Thank You

I'm actually kind of bad at saying thank you.
Yesterday alone, I should have said "thank you" at least three times, but I didn't.

Rando alternative Starbucks employee buys me a coffee before he starts his shift.
"What? Why did you do that?" 
Peter tells me I look nice.
"Yeah right."
My boss tells me I'm thankful for you.
"Right back at you."

Why is "thank you" so hard to say sometimes?
Is it our lack of humility?
Is it the conviction that we can do it better ourselves?
Is it the thought that we don't want punks hitting on us at 6:00 AM?

"Thank you" is so hard to say that there is an entire stationary category devoted to helping people express it better; there are business courses dedicated to teaching managers how to say it to their employees; and there is a national holiday demanding people say it.

On Thursday, our nation's Thanksgiving Day, I had a lot to be thankful for. I could have said "thank you" all day long, everywhere I went, to just about everyone that I met. But I didn't dish out quite as many "thank you's" as the world around me deserved.

So a little late ... but with no less heart, here are five "THANK YOU's." In my opinion, these are the best Thanksgiving leftovers I could make this evening even though my turkey soup hit the spot.

Thank you for food lovingly prepared.

By me (even though it didn't turn out the way I planned.)

And by others ... focus in on that amazing bird behind the beautiful people in this photo.

Thank you to family who always cares. 

Enough so that they came all the way to Chicago to be with me for Thanksgiving ...  AND for first time EVER my Mom played cards with us!

Thank you for friends who always care.

Even when they can't be ... they are in spirit, memories and laughter.

Thank you for my fiance whose life I want to share.

And thank you for forgiveness when it didn't seem to be anywhere. 

(If there was a picture to go along with this one - imagine your worst nightmare, then add rain, darkness, thousands and thousand of dollars lost within it, despair, hopelessness, and a team of Jewel-Osco employees who couldn't do anything about it ... then through the tears you see a slight glimmer, a diamond in the rough, a second chance. 

Tonight, I owe a big "thank you" to Where's Waldo, Word Search, and What's Missing in this Picture - those games that brought out the eagle in my eyes and that restored the missing piece to my ring finger. 

Lo. 

My New Accessory

I have a new accessory.
It's amazing.
I've received about fifteen complements on it.
My accessory has sparked conversations reaching into the seventh row of an airplane.
I cannot put my accessory down!
So what is it?
It's a book.
A really, really great book.
It's The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.

I have carried it with me wherever I go this week in hopes that I have a chance to open it up and keep reading. From the airplane home from Las Vegas, to work, to the coffee shop, to Peter's house. And the best part was that it went with everything that I wore.
The other day Peter called me out on it: Why are you carrying that everywhere? Did you really have that on your desk at work?! You think that book is an accessory, don't you?

Maybe ...
Why so attached?
Why so enthralled with this wonderful iridescent yellow and green pile of pages?
I think because when I get into a book - like actually digest every word, live through the scenes and dialogues, and embrace the characters' emotions - it still amazes me. I still feel a tremendous sense of pride because there was a time when I couldn't or wouldn't do this.

From first grade to seventh grade I hardly read.
In second grade I read Me and Katy the Pest.
In third grade I read Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.
In fourth grade I read all the Molly books from the American Girl collection.
Fifth and sixth grades were bleak though. I honestly don't think I finished a book those years.
I always read aloud in class; I skimmed a chapter or two to do my homework; I read the lyrics in my hymnal at Chapel; I read street signs; I even read sheet music very well; but I never read a book.
I tried.
I tried with my cousin, Meghan when she slept over and stayed up late to finish her book. But her speed-reading was discouraging and I figured my dreams would accomplish the same fantastic effect.
I tried with my sister when she would curl up by the fireplace to read the latest Baby Sitter's Club book, but I kept thinking about roasting marshmallows on the fire instead of whatever Nancy Drew was doing.
I tried in Library at school, but my third-grade crush was WAY more interesting than Judy Blume.
  
I always thought books were wonderful and the idea of reading one was even more so. Mostly, because each of my English teachers was beautiful, eloquent, full of romance and had a knack for showcasing our assigned books as if were a prizes on the Price is Right.

For example, Mrs. Bunton was like Mrs. Honey from Matilda. She had the sweetest voice, genuinely loved each of her students and trained her hair to have a perfect flip as it brushed her shoulders. Mrs. Bunton loved books, and I couldn't figure out why I didn't want to read like she did. 

I would borrow books from the Library and collect five or six at a time, sit on my bed, and open them just like Mrs. Bunton. I made sure the cellophane covers would crinkle and creased the inside binding as I read the title to my stuffed animals. I read one page aloud, but without fail, after that page there always seemed to be a distraction - Adam or Erin wanted to play, Debbie wanted to exchange back rubs, Edy wanted to play 500 Rummy, my Mom and Dad came home, the kitchen started to smell like linguini with clam sauce, my eyes started to close as my bed became more comfortable.

