Network

Thursday evening, while wading by the sprinklers of the baby pool at our hotel, I was witness to the best networking strategy I had seen all week. Here was Mary, dressed to impress for the nighttime activity du jour.

She was in a new state and a new climate. She didn't know any other babies and she was by far the smallest fish in the pond. Sure, she had just learned how to walk the walk, but could she talk the talk? I would have thought at thirteen months she'd be intimidated by the large 19-month old pounding through the pool, but Mary walked right up to her and gave her a hug. There was no awkward nod, no hand shake, no card exchange; she went straight for the embrace. The other little girl seemed weak at the knees by the outpouring of unsolicited affection. She returned the gesture with a smile; her parental posse did too; and just like that Mary and the little girl from Tallahassee were fast friends and allies against the aggressive Euro splashers at the other end of the pool.  

If only corporate America was like a wading pool; and if only six days dedicated to networking were as fun as being a one year-old on vacation. 

Last week, plus a day, I was in Orlando, Florida attending the convention to end all conventions. Everyone and their mothers (and my mother for that matter) were there. My job was to shmooze, shpeel and smile. To deliver key messages and mantras. To sell invention, innovation, and every buzzword in between. I was there to network, drink the Coke and inject more ketchup (but not Heinz's) into my veins. Like it or not, I did it all while my Mom took care of Mary.

At times, networking, business blind dating, and strategic small talk seem like the foundations of success in the world of commerce. But like most people who prefer genuine relationships to a burgeoning rolodex, I hate doing it. And what's more, I hate the countless times I find myself awkwardly recalling the weird thing that just happened to spring out my mouth when I attempted to move the dialogue from absent to absorbing. I did not just say that. Okay, talk to you later.

However, last week I felt like I had a leg up. Mary, motherhood, or something to that affect helped moved the needle on my lackluster networking skills. When a certain amount of time, sleep and selfishness are stripped from your schedule; you are left with something real. And that's all you have the energy to share. What comes out of your mouth tends to be a little more human and in essence helps you connect with people a little faster. The line of embarrassing was already crossed when Mary peed on me in the cab to the cocktail party; off went my phony front as I added yet another anecdote to the set list.      

I survived my first Convention with a capital C and looking back feel proud of the work I did and connections I made. What's more, I feel blessed to work for a company that allows me to nurture the most important relationships in my life - the ones at home. And the ones that travel with me.

Lo. 

Working Girl

Last week, I exchanged a jello mold for a mirror. My mother-in-law needed a festive frame for the amorphous dessert she was preparing, so I offered my cranberry mold; unexpectedly, I got a large antique mirror in return.

She had noticed a general lack of reflective surfaces in my house and proposed that this family heirloom would go well in the guest room. While the intention was purely decorative in nature, I took it as the second hint in a week to spend a little more time in front of a mirror.

After growing in girth to accommodate Mary, pushing her out and finding a more internal glow, I was proud of kicking vanity to the curb. The understanding of mirrors that my classmate earned during her mission work in Calcutta was finally mine; Gone were the days of practicing my duck face in the mirror; instead I could focus on the most authentic reflection of myself - the one that I found in others.

So it came as a shock last week, when I was given professional feedback to polish my image at work. Apparently Mother Teresa's theory, along with no-fuss (read no effort) hair and makeup don't apply to the workplace.

Here's the thing; in the past decade, millions of Millennials graduated to valedictorian and salutatorian speeches that were similar to Keri's. They preached that we could; no we WOULD change the world, not with our images, but with the content of our characters. They were met with thunderous applause and charged ambitions. While many of us went off to save the world through our service work; the rest of us entered the work place with a style and presence that industry still doesn't know how to manage. What do I mean:

• We are outspoken. And even if we are the most junior position in the room, we are going to share our perspective. When we share it, we expect applause.
• We were never cut or picked last at dodgeball, so the notion of being left out of privileged information is foreign.
• We wore flip flops to the White House. And don't understand why these versatile sandals are not work appropriate.  
• We don't iron anything.
• We love ponytails or some aberration of them.
• We slouch. And are more interested in posing to make our arm look skinny than actually being skinny 
• We are ruthlessly competitive, but we like to roll as a team.  
• We eagerly read and share every Huffington Post article about why beauty is an illusion; why bone thin isn't healthy; and why focusing on our internal sense of well being is the best course of action.
• We have been told that we can do it all, and we will.
• As much as we know, we are still clueless.

Which brings me back to the feedback I received. For nearly five months now, I've been going to work with a wet head of hair, pulled up in a pony tail, a face wiped clean of makeup, and one of the more comfortable business casual selections that my closet has to offer. True to the words that I remember hearing at my graduation, I walked past work's mirrors and focused on the the products churning out of my cubicle.

With an eye on development and a desire to grow within my company, I recently solicited tips on reaching my goals. The one that stuck was to pay more attention to my image - that if I wanted to be a director, I needed to dress like one. Cute won't cut it. Ouch.

At first I was defensive. Then self conscious. Then expertly investigative. I did some side by side comparisons with other working women in the bathroom mirror. I looked around meeting rooms. I assessed my coworkers. And I realized that the majority of the time, I was loosing. (And I hate loosing.)

So this week, I ran some trials. I went back to the Theory section of my closet, reached for the Prada pumps, spent five minutes drying the top of my hair and applying a little makeup, and wore earrings. As much as I hate to say it, I performed better. I felt like I aced meetings, wrote better memos, and carried myself more confidently to and from my desk.

I told myself, it's not vanity, it's business. It's the cost of being a competitor in corporate America.

And I will tell my colleagues this. We have been groomed to make big change in this world, but at this point in time, we still need to groom our outer appearances to get there. It's not superficial, it's one of humanity's longest lasting super powers.

Lo. 

