Bridesmaidzilla

First, in case anyone is waiting with baited breath to hear the result of my salty submersion, I survived. And very much intact. There weren't even any sharks or crocodiles waiting to snap at me. Instead, my team reached in, pulled me back on board, and helped clean off some of the seaweed. Basically, the tumultuous currents were in my head. (Surprised?)

Second ... and ironically enough ... I have screwed up again. Not at work though (phew), but equally as frustrating. This morning I found a piece of mail that I remembered opening say ... mmm ... a month or two ago, but of course failed to take action on. (Don't worry Dad it wasn't a bill.) Instead, this piece of mail was a lovely invitation to my best friend's shower on Saturday. Luckily, I can go. Unluckily, there was a little note attached to it saying, "give us a call if you'd like to help."

So ... I just now made the faux-pas of RSVPing two days before the shower with the too-little-too-late-offer of helping in any way that I could.

This is testament #1,000,001 to the fact that I am, by far, the WORST bridesmaid ever. I have received time and time again a 'you need major improvement' in this universal core competency for a girl, but have failed to take corrective action. Some people are natural bridesmaids. They are selfless, unfazed by wearing unflattering dresses, and love making bouquets out of ribbons. My friend Rebecca for instance is seriously the best bridesmaid around. She is the real life version of Katherine Heigel in 27 Dresses. She loves showers, is proud of her closet full of ugly dresses, has fun at bachelorette parties, applauds every wedding gift, sorts the wrappings into trash and ribbon-bouquet-worthy materials, and then makes that obnoxious ribbon bouquet.

I, on the other hand, didn't even know I was supposed to make a bouquet out of ribbons and Williams Sonoma pineapples at my sister's shower. And when I was told to get on it, I proceeded to roll my eyes at the mundane task. Basically, in weddings past I have repelled each and every quality and attribute that makes up the DNA of a dutiful bridesmaid.


However, this fall I will be a bridesmaid for the 4th and 5th times for two of my best friends, and after my slight faux pas this morning (and the many in the past) I am making a vow right here, right now to be the BEST bridesmaid I can be.

Lo WILL be a Better Bridesmaid by ...

1. Waiting in the Wings: This is difficult. This is very difficult. Call it middle child syndrome, but since the day I was born, all I've done is lobby for attention and the chance to play the leading role. I was the girl jumping in front of video cameras; getting the speaking part in plays because I had a booming voice and knew how to "ham it up;" tapping with a perma-smile and leading my dance-mates through the steps; playing lacrosse like I was on the stage - my uniform a costume, my cradle a choreographed spectacle. To this day I love the spotlight, and I'm pretty bad at waiting in the wings.

But the all wise Boyfriend told me, "being a bridesmaid is kind of like making the assist." As the first-home of my team who had just about the same number of assists as goals, I can relate to this analogy. Basically, as a bridesmaid I am handing off the spotlight to my best friend with the better angle, who in turn can get the perfect shot off. Then, together, after the winning goal is scored, we can both shimmy shake our way back to the locker room. I love the assist - and come October I will be a really good feeder.

This play was called ... "O'Brien, to Ryan, to GOLDBERG!"

2. Making the most of the dress: Again, really, REALLY hard for me. Because it seems that every time I am in a wedding, the dress doesn't fit, and I'm doomed to look horrible for the day and night. Now, with that said, I do admit to testament #400,541 of being a bad bridesmaid - I never get my dress fitted. This leaves me as the one who either needs the halter or has the inappropriate bust line for Church.

So ... I am vowing that this will not happen again. I just went into the bathroom and tried on my October wedding bridesmaid's dress ... and ta da! It actually fit. It didn't fit in February, but somehow my curvature must have slightly adjusted itself to accommodate the navy number. As I looked in the mirror, I thought to myself. This is kind of fun. It's like my costume for the night. And I LOVE costumes! Me and my other girls will rock these costumes and play the roles of the best dressed, best friends. They will also give me access to the photo shoot portion of the day, which was one great time at my sister's wedding!

3. Not sweating the other stuff: I love a good reception. Champagne, dancing, wedding cake, drunk people ... what's not to like? It's the other stuff ... the showers, the 10th showers, the ribbon bouquets I fail to make, the toasts that I slur, the games I don't want to play, and the slideshows that I screw up that render me the incompetent bridesmaid. 

Though, each and every one of these duties can be the bane of my existence, I started to think about how they add up. And I started to compare them to the presents I have made for several weddings. The presents are cartoons of the wedding celebrations as I imagine them. I'm probably giving myself way too much credit, but they are kind of like Bruegels, or my attempts at them. When I set out to make one of my "masterpieces" I create each and every person at the wedding one by one. It's a painstaking process that isn't enjoyable all the time, but in the end, when  they all come together, it makes up a pretty memorable scene. In a way all the little traditions of a wedding and the wedding party, that can seem painstaking, are really the little pieces that make a wedding celebration so wonderful.

And with that ... I have been 1-2-3 coached myself into being a better bridesmaid. AND I can't wait to help make the ribbon bouquet on Saturday! For all those not bouncing from wedding to wedding, essentially the same lessons can apply to your relationships and job: Sometimes the assist is just as gratifying as the goal, costumes make the everyday a little more fun, and it's the small things when added up over time that can make all the difference.

