Sunday is a designated rest day. No running workouts scheduled. I laid down on our living room couch at 1PM and when my eyes opened back up again they scanned immediately to the clock on the shelf. Twenty minutes to five. Dang. I crawled a few inches from my warm sanctuary to the switch for the Christmas tree and it instantly lights up. I gingerly re-wrapped myself in my grandma’s patchwork quilt and stayed on the couch, sleepily watching our tree and the cityscape behind it turn from dusk to black. A long time passed. I didn’t get up until I became more hungry than tired. Thirty six hours earlier I was standing on the corner of North Ave. & Larrabee Streets across from my apartment building, pitch black except for the streetlight overhead the bus stop. I was waiting for my running coach. We live in the same neighborhood which in turn makes us good carpool buddies. We were heading to the suburbs for our Saturday Long Run.

Chicago the city is very flat, and hill training is a must if you want to be a strong runner, the kind of runner that can handle Boston Marathon. And I do. It’s 32 degrees and spitting snow. Nothing is sticking yet it’s wet and damp and messy. As the wet pelts my face I can’t believe I’m in this moment. Standing on this corner, at this early hour, about to do what I'm about to do. I’m certain that the imprint my body made only 30 minutes earlier into the flannel sheets of my bed is still there and warm and I hopelessly imagine it’s every curve as my coach’s car approaches. It’s still dark as we travel an hour out of town to Morton Arboretum. Morton has hills, lots of them, and that’s where the Chicago runners go for hill training. The further we get from the city, the more black turns to gray and the snow sticks and the more white it becomes. From the inside of my coach’s warm volkswagon, the view is beautiful. It’s Christmasy and inviting. It’s a Bing Crosby song. Then it’s not. Reality hits me yet again. I’m about to run in this.

I’ve never run outside in this weather before. The non-runner, and even the recreational runner would say that running outside in this weather is insane or stupid and understandably both. The type of runner I was last year I would have slept in till mid morning, then possibly head to the warm comfort of my neighborhood gym to glide for 30 minutes on the elliptical machine, watching Brett Michael’s disasterous “Rock of Love” or some other indulgent trash reality tv show on a 6 inch screen devoted entirely to me. Now I want Boston. I want to be a good runner. I’m not alone. There’s a line of 6-7 vehicles waiting to get entrance into Morton, and in the distance I see group upon group of runners lightly jogging away. Snow is coming down well here, with a good 3 inches of white on the ground and no end in sight. “You’ve probably run in worse than this, right coach?” I quietly asked, not wanting to seem like a whimp, but also searching for some validation that this just might not be a good idea. “Well, it’s definately not good” he said. “You gotta really be careful today. Don’t worry about time.” I always worry about time, cause I’m always last. Since beginning with this group, I’ve already gotten a minute faster per mile, but I still bring up the rear. It sucks to bring up the rear. I hate it. I loathe it. I can’t wait to be good. I can’t wait to keep up. I can’t wait to easily converse with these runners and talk about random marathons and qualifying and times and be right in the same world as them.

Right now I just push myself to keep them in my horizon line as long as I can, that the colors of their jackets not leave my view. I push my legs and pump my arms till the back of my throat is dry and my breathing is heavy. I mantra in my head over and over not to lose them. They are gone before I hit mile two. Our car approaches the entrance and the guard in the booth informs us they were heavily sanding all trails, but with the weather hovering at the freezing mark best be careful. Runners have already reported falls. Now its 7:30AM, and I’m staring out the window of the Morton Arboetum warming house. Our running group is gathering. My nerves and two granola bars from earlier this morning have had a good two hours to digest that this run is actually going to happen, yet I still can’t seem to grasp it. “People do this,” I thought to myself, “now I’m one of those people.”

Out the window of the warming house, snow was still coming down. We’re missing two people yet, and with the weather being what it is there’s no hurry to start without them. A low running murmur of conversation about winter gear and stories of weather conditions from past years fill the time as we wait for the last two runners from our group to show up. Fourteen of us in all. Just as our coach begins his traditional Saturday morning pre-run pep talk, a runner walks in with two others, a huge mound of snow pressed against the side of her forehead. We all grow quiet, and our pep talk turns into a safety speech. “Go slow,” he says, “this is not about the pace but the miles. Be careful on the hills, go down them sideways if you have to, and if you feel youself sliding, head into the fluffiest snow.” We begin the run as a group, but as usual I lose them. My horizon line today even more blurred by the wet flakes of snow sticking into my eyelashes and dripping from the rim of my hat. I’m on my own again.

I’m a minute slower than normal, but my heartrate is as high as if I was making a dash for a finish line. I plod away, focusing on the ground beneath me. Keeping to areas that either have an abundance of sand or where the snow hasn’t been packed down yet. I greet or return a cautious “good morning” with other runners, and we all shout out either a plow around the corner or an extra ice warning. I hate this run. The damp cold vibrates through me and the muscles in my thighs and rear end feel every pounding inch of these hills. This snowfall teases me, dares me to land flat on my ass. I begin singing Christmas carols in my head. “Oh the weather outside is frightful...” and it helps me keep cadence with my feet. It also gets me past the first 3 miles. I’m fine again until mile 7, when I know I’m almost there, but I know I’m almost not. Finally, at mile 8 and the run is over. I never worked so hard for eight miles and yet again I have brought up the rear.

I change into warm clothes, and join the others in my running group in the Arboretum cafe, long into their coffees and conversations. The chatter of the day is who took falls and how bad. Apparently a lot of people did. I got lucky. I slid a few times but never fell, blissfully finding that fluffy snow the coach mentioned. We all wished each other a Merry Christmas and began the journey home. Still snowing. My body starts to let me know that it’s tired. I admit to my coach that I don’t like being last. He says not to worry about that. This is just the beginning. He promises that running hills on a day like today will make me better, faster, stronger. “You’ll see.” he says.

WARNING: As opposed to my other blog entries, the average reader may find this boring. Runners may be the only ones who appreciate this entry. So, if you are not a runner.....I’ve got other stuff coming. Stay tuned.

The Hot Chocolate 15K this past Sunday marked the end of the 2009 running season for me. Below is my review of the races I participated in (in chronological order).

• THE PHOENIX ROCK-N-ROLL HALF MARATHON (January)
What was nice about this race was no humidity. I had one of my best PRs of the season and hardly a drop of sweat. That, and the medal was cool. You rarely get a bad medal at a RNR (Rock-N-Roll) race event. The bad? WORSE COURSE OF THE YEAR. By far. Every brochure you’ve ever seen on Phoenix shows beautiful mountains and palm trees and gorgeous desert landscape. The course I ran was through the barrio. Seriously. I lived in Phoenix for 10 years (1993-2003) and I wouldn’t drive through most of the neighborhoods they had us run through. RATING: 2 Stars.

• THE SEATTLE ROCK-N-ROLL HALF MARATHON (May)
Seattle had so much to offer here. Using a running event as a vacation opportunity is a good way to go. You are exercising, so you have a guilt-free way to indulge in great local food, which we did happily. The people were incredibly friendly, and the course absolutely beautiful. Vibrant green and lush trees and gorgeous waterfronts. Most runners that I have come across that ran this race all distinctively recall a bald eagle resting on a tree branch along the trail at mile 6. Full view right on the trail. Never moved. It was amazing. Medal was really nice, and a good memory for Seattle. Popsicles and Kettle Potato Chips at the finsh were great. I would love to give this race my highest rating of 5 stars, however, as it was their inaugural race they had some bumps along the way....mostly transportation. Runners had to be shuttled across one of the lakes, and traffic caused us to miss the starting gun by nearly 30 minutes. They’ll get better about that (hopefully). RATING: 4.5 Stars.

• THE SALUTE MEMORIAL DAY 10K (late May)
Located in Arlington Heights, IL. This race is heavily themed (and rightly so) around the American Soldier. It’s incredibly patriotic, wonderfully small and neighborhoody. This is a town where nearly every house has a flag pole and a white picket fence. As we ran through the neighborhoods, I gawked open mouthed at these gorgeously modest homes and felt as if I was actively a part of a Norman Rockwell painting. It was a wonderful feeling to know this kind of world still exists. Proceeds from the race go to a charity called, Salute, Inc., which raises funds to help soldiers and their families in crisis. An overall feeling of gratitude and Americanism is in the air. Hell, they even have BBQ hot dogs after the race. Running with the smell of hot dogs on a charcoal grill in the air somehow makes you run faster. Worth the drive from Chicago. RATING: 3.5 Stars

• THE NIKE WOMEN’S 10K (July)
Always a blast, I run this every year. Just for women, in support of women. There’s a bond that you feel like you are the superior race. And for whatever reason, even though it’s in July it’s never too hot. The best tech shirt you will get too. RATING: 3.5 Stars

• THE CHICAGO ROCK-N-ROLL HALF MARATHON (July)
This race was my first experience running for a charity, TEAM SALUTE. If you’ve have never run for a charity before, I would highly recommend it. Make sure it’s one that you can relate to, as asking friends and family for money (especially in this economic climate) can be tough. Chicago really has the experience to run marathons and other professional races without a hitch. Well organized and planned. Best designed graphics for items to purchase and huge expo filled with cool stuff. Nice medal in a unique shape. Chicago loves running, and the people reflect that. The weather was good, and it was my best PR of the year. If you have never run in Chicago, you won’t be disappointed. Start with this one, then move on to the Chicago Marathon. RATING: 5 Stars.

