The S.

At exactly 5:03 PM on Monday, I was standing at the northernmost end of 3 North, waiting for the elevator, anticipating that sweet ding that officially sounds the end of Monday. If I had timed it right, which I usually do, I would have come away with a solo exodus. Free to get in, rapidly push the 'door close' button, and sail down to P2 where my Mini and I would make a clean get away.

On Monday though, I was not so lucky, I was one of six 3 North elevator riders. Five of which, including myself, had left their cubes and thrown their mute buttons on. They were only separated by an elevator ride from being done for the day, and they weren't about to start it up again. The sixth person though, wanted to talk. And he wanted to talk to me. 
"Hiya .... so ... what are you doing with all your spare time now?"
(Oh crap, he's talking to me. Mute button off.) "Um ... what spare time? What do you mean?"
"Well, now that your wedding is over and now that the marathon is done, don't you have a lot more time? What are you doing with it?"
"Oh ... um ... that time ... I guess nothing really ... (Wrong answer. I couldn't think of anything else to say though. Do people really have spare time contingency plans? I turned my mute button back on.)"

After making the great escape, I spent the car ride home thinking about the free time I've in theory gained since saying "I do" and running around Chicago for 3 hours and 47 minutes. Last week I was traveling, no spare time there. This week, I've got a million things to do at work. What spare time?!

Around 8:30 on Monday night, then on Tuesday morning, and Tuesday night, and then on Wednesday I figured it out. Oh ... that spare time. I literally think I caught myself twiddling my thumbs at 8:37 last night. I don't have a specific, get er done purpose right now, and truth be told, I feel like I have had an excess of time over the past three days. So to your point, elevator talker ... here's what I've done with it ...I picked out the breed of dog that I want to get.

An American Fox Hound. They are really good at exercise. We are going to run marathons together.

I looked at the wedding and honeymoon pictures again. (And again ... and again.)

High five.

I cooked. And baked. And ate. And kept that Frenchie fifteen firmly glued to my waistline.

Pork chops, applesauce and mashed potatoes were the highlight of Tuesday night

I went to bed early. And then earlier. And then earliest.
And then ... last night when I literally found myself twiddling my thumbs, I decided to do a little research. An experiment more or less. I decided to use my Facebook profile as a focus group of sorts, something we've been doing more at work since we don't have the budget to run a real one. I wanted to gauge the reaction of my new, married name. So as of 8:45 or so last night, I dropped the F. and put on the S. Which, I must say, was a little difficult. Mostly, because there is a lot in that F.

In Kindergarten, there were two other girls with the same name as me. In Nursery and Pre-K, I was the one and only. Writing my first name on my show-and-tell item, smock or bag lunch was sufficient. But in Kindergarten, as I was introduced to a W. and an L., and I became the F. The added initial stuck and defined me throughout grade school. 

It made me different than the other Ls. W. was the shy one. L. could stand up to the boys. And I was the loud, dancing, dramatic one, with a slight double chin. Being an F. also put me up front in all lines - to process into Chapel, to get my pizza on Pizza Day, to exit the school in the event there was a fire. The F. did lead to some name calling, but mostly everyone liked L.F. She was fun, unabashed, and hosted one amazing Admore roller rink birthday party.

I started to think about the other stuff that defined L.F. 
She was a little scared of the big slide at Spring Lake.

She didn't stop at three cookies, she always negotiated her way to four. And turned to the hidden Oreos under her bed for five and six.
She was a dancer, a singer, and an actress, and she tended to steel center stage every time the camcorder came out.
She played make-believe in the bushes on Bartlett Street.
She was a St. Edmund's girl who proudly belted out the School Hymn at Chapel.
She was an Ellisian who knew she could be an actress and an all-american athlete.

She was an All Big East lacrosse player at Notre Dame.

She managed a restaurant.Got really tired. And then decided to change careers with an MBA school pivot point. 
L.F. converted her crush.

That guy with the floppy hair.

