There are some people that really know how to piss you off - I mean make you mad to the point of insanity. People who make you grit your teeth; who make the latent heat on your perpetually cold body rise in your chest; who make your heart race ad infintum; who make you swallow your words when you try to talk and tear up instead. If you read my blog an article or two back, you'd think my instigators were the mean sorority girls of this world. They are not. Instead, they are the dental hygienist and dentist duo who ruined my life this morning - the discouraging, money-mongering, self-esteem-reducing, sadists straight out of Little Shop of Horrors that reduced me to the ranks of Clark Gable in a mere forty-five minutes.
Seriously, after all the advances of modern medicine, the entrance of my beautiful friend Kate into the dental profession, and the appearance of Jesse Katsopolis as the Brittany-Spears-fantasy-inducing dentist on Glee, you'd think all bad thoughts and impressions of dentists were dead. Nope - Dr. and quasi-Dr. Naper decided to put dentistry back on the to-be-feared list today.
Your thinking ... "Okay, it's not that bad. You have a couple cavities."
If only ...
Actually, I now have a four-part prognosis to correct every single vocabulary word in the dental dictionary.
In my defense, I brush three times a day. I brush my tongue. I floss. I gargle the full thirty seconds with Listerine (the minty kind.) I use a toothbrush at work!
Despite my best efforts, I still have:
"Rapidly recessing gums and a need to see a periodontist soon so he can give me gum surgery."
"Slight gingivitis which is normal right before a cleaning" (really, never heard that one before)
"Your wisdom teeth still? Here's your oral surgeon referral, although we can do the top two here."
"Plaque and tarter on said wisdom teeth."
"A need for prescription high-fluoride tooth paste."
"A chip on 7."
"Discoloration on 5."
"Oh, discoloration on 11 too ... let's get you in for bleaching."
"Crowding on the lower front ... we can talk braces."
"Cavities, pre-cavities, major erosion on 1, 2, 3, 4, 12, 13, 14, 21, 22, 23, 30, 31 ... we'll need to schedule these fillings and potential root canals right away and in three parts."
"Something seriously wrong with your diet ... what are you eating? Do you graze - that could be the problem. You should have three square meals a day and brush after every one. "
"To come back in two weeks for part one of your fillings ... here's the price ... oh and it goes over your deductible, so you'll end up needing to pay about $2,000 ... I heard your company was doing really well this year!"
So as the heat rose, my heart raced, the come-back words got lost, and my tears sprouted, I listened, nodded, signed up for my next appointment, and got more frustrated for letting the mean people of this word silence Lo yet again.
They didn't know I had a blog though - the perfect place for indiscreet venting.
First, I think y'all really need to have a pow-wow with the other health professionals of this world who tell people to eat five or six small meals a day or "to graze." Second, you're not getting any of my hard-earned money. Third, I'm getting another opinion.
And besides ... if Clark Gable could seduce Vivien Leigh and the rest of the world while his teeth were rotting, I think I'm going to be just fine.
Lo.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
The Pierogi, The Browns Fan, and Me
When the stakes are super-sized, and the outcomes short of being just that, you turn to the small wins - the things that made Super Bowl Sunday great despite a Steeler loss. Things like getting a room full of Bears fans to wave Terrible Towels, blasting "Black and Yellow" for all the neighborhood to hear, and helping Peter smoke ribs, turkey and jerky to perfection (while waving a terrible towel of course.)
Or perhaps the thing that I didn't even think possible - Silencing a die-hard Cleveland Browns fan, whose innate mission in life is to hate the Steelers, during the game, then ultimately having him congratulate me on a great season afterward.
What?...
This is a guy who came over in the closest thing he had to green and yellow just to spite me; who threatened to throw away my terrible towel when my spastic waving of it brushed against his leg; and who calls Hines Ward the dirtiest player in the NFL (um, how could he be with that loving smile?) At half time though, the taunts and jests were no more. Perhaps it was the Steelers rally or my very visible and vocal distaste for his lack of Steel-town enthusiasm. But I prefer to think it was something else - it was the Pierogi - that delectable, delicious, characteristic Pittsburgh food, that injected the Browns fan's heart with a little soft spot for my hometown.
The Pierogi is a compelling character. I grew up knowing about him, but never making or eating him. I had seen his magic before - the way a simple potato dumpling, pan fried in butter and onions, could transform the mood and perspective of the person bonding with him. But until Super Bowl Sunday, I had never truly befriended him.
My babysitter Debbie tried to get me to eat Haluski and Pierogi with her on several occasions. They were foods that were a part of her heritage, but foreign from the German-Irish-Croatian-Joy-of-Cooking fusion meals normally served at our dinner table. She would bring leftovers from her home to ours, reheat them, try to get me to eat them for lunch with her, make me a chicken patty sandwich instead, and then take me out to the porch for story time. While she ate her lunch and I ate mine, she would tell me about her family. Particularly, about her Haluski and Pierogi-eating nieces, whose names all ending in 'Anns' - Bree-Ann, Dee-Ann, Le-Ann - and how they could do cartwheels with no hands. For a girl who could do a mediocre somersault at best, this was pure genius. And I thought, "Wow ... There has to be something in those dumplings."
Pierogies also sparked a great amount of spirit at my high school. Well, they actually produced a great amount of spirit in my friend Dana, who basically provided 75% of the school's pomp - but same thing. Pierogies were a staple in my school's hot lunch program. And my friend Dana, a true believer in the power and taste profile of the potato filled treat, used to skip around school yelling "Hogie, Stogie, Pierogi" when she could smell the butter melting and onions frying in the cafeteria. I can still hear her and it still makes me laugh. And weird as it was - that odd chant got the whole school laughing and excited for Pierogi day with her.
Pierogies are a simple food - one that you wouldn't necessarily think of as high-end or gourmet - not something that would be served in a house with five-star service, food, and amenities. But my former boss, who always exceeded five stars, used to make pierogies every Christmas with her family. She would take a whole day to recreate a recipe passed down through the generations of her family. She would produce a bounty and freeze about 3/4 of them. While I was working for her, I had the opportunity to be in the kitchen as Michael Chiarello, Jacques Pepin, and Bill Fuller prepared dinner for guests at the house on separate occasions. But never, ever did the house look and smell as good as when flour, potatoes, butter and cabbage were dusted and smeared around her beautiful kitchen.
So with thoughts of the stories, spirit, and simple goodness of the pierogi - with the belief in its ability to bring good fortune to those who eat him - I set out to make some from scratch on Super Bowl Sunday - to bring a Pittsburgh tradition to Naperville. After sifting through several recipes online, I went for a very traditional one that I found on MomoFukuFor2.com (make sure to read comment 23!) And it did the trick. It was a pretty easy trick too. Basically a 5 step process:
1. Make the dough.
2. Make the mashed potato filling.
3. Roll out, cut, and fill the dough. (Okay, that's three or four steps)
4. Boil the cute little dumplings.
5. Pan fry them in butter and onions.
Dish up. Grab a fork. Dig in. Delish. So full. So Quick. So quiet ... So ...
What was that, "great throw Ben?!"
And what was that ... "Great catch Hines?!"
Oh ... and "Great touchdown Hines?!"
I think the Pittsburgh Pierogi n'at has spoken ... and amazingly enough, it spoke through a Cleveland Browns fan!
To my Steelers - great season. We have six and seven will come soon enough. (Sooner than anyone else.)
To my Pierogi professors - those are some satisfying dumplings!
Lo.
What?...
