Hindsight Is: 2018 Edition

Holy frickin' cow, 2018. How is it nearly at an end? Literally, I fail to understand time, because she's a cruel mistress. Reading my 2016 and 2017 recaps was a hoot. A fun look back at an often angsty, but mostly doe-eyed past-Gina, and a great way to put this maelstrom year into perspective.

So here's a glance back on the past 365 -

• New Era: This was it. The year that straddled my twenties and thirties. Much the same way a drunken bachelorette straddles a mechanical bull after her fourth shot of tequila, it was both epic and sloppy. I held on for dear life, and despite the inevitable falling, I considered the overall attempt a great success... 2018 was an ongoing celebration as many dear friends likewise turned the big 3-Oh. The friend crew really stepped up the adulthood levels once crossing the thirty line, with an onslaught of new houses bought, new babies birthed, and new marriages celebrated.*  There was also a wave of grad parties, as my little cousins become not so little anymore and as friends have continued to check off advanced degrees. So many changes. Bowie would've been proud (RIP).
• Personal Adult Points Peak: 2018 was tops in my own personal adulting, as well. Besides having officially survived my twenties (it was touch-and-go for a bit there), I also finally crossed the threshold and became completely debt free. And, after soapboxing for over four years about how we were plenty happy as we were thankyouverymuch, we finally decided to put a ring on it and got engaged!** And, we're definitely not pregnant so cheers for not catching that particular cootie just yet! Besides those big moments on the personal front, I also was promoted again at work, twice. AND I joined a book club. So, I'm one glass of wine away from 40 and a mini van at this point. Go team! 
• Turn On: It was another year for watching the world unfold. The Winter Olympics. The World Cup. I finally watched The Office (I hate Jim - yes, there will be a rant about it some day). I voyaged back to Middle Earth with my sis, to watch the Lord of the Rings Trilogy (extended editions) in theaters once more. I rewatched all of Game of Thrones in anticipation of the upcoming finale. Beyond the silver screens, I saw plenty of action IRL, as well. An epic opening concert by The Killers at the new venue in MKE. A standout Summerfest show by Chromeo. Visits to the local theater, ballet, and symphony. Chuck full of culture, that 2018!
• Tune In: While everyone in 2018 was all about "saying no more" - I took that as a load of crap and tried to say yes more. Yes to meeting up with old friends. Yes to that extra phone call with a family member. Yes to giving a shit about people and your relationships to them, instead of just only focusing on yourself. I especially tried to stay in touch better with friends who don't live in close proximity. Hosted various friends (and groups) throughout the year, showed up for some birthday parties out of town, met up with people while in NYC for work, made a point to grab lunch or a drink when someone was passing through town (even if it was an airport lounge cocktail), attended a large reunion with my social group from college - overall just SHOWED UP (as much as I could - sorry for the times I couldn't manage). 2018 was about laughing with and learning from as many people as I could. 
• Drop Out: There was a huge rift in the middle of this year, as the beau's dad passed away suddenly in July (the day before my 30th birthday). It was truly a black hole that just sucked the light out of us. The support from friends and family was overwhelming, and we were more grateful than ever for having everyone, despite us taking a good deal of time to disconnect. Social media, blogging, all this fringe stuff is just so unimportant when you've got a bigger, life changing situation going on. A lot of things took a back burner while we tried to adjust to the upside down. As they should have. 
• Aboard AF: After several years of traveling domestically together, we finally made the leap abroad. This year we had quite a few epic adventures across the pond, visiting the Faroe Islands, Copenhagen, Iceland, London, Paris and Dublin. It'd been ten years (way too long of a hiatus!) since I'd last had a proper Eurotrip, and I'd been itching for the return to foreign languages, fabulous public transit, and delicious bread. It was also nice to see that the beau and I could travel well together in a more foreign setting. And hey, we got engaged in Paris, so now we will always have an excuse to return there (yas!). 
• Etc: Loved and lost a kitchen couch that rocked my world. Voted - twice - because primaries matter. Met our neighborhood graffiti artist. Finally went to the eye doc, dentist, and regular doc all within a 12 month span - hit that hat trick for the first time in way too long. Got over the Sunday Slump. Built more IKEA furniture than I have in a lifetime. Surfed various waves of anxiety. Spent a lot of time with family, as my grandma's house was fully cleared out and sold. Was a major spectathlete at the beau's SIXTEEN races this year - he put on over a thousand miles and ran his first full marathon in NYC. 

