With All Due Respect, Here are My Pet Peeves

I have some pet peeves. Like most pets, my peeves need a bit of nourishment and exercise in order to thrive. So I’m dedicating today to giving my peeves a long leash to stretch their legs and grab some grub.

Pet Peeve Number 1: Things People Say When They Really Mean The Exact Opposite.

I’ve noticed a number of common phrases that sound well intentioned. But when you listen harder you can hear the real meaning.

Take “no offense intended” as an example. Whenever someone starts a sentence this way it's a guarantee that the next words they utter WILL be offensive. And it’s intended. Here’s how it works:

Statement: No offense intended, but I wouldn’t feel comfortable wearing such a
tight blouse.
Translation: You look like a whore.

Another phrase that never means what it says is “with all due respect.” If someone says this to you, you can bet your bottom dollar that they don’t respect you. Example:

Statement: With all due respect, I don’t think your idea will work.
Translation: You’re an idiot.

That's why, from now on whenever I hear these phrases, I plan to read between the lines, play devil's advocate, not take anything for granted and make sure that I’m looking at the issue from all sides.

Pet Peeve Number 2: Reality TV Involving Celebrities Who Are Not Celebrities.

From time to time, I like to watch a little reality TV. I’ve enjoyed The Amazing Race and The Next Food Network Star. I'll even admit to being sucked in by Survivor. That's why I’m willing to conceded that reality TV, in itself, is not evil

What is evil is when reality TV shows trot out a bunch of has-been second rate celebrities merely so the viewers can watch them disintegrate. What’s even worse is when the “celebrities” are nothing more than fame mongers looking for a platform to feed their own colossal egos.

Reality TV, I’m calling you out.

Actors are celebrities. Musicians are celebrities. Athletes are celebrities.

But the ding a ling daughter of a hotel billionaire is a spoiled brat. She is not a celebrity.

An impeached governor? Not a celebrity.

An impeached governor’s wife with a vocabulary that makes a sailor blush? Not a celebrity.

A divorced mom with eight kids, hair extensions, and a makeover? Not a celebrity.

The eighteen year old high school kid who impregnated the daughter of the former governor of Alaska? NOT a celebrity.

I'm proposing a new rule. From now on to be a reality show celebrity you need to have done something worth celebrating. And fanning the flames of your own unfathomable fame doesn't count.

Pet Peeve Number 3: People Who Use Their Blogs to Babble On and On About Their Pet Peeves.

These people are the worst. They're the kind of people who are so full of themselves that they just have to start their own blog. Then all they do is preach their own point of view, boast about their kids and protest their personal pet peeves.

Actually.....I’m going to revise my position on this one. It turns out preaching, boasting and belly aching is fun.

So with all due respect, and really there is no offense intended, please stop being a jerk so I can go and watch Celebrity Bullfighting - staring Charro as the matador and that guy from the Subway commercial as the bull. I'm sure it will provide me with some entertaining material for my next blog.

Nature's GPS

A few weeks ago I was in Chicago to attend a conference with a coworker. When we left the conference my coworker was driving and I was navigating. I had written directions, a map and a GPS on my lap. Our course was simple; we needed to make three turns to get onto the highway, a left and two rights. After that, it was a straight shot to home.

Ten minutes after leaving the conference, we were lost on Michigan Avenue. After crossing Wacker Driver for the fourth time, we decided to stop trying to figure things out ourselves and just trust our handy little GPS, whom we had been ignoring until now. Good thing we did or we would probably still be winding in and out of the crowded Chicago streets, trying to find a way out of the rush hour traffic.

This isn’t the first time I’ve gotten lost in the city. I have a terrible sense of direction. One wrong turn, and I can’t tell the difference between north and south. Eventually, I become hopelessly lost and have to stop and ask for help.

I try to avoid mishaps by spending some time studying a map and planning my route. But despite my preparation, I often end up following a road I didn’t expect before I can get back on track. Sometimes I never get back on track and end up following a totally different path than I had planned.

It’s funny how an experience on the roadways can make one reflect about experiences in life.

When I was sixteen, I mentally charted the course I wanted my life to take. First, I would attend a prominent and prestigious university. Then I’d take a fabulous and high paying job in an exhilarating metropolis. I’d live in a stylish condo in a trendy neighborhood. I’d eat at elegant restaurants and attend extravagant events. Marriage and a family were not part of the picture.