In sixth grade Mrs. Lauer came along though. Ahh ... Mrs. Lauer ... she was like a vision out of the Banana Republic catalog circa 1994.  She would sit on top of the head table of our classroom and pulse the rhythms of her literary passions with a signature gesture that made her hand look like a dew drop. She had the most elegant script, used words that only a loyal thesaurus user understands, and made reading look so glamourous.

I was in awe of her. And if she liked reading, I figured this must be good stuff. So I reached the conviction that I would get through one of her book selections. I would sit down, not move, and read.
She picked Red Badge of Courage.
One chapter later I failed.
She picked The Pearl.
Failed again.
Then she picked The Giver.
And I read it in one day.
For the girl who faked her way through Book It! to get multiple personal pan pizzas, this was a huge accomplishment.
AND I got a "GREAT!" from my Mom and Dad who were ceaselessly encouraging me to read.
I loved the book.
It was so real.
It was scary, tense, vivid, and relatable.
It was like a movie in my mind.
I can still see Jonas and Gabriel escaping by sleigh from their Utopian world.
I read it again.
How had I not done this before?!
The next selections were even better - Lord of the Flies, To Kill a Mockingbird, Catcher in the Rye, the Great Gatsby and Animal Farm.
I fell in love over and over again.
I got more "GREATS!" from my parents.
I dove deep into the kind of book worm-dom that I only thought possible for my sister and cousin.

Reading kept getting better in high school with a team of teachers who embodied the characters that they preached about.

Dr. Free was like Jo March, the secret lover of Captain Ahab, and Elizabeth Proctor all in one. She was in love with American literature and with the words that built our nation. She had the imagination, passion, New England saltiness, and moral conviction of her favorite novels. Each time I read a book under her guidance, I lived through the harsh New England winters, got lost in the depth of Faulkner's woods, and found my way to freedom the Chopin way.

Dr. Greco was like the adult version of Jane Eyre. She and her students would runaway to the moors outside of Wuthering Heights everyday. Even in her fitted Ann Taylor suits and lace-up booties, Dr. Greco was the ultimate romantic. You wonder why none of us Ellisians had boyfriends - basically, she convinced each of us that there was no one that could live up to Brutus or Heathcliff. Leonardo DiCaprio didn't even have anything on these men.

So this morning, after successfully finishing the Girl with a Dragon Tattoo last night, these memories come flashing back. When I find the time and a book that is as juicy, well-written, and vivid as my favorites from school, I want everyone to see and talk about my new find. I carry with it pride, knowing my own literary history, and I can still hear my parents saying "GREAT!" when I finish.

I know there are a lot of students out there with the same novel delinquencies that I had. There is a lot going on in the world and sometimes it's hard to find a quiet enough space where you can be alone with the words on a page. But delving in, actually reading something versus reading about something is well worth it, because it's a magical journey.

And since I'm finished ... anyone have an idea for another great accessory?

Lo.

Word of Mouth

Have you ever had one of those days when you realize around 5:00 PM that you might not have spoken more than five words throughout the course of the day? They don’t happen often, but when you’ve had one, especially if you're talker like me, they are startling. This week I had two, almost THREE such days.

Tuesday I said, “A Tall Pike’s” and “Thank you.” 

Wednesday I said the same with a couple “Hi, my name is Lauren” lines in the afternoon. 

Thursday morning the Starbuck's employee got the same terse sentence.
The irony is that my wordless days fell during the annual Word of Mouth Marketing Association summit in Las Vegas.
Why without words? I think it had to do with the frequency, pace, and amount I have been talking all year - about me, my organization, and the branding that goes along with both of them. I was ready to let someone else do the talking.

I attended the conference as the sole representative from my organization, and I found myself in a sea of conversation-driven corporate brand managers and agency supervisors, each looking for a leg up and inspiring case study to land them the next BIG viral communications campaign. Generally, I’m pretty good at flying solo and jumping into a crowded colloquy. I've also touted the benefits time and again on this blog of being and going it alone. However, this week "alone" felt particularly lonely and my personal word of mouth strategy felt very off target.   

So I sat quietly in a line-up of conference rooms and took in best and next practices in word of mouth marketing. I had a lot to learn and at times I felt like the amateur in the room even though I'm entrenched in the world of social marketing everyday. I listened attentively to brands and agencies who had found some of the most innovative ways to break through the clutter and clamor of the marketplace. Companies like:

• TMZ who put together and will soon air a set of 5 PSAs, all created by their loyal consumer base.
• Jamba Juice who leveraged brand ambassadors in the form of passionate Marathon runners to promote their product and its health benefits on big race days. 
• Unilever and Badin Laundry Detergent who kept fresh smelling clothes on the minds of a conflicted Israeli nation by courting and building relationships with the chattiest Israelis. Then seeding messages about their product as the more upbeat and alternative topic of conversation to those about political turmoil and uprising. 
• HP who recruited two popular students per college campus to act as marketing directors for the brand, granting HP access and a brand presence in the most exclusive parties, rallies, journals, and classrooms so they could remain relevant and cool to the Apple dominated youth market. 

