar stool over what we deemed "our freshman and sophomore years in Chicago." The soundtrack for this year would have to include David Gray, U2, Coldplay, Shaggy and Wyclef Jean. Turns out Wyclef was wrong: there is no such thing as a Perfect Gentleman. At least, not yet.

2001:
In my Chicago Sophomore year, I was working at a small design firm where my boss didn't like me, but I solidified my love of the marketing process. We were still young enough to go out on a Tuesday and stay up way too late on a weeknight and still look shiny and fresh for a 9 am meeting. Life was good. I dated a lot, kissed many frogs, but still enjoyed the nights with my girls most of all. My visits back to Atlanta were mostly for holidays and weddings, as my friends' lives changed in different ways than mine did. The entire world changed in September of that year, and it shook me to my core to be evacuated out of the office that was located near the Federal Building and within "crumble-range" of the Sears Tower. I was still pretty broke, but lived large in my own eyes. I cut my hair super short and felt good. In October, I finally saw U2 in concert for the first time - and was moved - especially during the 9/11 tribute set to "One." Eight years later, the song still carries deeper meaning for me than it did before. The thickness and length of winter continued to surprise me, but so did the attitude of most Chicagoans; the feeling that the weather doesn't stop you from going to the party - it is just another guest at the event. I bought a lot of scarfs that year.

2002:
Following the market, my small design firm began a year-long layoff that began, unfortunately, in April with me and several other colleagues. It was my first time at "failure," despite the fact that I knew, cognitively, that it wasn't to do with me personally, but I took it hard. Filing unemployment, and going on a first date, the same week as getting laid off of my second job out of college was humbling. The guy understood, and our "relationship" endured through the summer as we luxuriated in the warmth that is Chicago summer. Molly and Shannon, after two wonderful and hilarious years in Chicago, moved to LA to pursue bright lights, big jobs and a boyfriend. Not the same one. Jill and I made our way north, to my first 'brownstone' apartment. I felt very urban. And, finally employed. As the year closed, I had accepted a job in healthcare marketing at a small, privately held firm, and anticipated the new year with glee. And, promptly quit the hostessing job at Flat Top Grill. My entire closet smelled like stir fry anyway.

2003:
Winter granted me experience shoveling a backyard, a few opportunities to dig out Jill's jeep from the ice-packed alley, and a new friendship with Kristen, as we shared an office together and grew to become more than co-workers. We moved offices twice and I got really good at un-packing, decorating, packing and re-decorating my very own office. Work was challenging, and I surprised even myself as I took on more clients, bigger engagements and a heavier workload - and I loved every minute of it. Liz came to visit for Flug Tag, and we drank a lot of red bull, partied with a small-time MTV celebrity, and she fell off her bike. We flew with Luke high above the Chicago skyline and marveled at the huge city I called home. I also met Tracy and Brenna this year, two friendships that endure and strengthen today. The Atlanta wedding parade continued to impress. The bridesmaid dresses, however, did not.

2004:
Continuing to charade as an adult, I bought my first car this year, and made the 13-hour drive from Atlanta with it by myself. And didn't get lost. I participated in my first work photo shoot, and wore a box on my head willingly on camera. My mom and I went on a cruise to the Caribbean when I needed a break from the Chicago weather. I dated a Secret Service Agent and was simultaneously unnerved and turned on by the fact that he wore a gun to the office. In support of my Buckeye friends, I drove to Columbus and wore red and gray for a change, rather than red and black. Settling into my post-college life in Chicago, and my love for Matilda bar in Lakeview, I celebrated my golden birthday this year, turning 28 on the 28th.

2005:
Dating still consisted of a few great dates and then the guys falling into the vortex, and I spent a lot of time asking why. When summertime hit, I spent weekends sailing on Lake Michigan as Captain Vytas took the helm of his boat, and my career, serving us both well. Laura moved to Chicago, and instantly, when combined with me and Kristen, we became inseparable and bound for the good kind of trouble. And, quite often, the bad kind of hangover. With bruises. Admittedly, with some difficulty, I finally let go of my first love and congratulated his engagement. In a storm of emotions, I amicably separated from my five-year roommate Jill and bought my first piece of real estate this year. Additionally, I learned the hard way how difficult and stressful a renovation project can be, especially for a control freak. Despite the increasing signs advising me to leave, I stuck out a very tough fall at my job, helped re-brand a major medical university, secured the trust and devotion of many clients and turned the corner on my career.

