The Johnny Cash of Fridays

Spoiler alert: I frickin' love Black Friday.

We've all heard the backlash. Watched the social media statuses about boycotting. Seen the news clips of trampling, crazy crowds. Listened to the growing dislike / bitching about how Black Friday is now more like Black Thursday or Black November (which is not very shiny for the holidays). And yes, I genuinely do feel bad for any retail employees forced to work on Thanksgiving - but I usually feel bad for retail employees all year round, so...

None of that phases me though because, above and beyond anything else, Black Friday is that most important of things: tradition. It's not a day that takes me away from my family / from being thankful and robs me of my soul or some nonsense - it's the opposite. It's time spent with my mom, being grateful that we can afford to buy gifts for the holidays (even if it's just once they're on sale). And this, dear friends, is the tale of how Black Friday has stuck with us, and why it will until someone forcibly stops me from continuing with it.

It started in 1992, when my hard-working single mama wanted to get something special for her babbling daughters, both under age ten at the time. That special something? A g'damn Super Nintendo (with Mario Paint!). That staple of our childhood wouldn't have been affordable if not for those super sales. We'd have surely turned to a life of crime or hard drugs had we not had three versions of Donkey Kong Country to conquer instead. From that point forward, the morning after Thanksgiving had new purpose.

The definition of happiness. Framed. 

Living in a small town, the nearest major retail stores were a 45-minute drive. That meant that (depending on the year), you would find my ma, grandma, sister and me (and sometimes my aunt) loading into the car around 3:00 or 4:00 am. We weren't leaving in the middle of family dinner or anything. In fact, we left around the time most of the men of the family were getting ready to hit the woods for deer hunting. This was our version of "hunting season" - hunting for sweet bargains!

The first stop: the local gas station to get coffee (or, in my case, hot cocoa). Then we were in the car, jamming to the oldies, until our arrival to "the city." We strategically picked store order based on desired purchases and opening times. If we really wanted something, my sister and I served as the family placeholder in the line, with ma and grandma jumping in as soon as we got within range of the door. Once inside: the pure adrenaline and sheer thrill of unadulterated capitalism took hold. 

Since a young age, Black Friday has been a game for me. It's like the ultimate, high-stakes scavenger hunt, where being small is a beautiful advantage (until you need to carry a TV or a big crock pot or something). No carts, just zipping about, my little hands reaching into a bin and running off with the goods before the adults around me knew what was happening. If tears needed to be shed or elbows thrown to get the last of some item, then the game face went on and you did whatever it took. A battle royale with stressed out moms at 4:00am - a most dangerous game indeed. 

Everyone had their mission: a list written up after reviewing the sales papers the day before. There was often the sneaky exchange of, "Grandma, I want to get this for mom for Christmas but I'm a child and have no concept of money, I have $3, can you help me?" or of my Grandma insisting that we go sit in the car with her, while my mom skirted around the nearby cars and ninjaed two three-foot long Casio keyboards into the trunk without us seeing somehow. We were mostly buying gifts for one another, so discretion was key. 

If anyone got lost, the rendez-vous point was usually the unoccupied greeting card aisle. To help find each other, we also had a string of family chants over the year. This was usually a random phrase that could be shouted in an attempt to locate missing persons without causing much alarm. Because a little girl shrieking, "TEAM JACOB!" in the card aisle is just amusing, and not worth calling security over. And when you see a grown woman hollering "Alright alright alright" (à la McConaughey) into the void, you just assume she got up too early to go shopping and is getting a little loopy (or is drunk).

At the end of it all, we'd return to the car. Victorious, we'd nestle against our crinkly plastic bags and settle in for the ride home. The sun was usually coming up, and our bellies were grumbling. Nap time awaited, followed buy turkey day leftovers for lunch. All was well. 

Cheers to victory, and another item checked off the list!

Over the years, we've gotten more savvy about the shopping. We're no longer the first ones in the door, we aren't waiting outside in the cold; there isn't anything that we can't live without. After the first wave has hit, we mosey our way into the stores and scoop up any remaining door busters available, wait five minutes in a now empty checkout line and work our way to the next place. Most of what's purchased is no longer sneaky - typically I'll pick a handful of items on my list and tell my ma that's what I want for Christmas. She'll buy, wrap them up, and I'll open them on Christmas morning, happy as a clam at my surprise presents (sometimes having an awful memory has its advantages!). It makes the holiday gift giving infinitely easier. 

At some point, this tradition of scrambling about at dawn, frantically stimulating the economy, may come to an end. Everyone says to just go buy things online instead, avoid the madness. But I tell you what, I live for the madness; it's a thrill. (Not to mention, I still don't fully trust online shopping #CuzIm90) And even if there's nothing I'm getting that's essential to my survival, it's a chance to get some goodies that I likely wouldn't have spent the time to get otherwise, to experience some of the best people watching of the year, and to spend some time with my family. I know I won't always be able to come home for the holidays in the future, so in the meantime, I'm going to cling to this tradition like I did to those $2 candles this morning. You can pry my Black Friday tradition out of my cold, dead fingers, world. Shop on. 

How about you? Is Black Friday your jam, or something you avoid at all costs?

Jingle All the Frickin' Way!

As I began the four hour drive home for the holiday season kick-off (Thanksgiving), my number one exciting thought wasn't of the upcoming pie, or family time, or Packers victory.... it was of the sweet, sweet jams for the journey north. (No offense, family, noms or Pack!)

While perfectly crafted roadtrip mix tapes do hold a special place in my heart, more often than not, it's the random tune that pops up on the radio that ends up creating a perfect moment.  The melody sets the stage and provides a little wink from the past...

Good times in mirror are closer than they appear.

• Getting picked up from pre-school by my grandma. Wearing my little snowsuit and boots. Laying on the fur blanket she had draped over the back seat while The Casinos serenaded my cold little self with "Then you can tell me goodbye." (Note: that song was the definition of love to me as a child - I was a tiny, hopeless romantic.)
• Cruising around my small hometown with my best guy friend in HS (who got his license before the rest of us) in his little pink car, listening to the local pop station, as he shrieked, "OH MY GOD, THIS is the new Britney song! Have you heard it yet??!" and proceeded to crank up "Toxic."
• The ride to/from visiting my dad. The first leg of the journey with my mama pumping up the oldies and the best of 90s country. (Garth, Elvis, Reba, Cher: all the one-named greats.) The second leg featuring nothing but the best of classic rock. (Breakfast in America for days, friends.)
• Having to drive around the block several times and take the "long way" to Senior Prom because "Bohemian Rhapsody" came on. My date wearing the orange tuxedo from Dumb and Dumber and velvet chucks; me donning a dress in the shade of Halloween. We were the scene from Wayne's World only more dapper. 
• Riding in my boyfriend's car, pointing out various songs and how they'll fit into our Indie Rom-Com movie that I'll create someday. Noting things like, "This will be the scene after our horrible break up, with our side-by-side montages - I'll be quite sad and it will probably be raining wherever you are" or "This'll play during the bit years after the breakup, where I randomly see you outside the bookstore and think how this will be our perfect reunion, and just as I'm about to go out to say hello your WIFE shows up - and then I'll run and hide, hoping you didn't see me, but you TOTALLY did." Not that I overthink these things. Or that I watch too many cheesy movies. Just that, you know, the soundtrack is important. 
• Parked outside the movie theater, about to go see the midnight showing of the latest Batman movie (for my birthday, to boot!). Sitting in my car with the volume on max as my sister and I belt out "Kentucky Rain." Our voices hitting a fever pitch at the best line: "Was it yesterday? NO, WAIT the day befoooooore!"
• The certain death that is any car ride in which "Crazy in Love" starts playing. We, the people of the United States of Bey-on-cé, cannot help but dance and attempt all the booty shaking maneuvers (despite any lack of coordination). A silly thing like a steering wheel can't get in the way. The rules of the road? Pfft, negligible when you got me hoping you'll page me right now.

