Friendly or annoying? I'll be the judge.

"Buffalo, New York, is one of the rudest places in America and residents of New York City are far friendlier than folks in the Midwest and the South," according to one of the silliest articles I've ever read. MailOnline recently reported that a company called Vertaline conducted a "study" that tracked tweets containing the phrases "good morning" and "f*** you" across 462 cities.

 "Nice" cities

"Naughty" cities

The results don't confuse me as much as the study itself. If they were looking for the city that's home to the most annoying, boring, self-indulgent Twitter addicts, I suppose "good morning" would be a good phrase to track. Although I'm not actually on Twitter, so maybe I'm wrong. Maybe their followers enjoy reading inane tweets and appreciate being reminded of when people are waking up in various time zones.

Come to think of it, I don't much like people saying "good morning" to me offline, either. If it's a colleague in the office kitchen, I fear being roped into small talk about her weekend putting together a jigsaw puzzle. And if it's a strange man on the street who also tells me to smile, I have to resist the urge to respond with "f*** you" -- because that is decidedly rude, especially in (even in?) the Midwest.

Photo source: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2191250/Twitter-heat-map-tracks-polite-rudest-cities.html

Train game

After sitting in a cubicle all day, naturally, all I want to do is sit some more on the train home. And with where my office is located on the Purple Line, that's actually a possibility -- if I am lucky enough to be standing directly in front of a door when the train stops. When this happens I'm taken back to my favorite game in Super Mario Brothers 3, and I feel like a winner!

 But more often than not I end up in this scenario:

My head follows the door I've been eying longingly as it slowly passes me by, and after the train jerks to a stop, a quick glance back to the left confirms that I am smack dab in the middle of two doors and SOL. For a few seconds I anxiously shift from one foot to the other while I try to gauge which door has less of a crowd in front of it. This gets even more awkward if I'm with my husband, as we without fail always head for different doors and then turn back irritably when we realize the other is not following, losing precious time, not to mention our newlywed glow.

As annoying as that is, though, the worst is when I end up directly behind a polite commuter who lets everyone and their mother board before US (well, not really mothers -- I suppose they should get priority seating). Are you really being courteous when you're inconveniencing the lady behind you who very well may lose her will to live if she doesn't get to sit down and relax with her large library book for 20 minutes after a hard day's work of trading passive aggressive emails?? Or perhaps these commuters aren't really being polite -- maybe they're just slow. Do they not want to snag a seat themselves? Are they not in a hurry to escape the work day?? I don't get it.

I for one just want to get where I'm going as quickly and as comfortably as possible...perhaps I should get one of these:

Photo credits:

http://www.consoleclassix.com/nes/super_mario_bros_3.html
ml
http://www.matwolf.com/SMB3/Images.htm
http://mario.wikia.com/wiki/File:PeachSuperCircuit.png

Cheer to the CTA

Although I didn't resolve to stop complaining this year (I refuse to deprive myself of my favorite pastime), I still think it would be nice to start 2011 off with an uncharacteristic rave about one of my favorite things to rant about: the CTA.

Waiting for the train at the Quincy/Wells station yesterday, I witnessed something in the flesh that I thought only existed in the delusions of CEOs and fabrications of press releases: customer service. I have seen customer service "emergency" buttons, but after mistaking them more than twice for heater and elevator buttons, I've concluded that they're just there for decoration. I've also seen customer service windows, but they're usually in front of empty chairs and covered with signs that say things like, "NO CHANGE PROVIDED."

I could go on ... but this post is positive. Yesterday I saw with my own eyes what I believe to have been a customer service representative... or at least a CTA employee providing a service to customers!

In an attempt to escape for a few minutes the misery to which we've condemned ourselves for 3 to 4 months by signing a lease or purchasing property in Chicago, commuters such as myself tend to wait for their train inside rather than freeze to near death on the platform. This can be quite a risk at stations that service multiple lines, however. Someone with her head in a very interesting book about Elizabeth the First that reveals just how laughable the nickname "Virgin Queen" was, for example, might not notice her train approaching and miss her chance to get through the door first and snag a seat - or miss her train entirely.