2006:
Right after the new year, I dragged two great buddies, Sam and Jack, to Detroit (their hometown) for a visit to Jimmy Kimmel Live during the Superbowl. The boys got over not having tickets to the game when we arrived at the Sony VIP party where we met all sorts of famous people. I lost my sunglasses on St. Patrick's Day at Stanley's, but met a nice Irish guy. Traveling for work was the name of the game, and I spent a lot of time en route to Billings, Montana. Which, roughly translated, meant I slept on the floor of the Denver airport a few times too many. Not long after, I got dumped by the Irish guy via email, immediately after meeting his parents over Easter weekend in Wisconsin. Luckily, I knew we were not meant to be, and rebounded before I could say "inbox." Roadtripping with the girls, I experienced live concerts at Alpine Valley Amphitheater for the first time, and saw Dave Matthews Band and Coldplay under the stars. I watched my two dear friends, Tracy and Vytas, get married that fall, and was proud to witness their love. Without being a bridesmaid. Long in the making, I quit my job and took a new one at a larger B2B marketing firm, and quickly made a host of new friends. When Laura was mugged on the Blue Line on her way to Columbus for the OSU v. Michigan game, I sprang into action and drove her all the way to Columbus (speeding ticket not withstanding) and spent the weekend in scarlet/gray revelry. That December, I was slated to turn the big 3-0. At the end of the month. Little did I know, my friends Jill and Josh had other (surprise) plans for me. My Posse flew into town to mix and mingle with my Chicago buddies, and it was a weekend to remember. The snowstorm kept a lot of loved ones away, but couldn't put a damper on my mood. A trolley pub crawl for New Year's Eve turned out to be a great way to usher in the new year.

2007:
In need of some warm weather, I accompanied my OSU fans out west for the Championship game. The game stings a bit for them, but the road trip to Sedona almost made up for the loss. We explored the desert, saw books on the Vortex, drank margaritas and watched the sun set over the red rocks. Together, which was the best part. With a new job and new clients, I traveled the state of Illinois conducting wide-scale photo shoots for an amazingly clever, incredibly inspiring campaign. I enjoyed a new crush on a guy who was totally wrong for me, and proved my chops while interviewing a multi-billionaire for work. Liz's bachelorette party meant digging out an old bridesmaid dress and a weekend with the best girls. Her wedding that summer was an incredibly soaked (thanks to a tropical storm) but amazingly hilarious experience of love and friendship. My agency swept the industry awards, providing plaques to prove the hard work was worth it. We saw Indigo Girls from a blanket picnic at Ravinia, and toasted Kristen's 30th from a booze cruise on the lake. Josh proposed to Jill, and Katie and I made the trek following them up to Mackinac Island with the sailing gear, paid for by the captain. Gina made us proud on American Idol, which brought new fans to our old stomping grounds watching Then Again at Joe's. Tracy and her Captain Vytas set sail on their (still going) adventure, and after a weekend in Union Pier, I was heading for my own. Fall witnessed a girls' trip to Mexico, and we snorkled in caves, rode ziplines through the jungle, lounged by our own pool and drank margaritas with Tarzan, in what turned out to be the smartest money I'd spent in a long time. I took a chance and made my way to a birthday party across town, and changed the course of the next year of my life.

2008:
With a Bull's game and a game of 20 questions at the bar, a new relationship was formed. So was a late-night affinity for Rockband, a newfound love for the beaches of Michigan, and the people that reside there. The girls and I took advantage of box seats for Bon Jovi, and rocked out like it was the 80s all over again. When Molly turned 30, I flew out to join in the parade of love, expensive food and fancy clothes. I saw a lot of live music, took a painting class with Katie, went to a host of Cubs games, and did a lot of road trips for bonfires on the beach, capped off by V&Ts with just the right amount of lime and conversation. My sister met George, and I was the proud big sis listening to her tales of romance. And then it was pura vida - a week in Costa Rica with the Posse, their men and mine. We had a blast and learned, laughed and drank Imperials all the way through that jungle paradise. And, I had fallen in love. August brought Lollapalooza and a trip to Kalamazoo - how often do you get to use the letter "z" that much in one month? As summer wound down, the weddings wound up, including a trip to San Francisco for a cousin's wedding. I became a method maven, an Orbit Gum Girl and a 1920s flapper, all to round out the end of 2008. It was the best of times, soon followed by the worst of times. I was laid off from my job in October, and used the time to actively search for the right opportunity for my career.

