A word to the reader.

The following entry (I guess it’s actually the previous, even though it’s below this one. Go figure.) is a long one. It’s the harrowing tale of my trek from Tucson to Chicago that took a whopping 25 hours.

It’s long and there are no pictures. (Sorry about that last part. Had I not been in the middle of a mental breakdown/the great state of Texas, I would’ve been taking photos left and right.) Reading it will certainly be an endeavor. And it may not even be that entertaining.

The thing is, I’m a pretty good self-editor. The post could be a lot longer, I took out some good stuff. Like how the guy sitting next to me on the plane tried to impart his ancient philosophic wisdom on me. (Aristotle could give us some tips about how to keep your cool when flying American Airlines, apparently.) Or how the old lady sitting across from me in the terminal felt the need to yell into her archaic cell phone in her Wisconsin accent. (Dontchaknow.) Or how the happy couple in the room 123 started going at it at 2:13 a.m. (Newsflash: the walls in any La Quinta Inn are paper thin. This shouldn't be news because, come on, it's a La Quinta. What did you expect?)

But anyway, I won’t fault you if you don’t make it through the whole thing. I don’t even blame you if you flat out don’t want to try. If you do, I assume it’s because you’re SUCH a good friend. That or you’re incredibly bored at work.

Hey! It's a rant about air travel!

I know ranting about flying is nothing new; it’s about as creative as saying, “I like puppies!” or “I hate bee stings.” And everyone’s got a horror story to tell. Lost luggage, teething babies, transatlantic flights seated next to a man with colostomy bag. (Seriously, I don’t think Kimberly reads this, but that story made me wary to ever set foot on an airplane ever again.)

But the experience I just underwent (read: barely survived with my sanity in tact) was more of a comedy of errors than anything else.

Allow me set the scene for you. It’s day 12 of my 12 day vacation. I’m worn out, dehydrated and tired of seeing people in cowboy boots. I want nothing more than to fall face first into my own bed and sleep for as long as my little heart desires. And I’m just a few hours and a connecting flight in Dallas away from sweet home Chicago.

We board the plane a little later than anticipated, they tell us there are some high winds in Dallas but it’s no big deal. No. Big. Deal. So I hoist my carryon into the overhead compartment, climb over my aisle-seated neighbor and settle in next to the window. I’m almost home.

Except we don’t move. Because it’s windy in Dallas, we’ve been ordered to stay at the gate (I think they called it a ground stop, but I’ll be damned if that flight attendant wasn’t breathing into the intercom like Darth Vader after running some wind sprints). Again, they assure us we’ll be fine. Because everyone and their mother has a connecting flight to catch in Dallas. Don’t worry.

I’ll just sleep. My marathon vacations have left me a little tired, so I hug my fleece jacket to my chest and snuggle in for a nap. Except I can’t. I’ve got a bad case of the jimmy legs*. And the jimmy arms. Pretty much any time I doze off, some part of my body twitches to the point that I’m jostled awake and the guy next to me just stares.

Welp, looks like I’m going to be awake for a while. Time to take in the sights. Inexplicably, everyone else on the flight seems to know each other. They’re up and out of their seats, laughing about how much fun they had this week. A surprising amount of them seem to be wearing sunglasses even though a.) we’re on a plane and b.) it’s no longer sunny out. The woman in front of me whips out her laptop to watch a movie. Her film of choice? Tootsie. I’ve never seen it, but even through the gap between the seats, there’s no mistaking Dustin Hoffman in drag. While I’m pondering why, of all the movies in the world to watch on a plane, this woman has picked one from 1982, someone behind me starts eating a Nutty Bar.

Now, I haven’t had a Nutty Bar since high school, but the aroma is unmistakable. Chocolate, peanut butter and crispy wafers? Shut up. I’m starving. It’s been hours since I had that veggie sandwich from Subway (my own fault, I know a veggie sandwich isn’t that substantial, but I’m weird about my lunch meat) and I seriously debate turning around and trying to bargain with this woman for the second bar in her Little Debbie snack pack.

But I’ve got nothing. I’m sitting in my window seat, watching Tootsie and smelling Nutty Bars. I’m bored and hungry and just want to get home. I welcome the sweet, ear-popping release of decent. Almost there.

All of a sudden, the guy to my right wants to strike up a conversation. This same man who seemed genuinely annoyed when I whispered, “Excuse me, did you happen to hear what our new arrival time is?” is now interested in some small talk. Now, as we’re descending and I’m becoming painfully aware of how congested I am (what, you mean you don’t spend 12 days in the arid desert and come down with a case of the sniffles?), he wants to discuss whether we’re looking out our window (my window) at Dallas or Ft. Worth. What the heck difference does it make? I feel like my head is about to explode.

