Eric’s 2001 Jeep is filthy. A beige dust covers everything inside and outside. I draw on the dashboard to prove a point and ease the boredom that quickly turns to a depression. It’s the first week in November and I’m in Sierra Vista, AZ, a small military town about an hour south of Tucson. It’s a true military town, a vast lonely desert with one main strip of life. The strip is a single downtown street filled with chain restaurants and stores that included a Buffalo Wild Wings, an Outback Steakhouse and a brand new Super Walmart, already decorated for Christmas just a few days into November. There’s not much else. I’m now stranded in the parking lot of the military base, waiting for Eric to be released from his orders.

Out my passenger side window is military base housing. Row after row of small square houses. Identical with the small random exceptions of faded plastic children’s toys in the random backyard. No grass. Nothing soft. Nothing alive. Rock and sand and void of all color. You don’t want to live in a military town, at least I don’t. I’ve been here one day and it’s all I can do not to cry.

Finally, just before I begin my 80th game of cell phone Tetris, Eric climbs in with a huge smile and paper in hand. We’re off. We are about to get out of here and trek 2,000+ miles to our new home in Iowa.

This is our chance. Sunglasses on, windows down and the radio set to an 80’s station, we begin our journey that will take us through a total of eight states: Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas, Missouri, Illinois and finally Iowa. This was also our chance to be a family again, to make up for lost time, and to lay the groundwork for the next phase of our life - living in Iowa.

I am notorious for being a bad roadtripper.....bad. If I’m not constantly asleep I squirm and huff and sigh loudly. I question every navigational choice Eric makes and I’m told have an uncanny knack for pissing him off good. Not this time. I mentally prepared myself for the long journey, brought along my camera and neck pillow. I want this to be a good experience, I want to focus on Eric, the scenary, and the people we come across. I want this to be an adventure.

And it was. We chatted and joked, made references to the stupidest movies ever created and sang along to the radio. I took pictures of billboards offering “Snake Stuff” and sarcastic bummer stickers. And then.....then we took a detour.

New Mexico. Miles and miles of nothing but the random Dairy Queen billboard. Then there it was, a brown historical sign that read, “Fort Sumner and the Burial Place of Billy The Kid”. We both saw it at the same moment, paused, then looked at each other. “We could do that” I said. Eric nodded. “That would be cool.”

And we were off. An extra 20 miles off the main highway seemed like little effort for such an adventure, and the signs increased as we drew closer. “See the last stand of Billy The Kid” and “See the Official Billy The Kid Museum” flashed past us with dramatic flair. We grew more excited. Visions of an old military fort and images of the wild west came to mind. What we imagined and what we found were two vastly different things.

Driving into Fort Sumner, we were welcomed with a handpainted, faded sign stating a population of a mere 1,500. One gas station and a local version of a Dairy Queen showed the only signs of life. We were one of only three vehicles on the road. We drove down the main road, and took a right at the sign’s instruction. A single gravel road, barely wide enough for two cars. The scenery was a series of dusty cattle ranches, driftwood poles wrapped in barbed wire and a longhorn or two staring back at us. Eric and I remained hopeful through our confusion. We were in this for an adventure, and right now we were sure getting one.

At the end of the road we found it.....the Fort Sumner Museum. The Burial Place of the Legendary Billy The Kid. Large yellow painted letters raised above a large, warehouse style building with vast gravel parking lot. We pulled up the jeep amongst an older mini-van and a dust covered pick up truck.

The building's "backyard" was the historical cemetary. We entered the weathered wooden gate into the small patch of prairie. Small stone markers randomly scattered within a short stone fence. Nothing else except the hollow echo of the wind. In the center is a large square cage with a equally large plaque. The plaque read about how Billy The Kid and his two friends that were killed in the Lincoln County Wars are buried there, and that the original headstone was a mere piece of wood that read just one word, “Pals.” Later, a stone marker was placed, only to be stolen. The story continues that it took twenty years to find it, only to have it stolen yet again for an additional fifty years. After it was recovered, They bolted it to the ground, encaging it in solid steal. Eric and I wandered around, took pictures, and fathomed answers to questions that we had as we read various headstones and markers.

The other visiting couple long gone, we made our way into the attached “Fort Sumner Muesum”. It was sparse, cold and vacant. We walked in to the echo of the owner talking on his cell phone. We weren’t acknowledged. Eric roamed through various old newspaper clippings, one sheriff from one county blaming a sheriff from another on the headstone theft, along with random articles questioning whether Billy The Kid was even killed on that fateful day or if he lived a long and happy life. Beyond that were the oddest of souveniers, none of which had anything to do with the famous outlaw. As the owner stayed chatting on his cell phone, we quietly slid out of the building and back on the dusty road into town.

Roughly 20 miles later, we literally hit a fork in the road. We could turn right and hit the highway back to continue our road trip, or we could take a left, and visit the “Official Billy The Kid Mueseum” which was the museum that was on the town’s main road, and advertised with much more flash. So there was the “Fort Sumner Museum” and then there is the “Billy The Kid Museum”. And here we are at the fork. “What do you think?” Eric said smiling. I knew he wanted to go. “Whatever you wanna do love, I’m game, it's not like we'll ever be here again”. We turned left.

With large cut out letters and cartoon illustrations, The Billy The Kid Museum looked more like an amusement park than a instution of learning. Eric’s grin grew larger as we approached the front door. We were in for some fun. A vastly different atmosphere from the other place, we opened the door to a very warm greeting by the owner. A white-haired cowboy in his early 70s, with a sweet disposition and voice kin to Tony The Tiger. “Well hello” he said, “right this way to experience the Billy The Kid Museum, just $5 each.” Eric quickly went to his wallet and I found an opportunity for comedic interaction. “Wait a minute” I said, “am I going to learn anything more than I already know about Billy The Kid with this $5 ticket?”

The owner grinned. “Absolutely!” He said, taking Eric’s $10 dollars and guiding us left. “Just looky here, this is a genuine turtle fossil. You can see the head, heart and stomach.” He plucked down from the shelf a 6x6 inch sold rock with, sure enough, and outline of a turtle with three small stickers attached. One marked “HEAD” another marked “HEART” and finally one marked “STOMACH” with little marker arrows drawn. I made a face like I bit into a lemon and Eric laughed. “Was this Billy The Kid’s pet turtle or something?” I asked. Ever sweet and gentle, the owner informed us that much of the tour would be items from the town of Fort Sumner, as well as some treasures of the outlaw. His own father started the museum in 1929, which he originally titled “The Fort Sumner Museum”. Nobody came. Within the week the name was changed to “Billy The Kid Museum” and they have been in business ever since.

Scattered throughout the building were clothing and guns and equipment from the old military fort, as well as Billy The Kid’s shotgun. There was a documentary filled with interviews of old locals that knew the kid himself. Many talked of the Lincoln County battles for land and cattle and how a easy going William Bonny had indeed a bit of a temper when provoked, but was for the most part, a nice guy who was just sick of rich cattle barons cheating honest men. Room after room was filled with a combination of true military remnants with oddities such as a stuffed two headed lamb. The note attached to the glass box stated how the creature was taken out of the museum due to old age and deterioration, but so many travelers that had seen it as a child, had now brought their own kids to the museum hoping to see it and were disappointed to find it missing. Brought back by popular demand.

