Ring in the New Year

It’s 2013 and I’ve rung in the New Year with a ring! (Chuckle, chuckle. Laugh at my pun).

I’m thrilled beyond belief in a way that is completely indescribable. Everything you hear about the way you feel doesn’t come close to what it actually is.

BUT, that’s not what this is about.

One of my New Year’s resolutions was to blog “early and often,” said every soccer coach since the beginning of time. It really is, though. Therefore, I’ve decided to start out on a good note and create a themed series of sorts; and it’s called: Crazy things I’ve done since getting engaged.

Act 1

I wear my ring about 15% of the time. Not kidding. Here’s why, though (and it’s totally reasonable)—I am PETRIFIED of it. Nothing has ever enamored me so much and absolutely terrified me to my core at the same time. Let me give you an example…

I am taking the elevator down from my office building with coworkers, just after I revealed the engagement news earlier that day, when suddenly my boss yells:

“WHERE IS YOUR RING?!” as she’s looking down at my hand.

“It’s in…my bag” I very sheepishly reply. Hi EVERYONE. Also, I’m having heart failure from what was just said.

“Oh my God. DON’T lose it,” she says, “You gave me a fright, there. I would just feel a lot better if it was on your finger.”

…First of all—Hellooo elevator people. My name is Worst Fiancé of All Time, and I was actually trying to rid myself of this gorgeous symbol of my life’s happiness on my way out today. Just, like, not in the mood, ya know? I’m really tired.

“I don’t want to get it sweaty” I basically whispered, “I’m going to work out.”

And it’s true. I honestly can’t imagine that thing seeing a fingerprint let alone sweat. I was doing the normal thing, right?

“Ok, if you’re sure…night!” she calls back to me in her effing adorable authentic Irish accent.

Son of a.

Insert tailspin. Open floodgates of insane and paranoid thoughts about losing me ring within a time frame that is acceptable to be measured in hours, not even days yet. Cut to me, walking along the dark, faceless, commuter and somehow (still) tourist riddled street of Michigan Ave like a completely unhinged person, staring at my handbag, which I have decided to hold out in front of me like a drink tray (because, that’s what people do in busy crosswalks when they’re trying to be extra cautious?)

Suddenly I’m crossing the bridge at the river and the alarms in my head are blaring.

“What if: there’s a hole in the tiny pocket of the bag where the ring is—and, it falls to the main compartment. And then it rolls to the corner—where my heels are. And as I walk, a hurried stranger, probably a tourist on the way to Garrett’s popcorn, bumps my shoulder on a crowded bridge, forcing my heel to puncture the seam of my bag. The ring falls… at just the right angle to soar through the crack in the footpath and plummet to it’s demise at the bottom of Lake Michigan, never to be seen again, like the Heart of the Ocean in Titanic, and OH my gosh that’s about to happen.”

That was an actual thought. From me—the girl who once jumped from her stairs because she figured she would either fly or not fly, whatever (I didn’t by the way). In that moment, though, I ran off the bridge onto pavement, open my bag, put my ring on, and exhale (read: gasp). Clearly the scenario had been escalated by the fact that I had been unknowingly cutting off oxygen to my brain, but still—what was that?! When had I become capable of thinking that way?

And just as the next crazy thought starting to creep in,

“If I’m like this about my ring…can you imagine me with my ki—“ and the old me, normal me, sane me, stopped the madness.

“Neh,” I thought, “kids can’t fit through those cracks.”

And then I laughed. At myself, by myself, in the street—like the crazy person I’d become.

Joy Ride

“I can’t stop crying—whatever bionic sunscreen is in my eye right now is making me go blind. I can feel it,” I said. My friends casually looked up at their exaggerating Cyclops of a friend to see the faucet where my right eye used to be; and then went back to sitting quietly on the curb waiting for our ride. It was clear that the talking portion of our weekend had come to a close. I needed a little more attention than that; it was taking a lot out of me to scrunch up an entire side of my face.