Just

In an effort to reconcile my mixed feelings about going back to work on Monday, I'm trying to figure out what exactly I accomplished over the last three and a half months. See, I had deemed my leave from work, a maternity sabbatical, rather than something HR could classify as short term disability. I was going to visit friends from coast to coast; I was finally going to write that book; I was going to garden, redo our patio, and host multiple parties lawn side; I was going to have play dates with Cristine (sorry, totally spaced on Thursday) and lunches at the Zoo with Peter; I was going to go to Mass everyday and read the Bible cover to cover. I was going to have a baby, make a million cakes, and eat every single one of them. Long story short, I didn't do any of that. Not one stinking thing. And I'm sitting here wondering how - how was that possible?

Cue the 'aha!' moment. Mary. Motherhood. Took up all my time. I can't market, sell, or account for what I accomplished over the last three and a half months, but giving the best care I could to my little girl was the most valuable experience ever.

Admittedly, and I'm honestly embarrassed to say this, I used to qualify house mothers with a 'just.' Oh, she's 'just a stay at home mom.' (Eek.) It was a demeaning statement filled with ignorance. And I apologize for it, enlightened by my non-stop, full-time, often exhausting role taking care of Mary.

As the daughter of a power mom, and niece, friend and colleague to many more, I've spent a lifetime culturing an innate urge to work, nickel and dime every activity I did and watch my deposits add up. I had high flying places to go, problems to solve, and things to say. After landing a dream job, putting my heart and soul into it, and finding myself on an exciting professional trajectory, I never once thought about leaving my career for house work. But on my so called sabbatical, I certainly got an education - Mary care is the most rewarding, meaningful and important job I can do. And I'm a little sad that I can't make it my full-time career.

Why? There are a lot of reasons, but the biggest one is because it doesn't pay. The government doesn't subsidize it, there are no private investors lining up to my fund it, and I was buying cocktail dresses and shoes when I could have been saving to support it.

Mary, I know you are just a baby, but I'm nervous that you are going to think that I have abandoned you tomorrow morning. And I'm sorry that you might get scared. But know that when I leave you in the expert care of my helping hands tomorrow, our time apart is just temporary. Know that in the taste of your milk and the smell of your freshly laundered blanket, I am still with you. And know that you are still with Mommy - on my desk, across my computer, in my heart. Know that while the work I did watching you every day was irreplaceable, I'm helping other children and families now too.

I'm going to work because I want to make sure your home is always comfy and cozy. Because I want to take you back to Edgartown again and all around the world. Because I want you to be able to go to the college of your choice. (Although, you're still applying for every scholarship they offer.)

I'm going back to work because I want to help make sure that if you and Mommy and Daddy ever need a Home Away From Home, we will have one. Because I want to make sure that all children can get the kind of care you have received over the past three and a half months. Because I really love the work that I do - I love telling the stories of other children, even little babies like you, and their families and how our programs helped them heal. And because, yes, I want your brothers and sisters to inherit a little ketchup in their veins as well.

I'm going back to work because I want to be able to tell you stories of the far-reaching adventures I've had and I want you to have adventures all your own. Most importantly, I'm going back to work because I want to make sure that every minute I spend with you is a cherished one.

Know that I'll be counting down till pick-up time and that every hour in the evening will be dedicated just to you and daddy. 

Lo / Mommy

Different

Recently, finding something to wear to work has been a challenge. Nothing looks good. But honestly, the foremost question in my mind when I open my closet every morning is not my appearance, but my level of comfort. The cute dresses have been replaced with muumuus; four inch heels have gone flat; once opaque tights have stretched to translucence; the belly hangs out; and the bra size, well it just continues to creep down the alphabet, past the point that Ellie knows.

Given my appearance, I've found myself using my cubicle as a shield at work - a cover up for the body sitting, no slumping, just behind the wall. And given the sedentary nature of my job, it's been easy to keep my expanding state of being contained to a smaller group.

However, on Friday, my barricade was brought down as my team collided with others in the close quarters of a conference room for our first department meeting of the year. Six hours; no walls; here I am, world.

The meeting was focused on diversity in the workplace - an excellent session that hit on some of the tougher issues inside and outside of the office. It got the whole group out of their comfort zone and into a place that produced some incredible bonds.

About midway through the meeting, all forty or so of us were called upon to answer five questions and read our reflections aloud to the group. They were:

• What is the name on your birth certificate? 
• What comes first in your life? 
• Name a defining moment in your life.
• What is your guiding principle?
• When was the first time you recognized that you were different; or that others were different from you? 

What started as an innocent, deeper glance into the life of the person who sits next to you, shortly turned into a large-scale group therapy session. The reflections got a little more honest; hardened voices developed quivers, and emotion swelled through the room.

The baton was passed to me and it was my turn. I felt like a had a million different answers for each of these questions, and a million different ways I could go in my storytelling. But since I was talking and most likely emoting for two, I played it safe. I hesitantly stood up, pulling at my dress and subtly hiking up my tights.
I'm Lo.
Hi, Lo.
My faith and my family come first. (Check.)
Defining moment. That would be what I'm going through now. (I looked down at my stomach. They got it. Check.)
My guiding principal. Well, my grandma and Mom used to always tell me that an idle hand is the devil's workshop. And I've taken that to heart. (Check.)
I answered the last question with a cop-out story about a second grade sleepover when I told Mrs. Magyar that I wasn't allowed to watch Dirty Dancing with the rest of the group - my parents wouldn't want me to. So I excused myself from the television room and went upstairs to play alone. I realized then that I was a dork. Probably always would be. And wasn't afraid to be that way. (Lame. But check.)

***

As we were leaving Piece last night, Caylan wanted to take a photo of the girls.
Ugh. No.
Please. Come on.
I jumped in on the end closest to the camera - worst position to be in. Snap. Review. Oh my GOD!
I think Caylan thought it was one for the blog. She had commented that I hadn't posted a picture of myself in months. No one had seen the baby bump.
Yeah, there's a reason for that. Don't put that picture on Facebook! 
You should post it.
On the way home, I started thinking about the words I shared on Friday, and the place where I was too nervous to go. 

