My 3 (almost 4) Hour Tour

I did it. I ran a Marathon. Check.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lo.

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

The End of the Affair

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lo.

The Ellis Immersion

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

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

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

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

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

For example, I learned to:

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

The Other Sports-Related Injury

I played lacrosse for Notre Dame at a buck twenty for four years. You would think when taking the behemoth defense-women of Ohio State and Northwestern to goal I would have gotten injured. But I didn't. Not once. I was crushed several times within the 8-meter fan as the Point, Cover Point and Third Man collapsed on me to prevent my change-up shot (that's the loopy slow one that was a product of not having enough strength toward the final minutes of the game because I hadn’t eating enough before the game ... all so I could fit into my size small gold kilt.) But after the crash, I always got up, bounced back, and occasionally used my dramatic repertoire to score a center stage position on eight meter.

Fast forward to today. I've signed up and now received my bib number to compete in the big race next Sunday - the one that has a legacy of injuring people. Knees, backs, shins, hamstrings, feet, livers and lungs become vulnerable assets as you tread mile after mile after mile all so you can go the 26.2 mile distance.

When I signed up to run for Team RMHC in the 2010 Chicago Marathon I was inundated with information about how to be the best I could be and how to avoid injury. I heard people speak about their marathon experience; was informed about nutritional best practices; encouraged to get the proper running shoes and socks; warned to listen to my body; and told to stop if something was feeling strained so not to cause a bigger problem. I learned the keys to pacing, timing and fuel breaks; about the “taper period” between now and the marathon; and the heaping pile of pasta dinner that I'm supposed to consume the night before the race (thank heavens there's no gold kilt involved on race day.) All that’s left now is completing that 26.2 mile parade on race day.

During these months of training, I've heard horror stories about my teammates' injuries to their muscles, joints and bones. And there are participants that have entirely dropped out of the race due to such injuries. As I entered my last month of training and did my two 20-mile runs, I thanked God for not getting injured. And then this week ... after decades of playing sports without an injury, I became the injured. BUT ...  NO ONE ... NO WHERE along the way, EVER referenced my injury – my excruciatingly painful injury.

I have injured my left boob.

Yes, I have the rare, un-talked about injury that affects the well-endowed female runner with improper 10-year old Notre Dame issue gear for a sports bra. Basically, my injury looks and feels like I have had razor blades as under wires for the past two weeks. I am sore and it is AWFUL … especially after a run and especially in the shower! No pain, no gain right? Wrong. I could really have gone without these sores. 

So last night, with a much more malicious undertone than what it takes to make crabby cakes, I set out to instill some pain on a couple other breasts with the hope that their pain would be my gain when dinner was served.

To make a long recipe short: I took bone-in, healthy, voluptuous chicken breasts and massacred them, skin side down, with hot oil and a brick until their skin looked golden brown and really sore. 

Ironically enough, The Boyfriend started singing "She's a brick ... hoooouse" while I was cooking. (My Ellis girls will get that one.) Then I flipped those chicks over and did the same awful deed again for five more minutes on the other side.

After they had enough, I realized it was time to ease their suffering so I added some chicken stock and lemon juice to soothe their crispy skins. The pan sauce did wonders, brought them back to life, and enabled them to perform to perfection at the big show on the dinner table. 

I whipped up some creamy mashed potatoes, sauteed some spinach and called for The Boyfriend to dish up! 

Their pain was definitely our gain. Now here’s hoping that my pain will heal quickly (perhaps with a little Vaseline and an investment in a new sports bra?) and that I will be able to finish the race unencumbered by my pesky injury on 10.10.10.

Lo

And in case you still haven't donated to my cause ... I'm trying to raise $10,000 for Ronald McDonald House Charities. I'm over half way there, and need every last bit of help to meet my goal! The over 7,200 families we serve every day at our 300 Ronald McDonald Houses and I are extremely grateful for any support you can offer! 

Accident Prone

When I was a young driver between the ages of say 16 and 20, I was involved in three (minor) accidents.

1. The first was when someone side-swiped my Dad's car on Negley Avenue. The side panel fell off, I panicked, my unnaturally calm younger brother jumped out of the car in the middle of the busy street to pick up the missing piece, and we drove off to come home to my father's disappointment. Not my fault.