Lo. 

I Heart Italian Sausage

Conquering My Fear of Italian Sausage

Before the dawn of Rachel Ray's flavorless 30-minute meals, my father owned the meal solution category. After a busy day saving children's lives, he would swing by to rescue us from Extended Day and the forced friendship of Jonathon. On the way home we'd stop by Ruggeri's Food Shoppe to pick up ingredients and then in 30 minutes or less (or by the time we deemed it appropriate to call my Mom over and over again to request her whereabouts on the Boulevard of the Allies) he would whip up a satisfying family dinner. 


My Dad had some go-to recipes that were paramount in his culinary repertoire. Once or twice a month you could count on having each of these globally inspired entrees: 

Linguine with Clam Sauce

Goulash

Chicken Curry

Veal Parmesan

Shrimp Creole

Tacos 

Fish with a Coat of Tan (ethnic origin has yet to be determined) 

... and my two worst fears - Meatloaf and Italian Sausage.

Meatloaf and Italian Sausage received laud and rave reviews from the rest of my family, but they were just about the bane of my feasting existence. No amount of Heinz 57, sauteed sweet peppers, or specialty rolls could add appeal to these entrees. When I sat down to a table of bacon-crowned Meatloaf or Italian Sausage links, I resigned myself to a baked potato for the evening and moped by way to at least getting some ice cream with Creme de Menthe. 

Fast forward 20 years later and enter The Boyfriend who is as carnivorous as they come. Suddenly, there becomes a need to prepare meat in all shapes, sizes and fat ratios; there is a special pan for bacon; and pizza is not all-cheese or vege, but topped with sausage. And just like that, the ghosts of Italian Sausage and Meatloaf meals past start to haunt my daily meal solutions. To dispatch my nightmare or not? 


Because I believe in cooking from the heart for those that I love (gag) ... I figured, I can do it ... I can find a way to get over my fear of Italian Sausage and incorporate it into my cooking. Now, it wasn't easy - I had to break through stigmas, stereotypes and scary memories. But I'm proud to say that after a delicious dinner this evening, I will be preparing Italian Sausage on a more regular basis, but in the manner described below. 

First, I found a recipe (thank you Grace Parisi!) that was not at all reminiscent of stewed Italian Sausage with peppers and red sauce - the ghost of Italian Sausage past. 

Second, I went to Whole Foods where the sausages are neatly displayed and nicely labeled. 

Third, I took the sausages out of their casing so the meat didn't look so sausage-esque. And I made them look as much like hamburgers as possible.

Third, I added some of my favorite ingredients to the mix - spinach, cheese, pesto, and Challah. (It was supposed to be Ciabatta, but after a day preparing for my Rosh Hashanah celebration, I thought Challah would be even better!)  

Fourth, I paid no attention to the little white spots in the sausage meat that used to freak me out as a little girl. And then I had The Boyfriend grill them into oblivion over an open flame. 

Finally, I assembled the sausages into cute little sandwiches and made a chopped salad to go along side of them. See ... not scary at all. Take a bite - even better! Here's the recipe - - So go! Grab your fear of Italian Sausage by the balls! 

Lo. 

Italian Sausage Burgers with Garlicky Spinach

Ingredients

6 ounces baby spinach

2 tablespoons olive oil

2 garlic cloves minced

1/2 teaspoon anchovy paste (in my opinion this is not optional)

Salt

1/4 pound sweet Italian Sausage (casings removed)

1/4 pound spicy Italian Sausage (casings removed)

2 slices Provolone Cheese

4 tablespoons sun-dried tomato pesto (you can buy it in the store, or make your own - I'll tell you my recipe at a later time : ) 

2 round ciabatta rolls

Directions: 

1. "Put on the coals" - that's my way of saying light the grill. 

2. Saute the minced garlic in olive oil over medium heat for 1-2 minutes, add the anchovy paste and make sure it is evenly distributed. Add the spinach and saute till wilted. Season with salt. Set aside

2. Make the pesto or buy a jar of pesto. (I'll give you my pesto recipe at a later time)

3. Take the sausage out of the casings (Aha! Not sooo scary anymore.) Mush around in a bowl to blend the sweet and spicy sausages and then make into burger patties. 

4. Tell the boyfriend (or husband) to put them on the grill - five minutes on each side, 1 additional minute for the Provolone cheese topper. Toast the buns on the grill. Bring everything in from the mosquito-ridden great outdoors. 

5. Assemble - pesto on the bun, sausage patty on the bun, cheese is already stuck on the sausage, spinach on top of that. 

6. Serve with some chopped salad and ... ta da! 

Walking the Plank

Why is it that the one weekend that I really need something to write about, I don't have any plans that merit an essay? I did run 18 miles, which was a triumph, but I'm sure you don't want to hear a sweaty mile-by-mile replay. So instead, I'll turn to the one thing I don't want to write about - The thing that has been occupying my mind every second of every hour of what was supposed to be a relaxing weekend. During movies, through BBQs and glasses of wine, while pounding the pavement, and even while watching my favorite episodes of Sex and the City to grab a hold of some girl-power, I couldn't escape one dreaded thought.