We meandered our way through the gallery of historical treasures, ending up in the souvenier shop. Not being able to make up his mind, Eric chose two different magnets for our refrigerator. After a short potty break and gas refill, we were back on the highway and headed towards Iowa. The entire “detour” took about three hours. Just me, my husband Eric, and people and places we would have never experienced otherwise. Thinking from that perspective feels good. That is what makes for a true adventure. We had a good time. Maybe this detour wasn't all we thought it would be....but in another way, it was MORE than we thought it would be.

With a deep sigh and a final promise by my brother Brent that he'll come by tomorrow and help me with mounting a towel rack and a toilet paper holder, I can honestly say that the house is done. It's beautiful. I can't wait to see Eric's face when he walks into his own home for the first time.

Friends keep asking me if I feel different. 

Sunday was a beautiful fall Iowa day. 60 degrees and sunshine. Our neighborhood is a sea of various oak trees with houses peeking out in a pattern that seems created only with the woods permission. There are leaves. TONS of leaves. And I'm learning about Oak trees. Their leaves fall late, and there are a lot of them. You can rake and rake and rake, and it will look as if you never raked to begin with.

Sunday I raked, and raked, and bagged and hauled. From a warm and sunshine-filled twelve noon till a cool gray 6PM dusk.

In the mid-afternoon sunshine, I was smiling, it was peaceful. I put on my headphones and selected Chris Botti on the ipod. Then Warren Zevon...then shuffled through my old running mix that always brought me an easy going happiness when I went for short 5 mile treks along the Chicago lakefront. For a while, I was actually having fun.

As the sun's warmth faded, and my leaf piles grew taller, my progress slower, my back ached. My legs itched and my eyes scratched. I had 15 bags of leaves at the end of my driveway, waiting for the next days garbage pickup. I looked back at my lawn in a quiet surrender. I didn't make a dent.

Today my neighbor hired a landscaper to "rake" his leaves. I watched out my window this morning as this woman dressed in overalls, fall jacket and ballcap strapped a high-powered blower to her back and noisily took over. I saw the leaves swirl in the wind and ultimately land in a messy pile. I watched rebellious leaves carry their way into my yard, into my driveway, back into my life. Fuck.

I can't wait to see Eric's face when I happily hand the garden rake and city-approved lawn bags over to him to finish the job.

Do I feel different? Not yet. I keep checking to see if I am. I keep opening the oven door of my life and in the same instant am clueless as to why the cake isn't baking. Cause I keep opening the damn door.

I think I'm just adapting. Life is a giant racquetball game, and you gotta stay alert. You gotta hit or dodge and various motions in between. That's what I'm doing right now. For the moment this is the best I can ask for. I rake leaves. I turn around and their are more leaves. I'd open the oven door, but I'm too damn busy raking leaves to bake anything just yet.

We're in. With the exception of the little details that make a house a home, we're in.

This whole moving process, I was in "go mode". Moving, sorting, opening, closing, cleaning, and hussling up and downstairs and more often than a gym boot camp aerobic class. I rarely sat down and surprised myself in more often than not in forgetting to even eat. At the very end of the day I would collapse like a child, using all my energy to the very last drop.

It hadn't even quite hit me that I live in Iowa. I still talk to the same friends I did before, and I've been so busy I haven't even escaped my new house longer than a trip to the grocery store.

Tonight I made myself dinner and sat alone at my kitchen table. The house was quiet. I stared out my kitchen window into the wooded backyard, the light slowly changing it's daylight warm hue to late afternoon blue, then gray, then evening black. The trees became silhouettes bending in the breeze.

Incredibly desolate compared to the rushing sounds of Chicago. The brown line el train just outside our window, the barking of dogs and the chatter of people coming and going from happy hour. All I heard was now was the light whistle through the leaves and the random acorn smacking onto the deck with a sharp, cracking thud.

Suddenly my body felt heavy and tears filled my eyes. I tilted them back, and quickly searched for an verbal explanation of what was happening to me. I switched my gaze to the browning bananas in the bowl in front of me, then to the new TV in the room across from me, back to the cookbooks and their new home on the shelf in the corner. New places for new things in a new world. A world that is supposedly mine and I don't recognize it yet.

My Mom teased me recently that I am like my father, always moving. I'm old enough and humble enough to realize it is true. If I don't keep moving I don't know who I am. What's next? I fucking don't know. I'm scared. I'm really scared. I can keep myself busy, unpacking boxes and moving this picture to that wall and that picture with this frame and run myself into a circle of madness so that I don't have to feel this way and maybe I can keep myself in a frenzy long enough till Eric comes home and saves me. Shit.

Earlier this month, when I was writing from my cozy leather chair in my swanky Chicago apartment and this move was too far away to take seriously, I proudly stated that I would just "be" the rest of this year. I promised myself that I would devote the rest of 2010 to just enjoying my surroundings and reconnect with my husband and family. I also told myself that I would take next year to "discover" Iowa, to see what is out there for me. Make an effort.

So then what about these days when all I hear is the wind through the trees and the slow chomping of my dinner and my nervous brain? How do I escape that? How do I just "be"?

Some people call it "magic". The culmination of every element that it takes to run a successful marathon. All the right training, rest, strength, endurance, etc., etc. Take six months making sure every step is right, and then hope....pray....that all the elements on the actual race day - the things you can't control; weather, other people, random acts of God, etc., etc. - work out as well.

Today, for this race, I was not trained at my best. I was not as strong as I was at the starting line of the New Orleans Marathon in February, where I was at my superhero-est. I was a little bit stronger than I was at the starting line of the Boston Marathon, but not nearly as trained. All that considered, I had fresh legs and a good attitude on Sunday morning at the starting line of the 2010 Chicago Marathon.

This was my "Goodbye" to Chicago. Just four days from now, movers are scheduled and boxes are packed. Soon I was out of here. To be honest, I have a tendency to get nostalgically melancholy over big changes in my life, but now I'm focused. Things needed to be done and I was in go-mode. This 5 hour trek was intended to be reflection time.

Heading to the train at 6am, the temperature was race running ideal, which is bad. The day is only going to get warmer from here. While running, the average runner's body temperature is 20 degrees warmer than the actual number on the chart. So an 80 degree day is going to feel like 100. There will be no records broken today.

That just solidified my goal - to have fun. I was not going to focus on my time, because I was already destined to fail. My experience had told me that I was not going to continue at a strong pace in this weather for more than 10 miles. Might as well enjoy myself. I packed my small digital camera into a old school tourist waist pouch, complete with sweat rag, cell phone and gu packs. Sunglasses resting on top of my head, tight ponytail through my brand new 2010 Chicago Marathon black cap. I felt good, a combination of gratefulness and an eagerness. I repeated a quote in my head, reminding me to "stay in the moment" and enjoy this.

