Selfish Discovery

It is the most gorgeous fall evening. It's not 5:00 somewhere, it's 5:00 right here. I spent the day on my feet - doing errands, cleaning, decorating, weeding, turning over my flower beds - and I desperately want happy hour to come. I want to pour myself a glass of Sancerre, thoughtfully refreshing one of my loyal, but parched Sauvignon Blanc Reidels. I want to sip it slowly, ingesting the French fields, grapes, and vintners that made its heavenly taste possible. I want the labor-induced pangs of the day to fade as I celebrate the to-dos that have been checked off my never-ending list. Aaaaaaahhh.   

This rosy dream is far from my reality though. My happy hour is dry; my mouth is thirsty. I have a protesting passenger that is happy with the couch impressed status quo.

Right now, Saturday evening consists of a glass of water, a couple tortilla chips, and my latest literary adventure, Tess of the D'Ubervilles. Awesome. I've read the same paragraph about four times in a row though. My mind is either preoccupied or just too tired to digest the old English dialects. It keeps circling around something else. Me. I've been thinking about her - the where she was a year ago, marathon running, cocktail sipping, kitchen capering her all evening. A girl that I've had to lay to rest more and more as the weeks go by and P-Lo 2.0 continues to morph from fruit to bigger piece of fruit. 

I have never considered myself selfish before. Needy, okay. Greedy, sometimes. But all out selfish, nah. However, as the girl I once knew gets chipped away in the service of helping our little baby grow, I've started to realize just how me-minded I have been.

I can't take the headaches, sickness and fatigue. I get depressed watching the numbers creep up on the scale and putting on bra cups that could easily encase my entire head. I cried the day that my favorite pair of jeans wouldn't button. Rubbing coconut cream all over my stomach to prevent whatever form of leprosy I have? Give me a break. I can't put the same amount of love into dinner every night because when I stir, I basically want to vomit. I'm about ready to yell at the slow huffer and puffer that I've become. And I can't stand not having a response to the blinking cursor on a blank blog post. What did I do today? I went to work and then I got home and collapsed. Good story. For the past four months, I feel like I've been giving up my powers. And there are moments that I hate it.

I had one such moment this evening. But thankfully, it just passed. Because I know, deep within me, I'm going to start feeling flutters and kicks very soon - movements that my sacrifices have made possible. I know that when I give away my powers, that I'm giving them to a little someone who needs them more - someone who someday will be even more powerful than me. And I love thinking about that. Perhaps, whether it's for a baby or a boyfriend; a dog or cat; a job or mission, giving up you, can be the most rewarding thing of all.

To unselfish discovery, I raise my glass (of water.)

Lo.

Domer Donor

My sister-in-law used to work in the development office of Notre Dame, which afforded her some interesting insights into donor behavior; one of which was more or less tied to the scoreboard. That is, if the team won on Saturday, the call center would ring in donations, no questions asked. But if the team lost, the response on the other end of the scripted caller's plea for a pledge would be a verbose attack on the team's performance rather than a credit card number.

Due to my lackadaisical performance as a blue and gold donor over the years, I highly doubt the call center will be dialing my digits today. In fact, I doubt they even have my updated contact information. However, I'm about ready to write a check to support Notre Dame this evening.

Admittedly,  I've been a poor supporter of the University over the years. Every time someone called or I got an envelop in the mail, I reasoned away opening my wallet. They have enough money. I already paid my Monogram dues. I'm still paying off my student loans. They have enough money.  

But this past weekend at Notre Dame, I had moment after moment of inspiration - sober sparks went off and I realized all that this special place has given me: an amazing education, a stronger faith, athletic success, a Roman adventure, best friends, a husband, and football weekends like this past one. I was convinced that I needed to give back.    

So ... I'm allocating some of my donor dollars to the University because:

I want the Dome to keep shining from the Interstate as we pull off at exit 77.

I want the real estate gurus on staff to buy the last of the shanties on Twinkingham so their bonfire du jour doesn't interfere with the aromas of quiche and streusel coffee cake baking in the kitchen of the condo.

I want my morning runs around the Lakes to look as pristine and autumnal as they did on Saturday and Sunday.

I want them to keep recruiting more amazing architectural and art history professors like Dennis Doordan who was honored on the field Saturday evening.  