All those songs (and so many more), make up the soundtrack to my memory. They aren't planned, they just happen, creating little points in time that are just sheer perfection. The best we can all do is to try and connect the dots. So go ahead, turn it up. Make sure they hear you coming. 

What's your favorite car jam memory? 

Anyone else agree that singing in the car is better than singing in the shower? (Despite the fact that you're bound to get caught by that guy who looks over at the stoplight - WHY would you look over? Weirdo! Go live in your hurtling, magical metal music box like the rest of us! Keep your eyes on the road!)

The Walrus Quits the Gym

There are certain universal truths for most twenty-somethings. They all start with "at some point, in your twenties you will..." and end with things like "do something silly you regret" or "feel overwhelmed by financial decisions" or "bitch about work." Jumping to just the female version of that list, one thing you're bound to find is "join a gym, start a diet, attempt a new health regime, etc."

Shortly after on the list, you'll find, "quit the gym, cheat at diet, say to hell with salads, etc."

Now, I'm not discouraging living a healthy lifestyle or saying we're a bunch of quitters, it's just a straight fact that we're busy ladies. We've got other things to do, and sometimes we don't want to prioritize healthy stuff. Because happy hour sounds easier after a long day at the office. And some salads are just gross. And I had to look up how to even spell "quinoa." And counting calories is the worst. And no, I don't want to know what's in bologna; I want to bite out a little smiley face from it and hold it up while I laugh like a five year old.

Morale of the story: I cancelled my gym membership. After going really steady for a time, then not, then back again, then taking ALL the classes, then quitting due to my bum knee (#CuzIm90), etc. I fell out of the habit again this summer. It was like a bad relationship; one that I was paying to be in. Spending my hard-earned cash money for something is typically motivation enough, but twas not the case. Finally decided to cut ties and save the $300 a year. This walrus has been quite content with the choice.

A few reasons quitting the gym isn't the end of the frickin' world:

1. The Internet: There are a ZILLION workout videos on the internets. It's actually insane. I've been following an eight week "Fit for Fall" program that gives me all the details for zero dollars. No fancy equipment needed.
2. Fewer Excuses: I can't skip a workout because the weather is bad or it's not safe to drive (Wisconsin problems, world). My gym is my living room, and the traffic to get to there from my kitchen sure ain't bad. 
3. Workout Outfits: They can be literally whatever you want. I can workout naked, or wearing ridiculous looking neon pants, or in a giant sweater because my apartment is freezing, whatever. No one is going to see it, save for the family of claw-machine stuffed animals that hangs out on my couch. 
4. Noms: If I want to pause for a snack break, I can! Okay, wait, this one's not necessarily "good" but... it makes me happy?



Those cookies won't lift themselves! Time for some curls!
(my space pants make me stronger)
#WillSweatForSweets

5. Self Motivation: People say that if it was just left to working out at home, they wouldn't have the willpower because of other distractions. Well, if you don't have the willpower to shut off the TV for twenty minutes, you probably won't be motivated enough to drive to the actual gym either. So...
6. No Human Interaction: Because sometimes I just want to be a hermit and not deal with some bro glaring at me while I use the free weights (they're just ten pound dumbbells, buddy - I am NOT in your way here!). After a long day, the last thing I want to worry about is looking gross-sweaty in public and trying to not feel awkward when my locker is right next to the totally naked woman on her cell phone and I can't remember my lock combo.
7. Sweet Sweat Jams: The soundtrack is in your hands, not the hands of the teenage boy at the check-in desk. All the D. Guetta! 
8. Never Forget: Water bottle. Gym shoes. Headphones. My muscles. There's nothing worse than getting to the gym and having forgotten something. You don't want to turn back, but some of those items (like shoes) are kind of essential. That hair tie will make or break your workout! 

Seriously, they're like elastic angels.
These are actual currency at the gym.
(also just spent ten minutes thinking my fingers look weird...)

The point could be argued many ways; but for me, I'd say this was a decision well made. Maybe someday, when I'm in superstar adult mode, I'll make the gym a habit again.* But for now, I'm going to stubbornly do it all on my own without anyone's help, because that kind of stubbornness is what twenty-somethings are made of. That and hashtags. 

*And all the other healthy adult things. Like meal planning. And doing more than just ripping out the "superfoods you should be eating" article from the waiting room mag at the doctor and putting it on my fridge. And getting healthy magazine subscriptions myself so I don't have to steal pages from expired issues at the doctor's office... 

Bring it to the Table

No matter what situation I find myself in, I always have a primal need to contribute. I want to feel as though I've brought something to the table. That I have some sort of valuable skill, knowledge, etc. that makes me worth having around. Occasionally, not gonna lie, I even get a wee bit aggressive about it.

Cue a tale of pies and anxiety.

When it comes to cooking and baking, there is a very limited set of recipes in my repertoire. I'm not exactly what one would call "domestic" in that regard. Don't get me wrong, if provided a recipe to laboriously follow, I'll produce results. But in terms of instinct, you'll find none. The exception to this is pies.

For years, I had traditionally helped one of my grandma's prep the pumpkin pies for Thanksgiving. While this was a good Pie 101 (with brilliant tips like adding a baking sheet under your pie pan so if it bubbles over it doesn't get all over your oven), it was largely mixing pumpkin mush with spices / evaporated milk (seriously, what IS that stuff??) and popping it in the oven. I'd spend the course of the baking time convincing my grandma we should also make fudge, gorge myself on all the goodies, and then we'd call it a day. The real Pie Academy came from my other grandma.

She had just had a shoulder surgery and casually asked that I come visit her. Naturally I obliged and arrived wearing my sunniest granddaughter disposition, ready for a quiet afternoon of chit chatting. Shortly thereafter, she asked if I could help out with a few things. Why of course, dearest grandmother, your favorite grandkid to the rescue! There was no way of knowing what trap I had just walked into... the Pie Trap.

The next several hours I found myself kneading crusts, chopping apples, smashing pecans, creating some sort of meringue, measuring and mixing spices of every variety, staring into the oven, cranking out pie after pie...after pie... It had been a setup all along. Her gaggle of children were coming to visit (my aunts and uncles) and they loved when she baked for them. A pie was always present, without exception. Even when she couldn't move her arm, the pies needed to be there.

Hagrid approves of Halloween-themed pies and penguin ovenmits
#ReasonsImNotAnAdult

So there I was, the unwitting victim to a pie sweatshop (too soon?). No recipes, only trial and error shown through in decades of practice. And to this day, it's the only reason I can make a pie worth a damn. Don't get me wrong, I attempted to document because working from memory just isn't in the cards for me, but it's mostly things like "handful of x" and "some of z" and "don't forget to add butter." And I still struggle to find it on my laptop. I have two files named "apple pie" in my recipe folder. One is definitely for booze. I figure, whichever one I open up is the one I'll make. Russian roulette between pie and dranks - I'll take those odds.

