Santa and his Elves

This week, one of my coworkers told me that the elf on the shelf was back. I didn't know what she was talking about, so I asked her to elaborate. She told me that every year their family's very own elf comes all the way from the North Pole, perches himself on the mantel in their house, and acts as the eyes and ears of Santa in Western Springs, ultimately giving the big guy the 'yea' or 'nay' on whether or not her children have been nice this year.

I was intrigued. We never had an elf on our shelf. Really? 
It's a little toy. Here. 
(Best idea, product and marketing campaign ever.) Ooooooh ... Do your kids believe it? 
My ten year-old is the biggest believer.
(I loved hearing that.) 

The other people listening to the conversation scoffed at the elf's manipulative undertones - bewitching your children with messages like, 'the elf on the shelf is watching you. What you say, what you do,' to force good behavior - kind of creepy. I on the other hand, was totally bewitched myself. In fact, I wanted to go out and buy one. For me. Because I too, am still a believer despite what happened in fourth grade.

Just before entering the Holiday Bazaar in 1991, I had emotionally defended Santa Clause in a sea of non-believing St. Edmund students about ready to do their trinket shopping. After we were unleashed in the cafeteria that, for a limited time only, was converted into a PTA sponsored boutique, my friend, Caroline, the wisest of my classmates, pulled me aside. 

I asked her, Don’t you believe?

She sighed and said, I believe in Saint Nicolas and the spirit of Christmas.

She was telling me what the others were, in a softer way. 

That Christmas I stayed awake a little longer, hoping to hear him.

No bells.

No sleigh landing on the roof.

No reindeer commands.

On Christmas morning, I looked for the tell-tale signs, hoping to see him.

The carrots on the plate were gone, but the bag of carrots in the refrigerator was full again.

The 'from Santa' looked like my Dad’s handwriting.

My sister got a hairdryer, which was not on her list.

After Christmas dinner, I listened to the Aunt’s doing dishes.

So does Adam still believe?

What did you get the kids?

Evan’s list was so difficult this year!

Before going to bed I asked my sister and roommate, someone that was wiser than even Caroline, the big question - does he exist?

And I got an answer:

He’s doesn't, but don’t tell Adam.

From then on, the ever maturing grown up inside of me kept my belief at bay. Apparently, it was foolish to believe such stories. So for fear of ridicule, I just stopped talking about him. And soon enough, so did my family.

But this Friday night, after Peter and I went out for some sushi, we were strolling along the illuminated River Walk, and saw him. 

The real him in Naperville.

He was closing up his little visitor's center for the night, ready to go home. I wanted to ask him a question or two, but I figured Mrs. Claus had dinner on the table and didn't want it to get cold. So I just stared. And just as magically as he got from the North Pole to Naperville and back again on Friday, he answered my questions without even asking.

He exists.
And ... he needs me to be one of his elves.  

So yesterday, my first day on the job, I set out to be a very good elf. I started working on presents for good little girls and I cleaned the whole house for a good little boy. I spread 10 miles of Christmas cheer on a run around Naperville. Then I made a very good little girl clap when I appeared at lunch. I spent the afternoon making a red and green feast for my family, and I even made those Swiss sandwich cookies again, but marked them as only an elf can do - with a little wishing star. And I put together a magical little movie about the best wedding ever for my guests to watch.

I took my job very seriously. And I loved every minute of it.

So, all you ten, eleven, and twelve year-olds out there. I know you are looking for something and someone to doubt. But I'm telling you, don't jump to a conclusion too quickly. As someone who saw Santa on Friday, and who has asked to be an elf, I've got the truth.

Tweens, be careful what you say, there aren't only elves watching from shelves, there is one who runs around Naperville every morning, reporting good and bad behavior to the big guy up North.

Lo.

Countdown

The world has gone mad. Literally mad. Like 'everyone on their way home from work the past two days suddenly turned the I-88, to Diehl Road, to Ogden Avenue corridor into a bumper cars death match where they particularly want to get the black Mini Cooper' mad. I can feel the mad from ten miles away - the mad that caused the kind of shouting, cursing, gesturing, eye-rolling, head-shaking, and finger pointing that backed up traffic ad infintum. What's the big deal people? What the hell are you all so stressed out / pissed off / outer annoyed / inside exploding mad about?