We touch down and the conversation comes to an end. “Welcome to Dallas/Ft. Worth! Feel free to turn on your cell phones and see that your connecting flight to Chicago took off about an hour and a half ago. We know you have a choice when it comes to air travel, and we thank you for choosing American.”

Well, crap.

I find my way to the ticket counter and wait in a long line of angry Illinoisans who were supposed to be home by now. But I’m not one of them. I’m actually pretty proud of myself for just laughing the whole thing off. It happens. It’s cool. As long as I can get something to eat soon.

I get myself booked on a 9:35 a.m. flight and agree to the first hotel the airport guy suggests. Probably should’ve been listening closer, because it’s a Super 8. Now, I’m no hotel snob (see: previous entry, cramming 5 girls into one room at the Tropicana) but I can think of places I’d rather spend the night in a strange city than the airport Super 8. But the airport guy assures me the shuttle will be there shortly and the hotel is located within walking distance of plenty of restaurants.

Alrighty. I’ve got my ticket. I’ve got my hotel voucher. I've been promised restaurants within walking distance. I’m good to go. I work my way down to where the shuttles pick up (which is in the dark, desolate bowels of the airport) and wait for my Super 8 chariot.

At first I thought I’d be embarrassed to board the Super 8 shuttle as the shiny Hyatt bus pulled up. I was wrong. I would’ve gladly worn a Super 8 sandwich board for the next year if it would’ve gotten my shuttle there any faster. Every time I called my hotel, I was assured that my shuttle would be arriving momentarily. (Sounds like that “immediate follower” lie the CTA always tells, doesn’t it?)

So there I am. Standing in the dark. Listening to a high school senior try to hit on a girl who’s already done with college (what? I had a long time to wait and nothing better to do than eavesdrop). Counting the minutes until I can call Super 8 again. Wondering why this little Asian boy keeps inching away from his family and closer to me. Seriously, this kid went from a comfortable distance to crowding my personal space in about 15 seconds. And I’m getting a little freaked out. Maybe it’s because I’m paranoid. Maybe it’s because I haven’t slept much in the last week and a half. Maybe it’s because my blood sugar had dropped so low that I'm starting to imagine small children creeping around my carry on. I’m not sure, but at this point, I’m throwing in the towel.

“Screw it.”

It’s past 11. I need a cab. And we’re not at O’Hare anymore, so I can’t just hail one. Where the heck can I get a cab? Upstairs, apparently, and maybe a half mile down at the cab stand. Great.

I ask the woman for a cab and call a bunch of hotels in hopes of finding one that won’t charge $140 for the night. Because at this point, I’m only going to need a room for 8 hours.

Good news. The La Quinta won’t gauge me and they have continental breakfast. Sold.

A van cab pulls up, the guy throws my suitcase in the back, and I climb in. I thank him numerous times, so grateful to be leaving the airport behind. Cabbie doesn’t seem to appreciate my gratitude. Once we’re on the highway, he barks, “She told you it would be $22 flat rate from airport, right? $22 no matter where you go. Otherwise I don’t make any money and you get to go wherever you want. All night. I don’t make any money.”

Wait, is this guy yelling at me?

“No, she didn’t tell me.”

He hits the brakes. On the highway. “You have the money or not?”

ARE THESE HOSTAGE NEGOTIATIONS OR SOMETHING?!?!

“Yes,” I eek out.

“Good. You tell me you need a cab, you have to pay.”

My next response? I start to cry. I erupt into a mess of big, fat sloppy tears. The kind of tears usually reserved for toddlers and coeds cowering in the back corner of C.O.’s (or whatever your dirty college bar of choice may be). I hate crying, especially in front of strangers. One, I don’t like the overwhelming vulnerability of it all and two, no one wants to be the crazy crying girl in the back of a taxi, especially in a strange city. But there I was, bawling and Kleenex-less.

Now the cabbie tries to comfort me (I think), but it just comes off as belittling. “At least you’re not stuck in the air!”

Um, what?

I elect to stay quiet for the rest of the drive, save for the occasional sob that escapes. We pull up to the La Quinta and I shove the last of my cash in the cab driver’s hand as I avoid eye contact with the man. As the hotel’s automatic doors slide close, I hear him yell, “You work yourself up too much!”

A total basketcase, I walk up to the front desk and ask for a room. I’m still avoiding eye contact with everyone, like the fact that my gaze isn’t meeting theirs will somehow keep my secret that I was just bawling in the back of a cab. But bless her little heart, the girl at the front desk is efficient and polite and says she hopes the rest of my night goes better. How pitiful am I?

I take my carry on, my small personal item and my bedraggled self to my room and am pleasantly surprised by how well appointed it is. I scrounge up enough change to buy Cheez-Its from the vending machine (Psht. Like that’s the first time I’ve had Cheez-Its for dinner. And I can guarantee it won’t be the last.) I’m just so happy to be in a hotel room, I’m sure I’ll drift off in no time.

