Four years ago today was my first date with my now husband, Eric. We sat in the smallest booth at Corcran’s Pub, across from The Second City on Wells St. in Chicago. It was a blind date. “Hi I’m Eric.” he said, and held out his hand. He had thick black hair and an honest face. He was wearing jeans and a Abercrombie and Fitch sweatshirt that looked like a baseball jersey. A masculine gray and deep green. Cute. For me with first dates I had a rule. That was either go out for a beer or a coffee, and if I decided I liked them food could be involved. And the dates always took place in my neighborhood so I had an easy escape route if necessary. That particular October night, the Chicago White Sox had a very good chance to win the World Series, and I knew the bar would be packed. As this was my favorite neighborhood hangout, I had the inside track on how it operated. I knew that Second City was rehearsing a new show, and I knew the director would be coming in for dinner beforehand, thus needing to leave just in time for me to arrive. Clockwork. I selected the perfect two seat booth, just enough intimacy and just enough of an angle to view the sports action. Eric and I exchanged pleasantries and sat down. I wanted to not be a high maintenance girl, so I ordered a simple and cheap Miller Lite. He ordered the same, and we did the basic “tell me about yourself” stuff. I remember at first thinking how boring he was, talking about being in the Navy and working as a loan funder for a real estate company. Nothing I could relate to. I barely recall him mentioning he just that past summer signed on with the Army Reserves. After a slight polite pause, the subject changed to simplier, more silly topics. Cartoons and comedy shows. My attitude brightened when he mentioned his love for the TV show, “The Family Guy” a show that I had just recently discovered and was enamored with. A couple more beers followed, comedy quotes filled the air and eventually I was comfortable ordering nachos. We laughed and joked and watched the Chicago White Sox win the World Series. It was a good night.

Another rule I gave myself was that for a date, I didn’t need to know if he was “the one” or anything like that. All I needed to know was if I wanted a 2nd date. Eric walked me to my apartment and asked for a 2nd date. I said okay, but he would have to choose either this coming Friday or Saturday, not both as he originally suggested. “Saturday it is” he happily quipped, and came in for the traditional good night kiss. To me, a good Catholic girl, a goodnight kiss on the first date was a light hug and a peck on the cheek, the kind you give your grandma as you are leaving the traditional Christmas gathering. Eric pulled a fast one. He turned his head and got my lips. And stayed there. I could hear him breathe deep and heavy. I felt clueless and powerful all at once. Did I have this guy wrapped around my finger and didn’t even know it?

Now I'm nervous. Continuous calls and emails followed. Funny and sweet. All harmlessly asking for more time and attention than my cautiousness was willing to give. I would vocally worry to my girlfriends about what this all meant. They over and over reassured me I was lucky and to just enjoy it.

One day a knock came to my door, a UPS man with flowers. I swallowed hard, signed on the X and opened the box to discover the most beautiful fall arrangement, full of golds and oranges and reds with a card endlessly scribbling about how special I was and how he couldn’t wait to get to know me more and how I brightened his day and he hoped these brightened mine. A hot fire rushed up the back of my neck. Excitement and fear just punched each other hard in the face and I didn’t know what the hell to do. I took a picture of it with my cell phone and sent it to my girlfriends and waited for their responses. Within minutes, floods of texts of AWESOME and AWWW and HE’S A KEEPER filled my phone. I just stared at them. What did I do?

Now, four years later, I’m a wife. I’m no longer chased, I’m caught. Sadly, and sometimes bitterly, I feel more deserving than ever of flowers that never come. If I could tell every man in the world that all it would take to keep their women happy for the next six months is to buy them flowers for no reason whatsoever, I would. If I won the lottery I would go into the business of secretly buying flowers for women in their man’s name and watch happily as the world would increasingly grow happy. Wars would end. Peace would fill every corner of the universe and everything would smell like vanilla.

