______, ______ Pumpkin Eater

The world has gone social, and my organization is on the bandwagon. To a certain extent my job is actually a product of this communication evolution. I tweet, post, update and upload all day long. And because I'm entrenched in this social world, my "expertise" (better known as a general understanding of the current social climate) makes me an educator for our global system. I have added my perspective to best practice guides, conference calls, webinars, and steering committees.


One thing that gets a lot of attention when delving into socializing strategies is the establishment of a naming convention for your company's or organization's users. In a global institution that is compartmentalized into areas of the world, countries, regions, and local operations, it's necessary to find a standardized way of labeling every entity as they enter the online ecosystem. This can be a difficult process, especially if a user already has a "name," and doesn't feel the need to conform to a naming convention. But in the end standardization can pay off, because there is value in the consistent branding, ease of recognition and differentiation, and ability to mask the individual behind the social profile that comes with it.

When I started this blog several years ago I came up with a naming convention for the characters who play a role in my life. It wasn't very original, but it worked. Basically, everyone became a "The" followed by their relationship to me. "The Boyfriend," is the one you know best. But given the amount that I have been writing recently and the deeper personal perspective I've revealed, I figured it was time to revise my strategy. I decided to eliminate the titles and reveal some names. Don't worry, I've been given permission. And because I can't do anything without telling a story about it, The Boyfriend's real name, needs a cute story.

The idea for the renaming came about last Sunday when The Boyfriend and I went pumpkin picking. I came home from the farm with a stock pile of pumpkins and a firm conviction to win the war of the mini-Cuisinart. Battles of Lo versus the mini-food processor have raged in The Boyfriend's kitchen for the past three years. And with them have come screeches and wails of aging electronics, explosions, temper tantrums, and less than satisfying results. The battles of pesto and hummus were particularly rough.

When you haven't had the opportunity to go through the bridal registry process and are solely responsible for stocking your kitchen with equipment, there are certain things that you skip purchasing. For me, a big beautiful $500 Cuisinart was one of them. Especially, when The Boyfriend has an antique mini version that I thought would do the trick on most occasions. This has not been the case though. It's actually been a pretty poor performer and I tend to have to call up the reliever, my trusty and ever-growing right arm which has been a mean whipper, masher, blender, folder and beater over the past 18 months. The electronics tab on the Williams Sonoma website becomes increasingly appealing. 

Two things my man power doesn't seem to be able to do though, are pastes and purees. And I mean silky smooth pastes and purees. So this week, I put past defeats aside, got out the mini-food processor, roasted some pumpkins and promised myself that I would reach the state of pureefection. 

Tuesday brought the battle of pistachio and pumpkin seed paste. And I would call it a stale mate. The paste contributed to a flavorful Pumpkin Chicken recipe, but the food processor didn't let me get the pure paste results that I wanted. The Boyfriend still gave it rave reviews.

Wednesday I moved out of my trench, braved the loud noises, and pureed the innards of a roasted pumpkin with vigor. I found that food processor's weakness and I started to gain some ground. The Pumpkin Gnocchi with Sage Brown Butter turned out very well, but I wasn't satisfied, that could have been a purer puree. Still The Boyfriend said, "YUM!!"

Thursday was the battle of Pumpkin Soup. This was the battle where I just about conquered that food processor as I pureed a combination of pumpkin, black beans, and tomatoes. This one really got applause from The Boyfriend.

Today with Halloween sweets and treats on my mind, and equipped with an unexpected soldier of a pumpkin from the farmer's market, I won the war. This pumpkin was riper and juicier than the rest, I roasted him a little longer, and he went into battle with his colors ablaze.

He emerged perfectly! Then together, with a little inspiration from And Bread and a little coaching from Smitten Kitchen, I whipped up a masterpiece of a pumpkin spice cake. Well the bottom layer was a masterpiece - the top layer was the victim of a category 5 earthquake, the kind that used to rock the kitchen of my Aunt Dee-Dee. The Boyfriend was impressed and I was proud to call myself the victor!

Each pumpkin dish from savory to sweet, brought a very satisfied pumpkin eater. And I thought ... what a little Peter, Peter pumpkin eater I have on my hands!

And better yet ... what a little Peter, Peter pumpkin carver I have.

Yes, that's a power tool.

So there goes The Boyfriend's naming convention - you can all call him what I call him, Peter.

Lo.

The Ellis Glee

At the Ellis School there wasn't cool and uncool.
At my small all-girls high school all classes, clubs, and activities were created equal. Intelligence, oddity, and individuality were celebrated. And to a certain extent, the less mainstream, the cooler you were.
The best thing was that there were no boys to guide the segmentation of the winners and losers. In our insular environment, we were all pretty cool.

Instead of a proud football team that doubled as bullies, we had a hand-full of non-traditional athletes that welcomed even the most unathletic to come out for the team.
Instead of perky cheerleaders with perfect bodies and a mission to be exclusive, we had the E-Tigs, who didn't cheer, but stepped with sass and moonlighted as the diversity club.
The artsy folks were celebrated for their expressive nature, so none of them ever became dark or dismal. The girls that were doing calculus 5, economics and complex physics were envied by the poets.
And the girls getting their papers published in academic journals by Junior-year were envied by the calculators.
The fat girls were celebrated.
The skinny girls encouraged to eat more.
The pretty girls weren't actually pretty unless they were witty and smart.
We all wore the same ugly green uniform so we didn't have the ability to use our personal wardrobes as our cool card.
And instead of a pop-singing Glee made up of misfits, we had a classically rooted Glee Club, which was by no means uncool at the Ellis School.

