Pittsburgh, PA

In fourth grade, along with reading, writing and arithmetic, I learned geography. The worldly pursuit had been bucketed under 'social studies' classes in previous years, but when I walked into my classroom in 1991, I could tell the subject was about to be elevated by my all-star teacher, Mr. Sciulli.

At St. Edmund's, he was THE teacher to get. A short, Italian man with coal black hair, he moonlighted as a soccer referee, was the brother-in-law of my gym teacher, Mr. Filosemi, and had an uncanny passion for education and his students. Getting a letter sealed on my school's stationary in August, assigning me to his classroom, was one of the most joyous days of my summer as a 9-year old.

He had designated a whole wall in his classroom and a whole period on his students' schedule to homemade game show style adventures. There was a giant spinning wheel for his one-of-a-kind Spelling Bee where students were challenged to spell Whopper Words like Chrysanthemum; a colorful map of the United States on which the Ranchers, Miners, and Fisherman battled for 'State-A-Fact' supremacy; and a paper-mache model of the Earth, across which the Yellow Jet, Blue Jet, and Red Jet raced by answering global geography questions.

Every Tuesday afternoon, he would play host for his students, asking questions he had designed himself on laminated index cards. You could see his creative pride and hear his enthusiasm bubble up as the room waited with baited breath to hear the question and corresponding response. The 'mmm ... wrong' or 'that's CORRECT!' followed by a thunderous roar for or against the current contestant could be heard around the school. It was pure magic. And honestly, I owe a great deal of my ability to spell and spout off the country's major cities to Mr. Sciulli's wall of educational fun.

***

Last week, at a convocation of burger marketing leadership, I found myself wishing that all kids had benefited from Mr. Sciulli's progressive geography lessons. In the middle of a typical networking conversation starting with name and profession, ending with 'need another beer?' I was asked my favorite question; 'so where's home for you?' Pumped with steel city pride, I responded 'Pittsburgh!' As an egocentric native, I thought my colleague would immediately visualize my great city; registering it among the other greats in the world; Paris, London, Sydney, Tokyo, New York, LA ... Pittsburgh!

But during this particular passing of business cards, I sensed a heady case of mental mapping. After a quizzical pause, he replied, 'cool. I've been to Philadelphia before.' Ah. Fatal miss to a Yinzer. Other side of the state, buddy.

Over the years, I feel like I've had a leg up in networking due to my State-A-Fact skills. I've talked to people from Des Moines, Duluth, and Albany; Augusta, Reno, and Providence; Albuquerque, Juno, and Eugene; each time able to pinpoint where on the map their business or home base was located, which added another dimension to a more or less monotonous conversation. But I can't tell you how many times people haven't been able to return my favor.

So to shed some light on my favorite destination, some facts and figures about Pittsburgh. It's just a short (in my case stressful) flight in the friendly skies from Chicago.

It's the second biggest city in Pennsylvania. Located on the Western side of the state. Settled at the confluence of three rivers. Known for his its steel making history. But as recent press has highlighted, it has been reinvented today as a urban gem with unique food and beverage offerings, niche sites to explore, a host of affordable museums and entertainment venues, a one of a kind culture, and vistas that are truly breathtaking.

But what the press or a simple geography lesson won't teach you about Pittsburgh, are the parts of it that I love so much; the things that keep me coming home, despite the chaos my clan might add to any given plane.

Say the utter peace of the Pittsburgh Golf Club - a historic inner city oasis founded by the city's original steel tycoons and bankers.

The dinner table at my parents house, always filled great food, wine, and riveting conversations on criminals and care models.

Ellis Girls - a unique breed of high school friend with whom you will spend a lifetime bonding over an academic experience like no other.

Burnt almond tortes for Mom. And thumbdrop cookies for their little girls.

Popcorn necklaces.

And the best, most creative babysitter ever who made them.

(And her legendary husband.)

Stylists that make you feel beautiful inside and out.

Bubbles and other point of purchase sundries rung up with an old fashion cash register.

Pony rides. 

Cute cousins and crazy aunts (that I forgot to photograph.) 

Hugs from some of our favorite people.

And an airport just waiting for more planes to come its way.  

                    
You will understand a Pittsburgher's iron pride, after one visit. Just please don't limit your stay to Cranberry.

And now, after catching lightening bugs with Daddy last night, we're off to the beach.

Lo. 

