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.