D. Co to Wino

I had an addiction to Diet Coke in high school and college. I drank it morning, noon and night; I raped the Ellis vending machine of it every day to the dismay of many of my classmates; I converted every last one of my Flex Points into 12-packs of it at LaFortune; while my teammates were downing Gatorade and good old H2O after practice, intense workouts, and double-overtime games I turned to my trusty 20-ounce bottle of caffeinated brown fizz.

I remember one post-game celebration and one particular 20-ouncer well. As I took a swig and expressed my love for the classic cola to Kristen, Carol, my good friend and goalie, popped her head into the conversation, turned to me and said, "I wonder how much better you would be if you drank water?"

"What?! There is nothing, NOTHING out there that can quench my thirst the way a Diet Coke can. It is the only hydration I need. It is not a performance inhibitor. AND if I really wanted to be better, I would stop cheating during weight lifting, NOT drinking Diet Coke! Whatever."

I don't know if Carol was trying to tap into something deeper or not, but what she said hit me. I took it as a stab at the extreme habits I had developed as an ND lacrosse player - habits that were the product of pretty powerful group think sessions between Kristen and I. We developed an almost superstitious thread - a penetrating fear that if we broke our routine we would fail miserably.

• If we had conditioning at 6:00 AM and didn't wake up at 4:45 AM to get our bodies going, we'd puke while running gassers.
• If we had practice at 8:00 PM, and weren't opening up the dining hall at 4:30 PM so we could digest properly, we'd have cramps all practice long.
• If we ate certain foods that upset our stomachs we'd be too bloated to fit into our small gold kilts.
• If we didn't get 8 hours of sleep at night we'd be exhausted. (Okay, I was a little more ornery about this rule than Kristen.)   
• If we didn't go to the bathroom before practice or a game we were doomed.
• And of course, if we didn't stick to a Diet Coke regimen (mine more extreme than hers) like glue, we wouldn't be able to make it through the day.   

Although Carol's words helped redirect my beverage addiction, the rest of the do and don'ts; time tables and schedules has unfortunately carried over to my late 20-something stage of life. And ... Peter gets frustrated with my inability to budge. For instance, on Sunday he wanted to go hiking at Starved Rock, a State Park in Illinois with a series of canyons and waterfalls. But he wanted to leave first thing in the morning. (The whole 8 hours of sleep, get the body going, breakfast window, and bathroom break went through my head)

"Oooooh, yeah ... how about we leave at noon? I can't leave until I've had my cup of coffee, blogged about my Mini, gone running, and gone to Mass." 
(Eye roll)


After negotiations, we ended up leaving at 11:00 AM and because of the whole spring forward deal I didn't get to run. I had broken my routine (slightly) and even the idea of driving my new car 50 miles in the countryside couldn't counteract the fact that I might be "off" and crabby for the rest of the day.

Here's the thing though ... as we wound through the beautiful Illinois farmlands, as Peter made all my radio and satellite stations work, as he made me laugh and laugh, as we stopped for a bite to eat at McDonald's, I forgot all about my routine. We ended up hiking for more than two hours. We went up and down, over and under waterfalls, and out went my habitual Sunday. I didn't care that we were going to get home at 6:30 - that dinner would be leftovers - that I didn't do every little thing I like to do on Sundays. Because this was better! I was better.

So ... the real problem ....

My love affair with Diet Coke ended around the age of 25. I was overly dehydrated and decided to give water a chance. Carol was right, water made me better. At the age of 27 though, I developed another beverage addiction. Wine.

In an effort to be a good Catholic and break the wine ridden routine during Lent I decided to give up weekday wine for 40 days and nights. (Actually it's only like 15 days because it's just the weekdays.) But I have failed. I was successful on Thursday of last week .... and ... that's it. I have since reasoned my way out of it:
It's not like a drink a bottle a night - I have two glasses. And that's less than the 20-ounces of diet coke I used to drink 4 times a day. 
I'm better at blogging as a wino!
I'm a better cook as a wino! 
I am still able to get up at 5:30 AM every day as a wino! 
Wine is AMAZING!

Just as she did in college, I can see Carol popping her commentary into my blog here and saying "imagine how much better you would be without the wine?"

Hmm ... here's where I net out. There are some things worth breaking the routine over - things like getting up and out the door early to have a great day trip with Peter. There are some beverages that are worth breaking the routine over - I'm glad I don't drink soda anymore. There are other things, other beverages that are kind of essential. I mean when the time-management guru from Northwestern comes to speak to our staff and asks us to imagine our happy place and I imagine being in my big chair with a glass of wine, there's something there. I'm not giving up my happy place.