I screwed up. And on Monday, I'll find out what that screw up means for me and my team.

Time to purge a little bit.

In perhaps the sixth grade I remember when one of my Mom's associates made a big mistake during a stressful trial. I don't remember what it was (most likely because I used to zone out during dinner conversations themed around legal or healthcare topics and not around me.) But I  do remember sitting at the top of the stairway with my siblings after dinner and watching my Mom open the door to let in her young associate. With a stern face my Mom accepted the files owed to her and then proceeded to ream her out.

I had dueling emotions as we watched this scene play out. On one side I was proud of my Mom for being firm, powerful, and defensive of her time outside of the office with us. On the other, I started to develop sympathetic stress pains and the same nauseated feeling that certainly was consuming this young associate. I thought to myself, "Man, I hope that never happens to me."

Growing up in a household of big ideals, powerful careers, and high expectations, making a mistake and ending up like the young associate was very scary. My siblings can attest to the fact that I did everything in my power not to falter and not end up on the other end my parents' wrath. But on the occasions that I did do something wrong, there were basically three ways to approach the misstep: 

1. Make up a tale
2. Sink the whole ship 
3. Walk the plank

In my household, telling a tale never worked. My Mom had eyes and ears in the back of head, a system of interrogation that made even the best liars crack, and moles all over the East End who she could tap for the real story. I only tried lying once that I can remember. And it only took one "are you sure you didn't have just one sip of champagne last night?" And one "Well, that's not what Mrs. X said - she said you were drinking lots of champagne last night."And just like that, I was doomed.

I was never a fan of sinking the whole ship either. That is, telling on my brother and sister, bringing them into the equation, and paralyzing the entire operation. Since I didn't have the equivalent of a Midnight Mary-Anne or Shroom that were go-to faults of my sister and brother, I felt it was only fair for me to take my own fall every so once in a while.

So more times than not, I walked the plank. And into the stormy sea of getting scolded by my parents. It was painful for a while and it usually came with a good dose of tears. But there was always a calm after the storm with a lesson learned, a hug from Mom before bed, and the line, "Mummy loves you, but she doesn't love when you do that."

So here I am, present day, thinking about my Mom's young associate, getting in trouble, and the mistake I made at work. When you're a young employee and the newbie to a system, unless you are very lucky, you are bound to make a mistake (or two). Hopefully it's a small one, but for many it's a costly big one. Either way it's guaranteed to be memorable and stick with you through your career. And if you are in a company, firm or organization that is well-reputed, you are bound to have a kick-ass boss just like my Mom, who has a low tolerance for dumb mistakes.

I found out on Thursday evening that I made such a mistake. And potentially a costly one. The results of my careless action or inaction will surface and spread to the water coolers on Monday. Until then, I've had too much time to think about the repercussions and wrath that will accompany my oversight. Just like when I was young, I have three choices. On Monday I can tell a tale, sink the whole ship, or walk the plank. And just as I learned as a little girl, there is only one way to not dig yourself a bigger hole.

On Monday I will walk the plank and I'm really not looking forward to it. Ultimately, I'm hoping for a calm after the storm, the chance to hop back onboard and maybe even a "your boss loves you, but ..." However I'm also well aware that business doesn't always have the rosy parallels to family life that I want it to. At this point all I can hope for are second chances.

It's also comforting knowing that The Boyfriend is a salty and skilled fisherman who knows how to navigate the rough waters. So if things get really bad, he'll be there to keep my head above water until the storm passes.

A Bloody Mary toast to all those who have walked the plank this year and have found ways to get back on the boat. If only we all worked on cruise ships ...

Lo.

The Evil Queen

All my favorite Disney fairy tales pin beautiful princesses against evil female counterparts who set out to make the princesses' unassuming, carefree lives a little more difficult. Basically, upon their birth, the princesses bring newfound competition to the antagonists, who then became apprehensive about their ability to win the titles of beauty queen, ruler of the land, and seducer of Prince Charming. When the princesses blossom into blond bombshells, the antagonists' apprehension turns to jealousy, insecurity and mean-girl syndrome and they basically set out to make the princesses' lives a living hell.

Examples (and my favorites):

Snow White versus the Evil Queen to be the Fairest in all the Land.

Sleeping Beauty versus Malificent for the Crown to the Kingdom.

Cinderella versus her ugly step sisters for the heart of Prince Charming.

In the end, the princesses triumph of course. Their meek, natural beauty radiates through forests, ballrooms, rags and caskets, different versions of Prince Charming rescue them, they live happily ever after, and the evil queens fall to a subtle death. I always walked away from these movies hoping to triumph over the evil forces in my life and find my own fairy tale ending.

So you're asking, "Um, what evil forces have you experienced in your charmed existence?" Well, let me tell you, I have had my fair share of evil queens and ugly step sisters. From the pre-kindergarten on, there has always been a person or two (or ten) who take on the role of antagonist in my life.