• THE OAK BROOK (IL) HALF MARATHON (Labor Day)
WORST RACE OF THE YEAR! AWFUL. CARA (Chicago Area Runner’s Association) lists it as the best half marathon in Chicagoland. Whoever wrote that is either smoking something illegal or screwing the Oak Brook race director. It’s crap. The start was supposed to happen at 7AM, but because their packet pick up times were very limited (and in the suburbs - hard to get there) a majority of people opted for race day packet pickup. This slowed everything down as they were not prepared. A “rumor” spread throughout the gathering crowd that the race time was pushed back to 7:30AM....but no announcement was made formally. Then, the powers that be changed it to 7:15. Again, no formal announcement made. We all just heard a faint gun shot at 7:30 and started running. Water stations were placed too far apart from one another, and their only GU station was at mile 10. Too late. When it came time to pick up my gear, no gear check was to be found. Me and a few other runners asked 4 different volunteers and got 4 different answers. Incredibly frustrating. Finally, I found the gear check station, located (unmarked) behind a Muscle Milk Semi Truck. Blocked from view. Everyone I met associated with the race seemed incredibly clueless. To add to the misery, the medal is my worst of the year. Do NOT bother with this race. RATING: 0 Stars (and I want my gas money back!)

• THE QUAD CITIES HALF MARATHON ( early September)
The Quad Cities is really doing a good job with this marathon/half marathon. Aside from a few issues they have a good thing going here. They do a good job of organization, down to the logo and clothing graphics. The medal is nice, although it’s smaller in size all my other medals and as such and could be a bit bigger. The course starts off a little rough, some basic neighborhoods and some hills. Then, along the Mississippi, it’s quite beautiful. They also had Nestle Quick Chocolate Milk at the finish. The most amazing part of this race is the beginning. Not only do they have a huge American Flag at the Starting Line (quite a few races did this year of which I’m incredibly proud) but we all sang the Star Spangled Banner AND.....were lead in a prayer by a pastor who was also a runner. No other run I’ve ever taken part in has done that. Very beautiful. Very American, at least the America I want to be a part of. I wanted to live there. The only bad part was I think they do not know how large they are growing, and could really use a corral system. At 5’ 2”, I found myself very squashed and scared being pushed around by much bigger people. Seriously. Also, I stepped on the timing pad and just tiptoed for the next 4 minutes. I would have had a PR. I would like to run this race again, however, I will call them directly next year and ask if they have instituted a corral system. If not, skip it. They’ll wise up eventually. RATING: 4 Stars.

• THE CHICAGO HALF MARATHON (mid September)
Remember what I said earlier about if you’ve never run in Chicago that you will not be disappointed? You will be with this race. Located near the Museum of Science and Industry downtown, the only reason I signed up for this half marathon was because my cousin Cathy, also a runner, wanted to visit and go shopping. We can’t be in the same town without running, so we did this race. It’s a bitch to get to via public transit, and you really need to use public transit to get there cause parking is limited and extremely expensive. The course is B-O-R-I-N-G. It’s out and back, up Lake Shore Drive. It was a warm day, and with all that concrete soaking up the sun, I witnessed quite a few seemingly fit people go down puking. Not pretty. The medal is equally boring too. Second worst race of the year. Rating: 1 Star

• THE INDIANAPOLIS HALF MARATHON (AT LAWERENCE) (late September)
Drumroll please......BEST RACE OF THE YEAR! This was the marathon/half marathon that seemingly Mother Nature created. Set in a National Park, the race course was a vibrant flood of red, yellow and orange as the fall foilage welcomed us lovingly. It was awe inspiring. As we arrived in the morning, the gathering field for the runners was a welcoming sea of hay bales and bon fires, golden corn stalks and pumpkins. The smell of apple cider filled the air as we chatted and kept warm with other runners. I could not stop telling my friend Cristina how gorgeous this race was. Nicely sized (less than 5,000). The people were wonderful, fall designed medal and tech long sleeve shirt with the ultimate highlight: Oreos at the finish line. Highly Recommended. RATING: 5 Stars.

• THE HOT CHOCOLATE 15K (November)
This race got too big for it’s own good. It was nice an small last year, and always promotes that it offers the best swag. The swag indeed is good, but the promise of the end of the race being a “Chocolate Lover’s Paradise” is a bit too boastful than the end result. That, and it’s chilly. If it’s not chilly, it’s muddy. The final chocolate shaving on this race is, by November I’m ready for a break. RATING: 2 Stars.

Ultimately, the best part about running this year is that I realized it can be much more a part of my life, in a good way. Running for me has become an opportunity to travel and visit old friends, and within the realm of running I’ve made new friends that I cherish. That never really happened in previous years. I would go out, run along the lakefront alone, then come home. I was scared that I was too slow or that no one would possibly care. I kept that world at arm’s length, wrongly assuming that I was not going to be welcomed. As I’ve started signing up for organized runs, I’ve realized not only that there is a vast community available, I’ve been slowly and happily sucked into it. I’ve made some wonderful girlfriends this year of all levels of running talent, that through their friendship, I feel more of a runner than ever before. I’m so very grateful to them.

This running is a baby-step process, and I’m getting there. I still have a lot to learn. Heck, just today I had to ask my running gal-pal Rachel what a 800X4 meant. I’m clueless. I’ve never trained to my full potential, never joined a group. Could I be running better than I think I could? What do I not know? 2010 seems exciting. I’m already set for many half marathons, which are going to give me the opportunity to visit friends I have not seen in a while and friends I want to bond closer with. Races I have never run. New places to explore and medals to admire. Mostly, new stories to tell. A new me to show myself through this medium I enjoy. The only thing that will stay the same is the butterflies I get when I come up to that starting line.

Four years ago today was my first date with my now husband, Eric. We sat in the smallest booth at Corcran’s Pub, across from The Second City on Wells St. in Chicago. It was a blind date. “Hi I’m Eric.” he said, and held out his hand. He had thick black hair and an honest face. He was wearing jeans and a Abercrombie and Fitch sweatshirt that looked like a baseball jersey. A masculine gray and deep green. Cute. For me with first dates I had a rule. That was either go out for a beer or a coffee, and if I decided I liked them food could be involved. And the dates always took place in my neighborhood so I had an easy escape route if necessary. That particular October night, the Chicago White Sox had a very good chance to win the World Series, and I knew the bar would be packed. As this was my favorite neighborhood hangout, I had the inside track on how it operated. I knew that Second City was rehearsing a new show, and I knew the director would be coming in for dinner beforehand, thus needing to leave just in time for me to arrive. Clockwork. I selected the perfect two seat booth, just enough intimacy and just enough of an angle to view the sports action. Eric and I exchanged pleasantries and sat down. I wanted to not be a high maintenance girl, so I ordered a simple and cheap Miller Lite. He ordered the same, and we did the basic “tell me about yourself” stuff. I remember at first thinking how boring he was, talking about being in the Navy and working as a loan funder for a real estate company. Nothing I could relate to. I barely recall him mentioning he just that past summer signed on with the Army Reserves. After a slight polite pause, the subject changed to simplier, more silly topics. Cartoons and comedy shows. My attitude brightened when he mentioned his love for the TV show, “The Family Guy” a show that I had just recently discovered and was enamored with. A couple more beers followed, comedy quotes filled the air and eventually I was comfortable ordering nachos. We laughed and joked and watched the Chicago White Sox win the World Series. It was a good night.

Another rule I gave myself was that for a date, I didn’t need to know if he was “the one” or anything like that. All I needed to know was if I wanted a 2nd date. Eric walked me to my apartment and asked for a 2nd date. I said okay, but he would have to choose either this coming Friday or Saturday, not both as he originally suggested. “Saturday it is” he happily quipped, and came in for the traditional good night kiss. To me, a good Catholic girl, a goodnight kiss on the first date was a light hug and a peck on the cheek, the kind you give your grandma as you are leaving the traditional Christmas gathering. Eric pulled a fast one. He turned his head and got my lips. And stayed there. I could hear him breathe deep and heavy. I felt clueless and powerful all at once. Did I have this guy wrapped around my finger and didn’t even know it?

