A closing date is set. Movers are planned. A personal vow to pack each and every weeknight from 6:30 - 8:30PM from now until October has been etched. I think to myself that a little bit at a time will ease the process of moving from my home in downtown Chicago to my new residence in Iowa. It's a battle. One picture taken off the wall throws it's first gash into my heartbroken chest, while the image of a new ceiling fan that completes the perfect look for my new dining room cuts it's hot metal blade into the nail and hanging wire, making it bow at my feet.

Sunday afternoon, just before Eric left for military school, we hugged each other in the center of our beautiful apartment. The apartment that I moved us to while he was in Iraq. Blood, sweat and tears went into every paint color, every decorative pillow, every specifically placed tchotchke. This has been our first home. He kissed my forward and tears came to my eyes. Gently placing his house keys on the kitchen counter top, he softly whispered. "This place did great for us hun, you did great." Then his next words echoed in my brain, words that he says over and over to me. "We're not meant to stay here, we're meant to move forward."

He will be at military school till November, and I will close this chapter for us both. Then I will open another one. In a new state, making a new home. Starting over. Moving forward. I promised Eric that in our new home that I would re-create our beloved chalkboard wall from our Chicago apartment. Guests throughout the years have left messages both funny and thoughtful. It is a colorful reminder of how loved we are. "We gotta do that again" he said.

I'm planning. I'm slowly moving forward, knowing that we're not meant to stand still. Wanting to do good for Eric, for us....for myself.

So....Friday....I HAD to get to the Quad Cities to see my DREAM HOUSE. Only, my dream house did NOT turn out to be my dream house. It turned out to be a constructional nightmare with the best of intentions. The man who owned the house obviously took an old beat up farmhouse and tried to create his own utopia....only to run out of money. Apparently, his wife and kids ran out of patience and took off for greener pastures....leaving him behind to sell the money pit he once cherished.

My parents, my realtor walked through the home politely and then left that joint and did not look back. Gingerly walking out the door to the heartbroken pleads of the seller stating, "just make me an offer, I'm very motivated to sell". As we drove away my Dad sighed, "poor guy, he was in WAY over his head. Now He's screwed".

Damn, that was the plan. To look at that house. The house that, in the four pictures included within the online listing....was my dream home. My ideal. I saw the listing the day before, and I drove 3 hours fantasizing on that house. There was nothing else. Now what? I sat in the passenger seat of my parents Camry....clueless and hungry. We were heading to Azteca, the only real Mexican restaurant in town, and a family favorite.

"You know, I drove around for hours on my motorcycle yesterday" my dad said, "I saw a house on Coffelt Ave. you might like." "I saw that house a month ago" I responded, telling him about my disgust of the endless rose wallpaper that plastered nearly every room of the 1st floor. "Ah hell, you can steam that off easily" my Dad said. My mother agreed. "You should look at it again."

I called my realtor Marty on the phone on our way to fajitas. It was still on the market. "I'll set it up and call you guys with a time." After lunch, we re-visited the house. What I failed to appreciate early in my home searching became all to clear now. I passed over the perfect place. "I remember Eric loved this backyard." Marty mentioned. True. He did. He loved the thick Oak trees and wooded grounds. He loved the large space between neighbors and the private feeling. I loved the location. A couple blocks from bike trails, shops and Mississippi River. Storage space, large deck, large kitchen, and the list goes on and on. These people took care of their home. A note inside the front door asked perspective buyers to please remove their shoes upon entering. Then the cherry on top: it was in Bettendorf. Just a couple streets into the city limit. "Best school system in the QCA." my Dad reminded me. True yet again.

What was I thinking? Why didn't I notice how great this house was before? Why didn't I see that this house is the ideal for both Eric and myself? There wasn't even a need for either of us to compromise here. But I was clueless. Boom. There was the rose wallpaper. Thick and expansive. Yuck. That blinded me. My Dad was calm and re-assuring. "I'll get someone to get rid of it all." he said. "Won't cost more than $500 total." He even promised to pick up the tab if I made an offer. Deal.

I called Eric. "I'm buying a house" I said. "Cool. Great!" Eric replied. "The dream house?" he said. "Well....no....and then....yes."