Again, wrong. I was so terrified I’d sleep through my alarm and miss my flight (and I did NOT want to spend any more time in Texas), I barely slept. My alarm goes off at 6, I'm ready in record time and it's off to the continental breakfast. If I’d been thinking clearly, I would’ve gotten my money’s worth (and everything Texas owed me) at that buffet. But my mind was clouded from lack of sleep, so I just grabbed a bagel and some coffee. I literally waited at the curb for the airport shuttle to make its 7 o’clock run.

The shuttle comes and the driver is kind and helpful and doesn’t yell at me. And I love him.

“They said you were crying pretty bad when you got in last night.” Yep, less than 12 hours here and I’ve already made a reputation for myself. Neat.

The shuttle drops me at the curb and I gratefully unload myself from the van as quickly as possible. I walk in the wrong direction, naturally, so I have to pull a U-ie in front of my favorite airport shuttle driver. He just laughs and waves. I sheepishly wave back. No offense, kind sir, but I hope I never have to see you again! And I’m on my way.

I finally make it through security, get myself a black cherry mocha (never have I ever been so happy to have a Starbucks in my hand) and settle in at my gate until boarding time.

I spot a girl in a Blackhawks t-shirt and it’s oddly comforting. There are a couple of Cubs hats scattered about the terminal, and I feel like I’m among friends. I’m no Wildcats fan, but when a woman sits across from me in a purple sweatshirt with “Northwestern” emblazoned across the front, I almost want to hug her. Yes! Chicagoans! Mayor Daley’s brethren! Let us all band together and get out of this God-forsaken state! It’s a strange sense of solidarity and I feel like the worst of the trip is behind me.

I am a fool.

They start boarding and, because I was a last minute addition to the flight, I’m part of boarding Group 1, seated in a middle seat in the waaaaay back of the plane. But if that means I can get on the plane in a timely manner, cozy up to my North Face quicker and drift off faster, then so be it.

The kind woman at the gate scans my boarding pass and eyes me up and down and informs me that my carry on is too large. I stop, mouth agape, and stare at her as though she just told me it's my ass that's too large, not my luggage. “There was no problem when I got in yesterday,” I manage to stammer. I’m genuinely confused. Because nothing has changed in that carry on in the last 16 hours. Nothing’s been added, nothing’s been taken away. Because I’m wearing the same thing I wore during yesterday's leg of my journey.

The. Exact. Same. Thing.

Because yes, I ran out of clothes while I was there. Or, more accurately, I only packed the number of t-shirts one would need for the duration of my 5-day stay. I didn’t account for a bonus day of vacation. I also ran out of toothpaste the morning before (brushed my teeth with nothing but hot water, which is how I imagine they did it on the Oregon Trail) and almost ran out of contact solution.

Exasperated, I throw up my hands (literally, I’m afraid) and say, “Fine. Check it.” I almost walk away from my suitcase before the guy at the gate hands me a tag. I’m pretty sure this would’ve pegged me for a terrorist or at the very least, cost me my over-stuffed suitcase.

But I’m almost there. I walk down the ramp and down the entire length of the plane to the second-to-last row. And I’m almost home. Looks like I’m sitting between a guy and a girl who are about my age and clearly don’t want to do anything but sleep on this flight. My heart soars.

And then it comes crashing back down. Because a woman with three small children is walking our way. And she doesn’t stop until the row behind us. My row-mates and I all exchange anxious glances with each other. Three kids under the age of 7? No good can come of this.

I mean, I understand that kids are kids. I can forgive the 19-month-old for pulling my hair as she fiddles with my headrest. I understand that a 7-year-old is going to have to use the bathroom right before take off and will probably whine about it until the fasten seat belt sign goes off. But the little boy kicking my seat for the entire flight? That is not okay.

“Noah honey, you can’t kick the seat in front of you when you’re on an airplane.” The sing-songy tone of the mom’s voice makes it clear that discipline is not her forte. “If you keep kicking, Noah honey, I’m going to give you one less dollar when we go to the dollar store.”

“It doesn’t say I can’t kick anywhere!” Kick. Kick. Kick.

I know it’s wrong to hate children, but wow, I hated this kid.

I endure his kidney shots for over two hours. Even over my iPod, I can hear him screech every so often. I want nothing more than to turn around and stick my gum in his bowl cut.

But I am almost home.

After all the wind delays and the nonexistent airport shuttles and miraculous growing carry ons that are all of a sudden too big and the tiny Lord of the Dance kicking me in the back for the entire flight.

I'm. Almost. Home.

When the guy in the window seat opens the window shade, I see nothing but flat, Midwestern farmland. And it's beautiful. Take that deserts and mountains! Soon the farms gave way to the cul de sacs of suburbia and gridded urban sprawl. And nothing I've ever seen before has every made me this happy.