There wasn't just one moment when I realized I was different; there were many.
There was the time I went to try on First Communion dresses and my Mom told the saleslady that I had a little tummy. 
The time when I noticed that all the other girls in my class didn't have Xs on their size 6 uniforms.
The time that I realized that not all little girls could fit two Big Macs in their stomachs. And honestly still have room for more.
There were the photos - from birthday parties, class trips, dance recitals, and softball games where I always looked like the biggest person in the group.  
There were the Dr. Levin appointments; the longer talks with my Mom or Dad about doing a little more exercise and eating a little less dessert. (Seriously, do you know how my Grandma bakes?)
And perhaps the final straw. In sixth grade, I heard the boys snickering and whispering a chant to each other, 'boom ba ba boom, ba ba boom' as I walked down the stairs of the auditorium to my clarinet lesson. I pretended that I didn't hear. But I had. And it hurt. So much. 
For the record, I was never obese. I was chubby. But in a classroom, on a stage or in a cabin where you are the chubbiest one, it makes an impression.
By the summer of sixth grade, I was on a self-imposed diet. By eighth grade I knew the calorie composition of everything that went into my mouth, strove for 1-2 grams of fat per day, and was approaching a size 0. I haven't looked back since, and there were years when the obsession took heavy tolls.

That is, until now. Well, more like July. My defining nine-month 'moment.' A steady, healthy weight gain that has challenged what I've been doing to myself for the past eighteen years. Things that I've neglected: a real lunch, a day off from running, the other side of my scary weight, tucking away my mental calorie counter have become non-negotiable. Standing up in a room of 40 people, humbled by my appearance, has shaken my confidence. But over the course of this waiting period, I've realized that despite the changes to my body, I'm still me. Same sense of humor, same goofy girl, same work ethic, same love for all the people in my life. I've just let a little bit of the chubby girl back in. And she's not so bad at all.

In one more act of bold sharing, I'm posting a photo of me. Circa right ... now.

Should've done my hair and put on makeup. Oh well.
I'm nearly 36 weeks along. I've gained a little more than 30 pounds and I'm anticipating that I'll add another five or so to that in the next couple weeks. 

As a closing remark, what I went through with my department on Friday was insightful, inspiring and invigorating. And I have a personal plea to parents out there: Please teach your children that people come in all shapes, sizes, and colors. They have different credos, convictions, and co-pilots on life's journey. They are old and young; male and female; rich and poor. But each person has a tremendous value. A worth that can't be seen by an exterior perception. Don't let yourself or your children try to take that value away from anyone.      

Lo.

Handyman

Back when my girlfriends and I were creating lists, describing our ideal men, we left off a very, very important qualification for prince charming.

That of handyman.

It was an easy mistake. After all, when I was growing up 'handy man' was covered by the list of names and corresponding phone numbers pinned to the bulletin board - a comprehensive portfolio of who to call when you sprung a leak, got a clog, had critters to control, wanted to reroute that so this works, had outgrown the wall paper in your room, or pushed start and your appliance of choice didn't commence its task.

I guess I figured that you would always just have a list next to your phone; that my Zac Efron type of guy would just call the handy man needed to do the job; and that Palko, Redpath, Simko or another one of Pittsburgh's finest would come to my rescue gratis.

But when you grow up, move out, get married, purchase this old house, and find yourself on a budget, 'handy' becomes a critical descriptor for your man. And I'm pretty sure that Zac would have epically failed this week. And the skinny ties, expensive hair products and closet full of designer tees wouldn't have left us room in our budget to pay for an electrician, a repair man, a plumber and the painters. 

Before we moved, there were hints of Peter's skills. Say when we watched 'This Old House,' he seemed to have a clue as to what they were talking about. Or when he would clean the gutters, do battle with the sump pump, or use a level to hang my artwork. 

But recently, his handiwork has really taken it up a notch.

There was stagnant water in the dishwasher last week, and he got everything cleaned up and working again.

Our bath tab wouldn't drain, so he braved what lies beneath, plunged, cleared, plunged again and softscrubbed up the mess. My hair's fault. Not mine.

The chipmunks under our house started to become a bit too audible, and suddenly you can't hear them anymore. I don't want to know the method behind that one.

When we needed to prep the semi screened in porch for the painters, he jimmied out the old screens just as the temperatures dipped below 100 degrees this week.

When he met the hose clamp king at Peggy's party, he talked about the many ways in which he has used hose clamps, while my disinterest became more and more visible.

In total, Peter did about 10 projects this week alone, and I'd bet he saved us more than $500 on handiwork. If not more.

I'd really like to say that I'm doing my part too. But the garden is already in; I'm just watering it, weeding it and watching it grow. And I didn't even have to make dinner last night. Instead, I came home to Peter seasoning a steak and prepping a French salad that he had read about in the NY Times Dining section yesterday morning - a purist salad nicoise. 

If guys have discovered the secret to lifelong happiness in getting themselves an ugly wife, then girls, one of the secrets to a happy marriage is adding 'handyman' to your list. Trust me, you'll reap the benefits.

Lo.

Employee Satisfied

Despite being distanced three years from the academic world; despite popping the bubble of a controlled business environment; and despite time and time again, throwing theory out the window after realizing, given the politics, it can't be put into practice, I am still learning that many dimensions of corporate America cannot be taught in a classroom.

One of those dimensions - improving employee satisfaction. In school, we learned the theory. This week, I learned something else.

After I learned about accounting and statistics, micro and macro, finance, management and marketing in MBA school, I took a course on happiness - the how to of it. That is, how to develop a culture of happiness at work, and how to find your own, personal happiness on the job.