The common thread behind each of these creative and successful word of mouth campaigns, was that each brand let other people do the talking for them. First they took a step back and listened to their consumers. Then they found a simple message that connected their target market and recruited vocal and passionate consumers to seed that message. Ultimately, it was up to those ambassadors to spread the messages in their own ways and words. 

These campaigns, in my mind, were genius. They also made me feel better about my own wordlessness and attention to listening during the first day and a half of the summit. Like the rest of the population, I'm a very social being. I want to be heard, I want to be seen, and I want to be in the know. However, sometimes, like the brands I mentioned, I need to realize that I don't necessarily have the right words. I need to remove and silence myself from the constant chatter to figure out what my brand and I actually mean to others. 

I got back late on Friday night and couldn't wait to see my most loyal consumer. Although I had found my words again and was ready to chat his ear off, I thought I should put some word of mouth strategies to use. So in Hugo's Frog Bar, another sea of people clamoring for attention and aiming to be heard, I engaged in a quiet, private conversation with Peter. Over the noise of the jazz-playing band, divorcees picking up other divorcees, birthday parties, crashing of plates, clinking of glasses, and crunching of crab legs, I listened to my best customer. I wanted to reflect on our history. I wanted to hear his recollection of how we first met, what our early relationship felt like, and how the story of "us" progressed.


And you know what, I learned something. I learned that my faux pas on the first weekend of business school almost scared Peter away. I learned that I can be awkward to engage with. I learned that brown hair is better. I learned that I was always the one. And I learned that I should put an end to the focus group after one glass of wine, because then I "just get ridiculous."


I'm looking forward to another week of using my words inside and outside of the workplace. But am thankful for the time spent last week, listening to the wisdom of others. Sometimes we are too sure that we know exactly who we are and what people want from us. However, like a great brand, sometimes your consumers know you better than you know yourself. And sometimes the best things you can say about yourself, come from your brand ambassadors.  

Lo.

My Super Fan!

The Two Step

In the past 18 months, I've attended many weddings. Which means I've also watched many first dances. This age-old wedding tradition is one of my favorite parts of the festivities. Why? Because in a lot of cases it signals the end of two-step awkwardness and the beginning of harmony, rhythm and a more complex portfolio of dance moves for a couple. 

This transition tends to be particularly true in my circle of girl friends. From Ellis proms, to lacrosse parties, to apartment pre-gaming, dancing has always been a team sport for the girls. Without rule or regulation, the girls would circle up, sweat it out, and show the room how it was done. There were stand-out All-Americans of the dance floor of course, but for the most part we each did our part to bring the music to life. 

We took on Abba and Aqua; Cascada and Kylie; Ja Rule and Jay-Z; Brittany and Ga-Ga. We didn't need boys. In fact, there were no male roles in our choreography. I remember countless times in high school and college, where the men stood off to the side, looking at us perplexed, thinking how does one even cut-in to this dance?

Adam's thinking about it ... but probably won't be able to cut-in on this one.

As time went on though, the men learned how to cut-in and interrupt our choreographed circle of trust. And one by one my girls, my dancing partners, paired off and started practicing one-two-steps with their significant others. It took me a while to find my partner so during that time I continued dancing by myself. I played all of the parts. I had a vision in my head of what "Dancing Queen" was supposed to look like with all my friends, so I would execute the routine even if there was no one left to follow my lead.

About three years ago, Peter tried to cut-in. He didn't understand the complexities and syncopation of my dancing. He didn't have the same vision for what dancing was supposed to look like. And I wasn't ready at the time to give up my solo performances and all-girl dance parties - I wasn't ready to partner off. However, throughout the past 12 weddings, I've seen how beautiful those first dances are, and I've envied the happy couple with the synchronized moves.

Their two-steps have taken on various formats. I've seen the classics, the overly choreographed, the casual and the comedic. Each works and each tells the guests something about the bride and groom. Their song choice, choreography, demeanor, and style as dance partners help paint a picture of their relationship.

The classic dances set to the pure vocals and sweet lyrics on Tony Bennett or Etta James depict a traditional, romantic bride and groom.

The overly choreographed dances made possible by countless lessons at a local Arthur Murray studio describe a couple that wants to break out of their "we can't dance" stigma.

The intimate and more casual dances are for those who have nothing to prove. They just want to spend the first dance with each other, not interacting with the rest of the room.

The comedic dances are for those who love a little mockery. They play on the traditional, over-exaggerate their moves, and are beaming the whole time.

This past weekend Kristen and Charlie lit up the dance floor in a perfectly classic manner. There wasn't even a glimmer of Kristen's one-arm strike-a-pose dance of our college days. It was all grace, beauty, and romance.

I started to think about my spastic dancing and how I needed someone to reign in my impromptu moves. I think I'm finally ready for Peter to cut-in and lead. This is a tough transition, but I figured we approach the rest of our lives together as partners, I should be able to carry this over onto the dance floor. Next step is thinking about our style, which for two strong individuals, can sometimes be hard to decipher. However, with a little help from Fred and Ginger, I think we might get there.