The year ahead is sure to be a busy one, and I won't make it out of it single. There are still plenty of big ch-ch-changes to come on the home front. The twenties felt like a decade of constant evolution, with a perpetual state of movement and few stationary points. This new decade feels like more permanent changes are afoot. Changes with longer term consequences. The fun and games aren't over, now it just feels less like the Hunger Games and more like chess. We've got to be three moves ahead and see a little further into the future, it's not just about surviving this moment, or living day by day. 2019 will kick that all off - may the odds still be ever in our favor.

2018: What a frickin' whirlwind!

* Though, this year there were only three weddings attended. A far cry from the eight-each-year pace we had been running at. It's official: a big chunk of us are "settled" -- HOW bizarre! Time for some renewing of vows, divorce parties, or something, because I'm already lamenting the lack of drunken dancing and playing dress up!
** Sorry in advance if you hate wedding talk - but, I frickin' love it. So, you can expect to see plenty more soul-searching and overly dramatic posts about wedding planning in 2019. If you want to tune out for those, I'll forgive ya. Shall try not to rabble too much about it.
*** Six of my top ten trafficked posts were in 2018 - and yet I had three months of radio silence to repay you all. Sorry, that's just the way it goes. Thanks for continuing to come back! 

Binge Hip

There's a certain phenomenon that's been spreading like a plague the past decade. It's an issue that has increased exponentially as the years have gone on. A phenomenon I fondly refer to as "binge hip."

You know how it is. You've had a long week at work. Hell, you've had a long frickin' month. The summer has been busy, you've barely had any time to yourself, and then this workweek decided just to give you the dagger.

Getting home, you wish to slip into some sweet abyss. You click on the TV. And there it is, an escapist fantasy tailor-made for you (and your demographic), blinking in a spotlight feature on your fave steaming platform.

Some new season has just dropped. It dropped harder than you dropped your weekend plans. A half-hearted "Not feeling well. Raincheck?" text, followed by your prompt phone call to the local delivery joint. All the food. You tell them to bring all the food. These provisions will need to last you for at least the next 8.5 hours. A mug of cocoa. A heap of blankets. You kill the overhead lights and plug in that random strand of holiday bulbs that you've somehow never taken down* and you settle the fuck in.

This is for the long haul. You've earned it. You deserve to just turn on, tune in, and drop out... but without psychedelics, and instead with a solid binge-watch. This is your means of escape. This is your time.

The doorbell buzzer goes off. Only an hour has passed, you've barely gotten into the second episode, and your food has arrived. A brief hiatus to tip the delivery guy and grab a fork from the kitchen (since of course there wasn't one in the bag - #TipRegret). A timely switch from cocoa to wine. The briefest of bathroom breaks. And you are BACK in it.

That'll do. Just enough to get through the
emotional roller coaster of the last seven episodes.

Before you know it, day has become night. Night has high-five the witching hour as it drove past it, on its way into what one might call the "wee hours." You've already had a judgmental automated prompter ask you not once, but twice, whether or not you're still watching. (The answer is, yes, I am. Save your criticism for my "to watch" list, bitch.) And then there it is, the black screen. Actual final credits rolling, instead of the usual spillover into the next episode. At least a minute before it'll serve you up the trailer of some similar black hole for you to crawl into as it sucks away your time. You stare into the blackness, back at your own haggard reflection, and click back to the main menu.

It's over. Accomplishment unlocked. You've concurred another wave of content. The water-cooler talk on Monday will be filled with your epic tales of this adventure you've had. You are a g'damn champion.

Blinking, the moisture slowly returns to your eyes. You look about and debate whether a move to the bed is actually worth it, or if you should just remain in your nest, surrounded by empty food and drink containers. It's so late, it doesn't seem worth it. After all, you've got a lovely imprint on the couch that is swaddling you just fine. But then that twinge of guilt hits, over what you've just "accomplished," and you decide that moving to the bedroom would be the "adult" thing to do.

You go to stand up, and a loud creak emits from your hip. Despite your best effort to rotate couch positions, you had continually settled back into that one spot. Nestled firmly into your blanket mound, with one hip holding you slightly aloft so you could snack. And that hip is not happy to have beared the burden of your binge.

To the bed you go, limping like someone sixty years your senior. You collapse into a deep sleep, your eyes embracing the darkness and lack of television glow... Nearly half a Saturday is gone before you finally glimpse the world again. You roll over and out from under the sheets to take a step towards the shower. A creak, a crack, and a pop later, and your hip has proclaimed its continued state of rage. Its warning you. Don't do this again. Go out into the world, walk about, exercise, move, or otherwise give it some room to shake its thing. That hip wants to be free.