Generally speaking, I learned that the formula for happiness wasn't tied to compensation. Surprise, surprise. Instead, the kind of corporate cultures that produce satisfied employees, provide challenging and meaningful work, more opportunities for recognition and empowerment, and inspiring, supportive management. In theory, my company is doing everything right. However, this week I revealed room for improvement as my employee satisfaction went from good to great. 


Despite movement to and from the bathroom, I sit at work. Everyone sits. In fact, when describing your job, you say, 'this is what I do, and this is where I sit.'
'I do digital marketing and communications and I sit near on the third floor, north side of the building'
'Oh I sit right below you then'

While I know the value of a good sit, especially after a long Saturday run, eight hours in cube confinement is tough. So this week, I decided that if I had to sit at work, I was going to sit and peddle on the way to and from it.

For the past four days, I've been biking to work. I had marked National Bike to Work Week on my calendar, so on Monday, I had Peter check my tire pressure, I slapped on my helmet, threw my purse in my basket, and in my dress, tights, and work shoes, I peddled through the western suburbs to work. Four days, 52 miles. And one very satisfied employee.

Why? Because I got rid of commuting, and road rage, and more sitting still. I traveled outside of my daily routine and into a week that felt like my childhood. To summer vacations, trips to Ruggeri's, proudly making it to the top of Bartlett street, flying down the driveway to the Pittsburgh Golf Club, and safely parking my trusty Schwinn back in the garage after another great day wheeling around the Burgh. This week was SO fun, and I owe it to my bike. 

Now, I realize that some people have farther distances to travel, more hills to climb, more prolific sweat glands, or not enough time; so I wasn't completely surprised when I was one of three or four bikers out of thousands of employees. And for that reason I'm not going to assert that biking is the catch all to employee satisfaction. But I do believe, that happiness on the job comes from making work, commuting to and from it, and life in between, only as grown up and rule ridden as it has to be.

If you live a couple miles from work, try biking. I guarantee it will make your day.  

Lo.

Pre-Game Pretzels

The night before the big game meant Chicken Parm. A pre-game meal that was supposed to fuel you for the 60-minute match that stood on the other side of the Italian Restaurant, a team meeting and a bad night's sleep.

My stomach would be in knots, my nerves going beserk thinking about the play I needed to run in order to beat the top ten opponent, and my mental faculties would be in conflict as a compared the potential number of calories burned tomorrow with the number of calories lying on the family style platter of Bucca di Beppo's signature Chicken Parmesan in front of me. The fiery directions to 'eat it' came once from my left and twice from my right. There was nothing I or my digestive system wanted to do less. So to everyone's chagrin, I ate a salad.

Inevitably, as the last couple seconds of the first half of the game expired, I ran out of fuel. It happened every time. I still hadn't learned my lesson. I would turn to the stash of Cheerios I kept stocked in my stick bag - an extra 140 calories to get me through the second half. Even then, with five key minutes left in the game, my shot would turn from a goal-piercing bullet (I like to think so at least) to a lob that would have gotten my kicked out of a partner passing drill at practice. And I became, to a certain extent worthless on the field. There was no doubt about it, especially looking back now, a salad for pre-game wasn't enough.

This evening an unsettling feeling is once again taking over my core - a slight nausea as I prepare to head into the ring tomorrow evening. I will need to be on my A-game - I will need to make sure my note cards are memorized and the 'whopper' words are flowing freely. Tomorrow, I face the Board. And I've got to admit, I'm a little nervous.

So naturally, I thought back to our pre-game ritual - the good and bad of it - failures made and lessons learned - calorie battles won and lost. And I decided that if I'm going to perform well tomorrow, I will need a good, balanced meal - one that is more than the sum of a mixture of baby greens. Something with carbs for the short bursts of energy I'll need, and something with protein in case the questioning and dialogue goes long into the night. And perhaps something with the kind of international flare that would be appropriate for the global organization where I work.

Virtually and gastronomically, we decided to go to Munich by way of the Wednesday Chef for the big pre-game meal this evening. I decided to get my carbs through homemade soft pretzels, my protein through brats, and my greens through bohne. And I ate it all. Plus the remainder of Peter's pretzel.

And I'm pumped. Ready to go. Looking forward to going over my slides one last time in the morning. Confident that it will be great meeting. Thanks to a great pre-game meal.

Lo.

Pre-Game Pretzels 
Adapted from The Wednesday Chef
Makes 12 pretzels

Ingredients
1 tablespoon dark brown sugar
2 tablespoons softened unsalted butter
2 packets instant yeast
5 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon kosher salt
Food-grade lye, for dipping (amazon.com)
Coarse sea salt for sprinkling

Directions
In a mixing bowl, stir together sugar, butter, yeast, 2 cups warm water and 3 cups flour. Add kosher salt and remaining flour and stir until mixture just comes together in a shaggy mass, pulling together with your hands.

Turn dough out onto counter and knead for 8 to 10 minutes, until smooth and supple. Cut into 12 equal pieces and let rest 5 minutes.

Roll out each piece into a rope about 22 inches long. I had to use a little hand bowl of water to get them to roll out effectively. Fold the rope into a pretzel shape. Transfer shaped pretzels to an ungreased baking sheet and let rest at room temperature for 30 minutes. Then refrigerate them for at least 1/2 hour.

Heat oven to 425 degrees.

(I didn't do this part, because I didn't have lye. Instead, I made an egg wash.) In a deep bowl, wearing rubber or latex gloves, make a solution of 1/2 cup lye and 10 cups water (or 1 part lye to 20 parts water); pour lye carefully into water to avoid splashing. Dip each pretzel in solution, turning it over for 10 to 15 seconds, and place back on baking sheet.

