Total Bollocks

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

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

Absolutely scientific, I'm sure.

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

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

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

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

Let's forget "science" for now.

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

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

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

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



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

So, back to the Brits.

Am I crazy here? Or is this just bollocks?

Discuss.

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

The Garbage State

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

Indulge me, wouldja?

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

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

Things were looking up.

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

Even he wasn't optimistic anymore.

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

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

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

I see my car. Or was it a toaster?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good grief, this was not going well.

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

For now.

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

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

Oh. Crap.

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

Grrrrreat.

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

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

Oh. Crap.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I exit, shift and guide myself back to Hertz.

Square One.

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

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

Success would be fleeting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You Want Answers?

Since the theme the last few posts has been about confessions and lying, I figured I'd do something I've not done before. No, not confess. Or lie. Not yet at least.

I'm going to open it up to you, dear readers, to ask me questions. I'll answer them in my next post, as honestly as I possibly can.

I apologize in advance to my family, because it is possible this could become really embarrassing.

But, it seems democratic to me.

So, fire away.

What do you want to know?

Don't know where to begin? I'll help.

Frankly, it is your question, so it can be anything you want. Take control! Be empowered! Step up! Despite what the monkey seems to think, I'll guarantee answers.

You want answers? I WANT THE TRUTH. (Bonus points for reading that aloud in your best Tom/Jack impression).

I digress.

The question...It can be something personal about me that I've yet to reveal—if that's possible. It can be a story you want to hear for the first time or again. It can be a follow-up question to a previous post (which would earn you gold stars for readership). It can be just an inquiry to hear my opinion on a topic, a news story, a cultural reference or a random tidbit. Or, it could be just that tiny little burning itch of a curiousity that you're just dying to scratch.

I'll get you started with a few easy ones:

Q: What's your middle name, Colleen?
A: Theresa

Q: Do you like tuna fish sandwiches, Colleen?
A: Not even in the slightest.

Q: What's your favorite city in the world, Colleen?
A: To date, it has to be Prague.

Q: What do you think your biggest flaw is, Colleen?
A: Wanting all the answers right away. It comes from wanting control, I believe.

See? Painless.

While I admit those weren't all that scintillating, or evocative, they were just thought starters. Don't go getting all critical on me. But, do be respectful, please. I won't be humiliated here on my very own blog. That would just be wrong.

Ask me your questions in the comment section, and I'll answer them in the next post. Feel free to do this anonymously if you're not as brave and openly vulnerable as I'm prepared to be. Or, tack your name on and get your VERY OWN FREE BLOG MENTION!

God, I hope I don't regret this.

You're on a (yet-to-be-determined) deadline.

And that's my final answer.

You Made Your Bed, Now Lie In It

I have grown fond of the new show on Fox, Lie to Me. It's about a team of professionals who are trained in the art of lie detection, and put their services to use for crime- and problem-solving capers, located right in the heart of America's lies—Washington, D.C.

If you haven't seen it, make a point to catch it. I think you'll like it.

And, if not, lie to me. I'll be fine with that.

It got me thinking, though.

How often do we tell lies? As a good person with a strong Catholic upbringing, I'd love to tell you that I'm always honest.

But that would be lie #1.

And, I'd love to tell you that no one lies to me.

But that would make #2.

See how quickly they add up?

The show's premise focuses mostly on the involuntary, subconscious "micro-expressions" that our bodies make when we tell a lie. Grimaces, flinches, twitches, nervous gestures, body language and even, swallowing. The plotlines carry through nicely, and there is usually at least one twist that reveals whodunnit. I like that kind of program—especially since most of the violence/blood isn't shown too much.

It got me thinking, though.

How communicative are our faces in our daily lives? Meaning, when we're not trying to hide some major, disturbing event. Just the everyday conversations with friends, family and co-workers. I plan to be more conscious of my facial language, I tell you.

More to the point, how often do we lie? And why?