Overdue

When Peter and I toured our Parish's grade school several weeks ago, the student ambassadors referred to their non-core classes as 'specials.' I coaxed them to say it again:
'What did you call Art Class again?'
'A special.'
I smiled, reminiscing about my days at St. Edmund's. We had used that term as well. We called all the classes that only appeared on our schedule two or three times a week 'specials' too: Gym, Language Arts, Chapel and Chapel Rehearsal, Art, Library, Woodshop, Music. You name it, they offered it at St. Edmund's.

The first through third graders were the luckiest though - they had the best 'special' of all: Sewing, Cooking, and Crafts. It was just one class, the title rolling off your tongue in one breath, but broken into three trimester-long parts with three very special teachers. It was my grade school's version of early home ec. And it was so special that it only happened once a week, always leaving us craving more.

The first trimester was spent in Mrs. Goetz' fourth grade room, crafting. With her, we learned how to use glue guns; how to make a little game of catch using cardboard cones, string and a bouncy ball; how to turn four little pieces of canvas and green yarn into a frog that you could squeeze open to reveal the Hershey Kiss that he held inside; and how to bead nationality necklaces using clothespins personally decorated to look like your early ancestors. When I designed my German man to look like a Nazi in second grade though, it caused quite a stir. I learned a little more about swastikas than the Sound of Music offered that day.  

During the second trimester, we rotated to Mrs. Stone's Language Arts classroom, where we learned the finer points of sewing. We went home with pillows, purses and little stuffed birds - perfect Mother's Day gifts.

Finally, toward the end of the year, we moved to my favorite of the trifecta, cooking with Mr. Friedman, the art teacher. We received lessons in preparing fettucini alfredo, swedish meatballs, Rice Krispie treats, and more. It was before the days when allergens and food sensitivities were banned from schools. Certain kids would complain about the menu du jour:
'I'm lactose intolerant.'
'I don't eat red meat.'
'I'm allergic to peanut butter.'
'Well, more for us,' said Mr. Friedman.
I remember how amazing it was to eat a small portion of fettucini on a paper plate in the middle of the day - a treat normally reserved for an apres ski family dinner at Nino Barsotti's.


Over the past ten days, I feel like I created the dream schedule for my eight-year old self. No mandatory core classes, just a never-ending rotation of specials, but with some minor variations: Chapel was replaced with Mass, gym with jogging, Library with its Western Suburban counterparts, and music with labor and delivery mix reshuffling. And what used to be just once a week, is now a daily occurrence - I've been cooking and crafting ad infintum. I removed the sewing part of the equation though. I was never that good at it anyway. I have filled page after page in the latest edition of my scrap book. I have drawn, painted, and framed. The other day, I even went to Joann Fabrics for supplies, which let me just tell you, hosts a pretty interesting crowd midday. I expanded my daily dinner repertoire to include a specially packed lunch for Peter everyday, hosted a couple inspired dinner parties, and have more on the baking docket today.

The problem is, it's the equivalent of Grandparents and Special Friends Day this weekend - my parents, Nana and Opa, are en route. Just like the annual day at St. Edmund's where I got to showcase all my special work to Double G, Grandma and my babysitter - the masterpieces I had made, the songs I had learned, the poems I could recite - today or tomorrow, my parents are looking forward to seeing my nine month-long project. Except little Miss Mary isn't quite ready yet. While all the other projects I've been working on for the past week and a half are ready, my stubborn little girl has decided she needs a little more time in the oven.

You know how it feels to travel all day - long flights, layovers, an estimated arrival time that is way past your bedtime. And then when you finally reach your destination, the bag that the flight attendant made you check just isn't coming around the turn style. Everyone else slowly, but surely sees their bag, picks it up and goes home. But you have to wait and wait and wait. Well, this morning, as yet another 2013 baby popped up on my Facebook newsfeed, I had that exact feeling. Like my precious cargo just won't appear. And I'm done waiting; ready to file a complaint.

Mary, if this were Library, you would definitely be getting an overdue notice.

Lo.