Lo.

A Toast to the Bride and Groom

I have convinced myself that I am an awesome public speaker - Like I am going to get up in front of a room of people, deliver a spontaneous, witty, and endearing speech; make everyone laugh, tear-up, and applaud, and then walk off like it was no big deal.

The truth is. I am not. In fact I have accumulated a resume of failed attempts at making eloquent speeches. With that said, I seriously wonder how last night I thought it was a good idea, after three glasses of champagne to toast the bride and groom.

The reason I think I am such a great orator probably stems from two sources: First, I come from a family of natural orators, so I tend to think I have an innate responsibility to carry on the legacy. Second, I aced speech class in high school. My crowning moment, was delivering the "how to" speech - a speech where we had to teach the class something. People taught the class how to play field hockey, how to fly a kite, how to peel an orange, how to make ice cream. I taught the class how to have a tea party with your dolls. SOPHOMORE YEAR!! Bizarre, yes. But it was a speech that received laughs and thunderous applause from my 12 other classmates.

Genetics and an A+ experience in Ellis speech class, gave me the confidence to give a pre-game speech or two, several killer art history presentations, and pre-shift pep talks to the servers at the restaurant I managed. All of these went well because I applied the principals that speech teacher, Mr. Altman preached. Write out your speech first, practice, use visuals, practice, trim down the script, PRACTICE, (and one that I have added after turning 21 - don't DRINK and speak!)

So ... when it came time to deliver three important speeches in the past three years, I failed three times.

Failed attempt 1 - maid of honor speech.
I should have delivered a cute sisterly speech as the maid of honor at Erin's wedding. Instead ... I got up in front of a room of 200 people, after knocking back one too many glasses of the bubbly, and told Erin and Greg about my love of accessories and how they perfectly accessorized each other. Yes, it was cute. But, I never wrote it down, I kind of winged the theme, I didn't practice, practice, practice! And I SLURRED MY WORDS!

Failed attempt 2: First speech opportunity in business school.
I think I literally told someone that I never worried about speeches - they were my thing. And this one was on Ralph Lauren. Cake walk. Again, didn't commit a word of it to paper. Got drunk the night before instead of practicing. Stood up in front of the class and literally don't even know what I said - but whatever I said, didn't make sense AT ALL! Comments included:
"I totally lost you after, 'Welcome to the world of Ralph Lauren.'"
"You looked the part at least."
"You have a great presence and confidence, but I don't know what we were supposed to take away from this."
Luckily Fall Break immediately followed my failure giving me an easy exit strategy.

Failed attempt 3: Last night's toast to Kristen and Charlie.
It was a last minute, hasty decision. Everyone was toasting Charlie ... people kept telling me, "get up there and give her a toast." So with all the perplexing confidence that an unwritten, unrehearsed, champagne-influenced speech would be good, I got up and spoke .... with a microphone!

I said a little something about being teammates and what good teamwork meant on the lacrosse field. It was okay until I touched on our off-the-field idea of teamwork, which was exchanging back-rubs every evening. Honestly, how did I think it was okay to give a speech about massaging Kristen's back in a room full of people that I had just met?! Ugh!

So last night I kept waking up and thinking about how stupid I must have sounded and I kept thinking how much better it could have been had I written it down and practiced. So this morning, while sober I decided that I should get a re-do. So here is my revised speech to the happy couple.

Kristen and Charlie,

I tend to think I am the funniest, kindest, most loving, smartest, most athletic person in the world. While this is of course not true, there is one person who has always made me feel this way. And that's Kristen.
Whenever I tell a bad story, Kristen listens intently.
Whenever I tell a bad joke, Kristen says, "That is really funny."
Whenever I get schooled by Meredith, Kristen says "you played really well."
Whenever I got dumped by my college crushes, Kristen would say "he was a fool to pass me up."
Whenever I gain weight, Kristen says I look thinner than ever.
Kristen is a liar, but she has the ability to make you feel like you are very, very special. All of her friends would say the same thing.
Charlie, ever since Kristen met you, she has glowed. And I am so happy that she has found a guy to make her feel as wonderful as we all feel being her friends.

Let us raise our glasses to this beautiful couple!

Ahhhhh ... that was better.

Lo.

The Dark

On Monday I celebrated the end of Day Light's Savings time at 4:30 AM when I looked at my alarm clock, smiled and enthusiastically said, YES, I have another hour to sleep! I'm sure most of you took pleasure in that extra hour of sleep on Sunday morning, but I purposely stayed on Day Light Saving's time so I could have that wonderful hour of slumber on Monday morning, when I needed it most. 

I actually look forward to the whole "fall back" thing every year while most people balk at it and the sad end to their perma-lit days. Call me crazy, but I kind of like being on standard time and the blanket of dark that sets over the world at the end of the workday. There is something about the premature blackening of the world that I love.  

