A Housewarming

The day that Peter and I closed on the house, we ordered Chinese Food, hopped up on the counters of our new kitchen, popped some champagne, and surveyed our pride and joy over egg rolls and sweet and sour soup. At the end of the meal we cracked a couple fortune cookies, hoping for a good omen as we started the next Chapter of our life. Peter's was forgettable. At least I forgot it. But mine revealed a very telling phrase.
'You are the center of every group attention.'
Aw, perfect. Totally meant to be. Fitting.

However, about a week ago, I learned that my freebie fortune might have had another meaning.  One of our neighbors had offered us a couple of their hostas by way of a note in our mailbox - their take on a basket full of muffins, I suppose. I was deeply entrenched in the war of the weeds, so Peter went over to say, 'hi' and snab the perennials. Along with the plants, Peter came back with a little neighborhood history.

According to the hosta dealers, our house used to be the 'epicenter of madness.' Our yard was where all the kids on the block would congregate - where all the dogs would come to play - where all the screaming children would hit their highest, loudest, most deafening notes. Kid chaos - 'the center of every group attention.' That's the reason I see kids walk past our house, longingly looking into the back yard, wondering when the circus will come to town again.

Instead of putting up a sign that the Big Top was closed, Peter and I hosted a housewarming party to set the tone for a new era of the backyard. It was an attempt to redirect my fortune to our favor and to gain some group attention with something other than outside voices that should only be used if stranger danger is imminent. 

The combination of a retro themed bar complete with punch, craft brews on tap, a 10-hour smoked ham with accompanying mustard bar, summer sides, dozens of chocolate chip cookies and snicker doodles, a hammock, and good people hanging out on the lawn, took our home from cozy to completely warm. In fact, by the time Keith, Kate and Brian were howling in the basement while watching Duck Dynasty, the house had turned pretty darn hot.

Friends, thank you for helping to warm our House. And now that a certain, more subtle tone is set, I'm thinking perhaps we should offer to host the block party.

Lo.

Dirty Thumbs

There are green thumbs on both sides of my family. Double G was an avid vegetable gardener, in essence, producing a yield to feed a family of ten. And my Dad has tamed, planted, and tended a half an acre arboretum of a yard, filled with perennials and annuals that my Mom doesn't even know the names of. So, I'm thinking the genetic probability that I inherited some verdant digits is pretty high.

However, when it comes to gardening, some might argue that it's not so much nature that determines your capability to grow, it's the way you were nurtured. And luckily, I have some of that going for me as well.

Every year, I got lessons from Double G in tomato planting, zucchini growing, and asparagus harvesting. And applied them to the small vegetable garden that my Dad cornered off for me. My Big Boys were never as big, juicy and plentiful as Grandpa's, but they seemed to improve each season. I also received annual lessons from my Dad on the floral side of gardening - how to turn over the soil and prep it for planting, how to perfectly space Impatiens, how to prune and trim the perennials, and how to patiently water each bed until their thirst was quenched.


When we moved, I had given thought to the amount of work it would take to renovate the house. There were priorities: The chimney, exterior facade, asbestos tile to cover. And long term projects: the bathroom remodel, champagne room build-out, replacement of windows and doors. What I failed to factor in though, was the yard. I failed to do a diligent surveillance of exactly what was out there and what kind of man power it would take to tame it.

For the past couple weeks, I feel like I've been playing Secret Garden at my house, bringing a plot of land, neglected for a decade or more, back to life based on what is wick and what is not. My evening hours have been dedicated to yanking and digging up the root systems of Jurassic weeds, figuring out where one lethal bush ends and the other ones begin, waging the battle of the green ivy, and cursing the laziness of my neighbors who apparently don't garden and instead hire western suburban labor to do everything for them.

I have scratches up my legs, pollen swimming in my nasal passages, and dirt embedded in my nails.  I've tried to scrub it out with the nail brush, but it won't budge. My weed war has produced a new form of irritability in me. And unfortunately for Peter, dinner keeps getting later and later. You could have rounded up to 9:00 PM this week. There is always one more monstrous weed to pull - one more 10-foot (yes, 10 foot) poke weed to murder with my trusty shovel.