The Saints, The Souls, and Me

It is really hard to believe, but I have a planning meeting tonight for Christmas - a little family dinner to discuss the who, what, where and how of the tree trimming, turkey carving, church going, and present opening of 2011. (The first time I will do it away from Pittsburgh.) I also just designed my very first photo card for Christmas; picked out invitations for our rocking retro Christmas Party where I will definitely be making deviled eggs; and downed a cup of Starbucks coffee with the message, 'When we're together snowmen come to life' on it. (My hunch is that they were trying to convey that Starbucks was magical or something, but I'm seriously wondering how that agency pitch made it out of Seattle and into a store near you.) The blood, guts, goblins and ghouls are slowly coming down from the trees, windows, porches, and doors of Naperville, and in their place are going twinkling lights, wreaths, and the G-Rated collection of lawn ornaments. It's officially the holiday season. And like I said, I can't believe it.

I always complain about it, but I hate how our culture says, 'forget about November, forget about Thanksgiving, let's get right into the job creating, economy stimulating, consumer sentiment raising Christmas holiday.' But this year, it's really bothering me. This year has already gone fast enough, why do we need to rush it more?

So I've decided to give November and it's holidays, their due attention. Starting with the first and second of the month - All Saints and All Souls Days. All Saints is an obligatory church going day for us Catholics, and All Souls is more of a suggested thing. (They never seem to want to make you go two days in a row.) And in my own little way, I celebrated both.

On Tuesday evening, after leaving work a little early, I joined a full church of parishioners to celebrate the Saints, to pray for their intercession, and to hope that one day I might be like them. The mass started and ended with St. Edmund's Chapel classics - (down beat) "For All the Saints ..." and "Ye Watchers and Ye Holy Ones." I didn't even need to turn to page 783 in my blue book to belt out the words. I knew verses one through five of both hymns by heart.

The music coordinator missed my all-time favorite hymn though - it wasn't included in the line-up for the evening. I really wanted to sing, "I Sing a Song of the Saints of God." The best. It's all about who the saints were - just regular old folks like us - "one was a doctor, and one was a queen, and one was a shepherdess on the green" - and how we should aspire to be like them too.

But just as I was thinking about that song and its message, the priest delivered a homily that said all that and more. He said that we tend to hold the Saints up like super heroes - like they were born with some super human power. But by seeing them in that way, we are actually diminishing how special they were. He said, that they were just as human as us - and that they just chose God's way over the world's even when it was very difficult. He said that we had the ability to do so too and asked why we chose the way that wasn't right. I rarely commend a priest on his homily when I shake his hand upon leaving church, but this time I did. "Great homily Father."

Yesterday was All Souls Day, and although I didn't make it to mass, I was able to find some quiet time during the day to pray. And to think about the friends and family members who have gone before me. In particular, I prayed for one of the kids who used to belt out "I Sing a Song of the Saints of God" with me - a St. Edmund's classmate that passed away three days ago.

Eric was perhaps the funniest person at that school. Making fun of Ms. Pimentel's cuatro, creating the world's largest paper hat and hanging it from the English room, molding clay into a nacho and cheese bowl instead of "something beautiful," and transforming Katy's school photo into "The Cap'n," were just a small sampling of the things that made me laugh as hard as Meredith makes me laugh today. He was actually my inspiration for becoming the prankster of the Ellis School and enticing Nicole to get involved with me, locking Katy in Latin Class, writing all over Mr. Walker's chalk board and steeling his erasers, and throwing Jessica's clogs in the bin to go to Chinoux Village in Peru. I always thought, I definitely brought a little bit of Eric to Ellis today.

I was very sad to hear about his passing yesterday, and it made me think that more than ever, I need to take each day at a time - to live life to the fullest - and to continue to think about the Saints and trying to live my life as they would have.

So I've decided to postpone thinking about how snowmen will come to life when drinking a Grande Pike, and I'm focusing on this holiday message at the start of the season ... "there's not any reason, no, not the least, why I shouldn't be one too."

Lo.

The Cheater

In fifth grade I cheated. I had figured out answers to the first, second and third fill-in-the-blanks. But when I got to fourth, I was stumped. Perhaps, had I read the book I'd have known what Danny's favorite possession was. But as a non-reader, I was solely dependent on class discussion. And we so didn't discuss that minute detail in class.

By the fifth grade, I had actually gotten rather good at taking Reading tests without actually having done any reading. The multiple choice answers were easily deduced; the essays were my bread and butter, mostly because I could always find one little thing we had talked about in class and massage it into an essay about me, which was lauded for its creativity; but the fill in the blanks - ugh, they were tough, and they seemed to multiply in number with every advancing grade level.