The other night my husband asked why had I not made my famous Ceviche in a while. My Ceviche is his favorite. Ice cold shrimp marinated in a delicous combination of lemon and lime juice, then handsomely welcomed into a family of chopped garlic, roma tomatoes, cilantro, jalapenos and purple onion. Topped with avocado and eaten with thick cut tortilla chips. It’s absolutely devine. One night in August, a full batch on hand, Eric and I stood in our kitchen and happily ate the entire thing. It was indeed the most fantastic feast. This time when he asked for it, I felt like a diner waitress taking an order. He was oblivious to the fact that after working a full day as a graphic designer, I had just cleaned the entire apartment (including two bathrooms, scrubbed the floors, and washed and folded 4 loads of laundry. The scent of homemade lasagna in the oven filled the air. Smelling of bleach and exhausted, my sharp tongue and hurtful heart snapped back, “I’ll make Ceviche the next time I get flowers.”

Of course, if that happens it won’t count. Those “flowers for no reason” are the moments I long for, moments that seem like they will never happen again.

I can feel fall coming and I’m excited. I still keep out my capri pants, yet I swap my sandals for adorable canvas mary janes and pull out my beloved hoodie collection, which easily takes up a third of my closet. I own every imaginable color with the exception of sky blue. It keeps evading me somehow and forces me to long for it in the same way that I can slip into an endless vivid daydream about what kind of movies James Dean would have made had he grown old. Chicago in fall is amazing, and reflective of the people who live here. Relaxed and mild, with a very subtle breezy strength that reminds you to be grateful. Grateful for the fantastic summer you just had and gives you just a few more glimpses of it. Fall in Chicago is that “cool babysitter” that allows you an extra half hour of TV cause your parents will never find out. Every Saturday is filled with people strolling the sidewalks wearing college football jerseys and Sunday’s clothing is Bears orange and blue. The sky gets darker faster, and I have loving permission to wrap myself up in sweat clothes and cook things in a crock pot. For whatever reason, my love of cooking grows deeper in the fall. I like the heat, the heartiness. I love the warm feel of a bowl of soup when you cup your hands around it. When that rich, tomatoey liquid slides down your throat all the way into an empty stomach. The crunchy butteriness of the toast on a grilled cheese sandwich done right. All that, looking out the window into the dark and twinkling Chicago skyline, 7pm.....in sweatpants. Friends and I lately have been passing around recipes. I will be sharing more of my fall recipes, but I’ll start with my first favorite, Crock Pot Lasagna. The Crock Pot Lasagna is asked for and made once a month in our household. Enjoy!

CROCKPOT LASAGNA
INGREDIENTS
• 1 package ground turkey
• 1 onion
• 2 tlb minced garlic
• 1-2 jars of spaghetti sauce
• 1 container fat free cottage cheese
• 1 egg
• 1 package standard lasagna noodles (don’t cook them!)
• 1-2 8oz packages shredded mozzarella cheese
• Italian seasoning, crushed red pepper, salt to taste

DIRECTIONS
• Brown turkey with onion - drain
• In one large bowl, combine turkey with spaghetti sauce and seasonings
• In another bowl, combine cottage cheese and egg. Beat till smooth. Add shredded cheese.
• Spray Crock Pot bowl with PAM spray throughout. Begin layering. 1st sauce, 2nd noodles, 3rd cheese.
• Repeat till near top of bowl

• Heat on LOW for 4 hours. Turn to OFF for 5th hour so that lasagna is still warm but perfect for eating.
• Scoop in bowl to serve. Enjoy!

When I listen to my single girlfriends questioning love, my heart aches back in time to when I was in their shoes. Those single frustrated days sitting across from so many of my gal pals over an oriental chicken salad, congratulating them on their engagement, looking at their big diamond ring and asking the eventual question, “how did you know?” I always, always got the same answer and it would increasingly piss me off. “I just knew.” Fuck. WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN!?!?!? My 20s and early 30s dating life consisted of me endlessly watching romantic movies and searching hopelessly for the guy who closely resembled Bill Pullman from “While You Were Sleeping”. Funny, masculine, handsome in a non-threatening way. I found that I was either dreadfully disappointed in the men I was dating and they were equally disappointed in me. It was no use and it took me a long time to figure out what I was doing wrong.

Here’s what was wrong with me, and there’s a 99.9% chance that the same thing is wrong with you. You’re not too fat, too short, too tall, your hair is fine, you make enough money, etc., etc. You’re just not ready. There’s no “one person’ out there and you missed him and your life is over, etc., etc. There’s a TON of “the one” out there especially for you. It’s like confetti dropped from a helicopter. Chances are you did miss a few. They were simply ready and you were not. That is okay, once you are ready, they show up. You’ll recognize it immediately. You'll “know”. Seriously it is that simple.