2009:
As you know, if you've been reading for long, the beginning of this year has been rough, but is definitely on the uptick. I found a job that I love, and lost the love I'd enjoyed for the past year. Heartbreak takes time to heal, and I'm still working on it. Working has helped, as traveling became a big part of my full-time job;I can't complain about the 4-star hotels, the fancy dinners, the frequent flier miles and the great colleagues. Getting lost in Newark on the Turnpike, however...Spring is in full bloom, and so are the tulips in the city. The weather is warming and the crowds are forming in the park and along the shore of Lake Michigan. My sailing friends are pointing the boat home, and I can't wait to be here to welcome them into our loving harbor. My spirits are on the mend, even if my wrist is proving not to be the same. I have complete faith that summer will bring with it a renewed spirit, a host of new freckles for my shoulders, and a smile to my face.

I've learned a lot, loved a lot, grown a lot and aged a lot in the last 10 years since graduating college. I have met new friends, lost touch with a few, watched my friends become wives and mothers, I have had five jobs, all in the same career path. I have bought a bike, a car, insurance policies, a condo and a lot of new shoes. I have grown my hair long, cut it short, dyed it darker, highlighted it blonde and grown it back to its fighting length from high school. I have watched my figure change and realized that as I age, the hangovers last more than 15 minutes and an Advil. I now fully understand what it means to be held accountable at work, and am proud to work hard.

A lot has changed.

Ten years ago today, I was 22 years old and had nothing but hopes for the future. I was employed, loved, proud, vulnerable, confident and faithful. I was honest, giving, thoughtful, controlling, talkative, smart, curious, traveling, tall and blonde. I was ready for love and anxious to take on the world.

Not much has changed.

Cotton Gowns and Non-slip Socks

I pulled into the dingy parking garage and wound my way up to the fourth floor, the Frank Sinatra level, and settled into a parking spot. Dodging broken glass on the wet cement, I walked to the elevator, boarded the first to arrive, and went down two floors. The carpet hushed the sounds of my heels, and I paused to read the signage for directions.

Clutching my paperwork, I arrived at the empty waiting room and greeted the only person in the room. Received the clipboard, and followed his instructions. Page after page of personal information, all captured there in blue ball point pen. Handing him my identification and insurance card, I took a seat on the mauve and khaki upholstery and wondered why hospitals all hired the same out-of-touch decorator.

My feet swung in time with my heartbeat, which seemed more pronounced than usual. The assistant came to fetch me after a few short minutes, and his nervous small talk further added to the discomfort of the situation. Droning on and on about some small island in Florida that shared my last name, I politely nodded while chewing the inside of my cheek.

He led me through three electronic doors, opened by his badge, into a small locker room where I was to store my things. Handing me two soft, faded cotton gowns, he gave me my instructions, smiled feebly and left me alone. I quickly changed out of my clothes, put on the gowns so that one faced forward, and one faced backward, struggling to tie the latter around my back. Bending down, I put on the blue socks with the plastic grips on the bottom, and placed my things into the very slim locker, and slammed the door shut.

Sliding the stretchy band that held the key in place onto my right wrist, I padded silently into the second waiting room, directly off the locker area. I chose a seat in the middle of the abandoned room, and once again noted the overuse of mauve and vinyl. Distractedly, I thumbed through outdated magazines and read only the photo captions. Wincing, I got up to turn down the television that was mounted at an awkward angle above the corner table.

Sitting there, I had nothing to distract myself from the giant industrial clock that hung, crookedly, on the opposing wall. It was time for my appointment, yet I sat there alone. Half dressed and without any of my creature comforts. Why hadn't I kept my book out of the locker, I wondered to myself. Shaking my head, I sat there and waited.

Twenty-five minutes passed, and finally the door with the electronic lock and "authorized personnel only" placard opened. I sat upright, hoping that it was my turn and that this would all soon be over. A night janitor surveyed the room, nodded a tight-lipped smile and passed through the empty room without a word.

Fourteen minutes later, the door opened again. I'd long since read the three leftover periodicals, and now knew everything about last month's celebrity gossip and this month's society pages and this season's rheumatoid arthritis quarterly. Sleepily, I looked back at the clock. It was past nine o'clock in the evening on a Wednesday, and I'd much prefer to be at home, sitting alone, fully dressed without socks featuring underfoot grippers.