With three minutes until the end of class, and with half of my classmates out the door on their way to lunch, I still didn't have an answer for number four. And my stomach was growling. I raised my eyes as if conveying a pensive expression, and then despite my best intentions, my right eye drifted down and then over to Paul B.'s test. Aha! I got it.

Witch

Danny's favorite possession was a ... witch. That makes total sense. Done. Handed it in. Cold chicken patty sandwich, here I come.

The next day when we got our tests back, I cautiously turned it over, hoping that I had miraculously stumbled upon the kind of perfect A+ paper that my sister always received. Instead I revealed that my usual B had turned into a B-/C+. What did that even mean? It meant that Mrs. Harbist was harder than the other Reading teachers I guess. She apparently didn't like my essays. "Use more examples from the novel." Great. Her multiple choices were riddled with double negatives. And her fill in the blanks ... I mean seriously, who reads each line that carefully? I looked at my stolen answer, which was crossed out in red, and glaringly replaced with the word, watch.
Oh.
That actually makes a lot more sense. Danny's favorite possession was a watch. I guess that's why my B- was teetering on the verge of a C+. Mrs. Harbist knew I cheated.

Among my family members, I was labeled as the non-reader. And I literally, made it through second to seventh grade without reading an assigned book for school. I could read perfectly well. In fact, I was always good at reading aloud in class. But I just chose not to. Instead, I paid close attention to class discussions so I could pull out nuggets for the test, but to this day I only have a foggy idea what Number the Stars, Hatchet, Red Badge of Courage, and Island of the Blue Dolphin are about. I did read some American Girl Collection books, mostly so I could play with my Molly doll more effectively. And I read Charlie and the Chocolate Factory in fourth grade. But besides that, my Book It numbers were completely fabricated. (I guess that would count as the other time I cheated - there was a personal pan pizza on the line, you would have done the same.)

My standardized test scores reflected my voluntary illiteracy too. I was always 98th or 99th percentile in Math, but in English and Reading Compression, I was in the mid 70s - An embarrassing low stat at St. Edmund's and in my family.

I attribute my literary turn around to The Giver. It was the last book that we were assigned in the seventh grade, and I decided to give it a chance. I ended up finishing it in two days - I loved it and wanted to talk about it. My teacher was shocked at my sudden desire to answer every question in class. And I was shocked by how exciting it was to be the go-to respondent. It ignited a spark and in eighth grade I read all the books. Throughout high school I couldn't put the books down. And in college, I switched into a major where all you did was read and write. By the time I applied for MBA school, my test scores had completely shifted. The verbal section trumped the math section, which actually didn't look so good to the right thinking admissions committee, and which made me use my words to negotiate not taking the test again.

Now, as someone who calls reading and writing her profession, it is really hard to believe that the girl who cheated on her Reading test was me. (It's also really hard to believe that at one time I was acing advanced Calculus tests, but that's another story.)

Yesterday, I discovered another past persona that was equally hard to recognize - Lo. I realized that she had changed a lot over the past three years, and that the "About Lo" page on this blog was a little scary. So, delete, delete, delete. Out went the pragmatic dater. Out went the theory of finding a relationship through optimizing your marketing mix. Out went the confidently, clueless single girl who wanted to use the jargon she learned in business school in a more creative way. In came me. I replaced the old Lo with the girl behind the computer.

Who loves cooking, running and traveling. Who keeps her family and friends close and invites them into her stories. Who loves remembering when. Who loves playing all the different roles that life demands of her. Who writes about what she knows now. And who loves being able to say that she is no longer a single girl - she is married. And will never be a cheater. 
Lo.

The S.

At exactly 5:03 PM on Monday, I was standing at the northernmost end of 3 North, waiting for the elevator, anticipating that sweet ding that officially sounds the end of Monday. If I had timed it right, which I usually do, I would have come away with a solo exodus. Free to get in, rapidly push the 'door close' button, and sail down to P2 where my Mini and I would make a clean get away.

On Monday though, I was not so lucky, I was one of six 3 North elevator riders. Five of which, including myself, had left their cubes and thrown their mute buttons on. They were only separated by an elevator ride from being done for the day, and they weren't about to start it up again. The sixth person though, wanted to talk. And he wanted to talk to me. 
"Hiya .... so ... what are you doing with all your spare time now?"
(Oh crap, he's talking to me. Mute button off.) "Um ... what spare time? What do you mean?"
"Well, now that your wedding is over and now that the marathon is done, don't you have a lot more time? What are you doing with it?"
"Oh ... um ... that time ... I guess nothing really ... (Wrong answer. I couldn't think of anything else to say though. Do people really have spare time contingency plans? I turned my mute button back on.)"