This is a guy who came over in the closest thing he had to green and yellow just to spite me; who threatened to throw away my terrible towel when my spastic waving of it brushed against his leg; and who calls Hines Ward the dirtiest player in the NFL (um, how could he be with that loving smile?) At half time though, the taunts and jests were no more. Perhaps it was the Steelers rally or my very visible and vocal distaste for his lack of Steel-town enthusiasm. But I prefer to think it was something else - it was the Pierogi - that delectable, delicious, characteristic Pittsburgh food, that injected the Browns fan's heart with a little soft spot for my hometown.
The Pierogi is a compelling character. I grew up knowing about him, but never making or eating him. I had seen his magic before - the way a simple potato dumpling, pan fried in butter and onions, could transform the mood and perspective of the person bonding with him. But until Super Bowl Sunday, I had never truly befriended him.
My babysitter Debbie tried to get me to eat Haluski and Pierogi with her on several occasions. They were foods that were a part of her heritage, but foreign from the German-Irish-Croatian-Joy-of-Cooking fusion meals normally served at our dinner table. She would bring leftovers from her home to ours, reheat them, try to get me to eat them for lunch with her, make me a chicken patty sandwich instead, and then take me out to the porch for story time. While she ate her lunch and I ate mine, she would tell me about her family. Particularly, about her Haluski and Pierogi-eating nieces, whose names all ending in 'Anns' - Bree-Ann, Dee-Ann, Le-Ann - and how they could do cartwheels with no hands. For a girl who could do a mediocre somersault at best, this was pure genius. And I thought, "Wow ... There has to be something in those dumplings."
Pierogies also sparked a great amount of spirit at my high school. Well, they actually produced a great amount of spirit in my friend Dana, who basically provided 75% of the school's pomp - but same thing. Pierogies were a staple in my school's hot lunch program. And my friend Dana, a true believer in the power and taste profile of the potato filled treat, used to skip around school yelling "Hogie, Stogie, Pierogi" when she could smell the butter melting and onions frying in the cafeteria. I can still hear her and it still makes me laugh. And weird as it was - that odd chant got the whole school laughing and excited for Pierogi day with her.
Pierogies are a simple food - one that you wouldn't necessarily think of as high-end or gourmet - not something that would be served in a house with five-star service, food, and amenities. But my former boss, who always exceeded five stars, used to make pierogies every Christmas with her family. She would take a whole day to recreate a recipe passed down through the generations of her family. She would produce a bounty and freeze about 3/4 of them. While I was working for her, I had the opportunity to be in the kitchen as Michael Chiarello, Jacques Pepin, and Bill Fuller prepared dinner for guests at the house on separate occasions. But never, ever did the house look and smell as good as when flour, potatoes, butter and cabbage were dusted and smeared around her beautiful kitchen.
So with thoughts of the stories, spirit, and simple goodness of the pierogi - with the belief in its ability to bring good fortune to those who eat him - I set out to make some from scratch on Super Bowl Sunday - to bring a Pittsburgh tradition to Naperville. After sifting through several recipes online, I went for a very traditional one that I found on MomoFukuFor2.com (make sure to read comment 23!) And it did the trick. It was a pretty easy trick too. Basically a 5 step process:
1. Make the dough.
2. Make the mashed potato filling.
3. Roll out, cut, and fill the dough. (Okay, that's three or four steps)
4. Boil the cute little dumplings.
5. Pan fry them in butter and onions.
What was that, "great throw Ben?!"
And what was that ... "Great catch Hines?!"
Oh ... and "Great touchdown Hines?!"
I think the Pittsburgh Pierogi n'at has spoken ... and amazingly enough, it spoke through a Cleveland Browns fan!
To my Steelers - great season. We have six and seven will come soon enough. (Sooner than anyone else.)
To my Pierogi professors - those are some satisfying dumplings!
Lo.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Bring on the Snow Days
When you're in grade school, you have a carefree Summer vacation to anticipate.
When you reach high school and summers are no longer breaks, but opportunities to build your resume, you cherish spring break.
When you're a lacrosse playing collegiate, and the likes of Spring and Summer respites go by the wayside, you look forward to those first two weeks of school when don't have practice, and the only conditioning you need to do involves your liver.
When you're a young employee in the digital era of corporate America, you get ten vacation days, a floating holiday, and several sick days. But they don't entirely feel like breaks because they carry the burden and vibrations of a blackberry that permanently connects you with office.
But if you live and work in one of the snow-bound cities of this great nation, you do have the potential for a snow day - the kind of snow day that hopefully causes network outages and dis-connectivity.
And this Wednesday, as good luck, severe weather patterns, and kind HR departments would have it, we got just that - a SNOW DAY! Two feet of the fluffy white stuff fell on Chicagoland between Tuesday afternoon and Wednesday morning, complete with a newly defined phenomenon called "thunder snow," 70-mile per hour blizzard winds, white-out conditions, and an urgent system message from management on Tuesday telling employees to get in their cars, head home and stay home for the day. On Wednesday around 4 AM, I checked the blinking red light on my blackberry, and realized the dream of young corporate employees with a mere two weeks of vacation had come true - the office was closed and the network was down!
So ... What do you do on a snow day? A snow day where you are caught somewhere in between being a kid and having kids of your own. You don't need to stare glassy-eyed at the continuous loop of school closures on KDKA News to see if "St. Edmund's" or "The Ellis School" make their appearances and your day. You don't have to help your dad shovel, console your mother that it's okay she misses a day of work, or wait till everyone's ready to go play in the mountains of snow. You also don't have to bundle up your own kids and strategically plan a day of snowy activities to prevent the onset of cabin fever.
You do sleep in. (Okay, for me sleeping in makes wake-up time about 6:30 AM instead of 5:30, but that's still an extra hour.) Then you dig out with your neighbors while comparing stories about the sites and sounds of the night before.
After that, while the macho men of Naperville handle their snow blowers like machine guns, waging a heroic recovery mission for their trophy wives who desperately need to get to their pilates/yoga/barre fusion class, you frolick down the abandoned main streets of Naperville - streets that are usually bustling with people eager to run the girl in the yellow Ben Roethlisberger hat off the road. You soak up the silence and the apocalyptic feeling of having the world to yourself.
You get a little too cold, so you rush back home to nestle up and read a book. You do try to work, but Travel Link is down and you can't access the majority of your files, so instead you look outside at the beckoning fresh snow, and decide your efforts are fruitless and bound around once again.
You need some food and beverage so you drive around town until you find a place that's open. But apparently Malloy's Fine Wine and Spirits is the only store that found value in doing business on the snow day - so you give him your support and realize you'll have to work with what's in the refrigerator.
You dig a pathway to the grill.
You grill mean strip steaks from Kansas City - Frozen Christmas presents that were strategically defrosted the night before.
You watch a movie, you talk, you drink wine, you laugh.
You relish the time you have together - post-childhood, pre-parenthood, somewhere in between - when snow days are just about you, your fiance, and the snowy memories you share.
Lo.
When you reach high school and summers are no longer breaks, but opportunities to build your resume, you cherish spring break.
When you're a lacrosse playing collegiate, and the likes of Spring and Summer respites go by the wayside, you look forward to those first two weeks of school when don't have practice, and the only conditioning you need to do involves your liver.
When you're a young employee in the digital era of corporate America, you get ten vacation days, a floating holiday, and several sick days. But they don't entirely feel like breaks because they carry the burden and vibrations of a blackberry that permanently connects you with office.
