Jumbled Thoughts

I present you with a stream of consciousness list, rather than a story. This may be more telling than anything else anyway as to where my mind is today.

Why is it that you can be underwhelmed and overwhelmed, but never just whelmed?

I just saw a t-shirt at Nordstrom that says, "Internet killed the mix tape star." and found that to be a rather clever and modernized play on "Video killed the radio star." Though mix tapes were really dead when the recordable CD came along, now weren't they?

My sister hung out with Patrick Dempsey at the NASCAR races in Miami this weekend, and she says he's not only a nice man, he seems like a regular guy. With great hair and sparkly eyes. It is sad that it always comes as a shock to find out that a celebrity can actually be a kind human being. Why do we let the others get away with their sub-standard behavior?

I miss my friends from home. With all of the social networking sites around, I get to see updated photos and hear their news on a regular basis, but there is nothing quite like sitting around drinking some cheap wine and laughing about old times. The unique bond that comes from having known each other since we were in elementary school doesn't go away, and as the years tick on, and the milestones of life continue to pass by, the one constant is that we always have each other. That makes me feel all warm inside, kindof like a tequila shot, but without the hangover.

Marking projects/tasks off a to-do list probably shouldn't bring me such joy, but I can't help it. If I complete a weekend task that wasn't on the list, I add it, just so I can mark it off. It is a disease, I'm fairly certain.

Can't help but wish I'd named this blog something a little more general, and something that rolls off the tongue a bit better than this alliteration disaster I have. Wonder if it would be too much trouble to change it, and if not, what would be the right name?

How can the meterologists continue to flub on the forecast? Last night, at approximately 10 pm, on the local news they proudly and boldly proclaimed that it would be 66 and partly cloudy today. It is currently 45 and raining. Didn't they see that moving mass of rainy stuff on their fancy schmancy Doppler radars?

The Cubs have their first home opener at Wrigley today, and I must admit I'm not jealous of the dedicated fans who are sitting in their royal blue and white ponchos waiting out the rain delay. Although a kosher hot dog with grilled onions wouldn't hurt anyone.

Should this marketing thing not work out, I think I have a future in a barber shop. I was taught how to cut hair with the men's clippers this weekend, and surprisingly, was trusted to do so. I'm a beauty school star in the making.

I was disappointed in "The Darjeeling Limited" and despite Wes Anderson's direction, the movie fell flat for me. And, there was a snake in 3 scenes, which didn't help.

Gummy bears don't sit well on an empty stomach. Leftover movie candy is filling our work kitchen after the office's "snack and learn" showing of the documentary "Helvetica" on Friday. It is torture to walk by, and the gummy bears just seem to keep following me back to my office. If I shut my door they may just stay outside. Until I open it, save them from their lonely existence and send them to their doom. In my aching stomach.

And, there are 62 days left until I go to Costa Rica. It sounds like less time when you count it in days, I assure you. I've tried both ways. The "turn the page on the calendar day" always feels like an accomplishment.

Go on. Turn the month page a day early. You rebel you.

The Pick Up (Make Up) Artist

I was in Cosi yesterday at lunchtime, and had just enjoyed a nice meal by myself, accompanied only by my new hardcover book of choice. All but lost in the novel, I scarcely looked around at the other patrons in the restaurant.

Realizing that I had less than 15 minutes left to finish up, get back to my office and prepare for my 1 pm meeting, I quickly abandoned the book and shoved it back into my new purse. Tossing my garbage in the bin, I was stopped by a woman about my age sitting alone at a table. She complimented my new bag, for which I thanked her, and started to walk on.

She was still seated, but proceeded to ask me where I got it (I hate that question, I consider it almost as rude as asking how much it was) and I told her, and then started to walk on.

Towering over her, as she was still sitting down, I really was trying to walk away but she continued to pepper me with more questions. Assaulting me with them, really. "Do you work around here?" "What do you do?" "What type of agency?" "How much do you weigh?" Okay, not that one, but come on.

Then she had the audacity (ignoring all social cues and the four times I'd taken steps away from her) to ask me for a card so she could follow up with me. About WHAT? My purse?