After making the great escape, I spent the car ride home thinking about the free time I've in theory gained since saying "I do" and running around Chicago for 3 hours and 47 minutes. Last week I was traveling, no spare time there. This week, I've got a million things to do at work. What spare time?!

Around 8:30 on Monday night, then on Tuesday morning, and Tuesday night, and then on Wednesday I figured it out. Oh ... that spare time. I literally think I caught myself twiddling my thumbs at 8:37 last night. I don't have a specific, get er done purpose right now, and truth be told, I feel like I have had an excess of time over the past three days. So to your point, elevator talker ... here's what I've done with it ...I picked out the breed of dog that I want to get.

An American Fox Hound. They are really good at exercise. We are going to run marathons together.

I looked at the wedding and honeymoon pictures again. (And again ... and again.)

High five.

I cooked. And baked. And ate. And kept that Frenchie fifteen firmly glued to my waistline.

Pork chops, applesauce and mashed potatoes were the highlight of Tuesday night

I went to bed early. And then earlier. And then earliest.
And then ... last night when I literally found myself twiddling my thumbs, I decided to do a little research. An experiment more or less. I decided to use my Facebook profile as a focus group of sorts, something we've been doing more at work since we don't have the budget to run a real one. I wanted to gauge the reaction of my new, married name. So as of 8:45 or so last night, I dropped the F. and put on the S. Which, I must say, was a little difficult. Mostly, because there is a lot in that F.

In Kindergarten, there were two other girls with the same name as me. In Nursery and Pre-K, I was the one and only. Writing my first name on my show-and-tell item, smock or bag lunch was sufficient. But in Kindergarten, as I was introduced to a W. and an L., and I became the F. The added initial stuck and defined me throughout grade school. 

It made me different than the other Ls. W. was the shy one. L. could stand up to the boys. And I was the loud, dancing, dramatic one, with a slight double chin. Being an F. also put me up front in all lines - to process into Chapel, to get my pizza on Pizza Day, to exit the school in the event there was a fire. The F. did lead to some name calling, but mostly everyone liked L.F. She was fun, unabashed, and hosted one amazing Admore roller rink birthday party.

I started to think about the other stuff that defined L.F. 
She was a little scared of the big slide at Spring Lake.

She didn't stop at three cookies, she always negotiated her way to four. And turned to the hidden Oreos under her bed for five and six.
She was a dancer, a singer, and an actress, and she tended to steel center stage every time the camcorder came out.
She played make-believe in the bushes on Bartlett Street.
She was a St. Edmund's girl who proudly belted out the School Hymn at Chapel.
She was an Ellisian who knew she could be an actress and an all-american athlete.

She was an All Big East lacrosse player at Notre Dame.

She managed a restaurant.Got really tired. And then decided to change careers with an MBA school pivot point. 
L.F. converted her crush.

That guy with the floppy hair.

She started this blog. She finally got the kind of job she had always wanted. She sits on 3N. She ran two marathons. She plays the role of Vanna White at company awards ceremonies. She got engaged. And then she became part of a Mr. and Mrs. equation, where she is supposed to subtract the F.

In a way, and as one of my focus group respondents observed, when I get officially get rid of the F. I will be "a different person." Which is a little hard for me. There is a lot of history, brand equity, and character in the F. But I also know that being an S., despite the fact that our kids will be near the end of the line at school, is huge. As Peter said, it makes us one, which is what marriage is all about. And like any other successful merger, you need to bring together the best of both parties and figure out a name that will convey the "new and improved" of the company to its customers. And that's exactly what my new name will say. 

After the positive reaction I got on Facebook last night, and with the time that I've recently collected, I'm determined to open up the daunting name-changing paper work and suffer through it. I will be dropping the F., keeping my middle name, Louise, and adding an S.

And to alleviate any confusion for my former classmates.I'm no longer L.F, I'm L.S. She's the same old quirky girl, just with a little "new and improved" - "off the market" - "merger complete" on the end.

Lo.