However, in gardening, there tends to be a wonderful reward on the other side of your labor. The beauty and bounty that you have produced with your own hands can be mesmerizing. Bed by bed, I've been able to celebrate my progress, and as I surveyed it on Wednesday evening, the little girl next door told me that I had done a beautiful job.
'Well it was a lot of hard work,' I scoffed.
'It was worth it though.'
Ah, how wise that one is.  

My verified green thumb is yet to be determined, but I believe, given my perpetually dirty hands, that I'm on the right track. Double G always used to have a little dirt under his nails - a sure sign that he had been tilling and toiling in the garden. Perhaps, the soiled-hand look - the one that comes from people who like to get their hands dirty, and can't help but get them dirtier the minute after they've cleaned up - is the first step to fulfilling my green DNA.

Off to say good morning to the yard and to give my vegetables, herbs and flowers a drink. 

Lo.

Homesick for the Burgh

As one of my pin boards suggests, I'm frequently homesick for the Burgh. After more than 25 years telling people that I'm from Pittsburgh, it's hard to answer, 'Chicago' when someone wants to know my whereabouts.

I get homesick for the old Pittsburgh - the special places around town that stir so many sweet memories. The Thunderbolt at Kennywood, the blue slide park, Walnut Street, Bucco's games, school picnics under the shelter at Schenley, the pool and tennis courts at the Pittsburgh Golf Club, Mass at Sacred Heart followed by Bach, Beethoven and Brunch, cookouts at my grandparents house in McMurray - burgers from the brick-oven grill that my grandpa built.

I also get homesick for the new, reinvented Pittsburgh - a city that continues to grow, innovate, and culture itself. I'm envious of my friends who are moving back to the city, taking one step closer to the dream houses that we picked out for ourselves in high school. I wish I could try all the new restaurants in town the weekend that they open with my family. I want to go to the lecture series, art openings, shows, and concerts that all seem a little more affordable than Chicago's versions. I want to run over the bridges, bike down the hills, kayak along the rivers, and ride up the Incline to watch the city's skyline gets more and more picturesque.

Running 26 miles through Pittsburgh a couple weeks ago was great, but I was in and out in 24 hours. It wasn't enough. So I was so excited to return home again this past weekend - to spend a whole day Saturday soaking up the city with Peter. We saw the old, running through Squirrel Hill, Oakland and Shadyside. And by bike, we saw some of the new: Kassen and Chris's charming house, Showcase Barbecue and their Big Ben platter - two ribs and three wings - it was truly the hot spot of Homewood, the very hidden East End Brewery (our third brewery in three days) luring us in with their Growler Hours, and Adam, Laura, and Lyla's beautiful new house in the North Hills. Our little scavenger hunt around town was just what I needed.

Although back in Chicago now, three states away from my hometown, I've been able to keep a lot of Pittsburgh in my life. My license plate is wrapped with the Steelers, the Homestead Stacks are framed in my house, there's Heinz in the refrigerator and Heinz promotional materials outside of it, Andy Warhol hangs in the dining room, there are two terrible towels in the front hall closet, and all my favorite Pittsburgh memories are snipped, clipped and pasted in scrapbooks on the book shelves.

Occasionally, I'm able to put Pittsburgh on our plates as well. Like last night. We grilled out in the yard, and after some successful brick work earlier in the day, confidently planned where Peter could someday build our brick-oven grill. (The sooner the better - Peter's 15 year-old Weber has a major lilt)

 

We sipped East End Brewery's Blabber and Smoke Reichbier, imported by bike and car from Homewood to here, which paired very well with the barbecued chicken.

 

And we polished off just about half of the strawberry cake made with Simmon's Farm's best for dessert.

Until I return home again, here's to all the displaced yinzers carrying their Pittsburgh pride into cities far and wide.

Lo.

4 Weddings and My Failure

It's wedding season and naturally, Peter and I have been on the wedding circuit for the past month. We've attended four weddings in five weeks. Four blushing brides, four proud grooms, four first kisses, first dances, cake cuttings, open bars, and inviting dance floors. Despite the wedding formula - the agenda that every pair of newlyweds has to check off before Donna Summer belts out 'Last Dance,' remarkably, each wedding is so different.