So get ready. Here’s how. Be honest with yourself about what your bullshit is. You DO have bullshit baggage and don’t deny it. We all have it. Figure out what baggage you got. At least recognize it. Dig deep. Figure it out. Whatever you can solve.....solve. Figure out where and how and why, fix it if you can. Everyone has baggage. You are never not going to have baggage. The key is to get yours to the size of a carry on. Once you can fit your personal baggage into the “overhead compartment of life” you are ready. If you don’t do this crucial step the true you never emerges. You’re hiding. You will piss away your life hiding and people who are ready will sense it immediately and walk in the opposite direction. Do the hard work and you will be rewarded.

Once you are ready they seemingly materialize from thin air. Its like Brigadoon. They are the ones who did their own work and got their own baggage figured out because they wanted you. They wanted to be ready. They were excited to build a life with you and as such they got their shit together so they could.

I got married at age 36. It took me a long time to figure all this out. Longer than most. My head was stuck in the mud and I didn’t want to believe I wasn’t ready. I wanted to be saved. I wanted a knight in shining armor to sweep me up and tell me everything was going to be alright without me getting my hands dirty and digging into my baggage and cleaning it up. Doesn’t work that way. You gotta fix it yourself. I think of some of the previous boyfriends I wasted so much of my time and energy on that now wouldn't get past a first date. I was screwed up. I wasn’t ready. You gotta be okay with yourself and every flaw and skeleton and love and live your life the way the universe wants you to.

Being married doesn’t solve anything either. Baggage in overhead compartments may shift in flight. There are still struggles and victories and defeats and they change regularly. In a way, it’s worse now as you are dragging someone else into the daily mess. Then again, it's better cause there's someone that has promised to go through the mess with you. And you love them for it. You love them for a lot of reasons really. So it’s not a big deal, not too big a mess. I suppose this is where you “just know.”

Last night I was sitting on the butt-torturing chairs of the 24-hour Starbucks located on the corner of North Ave. & Wells St. in Chicago. My neighborhood. I wanted to get out of the house, write, see where the evening creatively took me. When I got there the only table I could find that also had an electrical outlet for my laptop was a 6 person one. I felt guilty for a moment then snagged it. After about an hour of sitting alone, a couple of young girls, no older than 20 or 21, circled in on me. They asked if they could sit on the end. No problem. I then pulled out my iPod from my bag in an effort to build a somewhat false sense of privacy, to drown them out and focus on trying to be creative. It was no use. Quickly their conversation began to smother the smooth melancholy of my Ray LaMontage songs and I began to get agitated. I was blocked, I couldn’t write. I had only been here an hour and I did not wish to give up. I tried harder to drown them out. Damn. After a solid ten minutes imaging all the various ways I could beat the shit out of them, I calmed. Let them be my gift. So I wrote. Both girls were roughly 21 years old, one wearing expensively adorable eyeglasses with a Burberry cheetah-esque print on them and the other a sweatshirt/cable knit combo that splashed “Abercrombie” across her chest. The girl facing me had whispery long brown hair which always makes the perfect ponytail and a mouthful of braces. Each looked 15, spoke 21, and from their discussion, longed to be 30. Their chatter began with a brief touch on professors and classes and roommates. The remainder of the evening was dedicated to their boyfriends. Boys they had been texting throughout the day and cuddling in their apartments and going to Jimmy John’s with. Boys they had only been dating, or “hanging out” (they themselves were not quite sure) for a mere few weeks. I became a spy. I cherished it and I let it shroud me. I would sneakily listen as each would dreamily contemplate their life-long plans with these boys aloud, they would do “real” things like make meals together, plan trips, double date with each other’s best friends at swanky Chicago BYOB restaurants. Twirling their tea bag strings and rotating their worn cups, each girl’s relationship fantasy would grow and grow till a crescendo of, “Oh my gawd, and I’ve only known him a few weeks.”

