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.

WARNING: All that you are about to read is currently nothing more than a hypothetical rant that has been currently torturing me.

My husband Eric is looking into new job opportunities, some of which are not located in our current hometown of Chicago, IL. Although it’s not uncommon for families to move for a job, especially in an economy like this people “need to do what they need to do”. For whatever reason, in my mind I just never imagined us leaving Chicago. Deep inside the regions of my brain is this “ideal life” I had for myself and moving does not compute. What seems even more frightening is the idea of moving back to the state of my childhood, Iowa. One of the jobs Eric is considering applying for is in the town both my parents and brother’s family reside, Davenport, IA, two and a half hours away from Chicago. When Eric and I discuss our “maybes, our what ifs, and our could bes” about a moving to Iowa, we focus on the “pros” - lower cost of living, schools, family, less traffic, opportunity and security. Kids can be kids, run through backyards, go to public school for a top-quality education, and you can own a huge, beautiful home for the price of a 2-bedroom Lakeview condo. All good, if not great aspects. The only trouble is....it’s Iowa.

When I think of Iowa, I slam hard into the brick wall of my childhood. I think of this pudgy, four-eyed, awkward girl who was shadowed by her popular brothers and intense father, who didn’t seem to get anything right, and who couldn’t wait to get out. I didn’t seem to fit in Iowa. I easily faded into the background of my own life. Even now, when visiting there for a little too long, I sense myself reverting into that sad little girl. Seeking comfort in sweets, embarrassed to speak my mind in conversation, not belonging.

I left Iowa 3 weeks after graduating college and headed to the big city of Phoenix, Arizona. I bloomed. I wasn’t reminded of who I was and as such was given this free canvas to begin anew. I developed a person that wasn’t known as someone else’s daughter or sister, but carved from my experiences and challenges, ones that I took on alone and either failed or succeeded. I lived and learned there for 10 years. These last 6 years I’ve lived in Chicago, IL., and grew upon that person an even stronger one. I really like the woman I’ve become, and I don’t want to lose her. I’m nervous. Would I fall victim to Iowa? Lose my power, my strength, who I am? Could I become even more powerful, and make Iowa work for me? Turn it into the best aspects of both cities?

I do want to raise a family. I want the hustle and bustle of the city with a quiet front porch and hang my laundry on the line to dry in the summer. I want my kids to run through backyards and play street hockey without too much worry. I also wanna get good sushi when I’m in the mood and see a broadway-style play whenever I want. I adore hearing the train and yet I want my kids to catch fireflys in a jar. I do want to have a home, money in the bank, and a plan for my future. I do....I do want it all. Is that even really possible?

And of course....all of this....EVERY WORD AND THOUGHT....ALL OF IT....is hypothetical.

For now.

Before this year is over, I’ll be done improvising. I began in 1997 with Louis Anthony Russo and The OxyMoron’Z and I’ll hang it all up at Improv Olympic (iO) in Chicago before 2009 is done. A huge aspect of my life will be over. It’s time. The world of improvisation is an amazing drug, a gotta-have-it comedy heroin that will change your life forever. It has changed mine immensely.

Improvisation revealed to me an inner strength I had never known, lifelong friendships I deeply cherish, and opportunities that I never could have dreamt for myself. It seemed as if improv knew me better than I did....and as the years progressed my creativity soared. Everything became more vivid in general. Improvising drove my interest into writing, directing, traveling and performing in festivals. Improvisation made me a better thinker, organizer, conversationalist. I’ve been madlly in love with it, and I’ve hated it for taking over my life so fully.

In the last two years, I’ve been figuring out how to let improvisation go. It wouldn’t let me until now. Now it knows I’ll be okay. Improv knows that I’m ready for the next great things life has to offer me....a deeper delve into sketch comedy writing and performing, new interests that are nibbling at my heart, and family. That’s the way it’s supposed to be, and that’s the way that improv wants it for me. I’m eternally grateful. I fought this realization for a while, wanting to stay loyal and scared of the unknown combined. Now there is a peace. A wonderful, happy peace that now savors every moment of play until the last.This week begins the first show of my last team at Improv Olympic. It’s going to be fun. I’m lucky. I’m grateful. I’m an improviser.

(Let me just preface this note with saying that I am NOT in any way speaking about my own husband Eric. In fact, I am quite lucky.)

Over this past month I've come across quite a few men that in conversation have seemingly done their darnest to show to me their "tough side". They fit everything stereotypical of what THEY BELIEVED a REAL MAN was....and seemed quite proud of it. At first I found myself unimpressed, then sad....now...slightly angry.

Here is what my simple 3-step definition of a REAL MAN is:

1. A real man honors his wife. She should never for a second doubt that she is loved and valued.

2. A real man takes care of his children. Not only from the financial sense, but help them grow into their strength as human beings.

3. A real man praises God for his successes and prays for guidance throughout tough times.

Done.

I do not understand why....I swear to God Almighty I do not understand why...but I am increasingly becoming fascinated by Pie Birds. They seem so delicate and beautiful and intimate. Warm and sweet and pleasant. They have a specific and necessary purpose, making pies turn out wonderful. That seems like an amazing task to have in life. Can you imagine if that was your end goal for your life, to provide sweet happiness? Who doesn't love pie? All this tiny creature does is make things better.

Whenever Eric and I travel together we try to find a Christmas ornament to hang on our tree. That is the only thing I collect. We currently have ornaments from Nashville, Montreal, New Orleans, Tucson and Washington D.C. After this year is over hopefully we will have ornaments from Spain, Italy, Greece, Turkey, Malta and Seattle.

Now....I want Pie Birds. I want TONS of them. I want friends to bring me Pie Birds from their travels and I will be forever grateful. I'll replace my future emotional eating episodes with trips on Google and Etsy and search for sweet completeness in the form of a 3-inch ceramic steam pastry escaper. It's all I can do to not go online now and buy 4 & 20 of them. I want to "own" their simplistic, sweet life.

Perhaps one day I'll also bake a pie.