But if you live and work in one of the snow-bound cities of this great nation, you do have the potential for a snow day - the kind of snow day that hopefully causes network outages and dis-connectivity.
And this Wednesday, as good luck, severe weather patterns, and kind HR departments would have it, we got just that - a SNOW DAY! Two feet of the fluffy white stuff fell on Chicagoland between Tuesday afternoon and Wednesday morning, complete with a newly defined phenomenon called "thunder snow," 70-mile per hour blizzard winds, white-out conditions, and an urgent system message from management on Tuesday telling employees to get in their cars, head home and stay home for the day. On Wednesday around 4 AM, I checked the blinking red light on my blackberry, and realized the dream of young corporate employees with a mere two weeks of vacation had come true - the office was closed and the network was down!
So ... What do you do on a snow day? A snow day where you are caught somewhere in between being a kid and having kids of your own. You don't need to stare glassy-eyed at the continuous loop of school closures on KDKA News to see if "St. Edmund's" or "The Ellis School" make their appearances and your day. You don't have to help your dad shovel, console your mother that it's okay she misses a day of work, or wait till everyone's ready to go play in the mountains of snow. You also don't have to bundle up your own kids and strategically plan a day of snowy activities to prevent the onset of cabin fever.
You do sleep in. (Okay, for me sleeping in makes wake-up time about 6:30 AM instead of 5:30, but that's still an extra hour.) Then you dig out with your neighbors while comparing stories about the sites and sounds of the night before.
 |
| The very first thing that is cleared in Naperville is always the River Walk. Forget about the streets ... save the River Walk! |
You dig a pathway to the grill.
You watch a movie, you talk, you drink wine, you laugh.
You relish the time you have together - post-childhood, pre-parenthood, somewhere in between - when snow days are just about you, your fiance, and the snowy memories you share.
Lo.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Becoming Aunt Lo
There are some women put on this Earth to humble you. No matter how amazing you look (or think you look) when you walk out the door, these women will always make you second guess yourself. They are the Natashas of Carrie Bradshaws world; the Sophia Vergara's of Julie's Bowen's world; and the sorority girls of my world. They are the perfectly coifed, manicured, dressed, and behaved princesses that tend to kill the confidence I've been trying to build over a lifetime.
They wake up with good hair.
They have sample size feet.
When their weight fluctuates, it's within a pound or two of their naturally slight frame.
They never go back for seconds.
They always cross their legs at the ankle.
And ... they never toot.
Then there are my aunts - Ten women who I swear were put on this Earth to tell me that those perfect girls are "un." They were put on this Earth to make sure their niece continued to be pumped up and proud of who she was. Since I was teething, they were always there with a compliment, a hug, a prayer, a "yeah!", an "aloha" or an "arriba!" They are ten blessings who encourage me to speak my mind, eat more, continue to buy shoes when I can't afford them, live an adventure everyday, celebrate the small stuff, cry when necessary, and drink as much champagne as possible.
My aunts range from crazy to conservative. Each has a unique personality and each has contributed to the depth and shape of my character. I wouldn't be the same Lo without them. So when someone referred to me as soon-to-be Aunt Lo during my soon-to-be sister-in-law's baby shower on Saturday, I realized that I had some big shoes to fill. I was soon going to have to be the best kind of Aunt to my baby niece that I could be - the kind of Aunt that I had ten times over.
Aunt Lo.
I'm going to be an Aunt ...
What kind of Aunt am I going to be?
The kind that always has the cutest miniature cookies in her freezer?
... that throws the best Notre Dame tailgates with the best pulled pork sandwiches?
... that regales her niece with beautiful jewelry and thoughtful cards?
... that lets her know what's "un" and not "un" - who's a loser and who's not?
... that calls her Senorita and teaches her romantic languages and the stories that go along with them?
... that is willing to spear flirtatious young man with an umbrella while calling herself Captain Ahab, all in a masterful attempt to let her know that she should wait for the older, more mature boy?
... that brings Italia to the family?
... that sings at her wedding someday?
... that tells her to follow her dreams and to live Aloha?
... that makes the most beautiful multi-layered cakes for each of her birthdays?
Okay, I'm never going to be as awesome as my Aunts. But the realization of becoming Aunt Lo is kind of like thinking about what kind of woman I want to be, and what kind of woman I want to help shape. Do I want to be the kind of Aunt that tells her niece to follow the norms - the prescriptions of what womanhood is all about? Or do I want to take what my Aunts taught me - lessons of independence, unconventional love, and rip-roaring laughter - and give them to my niece in my own special way? ... I'm vying for the second choice.
It's a tough era and world in which to raise a girl. And I know how many mean (and nice) girls are out there waiting for their next victim. But Baby Pink, you can rest assured that you will have an out-spoken Aunt - the next generation of a legacy of top-notch Aunts - who will always have your back, and tell you that there is nothing better than being you. Some days you might get a little Aunt Kay and others you'll get pure Aunt Ann. But I promise that Aunt Lo will always have good food ready for you when come over; she'll always let you go back for seconds (and eat off the serving dish); she'll send you hand written cards in the mail on a regular basis; And she'll always, always give you plenty of "YEAHS!" when those perfect girls are giving you doubts.
To Aunt Ann, Aunt Connie, Aunt Barb, Aunt Dee-Dee, Aunt Meg, Aunt Chrissy, Aunt Kay, Aunt Amy, Aunt Beth and Aunt Joyce - Thank you.
Lo.
They wake up with good hair.
They have sample size feet.
When their weight fluctuates, it's within a pound or two of their naturally slight frame.
They never go back for seconds.
They always cross their legs at the ankle.
And ... they never toot.
Then there are my aunts - Ten women who I swear were put on this Earth to tell me that those perfect girls are "un." They were put on this Earth to make sure their niece continued to be pumped up and proud of who she was. Since I was teething, they were always there with a compliment, a hug, a prayer, a "yeah!", an "aloha" or an "arriba!" They are ten blessings who encourage me to speak my mind, eat more, continue to buy shoes when I can't afford them, live an adventure everyday, celebrate the small stuff, cry when necessary, and drink as much champagne as possible.
My aunts range from crazy to conservative. Each has a unique personality and each has contributed to the depth and shape of my character. I wouldn't be the same Lo without them. So when someone referred to me as soon-to-be Aunt Lo during my soon-to-be sister-in-law's baby shower on Saturday, I realized that I had some big shoes to fill. I was soon going to have to be the best kind of Aunt to my baby niece that I could be - the kind of Aunt that I had ten times over.
Aunt Lo.
I'm going to be an Aunt ...
What kind of Aunt am I going to be?
The kind that always has the cutest miniature cookies in her freezer?
... that throws the best Notre Dame tailgates with the best pulled pork sandwiches?
... that regales her niece with beautiful jewelry and thoughtful cards?
... that lets her know what's "un" and not "un" - who's a loser and who's not?
... that calls her Senorita and teaches her romantic languages and the stories that go along with them?
... that is willing to spear flirtatious young man with an umbrella while calling herself Captain Ahab, all in a masterful attempt to let her know that she should wait for the older, more mature boy?
... that brings Italia to the family?
... that sings at her wedding someday?
... that tells her to follow her dreams and to live Aloha?
... that makes the most beautiful multi-layered cakes for each of her birthdays?
Okay, I'm never going to be as awesome as my Aunts. But the realization of becoming Aunt Lo is kind of like thinking about what kind of woman I want to be, and what kind of woman I want to help shape. Do I want to be the kind of Aunt that tells her niece to follow the norms - the prescriptions of what womanhood is all about? Or do I want to take what my Aunts taught me - lessons of independence, unconventional love, and rip-roaring laughter - and give them to my niece in my own special way? ... I'm vying for the second choice.
