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.