She started this blog. She finally got the kind of job she had always wanted. She sits on 3N. She ran two marathons. She plays the role of Vanna White at company awards ceremonies. She got engaged. And then she became part of a Mr. and Mrs. equation, where she is supposed to subtract the F.

In a way, and as one of my focus group respondents observed, when I get officially get rid of the F. I will be "a different person." Which is a little hard for me. There is a lot of history, brand equity, and character in the F. But I also know that being an S., despite the fact that our kids will be near the end of the line at school, is huge. As Peter said, it makes us one, which is what marriage is all about. And like any other successful merger, you need to bring together the best of both parties and figure out a name that will convey the "new and improved" of the company to its customers. And that's exactly what my new name will say. 

After the positive reaction I got on Facebook last night, and with the time that I've recently collected, I'm determined to open up the daunting name-changing paper work and suffer through it. I will be dropping the F., keeping my middle name, Louise, and adding an S.

And to alleviate any confusion for my former classmates.I'm no longer L.F, I'm L.S. She's the same old quirky girl, just with a little "new and improved" - "off the market" - "merger complete" on the end.

Lo.

63

Sometimes, Peter jokes that I measure my life in mileage and blog entries. He claims that I believe a good day is putting more than eight miles on my feet and publishing 300-500 words about the who, what, when, where and why people care of my day. And that I believe a bad day significantly lacks in steps and content.

There is a slightly negative undertone to Peter's chide, challenging and pressuring me to think outside my scoring system. And it leads me to bite back against the claim, denying that I really judge my days based on footwork and fodder.
That is SO not true! 
But ... in thinking more about two of my favorite hobbies, two things that do hold the trump card of prioritization in my day, and two things that Peter uses to label me, I'm starting to think there isn't shame in living my life by them. Because I don't only quantify the mileage that I run, I measure the slower paced steps of my walks and strolls. I don't only measure the times that I hit publish, I measure the quality of the senses and sentiments that shape the stories I write the next day. When I assess life, I do it by the steps that I take and the memories that I make. That's not so wrong is it?

For instance, yesterday ranked as an outstanding day. It had the makings of stardom. It was filled with outstanding steps and outstanding stories. And I think Peter would completely agree.

Around noon, I changed out of my sneakers and into my Kate Spade's, a pair of shoes that is just about six weeks old, the same age as the marriage of Peter and I. But within their relatively short lifespan they've been present and privy to a lot of amazing sights: the artisan tile work of Sacred Heart Church on the night that we rehearsed our "I dos," the Casino floor in Monte Carlo, the chi chi beach dining scene in Antibes, and the old cobblestone streets of Saint Germain des Pres in Paris. They have helped shape wonderful memories over the past month, but they hadn't been out of their box since our honeymoon. So I knew we were both in need of the high-healed, momentous mileage they tend to create.

I first took them for a walk down the aisle of Saint Bernard's Church in Mount Lebanon - a walk that brought back many memories of sleepovers at the Cumpstons, Father Walt homilies, and the cousins' reception of the sacraments followed by a run down the hill to Aunt Dee's house for a change of clothes, play time, christening chicken, and one of Aunt Joyce's beautiful, homemade, frosting-covered cakes. Yesterday at Saint Bernard's we saw the marriage of two of our good friends, Greg and Juliette - two of the happiest people that we know. It was beautiful (and the camera would have captured said beauty better than my iPhone had Peter remembered it.)

Then we pushed the pedal on my Dad's Beemer and drove a couple miles down the road to attend another celebration. A private, petite 63rd wedding anniversary party. But because my shoes were so new, they didn't quite understand how big this moment was. They had missed the other anniversary parties, they had just met my Grandpa, and they needed a little education about parties past and just how special my Grandparents are to me.

Well ... there was the 40th anniversary party at this little steakhouse in the South Hills. We had the place to ourselves for the night - to scream "YEAH!" as loud as possible, to relive the first cake cutting, to clink our glasses and ask for a kiss, and to have enough room to fit the growing family into one picture.

Then there was the 50th. I remember the shoes I wore - the original Steve Madden clunkers that every girl had to have. Aunt Joyce's cake got grander, the cake cutting got more ceremonial, the family got bigger, and "how can we forget ..." the speeches got longer.