“Kate, c’mon; it feels like I put a contact dipped in Frank’s Red Hot on my eyeball.” That got her—she gave me a sympathetic wince, at least. For some reason, the conversations between Katie and I always resulted in an analogy about contact lenses. Sounds strange to everyone but us, but the root of most stories can be traced back to just that.  For example: “Kate, it was like I was in the hunger games—except it was a desert instead of a forest—and my sponsors sent me fresh contacts & solution in one of those flying boxes with the bell on it. I know! Amazing.” Or, “…it’d be like if someone took your contacts, threw them into a lap pool and told you not to come out of the water until you found them” to which she’d naturally reply, “That is SO effed.” It’s too hard to translate 22 years of weird, but somehow I felt better; and then our ride appeared.

It was one of those cabs where you could smell the color of the interior before you even got in. “Maroon velvet; my favorite,” I thought. Sure enough, it was burgundy, plush interior as far as the eye (no pun intended) could see as Katie, Jordan and I piled into a Buick born well before any of us were. Caitlin had left for the train already, but not before calling us our own cab. What a doll. It felt like Sunday evening post an unforgettable weekend trip in Montauk—except, unforgettable doesn’t really do it justice. When the 4 of us are together, it’s just… something awesome. For now, I’ll call the weekend historical because I plan on turning this one gem of a photo into artwork that’ll be hung on my wall and passed down to my children’s, children’s, children—THAT good.

I was in the throws of a BBC/sun tan hangover, Sunday weirds, and feeling nostalgic from being down to 3 vs. 4 when the faux-red velvet backseat enveloped me. I sunk down uncomfortably far—like that sensation of falling in when you were being potty trained and you realize too late that some asshole in your house left the seat up. Jordan interrupted my ranting inner monologue.

“Hi, thanks for taking us to the ferry. We have $5 each, just like you said,” she confirmed with our cab driver. God, I love Jordan, I thought. She’s like my life seat belt; even her questions aren’t questions. Our cab driver responded with a stifled maniacal chuckle, mumbling something that sounded an awful like “we’ll see.” I couldn’t be sure; too distracted by the giant overstuffed cigar hanging from his mouth and the cloud of smoke burying into my cornea, adding insult to injury. I wondered what he meant by “we’ll see” and nervously laughed. I have this tendency to immediately equate awkward situations with scenes from movies I’ve watched—it helps lock-in my photographic memory, and then be able to instant replay anytime I want to for my own entertainment. Then, all I have to do is think about it and crack myself up. It’s fail proof, and gets me into trouble more often then not because I can’t really turn it off. This guy sounded identical to the mumbling farmer Fran guy from Waterboy.

“Ohhhhhkay. We go, but the scenic route…” he giggle-choked out between puffs of his stogie as big as a subway footlong. He turned up the music uncomfortably loud and pressed hard on the gas so that we lurched forward. In the background was the most intense angry chick rock I’ve ever heard—it sounded like if dark Fiona Apple and Courtney Love had a child who was tone deaf and played the pots and pans. And it was LOUD.

Holy. Crap. Attention. Grabbed. I could feel all of us immediately tense.

I took my fingerprint-smudged sunglasses off for the first time all day and turned to Jordan, my good eye wide in fear—Katie and I are flanking her on either side. She looks at me and mouths “What the Natalie Holloway?!” as all 3 of us immediately transition into self-defense mode, instinctively leveraging tactics we’ve learned growing up.

Jordan was the first to react. She started a conversation with the cab driver; asking (read: yelling) him questions about the cigar he had in his mouth. He was totally psyched. Very smart, I thought; initiate a discussion so that he sees us as people. Jordan could sell air if she wanted to; every self-defense teacher in the world would have given her a gold star.

Katie was next—I watched her, unsure of what she was doing at first—and then realized she was putting her DNA ALL over the backseat of this cab; touching everything within the 2 foot radius around her. Definitely something she picked up from watching The Bone Collector way too many times. She even took her hair down and shook it out like a sheepdog to make sure follicles would scatter every which way. I honestly half expected her to start licking the window yelling “the snozzberries taste like snozzberries!” before she started tracing her hand along the pane; checking the locks on the way to see if a moving ‘tuck and roll’ would be a last resort option. When had she fit in these police training, I wondered. But again, a very smart maneuver.