It's a tough era and world in which to raise a girl. And I know how many mean (and nice) girls are out there waiting for their next victim. But Baby Pink, you can rest assured that you will have an out-spoken Aunt - the next generation of a legacy of top-notch Aunts - who will always have your back, and tell you that there is nothing better than being you. Some days you might get a little Aunt Kay and others you'll get pure Aunt Ann. But I promise that Aunt Lo will always have good food ready for you when come over; she'll always let you go back for seconds (and eat off the serving dish); she'll send you hand written cards in the mail on a regular basis; And she'll always, always give you plenty of "YEAHS!" when those perfect girls are giving you doubts.
To Aunt Ann, Aunt Connie, Aunt Barb, Aunt Dee-Dee, Aunt Meg, Aunt Chrissy, Aunt Kay, Aunt Amy, Aunt Beth and Aunt Joyce - Thank you.
Lo.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Practing Aloha
Last Thursday Peter and I took a day trip from our hotel in Wailea to the historic whaling port of Lahaina. Unlike the rest of my family, I hadn't been a very diligent Fodor Guide student throughout the vacation, so while Peter drove along the shore, I caught up by reading about the culture, people, history, climates and food of Maui.
After injecting myself with new found knowledge, and after Peter injected himself with a Musubi snack (a local favorite of fried spam and rice, wrapped in nori) at a roadside mom and pop shop, Peter and I set out to put the information we had garnered to use.
When we arrived I rattled off our itinerary and started reading about the different landmarks as we passed them, Fodor guide still in hand.
Peter, wait ... you have to hear about this one ... This is the Baldwin home - This is the place where over 10,000 natives were inoculated of small pox!
I got the look. The stop it look. The we're on vacation, please calm down, and please don't pull out that Fodor Guide again look.
So I put it away. And instead used my eyes and ears to shape my own travel experience. We walked up and down Front street - an endless row of two story buildings famous for their art galleries, restaurants and melange of shops that range from t-shirt to designer in nature. The buildings are laced with double porches built will a colonial influence. If you look up and focus on the second register, you can see the city as it was originally - a whaling boom town and the first capital of the newly united Kingdom of Hawaii. We saw the biggest banyan tree in the world, the old courthouse, the harbor, the old church and cemetery where the first monarchs are buried, and the Maui Jim headquarters where Peter got a brand new pair of sunglasses to replace his broken ones for free.
After moseying around town, we let our stomachs guide us to lunch - a little spot called Mala Ocean Tavern that I had read about in The Guide. They had described it as a charming, low-key restaurant, with an unbeatable view and owned by one of the original island chefs, Mark Ellman. We walked the extra mile or so to get there, set to the "I'm hot, sweaty, and hungry" whines that evaded me, and to the "don't be a pooper" replies from Peter. When we found it, sat down, and looked out onto the sea right next to us, the humpback whales in the distance, and the islands of Linai and Molakai framing the picture, I knew I never wanted to leave. I knew I never wanted this lunch that had just begun to end. It was perfection - and every sip, bite, and site throughout the next two hours was just that and more.
On our table, in the bathroom, and on the shirts of the servers was a saying - the title of Mark Ellman's new book - Practice Aloha. I had read about the culture of Aloha in the Guide - the culture of peace, grace, tranquility and above all sharing - sharing life and its experiences with others. Ellman's book consists of vignettes describing how a variety of Hawaiians embrace the Aloha spirit in different ways. As we sat there I knew we were practicing aloha to its fullest and I could see us being woven into the tapestry of Aloha vignettes. But then I thought and wondered how my vignette would play out on the stressed out mainland. How would I practice aloha when I got back? It didn't matter ... it was two days and a world away. I let the thought go.
Today, I'm back. Back to early rising, bundling up for the cold, gray weather, and putting up a shell to shield me against the non-Aloha embracing people of Chicagoland - people that don't know how to share the road, let alone their lives with others. It's sad. I'm sad. So sad that I cried in the bathroom while packing up on Saturday. But somehow those tears didn't resurface when I got home. It could have been the distraction of the Steelers win on Sunday and their ensuing trip to the Superbowl ... but honestly, I think it's something more. I think I successfully brought a little Aloha home with me.
And last night I brought it to the dinner table. I took Peter and I back to Capisce, the beautiful, open-aired restaurant we went to on the last night of the trip. The scene of a formal family dinner, complete with a sentimental toast to my parents 35th anniversary. I had ordered Mannilla clams over a bed of spaghetti for dinner, but drat, they were out of those clams. So I switched to an equally delicious seared Ahi choice. I was still craving the clams though, so last night I made them. It took a little help from Food and Wine, a little Japanese influence, and a bit of Aloha patience, but I was able to bring Peter and I back to Hawaii after a long first-day back to work with a bowl of Clams with spicy pancetta and sweet vermouth over soba noodles,
As Peter tapped his home-brewed Porter, I sipped a glass of Sauvignon Blanc, and we delved into the dish, we were both practicing Aloha in the frozen city of Naperville just as well as we had at Mala.
Lo.
After injecting myself with new found knowledge, and after Peter injected himself with a Musubi snack (a local favorite of fried spam and rice, wrapped in nori) at a roadside mom and pop shop, Peter and I set out to put the information we had garnered to use.
Peter, wait ... you have to hear about this one ... This is the Baldwin home - This is the place where over 10,000 natives were inoculated of small pox!
I got the look. The stop it look. The we're on vacation, please calm down, and please don't pull out that Fodor Guide again look.
So I put it away. And instead used my eyes and ears to shape my own travel experience. We walked up and down Front street - an endless row of two story buildings famous for their art galleries, restaurants and melange of shops that range from t-shirt to designer in nature. The buildings are laced with double porches built will a colonial influence. If you look up and focus on the second register, you can see the city as it was originally - a whaling boom town and the first capital of the newly united Kingdom of Hawaii. We saw the biggest banyan tree in the world, the old courthouse, the harbor, the old church and cemetery where the first monarchs are buried, and the Maui Jim headquarters where Peter got a brand new pair of sunglasses to replace his broken ones for free.
Today, I'm back. Back to early rising, bundling up for the cold, gray weather, and putting up a shell to shield me against the non-Aloha embracing people of Chicagoland - people that don't know how to share the road, let alone their lives with others. It's sad. I'm sad. So sad that I cried in the bathroom while packing up on Saturday. But somehow those tears didn't resurface when I got home. It could have been the distraction of the Steelers win on Sunday and their ensuing trip to the Superbowl ... but honestly, I think it's something more. I think I successfully brought a little Aloha home with me.
And last night I brought it to the dinner table. I took Peter and I back to Capisce, the beautiful, open-aired restaurant we went to on the last night of the trip. The scene of a formal family dinner, complete with a sentimental toast to my parents 35th anniversary. I had ordered Mannilla clams over a bed of spaghetti for dinner, but drat, they were out of those clams. So I switched to an equally delicious seared Ahi choice. I was still craving the clams though, so last night I made them. It took a little help from Food and Wine, a little Japanese influence, and a bit of Aloha patience, but I was able to bring Peter and I back to Hawaii after a long first-day back to work with a bowl of Clams with spicy pancetta and sweet vermouth over soba noodles,
Lo.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Maui Wowie
My parents had their 35th on January 3, Peter is still around, and this past Saturday, my family boarded planes in Pittsburgh, Chicago and Milwaukee to begin a week-long celebration in Maui. We've made it over half-way through our vacation in paradise, and man, am I glad that Peter, lover of the ocean, island adventure, and fish, is more 'around' than ever.