Then there was the 60th ... Peter made it to that one. The "YEAH'S!" got louder, aunt Joyce made the best cake ever, Grandma looked as beautiful as she did on her wedding day, and I upgraded my shoes to Italian stilettos.

I then told my shoes about all the walks my Grandma and Grandpa had been on together - all the mileage they had covered and how many memories came from it. I told them about one very special walk that my Grandpa included in his note to me on my wedding day. He wrote, "The first time I held grandma in my arms and kissed her was in the alley way leading to her house. That feeling and warmth stays within me to this day and never leaves." I told them that I had a similar feeling of warmth and happiness the moment that I laid eyes on Peter. And that I pray and hope that Peter and I will continue to feel the same kind of love that my grandparents feel today, 63 years from now.

The little celebration we had at Sunrise was quieter than past parties, but it didn't lack in sweetness. There were hugs and squeezes, Croatian toasts, photos to look through, floral arrangements, and reflections on cookie trays, cakes and zucchini breads past.

After a teary end to the anniversary party, we pushed the pedal on to Nevillewood, the dance floor, and the wedding reception of the new Mr. and Mrs. Leutch. Outstanding party.

And although Aunt Joyce didn't make it, the cake was outstanding too.

At the end of the day I probably had more than 15 miles of memories on my feet and hundreds of images and sentiments in my mind that I could easily put to paper. At the end of the day, I confirmed my positioning too, that seeing the world through steps and stories isn't so bad, and I'm glad that I'm writing those stories down two or three times a week. Because there may come a day when I don't remember, and I'll want my groom to read these stories to me, and help me always feel the warmth, the laughter, and the love that I know my Grandma still feels to this day.

Lo.

A Big Breakfast

My family tends to categorize, bucket and label. We do it to others, but we mostly do it to ourselves. We each have been labeled over the years with an exhaustive list of qualifiers that has helped shape our personal brands (whether we want them to or not.) And given the fact that 60% of the family are lawyers, the label sticks until proven not guilty. We may want to deny our tags or make a case against them, but in the end, the judge overturns our pleas, and we are forever pinned.

Even though we, as a very type A family, are very similar our labels tend to make an argument for our contrasting nature - how different each of us are.

One of us was never much of a reader.
One of us is a bookworm.
One of us just reads the Sports Section.
One of us should be the default choice when taking a child shopping.
One of us should be the default choice when taking a child to a lecture.
One of us should be the default choice when taking a child to a sporting event.
(If there's a musical or flower show involved, all the kids are going.)
One of us gets crabby when she's tired.
One of us gets crabby when he's hungry.
One of us gets crabby (and emotional) just because.
One of us is a night owl.
One of us has to go to bed at 9 PM every night.
And one of us likes to sleep in late on the weekends and have big breakfasts.

The labels I've been pinned with are just about 100% true, especially the one about turning into a pumpkin at 9 o'clock every night. It was actually very difficult convincing my Dad that I would stay up until midnight to hear the last song at our wedding. The brand that has been placed on me is the result of (very) repetitive behaviors that I've come to find comfort in, and I'm okay with it.

Several of my sister's labels though aren't so much the sum of many occurrences, rather they are the unfortunate circumstance of my Mom calling her house around 7 AM on a Saturday when she was still sleeping, and my Mom calling her house when she was about to sit down to pancakes, eggs and bacon on a Sunday morning. From that moment on, my sister was known for "sleeping in late and eating big big breakfasts."

While this relaxing behavior is very typical in most households, it is actually an aberration in my go-getter, fiber-eating family, and is positioned as a negative - like there is something being missed by pushing the snooze button a little longer on a Saturday and enjoying something other than Bran Flakes in the morning.

While I'm in the rise and shine and eat a granola bar camp, all I could think about this week, was sleeping in and having a big breakfast. I'm still sick and every morning, all I want to do is stay in bed, get out of it when I feel like it, and mosey straight over to a dining room table dressed with waffles, and syrup, and smoked salmon, and quiche, and bacon, and mimosas.