What's that? Oh ... because it's the holiday season. And you only have 25 days to do all that holiday stuff that you are supposed to do. And instead of relishing in it, you are stressed. And mad. At me, the Mini Cooper, your last obstacle to turning the corner, opening your garage, and rushing inside so you can string the lights, trim the tree, hang the wreath, and keep up with the people next door who already had their display up yesterday. 

I've been baffled by drivers the past two evenings. What about the holidays stirs these kind of angry emotions? I honestly find myself in a completely alternative state of mind.

For instance, yesterday morning I woke up to the best thing ever - my advent calendar. A little paper one - number 29 in a lineage of advent calendars purchased by my Mom, gifted to me at the start of this sacred time of year. I popped open the number 1 to reveal a small segment of scripture, getting me one day closer to the manger scene, and I beamed. December 1. What a day.

December 1 marks the start of THE best month of the year - Early dismissals from work, cookie baking, Christmas decorations, buying your very first Christmas tree, a perpetually full table behind Vicky's desk to snack from all day, holiday parties, present wrapping, carols on the radio, Christmas card opening, greenery, and gifts, and conversion of Grinches! Love it. Yet, everyone seems to get stressed about it.

I think I figured out why yesterday. It's the omnipresent countdown and the daily to-dos that accompany it. For example, both BonAppetit.com and Saveur.com have a cookie baking countdown till Christmas loudly playing on their homepages. According to them, you are supposed to bake 31 days of cookies. Then if you go to Saks.com you start to think you need all of the hot, must have dresses for every holiday occasion, from day to night. From there you've got lists from FTD, Hallmark, Pottery Barn, North Face, Wine Spectator, Whole Foods and the neighborhood hardware store. By the time you calculate the amount of time you have and all the things you could do, you've gone crazy.

Commercializing Christmas doesn't just suck because it takes the spirit out of it, it sucks because it makes everyone go insane. My humble advice - commit to 10 or 12 days of Christmas, not 31. Do what you can do, have fun each time you deck the halls, and don't compare yourself to the people on the block who have turned their house into Kaufmann's Santa Land circa 1989. (You thought Halloween was bad in Naperville.) Turn on the carols on the way home from work. Relax, you'll get there. Realize that everyone most likely has enough stuff already, and probably doesn't need the last minute gifts you are rushing around to buy - give them a hug instead. And try to drown out the advertisements.

Now, I'll have you know, that I failed to follow my humble advice. Yesterday, I opened the first window of the virtual advent calendar on Saveur.com - the one telling me to bake a different cookie every day. And I fell into the trap. It revealed Spitzbeube - Swiss raspberry filled cookies - those perfect little sandwich ones. I did debate whether or not I should wait a day or two to delve into the holiday activities, but there was nothing on Vicky's desk yesterday, and figured I needed to contribute. Besides, Peter's famous chicken noodle soup was on the menu, so my 'night off' allowed me a little time to bake. And it was as fun as ever.

Happy December Days.

Lo.

The Best Friend

Recently, I realized something - for the past three months, I have been a somewhat lousy / very distant / pretty pathetic friend. The light bulb went off this past weekend when I neglected to contact any of my friends on Thanksgiving - when I surrendered to the games of phone tag I've been playing - and when I realized that the only way I've shared honeymoon stories and photos with them has been through my blog. I used to talk with my girlfriends every day! I used to know every little detail of their lives - and they used to know mine. What happened?

Just as soon as I had this realization, I pinpointed the culprit - that little someone who has been responsible for softening many of my friendships in the past - someone who I have always counted on for support, love and laughter - but who sometimes alienates me from the rest of the world - the best friend.

The concept of a best friend - naming one person as the creme de la creme of your circle of friends - can work really well, but it can also be a little tricky. Especially if aren't sure that your best friend reciprocates your superlative affection or the other people on the outside, looking in, lose interest in your friendship. Some people believe in best friends, some people don't. I for one, have always believed in them, and I've always had a best friend or two or ten. 

In grade school, I had just one. And we did everything together. We had our own jokes, our own language, our own logo (yes, a logo), and our own table where we would order tuna salad sandwiches with Cape Cod potato chips at Max and Erma's. With her by my side, no one else in the world existed - and the other friends I had drifted away, annoyed by our exclusiveness. 

In high school, I picked up another one, and the three of us helped each other through the rungs of our academic and social evolutions. After spending all day at school together, we would run home to talk on the phone, spending hours making sure no stone was left unturned in our knowledge and understanding of each other.

