Neverland

On and off for the past several months, I have been getting that I'm getting older and older feeling. When it hits I get a pang of panic and my future flashes before me. I can't diagnose what prompted this recent paranoia of aging and its odd side effects: lathering my neck with lotion to prevent more neck wrinkles,  scrutinizing my face for age spots, anxiety over flabby flesh, and the excavation for the gray hair near my widow's peak that I know will show it's ugly face again soon: But rest assured, whatever it is, I have set my sights on conquering my fear of the antiqued look and feel.

As a member of the overly optimistic, confident and sheltered Millennial generation, I grew up thinking that my life was as easy as Tinkerbell's. And it was. Things would always just fall into place in fairy tale fashion with the help of happy thoughts and a little bit of pixie dust. And amazingly the magic lasted through college, my first job, and even business school. My ability to wing it was only tested when my metaphorical Captain Hook rendered me unable to think of happy thoughts after college, but with each bout I was able to defeat that fierce rival and continue the high flying party.

For a long time it seemed that this Neverland-style existence was going to last forever - that I could reap the benefits of being a fun-loving, carefree lost girl for the rest of my life. But then something happened this year. It started with my 28th birthday, continued with my year anniversary at work, and got really bad when a bunch of my recently graduated Facebook friends started broadcasting that they had officially become grown-ups by landing their first jobs. As I read these excited declarations of independence, I started thinking about all the things that were taking the pixie dust away from me despite the unprecedented number of happy thoughts that I have accumulated lately: (Now, as a precursor, I am a Millennial who has split time between Neverland and Lo Lo Land, so these minor benchmarks may seem inconsequential, but they were grounding factors to me.)

• I had to book my own doctor and dentist appointments (with new doctors) and had to give them my insurance card and membership number, which I oh, so responsibility had handy. 
• I scheduled an emission test for my car so I could renew my Illinois license plate - yes ILLINOIS! - My Mini is no longer PA proud.
• I had to pay my American Express, student loan, rent, electric, and car insurance bills on the same day - rendering the coral Theory dress that I really wanted from Barney's unattainable at this point in time.
• I got a letter from my company saying that I was now eligible to sign up for a 401K plan. (Seriously, I have to think about saving for retirement?!)
• I treated my Mom and Dad to a night at Ravinia - tickets, food, wine, and all - and when they offered to pay me back, I said, "NO! My treat."(That is unheard of in my repertoire - especially since I have a knack for getting reimbursed at 500% of the cost of goods purchased.)
• It seemed that everyone else around me was getting married, buying houses, having kids, and aging as well. 

All of these factors have definitely contributed to the feeling that I am becoming an old fart, but I have to say that it's probably the last bullet that is carrying the most weight at present.

When in a relationship you will inevitably reach a certain marker, whether it be two years, a certain birthday, or the tenth wedding you have attended together, when others start to ask the question ... so when is it your turn? Which of course brings up the answer ... "Hmmm ... I don't know." And lately for me, the "I don't know" is followed by panic, my thirtieth birthday, more neck wrinkles, having to pick out the turtle neck version of the bridal gown I want so I can cover said neck wrinkles, and having a child miraculously at the age of 52.

I know - dramatic. And I have to wonder if I would be feeling the same way if I wasn't in a relationship. If I was single, would the idea of aging affect me as much? When I was 25 and single in Pittsburgh, surrounded by other singles, I celebrated my birthday with cupcakes and a DJ, in a black dress, white hat and white gloves (no joke. Sorry, no picture.) All my single girlfriends didn't seem to be under a time crunch, and I wasn't either. We just wanted to find Mr. Right at some point and in the meantime dance and have a good time.

Same concept ... two years later in Vegas

I kind of think of Wendy and Tinkerbell. After going to Neverland, Wendy basically falls in love with Peter, her maternal clock starts ticking while she's taking care of the Lost Boys, and she has to go back home so she can have a family of her own, thereby growing old and un-fun. Tinkerbell on the other hand, stays single in Neverland, continues to play the field, flirt, and remain young, spunky and hot. Tinkerbell "means more to Peter than anything in this world," and that's enough for her. She's okay staying in Neverland with a more or less uncommitted, undefined relationship with a boy who still rubs noses with Tiger Lily and swims with the mermaids.