Maui at this time of year has a very targeted demographic. There are a few honeymooners. There are a few families with small children. (They are those families that pull their children out of school for an extended holiday weekend so they can vacation - those families that I was fiercely jealous of growing up.) But the majority of people here are 55-65 year-old white couples. This is not the place for singles. And while I have always been an independent spirit and one who can easily find solitary fun, this is a place for partner activities. And with each of my family members partnered up, I know I wouldn't have had as much fun or learned as much if Peter, my partner, wasn't around.
In the water...
Peter isn't just a fisherman, he is a fish. The moment we arrived, he changed into his swimsuit, ran into the Pacific, and fiercely attacked the waves as the sun set. I on the other hand am less fish-like and rather tentative in salt water. I'm good in the pool - My freestyle has been described as graceful, I won several backstroke events at Calvary Camp's annual swim meet, and I actually beat Peter in a breast stroke race the other day. But the ocean is definitely not my natural element. I feel that I have a tremendous disadvantage to the wildlife all around me and that at any moment a creature, whether it be a great white or a sand dollar, will attack, sting, eat, grab, or drown me.
On Monday we went snorkeling. I've snorkeled a couple times in the past, but this snorkeling trip was a little different. The boat parked near a cliff where the water plunged to 250 feet deep. We were told to get off the boat and swim with the fish. Now in the ocean, I'm pretty bad at 5 feet, so 250 feet seemed like the end of the earth. I got in the water with my snorkel, mask and flippers … and panicked. I looked down into the endless deep blue ocean, gagged on about 8 ounces of salt water and panicked again. Peter stuck close by though. He held my hand to get my heart rate down; he cleaned out my snorkel so I didn't continue swallowing sea water; and he made sure I didn't get eaten alive by the giant lobster scaling the sea wall or the big fish that were bound to be in the depths of the water below me.
When I relaxed and opened my eyes, I saw beauty – magical beauty that you can't find on the land: Reefs that grew all the way to the sea floor; fish the colors of the rainbow; my legs as fins that were able to keep pace with the fish for a minute or two. In the end I became more comfortable, less afraid of the unknown.
On the volcano...
Yesterday we drove 37 miles up the 10,000 foot mountain of Haleakala. Peter drove the distance while I slowly got more nauseated around each turn and level of elevation.
When we neared the summit, Peter made me forget about the pangs I felt in my right ear from the various pops it suffered along the car ride. We ran up the craggy black rocks and started down again into the crater that the volcanic eruption had created thousands of years ago. I looked onto the red earth sprawling out inside the valleys and the black rocks tumbling down the slopes around us. There was a cloud slowly rising up the hill, progressively blocking our pristine view and blowing a fierce chill that I was not appropriately dressed for into my face. I turned to Peter and said, “this feels like the apocalypse - the end of the earth.” He said no, this feels like the beginning.
True scientist. I guess that was how the Earth started. Without Peter around I only would have seen one perspective, and I would have bolted back into the car to warm up. But Peter showed me that ominous can actually be romantic.
Around the dinner table...
My family – the group here celebrating my parents’ 35th wedding anniversary – thinks they are hysterical. (And rightly so, we are pretty funny.) However, the large majority of our comedy is internal in subject matter and theme, incomprehensible to the outsider, and shared before, over and after dinner. The root of our jokes tends to be each other. It occasionally shifts to odd surrounding players - for instance on this vacation, the three inappropriate teenagers at the resort or the natives that wouldn't let our catamaran unload on their beach forcing us to do a D-Day style operation on another rougher beach - but for the most part, we are the butt of our own jokes. The observer might view our comedic hours as a bit harsh, but our thick skins always brush off the humor in good spirit.
Occasionally I need a break from my character within these comedic routines though - I need a moment to remove myself from the banter. Last night, I needed such a break. I needed some reflective, dramatic Lo time, and if Peter weren't around, my time-out would have been seen as antisocial, crabby, and rude. It also probably wouldn't have been that effective. But a break with Peter is restorative - ultimately allowing me to be a wittier contributor, better sport, and more fun sister, daughter and friend the next day.
It's true, I would have had a wonderful time without Peter in Hawaii, and each of my family members would have been there for me when I needed a partner. My Dad would have swum with me over the depths of the ocean (but we probably both would have panicked.) My brother would have been there to race to the top of the volcano with me and assure me that it wasn't the end of the earth. And my Mom or sister would have been there with a serious conversation as I wallowed in my self-imposed time-out from comedy hour. But sometimes there's nothing like Peter as a partner to turn Maui into Maui Wowie.
Lo.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Help
How about just 'Help.'
Help?
Help ...
Help!
That's it.
We'll call it 'Help.'
A perfect name for a perfect January read.
And a perfect read for a less than perfect week when I needed just that, help!
After wearing out my new accessory, I bought and wore out four more. First, I made it through the sequel, The Girl that Played with Fire. It had a similar effect and I got a little tired of the same comments that it sparked. So instead of going for the immediate trifecta, I looked for something a little more cozy. A Year in Provence was just that, and along with it I played out the Frenchy in me, the countryside, comfort food, and escapist travel literature. Feeling a little too provincial after awhile, I delved into the fast paced and semi-fraudulent Manhattan art world via Steve Martin's new book, An Object of Beauty. I rode the waves of the speculative art market with an aspiring gallerina, until her superficial and fleeting world, became too tiresome. And finally, this past week, on a cold Tuesday morning, after five days of proudly toting it to and from work, opening it up at the gym, boarding planes with it, and curling up in my big chair to read it, I put The Help to rest.
Of all five, The Help was my favorite accessory. It was beautiful - from the homes to the characters who lived in them; from the sorrow to the comedy; from the nail-biting tension to the joyous festivity, it was a delicious book and I just devoured it. I devoured every word and theme. I tried to read slowly and savor every last page, but my excitement got the better of me, and I feasted through faster and faster as the plot unfolded. If you haven't read it, I highly recommend it.
Beyond that though, The Help came to me at a time when I needed a pick me up - when I needed the example of some strong women to lighten the load. I needed to hear about their ability to overcome adversity, love life despite its downfalls, and find strength in each other. I actually started to think throughout this past week that all I ever really need to know in life, I could learn from reading this book. Let's see ...
I learned how to fry chicken with Minny and Celia.
I learned how to cure common household problems from Miss Myrna.
I learned how to stand up to sorority girls that I will never be as pretty and put together as.
I learned to follow my passion for writing about things that are important to me.
And I learned that no matter what the world tells me, I am strong. I am good. I am important.
When 3-year old Mae Mobley says just that at the end of the book to Aibeleen, I got teary eyed while reading the words on a treadmill at the gym.
Aibeleen seeds this essential knowledge onto her Baby Girl from the day she is born. It's the kind of reinforcement we all need to remember when we look in the mirror and for one reason or another don't like ourselves. Most of us have had those days - days when we scrutinize over that thing or things that we hate about ourselves. Whether it's our hair, nose, or lips; Thighs, butt or boobs; Voice, laugh or personality, we all tend to find something.
This week, it was everything. Every thing, every one, every place, every time I saw my reflection, I kept cringing. Perhaps I had the pants-to-tight problem of the Grinch, that caused headache, bellyache, and ultimately tears, but all week long, all I kept thinking about was that I wasn't good enough.