Except maybe when I glanced over and saw the window seat guy scrolling through his iPod, and somewhere between 50 Cent and Snoop Dogg, Jewel popped up on shuffle. Well played, Mr. Window Seat. Well played.



*Seinfeld reference. Episode 146. Kramer can’t sleep in the same bed with his new girlfriend (played by Sarah Silverman) because she kicks in her sleep. She’s got “the jimmy legs.”

If you're lucky enough to be Irish, you're lucky enough.

Of course, if you’re lucky enough to have really lucky friends, that doesn’t suck either. My extremely lucky friend Katie was in the right bar at the right time and won this Bud Light trip to Vegas package deal. It’s a St. Patrick’s Day/March Madness/Spring Break type thing. So today, we take off for Vegas.

I’ve only been to Vegas once, and it was spring break of our senior year when we poor college kids. Granted, the job title “freelance copywriter” doesn’t exactly scream wealth, but I am moving up in the world. Sort of.

So here’s what I’m hoping this Vegas trip has over the trip of ’06.

- No weird smell. We stayed at the Tropicana last time. In its heyday, I’m sure the Trop was the place to be seen. And rumor is, it’s been completely overhauled. But in 2006, it was neither of these things. It was cheap and we didn’t know any better, so it was our hotel of choice. It was one of the only casinos where the slot machines still spit out actual coins. We were easily the youngest guests by a solid 45 years. It smelled like old lady and older fried food. And that lavender/stale grease scent is not one you want to wake up to.

(Where dreams come true.)

- Winning more than $26.82. Of course, I'm not lucky. And I'm not good at gambling. And when you're only playing the Wheel of Fortune slot machine, you're probably not going to rake in a bunch of money. But a girl can hope. Hey, at least Katie's lucky.

(Jaclyn's winning biiiiiiiig money here.)

- A mini fridge. Where one would normally find a mini fridge, our room was only equipped with a safe. Makes sense, it is Vegas and you might need somewhere safe to store all those buckets of quarters you just won playing the slots. But it left no room for leftovers or, worse, beverages. At the suggestion of the creepy man at the liquor store, we made our own “cooler” out of a cardboard box, a plastic bag and loads of ice. Brilliant idea, toothless liquor store man! Until the ice started to melt and the cardboard box started to disintegrate. That left us with lukewarm Keystones and a soggy cardboard box. Classy.

(Please don't judge.)

- No one sleeping on the floor. We crammed 5 girls into one room. Again, we were poor college kids. It happens. But the floor wasn’t comfortable. Especially when the only place on the floor is the same spot where the “cooler” started to melt earlier that evening.

- No 5 am lockouts. It was our first night. We were beyond excited to be in Las Vegas. We headed out about 10 pm (long after all the elderly in our hotel put out their “do not disturb” door knob hangers and called it an early night) and did our first night right. We rolled in right around 5 am. The perfect time to discover that our electronic key was faulty and we were locked out. It took the maintenance guy upwards of 45 minutes to work his way to our second floor room and fix the lock. Katie called her mom and chatted with her as she got ready for work. I whined a lot. Liz and Erica seemed to keep it together. Jaclyn may or may not have passed out standing up. It was a great time.

(Sometimes we party.)

So here’s hoping this trip is just as fun and maybe a little classier. Probably not much though. It is a Bud Light sponsored event.

(Ten bucks says we try to re-enact this photo taken at Excalibur in '06.)

Happy St. Patrick’s Day. Wish us luck. Slainte.

My email buddy is funnier than your email buddy.

Despite not making the NCAA tournament, the Illini have secured their place in the NIT with a first round match-up against...Stony Brook U. I think Katie said it best.

We'll always have 2005.

Somewhere, Dick Vitale is as giddy as a school girl because Illinois didn't make the tournament. I just hope that for the sake everyone in America, that "somewhere" isn't on the set of another DiGorno pizza commercial. Or even worse, let's hope he's not off making another monstrosity like this Taco Bell ad from the '90s.



For the love of all things holy. Is Dick Vitale not one of the most obnoxious people on earth? What really gets me is not only did someone come up with this idea, but another bought off on it. Someone stood in front of a room full of clients and said something like, "Our concept revolves around Dick Vitale. He's inexplicably driving a bus. And he screams at the audience for the entire duration of the 30 second spot. We really think it'll move some burritos."

Also, maybe it's just the quality of the TB commercial, but doesn't it seem like Dick Vitale hasn't aged that much in the last 17 years? That's not normal. He's like 100 years old. What kind of deal with the devil did he make? I can't be sure, but I hope it has something to do with being damned to watch nothing but Illini games for all eternity.

Happy March Madness, baybeeeeeeee.

Holla at your Alma Mater.

Don't call it a comeback.

