Why I Run

In an effort to make moving day, which is now only about a month away, a little less intimidating, I've been taking a couple things over to Peter's house every day. Usually an outfit and something else. I've made it just about half way through my closet, and through the process have pulled out and put on outfits that I haven't worn in years.  I've also learned a couple lessons. Namely, I'm not and probably never was a size 0, cocktail dresses are not appropriate for work, and the high (HIGH) waisted pants with a myriad of buttons probably should only come out again on Disco Night.  

Along with the outfit import every evening, I tend to move a couple other things - some books, some art supplies, some cooking utensils, and this week, some of my journals.

I have a large collection of journals - about a dozen volumes spanning from 1993 to 2007, just about the time that I started this blog. In moving them, I got the urge to read through them - to revisit the thoughts and angles on life that I had over the past two decades. Some of the entries were hysterical to read, especially the ones from grade school and high school. The college years were lean, with the exception of a very prolific and spiritual junior year. And around 2005, as I entered the pink and burgundy journals, things got a little scary, a little dark, a little hard to read.

It's difficult to quote this, but I want you to see.
Dated July 18, 2005 - just about four years ago. 
"I have reached a height of feeling fat, lethargic, gluttonous, gross, ugly, unwanted, undesirable ... the list could go on. I could probably fill this page with words describing my worthless self image. I've felt terrible the past two days and all I want to do is hide my face, bloated stomach, and fat legs in my house."
It goes on. It gets ugly. I'll leave it at that.

From 2004 to 2007, I suffered from an eating problem and with it a vicious disordered perspective on life and my role within it. Looking through my journals, sifting through my memories, I can blame any number of factors for it. I can blame the media, competitive sports, a chubby childhood, but I'm tired of pointing the finger. It doesn't matter how I got there. What matters is how I got over it - and as the pink journal bleeds into the burgundy one, and finally onto this blog, my words state it loud and clear. I got healthy, strong, and stable again thanks to my family - my dad, mom, brother, sister, Peter, and the many extensions of that unit, enabling me to see how much more I was than a body.

Having each one of them by my side - having them talk to me, play with me, jolt me, laugh with me, run with me, got me from an ultimate low to a soaring height - a high that I'm happily perched on today. 

July 21, 2011 - I'm healthy and happy. I am so thankful for it. And I get out of the house in the early morning, and run. Every. Single. Day. Because I'm healthy enough to do it. And when I run, I thank those people in my life - that support system that enabled me to eat right, live right, and get past the five mile point, so I could run marathons.


On October 9, I'm running the Chicago Marathon again. And again, I'm running it for Ronald McDonald House Charities - an organization that helps seriously ill or injured children find strength to heal by keeping their families by their side when they need it most. While I've never had to use one, I know the kind of support system that I find in my family and friends, is what others find within the walls of a Ronald McDonald House. Research shows, and I know, that children heal faster and cope better when their families are by their side, and I'm running to help more children have that option.

Please consider donating to Ronald McDonald House Charities so they can build more homes away from home for families trying to get their children better. 

Lesson learned from moving the journals - I'm happy to have closed that Chapter, and to have opened up an amazing one.

Lo.

Bibbidy Boddiby Boo

Growing up, there was a small selection set of movies we were allowed to watch. During a Friday evening trip to West Coast Video, which was by no means located on the West Coast, but on Murray Avenue in Squirrel Hill, my Dad would escort us away from the New Releases and into two coves that he recommended for our viewing pleasure - Kids and Classics/Musicals.

We each got to pick one. I usually countered Erin's Pollyanna or The Parent Trap and Adam's Old Yeller with a Disney princess flick or a Shirley Temple movie. My Dad rounded out our cinematic education with a classic western or drama.

Captivated by all movies from an early age, they each influenced me, but the bummers of rabies, paralysis and reoccurring divorce, focused my fresh, impressionable character on the princesses. Their romantic lifestyles were my aspirations and I would frequently make-believe I was a combination of my favorites (with a little Shirley Temple thrown in as well.) Make-believe in the Woods became princess Aurora's hide-out, make-believe in the pool became Ariel's quest to be 'part of that world,' make-believe while doing chores became a Lumiere show, and make-believe just about everyday was me getting ready for the ball, ta-da-ing, and dancing with Prince Charming.