2. The second happened while waiting to turn left on yellow in the middle of a busy Pittsburgh intersection and with my previously disappointed father as the passenger. I started to make the left turn as the light turned from yellow to red. An oncoming car blew the light, rammed into the car, drove off and just like that, I learned what a hit and run was. About this time, my insurance rates went up. But again, not my fault!

3. And then came the third one ... the one that was completely attributable to me. I was the second car in a line of traffic on an off ramp merging with a busy three-lane street. Instead of watching the car in front of me, I peaked around to watch the gaps in the oncoming traffic. I saw a wide-open opportunity, so I floored the gas pedal and merged ... right into the rear end of the car in front of me. My sister, the passenger this time around, panicked.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! Oh my God! OH MY GOD! What are we going to do?!?! SHE HAS A HANDICAPPED SIGN ON HER LICENSE PLATE!!! OH MY GOD!!!!”

The woman in the car in front of me waved me over to the side of the road, so I followed, with my sister still flipping out in the passenger seat.

I hopped out of the car to assess the damage on my car and hers. Low and behold no damage. Phew! So I strolled over to greet the woman, give her my information, and assure her that both of our cars we A-Okay. But she remained seated in her car and said ever so matter of factly through her window, “I'm paralyzed from the waist down so you’ll have to assemble my wheelchair and roll me to the back of the car so I can assess the damage."

NO WAY.

So, I reached into her backseat, assembled the wheelchair, looked back at my sister who was visibly flipping out even more in my Dad’s car, helped the woman into her wheelchair, and gave her the ride of her life to the back of her car.

Ta da! No damage.

In so many words, I said, “Okay, paraplegic, it’s been real, but there’s no damage so let’s call it a day.”

She countered in so many words, “Well I can’t feel the lower half of my body, so I’m going to have to check out if I have any physical damage.”

My thought ... Actually, I've been instructed not to reveal "my thoughts."
After information exchanges, legal precautions, and a couple parental punishments it turned out that we never heard from the woman again, everything was okay, and my insurance rates didn't even go up ... that is until I got a reckless driving citation on the way to Mother's Day brunch a year later.

After nearly a decade of being accident free, I was involved in #4 this week. I was stopped in a line of traffic waiting to merge onto a busy thoroughfare. It was pouring rain. I was on the phone with my Dad, debating the option of having my wedding reception in the indoor tennis courts of my Golf Club (genius idea that has since been revoked by all other stakeholders). I saw a red Jeep coming closer, and closer, and not stopping. I let out a very audible HOLY SHIT! And then BAM! my cute little Mini Cooper got hit ... and hit hard!

Disappointed Dad told me to hang up and deal with the problem at hand. While still dreaming about importing palm trees and bonsai trees into the indoor tennis courts, I rolled down my window to talk with the prematurely licensed teenager who rear-ended me.
"What were you doing?!"
Shivering, soaking wet, trembling with fear she responded, "I hydroplaned ..."
Seriously, leave it to the Millennial generation to pay attention in driver's ed and actually learn what hydroplaning means.
I saw how scared she was though and I envisioned how upset her parents would be when she arrived home that evening. So I decided there was only one thing to do - play it cool. I had been in her situation before and knew how awful it felt. So I pulled out the umbrella from the back of my car, handed it to her, told her my paraplegic story, put a smile back on her face, got her phone number, got my umbrella back and drove off.
When I arrived at The Boyfriend's that night, I got an incredulous stare when I told him that all I got was a phone number .
"You didn't call the police?"
"Nope."
"You didn't get her insurance card."
"Nope."
"You didn't even get her name?!?!"
"Nope."
"All you have there is that seven digit number?"
"Yep."
So to cease the conversation I called the number ... reckless teenager's mother answered to the tune of her daughter crying in the background. I got all their information at that point, filed the claim with the most friendly All-State insurance agent in Alabama, and today the cute Mini, my partner in crime, is in the body shop getting a make-over. Which could even be a good thing.

So what ... I'm down a car for the next couple of weeks, I was a little delayed getting home that night, but there are worse things, and there is never a need to flip out when everyone comes away from the scene without injury. Generally, things will be okay when you take a deep breath and realize there are more pressing issues at hand ... like my wedding dress.