I had it all mapped out. At least I thought I did. But then, like a road trip to the mountains that ends at the beach instead I didn't end up where I thought I was going. A few roadblocks, a couple of detours, and some new and more promising paths, caused me to revise my route.

First, I found that my initial choice of profession didn’t match my strengths. Engineering was not my thing. I made a course correction and went to law school.

As time went on, I reevaluated my position on marriage and family. I fell in love four times - first with Ken, then with our three children.

Finally, I discovered that city life wasn’t as exciting and glamorous as I had imaged. I adjusted my route and ended up in a small town in the Midwest.

With all of these changes, detours and course corrections, you would think I would feel lost. But I don’t. I feel found. And in the process of getting found, I’ve learned a few things about the road of life.

I’ve learned that despite all of our planning and preparations, once you are on the road you may discover some unexpected twists and turns. Some may lead to wonderful and unexpected surprises. Others may lead to dark and lonely alleys. But regardless of the where they may go, the detours will happen and you just have to accept them.

Another lesson I’ve learned is that when you do get lost, you don’t have to find your way back on your own. It’s OK to stop and ask for help.

And the biggest lesson I’ve learned is that when you're feeling lost, you may need to let go and trust something or someone who has a superior point of view. Some people dub it a gut instinct. Some say it’s a Higher Power. Other’s call it God.

That's why I’ve chucked my map and pitched my itinerary. I’m taking the roads as they come. And I'm trusting in nature’s GPS to make sure that I get where I need to go.

Why I Don't Want to Win the Lottery

Recently the Power Ball lottery skyrocketed to a few hundred million dollars. A friend of mine at work reminded me to stop a buy a ticket on the way home. I didn’t.

Part of the reason I skipped buying a lottery ticket was that I’m too lazy to park at the Shop N Save, go inside, color in a bunch of tiny circles, wait in line and pay for a ticket. Yes, I am THAT lazy.

Another reason I didn’t get a ticket was because I knew that I had a better chance of getting struck by lightening than I did of winning the lottery. But the biggest reason I didn’t buy a lottery ticket is because I couldn’t figure out what I would do with all that money.

Would I fly around the world in my private jet? Would I buy a beach house in Beverly Hills? Or would I spend my days drinking mimosas on a secluded tropical island?

In the spirit of lottery fever, I tried to imagine sunning myself on the deck of my private yacht. I pictured my personal servants, Chad and Arturo, feeding me truffles and caviar served on Royal Copenhagen bone china. In this fantasy, Chad and Arturo were wearing swim trunks and black bow ties. Things were getting interesting.

Unfortunately, I didn’t get too far into the dream when a two year old toddled over to me and screamed “Mommy I need to use the potty.” At this point, Chad and Arturo scowled and jumped overboard. Then the bubble burst and I was back in my suburban living room surrounded by Legos.

When I ponder the lives of excessively rich people, like Paris Hilton or Donald Trump, the thoughts that come to mind are late night parties, extravagant and exotic meals, expensive clothes and jewelry, fast cars, personal airplanes and big boats.

It sounds nice, in theory. But then I think about all of the things I would miss once I was wealthy. Despite all the jet setting and elbow rubbing, I would probably continue to crave the benefits of being a regular Joe.

For one thing, I’d miss having a private life that was really private. I’d hate to wake up after a night on the town and discover that my late night indiscretions were being covered by CNN. I’d also miss wearing my sweat pants and an old T-shirt to run to the market on Saturday morning without fear of appearing in the “Fashion Don’t” section of People magazine.

But most of all, I’d miss pizza.

One of my favorite foods is a greasy east coast pizza with a bubbly crust, slathered with tomato sauce and finished with mounds of mozzarella. The dish I’m talking about is best when served by the slice from a street side shop that, despite only having 3 rickety tables, has a line out the door on Friday’s during lent.

If the man popping the pie into the oven is wearing a white t-shirt stained with spaghetti sauce and answers to the name of Sal or Gino, it’s even better. If he also speaks fluent Italian, it’s Nirvana.

