Gap Born to Fit Party & GIVEAWAYS!

As I mentioned in an earlier post, I had the privilege to host a Gap Born to Fit party last night. Gap is celebrating its 40-year anniversary this year, and to celebrate, has re-engineered its 1969 jeans line in all new fits, styles and washes. And was it ever a good time!

As a Brand Enthusiast, I was able to invite quite a few lucky girls to attend - and was fortunate to have Brenna host the event. We energetically (at least in spirit!) climbed the 59 steps up to her gorgeous home (guided by my motivational signs, of course.



At the top, the girls were treated to a full spread of goodies courtesy of Gap. The guests had no idea what was in store for them...


First, I asked each girl to don a nametag, since not everyone knew each other.

In order to make it more fun, I added a "I was born to________." line for each girl to fill out. Apparently my friends are born to Eat, Shop, Laugh & Giggle, Dance, Dominate Traffic, Photograph, Give Big Hugs, Draw, and more. (I was Born to Boogie - so says my Mom - since she went into labor while at a disco. Explains a lot, doesn't it?)

We munched on appetizer treats, including "Born to Snack" popcorn (served in the darling branded bowl) and "Born to Indulge/Shop/Play/Love" M&Ms, and other enticing splurges.


The soundtrack for the evening's festivities was provided by yours truly; I handpicked and made "Girls, Denim & (No) Blues" CDs for each guest, and only slightly tweaked the song titles to fit the theme for the evening.



See below for the full playlist. No judging - the songs were chosen for their fit!


Before we dove into the jeans and the full-fledged shopping extravaganza, we gathered on the roofdeck to enjoy the gorgeous Chicago sunset.





With a roofdeck like Brenna (and her fantastic husband) owns, we were all seated comfortably around and could talk. I gave a quick, highly unprepared speech about what the party was about - and answered questions about Gap, the 1969 Born to Fit jeans, how I was selected and what was required of them (pretty much this: pick jeans, love jeans, shop Gap).





When the sun had fully set, we descended to the kitchen/Gap Jeans Bar to check out the jeans. Don'tcha just like the sound of that? Gap Jeans Bar. I know. Combines my two favorite things, too. As shown at the top of the post, there were the Sexy Boot in a medium wash, the Always Skinny in a dark wash and the Real Straight in a medium wash.


The girls and I immediately noticed - these weren't your Mom's jeans. If anyone walked into the party with a preconceived notion of what Gap jeans were like, they changed their mind pretty quickly. All ideas were changed fully as soon as the first girl tried them on. Wow! Each girl was stunned to see how long, lean, slim, stylish and, well, FIT they looked in them. Each style, each size, each wash - all the same. Perfect fits!


And the fabric, stitching, inseam, cut and general make of the jeans was far more detailed than ever before - the medium wash is incredibly soft - those jeans you could wear all day at work or to Target on a Saturday; the dark wash is perfect for a night out with heels or a casual brunch with flip flops.

Knowing my girlfriends, they are a hip bunch. They shop a lot, they like designer jeans, they love to look good (what woman doesn't?) and they will spend more if they think it is necessary to get the right quality and the right fit. I think the trying-on process proved to each girl that these ARE designer jeans - at everyday prices.

I loved watching each girl choose one or two pairs, head back to the Born to Fit(ting) rooms and come out to model their pick.



Looking good, huh? Born to Fit indeed!


Catwalking was not required, but everyone seemed happy to strike a pose.

I was the proud mama watching each girl squeal in delight to realize they fit in a smaller size, or could finally love a skinny jean!, or could even wear THOSE heels with the bootcut pair. I was proud to be able to show these girls the way. Thanks, Gap.

After the try-on session, we indulged in Giordano's thin crust pizza - a Chicago staple. Shopping works up an appetite! As an aside, I loved watching my friends, from all different circles or times of my life, mix and mingle together. All in the name of good jeans.

As the night wound down, I made sure each girl had gotten the pair of their dreams - and if not, I made sure to send them home with a Jeans certificate good for a pair of their choice at Gap. Some of the bootcut sizes were awfully long (not everyone in my life is, ahem, 5'12"), but most opted to take the pair and have them hemmed to just the right length - when they are free, it isn't much of a splurge!

