Marriage Management

Next week I get mid-year reviewed. Which means, I'm filling out personal development forms and lists again. Hoorah. I have to ask myself, what have I done, done and done over the past six months? (A lot!) And where do I want to go, go, go in the next six?

As I was adding up my personal success equation yesterday, I realized that I had failed to transfer any of the accomplishments I have made over the past two years onto my resume - a WORD document that I haven't touched since I added my MBA credential to the top of it and found the perfect, a la @GregActon ways to massage each of my odd jobs - restaurant manager, personal assistant, intern, and nanny - into desirable work experiences. Greg, your wordsmithing worked! But yikes, my resume is way outdated.

So I started to update the piece of paper that sums Lo up to my employer. I went back to @GregActon's words of wisdom on how to sculpt the work I have done into more actionable, measurable terms. I subtracted the meaningless stuff. I added the big projects and contributions I have made in my current role. And ta da! My resume got pimped. 

On that section "Other" though - the one at the very bottom where I proudly display 4-year ND Lacrosse Monogram Winner, Social Committee Dance Coordinator (ugh, embarrassment), Cartoonist (getting rusty), French and Italian proficiency (which should actually say, 'able to shop for clothes and groceries in these languages') and Personal Chef (I am ... to myself and Peter) - seemed dated though, so I edited.

I will forever keep my experience as a hefty ND Lacrosse Player, which is forever cool and inevitably becomes a conversation starter.
Although personal chef to Peter just about every night, I thought I would clarify a little more about my culinary pursuits.
Social Committee Dance Coordinator - ya, deleted.
Marathon Runner added.
And then I came to the final detail - the one that I'm still debating.
To add Marriage Management or not?

Okay, @GregActon is cringing and thinking absolutely not. BUT ... let me just tell you it has been a serious job over the last four months, and I know the workload, stress, time invested, and hand cramps from writing Thank You notes are only going to get worse as we head into the summer. Furthermore, as a marketing and communications professional, I've approached our big day with a campaign mindset. I went through the whole 'know, do, believe, feel' process. I honed in on a wedding theme beyond the colors. I developed communications briefs for each of the vendors to clearly convey the background, desired outcomes, and "one thing" that I want people to take away from the ceremony. And I've appointed team leads to various segments of the planning. Like I said, this is clearly relevant project management experience.

The problem is that one of my weaknesses that sometimes surfaces at work - my desire to just check it off the list and get it done - is surfacing in my approach to marriage management.

For instance, one evening this week, while in fierce wedding planning mode, I ran Peter through our task list as he cracked and dismantled live lobsters, and turned their dismembered parts into lobster infused butter. He sensed the stress boiling up.

Okay, what's your time line for the tux?
Seriously?
I need addresses for these people ...
Will do.
Did you send the tux form out?
Will do.
Whose the second reader?
Let me think about it.
Can we PLEASE just book the honeymoon. 
I don't want to go to Sonoma anymore. 
What?! Where now?
Let me think about it.
F!!!!!!
Do you want to add this pot rack to the registry? I think we need to hang one right there.   Why not there?
NO - right here. Stop being difficult. Can't we just get everything done!!
You know what - crossing things off the list, isn't the fun part - getting it done is the fun part. Let's just enjoy it.

Silence.

It's ready.

Peter, my personal chef for the evening, encouraged me to dish up

Thank you Mrs. Thomas and Theresa!

The lobster bisque was phenomenal. And I forgot about the task list shortly after my first bite. I also just deleted Marriage Management from my resume. Basically, because it will never be done and done. It will be a work in progress long after we exchange vows. And that's the fun part - the part that doesn't need to be quantified or qualified - that doesn't live on a resume.

Now, for something completely off my resume - the "Best Day Ever" - Cubs game a la Crippsy.

Lo.

Drama!

Those that know me can attest to my dramatic side. I grew up on the stage - tapping, twirling, and jazz running; piano, clarinet and Glee Club performing; acting, over-acting, and hamming the more character-driven roles in school plays.
I didn't know Stage Fright.
Being the entertainment was something that I embraced and cherished.
I lived for applause - that final bow - that extra curtain call. 
And honestly, I still dream of making it big.