Freshmen year of college, when my besties went elsewhere, I immediately found two more friends with whom I could bike to practice, play the role of really awkward girl at a senior lacrosse party, and gain consolation when each of my crushes chose other less bulky girls over me. Immediately, we were a trio of best friends with an armory of inside jokes.

By the time I graduated MBA school, I had about 10 best friends, and each of them were in my wedding. One of my favorite parts of that special day was hanging out with them in the morning - seeing their smiling faces - hugging them - remembering all that we had been through together and how each of them had influenced me.

Now this is the sad part. With the exception of a brief Thanksgiving drink last weekend with my go-to Max and Erma's date, and a drunk tailgate drive by of #27 at Notre Dame, I hadn't talked to any of my friends on the phone or in person since the wedding. Terrible, (I know!) So yesterday, I laid rest to the ennui of e-mail and finally phoned a friend. And caught up. While chatting with my friend, Nicole, who admitted to being equally bad at keeping in touch as me, we both realized the reason why ... it was because we both had new best friends who were monopolizing our time. And they weren't girls, they were boys.

Mine is Peter.

And he is the kind of exclusive, clicky, I do everything with him kind of best friend. I honestly never thought it was possible for me to have a boy as a best friend, but all signs point to it being right. He is always there to lend a helping hand - he doesn't care that I use twice as much toilet paper as him - he gives the best kind of hugs and back rubs - he makes me laugh as heartily as Meredith - he too wants to create a crest or logo for our partnership - and before he leaves for work he says things like "I'll see you at our regularly scheduled special time." Which just makes my day.

Long ago though, before each of my best friends had boyfriends, and fiances, and husbands, we promised each other that we would never let boys get in the way. That we would always be there for each other.Although I can use the excuse that my husband is my best friend as well, he's still a boy. And I still need to be there for my girls. So tonight, I'm saying a little apology for being the foreign friend. And recommitting to the click that I couldn't live without.


Having a best friend is great. But having best friends with an 's' makes life a lot more fun. 

Phone tag - game on!

Lo.

Falling Water

Although it's been in the best possible way, Thanksgiving weekend in Pittsburgh more or less consisted of two primal elements - eating and exercising. Feasting and attempting to counteract the thigh plumping consumption with vigorous daily activity. Hoping to achieve the improbable result of not gaining a pound even though you are well aware by the residual sugars in your mouth that you have done more than your part to kill three of the five pies served on Thanksgiving Day.

So after two plus days of the eat and run/walk/bounce the baby/throw the football/play lacrosse routine down, I felt like Saturday called for some culture. I felt like I needed a day of enlightenment where I could resurrect and relish in my degree in art and architectural history - a rare degree serving about .005% of the population.

Having previously toured all the museums in Pittsburgh with Peter, and given that it was one of the balmiest November days ever, I decided that we should venture outside of Pittsburgh, into the mountains, and onto the property of Falling Water, Frank Lloyd Wright's pivotal residential masterpiece built for the Kaufmann family in 1939 over Bear Run Falls. So my sister, Peter and I made a day trip out of it.

The little architectural excursion came at a perfect time actually, as I put the final details on the ranch renovation brief for our future contractor. Although nowhere near the scale and genius of Falling Water, there are aspects of our retro home that call to mind Wright - aspects that if redesigned under some of the principles of Falling Water, could help make it more than a box. 

First, the theme of organic architecture perfectly embodied in Falling Water - a retreat where man could truly be one with nature - with the sound, dynamism, and power of the Falls. Wright seamlessly fused inside and out: The woodland springs and landscaping flow naturally into the house; The boulders that the house was built upon almost magically emerge from the limestone floor; And the lines, textures and colors meld with its surroundings as if the home was always meant to be there.

Second, the open floor plan - another Wright signature. Wright was a strong proponent of family centered life, so in his homes he built community spaces free of walls, where the family could be united in space despite being segmented by their various activities. All was centered at the hearth though - the heart of the home - a warming, illuminating, massive element that brought character, charm, and togetherness to the house. 