I imagined their childhood rooms in the suburbs of Chicago, nothing touched from the day they moved out. Mountains of stuffed animals and saved birthday cards and glittery BEST FRIENDS picture frames. Color palettes taken directly from IKEA catalogs. Those braces. Big honking chunks of metal bolted onto this milky naive face. Hair that has not yet seen a box of Clairol. She worried aloud to her friend why this boy always wanted to cuddle at her place but not his and why she had not met any of his friends yet. She tortured herself on what that must mean, her empathetic Burberry-cheetah eye glasses friend consoled her. “You know, you guys should think about where to go on Spring Break together.” she said.

I found myself agitated again. I began thinking....you don’t get to be in the same world with me.

I was curious. The idea of Eric and I having our own baby has been knocking a lot lately at my 38-year old ego. The whens and ifs and should and should nots continue to agitate me and I’m not sure what to do. My doctor keeps reminding me that I not only have a 38 year old ego....I have 38 year old ovaries.

I was curious so I agreed. Our ultimate frisbee friends and down the hall neighbors Martin and Tiffany were going to a wedding in Tennessee and asked us to watch their 10-week old puppy, Ladybird. A beagle/hound mix, BIRD as we called her, was to be our self-designated “toe dip” into the steps toward parenthood. Whether Eric knew that I was thinking this or not was irrelevant. I was curious. Do I have what it takes to be a good parent. You always hear people say that if you want to have a baby, start off with a puppy. I needed to know and this was my first opportunity to find out.

What I found out is that parenting BIRD for the weekend was incredibly inconvenient, extremely exhausting, somewhat agitating, a bit messy, and....

....I miss her.

Overall, I was proud that Eric and I didn’t talk “baby talk” to BIRD, and I didn’t refer to him as “Daddy” and he didn’t refer to me as “Mommy”. We did catch ourselves taking pride in if she pooped or not, and monitoring how much she drank and where she was at all times. It seemed that BIRD always had to be right next to one of us, either chewing on a rawhide or sleeping. It was loving and sweet and adorable. Till she cried. If she couldn’t see one of us she cried. If she was put into her crate at night she cried. She cried so hard the first night that Eric grabbed the pillow that he previously attempted to smother himself with and slept on the couch. That way BIRD could see him from her crate containing the large lavender doggie bed decorated with dancing cartoon monkeys. Eric slept on the couch all weekend, clothes thrown across a chair ready to be thrown on when she needed to go out. And she needed to go out. She needed to go out a lot. A puppy’s bladder can only last 2-3 hours, hours which included 12 midnight and 3:30AM.

One of the coolest things about the weekend was that no one knew that BIRD wasn’t really our dog. To the outside world, she was ours. So we went with it. We stopped when little people or big people wanted to pet her. We could tell them her name, how old she was and other general chatter. We said thank you when they complimented her cuteness as if we conceived her. We were parents talking about their kid. We seemingly belonged. Without realizing it, we were welcomed into this culture of people we never noticed before. A “Dog Brigadoon” filled with owners that roamed the sidewalks at such odd-yet-routine times of day. On Saturday alone, Eric met Kevin and his dog WALLY on a walk, then later I met his wife Megan and WALLY on another walk, then late that same night we meet them both with WALLY on yet another walk. We had never before even seen each other let alone met, yet in one day had seen and talked three times. We’ve all lived in the same building for the last 4 years.

When Tiffany came to pick up BIRD Sunday night, I was ready. I was ready and I wasn’t ready. I was ready for a good night’s sleep, I was ready to have clean clothes with no dog hair on them, and I was more than ready to do what I want whenever I wanted without a crying dog at my heals. But I miss her laying next to me in my office while I’m working and I miss watching TV while rubbing her belly. I miss talking to her. I realized that if taking care of a puppy is an indication of what kind of parent we’re going to be then Eric and I will do okay. We were pretty much good partners the whole weekend and split the burden and the rewards evenly. We enjoyed it and we hated it at the same time. Most importantly I realized that I’m not quite ready. Perhaps I’ll wait till next year when the doctor reminds me that I have 39 year old ovaries. Then we’ll get a puppy.

I was saddened to realize that our summer is coming to a close. In honor of the beautiful Chicago summer, I'm giving to you wonderful people the numero uno recipe of our family in the summertime. You can follow this to the letter, or add a Guacamole seasoning packet. The lemon and lime juice is acidic and actually "cooks" the shrimp. Sooooo delicious. This is pretty much an orgasm on a tortilla chip. Enjoy!