Basically, I’m talking about a good eats kind of dish that can only be found at a hole in the wall. It’s the kind you’ll never find on the menu at Chez Nose-In-The Air or on the French Riviera. It’s the kind of dish that reminds you of hot summer nights sitting around the dinner table with Mom, Dad and your sisters and fighting over the last slice of pepperoni. It’s the kind of dish that Paris and the Donald probably never get to eat.

Now, I know what you are thinking. If I win the Power Ball, I can buy my own chain of pizza restaurants. Or I could have a pie flown in on a helicopter and delivered to my yacht.

I’ve already considered that possibility.

The problem is, if I used my affluence to acquire Sal’s pizza joint, Sal would insist I send him to culinary school. And before I could say “parmigiano”, he and Gino would be dressing my pies with fancy ingredients like lemon grass and brie. Then Chad and Arturo would insist on serving it as an amuse-bouche (small bite) on a silver platter. They would demand that I use a fork.

No thank you.

When I eat pizza, I want to pull it out of a cardboard box and plop in onto a paper plate. I want to watch the molten mozzarella melt and drip over the crust. I want to fold the crust into pizza sandwich. And when I take the first bite, I want to taste the sweet flavor of marinara unspoiled by caramelized capers or poached pears.

So next week when you are stopping at the Gas N Go to buy your lottery tickets look for me at the pizza joint next door. I’ll be ordering the large pie with mushrooms and sausage to go. If your ticket doesn't hit, feel free to join me for a slice.

The Rocking Chair Test

On Saturday afternoon, between two and three o’clock, Hurricane Beth descended on our family room. She left a wake of destruction in her path. I considered enlisting the assistance of the National Guard to clean up the mess. But I suspect the job would have overwhelmed them. So I spent the next three hours putting puzzles and books back on the shelves and pulling Lincoln Logs out from under the couch. What a mess.

Don’t let me give you the impression that my house is ready to be declared a total disaster. Ken, or as I call him, The Maid, does a great job scrubbing the floors and sanitizing the sinks. But every once in a while, as I scan the blocks, Legos and dolls strewn across the carpet, I wonder what it would be like to have a home that looked more like page 5 of the Pottery Barn catalogue and less like Pompeii after a volcanic eruption.

I envy people who are neurotically neat. You know who I mean. People who store their Tupperware in precise stacks according to size and shape instead of letting the containers crash on their heads every time they open the cabinet. People who catalogue the loose screws and nails on the workbench in the garage instead of stuffing them into a tin can. People who alphabetize their sock drawers. Megan....I am talking to you.

Unfortunately, I am not one of those people. But if I had my choice of obsessive compulsive disorders, I’d select fanatical neatness over the one where you're constantly checking to make sure you locked to doors to the house.

Sometimes, I sit down and start to inventory what it would take to raise our house from “lived in and homey” to “my home is my castle.” We can’t do everything. So if we are am going to spend more time organizing the spice drawer, then we need to skip Eric’s hockey game. If we are going to line up our linens according to thread count, bed time stories will be sacrificed.

After a bit of balancing and a lot of bickering, Ken and I have tacitly agreed to tolerate a bit more clutter in our lives. By doing this, we’re admitting that a picture perfect house does not meet our Rocking Chair Test.

I recently learned of the rocking chair test while reading random essays on a website called “This I Believe.” The gist of the test can be summed up by asking, “When I am an old lady sitting in my rocking chair, will I look back on my life and wish I had spent more - or less -time (fill in the name of the activity).”

For example, when I am an old lady, will I wish I had spent more time polishing the toaster? Probably not. On the other hand, when I am old will I wish I had spent more time holding my babies. Yes.

That means that polishing the toaster does not meet my rocking chair test but holding my babies does. I need to spend more time focusing on the things that meet my test and less time on the things that don't.

Applying the rocking chair test is a great way to align your values with your priorities. If you value education, you’ll regret it if you don’t finish your degree. If you value family, you need to spend more time playing catch with the kids instead of working at the office every Saturday. You're future self will be disappointed with you if you don't.

Just like no two snowflakes are the same, no two people have the same rocking chair test. And how a person applies his or her rocking chair test may change as the years go by. For some people, polishing the toaster may meet their rocking chair test, even if it does sound hopelessly neurotic to me.

Right now, my rocking chair test does not involve a pristine family room. But lucky for me, it does involve cuddling in bed and watching Saturday morning cartoons.

