ADVICE: "TAKE TIME TO CELEBRATE"

CAB #: 2223

AN OPEN LETTER TO ST. PATRICK

Dearest St. Patrick,

I have decided to send you a note after several days of partaking in debauchery (strictly in your honor) to thank you for sufficiently raising the spirits of Chicagoans. It has been a painstakingly brutal winter that saw our city transform into a giant tundra of sub-zero temperatures and icy snow. The conditions were so artic-like, I swear I saw a polar bear and some penguins hanging out near Lake Michigan. And even THEY shivered. You see, Patty, (can I call you Patty?), the winter, coupled with the awesome state of the economy, all the Blago ballyhoo and our new title as the Third Most Miserable City in America, has made for an opposite-of-phenomenal '09 thus far. We needed something to celebrate. Desperately.

This past weekend, you blessed our city with sun and warmth and a taste of spring. On the Northside and the Southside and every which way, people were out in droves to pay homage to you. The pubs were packed full with Irish Eyes and Smiles and Princesses. And the girls shook their shamrocks, while the boys took Irish whiskey shots. "Kiss me, I'm Irish" - Really? I thought you were Puerto Rican - it doesn't matter, we're all Irish today. And for a second, we forgot about everything else. Because we needed something to celebrate.

And as I looked around, I saw that glasses were filled to the brim - but they poured more. Green beer made for green teeth and green tongues - but they poured more. A girl named Holly missed her flight to San Diego, and a boy mourning his friend's death had tears in his eyes - but they poured more. And we all ended the night with full bellies and tired eyes and foggy memories - but we poured more. Because we all needed something to celebrate.

Thank you, St. Patrick, for waking up our sleepy city and giving us something to celebrate.

And thank you, Cabbie #2223, for reminding me.

D

ADVICE:"DON'T GIVE THEM THE SATISFACTION OF
SEEING YOU SWEAT"

CAB #: 7743

Jiminy Christmas, I love a good kook. Britney, I wanted to rub your buzzed mane for good luck as you attacked that car with your umbrella (ella…ella…ella). Tom Cruise, you had me at "glib putz" during your showdown with Matt Lauer. Florida Woman Who Called 911 To Report That McDonald’s Ran Out of Chicken McNuggets, can we be McBFFs? Humans – Americans, at least – are voyeuristic creatures. Reality television and gossip blogs are just as much legitimate guilty pleasures as chocolate milkshakes and fudge brownies. We love watching other people – be it the Richy McFamous or the everyday Joe the Plumbers – react to whatever silly shenanigans they find themselves in this week.

Watching is one thing, but what about being the one whose cool is compromised? Like Britney and Tommy and Chicken McNutty, it's always been my nature to wear my heart on my sleeve. Let’s be honest, my heart is not limited to my sleeve – it is, in fact, visible on the entirety of my shirt. [And now I will interject to kindly ask that you advise me against taking up poker. Please and thank you].

Being someone who's always laid my cards out on the table has worked against me once or twice. I once had a boss who drove me so crazy, she drove me crizazy. She threatened and yelled and cursed on a daily, if not hourly, basis (with such a lovely demeanor, it’s only fitting that she chose a career in public relations). She knew she intimidated me. And she enjoyed intimidating me. I tried to mask how I felt, but she sensed it. Perhaps the constant red face, shaky voice and half-eaten finger nails clued her in, but I digress. Point is, being the hunter that she was, she smelled my fear – even over my delicious apple-scented body lotion – and pounced any opportunity she had. Eventually, I let the fear I had for her overcome me, and I actually began to doubt myself and lose confidence in my work. At that point, I knew I had to move on to greener, less emotionally abusive pastures. The job was literally taking a toll on my mental health - no bluff.

The day I left her and that place, I vowed never again to be bullied, to outwardly express such vulnerability and insecurity, to let someone else's opinion of me affect how I feel about myself and my abilities – especially at the workplace.

As for the ex-boss, I hear the best revenge is being able to relish in the fact that she has pale skin and split ends. Kidding. We all know the best revenge is living well – which I’m currently doing. So take that, boss lady.

How's my new poker face lookin', Cabbie #7743?

D

ADVICE:“REMEMBER THAT THERE’S NOT A PERSON IN THE WORLD WITHOUT A PROBLEM”

CAB #: 5084

Some people are singers. Some people are dancers. Some people are both. And let’s not forget those ever-allusive triple threats, like JT and JLo and LiLo (clearly in her “Mean Girls” days). Then there’s me. My idea of a triple threat consists of Long Islands and Sliders and Beers (oh my). I am not a singer or dancer – and I put extreme emphasis on the ‘not a dancer’ part. With the exception of The Carlton Dance – and let’s face it, is this really something I should be so quick to admit? – I am rhythmically impaired.

I was made aware of my awesomely bad dance skills by The Obscenely Overconfident Loudmouth (whom I will affectionately call TOOL) my freshman year of college. I met TOOL in St. Thomas at a club one night, where we proceeded to spring break-it-down on the dancefloor…until TOOL blurted out, “I can’t dance with you anymore because you’re not good.” Our courtship took an abrupt halt. He was no Fred Astaire – in fact, he was a scruffy faced, popped-collared TOOL – but his comment stung and has stuck with me.

I was reminded of my dancing phobia after recently hearing a story about a man who was at his daughter’s wedding. He spent the entire night dancing with his wife and his children and his grandchildren as if he had no care in the world. He died two days later. At the wedding, the man knew he was seriously ill, but he did not want his family’s tears or pity – he wanted to enjoy the time he had left with them.

Stories like these make me re-evaluate my “problems.” Sure, I may look like a cross between Elaine Benes and Heathcliff Huxtable – sans the “wall of hair” and multi-colored sweaters – when I bust out my moves, but is this really something to get upset about? Sure, I get disappointed when Boy of the Week just isn’t that into me, or doesn’t call when he says he’s going to call or dumps me on national television six weeks after proposing to me and, on the same night, re-kindles his romance with runner-up chick, but it’s not the end of the world, right? Okay, so that last one wasn’t me – that was Melissa, the winner (ha) of this season’s “The Bachelor.” I’m making a point though – Melissa, with the tan skin and petite figure and gleaming smile, might have appeared to have it all – the looks, the fiancé, the rock (prior to having her fiancé re-nig the proposal and take back the rock with Chris Harrison courtside for the play-by-play), but her life obviously isn’t perfect. Life has its kinks for the Melissas and the Madonnas and the Deannas (Pappas, of course) – even for the spandex-clad girls at the gym who manage to look mysteriously unwinded after a 45-minute cardio workout. Everyone’s got issues, whether we see them or not.

When you think about it, we’re here for the blink of an eye, so we might as well enjoy it. Even if you don’t have the perfect apartment or you find yourself panting after 30 minutes on the elliptical or you get burned by TOOL. Might as well dance…if for no other reason than being alive.

Cabbie #5084, may I have this dance?

D