In Pre-K it was Miss Sparkly Shoes - To be the fairest person in all of Mrs. Stephen's pre-kindergarten classroom, shoes made the difference. I had an endless supply of dresses to wear at the age of five, but I only had one pair of shoes to go with them and they were standard black patent Mary-Janes. The other girl who wore dresses (who was at one point a friend) came in with gold sparkly shoes one day and started parading around showing off her shiny new feet. She marched over to my Pre-K crush, Geoff, and made an argument for why sparkly shoes were better than boring Mary-Janes. I was demoralized and jealous. Why didn't I get to have sparkly shoes? How was I ever going to be the prettiest without them?....
 
In high school it was Miss Leading Scorer - I was on a quest to be the most powerful and dominant player on the field hockey fields of Pittsburgh. I was determined to be the best, get recruited, play in college, and make sure my teammates knew where to find their leading scorer. I was on a roll for the first two years of school - Freshman year I made Varsity, Sophomore year I went to Nationals. Then with the dawn of Junior year we got a transfer, who also happened to be a field hockey player. And a really good one.
During pre-season I remember my coach putting us up against each other in this little box drill. She said something like - "the best versus the best" and dropped the ball into play. I stepped into the box to play defense, and she beat me. Okay, fine, I'm an offender. I stepped in to play offense, she beat me again. And then I just kept losing the drill again and again with my teammates looking on, saying "oooooh ... I think we've found a new leading scorer." I was demoralized and resigned myself to being the second best at Ellisian field hockey....

From college on it has been Miss Waif - Hmmm ... where to begin. There is never just one evil Miss Waif, these girls are everywhere. They are the North Central College track runners who make me look like a heffalump as I barrel down the street on my morning run; They are the hostesses at restaurants who somehow always have the best clothes, hair and legs; They are the yummy mummies that walk in and out of the exercise class below my apartment every day. 24/7 these skinny, perfectly groomed women set out to disrupt my self-esteem.
They have never spoken a word to me. They don't even know I exist probably, but for some reason they are on a mission to make me second guess my athletic stature ... and there are days, like today, where it becomes a haunt, frightening me that someone will take away my Prince Charming.

The boyfriend wasn't exposed to as many fairy tales as I was growing up, so I fill the void by telling him all of the stories about me, the pretty princesses, versus them, the evil queens. He tends to take a pass at the fantasy and instead becomes an impartial judge of my battles, triumphs and losses. This week, during one of my "save me" rants, he made a very interesting diagnosis. He said, "There seems to be a commonality between all these stories - It's you. Maybe YOU are the antagonist."

At first mention - "WHAT?!"
At second thought - "OH MY GOD ...... I AM!!!!"

I started to think about stories like the ones above and oh so many more, and realized that I might not have been the princess in peril. Rather, I was the one who kept looking in the Magic Mirror for praise and taking it out on others who looked or acted better. I was making a whole host of unassuming protagonists' lives a living hell and in the process becoming counterproductive. Crap!

In business you learn to analyze the evil competition with strategic purpose. You learn to look at your strengths and weaknesses in comparison to theirs. You work through a strategy for how to leverage areas of opportunity; minimize the threats; build alliances; and ultimately find synergies with your partners and competitors so you can maximize your potential in the marketplace. Take Howard Schultz for instance - when McDonald's entered the coffee market with the launch of McCafe, he said he welcomed their competition because "McDonald's makes us better." Basically, their entry was good for the coffee industry as a whole and more people would want to drink good coffee because of McDonald's.

Now that is the way to approach things. And how much better would it be for my sanity and demeanor when I'm out at night if I could only say, "I love that she looks better than me at a cheaper price, because it makes a guy's standard go up a little bit." And had I looked at my aforementioned competitors with a similar business mindset, I don't think I would have ended up as the unhappy antagonist who didn't get her way too many times.

Had I seen Miss Sparkly Shoes as a little girl whose parents were using her an accessory, I could have taken her under my wing and shown her that sparkly shoes didn't really match with her dress choice.

Had I seen Miss Leading Scorer as the instrument to persuade me to concentrate more on excellence in lacrosse rather than field hockey, I could have spent Thanksgiving with my family rather than playing in another National Field Hockey Tournament only to get shown up by her again.

And had I realized that my Prince Charming only had eyes for me, than perhaps I wouldn't have cursed every Miss Waif that crossed my path.

Okay, so what have we learned here? Sometimes the battles of beauty, power, and prince charmings aren't worth fighting for if the fight ends up hurting you more. We all have the potential to be evil queens at work and at play, but before you turn into a fire-breathing dragon take a look at the real motives of your competition, analyze, and find a way to make your shared space a little more rosy. Because in the end there's nothing worse than being an ugly stepsister.

By the way ... me and the real Cinderella become friends after I stopped being the evil queen.

Lo.

To Clear Your Cache

About once a week at work I stumble upon some digital glitch in our branded online ecosystem. Sometimes our homepage reverts back to a previous campaign; a link doesn't work the way it should; the same vulgar remark keeps showing it's ugly face on the Facebook Connect enabled part of our website; or the ghost of failed campaigns past continues to haunt the wallpaper on our leased online properties. When these things and a host of other digital dilemmas occur, I call the Agency. They are like the treasure trove of digital answers. But before they unlock the key to the more substantial explanations, their go-to response for everything is, "Clear your cache, erase your cookies, and hit refresh."