Finally, I give up and go back to the locker, retrieve the key from my plastic bracelet, and struggle to open the locker. With force, the door swings open and I reach in for my book. The door slams back, tightened by the underused springs in its hinge. The key must be a one-shot deal, I think to myself, and now I'm standing there holding my book when the radiology assistant opens the waiting room door, by the big clock and calls out for me.

Sheepishly, I admit that I'm in the locker room, and he rescues me, hands me another token and lets me put my book away. I mumble something about being bored, and he mumbles something, gently, about being sorry for the wait. He introduces himself, and we shake hands. We smile, embarrassed to be meeting as one of us stood in stocking feet and wearing two gowns, one facing each way, with knots all over in the flimsy ties.

I followed him to the "authorized personnel only" door, and into the cold, bland hallway. Padding silently on my handy grippers, I walk with him through three more doors, all accessed by his plastic badge. He's talking to me, explaining what I should expect as I go through this ordeal. He asks about my ponytail holder, to ascertain if it has any metal in it, and I nervously take it out and place it on the table with my key bracelet.

Shyly, I step toward the ominous machine that was lit from within. I notice the faint hum in the room, and can't help but see the electronic glow that the machines put off. He instructs me, with the help of his assistant, on how to lie down on the table, on my stomach, with my left arm up over my head. Gently, he locks my left hand and wrist into a casing and realizes how big it is for my arm. He stuffs two white washcloths into the casing to fill the empty space.

Placing a pillow under my fingers, he tapes my fingers down and then does the same to my protruding elbow. Warning me about not moving, he gives me a pillow to cushion my other arm, upon which I'm supposed to lean and place my head. He slides headphones onto my head, and I ask for help in moving my hair out of the way because I just know that that would have driven me crazy if left unfixed. His assistant asks me about my musical tastes. My mind is blank, or filled with nerves, and I can't even think of what I had for dinner, much less an intelligent and hip choice in tunes.

Assistant chooses Alternative Vibe from the internet radio station list, and turns on the music. It is so faint I can still hear them talking, even though they were many feet behind me. Someone placed a blanket on my legs, either for the chill or in a polite and gentlemanly gesture to cover the poor girl's legs. He adjusts the table because I'm so tall, and I bristle at how that almost sounded like an insult. Within a minute, I'm sliding forward, the top of the headphones are scraping the ceiling of the machine, and the world closes in around me.

I close my eyes. I had to. The light was strange, the space was small and my breaths were shallow and coming quickly. I tried to rest my face on the pillow they'd provided, but only too late I realize how awkwardly it was placed, and just make do. I know I can't move once they get started, so I cough, blink, swallow and flinch all at once.

The faceless voice tells me over the very hushed sounds of Coldplay that we're ready to begin. And then the sounds start. Softly, gently, rhythmically at first, and growing more and more obtrusive and horrifying. The rhythm is disrupted and the panic sets in. I count. I breathe. I pray. I keep my eyes closed, for the one time they'd flown open I regretted it instantly. The darkness of my own thoughts was better than feeling trapped inside that fiberglass growling dragon.

I startle every time the tempo or the sound changes, every time the momentum of the sounds is broken and interrupted by the new, more obstinate noise begins its cycle. I realize how much my wrist hurts in this plastic mold, and the terribly unnatural angle of the whole thing starts to make my whole body ache. My right arm, the one holding up my upper body and serving as a terrible resting place for my head, is smashed against something awful and is starting to throb. My entire body is throbbing, actually, and I can only focus on the pain. I start counting my heart beat because I can feel it pulsing through to my sore wrist.

I realize at this point that the machine is far too loud for any trickle of the Alternative Vibe to reach my ears, and give in to the experience. I feel near tears by the time Radiology Guy tells me we have 15 minutes to go, in his pseudo-cheerful voice. We're only halfway there. It felt like two weeks already.

When it is finally over, I can hardly wait to unleash my poor wrist from the torture chamber stuffed with washcloths and rub it gently and tenderly. I look into the eyes of the two strangers who help me to a seated position and tell them it was far worse than I'd expected. They both nodded, telling me that everyone says that. The MRI is not a day at the beach, that's for sure, one guy chuckled. The first technician places a hand on my shoulder and gives me the patient pep talk about how well I did. In a blur, I stand up, walk to the table and try to put my hair band back in. I wince while attempting that maneuver, and abandon that idea. Assistant guy walks me back to the locker room, which, after he left, was empty once again.