Fast forward to this fall, when the beau and I decided to visit an apple orchard. Leading up to the excursion, I happily exclaimed how I would make us a pie from our pickings. My ridiculous delight at the chance to finally shine in the kitchen and prove my worth as a happy 50s housewife was shattered as he remarked, "Oh good idea, I've got a new pie recipe I wanted to try out!" A well-meant comment caused a fracture in my grin, as I quietly whimpered, "But, I want to make my pie. It's my grandma's pie. That pie is the pie I can make... " A noncommittal exchange followed, the result of which was my stubbornness coming out and me basically settling on, "Fine, make whatever pie you want, I'm going to make my pie."

One pie to rule them all... 

He, of course, didn't realize that I was clinging to that pie, afraid to expose my already obvious weakness in the kitchen by admitting that I can only make those specific, Grandma-inspired versions of pie and no others. As he is already far superior to me in the kitchen ((the man makes his own ice cream for Pete's sake, and has yeast at the ready to make bread or brew beer, or just to throw in the air like a magic Alton Brown kitchen fairy)), and we both know that I pale in comparison, I hold fast to tiny victories - like that damn pie. Wasn't about to give up my one skill to some other rando pie recipe.

At the end of the day, we did both make a pie. While I faked my domesticity, he gained brownie points by complimenting my efforts. Such a gem. Naturally, I responded by saying his pie was fine but mine was obviously superior. Because if I'm going to bring something to the table, it's going to be all-in, blue ribbon winner, or nothing at all, and humble pie is not one that my Grandma taught me to make...

Sweet victory... à la mode

What's your go-to heirloom recipe? 

Anyone else struggle pretending to be as effortless as the iconic 50s housewife?

Busy Doing Something Close to Nothing

Life has been, shall we say, "busy" lately. All the adult points have been had. All the events planned, attended, documented via endless photos and social media postings, etc. Good times for all as we raced through the summer and into early fall.

Time flew. It flew like a kid on roller blades down a steep hill. At first it seems like a great idea, but as the momentum gathers the gleeful delight turns into a shriek as the kid realizes they can't slow down. Eventually they throw themself off the sidewalk and onto the grass in a tumbled attempt to stop. All the chaos, all the flailing arms, all the scrapped elbows. But at least they stopped before they flew out into the busy traffic at the intersection (that's always what's at the bottom of the hill). The flight has come to an abrupt halt. It was quite the ride.

That was me, hurtling into this past Sunday.

I awoke to silence. The calm after the storm. And I realized - I have no obligations to anyone today. OR this week. Looking around me, I literally almost didn't even know what to do with myself. So naturally, I went back to sleep.

Upon waking again, still silence. The beau was away at work, and I knew I should go get my car and head back to my place but... my place was full of things to do. Chores. Dishes. Cleanup from the weeks of chaos. Windows to weather proof. Laundry to tend to. My place, in other words, was simply not on the agenda. I had at least five remaining hours of total alone time, I wasn't about to give that up to a silly thing like responsibility.

Making the executive decision that the TV was to remain off, I wandered about aimlessly. I could go for a walk maybe? Enjoy the day? No, today was lazy day. No leaving the apartment at all. The world was too busy. Staring down the silence, I started to list out possibilities. Work out? Look through and edit all my photos from the day before? Impromptu solo dance party? All of it somehow sounded like work. So, after some mild cleaning/organizing (it's not a burden when it's helping another person, instead of dealing with my own crap), I settled into the couch and nested.

Nesting is an all-time favorite hobby of mine. Gathering pillows, blankets, miscellaneous snacks and twigs, etc. into a giant heap (in this case, on the couch itself) and burrowing in. Once nested, reading a book, napping, listening to music or just laying about are all fair game. After constructing and cozying up into my new fluffy home, I got anxious about not getting anything done. I'd resolved to be lazy, but after such a constant rush forward, the abrupt halt was too much. To compromise, I pulled out the laptop and perused endless recipes and organizing tips. Things I'll never actually cook or apply to my life, but that I simply adore reading about. Could spend days looking at tips and tricks. But that soon too felt like work.

By this time I realized though that it was merely an hour before the man of the house returned. I'd not eaten anything other than a chocolate croissant (which I was now casually wearing all about my shirt), showered, or hardly moved for hours. In a daze, I fled the nest and began quick deconstruction. Being lazy for an entire day made me feel oddly stressed as it was, I couldn't handle the wry smile and thinly-veiled judgement in the phrase, "So, what'd you do today?" as he gazed upon my elaborate blanket fortress, croissant crumb necklace and bedraggled appearance.

Frankie says...
(I can neither confirm nor deny the presence of pants in this photo)

Into "real-person" mode I went. Still having an hour worth of precious slothy seconds, I lazily read all the bottles in the shower and enjoyed the hot water. I know, it's awful, water waste is awful; but I frickin' love reading the bottles. The marketing for such a simple thing like shampoo can be ridiculously witty and brilliant. Know that I'm reading, shower bottle content writers. I care what you're writing... Anyway, shower. Hair. Makeup. Actual people clothes (ish). Door opens. Just in time. Pulled off a casual, "Yep, nothing special today, just relaxing," and settled into the evening, getting ready for the work week ahead.

NOW, it's not like there wasn't a to-do list a mile long that I could've been addressing. It's that, some days, adulting isn't in the cards. Some days, the most adult thing you can do is nothing at all. A little reset. Sometimes you have to make a point of doing something close to nothing, just walk in through the out door, wear that raspberry beret (the kind that one might find at a second-hand store, if you will)... Okay that got out of hand.


Anyone else feel guilty about having a lazy do-nothing day? 
Or about randomly incorporating Prince lyrics into everyday life?

Fangirls Don't Cry

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, there was a fangirl squee so intense, that it destroyed an entire planet.

And by a long time ago - I mean today. And by far, far away - I mean right here, at this very computer.

There I was, happily jotting away at my adult coloring book (because my standard Loony Tunes coloring book and crayons were apparently not up to snuff, I swapped out for a fancy one - that my mom got me - and some colored pencils), my laptop sitting a few feet away, humming along as it loaded the latest ep of Downton Abbey (#CuzIm90). A ping. Some sort of social media alert. A brief glance up at the screen where I see a newly released Star Wars trailer from a mega-fan friend. Naturally, I click play immediately. Overwhelming joy, soaring musical fanfare (at full volume), insane visual stimulation and then... Tickets Now Available.

The laptop topples to the floor in slow motion. Or, in actuality, it hurtles off my lap as I launch it away in excitement and then gasp, gather it up off the floor, pray that it's still functioning and click frantically to buy tickets at my favorite theater for midnight showings. Site malfunction. Try another movie ticket site. Site malfunction. And another. And another. Until I find that I myself am malfunctioning more than the sites.

And yes, I started to get a bit hysterical. For the past almost fifteen years, I'd attended the midnight showing for every major sci-fi/fantasy film release. I could just go the next day, but...no. Not an option.* Frantic call to super-fan friend to shriek about my panic.

He's already driven to a theater to get his tickets.

That's all I needed to hear.

Five seconds later, I've swapped PJs for pants and am in my car just after 10:00 pm. I can hear the brassy intro music echoing in my mind. Alone in my car, I sing a few bars under my breath. Hit the gas pedal.

Flying through the construction zone on the highway, I envision being pulled over for speeding. The officer asking, "Where you off to in such a hurry, miss?" As I frantically sputter out, "Star Wars tickets, on my way, must get, before sold out!" And the officer would look down at me and say, "I'll let you off with a warning. Now get going, and may the force be with you." I would squeal happily as I hit the gas pedal once more.  Luckily, I didn't have to try my luck with that one. The twenty minute drive to the theater took ten, spurred on by a full blare of "Hold on, I'm comin" by Sam and Dave. I put my Blues Brother sunglasses on, even though it was dark out. The fangirl is nothing if not reckless.