In my twenties, I started to stop pretending, and as the princess bubble burst and reality set in, that's when all those fairy tale endings started happening. I graduated in essence, and today, I take on a new role - one that I believe will be far more challenging than that of a princess. Today, I become a Fairy Godmother, and to not just anyone, but to my (soon-to-be) niece Ellie.  

Playing the princesses is easy - sweetly singing through forests, bonding with woodland creatures, looking pretty, happening to run into Prince Charming on his noble steed, getting rescued while you take a snooze. I've pretty much done all those things or pretended to. But being the Fairy Godmother - being left with the task of making a really bad situation, unbelievable, geez! Now that's pressure!

But I'm optimistic, especially with Peter, the Godfather, by my side. I won't be able to turn a pumpkin into a sweet ride, mice into personal escorts, or rags into the most glamorous ball gown around, but I will watch over you, and care enough to be there when you need a little pick me up - when you need a little Godmotherly magic that lets you know how much you are loved. 

And a little piece of spiritual advice, since that's what it's all about - listen. This is one of those techniques that I haven't mastered yet, but I've found that prayer tends to work best when you listen more than you talk. When you give God, or people, the silence, space and time to respond, you'll actually find some of the answers.

So for you godchild, on your baptism, a dozen Ellie Ears (or Palmiers) so you can grow up to be a good listener, and when you just need to talk it out, bibbidy bobbidy boo, I'll be there for you to vent.

And yes, that's just a half on the end, I couldn't resist a morning pastry. Love you little one.  

Lo.

The Godparents

Les Vacances

Some days - some times - I hate being a grown up. Like the first of every month when my rent is due; the days that my insurance, car, utility, or phone bills come in the mail; the moments when I realize I haven't been to the doctor in a while, and I don't have my parents around to make appointments for me; the Sundays when I have to boot up my computer to get ready for the work week; the glances in the mirror when I spot a gray hair; and when I get where in the world are my parents (without me) text messages from my Mom.

I hated being a grown yesterday morning, Bastille Day, on my way to work, when I saw an email come through from my Dad that read, "dining al fresca in Angers, France."

18 years ago, as a kid of 11-years old, I would have been dining al fresca with them, having my first sip of Loire Valley sauvignon blanc, looking forward to quaint countryside inns, tours of the Normandy Beaches, rides down the Seine on a Bateau Mouche, frolics through Monet's garden at Giverny, surprised-this-is-so-not-G-rated first glances at bare breasts on the beach, lessons in how Cointreau is made, and smelly arm pits pushing down my head in an overcrowded Eiffel Tower elevator.

But yesterday, and today for that matter, I was in a cube far from France, far from summer vacations past, wishing I got that golden kid ticket.

So I did the only thing that could make me feel better - I pretended I was in France with my parents. I wore my black and white, high-waisted Nanette Lepore skirt that bells out and spins, and I continued to make it do just that, spin, each time I dramatically went to the bathroom and returned to my seat. I put on my little green French shoes that I got in Paris when I traveled there with Nicole. I read all five of the Bastille Day culinary e-newsletters that were delivered to my in-box yesterday. And of course, I planned a Frenchie feast for dinner - Salmon with stewed leeks and for dessert, classic French Madeleines - and served it on my new French China.

I thought I did a good job being a grown up about it. But I was still little jealous - a little sad that if even everyone else couldn't go, I wasn't able to wiggle my way into being my parents' third wheel. Until I did the most grown up thing of all - I thought about it. I thought about how many wonderful summer vacations my parents gave to my brother, sister and I over the years - how much fun we all had together over the course of more than two decades. And I thought about how at least once, or twice, or a dozen times during each of those vacations, my parents probably looked forward to the day when they could vacation just the two of them - have a romantic trip for two, instead of a rowdy trip for five.

So while I'm sure there are full family vacations in the pipeline, I'm happy that my parents are having their own private vacances en France right now - a vacation they've worked hard for, that they deserve, that will bring them back to the time that my Mom and Dad first met, right when my Mom returned from her study abroad in Angers, France. 

And because you're off to Belgium next, Peter and I are gastronomically traveling with you via steak frites this evening.  And I'll be embracing that other amazing part about being a grown-up - no one to tell me to stop at three - I'm going for four (or five) Madeleines tonight.