My theatrics didn't derive from a formulaic enlistment in ballet, voice lessons, and acting. Rather, drama was something that came naturally to me at a very early age.  I wanted to dance, sing, play, and entertain my way through life. I also loved watching drama. I soaked up the evenings that my parents took us to plays and musicals - to ballets and symphonies. I relived the moments and the music when I got home, and to this day, Peter looks incredulously at me when I start belting out melodies from shows like Guys and Dolls.
I love you. A bushel and a peck. A bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck.
Okay, that's enough.
Drama! was a part of me for as long as I can remember. 

But in college, networks and studios started releasing an onslaught of movies and televisions shows about teenagers and a new, different kind of drama - self imposed, contagious, virulent drama that didn't have an ounce of comedic relief. It was destructive and dangerous. It pinned girls up against each other at pivotal points in their lives and the only bonding they did was over detrimental gossip. Amid a virtually drama-less campus, surrounded by friends who were comediennes, rather than dramatists,  I couldn't believe what the O.C., Laguna and Mean Girls were dramatically doing and saying in hopes of converting their spoiled lives into something a little less boring.

As Prime Time escalated the drama and started delivering more reality based shows - I felt like the contrived theatrics appeared more and more in my real life. Girls started looking for things to tap into - things that would make them irrationally angry, sad or beaten down - things that would add drama. I even fell victim for a while - what my Mom calls my "woe-is-me phase" was like the worst melodrama ever. And around this time I fell away from the stage - performing and spectating. I felt like I was living through a bad play and that was enough.

This past week though, I returned to the theater - not once, but twice. On Thursday I saw Hot L Baltimore at the Steppenwolf Theater with Ashlee thanks to two new friends Doug and Jessica. (Kudos to the theater for the traveling cups o' wine.)

And on Saturday I saw the Madness of King George with SGS and Peter.

Oh ... and we stopped for Mario's Italian Ice on the way home. First taste of summer!

My experiences on both Thursday and Saturday revived my faith in drama - the good kind that I grew up with. The kind that doesn't cast catty girls. There was craziness - nudity, lying, stealing, cheating, cursing, and defecating. But there was also productivity and at the end of each of the plays, despite the madness, monarchies were restored, people moved up and out, there was dancing, and there was laughing. This end result lacks in the new age girl-drama where no one ends up getting anything done, and everyone ends up crying.

On Sunday, while gardening, I found myself trying to frame this blog entry, and thinking about the theatrical side that is still a very big part of who I am. As a blogger - I feel like in essence I've put myself back on stage, and I love it. My weekly broadcasts have a dramatic, and yes, sometimes contrived flair to them. But I remain a safe distance away from the melodrama. I love trying to play out a decent performance once or twice a week, I love the applause in the form of a comment or two, and I dream of making it big in the blogosphere.

Occasionally Peter accuses me of  "living for blog fodder." And to a certain extent he's right - but just as the theater pushed me to do and try different things when I was young, so does blogging and adding some theater to it. And besides, his overgrown flower patch, would not have been ripped out and converted into a cute, orderly flower bed if I wasn't thinking about blog fodder constantly.

Lo.

Smitten

Lunch-packing was never one of my parents' fortes. 30-minute meals in the evening - A+, yes.  But opening my bag lunch at school always seemed to be a bit of a disappointment.

In a sea full of specialized lunch boxes, I would have a brown bag. And in it a couple of those signature we-were-in-a-hurry this morning selections. A cold chicken patty sandwich from the night before, a leftover hunk of meatloaf, a slice of salami on squishy white bread, some baldy pretzels (those are the unsalted kind), and an overly ripe peach, plumb, or pear. My hungry eyes would invariably shift toward the pimped-out lunch that Katy unwrapped every day.

Around second grade though, the "Hot Lunch" program was rolled out. The school built a cafeteria, hired some lunch ladies and sent out a memo in the Bulletin alerting parents that their life was about to become a little bit easier. My parents immediately signed us up. There were good hot lunch days - nacho cheese day, taco salad day, pizza day for instance. But more often than not, they were bad. Really bad.

There was one week in the Spring though that brought great food. Sometime between March and April, the lunch ladies would set up a special table in the cafeteria. It was a little out of the way and a little hidden, but my mature gastronomic senses knew its presence from the moment I entered the cafeteria. That, there is NEW food!