I always want to be able to go to Mass in a Basilica with celebrants and a choir that quite literally transports me to heaven.

I always want to have the opportunity to light candles for Grandma and Grandpa Fischer, Grandma and Grandpa Barry, Brian, Adrienne, and others that we love.

I want the football team to keep winning. (I wouldn't mind if the lacrosse team did a little winning this Spring as well.)

I want you to resurrect more bronze statues of Hall of Fame coaches who the fans can lei after the game.

I want my kids to not only go the games, but to glow at them - to gaze over at the student section and mirror their movements, excitement and cheers, and to say, Mom and Dad, "I'm going to Notre Dame when I grow up."

Most of all, I want you to keep doing what you do best. That is, continue playing gracious host to a very special community. This weekend alone, we were able to spend quality time with some of our best friends from my glory days on the lacrosse field and from MBA School. We got to hang out with a host of my cousins at Uncle Jim's famous tailgate and the most energetic of Peter's cousins at the Hessert tailgate. We saw friends from Chicago, others from Pittsburgh, and met new ones inside the stadium. Notre Dame, what you excel at is bringing together an amazing inner circle of individuals and in my small, but hopefully meaningful way, that's something that I want to fund.

So, if you can do all that ... I'll send you the bulk of my year end giving because you have given me and my family so much. Thank you and Go Irish!

Lo.

Bump Day

I've grown up believing that there is a reason for everything.

For instance, there was a reason why I spent countless evenings on good, bad and awkward dates the year that I turned 25. There was a reason that I chose to go back to school to get a masters in business instead of one in fine art, its history or how to decorate with it. There was a reason that I chose Notre Dame over the University of Pittsburgh; that I went to CJ's the first night on campus instead of Corby's; and that I gained a whole lot of bar confidence from hopping around them with Molly and Kate. If all those things hadn't happened, I probably never would have met Peter, seen that of all the guys out there, he was my perfect match, and staked a claim. 

Perplexed by other fortunes and misfortunes this year, I went back to that central tenet. There has to be a reason.

Like why did Peter spontaneously divert our new house search from the city of Chicago to the Western Suburbs this spring? Or how did I cross the finish line of the Pittsburgh Marathon with my best time yet and enough energy pulsing through my body to go another six miles? Or why did my arrogant, cursed oral surgeon have to cancel my long-awaited wisdom tooth surgery this summer?

When I got home from work on July 6 of this year, I found the answer. And it was a positive one. Low and behold, there was a little something or should I say someone growing inside of me. And it explained so much.

Had we moved into the city, we would have been house hunting again next year. (Big ugh.) Since Pittsburgh was my last marathon for awhile, it was fitting that my experience was so perfect. And the most amazing revelation, had I gone under anesthesia to get all my wisdom teeth removed, I probably would have lost the baby.
  
Now I'm trying to figure out a whole new set of issues.

Like why do I have deal with a mind numbing headache every evening?

Why do I have I run so slowly? The yummy mummies of La Grange keep prancing in front of me, their egos inflating despite their bad form, and its really frustrating me. I'm thinking about putting a sign on my back that says, 'Preggo, that's why you are passing me.'

Why is drinking so bad? That's been a tough one. And I'm dreaming of a bottle of Veuve on ice and a plate of unpasteurized cheese and crackers in my delivery room.

Why did they call it hump day? I've renamed it bump day, because every Wednesday I mark off another week of my pregnancy and look down to see if my once flat stomach has gotten any bigger. It still just looks bloated. And now its got some weird dry skin issues spotting it. 

Do I really care about the headaches, slow pace, sobriety, and gut? Not at all, because the reason behind them is the most perfect blessing I could have ever received.

Lo 2.0 is coming on March 6 and we can't wait.  

Lo.

Veal Forestiere

Wow. So a week has flown by and while I believe I've received pretty good marks as an employee, volunteer, book worm, traveler, and friend, I've just about failed when it comes to my chipper, suburban wife role. I have been blissfully undomestic. And I have to admit, there were relaxing moments on the couch when I cherished it. The house didn't get its weekly scrub down, I served waffles and scrambled eggs for dinner on Wednesday night, the milk in the refrigerator just turned sour, and I actually bought salad dressing and topped off Friday night's dinner with it, which promptly produced negative reactions from Peter and I and ended up in the garbage.