So, um, sorry about going a little AWOL there for the last couple weeks. Except I didn’t really go anywhere. I was around, I just wasn’t writing. I mean, I was writing, I just wasn't writing here.

I’ve been really busy with freelance lately. Like up to my eyeballs busy with freelance. Which is a good problem to have. But for a couple weeks there, I had three different assignments in the hopper* at once. There wasn’t really enough time for sleep, let alone enough for extra-curricular writing.

Seriously, I came dangerously close to a couple of Jessie Spano-esque breakdowns. Except instead of reaching for the caffeine pills, I was going straight for the coffee. Lots of coffee. We're talking legit shakes and everything. I’m not sure if this makes me more or less of a hard ass than Jessie Spano, but pretty sure I won’t like the answer to that one.



Anyway, I’m just going to say I spent the last couple weeks on hiatus or sabbatical or something and hope it sounds like I was doing something really cool and creative. And not just, you know, sitting at my kitchen table in sweatpants, throwing back pots of coffee and writing until 3 am.

*This is probably one of those phrases I use that makes my roommates just stare at me and say, “where do you come up with these expressions?!” Hair of the dog, anyone?

A girl's gotta eat.

I wish we lived in a society where lunchtime meetings didn’t exist. Where we could respect everyone’s need for nourishment and break during the appropriate hour. Where I didn't have to be the only one who’s growling stomach is so loud that people on the other side of the conference table are starting to stare.

See, I’m kind of a baby about this. Not like a “why don’t you go cry about it?” baby (okay, well, maybe a little), but like a “I really need to eat at regular intervals or I lose it” baby.

It gets to the point in a noon hour meeting when I can’t concentrate anymore. You start to lose me. I get all glassy-eyed and awful. Sure, I’m taking notes or throwing out half-baked ideas. But I’m really planning my escape strategy so I can get to the microwave before anyone else in the room. And I’m wondering how many minutes I can safely shave off the cooking time on my frozen meal so I can eat as soon as possible. Yes, there's always the chance I might get salmonella from an undercooked Lean Cuisine, but the salmonella gamble is one I'm willing to take.

I’m pretty sure I should have out grown this. I should be able to man up and make it until we break for lunch. But I can’t. That bowl of store brand mini wheats was a long time ago, and I have to eat.



And while we’re at it, let’s borrow the whole afternoon siesta thing that Europe’s got going on. I could totally get behind that.

Thank you.

(And by sports knowledge, I mean the basic understanding of how a motor vehicle operates.)

After admitting that I have no freaking clue how to work my car, I was overwhelmed by the outpouring of support. Okay, that's an overstatement. I mean yeah, it doesn't really take a lot to get me overwhelmed. But it wasn't really an outpouring. "Overwhelmed by an outpouring" is just one of those phrases that sound so good, you can't help but use it.

Sorry. Nerdy writer moment. But I did want to thank those who walked me through the steps of unlatching the hood of my car. And those of you who Googled the owner's manual for an '05 Sentra. (It's actually a 2006, but wow, way to make a good guess of it.) I'd especially like to thank my roommate's boyfriend for refilling my washer fluid for me. I didn't even ask him to, I just asked where the hood release was on a Nissan. Whattaguy.

I think most of all, I'd like to thank all my friends who are girls who didn't have any words of advice to offer on this one. Makes me feel like I'm not the only slightly clueless one out there.

An addendum to the previous post.

(You're going to want to read the previous post at this point, otherwise what you're about to read is just going to seem like pointless babble. Well, babble that's even more pointless than usual.)

Sure, it can be disheartening to see the business you didn't win advertised all over the place. But it's a different story when you see the new ads for the client that left your old agency and, in turn, left you jobless.

You're just minding your own business, watching the USA v. Canada hockey game, wondering who let our goalie wear such a tacky, airbrushed helmet (A young, ripped Uncle Sam with a flaming hockey stick? Really?). Then they cut to commercial break and there's a new ad for the client who left you and got you laid off. (Again, how did they manage a media buy during primetime Olympic coverage?)

Then you have a couple of choices.

You can get all self-righteous, turn up your nose at said client's new commercial and say something like, "well, if that's the type of work they want, then we weren't a good fit anyway." It helps if you can make one of those scoffing noises in the back of your throat while you say that.

Or you can throw a little pity party. Dive headfirst into that box of Cheez-Its and remember the glory days when the client loved your work. When the client thought you could do no wrong. Back when the client brought the entire agency a cake and said they couldn't wait to work together.

So what am I going to do? Well, I don't think we have any Cheez-Its. (I know I said we did in the previous post, but I was lying. Let's not call it lying though, let's call it creative license.) And it wasn't a bad commercial; knowing the client, it's exactly what they would want. And hey, America is kicking some Canadian ass right now, so I'm just going to focus on that.