My desire for a sleep-in big breakfast only compounded when I saw the Irish bacon from our butchering class thawing out in the fridge on Monday. And then my Saveur Newsletter highlighting Shopsin's pumpkin pancakes on Tuesday morning. And then the dozen eggs started calling out, "use us, use us!" on Tuesday night. So I said, fine, I was going to do it.
Peter, we're having breakfast for dinner.

Now ... talk about labels. This was an occasional go-to meal solution for my Dad. And as kids, we loved it. My mom on the other hand, was not a fan. In fact, I can recall several times when she would call to say that she was going to leave the office in five minutes and then ask what was for dinner.
Breakfast. 
Oh ... I think I'm going to work late tonight.
Mom hates breakfast for dinner!

But it was an option that Peter and I hadn't tried yet. So ... we cut and sizzled the bacon, made the pumpkin pancakes from the newsletter, and made my new favorite side dish, David Lebovitz' spinach cake, which is like a spinach souffle / crustless quiche thing. It is absolutely amazing.

In all, it was a good dinner. But I can see why my Mom didn't necessarily love the concept. Peter ate most of the bacon before we even sat down. The presentation on our plates wasn't as pretty as usual. It's a pain to clean up sticky syrup when you just want to go to bed. And there was a much more casual, haphazard feel at the dinner table. I think big breakfasts are best right around the time my sister schedules them in.

So ... I'm thinking, Saturday is only two days away, and without a long run to do, I'm going to break out of my mold, sleep in, make a HUGE breakfast, and invite my sister over.

Lo.

The Chicago Marathon, The Captain, and Me on Monday

I'm going to preclude this blog entry by saying it's Monday - the day after my second 26.2 mile run through the once again blazing hot, sunny streets of Chicago. I've got an ice pack on my left knee. There is a weird weezing sound piping out my still stuffed up respiratory system. My second toes are pulsing with pain and ready to lose their nails. The walk, or should I say waddle, down the Mendoza staircase and into Giovanni A today wasn't quite as graceful as I remember it to during my days as a business student. The rubbing and punching of my quads throughout our case presentation was probably not the best look for a wanna be astute, composed visiting educator. And those last 6 miles are still fresh, very fresh, in my mind.

Tonight, I'm saying it. I will never run a marathon again.

Tomorrow, I'll deny that statement. (That's why I wrote it this year.)

Somewhere in between now and then, I'll rationalize the negatives away. It wasn't that bad. What pain? There was never really a toenail there to begin with. I can do better. I can shave off seven minutes and qualify for Boston. (Despite my inside cold and the outside heat, it kills me that I didn't.) AND how am I going to help recruit Team RMHC 2012 without being an active, running member of it?

In the meantime, I'll reminisce about where I've been in the past 48 hours with pictures.

I trained, and ate, and carbo loaded right - complete with pumpkin bread pudding on Friday night.

I embraced the game day atmosphere that lit up Chicago

I didn't get stressed out that I wasn't winning. I let the Kenyans make their magic.

I ran for the right reason - for Ronald McDonald House Charities.

I had THE most amazing fans at miles 3, 6, 14, 15, 17, 22, and 25. And I ran over to thank them.

... and shock them with my sweaty stench.

I loved being at the post tent party and took advantage of all the athlete services.

And I got another photo with Ronald.

But ... because I feel like I don't have that first timers glow - that fresh perspective on a Marathon that made what I wrote last year so fun, I thought I would turn the page over to a guest blogger with a better story. I wanted one of my fellow Team RMHC teammates to tell her story. She is not only a teammate though, she is my cousin, my friend, my bridesmaid, one of my heroes and one of my inspirations. A woman who never ceases to totally amaze me. She is Captain Meghan Cumpston.

That's her. (From her shirt, you can see she's running for the right reason too.)

And that's her. Running like a champ.

And these are the hysterical words describing her 26.2 mile tour that she wrote to me this morning. I just loved them, and I had to share. 