I first learned about the Ellis Glee Club on a chilly early-December day when I was in sixth grade. The cultural outing that crowned my standard field hockey to piano to dance class Thursday was Erin's first Holiday Concert.

Erin was a natural talent in the vocal arts and nurtured her talent through elementary school by singing Broadway tunes alongside my Dad's piano accompaniment after dinner. I often tried to intercede and join the fun, but 9.5 times out of 10 I was called out for being flat, so ran away crying, envious of my sister's pure and on-key voice and her ability to carry on my Dad's legacy of vocal artistry. When she started at the Ellis School, she was thrilled to put her voice and nightly practicing to the test as a member of Glee Club. She came home telling stories about sectionals, new friends, Mrs. Gray, potential solos and the first concert - the annual Holiday Concert.

I had been to and been part of many holiday concerts before so I figured it would be on par with a St. Edmund's counterpart - Kindergartners singing, "I'm a candy cane on the Christmas Tree," middle-schoolers belting out a trifecta of Hannukah songs, and upper schoolers wailing and squeaking through silent night on the instruments they just barely knew how to play. I was in for a surprise though.

It started with a catered holiday dinner (and this wasn't a crappy dinner - they had the white Breadworks rolls and all!) Then we were encouraged to take our seat in the auditorium. My family cozied into a pew and as the lights dimmed a bit, the Glee Club, dressed in long black skirts and pressed white collared shirts, took center stage. A perky woman strutted down the aisle, her long black skirt swooshed, the taffeta underneath it crunched, and her silky dark hair pulled back in a pony-tail bounced. She stood with her back to the audience right in front of the Glee Club, struck up her baton, gestured her head to confirm that everyone was ready (Mrs. Crosby, the piano-player included), pulsed the beat and BAM! a resonating harmony warmed the entire auditorium and my mouth dropped. She pulled back the sound and guided the vocalists into a mellower note.

It wasn't until the end of the song when I realized I didn't understand one word. What I had just heard was not a Christmas carol that I knew and loved. Instead it was music and its language was universal. It was wonderful. It was the best holiday sound I had ever heard.

For the next 90 minutes or so, I watched every person, every movement, every bounce of Mrs. Gray's ponytail and every smile on my sister's face. I couldn't wait to be on that stage - to be part of the Ellis Glee Club.

Three yeas later, during my freshman year at Ellis, I got the chance. While St. Edmund's didn't seem to know a good voice from a weak one, Mrs. Gray saw right through my ability to belt out a flat note, and focused on my inability to sing in concert and with humility. In the four years that I was in Glee Club, I learned a lot more than how to sing a Christmas carol in Latin, roll my r's, sing pure vowels, stay in key, rock an outfit reserved for the convent, and hold my alto part. I learned how to harmonize. I learned to sing as a team, how to let the unexpected folks take center stage, and how to pull back my booming voice.

It's okay that I wasn't the best singer in Glee Club. I didn't have to be. I had a team to enrich and color my voice. The thing that mattered with Glee Club was being able to have fun with music and to learn that there was a math, science and poetry to it. It was about being part of something big and different. And it was about having an amazing teacher who was able to put me in the right place.

I appreciate the attention that Glee is getting and I must admit, I have become a Glee junkie. But the Gleeks don't have anything on the Ellis Glee Club and Mr. Shue's perm pales in comparison to Mrs. Gray's bouncing ponytail that could echo the complex rhythm of Bach's Magnificat.

Lo.

Winded Words

This week the balmy October weather took a turn for the worse. It started on Tuesday with a storm that brought wind bursts reaching 80 miles per hour. The weather-obsessed media dubbed it a “Chiclone” and got an even bigger story out of it after the tornadoes touched down and O’Hare grounded all flights. Yesterday the wind persisted throughout the day and steadfastly beat up every tree, garbage can, power-line, for-sale sign, and automobile in its path. 

While running I came to a stand still as I met the opposing force of a wind gust. On 88 my car drifted from one lane to another as I tried to combat the wind. Back on the streets of Naperville, I had to dodge fallen branches, toppled garbage cans, and swells of fallen leaves. I made it though. 

Last night, safely protected from the wind, full from too much pumpkin gnocchi, and after slipping into the candy-coated world of Glee for an hour where everything always turns out okay, I went to my computer to check my email. 

On top and unopened were two emails with the subject line, “Sad news from ND.” One from my Mom. One from my sister. After reading through the stream of correspondence, I arrived at the story. Yesterday afternoon, during one of the windiest days in mid-western history, a 20-year old football manager died after falling from a video tour during football practice.

The Boyfriend read the news over my back.

He walked away.

I felt sick.

I went home.

I tried to ignore the guilt-ridden, but still violent howling of the wind outside.

I couldn't. 

So I started writing in a tone that is unfamiliar to this blog. 

How does something like this happen? 

How is someone here one second and gone the next? 

How is it fair?

I started to think of others who had been affected with a scary wind of change this year. Suddenly things that are okay, are not. Suddenly something that is there, is not. 

A friend with a great job was unemployed by the end of the day. 

A role model family fell apart overnight.

A healthy mother was very ill the next time I saw her.

And now … a carefree college student who was with us one minute, is gone.

This morning, the winds have died down and it's a lot colder in the midwest. Sometimes I don't know what you are trying to tell us. And I know your presence is more often in a soft breeze than a clamorous storm.  But please promise, that the same winds that rapidly rip us apart, will bring us together again someday. 

Lo. 

Napaville

When I was a little girl I had a little red suitcase. My sister had the matching blue one.
When I was a little girl one of my favorite things to hear was, "Lo, pack your little red bag."