I went to my realtor's office Friday late afternoon to prepare the offer, and she called us Friday to say it was accepted. "Congratulations" she said. "You are a homeowner."

I'd like to think God teased me to get me to the Quad Cities....only to show me something more than I could have imagined for myself. As I drove there that morning, so excited to see what I thought was my "dream house" I kept trying to calm myself. I would ask God, "just do what you think is best for me Lord" I would repeat over and over as the mile markers went past. Sure enough...he did.

I am awake super-ass early this morning, coffee is grinding and shower is warming up. I'm leaving Chicago for the day, to look at what is potentially the last home for sale in the Quad Cities.

I've seen everything...EVERYTHING. Nothing is "quite right". The closest we came was a house in a great area that I felt a strong feeling of "I can work with this." It needed a new kitchen immediately and new windows, siding, and deck/landscaping eventually. We made an offer. They countered. They countered poorly and I got a bad taste in my mouth about the whole things. Dealer over.

That exact morning a listing showed. "NEW" was highlighted next to the description. The pictures wooed me. Artsy interior, open space, great color, textures and light. Great school district too. I saw a place for my office and a kitchen I can cook in. For Eric....a big, lush, green backyard. A private backyard. The size and emmensity of a yard that makes me make him PROMISE to take care of it. Like a small child with a puppy he will beg and plead for it, swearing not to ask for anything this upcoming Christmas.

This is the first time my gut is singing to me. It's fate. I want this house.

I'm going to look at it today with my parents. They are a lethal combination of love and protection for me with experience in home buying and construction. Since I mentioned how much I wanted to see it yesterday, their instinctive gears have been in overdrive. Researching, planning, investigating. My father has already announced his discoveries.

"You know that is not a wood floor it's a laminate." my dad sighed. "They have to pay for their own snow removal out there" my Mom exclaimed. So on, and so on. Their "pickiness" for lack of a better word - could be my savior or my downfall.

I'm at my end. If this house is not "the house" then we'll have to put the breaks on the search for now. We'll go to plan B or wait it out a few more months and see what is on the market. We have options. Eric reminds me that we are in no hurry. "Make sure you get what you want" he says supportively. A good friend reminded me that we are the "ideal buyer in this economic market." I know, I know...but I want this to be the house. I hate my brain rattling back and forth and leaving me empty. Giving me a deadline where we will not have a solid home. I want the house that speaks to me....and this is it. I wanna believe that with all the crappy things going on in the world, that God has taken the time out of his busy terrorism/corruption filled days to show me my house saying..."Leslie, here it is - go get it. And by the way, ha, ha, ha that I made you look at EVERYTHING ELSE before I showed you this one. Clever of me huh?"

I also know....as life tends to remind me, that whenever you force something...bad things happen. I AM going to look at this house on Friday, August 13th. Friday the 13th. Sheesh.I have to be sensible. I have to be open-minded. This is a big purchase.

All that in mind, I want this house. I want this to be the house. I want my Dad to say, "well, you know it has a lot of potential" and recommend I buy it. I want the seller to take my offer, and while he's at it, throw in his washer/dryer combo. I want the world to be rainbows and sunshine and taste like chocolate covered salty pretzels.

I want this to work out. I'm looking at my house today. On Friday the 13th.

There's only one passage from the Bible that I know by heart: Jeremiah 29:11


"For I know the plans I have for you," declares the LORD, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future."

There is even a plague of it in my home. A small blue and gold inscription set within a frame of dark walnut wood. Given to me nearly 10 years ago by a former next door neighbor wise beyond his years. He looked at me, and somehow he knew.

He knew that I was the type of person that if given a novel of my own life, I would indeed skip through everything like a tornado to get to the final pages, hoping for the happy ending.

In my running training, coach would constantly hound us all to keep a training log. The idea is that during those final tapering weeks, as your mileage drastically decreases as your body rests and the day of the marathon grows closer, you can look at this log and see how many miles you ran. You can witness every entry and know you did the work.

It's hard to have a log book for life. You're "doing the work" all the time unknowingly. So I have this plague, this scripture to repeat over and over in my head when I just can seem to see my life as clearly as I'd like. And for me, the times that are the most scary aren't when I can't see anything, it's when I can and do not know what it means.