Kiss My Paisley Pants

“That’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.” Ken says.

He’s pointing the new spring jacket I bought the day before. I had been feeling a bit down. So I did what any red blooded American Girl would do, I went shopping.

On this particular shopping trip, I had promised myself that I would not buy anything brown or black. It was time to get out of my fashion rut, I told myself. I stuck to my pledge and came home with an avocado jacket.

“You really don’t like it?” I ask.

“It’s hideous.” He says.

At least I can count on Ken to give his honest opinion. Not that it’s always necessary.

A lot of women might feel affronted by such a candid response. But it doesn’t bother me for two reasons. First, I like the jacket. It has a bold color and the length and cut are perfect. Second, I know that the man who is questioning my sense of style has the fashion sense of a blind beggar.

At the same time he is criticizing my new clothes, my fashion dysfunctional husband is wearing ten year old faded blue jeans with torn knees and a ratty blue t-shirt. And these are his “Sunday” clothes.

Admittedly, I’m only a few steps ahead of Ken. I don’t carry a designer handbag and my shoes were not made in Italy. I blame it on being a mom.

I spend too much energy choosing between the Mickey Mouse and the Care Bear diapers and don't have time left for much else. I’ve also come to the conclusion that I’m not going to find many chic outfits on the thirty percent off racks at Target.

In some ways, my remedial sense of style is a disappointment to my gender. As an example, most women boast a closet full of shoes. I have ten pair. That includes two pair of sneakers and my pink fuzzy bedroom slippers. The rest are sensible brown and black pumps that I wear to work. (By the way, Ken still argues that I have too many shoes - he has three pair.)

I wish I were more like my friend Kristin. She has enough fabulous shoes to open her own department store. I’m pretty sure she could wear a different pair every day and not repeat until the end of the decade.

Shoes aren’t the only reason I envy Kristin. I’m also jealous because she’s about ten years younger than me and dresses like a movie star. She has great taste and an eye for style. And it doesn’t hurt that she has the kind of body that would make sack cloth and ashes look like a photo spread for Vogue.

Looking at Kristin’s colorful and coordinated outfits makes me assess my fashion rut. Do I really need a dozen pair of black trousers and five pair of tan or brown? Maybe adding a few more colors to my wardrobe will make me look a bit less like an advertisement for Gothic Garanimals.

That’s why I bought the avocado jacket. And if “Mr. I’ve Been Wearing the Same Shirt for Two Days” doesn’t like it, he can kiss my paisley pants.

Diamonds Are Nothing But Overachieving Lumps of Coal

Two hundred kilometers beneath the earth’s surface, carbon atoms are exposed to extreme heat and pressure. A few million years later, the carbon becomes a diamond.

Diamonds are forever. Diamonds are a girl’s best friend. Diamonds are the gift of love.

Really?

I thought diamonds were just pressed carbon. Over achieving lumps of coal. Sparkly rocks.

A few years ago Ken and I celebrated our tenth anniversary. He offered to buy me a new diamond ring. I said no.

We took a family trip to the St. Louis zoo instead. Eric was not quite two. I can still see Eric's grin as he waved at the lions and giraffes. Now that was golden.

I know what you’re thinking. “Girl, you are crazy!"

I am crazy. I am crazy because I talk to me cats. I am crazy because I am afraid of haircuts. And I am crazy because when I look at diamonds all I see are shiny stones.

People tell me that diamonds are precious metals. People tell me that diamonds have tremendous value. People tell me that I should desire diamonds.

I don’t.

I’ve seen diamonds. Sure they sparkle. Sure they shine. But they are still just lumps of compressed carbon, the remains of prehistoric seaweed.

Diamonds are not a girl's best friend. A husband who bakes lasagna for your birthday is a girl's best friend. Diamonds are not forever. The feeling of holding your newborn baby in your arms is forever. Diamonds are not the gift of love. A child, holding your hand as you watch the giraffe at the zoo is a gift of love.

Diamonds don’t giggle when you tickle their tummies. Diamonds don’t give you a hug when you wake up in the morning. Diamonds don’t sit in your lap and sing “The Itsy Bitsy Spider.”