I honestly can't think where to net out with this one, except that there must be a balance between the two extremes. I'm not going to be a twenty-something forever and I'm at this weird point where I'm always checking the clock. Thirty is looming - what comes after thirty? I don't want the fun to stop; I don't want the magic to go away forever; and I don't want to be granny Wendy anytime soon. But unlike Tinkerbell, I do want that committed relationship and family.

I got two sound pieces of advice last night that have helped ease my anxiety. First the boyfriend told me that 28 is the new 21. And the more I think about it, especially with the delayed development of the Millennial Generation, the more I believe it. After all, I'm still getting carded at the liquor store, I can still hang out with 21-year olds that find me relevant (even if they're my cousins) and I can still fit into my clothes from high school. Second, a 33-year old friend assured me that 'there is life after thirty.' With a husband, a ten-year old, and a burgeoning career, she goes dancing most weekends, is training for the Marathon and says she feels younger than ever.  

Me and the young'un cousins

I like it ... tension averted (for now.) So I'm bringing back the Pixie Dust, and opting to pay rent in Neverland for a little while longer. I might have to come back to reality here and there though, because a real kiss from the boyfriend is better than any thimble from Peter Pan.

Lo

How to be a Bro: 3 Days, 3 Ways

At the start of the week I usually have that inevitable case of the Mondays – after a fun filled, relaxing, rejuvenating weekend it can be hard to get back into the rat race. However, this week I decided to start the week with a vacation day, thereby easily counteracting any bad karma that Monday might bring. Good choice.

Monday was the finale of my three-day jaunt in San Diego. I was there for a wedding, and although the ceremony, reception and new friends made at the wedding were a highlight of the trip, the true theme to the mini-vacation was focused around an up and coming brand called Bro*Cal.  Most likely that was because our host for the weekend (the boyfriend’s college roommate) is the Founder, President and C.E.Bro of this newly incorporated company, and the essence of the brand was embodied in his chill personality, characteristic home, and adventurous spirit. 

Basically, Bro*Cal is an apparel and lifestyle company for surfers, skaters, and boarders (and anyone looking for an alternative to traditional Southern California Bro-branding.) Bros (or Brahs) for the uneducated (like I was) are folks who would prefer to shred the surf, snow or pavement using words such as 'gnarly' instead of going to a 9 to 5 job. (Ahh ... I was such a Brah on Monday!) Although started as a means to counter So-Cal culture for the Eastern transplant, the C.E.Bro quickly learned that he didn’t want to alienate his target market. So currently, the brand mantra, mission and vision are still in a phase of definition.

In today’s marketplace this comes as a benefit though. Less definition upon entry can be beneficial as consumers are taking a more proactive role in shaping a brand’s persona. Consumers want to play a fundamental role in brand building, which in turn gives them more ownership of and enthusiasm for the brand. 

Enter me – brand ambassador and enthusiast extraordinaire. Although, not his target demographic, I was cordially welcomed into the brand and encouraged to dip into its characteristic lifestyle. After three days, I feel that I have already adopted some of the key tenants of leading a Bro-Cal life. Basically, I learned to relax a little more, which is something we can all take a lesson in.

My three take-aways: 

1. Get in the Brocean – I would say this is the mantra of any Bro. Everyone in Southern California likes to be soggy and sandy as much as possible ... and this is one of those uncomfortable areas for me. But after some minor hesitations I was convinced to get in the Pacific and experience the waves. Unlike the boyfriend who went for full bro-dom and surfed, I opted for the tamer less-coordination-needed experience of sea kayaking.

The boyfriend and Bro*Cal walk down to shred the gnar

On Sunday we rented kayaks on the shores of La Jolla and paddled about a mile off the coast to where the sea is 70 feet deep and there is a massive forest of kelp. En route we saw sharks and sea turtles below us and seals all around us. Although a little nervous at first, I quickly adjusted to being so close to the sea and all the creatures living in it. I was at ease in this element - and it felt peaceful and calming to be so in touch with nature. I had found my rhythm ... and just as I was growing comfortable enough to turn around slightly to laugh at the joke someone was making about me and my awkwardness in my life jacket ... by boat tipped and BOOM ... I capsized. 