Eric and I are going to buy a house. Soon. Before the year is out. I know what it looks like. I know that the trees are old and that the front door is elegant. The kitchen is the heart of our home and it's warm. I see it....but I don't know if it exists. I'm nervous that it doesn't. That is when I hear that scripture. When I run it over and over to calm me. God hasn't let me down yet. He showed me in a similar way when Eric was coming. I knew exactly what he looked like. His black hair, his hands, his honor of character.

Now, God is showing me my house. It's beautiful and warm, full of character. It's us. Now I just gotta find it.

Sitting in the shade on a beautiful day in Millennium Park this past week, my friend Kim and I shared a conversation about life and plans, hopes and dreams. Maybe not shared as much as me chatting endlessly into her charismatic ears, only pausing for brief moments to take in life-continuing necessary air. When the dust had settled on all the random thoughts I had, she calmly smiled and stated the obvious....”you gotta grow up sometime.”

She was right. I started today. I am now the proud owner of Le Creuset Cookware.

Le Creuset enamel cast iron cookware was created in Northern France in 1925 and has become the ultimate in chefdom worldwide. Because it’s cast iron, it has excellent heat distribution and retention, so it cooks food slowly and evenly under low heat, allowing the true flavor of the food, and all it’s spices, juices and various combinations achieve their ultimate amazing yummyness.

If a microwaved Lean Cuisine meal is like being awkwardly hit on in a dive bar by a 50-something unemployed loser who still lives in his parent’s basement, a meal cooked in Le Creuset cookware is like being taken on a motorcycle ride through Italy by George Clooney only to be delivered to his candlelit villa and into the lovingly open arms of Ryan Reynolds, Bradley Cooper and David Beckham.

This cookware symbolized refinement. The nemesis of youthful selfishness and quick riskful life choices. Le Creuset is a Fred Astaire dance. Elegant and wise. The greatest parts of adulthood. I was ready.

Like all Le Creuset cast-iron products, it is hand-cast in a one-of-a-kind sand mold and hand-finished at the Le Creuset factory in France - and it’s available in a variety of gorgeous colors. Each piece has a 101 year warranty. It’s the kind of thing family members hand down through generations of future chefs, also longing to grow up and grow beyond the basics of cooking. Because Le Creuset cookware is indeed the most awesome thing you’ll ever have in your kitchen, they are expensive as hell. One piece usually runs about $200 - $250 bucks. But I was experiencing a life trifecta: #1 - My husband Eric was not getting my subtle hints to help me with household chores, thus adding extra burden to my own daily workload. #2 - I had a “Preferred Member 35% OFF” coupon good between June 25th - July 4th. And finally, ultimately, #3 - My birthday was coming up.

Today was my day. I’ve been planning this for the last month. Today was the only day on the coupon that I was free to make the journey an hour out of Chicago to Aurora, IL. I was focused. Nothing else mattered. I dropped Eric off at church, (purposely knowing that God was on my side in this adventure and most likely with me in the car than within the four walls of our traditional Sunday meeting place), and powered my way down the highway through the down pouring thunderstorm to the Aurora Outlet Mall.

Parking in a prime location across from the Le Creuset store, I savored the visit, slowly making my way through the entire outlet, knowing full well where I really wanted to go, but not wanting the experience to end. The ultimate consumer foreplay, I strolled through a maze of shops, half-heartedly trying on sandals that only somewhat pleased me, taking in the smells of various unhealthy foods but never purchasing, and glancing into windows with the fake promise of returning to explore further.

Then finally, the Le Creuset store. An amazing spectrum of color and culinary knowledge. A shrine to the french chefs of the past and the enthusiastic hopes for my cooking future. Donning black aprons of pure french/dutch oven genius, the sales people where incredibly friendly and lovingly encouraging. They were the biggest supporters of my journey to adulthood. I could not fail.