I'll do the whole self-righteous thing later. Obviously.

It's better to have pitched and lost than never to have pitched at all.*

Losing a new business pitch is kind of like breaking up with someone you only went out with a few times. Things weren’t that serious, and it was fun while it lasted. The late nights, the long hours, the agency-funded dinners. It was a good time. But in the end, it just wasn’t meant to be. You tell yourself it’s better for the both of you.

Then you start seeing that new business all over town with the work from its new agency. It’s on busses and banner ads, train wraps and taxi-toppers. You step onto an el and the entire interior is blanketed with ads for the new business you didn’t win.

Seriously, it’s everywhere. One minute you’re watching the Olympics, happily cheering on the U.S. curling team. Then it’s time for a word from our sponsors, and there’s a commercial for the client you convinced yourself you were better off without. How the heck did they afford a spot during the Olympic games?

And you can’t help but think to yourself, what’s so special about this new work? My work looked as good as this work. My work was just as smart. Heck, my work was way funnier than this work. WHY WASN’T MY WORK GOOD ENOUGH?

Next thing you know, you’re elbow deep in a box of Cheez-Its that may or may not belong to your roommate, lamenting over pitches loved and lost. You’ve got to get back out there, you tell yourself. You'll show them. You'll win an even bigger and better piece of business. Yeah. The next one. That'll be the one.


*When pitching new business, ad agencies generally prepare speculative campaigns to present to the client. This work is shown to highlight the agency's creative thinking and problem-solving abilities. Basically, when it's pitch time, we all just pretend like we already have the client and work our butts off to create campaigns and media plans and everything else we would do if the client were already ours. It's a lot of work. My mom never really understood what I meant when I said we were in a new business pitch, so I figured I'd explain it here just in case.

I'm, like, such a girl.

For the better part of two (maybe three) months, I’ve been driving my car with the washer fluid low light on. I can assure you I wasn't ignoring the little illuminated icon. It wasn’t flagrant disregard for the inner workings of the Nissan. And it's certainly not because I like rolling around in a dirty car.

I just can’t get the hood open. I have the washer fluid and everything, but I have no idea where the hood release is. And believe me, I’ve looked.

It’s not near the trunk release. It’s not near the gas cap release. It’s not anywhere logical. (I did, however, realize that my car has one of those built-in sunglass holders that pops down from the ceiling, so that’s neat.) I mean, I know it’s a Japanese car, but it’s like you have to be part ninja to get under the hood.

Now I’m completely out of washer fluid. The well is dry. Empty. And that little light on my dashboard is just mocking me.

Good one, cute little washer fluid icon. Because this salty, sludgy time of year is the perfect time to run out of washer fluid.

There are only so many times you can pull into a gas station to use the squeegee without filling up. (That’s kind of an ass move.) Also, putting a little Windex on a paper towel and thinking, “Eh, I’ll just wipe it off before I get in the car”? That’s a terrible idea. A terrible, streaky, turn-the-dirt-on-the-windshield-into-a-sticky-paste idea.

Someone suggested taking the car to an oil change place and just having them refill the washer fluid. Which I’m considering. But I’m pretty sure the second I do that, they're just going to look at me as one of those girls.


(The whole clip is great, but you really only need to watch from 1:16 on to get the point.)

Those girls who can't kill a bug with more than six legs. The kinds who turn down shots of Jameson. The girls in Ugg boots. The ones who can't figure out how to release the hood of the car they've been driving for the last two and a half years.

Eh, well. Here's to reinforcing stereotypes.

Hard drives never forget.

Today marks the three month anniversary of my layoff. In this industry and in this economy, it happens. Accounts come and go and then there’s just not enough work to go around.

I’ll spare you the details (except that the Pepper Canister on Wells serves great Bloody Marys and won’t judge if you order two and that’s all you have for lunch), but it’s been three months I packed up my belongings and said goodbye to the trusty laptop that saw me through my first real copywriting job.

If I hadn’t been so concerned with cleaning out my desk (seriously, who besides an 80-year-old woman needs 4 open bags of cough drops? And why did I feel the need to keep every single plastic bag I’d ever gotten from the 7-eleven downstairs?), I might have realized that I was leaving a much bigger mess on my laptop.

So without further ado, I bring you the list of things I wish I’d removed from my computer before I got canned.

- My browser history. If they see the number of times I Facebooked there toward the end…I don’t even want to think about it.

- A folder on my desktop entitled “INSPIRATION AND STUFF.” Inside was a collection of cheesy inspirational quotes and photos. I don’t even remember why I started that folder, but I sure know that I forgot to delete it.

- All my Turbo Tax info from last year. It was in another folder on the desktop, this one aptly called “Important Stuff.” It’s not that I think the technology guy is going to steal my identity (seriously, Charlie, please don’t steal my identity), but it’s time to do my taxes again and I’m not even sure I remember my Turbo Tax user ID.