I decided to give up chocolate instead. 

Lo.

A Mini Ode

As an MBA, I often have to field the question - "Was your advanced education worth the investment?"

Let's see ... Before I went to business school, I was single, in a dead-end job, spent every dime I earned, knew nothing about money and money management, and was the most irrational decision maker ever. Post business school, I'm engaged, in a dynamic job with upward mobility, have learned how to save and manage money, and am equipped with the financial skills and jargon needed to convert an average shopper into an excellent one. 

My response - "Absolutely - An MBA was the best investment I ever could have made." 


While the job and the fiance hold a large percentage of the ROI, sometimes, some days (like yesterday) it's the little things that really make my MBA worth it to me. Yesterday, I reached the level of supreme shopper, all made possible by an investment in my education.

Yesterday, I had an asset - a great one.
But said asset needed roughly $4,000 in maintenance. 
Though attached and in love with this asset, I learned that the dealership would give me $8,600 for it. I could then use that equity to get a new asset.
They showed me the financing package - $355 per month for a shinier, newer, upgraded model, and deemed that I had too much equity to be part of this "Owner's Choice" program where I would only have to pay $90 per month.
Umm ... if that's the case, I'll just take the turbo convertible version to offset my equity. 
My argument elicited the arrival of the financing guy (because apparently they separate financing from sales at dealerships.)
I followed every word he said to me, British accent and all, and argued my way to getting my way. In so many words, they made it work for me. So now I have a brand new, better car, that I'm only paying $90 per month for over the next three years with an amazing maintenance package attached. 
I have a new Mini.
And I love it.

Here's the thing though, even with all the rational MBA analysis I did, I couldn't remove all the emotion from my decision making yesterday. As I sat there and calculated, I kept looking out the window at the car that I was calculating against.
My baby.
My first car.
6 years, 45,000 miles of memories.
As I ran the numbers, as they brought out the more sinister midnight black version of him, as I was approved, as I signed on line after line, our happy history together played like a movie in my mind.

I thought about that Saturday back in 2005 when my Dad said he would take me looking for a car - how we only had to make one stop, one test drive. We tried out the Pepper White Mini (well my Dad did because I didn't know how to drive a stick shift.) He fell in love with it. I fell in love with it. He promised he would teach me how to make it work.

I thought about all the lessons my Dad gave me - about going into the quiet parts of Squirrel Hill to find the sweet spot between releasing the clutch and pressing the gas pedal. I thought about that first lesson on a the biggest hill in Pittsburgh - a near precipice to oblivion - and how I finally countered gravity to make my way up the hill. 

I thought about the first weeks of driving that car by myself - about being late and later for work as I stalled down Fifth Avenue over and over again. 

I thought about the confidence with which I drove my sister and her husband to the movies when I finally felt I had mastered my baby ... and the ensuing lack of confidence that came over me as I stalled on the Homestead bridge on the way home. I thought about the horrific expletives that came pouring out of my mouth as the traffic behind me backed up - a tapestry of expletives that my brother-in-law still loves to hold against me.

I thought about picking up Rebecca and Nicole and pulling up to SOBA for French Martinis - I thought about piling in 10 more people as we left the bar and moved down the street to Doc's. I thought about us making a grand emergence as if the Mini were a clown car.

I thought about dates gone bad and the reassuring words that my Mini always offered.

I thought about my kiddos - Jane and Rachel - driving around the city with me and Escada dresses in the Bubble.

I thought about pulling up to CJ's on the first evening of MBA orientation - getting that rock star parking place right in front of the restaurant - and meeting Peter for the first time. I remember him seeing my car and saying his sister had the same one. I remember smiling as our commonalities continued to add up in our favor.

I remembered trips back and forth to Notre Dame - I remembered thinking, being, loving every second in my Mini - a car that was nearly a best friend.

Yesterday I didn't want to let him go. I almost backed out of the deal at the last minute. But realized that he was tired and needed a level of TLC that I couldn't afford. I gave him a big hug. I said goodbye and that I loved him. I gave him a hug again. And I drove off in my new car.

To my first Mini - You will always be the one and only. And to my Dad - a big, BIG thank you for making this amazing friendship possible.

 Lo.

The Walk of Shame

Yesterday I ran past the ancient Sphinx, across the Brooklyn Bridge, by Carolina Herrera's Spring 2012 bridal collection (I remain content with Vera), under the Eiffel Tower, through a jungle, into Saint Mark's Square, and by nearly 500 walks of shame. [Sigh] ... Nothing like hundreds of looks of remorse and regret to get you in the right frame of mind on Ash Wednesday.