.... AND I PANICKED – all around me were the slimiest, scariest 70 feet tall kelp plants, seals playing throughout them and freaking SHARKS!! I am no sea woman, but everybody in my sea kayaking party can attest to the mad skill I spontaneously discovered of flipping over my boat and launching myself back into it at a record speed. Sheer adrenaline trumped near paralyzing fear … and just like that I deemed myself a little closer to becoming a bro.

okay ... this was pre-capsize, but it demonstrates my awkwardness in the kayak nonetheless. 

The Ocean is perhaps one of the most powerful forces you can come across. Putting yourself in it and up against it; Knowing you will never tame it, but learning how to work with it is a lesson that can be carried into the way we deal with all of our relationships. And problem solving on the fly while in a shark infested ocean - now I never have could have learned that in my cubicle!

2. Party like a Bro – This is one thing I thought I knew how to do well, but apparently the Bros know how to do it a little better. From the time we landed we entered a culture where eating, drinking, dancing and laughing with new and old friends were the only things to do. If you couldn’t do any or all of these things in a given day, you weren’t living the bro-life.

Friday night the party was at the Bro*Cal Casa in Carlsbad. The stars of the show were mojitos, tri-tip (a cut of beef exclusive to the region), bonfires, and a stream of friendly neighbors stopping by to help us drink dank beers and yellow-labeled bubbly to the beats of Dr. Dre, Snoop Dogg and the Ying Yang Twins into the early hours of the morning.

Saturday night the party took place at Scripps in La Jolla. This was the setting of the wedding reception. Imagine being on the cliffs of Torrey Pines, overlooking a dramatic sunset, with the beach and sea crashing below you. Then imagine meeting some of the coolest people in the world who welcomed you into their inner circle with open arms. And then imagine drinking and dancing with them all night, culminating in the invitation to play the tambourine with the band. (Okay, that is only my dream come true, but still ...) This was the wedding reception. This was great times.

Sunday we ate and drank at local establishments with mean fish tacos, Pizza Port perfection and local brews that were deemed "dank" by Bro-Cal aficionados. I also got to meet up with some of the newest Southern California transplants (aka my good friend from high school and her husband) who were also eager to adapt and incorporate the Bro-Cal lifestyle.

Pizza Port 

Gretchen and I (outside the restaurant whose septic tank overflowed ... that's another story)

To join the Bro-Cal party you need to be chill and unassuming. You don’t have to put on a show. You just have to hang out, have a laugh, and take in the scenery. For someone who tends to be spastic party-goer, this was a change, but a welcome one.

3. Brothing Optional – One might assume that clothing is a defining characteristic of the brand. Generally, one might immediately think of tattoos, trucker hats, board shorts, and raised trucks as Bro-ware. However, as the Bro*Cal website describes, these are not the sole characteristics - you can really wear anything to be a Bro.

Saturday morning I did my marathon training run - that is, I ran 13 miles down the Pacific Coast Highway (Highway 101). Along the way I passed thousands of campers, surfers, runners, bikers, strollers, drivers, and diners. There was no dress code, rather their apparel and accessories were based only upon what was most comfortable for their activity du jour. Everyone was very casual, but with some added layers in case you got wet or cold. In my prescribed running gear I felt a little conservative, even formal. 

Because I didn’t pack appropriately for being a Bro (and a growing number of my clothes were turning toxic from running in them and sweating through them), I had to get some gear once in San Diego. That meant a thoughtfully purchased and gifted rash guard from the boyfriend so I wouldn’t get cold on the chilly waters while kayaking (it also came in handy when suddenly I was in the chilly waters); some extra layers for the outdoor wedding reception, although they turned out not to be needed as my body temperature remained heated due to puppet dancing and spontaneous tambourine playing; and new Bro*Cal apparel.

Being a Bro is about being casual - being yourself. This can be uncomfortable for a girl who has always staked herself on being put together, but once you try it, there is something to be said for being comfortable in your own skin, stripped of a facade.  

I enjoyed every minute of bro-dom, and on this Wednesday evening in Naperville I'm missing San Diego. I’m far from being a true So Cal girl, but I’m starting to appreciate the Bro*Cal take on life more and more. The marriage and balance between work and life can be a lesson to us all. When the surfs up -  conference calls can wait, the 24 hour news day can be abbreviated, and I believe you can build and challenge yourself in ways you never thought possible.