Diamonds won't come to visit you when you are in the hospital. Diamonds won't bring you chicken soup when you are sick. Diamonds won't tell you that they love you.

Three paper roses are arranged in a plastic cup that sites on top of my dresser. The word “Mom” is printed on the cup in red marker. The flowers and cup were a gift from my children last Mother’s Day.

My three paper roses and my plastic cup are more valuable than any diamond could ever be.

Medal of Honor

Author's Note: Prepared for my writing class.

Joe’s fingers traced the outline of the silver star pinned to his shirt.

“I got this one for saving my unit at Khe Sanh.” He said.

Arlene, Joe’s mother, sighed as Joe told about how he was on patrol with his buddies. He described his crew of four slipping through tangles of vines and branches, listening carefully for any sign of the enemy. Then Joe told how they left the jungle to follow a shallow stream. That’s where they stumbled across a platoon of enemy soldiers.

Arlene sat up straight in the cold wood chair, facing Joe. She folded her hands carefully on her lap and tried to be still so that she didn’t startle Joe.

Joe sat on the edge of his bed. He was dressed in blue sweatpants, a gray T-shirt and white tube socks. It was the same outfit he had worn for the past two days. Arlene wondered whether he had worn it to bed as well. She thought about asking him but decided to let it pass.

On the other side of the bed, the navy blue curtains had been drawn and, except for the dim glow of the lamp on the bedside table, the room was dark. Joe liked it best that way.

Arlene could make out a pained expression on Joe’s face as he described hearing shouts in a language he didn’t understand.

“It was the Viet Cong.” Joe explained. He lowered his voice as if saying the name of his enemy might invite them into the room.

Joe continued. He described the popping sounds and explosions as guns were fired and grenades were tossed. He told Arlene how he took cover as best he could and that he had fired back. He described his confusion as his squad leader barked orders. He told how his blood had pumped so hard that all he could really concentrate on was the sound of his own heart beating.

Then, Joe paused as he spoke about his best friend, Elliot, and how he had been shot in the chest. Joe described the pained look on Elliot’s face as he fell to the ground, covered with mud and blood.

“That’s when I knew Elliot wouldn’t be going back to base with the rest of us.” He said.

A tear rolled down Joe’s cheek. He closed his eyes for a moment, willing himself to forget. Then, after wiping his eyes with the palm of his hands, he continued talking. Arlene pulled a tissue from her purse and handed it towards Joe. He ignored her offer and kept talking.

As Joe talked, Arlene resisted the urge to reach over and brush his unruly black hair away from his face. He had stopped getting his hair cut last month. After that he had stopped combing it too. It was getting messier each day.

She was sure he had lost weight. Too much. At least twenty pounds she guessed. His eyes looked dark and hallow and his complexion was pale.

More than anything, Arlene wanted to pull Joe close and squeeze him until his pain dissolved. She had tried that once last week. It had made Joe furious.

He had jumped to his feet and screamed, “I’m not a baby. Why do you treat me like a baby?”

When he had pounded his fists on the wall and turned over the table in the corner, Arlene had fled from the room.

She had spent over an hour sitting on the floor in the hallway with her head buried in her hands. She could hear the orderlies trying to reason with Joe and then the sounds of him shouting and cursing and struggling with them. Finally, after several tense minutes, the night shift nurse had stepped out of the room and told her that Joe had been given a sedative. The orderlies had been directed to stay with him until they were sure he was asleep.

When the orderlies had gone, Arlene slipped back into the room to watch her son sleep, just like she had done when he was a baby. But even in his rest, his face had been distorted. Arlene had wondered what dreams were haunting him.

Now, as Joe spoke, instead of hugging her son, Arlene sat still and listened. She had heard this story before. She knew how it ended. Eventually, Joe made his way back to base, just in time to warn his troop of the coming attack. The base was saved and Joe received a medal for his bravery.

When Joe finished speaking, his round chestnut colored eyes met Arlene’s. He leaned in closer to her, as if he were expecting her to say something. To congratulate him for his courage. To thank him for serving his country.

But how could she? None of it was true. Joe was a kid, a senior at Rosemont Prep. He had never been in the army. He had never been to Viet Nam. The war he claimed to have fought had ended seventeen years before he was born.

Cautiously, Arlene reached over and touched Joe’s hand. He didn’t jump. That was good.