First of all, when I started to work for my organization in the realm of digital media, marketing and communications, I had never heard of caches or cookies. And I definitely had never heard of clearing or erasing these items. The only Cache I could think of was the 40-something-female-targeted store in Monroeville Mall where my best friend, Nicole, surprisingly found her red strapless prom dress. And cookies were of course the delectable little piece of goodness that I too frequently over-consume.

After a month or so and 100s of "clearing your cache, erase your cookies" directions later, I gained familiarity with these terms and learned exactly what they meant and how to do them. In layman's terms, you are erasing your browsing history and starting with a clean slate. When you clear your cache and erase your cookies, your IP address is no longer imprinted throughout the virtual world, and you can make a fresh start without stigma, stereotype, or targeted social ad campaign.

At first, I hated doing this. I liked my digital past. I liked when my friendly Safari browser knew exactly where I was going to turn next and was equipped with the password to get me there. We were in sync - my keyboarding, his predictions. It was comfortable, familiar and safe. I hated losing our tried and true relationship even though we started to develop glitches here and there.

After clearing my cache though, I started to realize the benefit of a clean slate. The refreshed digital landscape was suddenly more vibrant, interactive and colorful. It was an all new environment to play in, and it was beautiful. No ghosts of campaigns past, just updated content and creative.

This week I was thinking about the "clear your cache" process and how it directly applies to my personal life. In essence, when I packed up and moved to Naperville, started a new job, and made a geographic commitment to the boyfriend, I was hitting refresh. I was clearing the cache of Pittsburgh where my friends, family and neighbors could predict my every move, and erasing the somewhat dysfunctional cookies associated with my post-collegiate years spent there. Being equipped with a clean browser this year has been enlightening, adventurous, and AMAZING.

Chicago from the boat

However, when I went back to Pittsburgh recently, my metaphorical IP address got the chance to revisit my browsing history. The people and places that make up so much of who I am resurfaced and brought me back to a spot where I didn't need to remember or make up new passwords. Memories of St. Edmund's, the Pittsburgh Golf Club, Calvary Camp, and other childhood haunts resurfaced and brought the kind of retrospective laughter that makes your stomach hurt. While sharing parallel histories with other East Enders, I felt like I was with the people that really knew me. We had bonds that only Calvary Campers who have played Evening Competition could have. The cache that Pittsburgh represents, and all the dance costumes, tap shoes, gym clothes, Chapel uniforms, 6X dresses, ski suits, and misjudgments in make-up that go along with it, are in a way sealed in Steel-town, encrypted in a language that only a select few can understand.

St. Edmund's Academy ... our alma mater true!

Calvary Camp Staff, 1997

When I got back to Naperville - back to the office - back to the boyfriend - Calvary Camp seemed a million memories away again. And it got me thinking about timing, personal caches, new starts, and whether it works better to be with someone that shares the awkwardness of your youth, or with someone that doesn't know how bizarre you were as a child. (Or just gets hints of it here and there.)

After sitting on this thought for a week, I came to the conclusion that your past is just as important as your future; that communicating your past in a new relationship is essential; and that you are still going to run into glitches with a refreshed browser after a couple campaigns or milestones.

Clearing your cache and erasing your cookies might be the only solution on your computer, and for some it seems like a great alternative to cure a misguided personal life. But I believe if you're going to hit refresh, you should still keep your cache close-by. Those memories make up a large part of who you are, and communicating the laughter and love associated with them to your significant other, will enrich your bond.

At the same time though, I have learned that you can't live in the past - that the moments you share now will bring the same gut-wrenching laughter in five years that you experience when you reminisce about your childhood. And the memories you've yet to make will offer all new landscapes of wonder and excitement.

So ... Here's to walks down memory lane.

And a future where you don't need any roads! 

Lo.

To Do: Make and Keep a Doctor's Appointment

I borrowed this from my friend Mia, but I believe it to be absolutely true. She said, "There are some things in life that have forcefields around them - you can't quite get through." 

For me, these forcefields reside around stupid minute tasks like getting an emissions test, checking my mail, opening it for that matter (which might explain why my insurance has been cancelled twice this year), signing up for a 401K, getting a car wash, and going to the doctor. They are all easy as pie, but I'd rather tackle the more time-consuming stuff, than carve out 30 minutes of my time to do something trivial and unpleasant. 

I am very proud to say though, that I successfully crossed that forcefield this week and got one of these mundane "To Dos" done. Item number three from my list, "Make and Keep a Doctor Appointment," is now crossed off - Done and Done!  


What was the inspiring mojo behind my powerful breakthrough? Honestly, not so inspiring or interesting for that matter - just good old fashioned HR harassment. 

In the months of June and July the ever-effective HR department launched a health and wellness campaign where they encouraged all employees to "step up to the plate," "take charge," "knock it in," (or some other sports-related actionable verbage) for your health. Their main call to action was to get a physical. There was no "we're all too fat Biggest Loser challenge," just a hell of a lot of pressure to go see the doctor and make sure vitals are under control.