I didn't always like the dark. In fact, when I was young I was very afraid of it. My imagination ran wild when the lights went out and every single scary creature or character of film threatened me in the dark. Audrey 2 from Little Shop of Horrors, the Gremlins, Roald Dahl's Witches, and Animal, the drum-playing Muppet, haunted me each and every time I descended into the dark basement on Bartlett Street, went into the attic alone, and every night I was tucked into bed after Erin had moved out of my bedroom. (I wasn't allowed to watch anything above a PG rating and actually most PGs were off limits, so the monsters in my closet were a little lame, yes.)

Slowly but surely the scariness of being alone in the dark went away as I grew up and started to use my other senses. I actually started to find it comforting. The dark became the safe, quiet, comfortable and peaceful time of the day. The dark was a time for me and my family and a welcome break from the flurry of activity that happened during the light hours. I was less distracted in the dark, and therefore, I did things better - I read, prayed, listened, and played better when the lights weren't as bright. 

When we "fall back", dark sets in around 5:00 PM in the midwest, altering the experience and atmosphere at the end of the day. In comparison to the past month, when I was blinded by the setting sun as I inched my way home on I-88,  this week traffic moved. And there seemed to be less headache and anger on the road. The roads seemed quieter and the people on them did as well. 

I feel like the dark brought a sense of humility as well. Those obsessed with being in the know, seeing everything, and always being seen, had their powers shut off at the end of the day when everyone entered an equally dim playing field. 

How does the dark possess this power over us? Why do we all complain about the sun setting early and the lights going off? Are we still afraid of our childhood haunts? Probably not. Instead, I think it's more a fear of missing things and of life without our eyes. It's a fear of not knowing information. It's a fear of the quiet - of not knowing what to do with it in a world where we are supposed to always be moving, talking, arguing, and producing. It's a fear of being left out. In the summer time, it's easier to spot a party to join. However, in the winter the parties are more intimate and disguised.

There really isn't anything to be afraid of though. In fact, after you find out that Gremlins aren't coming after you, you will see the beauty of the dark and the ability of your other senses to carry the weight of your eyes. You might be able to be a better friend by listening instead of talking; a better cook as you pay closer attention to aromas and taste; a better student after taking a rest from a constant search for information; and a better fiance when you find the coziness, comfort and magic in a winter evening together. And an added benefit for me ... I'm an even better sleeper in the winter because I feel a little less guilty for going to bed at 9:30 PM since the sun has already been snoozing for 4 hours. 

Embrace the dark and the quiet intimacy that comes with it. Now off to participate in a less peaceful weekend - the marriage of Kristen and Charlie in Annapolis, Maryland. Good thing it's an evening wedding!

Lo. 

Me in Rome

I read an article on Friday morning about a nightclub in Rome called GP2 (Giovanni Paolo II or as we know him, Pope John Paul the 2nd.) It is located in a crypt in Saint Peter's square and run by the Youth MInistry of Rome's Catholic Church. 


It was established as a way to connect with the fleeting youth of Catholicism. Despite the religious overtones and the ability to say a confession while there, in essence the club is everything you would expect throughout the Euro nightclub scene. They serve beer, wine and of course Prosecco; DJs spin and remix American music; guys with slick-backed hair and too-tight pants dance to songs that were popular two years ago; there are flashy light shows; and it's open seven days a week including Sundays. 


You can debate the controversial nature of this concept forever, but what I found most compelling and honestly beautiful about this place was that its guests felt like they could be themselves there. One of the regulars states in the article, "most other clubs attract people who are trying to act like someone they're not ... GP2 is the spot to get to know a girl rather than pick her up." People feel safe and comfortable in their skin at GP2, which is a rarity today.

On Friday morning, after reading this article, I started thinking about my experience in Rome and the days when I would walk through Saint Peter's Square everyday. GP2 wasn't there at the time, but my Rome beckoned me to be myself too, and get to know other people for who they are. 

I lived in Rome for five months during my junior year of college. I had embarked on the semester abroad as a rebel jock - as an athlete going against what the other spring athletes were doing in the fall. That is, build-up massive muscle reserves in the weight room, run sprint after sprint on the indoor turf field, and fight for your name to be called on the starting line-up at practice during the week; then party hard with the other athletes who had suffered similar physical torture all week long on the weekends. Although my coach supported my decision to miss Fall Ball, it was unchartered territory for my team. Basically, by going away I was relinquishing my starting position and becoming weaker. I needed this experience though - so without any regrets I flew to Rome with a hodge-podge of other Notre Dame students in August of 2002. 

My experience abroad was weird at first. It marked the first time since perhaps grade-school that I didn’t come equipped with and protected by my lacrosse or field hockey playing cohorts. I always felt more comfortable with my teammates by my side. They saw me as a hero on the field, so I felt like I was someone big off the field as well. In Rome though, there was no game to play and no teammates to define me. It was just me. And a bunch of new people who didn't really like athletes. I don’t think it was being in a foreign city that was scary, it was me, alone there, that was foreign. I didn’t know who I was without sports, especially the collegiate version of me. 