Finally, each guest got to take a Born to Fit reusable tote bag for their goods - another great idea by Gap - and they were more than happy to mug for photos with 'em.



I may be born to blog, or boogie, or host parties, or tell long stories, or wear LONG jeans, or stay up late, or drink wine, or love Macs, or eat french fries, or miss Georgia...

But seriously?

My girls are Born to Fit in with one another.

Hugging their new friends, and clutching their new gifts, they embarked on the 59 steps down to leave for the night.




Thanks to all who attended, and especially to Justine from Brand About Town for allowing us the opportunity to try Gap's new jeans and enjoy one another. Check out the full set of pictures from the party here.

I certainly think we've proved to a lot of girls that Gap jeans are hip, cool, stylish, comfortable, sexy and made for every body. They are worth a second look if you've not been to Gap in awhile, and if you have, stop back in and check 'em out! You may never spend money on designer jeans again.

But wait! Don't go!

What's in it for you?

I have a contest. I have two prizes to award: a certificate for a FREE PAIR of Gap Jeans of your choice, and a $50 gift certificate for use at any Gap store.

What's the deal?

By Monday at 7 pm CT, tell me (in the comments) what YOU were born to do. I will choose, in a highly subjective, entirely random manner, the top two answers, and will re-post your answer in a special Born To blog next week, along with the prize announcements.

Ok. Got that?

What were YOU Born To do? Get creative. This isn't just "work." or "breathe." This has to be something CLEVER.

Jeans and Gap shopping is on the line, people!

All you blog lurkers (defined as those that visit but don't comment) are free to come out of the woodwork now! Thanks again Gap.

You and I? We're Born to Fit.

See & Saw

It is both a blessing and a curse.

A convenience and an inconvenience.

A delicious luxury and a ridiculous time waster.

A connector and a separator.

A critical forum and a trivial outlet.

A privilege and a detriment.

A must-have and a should-do-without.

What is it, that sparks so many conflicting opinions in me?

What is it, that creates such a see-saw of emotions?

Do guess. I dare you.

*********************************

Ok. Since I haven't been all that diligent about posting this month, I won't keep you waiting any longer. Not especially since we all likely know exactly to what I refer.

Facebook.

Spend one hour perusing the pages of the social networking site, and you'll find yourself conflicted too, I bet. If you're honest with yourself, that is.

You'll likely be any combination, if not all of the below, of the following: wrapped up in other people's lives, overly concerned with the smallest of details, obsessed with how your life is being showcased for the masses, connected to people with whom you never would have rekindled friendships otherwise, back in touch with people that you no longer care about knowing, frustrated by the passive aggressiveness of the status update wars and any number of other results.

You'll spend time oohing and aahing at lovely children, dogs, cats, vacations, weddings, tourist attractions, renovations, first homes, in-laws, parties, graduations, childbirths, and, sadly, even deaths.

You'll find yourself comparing your life, meager or full as it may be in reality, to others' lives as they appear in the social networking version of reality.

You'll be shocked by gossip, affairs, job losses, new hires, career changes, marital issues, sibling rivalry and many other states of the personal union.

But nothing is personal anymore, now is it?

Today I realized that, while I'm as big of a fan as anyone else, that the social networking site that has brought us together is likely to tear us apart after all. I can't even carry on a conversation with anyone anymore that maintains any sense of pre-Facebook normalcy. No news is news anymore until it has hit the site's cyberspace. Nothing is real until Facebook confirms it is so. I can't even fill my mother in on anything anymore - what used to be a healthy chat filled with stories about my life, my friends and what's going on in our world, which incidentally is 1,000 miles from her geographical location, is now merely a "I saw that" and "I read that" and "I looked at those pictures" recounting.

It saddens me to think that this is what it has become.

I'm not above it, or morally objecting, or even withdrawing from it entirely - frankly, I feel like if I did, I'd lose the connections to the small social circle I currently have. No, on the contrary. I find that I need to just accept that this is the new reality, our new way of operating socially, and just adjust and move on.