Wright sought to destroy the box at Fallingwater. He hated 'the box.' (And in it's very nature, surely, would hate our ranch.) Through designing nooks and niches in the house, lowering the ceilings forcing your gaze outside, employing the circle and semicircle to soften the planar lines, and pushing glass and steel straight against the stone to diminish the role of the wall, he freed the house from corners and compartmentalization. Instead you want to continue to move through the house - and with it, from inside to outside, room to room, natural element to natural element.

Finally, Wright used cantilevers, trays more or less, solidified on immense boulders and thrust over the Falls like diving boards, plunging almost miraculously over space. The result is a house nearly floating in air, suspended over the falls. It is magical.

So, from Falling Water to add to the ranch renovation brief:

• Organic, open design that fuses inside and outside. 
• Need ways to destroy the seven or so smaller boxes that make up the big box we live in. 
• We don't have a hearth, but our stove is the heart of the house.
• We lack space - perhaps using a cantilever and adding a tray off the back could open the house up more. 
• Oh, and unlike Falling Water, stay on budget. But if you can find the skilled Falling Water laborers that cost 75 cents an hour, that would be great. 

At the end of our tour, we figured it had been long enough without a meal - we had earned our picnic. So we ate. And then moved on to Ohiopyle to hike it off.

Lo.

Thankful

The common complaint at this time of year is that we bypass Thanksgiving and move straight to Christmas. Since Halloween, the McMansions in Naperville have been bedazzled in twinkling lights; for the past month at Starbuck’s, I’ve been drinking out of nutcracker covered cups; and on the TV, radio and Internet, holiday specials have plastered the media waves. What about that wonderful turkey and pumpkin pie-fabulous national holiday? 

I used to have a similar complaint. That is, until my media consumption patterns shifted entirely toward web based food sites. Where, I have been celebrating and salivating over, not Christmas, but Thanksgiving for the past three weeks.

I’ve been reading about medleys of nouveau stuffing; sweet potato pies, mashes, and fritters; the best turkey ever; and deserts ranging in size from mini to monstrous. I’ve read twelve course menus and intricate cooking guides. I've deciphered how one might achieve that perfect balance between traditional and innovative. And I’ve probably gained twenty virtual pounds over the course of these morning musings.

I was tempted for weeks to make a couple of these recipes - to push the holiday and have a little trial Thanksgiving in Naperville, but I thought better. I didn’t want to spoil the beauty, the joy, the perfection of the best meal of the year and the first bite that goes along with it.

For those that don't know, my Dad owns Thanksgiving. I shouldn't brag or tell you that your kitchen trials will never reap the rewards my Dad achieves every year, but I'm going to. I swear, there is no professional chef that could do it better. He prepares every element (with the exception of the smorgasbord of pies) from scratch - a feast, handed down to him by his Mom, that has served our family well for decades and decades. Each part of the meal is more time consuming than the next - more beautiful than the next - more delicious than the next. And as a non pot-luck embracing family, I literally have no hand in it - my clothes remain greaseless, unfloured, and spotless from start to finish.

This year did not disappoint. It was Peter's first Thanksgiving in Pittsburgh, and luckily, there was enough room for us and Luke at the adult table. (He is a budding philanthropist with a mission to save small businesses after all.)

We got to sing 'Johnny Appleseed' - eat the stuffing out of the bird - take as much white meat off the 21-pound bird as we wanted - cut into the unannexed cranberries - get mashed potatoes and sweet potatoes - pour the gravy straight from the china gravy boat - and sip Yellow Label instead of Korbel Brut. Oh wow, the adult table made Thanksgiving better than ever.

On our run. At mass. In the yard, playing football. Around the table, toasting to a great year. On the couch, watching (very) embarrassing homevideos.

In the hallways, watching the cutest young family play with each other.

And while sitting with Peter in a turkey como after dinner. My smile kept getting bigger and bigger as I counted more and more blessings. It's been an amazing year. And as cheesy, corny, and dorky as it is, I am honestly overjoyed by thanksgiving.

Now. You can celebrate the Christmas season.
Lo.

Casserole, Mold, or Croquette?

In 1988, my family invested in a condo at a ski resort outside of Pittsburgh named Hidden Valley. Given the "time is money" mantra that my parents live by, we bought the model home, complete with all the teal and pink furniture, linens, dishes, fake cantaloupe halves topped with maraschino cherries, fake ferns, baskets, artwork, and chopped wood for the fireplace. Hidden Valley was our contemporary 1980s showpiece.

