I got some sad news tonight.

Our dog walker was in an accident about a week and a half ago and they took her off life support on Sunday. She was so young. So, so young.

The news has really affected me, for some reason. Apart from the obvious sadness of it all, I'm not sure exactly why she hasn't been far from my thoughts for the last week and a half. I'd only met her a handful of times: a young girl, crazy about animals, crazy hair, strong personality.

Honestly, after meeting her the first time, and being reassured she wasn't a psycho and would be good to our dog, I never really gave her a second thought unless I happened to be home when she came to get the dog. She was just this...fun girl who walked dogs for a living, mine included.

And here I am: swollen eyes, mind racing. I can't let it go for some reason.

You'd think the reason would be because I have a young daughter. And thinking about anything happening to her—from being bullied in school (which is a possibility, considering how awful I was as a child and payback is a bitch) to being snatched away by a predator—drives me insane.

But I don't think that's it. Partly, yes. Of course.

I can't imagine losing someone I love that much, much less my daughter. I can't imagine what her family must be going through, having to say goodbye. I just can't imagine...

But mostly...it's the suddenness of it. One day she's on a trip to Costa Rica with friends. The day after she returns, she's in intensive care.

How does that happen?

Over the last week, I've thought to myself, "She'll never have to get old. She'll never have to get sick. She'll never have to worry about her kids getting into sudden accidents and being rushed to the emergency room and put in intensive care on life support... She's at peace."

But at the same time, I thought, "She'll never get married or have a partner she wants to spend the rest of her life with. She'll never have kids. She'll never see a sunrise or the stars again. "

So the week's been a kind of seesaw of emotions for me.

My last post was about appreciating my life and all that's in it. But I don't really. I try to. I try to be present and engaged and really "in" my life. But mostly I take it for granted, racing through the days just to get it over with.

And I think maybe that's what it is. She was so full of life. She had a head of hair that could rival Cyndi Lauper on her craziest of crazy hair days. Her personality was bubbly, without being annoying, and irrepressible. And now she's gone.

How does that happen?

So tonight, I'm sad. And I'm having a glass of wine (or three) to help me cope. It seems like an irrational sadness and completely out of proportion, considering my relationship with her. But I'm sad, nonetheless.

I'd like to say I'll learn from this: take life by storm and really live. And I really do intend to do so.

But it seems that even with all my good intentions, that promise always gets pushed aside. Because I have so much I think I have to do right now. A whole week will pass before I realize I don't really remember any of it. And it's such a waste. I have a life I'm not always present enough to actually enjoy. And she had a life she embraced with both arms.

So while I don't understand how things like this can happen, perhaps she'll be a reminder to me to be happy with what I have and not care about what I don't.

To really pay attention when my daughter is telling me for the hundredth time why the twins were not good at lunch and how one kept throwing her cup off the table.

To let the irritations at work roll off me once I leave and enter my real life.

To really appreciate that I have a life. That I am alive and able to choose to have a happy life. And I have to. Because in one second, it can all change.

She'll always remind me of that. For all she was to everyone who really knew her (and looking at her facebook memorial page, she was very well loved) she will be that to me. A beautiful, crazy-haired reminder to be thankful for what and who I have in my life, and for life itself.

So thank you, Lindsay. For loving our dog, and for who you were—in my somewhat enhanced memories of you—and in reality.

Be at peace.

Always rushing, rushing, rushing.

After my last post, I thought I'd gotten it straight: stop and smell the roses.

But yesterday, I had the day off with my little girl and instead of smelling the roses and taking life in, I lined up errand upon errand upon errand. Rushed her around and stressed us both out.

Then, in what turned out to be the final store, she sat down on a big cushion and pointed to the one next to her. "Sit with me, Mama!" she said. I relented (although still checking my watch) and she hugged me.

"We're together!" she whispered excitedly.

What a wise kid I have.

How did we get here so fast?

Lately I've been pondering life.

I know it sounds a bit cliché, but time really does fly, and with it, years and years of life.

It seems like just last year I was graduating from high school, zipping around with my friends, feeling invincible.

Drinking wine coolers and driving on our suburban streets, sneaking cigarettes and making sure to wash our hands after.

Thinking in 10 years I'd be married with kids. But also thinking that was oh so far away.