Vegas is a city famous for the walk of shame and if you step outside on any given morning, you can witness hundreds of them. Each walker tends to look dazed and confused as they sort out their night. They remember where they woke up (look of revulsion) - maybe where they started their evening (nod of the head, little smile) - they remember their best friend dancing with balloons on her head at Margaritaville (little laugh) - they remember the Club (nod - man, did they look good.) - and that guy (puzzled look. What was his name? What did he look like?) - oh and his friend (little smile - now he was cute - what was his name?) - and a hotel room - and a toilet bowl (and ... OH GOD, EWWW!) - struggling, squinting, occasionally smirking, they find their way through the fog - start to bring the details together - and as they pass by the Bellagio Fountain, they realize their mistake, their bad decision. They feel the eyes of all the alert sober strollers meet their mascara stained face and they start to walk a little faster - hoping to reach the safety of their hotel room as soon as possible. 

I could sense the pain of every walker as I went from foggy apparition this morning, to that runner girl who judged them for their mistake. Here's the thing though - I didn't judge any of them. Because I had been there before. My girlfriends and I have had our fair share of walks, rides, and jogs of shame - and our fair share of laughter talking about them poolside later in the afternoon.
They're awful.
They're humbling.
They have a purpose - to help you never do it again.   

Then last night, when I thought surely my days of walking with shame had expired, I had to do another one. This was probably the worst one yet. Around dusk, when the lights of the Strip begin to sparkle, turning the mundane into magic, I walked a mile with an ashen sign of the cross emblazoned on my forehead. As I passed by groups downing Stratosphere shaped daiquiris, women hoisted high off the ground in their stripper stilettos, and men doused in cologne to fend off the stale smell of smoke that pervades each Casino, I received thousands of stares. Look at that girl with ashes in the City of Sin.

I had just learned in Mass that the early Christians initiated the practice as a means of atonement - they would go to the Church, trade in their own clothes for burlap cloaks and have the priest pour ashes all over them. They would carry the weight of their sin with them until they had reached a state of redemption. As their shame and embarrassment began to grow, their family and friends would commiserate by trading in their own clothes and receiving ashes.

I had no family or friends to join in the Lenten tradition with me, so my walk back was lonely. At first glance I saw the people I passed judging me. I saw them look into my eyes, discover my sinfulness, and nod their head that this was a deserving display of atonement. When I looked a little closer though, I realized that their looks were more sympathetic than judgmental. They started recalling their own walks of shame and started offering me their silent support.

As I made my way back to St. Mark's Square I realized that I would be starting and ending Lent this year in Las Vegas. How terribly inappropriate right? To bookend the holiest of seasons in the sinful-est of cities. I don't know though - I saw a different perspective. With each incredulous stare that faded to commiseration, I realized that whether Catholic or not, Las Vegas is not just a city of sin - it's a city of repenting - and ultimately (hopefully) redemption.

This evening I'm flying out of Las Vegas not with shame, but with a focus on prayer and penance for the next 40 days. I'll be back at Easter witnessing more walks of shame, preventing my own, and finding comfort that I'm not the only sinner out there. We all are. We're all in this together. We all have a way to repent and to redeem ourselves.  

Lo.

The Fairest of Them All

Before I go out the door, I have a habit of taking one last look in the mirror and asking it, "Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the fairest of them all?"
I don't give him enough time to answer though - I scurry out of my apartment happy and confident that I'm somewhere in between average and beautiful.

However, during my least favorite time of the month, I find myself looking deeper and lingering longer in front of that mirror, asking him the same question, and waiting to hear his disappointing responses.
Stop asking me that question ...
Obviously not you.
Maybe the girl that played Helen of Troy...
Oooh ... or maybe Halle Berry.
Why do even ask?
Ewwwww.

His answers along with a heightened insecurity about my timely burgeoning curves (which in my opinion make me look like one of those ancient buddha-like Earth mother statues that we used to study in Art History class), tend to translate into despair - Despair that has been debilitating in the past. 

Here's the thing though, this go around - during this 'time of the month,' it didn't happen. No mirror, mirror confrontation, no tears, no browsing through old Ancient Art and Architecture texts to see which deity I most resembled, and no wide eyes and what-to-do questions from Peter. I'm not going to claim that my problems are solved - that I'm healed of my self-pestering that according to a recent Glamour article is more the norm than not. But I am going to assert that I'm worlds away from where I once was. While I'm sure Glamour wants me to say I followed their remedy and poof the mirror started telling me I was the fairest in the land, I actually used a more novel, more personalized approach and by golly, it worked!