Sprinkle pretzels with salt. Bake about 15 minutes or until deep brown. Remove to a rack and serve warm.`

Health Talk

I just emerged from the most crowded and boring elevator known to man. Essentially, a hive of health care jargon, threatening those who didn't belong with the biggest buzz words out there. If you weren't paying particular attention to any one of the ten conversations happening simultaneously as we ascended from floor 3 to 20, you could still decipher the general gist. 'We need better processes in place, because the robust data (and data is plural, so always treat it as such) demonstrate that there are disparities on the micro and macro level of health care. BUT my organization had some key best practices to share.'

I sensed that they had figured me out - that this digital marketer in their presence didn't belong in their health-oriented click. So they did what the healthcare community does so well, they fought me off with jargon, encrypting their dialogue so I'd stay an outsider. But ... it didn't work. I followed along just fine. And I exited the elevator proud of my abilities to translate and call their fluff.

See, for the past several months, I've been brushing up on my health linguistics. With my new title, came a new responsibility - that of healthcare grant maker. The job requires me to travel out of my comfort zone of spinner and social media guru and into the wonderful, but confusing, layered, complex and messy world of  health care. And this week, I literally did travel - to Baltimore - to saturate myself in the hot topics of health and wellness at the annual meeting of Grant Makers in Health.

It was a great meeting - excellent speakers, generous amounts of information, and a well-planned agenda - and I feel like I'm leaving Baltimore as a more effective grant manager. However, I also feel like I've been granted insider knowledge about the problems plaguing our nation's health and the dire situation we are in.

While I don't know where to start and what problem to tackle first, I feel like I came away from the week with some observations. And as glib as they might be, I think they are worth something.

First, when trying to solve our healthcare crisis, we need to bring leaders and general consumers together. And it helps to do it in a city with a lot of bridges.

Then we need to get everyone to talk a common language. Sometimes it takes a really good ice breaker, like cocktails while watching the sharks, to chew through the jargon and get to the point. 

Then once everyone is on board, perhaps we can start navigating the more dangerous waters.

But don't be a menace and don't put your guard up. There are still others out there that we can listen and learn from. 

And at the end of the day, always find a great place to eat and digest what you've heard throughout the day. If you're in Baltimore, I'd suggest Germano's in Little Italy. Delicious beet raviolis, charming service, good prices, and Roman television programming.

Above all, as much as we love complex languages - the ones we've invested dollars and years in Ivy League Schools to attain - the health care crisis is a universal problem with stakeholders who will never read past an eighth grade level. And in order for everyone to rally around common solutions, we need to start talking about societal and health issues in laymen terms.

Lo.

The Month Before 30

Before I pinned 'Overthinking at the intersection of work and play' under the title of my blog, I had aimed to 'Conquer the business day and networking night by the age of 30.'

30?
Really?
I gave myself a little less than four years to win the game of life? (Whatever that means.)
Then what? After, I beat the system (at 30) I would just relax and call it quits?
Thankfully, about two years ago I hit the edit button.

Since I started The Early Riser, my blog has continued to progress in tone and content, and through the practice of writing things out each week, I've learned how to approach life in a more mature and rational way. I've learned that timing is out of my control - that plans get made and broken - and that success isn't about wins and losses, dollars earned and dollars spent, square feet and number of cars in your garage. Success is about your level of happiness and it can only be measured by you.

In less than one month, I will turn 30 - that milestone that stands as an ever present stop watch to my blog, despite its absence from the public facing site. Its not like its my scary age - that came and passed at 28 as I cried over my birthday dinner at Morton's. (Peter can attest.) And even though I'm not thinking about conquering the world anymore, 30's approach continues to make me do status checks: How am I feeling? How's the book coming? Married? How is work going? Am I CEO yet? Am I happy?

Today, I checked out like this:
How am I feeling? Healthy - I guess. Although, around 30, I swear it becomes harder and harder to control my mass on Earth - the curves seem to get curvier everyday. Note: Need to resist the urge for seconds - one bowl of Beef Barley should be enough.

How's the book coming? About a week ago, after Peter told me that he wasn't going to live my dream for me, I decided that I needed to commit to it, once and for all. I put pen to paper and started filling out the outline that I've had on hold for the past three years. I'm at 8,500 words. Good start.

Married? CHECK!

How is work going? The usual, 'Good' response, turned 'Excellent' yesterday. And I dare say, the whole conquering thing came true. Around noon at the Reel Club in Oak Brook, over a great chopped salad, my boss told me that I was being promoted. (Huge!) I was going to be working at the next band level, doing marketing and communications for just about the biggest brand in the world. Needless to say, I was and I am ecstatic. And I told her that it came at the perfect time - right before I turned 30.

Am I happy? Absolutely.

At this point, I'm just looking for one more plus. Then ... I'll be all set.

Lo.

4:00 AM

Over the past couple of months my life has gone from hectic to teetering on the point of completely unmanageable. A couple weeks ago, when I realized that I couldn't find time to blog, I was bummed out. This week when it looked like I wasn't going to have time to blog, cook or run, I was REALLY bummed out.

It's International Conference week, and I'm on day 6 of it. For those that don't know my organization's internal lingo, International Conference is this huge, 1000-person educational / networking / best practice sharing / celebrating Conference that our small staff of 20 or so people put on every other year for our global system of Chapters. It requires our small staff to be on duty, remain calm, teach inspiring 3-hour classes, converse, and put on really good shows, from 6:00 AM to about 11:00 PM (or later) for a whole week - from Sunday till Saturday.

When International Conference week comes up, it means all hands on deck, no rest for the weary, you don't have time to do anything else but Conference all week. So running every morning this week was out of the question.

Or was it?

Ha - I did it - the impossible. I incorporated running into the day's equation every day this week and was still dressed in my business attire, hair done, make-up on, rip roaring to go by 6:00 AM. How? I took early rising to an extreme. My 5:30 start time was pushed up to 4:00 AM. And I got er done.