It is just hard - I find that spending time on Facebook creates, or spotlights, other insecurities that I may have done well to stifle, or at least hide. I know now that I am one of VERY FEW from my high school graduating class that is not sad this week to send their kids off to school, to miss her husband as she/he travels, to take the dog/cat/hamster to the veterinarian, to indulge on a week's long vacation somewhere fantastic this summer, to visit the lake/beach/mountain house/cottage/cabin in the past few months, to buy/sell/rent a new car/house/boat or to change my appearance by cutting/dyeing/styling my hair differently, losing/gaining weight, running/biking/walking a marathon/triathalon/charity event in the past few months.

I know I sound bitter.

I'm not - it is just hard to realize that the good news I do have, or may possibly have, is so vastly different from my peers. I don't begrudge them a thing - I am thrilled for them, and honestly, genuinely glad to get to see how life has changed them and made them happy, full and rich with blessings.

For me, I do long to be in a relationship, not just so my "status" can change on Facebook, but so that I can finally find something real. I long to have children, not to just have albums filled with their firsts, but to truly experience the joy that a family can bring. I long to have a house and a yard and vacations and other things that my peers are fortunate to have - but it is just not my time yet.

It hit me hard today when I saw posted something that triggered old emotions that I thought were long since buried. Those emotions are less about what they refer to, and more about what they signify - I'm ready to have some news, ready to be able to announce to the world, in whatever format that pleases me, that I, too, have something to celebrate.

Until then, I'll continue to witness, read, browse, listen, cheer on, encourage, cherish and applaud others' exciting news.

Even if I only read about it on my Facebook news feed.

Addendum 8/12:
After reading the comments below, I feel obligated to confess that there was far less "whining, woe is me" intended in this post than people have picked up on. It was more "can you believe we never talk to each other any more (guilty as charged) but know everything about the loser from our high school class" and "I can't even talk to my mom without her saying something she read about so-and-so on Facebook"...but clearly you guys know that I've had a rough year and are great to comment to help. I just feel bad that you have to boost me up YET AGAIN. When I wrote this, I wasn't even really THAT bad off but I've learned that heartbreak, and the healing that ensues, is a bit like suffering a bruise - it hurts a lot at first, and then later it only hurts when you bump directly into it. Ya know?

Fiber Failure: A Tale of Two Muffins

If blog posts came with ratings like the movies, this one would definitely require a PG-13. Not suitable for all audiences, for offensive references, disgusting visuals and raunchy memories.

Short of apologizing to my mother for telling this one, I'm gonna just get right to it. She's heard it live, which is probably worse.

I take that back. I need to set up a few things first.

This is a true story. I know you'll doubt that, and me as I tell it, but I promise. I swear. On my aforementioned mother.

It's true.

And, unlike some of those "I have a friend who..." stories, this is NOT my story. It did not happen to me. Because if it did, I assure you that I'd never tell a soul. I wouldn't be writing it here, that's for certain. Maybe it would come out in a drunken fit, over the last in a long line of draft beers or vodka cocktails, but I wouldn't be willingly stepping up to reveal such embarrassment.

I'd be too, well, embarrassed.

So, here goes. I'd say you may want to grab a beverage or a snack for this one (it's not the shortest of the Long Story Short varieties), but given the nature of the tale, you best not. It's long, and it's disgusting.

I was at a business meeting years ago, and it was pretty far north of the city. We needed a rental car, my colleague and I, so I got one in my name and we rode up there together, separate from our boss.

The meeting was planned for really early in the morning - as clients are prone to do - to get all of the talking out of the way first thing, to leave more time for the doing that the day entailed. We arrived, dressed in our business suits and casual coordinates, and set our bags down by the door. Since this was before budgets were slashed and corporations no longer spent money on frivolous things such as catering, the client urged us to help ourselves at the breakfast spread that was along the back wall of the mid-sized conference room. We had about 10 minutes before the meeting was to begin.