Lo.

The Great Midwest

You know how in grade school the teacher used to ask the class, "did anyone do anything fun over the weekend?" And you hoped that you had that winning weekend experience to relay - something that would trump the birthday party you weren't invited to. Well on Monday, before my department commenced a big planning meeting, the room was polled with just that question. Before anyone could even digest it, I blurted out, "I butchered a pig!"

YES! It was the most satisfying, exciting, interesting response I ever could have imagined - and it was not only mine, it was 100 percent true!

The entire room chuckled, looked at me, (yeah right), and begged for more information. So I explained.

Well ... Peter is obsessed with the pig - that is, in the smoking, roasting, pan frying, and devouring of him. So for Christmas, I went beyond Bacon of the Month Club and enrolled us in a Whole Hog Class at Vie Restaurant in Western Springs - a what do you do when you find a whole, dead 250-pound pig on your kitchen counter class.

So on Sunday, we cashed in Christmas morning, went to swine school, and found out what to do with that hog. To make a bloody, four-hour, long story short, you take a sharp knife, saw, and cleaver, dig in your hands, and dissect the bestial animal into the good parts - the ribs, the belly, the ham, the cheeks, the tenderloin and the loin - and grind up the rest to make sausages and country pate.

The faces of the people in the room took on expressions somewhere in between disgust and disbelief. Seriously? This little girl at the end of the table took a cleaver to a hog? Yes I did! (And loved it.)  They didn't seem to share my enthusiasm. They didn't understand why I was so proud of my unique weekend activity - that it was more than the sum of the pig's parts. It was the fact, that after it, I felt a little more midwestern.


Ironically, on Saturday, while at the beach with our friend Becky and her three-year-old daughter, Eleanor - both Chicago natives, but current residents of Boston - Becky said that she wanted her daughter 'to grow up with some Midwest in her.' It made me wonder if after nearly four years living in the Midwest, I was getting some of it in me. 

Vie confirmed it. I had.

Vie is labeled as a French restaurant and directed by a head chef  who is trained in the French culinary arts - its chef de cuisine, the man responsible for day-to-day kitchen management, has a passion for Italian peasant cuisine - its supplied by the sustainable farms and farmers of Illinois - and its located in a town similar to Mayberry. Rather than stick to its label - contemporary French, contemporary American - they have decided that they are more. They are different. They are Midwestern.

Nathan, the pig professor and chef de cuisine explained that Chicago is a historic and character-driven melting pot - that the food of the Midwest melded old world European cuisine with what was available from the abundant farms of Illinois, the slaughterhouses, butchers and meat packing factories, and the store rooms of preserved vegetables and cured meats that they needed to get through the long winters. Vie embraces that heritage and celebrates it in its simply, uniquely, elegantly prepares dishes each evening.

But Vie takes Midwest beyond their cuisine - their comportment and attitude embodies it as well.

Like my family and friends who are Midwesterners, they have an open door attitude. On Sunday, they welcomed perfect strangers into their kitchen. They put us to work. They laughed and joked with us. They even prepared us a hearty lunch. They treated us as friends and we left feeling like we were part of their foodie family.

They aren't afraid to get their hands dirty - in fact, they don't just dismember pigs at Vie, they go at it with cows as well.

They act like themselves too. They don't pose or put on a show. They're not trying to be trendsetters, (but like any great restaurant, they probably will be.) When asked what his favorite section of the ribs are, Nathan didn't go with the manly chef answer, he said, "the baby backs."

I will always be a Pittsburgh girl, but I love the fact that I feel like I have some of these typical Midwest qualities now - that living here has shown me a friendlier, heartier side. And that attending swine school didn't intimidate me, but taught me that the pig makes countless great meals, even if the fat ratio is a little scarier than I'm used to.

In the end, Eleanor and I will have the best of both worlds. But after a three days of pig products - pork belly, sausage risotto, sausage pizza and sausage sandwiches - this yinzer is ready for some leaner cuisine.