I'm guessing that we all lie pretty regularly, whether we know it or not. Most of the time, I think, we believe it is for their own good: "those pants don't make you look fat, honey," "sure, we can afford it," "you didn't make a fool of yourself, I promise," "your kids are charming," "he misses you, too," or the worst in my book, "I love you, too."

Some of the time, we're clearly lying, and it is a thinly veiled guise of what we're really thinking: "you deserve the promotion more than I did," "we can reschedule, it is no problem," "I'm proud of you for losing the weight I can't seem to drop," or, the most famous, "it's not you, it's me."

I'm pretty sure everyone knows those lies on a first-name basis.

And then there are the lies that simply avoid the truth, or sins of omission, as the Catholics would say. Those lies are the harder ones to read—they are the ones that are told between the lines, behind the real statement, below the surface.

They are the ones we're NOT saying, but really should. The truths that should be confessed, the admissions that ought to be made: "I'm married," "she's my ex-girlfriend and I'm not really over her," "I am threatened by your success," or, the most painful, "I'm disappointed in you."

Finally, there are the lies that we tell ourselves. Sometimes out loud, and sometimes in the quiet of our darkened rooms: "I don't usually do this kind of thing," "it is only a fling, I don't have real feelings at stake," "I'll be able to afford to retire eventually, I don't need to save now," "I don't mind being the grunt at work, it shows my dedication," "I probably deserved that," "I will be ready for love when I am a smaller size," or, the most treacherous, "It's okay that he/she is unsure of how they feel about me, we're just having fun."

I have had several interesting experiences lately where I realized the cold hard truth about lying, unfortunately (or is it?), from the receiving end of the game.

Lying. We all do it. Sometimes we get caught, and sometimes we don't. Sometimes, the times where we DON'T get caught are the most deadly.

Because then we go on lying to ourselves.

Admittedly Lazy

I can't deny that there have been a lot of changes in my life lately. You'd think that would warrant some incredibly deep, thought-provoking, and possibly funny posts.

Unfortunately, (but fortunately) by the time I get home from work, my brain is so spent that I feel like I'm housing a pile of oatmeal up there.

So, I'll share with you an organized list of nuggets that I managed to pluck from the mush:

• Love: American Idol
• Hate: When I miss it because TiVo and I don't get along.



• Love: Pen pals.
• Hate: The distance.



• Love: Time spent on the beach in Miami.
• Hate: Coming back to Winter.



• Love: My new job. It's finally clicking into place!
• Hate: That so many are still unemployed.



• Love: That it was 60 degrees last night at 10 pm.
• Hate: That it was 12 degrees when I went to work this morning.



• Love: That I own a Mac at home.
• Hate: That I'm on a PC at work. None of the key commands or shortcuts are the same!



• Love: That I already got my tax return back.
• Hate: That I can't blow it.



• Love: Realizing that I'm healing and not thinking of him every day.
• Hate: Realizing that I'm getting over it, and that it is really, really over.



• Love: Making my sister and George laugh until they cried the other night.
• Hate: That it was over the phone, not over a beer.



• Love: Having so many friends that they are spread all over the world.
• Hate: That the price of plane tickets and limited vacation time keeps us apart.



• Love: The bathing suits I ordered from Target.com.
• Hate: The fact that I'm not quite ready for them, physically.



• Love: Having a blog that people actually read and request more from me!
• Hate: Not being able to be funny, clever, observant, new, interesting or chatty all the time.



• Love: That today is hump day, and that means we're on the downhill slope to the weekend.
• Hate: That there are still three more days until the St. Patrick's Day celebrations!

Come on. Spill. What is it that you're loving and hating today?

Not on Target (aka Bump 'N Grind)

In the spirit of confessions below, I figured it couldn't hurt to share this one. It may not make you laugh quite like it did for me, but here's a shot.

I had the most embarrassing cart today in Target.