Mile 1:  This isn't too bad!  Nice, slow pace...wow, Chicago has nice architecture.  I should definitely come back sometime when there isn't a marathon involved.  Dear Garmin, you need to get your sh*t together, I know that I'm not running a 6:25 pace right now...nothing convinces my watch otherwise.

Mile 4:  A bit less than 1/6 of the way there!  Oh wait...that actually doesn't make me feel better.  Darn.  What does make me feel better?  The guy holding a sign that says "You are all great at exercise."  Garmin has settled down for the long haul.  I high-five people, smiling.  I am enjoying myself, it's a beautiful day.

Mile 6:  Hmm, I've had to pee since this thing started.  But I hate Port-a-Potties.  And the lines.  And stopping during a long run.  Wait, I know...if I have to pee, then obviously I can't be dehydrated.  I'll use this as a gauge to see if I need to drink more fluids.  Yes, the marathon has allowed me to add "amateur doctor" to my resume.

Miles 8-9:  Rihanna and Eminem songs were good choices (pats self on back for the obviously brilliant running playlist.)  Oh, a good T-shirt:  "Please God, let someone be behind me to read this"...written on the back.  I snicker, then remind myself not to waste energy on laughing, especially since I'm behind her.  Reading it.

Mile 13.1:  Halfway!  Just saw Peter and Uncle Don.  Also just saw a really heavy girl pass me...WTF?  I know I didn't train much, but how is she moving THAT much faster than me?  Remind myself what Charles wrote in one of his emails: "Run your own race."  Solid advice that I continue to repeat to myself lest my competitive side get the best of me, causing me to go down in flames circa mile 17.

Mile 14:  Started editing my snarky comments about other runners when I realize they might be thinking that about me as I pass them.  Oops.  See a girl wearing a shirt that says "PLEASE, Girl.  My mascara runs faster than you."  Hmm, kind of mean, but I can appreciate the Nike-brand humor.

Mile 16:  Well, this is the farthest I've ever run.  See a sign:  "The last ten miles is all downhill."  Not encouraging.  At all.  Also, where am I?  The blacktop roads seem to radiate heat...probably because they are, in fact, radiating heat.  Remind myself that Alexander the Great created an empire by making his troops put one foot in front of the other, all the way to India.  Later, I will realize what an incoherent thought that is.  I press on.

Mile 19:  Starting to slow down.  I tell myself just to make it to Mile 20, then I can walk.  I make it to mile 20, and, frightened of how much I will slow down, keep running.  

Mile 21:  Feel genuinely sorry for myself...as in having the verbatim thought "I feel sorry for myself."  Remind myself that I have no one to blame for this but myself. Still, I start walking...like a soccer mom power walk.  Still maintaining a 13:30 mile.

Mile 23:  What is wrong with my feet?  Is it possible for the entire bottom to burn off while cramping?  And why does it feel like there is some sort of weird bubble coming out of my knee?  I start wondering if the marathon will literally cause my body to fall apart.  I am NOT quitting with only 3 miles to go. 

Mile 24.2:  All I have left is the equivalent of an Army PT test.  I've done those hundreds of times.  Must finish!

Mile 25:  I try to tell people along the edge of the route that it's my first marathon and they should cheer for me.  Unfortunately, my voice now resembles some sort of braying donkey.  While my message is probably not effective, I do get a few cheers.

Mile 26:  WHERE IS THE FINISH LINE?  Oh...it's up that hill.  Sweet.  I'm back to running, if only to get it over with faster.

Mile 26.2:  So.  Freakin'.  Happy.  Borderline emotional when they give me my medal.  I scamper away from the people with the odd foil warmer things.  It's 82 degrees out, I'm plenty warm, thanks.  Briefly consider hugging the girl who is handing out ice cold towels, but realize I'm coated in a mixture of Gatorade, water, sweat, and Chicago hose water.  I decide she would not appreciate it, and try to make my way to Charity Village.

Unfortunately I never made it quite that far, because of my hotel check out time--a shame, cause I hear I missed a great party.  Lesson learned:  When running a marathon, stay the night after the marathon too.