Arrived. Parked like an idiot, diagonally across several spaces. Started my sprint to the door.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a duo of young men likewise bolting towards the theater. "Oh HELLS no," I think aloud as I pick up the pace. By the time we got to the door, the three of us were in a dead sprint, my dread growing seeing the line of people inside. The little punks hit the entrance first, throw it open and rush in. One of them shouts back at me, "I'd be a gentlemen, but… Star Wars." I know, man. I get it. I'd have punched you in the face and stepped over your weeping body, but I'm a g'damn lady. ((If they'd have gotten the last tickets however, that'd have been another story, one that would end up with me posting bail or in a mental ward probably.))

Wait. Eventually get to the front of the line. All 7:30 showings for premiere night are sold out. All the 10:00 showings, too. The man at the counter looks up and says, "Please don't cry, we have another showing that night." ....He was talking to the man behind me.

I find your lack of faith disturbing... GOT 'EM!

Then there they were. The tickets, in my hand. Three tickets to relive the glory of my youth. Flashbacks to waiting outside the theater for hours leading up to the midnight showing for the prequels - despite the fact that my small hometown theater had no line and no fear of selling out. It was a rite of passage, to celebrate a revival of a beloved franchise that I had obsessed over as a child. And now, a fresh chance to do it all again, there in my hand.

And then the wind caught the tickets.

You've never heard a war cry so very shrill and piercing.

But at the point of my writing this, they are once again nestled safely to my bosom (next to my heart, duh). After finding my way home through the daze of pure adrenaline, I'm home again. Rest easy, fangirl. You've had a busy day. You're fortunate to be all in one piece. Those Jundland Wastes are not to be traveled lightly…

Did you all get your tickets too? Who else is frickin' PUMPED? 

#IdBeAGentlemanButStarWars

*A Star Wars revival comes along but 2-3 times in a generation!

Let's Talk About Stress, Bae-be

Being stressed out is like some sort of awful adult rite of passage that we weirdly glorify in our society. If you’re not stressed out, you’re clearly not trying hard enough. But if you’re too stressed out, you clearly just can’t hack it and are failing. Everyone talks about balance, but everyone casts a wide array of judgments based on projected stress level. It's a Catch 22 kick-in-the-teeth, is what it is.

In the college years, stress was my life blood. I didn’t feel it, it just fueled me. I ate it for breakfast AND second breakfast. I’d say things like, “No pressure, no diamonds!” as I got myself involved in every extracurricular, never said no to a social engagement, clawed my way ahead academically, took on side jobs, and ran myself around, taking in everything I could, for 22 hours a day (only pausing for naps, often in the shower). I would burn down the hours in a flame of glory, rise up from the ashes, sputter about and tackle it all again. Like most foolish youths, I was “unstoppable” and unfazed by life’s little tensions. I kept my stress caged away in one little knot at the base of my neck and carried on.

Even in the years following, stress worked differently on me, and it was great. But the older I get, the more my once beloved friend seems to be turning on me. Adult stress is different. I’m less worried about how I might change the world, and more worried about how I’m going to afford to retire. Instead of getting anxiety over the screaming child on an airplane, I fall down this worry rabbit hole - what will happen to me if I don’t birth any wee shrieking beasties of my own? Who will pick out my nursing home when I’ve gone senile? Will I just eventually die fat and alone and be found weeks later, half-eaten by wild dogs, just like Bridget Jones warned me? Worse yet, if I do somehow end up with a spawn of my own, what if I DROP it?!

The stress of my younger years was driven by me, to force self-improvement and make me strive to be better. The stress of today has gone from beautifully abstract to practical, and yet largely irrational. Once laughable little inconveniences can now build up in strange ways. And it’s bloody well exhausting.

Business-casual? #AmIAdultingRight
The blazer makes all things possible.

The other day, before hosting a large group of friends in my tiny apartment for a Wine & Cheese party (so adult), I just randomly started crying. My confused co-host attempted to comfort me (bless his heart) and asked what was wrong. As silent tears flowed, I sputtered how I didn’t want to talk about it. Why? Because grapes. I had burst out crying over the thought that we might not have enough GRAPES for the party. The most trivial thing had caused a total breakdown. Grapes were of course just a smoke screen for the larger anxiety spiral - fear that I’d somehow fail astronomically hosting, burn the house down, cause all my friends to abandon me and my boyfriend to leave because no one wants to be with the hostess with the leastest, death, eaten by wild-dogs, etc. It all escalated rather quickly.

Spoiler alert, several people brought grapes. We had more than anyone could possibly need - an excess. The grape surplus was such that we could have doubled our wine tally by harvesting the juice from all the bags of grapes we had. Everything turned out just swell. Grapes for all!

The moral here is pretty simple: calm the heck down, they’re just grapes. Life is just a bunch of frickin’ grapes. 

• Sometimes your bundle will be bountiful, other times you won’t have enough
• Sometimes things change for the better (wine) and sometimes for the worse (real raisins don’t dance and sing Motown music – I’ll never forgive the lies)
• Sometimes you’ll have to make choices (red or green, we all know the answer)
• There may be a point where everything seems to be rolling around in opposite directions, while you chase about and try to get everything back together - because you know if you lose track of one thing, you’ll step on it later and it’ll squish and be awful
• A lot of the time, there are outside factors that can impact prosperity (I live in Wisconsin; grapes, like humans, don’t naturally thrive in the frozen tundra); they're beyond your control, just make the best of it
• Some days are sweet, some are sour; Some days you just want to foot stomp that shit

But don’t let all the little things stress you out, dear friends. Keep your eye on the bunch, that big picture. And draw out as many skewed analogies as possible from this world while you can. Go dance until those grapes become wine and live the damn dream, because you deserve it, you adult, you!

Take THAT, sour grapes!

*What's YOUR point?

What's the most ridiculous adult stress you find bothering you? 

How do you handle those rolly-polly grapes? 

Homeless is as Homeless Does

Tonight was I was (once again) accidentally mistaken for a homeless person.

As a gal with far more clothes than one ought have (mostly thrift, mind), it’s rare that I find myself in a situation considered truly “desperate” when it comes to laundry. I have enough of the essential items to go a month without serious worry. Nonetheless, when I pulled open the panty drawer this morning, the outlook was bleak. It was time for a trip to my Laundromat.

Car loaded up, I hauled straight from work with a game plan. Too much to do to let a thing like laundry slow me down. No time to chitchat about detergents and gossip about over dry cleaning with the tiny old Asian women, deadbeat dads and single soccer moms like normal. I had a to-do list this time.

Got to the mat. Changed out of my work outfit so it could get washed too (not going to start in the negative with that damn dirty laundry basket). Donned a ratty old t-shirt and a too-big pair of sweatpants that I'd found at the back of a drawer this morning. Commandeered a few machines, pumped in my quarters and sprinted out to my car to put on a pair of sneakers. Realized I forgot to grab my tennies, so went for the emergency pair in my trunk (you’d be amazed at the junk in my trunk… #butforreals). Turned on my Charity Miles app and hit the sidewalk. Walked to the nearest fast food joint in the hot and windy weather and got a side salad and small fry (healthy? Ish?). Took the long way back to get some extra mileage.