You shuffle your way through a shower, your foot barely clearing the edge of the tub as you lift your lifeless leg up and over. A sleepy towel dry, and you promptly return to your pajamas. Grabbing a half-frosted pint of ice cream out of the freezer, you make your way back to the couch. The binge hip lets out a loud protest as you return under the covers and queue up yet another show. Real life, responsibilities, and binge hip be damned -  willpower was never one of your strong points.

If it's not on social media,
did it really happen?

* Hey, it worked in college, right? Strands of cheap lights can set the mood and are arguably less harsh than regular lighting. Let's not shame that shit. It's twinkly bulb magic and should not be typecast as only being able to supply a dull holiday glow. Also. I definitely typed "bulbs that you somehow've never taken down" and then stared, wondering why "somehow've" wasn't recognized as a word. You don't know me, spell check! 

Take Another Little Piece (of my heart now, baby)

Puzzles. Those that are a metaphor for life's little mysteries and those that are legit tiny pieces of colored cardboard. Some people love them, some hate them. I'm a happy mix of both.

Growing up, my mom and sister were both exceptionally good at puzzles. I often wonder at what point my mom figured out that she could dump out a box and enjoy hours of peace and quiet. My grandma had clearly figured out the tactic before her, because I remember putting together ones stowed away in a coffee can that had clearly seen better days. Regardless, we had on our game shelf a multitude of different landscapes, for us to fit together faraway places from the comfort of our own home. We even had a puzzle board, so the work in progress could be transported around for convenience of space and lighting.

While my family was systematic and vicious when it came to quick and efficient assembly, I floundered. My budding ADD and rabid imagination couldn't be confined to such black and white games. I would take a piece and try to fit it against a dozen others that were of completely different color and dissimilar shape. Sometimes, they'd let me struggle along, other times a piece would get snatched from my hand and promptly placed in its appropriate spot while I stared on. Why couldn't a blue and a red fit together? It was possible. Right? .... I just couldn't compete and flourish in that setting.

To fix this, I got a puzzle board of my own. During college, we'd flatten out a futon, pour ample libations, and "picnic" away an afternoon with cheese and bread over-top a puzzle of Rome. We were fancy. So fancy. That fanciness continued into adulthood as I'd build out landscapes of Hogwarts while binge watching Mad Men. Not saying I became an expert, but I finally started to not be awful. I figured out my own strategy and started focusing on the big picture instead of just smashing together mismatched images, wondering why they wouldn't connect.

In the past few years, the beau has now joined in on the creation process. And it has lead to one very clear conclusion: we do not have similar tactics at all, and I do not puzzle well with others.

This will only end in tears... Of joy. From me. As I place the last piece, victoriously.
(that I've hidden in my pocket so the glory would be all mine!)

I attack with a rigid system:

• Pick out and assemble edges. 
• While digging for edges, compartmentalize various image themes (green grass = green pile in one place; red flower patch = boom, you get a pile, too!) to make it easier after edges are done. 
• Attack each pile in turn. Use the box if you must, but you should be able to figure it out based on the shapes and shading on the pieces in front of you.
• Place back into overall frame as large sections are ready, consulting reference picture as needed.
• In the final stages, pieces are placed in piles based on shape and systematically tested in turn until each has found a home.
• When finished, make sure every bit is broken apart and back in container. Shake for good measure. Make sure it's good and ready for future assembly challenge.

The beau?*

• He says the edges are "the easy part" so you can just worry about them whenever. 
• Pick out some random spot on the picture on the box. Hold said box cover in front of face while searching for individual piece to match specific thing you're looking at. 
• Have some bits put together, place them in general vicinity on table where they will be in overall image, despite not having edges set up to create a frame.
• When finished, glue together. Because you worked hard and why would you ever want to build it again? (Note: he also doesn't rewatch movies or reread books - I know. I judge, too.)

When building together, I get frustrated. I sneakily work on the puzzle when he's in the shower or cooking dinner just so I can organize his piles. I snatch bits of his sections, so I can "help." AND I shriek bloody murder the second a suggestion of glue even occurs. Basically, I'm the worst.

Having such different approaches for how we put together silly little chunks of cardboard, of course, cracks open the greater anxieties... do our own pieces fit together? Are our strategies a perfect compliment, in total conflict, or a beautiful mess of creation? How we approach this game, is it a reflection of how we approach life? Am I just not good at playing well with others?

This is when I start to claw away from my winter hibernation and indoor activities like puzzle making. Because this is the point where my mind starts to run rampant and the irrationality hits a peak. Suddenly a simple box of colored bits becomes an overwrought metaphor for how I must be failing at my relationship. Ten minutes into starting a new design, I've spiraled. Sobbing into the cardboard dust, blaring James Morrison songs,** and assuming I'll live out my days as a crazy spinster - the kind who puts together edges first to create a barrier and keep out those she loves... The deterioration would be funny if it weren't so alarming. The only solution is to abandon the board and run for the open doors into the spring. Too many months cooped up. Puzzling (and my neuroses) can wait until next winter to come out and play again!