I know I'm smart. I know for the most part, I'm honorable and well-meaning. And I know, to the people who care, I'm important. But some weeks you need that emphatic Aibeleen reinforcement to make it true all over again.
In his own way and his own words, Peter was my help on Thursday evening. He listened to my crazy banter as he worked his magic over the stove, preparing his famous Chowda (this time with the addition of salt pork, thinly sliced celery and bread bowls) ... and after dinner, at a table where the help and the missus sit together, he told me exactly what I needed to hear.
You are beautiful.
You will always be beautiful.
You will always be my honeybee.
That was the perfect dose of help to jolt me back to being confident me - a something that will help me feel like a Hawaiian Princess this week. Aloha from Maui.
Lo.
Help?
Help ...
Help!
That's it.
We'll call it 'Help.'
A perfect name for a perfect January read.
And a perfect read for a less than perfect week when I needed just that, help!
After wearing out my new accessory, I bought and wore out four more. First, I made it through the sequel, The Girl that Played with Fire. It had a similar effect and I got a little tired of the same comments that it sparked. So instead of going for the immediate trifecta, I looked for something a little more cozy. A Year in Provence was just that, and along with it I played out the Frenchy in me, the countryside, comfort food, and escapist travel literature. Feeling a little too provincial after awhile, I delved into the fast paced and semi-fraudulent Manhattan art world via Steve Martin's new book, An Object of Beauty. I rode the waves of the speculative art market with an aspiring gallerina, until her superficial and fleeting world, became too tiresome. And finally, this past week, on a cold Tuesday morning, after five days of proudly toting it to and from work, opening it up at the gym, boarding planes with it, and curling up in my big chair to read it, I put The Help to rest.
Of all five, The Help was my favorite accessory. It was beautiful - from the homes to the characters who lived in them; from the sorrow to the comedy; from the nail-biting tension to the joyous festivity, it was a delicious book and I just devoured it. I devoured every word and theme. I tried to read slowly and savor every last page, but my excitement got the better of me, and I feasted through faster and faster as the plot unfolded. If you haven't read it, I highly recommend it.
Beyond that though, The Help came to me at a time when I needed a pick me up - when I needed the example of some strong women to lighten the load. I needed to hear about their ability to overcome adversity, love life despite its downfalls, and find strength in each other. I actually started to think throughout this past week that all I ever really need to know in life, I could learn from reading this book. Let's see ...
I learned how to fry chicken with Minny and Celia.
I learned how to cure common household problems from Miss Myrna.
I learned how to stand up to sorority girls that I will never be as pretty and put together as.
I learned to follow my passion for writing about things that are important to me.
And I learned that no matter what the world tells me, I am strong. I am good. I am important.
When 3-year old Mae Mobley says just that at the end of the book to Aibeleen, I got teary eyed while reading the words on a treadmill at the gym.
Aibeleen seeds this essential knowledge onto her Baby Girl from the day she is born. It's the kind of reinforcement we all need to remember when we look in the mirror and for one reason or another don't like ourselves. Most of us have had those days - days when we scrutinize over that thing or things that we hate about ourselves. Whether it's our hair, nose, or lips; Thighs, butt or boobs; Voice, laugh or personality, we all tend to find something.
This week, it was everything. Every thing, every one, every place, every time I saw my reflection, I kept cringing. Perhaps I had the pants-to-tight problem of the Grinch, that caused headache, bellyache, and ultimately tears, but all week long, all I kept thinking about was that I wasn't good enough.
I know I'm smart. I know for the most part, I'm honorable and well-meaning. And I know, to the people who care, I'm important. But some weeks you need that emphatic Aibeleen reinforcement to make it true all over again.
In his own way and his own words, Peter was my help on Thursday evening. He listened to my crazy banter as he worked his magic over the stove, preparing his famous Chowda (this time with the addition of salt pork, thinly sliced celery and bread bowls) ... and after dinner, at a table where the help and the missus sit together, he told me exactly what I needed to hear.
You are beautiful.
You will always be beautiful.
You will always be my honeybee.
That was the perfect dose of help to jolt me back to being confident me - a something that will help me feel like a Hawaiian Princess this week. Aloha from Maui.
Lo.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
A Portrait of 702
I am no photographer, but I love photographs. I especially love all the ones I have taken and collected of my friends and family. These photos weave together characters, places, and stories that make up some of my favorite memories.
As you walk into and around my apartment, you will see photographs everywhere - on my bulletin board, in picture frames, hanging on my walls, clipped to magnets on my refrigerator, and throughout my stack of recently received cards and notes. I pride myself on trying to capture all my friends and family members in these photo displays. And honestly, Peter doesn't get that much real estate since I see him everyday. Instead, everyone that's missing from my day-to-day life right now is showcased. When you live alone, you want to bring everyone that's not there into the room with you.
So how, with that said, did I come away from my first weekend jaunt of the year without one photo? I just realized that I didn't pose for one photograph this past weekend. How is that possible when I was with eight of my best friends and wearing my very photogenic tall double-breasted Russian inspired Frye boots?
I'll tell you why.
Because I was with friends who can't be summed up in photos.
I use my photographs to recall memories - to get back the laughter that was present in a moment or to bring that person or place a little closer to my niche of Naperville. But there are some people and places that are too big for pictures - you just can't capture all that is there in one frame. My lacrosse family is like that - you can't restrain them to a 4x6 or even an 8x10. (Well, I guess there were a couple moments that needed photos, and Kristen, I promise I won't post the best one.) But for the most part, our memories, laughs, tears, celebrations and hugs are so rich that I don't need photos for them.
We were together this weekend for an unlikely circumstance - an event that I don't think any of us were prepared for. But we were together. And despite the sorrow, we laughed. We told stories in a circle around the fireplace at Kassen's house, creating a symphony of contagious laughter that promises the best stomach workout ever. You can't put the stories that Meredith and Abby tell, the subtle glance or eye roll that Kristen gives me, the awkward comment that Caylan says, the spastic reenactments that Kinnik puts on, the angry eyebrows of Bridget, the hysterical inserted one-liner from Mia, the absolute grace and poise of Kassen, and the questioning looks given to us by our parents and significant others into a picture.
If there was a picture from this weekend it would be like my favorite photo of us that sits on my desk at work. It was taken during Halloween our senior year of college. We had dressed up in Mrs. Simon-made girl scout uniforms and called ourselves Troop 702. None of us is looking at the camera. Each of us is in character - our unique, but complementary characters. I can hear each of us still talking and laughing in that picture and each time I chuckle with the group.
So without a picture, I think this weekend can be summed up in two lines.
In my heart forever ... 702.
In our hearts forever ... Mrs. Delano.
Lo.
As you walk into and around my apartment, you will see photographs everywhere - on my bulletin board, in picture frames, hanging on my walls, clipped to magnets on my refrigerator, and throughout my stack of recently received cards and notes. I pride myself on trying to capture all my friends and family members in these photo displays. And honestly, Peter doesn't get that much real estate since I see him everyday. Instead, everyone that's missing from my day-to-day life right now is showcased. When you live alone, you want to bring everyone that's not there into the room with you.
So how, with that said, did I come away from my first weekend jaunt of the year without one photo? I just realized that I didn't pose for one photograph this past weekend. How is that possible when I was with eight of my best friends and wearing my very photogenic tall double-breasted Russian inspired Frye boots?
I'll tell you why.
Because I was with friends who can't be summed up in photos.