I was inundated weekly with reminders at work AND at home in the form of notepads, calendars, bumper stickers, buttons, e-blasts and postcards. Besides cluttering my desk and filling my garbage can, these reminders contributed to a growing sense of hypochondria. Around mid-July, when I was still battling whatever plague du jour was going through the office, I received #100 of 100 e-blasts which included a raffle drawing if you made a doctor's appointment. With the added incentive, I decided it was time to make my booking. 


I first did the due diligence of finding a doctor - meaning I asked the boyfriend's sister who she used and then made an appointment. That was the easy part. The hard part is always sticking to it. Generally, I'm very good at thinking up an excuse for why I can't do something.  Especially when that something includes weighing in when I've gained four pounds, and I don't want the dreaded doctor's scale to rub it in my face. (Seriously though, why is it that you do everything else at the doctor's office in the buff, but they make you weigh in with ALL your clothes on!)


On Tuesday at 5:00 PM I tried to think of an excuse as to why I couldn't go. Unfortunately, I couldn't think of anything better than "The boyfriend hasn't had a home-cooked meal in five days and just can't go out to dinner again." The admins just wouldn't understand, so I resigned myself to honoring the 6:30 PM appointment.


I was the last appointment of the day, so what was normally a germ-infested cacophony, was eerily quiet. Since I was a new patient, I had many sides of paper to fill out. 
Still no adult diseases 
Still not a smoker  
Still listing Dad, the doctor, as my emergency contact, even though his response to my and any other family member's illnesses are "You're fine," or "It's just gas." 
Do you drink alcohol? (hesitation) Yes 
How many times a week?" ... (major hesitation) "eeeeevvvverrrrryday??"

Next was the fully clothed, awful height and weight check, which always brings the ghost of Dr. Levine looking at these figures and saying, "Hmm ... what are you eating? Are you exercising? Maybe you should do something else besides tap dance once a week." This time I passed without judgment though and in my head knocked off a pound or two for the boat shoes I was wearing. 


Then came the vitals. I'm always good at blood pressure and pulse. And then the big costume change. Except, there was no blue robe to be found in this doctor's office. Instead, the nurse pointed to what appeared to be a big napkin and said "this is the front."  


The best part about it was that I noticed a picture of Arnold Palmer right by the doctor's chair as I was changing. Seriously, was this supposed to make me feel more at ease about being draped in a paper towel? As a member of a nudity-free household growing up (the opposite of a naked house), Arnold Palmer definitely didn't provide comfort to my exposed situation. AND there's no way he's making that putt with the distraction of me wrapped in the worst toga ever.  

Unpleasantness ensued, I survived, I seem to be healthy, just need some lab work at a later (unscheduled) date. Good news and a small win for the week. 


So HR, you can add me to your success metrics and take this anecdote as a campaign outtake. As parting advice - Next year you might get more people to "score a goal for their health," if you just give us a couple days off as a reward. 


Lo. 

A Sign That It's Right

One of my recently added responsibilities at work is to write the monthly external E-Newsletter as a piece of our strategy to engage the donor online. I work from an editorial calendar that we created as a team, then develop the content, compile photos and images that go along with the stories, work with a designer and HTML coder to solidify the creative approach, upload the targeted lists, and then with baited breath ... hope that I have reconciled all my mistakes - That I haven't missed an errant comma, misspelled name, or registration mark. I close my eyes ... and ... hit ... send. If I missed something, criticism, cranky Chapters, and crabbiness will ensue, so this is always one of those 'I really hope I didn't screw up' moments at work. 

To prevent mishaps I go through a series of steps with my team. And when push comes to shove, here's how I know the E-Newsletter is ready:  

1. First, if I like the content that I have created and I want to show it off to other people, I know I'm at a really good point. 
2. Then, I ask my managers to do a peer review. I distribute the content and ask their opinions on the stories, angles and language. 
3. Third, I take it to the persnickety legal department to give me the nitty-gritty, risk averse review. Red flags can definitely emerge at this stage of the game, so it's a bit scary thinking that you might have to start all over. 
4. Based on everyone's feedback, I make necessary adjustments and then give it to the team again, including the big boss for one last yea ... or nay.  
5. Finally, It's up to me to publish it. I embrace the finished product with confidence and pride, upload the distribution lists and like I said, with baited breath, hit send. 

This process of taking a rough draft and transforming it into a polished, designed, finished product isn't so different from the process of moving from steady relationship to marital partnership. Basically, you believe you have created something great, you get all your key stakeholders to sign off, hope you haven't missed anything that could backfire, and then take that leap into the published, it's official stage of your life. 

This weekend I got to toast and roast the latest of my friends to take the leap into marriage. At a rustic cabin, in the sappy woods of New Hampshire, where I wasn't supposed to bring any fancy shoes, one of my best friends, Meredith, faced a panel of her closest friends on a memorable bachelorette weekend. Two days and two nights in Goffstown, New Hampshire marked the final sign off from her cohorts leading up to her big I Do-day.

Meredith, you have my final blessing - "go live!" I have to take you through the analogy though - can't resist - and I'm proud to have been there for her all along the way during her editorial phase.

Content development: First Meredith found a guy that was made her story the best thing ever.