LESLIE'S SHRIMP CEVICHE

INGREDIENTS

• 1-2 lbs cooked shrimp (cut into half inch pieces)
• 1 red or purple onion (chopped)
• 2 - 4 tbsp garlic salt
• 2 cups lime juice
• 2 cups lemon juice
• 2 cups cherry tomatoes (chopped)
• 1 bunch fresh cilantro (chopped)
• 1 serrano chile (chopped)
• 1 avocado (chopped)

DIRECTIONS

Combine cooked shrimp with lemon and lime juice.
Make certain that the shrimp is completely covered in juice.

Marinate for 4 hours

Drain away the juice - add cherry tomatoes, onion, cilantro, avocado,
garlic salt & cayenne pepper. Sprinkle a little bit lime juice for flavor

Serve with chips or tortillas

YUM!

Earlier this June we were pregnant.

For one day.

All I knew was that I was tired. Not the rainy days/Mondays tired but the last few days I would opt my lunch hour for a nap. I never do that. The hypochondriac in me started to worry. I always want to fix things immediately at the first sight of trouble or possibly even sooner. More than once my husband Eric has accused me of trying to wash his plate before he was even done eating. I wanted to fix this swapping-lunch-for-nap thing, but at the same time I didn’t want anything to be wrong. I was scared. The first couple days I made somewhat rational excuses that in all honesty could easily have been true; running past street construction and thus inhaling dust, eating too much sugar, not getting enough sleep, etc., etc. When the third day of feeling crappy and making excuses coincided with the third day of my-period-should-be-here by now – I peed on a stick.

I left it neatly placed in the bathroom and nervously collapsed into our living room sofa. I felt this overwhelming heaviness, like I was a six year old in serious trouble. Eric sensed the unordinary quiet and popped his head up from his laptop. “What’s up?” He asked. “I just peed on a stick, it’s in the bathroom.” “What does it say?” his response was upbeat, somewhat teasing, playing along as if I were playing some sort of practical joke on him and he had no intention of falling for it. “I don’t know, but I want us to look at it together.” “Let’s go.” We held hands as we walked back into the bathroom. As we approached the counter top I could see our images in the mirror looking back at us. I looked down. The stick said YES.

Holy shit. It actually says YES. I wasn’t immediately happy, I wasn’t immediately sad. I was.....holy shit. I never imagined that it could even say that, but there it was, Y. E. S. I did run past street construction dust, and I haven’t gotten much sleep lately....and I’m pregnant. We were not trying. Not in the slightest. This was not in the plan. I looked into the mirror and there was Eric, standing behind me, his arms wrapped around me....squeezing tight....smiling. “Aren’t you freaked out?” I asked. “Nothing we can do about it now.” he gleamed. Still shocked I tried to rationalize. “I took a lot of vitamins this morning and my pee was really yellow so that could’ve....” Eric kept holding onto me. “I don’t think it works that way” he said.

Eventually I calmed down, and we talked. Gradually, an overall sense of “frightened happiness” filled our apartment. We planned. Eric will finish his MBA, we’ll move the second bedroom dresser next to the first and put the crib right there....we’d make it work. I threw out every “what if” I could think of and my husband seemed to have a solid answer for each one. He was sensible and teasing and goofy. I was so grateful for him, and I feel deeper in love with this dark haired man. He agreed with me that we should make it “two out of three” and we walked down the street to Walgreens to get a 2-pack of pee sticks. As we walked through the store we clung tightly to each other, me calling him my “Baby Daddy,” and him giving me the random extra squeeze and kiss on the forehead.

About nine hours later I felt strong cramps. Painful ones. Before I went to bed that night pee stick #2 registered a NO. The next morning, #3 gave the same response. My period showed up later that afternoon. The following week I saw my gynecologist and I learned a few things. I was probably pregnant for 2 weeks and didn’t know it. The good news was that both Eric and I are physically healthy and it should be easy to get pregnant again. “50% of all women have miscarriages.” he said. He said it....miscarriage. That word never crossed my mind. If I never peed on that stick it would have just been that my period took an extra few days to show up....nothing more. I was just extra tired for a few days....nothing more. I didn’t know I was pregnant, we were not trying to get pregnant, but somehow that word made me instantly feel like I lost something very important that I didn’t know I even had. I was a 24 year old girl who blinked and is now a 37 year old woman wrapped in a cotton sheet in her gynecologist’s office discussing her miscarriage.