I don't know ... So-Cal seems to be calling and I may just be the next little surfer girl. For now, I'll continue to pound the land-locked pavement of the Windy City.

Lo

Locked In

My Mom believes ‘Time is money.” So when I was growing up, whenever we needed to go shopping, we stuck to the stores within a mile radius of our House: Namely the commercial areas of Shadyside and Squirrel Hill. For me that meant everyday ware from Gap Kids, formal ware from Newman’s, and shoes from ‘Buddy’ at Littles. But every once in a while, there was something one of my siblings or I needed that couldn’t be found as easily. Say, a Gameboy game, softball mitt, or more 6X choices in formal ware, because the selection at Newman’s didn’t quite give me enough room in the stomach area. For these items we headed to Monroeville Mall.

This would happen on a pre-scheduled evening after dinner. It would have to be around 7:30 when rush hour traffic was over, the ten-mile drive to Monroeville would only take ten minutes, and we’d basically have most of the Mall to ourselves. My Mom and I would waltz in and out of stores, trying things on and making an occasional purchase. We’d laugh and laugh and love the girl-time that we got to spend with each other.

As it approached 8:45, we would make what I thought to be our final purchase as the announcement, “Attention ladies and gentlemen, the Mall with be closing in 15 minutes” rang over the loudspeaker. The sales lady would be wrapping up my ‘just right’ dress, I'd look up at my Mom with a bit of anxiety and say something like, “Okay, better head back to the car NOW!”

“Hold on one second – I want to look for a baby present for fill-in-the-blank random law office employee du jour.”

“Umm … Mom I don’t know if that’s a good idea … the Mall’s closing in 15 minutes and we have to get out!”

Paying no attention to my building paranoia that I would be locked inside for the evening a la The Mixed Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler, we marched over to the Infants section to find a onesie.

“What do you think of this one?”

“Fine!”

“What do you think of that one?”

“FINE – just get something!”

“Ladies and gentleman … attention please … the Mall will now be closing in ten minutes, please wrap up your shopping and head for the door.”

“MOM – we have to go NOW!”

“We’re fine … calm down.”

Soon enough there were five minutes left till closing and my Mom was now leading me over to Kitchen Wares. I was writhing with worry. I kept thinking that soon enough the bar rails would be coming down and my Mom and I would be locked in the Mall. I wouldn’t get to see Erin, Adam and Dad that night … or maybe ever again. My Mom and I would be goners if we didn’t book-it to the door RIGHT NOW!

As the final announcement rang over the loud speaker I was in tears, screaming and crying that we had to leave – That we weren’t going to make it – That I was SO scared!  My Mom, still debating cutting boards, looked at me like I was crazy (rightly so) and finally gave into my inexplicable paranoia. As we exited the mall and made our way to the Olds 98, my heart decelerated to a normal pace, my eyes dried, I sighed with relief, and I thought to myself, ‘wow, that was close!’ My Mom on the other hand was probably just annoyed with me.

I was never able to understand where this fear of being locked in the Mall came from. However, this week, I feel like I uncovered part of the mystery. I think perhaps we all have an innate fear of being locked in, without escape. Especially, when what’s inside is an unknown or something we have had a bad experience with in the past.

For instance, after a bad experience this week, I will forever have a fear of getting locked in to dinner boat cruises. Especially, ones that have a soggy start. This one began with a downpour as we slowly boarded the Spirit of the Seas making for a wet dress, really bad hair and running mascara; continued with rough waters, lake sickness, bad chardonnay and mosquito bites; and finished with the YMCA, both the electric and cha-cha slides, and a bevy of inebriated conference attendees reliving their high school prom. This was one of those ‘should have read the signs and not committed’ experiences. After three hours and the announcement that we had docked, I ran for the door.

Being locked in can be one of the most horrifying feelings in the world. In a bad ‘lock-in’ the people get more annoying and the headaches keep getting bigger. It’s not so different than being locked in to a horrible relationship. And the fear of commitment for those who have experienced bad relationships can be just as great as my fear of the Mall-closing announcement.

