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.