For the nearly 20 years that we owned the place, it remained relatively unscathed. The only things we had added were our second tier personals - our less than favorite picture books (or if you were my sister, big girls books), St. Edmund's Bazaar trinkets for our nightstands, long johns, neon turtlenecks, and stirrup pants, and our family's characteristic make-your-child-look-like-a-sausage ski pants and coats. By 2007, when it was sold, it could have been auctioned off to a museum as a late 80s archival piece.

My parents more or less traded the Hidden Valley condo for its equivalent in South Bend, right off of Notre Dame's campus. And although not all of the time-warped furniture, fake food and artwork made the move, there were some classics that traveled straight from the Laurel Mountains to Indiana.

This past weekend, when we stayed at the condo for the game, I noticed a lot of that stuff - the collection of baskets on top of the kitchen cupboards, the linens, the mismatched gloves and glove liners, the Parcheesi board with missing pieces, the pink and teal dishes, the nightstand trinkets, and the big furry blanket we used to wrap ourselves up in after a day on the slopes. Although Ethan Allen has tried to mask and update its presence, on Saturday evening, while eating a popular apres-ski option, tacos, I honestly felt more like I was in Hidden Valley, than South Bend.   

A couple of other things I noticed on my where's Hidden Valley search were two cookbooks - one by Family Circle, the other, pictured below, by Better Homes and Gardens.

The latter was apparently a gift from my Grandma to my Mom on her 26th birthday - something to guide a busy working mom in the kitchen perhaps. I immediately recognized them from the cookbook lineup at Hidden Valley. Their coloring and cover photos were unmistakable. But I had never delved into the finer points of these gems.

So ... I leafed through, and then browsed, and then gaped and devoured each recipe, caption and image in these books. I couldn't believe what I was reading - what I was seeing - what meal solution suggestions were being doled out. From what I can decipher, a home cook with a busy schedule in 1977 had three, maybe four options for dinner. "Honey would you like a casserole, a mold, or a croquette tonight? .... And no, I'm not going to go to all the effort to make fondue."

The books are sectioned off by quick, quicker and quickest meals, ending with a trifecta of optimal fast dinner solutions for the working woman: the hot dog sauerkraut bake, the chicken of the sea stuffed tomato, and finally, the meatball confetti mold with the classic tag line, "canned corn, canned carrots, canned rice and canned meatballs make this confetti mold easier than ever!"

What shocked me more than the recipes, ingredients, and food photography, is how far culinary culture has come since the 70s. That is, the drastic difference between what meal preparation was and what it is today. Even if you think you have no idea what you are doing in the kitchen, with all the literature, media, ingredients, quick recipes, and peer-to-peer culinary guidance at your disposal, you are honestly well on your way to being a better cook than Betty Crocker circa 1977.

After closing the books, I debated whether or not to bring them back to Naperville with me, pondering if I could actually serve something as curious, yet elaborate as this for dinner ...

But I didn't. And now, I regret it. Just as I regret not being at Hidden Valley the day that our condo was packed up and parsed out between what stays and what goes - not being there to say, 'I want the gumball machine, the wooden crocodile, the neon pink ski goggles, and the little red bed' - I regret that I could so easily dismiss a part of my cooking heritage. I'm nostalgic, yes. But I think we are too quick sometimes to push the relics of our past aside. 

So, I'm reneging. With a cupboard full of Jello molds from Aunt Jeannie, our retro ranch begging for some deviled eggs, a new vintage party dress to wear, and those cookbooks just waiting in South Bend for me to use them, I think I'm going to go get them and start a new chapter in my kitchen capers. 

Before that though, we're off to have the perfect bite and all the rest of the amazing ones that follow in Pittsburgh for Thanksgiving. And maybe, maybe, if it snows, we'll hit the slopes.

Lo.

A House Divided

When a Pitt girl marries a West Virginia guy; a Carolina fan marries a Duke fan; a Michigan cheerleader marries an Ohio State football player; a Texas Barbie marries an Oklahoma farm boy, or a Yale nerd marries a Harvard nerdier, family and friends shake their heads in disapproval, ask them if they're sure they've made the right choice, and fear for the worst. The couple claims that they can see past their collegiate differences - that they are more than their Alma Maters - that when the big game comes around, they'll love each other for good or for worse, through win or through loss, all the days of their lives.