Here's what I'm thinking - she didn't get a chance to go the pasta dinner party before the race OR the tent extravaganza after the race. I think we BOTH might have to run it again next year, and perhaps recruit two more? Takers?

Lo.

Team Lo vs. The Cold Sore

You know the kind of days or the kind of the weeks (or the kind of races) when everything seems to click? And fall into place? And all the stars align? And everything turns out just the way you want it to?

One month ago that happened. Dress fit. Skin cleared up a bit. Nails didn't look massacred. Dance moves abounded. Greatest party ever happened. Wedding bliss ensued. I was in Heaven.

Today. At present. That is not so much happening. In fact, the stars aren't just unaligned, they aren't showing. I have completely failed to feel their magic shine down on me this week. And I'm really, really dreading the course I'm supposed to be on in two days.

Last year Team Lo versus the Chicago Marathon was bad. Real bad. You can reminisce with me if you would like. This year was going to be different though. I signed up with a vengeance - to beat that course and the misery that I felt as I crossed the Finish Line. I trained with a renewed vigor, better running form, more water pumping through my system, and a theory backed by the book Born to Run about my innate purpose in life - waking up every morning and running hard so I would never be the prey. My sophomore marathon season was going to be amazing. I was going to run this sucker like I never thought I could.

And now I'm on the couch. Tired. Achy. Stuffy. Without an appetite. (But still having a glass of wine.) And annoyed at the cold sore on my mouth and the pain in my left foot.

Here's what I have to say.
What the F?
I haven't been sick in literally two and a half years. Two and a half years!
I haven't been injured at all during my running career. 
I never get cold sores. 
And who ever heard of over-hydrating?! I seriously just got an alert message on my phone from the Chicago Marathon saying that the weather on Sunday fell into the "yellow" range and I should be careful not to over-hydrate. I'm really hoping the five liters of water I drank today is not considered above and beyond the call of duty. 

With all that said, and with my left foot going numb from the ice pack glued on it, I know I will finish on Sunday. And I know I will finish with a smile on my face. And accepting of the heat cape (although I'm still really, really confused why a hot, stinky runner would need to keep warm on a 75 degree day.) And proud of what I have done over the past two years. 

Why? Because I'm not running this race for me. I'm running it for Mark Johnston and his son Luke.  (watch this video - you'll get it.)

I'm running for Max and his mom, Liz. 

I'm running for Jena and the whole Crawford family.

I'm running for children and families that are facing challenges far worse than my cold sore or my 26.2 mile bum-footed trek through Chicago. Children who are facing marathons of their own every day as they battle illness and injury. But children who are doing it equipped with the best medicine of all, their families, who are able to stay close by to them thanks to a network of Ronald McDonald Houses around the world.

On Sunday, I couldn't imagine running the marathon without my family there to cheer for me, support me, give me a drink and some power in the form of a bar, and hug me at the end despite my stench. Their presence will help me fight till the end.

What I really couldn't imagine though is being in the hospital without my family by my side. I'm running to help make sure that sick kids will always have their families by their side when they need it most.

Help me, help children find strength to get through the tough times by giving the gift of family today. 

Here's to the champagne that will be popped on Sunday at 11:30 AM - my estimated time of arrival at the RMHC tent.

Lo.

Kiss and Make-Up

Just about everyone and everything that walks, talks, sings, dances, sells, buys, cooks, cleans, or just exists has a Facebook page. Some of them I call my friends. One of them I'm "married to," although he's been inactive for about two years. And some of them I've "liked," an action that has become the key to admittance into some more candid brand communities.

One of the more recent communities that I've joined is The Ellis School. Yes, my itty-bitty high school alma mater has a Facebook page. And yesterday, I got a glimpse not only inside the familiar hallways, but down into the underbelly of the school - the series of stuffy dressing, costume, and make-up rooms that only the elite Ellis thespians have seen.

I saw the mirrors, lights, and clutter. I saw the girls applying their make-up, giving themselves one last look in the mirror for confidence, and then ascending from the dungeoness bowels of the school. I was immediately transported back. Back to picking out my costume, balking at how unflattering it was, snickering in the girls dressing room as the brave boy who decided to make the trek over from Central Catholic to act with us ladies emerged in his ridiculous costume, and back to cluelessly trying to apply stage make-up to my face.