The man is a monster, and a cheat!

* Please note: this is based on observations made while puzzling together. I have never witnessed him puzzling on his own, so perhaps his strategy is entirely different when I'm not also there. Or not. The world may never know. ALSO, this is only slightly exaggerated, due to my frustration over the inefficiency. Because I can't handle ineffective processes these days. Sending thanks to the man out there, for bringing me to this point! My frustrations are obviously just spillover from the workplace. 
** Thank you, semester abroad, for giving me that most brilliant of breakup songs. How many times has my tear-streaked faced belted out your ridiculous lyrics into a pint of ice cream while a roommate watched on in horror? Oh, bless those broken hearts of youth! For they make the most ridiculous scenes in hindsight.

Takin' a Chill Pill

Winter is coming. And my shivery soul is dreading the hell out of it.

Wisconsin winters create a sort of inescapable cold. The kind that chills you to the bone and settles in for five to nine months. A cold that makes the first 40 degree day of spring seem like shorts weather. Yeah, I've grown up with it. Yeah, I can deal with it. But no, that doesn't mean I'm on board with it.

Living all these years in the frozen tundra, I have a lot of memories about the cold. After a particularly chilly happy hour the other night (I still can't feel my feet and my bum knee is basically resigned to never bend again) and much discussion about how this winter may be the worst one in awhile (if the Farmer's Almanac says it's so, it is the frickin' law of the land), many of those have bubbled up to the surface...

• When I was in pre-K, there was a blizzard. I don't remember if I was only enrolled in half-days or if it was cancelled due to bad weather, I just remember being bundled up in my snowpants, boots, puffy coat, hat and mittens - a mini, mobile marshmallow. My grandma came to pick me up and half dragged me through the parking lot because of the drifting snow and wind. People kept getting stuck in the lot, but my grandma had a big old 1980's Bronco, so we were going to be fine. She popped this little puffer into the back and went around to get in herself. The back seat had a faux-fur (green/brown in color) thrown over it and my grandma told me I had to stay on the fur, and wrap myself in it. I'm not sure if this was because the heat in the Bronco wasn't fully working due to the cold, or if it was her attempt to keep me in one spot while she maneuvered the storm. Likely, the latter. She told me to save my stories for later (I was a chatty child) and just listen to the radio. The song was "Then You Can Tell Me Goodbye." My grandma sang every word in her smooth baritone (the result of years of lipstick stained cigarettes, likely), while I sat as a silent Eskimo, wrapped in fur. And that song reminds me of her to this day, the woman who always helped maneuver the storm.
• In college, I was friends with an Australian exchange student. We were sitting in class when the first snow of the year began to fall. She stared out the window, completely distracted for the next hour, waiting. As soon as the period ended, she excitedly ran out and we followed, to watch her experience snow for the very first time. Before we could stop her, she scooped up a big handful of fluffy pure white stuff and held it up to us in amazement, ignoring our protests. After a minute of excitedly talking about it, as I tried to force her to put it down, she suddenly looked at me in horror and said, "I can't feel my hands, what's happening??" At that point she finally dropped what was left of the flakes, appalled that it had betrayed her. We took her off to the bathroom to run her hands under room temperature water (never hot - we've all played that game!) and explain to her how mittens work and how not to get frostbite. She was alarmed, resentful, and yet fascinated. Sure, we could've tried to stop her, but it was a beautiful joy to witness (even with a dramatic bitter shift at the end). And really, some things you just have to experience on your own to fully understand. 
• In early 2014, the polar vortex struck. I was living in the upper of a poorly insulated, old house. Single at the time, I had no alternative place to stay. The cost to heat my one bedroom apartment - keeping it at a brisk 58 degrees - was almost $200 a month, and this poor gal refused to pay beyond that.  When the vortex came, I was basically a sitting duck. The windows were already covered in their seasonal caulking/plastic, but I also took the liberty of barricading furniture against walls to act as insulation. I hung "tapestries" (aka blankets) to block doors. I baked daily. Anything to keep warm. One particular day, with a windchill around -40 degrees, my car wouldn't start. I didn't have internet at the time, so I remember walking down the desolate street (not a soul was out - no one wanted to foolishly "brave" the frigid doom), three blocks down to the local coffee shop. The cold was so harsh, it cut through my layers like a knife. I worked remotely from the coffee shop until early afternoon, when they were literally closing due to the cold. Upon my return home, I gathered up every remaining blanket, pillow and stuffed animal, and created a fortress against the cold, in the middle of my living room (my two couches acting as the main walls). Wearing sweatpants over my tights, and a giant penguin Weasley sweater over my under armor, I popped on two layers of fuzzy socks and a stocking cap and burrowed into my nest. I'd lit every candle I could find, determined to warm myself by the fire. My heat was set to 70, but to little avail. I watched the frost grow and crawl up the windows and kept my electric tea kettle brewing within arms length, to feed my booze-laced cocoa. It was one of the longest nights I remember ever having... And yet, it was probably the closest I'll ever come to actually being a caterpillar in a cocoon - so that made it oddly cool. Though my metamorphosis was far less beautiful/graceful, I'm sure.