- A bookmark tab on my browser that linked to blogs of people I don’t know. Hi, I’m Brenna and I’m a total creep.

- All my comedy sketches from my Second City class. They weren’t really that inappropriate or anything, but one of them was a satirical piece about female restroom etiquette. And the first rule of female restroom etiquette is don’t talk about female restroom etiquette. Just like Fight Club.

- A playlist entitled “Halloween 2k9!!!” When buried among the rest of your iTunes library, a collection of party-appropriate songs is acceptable. When featured on your iTunes as the one and only playlist, that party playlist is always a little shameful. It highlights the music you only listen to when you’re drinking out of red plastic cups or having a ‘90s themed dance party at 2 am. It’s a whole different story in the harsh fluorescent light of the workday.

- Speaking of iTunes, there was an embarrassing amount of Cake on there. And by embarrassing, I mean every album, single and exclusive Japanese tour edition ever. I’m not even a Cake fan, but my iTunes would beg to differ.

- Nine drafts of my maid of honor speech, including at least three versions that referenced how I came to be best friends with the bride after accidentally kissing her boyfriend freshman year of college.

But the real kicker—the pièce de résistance, if you will—is the slideshow I made for my best friend’s bachelorette party. Saved directly to the desktop in all its glory, it was twelve minutes and fifty seconds of embarrassing photos set to the musical stylings of Lady Gaga.

We’re talking pictures that should have been reserved for blackmailing purposes. Photos from birthdays and bar crawls and Unofficial college drinking holidays. Pictures featuring homemade dresses fashioned from garbage bags. Terrifying images harking back to the blonde highlight phase of my college career. Upwards of 57 photographs where at least one person's tongue is sticking out. All capped off with a montage of photos that truly showed off how uncute we are when we aren't smiling.

So there you have it. The legacy I left at my first job, neatly organized on that trusty MacBook. I hope whoever gets my old computer next really appreciates how awesome I am in electronic file form.

Snow day story time.

So my car got snowed in, which shouldn't be a surprise since it near-blizzard conditions blanketed the Chicagoland area for the entire day yesterday, but somehow it came as a shock to me this morning. “What? You mean I can’t get my compact car out of a parking spot that’s surrounded by a 26-inch snowdrift? Surely, you jest.”



Anyway, once I realized there was no getting the Nissan out of what I hope isn’t its snowy grave, I schlepped to my nearest el stop to wait for the train. Standing on the platform, firing off “Sorry I’ll be late! Please don’t hate me!” emails, I realized I haven’t taken the train very much lately. What was once a daily necessity is now a rare experience, but not working downtown will do that.

So a Purple Line pulls up and I get on and it’s a lot more crowded than one might expect for 9:20 am. [Sidebar: what do these people do? They can’t all be in advertising, rolling into work whenever.] And everyone’s all bundled up and it smells like wet snow pants and all of a sudden it’s like déjà vu.

I was in this exact same situation when the most embarrassing event of my adult life occurred.

I know what you’re thinking: 1.) Riding a crowded train on a snowy morning conjures up one unique memory? You live in Chicago. You ride the CTA. That situation has to happen, like, 5 months out of the year. 2.) Oh, great. An embarrassing story blog post. How original.

To that I say: 1.) Let me explain. 2.) Don’t judge. I’m dealing with some writer’s block and am at a loss for new material. Besides, who doesn’t love laughing at other's misfortune?

Alright. Back to the most embarrassing event of my adult life. It’s winter, 2007. Another cold, snowy morning in Chicago and I’m all bundled up on my way to my internship. Being the good little intern I was, I got to the office by 8:30 every day. That put my morning commute right in the middle of rush hour.

I pile onto a Brown Line train with probably 117 of my Northside neighbors. Somehow, I stake out a standing-room-only spot near the door, standing right in front of the priority seating. It’s crowded, but I’ve at least got a place where I can hold on to the pole.*

We’re riding along and the train lurches between the Sedgwick and Chicago stop. The train always lurches between Sedgwick and Chicago, yet I'm somehow caught off-guard. In a move that was part-stripper/part-Randy-from-A Christmas Story, I swing around the pole, landing smack dab in the lap of a seated passenger. And I can’t get my overly bundled self back up.

(Replace the snowbank with a young professional just trying to do the crossword in her Red Eye and you'll get the idea.)

I’m flailing on the lap of this poor woman for what feels like thirty solid seconds before I can get back on my feet. People are staring. Once I finally regain my composure and stand up, I try to tell the woman how sorry I am. But since my iPod is cranked up to drone out the CTA, I accidentally scream my apology at her. And you know what? After you’ve sat on a strangers lap and proceeded to yell at her, you want nothing more to get away. Know what else? There’s nowhere to go to get away on a crowded train. So there I stood for the rest of my commute, face burning with embarrassment, clinging to that stupid pole with both hands, right in front of the woman I accidentally violated.