A lot of people characterize their time abroad as an earth-shattering experience. They open their eyes and see their education in a whole new light. They become more mature, more worldly, and their idea of a good party no longer encompasses the sweaty, smelly scene of Boat Club. (Instead it's the Euro-equivalent.) I had an earth-shattering experience in Rome, but it wasn't as cookie cutter as the rest. 


I found myself and a true sense of confidence in Rome. And a lot of it happened when I was alone. It took lengthy walks through the streets of Rome. Conversations with six diverse and amazing roommates; prayers and faith affirming dialogue at some of the most sacred places in the world; the loss of fifteen pounds and the purchase of new Italian clothes to replace my sweats; the complete absence of alcohol; and the inability to hold my athlete status as my cool card. By November, I saw me. Others saw me. And we all liked me.   

It was very difficult to come back to school and play that winter. I knew it was going to be. But I did it, my teammates accepted me, and by our second game I had won back by starting position. I did get made fun of and to this day they love picking at my oddities, but I have always been able to embrace the chiding because I love that I am different and they love that I am different. That's the thing about teammates - they seem to love you no matter what. 

I lost a bit of ground on being true to myself after college and interestingly, I could never make a relationship work past the first date. But humbled by a bad GMAT score, the ten pounds I gained over the summer and not knowing anyone again, I figured I would go into business school as the real me. And just like that, I met him. 


It's actually ironic, because I remember how I annoyed I was with myself before going out that night. My jeans weren’t fitting and I had to turn to the pair of jeans that only come out on fat days. Travesty. I tucked a button-down shirt into the fat jeans, looked in the mirror and said, "I can’t do this." 
"I can’t go out looking like this." 
"Why am I SOOOO FAT???!!!! "
"Stop it you psycho, you are more than this - STEP AWAY FROM THE MIRROR!" 
I grabbed my car keys, walked out the door and made a solo appearance at the bar on my first day of MBA school. Ten minutes later, with a big smile on my face, a vodka cocktail in my hand, and an insecurity that my thighs looked too big, Peter walked up to say hi. He might tell you differently, but I don’t believe Peter walked up to me because I was the most beautiful girl in the room. I think he walked up to me because I was the girl in the room (there were only two or three by the way) that wasn’t afraid to be herself. 


Being yourself is the most attractive thing to be - and whether it takes going abroad, being alone for a while, or trying out a place like GP2 to take away your facade, it's worth it. And as a testament to that - my two favorite princesses just found great new beaus when they were playing the greatest roles of all, themselves. 


Lo.

Writer Blocked

Every morning at the crack of dawn, I gather the news of my world and compile it on my blog site at a coffee shop down the street from my apartment. I love this time of day and the coffee-sipping and blog-contributing that goes along with it. I love that for an hour or so it’s just me, my thoughts, keystrokes, soft music, and espresso aromas. I tend to commit some pretty good words to paper before the sun comes up and the odd daily drama of other early rising Napervillians gets too annoying. (That's another story.)

In the evening, I edit. Sometimes I finish the edit and sometimes I postpone it till the next day if I'm on my second glass of wine already because the braising, boiling or baking is taking longer than expected.

During the month of October these morning and evening routines rendered me extremely prolific - more so than I have been in the past. I wondered why? It could be because my job involved bouncing to and from meeting, expo, event and conference, granting me less computer time at work and making me crave it at the bookends of my days. It could be because I was in a flow zone, undisturbed by anyone around me when I was blogging (and those people in the coffee shop can get pretty annoying!) Or it could be the fact that I had an endless supply of amazing material to write about. Most likely it was a combination of the three. 

Enter November. Take away the perfect storm of blog producing elements. And I am a world away from my prolific October. For the fifth day in a row, I am writer blocked. I have nothing. In fact, I am sitting at the other coffee shop this morning to stir up a new perspective. (Actually, the people at the first place became way too annoying.) Still nothing. I've been glued to a computer screen all week and typing isn't the way I want to start my morning. I can't establish any sort of creative flow. AND over the past five days, NOTHING has happened! 

October was jam-packed with excitement. It seemed like every week and in the latter part of the month, every DAY, something interesting happened. I mean ... I reunited with Ellisians, ran a Marathon, was a good bridesmaid, made some significant headway on my wedding plans, worked on some cool projects at work, spent an evening with Herb Kelleher, cooked a different meal just about every weeknight, and had an amazing Halloween. There was so much news and I was so excited every morning to rush to the coffee shop and make some melodies on my keyboard.

No melodies so far in November ... and now I'm mad at myself. I'm mad because all week long I kept thinking "there's nothing to write about" ... "there's nothing to write about." And I just realized that it was MY FAULT! Just because I didn't have things marked on my calendar, didn't mean there was no material, no events, no interesting anecdotes. There were plenty actually ... but I failed to participate in them. I didn’t say a prayer on All Saints Day (Catholic rule says if a holy day of obligation falls on a Monday or Saturday, you don’t have to go to mass though!); I didn’t vote (yes, Mom - Bad, very bad); I even made Peter eat leftovers on Monday instead of experimenting in the kitchen! So there were three potential stories ... each missed.