It's not just the colors, the bridesmaids dresses or the hour at which the bride trades in her heels for flip flops that changes, it's the style and culture of the bride and groom that makes each celebration unique.

Holly and Ryan's wedding, set at the Pittsburgh Athletic Association last night didn't disappoint. It was a wedding about family, Pittsburgh and a very visible love, expressed so poignantly, passionately and picture perfectly all night long.

The elements: the emotional, eloquent vows composed and read by the bride and groom, the best ever wedding cake - homemade by Aunt Joyce, housed by me, topped with icing that tasted like buttery perfection, not vanilla scented shellac, Uncle Mike - the speech, dance moves, hearty laugh, the interpretive shout dancer, the burgeoning cookie table complete with Eat N Park cookies, the very cute DJ, the Sarris surprises at our places, the extended families coming together on the dance floor: each signature detail made this wedding their own. 

The only thing that was painfully the same, was my failure, yet again, to get a wedding gift in time. The most tardy wedding gift giver struck again. On average, our gifts have been running between two weeks and five months late. Which is becoming, ugh, embarrassing.

But ... one of the things I've learned over the past three weddings, is that the best gift I can give the the morning after the big night, are photos to remember the special details of a very special day. So before your blue box arrives, here are my snapshots.

Congrats to my cousin Ryan, and his beautiful, glowing new bride, Holly. Wishing you a lifetime of happiness, love, and unexpected dances.

Lo.

Employee Satisfied

Despite being distanced three years from the academic world; despite popping the bubble of a controlled business environment; and despite time and time again, throwing theory out the window after realizing, given the politics, it can't be put into practice, I am still learning that many dimensions of corporate America cannot be taught in a classroom.

One of those dimensions - improving employee satisfaction. In school, we learned the theory. This week, I learned something else.

After I learned about accounting and statistics, micro and macro, finance, management and marketing in MBA school, I took a course on happiness - the how to of it. That is, how to develop a culture of happiness at work, and how to find your own, personal happiness on the job.

Generally speaking, I learned that the formula for happiness wasn't tied to compensation. Surprise, surprise. Instead, the kind of corporate cultures that produce satisfied employees, provide challenging and meaningful work, more opportunities for recognition and empowerment, and inspiring, supportive management. In theory, my company is doing everything right. However, this week I revealed room for improvement as my employee satisfaction went from good to great. 


Despite movement to and from the bathroom, I sit at work. Everyone sits. In fact, when describing your job, you say, 'this is what I do, and this is where I sit.'
'I do digital marketing and communications and I sit near on the third floor, north side of the building'
'Oh I sit right below you then'

While I know the value of a good sit, especially after a long Saturday run, eight hours in cube confinement is tough. So this week, I decided that if I had to sit at work, I was going to sit and peddle on the way to and from it.

For the past four days, I've been biking to work. I had marked National Bike to Work Week on my calendar, so on Monday, I had Peter check my tire pressure, I slapped on my helmet, threw my purse in my basket, and in my dress, tights, and work shoes, I peddled through the western suburbs to work. Four days, 52 miles. And one very satisfied employee.

Why? Because I got rid of commuting, and road rage, and more sitting still. I traveled outside of my daily routine and into a week that felt like my childhood. To summer vacations, trips to Ruggeri's, proudly making it to the top of Bartlett street, flying down the driveway to the Pittsburgh Golf Club, and safely parking my trusty Schwinn back in the garage after another great day wheeling around the Burgh. This week was SO fun, and I owe it to my bike. 

Now, I realize that some people have farther distances to travel, more hills to climb, more prolific sweat glands, or not enough time; so I wasn't completely surprised when I was one of three or four bikers out of thousands of employees. And for that reason I'm not going to assert that biking is the catch all to employee satisfaction. But I do believe, that happiness on the job comes from making work, commuting to and from it, and life in between, only as grown up and rule ridden as it has to be.

If you live a couple miles from work, try biking. I guarantee it will make your day.  

Lo.