From an early age, I embraced and fell in love with weekender travel. Packing my miniature bag meant new adventures, fun with the family, and a better story on Monday morning when Mrs. Harper asked us to write about what we did over the weekend. A Notre Dame football weekend, sleepover, ski trip to Hidden Valley, family wedding, or visit to Quincy all made superior subject matter to those who hadn't packed their bags for the weekend.

I don't have the little red suitcase anymore. Instead I have a small green carry-on. And it seems I have had the opportunity to pack my little green bag many more times than normal over the past 12 months. I've been to weddings and parties from East to West. I've been to conferences and conventions from North to South. And I've thought up every other imaginable reason to exit the exurbs during the weekends when I didn't have anything planned. Just as packing my little red suitcase was a highlight of my childhood, packing for a weekender journey on Friday morning continues to bring joy.

This weekend I packed it again and headed out to Rosemont, Illinois. Now, for non-Illinois residents, you might envision this to be a beautiful weekend destination. I'll dispel the illusion right now. This is the community next to O'Hare Airport. It boasts a giant out-dated convention center, the airport version of every big name hotel in the country, and once a year, our annual fundraising gala.

Even though it was just Rosemont, an exciting adventure was in store, so the packing and thought-process behind it were as fun as ever. I packed a red dress, a little red heart barrette, my make-up, some PJs, and a change of clothes for Sunday. It was a great night and even better was the fact that Herb Kelleher was duly impressed by my wardrobe theory, LUV red and all! See ... good thing I over-thought that one.

I also tried my hand at bidding on silent auction items. Note to self, don't get your heart set on a Troy Polamalu jersey when you are bidding against business men who possess company stock that has just reached an all-time high.

I didn't win Shaq's shoe either. 

On Sunday though, when the party was over and I still had half a weekend left, my green carry-on felt cheated. And I do believe it was begging for more.

So on Sunday, I decided that me and my green bag, and The Boyfriend too, would take a make-believe trip to the part of the country that we couldn't fit into this year (but is on the list for next), wine country. This imaginary journey was made possible by my parents as I was able to live vicariously through their romantic recollections and the cookbooks that they have brought back for me.

Napaville was beautiful yesterday. The fall foliage was in it's prime. The weather was perfect - low 70s, soft breezes, and sun. The local brewer (The Boyfriend ... hmm ... this might just be a name?) had just finished brewing his autumn Porter so there was still the scent of yeast and hops in the air. And the harvest (apples and pumpkins instead of grapes) was burgeoning. I ran through the Fall colors, shopped in the quaint town, worked with a local artist to create and duplicate our Save the Dates, and went to the farm to stock up on Fall's bounty.

We continued our journey into the evening with the help of the PlumpJack cookbook, a winery that I have dreamed about going to ever since I sold a bottle of PlumpJack reserve Cabernet when I was working at Eleven. We traveled up to the PlumpJack Squaw Valley Inn's - an intimate, almost Elizabethan-looking lodge that formerly hosted Winter Olympic athletes and now hosts wealthy wine-lovers. We went to the Cafe there where portions are robust and filling. And ahhh ... after running around the convention center on Saturday, running and walking around Napaville and carrying massive pumpkins, I was definitely ready for some hearty feeding.

Using the Cafe's recipe, I braised some short ribs, cleaned the meat off the bone and turned those tender morsels into a shepherd's pie. Then I complimented that with an apple, fennel and gorgonzola salad. And in celebration of Herb Kelleher who me told to gain a few, I embraced the robust portions and polished off my heaping portion.

My food pictures kind of suck.

After a wonderful Fall day and dinner, me, myself and my little green carry-on were satisfied. And even though my weekend vacation was a little made-up (I went shopping at the Gap, got my Save the Dates copied at Kinko's, and Napaville in no way compares to wine country) it made for a better story on Monday.

Lo.

Here's the recipe. 

Shepherd's Pie for Two (adapted from the Plumpjack Cookbook)
1 Tbsp butter
3 beef short ribs (about 2 pounds)
Salt and pepper
1 carrot (chopped)
1/2 cup sweet onion (chopped)
4 cloves of garlic (chopped)
2 rosemary sprigs
1 1/2 cups Red wine (I used a Merlot, despite the Sideways repeal of it.)
2 cups Beef Stock
1/2 of a sweet potato (peeled and chopped)
3 Yukon gold potatoes (peeled and chopped)
Heavy Cream
Butter
White pepper and salt

The recipe actually calls for overnight marinating, but it was already almost 5:00, and both he and she were hungry, so we expedited the process and went straight into the braising phase.

Make the Meat:
Basically, it's a one, two, punch, tender meat process:
Season the beef and brown it on all sides in melted butter.
Throw in the onions, garlic, and carrot and saute for about 4 minutes.
Add the stock and wine, bring to a boil, turn to a simmer and continue to simmer for 2.5 hours.
Fall off the thick bone, tender.

Make the Mashed Potatoes:
In the last 20 minutes or so of the meat-braising phase, boil the potatoes until soft.
Mash them with the butter, cream and salt and pepper.

Make the Pie:
Pull the meat from the bone, and add some of the carrots and onions from the liquid.
Put the mashed potatoes on top like a crust and bake at 350 degrees for 15 minutes.
While this is cooking, strain the remaining veges and rosemary and some of the fat from the liquid. Put the liquid in a sauce pan and back on the stove. Reduce over medium high heat for 10 minutes until it becomes rich pan sauce.

What to Wear?

