What I Know Now?

I just got an email from the UGA Alumni Association asking for submissions to a "brochure" of sorts that they distribute to both incoming freshman and graduating students. It is intended to be a collection of advice from alumni, fellow Dawgs sharing the "if onlys" that ring in their ears now, that would have made their lives easier if they'd known them earlier.

Somehow I don't think my list would get published. But, damn, ain't they the truth.

If Only I Knew Then:

• That the beer taps at Georgia Theater have not been cleaned since the early century, and drinking draft beer there is a bad idea, unless you really like puking.
  
  
• That the classes that stress you out the most are likely the ones that are filling your head (albeit temporarily) with nonsense that will have absolutely no bearing on your real "adult" life. NO ONE has ever stood in the grocery store and thought, man, this recipe would have been much harder to shop for if I hadn't taken Advanced Physics.
  
  
• That being in the right sorority or fraternity isn't half as important as the group of friends you make while in college. Whether they were your sisters, your neighbors, your teammates or your classmates, the friendships you form while in school aid you through an amazing, challenging, interesting, crazy-fun time in your life.
  
  
• That under no uncertain circumstances should you graduate in 4 years with no summers spent on campus. It is just a cryin' shame to leave college that soon.
  
  
• That double vodkas WILL make you black out. Or throw up. No questions asked.
  
  
• That it would be worth giving up a football season or a spring on campus to study abroad. I still regret this, and wish someone had just put me on a plane with a map and a backpack. I'd have figured it out.
  
  
• That while the freedom from your parents will be exhilirating, at some point about halfway through college you realize that you miss them, and like being with them. Even if they're not handing you money. I think it is a hint at "adulthood," but I could be wrong. It may just be because your mom lets you bring home a huge bag of laundry, and always homecooks a meal for you.
  
  
• That no one, not even your first job interview, will give a rats ass about what your GPA was, or what you scored on your SATs. Not one person. What they ought to teach you is more "Office Life 101" or "Interviewing Skills 200." Those things would be much more educational and beneficial than high scores or fancy Latin titles after your name on graduation day.
  
  
• That there is nothing that can make Jim Beam taste good in the morning. No, not even fried chicken at a football tailgate. Nothing.
  
  
• That while staying up 'til 2 in the morning every night is fun, but you'll most likely catch up on your sleep in class (the pen may also leak through your notepad and you may drool) and professors will notice you more this way than if you just stayed in bed.
  
  
• That no matter how good at them you are, in the end, keg stands and beer bongs are meant for, and should be left to, boys. Period.
  
  
• That the four (five, six, seven?) years you spend in college is the easiest time in your life. You are still on your parents' health insurance, you don't have real responsibilities, you don't have to remember the drycleaning/doctor's appointments/credit card bills/mortgage payments/kids. You may not even have a job, because ultimately, school is your job. And that is the easiest job you'll ever have.
  
  
• That it is a powerful and useful life-long skill to master "flippy cup" and it is a good investment in your social future. Especially if you plan to move to the Midwest. Heck, throw in a few corn hole training sessions and you'll be a party hit for life.
  
  
• That just because he says he will call you if you do it, he won't, and you'll be sorry you did. And, everyone will know about it by the time you make it to your 10 am class.
  
  
• That there is absolutely no reason to wear giant Greek letters across your chest. I know, I know, they tell you it is in good spirit, and that you'll feel a sense of belonging, but really, it is an immature way to express yourself. Go buy a University sweatshirt and just enjoy being a part of something even bigger.
  
  
• That your body will likely never look as good as it does now, so stop obsessing, starving yourself and comparing your body to other girls—this is the time you should be celebrating your youthful looks and just get the heck over it.
  
  
• That under no uncertain circumstances should you EVER let your counselor talk you into taking a class that starts before 9 am. You'll regret it, you'll hate your counselor, and your grades (and your partying) will suffer.
  
  
• That even if you don't like football, there is something quite powerful about being one in a crowd of thousands all rooting for the same thing. I think they call it pride, and it gives me goosebumps even today. And, no, you don't have to let this pride make you crazy and paint your chest, do the wave, or run naked across the field. The word fan came from "fanatics" for a reason.
  
  
• That you shouldn't deny the fact that every day of the week has a great reason to socialize, and that you should be there. Maybe it is $1 burger Mondays, or $2 taco Tuesdays, or $.25 beer Thursdays, or live music Sundays, but there's always a good reason. And you should milk 'em before life comes at you and the hangovers hurt more and the deadlines are more real and your boss doesn't like you rolling in late. Just go.
  
  
• That it would be really hard to leave. I mean, crying as you close the door to your senior apartment hard. Literally sobbing as you drive down the street and pull onto the highway difficult. Seeping sadness all the way down the (short, 60 mile) road to "home," which, quite frankly, just feels different.
  