And now for a recipe that is pure midwestern fusion food.
Breakfast sausage sandwiches for dinner

Homemade breakfast sausage patties
Fried eggs
Spicy mayo - mayo, lemon, hot sauce, salt, crushed red pepper
Slaw - shred green and red cabbage, carrots and green pepper, add green onions, cider vinegar, sugar, lemon, dollop of mayo, salt, pepper, celery seed
Smoked mozzarella - got a paprika smoked one at Whole Foods, which worked very well!
Brioche buns - great recipe!

Make the Breakfast Sausage

Stack up the ingredients.
And dig in.

Lo.

Monopoly

We were a board game kind of family - an after dinner, lets sit on the living room floor, pull out the pieces, and play a game kind of family. Well, four of us were at least. My Mom elusively separated herself from the action by putting up an Obit section of the Pittsburgh Post Gazette screen from her perch on the couch. Which she would tear down every five minutes or so to whisper an answer to a less knowledgeable player - something that the well read Trivial Pursuit players, like Erin detested - but something that the piece-of-pie-less dummies, like me, enjoyed.

We each had our favorite games: Scattergories, Trivial Pursuit, Life, and one of my personal favorites Monopoly - a game that I tended to win.

I was usually the shoe - a decent alternative to the dog, which Erin immediately claimed, and the car, which was reserved for my brother, an avid collector of Micro Machines and Matchbox cars.

My goals were three fold: buy and build hotels on the yellow properties, buy and build hotels on the green properties, and buy and build hotels on Park Place and Boardwalk.  I wanted the pretty properties on the most expensive part of the board. The end. Somehow, with my eyes set on garnering and creating 'death row,' I got my way, slyly and stubbornly bartered the unassuming car and dog into stacking my deck.

Monopoly games always took longer than others. Many times we would save the second and third rounds of the game for other evenings. The first and second rounds - the purchasing, trading and accumulation of initial wealth were always fun. Everyone got along. Hopped around board. Paid each other politely. And started building here and there. It was the third round when things got a little ugly - when I started really building death row and my money-making capabilities weren't met with equal enthusiasm across the board. Soon enough the other player's houses were stripped; their properties were mortgaged; their utilities didn't work and their railroads were shut down. Then the white flags would go up, and it was just me and an unoccupied collection of real estate. The end. But it was always a lonely end. Adam and Erin would go off and play another game, and I was left to clean up the pieces.

Naperville is like the game of Monopoly. Except I'm not winning. And there are a lot of other players out there who are just about ready to lose the game as well.

Every morning, I pick my favorite piece, my running shoes, and do a four to five mile lap around the board. I start at Go - my apartment. Then I breeze pass Baltic Avenue. Fittingly, there is a very modest purple house on Baltic. Baltic is owned by Gary, the divorce - a 6 foot 5, tight end built man, who is always smiling. Most mornings, he's watering his roses or mowing his lawn, leading what seems to be  a very carefree existence. There are remnants of a life on Marvin Gardens in his driveway and on his porch though. And they make me wonder about his story. I smile and nod, but I keep going. 

I cross over the Railroad and into the Light Blue and Light Purple sections. There are lots of houses for sale, mortgaged properties and even a couple that have been foreclosed upon here. There are also lots of players going around the board at this point. And sometimes they seem to be going out of turn - whizzing by me, almost knocking me out of play. They fly by as if they all received Chance cards sending them straight to take a ride on the Reading Railroad, which phew, they already have a yearly pass for, and phew, let's them bipass Park Place and Boardwalk for another day. 

The Orange and Red properties around mile two are next and they have a similar story - lots of unhappy dog and car pieces with mortgaged properties and fleeting hopes for survival. 

Then we get to death row - the prime properties with massive McMansions, brand new Escalades, trophy wives, and speculative developers who have their eyes on everyone else's properties. I run a little faster during this part. I'm almost back at Go. I can make it.

On Friday though, I heard a voice say "Don't let me scare you now." I turned around and on his Marvin Gardens style monstrous mountain bike was Gary the divorce, owner of Baltic Avenue. I motioned for him to pass, I didn't want to have to stop on Boardwalk. But he countered with a signal to stop and chat. He asked if he knew me. I said no (only that I run by your house every day, and made up a story about you, but no, don't know ya.) He tried to decipher my story - where he might have seen my familiar-looking face, but it evaded him. And suddenly there we were. Together, right at the apex of death row.