But yesterday this fine gentleman bearing a CTA badge took it upon himself to call out the trains as they were approaching. So I want to say thank you, CTA, for hiring and keeping an employee gruntled enough to add a bit of cheer to my commute - and New Year.

Bad Samaritan

Yesterday I almost crossed the street to avoid a small child who was selling lemonade. I didn’t actually cross the street, but I did quickly say no when he started to ask me if I would like to purchase a beverage. And then as I continued walking I started to wonder what my problem was. I probably should have given this young entrepreneur 50 cents and a boost of confidence, even though I wasn’t thirsty. Now he’s probably going to end up living in his mother’s basement for the rest of his life.

But I’d argue it’s not my fault. I blame the guy who sells StreetWise outside my neighborhood CVS, the three to four veterans asking for donations at the train station, the Greenpeace people asking me if I want to save the environment outside my office, the panhandlers asking for spare change on every corner… Everywhere I go strangers are asking me for money. I know this makes me a terrible person, but I’ve resolved to ignore them all. I know I could pick one to help out, but I’m overwhelmed by the sheer volume of requests. And I don’t like talking to strangers.

So I walk briskly and keep my head down. And if I accidentally make eye contact I immediately start shaking my head if it looks like the person is going to speak. Even if that person is a lost tourist, or a small child… So this is my defense for when I end up on one of those hidden camera shows about bad Samaritans – or in hell.

Protesting Life

There's a story about my father floating around my family, which may or may not be true. When I tell it, it goes something like this: The year is 1969. The place is Los Angeles. The image is my father, briefcase in hand, annoyance on face, pushing through some sort of hippie protest on his way to work. This story is supposed to illustrate apathy and general lameness.

Flash forward a bit to year 2010, place: Chicago. There appears to be a protest going on outside my office. I hear some commotion and join a co-worker at the window. We can see people marching with signs in the reflection of the building next door. I Google "chicago protest," but nothing promising comes up. My co-worker searches Twitter and finds a post about a "support rally" in Chicago, but we're not sure what they're supporting... Another co-worker says quietly, "I kind of feel like going down there, but [trails off]." I shrug and go back to my cubicle, insert headphones in ears.

Restaurant Week, Shmestaurant Week

It's Restaurant Week in Chicago. Every year I'm bombarded by advertisements - Daily Candy, Time Out, Metromix - and every year I get excited. And then pissed. Lies! It's all a bunch of lies! Especially this year because it's not even a week anymore - they've extended it to 10 days. Even the name of the event is a lie.

Supposedly more than 165 eateries are offering "discounted" three-course dinners and lunches. Lunches are a set price of $22; dinners are $32. But here's the thing: If you look at restaurants' regular menus and add up individual items on their prix fixe menus, the discount is negligible, if anything. One meal I looked up was actually a nickel more for Restaurant Week. B.S.

Now, I admit I haven't done the math for each option (and I'm not so good at math), but does this not sound like a rip off? I wonder if the waitstaffs at these restaurants are having a nice laugh back in the kitchen. I know I would be if I were still a server. Actually I'd probably be annoyed - as I was pretty much annoyed with any customer who asked about deals, required extra napkins, or expected me to serve them.

Anywho it appears the only way to squeeze a deal out of Restaurant Week is to go to the priciest of fancy pants restaurants participating (hint: probably not Connie's Pizza...) and to book your reservation months in advance. Lame.

Disenchanted by the whole thing but still susceptible to the restaurant itch, we did end up going to Dunlays last night (dinner out on a Tuesday!). Not only does Dunlays not participate in the Restaurant Week sham, but it's always yummy (cookie skillet!) and reasonably priced. And we used a Groupon, which are actually good deals. Watch out for the expiration dates though. Sigh... must there always be a catch?

Judging in transit

I’ve noticed a new trend on the train lately – dudes with old books. I can’t decide if I find them endearing or pretentious… I think I’m leaning toward the former, probably only because I notice these readers during rush hours and therefore assume they’re bored corporate monkeys like myself, rather than scornful hipsters, who I (again) assume wake up around noon and have no reason to travel to the Loop.