To all the young drivers out there - Go a little slower and you won't hydroplane.
And to my younger brother who taught me how to be cool during a minor accident from day one, thank you. And happy 26th!!

Lo.

The Fellowship of the Bling

Two weeks ago I received the ring - a mesmerizing, radiant, opulent jewel that rests delicately on my left hand and makes high fives, hand shakes, prayers, typing, and driving to work a much more beautiful experience. As soon as The Boyfriend put it around my finger, I knew something had changed. I sensed the innate power of the ring and the need to make changes to my navigation patterns through the world. Immediately, I turned to The Boyfriend and said, "I can't ever wash dirty dishes again."

Besides the incredulous stare, belly laugh, and "I don't think so!" that I got in return, I was coaxed to believe that there had to be secrets of living with a ring. So since the inception of my bling, I've been gathering best practices from my fellow bejeweled girlfriends who have become accustomed to life attached to a Precious.

This weekend seemed to be a summit of the Fellowship of the Bling. I attended several bridal events with A LOT of married or engaged women for my best friend Kristen in Sherwood Forest, Maryland. Sherwood is a community outside of Annapolis, where streets are named for my favorite Robin Hood characters and every morning you wake up with the difficult choice of which leisure sport to play. Great place! Although, the weekend was a female-centered celebration of Kristen and Charlie, there was an inevitable draw to learn more about my engagement news and welcome me into the secret society of being locked down.

In the real world and even in Sherwood Forest, there are no dwarves, elves, wizards of gray, future kings or hobbits to protect and teach you bling survival tactics. Instead there are girlfriends who teach you necessary lessons on how to persevere on your journey to the end of the aisle in order to get the bling kinged. Here's what I learned this weekend from Maid Marion and her ladies.

Maid Marion: "Let others try it on."
When I first heard the news that Maid Marion was engaged I couldn't wait to see her ring. And what a ring it was! With little tact, I asked, "can I try it on?!" She was more than willing to let my tacky self experience the beauty and weight of her shiny object on my left hand, never thinking that I would get one myself. This weekend two people asked if they could try on my ring. And like I learned earlier this year, you pry it off your hand for a minute or two to let someone else have the experience.

Lady 1:  "You have to clean it - three days before the wedding and about every six months after that."
Apparently, diamond picks up any and all dirt and in order to make the ring really pop as you walk down the aisle, it needs to be cleaned. I honestly can't imagine it popping any more than it already does, but I'll add it to my list of to-dos.  

Lady 2: "Learn to do everything with it."
This weekend "doing everything" included jumping off a boat, into a body of salt water, with my hands clenched, so I could take a potty break while at sea. I guess I no longer have an excuse for not being able to do dishes. 

Lady 3: "Turn it around when you are in crowded public places like a Subway and get it insured."
Seriously, if the Sherif of Nottingham had raided the bachelorette cabin this weekend, he would have had enough to buy out the crown of King Richard. So in a world, where Robin Hood and Little John aren't right around the corner, you have to make sure you're insured. 

Lady 4: "Don't let it's beauty distract you."
A lot of the Fellowship seemed to have a little of the "my Precious" syndrome. Like I said, repetitive tasks like driving to work and folding my hands in prayer become a lot more fun with bling. However, one of my friends warned me that too much focus on the bling while driving and praying, can lead to less than positive results.   

Lady 5: "Put it on a pedestal"
One of the most super ladies who truly knows the etiquette of wearing a ring, got me a special present for my engagement, which sits on my night stand. It has become the perfect resting place for my ring as I go to bed. Thank you SGS!

Me:
After the weekend's festivities and as I made my way back to the Windy City, I felt like I came across my own addition to the fellowship's secrets. Unlike bachelorette parties past, where I didn't want the party to end, I was so excited to be home on Sunday afternoon, sitting next to the gifter of the ring as we cheered the Bears and Steelers onto victory. Things do change with a ring around your finger and there is a reason why your left hand becomes very distracting. It's so on bachelorette weekends you spend all your energy looking at your bling and thinking about what it represents, than on the guys trying to hit on you and your girlfriends.

Lo.