Dressing quickly, I stuff the gowns and socks into the soiled linen basket and make my way through the electronic doors back to the now empty registration desk. Down the elevator, through the carpeted halls and back through to the parking garage. I pay the machine and get back to my car.

It's only then that I finally give in to the tears, and let them slide down my face. I realize, at that very moment, how my decision to live so far away from my family has put me in this position. How being single has created this exact slice of time where I'm at the hospital, in the dark, after ten o'clock at night, feeling vulnerable and nervous and tired and in pain, alone.

Accelerating onto Lake Shore Drive, I dial my parents' phone number. Glancing at the clock, I hope that I won't wake them, since it is a Wednesday, and they are an hour ahead. My mom, breathless or tired, answers the phone. Her voice makes me crack. When I have to speak, my voice betrays my feelings and I feel relieved, comforted and embarrassed. I am an adult, and I'm crying for my mother, to my mother, about something that was not that big of a deal.

It isn't that I don't have perspective. My experience getting an MRI on a sore wrist is peanuts compared to what so many people endure. Nothing when it comes to the timeline of my life—not even a hatch mark.

However, for me, it was a moment that made me question my decisions. Second-guess my choices. And yet, simultaneously, reflect on my blessings. I am so grateful to still have my family to lean on, and most days, I'm proud to be a mature, self-sufficient, thriving young woman living alone in the big city.

But, for that moment, I felt very alone.

Total Bollocks

While standing in the elevator today, I learned something interesting. Don't say that I'm not a mobile learner, or that I've never taught you anything. Here goes. You can thank me (or argue against my point) later.

Apparently Reuters.com published a study from the University of Leicester in England that investigated the time-tested notion of "beer goggles."

Absolutely scientific, I'm sure.

After talking to 240 people ranging from 18-70, their results were published in London today. The results flew in the face of the idea that heterosexuals find members of the opposite sex more attractive after consuming large amounts of alcohol. In fact, it proved that the opposite was true—that people actually found men/women LESS attractive after drinking in pubs or bars around town.

Uhm...have these people EVER been out? More precisely, who ARE these 240 said people?

Even Wikipedia knows better. The site even boasts studies with fruit flies that supports my argument of the British study. Exhibit A: "On daily dose of ethanol, male fruit flies court male as well as female flies. This observed inter-male courtship requires dopamine transmission between neurons in the brain and is encouraged by repeated alcohol exposure."

We're not drinking straight ethanol at the local pubs, but still. I guess budget cuts don't allow the serving of chilled Stella Artois to fruit flies these days.

Let's forget "science" for now.

In terms of reality, I know that in my world, not only do OTHER people become more attractive when I'm under the influence, but I find MYSELF more attractive under those conditions, too.

I know that I've agreed to dates with people when I've met them under the influence. Upon meeting sober, for the first date, I'm not usually as impressed. They're likely not as wowed by me either, but that's besides the point.

In line with this, I also have heard countless stories from girls and guys I know about how their judgement is impaired and they drop their standards. The whole "closing time" theory. Not that a good girl like me does anything about this at 2 am, but you get the drift.

There is even a commercial for "assistance" when looking to employ the 'beer goggle technique' of mate selection. Check it out here:



Sorry if I offended anyone. I laughed out loud, personally.

So, back to the Brits.

Am I crazy here? Or is this just bollocks?

Discuss.

Over a beer, hopefully. Then we'll all find each other far more appealing.

The Garbage State

So, I know that I've renamed this blog AWAY from strictly commuting stories, but seriously, with all the travel I've been doing lately, I am going to have to have to regress for a moment.

Indulge me, wouldja?

Tuesday night, after a very hectic and long day at work, I raced in a cab, in the pouring rain, to O'Hare to catch a flight to Newark. My second one in two weeks.

I was optimistic that this one would be on time. We boarded on time. We pushed away from the gate on time.

Things were looking up.

That's when the airplane decided to do a driving tour of the airfield surrounding O'Hare international airport. We visited, driving slowly and stopping ever so often (photo op?), at not one, or two, or three, but FOUR runways. The pilot even chuckled a bit when he announced the fourth change.

Even he wasn't optimistic anymore.

We landed in Newark, eventually, and it was after 11 pm again. I'd been up a long time, and had miles to go before I slept.

Next stop? Hertz. I trot out to the parking lot, thankful my new #1 Club Gold status had finally kicked in. This was going to be fun!

Again with the unbridled optimism. You'd think I'd learn already.

I see my car. Or was it a toaster?