As a blogger, I am kind of a self titled journalist. I have no merit or credentials to be "publishing" content everyday and deeming my escapades newsworthy. Honestly, they aren’t newsworthy and I doubt many people besides my friends and family even care what I'm doing. But still I have committed to developing articles and making sure that I am trying, seeing, learning, and doing new things everyday. 

I started this blog so I could document, remember, and create everyday. I also started it because it gives me permission and freedom to see my life as precious and amazing. There were times when I couldn't see the magic every day and this blog keeps me focused. I also don’t believe that the only stories to share are those of big people. I think each of our stories is powerful, fun, and newsworthy and I love sharing mine. 


So writer's block ends now! Even with nothing planned and the inability to reach the good story in the middle of nowhere, Illinois where Peter is duck hunting, I will enthusiastically participate in life, make some news and write about it! And the good thing is that this slow news cycle is about to end anyway. Kristen's wedding, marriage preparation, Vegas baby with my boss, and Thanksgiving are sure to make the rest of the month very newsworthy. 

Lo. 

______, ______ Pumpkin Eater

The world has gone social, and my organization is on the bandwagon. To a certain extent my job is actually a product of this communication evolution. I tweet, post, update and upload all day long. And because I'm entrenched in this social world, my "expertise" (better known as a general understanding of the current social climate) makes me an educator for our global system. I have added my perspective to best practice guides, conference calls, webinars, and steering committees.


One thing that gets a lot of attention when delving into socializing strategies is the establishment of a naming convention for your company's or organization's users. In a global institution that is compartmentalized into areas of the world, countries, regions, and local operations, it's necessary to find a standardized way of labeling every entity as they enter the online ecosystem. This can be a difficult process, especially if a user already has a "name," and doesn't feel the need to conform to a naming convention. But in the end standardization can pay off, because there is value in the consistent branding, ease of recognition and differentiation, and ability to mask the individual behind the social profile that comes with it.

When I started this blog several years ago I came up with a naming convention for the characters who play a role in my life. It wasn't very original, but it worked. Basically, everyone became a "The" followed by their relationship to me. "The Boyfriend," is the one you know best. But given the amount that I have been writing recently and the deeper personal perspective I've revealed, I figured it was time to revise my strategy. I decided to eliminate the titles and reveal some names. Don't worry, I've been given permission. And because I can't do anything without telling a story about it, The Boyfriend's real name, needs a cute story.

The idea for the renaming came about last Sunday when The Boyfriend and I went pumpkin picking. I came home from the farm with a stock pile of pumpkins and a firm conviction to win the war of the mini-Cuisinart. Battles of Lo versus the mini-food processor have raged in The Boyfriend's kitchen for the past three years. And with them have come screeches and wails of aging electronics, explosions, temper tantrums, and less than satisfying results. The battles of pesto and hummus were particularly rough.

When you haven't had the opportunity to go through the bridal registry process and are solely responsible for stocking your kitchen with equipment, there are certain things that you skip purchasing. For me, a big beautiful $500 Cuisinart was one of them. Especially, when The Boyfriend has an antique mini version that I thought would do the trick on most occasions. This has not been the case though. It's actually been a pretty poor performer and I tend to have to call up the reliever, my trusty and ever-growing right arm which has been a mean whipper, masher, blender, folder and beater over the past 18 months. The electronics tab on the Williams Sonoma website becomes increasingly appealing. 

Two things my man power doesn't seem to be able to do though, are pastes and purees. And I mean silky smooth pastes and purees. So this week, I put past defeats aside, got out the mini-food processor, roasted some pumpkins and promised myself that I would reach the state of pureefection. 

Tuesday brought the battle of pistachio and pumpkin seed paste. And I would call it a stale mate. The paste contributed to a flavorful Pumpkin Chicken recipe, but the food processor didn't let me get the pure paste results that I wanted. The Boyfriend still gave it rave reviews.

Wednesday I moved out of my trench, braved the loud noises, and pureed the innards of a roasted pumpkin with vigor. I found that food processor's weakness and I started to gain some ground. The Pumpkin Gnocchi with Sage Brown Butter turned out very well, but I wasn't satisfied, that could have been a purer puree. Still The Boyfriend said, "YUM!!"

Thursday was the battle of Pumpkin Soup. This was the battle where I just about conquered that food processor as I pureed a combination of pumpkin, black beans, and tomatoes. This one really got applause from The Boyfriend.

Today with Halloween sweets and treats on my mind, and equipped with an unexpected soldier of a pumpkin from the farmer's market, I won the war. This pumpkin was riper and juicier than the rest, I roasted him a little longer, and he went into battle with his colors ablaze.

He emerged perfectly! Then together, with a little inspiration from And Bread and a little coaching from Smitten Kitchen, I whipped up a masterpiece of a pumpkin spice cake. Well the bottom layer was a masterpiece - the top layer was the victim of a category 5 earthquake, the kind that used to rock the kitchen of my Aunt Dee-Dee. The Boyfriend was impressed and I was proud to call myself the victor!