That’s when it dawned on me that I was the Brick of the group. I had done nothing but grab my phone. My PHONE. That’s it. What was I going to do with it, exactly? Ask Siri to hand me a weapon? Fire up my virtual knife-throwing app? That’s the ticket! Ugh, moron. So then I did the only thing I could do; initiate a group text between the people in the car and Caitlin, who was en route back to New York City. Because that’s what I could bring to the table. My Olympic texting skills.

Between the lightening bolt emojis and “You screwed us!!! We’re not going to make it home now, EVER! :P” messages to Caitlin, who could literally do nothing to help us, I figured out my role. I was going to text Caitlin vivid descriptions of everything—and she could use those details in a report if she had to. That went a little something like this:

Me: “You did us dirty. We’re probably going to die. Wish you were here, we miss you already :(”

Caitlin: “What?! Ok, focus. What’s happening. You need to describe the scene.”

Me: “Ok let me just caveat that this is from a one-eyed viewpoint so it’s not going to be perfect or anything. Thanks for making me sunscreen, by the way. What I wouldn’t do for an emergency eye-wash station from Chem Lab right now.”

Caitlin:  “MEG.”

Me: “Alright. Our driver is large, speaks Montauk-ian, loves cigars and Lilith Fair rebels from what my ears are gathering.”

Caitlin: “How large? What’s Montauk-ian? What’s he wearing, kind of car etc.?”

Me: “Well, let’s just say if we were taking attendance, he would be counted twice. And he’s literally wearing a baby tee, so I wouldn’t say he has negative body image issues. He said he wanted to take us on the ‘scenic’ route to the ferry, but all I’m seeing now are grassy fields and no boats. We’re basically in a shaggin’ wagon; I don’t know what else to call this tripped out cab. Oh and I don’t have evidence of this, but I’d bet my life that our driver has a rabbit’s foot key chain on his keys.”

Caitlin: (typing…)

Caitlin: “I… don’t know what I’m supposed to do with that.”

Me: “I don’t know! That’s not good enough? Want me to ask him about his childhood?”

Caitlin: “I think you’re going to be fine. Jordan and Katie are doing…what exactly?”

Me: “Not blowing it, clearly.”

Katie: “Guys I figured out a way we can Macgyver an exit with my extra hair bands if we really need to.”

Me: “See? Shit.”

Caitlin: “Ok let me know when you get to the ferry. Miss you all!!! Xoxo”

Me: “Wait! Bu…”

My eye started spurting our tears like a broken sprinkler; it was so intense I had to stop ferociously battle texting. I started sniffling in the backseat in reaction to all of my sinuses going ape on me; and somehow, over the blaring lyrics to “I hate everyone,” our cabbie heard me.

“Don’t need to cry, we’re here,” he coughed up. It was true; we had made it to the ferry. As the car slowed, I clicked the door handle open and jumped out of the crawling Buick, not before throwing my $5 to Jordan and yelling “Thank you!”

The 3 of us stood in the sandy dock area, not speaking. Our nerves disappeared with the cab as it bucked down the road.

“I can’t believe I could fake cigar knowledge like that,” laughed Jordan.

“I can’t believe I left my headband in there,” Kate whispered.

“I can’t believe I was the one who saved us with my tear ducts,” I gloated.

“I can’t believe I missed this,” texted Caitlin.

The morale of the story: wear sunscreen. That guy Baz Lurhmann? With the graduation speech? Totally called it.

Sofa City, Sweetheart

I answered my cell phone with “Whyyyy” face down into my pillow, hoping at least my annoyance level wasn’t as muffled to the receiver. It had to be one of max 5 people on the other end of the line; all of who had probably already forgiven me for my brat-tastic hello.

“Miss Hurl…Hu…Errrrrrly…ly? Ly? Ley?” That’s my favorite; when the caller who can’t pronounce my last name just gives up except for the last syllable. I usually let it go on longer than I should before I save them with “Yes, this is she.” And because it was Friday morning and I was dangerously hung-over for a weekday, I couldn’t pull it together in time before I heard “We are here to move your couch in. Can you let us up?”