I guess you have to look at the signs first. If the signs leading up to the commitment are pleasant, then there’s a good chance things will stay fun and exciting. For instance, getting locked in the Mall with Mom: A little scary at first due to uncertainty, but based on the fun we were having the whole night, had it happened I think it would have been the best time ever. After the bar rails went down, we’d pick up some Godiva chocolates, do makeovers at the beauty counter, stroll over to the electronics department to catch a rotating flick, then settle down for the night in the biggest, softest canapé bed with the best looking mattress set and hundreds of matching pillows; basically, the best sleepover ever with one of the people that loves me most in life.

However, if there are nothing but bad signs, you’re probably headed toward a really bad boat cruise. If you’re in a relationship where the weather is bad before getting on the boat, you’re only headed for rougher waters. And no state of inebriation that compels you to dance the Macarena and relive the good times will save that relationship. So when push comes to shove, and things are looking bad, run for the door and get out before it gets worse. 

Right now for me ...  I'm thinking there's nothing but sunny skies ahead. So being locked in ... not so scary anymore. 

Lo

Smoke and Fireworks

I feel like I just discovered the joyousness of the Fourth of July. When you are in the working world and have a limited number of vacation days (that would be ten for me) you uncover the preciousness of a long holiday weekend. And when you are living in a city where every second of the summer is a coveted moment in time, a cloudless skies and 85 degrees holiday weekend is sheer bliss. The theme for the weekend: Play outside with friends and family. And in my opinion it was a 4th for the Lo history books.

Part 1: Smoking 

About a week ago, I got an excited notice about a recent investment - one that will pay back in exponential dividends. I was thinking ... hmmm ... a new car? But in fact it was a smoker - A giant barrel-shaped, black Weber smoker. This purchase nearly completes the boyfriend's grilling collection, and is a welcome addition to the neighborhood. 

The smoker in all its glory!

Last weekend was the inaugural smoking. We prepared an impromptu wing and rib fest for friends who were equally enthused about smoking things. 

Ribs

Chicken wings

More WINGS!

This weekend though, the boyfriend really put the smoker to work. To accommodate a Saturday night feast of epic proportions starring four fully grown men, four women with equal appetites, two dogs and a 15-month old, I was tasked with picking up 5 pounds of round steak and 8 pounds of pork butt from the butcher. The steak would be used for jerky - the pork would play the leading role in Carnitas. 

The butcher counter at Casey's, Naperville

Friday night we had to concoct a marinade for the steak and a rub for the pork. (The secrets in the sauce, so I can't share that, but there was an Asian flare to the marinade and a Tex-Mex heat to the rub) Saturday around noon, the boyfriend starting to smoke pork. Never, EVER, in my entire life would I have dreamed I would be cautiously watching over smoking pieces of livestock; spraying them methodically with apple cider vinegar; threading long pieces of steak on wires; hanging said steak over the rails of a grill; and perfuming every ounce of my body with smoking wood chips during my Fourth of July weekend. 

Spritzing the pork butt

But after smoking myself in one really hot prairie during an 11.2 mile training run that morning, there was nothing better than relaxing in a shaded Adirondack chair while sipping a gin and tonic and taking in the sweet smells of the smoker. Seriously, sheer bliss, which got even better when the jerky was ready.

Seven and half hours later, the pork was done and ready to make its debut at Claire and Trent's House. We drove over and added it to the festive spread. Outside on the patio everyone was able to customize their pork consumption with a medley of summery salsas, salads, and side dishes. The smoker and his swine got rave reviews and hungry appetites were satisfied. The icing on the cake (or cherry on top) - a homemade lattice cherry pie made from the cherries that Sarah and her 15-month-old, Brett had picked from the orchard earlier in the week. I believe it takes a Pittsburgh girl to perfect a pie in that way (and to help fend off disgruntled Browns fans during and after dinner.) 

To add to Cristine's collection, I have included the 'you don't need a smoker to make an amazing pork roast' recipe. I tend to use and play off of this at least once a month for me and the ultimate swine lover.  

Step 1: Rub the Butt 

Some call it pork shoulder, but my grandma always called it the rump - So, whether you ask for shoulder or butt, get about 2 - 2.5 pounds for a party of two. Most of that poundage will render off, so you might want to go with the heftier load. Around noon of the day you are working from home - cut about 10 little slits in the pork and insert 10 halved garlic cloves. Then rub it down with salt and pepper.