Had some time left, so decided to sit outside my laundromat (housed in a suburban strip mall) to eat. Opened the side salad to find that over half the lettuce was nasty, shriveled and gross. Mumbling profanities under my breath, I turned and went a few steps to the outdoor trash bin to start picking out bad lettuce. Left my laundry-day satchel and little bag of fries sitting on the curb as I cursed and threw away my pennies via slimy lettuce. Satisfied, and with a much smaller salad, I returned and sat down in a huff on the curb. And then a dollar fell in my lap.

Looking up, with the best “WTFuck is going on?” look I could muster, I see some basic housewife smile thoughtfully and say, “It gets better, dear.” And off she goes, dry cleaning in tow. Good deed done for the day. It took me a second, but I realized that my picking apart fast food over the trash may have looked less like I had bought some piss-poor fast food and was fixing it, and more like I had just hijacked some discarded noms from the trash bin in the first place and was picking off the bad bits to salvage it. I was wearing holey, inappropriately sized clothes and beat up sneakers (they use to be my lawn mowing shoes), looking worse than a ten-year-old HP wearing Dudley’s clothes. And the wind had taken advantage of my hair again so that I looked a bit like a banshee. Plus, I was cursing under my breath and mumbling to myself. No one but my tattered old satchel to talk to….and the voices in my head? Yeah. Fair enough, lady.

Fries - a staple in the hobo diet? 

Lost for words, I returned to my fries and watched the Good Samaritan walk off to her SUV, head held high. I was still staring as the neighboring Weight Watchers group let out. Wasn’t paying attention until I heard a particularly loud, “This use to be such a nice neighborhood, and now they’re just there, whenever you step outside.” Bemused, I glance over to see that she was glaring at me, my satchel, and my half eaten fries. At this point, it was too funny and I couldn’t help myself… I put on my best “crazy and destitute” smile and held up the bag to offer her a fry. With a scoff, she stomped off, all in a tizzy. She was probably just pissed that she couldn’t have a fry and I could, but that’s no reason to jump to assumptions.

Since it was time to attend to laundry and my to-do list anyways, I started to gather up my things when I heard another voice start in, “Excuse me, ma’am, but…” At that point, after what had been a bad/busy day, I assumed I was being shooed off the curb. So, I finally lost it and shrieked out, “I’M NOT HOMELESS AND I CAN EAT MY SHITTY SALAD WHEREVER I WANT!” The fifteen year old kid with his mom just stared, holding up a dollar bill, and finally said, “Okay, but, you dropped your dollar.” He extended a hand, I smiled and said thanks, grabbing the bill. He bolted, on his mom’s heels, while she barked praises over her shoulder about his kind heart and lectured him about not talking to strangers on the street, even if they said they weren’t homeless.

Returning to my responsibilities, I reflected. I’ve always cynically thought that many street people were actually not without homes, but were just begging for a second income (curse the documentary that made me see the stats on that one!), or looking to get out of their homes to avoid unpleasantries. On the optimistic side, I’ve seen vagrants in some of the most beautiful cities in the world and thought, “What a swell place to be free and adrift!” Not that that sort of nomadic existence is easy, but if you’re going to be on the streets, you may as well be somewhere awesome (not that most get a choice in that matter – if you can’t afford a roof over your head, a ticket to Rome probs isn’t within your budget). I knew for a fact I wouldn't be able to hack it though, were that the card I was dealt. My porcelain skin, exposed to the elements all day? I'd be dead within a week.

That all sounds awful, and it is a real issue, but the suburbia reactions to a scrawny chick on laundry day (both helpful and judgmental) made the whole thing just seem oddly comical. What gives anyone the right to point at another person and assume they know a darn thing about their circumstances? And if we all just judge a book by its cover, when how many books are we judging wrong? Food for thought,* from a spontaneously homeless gal to you.

Because there is ALWAYS an accordion playing on the streets of France,
and everyone else has a day job. She's a g'damn artist, providing a vital service.

*Wait, did that sound preachy? Is preachy judgey? Curse you, possible contradiction!

Willpower vs. Won'tpower

There’s a point in life where you realize that you’re responsible for your own actions and decisions. And it’s a real bitch. You can blame outside sources for a lot still, but a good portion of things come down to your own personal willpower. Do you have the self-drive to be motivated? Or to make "good" life choices?

Spoiler alert: I don’t. I typically have about as much self-control as a crazed five year old in a candy shop, clutching a wad of $100 bills, with no supervision and no one to stop me from consuming literally everything I can get my hands on. Now, this doesn't mean I'm running around snorting coke and punching babies or anything crazy.* And being in command of my own will has been something I’ve worked on in my attempt to garner adult points. BUT typically I've found that it comes down to just a lot of self trickery and trying to logic my way toward the conclusion I really want.

Largely, this is related to food.

An easy example: awhile back (I say that so it won't seem like this happens often), I bought a bulk pack of string cheese (#BecauseWisconsin). Upon arriving home, I knew it was going to be disastrous. So, to cut my self-indulgence off at the pass, I grabbed a marker and labeled each individual string cheese package with a day of the week. THERE, I could only have one per day. Brilliant plan! Nailed it! … And then I sat down and ate ALL the Mondays... Defeated that shit with my wit!

Recently, I spent a few weeks on a low-calorie diet, viciously counting my foodstuffs. Since I know I don’t have the resolve to not snack, and my body is thoroughly convinced that healthy snacks are for the rabbits, I was determined to only have tiny snacks… and convinced myself it was cool to eat them in bulk. Five calories per Mike and Ike (Okay, it’s more like 6, but I rounded down! Ah, the self deception!). That means you can eat like a zillion of them, perfect! ...NO! It means you can have twenty. 100 calories isn’t too bad, limit yourself to twenty. Close enough, willpower. Baby steps.

I've also tried to limit my caffeine consumption at work. It takes more than a few weekends of withdrawal shakes to start questioning one's Mountain Dew addiction, but eventually one has to face the fact that MAYBE that level of sugar and caffeine isn’t the best for your health (even if it is the lifeblood of your morning productivity). So, I finished up my soda supply (I'm not going to waste!) and waited. Had coworkers monitor me. Didn't carry cash so I couldn’t go buy anything from the vending machine. It was like rehab only without any of the celebrities. Two days in, I remembered my emergency can. The Dew I hide from myself, just in case a crisis should arise. (I'm nothing if not a planner.) When everyone left for lunch break, I scrambled around trying to remember its location… only to eventually find a post-it saying, "Sorry" with a poorly drawn frowny face. Curses, I didn’t even have the discipline to RESTOCK my emergency defense system! Gah! Failure! Thwarted by myself! (aka accidental willpower?)

Sorry don't feed the bulldog, sweetie!

Being the social hummingbird that I am (much less graceful than a butterfly, much more spastic), I do very little to rein in my group activities. During college, a ten page case study due the next day was not enough to stop me from attending fishbowl night. Though, to be fair, I DID have the willpower to stay up from bar close til class time writing those papers. And I can assure you, they were solid gold. These days, it’s not so much self-restraint as old-lady-tiredness that gets me home in a timely manner or will get me to responsibly decline an outing on a "school" night. Need my beauty rest and all - #CuzIm90. Though, if you ask my beau, he'll gladly explain that "let’s just pop in to say hello" or "we'll just stay for one drink" translates to "we'll be here for several hours, until I get bored, or run out of stories to tell, or am forcibly removed."