F. “Umm yes, hi there, you are early! I wasn’t given a time frame for your arrival so I assumed it was noon. Sorry, I’m just waking up—what time is it?”

“8:40 Miss.”

“Ok great so noon was way off. Ok well I can be there to let you in, call it, half hour or so?”

(Silence)

“Miss we need to get inside within the next 10 minutes otherwise we have to leave. It’s company policy.”

“Sir there is literally no shot of me getting from Lincoln Park to downtown in 10 minutes. You’re setting me up for failure, here.”

“Oh ok Miss. No problem. We leave at 8:50, ok?” (Click)

It’s not until I’m sprinting down the steps of my Lincoln Park apartment that I realize I’m wearing my white pj pants, covered with red lipstick drawings and the words “kiss me” all over them. My mom had gotten them for her kindergarten Valentine’s Day party about 10 years ago and I nabbed them from the house—needless to say, they hadn’t been missed. Also, who just assumes ‘noon’ as the right time to move-in a couch? Like it’s some commonly accepted rule? Idiot, Meggie.

I don’t know how, but I get there just as the massive moving truck with my new couch in it is starting to pull away, and I start to panic that I’ll never see it again. I’m running through my downtown neighborhood during commuter rush hour yelling for them to wait--thankfully, the red lipstick drawings on my pants must have caught the glare in the giant review side mirror because suddenly they are back at the condo building. With me. Looking like I just lost the lottery at the Salvation Army.

I reach up to the truck to shake the hand of the driver. As he backs into the loading zone, I turn to start to figure out how to prop the doors open to bring the couch in. I turn around to ask a question, and find myself looking down far enough to where my neck actually hitches to bend and meet my view. Those big men up in the truck turned out to be pushing 5 ft tall. I literally said “Oh”; that was my reaction. I never got the gene that allows your face to hide what you’re thinking, but it usually takes authentic shock for words to come out.  They did. As luck would have it, though, both of their backs were turned—probably to avoid looking like they knew me, and my pjs—and the drone of the embarrassingly huge Macy’s truck washed away my moron outburst.

I need to backup a bit: the reason behind my shock is because I knew the size of the couch that these guys were responsible for bringing upstairs. Jeff and I, upon couch shopping, opted for the Godzilla of couches; the kind that’s a sectional plus a chaise lounge. As much as we loved that we were moving in together, it was realistic for us to get a couch that was deserving of it’s own area code. It was perfect for us, my  our sanity, and for the condo. Evidently, the idea of them being physically capable of moving it into our place baffled me.

How wrong I was. The movers made it look like I asked them to take my purse upstairs. I excitedly danced around them in my pjs, looking certifiable while trying to help, when we hit a roadblock. Well, an elevator block—the pieces of the couch were too big to fit.

“We can take the stairs—my condo is on the 5^th floor”

“Miss sorry but we can’t. We can only walk a max of 3 flights of stairs for this kind of move. Company policy.”

I stopped myself from saying something regrettable like if the person who wrote their company policy was Badger from Breaking Bad. Instead, we cut a deal that involved me going to the ATM after the couch was upstairs.

I take the elevator up to floor 5 and am waiting (read: praying) for my movers. Before I know it, they’ve made it. At this point, both had lost their shirts, somewhere—so now, I had two shirtless movers who on tiptoes are 5 feet tall, loudly struggling to get the couch pieces in my door frame. “Please, please don’t open your door” I silently whispered to my across the hall neighbor—and just as soon as I completed my thought, the door opened a crack and let out a huge, gray rat.

Ok, it wasn’t a rat. But it sure as hell looked like one. I screamed, of course—until this scraggly, gray haired, long tailed possum opened its mouth and barked—or whatever the equivalent of a bark is for this dog breed. “OH Myyyyy gosh a…dog!” I tried to feign excitement and eye-swallow the tears that had welled up in sheer terror.

“I’m so sorry, is he barking too loudly?”

Um no. Are these shirtless tiny movers bothering you?

“Tobyyyy, it’s ok! He only likes girls.”