Kiss and Make-Up

Just about everyone and everything that walks, talks, sings, dances, sells, buys, cooks, cleans, or just exists has a Facebook page. Some of them I call my friends. One of them I'm "married to," although he's been inactive for about two years. And some of them I've "liked," an action that has become the key to admittance into some more candid brand communities.

One of the more recent communities that I've joined is The Ellis School. Yes, my itty-bitty high school alma mater has a Facebook page. And yesterday, I got a glimpse not only inside the familiar hallways, but down into the underbelly of the school - the series of stuffy dressing, costume, and make-up rooms that only the elite Ellis thespians have seen.

I saw the mirrors, lights, and clutter. I saw the girls applying their make-up, giving themselves one last look in the mirror for confidence, and then ascending from the dungeoness bowels of the school. I was immediately transported back. Back to picking out my costume, balking at how unflattering it was, snickering in the girls dressing room as the brave boy who decided to make the trek over from Central Catholic to act with us ladies emerged in his ridiculous costume, and back to cluelessly trying to apply stage make-up to my face.

Back in grade-school Mrs. Hunter did our make-up. She simply powdered our oily adolescent noses and slapped some red lip stick on our lips. That did the trick. In high school, Mr. Altman demanded more. Rosier cheeks, fuller lips, bigger eyes, a more matte face, and a nose that didn't look quite so pug-like. There were tricks you could do with make-up apparently, and I didn't know any of them.

With bit roles freshman year, I slid under the radar with powder and lipstick. But sophomore year, when I got the lead role, the tap teacher (talk about a dream come true), in the winter play, Mavis Turner Tappers, I was told that I looked too young - that I needed to put on some make-up. So I went down to the dressing room and pulled out my Mom's sample sale Clinique eye-shadow. It was blue and came with a little application wand. I looked in the mirror, dipped the stick in the blue powder, closed one eye and pressed a band of color over it, and then did the same thing to the other eye. I looked in the mirror again. Bad. Fail.

Molly, can you help me please. 
Molly was a friend who went down into the costume room on a daily basis just to spice up her Ellis uniform. She was also good at make-up. And good at pretty. I knew she would come to my rescue.
What are you doing? Blend. You have to blend. Here, let me help. 

She brought over her make-up bag for reinforcements and went to work. Showing me as she went along how to do this in the future. Wow. That's what it's supposed to look like. Wow. I look a lot better. I had never learned how to put on make-up. My Mom never wore very much - just a little bit of rouge and lipstick, and she never encouraged us to wear much either. So I embraced the au naturale look through high school and college.

Around the age when the need to where make-up to look more mature meets the age when you need make-up to look a little younger, I started wearing it. I remembered the lesson that Molly gave me. I started looking at the Beauty sections of magazines to learn tricks of the trade. I started collecting eye shadows, and brushes, and an array of neutral palettes to reshape the contours of my face. Each day I played around with varying levels of success and went out the door with a spectrum of different looks ranging from Ozzie Ozborne to Raggedy Anne.

To this day I'm still learning. In fact, when I was getting dressed for our Rehearsal Dinner about a month ago, my friend Anne grabbed the blush out of my hand and asked, "what are you doing?!.. It goes here, not there." Lesson noted. But I'm at a point when I know how to blend, when I know what makes my eyes pop, and when enough is enough.

My Aunt Amy told me once that no matter how busy my Grandma's day was - how many babies had spit up on her, how many meatballs she been cleaned up from the floor, how many bathrooms she had scrubbed, how many spankings she had given, and how tired she was, she would always put on a little make-up at the end of the day and have a good dinner on the table by the time my Grandpa came home. I liked that vision. But more than that, I'm taking it as a marriage best practice.

Some days I give up on make-up during the work day. Sitting at my cube, rubbing my forehead and eyes throughout the day to get the headaches out is not conducive to mascara and eye-liner. But when I get home, I always wash my face and put on the amount of make-up that I now know how to apply. Enough to look fresh as a daisy for my husband. And I start making dinner. It helps me to disconnect from the day, and bring the honey, I'm home, back to Naperville.

I'm new at this, but I think putting your best face forward in marriage everyday helps, even if all you're applying is your smile. It also helps to start and end each day with a kiss. And luckily that came more naturally to me than putting on lipstick.

Lo.