My colleague, Sue*, cruised through the buffet before I did. She helped herself to a few spoonfuls of fruit salad, a small cinnamon tart, and an oversized bran muffin. She glanced at me, mouthed "I'm a little hungover, so I don't care" and grabbed another bran muffin for good measure (and its inherent alcohol soaking properties).

Before taking her seat at the tables that were arranged in a large U-shape, she got a small cup of coffee, with two creams and two sugars. I followed behind her, but wasn't keen on muffins - I'd just read the stats on how much fat is in those things and was trying to pretend I was on a health kick - and settled for the fruit, yogurt and granola instead. Coffee and water, and I was set.

The meeting was long, arduous and typical. Besides Sue's muffins, there wasn't anything big on the table. We, the agency folks in the suits, were pleased with the Board's approval of the new marketing plan, so the day was off to a great start. My boss and I were finished, and needed to get back to the deadlines in the office, so we were going to head back to the city. I looked at Sue, and she indicated that she had booked a separate, smaller meeting following the Board, so she was going to stay and would keep my car. Not a problem, as long as she returned it to the Enterprise before coming back to the office.

My boss and I left, and were back in the city in under an hour. Smooth sailing.

More than four hours pass, and I kept wondering why Sue hadn't come back yet. Her separate meeting was only to be an hour - and we knew that her particular client wasn't going to have much more than that to give in his busy schedule - so why wasn't she back yet? A fleeting thought, but noted all the same.

And then she arrived.

In a different outfit than what she'd left in that morning. I was just sure of it. She'd been in a black suit, pants and jacket, and a red collared shirt underneath. Now, under her winter coat and scarf, she had on jeans and a sweater.

I was confused. Had she gone shopping on her way back south? Stopped for a quick change at her house?

And then I saw the look on her face.

She slipped into the office that I shared with Kristen, and closed the door. The look on her face told us that she was somewhere between stifling a laugh and suffering extreme mortification. I didn't realize the latter just yet.

And then she began telling her story.

Sue, following her breakfast of champions of two extra-large bran muffins and a medium sized coffee, had had the drive of her life back to the city. The worst drive of her life, that is.

She felt the gurgling deep in her stomach while she met with the other client following the Board meeting. Luckily, the client talked loudly and didn't hear the audible argument going on inside her digestive system. The bran muffins clearly weren't the wisest choice from the breakfast buffet.

It wasn't until the meeting adjourned, promptly at the hour's mark, when Sue was walking back to the rental car registered in my name, that she felt a little more than gurgling. She felt a tad bit icky. Convinced it would pass, she got into the car and slowly left the parking lot and headed south to the city. The drive, on a good day, takes about 40 minutes. Just enough time to clear her head before making it back to the OH MY GOD GURGLING.

Frantic, she looked left, right and in the rearview mirror. She knew she had to find a bathroom, and quickly. It was one of THOSE situations.

Seeing no exits coming up, and knowing that the smaller four-lane road was going to quickly become a highway into the city, she OH MY GOD GURGLING. Now it was like something was erupting within her bowels. Deep and troubling were the noises, and the feelings, that emitted from her stomach.

She swerved off to the side of the road and slowed the rental car to a stop. She couldn't believe she was about to do this, but she had no choice. The muffins were coming out.

[I really, really, really don't think I could have done this. But, given the circumstances, I'm not sure what other choice she had.]

Leaving the car running, with the hazards on, she raced into the light woods that edged the highway. She ducked behind a tree, and felt the immediate OH MY GOD GURGLING relief of having taken steps towards healing the monster within her posing as two digested extra-large bran muffins.

I know that this is disgusting, but keep in mind that as she was telling us this story, she was somewhere caught between howling from laughter and howling from crying. So were we, as we listed, mouths agape. Frankly, I was already nearing that hysterical place where laughter is paired with tears pouring down my face - but I couldn't even believe how this story was going to go.

And go it did.

#2. On the side of the road. In a business suit. In December. With very few leaves on the trees, and snow around her ankles. Boots sinking into the wet ground cover, she copped a squat right there in North Chicago.