47,000 entrants all joined together in Grant Park, blanketed by the early morning skyline of downtown Chicago. I felt powerful and calm at the same time, taking in the crowd. A couple of larger guys stood behind me, and their chatter told me this was their first marathon, no doubt a challenge they half-drunkenly accepted a year earlier and now perhaps wish they hadn't. They joked about how they were going to "open'r up" at the halfway point of mile 13. An older woman stood next to me and we struck up a conversation. She was in her late 50s from Vancouver. Her first marathon. She came with friends who were sub-3 hour runners and was in awe of them. She was a "regular runner" as she called it - this was her first marathon distance. She was a more anxious than nervous, like a kid about to meet their favorite sports hero. We wished each other good luck and once the gun sounded, I never saw her again.

Truthfully, you never really hear the official gun go off. You just slowly begin to walk forward towards the START LINE. That process took roughly 20 minutes or so. Then a faster walk, then a slow jog, then your foot strikes the timing pad and you are off and on your way. U2's "It's A Beautiful Day" blasted through the loudspeakers and people were screaming, cheering, and running.


I was actually quite surprised how easy it was to run and take pictures at the same time. I would just strap my camera to my arm, lift it up, and press. Through the tunnel, under the underpass, past Nordstroms on Michigan Ave, over the bridge. With a few cooler days in previous weeks, all the leaves in Chicago have changed. Heading through Lincoln Park was a sea of green, red, brown and gold. The crunch of 47,000 pairs of shoes on freshly fallen and vibrant leaves. Beautiful.

Running north on Sheridan road and curving onto Broadway and through Boys Town, my friend Kat joined me. She was so pumped up and excited by the moment, screaming and arms flying as if she was a kid at play. She ran ahead of me and with her fancy iPhone camera took video of me running and Twittered the account.

Boys Town is always a party. A neighborhood known for it's strong gay community, you can always expect fantastically colorful and supportive crowd. Cheerleaders, Carmen Miranda singers, SNL's Ambiguously Gay Duo and various random super hero characters. Their are even performing stages and homemade floats. The crowd is easy four people deep and thrilled to be there. An instant rush. With Kat by my side, we screamed and cheered ourselves for the two mile visit. She left me at North Ave., and Sedgwick, where I continued on and where she took the train to meet girlfriends for brunch.

At the 10 mile point I realized that indeed my fears were correct. It was going to be hot. By mile 15, I was feeling the first signs of struggle, searching for small pieces of shade to run in and always taking water. The idea of taking a much needed sugary gel pack disgusted me. I pressed on.

Between 15 and 21 were tough. There was little shade and not a cloud in the sky. The road ahead was an endless mushy pattern of gatorade cups, water sponges and squished gu packs. I began to hear and feel the stickiness under my feet - like a bad movie theater. Mostly though, I felt HOT....I just could not cool myself down. Whenever a water sprinkler was coming up, I ran for it. Nearly drowned myself trying to keep cool. That was my downfall. I ran the remainder of the race with this tiny, lingering feeling that I could black out at any moment.

I kept taking pictures to block it out. When I did walk I repeated endlessly, "don't regret this, don't regret this."

At mile 21, I was discovered by my friend Carolyn. Carolyn is a phenomenal runner, finishing Boston in 3:30. Long, lean and young, I begged her to "carry me" to the finish from this point, roughly in the heart of Chinatown. She happily agreed. I gave her full warning that not only would I be slow, but at the point where she got me - I'd be pooped. She still agreed.

Fresh as a daisy and bringing along another friend with her, a culinary genius named Brooke, the two girls flanked me and kept me running. Carolyn wanted a rap, a free riffing rhyme that I would bust out during our winter Boston training days. This time my rapping was more intense. My main chorus was "Where the fuck is the finish line" and took it from there. I stopped and walked a couple of times and they led me forward. Carolyn would run ahead and waves her arms in the air to get the crowd cheering. She whopped and hollered like she was at a NBA game. The crowd followed her.

At the ONE MORE MILE TO GO mark, the crowd was thicker, and they had music blasting. A announcer would see you approach, quickly look up your number and shout out your name. Nike had inspirational posters scattered through out this part of the course, stating, DIG DEEP, YOUR MOMENT and ALMOST THERE. I took a few pictures.

There's a small hill just before the finish, and at the base of the hill an official is there to wave off un-official runners. I said goodbye to Carolyn and Brook, and painfully charged up the hill to my final moments. Pulled out my camera for a few shots, than quickly placed it bag in the hip bag for me to pump my fists in the air in triumph over the finish line. Done.

One of the most amazing things in living in such a large city is to be a part of something this big, only to reach into my side pocket of my shorts, pull out my CTA pass, and within a half hour of completing one of the largest marathons in the world - I'm at home. So weird.

I drew an ice bath, made a frozen pizza, and spent much of the remaining afternoon looking over my photos with a huge grin on my face. Thank you Chicago. No, I don't regret a thing.

We're programed. Twelve noon, best eat lunch. Six o'clock, time for dinner. How often though, at those times are you really hungry? Sure, there's that slight "twinge" that causes you to utter the famous phase of "sure, I could eat" and then there is that hunger, that gut twisting, mouth salivating, echoing growl screaming at you from the black hole depths of your gullet that it hasn't just been hours, it's been DECADES since you last ate, and although any nutritional substance will keep you alive, only one food will do. Nothing else matters.

That food that you must have, at any cost.....is a bacon cheeseburger.

Last Sunday afternoon, this "hunger" crept up on me, slowly....like waking up on Sunday morning. First, the twitch of a foot, the shift of a shoulder, the sunshine growing brighter through the window. Can't be avoided for long. As my hunger grew deeper, I mentally ran through the current quick fixes of what was in my refrigerator for immediate consumption. Leftover Swedish meatballs? Nah. Potato Salad? Eeh. Cheddar cheese squares and Cracked Pepper Triscuits? Boring. Then it hit....I had to....I mean had to....have a hamburger....no.....I needed a bacon cheeseburger. Badly.

I had a 16 mile training run that morning, so I had justification. I could give in. Indulge. It's not like this food item was on my regular menu. This time, there would be no guilt. It has been a while since a burger graced my lips. Like seeing an old childhood friend from across the street, you don't say hello because you wouldn't know where to begin....but a few nice memories instantly pop into mind.

That's it. It's on. If you are going to eat a burger, eat a burger. The idea of going to a McDonald's is like the idea of marrying Charlie Sheen....you just know it will end badly. In my neighborhood, if you want a good burger, you go to an Irish pub on the corner of North Ave. & Wells Street, called Corcrans. A five-star steak from a cow that spent it's short life relaxing in a field of tiger lilies sipping champagne. Ground and charcoal grilled into the most mouth-watering piece of bovine flesh imaginable.

When Jesus comes back to earth to take us all to our eternal home....he'll stop at Corcran's for a burger first.