I traded in my apron, cutting boards and copper pots for other stuff: later nights at work, a much needed dose of Quinlin and Staley, a quaint Italian bistro in Atlanta, ball parks, Pilsen tacos, and time spent on the couch reading two delectable books in a row.

Whenever my Dad had one of those weeks - where the number of evenings dining out trumped the number of evenings dining in, he would recommit to his kitchen with an elaborate meal. Usually it happened on a Sunday. There would be four, heck, even five courses on the menu. Many times the main course was veal: prepared in his signature schnitzel, Forestiere, Parmesan or Marsala styles. Perhaps sides of mashed potatoes and green beans. A salad to the right of our plate. Bread to the left. And a homemade pie to round out the affair.  It was a glorious feast, filling and inspiring a young chef thoughtfully plotting her future family dinners.

I took my Dad's lead tonight and I recommitted - to grocery runs after work, to careful waltzes from burner to burner in our miniature kitchen, and to filling our House with sweet aromas that lovingly respond to Peter when he says, 'Honey, I'm home.' This evening, I did it with four pieces of veal, Forestiere style. Mashed potatoes and green beans on the side.

Okay, there was no pie. It's Monday night after all. And I'm midway through the trashiest book I could ever imagine - one that I really cannot believe millions and millions of women have read and are currently reading. But my commentary there can wait.

Until then, bon appetit. 

Lo.

Veal Forestiere 

4 pieces veal (between 12 and 16 ounces)
1 egg
1 cup flour
salt, pepper
2 tablespoons butter
1 shallot, minced
3 garlic cloves, minced
1 cup sweet vermouth
1/2 cup veal stock (or you can substitute beef stock)
2 cups crimini mushrooms, sliced

In a small bowl, beat egg. In another small bowl, combine flour, salt and pepper. Dip each piece of veal in egg, then flour mixture, set aside.

Melt butter over medium to medium high heat. Brown the veal in the butter, about two minutes per side. Remove. You might need to do this in two batches if the pan isn't big enough.

If needed, add a little more butter to the pan. Saute garlic and shallot for about two minutes. Add vermouth to deglaze the pan. Add chicken stock. Place the veal back in the pan, making sure it's evenly spaced. Top with mushrooms. Cover pan and let simmer over low heat for 45 minutes. Season with salt and pepper to taste.

Serve with mashed potatoes and green beans.

Drunken Eyes

We were driving home in my mom's Buick Park Avenue from the movies with my cousins. We were packed in - five cousins and my Mom, the driver. The song Hungry Eyes came on the radio. Definitely one of my favorites - mostly, because I had performed a Jazz dance to it in second grade when my whole dance school did numbers set to the soundtrack of Dirty Dancing. Anyway, my cousin Ryan, or maybe it was my brother, mistook the lyrics and started singing, 'drunken eyes ...' instead of the namesake chorus, rolling his eyes and head around imitating a state that he had probably picked up last Christmas, around the time the fifth bottle of champagne was being passed around the room. From that point on, we all started singing 'drunken eyes' instead of 'hungry eyes' and laughed and laughed.

On Saturday, this mistaken chorus ran through my head several times as I walked past tailgate after tailgate outside of Notre Dame stadium. As a sober onlooker, I experienced a somewhat forgotten judgement of the beer goggles and dark sunglasses that started to shield a parking lot full of drunken eyes. I giggled to myself, just like my cousins and I had during holiday dinners.

Usually, my vision becomes equally blurry before a Notre Dame home game. It's part of the celebration, fun and tradition. Call it something inside of me wanting to return to innocence, but my liver was beer, shot, shotgun, and Bloody Mary free on Saturday. And I must say, there were some wonderful moments of revelation, taking me back to the pristine, glory days of Notre Dame football when the team was good and I was an enthusiastic and loyal fan.

Some things that I noticed:

Aunt Connie's fried chicken tasted WAY better than I ever remember. So did her German potato salad.

The sky and the puffy white Simpsons-like clouds were stunning.

The game, which I saw in entirety was exciting.