Tonight is our annual Awards of Excellence Gala. It's a black-tie fundraiser that includes dinner, an auction, the big award presentations, and live entertainment from Richard Marx and Olivia Newton John.

I have two roles this evening:  

I will play Miss Awards of Excellence and hand out the 20-pound crystal awards to the three recipients. I did this last year and thankfully didn't fall flat on my face on the stage a la Medallion Ball. I wore a purple dress, so for reference later on, I can't wear that again. 

Tonight, I am also escorting one of the recipients, founder and former CEO of Southwest Airlines, Herb Kelleher throughout the evening. 

One of the first management case studies you evaluate in business school is that of Southwest Airlines under the leadership of Herb Kelleher. This is seriously a dream come true for any business student. I get to spend about twelve hours with one of the most influential business leader's of the 20th century - a pioneer in the aviation industry, a man who redefined our notion of corporate culture, and a CEO who honored, respected, cared for and protected his employees regardless of their title or position, inspiring them to treat their customers the same way. 

So ... what does a lowly corporate communicator say or do in front of this titan of American industry? And better yet ... what do I wear???

Remember how I told you I have a boring closet and a fun closet filled with all my party dresses? Well, I am dipping into the latter tonight. But the problem is finding a dress to match the mantras and ideals of this revolutionary executive and simultaneously demonstrate that I can casually swagger like a humble cowboy.

Let's see ... Here are some his ideals:  

"Communicate, communicate, communicate, but not in corporate speak." 

No boring little black Theory dress tonight. No organizational behavior jargon either.  

"Treat the customers like family."
When I first met The Boyfriend's extended family at a wedding in New York City dressed in Milly, I felt like I was part of their inner circle. I was part of the family. Maybe Milly? It is kind of tight though and might not bring out the cowgirl in me.  

Diane Von Furstenberg complained on one of his flights and said she didn't like the ambiance. NOT wearing one of her dresses.

"The key to being a great leader is humility."
Not wearing the low cut brown BCBG dress or the too short yellow Tibi dress. This should be about putting my best foot forward, not about putting other assets forward. 

"All airlines have airplanes, but it's the intangibles that are less easy to replicate." I guess all I need is my smile and the confidence to be myself. (All girls can dance, but not all girls can dance by themselves.)

"Strive for a spiritual fusion of fun, warmth and hospitality."
I think I got it ...  I bought a Susan Wong dress last year that has a fun frill, a satin lining to keep me warm, and enough give in the material to make me full of hospitality all night long. It's also a great shade of red that will complement the LUV of Southwest Airlines.

Herb, thank you for being an inspiration to the hopeful business leaders of tomorrow and for supporting Ronald McDonald House Charities for over 25 years. 

Lo. 

Wedding Soup for the Solo

We frequently have working lunches, snacks, desserts, and occasional drinks (although recently it seems between diets, babies, and prohibitions I am the only one that participates in the drink) at work. My team's theory is that food and beverage are perfect facilitators to any brainstorm, discussion or debate. Without a hint of crankiness and while adding to our energy reserves, we efficiently complete strategic plans, budgets, educational sessions, information architecture sketches, and brand audits.

There are times though, especially over really sweet icing or salty popcorn, that the snacks take us on tangents and lead us off topic. For instance, we reached a stale mate on strategy the other day over Moondance Diner's lethal sweet potato chips and shifting the conversation toward Cristine's 5-pound recipient of said chips. The December due date was the starting point, and from there this tangent led to an off topic debate of birthing best practices. As a non-subject matter expert, I took a back seat on this one.

The thing that interested me though, were the proud assertions of mothers that had done it au natural. In a way, they held themselves to a higher standard. They would say they had "done it all by themselves!" Those that used drugs were less eager to say, "Well, me and Mr. Epidural really knocked our little tot out of the womb!" But debates followed over which way was better.  

And the thing is, without any understanding of pregnancy, except for perhaps the feeling I get when I've eaten too much of my Aunt Dee-Dee's boiled cabbage on Saint Patrick's Day, I sided with the non-drug-users. I belonged in the camp of folks who prefer the solo job. And it's probably because I find more pride in a job that I complete from start to finish alone, than one where I need help.

This feeling could be a product of my childhood and my parent's encouragement to try it alone. When I was young, my best projects surfaced when I took the training wheels off, and said, I'm doing this one all by myself. I got to put the skills I had developed to the test and add my personal creativity to the process and product. A great example of this - building sandcastles.

We were a sandcastle family - every beach vacation involved a sandcastle. My Dad was a master of moving, placing, and sculpting sand into royal palaces. I watched his craftsmanship with an eager eye, anticipating the day when I could be such a builder.

I remember reaching the age when I started to create my own castles. It was right around the time when my parents started encouraging us to work without their help. My castles were hybrid models, fusing the skills I had developed from my Dad with my creativity. They had many parts and usually involved big chateaus, motes around them, interlocking canals branching off the motes, and clusters of village houses exposing the polar disparity of wealth in my make believe Venice of Nantucket, Bald Head Island, Kiawah Island or Hilton Head.

I would begin my work alone, make it to the stage where the castle, mote and preliminary extended city plan were complete, and then without fail I would get requests from neighbors on the beach to help out. As awful as it sounds, I would deny them the opportunity to work on my project. I kept any help I obtained in the family - and they had specific duties. My brother was the master damn builder and my sister was the resident artist adding decorative elements to the city plan.

When the moment came to ask my Dad to finish up the chapter of his book and come look ... I couldn't wait to say, "Look what I DID, Dad!" Praise followed. And I entered cloud nine.