Yes, I'm THE Early Riser, but 4:00 AM isn't early morning. 4:00 AM is still night time. And I should have still been asleep each time that the alarm went off this week. 4:00 AM is the dark side of early rising, but a side that enabled me to pound out 4 to 6 miles - mileage that probably saved my each and every day.

By eyes are bloodshot and I'm pooped, but I'm ready and raring to go - pumped to facilitate the hell out of Innovation Strategies this morning and Proposal Writing Part 2 this afternoon, then dance the night away at the Gala this evening.

I'd like to thank 4:00 AM and the gym at the Hyatt Regency Hotel for keeping me going. But I'd also like to thank a couple other folks.

My most amazing fiance who took me to a fabulous dinner at the Purple Pig, late on Tuesday night.

The women from Houston who rocked the most amazing boots on the floor of the exhibition hall on Wednesday.

Sports Center and all the football highlights that got me running faster and faster on the treadmill every morning. (Wow, how I need to revisit watching that program - great stuff.)

Ronald McDonald. Love him. 

And my team. I told them I loved them on Monday, and they claimed it was the wine talking. But it's 8:30 AM and I'm straight up saying - you all are the best!

Here we go Friday! Then I'm off to the Burgh to finish planning the wedding, and praying that Peter's 80 foot bachelor party house boat doesn't sink somewhere in Tennessee.

Lo.

The Girls in White

There are some days when I turn into a little stinker - days when my typically cheery, optimistic personality, fades, turns sour, and my go-getter yeses, transform to no-can-do nos. I just gruff. And Peter so nobly responds, well aren't you a pooper. 

However, I made a recent discovery - that is, I unveiled the culprit behind Miss Stinker, and with it, a method by which to conquer her. It happened some time in between being a real poop on Friday evening and running through a downpour on Saturday morning. Lightening didn't strike, but I had a small aha! moment. Basically, I figured out that it was during those moments in life when I feel like I'm losing, that my mood will take a turn for the worst.

For instance, when my fool proof plan to not let work stress me out falls through, boom, pooper. When my eternal diet loses to the ever-so tempting fudge brownie a la mode on the lunch table, boom, pooper. When the girl sitting next to me at the bar looks way better in her jeans than I do in mine, poopity, pooper. And Friday evening, when I felt like I was losing every which way, the pooper came out in full effect. In the battles against work, the move, the wedding, time, the marathon, and then a splitting pain in my lower calf that led to ice packs and elevation, I was losing. Each theme was beating me down, and when Peter came home, I was a full blown stinker. Not even two gin and tonics, a hefty pork chop, and three helpings of tabbouleh could change my outlook. So I called it a poopy evening, and went to bed.

The next morning, I set out to run it off. I disparagingly left the house, certain that I was going to fail two miles in, because of my bum calf. But I fought through the initial discomfort, and then I reached a point where I didn't feel it. In fact, I embraced it, and honestly started running better than I ever had before. I ran for 2 hours and 40 minutes - 19 miles. And I could have run more. I ran away my poopy pout, and just about the time the rain started pouring down on me in Springbrook Prairie, a huge smile surfaced. I felt amazing. I went from concentrating on my calf and my form and every little step, to thinking in space - in my own space, about everything and anything and all the competition I was facing.
Me versus work. Bring on the pressure, I'll perform better. 
Me versus the move. I can so do retro land.
Me versus the other girls on the trail. They made me stand up straighter and run harder.
Me versus Lyla. I just gave her a big hug.

(And you're confused.) You didn't know about this wee competitor, who about nine months ago, I thought I had lost to - who I thought had stolen my white washed thunder. That is, until I saw her adorable little face for the first time - a face, that made me cry for ever thinking that it was my year and not hers.

On Sunday, it was her turn to wear white. Her beautiful Mom and dapper Dad helped her get dressed, and while I thought to myself, wow, I'm never going to look that good when I put on my white dress, I got teary-eyed for ever being a stinker - for ever thinking that there wasn't enough love in my family to go around. When in actuality, Lyla brought more love to our little corner of the world - and has transformed our family into something even better than it was before her arrival.

So here's where I net out as I head into a week in Chicago where I could really turn into a pooper. Sometimes getting behind, falling out of first place, can actually make you perform better. Sometimes the people that you think are your competition, are really your biggest fans. And sometimes, it just takes a long run to refresh your perspective.

Lyla, you looked lovely in white on Sunday. I love you so much. And I love your mom and dad so much. Now, you just better not spill any water on me on September 3.

International Conference 2011, I'm going for a long run right now.

Lo.

Dinnertime

Some people live for the weekend. Some people live for retirement. I live for dinner time - the concepting of, grocery shopping for, preparation of, and settling down to dinner time.

My countdown starts just about the time that my previous dinner ends. Before the tastes of one meal have left my palette, I'm onto the next - thinking about what should grace the dinner table, feed my appetite, and satisfy my senses the following evening.

I dream about dinner - I wake up, mouth watering, to buffets of well-known and novel aromas and flavors, and take notes on the little pad of paper I keep my bedside.

My morning blogging routine is dotted with spastic check-ins to BonAppetit.com, FoodandWine.com and Saveur.com to see who will be the first to change out their promo boxes for the day. (Food and Wine usually wins the race.) 

Through the course of the work day, I will dabble with the idea of making the Corn Dogs featured on Chow.com, or the idea of making grilled halibut with Chef Bill's mulberry mojo, and then unsatisfied around noon with either of these options, I'll flip to see what's cooking in the workshops of Smitten Kitchen and the Pioneer Woman. And then around 4:00, torn, undecided, and with a cache of cravings swirling through my head, I call up the other stakeholder.
So ... what are you thinking for dinner? 
The typical response is that it's my special dinner, so I should decide.
Still sugar plum dreaming of the buffet I woke up to the night before, I give him three options: Okay, what do you want - - Bone-in pork chops with a mango, corn salsa; lamb kebobs over tabbouleh; or (not giving him the option of taco night) Pad Thai with shrimp.