Toby. The ratdog’s name, I gathered. I felt badly for screaming so I turned my attention to him gyrating on the ground like a crack induced rabbit when I felt his teeth sink into my ankle.

Toby had secured his under bite into my leg, to which I replied with the polite “AhhHHHhhwwww he’s…cute. Lot’s of…energy…” while I did that “I have to pee so badly while I’m standing here so I’m going to wrap my legs around each other and bend to the left” pose in an attempt to gently shake him loose.

“Ohhkay, come on Tobes let’s go on our walk.”

She tugged on his harness. Toby released his jaw. Might as well be a straight jacket, I thought.

 “I’m Tony, by the way” she called walking down the hallway.

“I’m Meggie—nice to meet you…both.”

Did she say Toby twice? No. They don’t have the same name…do they? No. Tony. ToNY and ToBY. What the hell kind of bizarre psych experiment is that? Quite the imagination you’ve got there.  “Hi! I’m Meggie and this is my dog, Maggie.” I’m left befuddled and in pain. I looked at ToBY’s non-existent legs scattering down the hallway. He looks like a beetle in pond water.

“Rata,” murmured one of the movers to the other one, who smiled. I chuckled too and caught the look of surprise I often get when it’s discovered I know Spanish.

After the couch was completed and my movers had re-discovered shirts, we all three stepped back to admire it. The first big piece in our new condo; it was a beautiful start to our new home.

We parted as friends; them with a hefty tip in hand, me with Valentine’s pants on and a swollen ankle.

How to Lose a Lessee in 5 Ways*

*Not to be confused with the movie How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days; although if anyone could stomach the idea of a sequel to that gem, this should be considered. Also, TBS airs this cinematic treasure on a constant loop; so, sorry for those of you who'd hoped to avoid Matthew McConaughey's twang for the rest of your life.

Announcement: I'm moving in with my boyfriend this June. It's a big deal and we're thrilled--and so is everyone else. A handful of people have had what I refer to as the 'Aunt Edna response.' Remember the original Vacation movie? Aunt Edna is a long lost Griswold relative who deep down loves the Clark, but has a funny way of showing it--that, is the sentiment I'm referring to. It's hysterical, actually. I'll give you an example:

Naturally, the 'how long have you been dating again?' question is asked when sharing this type of news; to which I always very calmly reply 'almost 7 years.' Insert facial distort so immediate it's like I just dumped a giant pixie stick in their mouth. Call me old-fashioned, but 'Jesus, it's about time!' wasn't exactly the phrase I envisioned crocheted on the housewarming throw pillow for our new couch. I mean, sure; glaciers move faster. But that's just the way we both are, and it hasn't failed us yet. At that point I usually follow-up with saying I'm getting my doctorate in dating; the other PhD. That usually either gets me a smile, or a concerned grimace; I'm happy with either one. Teeth=winning.

So, true to form, we approached the condo search process in a very deliberate, methodical manner--kind of like dipping your toe into a pool to test and get used to the temperature before slowly easing your way in--also known as boring. There was no way we were going to even look at the first one that matched our search; in fact, the first 50 we viewed were thrown out the window (so to speak).

The obvious expectation that this process was going to be a big boy undertaking was met the second we started. Laughter is always a critical tool in the face of imminent chaos; thus, this list was born.

How to Lose a Lessee in 5 Ways:

1. Don't include any photos
Remember back when people used to buy property like they were going on a blind date? You don't? That's because it's never happened. Get it together; this isn't a restaurant menu where flowery adjectives are enough to persuade a decision. I would bet that these same people are the one's who have the "?" profile picture on Facebook--turns out, not having a default photo on your profile doesn't lead people to the conclusion that you're mysterious; it convinces them you're a felon.

2. Show photos of only the lobby and common areas
Cut from the same miserable cloth as no photos are the postings that feature the 360 arial view of the building, front desk, a lonely elliptical, and a random Cubs logo. Basically, what you're telling me is that the condo is ugly. Same goes for massive group-shots for Facebook profile pictures; looks like Where's Waldo at Lollapalooza. Might as well just tattoo "unattractive" on your forehead and be done with it.