On the table was a spread that I recognized as what my babysitter, Patty, would eat during Passover - gefilte fish, lox, hard boiled eggs, kugel, rice dishes, fruits, nuts and MATZO! LOTS of Matzo! Upon looking at what was being served as the hot lunch special du jour - Sloppy Joes - I moseyed on over to the secret table and partook. I filled up my plate with every last one of the more exotic foods, took a seat, and finally gleamed in pride at my lunch, which looked better than Katy's wax paper-wrapped double-decker chicken salad sandwich on the bread that her family had made with their new bread maker.

The next day I once again rushed over to the miniature Jewish Food Festival and went heavy on the Matzo. Midway through lunch though, midway through filling my tubby belly, the little bell in the center of the cafeteria rung, and there was an announcement:
Only Jewish people, celebrating Passover, are supposed to eat the Passover food on the table over there.
As the only non-Jewish person eating off the table, in a school of about 200 people, this announcement was obviously directed entirely at me. My stomach flipped, my cheeks blushed, and I gulped in embarrassment.

I solemnly ate my last supper, sad that I was being tossed out of the inner circle that got to eat the good hot lunch. I thought it was unfair - just another one of those circumstances where being Catholic in a predominantly Jewish community meant that I was left out. I never got to see what was inside the Seders that my neighbors set up in their yards every year; I never got to go inside one of the five Temples within a mile radius from my house; I didn't get to wear a special long kilt to school; I didn't get to set up a menorah amongst the illuminated display of Christianity that my family erected every Christmas; I wasn't going to be able to stomp on a glass, get lifted up in a chair, or dance the Horah at my wedding. I did get to go to Bagel Nosh growing up, but I wanted to experience more.


I now live in Naperville. And there seems to be a total lack of noshing in Naperville. In general, people here stick to the basics - burgers, boneless skinless chicken breasts, and bad restaurants. So every night Peter and I challenge ourselves to think outside the burbs. We explore and travel vicariously through food and have just about made it around the world and back. We're now at the point where we're revisiting and we each have our favorite destinations. Peter makes us go to Mexico quite often. (We went twice this week)

Empanadas!

Thank you Bridget!

And I make us go at least once a week, if not two or three, to a little kitchen in New York City - a kitchen that is alive and steeped in the traditions of Jewish cooking - a kitchen that feeds my fascination with Jewish culture and brings the side of Squirrel Hill that I never had full access to into my life - we go to Smitten Kitchen. 

Not that she reads my blog, but I wanted to give Deb my congratulations. This week she won Food Blog of the Year by Saveur Magazine. In my opinion she not only won for writing, adapting, and photographing a cache of wonderful recipes. But she won because she breaks down barriers with her cooking. She embraces and celebrates her culinary heritage and traditions, and challenges her readers to think outside the kitchens they were raised in. To go outside of our comfort zones; to consider calling the recipe that we grew up knowing by one name, a different one; to not just make cake, but make it a celebration cake; to turn a fascination into an understanding and love for a culture that might seem very far away, but is actually quite close to your own.  

Shakshuka!

To not just have breakfast for dinner on a Tuesday night ... but instead a traditional Israeli dish of poached eggs in a spicy tomato sauce that's called something similar to a super hero's name - Shakshuka!

Lo. 

Living for the Weekend

Yesterday I woke up high on life - high on the excitement and fun of this past weekend. I sprang out of bed, bounded through a 4-mile run, giggled as I relived some great Pittsburgh moments, and got dressed and ready to seize the work day.

As the day wore on though, I lost momentum. With each review and response to deadlines, documents, and dozens of emails my super-charged self felt a little weighed down again. Suddenly I could feel the thirteen miles that I ran on Sunday in my legs; my fatigue from late nights and very early mornings set in; and my exuberant enthusiasm started to fade. I don't know what happened, but my pep just slowly drained away, and I hated it.

I remember in business school all the teachers used to introduce themselves by saying, "I'm so and so; I used to work for such and such company; after five years I realized how miserable I was; and then I went into teaching. Before we get into the mechanics here, I'd like to say, pick a career that you love doing. Don't wake up and realize that all you are doing is living for the weekends."

So I took that solid advice and I found a job that I love - and a company that I love - and I feel like I'm doing pretty well in my position. But what happens when your weekends are just so amazing that your job - even if it's a great one, can't compete - that it ultimately acts as a bit of a let down after 48 hours of high flying fun.