The Girl Who Came to Dinner

I went to a very small grade school. A school so small that it only offered one sport for girls and one sport for boys each trimester because of the inability to field more than two teams. A school so small that they took away the spring option in order to cast the annual school play. And a school so small that everyone always made the team, and there was always room for everyone to participate in the play, even if they were relegated to Lights or Stage Crew. But despite the size, there were only so many starting spots, and even fewer speaking roles. My goal was to get them.

The sports thing came easy. I was an athlete in a somewhat non-athletic school. I was good at field hockey and I could dribble and pass a basketball (the whole shooting thing was another story) so I became a key contributor on the field and the court.

What came easier to me was drama! Performing, theatrically acting, hamming it up, making an entrance and making em laugh, taking my bows and devouring the applause came even more naturally to me. Call it middle child syndrome, but I embraced the spot light, laughed in the face of stage fright, clamored for attention, and tapped, sang, and recited my troubles away from the kindergarten on. I believed that the annual school play was made for me.

The swan song of the academic calendar was put on by the seventh and eighth graders and produced, cast, and directed by the one and only Charlie, Chaplain, DJ, Radio Host, Teacher of Bible and Theology, Performing Arts and Appreciation, and 20th Century Social Issues (in your school you might have called these classes "religion," "theater," and "social studies"), giver of A+s to the infinity power, director of screw ball comedic school plays, and father of five children.

When I hit the seventh grade, I counted down the minutes of my field hockey and basketball games, anticipating try-outs for the play. Long gone were the days of the amateur Earth Day and Grandparents and Special Friends Day plays, the school play was the big leagues. And this was my chance to shine - to show them that I was bound for big things. The play was Don't Drink the Water, and I got the role of Susan. I wanted to be Marion - I thought I deserved Marion, but as a seventh grader, I was demoted, and worse than that I had to do my first stage kiss. Ew. Fine. Eighth grade would be my year.

Charlie Appel, Director picked The Man Who Came to Dinner the following year, and I hadn't seen him that excited about a theatrical choice since Arsenic and Old Lace circa 1993. (My sister's epic fifteen minutes of fame.)

I got the script and immediately identified the character with the most lines. Maggie. She would be mine. Try-outs. These consisted of an after-school gathering in the auditorium for all interested seventh and eighth graders (which was all 40 of us.) Charlie would mix and match who read what, and quietly take notes. That girl can't speak above a raspy whisper. That boy still can't read. She doesn't look the part. That boy's mom is the head of the PTA. Seriously, Lauren, tone it down a notch.

After try-outs, I remember Dan and Paul B. and Paul L. telling me I was a shoe-in. That I would certainly be cast as Maggie while they tried to figure out which one of them would make the best Sheridan Whiteside. By the end of that week, the list was up, except my name wasn't next to Maggie. It was next to Lorraine Sheldon. I didn't even remember what her role was in the play. It couldn't be right. What the F?!

I went home that night and highlighted my lines. Not as many as Maggie, but still a lot - three big scenes. And the next day at practice, I figured something out. I had THE role. See Maggie lacked in dimensionality - any girl that could project her voice, stand up straight, and read well could have been her. But only I could have played Lorraine with panache. She was the scene stealer. And when I came out on stage for the first time on opening night, and people laughed and clapped at my first line, I thought, wow - this is amazing.

I haven't had a role that good since. Mavis, in Mavis Turner's Tappers couldn't even compare. It was the epitome of my short-lived acting career, and to this day, I don't think I will ever have the same sweet acting satisfaction that I felt when I was locked in the mummy case at the end of the play.

Every so once in a while, I still catch myself saying a couple of lines in my head. "Sherry, my sweet! Oh darling, look that poor sweet tortured face, let me kiss it." And reminiscing. Which is exactly what  I found myself doing last night, as I made final preparations for our very special dinner guest.

Last night, a man didn't come to dinner. (Well, my brother did, but he was cast more along the lines of Bert, the nice, dutiful newspaper man.) A little girl did. And man, did she steal the show. 

Peter and I played the role of the hospitable Stanleys, ever excited for her arrival. Luckily the girl didn't fall on the way into the house. But she did get a little sick once inside.

And all night long - she hammed it up.

And held court. And entertained us. And made us laugh.

She even did a little slapstick with the football.

Set hike!

Come on, get down field - here it comes!

At the end, I only wished that the girl who came to dinner could have made up an excuse a la Sheridan Whiteside to stay longer.