BUT when it comes to spending time with friends and family, as far as I'm concerned, willpower is negligible. They don't care about that nonsense. And why should I curb my time with loved ones? It's that I like people, not that I am just avoiding my regular responsibilities. It's just that I'm determined to do the things that make me happy. It's prioritizing. That's exercising my resolve, right? Ish? I guess it just depends on your point of view…

Just one more toast... Cheers to doing nothing in moderation!

*Are drugs and baby punching things people who lack willpower do? lol Is that what I think happens? Or is it more like not going to the gym and instead eating a whole cake? Or deciding to binge watch TV instead of applying for new jobs, so you end up homeless? Do they not have the will, or are they just lazy and/or stubborn? Is laziness just willpower's hotter older brother who seems much more appealing but you know isn't good for you, and yet you're oddly drawn to his badboy ways, and eventually find yourself in a Mexican prison wondering how you got there? Sigh, life's questions are tough...

Abroad at Home

Seven years ago, I was newly home from one of the best adventures of my young life: a semester abroad in Europe; bright-eyed with all the experiences of the world under my belt.

Five years ago, I was newly graduated and promptly slapped upside the head by the real world; bright-eyed but wonderfully under-qualified.

Four years ago, I was newly relocated to a different home, my big-girl apartment, with a real adult job; bright-eyed and wildly determined to fake being a grown-up until I convinced people it was true.

Throughout those transition years, I realized more and more that the wonderful (and often ridiculous) lessons I learned while abroad were applicable godsends to my every day. They gave me a little leg-up on adulthood, and I was more than happy to take any help I could get. Recently I had a chance to spend some time with my younger cousin who is about to embark on a four year stint in Ireland for university. So naturally I spent a ton of time imparting my “wisdom” on her…whether or not she wanted me to! Here of course, are some of the highlights. A round 20. The things I learned while studying abroad that I standby as life-truths in my new found adulthood (in no particular order):

1. Listen to the radio. It’s a great source of local happenings and music is something people use to relate to one another. If you’ve got access to radio in a foreign language, it’s a great learning tool.
2. Have health insurance. Period.
3. Skimp on spending for trivial things; use that money on travel. When in doubt, always travel. It’s worth way more than that extra random thing you don’t need. 
4. Take care of your skin. Use moisturizing lotion every day and night, and sunscreen whenever going outside. Your skin will react differently by city and location around the globe, due to pollution or solar proximity, but lotion and SPF are essential regardless of where you are.
5. Keep in touch with your family. They’re a constant, no matter where you go or what you do. So keep them in the loop. And tell them you love them, damnit.
6. Read street signs. That way if you’re ever lost in that area, at least you’ll recognize the street names. And being able to give directions is a gratifying feeling. Also, be able to read a map and get some directional sense, your GPS won’t always be there to save you.
7. Have a plant. It’s a low maintenance companion that helps you breathe easier and livens up your space.
8. Have a diverse group of friends. Different opinions keep conversation interesting for years to come. And when you’re away from home, off on your own, friends become family. Chose them wisely and do whatever you can to make time for them. Be there for them and they’ll be there for you. Surround yourself with people you trust. And stay in touch with those people if they fall out of proximity (visiting them years later is just one more excuse to travel!).



La distance n'est rien.

9. Take photos. Not just of things, but of people. Not just of monuments, but of every day moments and items. You’ll regret it later if you don’t. Memories are more potent with photographic backup.
10. Be willing to barter and haggle. Always find out if there's a way to get a discount. If you've got a student ID still, the world is your oyster - you'd be amazed the deals you can get.
11. Fall in love. With a person, a place, a moment. Treasure it and tell the world and don’t be afraid of it. Some loves last a lifetime and others don’t, but usually you’ll regret not loving more than you ever will loving. (My deep and unapologetic love for British chocolate milk will last forever!)
12. Figure out how to cook on a budget. You can make wonderful meals for very little cash moneys. A few potatoes from the gypsies at the market, and a little effort, and you’d be amazed. (Hint: spices)
13. Some stories are worth taking to the grave. Many more are worth telling. Have a few good tales in your back pocket, but more importantly: listen to the stories of others. You know your stories. You don't know theirs. 
14. Evaluate the cost of big purchases over the long run. While abroad, for me it was a curling iron. It was 60 Euros and I was there for five months. So, less than 50 Euro cents a day (let's not talk exchange rates!). Given the number of photos I’d be in and the potential European husbands I’d be meeting: worth it. I just had to give up one delicious chocolat chaud from the vending machine each day – heart wrenching, but worth it. Figure out how long you’ll have something for and how to equate that cost to your every day purchases to see if you should afford it. This doesn’t mean you should deprive yourself of necessities (or justify extravagances by amortizing out over a long period of time), but it can help determine what’s really necessary.
15. Always be willing to try something new. Not drugs from a guy on the street, though. Don’t try that. It won't end well. When in doubt, use the buddy system for any potentially dangerous new activities - best to live recklessly with someone who has your back / can tell the story of your misadventure later, at the very least.
16. Baguettes and wine are never a bad idea.



Cheers to you! You wise and cultured adult, you!

17. Be kind to homeless people. You don't know how they got there, but they know how you get to and from your home everyday... okay, maybe that sounded super paranoid and creepy, but seriously, they make much better allies than enemies. 
18. Wear appropriate footwear. Fashion is all well and good, but if you twist an ankle and wreck your favorite heels out on the cobblestone or at the club, no one benefits. 
19. Dancing and laughing are the best form of exercise.
20. Don’t be afraid to do things alone. Go see a movie. Have a meal at a restaurant. Get a drink at a bar. Being alone while being surrounded by the happenings of the world can be very peaceful and enlightening. Relish the “you” time. No one is seeing you alone and judging you. They’re all too busy wondering if you’re judging them to notice you.

Basically, just make a point to live as much as possible. Life is your biggest adventure, whether you’re venturing to a foreign land or into a new phase of life. You may not know where you’re headed, but don't worry. As long as you're happy, then at least you're lost in the right direction.

The Apocalypse is for Lovers

I’ll be the first to admit, I love me a good post-apocalyptic thriller. Dystopian futures are my favorite fictional futures / a terrifying foregone conclusion. Being well-versed in the variety of fictional circumstances, I’m also familiar with some of the constants. You know:

• The nomadic nature and eventual need to team up and work together – shenanigans!
• The sudden ability to wield all manner of weapons
• Dirtiness, filth, no showers, and yet everyone still seems like they’re wearing makeup and don’t smell so bad that no one wants to be around them – everyone just ignores the lack of hygiene because they have bigger fish to fry
• Unjustified element of hope for the future, against all odds (PHIL COLLINS!) – the “life finds a way” complex
• General loss of ethics (stealing, violence, etc.), and yet a strong sense of having a moral code – like you’re shoot a guy in the face and take his water jug, but you wouldn’t hurt an old lady, old ladies are where you draw the line (and that’s why you end up dead, killed by an old lady - the end of days are nothing if not ironic)
• The separation of family and friends but eventual discovery of someone from “before” – friend or foe

The last one of course is usually marked by a photo that the hero (or heroine) carries with them. Old and tattered, folded and hidden in the deep confines of their ratty jacket pocket, it is the most valuable thing on their person, as they cling to their long lost (or dead) family, friend, lover, child, etc. It’s heart wrenching and beautiful. And thinking about it made me realize… I don’t print photos anymore. If the end times were to hit RIGHT NOW, I wouldn’t have a photo to just grab and run with. No locket. No wallet with little picture flaps. They’re all on my laptop, camera or phone. In the constant rush for one’s life, a charge may not be handy, and if the grid goes down and we slowly are forced to resort to a pre-technology age (which is of course what always happens), then all my photos  become worthless. Trapped on devices from which I can’t access them. They’re right in my hand, but basically lost. The Time Machine scenario.