Forty minutes later, I walked toward my car with a 5-quart Braiser (in Dijon Yellow) a 4.25-quart french round (in Caribbean Blue) and a 6.75-quart french oval (in Cherry Red) Julie, Julia & now Leslie. Delighted in my achievement, empowered by my growth, and excited for the future Leslie, the girl who is now a cultured woman. Would home-ownership, motherhood and a strong understanding of financial investing be just around the corner?

Packing my prizes into the trunk, one part of the life trifecta still frustrated me. The inevitable bi-monthly chat I again must have with my beloved husband Eric over needing him to help more with household chores. Grrr.

Then, last part of my life trifecta would ultimately exonerate and save me. My birthday was coming up. Shutting the trunk of my car and taking in a relaxing deep breath of 95% summer humidity, I walked into the COACH store and bought myself a purse. An expensive one.

Happy Birthday to me. I’ll grow up more later.

Okay, so the Chicago Blackhawks won the 2010 Stanley Cup, and although I grew up from age "it's a girl" till now being an overall Chicago teams fan, I will admit that I have only paid attention to the Blackhawks in the last two years. Here's why I think I deserve a bit more credit than being called a "bandwagon fan".

• I am from a hockey family. At the age of eleven, I was the first ever girl to play hockey in the city of Dubuque, IA. My story was in the Telegraph Herald newspaper and interviewed for a local cable access show. I got a Playmaker that year and made the travel team.

• Both of my brothers played college hockey (University of Iowa, University of Northern Iowa, and Iowa State University.)

• A show of our devotion? Our family owns the license plate HOCKEY for the state of Iowa since 1983. We ain't giving it up either.

• Throughout my childhood, my dad flooded my backyard from November till March, using snow for boards, attached floodlights to the 2nd story deck for playing at night, and created a warming house out of the basement garage with a walkout to the ice.

Mostly, I think I deserve extra "Blackhawks Credit" because I know what it feels like to skate hard and stop strong, blasting a fine mist of snow in the air. I know the feeling of the puck smacking against my stick from a perfect pass down ice. I know what the inside of a glove smells like, and the sound of the snap connecting to my socks.

I can close my eyes and feel the burn of the tug and pull of tightening my skates, and the intense focus I used when applying tape the curve of my stick. I was that kid, with red cheeks and sweaty hair matted down inside a helmet. I remember when ITECs came out, and when Cooper released long pants. I was the first girl to play hockey, and half the boys hated me out there on the ice, and the other half used me as the first example of girls and the early stages of sexual confusion.

When I watch a game, I'm there. That fast paced play, that snap of the puck to the stick. I'm back. I belong. I'm remembered. Now I may be rocking the sexy skirt and black boots, but that part of me that is a high dreaming sweaty kid hockey player is still there. Part of me is still smacking my brother along the iced-over snow drifts of our backyard ice rink in Dubuque.

A player is a million times better than a watcher. Watching is fair-weather, a sidelines neat and clean and nice smelling observer. A player is smelly and sweating and willing to get smacked into the boards and fights to get that puck in the net. The player is forgiven. You don't have to watch every game, be part of every battle, cause you're a member of giant the war.

I don't play hockey anymore, haven't since I was 13. Don't own skates and haven't seen the inside of a rink for years. Now I like pretty things, and have no desire to be any colder than I possibly need to be. November to March will find me wrapped in a warm quilt and desperately looking out my window for signs of spring.

But there is this childhood love of hockey, an enormous part of my family history and tradition. Spring and Summer were baseball and fall and winter was hockey. Plain and simple. Now grown up and grown beyond, there is still this sense I can go back and kick some hockey ass whenever I want. Just like a Chicago Blackhawk.

It's been a while since my last posting, which was about me training for the Boston Marathon. After I wrote that, I had an inkling that the training would encompass my heart, soul and legs for a good half of the next year, so I figured I'd need to give that particular writing it's own home. You can read every step of my training up through a couple days after the race at the following site:

www.600milestoboston.com

Now I'm back. The race is over, although parts of my body still ache. I can't really run more than 5 miles without feeling either pain in my left knee, or the ache of knowing there is no new challenge on the horizon. There's no goal for me to conquer.

I'm not at a crossroads, I'm at a dead end. I don't know what's next.