This weekend I once again returned to my hometown to plan, celebrate, race and celebrate again. Peter, my family and I literally didn't stop doing things all weekend long. And I love doing things! On Saturday we met with the florist to plan all the floral elements of our wedding; we finalized and ordered all the invitations; Ellie even had her first experience at Dee's Dogs.

I got to blog and go for a great walk through Shadyside. We went to mass of course. Then that evening Peter and I were feted with a lovely engagement party that brought with it some of my best friends and family members from around the country. (And again confirmed how amazingly beautiful my bridal party and guest list will be.)

My girls

Ellie got all dressed up and partied all night long with Mimi.

On Sunday I joined forces with @GregActon, my sister, and my cousins, Meghan and Ellen, and crushed the Pittsburgh half marathon. All five us of us finished with personal records and more than that, we each had an amazing time doing it. Afterward we had a champagne brunch and then I got to open a bunch of presents that made me oh so excited to tenderize meat, bake apple tarts, and make an argument for converting a green bathroom into a white one - the new bathmat won't match! 

Finish time of 1:42

So proud of my sister for running 13.1! (And proud of @GregActon as well)

And here I am back in Naperville - analyzing my work day ahead, reading work emails, editing my latest project, and trying to find the adrenaline with which I finished that race on Sunday.

I love my weekends. But perhaps it's not so much that I'm living for them, but more that I'm living for those moments where you get to dress up and laugh with loved ones; that promise running tours and amazing views of cities; that produce happenstance meetings with old friends; where you get to pass the mayor of Pittsburgh because obviously you are in better shape than him; that give you the opportunity to wave a terrible towel all through Pittsburgh; that offer lingering brunches with your family; And that produce the amazing feeling of self accomplishment when you cross a finish line. Sometimes, these sweet moments happen at work. And luckily, I'm in a job that has a lot of them. But when all these things happen in one weekend, and then you find yourself staring at your computer on Monday morning, it's just going to be a downer.

Today, I feel a little more grounded - a little more cued in to reality. But I'm looking forward to one of those amazing work moments. That is, recruiting Team Olga to run Chicago for Team RMHC with me in October. ; )

Lo.

Go Team Olga!

I was on mile 23 and convinced I was going to die a slow, painful, highly embarrassing death in the middle of the Windy City. The crowds were cheering "go, random runner go." The loudspeakers were saying, "you are going to finish the Chicago Marathon." And all that circled in my head was "shut up – get me off this course - NOW!" 

But somewhere in between the guy being carted off on a stretcher next to me and the chubby girl who I couldn’t believe was possibly passing me bounding by me, I saw Peter. And my parents. And a glimmer of hope. There they were - cheering me on as I slowly, pathetically started to fade into loserdom. 

Peter saw my pain and with it my ensuing failure. And he decided to push me. Boat shoes and all he jogged about two miles by my side reinforcing that I was almost there and that it was going to be okay. I responded more times than once, "This was the stupidest choice I ever made - I am never doing this again - This is awful, just awful! I HATE the Marathon!"

And here I am this morning hydrating, eating a smorgasbord of Power-products and gearing up to do it all over again this year. Ask me why? I can't quite tell you. Somehow, somewhere in between the time that I crossed the finish line, angry at the world for 26.2 miles of hurt, and the time that I was sipping champagne and biting into the best brat ever, I forgot about the misery.

What is it about our minds - what we remember, what we forget. My bad memories get lost a lot - they are easily forgotten. While the sweet ones seem to last forever or just leave me speechless. What I remember about the Marathon is the good stuff.

That first bridge where I saw Peter and my parents waving – so proud of their girl who was running among the masses. 

All the queens of Boystown turning 6 to 8 into the best early morning disco party ever.  

That guy that started laughing at me at 17 when I let out a long exasperated, man-when-is-this-going-to-be-over sigh.  

Grandma Shirley snapping photos - so excited to be part of my little cheering section. 

Peggy and Jan welcoming me and my family into their house after the race.

My Mom and I laughing at all the people in the hotel walking around with their medals proudly hanging around their necks like they were the only ones that had finished.  

And feelings of pride that just can't be put to words.

Tomorrow I'm running the Pittsburgh Half Marathon with my sister, brother-in-law and cousins. And together, we're doing it for a woman who I know doesn't forget - her memories are just so great, that's she's speechless sometimes. We're running for the special moments, hearty laughs, crazy Barryisms, and amazing recipes that I know our Grandma still has at the tip top of her mind. All those things that when I sit close to her, and tell her stories, she remembers, but just can't quite verbalize. 