The property owners, freshly jacked up from their yoga-barre-pilates fusion class, wanted their money. They glared at us with eyes that said, ante up! I couldn't pay. And Gary couldn't either. Surprisingly, they let us slide. I think they just wanted the game to keep going - they wanted us to continue to do laps and continue to witness their winning hand. But they seemed very unhappy - lonely - like no one wanted to play anymore.

As the yummy mummies hopped into their Escalades, seemingly pissed off at the world, Gary biked off, back to Baltic, with a big smile on his face. He knew something that I didn't know - that life on the Yellows and Greens wasn't all it was cracked up to be. He had been there once. And he lost it. But life on Baltic wasn't that bad. In fact, it was kind of great.

As a lowly renter, I'll continue to do laps, and perhaps when the time is right, I will buy. I might need some help though. And that's where the Banker comes in. Luckily, I'm getting married to him.

Lo.

THE Eleven Burger

THE Eleven Burger is a culinary masterpiece.

It is simultaneously a piece of art and a feat of engineering; many compartmentalized parts and one gastronomic being; a nutritionist's nightmare and a foodie's dream come true; the most powerful lunch you've ever had and the most absorbing late night meal you could imagine. It is also the ultimate conundrum for my inner fat girl.

The burger is near perfection. And from start to finish, the back of the house at Eleven pays acute attention to its every last detail. When you take that first bite, you can taste the care, concentration, and craft that have gone into each stage of its preparation.

The prep starts early in the morning. With Glen, the baker. When the last of the yinzer stallions are lumbering out of Mario's in the South Side at 2:30 AM, Glen is biking down Carson Street, over the 12th Street Bridge, through Downtown and into the Strip District. Just about a half an hour after the closing manager has diligently turned off every light in the restaurant and closed up shop, he opens it again - he turns on the lights in the eerily quiet space, and heads into his bakery.

He then beings a nocturnal baking frenzy - from 3:00 AM until the sun coaxes the scantily clad bar hoppers to begin their walks of shame, he mixes, kneads, proofs, bakes, and one would think rests here and there, but just when one step or one recipe is complete, he moves onto the next. In his artisan line-up every day are dozens of kaiser buns, topped with sesame seeds - fluffy, buttery, domed pieces of heaven. After pulling them out of the oven, Glen lines them up on baking sheets and lets them rest - lets them wait for their call to duty in the window of the bakery, their golden hides pompously ballooning in their air for all Smallman passerby to ogle.

As the buns are being lined up, the Executive Chef arrives to begin his daily culinary pursuits. He's a bit groggy. It seems like he was just there. It was a late night - the kitchen got backed up - he had to jump behind the line - the burn on his forearm is still fresh, sore. The flames are off though - the kitchen is quiet - and clean - it's a new day. Which means he needs new Daube and new bacon for his signature burgers.

The Daube takes a while so he starts with that first. It's a slow and low process - a magical melting and melding that turns a rough cut of veal shoulder into a stew of the most tender, succulent morsels of meat you've ever tasted. The bacon is made in house - Derrick does his own smoking and curing, so the slices that he needs for the burger are cut fresh daily.

One of the suppliers is at the back door - a local Pennsylvania dairy farmer who has a couple new cheeses that he wants Derrick to try. A Goat and a Cheddar. He makes a note for the manager to change the menu a bit - they will be perfect additions to the burgers today.

Derrick's team of cooks starts to arrive, and they begin staging and preparing for lunch - for the first burger orders of the day. They need to fry the onions, shape the patties, and mix the woozy butter. The sweet vidalia onions are thinly sliced and fried into crisp rings. The patty is pure Angus Beef. It doesn't try to be something else. It's proud of its farm fresh heritage - proud of its weight and heft and richness. The butter is injected with the masculine tastes of horseradish and Worcester and upon order, a dollop is added to each burger. 

It takes all these parts - the eager bun who is tired of waiting, the juicy combination of veal and angus beef, two slices of house-made applewood smoked bacon, crispy onions, cheddar cheese, Heinz 57, lettuce, tomatoes, a careful cook who excels at games like Topple, an excellent server who won't crack under pressure, and your mouth, opened very wide.  