3-2-1 Stop the Countdown

Since my introduction to the three-day weekend of MBA school, those off-days have acted as the carrot at the end of my stick. Now, as a gainfully employed member of corporate America, the weekend has taken the leap into a new realm of awesomeness. On Monday I generally start the count down to it; On Wednesday I nudge myself over the hump to bring it closer; And on Friday I 'TGIF' my way through the day until I finally hit happy hour. Then I attempt to maximize every second of my priceless weekend - those carefree two days when I'm no longer obligated to be the conjoined twin to my Blackberry.

Some weekends live up to the countdown and high expectations I set for them. They turn out to be near paradise. Last weekend took me to such a state of bliss. But then, there are other weekends that fall short - those weekends that I anticipate with baited breath, pressurize with pending excitement, and then end up being a disappointment. This past weekend, to no one's fault but my own, had such undertones. And as I sit here on Tuesday evening thinking about it, I wish I had invested more energy on being present in the moments decked out in rainbows, than on the countdown to them. 

This particular countdown to the weekend seemed like an endless, prolonged death march till 1:00 PM on Friday. It was probably because I had just put to bed the best status update ever, didn't want to go back to the daily routine, and the upcoming weekend promised much more excitement. Basically, as soon as Labor weekend ended and my work week began, I was thinking about my upcoming trip back to the golden domed mecca. It was my chance to continue the celebration - the celebration of my newly decorated ring finger; the convergence of friends and family; my first Notre Dame game of the season; my brother’s new status of legal mastermind; and The Boyfriend. The wonderful Boyfriend, who yes, should have a more accurate title at this point, but I'm leaving that for a future entry. 

So what did I do? (… After counting down the seconds till I got to leave on Friday, waiting patiently for The Boyfriend to pick me up, getting in his car which I knew was having electrical problems, breaking down outside of Gary, Indiana, steering the car to safety on the side of the steamy hot interstate, driving 70 miles on I-80 at very passable pace with a new ass-kicking tow-man friend, and learning about Ultimate Fight Championships, fixing Choppers, making Moonshine, and spending hours at a tattoo parlor to decorate your right arm with a skull and maggot infested sleeve ...) 

Me and my tow truck driving, US Steel managing, moonshine making, chopper fixing, tattoo ridden friend. 

I celebrated. AND I celebrated.
I celebrated with:

My family

Champagne

Friends

More Champagne

More friends

Vodka cocktails

Other people in the parking lot

More vodka cocktails

People in the bathroom line

Some red wine

The guy that threw me a beer as I walked into the stadium

That beer

The Boyfriend … which turned into blurriness … then a headache … then …

My bed.

No, that's obviously not me, but that's what I felt like I walked home to bed.

All that anticipation, all that excitement, all the potential for the best weekend ever. And suddenly I had turned it into a blur, a fleeting moment, and a very deep sleep by trying too hard, toasting too much, and going too long so I could be the life of the party.

As I woke up at 7:30 PM on Saturday evening and got ready for dinner, I looked up at my boyfriend and thought, what did I do?? That evening I was quiet – quiet enough that I got a “What’s wrong?!” from my Dad. Low and behold, Lo was partied and pooped out. Not crabby, not upset, just comatose. I sat at the dinner table ...

Without wine.

Without the randos.

Without a cocktail.

Without loud music.

Without being the boisterous center of attention.

And I found the real celebration - the unanticipated celebration that just included me and my family. The one I hadn’t actually been looking forward to, but that had become the crowning moment of my weekend. That night, I played a supporting role in the Fischer Family Comedy Hour and I had some of the best laughs ever. It was memorable, enjoyable, wonderful.

So as I sit here on Tuesday evening, after a great day at work that included pride of productivity rather than a countdown, I feel like I've captured a couple best practices as I head into the year leading up to my wedding. 
First, wine may be the nectar of the Gods, but Lo can only handle two glasses and she definitely can't handle vodka cocktails at 9:00 AM.
Second, the party is better when you play a supporting role and not the lead. 
Third, cease the countdown and savor every minute in a less than completely inebbriated state. 
Finally, I love The Boyfriend and he loves me no matter what. I am so glad he has graduated to the role of Fiance. And I will think of a name for him sometime soon. 

Now in order to be the Early Riser, I have to go to bed.

Lo. 