Tomorrow Team Olga will be running through the streets of Pittsburgh - the city that my grandma has called home for her entire life - thinking about her and remembering all the fun we have had together. Yes, we're all going to be in a little bit of pain come 12 and 13, but I know that all we're going to remember when we've each crossed the finish line is we did this as family - the way that Grandma Barry always wanted us to do things. And we'll all have some good laughs afterward.

Lo. 

Please consider donating to the Alzheimer's Foundation in honor of Olga and her team of first and second time racers.

The Double G

I'm The Double G.
That's huge.
Okay - you're one of the ten people out there that reads my blog and is not a Barry relative, so you're wondering, "what the heck is The Double G?"

Well ... It's a big, BIG deal. It's one of those titles that along with many benefits like Omaha Steaks and photographs signed by The Foreman, holds a lot of responsibility. Double G stands for Granddaughter and Goddaughter. Double G not just to anyone - but to the one, the only "Red" / "Cyclone" / "Terry" M.T. Barry, my Grandpa Barry.

A man that has tendered thousands of tomato plants in his time; a man that laid the bricks of his own house in which he raised seven daughters and one son; a man that wrestled and killed a raccoon with his bare hands at the age of 89; a man that from the sweat of his brow helped to solder and mold the City of Steel from the molten products of the Homestead Stacks; a man that told me that before I married Peter I needed his seal of approval (and as a fellow asparagus grower and man not afraid to get his hands dirty, Peter got it!) He's a man that for 65 years has held his bride's hand tight. Through thick and through thin, along the cobbled streets of her home country of Croatia, and even in their new digs, he has been right by my Grandma's side. Grandpa Barry is one of my heroes, and I am very proud to be his Double G.

Being The Double G holds some big responsibilities though:
It means that I need to carry on the Easter Egg Hunt tradition and make sure the golden ticket egg has a garden fresh spud in it.

It means that I need to learn how to make ham and bean soup really well. (Then bottle and label it with an allusion to its ability to powerfully propel the consumer.)
It means pressing cider after the apple harvest. 
It means that I need to grow things - lots of things. And make sure that my kids and grand kids eat everything that comes out of the garden. I can still hear my Grandpa giving Evan heck for not eating his prized asparagus.
It means that I have to marry someone that is as hearty as he is - that is as strong minded and hearted, as no nonsense, as funny, as good a dancer (I'm working on it), as Irish (he's halfway) and as thoughtful as Red Barry.
It also means that on the big wedding day I will not only be solo dancing with Peter and my Dad. It means that there will be an additional spotlight dance for Grandpa Barry and his Double G. 

After a heavy hitting wedding planning session last night, Peter and I nailed down our song. (Finally) We had a couple failed attempts, but we found the perfect one - one that I'm not at liberty to disclose though.  We also came up with three options for the father-daughter dance, but I want my Dad to choose. (One of the best pieces of wedding advice I heard from a friend, was to let your Dad pick the song that you dance to. This way it means something to him and to you.) So ... he will have the opportunity to pick between Billy, Bette and Ben.

And then we came to the Double G song. But this selection was actually pretty easy. It'll be a Swing song. See my Grandpa is a great dancer - in fact, he ruled the swing clubs in his day. And at every wedding and party, he has tried to teach me his moves. He has twirled and dipped me through the years, putting my spastic puppet-dancing moves to shame.

I'm still trying to decide between a Benny Goodman or Ella Fitzergerald number, but as I close this morning I know one thing for sure - in order to keep up with Grandpa during our dance, I need to sign up for some dance lessons before the wedding. Because as my Grandma and Grandpa know well, if you can't dance - if you can't Swing through life with your partner - it's just not as fun.

Lo.

To Mom. (From Lo)

When it comes to the legalese at work - IP, contracts, risk management - sometimes, or should I say, a lot of times I have to ask the lawyer to break it down for me.
Buddy, what are you actually saying? What does this mean for me and my project?

The other day when I asked him to break down the risks in a contract I wanted signed stat, he told me that he wanted a line added stating the company would indemnify us if a third party sued them and the people that used their product.
Okay ... almost there. What does indemnify mean? 
What? You come from a household of lawyers, how do you not know what indemnify means?
Well ... because whenever the conversation at the dinner table started to drift from me and my activities to law or health care, I excused myself and did the dishes.
(Eye roll.) It means they need to defend us.
Thanks. I'll get that added.