When this Notre Dame girl, who comes from a family gilded by the Dome, married that Boston College boy, I expected a lot more incredulous questioning. But honestly, there wasn't a lot of concern in the minds of my friends and family. I'm thinking it's likely due to the fact that both of our teams haven't been in the running for a National Championship in nearly two decades. Perhaps if I had married Peter back in 1993, there would have been more "you've got to be kidding me, he went to BC?" commentary. As it is, the mediocre at best football teams that we halfheartedly cheer for, have never really spurred a fight between me and the Super Fan.

But, every so once in a while, there is a certain house divided scenario that pops up. It's not about sports, it's about everything else.

The argument is over whose school is better. Not at football. Just at being a college. Peter, who went to both schools, one for undergrad and one for his MBA, claims that he has the superior perspective, and that from his perspective, hands down, BC is the better school. He also claims that Domers have an insecurity complex when it comes to Boston College - the team that has beat them six out of the last nine years. That Domers are so insecure that they can't help but say things like, "Jiminy Christmas Trees and God Almighty, it's only BC!" (yes, these were the domerific words that I truly heard on Saturday at the game.)

While I roll my eyes and drown out his commentary, I do put together a little analysis to battle my own inner insecurities.  

BC versus Notre Dame
Academics: ND's back-up school versus ND. (I'm going to get it for writing that.)
Student Life: Boston versus South Bend.(He wins.)
Food: Grilled to order steak versus a portfolio of fried pastas.(He wins.)
Housing: The cockroach infested Mods versus the slumlord, Cramer's, mice infested shanties.(Draw)
Nightlife: (Apparently) thriving versus a nearly dry campus due to the administration and the SBPD. (He wins.) 

On Saturday, as staunch supporters of our respective undergrad Alma Maters, we drove down to South Bend for the holiest rivalry in college football - Me dressed in green and gold, Peter layered in a collection of Boston apparel.

While we walked around campus, we debated the finer points attached to the supremacy of our colleges. I said a prayer for a win. And we didn't budge in our convictions.

At halftime, just about when the band was spelling out Chicago as they played, "Saturday in the Park," I asked the trumping question of Peter. "Why didn't you go to BC for business school if it is so much better than Notre Dame."

He replied, "because I wouldn't have met you."
With that ... I won. (And I just so happened to win on the rink and in the stadium as well this weekend.) Notre Dame is better than BC because it has me.

And as the winner of the debate, after we reunited our divided house I made the loser wear his new Coach Kelly t-shirt and make me clam chowder for dinner. And as the good sport that I am, I did all the dishes.

Lo.

Vegas to the 5th

"Of course sinful places never look their best in the daylight. I remember thinking that Las Vegas looked rather endearingly pathetic when viewed over a cup of coffee and a doughnut. All that noise and electric energy that is loosed at dusk vanishes with the desert sun and everything suddenly seems as thin and one-dimensional as a film set."
- Bill Bryson, Neither Here Nor There

I have watched the sun come up over the Strip the past two days. Bill Bryson nailed it. At 5:00 AM, looking out the window from the 29th floor at the Cosmopolitan onto the Bellagio Fountains, a line-up of the best hotels in the city - Caesar's, The Venetian, Palazzo, Wynn and Encore, and then onto the mountains in the distance, Las Vegas is illuminated, brilliant, rich, textured, and alive. At 6:30 AM, it is entirely different - like the endless, flat film set that Bryson describes.

What he didn't capture in his dead-on description of Vegas' dichotomy, is how terribly boring the city is, not only during the daytime, but in the evening and into the wee hours of the morning, after you've been here five times in a year - how predictable, scripted, and lackluster it is when you've experienced it time and time (and time and time and time again.)

• The confident Crew-enhanced, Aqua di Gio saturated guys ogling the biggest boobs at the bar are five times skeezier.
• The second hand smoke is staler, stuffier, and smellier than you can possibly imagine.
• The life progression of a woman from hot, hopeful hostess with a platinum bob, to disappointed cocktail server with bags under her eyes, to disgruntled, over-the-hill, cigarette sales lady in the too-tight dress, to homeless person looking for a down payment on her next bottle of moonshine seems transparently apparent.
• The crowds and their lack of spatial awareness are particularly stupefying.
• The blinking lights and siren-like sounds of the casino floor penetrate five times deeper into your already established headache from your desert-induced dehydration.
• The food, though good, doesn't taste nearly as sumptuous as it should because the service staff at just about every celebrity chef-owned restaurant in town is snootier than the next.
• The exponential growth of reflective surfaces and mirrors in the city make it and its visitors vainer than ever.
• And the lines - for the buffet, the newest show, the hot Club du jour, the roller coaster, the chance to cross the street, or the privilege to stare at one of the many seedy pole dancers are five times more thoughtless. (Seriously, your wife is ten million times more attractive than the cracked-out import from overseas whose only move is bending over, jiggling, and showing off her fake boobs that the casino floor manager donated to her in exchange for an exotically wild night.)   