Now I'm nervous. Continuous calls and emails followed. Funny and sweet. All harmlessly asking for more time and attention than my cautiousness was willing to give. I would vocally worry to my girlfriends about what this all meant. They over and over reassured me I was lucky and to just enjoy it.

One day a knock came to my door, a UPS man with flowers. I swallowed hard, signed on the X and opened the box to discover the most beautiful fall arrangement, full of golds and oranges and reds with a card endlessly scribbling about how special I was and how he couldn’t wait to get to know me more and how I brightened his day and he hoped these brightened mine. A hot fire rushed up the back of my neck. Excitement and fear just punched each other hard in the face and I didn’t know what the hell to do. I took a picture of it with my cell phone and sent it to my girlfriends and waited for their responses. Within minutes, floods of texts of AWESOME and AWWW and HE’S A KEEPER filled my phone. I just stared at them. What did I do?

Now, four years later, I’m a wife. I’m no longer chased, I’m caught. Sadly, and sometimes bitterly, I feel more deserving than ever of flowers that never come. If I could tell every man in the world that all it would take to keep their women happy for the next six months is to buy them flowers for no reason whatsoever, I would. If I won the lottery I would go into the business of secretly buying flowers for women in their man’s name and watch happily as the world would increasingly grow happy. Wars would end. Peace would fill every corner of the universe and everything would smell like vanilla.

The other night my husband asked why had I not made my famous Ceviche in a while. My Ceviche is his favorite. Ice cold shrimp marinated in a delicous combination of lemon and lime juice, then handsomely welcomed into a family of chopped garlic, roma tomatoes, cilantro, jalapenos and purple onion. Topped with avocado and eaten with thick cut tortilla chips. It’s absolutely devine. One night in August, a full batch on hand, Eric and I stood in our kitchen and happily ate the entire thing. It was indeed the most fantastic feast. This time when he asked for it, I felt like a diner waitress taking an order. He was oblivious to the fact that after working a full day as a graphic designer, I had just cleaned the entire apartment (including two bathrooms, scrubbed the floors, and washed and folded 4 loads of laundry. The scent of homemade lasagna in the oven filled the air. Smelling of bleach and exhausted, my sharp tongue and hurtful heart snapped back, “I’ll make Ceviche the next time I get flowers.”

Of course, if that happens it won’t count. Those “flowers for no reason” are the moments I long for, moments that seem like they will never happen again.

I can feel fall coming and I’m excited. I still keep out my capri pants, yet I swap my sandals for adorable canvas mary janes and pull out my beloved hoodie collection, which easily takes up a third of my closet. I own every imaginable color with the exception of sky blue. It keeps evading me somehow and forces me to long for it in the same way that I can slip into an endless vivid daydream about what kind of movies James Dean would have made had he grown old. Chicago in fall is amazing, and reflective of the people who live here. Relaxed and mild, with a very subtle breezy strength that reminds you to be grateful. Grateful for the fantastic summer you just had and gives you just a few more glimpses of it. Fall in Chicago is that “cool babysitter” that allows you an extra half hour of TV cause your parents will never find out. Every Saturday is filled with people strolling the sidewalks wearing college football jerseys and Sunday’s clothing is Bears orange and blue. The sky gets darker faster, and I have loving permission to wrap myself up in sweat clothes and cook things in a crock pot. For whatever reason, my love of cooking grows deeper in the fall. I like the heat, the heartiness. I love the warm feel of a bowl of soup when you cup your hands around it. When that rich, tomatoey liquid slides down your throat all the way into an empty stomach. The crunchy butteriness of the toast on a grilled cheese sandwich done right. All that, looking out the window into the dark and twinkling Chicago skyline, 7pm.....in sweatpants. Friends and I lately have been passing around recipes. I will be sharing more of my fall recipes, but I’ll start with my first favorite, Crock Pot Lasagna. The Crock Pot Lasagna is asked for and made once a month in our household. Enjoy!

CROCKPOT LASAGNA
INGREDIENTS
• 1 package ground turkey
• 1 onion
• 2 tlb minced garlic
• 1-2 jars of spaghetti sauce
• 1 container fat free cottage cheese
• 1 egg
• 1 package standard lasagna noodles (don’t cook them!)
• 1-2 8oz packages shredded mozzarella cheese
• Italian seasoning, crushed red pepper, salt to taste

DIRECTIONS
• Brown turkey with onion - drain
• In one large bowl, combine turkey with spaghetti sauce and seasonings
• In another bowl, combine cottage cheese and egg. Beat till smooth. Add shredded cheese.
• Spray Crock Pot bowl with PAM spray throughout. Begin layering. 1st sauce, 2nd noodles, 3rd cheese.
• Repeat till near top of bowl

• Heat on LOW for 4 hours. Turn to OFF for 5th hour so that lasagna is still warm but perfect for eating.
• Scoop in bowl to serve. Enjoy!

When I listen to my single girlfriends questioning love, my heart aches back in time to when I was in their shoes. Those single frustrated days sitting across from so many of my gal pals over an oriental chicken salad, congratulating them on their engagement, looking at their big diamond ring and asking the eventual question, “how did you know?” I always, always got the same answer and it would increasingly piss me off. “I just knew.” Fuck. WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN!?!?!? My 20s and early 30s dating life consisted of me endlessly watching romantic movies and searching hopelessly for the guy who closely resembled Bill Pullman from “While You Were Sleeping”. Funny, masculine, handsome in a non-threatening way. I found that I was either dreadfully disappointed in the men I was dating and they were equally disappointed in me. It was no use and it took me a long time to figure out what I was doing wrong.

Here’s what was wrong with me, and there’s a 99.9% chance that the same thing is wrong with you. You’re not too fat, too short, too tall, your hair is fine, you make enough money, etc., etc. You’re just not ready. There’s no “one person’ out there and you missed him and your life is over, etc., etc. There’s a TON of “the one” out there especially for you. It’s like confetti dropped from a helicopter. Chances are you did miss a few. They were simply ready and you were not. That is okay, once you are ready, they show up. You’ll recognize it immediately. You'll “know”. Seriously it is that simple.

So get ready. Here’s how. Be honest with yourself about what your bullshit is. You DO have bullshit baggage and don’t deny it. We all have it. Figure out what baggage you got. At least recognize it. Dig deep. Figure it out. Whatever you can solve.....solve. Figure out where and how and why, fix it if you can. Everyone has baggage. You are never not going to have baggage. The key is to get yours to the size of a carry on. Once you can fit your personal baggage into the “overhead compartment of life” you are ready. If you don’t do this crucial step the true you never emerges. You’re hiding. You will piss away your life hiding and people who are ready will sense it immediately and walk in the opposite direction. Do the hard work and you will be rewarded.

Once you are ready they seemingly materialize from thin air. Its like Brigadoon. They are the ones who did their own work and got their own baggage figured out because they wanted you. They wanted to be ready. They were excited to build a life with you and as such they got their shit together so they could.

I got married at age 36. It took me a long time to figure all this out. Longer than most. My head was stuck in the mud and I didn’t want to believe I wasn’t ready. I wanted to be saved. I wanted a knight in shining armor to sweep me up and tell me everything was going to be alright without me getting my hands dirty and digging into my baggage and cleaning it up. Doesn’t work that way. You gotta fix it yourself. I think of some of the previous boyfriends I wasted so much of my time and energy on that now wouldn't get past a first date. I was screwed up. I wasn’t ready. You gotta be okay with yourself and every flaw and skeleton and love and live your life the way the universe wants you to.

Being married doesn’t solve anything either. Baggage in overhead compartments may shift in flight. There are still struggles and victories and defeats and they change regularly. In a way, it’s worse now as you are dragging someone else into the daily mess. Then again, it's better cause there's someone that has promised to go through the mess with you. And you love them for it. You love them for a lot of reasons really. So it’s not a big deal, not too big a mess. I suppose this is where you “just know.”