Peer review: Then she became comfortable enough with her relationship to introduce him to the most bizarre inner circle of girls ever. We each gave her our two cents ... ummm ... he's awesome AND just as crazy as us!

Legal review: Then she went to the more persnickety and detail oriented approvers, the parents. D Si and Beebop couldn't find a red flag, no need to go back to start.

Designing and HTML coding: With perhaps some very minor edits, they were ready to code the relationship.

Pretend there's an engagement ring on that finger

Final approvals: A bachelorette party, which included death by Moosehead, belly aches by peanut M&Ms, fun and soreness from lake adventures, laughs from toasts and roasts, and venturing out 3-4 vodka cocktails deep in the very unexpected city of Manchester, marked the final sign-off. All the key stakeholders - family, friends, neighbors, and teammates said, "Girl, it's a go!"

Uploading the lists and hitting send ... the invitations are in the mail so stay tuned for October 16, 2010! So happy for you, Mere! And thank you for showing me the definition of soul mates.

And ... to a special few who have already made it official - A very happy anniversary to baby brother and big sister who 1 year and 3 years ago this weekend published their contents, and are still getting rave reviews.

Lo.

To Do: Go Home to Pittsburgh

This past weekend I got to check 'Go Home to Pittsburgh' off on my 'To Do' list. This will be a reoccurring item on the list though, because my intent is to go home more often.

Pittsburgh is one of my favorite places on Earth. I tend to think that it should be the focal point of the Nation (Um, we have the Duquesne incline!), while everyone else I talk to (not from the city of Steel) thinks of it as either random and uninteresting or surprisingly pretty, but still random.

I'm aware - totally scary picture.

To me Pittsburgh is home to all the wonderful and bizarre memories of my childhood. It's home to my beloved pool, the blue-slide park, my nosy neighbors, my nosier best friends from high school, the restaurants and bars that used to accept my fake ID and for whom I later worked, others that aren't ashamed of their characteristic yinzer twang, the STILLERS!, and of course my wonderful parents who just added a wonderful new porch onto the back of their house.

My teammate and I before playing 'See the hole, be the hole.'
... and the new porch is right outside of that window. 

The East End of Pittsburgh has that small town personality that makes me feel like a celebrity when I return to make a guest appearance for the weekend. I love going out, dressed in the latest look made possible by a steady paycheck, and being immediately greeted by smiles, embraces, and applause (in my head) by old and new friends at bars and restaurants. Granted, this 'welcome' is probably because I worked in the service industry for three years and everyone I know works at or goes to these these venues, but nonetheless, it beats the unimpressed look I get when I walk into a Chicago joint.

Basically I was perched on cloud nine all weekend bouncing from pool to party, shop to salon, running trail to restaurant, and filled with the prescribed confidence that came with it. However, I kept running into friends who were less positive about their placement in the Burgh. Every single that I talked to was convinced that the dating pool somewhere else would bring a higher rate of success. Now it could have been that I wasn't going to let anyone rain on my mustard-colored-Missoni-dress parade, but I was an optimist. I asserted that with a couple tweaks to one's attitude and angle, Mr. or Mrs. Right might not be that far away from the Golden Triangle.

Here are my thoughts on improving your dating odds in Steel-town or in any city for that matter:

1. Never ask if you look fat before you walk out the door - basically this sets you up for an evening of insecurity. Meaning you will end up obsessively checking your pooch in comparison to other girls at the bar after beer #1, #1.5, #1.75 ... and so on. If you are feeling fat, hide that part of your body that's a little bloated, blow out your hair to perfection, show off your assets, get a hold of your confident self, and make sure no one else knows you are having a fat day.

2. Stop texting guys that you know are wrong for you while you are out on the town. Having a relationship with the key pad on your phone takes away from your presence in the room. AND you will miss the hot guy at the bar checking you out who might be the one sending you better texts the next day.

3.  Don't settle. And it's probably best not to go on E-Harmony or Match.com while residing in Pittsburgh. Or if you do make sure you expand your geographic limits to a national or even international scope. Apparently, there are nothing but Stevens from Coraopolis representing the burgh.

4. Just be you and have fun! The end of the work week, having a drink, seeing people - that's fun! And  when you are having genuine fun, I'm telling you, a string of more fun will come. The good looking guy in the corner (or at least the boyfriend tells me) would rather have the fun girl, than the hot train wreck.

5. Don't give up. He or she is out there ... and they might be at the pool, at the same bar you go to every weekend, at your parent's party, or one of my mom's army of interns.

And ... when you do feel like giving up and you are in dire need of a change of scenery, come visit me in Chicago. There are LOTS of attractive people running, playing volleyball, biking, and swimming along Lake Shore Drive every weekend. (Unfortunately, but in line with the rest of the Midwest, 90% of them have wedding rings on by the age of 25.) Every city has their dating draw backs, but it's up to us to make the best of it and keep having fun!

Lo.

Don't Forget Your Registration Mark!

My office is essentially the guardian of the brand and protector of the registration mark for a big multinational organization. We all do our part to make sure that no one uses or misuses our name without consent. The field folks are charged with the operational standards that reflect the brand; the fundraisers and accountants make sure that our brand is financially sustainable; the lawyers stringently monitor legalese associated with our brand; and my team steers the way that our brand is marketed and communicated.