I use my photographs to recall memories - to get back the laughter that was present in a moment or to bring that person or place a little closer to my niche of Naperville. But there are some people and places that are too big for pictures - you just can't capture all that is there in one frame. My lacrosse family is like that - you can't restrain them to a 4x6 or even an 8x10. (Well, I guess there were a couple moments that needed photos, and Kristen, I promise I won't post the best one.) But for the most part, our memories, laughs, tears, celebrations and hugs are so rich that I don't need photos for them.
We were together this weekend for an unlikely circumstance - an event that I don't think any of us were prepared for. But we were together. And despite the sorrow, we laughed. We told stories in a circle around the fireplace at Kassen's house, creating a symphony of contagious laughter that promises the best stomach workout ever. You can't put the stories that Meredith and Abby tell, the subtle glance or eye roll that Kristen gives me, the awkward comment that Caylan says, the spastic reenactments that Kinnik puts on, the angry eyebrows of Bridget, the hysterical inserted one-liner from Mia, the absolute grace and poise of Kassen, and the questioning looks given to us by our parents and significant others into a picture.
If there was a picture from this weekend it would be like my favorite photo of us that sits on my desk at work. It was taken during Halloween our senior year of college. We had dressed up in Mrs. Simon-made girl scout uniforms and called ourselves Troop 702. None of us is looking at the camera. Each of us is in character - our unique, but complementary characters. I can hear each of us still talking and laughing in that picture and each time I chuckle with the group.
So without a picture, I think this weekend can be summed up in two lines.
In my heart forever ... 702.
In our hearts forever ... Mrs. Delano.
Lo.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Goodbye Head Pillow
There are many steps, processes and procedures that go into a grand wedding plan. In fact, my sister-in-law got me this little blue book for my engagement that tells me what I'm supposed to organize and arrange one, two, five, seven, nine and ten months before the wedding. I'm on what, nine months out? And I am supposed to send Save the Dates, reserve venues, reserve vendors, get the dress, and get the bridesmaids dresses .. almost done, and done, done, done, done.
There are certain things they don't mention in the book that would be categorized as long-lead to-dos - all those things that are supposed to transform you into the perfect bride on your wedding day - things like making sure you are on the right path to have the perfect body, hair, nails and skin when you walk down the aisle. These things take time because they require certain lifestyle and behavior changes - changes that can take a while!
To get the perfect body - Diet and exercise. Kinda dieting, definitely exercising.
To get the perfect hair - Groom yourself. After being absent from a salon for seven months, I decided I would get a haircut next week
To get the perfect nails - stop biting them! That's going to take a wing and a prayer though.
To get the perfect skin - bring back Dr. Neiland, buy Proactive or maybe just get rid of the head pillow?
Honestly, I'm most worried about my skin right now as things aren't going so well there. And I think I may have found the culprit. But distancing myself, and finally parting from him will be very, very tough. He has been insulating, comforting and deafening me for the past seven years. He has also been suffocating my cheeks, which has given them an excuse to find breathing room in the form of rosy red blemishes, which nobody wants, bride or not. Nine-months out, I need to say goodbye to the head pillow.
So you're probably thinking, what is this head pillow thing? Why in the world do you sleep with a head pillow? Here's the story.
I used to live in a one-bedroom apartment in the South Side of Pittsburgh. It was one of five one-bedroom apartments in a converted row house right over the Birmingham Bridge. I was so excited when I first moved in - it was a little piece of the world that was just mine. I paid the rent, I bought the furniture, I stocked the refrigerator, and I controlled the volume. Within 600 square feet of the world I set the rules.
Originally, the partitioned house was inhabited by a middle-aged, flamboyant Cheesecake Factory manager, a squirrely Carnegie Mellon graduate student, a fireman and myself. There was enough distance and wall-space between my apartment and theirs that they never bothered me and I always slept like a rock.
A year later though, the tenant cycle shifted - the fireman left, Patrick's flamboyance lost its family-friendly touch, the Carnegie Mellon girl got a boyfriend, a tall, rail-thin, dark-haired, ghostly-white girl moved into the closet of an apartment right next to me, and the walls of my apartment got a lot thinner. My little part of the world suddenly conformed to a different schedule and I no longer controlled the volume.
After closing the restaurant that I managed between one and three in the morning, I would rush home and try to fall asleep quickly. While the house was quiet during the day, it came alive at night, right after I got home from work, with a cacophony of disturbing noises. Nightly, Patrick would throw drug-ridden, disco-driven raves in the apartment below me; the bar outside my window would open their back porch allowing drunk college students to pour onto it and continue their clamorous pursuit for a mate; and the ghost-girl right next door to me, would let her abusive boyfriend into the house.
Every night she would succumb to the fights, screams, and terror that he would provoke. I never saw him, but I heard everything. And because the squirelly CMU girl got a boyfriend, the fireman left, and Patrick was partying, I was alone in dealing with the nightmarish noise. For awhile I was scared to call the police or use ear plugs, because I thought he might come and get me. So, I put a pillow over my head to break up some of the noise and comfort me through the night. After one particularly rough fight, I finally called the police and my landlord ... and the police finally came and took him away.
The head pillow worked wonders though. And it continued working wonders in South Bend when I had to drown out Jimmy Clausen and his dorky, Domer girlfriends partying next door, in Naperville where I have to drown out trains outside my window, and in every big-city hotel where the sirens, cabs, and revelers play way into the early hours of the morning.
In my apartment in Naperville though, I feel safe, and the people around me are pretty quiet. So I'm thinking that ear plugs will suffice to quiet the train noise at night, which would put the head pillow to rest. And hopefully saying goodbye to him will bring perfect skin on my wedding day. But a Dr. Neiland intervention would be really nice.
Lo.
There are certain things they don't mention in the book that would be categorized as long-lead to-dos - all those things that are supposed to transform you into the perfect bride on your wedding day - things like making sure you are on the right path to have the perfect body, hair, nails and skin when you walk down the aisle. These things take time because they require certain lifestyle and behavior changes - changes that can take a while!
To get the perfect body - Diet and exercise. Kinda dieting, definitely exercising.
To get the perfect hair - Groom yourself. After being absent from a salon for seven months, I decided I would get a haircut next week
To get the perfect nails - stop biting them! That's going to take a wing and a prayer though.
To get the perfect skin - bring back Dr. Neiland, buy Proactive or maybe just get rid of the head pillow?
Honestly, I'm most worried about my skin right now as things aren't going so well there. And I think I may have found the culprit. But distancing myself, and finally parting from him will be very, very tough. He has been insulating, comforting and deafening me for the past seven years. He has also been suffocating my cheeks, which has given them an excuse to find breathing room in the form of rosy red blemishes, which nobody wants, bride or not. Nine-months out, I need to say goodbye to the head pillow.
So you're probably thinking, what is this head pillow thing? Why in the world do you sleep with a head pillow? Here's the story.
I used to live in a one-bedroom apartment in the South Side of Pittsburgh. It was one of five one-bedroom apartments in a converted row house right over the Birmingham Bridge. I was so excited when I first moved in - it was a little piece of the world that was just mine. I paid the rent, I bought the furniture, I stocked the refrigerator, and I controlled the volume. Within 600 square feet of the world I set the rules.
Originally, the partitioned house was inhabited by a middle-aged, flamboyant Cheesecake Factory manager, a squirrely Carnegie Mellon graduate student, a fireman and myself. There was enough distance and wall-space between my apartment and theirs that they never bothered me and I always slept like a rock.