Last night I was sitting on the butt-torturing chairs of the 24-hour Starbucks located on the corner of North Ave. & Wells St. in Chicago. My neighborhood. I wanted to get out of the house, write, see where the evening creatively took me. When I got there the only table I could find that also had an electrical outlet for my laptop was a 6 person one. I felt guilty for a moment then snagged it. After about an hour of sitting alone, a couple of young girls, no older than 20 or 21, circled in on me. They asked if they could sit on the end. No problem. I then pulled out my iPod from my bag in an effort to build a somewhat false sense of privacy, to drown them out and focus on trying to be creative. It was no use. Quickly their conversation began to smother the smooth melancholy of my Ray LaMontage songs and I began to get agitated. I was blocked, I couldn’t write. I had only been here an hour and I did not wish to give up. I tried harder to drown them out. Damn. After a solid ten minutes imaging all the various ways I could beat the shit out of them, I calmed. Let them be my gift. So I wrote. Both girls were roughly 21 years old, one wearing expensively adorable eyeglasses with a Burberry cheetah-esque print on them and the other a sweatshirt/cable knit combo that splashed “Abercrombie” across her chest. The girl facing me had whispery long brown hair which always makes the perfect ponytail and a mouthful of braces. Each looked 15, spoke 21, and from their discussion, longed to be 30. Their chatter began with a brief touch on professors and classes and roommates. The remainder of the evening was dedicated to their boyfriends. Boys they had been texting throughout the day and cuddling in their apartments and going to Jimmy John’s with. Boys they had only been dating, or “hanging out” (they themselves were not quite sure) for a mere few weeks. I became a spy. I cherished it and I let it shroud me. I would sneakily listen as each would dreamily contemplate their life-long plans with these boys aloud, they would do “real” things like make meals together, plan trips, double date with each other’s best friends at swanky Chicago BYOB restaurants. Twirling their tea bag strings and rotating their worn cups, each girl’s relationship fantasy would grow and grow till a crescendo of, “Oh my gawd, and I’ve only known him a few weeks.”

I imagined their childhood rooms in the suburbs of Chicago, nothing touched from the day they moved out. Mountains of stuffed animals and saved birthday cards and glittery BEST FRIENDS picture frames. Color palettes taken directly from IKEA catalogs. Those braces. Big honking chunks of metal bolted onto this milky naive face. Hair that has not yet seen a box of Clairol. She worried aloud to her friend why this boy always wanted to cuddle at her place but not his and why she had not met any of his friends yet. She tortured herself on what that must mean, her empathetic Burberry-cheetah eye glasses friend consoled her. “You know, you guys should think about where to go on Spring Break together.” she said.

I found myself agitated again. I began thinking....you don’t get to be in the same world with me.

I was curious. The idea of Eric and I having our own baby has been knocking a lot lately at my 38-year old ego. The whens and ifs and should and should nots continue to agitate me and I’m not sure what to do. My doctor keeps reminding me that I not only have a 38 year old ego....I have 38 year old ovaries.

I was curious so I agreed. Our ultimate frisbee friends and down the hall neighbors Martin and Tiffany were going to a wedding in Tennessee and asked us to watch their 10-week old puppy, Ladybird. A beagle/hound mix, BIRD as we called her, was to be our self-designated “toe dip” into the steps toward parenthood. Whether Eric knew that I was thinking this or not was irrelevant. I was curious. Do I have what it takes to be a good parent. You always hear people say that if you want to have a baby, start off with a puppy. I needed to know and this was my first opportunity to find out.

What I found out is that parenting BIRD for the weekend was incredibly inconvenient, extremely exhausting, somewhat agitating, a bit messy, and....

....I miss her.

Overall, I was proud that Eric and I didn’t talk “baby talk” to BIRD, and I didn’t refer to him as “Daddy” and he didn’t refer to me as “Mommy”. We did catch ourselves taking pride in if she pooped or not, and monitoring how much she drank and where she was at all times. It seemed that BIRD always had to be right next to one of us, either chewing on a rawhide or sleeping. It was loving and sweet and adorable. Till she cried. If she couldn’t see one of us she cried. If she was put into her crate at night she cried. She cried so hard the first night that Eric grabbed the pillow that he previously attempted to smother himself with and slept on the couch. That way BIRD could see him from her crate containing the large lavender doggie bed decorated with dancing cartoon monkeys. Eric slept on the couch all weekend, clothes thrown across a chair ready to be thrown on when she needed to go out. And she needed to go out. She needed to go out a lot. A puppy’s bladder can only last 2-3 hours, hours which included 12 midnight and 3:30AM.

One of the coolest things about the weekend was that no one knew that BIRD wasn’t really our dog. To the outside world, she was ours. So we went with it. We stopped when little people or big people wanted to pet her. We could tell them her name, how old she was and other general chatter. We said thank you when they complimented her cuteness as if we conceived her. We were parents talking about their kid. We seemingly belonged. Without realizing it, we were welcomed into this culture of people we never noticed before. A “Dog Brigadoon” filled with owners that roamed the sidewalks at such odd-yet-routine times of day. On Saturday alone, Eric met Kevin and his dog WALLY on a walk, then later I met his wife Megan and WALLY on another walk, then late that same night we meet them both with WALLY on yet another walk. We had never before even seen each other let alone met, yet in one day had seen and talked three times. We’ve all lived in the same building for the last 4 years.

When Tiffany came to pick up BIRD Sunday night, I was ready. I was ready and I wasn’t ready. I was ready for a good night’s sleep, I was ready to have clean clothes with no dog hair on them, and I was more than ready to do what I want whenever I wanted without a crying dog at my heals. But I miss her laying next to me in my office while I’m working and I miss watching TV while rubbing her belly. I miss talking to her. I realized that if taking care of a puppy is an indication of what kind of parent we’re going to be then Eric and I will do okay. We were pretty much good partners the whole weekend and split the burden and the rewards evenly. We enjoyed it and we hated it at the same time. Most importantly I realized that I’m not quite ready. Perhaps I’ll wait till next year when the doctor reminds me that I have 39 year old ovaries. Then we’ll get a puppy.

I was saddened to realize that our summer is coming to a close. In honor of the beautiful Chicago summer, I'm giving to you wonderful people the numero uno recipe of our family in the summertime. You can follow this to the letter, or add a Guacamole seasoning packet. The lemon and lime juice is acidic and actually "cooks" the shrimp. Sooooo delicious. This is pretty much an orgasm on a tortilla chip. Enjoy!

LESLIE'S SHRIMP CEVICHE

INGREDIENTS

• 1-2 lbs cooked shrimp (cut into half inch pieces)
• 1 red or purple onion (chopped)
• 2 - 4 tbsp garlic salt
• 2 cups lime juice
• 2 cups lemon juice
• 2 cups cherry tomatoes (chopped)
• 1 bunch fresh cilantro (chopped)
• 1 serrano chile (chopped)
• 1 avocado (chopped)

DIRECTIONS

Combine cooked shrimp with lemon and lime juice.
Make certain that the shrimp is completely covered in juice.

Marinate for 4 hours

Drain away the juice - add cherry tomatoes, onion, cilantro, avocado,
garlic salt & cayenne pepper. Sprinkle a little bit lime juice for flavor

Serve with chips or tortillas

YUM!

Earlier this June we were pregnant.

For one day.

All I knew was that I was tired. Not the rainy days/Mondays tired but the last few days I would opt my lunch hour for a nap. I never do that. The hypochondriac in me started to worry. I always want to fix things immediately at the first sight of trouble or possibly even sooner. More than once my husband Eric has accused me of trying to wash his plate before he was even done eating. I wanted to fix this swapping-lunch-for-nap thing, but at the same time I didn’t want anything to be wrong. I was scared. The first couple days I made somewhat rational excuses that in all honesty could easily have been true; running past street construction and thus inhaling dust, eating too much sugar, not getting enough sleep, etc., etc. When the third day of feeling crappy and making excuses coincided with the third day of my-period-should-be-here by now – I peed on a stick.

I left it neatly placed in the bathroom and nervously collapsed into our living room sofa. I felt this overwhelming heaviness, like I was a six year old in serious trouble. Eric sensed the unordinary quiet and popped his head up from his laptop. “What’s up?” He asked. “I just peed on a stick, it’s in the bathroom.” “What does it say?” his response was upbeat, somewhat teasing, playing along as if I were playing some sort of practical joke on him and he had no intention of falling for it. “I don’t know, but I want us to look at it together.” “Let’s go.” We held hands as we walked back into the bathroom. As we approached the counter top I could see our images in the mirror looking back at us. I looked down. The stick said YES.

Holy shit. It actually says YES. I wasn’t immediately happy, I wasn’t immediately sad. I was.....holy shit. I never imagined that it could even say that, but there it was, Y. E. S. I did run past street construction dust, and I haven’t gotten much sleep lately....and I’m pregnant. We were not trying. Not in the slightest. This was not in the plan. I looked into the mirror and there was Eric, standing behind me, his arms wrapped around me....squeezing tight....smiling. “Aren’t you freaked out?” I asked. “Nothing we can do about it now.” he gleamed. Still shocked I tried to rationalize. “I took a lot of vitamins this morning and my pee was really yellow so that could’ve....” Eric kept holding onto me. “I don’t think it works that way” he said.

Eventually I calmed down, and we talked. Gradually, an overall sense of “frightened happiness” filled our apartment. We planned. Eric will finish his MBA, we’ll move the second bedroom dresser next to the first and put the crib right there....we’d make it work. I threw out every “what if” I could think of and my husband seemed to have a solid answer for each one. He was sensible and teasing and goofy. I was so grateful for him, and I feel deeper in love with this dark haired man. He agreed with me that we should make it “two out of three” and we walked down the street to Walgreens to get a 2-pack of pee sticks. As we walked through the store we clung tightly to each other, me calling him my “Baby Daddy,” and him giving me the random extra squeeze and kiss on the forehead.