There's no going backward. There won't be anymore IO improv teams or sketch comedy shows, no more Boston Marathons. But I don't know what's next. I wish I did. I want to be excited about my life, fulfilled by it, and I long to discover something that reveals another layer of myself to me. I have interests. I am enjoying cooking more and more. I'm curious how the stock market works and investing. Trouble is, I'm not sure if these are "the next great thing."

Eric told me once that one of the reasons he fell in love with me was because of my drive, my passion. Right now I don't seem to have any.....or at least it's in a holding pattern waiting for me to give it something to be passionate about. As much as Eric loves that part of me, so do I. I'm not at the "totally freaked out scared that I'll never have passion again" level, but I'm at Defcon 3. Something needs to happen soon.

Both the Dali Llama and the back section of Oprah's magazine advise that if you don't know what the next step is to simply "BE" and it will come to you. BE. Stay still and BE. Calm, breathe, quiet and wait. That "next great thing" I am supposed to become will happen.

As much as I want to believe that, I keep thing of the words of Tom Petty. "The Waiting Is The Hardest Part".

So I have Oprah, Dali Llama....and Tom Petty swirling around in my head.

Maybe I'll sign up for a cooking class. Yeah, when you don't know what to do, just BE, only with knives.

Sunday is a designated rest day. No running workouts scheduled. I laid down on our living room couch at 1PM and when my eyes opened back up again they scanned immediately to the clock on the shelf. Twenty minutes to five. Dang. I crawled a few inches from my warm sanctuary to the switch for the Christmas tree and it instantly lights up. I gingerly re-wrapped myself in my grandma’s patchwork quilt and stayed on the couch, sleepily watching our tree and the cityscape behind it turn from dusk to black. A long time passed. I didn’t get up until I became more hungry than tired. Thirty six hours earlier I was standing on the corner of North Ave. & Larrabee Streets across from my apartment building, pitch black except for the streetlight overhead the bus stop. I was waiting for my running coach. We live in the same neighborhood which in turn makes us good carpool buddies. We were heading to the suburbs for our Saturday Long Run.

Chicago the city is very flat, and hill training is a must if you want to be a strong runner, the kind of runner that can handle Boston Marathon. And I do. It’s 32 degrees and spitting snow. Nothing is sticking yet it’s wet and damp and messy. As the wet pelts my face I can’t believe I’m in this moment. Standing on this corner, at this early hour, about to do what I'm about to do. I’m certain that the imprint my body made only 30 minutes earlier into the flannel sheets of my bed is still there and warm and I hopelessly imagine it’s every curve as my coach’s car approaches. It’s still dark as we travel an hour out of town to Morton Arboretum. Morton has hills, lots of them, and that’s where the Chicago runners go for hill training. The further we get from the city, the more black turns to gray and the snow sticks and the more white it becomes. From the inside of my coach’s warm volkswagon, the view is beautiful. It’s Christmasy and inviting. It’s a Bing Crosby song. Then it’s not. Reality hits me yet again. I’m about to run in this.

I’ve never run outside in this weather before. The non-runner, and even the recreational runner would say that running outside in this weather is insane or stupid and understandably both. The type of runner I was last year I would have slept in till mid morning, then possibly head to the warm comfort of my neighborhood gym to glide for 30 minutes on the elliptical machine, watching Brett Michael’s disasterous “Rock of Love” or some other indulgent trash reality tv show on a 6 inch screen devoted entirely to me. Now I want Boston. I want to be a good runner. I’m not alone. There’s a line of 6-7 vehicles waiting to get entrance into Morton, and in the distance I see group upon group of runners lightly jogging away. Snow is coming down well here, with a good 3 inches of white on the ground and no end in sight. “You’ve probably run in worse than this, right coach?” I quietly asked, not wanting to seem like a whimp, but also searching for some validation that this just might not be a good idea. “Well, it’s definately not good” he said. “You gotta really be careful today. Don’t worry about time.” I always worry about time, cause I’m always last. Since beginning with this group, I’ve already gotten a minute faster per mile, but I still bring up the rear. It sucks to bring up the rear. I hate it. I loathe it. I can’t wait to be good. I can’t wait to keep up. I can’t wait to easily converse with these runners and talk about random marathons and qualifying and times and be right in the same world as them.