Thanksgiving on Thursday

As I've mentioned, a lot of my hours at work are invested in social media. When I'm not tweeting, posting and creating Google text ads, I'm most likely reaching out to mommy bloggers who are potential ambassadors for my organization. 


After a year following the words and ways of mommy bloggers, I've started adapting to their cult behavior and coded lingo. While I'm not ready to shift my blog's content to the terrible twos, better baby strollers, postpartum depression, weight watchers, and bargain buys. I might be ready to employ a trick of their trade or two. 


One of the things you pick up right away, is that mommy bloggers like to direct their content throughout the week so they always have something to write about and an angle in which to do it. To facilitate the process they have created themes for the days of the week. For instance:  

• MomAdvice rattles off her notebook of bargains and best buys on Monday. 
• Ardentless does a role call of her favorite Charities on Tuesday.
• Most everyone posts a particularly compelling photograph on Wordless Wednesday. Pioneer Woman's are the best.
• One of my favorites, The Heir to Blair posts 'Thankful on Thursday' every week. 
• And on Friday everyone gives each other "Follow Friday" shout-outs throughout the Twittosphere. LA Story always gives me love. 

Now I know, if you were anything like me before I took on the job of blogger outreach, you will find this stuff bizarre and irrelevant. But after a year playing in the virtual world of bloggers, I've started to understand the environment and think I might just be ready to participate in some of the cult behavior. I figured since I'm in a particularly thankful mood this week, I would follow The Heir to Blair's lead with a Thursday of thanksgiving post.


(As a side note - When I was in kindergarten, we were told to make Thanksgiving placements as a crafting project. We were supposed to fill in the phrase, "I am thankful for ..." and then draw a picture to match. Most everyone wrote "my family" or "my friends." I wrote "corn bread" and drew a picture of a piece of Jiffy cornbread. So, in keeping with that spirit, a lot of my thanksgiving stems from the edible category.)


I'm thankful for the cooler evenings at the end of the summer that make grilling a little cozier. And the pizza that was on that grill Friday night that ended up fueled my 20-mile marathon training run this weekend.  

I'm thankful for a giant smoked turkey that has been the main source of subsistence this week. It made great club sandwiches on the best picnic ever on Sunday, tasty lunches, and a host of miniature Thanksgiving feasts this week. 

I'm thankful for the Monster Truck because it has been there for me time and time again. It helped me move to Naperville, it carried our bikes to the Morton Arboretum, and it's there for me today when my polar opposite Mini-Cooper has to go into the shop for an oil change. (Yes, I'll be driving a monster truck to work today.)

I'm thankful for the fresh loaf of bread I made last night and the 'good job!' rather than 'nice effort' it garnered. Oma and Grandma Barry would be proud.

I'm thankful for champagne, the cute boy that opens it for me, and the sister-in-law who is keeping it on tap for me this weekend. 

I'm thankful for my shiny new thing, all that it represents, and all the love and support I have received this week from friends and family. 


Thank you. Thank you. THANK YOU!


Lo. 


And now let's go make some change!

The Best Status Update Ever

About three out of the six mornings when I go running I have an Aha! Moment. It feels like I'm having an epiphany and tends to add a bolt of energy to the remainder of my run. I'd really like to say this mental spark was a radical idea or sacred intervention. Instead, I'm a tad ashamed to say that this Aha! Moment is nothing more than the discovery of a witty quip that I deem post-worthy for my status update on Facebook.


Over the past month or so, I've been able to assemble and craftily massage several good stories into clever status updates. Here are a few of my more successful posts. (Admission: I do measure the "success" of my personal Facebook posts, tell it to The Boyfriend, and then brace myself for a giant eye roll.)


They say if you can do 20, you can do 26. I did 20. (in @:50) Now for the drink of Team Lo - My Bloody Mary! Go Irish
7 likes, 5 comments


I have never said, "F YOU!" directly to anyone before. This morning while running up North Street, I said it to a squirrel.
2 likes, 5 comments


Erin and Greg ate 24 course, I biked 12 miles in 4-inch heels, Peter caught 3 sharks, and Adam survived 2 grueling days of the Bar Exam ... I'd say it's been a successful week for the family so far (Congrats Adam!) 
6 likes, 4 comments

I also consider myself a connoisseur of other people's updates (more commonly, you might know me as one of those Facebook stalkers.) A favorite from this past weekend and a precursor to the first Irish win of the season was short, witty and thought-provoking. Good job Baby Bro!