Clearly she wasn't carrying Charmin in her coat pocket, so it was a grab and go situation. She zipped up and ran, split-legged and hobbly from the embarrassment and the pain in her stomach, ran back to the car.

She decided that in this case, going well above the speed limit was not only acceptable, it was required. For God's sake, she needed to be home.

Shaking her head, she kept driving, careening between cars and listing from one lane to the left as if she was drunk off more than fiber, she made slight headway OH MY GOD GURGLING and realized that the worst was not over.

Frantic, Sue assessed her options. The bear in the woods thing wasn't for her, so she zoomed off at the next exit. Now that the highway had expanded into a typical 4-lane-divided-by-a-cement-median type, she had more options when it came to exits. She peeled off at the next one, and swerved right towards the first business she saw.

Her choices were clear. A factory, a mechanic and a hotel. Hotels have bathrooms in the lobby, she thinks with overzealous glee.

[At this point, her voice was nearing fever pitch as she regaled us with the play-by-play. We were balled up on the floor dying laughing at this point, just trying not to wet our pants to add insult to injury.]

Coming in hot and coasting on two wheels, she brought the car to a sudden stop in the turn-about driveway by the lobby front door. Again, she left the car running and the door likely hanging wide open - she didn't care anymore about that damn car - and leapt out of the vehicle. The sudden movement was not a good idea, clearly.

As she rose, the OH MY GOD GURGLING got worse and she realized that as she took her third step towards the front door, the #2 bathroom, the runny variety, was now running down her legs. Inside her expensive suit pants. Into her boots.

She ran - shouting "WHERE IS THE BATHROOM?!?" to the poor unsuspecting hotel employee behind the chest-high registration desk. Not waiting for an answer, she stutter-stepped one way, and then seeing the plastic wall sign with the gender-specific visual cues, she raced to the right. Not before slip-sliding on her own, well, excrement.

It had now made its way out her pant legs and onto the floor in tiny, lingering drips.

Glancing down, she ignored the visible sign of her shame, and kept running. Relieved to have made it to the safety of a real bathroom, she slammed shut the green MDF door and gave up on the latch. She pulled down her pants to realize the disaster that was her appearance, and her gastrointestinal state.

Mopping up the mess with toilet paper, she panicked. She didn't think there was any salvaging the underwear at this point, and took them off and threw them away. Using as much TP as was possible, she tried to remedy the situation without much success. The pants were covered, wet and smelled horrible, as you can (and don't want to) imagine.

[Don't forget, I swear on my mother that this is true, as it was told to me, and I have no reason to believe it isn't true. Bear with me. If you're not gagging yet.]

In her panic, Sue decided that her winter coat was long enough to cover her assets, if you will, if she were to lose her pants. Literally.

So, that's what she did. She took off her pants. Everything was bare below the waist except for her knee high winter boots. Her wool coat was the pea coat variety, not the floor length kind, so it wasn't hiding much. But, she didn't care. She was in the northern 'burbs and knew no one.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

She cleaned up herself and the area, and decided to venture back out. At top speed, while holding down the bottom edges of her coat as best she could.

Spotting the, well, evidence of her visit on the floor, she jumped and dodged them and just bolted back to the car. Which, need I remind you, is a rental. In my name.

Seated back in the relative safety of her car, she left the parking lot in a full speed ahead kind of mode. Headed straight home to change clothes. And at least put on pants.

At this point, nearing literal hysteria, Sue realizes that no one is going to believe her story. Not one person would truly believe that she'd TAKEN OFF HER PANTS and left them in the garbage at a Renaissance Inn in North Chicago.

Unless she had proof.

Which is when she pulled out her cell phone, aimed it at her lap, properly positioned her wool scarf to cover anything offensive, and photographed her naked-as-a-bluejay-bare legs, scarf strategically placed, and coat hem, sitting just below the bottom circle of the steering wheel.

I promise. I saw it myself.

[I'm sure you can picture the scene in the office now - door closed, Kristen and I rolling around on the floor, clutching our stomachs, grabbing for the phone to see the evidence, and tears making total wrecks of our faces. We couldn't even contain ourselves. I'm pretty sure we were screeching.]