And then it seems like just a few months ago that I was graduating from college. Trying to figure out my path. Resisting becoming a pay-my-own-way adult.

Sitting with my friends right after graduation (now smoking pot and drinking wine), wondering where I'd be in 20 years.

Definitely married. Probably with two or three kids. And at least one dog. Living in the suburbs.

And here I am. Almost 20 years out of college.

Holy crap.

Really, where did the time go?

When you're in it, when you're living your life, you just don't realize how fast it all goes: pretty fast.

What sparked this post is something that happened this past week.

My coworker (KimPossible) and I met with some recent college grads, who were at our agency for an informational interview. They're trying to break into the ad biz for some reason. Probably Mad Men.

Anyway, we were sitting there, answering generic questions, and as I answered, I just stared at them.

Them: dressed up in their black pants and blouse and khakis and button-down shirt.

Little kids, dressed up in adult clothes. With makeup (on the girl) and a tie (on the boy).

When were we that young? Were we ever that young? Did we ever look that young? I don't really think so. But if we did...how did we get here so fast?

As we chatted with the toddlers about how now was the time for them to move to Chicago, one of them said (after pulling his pacifier out of his mouth), "Yeah, it's not like we have a mortgage or anything." And he laughed.

Yeah, well, I do.

And a husband and a kid and a dog and a car payment.

This meeting was kind of a wake up call to me.

Socrates said, "The unexamined life is not worth living." (Yes, surprisingly, I can quote Socrates as easily as I can quote Lindsay Lohan.)

And now that I'm a bit older, I can see he had a point.

Time is moving and it's showing no mercy.

In 20 minutes, those two kids that we interviewed, those eager-to-get-a-job-and-start-their-lives kids will be where I am now. Wondering how it went so fast.

The weeks and months and years that I've willed to go by quickly because I'm trying to get to the weekend, are never coming back.

I've already lived half my life—which scares the shit out of me.

Forty years just flew by. And I feel like I haven't been present for most of it (pot-smoking, hazy days excluded).

Of course I have specific memories. Memories of the big things.

I remember holding my baby girl for the first time, feeling drugged up and like I'd been crying for days, but somehow so alert and elated and happy. This is a snapshot that's frozen in my mind.

But ask me what we did last week, last night, this morning... and I'll pause. Because I'm racing through my life. Like something's chasing me.

Recently, I had been complaining to my friends about all I do not have, and not considering all I do.

So I'm going to try and consciously pause. Be present. And look around.

Because there's a lot to look at.

I have a great husband. And a great kid. And a great dog. And it's all right here. All I have to do is pay attention. Because I don't want to miss any more.

After all these years, that flew in seconds,

I finally realized...I have an amazing life.

Grounds for...

Divorce. Yes, divorce.

There are only a couple things that have pushed my husband and I to this precipice.

Not exes.

Not cheating.

But Ikea.

On a Saturday.

With all those people trying to get the carts out into the parking lot. Which. They. Can't. (They're called parking slabs, people.)

Nothing incenses the two of us like a trip out there.

It's too stressful. Too crowded. Too, too much.

We end up arguing about silly things, snapping at each other, feeling like we'll never escape.

Yes, Ikea is a place we've successfully avoided the past few years.

Because we know better.

The other cause for divorce? Moving.

As in: packing every single piece of crap you own into "labeled" boxes, and paying surprisingly small, but strong men to move them a mile north of where you currently live.

Ugh.

Moving has not one redeeming quality.

From start to finish, it's stressful, it's nerve-racking, it's time-consuming.

Let's start at the beginning: packing is terrible.

Because as conscientious as you try to be about labeling the boxes, inevitably you start wrapping your jeans around dishes and your underwear is shoved in and nestled around a vase.

And suddenly kitchen is crossed out.

And bedroom is crossed out.

Then living room is crossed out.

And everything ends up back in the kitchen.

And you realize just how much stuff you have.

It multiplies. It's never-ending.

Packing is terrible.

Then... there are the phone calls.

To the utilities, to the credit cards, to the magazine subscriptions.

"We're moving," you say.

Then, all you have to do is confirm your identity, give them your new address and you're done.

That's all you have to do.

1,000 times.

And then there's the actual moving part of moving

It's almost unbearable.