So according to the Merriam-Webster dictionary "indemnify" means "securing against hurt, loss or damage."
Oh.
I had heard this many times before - at the dinner table - during power walks - on Walnut Street - while poolside. My Mom didn't put it in official terms, but she definitely taught me how to secure myself against hurt, loss or damage. 

See - my Mom is the definition of a superwoman - she is simultaneously a road warrior, dictating diva, judicious judge, cracker of the whip, blackberry addict, overall overachiever and mother to me and my brother and sister. And while my siblings tended to last a little longer at the legal-minded dinner conversations (probably in avoidance of dish duty) and learned the big words like toxic torts, asbestos, and indemnity - I had a much more rudimentary understanding of what my Mom did in the legal field.

I knew she dictated a lot. I knew her secretary talked on the phone too much. I knew she only had a Diet Coke for lunch everyday. I knew Mr. Vey lost 15 pounds or so whenever he was in trial. And I learned how incompetent associates can be. I did try to learn a little more once - when I took advantage of take your daughter to work day. The only thing I remember though was gossiping with my Mom in her Buick Park Avenue all the way to Mt. Pleasant and then eating the Au Bon Pain-esque tuna salad on baguettes that I made for us before we had a look at some giant book of Mt. Pleasant records.

What I did understand though was the role my Mom played outside of work - I understood the other language she spoke. The one that included Irish lullabies, pamplamouses, power walk cha chas, Hollywood gossip, kick boarding, schlepping, cheese and crackers, gin and tonics, Diane Von Furstenberg wrap dresses, table cloth ironing, boogalooing, fritzers, hugs and kisses goodnight, and words of comfort and consolation when I needed them. My Mom didn't need to use the word "indemnify" with me, because she taught me how to defend myself in lingo that I understood.

She taught me how to defend myself against loss when shopping for a good deal.
She taught me how to defend myself against hurt when she cheered for me at every single lacrosse game.
She taught me how to defend myself against damage every month when we went to see Anne at Griff's.
My Mom taught me how to laugh endlessly throughout the day - or until Jaywalking wrapped up.
She taught me how to give selflessly - or until Dad says, "what?! you can't give a rando a $200 graduation gift!"
She taught me how to pick a winner and love him tirelessly - with kisses in the kitchen, hip swinging to a favorite song, and cards in the mail just because. 
My Mom has taught me how to be my own kind of superwoman - one that is still in training, but one that is hopeful about joining my Mom's league of super heroes in the near future. 

Happy Mother's Day to the best Mom ever. (and wishing I was at PGC Brunch with you - creamed spinach, vichyssoise, lobster bisque and all!)

Lo.

"I Think They Got Bid Laden"

Sophomore year of college I lived with my friend Caylan. I was an early-to-bed, early-to-rise kind of girl then too. And each morning I put my life on mute for an hour or so until my roommate, my dorm, and all of campus started to wake up.

On September 11, 2001 around 6:30 AM I was having one of those muted mornings - quietly crunching my Quaker Oat Squares while Caylan slept on. I was watching the closed captioned version of Matt and Katie on the Today Show, playing a game of Snood or two, working on the Observer's amateur crossword puzzle, and relishing the no-line shower that is one of those benefits of being a collegiate early riser.

Peter, this is Snood - I know I am not the only one out there that played it ...

Wrapped in my yellow robe, I returned from showering around 8:00 AM to get dressed and head to my Intro to Theater class. First, I checked on Matt and Katie's status though. But they weren't on - instead there was surreal footage of one of the World Trade Towers on fire - smoke billowing up into the blue sky - and a line across the bottom of the screen saying "breaking news."

In a voice a little louder than a whisper I said, "Oh my God ... Caylan, wake up! You have to see this ..."

They went back to Katie and Matt - they were saying that there was a fire at the World Trade Center - that there was an explosion - that they didn't know exactly what had happened, but will stick with the story. They went back to the footage of the smoking Tower. Then I saw it - the second plane coming at the second Trade Tower at full speed, crashing, blowing up, setting that Tower ablaze as well.

And I shouted, "OH MY GOD!! ... CAYLAN, WAKE UP!"

