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.