About nine hours later I felt strong cramps. Painful ones. Before I went to bed that night pee stick #2 registered a NO. The next morning, #3 gave the same response. My period showed up later that afternoon. The following week I saw my gynecologist and I learned a few things. I was probably pregnant for 2 weeks and didn’t know it. The good news was that both Eric and I are physically healthy and it should be easy to get pregnant again. “50% of all women have miscarriages.” he said. He said it....miscarriage. That word never crossed my mind. If I never peed on that stick it would have just been that my period took an extra few days to show up....nothing more. I was just extra tired for a few days....nothing more. I didn’t know I was pregnant, we were not trying to get pregnant, but somehow that word made me instantly feel like I lost something very important that I didn’t know I even had. I was a 24 year old girl who blinked and is now a 37 year old woman wrapped in a cotton sheet in her gynecologist’s office discussing her miscarriage.

After a few days locked in a confused bubble of grief-but-not-grief, I figured some things out. I need to focus on what I can see in front of me. What is real in this moment right now is that I have a wonderful husband who was just as happy with a YES as with a NO. I know that I love my life, and that I love it being just the two of us. For now. I know that one day it will be just the three of us, and that will be great too. Until that day comes, I’m going to cherish every moment of the two of us.

Two weeks ago a light blue postcard came into my mailbox with words in bold. The Title Nine Blowout Sale is coming to Evanston. July 16-19th. Everything 60% off. Holy shit. No way. freaking way. NO....FREAKING.....WAY. Thank you God! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!

Some people know Title Nine as a women’s athletic clothing company that only has store locations within the west and pacific northwest. For sure nothing east of the Mississippi River. I’ve checked. We’ve all checked. There is a small community of women who know Title Nine as so much more. You gotta understand. When their shorts say they are an 8, they are an 8. A perfect 8. Not tight in one area and loose in another. Perfect. A sports bra fits....everywhere. Every item is sporty yet feminine, breathable and washable and just....just....works. These clothes never lie to you. They do their job. Title Nine is perfection.

Up until now I would get a bi-monthly catalog. I cherished it’s arrival. Things are a bit pricey....but I’m worth it. I don’t go crazy, and I don’t buy everytime....but I want to. And now this.

I stood dazed at this beautiful light blue card.

Title Nine was coming.....coming to see me.

I planned out the upcoming event like a professional thief. Eric would have the car that day, so I planned my route via public transit.....Chicago to Evanston, the purple line train from Sedgwick to Davis stop, then the #93 Southbound bus to Dempster. I would leave by 8:30 at the latest and arrive a padded 15 minutes before the opening on the first day.

I had to be there on the first day.

I contemplated telling Eric. Contemplated telling him that I was going to openly and gleefully spend money without any forethought of anything but the beautiful running skirts and skorts and tank tops before me. Before I was married my money was my own, and I must admit I miss that. Now I have to actually think before making a purchase. I will typically chat to myself in a low-level voice, “Do I really need this? Do I really REALLY need this.” and so on. I did not want to chant on this day, but not telling him would be disrespectful. “I’m going to this sale on Thursday.” I told him. “Okay, don’t go too crazy.” He said. Awesome. To me, crazy is relative. The limit of crazy on this has much higher bar than say staying out late when you need to get up early the next day or the servings at a Chinese buffet. When Eric said “don’t go too crazy” I heard in my excited Title Nine ears....”Do whatever you want, I love you....you deserve this.”

I was on the bus. I had my backpack prepped and ready for my upcoming haul, with a list continuously running through my brain of the items I hoped for. When the bus driver announced the stop, I jumped up and clumsily ran out the side exit. Another woman did the same thing, and we nearly knocked each other down. She looked me over. “Are you going to the Title Nine sale?” she asked. I said yes and we both giggled like we were in the 2nd grade, as if we had this secret language no one else knew. She pointed out that we were dressed similar, she called us “Title Nine Girls”. As we approached the Dominicks strip mall I understood exactly what she meant. Title Nine Girls. About 50 women were surrounding the doors of this reclaimed storefront. All aged 30-50, dressed feminine-yet-casual-yet sporty. All of us were lightly tanned, hair in a messy-yet-sexy-yet-sporty ponytail. Some had that ponytail through a baseball cap. I was a lost indian that finally found her tribe.

10:00AM, doors opened. A room the size of a gymnasium with row after row of tables with boxes. Signs reading TANKS, CLASP BRAS, SPORTS BRAS, CAPRIS, BOARD SHORTS, SKIRTS & SKORTS, DRESSES, etc.,etc. Row after row. We were greeted by sales associates handing out white kitchen garbage bags. It was amazingly orderly and exciting and chaotic. Everyone was friendly. We were all a part of this exciting adventure together and it was all 60% off. With filled garbage bags we piled into a 50ft square curtained off room and tried everything on. All together. It was junior high gym class all over again. Clothes flying off and on and off again. Sales associates continuously picking up unwanted clothes and the constant polite hum of “excuse me,” “sorry,” and “that color looks good on you.”

I spent $240 dollars. I bought 1 running skirt, 1 pair of hiking shorts, 3 skorts, 4 tank tops, a pair of Keen sandals and a light blue “Life is Good” baseball cap that has a pair of running shoes on it. I put back a pair of capri pants and two tops I didn’t think I needed. I did not go crazy. I left happy.

Very happy.

The sale is still going on....at least until Sunday.

http://www.titlenine.com/jump.jsp?itemType=CATEGORY&itemID=272#blowout

Today I turned to Eric and said, “A year ago you weren’t home.” I tend to do that a lot. “A week ago I was on vacation” or, “This time next month my period will start all over again.” Bullshit like that. That is what it is, bullshit. It’s past and future and never present. It’s the wrong way to live and I know it and I do it anyway.

But at 6:30AM this morning, I turned to Eric and said, “A year ago you weren’t home.” Instead of just being grateful to be in this wonderful moment, in his gregariously warm and loving embrace, a solid half hour before needing to leave the warmth of our bed, I let my mind travel back to last year. And when it did....when I arrived mentally to this very day and time in 2008 I found myself alone in my bed, thinking only of my future. A future filled with scenarios that escalated my fear and loneliness till I could barely breathe.

I’m so damn stupid.

I do want to always be grateful, I don’t want to turn my back. I don’t want to forget that we’re in a war in Iraq when it no longer affects me. I want to give back.

Eric and I always talked about us as a family doing more charity work. How we can give back, teach our children to give back, how we can benefit the world. We’re starting with a charity called, SALUTE, INC.

Salute, Inc. helps military families whose spouse is deployed and find themselves struggling financially. They also assist veterans returning home with disabilities. They find ways to get them whatever they need. When I first heard about this charity I was interested, when I found out the depths of what they do....I was hooked.

I can’t think of a better way to say thank you.

I’m running in August for the 2009 Chicago Rock-N-Roll Half Marathon, and trying to raise money for them. I’m asking for you to consider making a donation. No gift is too small and your donation is greatly appreciated!

Follow the link below to donate.
http://www.active.com/donate/TeamSaluteRNRchi09/lesliemitchell

For more information on SALUTE, INC.
http://www.saluteinc.org/

Leslie Mitchell

This year's Memorial Day will stand out for me as one of the greatest, most meaningful experiences of my life. My husband Eric, who returned home safely this past Thanksgiving from his year-long tour of duty in Iraq, was named GRAND MARSHALL of the Park Ridge Memorial Day Parade. I got to ride along beside him.

Barely over the city limits line, Park Ridge is a wonderful little Chicago suburb, and it shows. Beautiful tree-lined streets, architecturally diverse homes, a small town feel within a big city. Best of all, the most amazing people.

The parade began in a somewhat slow, surreal style with the marching of the Maine South High School Band. The VFW (Veterans of Foreign Wars) Color Guard Brigade presented our car, a cherry red late model Mercedes convertible. Eric was in full uniform, all of his medals and ribbons in full order colorfully displaying his own military history and achievements. As we turned the corner to begin the 4-5 mile route, I was overwhelmed with the massive amount of people. Mile after mile of men, women and children lined the street, decked out in red, white and blue....cheering and smiling and clapping with an infectious enthusiasm that had me grinning from ear to ear. Front yards were filled with homemade posters and banners, lemonade stands and "breakfast parade" parties.

Then I noticed the most amazing thing.

As parade watchers caught sight of Eric coming, they would stand up from their lawnchairs, take off their hats from atop of their heads, and clap. Clap hard. Hand-hurting hard. I watched them look him straight into his eyes and mouth the words, "thank you". Many would look him into his eyes and yell thank you aloud. Every front lawn became a standing ovation to a hero. To my husband. By being GRAND MARSHALL that day, he represented all the men in Park Ridge, Chicago, Illinois, and this country that sacrificed their lives so that ours can be better.