Sandcastle building is only one example. You can apply the same story of solo workmanship to Christmas cookie preparation, monologues or solo dances on the stage, homework, and even housework.

Maybe it was in college, around the time when I learned that I was a better assister than goal scorer on the lacrosse field, but at some point I started to accept that as the projects got bigger and the stakes got higher, I needed a partner in crime or two to create a better product. At work, I wouldn't have been able to achieve 90% of my successes without a team of strategic partners, contributors, editors, and approvers. When I ran 26.2 miles a couple weeks ago, I wouldn't have been able to cross the finish line had my family not been there and The Boyfriend not run the last 2 miles with me.

So, while Cristine and the team mulled over her decision to go it alone or not, I started thinking about my own big decision making over the next year. I won't need any epidurals to get through what linens to use, what songs to pick, who will make the final cut on the guest list, or whether to insert tap dancing into any part of the wedding, but these decisions could get painful.

After her wedding, my sister proudly got to say, "my wedding was beautiful and I did it all by myself!" That ruffled some of the parental feathers, but her point was that she did it without outside counsel. Like the sandcastles, we kept the planning and development of the wedding inside the family.

Like other big projects I won't be able to do the wedding planning alone, but like my sister it looks like we are keeping the planning in the family; I will need the jet setting parents, the nah-sayers, the etiquette experts, my bevy of bridesmaids, and of course The Boyfriend to make this grand event a success. But no outside counsel to taint the experience.

So last night, I started ... and I leveraged the Communications Team rule of reason: I made a mean Italian Wedding Soup, facilitated our first wedding brainstorm with the soon to be renamed Boyfriend, and made headway on the best strategic plan ever.

Lo. 

The Marathon Effect

On Sunday I crashed and I crashed hard.


On the drive from Chicago to Naperville I slept in the car. When I got back to Naperville I took an hour and a half full bed nap. That's PJs, sheets and covers, head pillow, lights off, full REM sleep, and some weird dream that only I would have. After my nap I sat on the couch and became part of the alarming weekend televiewing statistic. I watched a total of 4 HOURS of television! Two dedicated to the backup Steeler game - Bears vs Seahawks; And two for Iron Man 2. I steamed some mussels for dinner, said goodnight to The Boyfriend, and fell asleep for good at 8 PM. Yes, I'm an early to bed, early to rise kind of girl, but 8 PM is generally a bedtime reserved for toddlers.


Why so tired? I don't know. The Boyfriend came up with a diagnosis last night though. He said I was having a lapsed marathon effect. Really? 


I started to think about it ... In the past I've not been one to embrace the whole veg-out and relax phase after a big event. But that's because I'm actually not one to have after-party "effects" or hangovers either. This could be because I don't let myself stop going after the party has ended, but regardless, I'm usually good to go the next day. After the big 10.10.10 marathon, I thought I was just as invisible. And when I should have been recovering, I thought I could keep going. 


After I finished the 26.2 miles, I swallowed my pain, fatigue and nauseousness, and attended post-marathon parties with fellow runners, family and friends, and Ronald McDonald of course.

And after the marathon parties were over, it was only 8:30 PM. My Mom wasn't ready to call it quits, and I wasn't either, so we had a night cap at the Hilton Hotel. The only thing that ceased that party was the smelly feet of other marathon runners propped up on the tables surrounding ours. Seriously? I got showered and changed. You can too!


On Monday I took a "critically injured" day from work so I could recover. I didn't so much recover though. While injured and unable to move normally, I spent the day with my Mom downtown. We did take it easy in the morning, but in the afternoon we set out to do some shopping. And not just any shopping, my Mom took me shopping for my wedding gown. Ten dresses, four nah sayers, and three hours later, I made one big decision at Vera Wang. And then we had a celebratory lunch at Spiaggia. No pictures of the dress, can't let The Boyfriend see. He got to join us for some Chianti though.

On Tuesday I was back to work. And on Wednesday, Thursday and Friday I reincorporated the early morning 5-mile runs into my daily routine. 


Friday night I made my way into the city for my best friend Meredith's wedding rehearsal and rehearsal dinner. Had .5 too many glasses of Pinot Grigio at PJ Clark's, and called it a night. 


Saturday I made sure to get my run in at 5:00 AM before I got my hair done by a Snookie look-a-like at 7:00 AM. Then around 9 AM, I sucked in my pooch, held my breath for four hours, felt the pain of Scarlett O'Hara, and lined up with my other best friends to cheer for Meredith and Adam as they said their "I Dos!"

That is one happy and beautiful bride! 

Yes, I changed out of my bridesmaid dress. I couldn't breath, especially one chorizo taco deep into the evening. And I wanted to slip into something that I could do public aerobics in. By the way, my moves were so good that evening that a wedding guest literally asked if I was a dancing instructor and I could teach her daughter. Sorry lady ... I'm just a lowly social media enthusiast!

On Sunday after being awoken at 6 AM by a strange banging sound on floor 9 of the Sheraton Hotel and Towers (I deserve a comp!), I went for a run along the Lake with The Boyfriend, had brunch with the other wedding guests, packed up to head home, sat down in the car to leave the city... and just like that my body and mind gave up.


Monday the hangover continued and this morning, while wiping the sleep out my eyes after another 9:00 AM bedtime and eight-and-a-half-hour slumber, I have to admit that I had a pretty awful case of lapsed marathon fatigue.   