Should've gotten a hand blanket...

• A different year during college, there had been a blizzard that had covered the campus in several feet of drifted snow. The email went out: all cars must be moved so lots can be plowed. A deadline was imposed. Panic rippled throughout the townhouse village I lived in: no one had shovels. Not having a car at the time, I went out into the fray, fully bundled up in my winter gear, to help out where I could. The scene was both ridiculous and heartwarming. Hungover young adults, donning stocking caps and boots over their pajamas. Groups fully decked out in winter snowboarding gear, complete with goggles. Students in tennies and hoodies. All using whatever they could find to free the cars. With an assortment of pots, pans, bowls, and sheer willpower, we slowly uncovered and pushed out vehicle after vehicle. Teamwork and frostbite abounded that day. 

The cold is inevitable. Whilst living this far north of the Mason-Dixon, there's really no way to avoid it. All one can do is hope to make some warm memories to heat up the heart during those cold times... 

....Cheesy? Way too cheesy on that one? 

Yeah, most definitely. 

Really, I often get to the point where, despite my wonderful memories from various chilly moments in my life, I get totally fretful about the approach of winter. I figure one may as well pack on a few pounds and just use the walrus weight to ward against the chill. BUT then you have to work twice as hard in the spring to get fit again, so that's no good. Really, it's like...  just suck it up, buttercup, let's all pretend we're tough mid-westerners who relish the ice, grab our liquid blankets, and we'll all hold up together til the thaw comes. Let's hope there are some shenanigans to keep us occupied til then. 

Accidental Cardio

Something has been amiss this week. Maybe it's those post-wedding blues. Or the return of fall, which means that winter is just around the bend. Or maybe it's just fluxes in hormones and weather. (Or maybe I just got bit on the bum by a bitch bug.) Whatever it is, this girl needed to jostle something back into place.

Best place to start: tackling the walrus and getting back to some sort of physical activity (other than bustin' out sick dance moves at various wedding receptions).

So, gave it a go. Jumped back into my go-to TIU workout. Rearranged our second bedroom so all the mirrors were just perfect for me to openly judge myself so I'd work extra hard. Locked the beau out and went to town for a time. Decent workout, clearly out of shape, but did pretty swell for still dealing with my bum knee (#CuzIm90).

Post workout, bopped over to the bathroom to rinse off. Decided to bump some jams. I haven't gotten in good shower jams in far too long, so spent a few minutes deciding on music. Tried to reflect on the source of my funk (my weird week funk, not like, my groovin' dance funk) and decided on a throwback. Went way back and tried to think what my favorite inspirational tunes had been back in middle school, during a much simpler time. Came up with the quintessential song: Under Pressure by Queen and Bowie. Freddie and Bowie, my straight up favorites. That was just the ticket!

Putzed with my phone to get the song going. Set it on the sink and hopped in the shower. After the infamous opening beats, as the stellar vocals chimed in, I realized the volume was way too high. Moved the shower head aside, shook some water off. Quickly scrambled out of the tub and turned it down. All set. Back in shower. Hot water, cool shampoo, hitting all the right notes.

Hardly a minute in, the song stops. Hands in hair, mid shampoo, my eyes popped open, filled with rage. Shampoo in said eyes. A cranky sigh, a half-assed rinse, and I was out of the tub again, this time caring less about dripping, as my frustration built. Can't a lady just get her groove back and shower and Bowie in peace without all these interruptions??

Realized it was a WIFI issue, so spent several minutes awkwardly pacing naked, with my phone above my head as the water flung off my waving arms and I tried to regain signal. Finally, restored. Set phone down and turned back to shower, singing all the "de da day"s leading up to Bowie's epic line.

Opened curtain, got in.
"It's the terror of knowing what this world is about..." 
Realized I wasn't alone.
"...Watching some good friends screaming..."
There was also a GIANT centipede that was half crawled out of that little "overflow" thing above the drain and below the spout. It was halfway out and was already two inches long. Panic set in.
"...'LET ME OUT!'"