He chooses the pork chops, and after work we split the grocery getting duties - he goes to the Meat Market for the chops, and I go to the farm stand for the accouterments. We meet at his house, and we start the preparations. A little music, a couple drinks, the choppity chopping of vegetables, the lighting of the coals, followed by the spreading of them, the rubbing of salt and pepper into pork, the setting of the table (especially when I make it a fine china night) - all of it makes my heart race. Finally the ingredients come together, work their magic, add dimension to the table, and cap my day with the ultimate taste treat. Good food. Good drinks. Good company. The most wonderful way to call it a day. And then the countdown starts again.

Dinnertime is the best. And last night and tonight I have missed it terribly. In fact, this is dinnertime tonight. Working (and a little blogging) in the Happy Hour ridden lobby of my hotel - which seems to be hippest 20-something space in Irving, Texas. 

It made me wonder how many of the shot-taking happy hour people don't know about dinnertime and how amazing it is.Why weren't they rushing home to partake? And then I thought better. I bet they did know about it. And I bet they were at happy hour for just that reason - to find that special someone to celebrate dinnertime with.

I've sat here for about an hour now - from a packed crowd to five left - the two old guys who honestly should have joined me in one of the corners, and the two girls fighting for the last man standing. One lingers hopefully. The other lingers and leans in a little closer.

Five minutes later the chubby girl lost, and the uber skinny girl won - a girl who looks like she's been waiting for a good dinner for a while. And I'm really hoping they make it past the bar, past the first date, past the second and third, and into the era of dinnertime, where couples are happy, full, and in love with life.

Off to get some some Mickey D's and really looking forward to dinnertime tomorrow.

Lo.

It's Going

When you are managing a project, you're bound to have to field the question over and over again, until said project is complete, "So ... how's it going?" 


I typically embrace the query as I'm also typically armed with a thought-out response, corresponding metrics, a list of next steps, and a strategy for how to prioritize and balance the other unrelated projects and activities that I'm managing simultaneously.

My reply generally yields another question:
"How do you find the time to blog twice a week?"
(Ha!...) My rebuttal:
"I don't watch any television." 


The facial expression that acts as his or her reply tends to convey some sort of 'aha!' moment with an air of mental calculation as he or she figures out what they could be doing with the hours they spend watching Reality's finest line-up. And I tend to walk away, proud of my ability to manage, master tasks, prioritize - work, run, pray, cook, plan a wedding, travel, party, do everything, and then blog about it. Wow, I'm a superstar. 

And then last week happened. The week that Mr. or Mrs. "how the hell do you have time to blog?" put me in my place.
My silent, vacant blog response last week:
I don't.

Last week the do-it-all mentality was carried to an extreme. And unfortunately, it only acted as the amuse bouche for three more courses (or weeks) in a row, of 'come-on Lo, you can get er done, all by yourself.'

This week my projects, both professional and personal, collided, stressed me out, pushed me over the edge, and left me rattled when I left the office on Friday. And I didn't blog about any of them. I didn't even open up my profile to start piecing my thoughts together. I don't think I even had any thoughtful thoughts. I just had task lists running through me head, as more and more people asked me:
So how's project A going? 
Crap.
So how's project B going? 
Crap.
So how's project C going? 
CRAP!
So how's project D going? 
What the F is project D? Oh. CRAP!!
So how's the marathon training going? Have you started fundraising? 
Crap.

How's the wedding planning going? 
Ummm ... (thinking: need to make an agenda, welcome bags, cartoon, bridesmaids gifts, program, seating assignments, hair and make-up scheduling, outfits, dress fittings, Ughhhhhh ...)
Have you arranged to get a marriage license yet? You know it takes three days to process, so it won't be ready if you try to get it when you get home to Pittsburgh on the 30th.
F***!!!!!!!!!!!!

On Friday - at that glorious hour of 1:00 PM, when summer hours come to the rescue, I couldn't imagine leaving. I still had so much to do. I felt jittery and nervous. The many multi-stakeholder projects at work weren't complete, the writing was finished, the water as we prepare to welcome 1,000 people from around the world to a Conference that my department is hosting was getting higher, and I was going to be traveling next week. I started thinking about the big wedding plans, and yes, realized last week that the marriage license presents a big problem. I started analyzing my training and fundraising for the Chicago Marathon. (I did manage to knock out a 17-mile, 2:30 minute run on Saturday morning.) I have to move in less than a month. The cartoon maps of Pittsburgh needed to be done. I'm not giving up cooking every evening and hosting brunches. And I'm not missing any of the fun stuff - the parties, people, and places that make life that much more exciting. Every thing I'm working on seems to be at its peak and the vision of checking them off my list seems so far away. And I'm stressed.

Sitting at my computer last night and this morning helped. It helped me gain control again. And helped me remember that the destination isn't necessarily the best part, it's the journey. Especially, when the journey is dotted with Antonio Banderas, visits from Mom and Dad, dinner at Vie Restaurant, Hog Class pick-ups which contributed to an excellent brunch, an amazing couples shower, and flip videos of my niece, Lyla and her big beautiful eyes. And I also realized that I have a lot of people around me to help.

Off to enjoy the journey to Dallas and hoping for a more prolific week. 

Lo.

The Nice-To-Do List

As The Early Riser, I get an early morning glimpse of the Twittersphere. What's interesting is that the trending tweets around 5:30 AM, don't usually promote the day ahead, rather they tend to be ill thoughts of the night before. #Insomia, #cantsleep, #upallnight, or #a-variation-of-nocturnal-cursing climb to the top of the charts, and my perky early morning attitude isn't very well accepted by the disgruntled, fatigued set. 