Way better than acting these days is playing the role of Aunt. And last night, scene four, was as sweet as ever. Miss Lyla, you are always welcome at our dinner table. And I can't wait to teach you how to take a bow. (It's much better than falling asleep at the end of your performance.)

Lo.

Picture Retake Day

I run by Washington Junior High School in Naperville just about every day. In front of the school, there is a big promotional placard showcasing their slogan of sorts, "Educating the Producers of Tomorrow." Yesterday and I'm guessing for the next week or so, that important academic mantra was replaced with an essential announcement, Picture Retake Day is October 3.

I giggled down Washington Street after reading that, thinking about the stress that Washington Junior High seems to put on the day. It's like they wanted to make sure that Naperville's tweens don't end up on AwkwardFamilyPhotos.com. "We know there were LOTS of bad photos this year, make sure your kid ceases looking awkward by October 3!" I also giggled as I thought about picture days past, and how many times I imagine my parents wanted a retake.

Say, kindergarten's picture day, when my parents didn't get the bulletin the week before and didn't know about it. I showed up to the make-shift photo studio with a pink sweat suit and strangly hair. The photographer gave me a little comb to straighten out my do, but he had nothing to cover up my aerobics outfit. My parents were mortified when I came home and told them that I had had my picture taken that day.

Then there was seventh grade, when I was at the prime of my braces. I was perhaps the one girl in the world that was proud of them - that loved showing them off - that saw getting her rubber bands changed as a golden opportunity to color coordinate with every holiday. I rocked everything from orange and black, to green and red, to red, white and blue. Before rappers had grills, I had a pimped out metal mouth that I truly believed looked awesome. On school picture day, 1994, I made the widest grin possible, revealing the Steeler pride of my teeth. The black and yellow rubber bands set against the steely gray, shiny background, literally took up half of the photograph. I can remember showing my family the 8 by 10 - Ooooooh.

In Naperville, both of these would have been retakes, but we never seemed to have this option in Pittsburgh. Which might explain my parents' scrutiny over my brother's school picture outfits. (He wore a bow tie and blazer from Pre-Kindergarten on.) Or my sister's supplemental photo shoot for her senior portrait.

Despite the assumption that my photo would be bad, it was always very exciting getting the portrait studio's envelop in your mailbox. I would always keep mine face down on my desk so I couldn't see the 5 by 7 through the window on the front of the envelop. I would slowly open it and reach for the wallets first, the smallest versions of my awkwardness, and decide whether or not I would continue to the 4 by 6's and 8 by 10's, or hide my envelop so Brittany, the girl with the perfect school portraits couldn't see, and hope that next year's would be better.

While the excitement and inevitable disappointment of school pictures is over for me, this week I got something even better than my triple chin laden sixth grade school picture or my David Cassidy look alike eighth grade school picture. I got the wedding pictures! And guess what? I mostly don't look awkward! Perhaps having a hair stylist and make up artist on site helped. Or perhaps Purvis was just way better than the creepy photographers with the little combs at St. Edmund's. Regardless, I'm not keeping them face down on my desk, I encourage you to take a look!

My sister told me this week that one of the ways to get past the wedding is over blues, is to look at the pictures. And yes, each evening this week, I have looked through 100 or 200 of them. (There are 1,400!) But that just doesn't quite cut it.

After seeing the "Retake Day" sign yesterday, I had this great idea. What if we had a wedding picture retake day? We don't have to do everything again, but maybe just get dressed up, and lounge around in the backyard in our fancy clothes, and perhaps bring back the band, and the champagne, and everyone on the dance floor? After all, there are definitely some that need to be retaken.

I swear that is my prayer face, not an eye roll.

I had to have one more sip didn't I?

Really? Who told us to not smile. (Oh yeah, me.)

Der.

I do not know why I am touching Heski's armpit.

Peter: "That is the world's smallest piece"

Me: "Fine, you cut it!"

Ew.

Okay, my Dad's probably shaking his head, "NO!" with a vengeance right now. So I'll keep looking at the good ones, which are a plenty.

And I'll also try to follow my other friends' advice. Courtney said she just focused on her house and her dogs. So this weekend, we're doing just that; organizing and planning our future Atomic Ranch winner, and taking care of our house guest, Roscoe.

Thank you Michael Purvis for an absolutely phenomenal collection of wedding photos - they capture the fun, happiness and love on our wedding day perfectly.

Lo.