She tells me she works in "leadership development, especially for women, and would love to talk to me further about it." Uhm, maybe I'm just NOT a sales person, but that was the most awkward introduction/pitch I've ever heard. Mind you, when she asked for my card I lied and said I didn't have any on me, and then she whips out this little notepad and says, "Well then, can I have your email or something?"

I really should have just said "no thanks" and kept walking, but I just felt so taken off guard, and so ridiculously awkward still standing a good 4 feet above her head, and so I mumbled out my personal email address (that I can screen immediately) and started to walk away. She says, "What about your cell phone number?"

Hold up there, sister. I don't even readily give that out to people I meet that I ACTUALLY want to talk to, much less a total stranger that has still yet to even tell me her name and why she wants to know me, much less stand up and look me eye to eye.

I declined and scurried out as soon as I could, to her promising after me, "I'll get in touch!"

And, I'll be screening your email.

Yes, she was a "women" consultant....she works for MARY KAY. (She did finally shove a card in my hand, one of those annoying slick shiny tacky ones with eye shadow samples booger-glued to the back).

I mean, come on. I know that I have the luxury (by choice) to not need to generate new business leads by stalking strangers in public places, but that was seriously awkward. And, she used such a cheesy pick up line to reel me in.

After dating for about 15 years, I should have seen her type coming. Pity the fool.

Battle of the Bulge

Coming back from lunch today I noticed that the Lakeshore Athletic Club sign on the exterior of the building is missing the "O."

Guess they've lost the donut around the middle?

Good for them. I'm still working on it.

Incidentally, just working in and living in a building that has a free gym does not automatically cause you to lose those extra winter pounds. I think you actually have to go inside, and gulp, WORK OUT.

That's the part I hate.

Crash Into Me

I watched the Oscar-winning film "Crash" again this week, and I feel the same way I did the first time. A sticky combination of sadness and acknowledgement.

The sadness part is easy.

There are sad storylines, sad endings, sad people and sad scenarios. This sadness is okay, though, because it proves that I'm a feeling and sensitive human being. And, it can be cured by a dose of Seinfeld or something else uplifting like eating a whole bag of Twizzlers Twerpz and telling myself it was just a movie and that it isn't real. But it is, and I know that deeper in my heart than I'd care to admit.

The acknowledgement part is a little more complex.

The message of the movie, in my humble and un-researched opinion, is that we ALL judge others based on stereotypes. And, that deep down, we don't really mean to be racist or judgemental or ignorant, but we sometimes are. And, we are often dealt the consequences of these actions, and we must acknowledge this.

I also think there is an underlying message of goodness—even the terribly unlikable characters, namely Matt Dillon's crooked cop—have a softer and more loving side to them that they don't show the world, just those whom they love. And, I'm certain that this is true to some degree. It is even possible that serial killers are nice to their mothers. But, I wonder about this notion. Are people inherently good, and we make bad decisions that make us bad people? This brings up the nature vs. nurture argument that is too heady for me to attack, but is definitely on my mind today.

Living in a relatively diverse city, but recognizing the divide that exists here geographically, socially, etc., it is impossible to ignore the fact that we are faced with countless opportunities (loosely using that word) to judge, or be judged, based on nothing more than what's on the surface. The color of our skin, the clothes we wear, the tattoos/piercings we boast, the cars we drive, the jobs we hold, and even the pets we walk. We pass judgements on people so quickly we're often not even aware that we're doing so. I'm guilty, and so are you.

I suggested to a few friends that I wondered if we all, meaning, all Americans, had to watch Crash, and engage in a healthy and vibrant discussion of the messages therein, would we be nicer and more forgiving of each other? Would we reduce our judgements down to those only when earned by specific words or behavior? Would we operate more "as one?"

Their opinion was a sad one, saying that people would likely inevitably revert back to their old ways after a few days/weeks of behaving more openly. That it was similar to how the country collectively "decided" to be nicer to one another after 9/11, and how within a month, the realities of human nature crept back in. It can also be likened to how you make all these geniune promises to change around the New Year, and by February first, you're back comfortably in your old rut. Given the movie's clever title and tagline, "Moving at the speed of light, we are bound to collide into with each other.", it would seem that much is true.