So I decided it was high time to make an Apocalypse Album. A photo album that, should the need arise, I could grab and go. Given that I wouldn’t have time to prepare one in case of emergency otherwise, I made it in a quick hurry. 30 minutes to dig around my digital albums to pick out pictures. Approximately 70 images total, divided into a few easy categories: faces and places. Incorporating in family, friends, lovers, locations and childhood / family heritage shots. Beautiful images of people and locations of great importance to me. Loves of my life. Memories worth treasuring.  And in an additional 30 minutes, I quickly sorted them into an online book maker thing, to have it delivered to me at a later date.

Looks like Judgement Day is on its way! 

The book arrived, so I’m set. It may not be pocket-sized, but I figured with the glossy finish it could be used to protect me in the rain and the hard cover / sharp corners could make a decent weapon. Not that I want to bludgeon a marauder with photos of my loved ones, but that I’m sure they wouldn’t mind helping protect me. And while of course I’ll make a point of grabbing the book when the shit hits the fan, if I should forget, the memories will linger for years before the hard times eventually cause them to slowly fade. I promise that I’ll cling to them. Or, if I should forget, I promise to fill in the details with really cool ones so that way y’all live on as legends. Like the story of my friend, the blue-collared oil driller, who got sent by NASA to land on an asteroid to blow it up before it could collide with the earth. He saved humanity, back in ‘98.  Or the story of my cousin who escaped the alien attack in DC and went on to fight along their pal Will Smith to save the day in ’96. So… basically I’ll tell the tale of how the 90’s were a very dangerous time in earth’s history and all my loved ones were heroes. Very close to the real story for sure. The tales will be told for generations to come.

Let’s just hope the book stays by my side so I don’t have to be entrusted with the memory keeping. The question is – what or who will you chose to preserve when the end is nigh and doomsday arrives? What photos make the cut for your Apocalypse Album?

An Ode to July and New Things

Got startled this morning at work by a reminder on my phone: Rent due. This prompted me to a moment of silence, to mourn the loss of July. I literally don’t know what happened to this month. It’s like it waved, said hi, and then left before I had a chance to even get to know it. I went to sleep on the 1^st and woke up on the 24^th. That’s what happens though, busy busy busy.

In my brief contemplation of the ups and downs of July, I realized there have been several fun new factors. Figured I’d streamline them all down into one list rather than raving about them each separately. All about efficiencies on a Friday half-day here. So here are some new things (you can tell I’m excited from all my exclamation points!) that've been happening:

#1) Caulk and float, don’t ford it!     

So I basically won the Oregon Trail, without dying of dysentery or an accidental gunshot wound (from killing all those digital buffalo), by flying out to the great Northwest to explore Oregon and Washington. Two beautiful states that I’d previously not explored and thoroughly enjoyed eating my way through. Both states are stupidly gorgeous, almost like they sucked the pretty landscape out of the square states and hoarded it for themselves. Extensive rambling about this trip will be written up eventually.

#2) Does your dress hang low? Sure does!     

Finally got on board and purchased a “maxi” dress, and it’s terribly confusing to me. What is this madness?? It can be worn as a dress, skirt, turban, a frickin’ cape, who knows! It’s weirdly versatile and yet I’m never quite sure I’m wearing it right. Two biggest struggles: not getting tangled and peeing. In terms of tangling, rolling over it with my desk chair is a big one. Now I just pull it up and sit cross legged, using it as a blanket. Still can’t master going up and down stairs without dying, but I’m getting there. As for the bathroom, someone can tell me if there’s a “right” way, please. I just hoist it up and toss it over my shoulder, like a man wearing a tie who wants to eat soup. Or a doctor on his way home from winning an award who sees someone collapse in the subway, dramatically throws his tie over his shoulder so it doesn’t get in his way as he performs miracle surgery using a pen and some lady’s gum. AKA when I have to go pee and I’m wearing a maxi dress, I’m somewhere between a soup eater and a g’damn hero.

#3) Can I offer you anything else? 

This has been a big month of adulting. Even today. I took a half day to be super adult and be home for the energy guy to come update the meter. A bit after noon, this hottie-with-the-body PYT in a hardhat and tool belt shows up at my door. ((Note: he was not nearly as good looking as my long suffering, handsome, wonderful, loving boyfriend of course – just to clarify.)) Turns out he needed to go into my old lady’s basement actually (I live in the upper of a house, you can only access her séance basement through her part of the house, not mine), so I sent him her way.

I stayed outside in case he needed something else (like to pose for a calendar), sweeping off my steps, like a lady. He came out a time later and said he’d better come in and “check some of my appliances.” Just in case. While he’s checking things, like a good happy housewife I ask if he’d like an ice cold glass of lemonade, since it’s such a hot day. He’ll politely declines. ((I quietly thank the lord and wonder what the hell I’m doing offering lemonade. I don’t have any g’damn lemonade. )) He makes small talk and says inquisitively, “Nice sized place - have it all to yourself?” I make a casual comment about how no, my husband is still at work. While standing next to my rainbow array of stuffed animals and several bags of empty fruit snacks. He gives a small smile. ((My internal monologue rages - what the hell is wrong with me?! I’m not even close to married and I very obviously live alone. This is why I was single so long. Because I’m terrified of strangers, who will surely find out I live alone and come kill me in my sleep later. Even good looking strangers. Ted Bundy’s first victim paranoia, right here.)) More small talk. Departure. I light up a cigarette. Just kidding. I don’t even smoke… Damn it, I need to watch less Mad Men.

#4) Who watches the Watchmen - I do! 

Prompted by a comment that I always leave my phone out on the table at dinner, I realized that it’s largely because I’m obsessed with knowing the time. Too busy, the clock keeps me in check. Solution: go back to wearing a watch so I quit looking like I’m being rude and checking my phone during conversation. I wore a watch throughout high school solely because my French teacher said it would be important to be on time during our trip abroad. So I wore a watch for four years to prep for one two-week trip. Clearly I’m very susceptible to the comments of others….

Look how TAN I look! And this angle makes me look GIANT!
Thanks, magic watch!

#5) Ponies have tails, and so do I!     

Growing my hair out again (for a wedding and then to donate) and I’m finally able to put my hair up into a pony tail again. Huzzah! That means that I’ll be motivated to start running again soon. Because, let’s face it, the only reason I like running is when I have a pony tail that swishes and bobs behind me like a badass as I hit the pavement (or treadmill). Else, what’s the point?

#6) Those who drink from glass water bottles shouldn’t throw stones     

(But for real, don’t throw rocks, at all, it’s not nice, we’re not ten anymore) Speaking of how I’ll eventually start running and doing things that are good for me, I also got on the “glass bottle” bandwagon. Because plastic is killing us apparently. My hand might be damn cold when I use it, but I’m reppin’ theawesomest bookstore ever and looking damn cool when drinking from it! (I forgot it at work, else there’d be a photo)

#7) I watch what I eat to make sure it’s not watching me… 

Yeah, ever think about that one? But seriously, after one too many dinners (read: happy hours) and a vacation based around food stuffs, this gal needed to get control of the eats again and quit being the walrus. Which has led to another new thing, something I’ve never done in my life: counting calories. After only a week, it’s very obvious what the sources are: stress snacking and alcohol. Working on cutting back on those two things, both of which are near and dear to my heart. There will be a turning point soon. Surely. 