After a few days locked in a confused bubble of grief-but-not-grief, I figured some things out. I need to focus on what I can see in front of me. What is real in this moment right now is that I have a wonderful husband who was just as happy with a YES as with a NO. I know that I love my life, and that I love it being just the two of us. For now. I know that one day it will be just the three of us, and that will be great too. Until that day comes, I’m going to cherish every moment of the two of us.

Two weeks ago a light blue postcard came into my mailbox with words in bold. The Title Nine Blowout Sale is coming to Evanston. July 16-19th. Everything 60% off. Holy shit. No way. freaking way. NO....FREAKING.....WAY. Thank you God! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!

Some people know Title Nine as a women’s athletic clothing company that only has store locations within the west and pacific northwest. For sure nothing east of the Mississippi River. I’ve checked. We’ve all checked. There is a small community of women who know Title Nine as so much more. You gotta understand. When their shorts say they are an 8, they are an 8. A perfect 8. Not tight in one area and loose in another. Perfect. A sports bra fits....everywhere. Every item is sporty yet feminine, breathable and washable and just....just....works. These clothes never lie to you. They do their job. Title Nine is perfection.

Up until now I would get a bi-monthly catalog. I cherished it’s arrival. Things are a bit pricey....but I’m worth it. I don’t go crazy, and I don’t buy everytime....but I want to. And now this.

I stood dazed at this beautiful light blue card.

Title Nine was coming.....coming to see me.

I planned out the upcoming event like a professional thief. Eric would have the car that day, so I planned my route via public transit.....Chicago to Evanston, the purple line train from Sedgwick to Davis stop, then the #93 Southbound bus to Dempster. I would leave by 8:30 at the latest and arrive a padded 15 minutes before the opening on the first day.

I had to be there on the first day.

I contemplated telling Eric. Contemplated telling him that I was going to openly and gleefully spend money without any forethought of anything but the beautiful running skirts and skorts and tank tops before me. Before I was married my money was my own, and I must admit I miss that. Now I have to actually think before making a purchase. I will typically chat to myself in a low-level voice, “Do I really need this? Do I really REALLY need this.” and so on. I did not want to chant on this day, but not telling him would be disrespectful. “I’m going to this sale on Thursday.” I told him. “Okay, don’t go too crazy.” He said. Awesome. To me, crazy is relative. The limit of crazy on this has much higher bar than say staying out late when you need to get up early the next day or the servings at a Chinese buffet. When Eric said “don’t go too crazy” I heard in my excited Title Nine ears....”Do whatever you want, I love you....you deserve this.”

I was on the bus. I had my backpack prepped and ready for my upcoming haul, with a list continuously running through my brain of the items I hoped for. When the bus driver announced the stop, I jumped up and clumsily ran out the side exit. Another woman did the same thing, and we nearly knocked each other down. She looked me over. “Are you going to the Title Nine sale?” she asked. I said yes and we both giggled like we were in the 2nd grade, as if we had this secret language no one else knew. She pointed out that we were dressed similar, she called us “Title Nine Girls”. As we approached the Dominicks strip mall I understood exactly what she meant. Title Nine Girls. About 50 women were surrounding the doors of this reclaimed storefront. All aged 30-50, dressed feminine-yet-casual-yet sporty. All of us were lightly tanned, hair in a messy-yet-sexy-yet-sporty ponytail. Some had that ponytail through a baseball cap. I was a lost indian that finally found her tribe.

10:00AM, doors opened. A room the size of a gymnasium with row after row of tables with boxes. Signs reading TANKS, CLASP BRAS, SPORTS BRAS, CAPRIS, BOARD SHORTS, SKIRTS & SKORTS, DRESSES, etc.,etc. Row after row. We were greeted by sales associates handing out white kitchen garbage bags. It was amazingly orderly and exciting and chaotic. Everyone was friendly. We were all a part of this exciting adventure together and it was all 60% off. With filled garbage bags we piled into a 50ft square curtained off room and tried everything on. All together. It was junior high gym class all over again. Clothes flying off and on and off again. Sales associates continuously picking up unwanted clothes and the constant polite hum of “excuse me,” “sorry,” and “that color looks good on you.”