As if that wasn't bad enough, the bran muffins from hell had packed one more punch.

She sped onto the highway, made it past a few exits, and OH MY GOD GURGLING and tears began to roll down Sue's face. She couldn't believe that this was happening. I'm fairly certain she was using expletives that, if repeated, would amp this post up to a Rated R label. At top volume.

All I could say was, "Are you kidding me?" over and over in that 'sarcastic because I know you're telling me the truth because who would make up this horrifying story about themselves' kind of way.

The next exit was upon her, and she steered the car off the exit ramp and at full speed, turned it into the first business she spotted.

An Animal Hospital.

The parking lot was small, and unusually crowded for midday on a Tuesday, but she squeezed in and left the car in park right out front. She raced through the front door, and at fever pitch yelled, "Do you have a bathroom?!?!" in that 'I'm a crazy woman wearing no pants with poop on my boots so don't mess with me' style that was now the norm.

The poor kid at the front desk stood, mouth hanging wide open, and just pointed towards the back of the room. She ran, naked butt and all, into the bathroom and took care of business. Again.

With nothing left to leave behind but her insides, dignity and pride, she made it out of the bathroom to find a woman entering the waiting area with her two dogs leashed walking in front of her. Catching what I must assume was a whiff of Sue's, well, breakfast, they excitedly jumped up and tried to lick, kiss and nip at her legs as she high-jumped them and made it to the door, not without pulling a Sharon Stone for all to see.

She made it to the car. Embarrassment was no longer even on the table. This had slid quite a bit farther into sheer and terrifying mortification, and couldn't possibly get worse. Right?

Wrong.

As she yanked the rental car into reverse, she was too frantic to do a full cursory check of the surrounding area.

SMASH.

She had backed into a car parked behind her. In a full-on, total tizzy of a state of mind, the normally law-abiding, polite citizen Sue just did what most of us would have done in this situation.

Hauled ass.

[Bare ass, but still.]

Luckily for Sue, the gurgling was over. Finished.

Without further incident, she made it home to her north side apartment. Ran inside. Took off the remaining articles of clothing, put every item in a bag and tied it tight. Showered. Changed into the sweater and jeans that would make an appearance later, and walked back outside.

[Pretttttty sure at this point I would have said, 'Screw it. This day is done.' and gone back inside to bed.]

But, the day was not over, and we were on a deadline. Sue knew that.

And, she wanted to tell us her story.

On the way to the car, she walked into her neighborhood dry cleaners, dropped the tied-closed bag of clothes on the counter, and said, as more of an announcement than an apology, "A dog shit on me. Sorry." Left her name and walked out.

Keep in mind, she still had to return to the same rental car where the gurgling had occurred. I didn't even dare ask the question that may be on your mind about, uhm, stains on the seats. She didn't offer that information up, and at this point, I think she'd done well to share the gory details of the saga.

I did ask her, though, what happened when she got to Enterprise to return the car. She said, in her cool way, "You know how it goes. You pull up, and get out. They charged your credit card. Not so sure about the rear bumper though. It was pretty banged up."

After the laughing and crying and screeching and mortification on her behalf came to a slow, shuddering halt, I finally did ask her if she'd gotten a receipt for the rental that I could turn in with my expenses.

And, she said, with a smile, "For that piece of shit? No way."

And walked out of the room.

Needless to say, I've never looked at a bran muffin the same way ever again. And I certainly haven't helped myself to one. You've been warned.

*Names have been changed to protect the digestively challenged. I think she was already embarrassed enough. Lucky for me (or her?) we are no longer in touch and frankly, I'm fine with that. Story's told.

Dressing the Part

I have a new theory about my social life.

Well, it is likely more than a theory by now.

I have empirical proof. Evidence.

It's real.

No, faithful readers and loyal friends (and sister), it is NOT about The Vortex.

(If you have no idea what that is about, ask me and I'll compose a new post about it. It's juicy. And also proven.)

Nope. This time it is more about social planning.

Here's my theory:

There are those nights that you're tired, feeling unattractive, dressed in a B-team outfit, having a bad hair day, bloated, hungover, stressed out, or just plain don't want to do anything but beeline for your own couch to hide in the comforts of home.