Step 2: Brown the Butt
At 12:30 PM, preheat the oven to 325 degrees.  Get out a dutch oven and melt a tablespoon of butter in it. Then brown the butt on all sides. Remove the butt and put it on a plate next to the side. Thinly slice a sweet onion and saute it in the same pot, making sure to pick up all the browned bits of meat. After about 7 minutes, add 2 cups of apple cider, 1 cup of pilsner and 1/2 cup of beef stock to the pot. Warm up the juices, drink the rest of the beer, and place the pork back into the dutch oven.


Step 3: Roast the Butt 

Throw it everything in the oven and go back to your desk to continue editing the work of minions. 4.5 hours later, once the eNewsletter is in the place that it should be, pour yourself a glass of Riesling, welcome your husband home, and remove the pork from the oven.

Step 4: Eat the Butt

Let the pork rest for 20-25 minutes, and while it is, boil red potatoes, steam broccoli, and set the table. When the potatoes are easily pierced, give them a rough mash with butter, salt, and milk; carve into that pork, which should fall apart honestly; and enjoy the simple comforts of slow roasting. I'm telling you it's the best hunk of butt you will ever eat. 


Part 2: Fireworks!
I can't remember any truly stand-out Fourth of July fireworks displays in the past. I watched many shows on the banks of "C-O-Double-N-E-A-U-T spells Conneaut, Conneaut" Park while I was a camper at Sheldon Calvary Camp. 


These special camp nights were always laced with potential. Every year I envisioned that as dusk turned to dark, my Calvary crush would suddenly notice the awkward girl gawking on the blanket strategically placed behind his group of friends, pin point me to come over and join them, and then there - surrounded by 200 campers and Conneaut's magical fireworks - I would get my first kiss. Sadly, the dream never became a reality. And each year I had to watch my crush cuddle up next to the taller, skinnier girl with amazing blond hair, cool camper-chic clothing from the Gap, and the most trendy Tevas on the market. 


More recently, I watched Fireworks from Longue Vue Country Club in Pittsburgh and among the other rib-eating civilians and tourists of Naperville. Good, not great. 

Me with one of the most decorated Ribbers at Ribfest 2008.

This year though was one to remember. I got dressed in my 4th of July finest: stars and stripes tank top that I bought from Old Navy Kids for $2.99; black BCBG shorts that I paid way too much for; limited edition red Sperry Topsiders (an integral part of the 'Peggy O' uniform); blue jewelry; red nails; and a cowboy hat (but that only lasted a minute or so, because after further consideration I deemed it over the top.) Around noon the boyfriend and I made a painless commute into the city of Chicago so we could board the 'Peggy O' - his family's beautiful boat docked at Belmont Harbor. 

We were met there by friends and family, and together we set out for a day of cruising and swimming in Lake Michigan. Best and only way to describe it - REALLY FUN!

After playing in the Play Pen we cruised back to Belmont Harbor to grill and feast. Several brats, burgers and beers later, we walked over to watch the fireworks along the lakeshore. We had a view of the Navy Pier Fireworks to our right; the Montrose Harbor Fireworks to our left; and the likely illegal fireworks a couple meters away. It was spectacular and what made it even more so ... the fact that my crush was there to give me my third 4th of July kiss. (He gave me the first and second ones too.) 


Part 3: Monday Funday


The last amazing thing about this holiday weekend - I don't have to work today. Instead I get to write this entry! The rest of the day is unplanned for now - but an unplanned beautiful summer day with the boyfriend can only mean excitement is in store. I've written about it before, but sometimes no plans are the best plans. And when it comes to holidays - sometimes going against tradition or starting new ones is the best way to celebrate!   


Lo


Check out more photos on Flickr

His Way or the Highway

When my parents used to tell me about the years they spent living in Chicago, their anecdotes would include “Oompas!” in Greek Town, lakefront bike rides, Marshall Fields shopping sprees, deep dish pizzas, original Diane Von Furstenberg wrap dresses and all the rest of the sights, sounds, and corrupt politics of the Windy City. One thing they left out though - the traffic - air, train, car, bike, and pedestrian TRAFFIC. Growing up in Pittsburgh, going anywhere took between five and ten minutes. In Chicagoland it takes at least thirty minutes to go everywhere!