I sat in that sunshine evening on the back patio of my favorite Chicago Irish pub, my two hands wrapped around one half of my long awaited friend, my fingers pressing slightly into it's soft pretzel roll outer shell. Bringing it to my lips the layers stared at me. The salty soft bun, warm, brown, pink, brown. The orange melted glimmer of the cheddar cheese, folding over and into the center. The juicy glistening of the bacon, smoke and apple and peppery tang of the barbecue sauce. Not too much, just enough.

I happily collapse into my first bite, and it's everything my hunger promised and more. My eyes gently close and I take it all in. Every flavor speaks to me of the highest happiness. My husband's smile, a beautifully lit Christmas tree by a warm fireplace, Clark St. after the Cubs won the pennant. Heaven on earth.

The evening continued, mixing bites of pure deliciousness in between random conversation with my friend Lindsey, sips of my "black-n-blue" (half Blue Moon and half Guinness) and upward glances at the Sunday night football on the surrounding flat screen TVs.

As the sky grew dark and the stars came out, I gladly paid the check and walked into the night the most ultimate form of content. A content mixed with a gratefulness that won't soon be forgotten.

Hungry?

Tonight's Wednesday night's speed training ended early for me....nothing bad happened, my coach just ended it earlier. We were doing half mile repeats along the lakeshore, and I made the turn like the previous three times - in my routine and plugging along. I was last as usual, but in my head and just kept the natural assumption that we would keep going. My coach and the other four runners turned the other way and I heard a shout from Coach Mark, "Leslie, this way!"

I was surprised. "We're done?" I said, still slowly jogging as if at a stop light. I still had energy left, and was ready to keep going. I looked at my watch, which only read 4 miles. We usually go 7-8 miles on a Wednesday run. "Yep" he said, heading south towards where we came from only 45 minutes earlier. "We're done."

It's the final "push week" of training for the Chicago Marathon. This Saturday/Sunday is the scheduled 20 mile run for trainers. This week typically has the highest mileage, the most intense workouts, and it's the cumulation of a whole summer's worth of hard work. For Chicago runners, that's a whole summer's worth of running in one of the hottest, most humid summers in a long while.

People are tired. At least the runners I was with tonight were. Jennifer noted how exhausted she was, how hard she's work and was saddened to admit that she's still 20 seconds per mile too slow to qualify for Boston. A mere 20 seconds per mile too slow. Heartbreaking.

Trish - who is normally a rocket of a runner....tonight gave out. Literally just stopped. Everything is hitting everybody tonight - except me. I was secretly hoping to have been pushed a few more miles.

Oh well. I ran an extra mile home, took a shower, and dove into some Cracked Pepper Triscuits.

I should rest.....I guess.....I do have 20 miles to run on Sunday.

This sounds INCREDIBLY STUPID to say but it's true....it sucks being depressed. Completely. Walking around the world, angry and bitter, hating the blessing that God gave you and not having a clue how to fix it. That Dali Llama thing of don't "do" just "be" does not work for me. I at least need a rough plan.

So I thought I'd make muffins. Apple cinnamony fragrant and yummy muffins. Only, I didn't go with my gut and followed the recipe, which called for a buttery stressel on top. My gut told me not to do it, but I did anyway. I felt so clueless about everything else in life that I needed someone to tell me what to do. I wasn't coming up with the right answers, so recipe website Epicurious.com would. Nope.

Not only was it a gooey, disgusting mess, but it took nearly an hour to clean up. Bar Keeper's Friend scouring powder and a wire scrubbing pad, going in and out of small spaces of two 12-muffin tins. I didn't want to throw the muffins out....that would be giving up. However, they looked disgusting. I let them cool overnight and continued with my depressed, lonely bitterness as I went to bed.

During the night random images came into my friend. A talk a long time ago with my always good-natured brother Barry, who said something unforgettable to me once in conversation. We were drinking beers and talking (jokingly at first) at how our middle brother Brent was the most popular sibling amongst our parents. We each had various evidence to prove it, and what started as a laugh suddenly turned a bit solemn. Barry took a swig of beer, then looked at me and said, "You know, one day, I just chose to be happy. Things happen, that's life. I chose to be happy." And he is.

Yeah. CHOOSE to be happy. SEEK HAPPINESS. I have not been lately. I was letting this move to Iowa just happen to me rather than embrace it.....and as a result, was letting everything else just "happen" to me as well. I lost my voice. I sorta gave up.

So, in my half-sleep I came up with a rough plan....and I'm going to call it, "THE IOWA EXPERIMENT".

My goal is to "seek out" what my next passion is.....whatever that may be. To "taste test" all that my new city has to offer, and see what shouts out. I have no clue what I'm doing, and rather than be scared by that fact, I'm going to embrace it. Scream from the mountaintops, I HAVE NO IDEA!!!!! and see what happens.

And with that rough plan....now....now Dali Llama....I can "be" for a little while.

Last night I got so damn desperate to get out of my funk that I found a website online that had a "Find Your Passion" Questionnaire. Trying to get you to discover your purpose in life, etc., etc. Basically, asked what you like to do, what would you do if you could not fail, etc., etc. This morning I looked over my answers.


The last questions was: IF YOU HAD ONLY ONE WISH, WHAT WOULD IT BE? I answered: That everything turns out okay.

This morning, I threw away all those gooey, oozy buttery muffins and started from scratch. Scrubbed my kitchen bare of any reminder of the previous night's baking catastrophe. I started over. I made the most delicious warm, cinnamon-y, light and airy, apple-y muffins. No goo. My barren apartment filled with the scent of triumph.....and a new beginning.

I'm lonely. My apartment is half in boxes, no pictures on the wall, Eric is gone. I work from home and there is lots of work.....so I dive in. Might as well. My family is gone. Yet there are days where I can work late into the night, and never see another face. I imagine my friends already assuming I'm gone, making other plans in other directions that don't involve me. I feel desperate for them to remember me, like a small child clutching their mother's leg and not wanting her to go.

I used to enjoy running by myself, yet since joining the Boston Marathon training group this past fall, I learned to run with other people, and enjoy it. I long to run with people now. When I have to run alone, like I had to this morning....I have a tougher time. It added to the loneliness.

In my past moves, from my parent's home to college, from college to Arizona, and from Arizona to Chicago I was always chasing something....having a specific direction to achieve something, a challenge. This time is different. I'm moving because my husband got a good job. It's a grown up thing. A relationship/marriage team choice and people do it all the time. This is the first time in a move that I have no goal, no direction. In the other instances, I also left things behind, but in those past situation had so much else to look forward to, that my focus was on that. Now.....I'm going somewhere that....in truth...I don't know what there is to offer me. No challenge. No goal. That scares me. So I see more that is behind me, that I'm leaving....than what lies ahead.

Let's face it....when a good friend of yours moves away, you might be sad for a brief moment, but in truth, your life doesn't change. You'll still email them, have them on Facebook or whatever. You'll think to yourself, "Oh Seattle, I always wanted to visit there, and now I have YOU to visit." Who on earth is going to come to Iowa?