I'm feeling a little better this evening. But perhaps that's because a little rest was in order. Perhaps it's okay to spend a day on the couch and be part of the national televiewing statistic. Perhaps I should even take a break from running tomorrow. Novel idea. After all ... according to my quasi-marathon coach/work colleague Chuck, I only have two weeks to recover before I have to start training for the next Marathon. Disney World in January? The Boyfriend's double worst nightmare! But that's another story ...


Lo.

My 3 (almost 4) Hour Tour

I did it. I ran a Marathon. Check.

On the ominous sounding date of 10.10.10, I took a 26.2 mile running tour of the city of Chicago with some 45,000 other people. As I've mentioned before, I received a lot of advice and personal opinions leading up to this endurance test, but one thing held constant through each coaching session. Everyone said that the marathon is the most beautiful tour of Chicago. "The streets are closed down for you, lined with over 1.5 million people cheering, and filled with contagious energy and excitement."Yes, that sounded great.

As I left Naperville on Sunday at 4:30 AM, equipped with the best iPod playlist ever, I felt ready to go and psyched to be a part of the parade of endurance athletes. After dropping off my gear at Charity Village, I decided that I couldn't stand the nervous energy of the gathering participants, and headed over to the start line a little early.

The start line was segmented into different start-groups. They were kind of like the different floats within a parade. The wheelchair float was first, then the Kenyans and other elites, followed by seeded corals of previously timed fast runners, and then there was the free-for-all float. I and tens of thousands of others were part of this float.

I jumped on, sat down, and watched the people starting to gather around me. They were sitting, standing, drinking, jumping around, tightening their jet packs of fuel, and revving themselves up. I sat in silence (I literally didn't talk to one person before or during the race) and evaluated how unequipped I was in comparison to everyone else. All I brought to the start line was me and the same running gear I wear everyday (including the decade-old sports bra.) No bangles, beverages, beads, or belts. Just me.

With fifteen minutes to go, I heard the star-spangled banner, cheers, the most cliche and overplayed warm-up song ever ("It's a Beautiful Day") and my bladder call to me that we really needed to stop at a port-a-potty soon. At 7:30 AM I started to inch toward the start line and about 10 minutes after the elite started their 2:04 hour flight, I crossed and began my "most beautiful tour of the city."

However, about a 1/2 mile into the course, I started to doubt the beauty that would unfold.

Mile 1/2 - Off to your right you'll see about 50 men whose bladders got the best of them, peeing in a row against the wall. 
Wasn't expected that one.

Mile 2.5 - Off to your left, you'll see Dr. Dad, The Boyfriend, and the Judge scanning the mob for Lo.
I yelled to them, they finally spotted my little head bobbing within the crowd, and I kept running.

Mile 3 + 200 meters - Off to your right you'll find some toilets. 
I ran across the mob to use them, almost got trampled, and got yelled at to pee faster by a disgruntled soccer mom.

Miles 4 and 5 - You are now entering Lincoln Park. To your left you will see rich people with amazing brunches set up along the course.
Seriously? Just cheer. Don't set up a lovely picnic with wine I cant have and bagels that I need as sustenance and proceed to tease me for two miles straight.

Mile 7 - Take a drink at the local watering hole.
Gatorade break. Grabbed one, got a lot more liquid all over me than in my mouth, then got impaled by other runners' Gatorade cups.

Mile 8 - 10 - Off to your right and left, up above you, in the restaurants, on the stages, and coming out of all the windows you will see the spirited people of Boystown dancing, singing and putting on the most colorful shows all along Broadway.
Good job folks. That was fun.

Mile 11 - To your right someone is puking and her friend is holding her hair back. To your left someone else is passing out.
I kept running.

Mile 13.1 - You are now entering the rougher part of Chicago and you are half way there!
Crap.

Mile 14-16 - To your right is The United Center. We are getting a little deeper into the part of town where all the shootings occur.
There weren't very many people cheering at this point. Crap.

Mile 17.8 - To your right, you will see a snack station, please grab one. We have vanilla or chocolate.
I grabbed an Accel Gel, ripped it open, nearly vomited from how horrible it tasted, and looked over to what I really wanted at Mario's Italian Ice.

Mile 19 - To your right you will see a friendly priest in the Hispanic part of the city.
I slapped him five and said, "Thank you Father!"
He said, "God bless you child."
That was nice. I needed more than a blessing though.

Mile 20 - Cool off under the spray of hoses.
Yes, I asked several people to spray me with their hoses.

Mile 22 - You have now entered China Town. Look at the gong and dragons. Isn't this fun?
NO! It's not. I'm freaking DYING!!!! Where's my family??

Mile 22.5 - There's the WHOLE family!
I spotted them. They cheered. "Goooo! Goooo!"
I replied faintly, "I'm going to die."

Mile 23 - All around you, you'll see thousands of people cheering! 
SHUT UP!! Everyone SHUT UP! And get me out of this parade!

Mile 24 - Look there's your family again! 
"Hey guys, I give up."
"GOOOO! GOOOO!"
"Boyfriend, you need to run with me."
Boat shoes and all, he ran the next 1.5 miles and encouraged me every step of the way as I cursed the city of Chicago, the people around me, the cramp in my side, the Accel Gel that was reacted very badly inside of me, and the idea of ever running a marathon to begin with.

Mile 25.8 - 26.2 - Say goodbye to the Boyfriend. You are now entering HELL.
This was a long, slow, fiery death that included literally the only hill in Chicago.

Mile 26.2 - Look! There's your time - 3:50. And this is the finish line. 
Thumbs down. Get me out of here. I hate every single person around me.