“Mom?” Joe said “Do you think Elliott will come and visit me tomorrow?”

Arlene shook her head slowly. They had had this conversation before too. The doctor had told her to be honest. To tell Joe the truth. But every time she tried he flew into rage and called her a liar. Right now, Arlene felt too exhausted to go through that again.

“Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe next week” She whispered.

Joe looked past her as if in a daze. He smiled. Maybe he was thinking of the warm summer days swimming in the pool instead of obsessing over Viet Nam.

Arlene’s eyes watered. She didn’t want to tell Joe, again, that Elliott would never visit him in the hospital. And neither would Lonnie or Gregg. They had all died in the plane crash, along with half of the senior class.

Arlene missed Elliot too. He had been Joe’s best friend since kindergarten. They shared a love of soccer, chess and video games.

Elliot was smaller than Joe, but more agile and athletic. He had blonde hair, intense blue eyes and a contagious smile. Everyone liked Elliot. And he brought out the best in Joe, who tended to be more reserved.

It would be two months on Monday since the accident.

Just two months? Arlene thought. It seemed like forever since Joe and Elliot were hanging out in the basement playing Nintendo, eating Doritos and leaving the place a mess.

Joe had planned to be with his friends the day they died. The World Cultures class had been getting ready for the spring break trip to Asia since September. Then Joe’s second quarter report had arrived in the mail. Arlene was furious. Joe had failed both tests on the Viet Nam War.

When Arlene had brought the matter up over dinner Joe just laughed.

“What’s the big deal?” He had said. “I’ve already got my acceptance letter for Princeton. I can just cruise the rest of the year.”

Arlene didn’t agree. Joe needed to be taught a lesson about responsibility. So she had put her foot down and cancelled his reservation for the class trip. He didn’t speak to her for two weeks. But she had held firm.

Charles had tried to intercede for Joe. “He’ll be off to college soon.” He said. “Let him have one last romp with his buddies.”

But Arlene had grown tired of Charles constantly trying to undermine her from across the country in San Diego. The more he argued Joe’s case, the more she had dug in her heals.

After the plane carrying Joe’s classmates went down just after take-off, Arlene had grieved for their lost friends. But inside, she had felt relieved that Joe hadn’t been with them.

Arlene looked up from her thoughts. Joe was talking again. His fingers absently caressed the star on his shirt. It was made of plastic and had the word “sheriff” printed on it in large block letters. One of the orderlies probably gave it to him. Arlene would need to speak with the staff about it before she left.

As Joe continued, Arlene looked into his eyes, hoping to catch a glimpse of the boy she used to know. The one who use to wear Spiderman jammies and build snow forts in the back yard. The one who ate pancakes and bacon covered in maple syrup every Saturday morning. The one who would burst out of the school every day at three o’clock and rush to the soccer field. The one who hated history class.

Instead, all Arlene saw were his empty eyes.

Joe kept talking. He started telling her about the village just south of his unit’s home base.

“The locals came in to trade fresh vegetables for cigarettes. They wanted to sell the cigarettes on the black market. We thought we were doing them a favor.” He said. “What we didn’t realize is that the one of them was an enemy spy. That was our big mistake.”

In two weeks, the remaining seniors at Rosemont would graduate. The administration had settled on a small, understated ceremony in the school auditorium. There would be lots of tears but no awards. And no valedictorian.

The underclassmen had collected enough in donations to decorate the entire school with yellow roses. The junior class president would announce plans to build a memorial in the school yard over the summer. The boys and their parents would cry and cling to each other for support.

At the end of the ceremony, Brother Gabriel, the Head Master, would confer honorary degrees on the classmates who had died in the crash. Their parents would walk forward with grave faces and receive the diplomas in honor of their sons. The names of the teachers and chaperones, who died in the crash, would be read. Then there would be a moment of silence.

But Joe wouldn’t be there. Arlene had checked him into St. Paul’s Psychiatric Institute when she realized that he believed the stories he was telling.

Get Lost

It was a drizzly September morning when Ken and I crossed the state line from Pennsylvania to West Virginia. We had packed up the furniture and sold our house in Philly. In another ten hours we would arrive at our new life in Illinois.