"These are the days it never rains, but it pours."

With zero regard for water spillage, completely ripped the shower curtain out of my way in order to find something to smash the creature with.
"Turned away from it all, like a blind man..."
Total flood, water everywhere. Thrashed about. Grabbed toilet paper, but it just like melted (as TP is wont to do when it gets wet), so that was no good.
"...Sat on a fence, but it don't work." 
Decided to sacrifice the pink polka dot hand towel from the dollar store. Turned back to the shower to destroy the pede.
"Keep coming up with love, but it's so slashed and torn. Why, oh why?"
Dramatically threw back curtain. Further flooding.
"Whyyyyyyyy?"

And it was no where. It had escaped / gone back to the fiery depths from whence it came. I set the towel on the tub ledge and got back in to just finish my shower, my heart racing. Closed the curtain... and that's where it was.
"Insanity laughs, under pressure we're breaking..." 
A silent, open-mouthed shriek of horror, and I began batting at the curtain. The pede scuttled frantically down to the tub, away from the flailing plastic. Water flying everywhere. More scuttling, more waving about. Total chaos.
"Can't we give ourselves one more chance?? Why can't we give love, that one more chance? Why can't we give love, give love, give love...."
STOMP. Instinct took over and I literally took my bare foot and smashed the pede against the tub.

Then I had a nervous breakdown. Filled with regret over my reflex, I attempted to scrub off all my skin with that damn pink polka dot towel which had failed me. At no point though did I regret the song choice. And that's what really maters.

Sorry, towel, I have to go light you on fire now.
(Note: blur is from my literal throwing in of said towel)

Talking 'bout my Generation

Warning: I may or may not be cranky AF in this post. There is more than one way to skin a cat (thanks, Boomers, for that one), and my views on this topic can swing depending on context, but  for today it's all the rage.

Today at work came up yet another conversation about those damn "millennials." I'm in marketing, so this is a frequent topic, as millennials are a hot commodity for advertisers. If you can "hook em young," you get the coveted "brand loyalty" that will pay out for years to come.

BUT no one can agree on who exactly this group is, or what age range it includes. Some say those born between 1980 and 2000. Others break that into Gen Y and Gen Z. If the range is that wide, then anyone age 36 to 16 is getting clumped together. And we're allllll getting pigeon-holed into the same frickin' stereotypes (so quit being so snooty, Gen Y, we're all in this together).

So, when I commented that what we were really targeting for marketing purposes (young moms) was the "older millennials" - it was like I'd shot each Gen X and Boomer in the room straight in the face. OLD?! How dare I! Typical youth, being ridiculous! They got so hung up on the word "old" that they didn't get my point -- that the "millennial" generation isn't just one small group, and more importantly, it's not as simply defined as their countless conferences would have them believe.*

Here's where I get a bit ranty...

The one thing I think all millennials agree on - we hate fucking being called millennials. The word comes with a negative connotation (created by the media) of being lazy, entitled sheep, herding toward the latest social media craze. If the label is bad, the images are worse. As a friend of mine put it: they can call us whatever they want, as long as they stop pinning up Lena Dunham** as a stock photo for our generation.

Sure, every generation feels "misunderstood" at some point. And while stereotypes are often rooted in some form of truth, that truth is sometimes found via only a small sample size. Putting that aside, let me bitch about a few 'leading definitions' of my generation for a minute here:

1. Delayed rights of passage. They call us the Peter Pan generation. Not just because we all love the movie Hook, but because we "won't" grow up. As if we purposely refuse. Well guess what, it's hard to grow up when you graduate in a recession and can't get a job. We didn't break the market, we were just kids. Those who came before us shot the economy in the face and then blamed us for moving back home. We wanted so desperately not to that we all eventually accepted jobs with horrid pay so we could spend that pittance on overpriced apartments to prove we could make it. Which lead to...
2. Debt issues. Yep, the price of higher education and interest rates on student loans decided to skyrocket. So when we came out into that recession, we came carrying the weight of thousands of dollars in debt on our backs. Oh yeah, and those shitty jobs have set us up to make less money over our lifetimes. Because when you get a pay raise on dirt, you just get slightly more dirt. And unless you live in Waterworld, that really doesn't help you out. But of course, the real reason we're poor is because we're just....
3. Lazy bastards with side gigs who spend all their money on smart phones. AKA we have to work two or three jobs just to pay rent and minimum payments on our loans. And the only light of hope while we work 60 hour work weeks (salaried at $30k a year) is to have some escapism via the tiny technology we carry in our pockets that connects us to the world and which we rely on for our...
4. Social media obsession. Since our lives are frequently rubbish, we live vicariously through the "me-myself-and-my-fabulous-friends-and-adventures" stars of the Youtubes and blogosphere that we mindlessly scroll through (while sitting on the toilet, which is really our only downtime since we're busy with all those side gigs). We "consume video" because videos allow us to multitask so we can have both escapism and enough time to do the dishes. We also spend countless hours curating our own online presence to display the version of ourselves that will get us the most likes, because we constantly need...
5. Instant Gratification. Unlike generations before, almost everything now is more measurable. We can tell if people approve of our ideas based on the statistics on social media. We don't have to guess, we know. Technology feeds us all the data we need to be happy about our place in the world, or to feel like a total loser on a clear scale that's not just in our heads. And technology will always tell us because...
6. Technology and us grew up together. We were in the cradle with computers and cell phones. We started school when computers started showing up in homes. We went to high school with floppy disks in our pockets. I got my first cell phone when I went away to college, and my first laptop only when I went to study abroad. I still don't have a smartphone, but I spend half my workday discussing device rendering issues for our website - because I can.
   