It was a Prius. I'm sure these things do great things for good old Mother Earth and all, but they sure do nothing for me. I got in, read the instructions on how to turn it on (a la a Toaster) and got it into gear, finally.

Then I pulled out of the space. With the noise it was making, I was just sure I was dragging a dead grandma around under the car. It was horrendous. I had to re-read the instructions to make sure I'd not accidentally turned on the Hovercraft feature of the automobile. Nope. Just put it into Drive.

I promptly put it into Reverse and backed it right into the parking spot. The old me, from high school, would have been far too shy to go back and admit I didn't want that car, and ask for a new one.

Not the new me. I walked in, confessed my fear and loathing for the Prius, and got a new car.

Aha! A Subaru! Fantastic. At least it didn't have instructions. That will be a key ingredient as the following story unfolds.

Confident in my new wheels, I leave the Hertz lot, clutching my directions and heading for the first stop light of many. I quickly notice, however, that the car is not shifting into the higher gears. It sounds, instead, like it is going to explode. Or lift off into space. One or the other.

I realize that it is an automatic, with a fancy little shifter for manual gear changes. Uhm, hello? I don't drive a stick shift! I never learned how to "listen to the car" and "shift when it is ready!"

Good grief, this was not going well.

I notice that the gear shift has a little + and a - on it. I push it towards the +. It shifts. Great. Noise abated.

For now.

Then I accelerate onto the highway entrance, still clutching my directions, and hit the + again. Aha! I can do this!

Then I notice that I'm not shifting fast, or often, enough for little Subaru to keep up. I can barely hear myself panic over the dreadful noises it was making. Poor little Suby...don't die on me now!

Oh. Crap.

I just missed the exit towards Elizabeth that leads me to 95 South which leads me to the NJ Turnpike (aka the Freeway from Hell).

Grrrrreat.

Now I'm shifting, freaking out, panicking, shifting, looking for an exit, and Oh. Crap.

Now I'm on another highway. No exits in sight. I have no idea what highway I'm on, or where I'm headed. All I know is that it is now 11:45 pm and I'm exhausted and (shift) freaking out and lost. In Newark.

Oh. Crap.

I'm headed (shift) towards the Holland Tunnel Bridge. Into New York Freaking City.

The last place on earth that you'd ever want to be driving a car you don't know how to drive.

Am I sweating? Why is it so hot? How do you (shift) turn this heater down (shift) already?

I see an exit. I exit. Shift. Sweat. I figure out how to turn down the heat. I slowly stop sweating, as I rip the scarf off from around my neck, practically blinding myself in the process.

Now I'm in downtown Newark, I think, which I've heard isn't a "lovely neighborhood." And, it is midnight and I'm alone. Shift.

I do a ridiculously bad U-turn, and make it back onto the highway and follow the signs back to Newark Airport.

I exit, shift and guide myself back to Hertz.

Square One.

I realize, while at a stop in the Hertz parking lot, that the shifter has two choices. You can be in automatic automatic, or the sneaky little manual automatic. Gratefully, I change over to the trusty auto auto choice.

I pull back out of the lot, follow my directions, and MAKE the exit towards Elizabeth.

Success would be fleeting.

I somehow miss/overlook/ignore the sign that says which way Princeton is on US-1. (It is South, by the way). I go North, and realize that NOTHING looks familiar from last week's visit. Oh. Crap.

Now I'm heading the wrong way again. I stop and flag down two guys in a gas station parking lot, only opening my window an inch or so, and find out that yes, Princeton is the other way.

For anyone that has ever driven in New Jersey, you know that the roads have these strange and awkward rules about U-turns. They are like real turns, and then they circle through a neighborhood before dumping you back onto the street from which you came, going the other way.

After all of that, I finally head the right way, and begin to recognize things again. I practically sang the Hallelujah Chorus when I saw a movie theater that I recognized.

That song would have been in lieu of the Hispanic songs that were playing non-stop on what felt like every channel with decent reception. What is it about New Jersey? I grew up in Atlanta, with a huge Latino population, and we only had one or two Hispanic radio stations. Here I am, right outside New York City, and I can't get a decent (depends on your definition) pop song to save my life?!

I pulled into the hotel parking lot about 25 minutes later at about 12:35 am, and parked near the back. I make it to the front lobby of the Westin where the guy at the registration desk says to me, in all polite seriousness, "Good morning."

Yes, I suppose it is morning. It was hardly good though, buddy.