But as I was contemplating this while standing behind one of these dudes on the brown line this morning, I noticed what looked like a hand-made bookmark peaking out of his yellowed paperback. It read, “No one knows me.” It looked like it might be the title of a poem…

Hm… Or maybe used books are just another sign of “these uncertain economic times.”

Probably a better question on the train car this morning was what that crazy lady was doing taking pictures of random strangers with her phone… and then she pulled a shiny new copy of Celebutantes out of her giant purse. Who would spend money on that? What a tool.

Sheepish Bag Lady

A RedEye column I read on the train this morning spoke to me, literally.

"Hey, you with that gigantic bag..."

Although I once wrote a high school English paper on what I called "Big Backpack People," full of rants about classmates who took up too much room in the hallways and could potentially maim an unsuspecting freshman with their abrupt and careless movements, I have, somehow, become one of those girls on the "L" - the ones with the giant bags. Although mine's not Coach, or any other designer brand. Does that make it better, or worse?

Columnist Jason Steele asks at one point, "Ladies: What is it with these bags you insist on carrying that are almost as big as you? What could possibly be in them that you absolutely must carry with you?"

Jason, I DON'T KNOW! There really isn't much in my giant bag, at least not today... often, I must admit, it's loaded with a virtual feast - banana, Coffee Mate, leftovers preserved not in manageable plastic or tupperware, but heavy-duty Pyrex, maybe grapes or an apple, a container or two of yogurt... and sometimes I waddle onto the Brown Line (not from the Armitage stop!) with said purse, as well as gym and laptop bags.

But today, let's see... I've got a book, planner, iPod, gum, phone, "business" cards, umbrella, chapstick, fork from yesterday's lunch (um, ew), keys (one for my apartment, security door, mailbox, mother's house, car I haven't driven since high school, car I haven't driven since college), wallet, busting at the seems... Okay, so maybe some of these items are unnecessary, but they're all relatively small. Not sure then why my purse is so large, and heavy, or why I feel compelled to carry it around. Maybe I'd feel naked without it, or free...

Steele writes, "These women usually have scowls on their faces as well, probably cranky from having to schlep around all this nonsense."

And he's right! Well, that and also because I'm annoyed with all the people who keep bumping into my bag.

10 places to avoid in Chicago (if you weren’t already…)

Well, it’s official: On the lackluster “After the Final Rose” episode, our latest Bachelorette told Chris Harrison she will soon be invading my fair city. Luckily, in “10 things you don't know about Ed Swiderski of 'The Bachelorette,'” the Chicago Tribune has revealed some of her fiance's favorite places – so if you’re afraid, like I am, that you might be rendered deaf and/or blind by running into Jillian’s incessant squealing and/or Ed’s shorty-shorts, I suggest you avoid the following:

1. Sushi Samba
2. Blue Frog
3. Air and Water Show
4. Green Door
5. Innjoy
6. Cubs games
7. Lake Shore Drive
8. Michigan Avenue
9. Lincoln Park
10. River North
    

Fashion Victim

Visit msnbc.com for Breaking News, World News, and News about the Economy

Lately the news has been warning us that "Skinny Jeans May be Dangerous to Your Health." According to this nbcchicago.com article, a condition called meralgia paresthetica, or "tingling thigh syndrome" can occur "when constant pressure...cuts off the lateral femoral cutaneous nerve, causing a numb, tingling or burning sensation along the thigh."

The article quotes a woman who noticed the odd sensation "when she wore a pair of super-tight skinny jeans to dinner with friends." And when she walked around, "She felt like she was almost 'floating,' because she couldn't feel her legs."

So... that's weird and all, but I think this woman's bigger problem, unless she's a runway model, is that she probably looked ridiculous. Isn't the real danger of these so-called skinny jeans that they actually make everyone look fat and awful?? Bring on the meralgia! Anything that will make this trend go away!

And according to the article, "tingling thigh syndrome" is exacerbated by high heels, the very accessory that can help these heinously unflattering jeans look halfway decent on a lucky few. (A chiropractic physician quoted in the article says, "The teetering shoes tilt the pelvis forward, increasing the pressure on the nerve.")