Once I realized the significance of this....it was all I could do to not cry. I waved and threw candy until it was gone.

Eric came home safely. But he did sacrifice his life. He sacrificed our life together. He came home safe. We were lucky.

I have always known and appreciated the true meaning of this great American holiday, but this was the first time where I got to truly "feel" it. And I am eternally grateful.

WARNING: All that you are about to read is currently nothing more than a hypothetical rant that has been currently torturing me.

My husband Eric is looking into new job opportunities, some of which are not located in our current hometown of Chicago, IL. Although it’s not uncommon for families to move for a job, especially in an economy like this people “need to do what they need to do”. For whatever reason, in my mind I just never imagined us leaving Chicago. Deep inside the regions of my brain is this “ideal life” I had for myself and moving does not compute. What seems even more frightening is the idea of moving back to the state of my childhood, Iowa. One of the jobs Eric is considering applying for is in the town both my parents and brother’s family reside, Davenport, IA, two and a half hours away from Chicago. When Eric and I discuss our “maybes, our what ifs, and our could bes” about a moving to Iowa, we focus on the “pros” - lower cost of living, schools, family, less traffic, opportunity and security. Kids can be kids, run through backyards, go to public school for a top-quality education, and you can own a huge, beautiful home for the price of a 2-bedroom Lakeview condo. All good, if not great aspects. The only trouble is....it’s Iowa.

When I think of Iowa, I slam hard into the brick wall of my childhood. I think of this pudgy, four-eyed, awkward girl who was shadowed by her popular brothers and intense father, who didn’t seem to get anything right, and who couldn’t wait to get out. I didn’t seem to fit in Iowa. I easily faded into the background of my own life. Even now, when visiting there for a little too long, I sense myself reverting into that sad little girl. Seeking comfort in sweets, embarrassed to speak my mind in conversation, not belonging.

I left Iowa 3 weeks after graduating college and headed to the big city of Phoenix, Arizona. I bloomed. I wasn’t reminded of who I was and as such was given this free canvas to begin anew. I developed a person that wasn’t known as someone else’s daughter or sister, but carved from my experiences and challenges, ones that I took on alone and either failed or succeeded. I lived and learned there for 10 years. These last 6 years I’ve lived in Chicago, IL., and grew upon that person an even stronger one. I really like the woman I’ve become, and I don’t want to lose her. I’m nervous. Would I fall victim to Iowa? Lose my power, my strength, who I am? Could I become even more powerful, and make Iowa work for me? Turn it into the best aspects of both cities?

I do want to raise a family. I want the hustle and bustle of the city with a quiet front porch and hang my laundry on the line to dry in the summer. I want my kids to run through backyards and play street hockey without too much worry. I also wanna get good sushi when I’m in the mood and see a broadway-style play whenever I want. I adore hearing the train and yet I want my kids to catch fireflys in a jar. I do want to have a home, money in the bank, and a plan for my future. I do....I do want it all. Is that even really possible?

And of course....all of this....EVERY WORD AND THOUGHT....ALL OF IT....is hypothetical.

For now.

Before this year is over, I’ll be done improvising. I began in 1997 with Louis Anthony Russo and The OxyMoron’Z and I’ll hang it all up at Improv Olympic (iO) in Chicago before 2009 is done. A huge aspect of my life will be over. It’s time. The world of improvisation is an amazing drug, a gotta-have-it comedy heroin that will change your life forever. It has changed mine immensely.

Improvisation revealed to me an inner strength I had never known, lifelong friendships I deeply cherish, and opportunities that I never could have dreamt for myself. It seemed as if improv knew me better than I did....and as the years progressed my creativity soared. Everything became more vivid in general. Improvising drove my interest into writing, directing, traveling and performing in festivals. Improvisation made me a better thinker, organizer, conversationalist. I’ve been madlly in love with it, and I’ve hated it for taking over my life so fully.

In the last two years, I’ve been figuring out how to let improvisation go. It wouldn’t let me until now. Now it knows I’ll be okay. Improv knows that I’m ready for the next great things life has to offer me....a deeper delve into sketch comedy writing and performing, new interests that are nibbling at my heart, and family. That’s the way it’s supposed to be, and that’s the way that improv wants it for me. I’m eternally grateful. I fought this realization for a while, wanting to stay loyal and scared of the unknown combined. Now there is a peace. A wonderful, happy peace that now savors every moment of play until the last.This week begins the first show of my last team at Improv Olympic. It’s going to be fun. I’m lucky. I’m grateful. I’m an improviser.

(Let me just preface this note with saying that I am NOT in any way speaking about my own husband Eric. In fact, I am quite lucky.)

Over this past month I've come across quite a few men that in conversation have seemingly done their darnest to show to me their "tough side". They fit everything stereotypical of what THEY BELIEVED a REAL MAN was....and seemed quite proud of it. At first I found myself unimpressed, then sad....now...slightly angry.

Here is what my simple 3-step definition of a REAL MAN is:

1. A real man honors his wife. She should never for a second doubt that she is loved and valued.

2. A real man takes care of his children. Not only from the financial sense, but help them grow into their strength as human beings.

3. A real man praises God for his successes and prays for guidance throughout tough times.

Done.

I do not understand why....I swear to God Almighty I do not understand why...but I am increasingly becoming fascinated by Pie Birds. They seem so delicate and beautiful and intimate. Warm and sweet and pleasant. They have a specific and necessary purpose, making pies turn out wonderful. That seems like an amazing task to have in life. Can you imagine if that was your end goal for your life, to provide sweet happiness? Who doesn't love pie? All this tiny creature does is make things better.

Whenever Eric and I travel together we try to find a Christmas ornament to hang on our tree. That is the only thing I collect. We currently have ornaments from Nashville, Montreal, New Orleans, Tucson and Washington D.C. After this year is over hopefully we will have ornaments from Spain, Italy, Greece, Turkey, Malta and Seattle.

Now....I want Pie Birds. I want TONS of them. I want friends to bring me Pie Birds from their travels and I will be forever grateful. I'll replace my future emotional eating episodes with trips on Google and Etsy and search for sweet completeness in the form of a 3-inch ceramic steam pastry escaper. It's all I can do to not go online now and buy 4 & 20 of them. I want to "own" their simplistic, sweet life.

Perhaps one day I'll also bake a pie.

So on FACEBOOK within the "relationship status" area there is a range of various status levels one can choose.....Married, Single, Networking, In A Relationship, Divorced, blah, blah, blah. There is also one titled, "It's Complicated."

Lately.....I'm noticing various people changing their status levels from "Married" to "It's Complicated" and back again.....over and over. It's ticking me off.

My first thought/response upon seeing this was aimed directly to the person, chastising them for being a big pussy. Now I'm thinking about the title itself. One blanket statement really does sum it all up.

MARRIED.....hell yeah it's complicated. It's without question the most complicated endeavor you will ever experience. It's miserable, it's wonderful....it's nights when you are pissed off at your spouse and you long for the days when they went back to their own apartment and left you the hell alone. But you can't. You figure it out. You make things work. You talk and solve and promise and you try. You stick it out cause in this world marriage is one of the few things that isn't easy. That is what is so blessed about it. It's one of the few true things that one can EARN in this world. It's something that you build day by day by day. By giving it your all you forge your character and thus a life that you never dreamed could be so wonderful. Nothing that is worthwhile comes easy. And marriage is one of the most worthwhile things on this earth.

So stop going back and forth between MARRIED and IT'S COMPLICATED. We know it's complicated. It's also wonderful and easy and worth every ounce of blood, sweat and tears you put into it. Suck it up and work it out.

Marriage is the hardest thing one will ever do......and it's the greatest accomplishment you'll ever have.

Leslie Link-Mitchell: Status: MARRIED

I did it. I fought Banana Bread and won.....I WON!!!!!!

All the burnt loaves, all the nasty smells that came out of my kitchen.....all the "raw" middle sections that wouldn't cook while everything around it blackened. Eric fought me endlessly as I would throw countless loaves into the trash and he'd reclaim them.....but this time I did it.

This recipe is healthy, delicious, moist and flavorful. It cooks all the way through!!!! I pass this recipe on to you, this cumulation of trials and errors and various gives and takes of recipes past...and enjoy it so that you do not have to suffer as I did.

Leslie’s Triumphant Banana Bread

INGREDIENTS

• 3-4 ripe bananas
• 11/2 cups whole wheat flour
• 3/4 cup Raw Agave Nectar
• 1 teaspoon baking soda
• 1/4 cup applesauce
• 1/2 teaspoon baking powder
• 1 egg
• 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
• 2 teaspoons cinnamon
• 1 teaspoon salt
• 1/8 teaspoon nutmeg


DIRECTIONS

Mash up bananas and add to all ingredients
together in one bowl. Mix well. Pour into a greased & floured loaf pan.