I started weighing myself once a week. 
I used to tap, tap, tappity tap, my scale 5, 6 ...10! times a day. Each time hoping that when I stepped on it I would magically lose 5 pounds and hear the response, "you are the sveltest in all the land." It continued to disappoint me though. It continued to stress me out. It continued to make me cry. So I put it away and now only use it once a week to check my status. (Of course I do it after my looooong Saturday runs to get the best feedback possible.)
My new test - If I can zip my work dress in the morning and button my jeans in the evening, I'm all set. And so far, so good.

I listened to a chef's wise words.
When Peter's friends Jim and Jess visited us in Naperville several years ago, I cooked for them. This was an intimidating experience, because Jess is a chef. While cooking I started professing my love for the culinary arts and how I had high aspirations of reaching her level of expertise and adventure. As if  feeling out my level of commitment she asked, whose your favorite celebrity chef?
Oh Giada! 
I remember her response vividly. 
You can't trust a chef with a manicure. 
I was crushed, but after digesting her words, I realized it was the best cooking advice I ever received. That day forward I turned my back on the Food Network Stars and instead followed the people that were truly dedicated to their craft rather than their appearance or brand. Being a good cook - doing anything well for that matter - means taking your image out of it.   

I remembered life before. 
Last night I ate leftovers for dinner - I thawed out some of the pierogies we froze after the Super Bowl, fried them up with some onions, reheated the shredded roast beef from two nights ago and dobbed it on top, made a salad, and then savored each option without hesitation. From seventh grade till just about two years ago, I could not have done this - I could not have enjoyed or even prepared this meal because I had a fear of the hearty - I had a fear that butter, fat, and flavor would immediately turn me into the dough girl. It was a pretty miserable period of time - I ate cheerios, lettuce, boneless skinless chicken breasts and more lettuce - I was very skinny, but very hungry.

I don't know if it was the awkward way that Anne Hathaway was holding her stomach like it hurt from not being fed while hosting the Oscars or the audible growl coming from Julie Bowen's abdomen throughout every episode of Modern Family, but this past week I started thinking about the hunger and restricted diet of my past. I now love the taste of real food, full meals, and beef that tastes simultaneously like my one Grandma's beef birds and my other Grandma's roast. I can't imagine returning to a life without flavor and the feeling of being full.
  
I found another mirror.
I still look in the mirror, mostly to apply my make-up and do my hair, but I took away his magic powers. I gave them to someone else - Peter.
I'm afraid I'm getting fat and that I'm going to be a fat bride.
(Wide eyes ... Oh geeeeeeez going through his head)

How about this - let's make a deal - I will tell you when you have put on weight and you might want to consider a diet, but until then you can consider yourself perfect. You are the fairest of them all.
(Big smile.)

No matter the root of your insecurity - whether it was the boys in your fifth grade class, the woman in the super market that said you were "one hearty woman," or the models and actresses with impossibly thin frames, try to find a mirror that can see deeper than your facade. Because under your make-up, your clothes, and your ever-evolving physique you are a runner, a cook, and a writer - a daughter, sister and friend - a fiance who is the fairest in all the land to the one that matters most.

Lo.

A TIP

I’m on a pretty awesome team. Over the past couple years we have come out of nowhere to start outperforming our competitors. We were a sleeping giant, but just woke up to take our conference by storm. We had some very big wins last year and already experts are predicting that we will do some amazing things in 2011.

Here’s the thing though. At the end of last season, one of our leading scorers got injured. It was a bad injury too – she’s been out for three months, and when she is able to play again at the end of March, she might not be full strength. It kills me because she was my favorite girl to pass to at practice – the Lo to Cristine play – Lo hides behind the net, Cristine fakes out her defender to get wide open in front of the goal, sharp feed, shot, goal – was unstoppable.

Although it’s still pre-season, and we’re just conditioning, strength training, and strategizing, I have found myself in much the same position I did back in sophomore year of college.

It was my second year as an ND lacrosse player. I had come off a year of sucking – sucking so much that I was relegated to the role of permanent connector along with three of my teammates. You might think – “connector” that must be a vital position on the lacrosse field? Quite the contrary, the role was comprised of standing at the fifty yard line, waiting till the defense cleared the ball out of a fierce 7 v. 7 competition, pretending you had a man on you, cutting to the ball, catching it and running back to the 50-yard line with the rest of your incapable teammates. So you felt a little more part of the team or the actual drill that was taking place, our coach would yell at you for “connecting” poorly or instruct you on how to “connect” better.

I’d like to claim that my coach was discriminating against me, but honestly I came into school thinking I was all that. When I wasn’t – when I realized how little I knew about the game and being part of a team, how slow and out of shape I was, how spastic my cradle was, and how nervous I kept getting – I kind of gave up. I accepted my role as connector and laughed practice away while picking daisies with my three connector-friends.