However, with the topic of race on everyone's mind, and the cover of every newspaper in America, I wonder about it though. Are we a country that could actually change?

It is possible that I am being too naive, and too simple-minded, to ascertain from all of this that educating Americans on racial stereotypes, and how to avoid falling into the same bad behaviors, would help?

Or are we just stubborn jerks with bad habits?

Personally, the final and resounding message of the movie was that of fear. Don't let fear dictate how you respond to people. Fear was a prevalent force in the movie, and it is alive and well in every city, town and suburb across America today, both in our hearts and in our minds. My wordsmith friend Sallie once told me that "responsibility" really was "response ability"—we have the ability to respond to a situation with dignity, open-mindedness, kindness, honesty and grace. I think those are real American values that we can use, and learn from.

Quite possibly I'm over thinking it, but it was worth a shot. And, a Netflix rental if you've not seen it. I didn't reveal anything that won't unfold within minutes of the opening credits anyway, except for a few opinions that are based on nothing more than life experiences and semi-critical thinking. Oh, and yes, I cried this time, too. Revealed that one just to level the playing field.

We're all human. At least that much is black and white.


Image courtesy of phlog that

He's Lovin' It

A news story on Good Morning America caught my eye today. A British man won $2.7 million in the lottery, and is still planning to keep his job.

Flipping burgers at McDonald's.

I find this to be somewhere between admirable and crazy. I'd really like to think I'd keep my job if I won more than $2 million, but I'm not making any promises (sorry, Gordon).

Before I'm lambasted for my minimal financial wherewithal, it hasn't escaped my understanding that $2 million isn't THAT much in the way of funding a lifetime, but it would certainly be enough to urge me to find a better, more fulfilling and more challenging job (intellectually) than working in a fast food restaurant.

I mean, how good ARE those health benefits? Or does he really just love the uniform? Enjoys the smell of grease in the morning?

Whatever the reason, I do admire his loyalty to his employer, and his "regular guy" routine as he continues working as if nothing had changed. I'd be willing to bet that there is a bigger smile on his face today as he serves the Brits their fries, though.

It does beg the question, that I am now posing to you: what would YOU do with your time if you won the lottery?

Sugar and Spice

Is it possible to unconditionally love a little girl that I've only met once?

My cousin has a daughter who is almost 3 now, and I just melt every time she sends photos out. Don't worry—she's not that kind of mother who sends unnecessarily large albums of her daughter's every move. Nope, just the few handpicked gems that are bound to make the family smile.

Her eyes twinkle, her cheeks are round and just the right level of chubby, and her blonde pigtails almost bounce right off the screen. I swear I can hear her giggles when I browse the photos. Each one is captioned related to the activity, or her outfit, so they range from "Easter Egg Hunt" to "Strawberries and Ice Cream."

How can that NOT immediately lighten my day?

I know now what my mom meant when she said that when my sister and I were little, she could just chew on our cheeks. Sometimes that's the only way to express just how cute a little one is.

I think if she did that in real life, the mother would have her carted off to the nearest looney bin, but I get it, mom.

*The above is an photo canvas piece I made for my cousin for baby's first Christmas. An artsy perspective, but seriously, LOOK at that face!

My Kind of Town

I was a tourist in my own city this weekend. A recommendation to you all—go out, do a few things that only the "tourists" do in your town, and you'll see things a whole new way.

With my mom and sister in town, we adventured to many of the sights that I often neglect or avoid due to the "tourist" factor. We had after-work drinks at the Signature Room Lounge on the 96th floor of the John Hancock tower on Thursday, and enjoyed 360 degree views of my fair city. Including the one from the ladies bathroom, which was made famous in a scene from "Ferris Bueller's Day Off."

With our $14 dollar drinks resting nicely in our bellies, we rode the CTA bus up Lake Shore Drive to my condo, and enjoyed a snowstorm on Friday afternoon while managing to finish the home projects I have been putting off for years.

Friday night we spent a lovely dinner and drinks at one of my favorite "local" bars, Matilda despite their infamously bad bathrooms (see "Bomb Shelters or Bathrooms" for more details), and experienced the full effect of body-odorific-taxis on the way to and from our meal.