Right now I just push myself to keep them in my horizon line as long as I can, that the colors of their jackets not leave my view. I push my legs and pump my arms till the back of my throat is dry and my breathing is heavy. I mantra in my head over and over not to lose them. They are gone before I hit mile two. Our car approaches the entrance and the guard in the booth informs us they were heavily sanding all trails, but with the weather hovering at the freezing mark best be careful. Runners have already reported falls. Now its 7:30AM, and I’m staring out the window of the Morton Arboetum warming house. Our running group is gathering. My nerves and two granola bars from earlier this morning have had a good two hours to digest that this run is actually going to happen, yet I still can’t seem to grasp it. “People do this,” I thought to myself, “now I’m one of those people.”

Out the window of the warming house, snow was still coming down. We’re missing two people yet, and with the weather being what it is there’s no hurry to start without them. A low running murmur of conversation about winter gear and stories of weather conditions from past years fill the time as we wait for the last two runners from our group to show up. Fourteen of us in all. Just as our coach begins his traditional Saturday morning pre-run pep talk, a runner walks in with two others, a huge mound of snow pressed against the side of her forehead. We all grow quiet, and our pep talk turns into a safety speech. “Go slow,” he says, “this is not about the pace but the miles. Be careful on the hills, go down them sideways if you have to, and if you feel youself sliding, head into the fluffiest snow.” We begin the run as a group, but as usual I lose them. My horizon line today even more blurred by the wet flakes of snow sticking into my eyelashes and dripping from the rim of my hat. I’m on my own again.

I’m a minute slower than normal, but my heartrate is as high as if I was making a dash for a finish line. I plod away, focusing on the ground beneath me. Keeping to areas that either have an abundance of sand or where the snow hasn’t been packed down yet. I greet or return a cautious “good morning” with other runners, and we all shout out either a plow around the corner or an extra ice warning. I hate this run. The damp cold vibrates through me and the muscles in my thighs and rear end feel every pounding inch of these hills. This snowfall teases me, dares me to land flat on my ass. I begin singing Christmas carols in my head. “Oh the weather outside is frightful...” and it helps me keep cadence with my feet. It also gets me past the first 3 miles. I’m fine again until mile 7, when I know I’m almost there, but I know I’m almost not. Finally, at mile 8 and the run is over. I never worked so hard for eight miles and yet again I have brought up the rear.

I change into warm clothes, and join the others in my running group in the Arboretum cafe, long into their coffees and conversations. The chatter of the day is who took falls and how bad. Apparently a lot of people did. I got lucky. I slid a few times but never fell, blissfully finding that fluffy snow the coach mentioned. We all wished each other a Merry Christmas and began the journey home. Still snowing. My body starts to let me know that it’s tired. I admit to my coach that I don’t like being last. He says not to worry about that. This is just the beginning. He promises that running hills on a day like today will make me better, faster, stronger. “You’ll see.” he says.

WARNING: As opposed to my other blog entries, the average reader may find this boring. Runners may be the only ones who appreciate this entry. So, if you are not a runner.....I’ve got other stuff coming. Stay tuned.

The Hot Chocolate 15K this past Sunday marked the end of the 2009 running season for me. Below is my review of the races I participated in (in chronological order).

• THE PHOENIX ROCK-N-ROLL HALF MARATHON (January)
What was nice about this race was no humidity. I had one of my best PRs of the season and hardly a drop of sweat. That, and the medal was cool. You rarely get a bad medal at a RNR (Rock-N-Roll) race event. The bad? WORSE COURSE OF THE YEAR. By far. Every brochure you’ve ever seen on Phoenix shows beautiful mountains and palm trees and gorgeous desert landscape. The course I ran was through the barrio. Seriously. I lived in Phoenix for 10 years (1993-2003) and I wouldn’t drive through most of the neighborhoods they had us run through. RATING: 2 Stars.