Mile 27 - You are now entering the Marathon party!
"Here's a cape."
"What the hell do I need a cape for?"
"To keep you warm of course."
"Umm ... it's freaking 85 degrees out. I am NOT putting on that cape."
"Here's a medal."
"Thanks."
"Put on your medal."
"I don't feel like it. Why would I put something else on, when all I want to do is rip everything that I'm already wearing, off?!"
"Hey #31337... I see you eying this Goose Island Beer."
"No I'm really not. I'm eying my parent's hotel beyond your beer, where I really want to be teleported right now."

Mile 28 - Welcome back to Charity Village!
The Boyfriend. The Boss. The other people who had already finished. Cheers. Nauseousness. A pita chip. The parents. My sister and cousin on the phone. Nauseousness. The feeling I was going to die. Ronald McDonald. Nauseousness.

Mile 29 - This is the official hotel of the 2010 Chicago Marathon and all the annoying people that are staying there. 
Best quiet hotel room ever. Shower. Ouch. A bed. Fresh clothes. More nauseousness.

Around 4:00 PM, I finally ate and had my long awaited glass of champagne. That felt good. Sure - it was an accomplishment,  but the course, the "tour" wasn't pleasant. It was awful honestly. The Boyfriend can attest (and keeps reminding me) how miserable I was from miles 23-26. How I said, "Running a marathon is the stupidest thing ever." How I cursed at the world. How I swore I would never do it again.

Why is it then, that as I sit here this evening, still sore from Sunday and entrenched in the pain represented right here on my blog, that all I can think about is running another one sometime soon?

Lo.

PS - Waiting on photos snapped by the family, but in the meantime if you want to see my misery in action click here - I'm bib 31337.

The End of the Affair

I have a confession to make. Over the past four months, I've been having a love affair with the carb. It started as an innocent flirtation, but has since evolved into an indulgent, sultry, and according to my hips, very forbidden romance. It was amazing at times. But tonight it ends.

Our relationship has a lot of history actually. I fell in love with the carb and the simple joys of him at an early age. I think both sets of my grandparents might have had something to do with it. My Buetter Bakery DNA, the rocket rolls and zucchini bread at Grandma Fischer's house, Grandma Barry's sesame seed rolls and iced Easter bunny buns, and Grandpa Barry's potatoes conditioned my palette and earliest memories of eating.

Whatever the origin of my admiration, it quickly blossomed into something more. Soon enough my family and friends knew everything about us. They knew I would need two or three rounds of the bread basket at a restaurant; finish every last bite of my oversized bowl of Penne Arrabiata at Pasta Piatta; only eat Stouffer's Broccoli Puffs as a vegetable (which were much more puff pastry and cheese than broccoli); ride my bike to Ruggeri's everyday to make sure I had a fresh loaf of Breadworks Rustic Sourdough bread for dinner, and fill my Thanksgiving dinner plate with mostly stuffing, potatoes, and dinner rolls.

These are memories of the carefree, consequent-less days of our relationship though. Things got a little more complicated later on. Sophomore year of college I realized that my relationship with the carb had taken a turn for the worse. He wasn't treating me the way I wanted to be treated. Our relationship became unhealthy and ten to fifteen pounds too heavy for me. It was probably one of those nights after I had consumed one too many Papa John's breadsticks that I said, this just isn't working anymore.

We ended our relationship that summer. It was hard to call it quits, but I knew I had to move on to lighter pastures. Quitting cold turkey was doable that summer because I was preoccupied with separating the vocal fights of the children that I nannied from 7:30 in the morning till 7:30 at night. I also wasn't partying and calling Papa John's at 2 AM with my teammates.

That fall though, I went to Italy, the homeland of the carb. And I saw his face everywhere, everyday. He haunted me, lured me back in. But as I got dressed every morning in clothes that were now fitting me better because of my beer and bread free existence, I found a way to face him and become just friends. We met for lunch one day around the corner from my school in Trastevere at a little place called La Boccaccia. It was a little awkward at first, but I relaxed, shared a laugh, and realized that I had evolved past my infatuation. We continued to meet up, but just as friends.

When I started to the date The Boyfriend, I never thought I would have to bring up this past relationship. While I still needed the carb in my life here and there, it wasn't something that I wanted to share.

I'm blaming it on the Marathon, but over the past four months, the carb and I reverted back to our powerful passion. It started with an innocent rendez-vous once a week after my long runs. It wasn't seedy or secretive, it was just the sustenance that I needed to fuel my pace. But this week, as I anticipated running 26.2 miles on Sunday (tomorrow!) it took a turn for the indulgent. This week my love affair included:
Farfalle with Italian Sausage and creamy ricotta sauce.
A heaping portion of mashed potatoes with a little bit of beef stroganoff.
Lots of sticky white rice with some Seared Tuna.
Baguettes.
Bagels.
More mashed Potatoes.
And finally Spaghetti and meatballs.
It was all too much. I went overboard. I remembered why I had sworn him off at one time.

I confessed to The Boyfriend last night. I told him about our history and that it was over. For good. I also told him I had 26.2 miles to repent. And he was okay with that.

Ciao for now Mr. Carb. We will be friends again soon, but for now, I can not eat you ANY MORE!

Lo.

The Ellis Immersion

One of my roles at work is to pitch my organization's programs, services, campaigns and personal stories to the blogger community. The challenge in doing this is depicting the impact of our programs to individuals who don't have an in depth understanding of the true magic that goes on inside our walls. Words only go so far, so in order to successfully convert a pitch into an article, a blogger tends to need an immersion experience - a tangible, visual, audible experience of one of our programs that will make my pitch a reality to them. After stirring their emotions ... they usually write a great article. 