In my dreams I have scarfed, inhaled, devoured this burger at least a hundred times. In reality, I have only taken one bite. Once. In the coat closet of Eleven. A mere taste of my friend Matt's shift meal - a taste that sparked drool and nearly a decade of day dreaming.

I took the recipe home with me and I made the whole masterpiece for Peter's birthday a couple years ago. My inner fat girl ate two of them, but the scared wannabe skinny girl who becomes a little too controlling, resisted and continued fantasizing.

Okay, what's my problem? Same old. I'm scared. I'm scared of what THE Eleven Burger and eating not just one bite, but ALL of it will do to my figure. It's caloric, it's fattening, it's heavy, and just thinking about it, sparks visions of my hips and thighs expanding into the thicker, heftier, younger versions of themselves. 

But perhaps because it's the summer, or because I'm working on trayliners which will hold the nation's best selling burgers, or because my burger buffet dreams are getting a little too vivid, I've been craving burgers right and left recently. And I'm bound and determined to not only make one and nibble at it here and there, but to EAT IT!

On the Fourth of July I tried Andouille burgers - a blend of ground chuck, Andouille sausage, pecans and garlic. Peter grilled them and I topped them with carmelized onion, spicy mayo, watercress, and blue cheese and I put rainbow slaw on the side. I did make myself a smaller one, but I'm proud to say that I ate the whole thing. Bun, burger, and all. And I didn't gain any weight. And the boy who ate two of them right next to me, still wanted to marry me - burger brazened thighs and all. 

The only problem is, I'm still craving an Eleven Burger. Bite, by bite. Burger, by bigger burger. I will get there. And I will make my dreams come true.

Lo.

The Nice-To-Do List

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh and #Imblogging ...

Lo.

Visiting Day

As I swayed back and forth to "Lean On Me" in my pew, arm in arm with my cabin mates, becoming an integral part of the serpentine system winding its way through the Chapel, I took my eyes off the Lake Erie sunscape and stole a glimpse of the back of the room. Nope. Not here yet. It was just the regulars - those PTA parents that were always the first to arrive to their kids' events. I was okay with it though. My parents said they would be there and I was guessing they had lingered at Lake Donuts. It was just about time to go up for communion anyway, and I didn't want them to scrutinize why their Catholic children were doing it the Episcopalian way.

I couldn't wait to see them though. A week away from them and from home - a week living in a 500 square foot cabin with ten other people seemed like an eternity. And SO much had happened. I couldn't wait to tell them about it.

I had received two Green Eights this year and helped dozens of mediocre athletes receive theirs. I had actually helped capture the flag. I won the back stroke event at the Swim Meet and dominated water polo during Morning Competition. I had gone sailing. I weaved a rope necklace in Arts and Crafts. I had made really good friends in Liz and Jess - we had been staying up past devotions every night laughing and laughing. And I had high hopes that I was actually going to nab one of my dozen or so Camp crushes this year. (Alas, it didn't happen though - they ended up pairing off with the same girls that always got dates to the Banquet.)

I finally felt like I had reached the ranks of a cool camper. I think it had something to do with the Birkenstocks that I had bought for Camp this year. They put me in a league above those in Tevas. I had also lost weight, and continued to do so from a week living off Life cereal that I had strategically stowed at the bottom of my big blue trunk from Ralph's Army Surplus. It was an excellent meal replacement for the thick cuts of ham, meatloaf, and roast beef that primarily ended up in the slop buckets at the end of each Dining Hall table. The weight loss allowed the hippie chic wardrobe I had invested in prior to packing for Camp hang just right and it made me feel more confident walking all the way from Cabin 18 to the KYBO every morning in just a towel.

I had also come out of my shell a bit - I had provided the idea and the impetus for the skit that our cabin in conjunction with Cabin 8 had just performed in Chapel. It was a mock-up of the CK One ads circa 1995 where Kate Moss and her anorexic friends posed with sour expressions, said random things, and then concluded at the end that CK One was a fragrance for a man or a woman.



My idea was to implement the same concept with GOD as the hot scent. "GOD - a feeling for a man or a woman." It was a big hit. Everyone did the slow clap, speeding up to a fast clap like ten times. Matt Pascal was impressed, and told me. It was better than the Cabin 10 / Cabin 20 equation. And I felt very Calvary cool.