   

   Whose bright idea was this??

   Because technology and us have been BFFs for years. We grew up awkwardly together: braces, bruises, buzzy dial-up and all.  We feel like access to information is a right, even if that sounds a bit....
7. Entitled. We grew up in a world with freedom of information, and we're not going backwards and accepting anything less.
   
   Do we feel entitled about getting a promotion at work? NO, but we feel like we should get one when we've earned it. Why? Because a bunch of Boomer parents put the doe-eyed notion in our heads that if we WORKED HARD and stayed positive, and showed off our talents, and all the things that made us bright little stars, that we WOULD be able to excel. Hard work, dedication. Be kind, rewind. Go to college and get a job. You filled us with a false idea that at graduation, we'd receive diplomas and jobs, just like that.
   
   And then we walked out into the world, with stars in our eyes and ambition in our souls, with a drive to make the world a better place... and most of us got knocked flat on our asses. So we picked ourselves up and worked hard, just like we were told. We switched jobs because our work wasn't appreciated (unlike our parents, we don't want to just put up with being shit on by "the man" - we want some g'damn positive affirmation). We got shut down for ideas because things have "always been done" a different way. We kept working hard. And you know where it got us? Mostly, it just got us bitter.
   
   As we watched older people with less talent run the companies we worked for into the ground, powerless to move up and help. We reached out for mentors to guide us, we networked, we scrambled. Some took any job they could to try and stop living paycheck to paycheck. To the point where the only thing most of us feel entitled to now is our free time outside of work. If putting in the extra time isn't rewarded, we're not going to keep being indentured servants - we're going to squeeze every ounce out of our free time and make it as shiny as possible, because we DO feel entitled to the same happiness we see from those internet personalities. It's why we cover our tiny cube walls with bright motivational quotes - to remind us that there's life out there.
   
   We give up on changing the world.
   Just let us grow up to be unicorns and let's be done with it.

As it is, was, and always will be, the young don't have the benefits of wisdom and the old don't have the weightless optimism of youth. Older generations always point out something to bitch about when it comes to "those damn kids," just like the generation before bitched about them. Basically, we all just bitch at the youths because we want them to know better. But they never will. So, let us make our mistakes and lay off the judgement, because we're over it (AF).***

The internet gave this to me, because we're friends.

* Here is one of many decent articles about millennials. Go read this, not the other rubbish.
**Sidebar on Lena Dunham re: Girls. Not a single millennial I know can relate to the characters on that show. We all hate them because they give a bad name to our generation. I went into that show hoping I'd get some fellow youths to commiserate and empathize with, but I only grew to dislike each character more and more as time went by. They're awful; we are not like that... Except for the gay dads, we might have some gay dads. 
*** General disclaimer: I'm not living paycheck. I've finally almost paid off my $27,000 of student loan debt. I'm not just surviving, but am thriving - but that was after a lot of years of shit and struggle. A lot of my friends have finally come through the other side (now that we're all pushing 30), but many have not yet. We're not all the same, this whole article was just another set of stereotypes *shakes fist at the irony of it all - and the possible misuse of the word irony*

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?

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... 

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...

Rock Out(side of my personal space)

My inner 90 year old woman is a real crank when it comes to concert etiquette. Having been a small town girl, I wasn’t a legit concert goer until my adult years. I totally support the youths attending musical events, but I don’t support idiot youths under any circumstance, so… therein lies the problem of attending large music festivals.

YOUTHS. Youths...everywhere.