Saturday we ventured to Millennium Park to take in (and photograph ourselves with) the fantastic Cloud Gate sculpture that is more commonly known as "The Bean" for obvious reasons. The snow was hanging on for dear life from the rounded edges of the sculpture, and the sun glinting off of the metal was almost blinding as it reflected the old buildings along Michigan Avenue. The effect was not unlike a globe, with the snow patches for continents, lit from within.

We then had a delicious lunch at The Park Grill, overlooking what was the Millennium Park ice skating rink until last week when they optimistically closed it in honor of the arrival of Spring. Yeah...hasn't come just yet, but we're holding out hope. Following lunch by the fireplace, we avoided the lines at the Art Institute of Chicago and were lucky enough to see the Winslow Homer and Edward Hopper exhibition, which was dynamite. Those men were busy! On our way out, we were treated to a sidewalk performance by The Bucket Boys who prove that inspired music can come from anywhere, even a drywall bucket.

Nursing our aching "museum feet," we wandered back to Michigan Avenue to stretch our legs and walk/run for the northbound bus. Dinner included a FEAST of fondue at The Melting Pot which lasted almost 5 hours. Yes, FIVE. You melt a little cheese and chocolate in front of me, and I'm sticking around as long as they'll let me.

Sunday was the more "low key" approach. Sans reservation, we dined for Brunch at Deleece a great local spot that had just been featured on "Check Please." We passed on the Bloody Mary's (why?) and ate more than is normal. Each. Driving back from brunch (after leaving our front row parking spot), we toured through Graceland Cemetery, resting place of many of Chicago's famous residents. Every few seconds one of us shouted, Palmer!, Kinzie!, Magill!, Brauer! and even Burnham, made famous by the great book The Devil in the White City, a historical fiction surrounding the building of the World's Fair site in 1893.

Finally, we were "treated" to the pothole circus that is Cicero Avenue as we made our way to Midway Airport in time for my family's late afternoon flight. I managed to navigate the streets without losing a tire or breaking an axel, and I am rather proud of that. This street edges some rather rough neighborhoods, as made famous in "Chicago" during the musical number of The Cell Block Tango. We tried to sing the song to distract us from the horrid road conditions, but none of us could remember the lyrics. Sorry to disappoint you, Liz.

All in all, it was a spectacular weekend filled with tourist sights, local options and excellent food, drink and conversation. My mom and sister admitted that they think I've grown "tough" in my 7+ years here, and it must be because I kept saying how nice of a day it was, despite the fact that it was hovering just above freezing. Frankly, Mother Nature cooperated mostly, and even gave us some bright sunshine to help us deny the fact that it was still 30 degrees in late March.

We sounded cocky about our discovery as we commented on how quiet the city was during Easter Weekend. Allowed us to be "tourists" without the crowds. It's Monday now, and everyone is back from the suburbs and the Easter Baskets are all put away. The Peeps are even starting to get dry and tasteless already.

It was absolutely worth every minute, every tired bone and every dollar spent.

I love Chicago. My kind of town, my kind of weekend.

Ways of the World

It seems that this has been a week of cultural experiences and eye-opening adventures.

At dinner last week a friend was telling stories about her trip to India, and we were all amazed by the sights, sounds and tastes that she described. The most interesting fact she shared was this: in India, the petty crime rate is fairly low, especially given the extreme poverty and overcrowded cities, because the faith of the region is based on a religion that believes in karma. A simple notion, the people of India believe fully in the concept that what you do and how you behave will inevitably come back to you, good or bad.

I think that's an interesting way to live—and without debasing their culture by making light of it, I couldn't help but apply that principle to our life here in America. If every action I took had a direct result on someone else (which it usually does) and ultimately that action comes back to me in the form of a distinct and equal reaction, would I choose to behave differently? Would the ill-tempered bus driver calm down? Would the grouchy old lady be kinder? Would the rude and pushy teenager give way to those who need more time to board the bus? Would patience abound? Would general kindness be more evident? Would commuting actually be pleasant?

And, then, while this was all on my mind, I got talking with a few people about the foods of the world, and realized that I am poorly versed on many cultural cusines. I hadn't eaten at a Lebanese restaurant, had never really tried Vietnamese foods, and had only tasted Indian food (takeout) once. My palette was sorely virgin when it came to the ways of the world.