Currently, I am a suburbanite, and in order to get to the Mecca of fun and excitement of the Chicago my parents described, you have to get gear up for a fierce battle against the traffic. You have to diagnose which route and method of transportation will get you there in the fastest, safest manner, so you can beat the others competing for the last table on the patio at the “outdoor seating is on a first come, first serve basis at this trendy Lincoln Park establishment" restaurant du jour.

Generally, my preferred way is the highway. 88 to 290 to 90/94 to East Ohio Street.
Bam.
There.
Technically though ... it’s not so much of a Bam. There ... But, it is a thoughtless process.
It’s not the shortest distance, and most likely each segment has roadblocks, strangles, bottlenecks, construction zones and deadly merges that make using these roads a virtual nightmare. However, it’s a predictable nightmare. I get on the highway and inch along the 35 miles from Naperville to Chicago, knowing I will eventually get there. And I get in the driver's seat equipped with a mindset that enables this slow pace. I tend to learn something thanks to NPR and the generous funding of donors like you; I get a laugh or two out of the nose pickers and butt scratchers around me; and I get to know the ropes – the true lessons of being a Chicago commuter.

The boyfriend on the other hand, has another way - the less traveled and riskier way. This involves a never ending stream of stopping and going; slamming on the breaks and lurching forward; driving through less familiar and somewhat dangerous territories; pulling out the iPhone every so often to predict the next course of action in the event we run into congestion; and STRESS. Lots of STRESS, well at least for me, the passenger. For the most part, the boyfriend does a remarkable job navigating and ultimately beating the time of my tried and true approach. However, this way of continually finding shortcuts comes with the price tag of a pretty big headache in my opinion.

You can draw a parallel to the highway versus the other way debate in the way that people approach the road and road blocks in their lives. Your career path and the course you steer throughout your relationships can be just as congested and difficult to navigate. In a way, there's no one way to beat all the traffic, as everyone has to deal with a set back or two along the way. However, there are some that will inevitably find a short cut, an alternate more creative method of transportation, or someone else to carpool with leading them to life's version of an HOV lane and somehow ahead of everyone else.

This approach and those that seek shortcuts tend to annoy me; and they always make me think of Eve Harrington in the movie All About Eve. Eve is Margo Channing's fawning fan who subtly, demurely, and sneakily replicates and imitates her every move and mannerism, catapulting her into stardom at an unprecedented pace. Margo on the other hand, has paid her Hollywood dues. She has worked her butt of to get there and doesn’t want to see her unassuming innocent protégé pass her up in line for an Oscar. About midway through the movie though Margo recognizes Eve's games and ends up full of road rage. The cat fights start as she proclaims with her iconic leer, quivery voice and cinematic glory, “Fasten your seat belts, it’s going to be a bumpy night!”



And a bumpy ride it is ... Several sly, sultry battles later, Eve ends up winning her Oscar, Margo gets to unload Eve and continue her lustrous career, and the next generation starlet looking for a shortcut to the top latches on to Eve. It's a movie filled with the same headaches and drama of those alternate routes the boyfriend finds. But in the end, if you think about it, they all get to the level of success they fought for. And it came with the price of constant paranoia of the people that are going to pass them up - those that tailgate, cut them off, and sneak by on their blind side. Their journey to the top wasn't as pleasant as it could have been had they respected the rules of the road and those on it.

In life we are all going to come to bottlenecks along the way, and it's up to us to either wait patiently, like everyone else on the highway, or to get creative and take a little risk to outmaneuver the others. To me the uncharted path is a lot more stressful, but that's probably because I always get lost when I'm on it. However, whether you choose the prescribed and steady or seek the accelerated and risky, you should respect everyone else on the road and thank those that helped pave the way. That is:

• Show your gratitude to those that let you merge.
• Don't hold grudges against those that cut you off.
• Let other road warriors in.
• Don’t flick anyone off.
• Don’t tailgate. 
• And don’t make the traffic patterns more difficult for others.

Like I said, we’ll all get to a good place. Some of us may get the outdoor table and some of us may be stuck at the bar next to the creepy old guy, but we will all have the chance to eat, drink and be merry when the commute is over. And you never know - it may rain on the outdoor tables and Mr. Right may sit down next to you, the slow commuter, at the bar.

Lo