So I sit in this apartment.....barren of anything reminiscent of my life/our life in Chicago. Waiting to start a life in Iowa...a life that I can't "see" what it will look like. Eric is excited. He has a great job to look forward to. I get a house....I get to design and decorate....but....I'm more than that right? What is next for me?

Ah geezuz! I'm effing depressing myself...

When it rains it pours....that's the saying, and that is what always proves true for me. I can be working away in my office all day, and the phone won't even ring. Not once. No one would be at the door, for days on end. When I think of that I ultimately freak out and imagine my life is like a LAW & ORDER: SPECIAL VICTIMS UNIT....and I'm laying on my apartment floor, unnoticed, rotting away.

Then there are days when the phone won't stop ringing. Emails with questions, and projects with deadlines tighter than the size 5 jeans that sit in the bottom of my dresser drawer which I will no doubt never fit into again. That day happened this week....I was on my own, and giant missiles of bullshit were dropping down on me like a friggin' game of Galaga. I couldn't escape.

Eric is away at military training. I'm in charge of the the new home. Everything about it. EVERYTHING. I do all the research, grunt work, wheeling and dealing. Eric comes in last....slowly inching his way into the final moment, looks around, and with a Droopy Dog voice says, "I like this backyard". Done. Offer made. Accepted. Eric leaves and here I am.

9AM on Monday I get a call from my realtor. In a sweet-yet-firm voice she informs me that the seller's realtor put together paperwork stating that WE should pay half of the Radon mitigation that was required by the seller to fix via the previous week's inspection. Now, I've never purchased a house before, but my research taught me in this area that fixing this was the seller's responsibility alone. Throughout this process everything had been very professional and fair amongst all parties....until now.

I was taken aback. "No". I said. My realtor agreed and also admitted her surprise by the seller's realtor's arrogance in this matter, but she too had her game face on. "I thought you'd say that but I have to let you decide so..." That was the beginning of a two-hour back and forth that would quickly turn my brain into the most overcooked oatmeal. "You should do this because of this," and "we don't believe we should do this because of this," it went on and on. I was not angry....I was livid.

Livid in women's terms is the kind of angry that is mixed with hurt. An emotional red & blue make purple sorta thing. I'd been fair this whole time, and now the seller's realtor is taking advantage of that. I was on my own. A gazelle circled by cheetahs. My realtor just wants to please me, so I couldn't trust her answer, and Eric was unreachable. In the end....I caved, which pissed me off more.

In between all these calls were client calls and emails, outlandish requests that I had no choice but to indulge in. I remembered that image of the telephone operator from the 1930's movies, plugging in and out of calls and requests, her voice all cheery with each greeting, whether she wanted it to be or not.

Cut to 7PM. My darling husband Droopy Dog calls, completely oblivious to the bomb shelling of a day I've had. He is walking into a hornet's nest. "Hi Babe" he says. "Have you checked your email or listened to your voice messages?" I ask. "No why?" My blood pressure raises. I pause, recalling that this dude married me, for better or for worse....he's about to get the worse.

"Well, what is about to happen in the next few minutes you can say I'm venting to you, or yelling at you....take your pick." With that warning I proceeded to unleash a furious rant that had been bottled up and brewing the entire day. How I'm doing this alone, and he might as be in Iraq for all the help he was, how I do everything around here, how playing fair doesn't get you anywhere, how for all this crap I was dealing with I'd rather stay in Chicago...blah, blah, blah, fire, spit, sparks and tears.

Eric just listened. Within the sparce moments of silence that I took in breath before continuing my rampage, he would say, "You're right hun" and "you're doing a good job babe" and "I love you, you're so strong, I'm so proud, etc., etc." I ripped him a new one....he was a human pinata and happily...lovingly took it. Not only that, but secretly went online at 1-800-FLOWERS and quickly made a much overdue purchase of two-dozen red roses that arrived on my doorstep a couple of days later.

When they arrived....I felt guilty. The note said, "I'm so proud and grateful to you for all you are doing, and I wish I could be with you. You make me the happiest man in the world. Your husband, Eric." They probably cost too much, the same amount as a new light fixture we'll no doubt need.

That night when we met on SKYPE, he was beaming to see me. And I him. I showed him my roses, told him I felt guilty for yelling at him and that I don't deserve them. "Yes you do" he said, "I wish I could be with you". "I wish you could too". I replied. We then changed the subject to dreaming about our new house, our new life and all the rewards that await us after we get through these next couple of months.

Effing Radon. Effing Realtor. Wonderful Husband.

I'm hooked on tin ceiling picture frames. All tin ceiling really. The old-school decorative tin accents that have been yanked from old architectural homes and speakeasy of yesteryear. Fleur de lis and curly Qs and antique scrolling with their chipped paint and flourish accents. I adore them.

I'm trying to "design" my future house before I'm even in it. The sooner that I can get to "done" and move forward with my life the better. My design style is "hip yet welcoming". A warm sense of artistic character. Yeah, that's me. I see it in these frames.

First off, I want a headboard for our master bedroom. A queen-size collage of these frames, gingerly butted together, with photos of Eric and I in our most relaxed and fun and loving moments. I mean "moments"....no posing or looking at the camera, rather instantaneous splinters of time where we were caught off guard sharing a sweet or hilarious tap of intimacy. Done.

Here's the issue....I'm finding too many frames. Now what? Should they be all white? All black? A mixed series of the two with random shades of tin in between? I've searched and researched and chosen and un-chosen. I've laid out and planned out. Can't make up my mind.

I was hoping this was done before I moved in. I was hoping I was more clever than I let myself believe. Ultimately, I was hoping to move forward with my life before I am really allowed to.....yet.

I'm the horse in the corral that is aching to jump the fence. That is the horse that they don't open the gate early for, but rather give them a tranquilizer shot and pull them from the race.

So gotta wait for now. No more buying frames, wasting money, wasting time. Gotta wait till I'm in my new house, everything in place - then the frames. Dang.

People have been asking me a lot lately what I'm going to miss by leaving Chicago. For the most part, it's a double negative. I'm going to miss all the people and events surrounding me....then again, I'm not going to miss being surrounded by people all the time. As much as I'm going to desperately miss being walking distance from the Chicago flagship Whole Foods and our locale restaurants, I look forward to home ownership, a quiet neighborhood, a chance to truly embrace the next stage of life with my husband.

One thing I'm glad I won't have to miss is WGN weatherman, Tom Skilling. Nearly every night, I learn something. Tom Skilling is the favorite high school teacher you talk about long after the cap and gown are gone, the calm, caring figure that you cherish and learn from continuously. Luckily, WGN is a national channel that I can get anywhere. I don't need to miss Tom. I'll always have him.

Okay...so....you improvise long enough in Chicago, and sooner or later you're going to know people that are in commercials, movies and most importantly in the realm of Chicago comedy...are writers or performers on SNL.

Each night, as I pack boxes and take my enormous Sharpie marker to scribble words like "Leslie Office" and "Kitchen" and deal with Radon tests and homeowner's insurance, I realized....I know four more people joining the cast this year. In fact, my list of people in the comedy world who are "making it" seems to constantly increase. I'm heading to Iowa and baby making and crock pot recipes, and others are heading to New York, bright light and having their writing placed in front of the world to enjoy.