I spent $240 dollars. I bought 1 running skirt, 1 pair of hiking shorts, 3 skorts, 4 tank tops, a pair of Keen sandals and a light blue “Life is Good” baseball cap that has a pair of running shoes on it. I put back a pair of capri pants and two tops I didn’t think I needed. I did not go crazy. I left happy.

Very happy.

The sale is still going on....at least until Sunday.

http://www.titlenine.com/jump.jsp?itemType=CATEGORY&itemID=272#blowout

Today I turned to Eric and said, “A year ago you weren’t home.” I tend to do that a lot. “A week ago I was on vacation” or, “This time next month my period will start all over again.” Bullshit like that. That is what it is, bullshit. It’s past and future and never present. It’s the wrong way to live and I know it and I do it anyway.

But at 6:30AM this morning, I turned to Eric and said, “A year ago you weren’t home.” Instead of just being grateful to be in this wonderful moment, in his gregariously warm and loving embrace, a solid half hour before needing to leave the warmth of our bed, I let my mind travel back to last year. And when it did....when I arrived mentally to this very day and time in 2008 I found myself alone in my bed, thinking only of my future. A future filled with scenarios that escalated my fear and loneliness till I could barely breathe.

I’m so damn stupid.

I do want to always be grateful, I don’t want to turn my back. I don’t want to forget that we’re in a war in Iraq when it no longer affects me. I want to give back.

Eric and I always talked about us as a family doing more charity work. How we can give back, teach our children to give back, how we can benefit the world. We’re starting with a charity called, SALUTE, INC.

Salute, Inc. helps military families whose spouse is deployed and find themselves struggling financially. They also assist veterans returning home with disabilities. They find ways to get them whatever they need. When I first heard about this charity I was interested, when I found out the depths of what they do....I was hooked.

I can’t think of a better way to say thank you.

I’m running in August for the 2009 Chicago Rock-N-Roll Half Marathon, and trying to raise money for them. I’m asking for you to consider making a donation. No gift is too small and your donation is greatly appreciated!

Follow the link below to donate.
http://www.active.com/donate/TeamSaluteRNRchi09/lesliemitchell

For more information on SALUTE, INC.
http://www.saluteinc.org/

Leslie Mitchell

This year's Memorial Day will stand out for me as one of the greatest, most meaningful experiences of my life. My husband Eric, who returned home safely this past Thanksgiving from his year-long tour of duty in Iraq, was named GRAND MARSHALL of the Park Ridge Memorial Day Parade. I got to ride along beside him.

Barely over the city limits line, Park Ridge is a wonderful little Chicago suburb, and it shows. Beautiful tree-lined streets, architecturally diverse homes, a small town feel within a big city. Best of all, the most amazing people.

The parade began in a somewhat slow, surreal style with the marching of the Maine South High School Band. The VFW (Veterans of Foreign Wars) Color Guard Brigade presented our car, a cherry red late model Mercedes convertible. Eric was in full uniform, all of his medals and ribbons in full order colorfully displaying his own military history and achievements. As we turned the corner to begin the 4-5 mile route, I was overwhelmed with the massive amount of people. Mile after mile of men, women and children lined the street, decked out in red, white and blue....cheering and smiling and clapping with an infectious enthusiasm that had me grinning from ear to ear. Front yards were filled with homemade posters and banners, lemonade stands and "breakfast parade" parties.

Then I noticed the most amazing thing.

As parade watchers caught sight of Eric coming, they would stand up from their lawnchairs, take off their hats from atop of their heads, and clap. Clap hard. Hand-hurting hard. I watched them look him straight into his eyes and mouth the words, "thank you". Many would look him into his eyes and yell thank you aloud. Every front lawn became a standing ovation to a hero. To my husband. By being GRAND MARSHALL that day, he represented all the men in Park Ridge, Chicago, Illinois, and this country that sacrificed their lives so that ours can be better.

Once I realized the significance of this....it was all I could do to not cry. I waved and threw candy until it was gone.

Eric came home safely. But he did sacrifice his life. He sacrificed our life together. He came home safe. We were lucky.

I have always known and appreciated the true meaning of this great American holiday, but this was the first time where I got to truly "feel" it. And I am eternally grateful.