BAKE at 325˚degree for 50 minutes. Test with toothpick. Enjoy!

SUBSTITUTION: If no Raw Agave Nectar, use 1 cup sugar and set temperature at 350˚ degrees.

Life has not been all that fun as of late. The economy sucks, I'm not as busy as I'd like to be, it's February in Chicago and my toes and fingers are eternally cold. I just designed my butt off for 2 days on a logo that I came to find out the client only budgeted $200 for. I'm growing more and more grumpy. Then last night I went to a memorial.

It was a memorial we all should hope for. People, people and more people busting through the seams of this funeral home on this freezing night, not a parking space for 4-6 blocks could be found. Everyone was shoulder to shoulder, and the chatter was lively. The stories told about this woman confirmed my own impressions of her: Gutsy, lively and loving. Stories ranged from the sweet and sincere angelic kind, to the downright dirty and hysterical. I could imagine her in heaven (a heaven that no doubt resembled D'Agostinos bar) with a drink in hand, loving it.

I felt good having to have met her....I felt bad for "feeling bad" the last week or so.

In my office there is a large yellow Post-it that has written my GOALS for the rest of my life. It's been here for the past 5 years. It reads.

GOALS
• Be a great writer
• Be a better runner
• Have my own family
• Design my own home
• Travel & Perform
• Learn to Snowboard
• Go Whitewater Rafting
• Visit Ireland

I laid in bed last night and my mind traced to the fact that this woman died suddenly. The way I've been acting/feeling lately, if I died tomorrow, what would be left unsaid? So....if I die today, here's how I feel about it.

IF ANYTHING HAPPENS TO ME - JUST KNOW....

I'm good with it. Me and God are tight and it was my turn. I didn't get to say when I started, I don't get to say where it ends. It's really okay.

I would have liked to have done more......maybe left a few things not done, but I got to do a lot and I'm grateful. I love my job as a designer....know that I'm good at it and enjoy it. So very grateful for improvisation and comedy. It saved me at a time I needed saving and didn't know it. It taught me so much about myself and helped me grow into the person I became. I met some of my very dearest friends through improvisation and I can't imagine my life without them. My family is great, thank you to my parents for giving me a realistic-yet-loving view of marriage. Thank you for staying married for over 40 years and giving me the foundation to live solidly on this earth. Thank you for introducing religion and giving me that foundation as well. Thank you Dad for being open and growing yourself as we got older so that you could become my friend. I love my nieces and nephews and want nothing more than their dreams to come true.

When I think of friends I'm amazed. People who know how crazy I am and love me anyway. I think of times at Iowa State, Phoenix, The OxyMoron'z, The Rays, Dan Ryan's Sports Grill, Dry Heat, Chicago and Girly. I think of my brothers as adults rather than us as kids. Moments in life that created me. People I can call when I'm freaked out and can just explode onto without hestitation. People sleeping on the floor of my studio apartment in the freezing winter. When it comes to my friends I truly won the lottery.

The best is saved for last with Eric. My heart won't let me write it here.

In a world of "expanding isolation" you would think with things like MySpace, Twitter, Facebook and whatever else that we would feel more "known" in the world. Isn't that what we are all trying to do? The further away life takes us away from each other the closer we want to be. We're all shouting, screaming for people to truly give a crap about us that we write it out hoping someone reads....but in truth....I don't need everyone in the universe to know me....cause I'm not going to know you. It's those handful of people that I already know - the relationships I've already built - that I need to strengthen. I'm no doubt writing this for them.....but mostly for myself.

So right now...yes, it's effing cold outside and I wish there were more to keep me busy. I wish times weren't tough for people. I wish a lot of things really. But if I died tomorrow....all I wish is that you know I loved you.

Eric bought my engagement ring at a swanky French jewelry store in downtown Chicago called Christian Bernard. Everything you could possibly stereotype from just hearing the name of the store is true. Fancy golden gate upon the entrance, elegant white carpeting that doesn't show the slightest hint of dirt, and a smell that perpetuates the air of superiority. My ring originally came in a elegantly carved wooden box that was in turn housed within a beautiful royal blue velvet bag, that was in another golden box with gold embossed french lettering, and that was in a bag which depicted a french colonial scene of people merely being beautiful to one another.

Once last summer I was shopping downtown and meandered in to have my rings cleaned. A woman with an incredibly thick french accent took one look at my rings and began to lecture me intensely on how poorly I was treating my rings, even suggesting that I did not deserve to have them if I were to treat them in such a vile way. She tisked and shrugged and shook her head. I mentally travelled back to 4th grade Catholic school standing in front of Sister Fintan. I left in shame and have since that moment always remove my rings whenever I even think to apply lotion.

Last week, our insurance company asked for specific detailed paperwork on the ring in order to cover it in our renters policy. Yesterday my husband Eric and I decided to walk there to get it. Christian Bernard is located in the Watertower Plaza downtown, a roughly 35 minute walk from our apartment. It was 15 degrees outside, so we walked fast.

We braved the elements, glided up the plopping water escalator and journeyed up to the 5th floor. When we got to the top, turned the corner and faced the store, we did not see the establishment at all. We saw a volcanic eruption of cardboard red, white and black signs all slapped on top on each other, vying for space to breathe and be read. LIQUIDATION SALE! EVERYTHING MUST GO! BANKRUPTCY! EVERYTHING 60%-75% OFF!

We made our way through the crowd, who were grasping for every necklace, bracelet and engagement ring as if a giant diamond pinata broke. Customers grabbing for a sales rep to help them. And the salespeople's heavy accents spoke faster, more hurried, more eager than I'd ever previously experienced. They weren't dressed as nice, they seemed more tired, the carpeting seemed trampled on and dirty. My husband's face was quite surprised. After a bit he found the exact woman who had lectured me the summer before and explained what we needed. She told him that all paperwork was sent back to the corporate office, and they would have to contact them directly. There was nothing she could do. She barely asked us our name. Eric was pissed. What my husband heard was...."thanks for spending a small fortune with us, we could give a shit what happens to you now, we're desperately trying to recover what is left of our own ass."

The walk back home seemed colder, and we were getting hungry. The thought of the leftover spaghetti from the night before and the subject topic of random friends and family members got us home before we froze solid. Eric will have to call corporate next business week and I'll no doubt have to deal with a pissed off husband a little while longer. My mind went back to all those ugly red, white and black screenprinted signs....we might as well have entered a pawn shop.

A pawn shop with french accents and a golden gate that soon will be closed forever.

1. My experience of Eric serving in Iraq made me (oddly enough) a better, more grateful American.

2. Whenever I emotionally eat, I pretend I’m someone famous.

3. People who use their creative talent to create messed up movies like SAW sadden & disgust me.

4. In order for me to pray, I have to “write” it. In church I’m sure it looks like I don’t care, cause while people are talking/singing/whatever I’m writing in a small notebook.

5. I was the first girl to play little league hockey in my hometown of Dubuque, IA.

6. I LOVE the movie “Grease 2”and know all the lyrics to the songs.

7. When I was 11 I played “Toto” in the Barn Community Theater Children’s production of “The Wizard of Oz”. At the time I thought it was so cool and that I was a star, I had a thick fuzzy costume, tons of stage time and had my own little cooler of Capri Suns backstage (directors fear of dehydration - the cowardly lion had his own too). Later on as I was going through a rough patch of puberty I realized I was playing a dog....and was embarassed for many years afterward and did not openly admit or talk about it.

8. In 6th grade I bought Chippendales playing cards from a Spencers store in the mall and my mom confiscated them, shunning me for being a degenerate.

9. I didn’t like my Dad till I was about 30 years old.

10. I kinda want to run another marathon.

11. Half the things I say aloud I wish I could take back.

12. In 1998, I had a 15 minute conversation with actor George Clooney. Just him and me. He’s a really nice guy.

13. I HATE, no....LOATHE dealing with the United States Military.

14. Within a certain circle of friends my nickname is SHREDDER.

15. I was fired twice in my lifetime. Once for not having enough computer experience, and once for being too harsh to my students. Big effing babies.

16. I know all the words to the Kenny Roger’s song, “The Gambler”.

17. In college, I attempted to be bulimic but crapped my pants on laxatives.

18. The only fan letter I ever wrote was to Wayne Gretzky. He wrote me back.

19. I attended Game 2 of the World Series between the Arizona Diamondbacks and the New York Yankees. I went for free.

20. My favorite food of all time is Chocolate Milk.

21. I didn’t vote this year. My first time ever. Neither candidate inspired me and my heart was heavy about it.

22. I never would have gotten a scuba diving license if it weren’t for Eric. I merely wanted to impress him.

23. I LOVE the card game Euchre, (typically an old German mans game) and would like to play in tournaments.

24. I hope I never see again any of my ex-boyfriends except one.

25. One "single-girl" Valentine's Day years ago, I once ate an entire roll of Toll House Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough - and got EXTREMELY SICK.