Yes. We ALL know those nights. For me, of late, they come during the week (it hurts too much to go out on a school night anymore), or more often, on a Friday night after a crazy wild deadline-filled week at work.

Friday nights are supposed to be fun. Festive. Relaxing. They call it happy hour for a reason. However, for me, I find it hard to muster up the energy for it all.

BUT.

It is on THOSE nights that you a) meet the most interesting people, b) laugh the hardest, c) dance the most, d) feel the sexiest, e) and have the absolute best time ever.

I'm telling you. Not once, or twice, but three times in the last two weeks has this theory been proven.

Now. Without telling TOO much information (as if that's ever stopped me before), I'll tell you this. One recent Thursday, I was minding my own business at work, glancing at the clock readying for quittin' time, when I got a little instant message from a friend. He offered Cubs tickets. For that night. Since it was the holiday weekend, I know it was technically a weekend, but it still felt like a random Thursday night to me. I was tempted to decline politely, and just couch-sit with the recent Netflix arrival (finally watching "The Tudors"!). But, no.

Something made me accept the offer, and join the three guy friends at the game. It was my first of the season, and the seats were fantastic. The weather was perfect - warm, but not hot; breezy, but not cold. The beer went down like water, and the hot dogs were grilled to perfection. The Cubs hit an out of the park grand slam to win the game. We sang "Go Cubs Go" and waved the infamous "W" flag all the way down the block. See?


Which is where we saw Alfonso Soriano (Cubs left fielder) driving south on Clark Street, rolling in style in his white Rolls Royce. I was walking right next to his car, which sadly, despite all indications that he should have had company, did not have a hot "Cribs"-style chick riding shotgun. Emboldened by the Old Style, I knocked on his window, and he rolled it down. We chatted, I congratulated him, and he laughed. With me! See?


That never would have happened if I'd stayed on my couch. And all of that happened with me in a baseball hat, tennis shoes, frayed jeans and a plain grey t-shirt.

My second example came the following Saturday night. Laura and I got all dressed up. We were lookin' good. I pulled out a new dress, given to me by Kristen, and even donned the black high heels. My hair was good. The makeup was spotless. We were hotttt.

And, the bar was empty.

Seriously.

It got "maxed out" at about 11 people. Total. And this is a place that usually has so many good looking people crammed into it by midnight that it renders conversation impossible.

But, not this night. Because we were ready, willing and looking for fun.

It was not meant to be.

My final case in point came this past Friday night. It was about 4 o'clock. My office technically had been closed since 1 pm for summer hours, but I'd been restrained hammering out a PowerPoint deck for my boss. I didn't mind that badly - I had no plans. The couch was calling my name. I even had some wine to open.

Kristen had other plans. She suggested, via instant message, that I join her and a few other girls at Hub 51 for happy hour. At 5 pm.

Since I had on an A- outfit, and hadn't yet piled my hair up into a messy knot that was unforgiving and irretrievable, I agreed to go. Come on, girls - you know what I mean. I'm not THAT vain, but Hub 51 is known for the chic, trendy folks looking good.

I joined Kristen at the table (a feat unto itself) and settled in for a calm girls' night. We were then joined by Jill, and then by three other lovely lady friends who were clearly out for the night of fun and debauchery. We laughed. Conversation flowed. We caught up, joked, reminisced and told stories. The food came, and was delicious and perfect.

Then, Jill and the others left me and Kristen to finish our night, and we thought it would be coming to a close soon. This was at about 8 pm - a solid happy three hours.

We had another thing coming. Two gentleman, whom I'd noticed checking us out (or were they after our huge table?) promptly visited, asked permission to join us, and brought with them hilarious stories (some true, some of the made-up variety), guessing games, "the name game," the "where are you from" storytelling hour, references to recent and past history, jokes, toasts, and more drinks. The hours were ticking by, but who had time to notice?