Running errands after work, I grabbed a shopping cart to carry what I knew would be two large items - toilet paper and paper towels. As a single woman, I don't go through these as fast as most families, but I still prefer to buy in bulk, what with the cost savings and all.

I start towards the paper goods section, and realize that my cart has an attitude.

A bad attitude.

It didn't want to go left. It didn't like going right. It had no intention of going straight.

And it complained, loudly, the entire time.

The loudest, squeakiest, strangest noises emitted from this plastic monster. I should have turned right around and put it back in the rack with the rest of 'em.

But, no, I'm just stubborn enough to think I'm going to make it stop. Coerce it into silence. Have my way with it.

Yeah...no.

I proceed to stubbornly (who's stubborn now?!) manipulate, loudly, this ridiculous excuse for a shopping cart all the way around my two-story Target store.

Oh, it gets worse.

Since it was right at 6 pm (I had worked from home today, getting a jump-start on my errands), the store wasn't crowded yet. Translate that to mean - it was quiet.

I maneuvered, loudly, the long distance from paper goods, through shoes (a girl's gotta look!), past accessories (looked the other way) to the cart escalator. I hoped that the enormous piece of mechanic marvel would teach the little cart a thing or two about being well-behaved.

Yeah...no.

I grab the cart, sheepishly, and careen, loudly, toward the grocery aisle.

People were staring. Really. I felt like I had to apologize. Out loud.

I kept uttering, "I know! It's so loud." And, "I'm sorry, just heading this way with my obnoxious cart!" and "It sounds like it is going to explode, doesn't it?" to several passerby. They just stared. At me, and at the offending cart.

It gets worse.

So, on Level 1, I had puttered and noisily bumped past the first floor team meeting. All seven red-golf-shirt khaki-pants-wearing employees turned, slowly, one by one, to identify the source of the noise.

That would be me. And my ride.

When I'd escaped to Level 2, and had dodged mommies and children (who were scared, hiding behind mommy's legs), I made it to the grocery aisle, my final destination, and pulled the plastic and metal hunk-of-junk to a stop.

A quiet stop.

Not before the entire gang of men's and electronics employees had their stare at me. Seriously, those red and khaki people are so judgy.

And, just to the left of the milk case, a woman had the audacity to say to me, "Why didn't you just get a new cart?"

I wanted to, really. I did!

But after you've started in one direction in Target, it is just a huge mistake to turn around. If you do, you'll end up spending $200 on stuff you just don't need but really had to have.

And if I didn't have a cart, I'd have to be physically reminded of the fact that I'm living alone, with no one to help me carry the big stuff, as I stumble and tumble from the toilet paper right over to the feminine aisle. At least I'm not buying cat food.

How do you explain that to a total stranger?

I'd rather have a cart I can't control.

Fess Up

So, folks, I'm looking to you to help me for this one.

No, you don't have to send me bailout money, free products or even a self-addressed-stamped-envelope.

Just play along.

That's all I'm asking.

A friend of mine and I were talking about confessions recently, and we realized that some are big, and some are small. Some things that we keep to ourselves are simply embarrassing habits, rituals or routines that we keep that, for us, make us sane. Some are errors of judgement, bad decisions or mistakes we'd like to forget. Some are urges we deny, cravings we try to ignore or secrets that we keep.

Let's get 'em out in the open, shall we?

Consider it free therapy. And, honestly, is anything really free these days?

I'll start. I'm looking to you to make this work. All of you lurking readers who refuse (or don't know how) to comment, this is your chance to shine.

Your fifteen kilobytes of fame, if you will.