Sunday night was an opportunity to try to change that. We dined at Old Jerusalem, a small and visually unremarkable Lebanese and Middle Eastern spot in Old Town, featuring fresh and authentic dishes from the region.

I'd had some of it (hommus, falafel), but never in a full meal such as this, and most often out of a plastic Whole Foods container. Last night, however, my senses were awakened by the unique paradox of the citrus/parsley blend of the tabbouleh with the creamy nature of the feta dishes, the thinly sliced meats of the shawarma were balanced by the spices and the rice on which they laid gently. I was pretty amazed at how delicious it all was, and how I had neglected to ever try this food before, simply out of fear of the unknown.

Overall, I was impressed, both with the food, and with the entire experience of it all.

And then the dessert comes, and it is a small slice of homemade Baklava, a honey-lemon pastry dish with layers and layers of flaky crusts on top. We all shared, inching in with our small dessert forks, to sample the delicacy.

And, then, the cultural finale of the evening was upon us: Brett tastes his portion, settles back into his chair, and says calmly, and quietly, "I'd rather have a Toaster Strudel."

Needless to say the wine was almost coming out our noses. Not that he didn't appreciate the entire meal and the dining experience of trying new things, but at some level, we all want to go back to the basics. The comfort foods of our youth. The more familiar.

But, I must tell you, at that exact moment, nothing could have stopped our table at laughing at the truth and simplicity of his statement.

Because, sometimes, you just would rather have a Toaster Strudel.

Look Sharp

My mom and sister arrive today, and are actually on the ground in Chicago as we speak. They're riding the famed Orange Line from Midway, so hopefully no one flashes them as they cruise past the Pulaski stop (see yesterday's post if you have no idea what I'm referencing).

I have a full weekend of sight-seeing, wine-drinking and food-eating planned, including a trip out to Oak Park to see the Frank Llloyd Wright home and studio, as well as a walking tour of the homes in the area he designed.

And, then...

The forecasters announced that we're to get 4-9" of snow tomorrow.

It goes without saying that I'm over it.

But, I did scrub, clean, vaccuum, spritz, spray and dust my condo within an inch of MY life in preparation for their visit, so if we have to stay home and, ahem, complete house projects so be it.

The list on the fridge is a mere coincidence, Mom, I promise. And, the Home Depot credit card laying out? Yeah, I leave that there all the time. No, no, I'm not asking you to...oh, you'd like to help? Well grab your pre-printed monogrammed waist apron and protective eyewear and let's get busy.

**Update as of Monday, post-weekend: We DID get snow on Friday, and we DID finish all 6 house projects I had on my list, plus one or two that I hadn't even thought of. My Mom and sister sure are handy. Maybe I could rent them out by the hour on their next visit?

Hello Mr. Johnson

If you've been keeping up with the blog comments, you'll note that there have been multiple requests for me to detail the stories of my many penis sightings while commuting in Chicago.

I know, I know. Just swallow the coffee before it sprays all over the keyboard and electrocutes you. It's not quite like that.

But, apparently these stories carry an interest factor that is timeless, or my friends just wanted to see if I would actually type the word penis on a blog. Well, done and done.

What they don't realize, or have forgotten altogether, is that I DID share these stories back in September on my 7-year Chicago anniversary post. Maybe I didn't give them quite the flavor or texture that was requested? I'll repost, and start adding in the colorful details that make me "famous" as a storyteller. And, don't worry, when typing a story, I don't NEED any backtracks, so I will stay on track.

Here goes. I apologize in advance if you're prone to a sensitive stomach, or if you're reading these before you've fully digested that bagel and cream cheese.

I was flashed once on the El on the orange line to Midway Airport.

On a Tuesday morning. At about 8:30 in the morning, with the sun shining and the city gleaming. It isn't exactly prime "look out for predators" time of day. Or so I thought.

I was seated, with headphones and sunglasses and two pieces of luggage, when the loser crossed into my car, chose the seat kitty-corner to mine (about 5 feet away in linear distance) and proceeded to just stare at me. I should have known something was up—who crosses cars on the El unless you're peddling bad poetry or simply begging for dollars? It didn't help my cause any that there were few other passengers on this train car, and with each passing station, the numbers shrank. Pretty soon it was just him and me.