I may try to submit a few of these. I wish someone had done it for me.

Shouldn't Be Surprised...

...that men don't seem to want to get married. Cue "Vortex" music.


Good God.

I'm running off to an island somewhere. That's it. Not that a wedding is a near-to-me possibility, or even a tiny threat to my sanity in the imminent future, but this is ridculous.

Plus, I don't even like cake.

*Yeah for me. My first video post. Aren't I sassy?

On the Job

The weather forecasters predicted that we would get 6-12" of snow starting at 6 pm last night. They made a huge deal about how bad the commute would be last night, and again this morning.

They, once again, were wrong. Even Tom Skilling on WGN was all mixed up! Who can you trust?!

We awoke to find nothing more than some wet pavements, light sleet and heavy winds. Not the huge snowfall they'd promised (or scared us with).

It got me thinking. What other jobs can you be so bad at, and wrong so much of the time, and yet still get paid? I recall a story about the mayor in Moscow declaring that he was going to begin fining the weathermen if they were wrong, to raise funds for more weather data centers. A little harsh, but hey, it's Russia.

Seems like kindof a keen idea. Hold people accountable. I know that if I were completely unprepared and incorrect in fulfilling the entirety of my job description, I'd be looking elsewhere for employment.

And, while on the topic of jobs, employment and total failures, I was thinking about how strange it would be to be the current President of the United States. Politics aside (sortof), President Bush has been doing a job for a little over 7 years now. For the next 10 months he has to (or rather, gets to?) watch others battle ferociously for his job.

Wouldn't that be awkward in the typical office situation?

Sure, take my job. Battle that guy for it. Spend all your money doing it, and make a fool of yourself once or twice along the way. Heck, drag your entire families through the mud while you're at it. Don't sleep for nearly a year, and travel on huge busses, planes and trains to every small dinky little town in America, pretending you care (or know where the heck you are). Watch as your former classmates, lovers, roommates, and distant family members unveil your dirty little secrets and shed light on all of the skeletons in your closet. Pack all of your things, and just move right in. To my office, and my home. Kick me completely to the curb.

Just take my job. Please?

The "please" is how I assume President Bush must feel. At least the election takes the spotlight, and some of the pressure, off of him.

For now.

At least until his next live (candid or otherwise) speech.

Superlative Party

In the wake of the SUPER Bowl, and with today being SUPER Tuesday and FAT Tuesday, I started thinking...

...it seems that we like to label things with superlatives. Especially the days of the week.

Tuesday is not enough. Gotta make it SUPER. Sunday is plain Jane; let's call it Sunday FUNDAY. And, who can forget the lovely HUMPDAY for Wednesday.

Thursday gets a little left out of this mix, but it is the eve of the weekend, so we'll forgive.

And, since Friday and Saturday are officially the weekend, they are good enough, strong enough, and gosh darnit people like them. Even without the fancy labels.

(Saturday did get a little love in the Bay City Rollers song, and in "Old School" with SA-TUR-DAY! chants).

But, what about Monday? Does it ever get any appreciation? Hardly. More like negative vibes all around. MOODY Monday.

That's all I got. You?

[Defensive side note: I do recognize how lame this post was considering all the political stuff I could have written about, but I figured all of you could find plenty of that over at CNN.com and MSNBC.com. And the news. All day. Where do you go to find the dumb, random, wild and silly thoughts? Here. Thought so. And, yes, I voted today. SUPER.]

Life Lesson

This morning I went out to get a coffee at Starbucks, and on my way back to the office, a guy on the street stopped me and asked for $10. TEN BUCKS? I don't even have ten dollars in my wallet right now (I know, the coffee habit could help that issue), but come on!

That sure raises the game from "spare a little change?" I mean, I know times are tough, and the recession is bound to hit us all, but I don't walk up to people on the street and ask them for things.

And, frankly, I want a little whitewashed house in the Greek Islands, nestled in the cliffs of Santorini, but we don't always get what we want.

I know. I'm a cold-hearted person.

But, a realist.

*This is my 100th post! Happy anniversary to me. Thanks for continuing to read and comment on my crazy life here in Chicago. Please keep up the support, and I'll do my best to keep the hits coming.

More Room in the Fridge

Ok, I'll admit it. I'm an optimist.

I like to see the best in every situation, and sometimes it takes a bit of hard work to find it, and other times you just know.

This time was obvious.

Forget the wet jeans. Ignore the grey slush along every curb. Just disregard the salty roads and filthy cars. Totally let yourself get past the fridgid wind and horrid temperatures.

Enter: the optimist.