As an utlra-slumberer - someone who crashes hard and sleeps soundly through the night - I never have anything to add to the conversations springing up around #insomniacsunite. They have made me start to think though - why is everyone having such a hard time falling and staying asleep?

My conclusion, based on my own me-marketing, is that everyone has too much to do, they're mad about giving up their nice-to-dos, and they're not getting anything done, because they are too busy connecting with other people all night long who are equally stressed out about their productivity levels.

See in life, there are to-dos and then there are nice-to-dos. The to-dos are the things that you have to get done in order to:

• Move your projects along at work
• So you can get paid
• And hopefully promoted
• Keep a roof over your head
• Keep your car on the road
• Follow the law and stay out of jail
• Receive positive feedback from your parents 
• And make sure your fiance is actually your spouse come September 3

These things tend to take a lot of paperwork, tedious task-mastering, financial draining, and headache. I tend to hate to-dos. In fact, I quickly removed the "To Do List" tab from my blog, because staring at that stuff was depressing.

Then there are the nice-to-dos - the things that actually make us who we are. They help us build our relationships, differentiate us from the other applicants and ensure we get the job, enable us to think outside the box, and make our family and friends happy that they know us. Nice-to-dos don't need lists, because they're always top of mind, ready to get done.  Mine go something like this: 

• Contributing to my blog
• Running. And running. And running
• Ogling Smitten Kitchen and trying out her recipes
• Spending time with family and friends
• Learning the ways of the Brewer and plotting pairings
• Keeping my fiance happy, healthy and well-fed so come September 3 he'll be my satisfied spouse

The stress and sleepless nights come when we don't create a balance between the to-dos and the nice-to-dos. We need both every day. I know what it's like to have a job that's all to-dos - there wasn't room left in the budget for the nice-to-dos. And I know what it's like to have a personal to-do list that leaves no time for the good stuff. BUT I've committed to stressing less about the to-dos, and investing more in the nice-to-dos everyday - to leave the majority of the to-dos at work, and bring the nice-to-dos home with me - to check, check, check off the to-dos without over-thinking them, and thinking more about the nice-to-dos because they're the things that last.

Yes, I have a crap load to do right now. But I'm not losing sleep over it. Tomorrow, I'll check the program, agenda, and itinerary off the list. But Fourth of July weekend is about the nice-to-dos, and that's what I'm proud to say I did all weekend long.

What's being done right now ... the strawberry summer cakes are cooling - one for me, one for Ellie, and one for Lyla.

I'm brewnette-ing a Witbier with Peter. ("White beer"- a Belgian wheat)

I'm making Kiki drive out to the burbs for Fourth of July lemon-basil martinis, andouille burgers, rainbow slaw and fireworks. 

Oh and #Imblogging ...

Lo.

Lunch at Tiffanys

I often wonder how much time I could save, or better yet, how much sooner I could finish my work for the day and head home, if I made a conscious effort to remove all the unnecessary, time-wasting activities.   

• Say, if I told the people that kept stopping by my cubicle to ask a question (or two or three), and then ultimately chit chat about things I have to feign interest in, to submit their questions in writing, I could save say, 25-30 minutes every day.
• Or if I didn't talk to anyone in the bathroom. Depending on how many times I went, that could easily save 10-15 minutes.
• If I didn't compulsively check my blog to see if any new comments surfaced - 10 minutes saved.
• If I signed off Outlook Messenger and neglected Ashlee's and Cristine's blinking messages, another 20 minutes.
• And what if I cut out the ultimate drain on productivity – lunch? 30 - 60 minutes saved.
• All in all, these time saving measures could get me home between 2:00 and 3:00 every day instead of 6:00 or 6:30. 

The thing is, as a communications professional some of these more social activities are unavoidable. You basically have to demonstrate your mean oral and written communication skills everywhere you go at the office - whether it's in response to the inane question, telling someone how great they look in the bathroom mirror, chit chatting in line to get your Rolo McFlurry, or using an IMing device to reach clarity on an issue, there are some conversations you can't avoid. But lunch and the lingered conversations that go along with it are avoidable. And for the past two years, skipping it has kept my workdays a little more compact. 

Generally, I'm very good at the no lunch thing. My Mom used to tell me that all she had for lunch was a can of Diet Coke, and as an absolute super woman, I believed it to be the liquid diet of champions. So I developed my own power lunch routine - Diet Sprite and a bag of 100-calorie popcorn. This dynamic lunching keeps me powering along until I reach absolute fatigue around 5:00.  I really don’t understand the whole ladies that lunch thing - talk about a drain on productivity. Even if I didn’t work I would much rather be a lady that runs, writes, colors, and cooks during the day, and a lady that gets cocktails at night.

But last week, during our staff meeting, Betty warned us about the health risks associated with eating lunch at your desk, and we were all encouraged to get up and get out for lunch. So I kept the popcorn in my cupboard this week and went out. Not once, not twice, but three times! Monday, Cristine and I had a very delicious and productive venting session. Wednesday, my whole team went to Labriola for lunch, which brought beneficial brainstorming activity. And then yesterday, as I was feeling more and more comfortable with lunch breaking, the ultimate break happened, perhaps making me a lunch convert for life. I set a date at high noon right underneath the Tiffany's sign. And Peter and I had lunch at Tiffany's. Rather than a brown bag, my lunch came in a little blue box. And it was delicious. 

Even with my lunch breaks, I've still been home by 6:00 PM each night this week. Basically, they really haven't set me back. In fact, they've been rather rejuvenating and I haven't been a ravenous monster in need of pre-dinner grazing when I get home. They also tended to refresh my thinking and help me deliver better results in the afternoons. And thinking about the sparkling band that will king my other ring on September 3, provided an impetus to work even harder because the money that came from the cost saving measures that I implemented recently, just got spent. 

Lo.