The anticipation, the last-minute details, the dropping off of the kid at daycare and the dog at the kennel. (Wait, did I just drop the kid at the kennel?)

It's like choreographing an intricate dance, where no one is allowed a misstep.

It is one of those instances that brings out only the worst in people.

The happiness of moving to a new place, a new life, is somehow clouded by...the move.

It's hot or cold or raining or snowing.

The movers are late. Or slow. Or break things.

And on our moving day, it was, of course, raining cats and dogs and elephants and hippos.

It was pouring (but of course, it stopped once the movers got everything into our new apartment).

We were unshowered, sweaty, hungry, shaking from exhaustion, and tense.

And the move itself wasn't that bad.

The movers were not only on time, but an hour early.

They were not slow.

Nothing was broken.

They were friendly and efficient and finished within three and a half hours.

Piece of cake.

But we were stressed. And snappy.

I admit that most of the stress was due to me putting pressure on both of us, not to mention the overwhelming mountain of boxes that eclipsed our new living room.

And I am not one of those people that likes to unpack slowly, figuring out where things should go, by living in the space for a while.

Packed suitcases do not have a long life when I'm around, and when it comes to packed boxes...I'm an assassin.

I just can't take it.

I can't "leave what can be done tomorrow..."

I will stay up until 5am, if it gets the job done.

Which means my husband will, too.

So herein was the root of the stress: me.

I could not relax, not even to sit and finish a 6" sub, for more than three minutes, without jumping up to unpack yet another box filled with flip flops, towels and a frying pan.

I know I have some control issues.

But this is a humongous one (trust me, my therapist tries valiantly to talk me down from the ledge, time after time).

I need to have things in order or I lose my mind.

Which makes my husband lose his mind.

And makes us tense. And snappy.

And so the boxes were unpacked and recycled. Within 18 hours of moving in.

After all the anxiety, all the work, all the sweat and all my husband's tears, we were in our new place.

We were tired.

But we were giddy with happiness to be in our new place.

Hours later, after we'd forgiven each other the nothings that occurred earlier, we toasted our new home.

We are finally here.

And we are unpacked.

What not to wear

I need to address something that really annoys me. I know that doesn't narrow things down, but bear with me. I've held my tongue for years (well, that's not true—I bitch about this constantly). And I have so many other things to worry about: we just moved (blogpost coming soon, stay tuned), we're crazy at work, I'm trying to potty train my kid...And today, I just couldn't take it anymore. I reached my limit. My boiling point (pun intended, as you will see). So I must speak:

Today in Chicago, it was close to 90 degrees. Hot. For May 25.

There were the requisite flip flops and sundresses and tank tops.

People were out lunching on patios, drinking in beer gardens.

Because it was hot.

But. There were also some Others.

These Others were wearing tights and boots and long-sleeves and coats.

Huh?

And no, they were not tourists.

They were hopping in cabs like pros.

Waiting at bus stops like locals.

They live here.

They should know better.

And sure, it might snow tomorrow.

It's Chicago.

But in 90 degrees, do as the 90-degree-ers do.

Don't wear turtlenecks.

Me?

I was wearing jeans and a "dressy" tank top. Required attire for a creative in advertising.

Because. It. Was. 90. Degrees.

You know I try not to judge (wink).

And I have off fashion days more often than not (honestly, as I looked in my closet this morning, I had to struggle to remember if I'd worn a particular shirt yesterday—but that has less to do with fashion and more to do with how many beers I drank last night).

But my off days do not include dressing weather-inappropriate.

In winter, I wear a hat, scarf, gloves...I look like a snowman.

And in summer (or close to it), I wear summer attire.

I know in places like LA, it's haute couture to wear winter boots with a barely-there sundress.

But this ain't LA.

And we ain't Kate Hudson.

We're efficient. We're practical. We're midwesterners.

So let's think back to that efficient, practical, midwestern childhood we all had and remember that our moms did not dress us in snowsuits in the summer.

Let's remember that even though you got those amazing boots on sale, you can wait until next year.

The reason they're on sale, is because they're last season.

I may revisit this topic this fall, when it's November and people are clinging to their sandals.

But if you could spread the word that this is not only unacceptable, but uncomfortable to witness and generally irritating, that would help my cause greatly.

Thank you for your time.