I remember the moment I lost it. Eric got deployed. I lied on my cold bathroom floor curled up in the fetal position and could not believe my life had come to this moment. The idea of going onto a stage, pretending I was an ex-hooker highway patrol woman now-turned zombie sounded idiotic. I realized that "playing" wasn't fun anymore.

For years, comedy to me was the most outstanding drug. Like red wine slowly swishing in your mouth before it melts lazily down your throat. Walking on clouds. Pure play. And I'm good at it. I know what is funny, I have excellent timing, and can feed any on stage partner to greatness. However....the instant that moment happened, when my life went from being goofy and fun to Iraq and death and the possibility that things might not end in a fairy tale - I changed. I didn't want to, but I did.

Like I said, I didn't want to. I forced going to shows and rehearsals. Forced myself to write comedy sketches. I fought, I fought, I fought. It made everything worse. I cried and mourned and wondered why. I was being steered down a path that I didn't understand, away from a life I imagined for myself for so long. I killed myself running the wrong way on a fast-moving escalator - not getting anywhere. After I stopped forcing, stopped running, I realized. I just didn't want it anymore.

That was a sad day. But then not a sad day. If I really wanted it - I'd be there. There's a reason I'm not. There's a reason why. I gotta believe that. God knows that I'm packing boxes - he's sending me there. Is there a part of me that is envious when another person I know gets a job on SNL? Yeah....cause I know I could do it. I know I'd like it. I know I write funny sketches...but God knows better. God knows I couldn't handle the BS that no doubt comes with it. Maybe he knows that I'd work my butt off, not get very far, then regret not having kids or having a more solid marriage. I know I'd regret that.

I told my friend Jen that I was moving. She was on the Second City stage and had a chance for SNL a few years ago, and chose family instead. She doesn't regret it. We're from the same hometown. When I told her, she calmly said, "you were done with Chicago anyway, weren't you?" I shrugged quietly. "You can always find ways to be creative." she added, "ways to use your voice....no matter where you are."

She's right. Wherever I am at, I'll find a way to use my voice. A new way to find my sense of play from Iowa suburbia within the crock pots and Saturdays working on the backyard. So I'll follow the path I'm given, try not to fight it, be happy for my friends and support them by tuning in on Saturday night at 10:30pm.

Play should evolve. I shouldn't want to be a 40-something playing an ex-hooker highway patrol woman zombie. I should want more for myself. I should be a 40-something ex-hooker highway patrol woman zombie, struggling to overcome her drug habit so she can get her kids back from foster care.

Eric is away at military training. I'm in our apartment in Chicago....packing. Here in Chicago there are no more pictures on the walls, resting on cabinets, anywhere. A stranger could walk into this 1200 square foot space and not have a clue as to the people that reside there. Bare.

Eric is set up in furnished apartment near the military base where he will begin training on Monday. It was furnished for the soldier before him, and the soldier before that soldier. It's bare as well.

There is so much power in having a home. A place to belong to. It's like a hanger for a shirt, it gives it form and strength. Four walls and a roof, doesn't matter. My home is where WE are. WE are miles apart.

WE are working, making plans, pushing towards a bright future filled with good things. Those things require a bit of blood, sweat and tears and we're in the beginnings of it now. When I was in college and things were getting tough, my Dad once said to me, "just keep your head down and keep digging." As I tape shut another box, gazing out my window to the beautiful night skyline of Chicago, this is one of those times.

A closing date is set. Movers are planned. A personal vow to pack each and every weeknight from 6:30 - 8:30PM from now until October has been etched. I think to myself that a little bit at a time will ease the process of moving from my home in downtown Chicago to my new residence in Iowa. It's a battle. One picture taken off the wall throws it's first gash into my heartbroken chest, while the image of a new ceiling fan that completes the perfect look for my new dining room cuts it's hot metal blade into the nail and hanging wire, making it bow at my feet.

Sunday afternoon, just before Eric left for military school, we hugged each other in the center of our beautiful apartment. The apartment that I moved us to while he was in Iraq. Blood, sweat and tears went into every paint color, every decorative pillow, every specifically placed tchotchke. This has been our first home. He kissed my forward and tears came to my eyes. Gently placing his house keys on the kitchen counter top, he softly whispered. "This place did great for us hun, you did great." Then his next words echoed in my brain, words that he says over and over to me. "We're not meant to stay here, we're meant to move forward."

He will be at military school till November, and I will close this chapter for us both. Then I will open another one. In a new state, making a new home. Starting over. Moving forward. I promised Eric that in our new home that I would re-create our beloved chalkboard wall from our Chicago apartment. Guests throughout the years have left messages both funny and thoughtful. It is a colorful reminder of how loved we are. "We gotta do that again" he said.

I'm planning. I'm slowly moving forward, knowing that we're not meant to stand still. Wanting to do good for Eric, for us....for myself.

So....Friday....I HAD to get to the Quad Cities to see my DREAM HOUSE. Only, my dream house did NOT turn out to be my dream house. It turned out to be a constructional nightmare with the best of intentions. The man who owned the house obviously took an old beat up farmhouse and tried to create his own utopia....only to run out of money. Apparently, his wife and kids ran out of patience and took off for greener pastures....leaving him behind to sell the money pit he once cherished.

My parents, my realtor walked through the home politely and then left that joint and did not look back. Gingerly walking out the door to the heartbroken pleads of the seller stating, "just make me an offer, I'm very motivated to sell". As we drove away my Dad sighed, "poor guy, he was in WAY over his head. Now He's screwed".

Damn, that was the plan. To look at that house. The house that, in the four pictures included within the online listing....was my dream home. My ideal. I saw the listing the day before, and I drove 3 hours fantasizing on that house. There was nothing else. Now what? I sat in the passenger seat of my parents Camry....clueless and hungry. We were heading to Azteca, the only real Mexican restaurant in town, and a family favorite.

"You know, I drove around for hours on my motorcycle yesterday" my dad said, "I saw a house on Coffelt Ave. you might like." "I saw that house a month ago" I responded, telling him about my disgust of the endless rose wallpaper that plastered nearly every room of the 1st floor. "Ah hell, you can steam that off easily" my Dad said. My mother agreed. "You should look at it again."

I called my realtor Marty on the phone on our way to fajitas. It was still on the market. "I'll set it up and call you guys with a time." After lunch, we re-visited the house. What I failed to appreciate early in my home searching became all to clear now. I passed over the perfect place. "I remember Eric loved this backyard." Marty mentioned. True. He did. He loved the thick Oak trees and wooded grounds. He loved the large space between neighbors and the private feeling. I loved the location. A couple blocks from bike trails, shops and Mississippi River. Storage space, large deck, large kitchen, and the list goes on and on. These people took care of their home. A note inside the front door asked perspective buyers to please remove their shoes upon entering. Then the cherry on top: it was in Bettendorf. Just a couple streets into the city limit. "Best school system in the QCA." my Dad reminded me. True yet again.