So what's the fashion-chasing, burger-eating Midwesterner to do? Step into a pair of dreaded ballet flats after pouring herself into her trendy jeans?

Please, can we stop the madness? Not to avoid the health risks, but to avoid the humiliation! Let's just stick with what we know best: relaxed fits, sweats, grease stains.

Walking in circles

I’m not sure why, but there are an extraordinary number of revolving doors in the Loop. Getting to work in the morning, I go through no fewer than five revolving doors. If I go to Starbucks for coffee and Subway for lunch (yes, I’m aware of the amount of money I waste on things I should make at home), I revolve through 14 doors in one day. Despite all of this practice, however, I still find the revolving door rather tricky. Now, it’s quite possible I’m alone in being challenged in this area, but in case anyone else gets the same double dutch-evoking nerves before jumping into a spinning section, I’d like to share some of the lessons I’ve learned walking in circles.

Lesson number one: When choosing between an empty revolving door and one already spinning a few people, choose the populated door. Because it’s already spinning, you won’t have to exert as much energy pushing through. This was counterintuitive for me because I like to stay as far away from strangers as possible—but I’ve decided it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make, especially in the morning when I’m carrying coffee and feeling especially lazy.

Lesson number two: Stay alert when timing your door entry. It’s ideal to squeeze into the door immediately after someone else—so you can catch a free ride on his or her push. You have to be careful not to jump in too early though, as this could not only slow everyone down, but also cause extreme discomfort. One day after work I was jolted back from lala land when I realized I had followed an unsuspecting woman right into her personal revolving door compartment. I sheepishly apologized while we shuffled forward for what seemed like an eternity. Horrifying.

Lesson number three: Reverse the laws of chivalry. Although men customarily open doors for women, when dealing with a revolving door, I think it’s more polite for the man to go first. This goes back to my laziness theme. If the man goes first, he can do all the pushing. Now, as a 21^st century gal, I’m totally down with pushing my own door…or strategically timing my own door entry…but I often encounter men who seem to be trying to be gentlemanly by letting me go first, and I find that odd because then I’m doing all the work for them. Maybe I’m getting it all wrong though—I shared this theory with a lunch date once…and I never heard from him again…

Move your ass! I’m freezing my midwestern charm off!

My cube neighbors informed me when I walked in this morning that they had already discussed how f-ing cold it is outside. Well that sucks — if bitching has permanently been bumped up in the schedule to somewhere before 8:50 am, I guess I need to start waking up earlier! Or maybe my co-workers don’t actually enjoy the morning rants I launch into before I even turn on my computer... Anyway, I must bitch about Chicago winters, if not verbally then electronically.

I believe Chicago is a particularly unpleasant place to be in January and February, and it goes beyond the wind chill. It is the unfortunate combination of the god-awful cold and the midwestern mentality, which is not quite as extreme as southern charm/hospitality, but is certainly more relaxed and friendly than the streets of New York City.

It makes sense that southerners talk, walk and wait tables slowly. Where’s the rush when your life is one big bubbly hot tub party? Plus half of the sun-kissed people down there are retired or on vacation. They have the time and affability to say please and thank you. And it makes sense that New Yorkers are pushy, vulgar and live in a perpetual state of fast-forward. There’s a lot of stuff going on, the weather can be pretty crappy and there are a lot of f-ing people in your way. All the time.

But here in Chicago we’re stuck somewhere in the middle. The people that are in my way often possess a corn-fed good nature that can be extremely annoying when it’s four degrees below zero. How is it possible that walking from the train station to my office during RUSH hour this morning, my hobbit legs were gaining more ground — in heals — than the other corporate cogs, most of whom are at least a head taller than me? Are they enjoying a lovely morning stroll through the frozen concrete jungle? And did the herd I found myself stuck in seriously have to wait for a jackass cab driver to turn left in front of us when we had the right-of-way AND further authority in the form of a WALK sign? When my lip-gloss is freezing to my face, it’s no time for manners.

I grumbled internally to myself, as I do all winter long: WTF do I choose to live in this ridiculousness — even though I know the answer. Chicago winters make you appreciate how fabulous Chicago summers are even more. Plus I just love to complain.