Despite my husband's vendetta against the band, he wanted to stay to hear them play the alma mater, and swaying arm in arm with him as the players saluted the student section, golden helmets raised, felt really good.

However, along with the positive sites and sounds of the day, the crystal clear vision enabled me to see some of the less attractive elements.

Like the sunburns - at the college with more Irish Catholic kids per capita, you would think they would know how to vigorously apply sunscreen. I saw so many red noses, raccoon eyes, and crispy coats of skin on Saturday.

And the short shorts - wow. The number of inappropriately small short shorts on girls that most definitely should not have been wearing them was disturbing.

And the worst of all - the passing of gas. Just because you are in a crowd does not give you license to pass gas in public. There were at least ten different times before, during and after the game where individuals in my vicinity let the big one rip and it was paralyzing.

All in all, it was one of the best Notre Dame game days in a while. And I'm thanking that little voice inside of me who was singing and laughing to 'Drunken Eyes' all day with me.

Lo.

Measuring a Year

Whenever I came home from Calvary Camp in the summer, I felt a league ahead of the rest of my class - like I had learned a new skill, story or song that was bound to make me cooler than the average sixth grader. I could braid leather into a series of bracelets; I was equipped with a whole new set of Four Square rules; I had picked up insider knowledge that couldn't leave the circle of trust at Devotions; I knew all the lyrics to Fluffhead before my class even figured out who Phish was. And in eighth grade, I returned to school with a slew of novel melodies - with words and harmonies to a soundtrack imprinted on my mind. That summer the musical Rent permanently occupied the airwaves at Camp and female campers from Cabins 11 to 20 belted out every last word.

I was among the group that hadn't actually seen the hit musical yet - who only knew the foggy details of the plot. But it didn't stop me from singing along and figuring out exactly how many minutes are in a year.

During freshman year of high school, I finally got to see the show when it came to town with the Broadway Series. I was so excited to pair visuals with the lyrics. Dressed in Laura Ashley's finest, I cozied up in my seat at the Benedum, popped a couple Junior Mints in my mouth and anxiously anticipated the curtain rising.  

It came up. And suddenly, the Baroque hall was converted into a rock concert. It was loud (too loud.) Grungy. Bright and then dark. Mean. Crude. And shocking. So shocking. I didn't get the jokes. I didn't like the costumes. And I hated the absence of glamor. All the things that I loved about coming to the theater with my family - the beautiful chorus girls, controlled vibratos, plastered smiles, high kicks, tap dance cadences, and happy endings were absent. It was a complete departure from what I was used to. I didn't like it. I didn't get it.

Now, 15 years older and at the wise age of 30, I think I would have a new found appreciation for the show and its characters. A year deep in my marriage, I certainly have a renewed affinity for the musical's signature song, Seasons of Love. In my cabin at Calvary and at 15, it was the highlight of the show - it was the soft, simple, non-confusing part. At 30, it just became the aha! moment behind defining a year that flew by.

It's been more than 525,600 minutes since I walked down the aisle to say, 'I do.' More than 525,600 minutes since we posed for pictures, popped the bubbly, and partied until the wee hours of the morning. More than 525,600 minutes since I honeymooned, moved in, and started my life with Peter. And I don't know how to capture it - describe it - measure it. 

In fish caught, in dinners, in brews, in racks of ribs?

In miles run, in laps swum, in blocks walked, in rifle shots?

In flights, in cruises, in car trips, or in bike rides?

In ripe tomatoes, in flower beds, in rooms decorated, in boxes unpacked?

In parties, in cocktail dresses, in champagne toasts, in caviar dreams? 

In words written, aquarium cleanings, records played, or photos snapped?

In touchdowns, in home runs, in winning goals, or in victories?

In presents wrapped, in ribbons untied, in surprises created, in joys received?

In deals made, in races won, in milestones, in high fives?

In hugs, in kisses, in tears wiped away, in laughs? 

Whatever the measure, it's not in perfect, choreographed minutes, hours, or days. It's in imperfections, new harmonies, goofy moments, and the beauty of two real people, making life a lot more fun for each other. 

This past weekend, Peter and I celebrated our first anniversary with friends, family, and the city of Pittsburgh. And we looked back on an amazing year that was undeniably filled with seasons of love.

 Lo.