A year later though, the tenant cycle shifted - the fireman left, Patrick's flamboyance lost its family-friendly touch, the Carnegie Mellon girl got a boyfriend, a tall, rail-thin, dark-haired, ghostly-white girl moved into the closet of an apartment right next to me, and the walls of my apartment got a lot thinner. My little part of the world suddenly conformed to a different schedule and I no longer controlled the volume.
After closing the restaurant that I managed between one and three in the morning, I would rush home and try to fall asleep quickly. While the house was quiet during the day, it came alive at night, right after I got home from work, with a cacophony of disturbing noises. Nightly, Patrick would throw drug-ridden, disco-driven raves in the apartment below me; the bar outside my window would open their back porch allowing drunk college students to pour onto it and continue their clamorous pursuit for a mate; and the ghost-girl right next door to me, would let her abusive boyfriend into the house.
Every night she would succumb to the fights, screams, and terror that he would provoke. I never saw him, but I heard everything. And because the squirelly CMU girl got a boyfriend, the fireman left, and Patrick was partying, I was alone in dealing with the nightmarish noise. For awhile I was scared to call the police or use ear plugs, because I thought he might come and get me. So, I put a pillow over my head to break up some of the noise and comfort me through the night. After one particularly rough fight, I finally called the police and my landlord ... and the police finally came and took him away.
The head pillow worked wonders though. And it continued working wonders in South Bend when I had to drown out Jimmy Clausen and his dorky, Domer girlfriends partying next door, in Naperville where I have to drown out trains outside my window, and in every big-city hotel where the sirens, cabs, and revelers play way into the early hours of the morning.
In my apartment in Naperville though, I feel safe, and the people around me are pretty quiet. So I'm thinking that ear plugs will suffice to quiet the train noise at night, which would put the head pillow to rest. And hopefully saying goodbye to him will bring perfect skin on my wedding day. But a Dr. Neiland intervention would be really nice.
Lo.
Monday, January 3, 2011
Resolving To Be On Time
Last year I quickly came up with a new year's resolution. I was in need of a bigger dose of public self-therapy, so I resolved to more diligently and thoughtfully contribute to The Early Riser. I would say that my 65 entries (some better than others) was a testament to a successful resolution, one that I'm proud of, especially after too many years of Lenten fasting failures and new year's resolutions that only lasted two weeks.
So with newfound motivation, I want to start 2011 with a resolution. On January 1, Peter picked his as I struggled to find mine. I first thought about eating healthier, but with icing already eliminated from my diet, that meant cutting out the wine and chocolate and that's no fun. I thought about praying more, but I thought that shouldn't count, because I should be doing that already. Today, I came up with it though. After a day repairing my own delinquent tendencies, I created a great resolution. In 2011, I'm resolving to be more on time.
Now ... with that said, I would like to redefine the notion of "on time." "On time" to me means being where I'm supposed to be or doing what I'm supposed to do in a timely manner. Some things have a set deadline and expiration date. Other things don't and they require patience and the realization that you aren't necessarily in control.
I used to think "on time" meant five minutes early, being the first one there, and getting something done according to everyone else's timeline. Growing up, I used to pride myself on being punctual. No matter what, no matter where I was the one that made other people produce an apologetic "were you waiting long?" I always said, "No, not at all." But my uncontrollable facial expressions whined, yes, actually I was waiting for like twenty minutes, I looked like a complete loser, and I'd really appreciate it if you NEVER did that again! At the same time, I was the one out of my friends and family who was a little late for the big stuff - the last one to "become a woman", to have a boyfriend, to get a "real" job and to get married.
Over the past five years, I've gone through a dramatic shift in punctuality. I seem to be late for the things I can't be late for, and early for the things I'm not ready for. On a daily basis, I'm running 10 to 15 minutes late; monthly five to ten days late; and yearly more like three to four months late for the you-need-to-be-there-on-time stuff. For instance, today I took my emissions test so I could renew my four-month expired license plate. That should have been done on time, a looong time ago. All the while, I kept pushing things that life wasn't ready for - when am I going to get married, when am I going to have kids, when am I going to make the big bucks?
So here's my resolution - to go back to the old ways - to be five-minutes early for the things that demand absolute punctuality - meetings for work, mass, license plate renewals, bill payments, weddings and other things that are going to proceed with or without me. And to be patient and okay waiting for the things that will happen in due time, when all parties are ready to participate. Also ... to never, ever, EVER keep my sister waiting this year. I think that I'll be a whole lot less stressed out if I keep this resolution close at heart and hand.
When I was young, at this point in the evening, I would have called my Mom and asked, "where are you?! Dinner's ready!" But with a new resolve, and the mature knowledge that dinner isn't going anywhere and will be just as good simmering a little while longer, I'm patiently waiting for Peter's timely arrival home and a very flexible "dinner time." Wow, I'm starting this year off right!
Tonight it's a little pork and sauerkraut celebration to ring in the New Year.
Lo.
So with newfound motivation, I want to start 2011 with a resolution. On January 1, Peter picked his as I struggled to find mine. I first thought about eating healthier, but with icing already eliminated from my diet, that meant cutting out the wine and chocolate and that's no fun. I thought about praying more, but I thought that shouldn't count, because I should be doing that already. Today, I came up with it though. After a day repairing my own delinquent tendencies, I created a great resolution. In 2011, I'm resolving to be more on time.
Now ... with that said, I would like to redefine the notion of "on time." "On time" to me means being where I'm supposed to be or doing what I'm supposed to do in a timely manner. Some things have a set deadline and expiration date. Other things don't and they require patience and the realization that you aren't necessarily in control.
I used to think "on time" meant five minutes early, being the first one there, and getting something done according to everyone else's timeline. Growing up, I used to pride myself on being punctual. No matter what, no matter where I was the one that made other people produce an apologetic "were you waiting long?" I always said, "No, not at all." But my uncontrollable facial expressions whined, yes, actually I was waiting for like twenty minutes, I looked like a complete loser, and I'd really appreciate it if you NEVER did that again! At the same time, I was the one out of my friends and family who was a little late for the big stuff - the last one to "become a woman", to have a boyfriend, to get a "real" job and to get married.
Over the past five years, I've gone through a dramatic shift in punctuality. I seem to be late for the things I can't be late for, and early for the things I'm not ready for. On a daily basis, I'm running 10 to 15 minutes late; monthly five to ten days late; and yearly more like three to four months late for the you-need-to-be-there-on-time stuff. For instance, today I took my emissions test so I could renew my four-month expired license plate. That should have been done on time, a looong time ago. All the while, I kept pushing things that life wasn't ready for - when am I going to get married, when am I going to have kids, when am I going to make the big bucks?
So here's my resolution - to go back to the old ways - to be five-minutes early for the things that demand absolute punctuality - meetings for work, mass, license plate renewals, bill payments, weddings and other things that are going to proceed with or without me. And to be patient and okay waiting for the things that will happen in due time, when all parties are ready to participate. Also ... to never, ever, EVER keep my sister waiting this year. I think that I'll be a whole lot less stressed out if I keep this resolution close at heart and hand.
When I was young, at this point in the evening, I would have called my Mom and asked, "where are you?! Dinner's ready!" But with a new resolve, and the mature knowledge that dinner isn't going anywhere and will be just as good simmering a little while longer, I'm patiently waiting for Peter's timely arrival home and a very flexible "dinner time." Wow, I'm starting this year off right!
Tonight it's a little pork and sauerkraut celebration to ring in the New Year.
Lo.
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