That summer I thought it through though and decided to go into sophomore year without grand expectations, but with a renewed commitment to working as hard as I could. I focused on what I could control – I got in really good shape and started running faster; I played wall ball on my parent’s garage constantly (to the point that the neighbors started wondering about me); and I went into the first practice of the season with a clear head, open ears, and a commitment to discipline. I started doing better in drills, I started to gain confidence and take risks. I started to score goals at practice.

It was mid-way through fall-ball that I got my first chance. ND vs. Delaware – someone got injured – I got put in. I got the ball and scored a goal. 1 minute later, I did the same thing. I remember looking over at my coach, and seeing her incredulous expression – “How did this girl from The Ellis School in Pittsburgh just do that?”

It was a turning point – I started every game after that. And I continued to gain confidence, make plays, score goals, stay far away from crossing the line to play defense (a skill that I never quite mastered), and receive respect of my fellow starters who I had been vastly intimidated of all freshman year.

Over the past three months, since Cristine hit the DL, I’ve been put into a starting position. It came as a shock at first, but when I scored that first goal – when I saw a copy deck come back with only the words “very good” embedded in the email – I started to embrace my role – to step up and play even better. I worked harder, typed faster, got more creative, felt more inspired, and at my most recent one-on-one meeting with my coach, I got a good review.

Then today, I got a TIP – a reward for working hard and playing well at practice and then stepping up into a starting position when we were a man down. It was like getting my green ND Lacrosse NCAA National Championships warm-up jersey when we took the nation by storm in 2002. I took the TIP as a tip though - a tip that I need to continue to play the way I did sophomore year; avoid the drama of junior year; and work to the level of play I achieved senior year. When I entered the work place almost two years ago, walking the b-school walk, and talking the b-school talk, I didn't get that much accomplished. When I took a step back, listened, thought, cooperated, and worked hard, I saw results. And I started to get a lot more passes from my fellow starters.

Happy TIP day to all my teammates! And Cristine, we can't wait to have you back in the roster because full force, our team is going to be unstoppable.

Lo.

My First Charm

Peter got me the prettiest charm bracelet complete with its first charm last week for my birthday. I had wanted one ever since I noticed the melodic way that my cousin Melissa sipped wine and ate tapas at one of our favorite Naperville restaurants about a year ago. The sweet music attached to her movements was coming from her bracelet – a collection of charms around a silver band that her mother wore everyday and had passed along to her – a bracelet that tells the story of her mom and dad and all their adventures together.

I fell in love with it and wanted one of my own so I could start collecting the baubles that represented the milestones and memories of our life – a shiny, jingly cheat sheet for storytelling.

So I gave Peter a not so discreet hint –

“Is taking you to the fancy restaurant enough for your birthday?”

Big eyes.

“Oh … it’s not.”

“Well … it doesn’t have to be for my birthday, but before we get married, I would really love a charm bracelet.”

Eye roll.

Being the slightly spoiled girl that I am, when I came back from the bathroom on Wednesday evening there was a neatly tied jewelry box sitting on the dinner table. I opened the package and immediately put it on. All evening, through the night, throughout the entirety of this week, even this morning as I type, I have admired my new jewelry and the representation of the first step that Peter and I took toward a life together in the “I love you” charm that spins around the bracelet.

While I can’t imagine not wearing it everyday, there is a reason why it’s been permanently glued to my wrist. I can’t get it off. The clasp requires a long, strong nail to pop it open. The strongest contestant, my gnawed left thumbnail, has failed night after night to undo it.

This is just one drawback, in a lifetime of them, to being a nail biter – one that has gotten better about it, but that still doesn’t have the claws that some girls do. Let’s see … orange peel starting and soda can opening became mouth activities; pulling price tags off of new merchandise and untying tight knots were projects given to my Mom to complete; I left myself out of manicure parties, I’ve always been more than exuberant for glove season, and I can still taste the awful bitter Nail Biter formula on my tongue sometimes.

I could blame stress, anxiety, or boredom for my bad habit, but I think there is a deeper psychological issue at bay. When I was born, I came out with a scratch on my face. In that very first baby picture you get – the one where my sister and brother look great – I have a long red scratch that runs down my right cheek. I think the only time I have had good nails is in utero. And when I scratched myself with them, I took a silent vow of demolition.

29 years later, I can safely say that I have never scratched myself or anyone else with my nails. In fact, a great day is when they break the plane of my fingertip and I can successfully itch my back.