It would be my third visit to the Mid-west. The first time was for my job interview. The second time was to search for a new house shortly after I had been hired. Other than my boss who had hired me and who I had only met once, I didn’t know anyone west of Pittsburgh.

As we drove through West Virginia I could feel a knot in my stomach. What the hell had I done? I’d left my family. I’d left my friends. I’d left everything familiar behind.

For a few seconds I thought about shouting “Ken, stop the car! We need to go back!”

But it was already too late. We were almost in Ohio.

One of my biggest concerns about moving to a strange new town was whether I’d be able to make any friends. Most people are surprised to learn that I am painfully shy. That’s probably because most shy people are quiet. I’m shy. But I’m also loud. It’s a bit of an odd combination.

My particular brand of shyness comes out when I have to meet new people. There's a pretty good chance that I'm going to say or do the wrong thing. So I usually try and keep my mouth shut for as long as possible. That’s why when we moved to Illinois, I spent the first week at my new job eating lunch by myself in the back of the cafeteria.

A couple of weeks after Ken and I arrived in Illinois a co-worked mentioned that another gal had also moved out to Illinois from Philly a few weeks before me.

“You two should get together.” My well meaning colleague suggested. “You probably have a lot in common.”

I smiled. “Sure.”

Deep down inside, I knew I’d never seek out the other Philly gal. I’m not good at making friends, I told myself. Besides, I’m sure we wouldn’t have anything in common.

Lucky for me, the other Philly gal didn’t take “get lost” for an answer. She bugged me and badgered me until I finally agreed to have lunch with her. She literally forced her friendship on me. And I’m eternally grateful for that.

Erin and I have been friends since I moved to Illinois almost twelve years ago and it turns out we did have a lot in common. We both grew up in financially strapped families in Central Pennsylvania towns about thirty miles apart. We both attended Catholic primary school and a Jesuit University. We both attended the same law school; but our school had two campuses so we never met. More surprising, our mothers attended the same nursing school and we had several mutual friends.

Since then, Erin and I have spent more than a decade commiserating over the lack of a decent cheese steak anywhere more than 50 miles away from South Street. She’s the only person in my neighborhood who understands the excitement of going “down the shore” and who knows how important it is to "Send Your Pictures to Dear Old Captain Noah." And when she visits her family back east, Erin always brings me back a box of Tastykakes.

A few weeks before Christmas Ken woke up at 4 a.m. with intense stomach pains. I was pretty sure he had kidney stones (or the biggest case of gas in the history of the world). After an hour of listening to him roar in pain, I decided to take him the ER. I needed someone to watch the kids. Unfortunately, my nearest relative was over 700 miles away and I was reluctant to wake the neighbors at such a wee hour.

“I’m going to call Erin.” I said.

“It’s not even morning yet.” Ken moaned. “You can’t get her out of bed to come over here.”

“Yes. I can.”

Erin walked in our front door less than ten minutes later. She fed Emily and Beth breakfast. She got Eric to school on time. She took care of all the little things that Ken and I normally did every morning.

Three weeks later, my phone rang in the middle of the night. It was Erin. The smoke alarms were blaring in her house. There was no fire but the alarms would not shut off. Her four year old son was frantic from the noise. As I hung up the phone, Ken was pulling on his jeans and shoes and heading out the door.

Not long after that, Erin and Jack were at our house for dinner. As she was getting ready to leave, Emily and Beth bounced up and down shouting “Goodbye Aunt Erin.”

That’s when I overheard Eric’s friend Evan, who had come over to play, say “It’s so cool that your Aunt lives in our neighborhood.”

I smiled. I turns out we did have family in Illinois after all.

On Becoming a Doctor

My niece Katelin is studying to be a doctor. I am so proud of her. She has a big heart and is looking to make a difference in the world. I know her. She will.

My mother always wanted to me to be a doctor. “They make a lot of money.” She told me.

It sounded like a good idea. But there were two problems. First, I can’t stand the sight of blood. A paper cut is likely to give me the vapors. And second, I don’t like people.

Well, that’s only partially true. I do like people. I just don’t like to hear people complain - unless I am also complaining. I’m barely capable of solving my own problems. So playing the role of omnipotent healer didn’t have a lot of appeal for me.