I felt like I was invisible, and I couldn't wait to show off my summer glow to my parents on Visiting Day.

When Chapel was over, I found my cousin Meghan (who a week later would be named 'Outstanding Camper - Session II'), my brother, and my cousin Ryan (they were good campers too, but never Outstanding.) And then they arrived - pulling up in the Transport Van. My Mom and Dad in the front seat, waved. Do do dodododo do do - the automatic door slid open and Erin (a Calvary Alumna) my Aunt Dee Dee and Evan emerged, Lake Donuts in hand. We were all hugged and told to immediately eat one of the fried prides of Linesville because we all looked skinny. Adam and Ryan dove in.

We signed out for the day, and we took off - relieved and excited to be crossing over the Camp boundaries that Gary had so clearly laid out for us Campers on the first night. My Dad had researched the only eating establishment in the C-O-Double N-E-A-U-T spells Conneaut area that was written up in the Fodor's Guide Book. So we made the drive to the historic restaurant while the rest of the campers with visitors formed a long line to get a Brazier meal and Blizzard at Dairy Queen.

My parents listened to and laughed at our camp escapades, proud of how we had all made it past our first Visiting Days when we cried and lamented how rough Cabin 2 or Cabin 11 was, and how we just wanted to go back home with them. It was a great day - the perfect mid-point to my favorite session at Calvary Camp.


As I do every summer around this time of the year, I start to reminisce about those good old Calvary Camping days - even those when I was a forlorn 17-year old camper (social suicide - all the Birkenstock coolness I had accumulated, rapidly relinquished.) Today would have been Visiting Day. In fact it's the (holy crap) 14th anniversary of the particular one I described.

With fond memories of visits past, I decided that I needed to give Peter a glimpse of them, so today, we're having our own Visiting Day. Except this time, we are the visitors. We are driving up to Camp Kinnickinnic, which is right on Lake Michigan, to visit a very young camper. It's her first session, her first week outside of her comfortable surroundings, and I'm thinking she might be a little sad here and there. But that's what Visiting Day is for. To give her confidence in the next week, and the next year, so ultimately she becomes a cool camper. Lyla, here we come - Donuts, DQ, Don and Nora, and all.  

Lo.

Three Toots the Charm

In the wake of Lyla's birth, my sister sent my brother and I an article - "How to Talk to Little Girls," by Lisa Bloom from the Huffington Post.  The article begs the reader to help change our beauty obsessed culture one little girl at a time by reshaping the content and tone of the conversations we have with them. Instead of telling girls that they are pretty, darling, sweet, and scrumptious, we should ask them what they're reading.

The article was great. Well done Lisa. However, in all the recent efforts I've made to tame my personal obsession with the multibillion dollar beauty industry and the bimbos it produces, I failed Lyla. I held her for the first time and said. "You are the most beautiful little girl in the world. And I'm going to take you shopping. And you're going to have great hair. And you are just perfect." 

Well she is ... but according to the article, I should have said something else. As a little girl that didn't read a lot, I didn't like Lisa's question. In fact, it would have jolted my self confidence. So I thought of a new question. And a little story to go along with it.

Lyla,

Once upon a time a cute couple decided to get a pint at the local Irish bar with their friend Dan. The threesome walked into the cozy establishment on a blustery, cold, Midwestern winter evening and took a seat at one of the wooden tables. They ordered a round of Guinness, some pub fare, and listened to the acoustic band play. The girl looked great. She was dressed in her new Citizens jeans, a knit blazer from Barney's, and her favorite Italian boots. Her hair was swept back into a bun revealing the little aquamarine earrings that completed the look. (Oops, not supposed to go into this part.)

As the band's rhythms shifted from fast to slow, the girl shifted in her seat to readjust her blazer and lean in to the boyfriend she couldn't believe she had.
And ...

Toot.

Crickets. In her mind the whole room went quiet, the band stopped playing, and everyone, especially her boyfriend, was looking at her.
Oh. My. God. Did you just toot?
What? No.
Dan, did you hear that?
Umm ....
The whole bench shook, you had to have heard that.
It did not!
Yes, it did. You are a little tooter. Toot. Toot. Tooter. Toot to toot toot toot.