Yesterday I found out that I was going to have another baby niece – that’s two nieces in the matter of three months. While I will make the same promise to her as I did to Baby Pink, she has a more complicated problem. She’s a direct descendant of my family, which could mean that she might scratch herself too. Or, she might come out with a big head, weird toes, lots of hair, or the chubbiest thighs known to man.  While her mother most likely counteracts these minor flaws with her perfect proportioning, petite nature, and well-cared-for hands and feet, there’s a chance of a dimple or two.

But in thinking about it, the small scars, deformities, oddities, and irregularities of my family are some of our best charms. Over the years they have created the better story, the hardier laugh, and the richer personality. They have humbled us and given us a softer touch. They have made us smarter and faster. They have given us a unique sense of creativity and imagination. And they have made us healthier and stronger.

So baby F, if you scratch yourself on the way out, don’t think of it as a flaw, but a charm from me to you. I’ll teach you the ways of a nail biter - that short nails will make you a better piano player, a more tenacious lacrosse player (no check could take my already non-existent nails off), a faster typist, and a woman who can put a lifetime’s saving of manicure appointments to use for the better stuff, like purses that immediately draw a voyeur’s eyes from hand, to handbag.

And if you have beautiful nails, I’ll still teach that stuff anyway. 

Lo.  

Are We There Yet?

On a typical school day in the middle of a typical seemingly everlasting, perma-gray, perma-cold South Bend winter, Peter set out to make me an a-typical dinner. The Cape Cod fisherman in him was craving the classically creamy version of clam chowder topped with a mountain of oyster crackers (the same meal that atoned for my culinary mishap a couple months ago.) And he was going to make it for me.

Around 5:00 PM he started steaming, straining, dicing, adding, stirring, and thickening. At 7:00 my stomach rumbled and begged me to check on his progress.

“It’s not ready yet. It not thick enough.”

At 7:30 I got a similar response.  

At 8:00, when I just a look that said "stop asking," I decided I couldn’t wait any longer. To Peter’s annoyance, I deemed it good enough, ladled some into my bowl, and ate my soup solo.

Peter continued to wait though. Around 9:00 PM, when I had already retreated into a book, he said it was ready. I went over to pompously affirm that the soup was no better at 9:00 than it was at 8:00, but instead found myself enviously leering at the content of Peter’s bowl. It was perfect – the exact way that Peter had imagined it, and the version I had eaten earlier was runny and pitiful in comparison.

Peter waited for my apology - a statement of a lesson learned: What? I will be more patient? I will stop giving in to my stomach’s devilish commands? I will trust Peter’s timing? You are always right? … I wasn’t ready to concede. The jury was still out and I needed back-up to completely put Peter in the driver’s seat. So I lied.

“Mine was just as good.”

It came. And it came about a hundred times over. With every "Are we there yet?" I was told to wait ... but waiting for Peter's count always made meals better; adventures, more unique; work, more productive; projects, more complete; (and bling, bigger). There was a point this summer when I officially conceded.

“Sometimes your way is better than mine.”

“What was that?”

“You heard me.”

“I’m writing it down - here, take this with you.”

I took it. It's hanging on my desk at work. 

This week, in the middle of a line-up of fantastic celebrations, there was a moment of realism. A moment directed at that little piece of paper with my words scribbled in Peter's handwriting - a moment when once again my ideas and aspirations outpaced life's timing.   

In between Valentine’s, birthdays, and performance review celebrations, we started having one of those ‘let’s plan’ conversations.  I expressed that after my fairy tale wedding, and exotic honeymoon, I wanted to come home to my dream house – a house that one day would be included in the curriculum of my favorite class in college, 20th Century Architecture. A house that calls to mind the simple form, clean line and organic spirit present in the theories and practices of Mies Van der Rohe,  Alvar Aalto, and Zaha Hadid. A house that embraces modernity but accepts the embellished traditional accents - that seamlessly merges inside and outside. The understated jewel of the neighborhood. 

We debated. We thought of possibilities. We measured the space we had. We calculated the extensive cost associated with said dream house. And Peter made a conclusion. 

We’re not there yet. 

As a millennial, born into an unprecedented era of wealth and opportunity, I sometimes expect things to happen right away - for success to fall into my lap after my first try. And I'm not alone. My whole generation continues to find disappointment when they are told to wait. When the strings are cut and we find ourselves alone having to prove ourselves, our impatience can become a demon. We're unsatisfied and distressed when we haven't conquered the world by 25. 


But ... in my perspective, at 29, a millennial might stumble upon an experience when she realizes that she's not alone - that success is the product of a team effort. And that true success takes hard work, rather than an over-leveraged portfolio.