• THE SEATTLE ROCK-N-ROLL HALF MARATHON (May)
Seattle had so much to offer here. Using a running event as a vacation opportunity is a good way to go. You are exercising, so you have a guilt-free way to indulge in great local food, which we did happily. The people were incredibly friendly, and the course absolutely beautiful. Vibrant green and lush trees and gorgeous waterfronts. Most runners that I have come across that ran this race all distinctively recall a bald eagle resting on a tree branch along the trail at mile 6. Full view right on the trail. Never moved. It was amazing. Medal was really nice, and a good memory for Seattle. Popsicles and Kettle Potato Chips at the finsh were great. I would love to give this race my highest rating of 5 stars, however, as it was their inaugural race they had some bumps along the way....mostly transportation. Runners had to be shuttled across one of the lakes, and traffic caused us to miss the starting gun by nearly 30 minutes. They’ll get better about that (hopefully). RATING: 4.5 Stars.

• THE SALUTE MEMORIAL DAY 10K (late May)
Located in Arlington Heights, IL. This race is heavily themed (and rightly so) around the American Soldier. It’s incredibly patriotic, wonderfully small and neighborhoody. This is a town where nearly every house has a flag pole and a white picket fence. As we ran through the neighborhoods, I gawked open mouthed at these gorgeously modest homes and felt as if I was actively a part of a Norman Rockwell painting. It was a wonderful feeling to know this kind of world still exists. Proceeds from the race go to a charity called, Salute, Inc., which raises funds to help soldiers and their families in crisis. An overall feeling of gratitude and Americanism is in the air. Hell, they even have BBQ hot dogs after the race. Running with the smell of hot dogs on a charcoal grill in the air somehow makes you run faster. Worth the drive from Chicago. RATING: 3.5 Stars

• THE NIKE WOMEN’S 10K (July)
Always a blast, I run this every year. Just for women, in support of women. There’s a bond that you feel like you are the superior race. And for whatever reason, even though it’s in July it’s never too hot. The best tech shirt you will get too. RATING: 3.5 Stars

• THE CHICAGO ROCK-N-ROLL HALF MARATHON (July)
This race was my first experience running for a charity, TEAM SALUTE. If you’ve have never run for a charity before, I would highly recommend it. Make sure it’s one that you can relate to, as asking friends and family for money (especially in this economic climate) can be tough. Chicago really has the experience to run marathons and other professional races without a hitch. Well organized and planned. Best designed graphics for items to purchase and huge expo filled with cool stuff. Nice medal in a unique shape. Chicago loves running, and the people reflect that. The weather was good, and it was my best PR of the year. If you have never run in Chicago, you won’t be disappointed. Start with this one, then move on to the Chicago Marathon. RATING: 5 Stars.

• THE OAK BROOK (IL) HALF MARATHON (Labor Day)
WORST RACE OF THE YEAR! AWFUL. CARA (Chicago Area Runner’s Association) lists it as the best half marathon in Chicagoland. Whoever wrote that is either smoking something illegal or screwing the Oak Brook race director. It’s crap. The start was supposed to happen at 7AM, but because their packet pick up times were very limited (and in the suburbs - hard to get there) a majority of people opted for race day packet pickup. This slowed everything down as they were not prepared. A “rumor” spread throughout the gathering crowd that the race time was pushed back to 7:30AM....but no announcement was made formally. Then, the powers that be changed it to 7:15. Again, no formal announcement made. We all just heard a faint gun shot at 7:30 and started running. Water stations were placed too far apart from one another, and their only GU station was at mile 10. Too late. When it came time to pick up my gear, no gear check was to be found. Me and a few other runners asked 4 different volunteers and got 4 different answers. Incredibly frustrating. Finally, I found the gear check station, located (unmarked) behind a Muscle Milk Semi Truck. Blocked from view. Everyone I met associated with the race seemed incredibly clueless. To add to the misery, the medal is my worst of the year. Do NOT bother with this race. RATING: 0 Stars (and I want my gas money back!)