Kegs, meet Eggs. 
3 likes, 1 comment


Okay, yes, I'm a little crazy. But there is a reason why I'm slightly obsessed with the status update. Basically, because it's my job. In fact, my actual job description includes being the voice of my organization online. Almost hourly, seven days a week, I am supposed to be engaging the past, present and potential donor throughout the online ecosystem. I use Twitter, Facebook, YouTube, E-Newsletters, Blogs, Flickr, 4 Square, Causes, and our website to amplify messages and keep the Charity top of mind for the virtually meandering donor. After spending over a year optimizing the way in which my organization establishes a personality and tells its story in 140 characters or less, I feel I have a pretty solid grasp on what engages different groups of fans and followers.


Here are some of the key tenets and elements of creating a conversation-starting Facebook Post:

• First and foremost you need to have a good story. And a good story is not "Today I ate a slice of meatloaf."
• Then think about who will find this story particularly interesting and work the angle to appeal to your target market. 
• If you can, relate your story to another popular or trending topic. 
• Be frugal with your words. You don't need that many mostly because people don't want to read that many. 
• Add a photo.
• As a follow-up translate your post into the Haiku version on Twitter and see how it plays out there.

On the job, it's pretty easy for me to come up with something new and engaging everyday. My organization has so many great stories about sick kids getting better with their families by their side, donors and supporters finding unique ways to give back to the Charity, and significant milestones to toast. All I have to do is tweak the story a bit, cue it our social media audience, clip it down to make it easy to read, find a beautiful photo to match, and then create an accompanying tweet that has a slightly cuter tone. I post and bam - 207 likes, 33 comments, and 1 great outtake for a big corporate donor to read, digest, and use as evidence to resign their contract.

In life, it's a little more difficult to whip up a great status update. I don't have a cache of amazing stories and life in suburbia doesn't present them all too regularly. There's only so much a friend can take of my excerpts from Marathon training, kitchen capers with The Boyfriend, or tales of my party dresses. (I'm also not a believer in fabricating or manipulating my status to make my life sound more interesting.) So when a good story where I'm a key player comes along, one can see how I might get very excited and have such an Aha! moment.  

Yesterday I had one of those moments that might just be the best ever. I would say this was much more in line with the traditional epiphany than the squirrel that leapt across my running path, didn't move and ended up being on the receiving end of my potty mouth. Instead this update had all the right elements. It started with a great story. 


Boy meets girl. 
Boy dates girl for three years. 
Boy and girl go on a bike ride to have a picnic in Morton Arboretum. (That's like a zoo for trees) 
Boy and girl walk through a beautiful garden and find a lovely spot just to themselves to have their picnic. 
Girl lays out the big Notre Dame Monogram blanket.
Boy gets down on one knee and says, "Lo, will you marry me?"
Girl says, "YES OF COURSE!"

Next, I thought about my audience - That is, my friends on Facebook who much prefer to hear about my awkward imperfections than any romantic story I might have. 


Trending topic to relate to? Obviously - Amazing things that happened on Labor Day weekend! (By the way, congrats on your first year Anniversary, Abby!)


Grabbed a photo. 

Posted! 
"Better than Nina Ricci shoes, I have the best reason ever to stop biting my nails once and for all! To THE FIANCE, thank you for the best Labor Day weekend and status update ever!"


Honestly, that's all I got for now ... had to share it here first. 


Lo.

Comfort Me Dinner

I'm just going to come right out and say it -This week I have been insanely crabby (and tired!) The mornings have consisted of losing battles between me and my bed. My runs have been rainy, which have rendered my running shoes soggy and stinky. The work days have felt like an eternity. And each evening I crash, and crash hard. On Tuesday when I busted out the Dungeness Crab as the ingredient du jour, The Boyfriend asked if I was making crabby cakes? Apparently, my crabbiness was palpable.
My ornery response - "NO - I'm making crab and country ham pasta!" (It was good, but I was still crabby.)

So why so fussy? Hmmm ... I don't know .. or do I?

A-#1. I'm still tired from last weekend, and honestly that's probably the root of my problem.
However, because it's what I like to do, I'm going to over-think the other things that are messing with my mood this week.