My confessions are these:

I make my bed every day. I always insist on having the toilet paper flap over the top, not from under the roll; I've even switched it in public places to satisfy this one. I wear only one brand of underwear, every day (Hanky Panky lace). I hate to work out and haven't stuck to a routine since high school when I was on a team. I am slightly obsessed with the California Pizza Kitchen BBQ Chicken model. I cried my eyes out in public when I found out that my high school/college boyfriend had gotten engaged, despite the fact that it was me that had ended it years ago. I stole a Hello Kitty eraser set from the local Hallmark when I was five, and my mom made me return it; the rest of the story is not quite so cut and dry. I was totally sober for my senior prom and my high school graduation, and that was ok. I kissed about 10 guys while backpacking in Europe after college graduation. I am still terrified to admit to myself that I have put down roots in Chicago, and tell myself that "someday I'll be back in Atlanta," even if I don't take action toward that vision. I fell down the steps in front of Jimmy Connors and John McEnroe, and they both laughed. I wash my face and brush my teeth every night before bed, even if I've imbibed too much and am just so ready to crash. I hate hate hate those short boots that are so sadly in fashion right now. I still love him, despite the fact that I know better. I chew my cuticles, sometimes until they bleed. I can't hold my liquor with tequila shots. I don't think I have a "makeup mirror face" but I'm pretty sure I do. I retouch many of my personal photos to remove the Vulcan-like wrinkle between my eyes. I still wish I had bigger boobs. I cry at opera music. I am coming to grips with my Catholic guilt as a child regarding sex and intimacy. I have never been at fault in a car accident, unless you count hitting my own car while backing my Dad's out of the garage. I didn't realize I had so much to confess.

Ok. Clearly I got going once I'd started. It was a Pandora's Box, or a slippery slope, but that's just me. Apparently I could use a therapist.

Anyway, I'm just looking for one or two from you. No one is going to send you a bill for the couch time, and I promise not to give you any penance.

Don't leave me hanging out here with my skirt tucked into my underwear, now, please?

Come on. Fess up.


*Thanks, Liz, for this idea!

The Fear that You Won't Fall*

It just occurred to me. And I can't stop thinking about it.

Now it's repeating in my head over and over, unchanging.

I suspect this is totally inappropriate to share, but I feel compelled to. Not that I want you to tell me I'm wrong, or crazy, or deserve more. Just that I needed someone to hear this. Although, frankly (and not to offend you, dear readers), I don't even need anyone to actually read and respond to this. I just needed to write this. To put words to it. To actualize my feelings. To make it real. Only, with hope, to make it not happen again.

The problem is this. I'm terrified.

I'm so scared that it will keep happening. It has already happened more than I'd like to admit.

I will meet someone who thinks I'm beautiful, smart, interesting, kind and funny. And he will tell me that a lot. He will compliment me. He will be charming, sweet, romantic and loving.

And he will ask me if "I'm for real?" and "how am I possibly single?" and "why hasn't some guy snatched me up?" And I will feel flattered that he asked. And wonder the same things, maybe, with a hint of a self-satisfied smile.

I'm scared that I will have a hard time trusting anyone again. I'm afraid I won't trust myself. I'm nervous I will not trust my own judgment, of my feelings, my gut, my instincts, my heart.

I'm scared that I will care, and that it will all happen again. Like it has so many times.

The guy likes me so much at first. Loves, even. Cares about what he sees, what he knows, and what he doesn't see and know. Genuinely wants to get to see and know those sides. Those innermost parts.

And, then, as soon as he does, he changes his mind. He pulls back. He moves away. He lets go.

Then, it is over. And I'm alone again. Questioning, doubting, curious.

Wondering if I'm for real, and how am I possibly single, and why hasn't some guy snatched me up.

I'm not smiling this time.

*Borrowed from the title of Joshua Radin's sad and beautiful song.

Fruit Across the USA

After a Saturday marathon that included episodes of The Real Housewives of Orange County and The Real Housewives of New York City, and thankfully, none of The Real Housewives of Atlanta, I had a thought.

If they had a Real Housewives of Chicago, what would they be holding in the promo shot?

For Orange County, they hold oranges.

For New York City, they hold golden apples.

For Atlanta, they hold peaches.

What would they do here...Sausages?

Yeah, no. Not as sexy.

Other ideas?

Committed Relationship

As I sat in the salon chair today, sipping on hot coffee in a tiny little glass cup, something occurred to me.