Back in grade-school Mrs. Hunter did our make-up. She simply powdered our oily adolescent noses and slapped some red lip stick on our lips. That did the trick. In high school, Mr. Altman demanded more. Rosier cheeks, fuller lips, bigger eyes, a more matte face, and a nose that didn't look quite so pug-like. There were tricks you could do with make-up apparently, and I didn't know any of them.

With bit roles freshman year, I slid under the radar with powder and lipstick. But sophomore year, when I got the lead role, the tap teacher (talk about a dream come true), in the winter play, Mavis Turner Tappers, I was told that I looked too young - that I needed to put on some make-up. So I went down to the dressing room and pulled out my Mom's sample sale Clinique eye-shadow. It was blue and came with a little application wand. I looked in the mirror, dipped the stick in the blue powder, closed one eye and pressed a band of color over it, and then did the same thing to the other eye. I looked in the mirror again. Bad. Fail.

Molly, can you help me please. 
Molly was a friend who went down into the costume room on a daily basis just to spice up her Ellis uniform. She was also good at make-up. And good at pretty. I knew she would come to my rescue.
What are you doing? Blend. You have to blend. Here, let me help. 

She brought over her make-up bag for reinforcements and went to work. Showing me as she went along how to do this in the future. Wow. That's what it's supposed to look like. Wow. I look a lot better. I had never learned how to put on make-up. My Mom never wore very much - just a little bit of rouge and lipstick, and she never encouraged us to wear much either. So I embraced the au naturale look through high school and college.

Around the age when the need to where make-up to look more mature meets the age when you need make-up to look a little younger, I started wearing it. I remembered the lesson that Molly gave me. I started looking at the Beauty sections of magazines to learn tricks of the trade. I started collecting eye shadows, and brushes, and an array of neutral palettes to reshape the contours of my face. Each day I played around with varying levels of success and went out the door with a spectrum of different looks ranging from Ozzie Ozborne to Raggedy Anne.

To this day I'm still learning. In fact, when I was getting dressed for our Rehearsal Dinner about a month ago, my friend Anne grabbed the blush out of my hand and asked, "what are you doing?!.. It goes here, not there." Lesson noted. But I'm at a point when I know how to blend, when I know what makes my eyes pop, and when enough is enough.

My Aunt Amy told me once that no matter how busy my Grandma's day was - how many babies had spit up on her, how many meatballs she been cleaned up from the floor, how many bathrooms she had scrubbed, how many spankings she had given, and how tired she was, she would always put on a little make-up at the end of the day and have a good dinner on the table by the time my Grandpa came home. I liked that vision. But more than that, I'm taking it as a marriage best practice.

Some days I give up on make-up during the work day. Sitting at my cube, rubbing my forehead and eyes throughout the day to get the headaches out is not conducive to mascara and eye-liner. But when I get home, I always wash my face and put on the amount of make-up that I now know how to apply. Enough to look fresh as a daisy for my husband. And I start making dinner. It helps me to disconnect from the day, and bring the honey, I'm home, back to Naperville.

I'm new at this, but I think putting your best face forward in marriage everyday helps, even if all you're applying is your smile. It also helps to start and end each day with a kiss. And luckily that came more naturally to me than putting on lipstick.

Lo.

The Girl Who Came to Dinner

I went to a very small grade school. A school so small that it only offered one sport for girls and one sport for boys each trimester because of the inability to field more than two teams. A school so small that they took away the spring option in order to cast the annual school play. And a school so small that everyone always made the team, and there was always room for everyone to participate in the play, even if they were relegated to Lights or Stage Crew. But despite the size, there were only so many starting spots, and even fewer speaking roles. My goal was to get them.

The sports thing came easy. I was an athlete in a somewhat non-athletic school. I was good at field hockey and I could dribble and pass a basketball (the whole shooting thing was another story) so I became a key contributor on the field and the court.