#2. I've put on some poundage. So, I asked the oracle of Google - "Why I am gaining weight while training for a Marathon?" The oracle led me to About.com, which with all it's unauthenticated wisdom, told me that my body was in the process of storing glycogens, hydrogens, and everything else possible needed to complete long runs. So that explains the sudden growth of a marsupial pouch in my mid-section - must be fuel storage. Note and ladies, beware! Marathon training does NOT equal weight loss, in fact you might need to invest in a whole line of period pants during the latter part of your training. And your hamstrings will become so tight you could play Cotton-Eyed Joe on them!

#3. The leasing office at my apartment building has been calling, leaving messages, sending emails, and dropping papers under my door once a day with less than convincing cases for why I should sign up for another year under their dictatorship. Not happening! Freaking deal with the month-to-month!

#4. School is back in session in Kiddieland a.k.a. Naperville. This means reckless newly licensed teenage drivers, slow school busses, and crossing guards galore, which inadvertently means impeded, harassed and delayed morning commutes.

#5. I really miss my friends and I have failed to complete the "To Do" list item, "Make New Friends." So Lo disguised as Debbie Downer likes to dwell on the fact that sometimes it's just me, myself and my virtual friends, which is less than ideal.

With crabby Lo in full form, I decided that I needed a comfort-me-meal that would be equally comforting and satisfying for The Boyfriend. He was skeptical at first when I emailed the grocery list ....
"And what do these ingredients add up to be??"
"Why, Tomato Soup and Grilled Cheese of course!"
[Crickets on the other end of my blackberry ... ]
But when I got cooking and all was said, done, served and consumed, I got a resounding,
"THAT WAS DELICIOUS!"
Which put a smile on my face and a pep in my step. At the end of the meal, I didn't know whether it was the tomato soup that actually was the right consistency for once, the grilled cheese that reminded me of being a 6-X, or the way The Boyfriend made fun of me while I lit up his kitchen floor with a time step or two, but the meal made my day and I was laughing again.

Sometimes it takes some comfort food (and these recipes are winners in that category.) But most times, it takes someone you love telling you to stop taking yourself too seriously to knock the crabbiness out of you. Cristine, here's a comforting recipe for you, Kevin and the watermelon that should have you thinking nothing but happy thoughts!

Tomato Soup for 2 (Adapted from Smitten Kitchen)
Ingredients
1 28-ounce can whole tomatoes packed in juice, drained, juice reserved
2 teaspoons brown sugar
3 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 large shallot, minced
1 1/2 teaspoons tomato paste
1 tablespoon all-purpose flour
1 cup chicken stock
2 tablespoons heavy cream
1 tablespoon brandy
Salt

Directions
Heat oven to 450 degrees. Carefully cut open tomatoes and remove seeds with your hands. Spread halved tomatoes in one layer in the bacon pan and sprinkle with brown sugar. Roast in the oven for 20-30 minutes or until the juice has dried up. Remove from the oven and let cool.

In a medium sauce pan melt butter and add the minced shallot and tomato paste. Saute, stirring constantly, for 5 minutes or until shallot is tender. Add the flour and whisk until smooth. Gradually add the chicken stock and then the reserved tomato juice, whisking constantly. Add the roasted tomatoes and mush into the mixture. (It's okay that it's chunky at this point.)

The Boyfriend doesn't like chunks in his soup, so he was a little worried at this stage in the game.

Get out a strainer and place it over a bowl. In two rounds add the liquid mixture to the strainer and mash down the solids to drain out all the liquid. (Look at the smooth and creamy soup underneath .. oh la la!)

When you haven't been through the wedding registry process yet, you make do and find recipes without blenders!

Add the cream, add the brandy, add a little salt, and DISH UP!

Grilled Cheese for 2
Ingredients
4 slices thick white bread
Softened butter
8 slices thinly sliced cheddar cheese
6 slices thinly sliced prosciutto

Directions
Butter yo bread.
Place cheese and prosciutto in between buttered slices. (Maybe even a little Arugula!)
Toast in the bacon pan over medium heat 5-6 minutes per side.
Dip in the soup!
Be comforted.

Satisfied ... Grilled Cheese converted to Glycogens!

Bon Appetit!

Lo.