3. Feature a photo of your Xbox
... goes without saying, but I will anyway. I actually hate this less than most, due to my boyish affinity for Mario Kart; but come on. Try to pretend this isn't the picture you automatically paint in your head: some dude in his underwear yelling at the animated men on a killing spree, volume turned up louder than an Avicii concert and the aftermath of flaming hot cheetos crunched all over the coffee table. I see Xbox photo and the first thing that comes out of my mouth is "this condo has boogers stuck to the wall behind the headboard. no."

4. Show photos of the same room at 40 different angles
Rooms don't model. Tyra Banks isn't going to pop out of the woodwork and tell the room to "sm-eyes" or angle its jawline up to the light to look more couture vs. commercial. Also, this isn't a magic eye; this tactic doesn't create the illusion of more space or total number of rooms. Better luck next time, Criss Angel.

5. Grossly exaggerate proximity to the lakefront
A friend of mine looked at a loft 4 blocks from the United Center--about as "West Loop" as you can get. The owner decided to include multiple photos of the lake, while also exclaiming "FOOTSTEPS FROM THE LAKEFRONT!!!" in the description. 1.) the only thing you're 'footsteps' away from is a diagnosed chemical imbalance and 2). proximity to the lakefront is a non-factor for everyone in Chicago except tourists. It's not going anywhere.

In summation: when listing your condo for rent, remember to be a human being and you'll likely be successful.

Sometimes knowing what you don't want is the best way figure out what you do. And hey, it worked out for Kate Hudson; she got the ending she wanted, too.

Business Etiquette

My company offers a variety of training courses for employees to participate in, designed to sharpen a specific skill set. The classes range anywhere from presenting 101, to the cast of Second City leading improv training in an effort to showcase and sell creative in a more effective way to clients. It’s brilliant; and so necessary. The first training class I took fresh out of college should have been titled “how to be a human in the working world.” Key takeaway from it was whatever the corporate version of “slap yourself across the face and don’t be an a-hole” is. Duly noted.

Needless to say I’m the poster child for participating in training, and most recently, enrolled myself in a class called “Business Etiquette.” I know the instructor so well we’re on a first name basis; and by “so well” I mean I want her life, and that it’s part of her job to have uncanny name/face recall over time; nonetheless, she’s teaching the class, and I want to be savvy with my clients.

I walk into the room a little late and sit next to my friend who coincidentally is wearing the identical outfit as I am. Two strikes; actually, three because two others in the room tripped over each other to tell us we were twins that day and isn’t that ‘sooo funny’ in a 4^th grade sock-hop kind of tone. Ironic start to class; maybe the silver lining was that I actually needed to be there, clearly.

We launch into what business etiquette encompasses and turns out; it’s the broadest topic of all time. We covered everything from which bread plate is yours at the dinner table; to why you shouldn’t talk about symptoms you’re having over the phone with your doctor on the bus. Suddenly, we started talking about travel expenses and acceptable tipping protocol; the girl next to me had an out of body experience and could not stop interrupting the teacher. She had experiences, clearly, in this world; and she want-ed-the-floor. What formerly was known as my training class quickly became an episode of Dr. Phil—the amount of pent up aggression and tension this poor girl had about non-itemized receipts submitted in expense reports was at an unhealthy level. My skillful instructor went with it; she asked just as many “and how does that make you feel” follow up questions to get to the breakthrough and subsequently, closure. Tears, hugging, and surround sound clapping followed; the group moved on to the next topic, that girl moved on to a better version of herself.

Stories followed, which is the most memorable aspect of any training you take. Super effective tool, I might add (write that down.) My awesome instructor (who’s life I secretly covet) launched into a couple of stories where the moral demonstrated how to handle yourself appropriately in difficult situations with clients. One story consisted of a girl who had an unusual first and last name; and the client would email the “other one,” referencing the first; thinking they were two different people. For example: it would be as if my client emailed “Herlihy” (me) referencing an email he got from “Meggie” (also me). Same person, same client: and the girl it was happening to never corrected it. I kept thinking if ever there was a way to induce multiple personality disorder… (and then tried to stop the track my mind wanted to race down); reminds me of that lovely poem “roses are red, violets are blue, I’m a schizophrenic, and so am I.” Cracks me up; probably cracked her up too, in a different way.