And that’s my story of utter humiliation. After all that, it probably doesn’t sound all that humiliating. Sorry I just subjected you to 600 words of that, but congrats for seeing it through to the end. If nothing else, I hope you think of your footing the next time you’re on a crowded train. And holy crap, let’s all hope the writer’s block goes away soon.

*Zero points for creativity if you threw out a “that’s what she said.” I totally set that one up for you.

What goes around...

I get that fashion is cyclical. What was in style goes out and what was out of style comes back in. It was true when I was a 13-year-old dying for a pair of bell bottoms and my mom informed me that's what she wore in high school. And it's true now. The '80s are back and get this, the early '90s want in, too.

I'm not about to sit here, all high and mighty, and pretend like I don't follow the trends I once scoffed. There is more than one plaid shirt in my closet. My skinny jeans are tucked into my tall boots. I have bangs very similar to the ones I spent the majority of my youth awkwardly growing out. Even as I'm writing this in my pjs -- a pair of leggings and an oversized sweatshirt -- I look more like an extra from Flashdance than even I care to admit.

But seriously, I think we were all a lot better off before spandex worked its way back into the mainstream and onto the treadmill in front of me. Sure, bike shorts have their place (The Tour de France. Spin class. The privacy of your own home.), but spandex hot pants for fashion's sake just seem wrong. Some trends are better left in the past. And the day I see someone wearing a leotard over bike shorts with scrunchie socks stroll into kick boxing class, I'm boycotting fashion and the gym.

The Mad Men Conundrum

Mad Men. Most people would agree it’s the best thing to happen to Sunday nights since the three-day weekend. And what’s not to love? Three martini lunches. Cigarettes in the conference room. Jon Hamm in suit. It’s got must see tv written all over it.



If nothing else, Mad Men made it possible for me to tell people my occupation and not get blank stares in return. A few years ago, if someone asked me what I did for a living, “copywriter” didn’t garner much of a reaction. In a crowded bar, it was usually followed by an awkward pause, a couple of nods and a swift change of subject. Now, 9 out of 10 times, I say, “copywriter,” and I get, “Oh! Like Mad Men!”

Yep. Just call me Don Draper.

Or not. I have a confession. For all that Mad Men has done for me (making copywriter a profession people recognize, putting Jon Hamm in a suit), I don’t watch it. I’ve seen it a few times, and I’ve thoroughly enjoyed every episode I’ve seen. But when Sunday night rolls around, I am inevitably not tuned into AMC.

Forget the fact that Mad Men is a critically acclaimed, Emmy-winning drama. Never mind that I’ve always found something tragically beautiful about the disillusionment in post-war America. Not to mention that most of the plot revolves around advertising’s hey day and the creative revolution and everything I’m stupidly passionate about. It’s almost as though the entire show was tailored around my interests and created to end my weekend on a high note.

And yet, I’m not watching. I’m not DVRing. And despite the fact that my roommate swiped her father’s Christmas gift (sorry, Mr. Mallon) and Seasons One and Two are sitting in our living room, I can’t bring myself to crack open the DVD case.

Because doing so will undoubtedly confirm one of my worst fears. Once I start watching, there’s no turning back. And I’ll have to come to terms with a very real problem. Despite being a writer by trade, I’m a lot less like Don Draper than I would like to admit.

I’m not talking about his countless infidelities or his weird flashbacks to his childhood or whatever. I can do without those. I’m talking about his ability to command a room and dazzle the client. That episode where he waxed poetic about the Kodak Carousel?

(Watch it. Watch it right now. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=suRDUFpsHus)

Ho. Lee. Crap. Knowing full well that this is a fictional situation fabricated by writers in Hollywood, I got chills.

So while Don Draper’s got that whole well spoken, debonair, looks-good-in-a-suit thing down, I don’t. Well, okay, the business suit my mother insisted I purchase junior year of college made me look really masculine the three times I wore it, but that’s not the point.

Truth is, I’m pretty sure I’m way more Peggy Olson than I am Don Draper. And again, I don’t mean to say that I’m like Peggy in all her after-hours exploits. (Pete Campbell? The weasel in accounts? Girl, please.) But I can’t deny that we’ve got some things in common.

That awkwardness? Got it. The overwhelming need to gain the approval of others? Check. Walking around the office, constantly reminding everyone I’m a copywriter now? Oh, you have no idea. Plus, thanks to an over-zealous hair stylist, I spent the last 2 months of 2009 growing out bangs like Peggy’s.

(That look is not good on anyone.)

So that’s that. My fear of identifying with a fictional character is keeping me from watching the greatest drama on tv. That’s totally normal, right?