How do I know all of this? Because I have literally taken off from Chicago and touched down at McCarran International Airport in Las Vegas FIVE times this year.That is three, four and five times too many. I'm here for a marketing conference, and although content-wise, it's a good one, I wonder why conference coordinators don't realize that Vegas is no longer the choice locale.We've all been here before!


On the plane ride, I was sitting next to a Vegas first-timer. Like the stinker I can be, and as the proud owner of the right to open and close the shutter whenever I saw fit, I shut it so I could read without the interference of blinding sunlight. Around the Rockies, the girl started leaning over me, halfway into my seat, totally disregarding my spatial boundaries to look through the crevice that I had left open. Seriously, it's just a bunch of mountains, girl.

But after considering my first time, back in 2004, right after graduating from college, and all the excitement and fun that went with it, I thought better of my decision and granted her a full view. She didn't stop staring until we landed, and although annoying, I gained a little bit of her perspective.

I saw her rush off the plane and into a cab so she could meet up with her best friends; the itinerary for the night starting with a primping party in the room; their strut four-abreast down the strip to Caesar's for drinks, a light dinner, and dancing; the hope that the guy she had baited and captured at the VIP table could against all odds be Prince Charming; the realization after he called her "babe" that the past three hours were nice, but not worthy of her full time; and the hangover nursed with laughter about last night's antics with her girls.

That's the Vegas that I loved. But as I sit here missing Prince Charming at home in Naperville this evening, I know I'm no longer in the market for those kind of nights.

The lights are back on all along the Strip and the magic that Bryson describes is back. And I hope tonight is just that, magical, for the girl that sat next to me on the plane and for all the other first or second timers out there.On my last night of 2011 and perhaps of this entire decade in Las Vegas, I'll be toasting 702, the Ellis Girls, TnT, my wedding party, and all the conference attendees past that have made this city so much fun.

Viva Las Vegas!
Lo.

Where Three Sibs Meet

"Never have an odd number of children - there will always be one left out."
- Anonymous parent

In Milwaukee, Pittsburgh Street turns into Milwaukee Avenue which runs through the historic gut of downtown. Around the trendy Third Ward, Milwaukee Avenue intersects with Chicago Avenue. If you turn left on Chicago, you hit the shops, spas, and restaurants of the city that can play supporting roles to a great afternoon. 

This weekend, Pittsburgh, Milwaukee and Chicago collided figuratively as well. My sister, brother, and I flew, pushed a stroller and drove to be together in Lyla's hometown. And we spent Saturday afternoon relaxing on Chicago Avenue and Broadway.

The rest of the weekend was spent eating and drinking. Running and walking. Praying and playing. Spa-ing and shopping. And a lot of Lyla ogling.

It's hard to believe, but we're all in different cities than each other right now, and getting together is a little more challenging than the days when we could just meet by the (non-cordless) phone at the top of the stairs. We'd wait there for the 'go' sign from Mom and Dad on Christmas morning; we'd collide to harass the phone user and the gentleman called to the point of erupted fury; we'd meet to argue whether or not practicing the flute at 9:30 PM was allowed; and we'd join together and laugh after we each got a knock on our door by Dad, alerting us that the turkeys were once again in the yard.

An anonymous parent once told me to never have an odd number of children - say three. She said that one will always be left out. That two will always gang up. That three means one will always have to sit by a stranger on the Thunderbolt. I have to disagree. Because the three of us are and have always been there for each other. Sure, there were afternoons - backyard games - dinner time conversations that stirred some sibling rivalry. But you could always count on number three to bring us together again, instead of choosing sides. And reconciliation tended to happen at the top of the stairs.