Besides, what does "not there yet" mean anyway? It means that my team is making progress - great progress. That the bricks and mortar of my dream house may be 10 years away, but the inside - the is right on target. It's filled with life, love and laughter - the kind that puts the McMansions around us to shame.

Lo. 

100

2 milestones, 2 days. 
29 years old.
100 blog posts.
And with that ... just one year left before the big 3-0. 

When I started this blog back in '09 I had a mission in mind - this platform was to be an outlet to store thoughts and witty quips for my smart novel about women leveraging marketing principles to target and attain Mr. Right - the novel that three years later, I have yet to commence, and that very few of those 100 blog posts reference.

When I started blogging, I also had several Early Riser development goals that I covertly set out to achieve by age 30 - things like taking corporate America by storm, becoming a blogging best practice, and living happily ever after with prince charming. However, through time, as my subject matter, tone and writing style have shifted, so to have my goals and desired outcomes.

My adventures in the blogosphere have become more about the small wins than the big ones; being in the vicinity of success rather than the apex of it; exercising the communication skills I need at work in my personal life; and finding stories and angles that bring out the best writer in me.  

The old Early Riser would have looked at 29 years, 100 posts, with a critical eye - For instance, I'm not the CEO yet. I'm nowhere near it, and I'm not even as far up the ladder as some of my over-achieving millennial counterparts. Fail.

The new Early Riser has a different perspective though. This week I confidently put on a riveting webinar about volunteerism, received a gold-star performance review, and received back-up from my team when I forgot birthday snack on Wednesday in the form of a double chocolate caramel cake, a sin that Ellis girls would have Crucibled me for. Win.

The old Lo also would have criticized the tens of readers that go onto my blog each day. Tens. I broke the hundred mark twice this year. I also think I officially produced no content for the book. Better written skills perhaps, but no content. But new Lo analyzed the Early Riser statistics and found that the days that I performed best came when I produced content that was fun and easy to read, gave my family and friends updates on my life, and above all was honest and authentic. I found that I wrote best, when I wrote what I knew (but with a literary embellishment or two.) So maybe the book will have another angle now.

And am I living happily ever after? Well, the top two blog posts of my 29th year, seem to tell that story. You all tuned in more than a hundred times over when I got engaged and when I recruited a bevy of beauties to be by my side on the big day. Yes, I'm very happy. My dream came true. And ever after? That's yet to come. But if my birthday evening was a teaser, I think I'm on the right track.

Prince charm bracelet (the exact one that I wanted!) picked me up in a monster truck chariot, wined and dined me sumptuously to the point that the elastic on my day-to-night Cinderella frock expanded, got me back to my apartment before I turned into a pumpkin (my bewitching hour is a little earlier than Cinderella's though), and drove off into the night as I went to sleep to the sound of my blackberry buzzing like little woodland animals with messages of love and best wishes from friends and family.

Lo. 

My Funny Valentines

I tend to tell Peter that he was my very first Valentine. Technically, it's not true though. For 24 years, I had one of the most loving, thoughtful, generous Valentines ever - my parents.

Every year, I would come downstairs to a Valentine's adorned breakfast slab (we didn't have a table, but a Formica slab that ran along the kitchen wall. With imagination I could envision myself standing up having an espresso at a coffee bar in Italy every morning, but reality always set in when I looked up at the expansive bulletin board in front of me - a make-shift collage of reminders, calendars, invitations, coupons, and phone numbers calling attention to the myriad of people, places, and performances we juggled every week.) At each of our breakfast places were cards with our names - Adam, Erin and Lauren - written in my Mom's signature font and a little present or two next to them.

My Mom carefully and thoughtfully selected greeting cards that appropriately leveraged Hallmark's poetry to tell each of us how special we were - how talented we were - how we lit up my parents' lives. They were words, enhanced by the doting personal sentiments added by my Mom and Dad that trumped what any Romeo could have written to me. (At least, I convinced myself that was the case.)

Then there were the little gifts - as thoughtfully chosen as the cards. Things like specialty chocolates, a piece of jewelry, a china animal for my collection, or a specialty tool that lined the inner sanctum of Williams Sonoma - kitchen wares that wouldn't excite the average sixth grader. Oooh ... things like pastry blenders, double whisks, nutmeg graters, melon ball scoops, and ravioli cutters - trinkets that sparked pure ecstasy as I envisioned myself able to make pate brise, bechamel, or caprese ravioli the Martha Stewart way.

For a girl who never nabbed one of her crushes, the Valentines from my Mom and Dad were very special and they were all I needed. At the ripe age of 25 I resigned myself to a lifetime of having the parental unit as my sweethearts. But then cupid, in the form of an all-odds-in-my-favor-business-school-program, struck. On my 25th Valentine's Day, the role and responsibility of providing a little something sweet and special shifted from parents to Peter.