Every place has it's purpose in your life. It forms you. For me, I was born and grew up in Iowa. Three weeks after earning my BFA at Iowa State I high-tailed it to live in Phoenix, AZ. Ten years after living in Phoenix I moved to Chicago, IL. I've lived here 5 years now and do not plan to move anytime soon.

Iowa: I grew up with 2 parents that love and like each other. I got to live in a house in a neighborhood that was safe and had other kids my age to play with. We went to church on Sunday and I even attended Catholic school throughout my grammar years. The American dream.

Phoenix: I took my twenties and embarked on a life that I excitedly got to create by myself. Where in Iowa I had a vast family to associate with, here I would go it alone. I wanted that. I cheerished that. I made mistakes and had successes. I figured out who I was.

Chicago: Full circle. I found that I adored city life, yet at heart was indeed a midwestern girl. I met my husband, developed my career, tested my skills and furthered my dreams and aspirations for myself. I'm closer now to my immediate family (parents, brothers, nieces and nephews) that is continuously growing. Close enough to Iowa, yet far enough to maintain my individuality and come full circle.

Since my growing up in Iowa was not a choice I freely made, I felt this extra tug at my heart to Arizona. I choose it. Those sunsets. That food. That warm weather all seemed to suit my personality better. For the longest time, I dubbed it my "hometown".

Whenever I'd go back there, visit my dearest friends, hike Camelback Mountain, eat red chile-marinated pork burros at Los Dos Molinos or kick back with a beer and watch the vivid purple and orange sunsets....I felt like I was returning home. This latest trip was different.

Last week I took Eric with me to Phoenix so that I could visit old friends and run in the Phoenix Rock-N-Roll Half Marathon. The weather was perfect, friends were wonderful, and I even ran my best time ever: 2:30 for a half. But it was no longer home. I found myself driving past places and telling Eric stories of a life that he was utterly clueless about, and maybe he didn't even care. I'd walk past people in crowds and search for a face that I knew or knew me. Nothing. As much as the scenery was the same, it was different. I did not live there with a monorail or an expansive downtown. People actually WANT to live in Casa Grande now.

Running the half marathon, I would look on the sidelines at people with homemade signs and tee-shirts, looking for a face that was somewhat familiar. Much of our route went through the oddest and ugliest parts of town, further reminding me that I was not welcome. This is no longer my home.

Once I realized that, I felt a sad peace. My mind traced backward to my last year in Phoenix when I sensed that I didn't belong, that I stopped making roots, making plans. I stopped building my life there. When I got to Chicago, everything changed. I bloomed within myself. The next phase of my life that I was searching for surfaced. Phoenix couldn't give me that....but without those 10 years in that amazing town - I would not be who I am today.

Directly after the half-marathon, I took my husband Eric to eat at a Phoenix tradition - Honey Bear's BBQ. Their catchphrase is, "You Don't Need No Teeth To Eat Our Meat". So good. We had ribs and cowbrow beans and I drank a cold beer to wash it down. I became grateful.

Maybe I ran my best time because I wanted to get the hell out of there. Who knows. Next weekend I'm cheering loud and proud for the Arizona Cardinals in the Super Bowl. I know I have no rights to them. Growing up in Eastern Iowa you cheered for the Chicago Bears. Living in downtown Chicago now, married to a Chicago guy....I cheer for the Bears.

But you know what? Kurt Warner is from Iowa.

Thank you Phoenix, Arizona....for all you did for me. I will always love you dearly....but Chicago is my home.

Okay....Tuesday night Eric and I went to THE CADILLAC RANCH, a cowboy bar in Elgin, IL. Eric apparently went there in his single days to listen to music, enjoy the beer specials, and pick up a dance or two. The idea of going to a country bar dancing on a Tuesday night fascinated me for no other reason than this would be one of the last things on earth I would think to do.

I'm taking a chance. I'm doing something different. Seems Eric is always doing what I want and now it's time for me to "pony up". I must admit, up until this point I was absolutely LOVING the fact that he had joined my life and all it's activities. The perfect accessory.

I'm not sure I'm a person who likes change. I'm trying. Because of Eric I have a scuba license now. I've climbed to the highest point in the Smokey Mountains. I've caught a Walleye and I've Karaoked in public. Now I'm about to learn how to 2 step.....

So here I am, in my sexy purple cowgirl boots I bought 2 years ago on a wimp and have worn only once before. I have a feeling by the effort it took to put them on that taking them off is not going to be the slightest bit of fun. Walking into the place was actually quite awesome. EVERY AGE was represented. I saw the most adorable 25 year old couples dancing right alongside 85 year old couples. Everything in between. And everyone was good....damn good.

I felt this enormous desire to do well. I was setting myself up for failure.

Eric knew a few things and tried to teach me. After a little while of struggling, nice couples would come up and show us things. People who have come to The Cadillac Ranch to dance every Tuesday night for years. Eric mentioned it had been over 3 years since he had been there himself, but he remembered quite a few of the faces. They were all friendly, happy and fun. Most people seemed to know each other. Every Tuesday night was a reunion.

I tried. I tried hard. I put every once of enthusiasm into it. I didn't want to let Eric down, and I didn't want to let these people down. I felt warmly invited into a club and I had no intention of wearing out my welcome on the first day. I smiled, I paid close attention, I listened intently to everyone who approached me with advice and guidance. I sucked. Nobody cared. I was grateful.

By the end of the night, I didn't suck as bad. Eric and I had the 2 step down and another dance that was similar. It went: Right, Left, Right...walk...walk....repeat. Something like that.

It seems important to Eric that we give this a go. A regular Tuesday night "date night". Who knows? Maybe I'll even get good at it.

Okay....I SHOULD be finishing the "pro-bono" website design I promised for Friday. I SHOULD be hunting for new business in 2009. I SHOULD do the dirty dishes in the sink and SHOULD do the laundry.

We have Belgian Chocolate in our freezer.

I've had 3 pieces now. Hot cup of coffee by my side and found a bootleg copy of "Marley & Me" on the internet.

I'll get to the website.....Eric can do the dishes & the laundry.

When this chocolate melts in your mouth with just a sip of hot coffee....it's freaking great.

I'll get to the website....

Okay, so I was used to doing all the work around the house (cooking, cleaning, fixing, etc., etc.) when Eric was in Iraq. The habit is still in me to continue to "do it all", only now with Eric home....my workload feels like it's QUADRUPLED. More dirty laundry to do, more food to buy and then cook, more messes to clean, and so on. It is my own fault that I have not been asking Eric to help....but he's not been offering.

Perhaps he's just not noticing.....it's not like I'm cleaning the toilets naked with a roast beef sandwich around my neck or anything.

With this extra workload though, I feel like I'm going a bit "Chihuahua". I may snap at any moment. It's not going to be pretty.

At this same time, I'm trying to be "a good wife" and I don't want to come across nagging or demeaning to my husband that I dearly love (I have been informed in the past by my other half that I have a tendency to do that) so I sought out the internet for guidance.

The best "Google" search I found was HOW TO MOTIVATE YOUR HUSBAND. Sounded good. Lots of reference sites popped up.

I tracked down quite a few informational sites, and they all followed the same advice path: MEN deep down are BOYS. Make him feel like a hero and that above all he is needed. Be incredibly loving and empowering in every opportunity. He is the big strong husband and he is required to save the day....blah, blah, blah, etc., etc.

I'm thinking "Are you effing serious? Justing flipping do what I tell you to do and do it right now! Why do I need to kiss your ass to do something that you needed to do to begin with? Uggghh!"

The amount of coddling that these websites say needs to occur for me to get the end result I want sounds like an enormous amount of time. Time enough that I could just do the extra work myself. But I didn't want to be stuck for the next 50 years of my life doing all the work. So I tried it.

So.....I had 4 different things going on in the kitchen, and had grab the step stool to reach something in a high cabinet. I went to slide the now folded step stool in it's place (between the wall and the refrigerator) which I have done many times before.....and it wouldn't slide in easily. The mop and broom were in the way.

As a training exercise....I called Eric into the kitchen. "Honey, I have dinner going right now and it's a crucial moment, could you please come over here and slide the step stool in? It would really help me a lot." I moved on to fill the sink with dishwater, turn down the crockpot, and test the banana bread in the oven.

He grumbly pauses his Zelda Wii game, and walks into the kitchen to the stool. In the most ego-manical cocky voice he says..."Babe, come here. Come here! Geezuz THIS is what you wanted?" He takes his hand and brushes the mop and broom to the side and easily slides the step stool in. "A damn trained dolphin could do that! What the hell is wrong with you?"

MOTHEREFFER!