Around 1997, when my sister went to college, the hallway and meeting spot that joined my path with my sister's and brother's became a little less connective. My brother and I still intersected daily, but it was weird not having my sister around the corner anymore. Then I went to college, and my sister and I shared a path to North Dining Hall, while the hallway in Pittsburgh left my brother alone. Throughout the next decade, there were years when I was more likely to meet up with my brother. And years when my sister was just a walk down Carson street away. Years when we only shared the hallway on the holidays.  

We're all apart now, and it leaves me wishing that we were closer.


After I got back home from Milwaukee yesterday, Peter and I intersected on West Street for dinner - a meal that brought together the hunt and my love of Italy. Peter had shot ducks early Sunday morning in southern Illinois, so I rendered them in duck fat, Burgundy and stock until they formed a ragout.

I made homemade pappardelle, and served the ragout over the noodles.

Peter felt very field to table as we feasted, and I felt thankful that the dining room would most likely always be our point of intersection. That when we had a family, this would be the place where our children would meet up to make fun of their parents, exchange trials of the school day, and compliment Mom's home cooking (wishful thinking). 

My Mom, one of eight, told me that my siblings would always be my best friends - I'm glad that I have two of them. And just as easily as the city of Milwaukee brings together our corners of the world, so too does the bond, the stories, and the compassion that we share with each other.

Lo. 

Getting Better than Standard

The day you fall back is great. You get an extra hour of sleep, you feel refreshed, and you embrace the coziness of the early darkness. But following the Sunday fun, comes that first week of Standard Time. And it tends to be just that, standard. As in not particularly special or refreshing or cozy.

For some reason the first week of Standard Time 2011 was particularly rough. The peppy melody of my alarm suddenly became a dour and dreaded tune; the rain and cold and then yesterday, snow, that came with the time change was dreary; scandalous news defaming my home state's university was disgusting; leaving the office to drive home through the darkness was disheartening; and knowing that the next day was predicted to get worse was downright depressing.

More often than not this week, I felt glum and discouraged. And I begged myself to snap out of it, thinking of the advice Peter gave me - it was my choice to be sad or happy. I kept saying, "I choose the latter. I choose the latter!" But contrary to his belief, it isn't that easy.

Over the years, especially during that time in my life when weeks like this one turned into months and seasons, I've learned a thing or two about dealing with compounding crabbiness . In my findings, you do have to make a choice. But it's not as glib as Peter's cure-all solution. Basically, you have to choose to look for the good in your day instead of the bad. During the darker days, like the standard ones, the good can be harder to spot, but once you see it, bit by bit, it lifts you up.  

For instance, on Monday, after I had nearly been knocked off the Monopoly board nine or ten times by the notoriously aggressive Naperville commuters, there was a glimmer of hope. The death-defying, saintly Benton and Mill crossing guard, took three confident steps into one of the scariest intersections in downtown Naperville. For me. She tamed the tenacious traffic with her STOP sign for me. And as I waved and expressed my gratitude for helping me get back to 'Go' safely, some of the standard went away.
 
Then, there was this man on Tuesday, standing on the corner with me as we waited for our turn to cross the street, holding our ground against the wind and rain coming at us from all directions. He turned to me and said, "man, you are one intrepid runner."
I asked him to repeat what he said. I had heard it, but I needed another second or two to figure out what intrepid meant.
Intrepid - fearless, heroic, brave, bold. (cool.)
"You are one intrepid runner."
That statement made me beam. Not only had this man told me that I was bad ass in so many words - he had challenged my vocabulary for the day and gifted to me a bonus word that I could add to my cache.

On Wednesday, the Polish priest at mass who usually allocates the better part of the day to slowly reading and elaborating on his homily, closed the Gospel, and said "we're not having a homily today." That was just about as good as it gets. 

By Thursday, I was still laughing about the snuggie story, proudly wrapping my favorite wallpaper around my blog thanks to my friend, Pam, hugging Ellie, feasting on Pfifferling Suppe, crusty rolls, and apple kuchen at Claire's house with the whole family, and completely snapped out of standard. By Thursday, I had recognized once again that the good in this world far outweighs the bad.

Sometimes it comes from a person who is in your life for a minute. Sometimes it comes from a person who is in your life forever. But it and the people who spread it are everywhere. You just have to choose to see them. 
And then to be one of the people who shares goodness with others. On 11/11/11 - on Veteran's Day - and on Friday - I'm better than standard. I'm good. No, I'm super.


Lo.