I went across the hall to Kristen's room - "WAKE UP - TURN ON THE TODAY SHOW." I went down the hallway and continued to provide alerts. I was like the Paul Revere of Breen Phillips, secretly so proud of myself that I had been the first to witness the news - that I was the source. Obviously, I didn't really proactively do anything about it except worry, lament and pray with the rest of the nation, especially when I heard that one of the planes had crashed near Pittsburgh. But I had broken the story at Breen Phillips and that meant something to me.

On Sunday night - after a weekend of being showered, I was tired. So tired that I gave in to Grandma Lo's wishes, and washed my face, put on my PJs, hopped into bed, and turned off the light at 8:30 PM. Yes, 8:30 PM.

I zonked out, but as I tend to do every night, I woke up to check my phone around midnight. In a foggy state of half-slumber, I saw two text messages - one from Mrs. Simon telling me how awesome I am (love her!) and one from Peter - it read:

"I think they got Bin Laden."

I rolled over - that was weird. And ... I zonked out again.

Monday morning I woke up and went about my muted business - and while the Early Riser may have gotten the 9/11 and Royal Wedding news as it was happening, apparently her early bedtime accounted for missing some very, very BIG news! My blackberry, Facebook news feed, Twitter homepage, and email box were filled with messages proclaiming that "Ding, Dong, Osama was dead." Everyone, all night long was celebrating this message - this news, that I have completely slept through. As a communications professional, as a news-junky, as a gossip fiend, I was devastated. I had missed it all!

The past two days I've been catching up - learning about the mission, reading about the compound, heeding heightened security alerts, questioning allegations, dissecting new facts and figures - generally making up for lost time. And then thinking about the reception of news ...

We are obsessed with knowing things right away. And with the 24-hour news day - we have become constant, compulsive checkers of email, feeds, alerts, updates and messages. Although I was bummed that I didn't get to tune in to the events as they unfolded on Sunday night, I have learned from work that even if you're the last person to hear the news (which I often am) - the most important thing is what you do with the news - how you react to it, how you translate it, how you create a mutually beneficial response from it.

While again, I feel powerless in the conflicts that are going on around the world - what I can do is offer my support and gratitude to our troops for persevering, making significant strides, and keeping us safe. And I want to thank one power-woman in particular - my cousin, Meghan - my friend (and bridesmaid) who has been serving this country in the armed forces for the past 8 years - who has sacrificed her life during four tours of duty (two to Iraq and two to Afghanistan) - who will be promoted to Major by the end of the year - who is my living, fighting hero - who I know played a big role in getting Bin Laden and who provides excellent rationale for why our generation has a stake in being the greatest as well. Thank you Meghan - I salute you.

Lo.

April Showers

April 30 - like day 27 in a month of downpours. Although we didn't have the tornadoes and flooding that ravaged other states, it seemed like Chicagoland was encased in a very big, wet, nimbostratus cloud for a month, and I feel like I was drenched, frizzy, wrinkled, soggy, mascara stained, and cold all month long.

On Saturday though the clouds parted, the sun came out, the temperatures rose, and I thought we were in the clear - here come the May Flowers - But there was still a downpour. It was a different kind of shower though - a dry one - one that rained down bath towels, cutlery, serving dishes, baking ware, and jello molds. My very own bridal shower.

Historically, I have not been a good shower participant. I've been late and I've been crabby. I've been an eye roller and I've refused to make ribbon bouquets. I remember being particularly ornery at my sister's shower as I won the crown for the worst maid of honor ever - I remember leaning over mid present-opening, and telling her, I never want a shower of my own. After giving me her signature disgusted glare, she stated in all her wisdom, "when it comes time, you will want a shower."

Well it has come time, and oh, did I want my own shower! And honestly all it took to change my opinion was a classy sales lady from Bloomingdales named Joy and a zapping gun. Those two were like my personal assistants in building a Christmas list on steroids. That list combined with a sister-in-law who made my party the vision of sugar-plum shower dreams, made me a convert - a lover of showers - a hopeful shower host in the future for one of my nieces.

But for the future bride and bridesmaid, from a previous shower sourpuss to you, here are just a few tips on getting through your showers with a big smile on your face. More or less this is my misguided guide to shower etiquette from a girl who doesn't seem to have the traditional bridal party DNA.