Hagrid says, "Eat your veggies!"

Planes, Trains and Teams

Not that one likes to think morbid thoughts while sharing a space with strangers (a confined, rapidly moving space least of all), but in the back of my mind, planes and trains are really all about who is on your team.

First off, let me say that I genuinely LOVE modern transportation. Getting from point A to B swiftly, with little effort on my part, is a brilliant miracle. A few hours to cross a country? Being a human, up in the air and flying? Yeah, it’s literally magic. Gypsy voodoo magic. And it’s amazing. An absolute marvel.  I’m sure I’ll rave about it more in the future.

You're flying, you frickin' wizard you.
And there's an in-flight movie.

That being said, much like with automobiles, planes/trains are really just hurtling metal death boxes. Humans don’t naturally go those speeds. With technology being what it is, the odds of being in a plane or train crash are not high. That’s why when one occurs, it’s on the news as an alarming tragedy. Due to a loss of human life, of course, but also because we don’t expect it to happen. They’re supposed to be safe. We take for granted that they’re safe. Really though, when you’re in a plane, you’re almost 40,000 feet in the air going over 500 MPH, suspended by a thin wall of metal… There’s a chance something could go wrong.

Because my brain spends a lot of time going over unlikely scenarios (and because I only ever saw the series finale of Lost), I’ve thought a good deal about the eventuality of a crash, particularly on a plane. My solution: always prepping my team when I fly and over communicating my travel plans to my family. The latter is for tracking purposes. If I don’t text that I’ve landed, they should assume my plane dropped off the face of the earth and send a search party.

Glitter nail polish will help flag down the search party.

As for the team, it starts as soon as I arrive at the airport/station. I make a point to be as kind as possible to people in advance of and while boarding. I don’t need to be their BFF, but I want no negative thoughts harbored toward me. And then the draft begins. Since people watching is a favorite hobby of mine, I start looking around, Sherlocking people. Locate someone strong in the near vicinity. Locate a mama bear. Weed out the sick, or the ones throwing back Xanax and mini booze bottles. Determine who will be a benefit to me if shit goes down. I hand pick my Lord of the Flies style tribe and then do what I can to casually interact. Let them know I’ll share the conch.

People immediately excluded are those who put their seats in full recline. These people are only looking out for #1, only care for their own comfort, and have no regard for the ripple effect of their actions. I don’t want that sort of disregard for others on my team. The only exception to this rule is for flights over six hours and red eyes. Else keep your seat back upright or get off my team.

Sure this level of arbitrary judgment of strangers is borderline creepy. And I certainly don’t mean to make light of crash tragedies. But when you end up on the Island, you want to be ready. No point in trying to go at it alone. 

So it goes.

It’s not that I “eat my feelings.” It’s just that my emotions are starving and if you feed them, they only grow stronger until they win out. That’s why it’s best feed a frivolity, and to starve a sorrow.  

When my brain is in the grieving process, it literally jumps to the conclusion that if you stuff food into it, then the emotional rhetoric will just get smothered into silence. The selective hearing kicks in. At the drive thru, the unsuspecting disembodied voices asks if that’s all, if I’d like anything else. My inner monologue begs, “What was that you said? Make all my items the largest size possible? Add in some buckets of ranch to drown my sorrows in? Of course I’d like a shake, I didn’t even know you had shakes; I’ll take them all…” That empty pit in my stomach, the ache, it can just be filled with food. 

The face stuffing is just one phase in mourning the loss of my beloved, spunky Grandma, who passed away this weekend (despite my insistence that she was too stubborn and would outlive us all). Another phase is the reflection of all the wonderful years I had with her.  A huge part of that is blubbery, but most of it just makes my heart smile. I figured I’d save the blubbery bits for while I’m spooning a bushel of mashed potatoes into my mouth (them Shannons, they’re potato eaters!) and just share a few of the others.

There are far too many to list, but here are a few things my grandma taught me over the years…

• You’re never too old to be a trend setter. Many of my friends still know her as my “VC Grandma” from the years spent drinking Vodka Collins. Why? Because we were too young to know what to order at a bar, and if you want to sound like you’re an old pro, order what an old pro would. Too many toasts to count, and many more to be had in her honor. She inspired a generation of classy cocktailers.
• Lilac bushes really do make the very best forts.
• Wrinkles are just smile lines. You earn those lines from years of joy and laughter. Whether it was chuckles during the later years, when I told her that she needed to work hard at PT because “bikini season” was coming. Or laughing about how she’d be sure to get the front man’s attention at a concert if she threw her bra on stage – since it had a weighted fake boob in it that would probably knock him out (breast cancer survivor). 
• Moles are just “kissy freckles.”
• If you go to church on Sunday, you get Hardee's for breakfast afterwards. You don’t get Hardee's unless you go talk to God first. 
• The secrets to making a good pumpkin pie and great fudge. Can’t tell you those ones. Kitchen magic stays in the kitchen.
• Don’t smoke or wear high heels, but always have your lipstick on and your hair done before leaving the house. My grandma smoked for almost 70 years of her life while strutting about in the most fashionable (albeit tiny) high heels and her health paid the price as she got older; but the lipstick kept it all together somehow. As for the hair, even when she didn’t have much she still went to the beauty shop once a week, at dawn, to keep looking classy.
• Always sleep with a silk pillow case, to keep your curls intact. And if you have a bad dream, just flip the pillow over and start fresh. 
• The best snack in the world is a buttered saltine cracker. Or a cheese single, folded down into four little squares so it’s like four snacks instead of one. (Seriously, it’s a wonder I wasn't obese as a child.)
• Some of the best memories can involve TV, and that’s okay. Whether it’s learning everything there is to know about the prices of consumer goods, from watching Bob Barker on the Price is Right. Or figuring out how to tell who’s lying, who’s cheating and who’s really the evil twin, from hours of soap operas. Or learning how to polka to Lawrence Welk. Or secretly wishing you could grow up to be Ginger Rogers – seriously, my grandma really only put fuel to the fire during my teenage years with my Fred Astaire obsession. Thank goodness she taught me how to do those pin curls…  
• If you drop a spoon, it means that a baby is coming. (I’ve literally thrown myself over to catch a spoon before. I’m not risking that shit.) 
• Always be friendly to bus drivers. That way if one of the sailors is following you home, they’ll help you out. 
• How to not park a car like an idiot. We spent hours driving up and down the river walk, parking in every spot, just so I could get it down. Still didn’t master parallel parking, but at least I’m in the lines the rest of the time!
• If you’re going to collect something, display it. She had hundreds of Avon bottles, all beautiful and unique. We all had our favorites from the years we spent staring up at them on the shelves. 
• You can always tell a good man by his eyes. He has to have kind eyes. A fella can’t fake kind eyes. That’s literally the only requirement for finding your future husband. 

She also made me realize what mortality was, even if it was on accident. During my middle school years, I use to call her every single night before I went to bed just so I could talk to her, tell her about my day, see how she was, etc. Every single night.

One night she didn’t answer right away. The phone just kept ringing and ringing. Finally she picked up. She said she’d been in the other room or something, I told her no big deal; I just had thought she might not answer. And she told me that was silly; she would always answer when I called.  But I knew that was a lie. She was getting older and one day the phone would ring and she wouldn’t be able to answer. So I stopped calling every night, because as a teen, that thought really upset me...  I regret that. 

Luckily I had many years with her beyond that, for advice and laughs. And even though she’s gone in this moment, she was a real gem in so many other moments. Timeless. So it goes.