Since I love me a good list (with a story or two tied in), here are my top SIX rules of concert etiquette (for festivals, without any assigned seating, not regular concerts):

1) If you want to be up front, show up early and hold your ground

Do NOT show up twenty minutes before the show and drunkenly shove your way through the crowd. I don’t care if you “have a friend up there” that you’re “trying to get back to.” Everyone “has a friend up front.” Shouting a random name doesn’t help. And if there really is someone up there, then too bad, you shouldn’t have left that friend; you can’t go back, just accept it. Also, if you do start trying to push your way closer, people are squeezing together to let you through usually. When you stop because you realize you can’t get closer, you have just pissed off EVERYONE around you who is now sandwiched awkwardly together. Don’t be jovial about it; just back the fuck out to where you came from because there is no space here (in the inner circles of hell). Stack on and add a new layer to the outside edges, like a proper person. This is especially true for TALL people. Don’t stop in front of me and say, “This looks good enough.” Because I’ll head butt you in the small of your back until you move, you giant.

2) Keep your sins to yourself

• If you want to drink up a storm, cool, I support it. Just don’t spill your beer on me when you’re trying to bust a drunken move, please. And if you’re severely underaged, that counts double. 
• If you want to smoke some illegal drugs, that’s your thing, boo. Just don’t blow smoke on me or light up so often that everyone within 20 yards has a contact high (also: it’s still illegal in this state, so maybe hit it beforehand and not in public during the show?). 
• If you want to get it on with some cute thang you found at the show, get a room. I don’t want to look up/over and realize that I’m the accidental love child of two people hooked up while basically on top of me. Or have my ass grabbed on accident (several times) by some stoned guy reaching for someone else’s lovely lady lumps

3) Do not engage

If there’s a fight, someone provoking you, or you get shoved/pushed… just don’t engage. You’ll likely make it worse and possibly end up shanked in a crowd, where no ambulance (aka medi golf cart) can get to you and you’ll quietly just get trampled to death due to your weakened state.

Cue my sister at the Third Eye Blind concert. When a scrawny Gen-Xer fell on her while dancing with his spacy blond girlfriend, she shoved him right back. Most men, when you push them, will not move/will hold their ground. However, not being fully cognizant of where he was even, he instead went flying. I promptly opted to remove us from that concert, for fear of retaliation, but we departed to general applause from onlookers. One gent even proclaimed her as his hero, saying he wished he could have a t-shirt with her face on it, because that was badass. Don’t bank on this support from the crowd; assume that retaliation leads to getting shanked. Don’t be a hero. NOTE: this largely depends on the show as well (see #4).

4) Know your audience

Adjust your actions depending on the show. Jumping around like crazy and head-banging the whole concert is slightly less appropriate when you’re at Hall and Oates. If you’re going to retaliate when someone runs into you, the Third Eye Blind concert is a better place to do it than at the Slayer concert – Gen Xer’s are too jaded to fight back.

5) Don’t crowd surf (period)

Just don’t. If you really want to get violated by strangers, do it on your own time, don’t do it when I’m trying to watch a show. Especially if you’re trying to surf TOWARDS the stage, because no one can see you coming, so you end up risking injury to yourself and others.

At the very packed Walk the Moon show (why they got put on a small/free stage, I’ll never know), after hours of getting my ass kicked by the ever pressing crowd, getting nearly choked by my own necklace, getting stepped on, pushed about, spilled on, etc. by all the youths, I was pretty well at my wit’s end. That’s when the highest white chick you ever saw came and surfed her foot right into my head. Her friends were shouting words of encouragement, urging the crowd to pass her forward. But the second she hit me, I was done. I hulked out as she came above me and wrenched her down, saying, “No effin’ way, sweetheart, you’re done, you’re coming down.” I was like a mom lifting a car off of her child: pure adrenaline and rage. I held and safely lowered to the ground a girl who was at least of equal body weight, and about as mobile as a sack of potatoes. AKA I was awesome.

NOTE: the exception to this rule is if you’re with the band. The Flaming Lips literally put their lead singer in a hamster ball and he rolled over the crowd while singing. That is not only the awesomest thing ever; it’s also the only acceptable form of crowd surfing.

6) Wear deodorant, please

When there are so many people packed into a small space, in the summertime, for hours, all dancing around and drunk… sweat happens. Please put on your deo. Because otherwise, every time you put your hands up, because they’re playing your song, the butterflies will not fly away…. they’ll just die… because you stink.

So go get your groove on, friends, and enjoy the summer festival season. Just follow the rules, and don’t get to the point where you become THAT guy / girl…

Note that most of these stem from the events of this past Saturday night at the our-music-fest-is-better-than-yours event of the year: Summerfest.