Each pumpkin dish from savory to sweet, brought a very satisfied pumpkin eater. And I thought ... what a little Peter, Peter pumpkin eater I have on my hands!

And better yet ... what a little Peter, Peter pumpkin carver I have.

Yes, that's a power tool.

So there goes The Boyfriend's naming convention - you can all call him what I call him, Peter.

Lo.

The Ellis Glee

At the Ellis School there wasn't cool and uncool.
At my small all-girls high school all classes, clubs, and activities were created equal. Intelligence, oddity, and individuality were celebrated. And to a certain extent, the less mainstream, the cooler you were.
The best thing was that there were no boys to guide the segmentation of the winners and losers. In our insular environment, we were all pretty cool.

Instead of a proud football team that doubled as bullies, we had a hand-full of non-traditional athletes that welcomed even the most unathletic to come out for the team.
Instead of perky cheerleaders with perfect bodies and a mission to be exclusive, we had the E-Tigs, who didn't cheer, but stepped with sass and moonlighted as the diversity club.
The artsy folks were celebrated for their expressive nature, so none of them ever became dark or dismal. The girls that were doing calculus 5, economics and complex physics were envied by the poets.
And the girls getting their papers published in academic journals by Junior-year were envied by the calculators.
The fat girls were celebrated.
The skinny girls encouraged to eat more.
The pretty girls weren't actually pretty unless they were witty and smart.
We all wore the same ugly green uniform so we didn't have the ability to use our personal wardrobes as our cool card.
And instead of a pop-singing Glee made up of misfits, we had a classically rooted Glee Club, which was by no means uncool at the Ellis School.

I first learned about the Ellis Glee Club on a chilly early-December day when I was in sixth grade. The cultural outing that crowned my standard field hockey to piano to dance class Thursday was Erin's first Holiday Concert.

Erin was a natural talent in the vocal arts and nurtured her talent through elementary school by singing Broadway tunes alongside my Dad's piano accompaniment after dinner. I often tried to intercede and join the fun, but 9.5 times out of 10 I was called out for being flat, so ran away crying, envious of my sister's pure and on-key voice and her ability to carry on my Dad's legacy of vocal artistry. When she started at the Ellis School, she was thrilled to put her voice and nightly practicing to the test as a member of Glee Club. She came home telling stories about sectionals, new friends, Mrs. Gray, potential solos and the first concert - the annual Holiday Concert.

I had been to and been part of many holiday concerts before so I figured it would be on par with a St. Edmund's counterpart - Kindergartners singing, "I'm a candy cane on the Christmas Tree," middle-schoolers belting out a trifecta of Hannukah songs, and upper schoolers wailing and squeaking through silent night on the instruments they just barely knew how to play. I was in for a surprise though.

It started with a catered holiday dinner (and this wasn't a crappy dinner - they had the white Breadworks rolls and all!) Then we were encouraged to take our seat in the auditorium. My family cozied into a pew and as the lights dimmed a bit, the Glee Club, dressed in long black skirts and pressed white collared shirts, took center stage. A perky woman strutted down the aisle, her long black skirt swooshed, the taffeta underneath it crunched, and her silky dark hair pulled back in a pony-tail bounced. She stood with her back to the audience right in front of the Glee Club, struck up her baton, gestured her head to confirm that everyone was ready (Mrs. Crosby, the piano-player included), pulsed the beat and BAM! a resonating harmony warmed the entire auditorium and my mouth dropped. She pulled back the sound and guided the vocalists into a mellower note.

It wasn't until the end of the song when I realized I didn't understand one word. What I had just heard was not a Christmas carol that I knew and loved. Instead it was music and its language was universal. It was wonderful. It was the best holiday sound I had ever heard.

For the next 90 minutes or so, I watched every person, every movement, every bounce of Mrs. Gray's ponytail and every smile on my sister's face. I couldn't wait to be on that stage - to be part of the Ellis Glee Club.

Three yeas later, during my freshman year at Ellis, I got the chance. While St. Edmund's didn't seem to know a good voice from a weak one, Mrs. Gray saw right through my ability to belt out a flat note, and focused on my inability to sing in concert and with humility. In the four years that I was in Glee Club, I learned a lot more than how to sing a Christmas carol in Latin, roll my r's, sing pure vowels, stay in key, rock an outfit reserved for the convent, and hold my alto part. I learned how to harmonize. I learned to sing as a team, how to let the unexpected folks take center stage, and how to pull back my booming voice.

It's okay that I wasn't the best singer in Glee Club. I didn't have to be. I had a team to enrich and color my voice. The thing that mattered with Glee Club was being able to have fun with music and to learn that there was a math, science and poetry to it. It was about being part of something big and different. And it was about having an amazing teacher who was able to put me in the right place.

I appreciate the attention that Glee is getting and I must admit, I have become a Glee junkie. But the Gleeks don't have anything on the Ellis Glee Club and Mr. Shue's perm pales in comparison to Mrs. Gray's bouncing ponytail that could echo the complex rhythm of Bach's Magnificat.

Lo.