Ironically, Peter's gifts complemented my my Mom and Dad's perfectly. Not just in the thoughtfulness of them, but in that they came from the same store - Williams Sonoma. I've received a massive Ken Shun sushi knife, a copper Mauviel saute pan, a Le Creuset dutch oven and a red pasta rolling machine.

Last year we tried to make ravioli for the big V-Day, but they weren't quite right. A week later we tried to make them again, still not right. Several months later, we said, "come one ... we can DO THIS!" No we can't. On Sunday night though, I realized what it was - the thing that I was doing wrong. I was neglecting my other Valentines and the gift they had given me back in the sixth grade - the special ravioli cutting tool that not just cuts, but seals each ravioli with a kiss when you use the other end of it. During my previous attempts at ravioli crafting the filling kept falling out and the boiling water kept getting inside of the pillows, but when I put my parent's gift to use, the ravioli seamlessly pulled themselves together for the big show. 

So here's the thing ... I'm really glad I have a special Valentine now and I'm really glad I got to make a special Valentine's dinner for the guy who pulled out all the stops back in September. But I think on Valentine's Day you need to remember all the people who have showered you with love throughout the years - all the Valentines who have made you who you are - who have toasted you, feted you, and loved you for being who you are. 

Lo. 

The SweetheART of Communication

Peter has a sweet tooth. And it's nothing like my chocaholic sweet tooth. His pearly-white goes right for the sugary stuff - Pez, Sweedish Fish, Haribo Gummy Bears, Pixie Sticks, Skittles, and at this time of year NECCO SweetHearts - the iconic Valentine's candy that has been sweetly communicating to us since 1902.

Throughout the past week, he's probably worked his way through a dozen boxes of them. And each night, each box, brings with it a Heart or two for me. I tend to stick out my hand and hope that first, Peter gives me a white one, and second, that it says something cute.
[plunk]
White. 'All mine.' Awww. 
[plunk]

Orange. 'Tweet me' What? They put social media slang on SweetHearts now?  
[plunk ... but this plunk came as we were winding down Gram's birthday dinner with her click of retired friends last week.]
Yellow...
What does it say? 
Yeah, what does it say?  
Read it. 
'Soooo Hot.'
Oh. 
[cringing with embarrassment.]


Anyway, the season of SweetHearts happens to coincide with my year-end review.  And as always, it's one of those tense, anxiety-ridden weeks when you hope for the best and prepare for the worst. I've been filling out my performance evaluation; considering how I've put communications and management best practices to use over the past year; trying to be as direct and succinct as possible when saying 'even though I screwed up that one time, I still did an amazing job;' but it's not fun and I probably don't get my point across in a lot of response boxes.

I keep thinking about those Hearts and how amazing it would be if there was a carefully crafted message for each competency and indicator - a means to swiftly sweet talk my way through the evaluation.

If you think about it, there's a certain communication perfection in a box of SweetHearts. For more than 100 years they've spoken to the American public with syrupy simplicity, without the embellishments of our verbose society. Over the years, they've told each and everyone us how much we are loved, and continued to follow up until their messages truly sank it. Then they made their candy-grams viral - they made opening a box and sharing them into cute, laughable moments that grab the attention of everyone in the room.

So why not? Why not put the tenets of SweetHearts in my back pocket this week? Why not head into my review on Thursday more confident than ever using the stylistic secrets of NECCO. Let's see ... 

Know my audience 
My boss. She wants us to be on the same page about my review. She wants to get the review over with too. The review is probably as uncomfortable for her as it is for me.
[plunk]
'Need a Drink?'

Maximize the finite space
I only have a half an hour for my review. I need to get to the good stuff. The numbers - my grades more or less. Then hope we have the same score sheet.
[plunk]
'4 for Me'
[plunk]
'3 for me?'

Put some heart into it
NECCO gets to put it on a heart, but I don't have that luxury. I do have insider knowledge to my boss' sweet craving though ...
[plunk]
'Icing 4 U'
[plunk]
'4 for U'

Follow up
If at first you don't succeed, try, try again. Ultimately you will get the one that matches your audience just perfectly.
[Plunk] 
'Promotion?'
[Plunk]
'Raise?'
[Plunk]
'Kidding ...'
[Plunk]
'Gold Star'
Yeah, I'll take that one. 

Make it Shareable 
[plunk]
'Tell the CEO!'

Okay ... I think I'm ready ... But just in case, the first Valentine of the day goes to my boss. The brown-noser in me still lingers. 

Lo.