• THE QUAD CITIES HALF MARATHON ( early September)
The Quad Cities is really doing a good job with this marathon/half marathon. Aside from a few issues they have a good thing going here. They do a good job of organization, down to the logo and clothing graphics. The medal is nice, although it’s smaller in size all my other medals and as such and could be a bit bigger. The course starts off a little rough, some basic neighborhoods and some hills. Then, along the Mississippi, it’s quite beautiful. They also had Nestle Quick Chocolate Milk at the finish. The most amazing part of this race is the beginning. Not only do they have a huge American Flag at the Starting Line (quite a few races did this year of which I’m incredibly proud) but we all sang the Star Spangled Banner AND.....were lead in a prayer by a pastor who was also a runner. No other run I’ve ever taken part in has done that. Very beautiful. Very American, at least the America I want to be a part of. I wanted to live there. The only bad part was I think they do not know how large they are growing, and could really use a corral system. At 5’ 2”, I found myself very squashed and scared being pushed around by much bigger people. Seriously. Also, I stepped on the timing pad and just tiptoed for the next 4 minutes. I would have had a PR. I would like to run this race again, however, I will call them directly next year and ask if they have instituted a corral system. If not, skip it. They’ll wise up eventually. RATING: 4 Stars.

• THE CHICAGO HALF MARATHON (mid September)
Remember what I said earlier about if you’ve never run in Chicago that you will not be disappointed? You will be with this race. Located near the Museum of Science and Industry downtown, the only reason I signed up for this half marathon was because my cousin Cathy, also a runner, wanted to visit and go shopping. We can’t be in the same town without running, so we did this race. It’s a bitch to get to via public transit, and you really need to use public transit to get there cause parking is limited and extremely expensive. The course is B-O-R-I-N-G. It’s out and back, up Lake Shore Drive. It was a warm day, and with all that concrete soaking up the sun, I witnessed quite a few seemingly fit people go down puking. Not pretty. The medal is equally boring too. Second worst race of the year. Rating: 1 Star

• THE INDIANAPOLIS HALF MARATHON (AT LAWERENCE) (late September)
Drumroll please......BEST RACE OF THE YEAR! This was the marathon/half marathon that seemingly Mother Nature created. Set in a National Park, the race course was a vibrant flood of red, yellow and orange as the fall foilage welcomed us lovingly. It was awe inspiring. As we arrived in the morning, the gathering field for the runners was a welcoming sea of hay bales and bon fires, golden corn stalks and pumpkins. The smell of apple cider filled the air as we chatted and kept warm with other runners. I could not stop telling my friend Cristina how gorgeous this race was. Nicely sized (less than 5,000). The people were wonderful, fall designed medal and tech long sleeve shirt with the ultimate highlight: Oreos at the finish line. Highly Recommended. RATING: 5 Stars.

• THE HOT CHOCOLATE 15K (November)
This race got too big for it’s own good. It was nice an small last year, and always promotes that it offers the best swag. The swag indeed is good, but the promise of the end of the race being a “Chocolate Lover’s Paradise” is a bit too boastful than the end result. That, and it’s chilly. If it’s not chilly, it’s muddy. The final chocolate shaving on this race is, by November I’m ready for a break. RATING: 2 Stars.

Ultimately, the best part about running this year is that I realized it can be much more a part of my life, in a good way. Running for me has become an opportunity to travel and visit old friends, and within the realm of running I’ve made new friends that I cherish. That never really happened in previous years. I would go out, run along the lakefront alone, then come home. I was scared that I was too slow or that no one would possibly care. I kept that world at arm’s length, wrongly assuming that I was not going to be welcomed. As I’ve started signing up for organized runs, I’ve realized not only that there is a vast community available, I’ve been slowly and happily sucked into it. I’ve made some wonderful girlfriends this year of all levels of running talent, that through their friendship, I feel more of a runner than ever before. I’m so very grateful to them.

This running is a baby-step process, and I’m getting there. I still have a lot to learn. Heck, just today I had to ask my running gal-pal Rachel what a 800X4 meant. I’m clueless. I’ve never trained to my full potential, never joined a group. Could I be running better than I think I could? What do I not know? 2010 seems exciting. I’m already set for many half marathons, which are going to give me the opportunity to visit friends I have not seen in a while and friends I want to bond closer with. Races I have never run. New places to explore and medals to admire. Mostly, new stories to tell. A new me to show myself through this medium I enjoy. The only thing that will stay the same is the butterflies I get when I come up to that starting line.

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.