What was I thinking? Why didn't I notice how great this house was before? Why didn't I see that this house is the ideal for both Eric and myself? There wasn't even a need for either of us to compromise here. But I was clueless. Boom. There was the rose wallpaper. Thick and expansive. Yuck. That blinded me. My Dad was calm and re-assuring. "I'll get someone to get rid of it all." he said. "Won't cost more than $500 total." He even promised to pick up the tab if I made an offer. Deal.

I called Eric. "I'm buying a house" I said. "Cool. Great!" Eric replied. "The dream house?" he said. "Well....no....and then....yes."

I went to my realtor's office Friday late afternoon to prepare the offer, and she called us Friday to say it was accepted. "Congratulations" she said. "You are a homeowner."

I'd like to think God teased me to get me to the Quad Cities....only to show me something more than I could have imagined for myself. As I drove there that morning, so excited to see what I thought was my "dream house" I kept trying to calm myself. I would ask God, "just do what you think is best for me Lord" I would repeat over and over as the mile markers went past. Sure enough...he did.

I am awake super-ass early this morning, coffee is grinding and shower is warming up. I'm leaving Chicago for the day, to look at what is potentially the last home for sale in the Quad Cities.

I've seen everything...EVERYTHING. Nothing is "quite right". The closest we came was a house in a great area that I felt a strong feeling of "I can work with this." It needed a new kitchen immediately and new windows, siding, and deck/landscaping eventually. We made an offer. They countered. They countered poorly and I got a bad taste in my mouth about the whole things. Dealer over.

That exact morning a listing showed. "NEW" was highlighted next to the description. The pictures wooed me. Artsy interior, open space, great color, textures and light. Great school district too. I saw a place for my office and a kitchen I can cook in. For Eric....a big, lush, green backyard. A private backyard. The size and emmensity of a yard that makes me make him PROMISE to take care of it. Like a small child with a puppy he will beg and plead for it, swearing not to ask for anything this upcoming Christmas.

This is the first time my gut is singing to me. It's fate. I want this house.

I'm going to look at it today with my parents. They are a lethal combination of love and protection for me with experience in home buying and construction. Since I mentioned how much I wanted to see it yesterday, their instinctive gears have been in overdrive. Researching, planning, investigating. My father has already announced his discoveries.

"You know that is not a wood floor it's a laminate." my dad sighed. "They have to pay for their own snow removal out there" my Mom exclaimed. So on, and so on. Their "pickiness" for lack of a better word - could be my savior or my downfall.

I'm at my end. If this house is not "the house" then we'll have to put the breaks on the search for now. We'll go to plan B or wait it out a few more months and see what is on the market. We have options. Eric reminds me that we are in no hurry. "Make sure you get what you want" he says supportively. A good friend reminded me that we are the "ideal buyer in this economic market." I know, I know...but I want this to be the house. I hate my brain rattling back and forth and leaving me empty. Giving me a deadline where we will not have a solid home. I want the house that speaks to me....and this is it. I wanna believe that with all the crappy things going on in the world, that God has taken the time out of his busy terrorism/corruption filled days to show me my house saying..."Leslie, here it is - go get it. And by the way, ha, ha, ha that I made you look at EVERYTHING ELSE before I showed you this one. Clever of me huh?"

I also know....as life tends to remind me, that whenever you force something...bad things happen. I AM going to look at this house on Friday, August 13th. Friday the 13th. Sheesh.I have to be sensible. I have to be open-minded. This is a big purchase.

All that in mind, I want this house. I want this to be the house. I want my Dad to say, "well, you know it has a lot of potential" and recommend I buy it. I want the seller to take my offer, and while he's at it, throw in his washer/dryer combo. I want the world to be rainbows and sunshine and taste like chocolate covered salty pretzels.

I want this to work out. I'm looking at my house today. On Friday the 13th.

There's only one passage from the Bible that I know by heart: Jeremiah 29:11


"For I know the plans I have for you," declares the LORD, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future."

There is even a plague of it in my home. A small blue and gold inscription set within a frame of dark walnut wood. Given to me nearly 10 years ago by a former next door neighbor wise beyond his years. He looked at me, and somehow he knew.

He knew that I was the type of person that if given a novel of my own life, I would indeed skip through everything like a tornado to get to the final pages, hoping for the happy ending.

In my running training, coach would constantly hound us all to keep a training log. The idea is that during those final tapering weeks, as your mileage drastically decreases as your body rests and the day of the marathon grows closer, you can look at this log and see how many miles you ran. You can witness every entry and know you did the work.

It's hard to have a log book for life. You're "doing the work" all the time unknowingly. So I have this plague, this scripture to repeat over and over in my head when I just can seem to see my life as clearly as I'd like. And for me, the times that are the most scary aren't when I can't see anything, it's when I can and do not know what it means.

Eric and I are going to buy a house. Soon. Before the year is out. I know what it looks like. I know that the trees are old and that the front door is elegant. The kitchen is the heart of our home and it's warm. I see it....but I don't know if it exists. I'm nervous that it doesn't. That is when I hear that scripture. When I run it over and over to calm me. God hasn't let me down yet. He showed me in a similar way when Eric was coming. I knew exactly what he looked like. His black hair, his hands, his honor of character.

Now, God is showing me my house. It's beautiful and warm, full of character. It's us. Now I just gotta find it.

Sitting in the shade on a beautiful day in Millennium Park this past week, my friend Kim and I shared a conversation about life and plans, hopes and dreams. Maybe not shared as much as me chatting endlessly into her charismatic ears, only pausing for brief moments to take in life-continuing necessary air. When the dust had settled on all the random thoughts I had, she calmly smiled and stated the obvious....”you gotta grow up sometime.”

She was right. I started today. I am now the proud owner of Le Creuset Cookware.

Le Creuset enamel cast iron cookware was created in Northern France in 1925 and has become the ultimate in chefdom worldwide. Because it’s cast iron, it has excellent heat distribution and retention, so it cooks food slowly and evenly under low heat, allowing the true flavor of the food, and all it’s spices, juices and various combinations achieve their ultimate amazing yummyness.

If a microwaved Lean Cuisine meal is like being awkwardly hit on in a dive bar by a 50-something unemployed loser who still lives in his parent’s basement, a meal cooked in Le Creuset cookware is like being taken on a motorcycle ride through Italy by George Clooney only to be delivered to his candlelit villa and into the lovingly open arms of Ryan Reynolds, Bradley Cooper and David Beckham.

This cookware symbolized refinement. The nemesis of youthful selfishness and quick riskful life choices. Le Creuset is a Fred Astaire dance. Elegant and wise. The greatest parts of adulthood. I was ready.