At any rate, this guy, let's call him Carlos, sat near me, close enough that I could smell his dime store cologne. I ignored him as much as I could, but my instincts were peaked, and the little tremors of "a gut feeling" began to fill my body. He sat there and just treated me to a nasty sneer while he began fondling himself.

I then realize he's getting into it—and was removing his penis—ugh, the word is starting to creep me out in this context; let's call it a member instead—from his pants to get a better handle on the situation. (The bad puns just roll right out of me, I can't help it).

This went on for a few minutes while I tried to stare nonchalantly out the window (they just want a rise out of you—and their member!) I ignored him quite well for about 10 minutes, which felt like 10 days. He stood up at the Pulaski stop, continued flogging, while standing facing me, holding onto the bar right by the door, and smiled.

He then got off (literally).

I was shaking. All the way home to Atlanta, where I debated telling my suburban mother the drama. I told her. She even let me come back to Chicago when the visit was over.

Satisfied? Want MORE public penis sightings?!?!

Well, lucky for you, I have another one.

Some time later, fully recovered from the El flashing incident, I was entering a cab (into the backseat, with three other girls) and one girl climbed in front with the driver, as is the custom when cramming that many people into a taxi.

The glass partition was open, but only allows the backseat passengers a glimpse of what's going on in front, thank God.

My friend up front starts shouting, "OH MY GOD, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!!?"

And we lean forward, and realize the guy is pleasuring himself IN THE DRIVER'S SEAT. Into a hankerchief. With passengers.

It was all too much—my friend shouts at us to "get out get out get out get out get out" and we do. I hurled a solid "why did you stop to pick us up if you were clearly preoccupied?!?!" at the driver as we stood on the corner and shook off the grossness of it all. Needless to say, the crowd of guys on the corner were interested, and equally mortified, by the incident. Or at least they put on a good face for it all.

Disappointingly, calling the cops was no help—we even had the cab number, date/time of the "incident" and everything ready. But, they wanted us to ride around with them all night to track down the guy and "catch him in the act."

Uh, yeah, already been there and done that. No thank you.

There you have it. A double dose of penis on a Wednesday. They don't call it Hump Day for nuthin'.

The Waiting Game

So, I did it.

Yesterday I officially signed up to be one of the CTA's Mystery Shoppers. Before you go off laughing at the plight the poor unknowing CTA bus drivers have gotten themselves into, let's get one thing straight.

I'm waiting to find out if I've been "accepted." My application went through, and now it feels like I did when I shipped off my college applications, only to run to the mailbox waiting for the "big envelope" which indicated acceptance, versus the "skinny envelope" which undoubtedly held a "we regret to inform you..." letter that no college-bound high school senior wants to receive. Honestly, they're just not as much fun to flaunt at a family dinner.

The waiting period gives me time to think through my strategy. Do I wear dark glasses? A wig and Sherlock Holmes hat disguise? A Groucho Marx-style fake nose? Do I take notes? Carry a clipboard? Bring a tape recorder? Use my phone to record notes, email them to myself, and then record the information the next day? Which, incidentally, is how many of my commuting-related blogs are born.

I think all of those tactics, save the latter, are way too obvious.

Presumably, I'll just go about my riding the bus and train as usual, and will send in my scathing, ahem, critical reports afterwards. The CTA has another thing coming to them, they sure do.

If they choose me to participate, that is.

I feel a bit like Meredith Grey in her pathetic lovesick spiel to Dr. McDreamy on Grey's Anatomy, sighing "Pick me! Choose me! Love me!" Except that there will be no moaning, no tear stained faces, and no sad puppy-dog looks while I wait.

Just me, poised at the keyboard, ready to blog about the activities. Bring on the action!

Is it bad that now I actually HOPE for some ridiculousness on the bus?

Who's Your Paddy?

I'm Irish. See, proof above. And, my tongue is still a lovely shade of kelly green from all of the dye this weekend.

So is the Chicago River.
Mine is from beer.

Sliante!