Dan laughed (and laughed) while the boy shook his head in disbelief and the girl's expression revealed her desire to leave the scene of the crime as quickly as possible. She didn't though. She held her own. She laughed it off and managed to move the conversation along. And thankfully, the incident, was laid to rest after a couple of weeks of teasing and faux tooting.

But then, in Hawaii last year, while posing for a picture on the steps to the Four Seasons it happened again. The couple had just finished up their night cap and were walking hand in hand back to their room. They walked by a beautiful fountain and the girl asked, "Will you take a photo of me?"
Pose to the left. (ew, didn't like it.)

Pose to the right. (ew, try again.)
Pose to the left again ...
TOOT!
WHAT WAS THAT?!
(F!)

Two toots down. 'The Tooter' nickname stuck a lot longer this time. Basically, until it happened the third time, which was during an evening walk around the neighborhood last week (after a day of furious gum chewing mind you.) The girl bent down to stretch her overworked legs for a second and just like that, it became three toots the charm.

I am now not only Peter's cute little honeybee, I am The Tooter. A permanent nickname that I receive while refrying black beans, shredding cabbage for coleslaw, or stretching after running. And yes, it is terribly embarrassing, and terribly imperfection ridden, BUT it is also makes me laugh. A lot. 

So Lyla, my question to you today - "what sound did you make?" It was probably an adorable little coo. But if just happened to be a toot rest assured that the people that really love you in life, won't care. If anything, it will add a little character, and by the time you hit three, you'll be proud of the wonderful little human instrument that you are.

Lo.

The It Girl

It was Girls Night Out. It was a "welcome to the Windy City, Kate" kind of evening. I got dressed - skinny jeans, black top, Charles David peep toe heels. (Left the Manolo's in their bed to be ogled again tomorrow.) And kissed Peter goodbye as he topped off a growler of the home brew he was going to take to his reciprocal boy's night.

I made it downtown around 6:00 with the high hopes that Kate would be ready to go. I should have known better. Instead, I arrived just in time for her characteristic struggle to figure out what to wear. We tried on and nixed white pants, black pants, dark jeans, light jeans, thin corduroys (seriously, Kate, it's summer time), ten different tops, and ultimately lighting struck, "I have it" and with a quick change she emerged from her room. 
"Ta da! .... Oh ... we're wearing the same thing ... do you care?"
"No. It's fine. let's go." 

We walked across the street to Japonais and moseyed up to the bar. Ashlee met us a couple minutes later, and we formed the most conservative group of women at the bar (in comparison to the VERY short dresses, high heels, and low cut shirts that walked past us.)

We sat down to dinner around 8:30 and I checked my phone. I had a text. And an email. And then I got a call from my Mom. Laura was in labor. My niece was on her way.

Now ... there is one thing that can take me away from girl talk and giggles; from Kate, Ashlee and Kim Crawford; and from the potential of being in the center of the hot dance floor du jour. That's the arrival of a VIP - of a girl who is way cooler than anyone lounging in the Cabanas, going to the head of the line, or receiving bottle service. OMG - the It Girl was coming out. So I finished up my lobster spring rolls and headed home so I could get ready to meet her.

Rumors had it that a trip to the zoo might have stimulated her arrival, but my theory is that she heard it was Girls Night and wanted to come out and party. She heard the whispers of Hubbard Inn and the pop of champagne. She saw the scantily clad girls, and rolled her eyes with us. She felt the rhythm from across the Lake and wanted to dance. So ... she started boogie-ing. And twisting and twirling. And right as the lines up and down Halsted started forming, her mom said, 'Ok, I'll dance with you.' And they went at it - all-night - it was a (painful) dance marathon that lasted into the morning. 11:11 AM to be exact. She made her debut, had one last drink, and then crashed in the arms of her proud parents.

Yep, like any good girls night out, the next day was reserved for lots of rest - lots of story telling - lots of "Wow - How did that happen?!"

Lyla, you are just perfect, and I loved meeting you yesterday. (And don't worry, you won't be wearing the same thing as all the rest of the babies for long.)

You are in great girl company and you've got a bevy of beauties all around you, ready to take you on many more girls nights out. You've got aunts and great-Aunts, grandmothers and great grandmothers, cousins and second cousins, and of course the most beautiful mom of all.

Lo.