One of my department's responsibility is to give direction to our Chapters, partnering companies, third party fundraisers, and generous individual donors during and after creative reviews. We review press releases, digital media, TV spots, in-store promotions, and various other pieces of creative collateral. Basically, before we let anything go out the door with our name and logo on it, we get to sign off on the party using it, make sure that it fits perfectly with our styling, then slap a registration mark on it to tell the world, "That's ours!"  If the piece doesn't fit, we offer guidance on improvement or just counter with a big 'NO WAY. NO HOW!

To a certain degree this review and approval process is like prom dress shopping with your best friend who you love to death and consider your partner in crime, but you abhor her sense of style. A couple weeks before the big dance, you go to your favorite boutique that carries only the cute dresses. You decide on your look for the evening and then turn to help your buddy who seems more clueless than ever. You offer some direction:

Dress 1: "That one makes you look fat."  

Dress 2: "Orange? Seriously? Not your color."

Dress 3: "Um, NO! Where did you even find that one in this store?!"

Dress 4: "NO! That's the dress that I'm wearing. That's my look for the night."

Dress 5: "Ahhh ... this is the one. Clean, flattering, with an edge that differentiates you and will make us look like the most dynamic duo at the dance."

(As a side note, I went to an all girls school where you basically took yourself and your expensive dress to prom. Your date was a last minute find who was generally an awkward friend of a friend of someone's cousin. Basically, you went to prom so you and your girlfriends had some really great pictures of yourselves.)

The problem though is that unlike the creative review process at work, we can't license and protect the look that we want to own. So after the due diligence of finding the perfect dress and making sure your best friend doesn't wear the same thing, inevitably, you will arrive at prom to find your social rival in the same dress, which if you are me, will make your blood boil. The only consolation is that you look just a little bit better because you were allowed to get the expensive shoes to match. This scenario, to this day, gets me fired up.

I keep thinking of how amazing it would be if I could put a registration mark on my look so no one else could steal it. Then work to expand that claim, as most companies do, to include any part of my image, likeness, personality, etc. To me, that would be awesome.

Never gonna happen though. My look, personality, interests, quirks, and idiosyncrasies to a large extent make up who I am. When people describe me, I'm generally a formula of what I look like:

“Oh you know she’s 5’6, dark hair, blue eyes, dresses very well... (I like to think)”

Or I'm a formula of my personality and habits:

“You know she’s very dramatic, dances like a spaz, is overly enthusiastic, is a washed up lacrosse player, is insanely competitive, writes this ridiculous blog...”

It drives me crazy when the formula that is me can be easily transferable to someone else. (And to make matters worse even my name doesn’t seem to be very special anymore. There are seriously 198 different girls with my exact name on Facebook.) 

Basically, I think there's only one way to trademark what I do or look like - and that is to find a niche so extreme that only I can claim it as my own. The boyfriend is one who has been able to do this. He is regularly characterized as a fisherman. However, he often refutes this claim and doesn’t associate himself with most fishing enthusiasts who plop some bait in the water and wait around for a fish to bite. Instead, his hobby is combat fishing for massive striper, in the rapids and off kilter currents of Woods Hole, Cape Cod, in his 15 foot skiff made for him by a local carpenter, with craft brews in tow, and with buddies that know the tides as well as he. Yeah, he owns that activity, and unfortunately, I have not been able to find such a niche.

My look is nothing original. My hobbies, though many, seem to find an intersection point with just about everybody I meet, and my personality isn't cool enough to transcend the masses. I want to be different - I want be able to say hey, that's mine, you can't use it. But, after much thought while biking, running and curing hangovers this weekend I've come to the conclusion that it's not one's sense of style, physical appearance, personality traits, hobbies or quirks that make us who we are. It's something else.

That something else, is something marketers know well. The essence of a brand and the reason people stay loyal to that brand can't be trademarked. It's not the signature burger, special sauce, award winning fries, or newest mixed beverage. Rather, the power behind the brand lies in the unique ways it has touched consumers over the years: the memories, aromas, tastes, sensations, and feelings. These deeper associations go beyond the licensed products and services and have a lasting affect on consumers and can make them buyers for life. When I eat my ice cream cone everyday, I think of all those times that this simple pleasure has made me smile - as a vacation treat, as an after practice cool-down, as a late night/post-shift saving grace. It's not just what it looks and tastes like, it's memories of how it's been there for me throughout the years. (Wow - that is sick - don't judge!) 

I believe the same holds true for each one of us. Although we so often identify ourselves by the sum of our parts, it's what people see inside you that gives us our trademarks. It’s the memories people have with you. It’s the way you make other people feel. Only you can have a certain affect on another individual. Your unique relationships and the people that are your brand loyalists make you who you are.

"Oh you know ... that's my girl!"

It's a descriptor like this from your mother that makes you, you. 

I like that and it also takes the pressure off of myself to find something that only I can own. So go forth, be a good person, and make your trademark about how you make other people feel. 

Lo 

Neverland

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Same concept ... two years later in Vegas

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

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

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

Me and the young'un cousins

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

Lo