When I was seventeen and making a decision on what to do with my life, what I really wanted to do was read maps. I always found them fascinating. North. South. East. West. They were so tidy and organized. And they could take you from reality to fantasy just by tracing your finger along a wiggly line that swerved across streams and into mountains.

What it would be like to follow Route 66 through the Arizona dessert? Would I chance upon a run-down diner where a waitress named Gert served crispy fried chicken, a cup of stout coffee and the best dang blue berry pie I ever tasted? Would I find a little Inn just outside of Kingsman where the owners, Steve and Ed, greeted visitors with a mouth full of teeth and a basket of oranges? Or maybe I could travel to this bare spot in Wyoming. Would I chance upon a sleepy little town where the smiling locals would invite me into their homes to share a roast for supper?

Unfortunately, reading maps is not actually an occupation, unless you count taxi driver. Making maps is. And that seemed much more mundane. So I decided to pass.

For a while, I considered whether it might be fun to be a flight attendant. Of course, at that time we called them stewardesses and they were all ladies. They wore form fitting blue uniforms and pill box hats. And they traveled to places like Guam and Trinidad and learned about foreign cultures.

My Aunt Shelly was a stewardess. She had been to Hawaii and France. It sounded very exciting.

But when I asked Aunt Shelly about it, she explained that stewardesses spent most of their time passing out peanuts and pillows to grumpy travelers. And though she had been to Hawaii, she was more acquainted with the Honolulu airport than with the beaches of Oahu. She also said that the pay wasn’t all that great and the hours were long, sometimes stretching over several days. The more she talked, the less exciting it sounded.

I eventually decided to be an engineer. The unglamorous kind that never comes near a train yard or caboose. I picked this occupation because 1) I had decent grades in math and 2) I had heard that engineers were paid well. At that time, I didn't really understand exactly what an engineer did. Good thing too, or I may never had gone in that direction.

Yadda, yadda, yadda. Four years later, there I was with a bachelors of science degree in engineering.

It turns out being an engineer wasn’t exactly my thing. The thought of debating the pythagorean theorem didn’t give me goose bumps. And I never got excited about how many decimals of Pii I could memorize and recite at parties.

Though I did enjoy learning about technology, I wasn’t particularly in love with my Texas Instruments Scientific calculator. Although I will admit to a brief courtship with my first IBM AT. Hey, it had a 6 MHz Intel 80286 microprocessor, a 1.2 MB 5-1/4 inch floppy disk drive and a 20 MB hard drive. It was super cool.

OK, I admit it, I am pretty much a geek. I just wasn't an engineering kind of geek.

Today, whenever I talk to a young person about choosing an occupation, I like to give them some simple advice. First, find your passion. Then, follow your passion. If you are doing what you love, you will never go wrong.

For me, my passion eventually led me to law school. I loved to read. I loved to write. And I loved to think. And I especially loved to argue, just ask my Dad. That was about 90% of what lawyers did, right? Plus, it was the occupation of our greatest president, Abraham Lincoln. If its good enough for honest Abe, it had to be good enough for me.

A few friends tried to warn me about the legal profession. The hours were agonizingly long, they explained. Your clients would be insufferable, they warned. The profession was going to heck in a hand basket, they predicted. And even if you do put in the time and effort to earn a decent salary, it will be at the expense of losing touch with the people you love most. It was dog eat dog. Kill or be killed. A bloody mess.

To some extent, my friends were right. I’ve met some of the lawyers they were talking about. Soulless drones with no sense of joy who worked every holiday, including the day of their baby's baptism, to chase their particular brand of justice. And they alienated themselves from everyone they loved in the process. Where justice was not the goal, their primary motivation was to make a buck at the expense of all that was good and decent in this world. They were not a pretty lot.

But as it turns out, my well meaning friends were also wrong. There are a bunch of bright spots in the legal profession. You just have to commit to being one of them.

I didn’t end up mucking about in the same meatball business as the drones. I was fortunate and found my way to a super company with kind people and reasonable hours. My clients were pleasant. My salary was sufficient. And I didn’t have to give up the people or things I loved, or my values or ideals, in the process.

If you ask me today what I like best about my job, I will tell you this. First, I get to exercise my best asset - the blob of gray matter inside my head. Second, I have the fortune to work with a bunch of wonderful people who really care about doing the right thing. And finally, it does not involve the sight of blood.