My hair stylist, the dear and beautiful Kathy, is my longest Chicago relationship.

(besides my ex-roommate, Jill, of course)

I have been seeing her every eight weeks for the last eight and a half years. I knew that it was "right" from our first time together. Loyal to her and to her only, I have not cheated. I have paid dallying glances to cheaper "quick cut" spots when finances were tight, but rather than going elsewhere, I just went without. Okay, that's not entirely true. I did, just once, go somewhere else and get a cheapie haircut, and the hack job I received quickly proved me the fool. I went back to Kathy and sheepishly admitted my mistake. She forgave me at once.

I'm proud of my relationship with her. I tell other people about her and compliment her traits to anyone who will listen.

She doesn't change her mind about how she feels about me. She doesn't decide, after a lengthy commitment, that 'something is missing.' She doesn't talk about other clients and she doesn't compare me to anyone else. She tells me I'm beautiful, and leaves me looking better than when I first arrived.

We talk about our families, our friends, our jobs, our loves, our losses, our vacations, our clothes and our dreams. We hug hello, and hug goodbye. It is affectionate and charming, and I know that she really knows me when I come in. It isn't as if she has to check the book to see what my name is. We're "in."

I've grown up in that chair.

I've gone from the "Chicago virgin" in 2000, to "comfortable resident" in the years following, to "permanent gal" when I bought a condo here in 2005, to the present. I have had four different jobs, been through two layoffs, had three different addresses and four different haircuts while we've been together.

Of course, I will continue to see her. I'm proud to say that I've got an eight-and-a-half year relationship going.

With confirmed dates, complete with a hair wash and a head massage, every eight weeks.

I can't complain.

*Shameless plug on her behalf here: go to J. Gordon Designs in Lincoln Park and ask for Kathy. You won't be disappointed. Tell her I sent you!

All We Need is Love (and Great Boots)

Today, I have decided to celebrate love. Not the love that is manufactured by Hallmark and perpetuated by chocolate and pink hearts, or even the love that is between two people in an exclusive relationship, but the genuine and much broader definition—the kind for which I am so grateful.

And, true to the title, I will make this long story short. Bulleted, even. Let you get back to loving those that you are fortunate to have in your life.

• While I am celebrating this year on my own, I couldn't be happier that my sister has a dear man in her life. It is enough to just hear her share stories of their dates, laugh about their time together, to know that she's being adored and taken care of. I am so grateful that George came into Lauren's life, and I am thrilled that she has her very own special Valentine.


• I am hosting a few of my best friends over for dinner and drinks tonight, and that is just so great. I'm thrilled to open my house and my kitchen so that we can all merge our favorite dishes and celebrate each other this way. I'm serving chocolate mousse martinis (with raspberries, chocolate cookie sticks and chocolate shavings) and I'm pretty sure that at least one of us will say "I love chocolate." That's a good thing.


• Opening today's mail proved worthwhile—I got a small square box from my parents that held a bag of chocolate candies, a t-shirt for St. Patrick's Day that says "Everyone loves an Irish girl" and the nicest card I've received in quite some time. I am lucky to have their love every day and today is no exception.


• My dear friend Jill left me a lovely little card as a surprise with my doorman, and her lovely parents sent me one in the mail. They sent me a Valentine! I couldn't believe it, and can't quite express how good it feels to know that I'm appreciated for the role I play in Jill's life. She is definitely always going to be one part my Valentine—I'm pretty sure her husband will share.


• As I subtly mentioned yesterday, I have a new "pen pal" and just getting the lovely little chatty emails has brightened my days and made me realize that I am pretty awesome. I will survive. And, I realized this week, that I will love again, and that if it could be that good with the not-so-right guy, think about how great it will be with the right guy!? I'm encouraged.


• I am back working, doing what I love, and so far the people I'm working with couldn't be kinder, funnier and smarter. I'm in the right place, and isn't that a feeling we all love and treasure?