Like all Le Creuset cast-iron products, it is hand-cast in a one-of-a-kind sand mold and hand-finished at the Le Creuset factory in France - and it’s available in a variety of gorgeous colors. Each piece has a 101 year warranty. It’s the kind of thing family members hand down through generations of future chefs, also longing to grow up and grow beyond the basics of cooking. Because Le Creuset cookware is indeed the most awesome thing you’ll ever have in your kitchen, they are expensive as hell. One piece usually runs about $200 - $250 bucks. But I was experiencing a life trifecta: #1 - My husband Eric was not getting my subtle hints to help me with household chores, thus adding extra burden to my own daily workload. #2 - I had a “Preferred Member 35% OFF” coupon good between June 25th - July 4th. And finally, ultimately, #3 - My birthday was coming up.

Today was my day. I’ve been planning this for the last month. Today was the only day on the coupon that I was free to make the journey an hour out of Chicago to Aurora, IL. I was focused. Nothing else mattered. I dropped Eric off at church, (purposely knowing that God was on my side in this adventure and most likely with me in the car than within the four walls of our traditional Sunday meeting place), and powered my way down the highway through the down pouring thunderstorm to the Aurora Outlet Mall.

Parking in a prime location across from the Le Creuset store, I savored the visit, slowly making my way through the entire outlet, knowing full well where I really wanted to go, but not wanting the experience to end. The ultimate consumer foreplay, I strolled through a maze of shops, half-heartedly trying on sandals that only somewhat pleased me, taking in the smells of various unhealthy foods but never purchasing, and glancing into windows with the fake promise of returning to explore further.

Then finally, the Le Creuset store. An amazing spectrum of color and culinary knowledge. A shrine to the french chefs of the past and the enthusiastic hopes for my cooking future. Donning black aprons of pure french/dutch oven genius, the sales people where incredibly friendly and lovingly encouraging. They were the biggest supporters of my journey to adulthood. I could not fail.

Forty minutes later, I walked toward my car with a 5-quart Braiser (in Dijon Yellow) a 4.25-quart french round (in Caribbean Blue) and a 6.75-quart french oval (in Cherry Red) Julie, Julia & now Leslie. Delighted in my achievement, empowered by my growth, and excited for the future Leslie, the girl who is now a cultured woman. Would home-ownership, motherhood and a strong understanding of financial investing be just around the corner?

Packing my prizes into the trunk, one part of the life trifecta still frustrated me. The inevitable bi-monthly chat I again must have with my beloved husband Eric over needing him to help more with household chores. Grrr.

Then, last part of my life trifecta would ultimately exonerate and save me. My birthday was coming up. Shutting the trunk of my car and taking in a relaxing deep breath of 95% summer humidity, I walked into the COACH store and bought myself a purse. An expensive one.

Happy Birthday to me. I’ll grow up more later.

Okay, so the Chicago Blackhawks won the 2010 Stanley Cup, and although I grew up from age "it's a girl" till now being an overall Chicago teams fan, I will admit that I have only paid attention to the Blackhawks in the last two years. Here's why I think I deserve a bit more credit than being called a "bandwagon fan".

• I am from a hockey family. At the age of eleven, I was the first ever girl to play hockey in the city of Dubuque, IA. My story was in the Telegraph Herald newspaper and interviewed for a local cable access show. I got a Playmaker that year and made the travel team.

• Both of my brothers played college hockey (University of Iowa, University of Northern Iowa, and Iowa State University.)

• A show of our devotion? Our family owns the license plate HOCKEY for the state of Iowa since 1983. We ain't giving it up either.

• Throughout my childhood, my dad flooded my backyard from November till March, using snow for boards, attached floodlights to the 2nd story deck for playing at night, and created a warming house out of the basement garage with a walkout to the ice.

Mostly, I think I deserve extra "Blackhawks Credit" because I know what it feels like to skate hard and stop strong, blasting a fine mist of snow in the air. I know the feeling of the puck smacking against my stick from a perfect pass down ice. I know what the inside of a glove smells like, and the sound of the snap connecting to my socks.

I can close my eyes and feel the burn of the tug and pull of tightening my skates, and the intense focus I used when applying tape the curve of my stick. I was that kid, with red cheeks and sweaty hair matted down inside a helmet. I remember when ITECs came out, and when Cooper released long pants. I was the first girl to play hockey, and half the boys hated me out there on the ice, and the other half used me as the first example of girls and the early stages of sexual confusion.

When I watch a game, I'm there. That fast paced play, that snap of the puck to the stick. I'm back. I belong. I'm remembered. Now I may be rocking the sexy skirt and black boots, but that part of me that is a high dreaming sweaty kid hockey player is still there. Part of me is still smacking my brother along the iced-over snow drifts of our backyard ice rink in Dubuque.

A player is a million times better than a watcher. Watching is fair-weather, a sidelines neat and clean and nice smelling observer. A player is smelly and sweating and willing to get smacked into the boards and fights to get that puck in the net. The player is forgiven. You don't have to watch every game, be part of every battle, cause you're a member of giant the war.

I don't play hockey anymore, haven't since I was 13. Don't own skates and haven't seen the inside of a rink for years. Now I like pretty things, and have no desire to be any colder than I possibly need to be. November to March will find me wrapped in a warm quilt and desperately looking out my window for signs of spring.

But there is this childhood love of hockey, an enormous part of my family history and tradition. Spring and Summer were baseball and fall and winter was hockey. Plain and simple. Now grown up and grown beyond, there is still this sense I can go back and kick some hockey ass whenever I want. Just like a Chicago Blackhawk.

It's been a while since my last posting, which was about me training for the Boston Marathon. After I wrote that, I had an inkling that the training would encompass my heart, soul and legs for a good half of the next year, so I figured I'd need to give that particular writing it's own home. You can read every step of my training up through a couple days after the race at the following site:

www.600milestoboston.com

Now I'm back. The race is over, although parts of my body still ache. I can't really run more than 5 miles without feeling either pain in my left knee, or the ache of knowing there is no new challenge on the horizon. There's no goal for me to conquer.

I'm not at a crossroads, I'm at a dead end. I don't know what's next.

There's no going backward. There won't be anymore IO improv teams or sketch comedy shows, no more Boston Marathons. But I don't know what's next. I wish I did. I want to be excited about my life, fulfilled by it, and I long to discover something that reveals another layer of myself to me. I have interests. I am enjoying cooking more and more. I'm curious how the stock market works and investing. Trouble is, I'm not sure if these are "the next great thing."

Eric told me once that one of the reasons he fell in love with me was because of my drive, my passion. Right now I don't seem to have any.....or at least it's in a holding pattern waiting for me to give it something to be passionate about. As much as Eric loves that part of me, so do I. I'm not at the "totally freaked out scared that I'll never have passion again" level, but I'm at Defcon 3. Something needs to happen soon.

Both the Dali Llama and the back section of Oprah's magazine advise that if you don't know what the next step is to simply "BE" and it will come to you. BE. Stay still and BE. Calm, breathe, quiet and wait. That "next great thing" I am supposed to become will happen.

As much as I want to believe that, I keep thing of the words of Tom Petty. "The Waiting Is The Hardest Part".

So I have Oprah, Dali Llama....and Tom Petty swirling around in my head.

Maybe I'll sign up for a cooking class. Yeah, when you don't know what to do, just BE, only with knives.