One reason to love huge snow storms, and the cold winters here in Chicago, is the simple fact that when hosting a party you can fit more in the fridge.

Why is that, you ask? Are the refrigerators bigger here? Nope.

Because there are front balconies* and back porches that keep your beer nice and cold. Throw a cooler out there filled with beer, and let the snow do its thing.

Although, to be honest, there have been a few frozen bottles when you forget about the poor beverages too long, but hey, a beer slushie never hurt anyone.

Maybe 7 Eleven should serve that flavor?

*Yes, that is an actual photo taken on the front balcony of a friend's apartment last night during the Super Bowl. Made the trips to the fridge a lot less frequent, and cut down on the chances that you'd lose your seat on the couch. I love snow.

Isn't It Ironic?

On the bus last night, during the treacherous 55 minute trek home in the snow (uphill both ways barefoot), the accordian bus I was on was packed to the gills. I was standing, balancing a shoulderbag, holding onto the pole above, and reading, which I've gotten very good at doing.

A young girl was seated by the window, in the front 1/3 of the bus. I was standing just one and a half rows in front of her, facing her side. She got a phone call.

Flipping open her jeweled cell phone, she loudly answered and began a conversation that was peppered with "like" and "uhm, yeah, totally!" and the volume just got louder and louder. She went on to talk about "how, like, I'm a great manager and I just, like, don't understand why that guy got so mad! I'm, like, really good with people, and can almost always, like, help the customer! I, like, am organized and like, get things done, and totally help out."

She was talking so loudly that everyone, like, knew her business.

Instead of glaring at her, I prefer to watch the other passengers. Silent grumbling. Wrinkled brows. Exchanged looks between couples. Smirks shared by strangers. And, the occasional old person who just doesn't give a hoot about what other people think anymore just loudly ranting about how rude that girl is. Well, rudeness goes both ways, but you're old, so I'll let you get away with it.

Anyway, my only complaint is this: when you're reading, it is hard to have a loud conversation infiltrating your mind while you concentrate on the written words. The story gets jumbled, and you end up re-reading the same paragraphs over and over. All the while you could care less about the stupid chatter you're hearing, but you just can't avoid it. So, I would have just liked to tell this "like, little, rude great manager" to just turn down the chatty volume a touch.

Just then, God interfered.

Ok, so it wasn't God. It was the CTA pre-recorded voice. But, to the masses on the bus, it was divine intervention.

"Please be courteous to others around you while talking on your cell phone." the automated female-voiced announcement said, to an almost-silent -except-for-her bus of people.

Everyone started laughing. Cracking up, actually.

She didn't even hear it. She was still, like, totally, uhm, talking too loud.

In Time for Valentine's Day!

As my "fan base" for this blog grows, so do the suggested topics. I couldn't avoid this one today, provided by my friend Josh.

The above photo is of a couch crafted by an art student in San Francisco, who is now trying to unload this lovely creative venture on an unsuspecting (pervy?) buyer.

It is a va-ja-jay couch.

It can be yours for the low-low price of $600, plus a flight to California, and a U-Haul rental back to Chicago or wherever you reside (in your couchless apartment).

The best part is the description: "the couch has some scuffmarks and stains around the bottom from being moved." Yeah, that's what they all say.

I don't think I can write much more. Just go to Craig's List and see for yourself. There's even an "action shot" of someone sitting in it. And they don't look very comfortable. It makes the utterly unstylish papasan chairs look relatively normal, roomy and chic.

And, yes, I just typed va-ja-jay. Get over it.

You probably own a papasan.

Miscommunication

I recently ordered new blinds for my condo, through the help of my lovely interior designer (aka my mother) and they called me to confirm delivery this morning.

It was 7:30 am, and I'd just turned my phone on, and was still shaking the groggy out of my cobwebby morning head. I answered, and in a gruff voice, said, "Hello?" He explained that he was calling from B&W Manufacturing, and that my order was ready.

I said, "What?" He patiently repeated it.

Honest-to-God I thought he said, "I'm calling from BMW to inform you that your order is ready."

For a painfully long second there I thought I was getting a new imported luxury sedan, clearly ordered and paid for by someone other than yours truly.

Can I help it that new blinds don't seem that exciting now?

I'm a Terrible Person

Why do those "Children International" people always hit me up? I tell myself it is because I am approachable, and seem friendly.

More likely, I look like a sucker.

Alas, I try to walk fast, look straight down, and not make eye contact. Hell, half the time I even have my phone in my hand pretending to read a very important email.

But, no.

They still say, religiously, in their chipper voices, "Do you have a minute for children?" forcing me to reply, "Uh, no, sorry."

I don't have a minute for children.

Well, when you put it that way, I just sound like an evil wretched human being.