The stories continued, but none of them had the star power I was looking for. It was too late before I realized I was the keeper of the best story—one for the ages. One they would talk about for years to come until it became an urban, business etiquette legend. I call it: the Trench Coat Experience.

This past summer brought our clients into our offices often, so we were always ready. If you haven’t experienced Chicago in… well any season… it can be described in one word: sweaty. Summer obviously heightens that testament. My clients were in our office on one particularly humid day in the summer. I came to work; trench coat solidified to my right arm, because Andy Avalos told me it was going to rain on the news that morning. Peeling my coat off my arm, I hang it to dry on the back of my office door, kicking myself that I brought it in the first place.  I had to look at the ceiling in the elevator while every person I rode up with gave me the stink eye for such a rookie move in a million degree heat. Thanks, Andy.

I smooth my silk shirt and am impressed with myself for keeping my client friendly outfit intact in these conditions. Just like every morning, I then go upstairs to our cafeteria to get a coffee and what I call a Big-Gulp water (If you’ve ever seen Dumb and Dumber, or have been to a 7-Eleven, you know what I mean. And if you haven’t, I don’t want you to read this anymore anyway.) It’s a massive styrofoam fountain water that would hydrate you if you were walking across the entire Sahara desert. It’s 10 cents, and I live for it. I pay for my coffee and gargantuan ice water, head downstairs, sit at my desk, go to take my first sip of refreshing heaven—and all of a sudden I can’t feel my sinuses. I had somehow just water boarded myself with my Big Gulp; and am absolutely drenched in Titanic temperature fountain water. It was such a shock that I actually experienced what happens in Lake Michigan every summer when I jump in for the first time and feel my lungs collapse inward. My first reaction is to run out into the hallway screaming for Mom and instead decide to shut my office door and survey the damage. It takes me a minute to realize that my white silk blouse resembles a wet tee shirt contest; leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. Even after two full ring-outs (yes, into my own garbage can), there’s no shot I can get away with wearing this with clients in. I was SOL.

Now, I’m not proud of what I did next; but I didn’t have another choice. I grabbed my trench coat off the back of my door, head to the bathroom; and remove the soaked shirt entirely. The only thing keeping me from embodying the trench coat flasher is the fact that my pants are still on. My shirt=my trench coat. That’s it. And oddly enough, I’m not nearly as mortified about it as I should be.

I step out of my office directly into the handshake of one of my clients who invites me into the conference room for our meeting. I tell him I’m just “grabbing my notebook” when in reality I was contemplating pulling a Jim Carey in Liar Liar and throwing myself against my office wall; knocking myself out so I can then be excused to go home. Too extreme, I thought—little did I know what I was in for.

Every, single person I came in contact with asked me politely to “take my jacket off and stay awhile” while in meetings with my clients. Coworkers I hadn’t seen in months came out of the woodwork just to stop my in the hallway, totally perplexed by the trench. I kid you not; I spent the entire day rattling off different versions of a story where I was too cold to remove my coat because the AC was up way too high in the office.  I deserve an Academy Award for my performance because I pulled it off with no one the wiser; until now, at least.

I think my business etiquette teacher would have commended me for my choices that day. The stories we heard all had morals surrounding a common theme: it is not about the tough circumstances you sometimes find yourself in, but how you react that matters. Sure, I could have gone out and bought another shirt to wear; but when clients are in your office, you are the hostess. Rule #1 of hosting is to put the needs of your guests above your own; and that includes personal comfort.  So, I improvised; and the only person who knew I was basically naked in client meetings under my trench that day, was me. Leslie Knope would have done the exact same thing.

And to Andy Avalos, if you’re reading out this—it is single-handedly thanks to you and your morning weather report that I still have my job.

Will the real friend please stand up?

“Friend” by dictionary definition (noun): A person attached to another by feelings of affection or personal regard.