• I got to reconnect last night with my good friend, and former client, Melissa who has since moved from Chicago, traveled the world with her husband, and has landed back in her hometown of Sydney, Australia. When we talked last night, it was as if a 17-hour time difference, thousands of miles and two years since we last saw each other didn't exist. Good phone calls like that? I just love.


• I bought myself a huge bunch of bright lemon yellow hydrangeas today, to fill the grass green pitcher that I use for a fresh flower vase, and they are smiling at me from across the living room. Who says the flowers have to be red, pink or white? And, more importantly, who says they have to be sent from someone else? I think that keeping beautiful things close by is something that we deserve, and it makes me feel self-loved.


• And, finally, I stopped into Nordstrom Rack on my way home from work last night, and spotted, buried in a chaotic shoe aisle where only the tall girls and big footers go, a pair of buttery, brown, leather riding boots (with soft dark brown sweater accents), nestled there in the rack with clearance Ugg-knockoffs and stiletto pumps. I picked them up, only to discover that they were the exact same boots that I'd admired a few weeks ago (back in my unemployed days) while "shopping" the boutiques on Southport with Jill. They were $275 there, and not my size anyway. I longingly left them there, but wished I could spend that kind of money on frivolous boots. Well, looky here people, the universe brought them to me anyway. How's that for footwear karma? And, as you guessed it, they were my size, and the only pair in the store. Oh, and they were WAY discounted from that boutique's price. They're in my closet, just reminding me that every now and then, it is ok to love yourself. With new shoes.

See? I am in a good place, and am thrilled to celebrate the love we share with friends, family and each other. And, you know what?

I love myself. And, that feels pretty darn good.

Go hug someone.

That feels good, too.

Step One: Connect A to B

This world is an interesting one.

The advent of technology has made our lives better, yet it has also crippled the essential truths of our lives.

We are so completely connected, yet we still keep our distance.

We are so totally visible, yet we still hide behind so much.

We are terribly open, yet we still seize up when someone gets too close.

We reach out, yet are not really touching each other.

These observations came to me full hilt today as I communicated back and forth with someone that I've never met in person, a blog reader from thousands of miles away, but with whom I was being startlingly honest.

I write a blog. I have a Facebook page. I have not one, or two, but three email accounts. I have an instant messenger account with a lengthy buddy list. I have a LinkedIn profile for professional networking. I have three iPods in varying sizes and capacities. I have two laptops, one on each platform. I pay bills online. I have a TiVo and a DVD player. I have a cell phone that is also a Blackberry. I have photo sharing accounts with Picasa, Flickr, Snapfish and Kodak Gallery. I have a Twitter account that I barely understand.

I text. I type. I write. I call. I answer.

I'm always connected, always available, always visible, always communicating, always ready.

Yet, I find myself still dodging the eye contact of strangers in an elevator, for fear that they'll strike up a painfully awkward casual conversation.

Yet, I still wear headphones, connected to a miniature iPod, to drown out the hum of the buses, the vibrations of my own mind, and most importantly, the idle chatter of strangers on the bus.

Yet, I dodge calls when I am unable to make the chatty pleasant conversation that the friend so desperately deserves.

Yet, I read about everyone else's lives, through blogs or Facebook status updates, but don't reach out to actually talk to those that I'm so seemingly interested in.

None of this likely makes me different.

It just makes me sad.

We're so visible, yet desire an invisibility.

We're so in touch, yet often go days without touch.

We're so open, yet live with such closed minds.

We're so starving for relationships, yet we refuse to put ourselves out there.

We're so communicative, yet we don't know how to talk to each other.

We're so free, yet behave so restrictedly.

We're in hiding, aided, supported and facilitated by the very technology that is intended to create a seamless, interconnected, highly transparent world.

We're so connected, yet so afraid to connect.

What kind of technology will it take to get us to be what we should innately know how to be?

What will it take for us to, finally, be in touch?