When in a relationship with someone who wasn't present for the magic of your youth, it's hard to explain all the activities, events, friends, places and educational experiences that make up a large part of who you are. My high school experience was definitely magic and it's an important part of me - something that I want The Boyfriend to understand. But it's also one of those things that's very hard to explain - one of those things that needs an immersion experience. I often tell stories about it, but the rituals, humor, and character lose context and his interest very quickly.  

To give you a background, which I know will lose color on a computer screen, I had a less than traditional high school experience at a less than traditional liberal all-girl high school. My Mom, a vocal advocate for single sex secondary education, believed The Ellis School was the crème de la crème, so my sister and I had only one choice when making the big eighth to ninth grade leap. 

At my equally odd elementary school, I had anticipated going to the high schools portrayed through such cinematic classics as American Graffiti or Sixteen Candles. The Ellis School though, was the polar opposite. And I never got to have the crushes, crashes, cliches, and clicks in Can't Hardly Wait, American Pie or the whole Saved by the Bell series. It was a bit disappointing to never hang out at the Max, be a cheerleader with a football-playing boyfriend, meet a sensitive lacrosse player at Glee Club practice, or do the Sprain at a dance-off. But my out-of-the-ordinary experience helped make me, ME. 

I received an outstanding education and made friends to last a lifetime. And the education went way beyond the miniature classrooms. The oddities that defined the school’s culture, values, extracurricular activities, and students provided a more personal education that defined and enriched my character.

For example, I learned to:

Go Stag.  My graduating class was made up of 33 girls. No boys. This meant you had to ask boys to dances, which further meant that half the school went stag. I took myself and several beautiful dresses to a total of four dances. It's kind of depressing looking back at pictures of me, by myself, or with a girlfriend or two in front of the mantle. But going dancing alone, all dolled up, meant that I established an evolved sense of confidence and the ability to do things independently at an early age. I still have no problem seeing a movie, going out to dinner, grabbing a drink, or walking into a party alone and I thank Ellis for that.  

Gain acceptance by feeding the masses. We had a scheduled snack time everyday between 10:00 AM - 10:20 AM. There was a rotating schedule of snack responsibility, which means you had to bring in snack for 33 people every 33rd snack day. If you brought in a bad snack you were reamed out for being cheap. If you forgot snack (and I will never forget this day) you were tried and nearly tarred and feathered for not providing an extra 300-400 calories of sustenance to my already well-fed classmates. 
After that fateful day freshman year, when I forgot snack and basically played the role of Marie Antoinette as she said, “Let them eat cake,” I learned that bringing in a good snack meant you were accepted by all types. From then on I always stopped to get 40 assorted bagels (a couple extra for the really hungry ones) and several tubs of cream cheese. I swear I could have been voted class president on my snack days. (I was never even nominated, but that's another story.)
Funny thing, today, at all meetings, my team makes sure there is food, because our ideas suddenly become that much better when everyone's licking the icing off their cupcakes. Again, thank you Ellis! 

Make em laugh. When you go to school with all girls, you completely lose the immature, slapstick humor of boys. Instead, you are inundated with the dry, sarcastic humor of smart girls. Because I missed the antics of some of the boys that I went to elementary school with, I decided at certain times, I would take on the slapstick humor and spice up the learning environment. I harassed my algebra teacher by writing all over his chalkboard and then stealing all the erasers; I used to sit outside the door of my best friend's Latin class and act as a human doorstop so she couldn't leave her most dreaded class when the bell rang; I hid outside the window of my English class and threw twigs into the classroom; And I got away with ALL OF IT! I never got in trouble! In fact, the teachers laughed! Honestly, I think they were sick of the dry humor too and needed a little immaturity. 
While I don't use the same immature sense of humor today, I do use humor to ease situations and build relationships. People like to laugh and if I went to school with boys that continued to play the role of comedian, I don't think I would have the same sense of humor today. 

These are the kind of  Ellis stories I tell, but like I said, they don't have the same luster to The Boyfriend. However, this past weekend I had the prime opportunity to create an immersion experience for him - to give him an in-depth understanding. On my 10-year high school reunion, I took him back to Pittsburgh and showcased my old stomping ground, my girlfriends, their families, and our stories. 

The first stop - the cocktail party. After accidently crashing the rehearsal dinner upstairs and eating some bacon wrapped scallops, we made it to the right party. And just like the good old days, it was an all-girl affair. Except I finally had the football player boyfriend as my date. He finally got the whole going stag thing too. 

The next day I toured him around the school grounds and we ran into classmates who confirmed the snack stories. Chips and pretzels - BAD snack - That's like bringing bar food in for snack! Donuts - GOOD snack! Ice cream sandwiches - really good snack and extra points for creativity! 


I found a display of my old uniform and put on my graduation hat in the library as The Boyfriend said, "Wow, this place is so much different than my school." (Last time I wore this I was proud to be a member of the class of 2000 and had the most awful sunburn lines possible.) With each step through the halls of the Ellis School he started to get it more and more.

We saw my MVP plaques, the ceramics studio, the Glee Club practice room, the stage, the pictures of me in our school musicals, and some of my old teachers. Finally, after playing basketball in the kiddieland part of campus (the school goes from kindergarten to 12th grade), I think he finally got that deeper understanding, and the final immersion experience at Casa Velez for brunch on Sunday really solidified it. (Again, another story, which will probably be saved for bridesmaid roll-call at a later date.) 

So my somewhat staged immersion experience for The Boyfriend landed me a great story. And in the off-Ellis hours, we managed to book our reception venue. The BIG story though will be published September 3, 2011 so save the date.