What came easier to me was drama! Performing, theatrically acting, hamming it up, making an entrance and making em laugh, taking my bows and devouring the applause came even more naturally to me. Call it middle child syndrome, but I embraced the spot light, laughed in the face of stage fright, clamored for attention, and tapped, sang, and recited my troubles away from the kindergarten on. I believed that the annual school play was made for me.

The swan song of the academic calendar was put on by the seventh and eighth graders and produced, cast, and directed by the one and only Charlie, Chaplain, DJ, Radio Host, Teacher of Bible and Theology, Performing Arts and Appreciation, and 20th Century Social Issues (in your school you might have called these classes "religion," "theater," and "social studies"), giver of A+s to the infinity power, director of screw ball comedic school plays, and father of five children.

When I hit the seventh grade, I counted down the minutes of my field hockey and basketball games, anticipating try-outs for the play. Long gone were the days of the amateur Earth Day and Grandparents and Special Friends Day plays, the school play was the big leagues. And this was my chance to shine - to show them that I was bound for big things. The play was Don't Drink the Water, and I got the role of Susan. I wanted to be Marion - I thought I deserved Marion, but as a seventh grader, I was demoted, and worse than that I had to do my first stage kiss. Ew. Fine. Eighth grade would be my year.

Charlie Appel, Director picked The Man Who Came to Dinner the following year, and I hadn't seen him that excited about a theatrical choice since Arsenic and Old Lace circa 1993. (My sister's epic fifteen minutes of fame.)

I got the script and immediately identified the character with the most lines. Maggie. She would be mine. Try-outs. These consisted of an after-school gathering in the auditorium for all interested seventh and eighth graders (which was all 40 of us.) Charlie would mix and match who read what, and quietly take notes. That girl can't speak above a raspy whisper. That boy still can't read. She doesn't look the part. That boy's mom is the head of the PTA. Seriously, Lauren, tone it down a notch.

After try-outs, I remember Dan and Paul B. and Paul L. telling me I was a shoe-in. That I would certainly be cast as Maggie while they tried to figure out which one of them would make the best Sheridan Whiteside. By the end of that week, the list was up, except my name wasn't next to Maggie. It was next to Lorraine Sheldon. I didn't even remember what her role was in the play. It couldn't be right. What the F?!

I went home that night and highlighted my lines. Not as many as Maggie, but still a lot - three big scenes. And the next day at practice, I figured something out. I had THE role. See Maggie lacked in dimensionality - any girl that could project her voice, stand up straight, and read well could have been her. But only I could have played Lorraine with panache. She was the scene stealer. And when I came out on stage for the first time on opening night, and people laughed and clapped at my first line, I thought, wow - this is amazing.

I haven't had a role that good since. Mavis, in Mavis Turner's Tappers couldn't even compare. It was the epitome of my short-lived acting career, and to this day, I don't think I will ever have the same sweet acting satisfaction that I felt when I was locked in the mummy case at the end of the play.

Every so once in a while, I still catch myself saying a couple of lines in my head. "Sherry, my sweet! Oh darling, look that poor sweet tortured face, let me kiss it." And reminiscing. Which is exactly what  I found myself doing last night, as I made final preparations for our very special dinner guest.

Last night, a man didn't come to dinner. (Well, my brother did, but he was cast more along the lines of Bert, the nice, dutiful newspaper man.) A little girl did. And man, did she steal the show. 

Peter and I played the role of the hospitable Stanleys, ever excited for her arrival. Luckily the girl didn't fall on the way into the house. But she did get a little sick once inside.

And all night long - she hammed it up.

And held court. And entertained us. And made us laugh.

She even did a little slapstick with the football.

Set hike!

Come on, get down field - here it comes!

At the end, I only wished that the girl who came to dinner could have made up an excuse a la Sheridan Whiteside to stay longer.

Way better than acting these days is playing the role of Aunt. And last night, scene four, was as sweet as ever. Miss Lyla, you are always welcome at our dinner table. And I can't wait to teach you how to take a bow. (It's much better than falling asleep at the end of your performance.)

Lo.