All I could see was the night turning into one of the most fun, and most satisfying, I'd had in a long while. These guys were classy, smart, funny, interesting, humble and, not least of all, attractive. One caught my eye in particular, and it turned out that his mother and my mother were just one grade apart at a certain private high school in St. Louis. He and I were even born at the same hospital for crying out loud. It was destiny. Or at least a good omen for a fun night.

I was convinced to store my 50-lb work bag downstairs at Sub 51 in a booth while we toasted, danced and literally "brought the party" to the basement dance club. I was spun all over the tiny dance floor, knocking into people and being asked by a dorky bachelor party from Maine to "make his night - he's getting married in two weeks." I didn't, don't worry.

Laughing until I was almost crying, I learned and tried out dance moves that no white girl should attempt. And succeeded, almost unilaterally. At least no one got hurt, myself included. I had met two really nice guys, who were perfect gentlemen, and didn't expect it at all.

Knowing when to say when (and not tempt fate or my "I fixed it at 7 am this morning makeup and hair"), I said my goodbyes, got a quick kiss, and left at the stroke of midnight to scramble into a waiting cab.

Flying northbound on Lake Shore Drive, I caught myself beaming.

See?

Yet another perfect example that life is like that. If you plan it too much, or get too fancy, or try too hard, it isn't meant to be.

It is what John Lennon said about the generation he, in part, symbolized - "Nothing happened in the sixties except that we all dressed up."

Sometimes, you end up just dressing the part.

And other nights? You're enjoying life as it comes.

Mind the Gap

Remember last year when I was asked to be a method maven and got to host a really cool party where 15 of my girlfriends and I got to go to a pop-up store on Halsted and make cool organic gifts and products like candles, lip balm and more? It was a great opportunity to work on behalf of a cool company like method, brag a little about their products, and share the love and wealth with my friends?

Well, the branding fairy has found me again.

I have been approached again to serve as a Brand Enthusiast for yet another great opportunity - on behalf of another exciting and relevant American brand - Gap. I wouldn't sign up for this type of thing if I didn't believe in the power of word-of-mouth marketing, or if I didn't respect the company that was asking. And, both of those things are true here. Gap is a solid, respectable company that makes all-American products that I love, buy, wear and wear again.

When I was being "interviewed" by the branding company that has been hired by Gap, I had the privilege of spending an afternoon with Justine at a local coffee shop. After our time was spent getting to know each other, she said, "well, that's it. Then let's walk over to Gap and buy you an outfit."

Uhm....what?!?

That may be the best thing I've heard all week. So, we did. She had a budget, but it was generous, so we raced through the store and picked up things I should try on for size. She was appraising, kind and honest as I put each option on and twirled around in front of the gently back-lit Gap dressing room mirrors. I settled on not one, but TWO darling summer dresses that were not on sale. I could barely contain my glee as the sales clerk pulled off the tags and put them into a bag for me - with no money exchanged. It was my very first shopping spree! Thank you Justine, and Gap. (Said dresses have come in handy already - both at a baby shower and on a boat for the Fourth of July fireworks - I was the picture of American casual preppy style in them).

So what's on the agenda for this assignment?

This year is the 40th anniversary of the company, and they are bringing to market a new line of jeans that are expected to be a game-changer for women's denim. I'm going to be lucky enough to host a party at my home for 20 of my closest girlfriends where we'll all get cool treats (I'm leaving THAT part a surprise for now) and will learn more about what Gap has going.

In the meantime, however, I came home to find a few cool surprises in the form of a Gap Brand Enthusiast "welcome kit:"

Look! A fancy big white box, filled with an over sized canvas tote bag, a full-size Gap perfume called Close, a packet of Gap travel lip glosses (woohoo!) and a t-shirt that says "Born to Blog."

Well, I may not have been born to blog, but I'm definitely born to tell stories. So, stay tuned for the next part of the Gap denim story - coming in late August. I'm looking forward to sharing the love, and the surprises, with my friends on August 13th on my roof deck where I'll host the Born to Fit party.

See? Good things come to those that tell long stories. In a public forum.

With lovely friends who read. And shop. And talk about it. We can't forget that part.

Don't we just love branding at its best?




#GapBornToFit

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.