“Friend” by today’s colloquial definition: A stranger you met at a bar, someone else’s friend, someone you share a school name with, someone you have 20+ mutual friends with (it’s ok that you’ve never talked before); a location, a building, hotel, vacation destination; celebrities, reality TV stars, sports or news networks, musicians, fashion designers; your second cousin twice removed, a dog you know, your clients, coworkers, and bosses.

Synonyms: Followers; Acquaintances; In-laws.; Business partners; Borderline stalkers; Online Ads; Networkers.

Let me start by saying that I’m a fan of social media; I “like” it (corny pun intended).  If my interest level was on a spectrum, I’d fall somewhere between an enthusiast and an addict. If social media was a disease, we’d all be starring in the real life version of the movie Contagion. You get it.

This morning, I woke up to a storage unit facility in the town I grew up in friending me on Facebook because we share 1 mutual friend; a girl I went to high school with. Now, re-read that last sentence and imagine you said it in conversation with your Grandmother; sounds a lot like I just told her I had a threesome last night in a warehouse somewhere in Simsbury, CT. And this is exactly my point.

Between Facebook, Twitter, Foursquare, LinkedIn, and Pinterest; the newly defined “friend” is anything but traditional. Take this storage unit facility friendship request; interesting. Are you going to be on the other end of the line when I call you crying because my boyfriend broke up with me? Will you come over for girl’s night, drink wine and watch “Sh*t fashion girls say” on repeat and talk about the Kardashians like they’re our friends who couldn’t make it? Are you going to be the 12:01 AM phone call on my birthday just to be the first one to wish me happy birthday? Sorry, store unit facility, but friendships are a two way street; this isn’t going to work. I’m so sorry… please don’t cry. Oh that’s right, you can’t. You’re a BUILDING.

It gets better.

 “To befriend” has been replaced with verbs like “friending,” “following,” “connecting,” and even “re-pinning.” Let’s call a spade a spade; it’s accepted stalking.  Feels like an exaggeration? Believe me, I wanted it to be; but our social behavior doesn’t lie.  Collectively, we are strategic with whom, how, and why we choose our “friends;” usually driven by a hidden motive (Examples):

Facebook friend request from a stranger you met at a bar the night before; subtext: I want to look at your pictures to see if last night was just a combo of good lighting and alcohol. Bathing suit shots are a bonus.

LinkedIn connection; subtext: I want to size you up based on your resume so that I can determine whether or not you’re successful. See how I’m connected to my own clients? Best. Relationship. Ever. We just “get” each other, you wouldn’t understand.

Twitter follower; subtext: You’re clever in 140 characters or less; I’m going to steal your material claim it as my own. Sharing is caring, right?

Foursquare friend; subtext: We have a mutual understanding that we want to know where each other is at every moment, of every day. It’s not weird.

I can’t help it; I go right back to an imagined conversation with my Grandma. This time, let’s say we’re Foursquare friends. Early one morning, she get’s notified that I’ve checked in at “Bar Method” at 6 AM; and genuine panic ensues. The wheels start spinning; for what reason would I be at a “Bar” so early in the morning? Next thing I know, there’s a staged intervention in my apartment when I return that includes friends of my Grandma, the Priest from her church, and an assortment of colorful pamphlets that scream “help is in your hands.”  I’m about to hear someone say “when you do this, it makes me feel…” before I’m forced to rip off my jacket, exposing my Lululemon yoga outfit and explain that I was exercising. Amidst the fog of utter confusion, clapping, laugher and lipstick in my doorway, I mumble and apology to the Priest for stripping, and somehow made lunch plans with the “girls” next Sunday. Meanwhile, the reaction stuck on my face can’t decide if I’m more terrified or impressed at how they got into my living room in the first place.

These fake scenarios are what would happen if social media speak turned literal. The point in creating them is not about Grandma; it’s what Grandma represents.  A traditional definition when friends were friends; real, breathing, people with feelings you’d have face to face interactions with. They’re still there; and you don’t have 800 of them.

Just like hair care, the rules of friendship are simple and finite when thinking about your friends vs. your “friends.” It’s the same word, with different definitions.  And if ever the lines become too obscure, think of my Grandma and her echoing the famous lyrics; “…one is silver and the other is gold;” not “one is silver and the other is the spa you vacationed to.”