1. Wear a little dress with a lot of give - you might rip a less forgiving dress while you are ripping into the many wrapped gifts otherwise.

2. Make sure your family is there - because when no one else finds you funny, they will laugh at your awkwardness regardless. 

3. Get excited that you can have champagne in the middle of the day, but always stop at two. No one wants a drunk bride or bridesmaid at the party.

4. Focus more on the tea sandwiches than the scones and pastries - you have a dress to fit into remember.

5. When you meet someone, make sure you repeat their name. Perhaps even keep a description section on your guest list so you make sure you remember everyone at the wedding.

6. Part of your responsibilities include entertaining others I guess so don't be a silent bride, keep the rolling commentary going as you open each present. And again, make sure your family is close-by when you insert a comment like, "Did you know I was the Scrabble champion in 3rd grade?!" (they were good for a you-are-reallllly-awkward-laugh right then.)

7. Thank you. Say it. A lot. I still can't believe how spoiled I was on Saturday! 

8. Embrace the aftermath. Putting away, organizing, searching for a cache of jello recipes, and spending hours writing thank you notes can actually be very therapeutic.

9. Go ahead, cheat. Use the loot. I can't wait to make meatloaf in my new terrine tonight! ; )

10. Don't mess with your Mom's camera afterward, because you might accidentally ruin the memory card and not have any pictures to add to your blog. 

Thanks to everyone for making Saturday so special. And thank you May! No more showers - just flowers and couples engagement parties. It's a beautiful day and there's just about 4 months left till I get to report on the big story. So stay tuned ...

Lo.

Royally Jealous

I've been trying not to follow it - not to listen to it - not to look at it - but I couldn't help hearing snippets this morning.

In Starbucks ... 
Have you seen her?
Did you see her dress?
She looks beautiful!

On Facebook ...
Watching the Royal Wedding with a traditional English breakfast!
Love the dress!
Hey Jack, do you want to watch with me?
No thanks, I've seen Sleeping Beauty like 10 times!

In my apartment building the yummy mummies of Naperville actually had a Royal Wedding Watch - hats and all!

I opened my Yahoo! account to check my email, and of course, all the rotating promo boxes were of Kate - Kate in the car, Kate's bridesmaid holding her dress, Kate waving, Kate, Kate, Kate! So I took a look. I clicked through. And I looked her up and down.

Gorgeous.
Perfect.
Jealousy boiled up. 

There is a reason that I don't read fashion magazines anymore. There is a reason I don't watch that much TV. Basically, I hate seeing the perfection of all the beautiful people out there. Their perfect skin, physiques, smiles, nails, hair, clothes, and postures. It just makes me want to bite my nails even more. And the reason I avoided this perfect person in particular, is that her perfection is particularly unfair. That is, she is the girl in the world that really will get to be a pretty, pretty princess.

A princess that lives in a castle.
A princess that vacations in other people's castles.
A princess that doesn't have to run to the grocery store at the last minute because she forgot the 14-ounce cans of diced tomatoes.
A princess that doesn't get stressed out working for her Charity of Choice.
A princess that doesn't care if her prince is balding.
A princess that gets to wear hats and gloves everyday without being scrutinized for it.
A princess that can have whatever Greek Food Festival staple that she is craving delivered any time of the day.
A princess that looks beautiful all the time - awake and asleep.
You see - it's unfair. And in comparison I feel like I will be a lowly bourgeois suburbanite for the rest of my days while Kate gets to wave, sip high tea, crash champagne bottles, get serenaded by Elton John, wear Stella McCartney couture, hang out with the Beckhams, and produce more princesses. More princesses that will make my little girls just as jealous I'm sure.

But to be a good sport - and to help all the little girls out there feel proud and happy that they most likely will never become Royals - here's what's good about being an American plain Jane. 

• You get to take the calories saved from skipping high tea and deposit them in a glass of wine or two each evening.
• If you get a little tipsy off said glass of wine or two, no one will care. 
• Because you can't get Greek Food Festival delivery anytime you want, you will learn to make your own spanakopita (yep family, that's on the menu tonight.) 
• You can invest all the time you save from primping and posing into your sense of humor.
• And guess what, even though you're not going to be a princess (or duchess or any other royal label), you'll still get your own Prince Charming. And if you're as lucky as me - your Prince Charming won't be balding. He'll be brewing.

Lo.