Of course if a small child were on the sidewalk, in need, I would help. I would dive into action, trying to do anything I could to save the little tyke. Probably while cooing and uttering comforting, kind words to them so they wouldn't be scared. (That sounds creepy, but I assure you I'm good with kids).

But, when I am forced to say yes or no to the leafletters on the sidewalk, I come off like a witch. (See Monica's blog "Ramblings of a Crazy" for more on this subject.)

Nope. No time for cute kids today. I'm selfish that way. Now move over.

Urine Luck

You know those nights when you just can't catch a break? The commute seems too much to bear, and the weather is trying to totally kick your ass?

Thursday was a night like that.

I think I must've blocked it out entirely, to save my mental health and well-being, because I have just had flashbacks to the entire event, and now feel a groundswell urge to share it with you.

Then it can be your gross memory, too.

After having a quick after-work drink with a friend, I trudged over to Michigan to catch the usual bus heading north. I shall remind you, as we milk these early morning spring-like temps today, that the HIGH that day was about 2 degrees. So by 7:15 or so when I was leaving the restaurant, it was downright miserable.

Standing alone at the bus stop, I make all sorts of mental pleas with God, little inner charades, overtly ridiculous bargains like, "If the next bus is an even number, then it means that mine will be right behind it." No dice. And, "I promise to volunteer more if you just send me a freaking 145 or 146 bus in the next 30 seconds." No way, Jose.

So, when the 151 finally approaches, I unstick my frozen feet from the sidewalk, and pull a "wet dog maneuver" and try to shake my bones free from the pain, stiffness and dampness to which they are quickly succumbing, and step towards the curb.

As the bus slows to the curb, my frozen brain can't compute that there is a puddle there. It just didn't happen. The tires bounce through the potholes along the curb, and the dirty, snowy, grimy, salty, nasty puddle becomes my new outerwear. I'm covered in it. Wearing that puddle like it is the new black.

Shaking, once again, I dejectedly board the bus. (For those of you that don't ride the bus, the 151 is the last resort. The go-to bus when nothing else comes. Mostly because it stops EVERY BLASTED BLOCK all the way up the inner drive, circling slowly through the park).

I didn't care. God held up his bargain and sent me a bus. I had to get on, dripping wet coat and all.

Warmth immediately spreads through me like a stealth fire, and I'm taken back by how my fingers feel disconnected to my body. I see an off-white-wool-coat-wearing-Lincoln-Park-trixie standing over an empty seat. I nod to her, and offer her the chair. She gratefully takes it. And then, just as quickly, jumps up. Right as the offending odor hits my nose.

The entire bus smelled like urine. Not old, it's been there for days urine. NEW URINE.

Then I see her. The woman who I can only presume is the offender. Yes, I suppose I'm a terrible person and a horrible stereotyper. Don't go there. She's seated next to (and halfway in) the white-coat girl's seat. White-coat girl and I quickly surge towards the back of the bus, trying desperately to avoid the smell.

Smells aren't that cooperative, however. They are far more pushy than that.

This bus wasn't a double-bus, not an accordian bus, so it didn't have those extra 30 or so feet in which to hide. I regrettably take a seat in the mid-section of the bus, and see that everyone around me is what I'll call "scarfing it." Meaning, wearing their scarf as a face mask. Thank God I wear perfume and the scent sticks to the scarf.

White-coat girl and I couldn't help but make eye contact as I mentally send her apologies for even THINKING of offering her into that smell pit.

And then I see it.

As the bus lurches forward to the next stop, I look up to see a fast-moving puddle of liquid heading toward the back of the bus. "Please, God, no, don't let that be what I think it is" my brain thinks. I might have even said it aloud.

Yep. A yellow trail of smelly hell.

Urine.

I can't say any more for fear of losing my breakfast.

It Should Always Be This Funny

After indulging on way too much delicious pasta last night during our Sunday Funday, my good friend Brenna reminded me last night of how great these little guys, Hoops & YoYo, are. They're characters in a whole line of Hallmark e-cards, and they deserve more than their 15 minutes of fame.

I can't help but giggle like an idiot while watching them move around in their color-blocked animated world. I can't help but have fun while I listen to their tiny, high-pitched silly voices take the joke just about 10 seconds too far.

They are just one of life's simple pleasures that must be shared.

We laughed as we discussed how the programmers are probably geeky, hairy, twenty-something guys, who use a digital voice recorder with a tricky little knobby that serves as a voice compresser (can you tell I have no idea what I'm talking about?) to record these things. We also decided that they most likely make most of them on the weekends, at 4 am, likely very, uhm, altered. (see post below)

No matter who it is behind these little colorful friends, I salute them. I'm a big fan.

Hoops & YoYo in '08!