Hindsight Is: 2017 Edition

Here we are again, looking back at another year gone by. My oh my, dear friends, was it another doozy! Looking back at my 2016 reflection, I had to laugh. 2016 was an exceptional year, which I exited out of feeling really pissed. The state of the union was a real drag leading into 2017, and that shit-storm sort of loomed throughout. But beyond that, there was a lot of awesome stuff that went down.

So, let's take a little stroll down memory lane, and see how 2017 did right by me and what occupied my time these past 365....

• Soapboxing: Give me some markers, a piece of tagboard, and something to be enraged about and let me loose! This was definitely a year of shouting from the rooftops and Norma Rae'ing about. From the Women's March in January to the March for Science in April, there were a lot of beautiful voices trying to be heard. 
• Love was in the air: It was another headliner year of stellar weddings, with eight more "I Do"s witnessed. So many nuptial shenanigans were had. Also got my jam on at a variety of bachelorette parties - from a bloody/brunch crawl, to a waterpark/cabin adventure in the Dells, to a very memorable stint in Vegas (which my liver is probably still recovering from). 
• Wanderlust fulfilled: Travel is my lifeblood, and 2017 didn't disappoint. February had a week in Florida to explore the Disneyworld parks and of course Harry Potter World at Universal (which I will never pass up). Had a good old fashioned gal's trip to the Grand Canyon and Vegas (for the aforementioned bachelorette) in June. In August we returned to visit my heart, in that concrete jungle where dreams are made of - and extended my work trip to NYC into a vacation up the coast to Boston. Mini trips were taken closer to home, as well. I used mead to lure the beau to his first MN Renaissance Festival and pure enthusiasm to get him to the House on the Rock for the first time. 
• Family time: Many a cousin pub crawl was had. One which also allowed me to refine those zombie makeup skills I started learning in 2016 (see? useful!). There was a lot of family time around the final cleanup of my dear grandma's house as well, which lead to much bonding over eye drops from the eighties and the other junk we all keep. Extended family kicked in as well in November, with a combined Thanksgiving of my immediate family and the beau's fam (major adult points). 
• Boss lady: This year I created a new role, and convinced everyone that I deserved to have it.* It's been a challenge but it keeps things interested and has helped me grow. I'm constantly learning new strategies and even if it's frustrating at times, it's also weirdly rewarding. That promotion also came with a new title, a raise, and later a bonus. A badass year for business, bitches!
• Showtime: Many great movies were seen, much television was consumed. Also, we hit up several live events as well: we rocked out to Diana Ross, laughed our butts off at Alton Brown, and held back tears / the desire to give her a big hug at Hillary Clinton.
• Socialest of butterflies: Between hosting and attending, there was almost never a dull moment. Happy hours and going away parties. Housewarmings and coolings. Derby day, wine and cheese parties, Passover Seder, a Paella birthday bash, Friendsgivnakkuh, and taverns of the paddle and pedal variety. 
• Etc: Beyond the above, plenty of other things went down as well. I was a spectathlete extraordinaire for the 13 races the beau ran this year. Got my DNA test done! Did my own taxes. Finished up root canal number two. Hit and ran past my three year anniversary with the beau. Worked my way through various bouts of anxiety. Played hooky.

Overall, I can't complain. 2017 was my last full year of my twenties, and the big 3-0 is just around the corner. So, 2018, since you get to straddle this big decade divide, you sure better not disappoint! Hope you all have wonderful kickoff. See you on the other side!

2017 was kind of like me and this squirrel:
we were cool with each other but like, not BFFs.

* If anyone needs a career cheerleader or a fire lit under their ass, let me know, because I'm very adamant about women stepping up, grabbing that job success ladder, and climbing like hell, and I'm happy to discuss! (In fact, I probably won't shut up, but that's a different thing.)

Playing Hooky

Cutting class and going on madcap adventures is the golden stuff that 80s movies are made out of. It's glamorous. It's exciting. You always get away with it, and even if you get close to being caught, it doesn't matter because shenanigans!

Ferris Bueller is that cool guy who I aspired to date in high school. In reality, I ended up being more of a Cameron. Pretty sure the only time I really skipped class was in college - to go see then President-Elect Obama give a speech. So, even when I cut class, I was still a total Cameron about it. Guess I just wasn't cool enough to pull that shit off.

As an adult though, playing hooky is more up my alley, because I'm using my well-earned vacation time to do it! (#TypicalCameron) Since the year is drawing to a close, the beau and I decided to hook it up together, and took off a random Thursday. Here's what the adult version of madcap, skipping-class-and-being-youths adventure looked like...

We slept in - til 8 am. Before hitting the road, we scooped up some local donuts and coffee. They had a Homer Simpson style one, which was obviously my pick.

"I could be the walrus.
I'd still have to bum rides off people."

The destination: IKEA. Along the way: a Jelly Belly distribution center. So for second breakfast, we got to sit on a train, wearing silly paper hats, while our conductor explained all the delicious ins and outs of the jelly bean business to us. With all that knowledge, we promptly proceeded to raid the giant gift shop. Samples and sales meant that we walked away with at least five pounds of candy (in bags, and on our person). It was heaven.

"It's a little childish and stupid,
but then, so is high school."

Next stop: Gurnee Mills. AKA a giant mall also on our route. The remainder of the morning was spent walking about,* checking out the occasional store, buying miscellaneous things like a shower curtain and candy cane tights. We discussed life, the holidays, the logistics of hijacking a dinosaur mall scooter rental, etc. Naturally, I went from zero to starving at some point, and figured that since we were on a mini vaycay, we should escape to somewhere tropical... the Rainforest Cafe.

One raving recommendation from a hostess later, and I had a giant mango mojito in front of me (the glass came free with the drink - and was promptly re-gifted for a White Elephant exchange a week later). The beau had a beer and a sandwich, while I partook in chicken tenders. The creepy animatronic animals (whose homeland is the uncanny valley) raged on as each "storm" rolled through, and by the time we were ready for the check there was a beautiful starry sky above and a rainbow nearby. Yeah, I'll say it, being two of ten people in a Rainforest Cafe is my jam. I drank the koolaid. I'd do it again. It was worth every overpriced penny. 

"It's one of my personal favorites and I'd like to dedicate it to
a young man who doesn't think he's seen anything good today."

Following our jungle excursion, the beau proceeded to run about the oddly massive (for a mall) arcade area, attempting each and every claw machine. There were at least a dozen. All clearly rigged and not acting in his favor. This spurred our departure onto the next location, the end goal, the mecca: IKEA. The place most relationships go to die.

At approximately 90 miles away, our "local" IKEA is at what I like to call a "safe" distance. Just far away enough to not often damage my wallet and cause an overload to the small square footage of our apartment. I allotted three hours to roam, which was just barely enough. The beau knew going in that I treat IKEA like a scavenger hunt / playground. Since we don't make the pilgrimage often, I insist on going through every display area on every floor. I let the arrows lead me and follow the floor plan they've specifically designed to entrap me. Unlike a timid rabbit, sniffing around a trap, I simply walk right up and lay upon said trap, and die happy. (Too morbid?)

"The place is like a museum. It's very beautiful and
very cold, and you're not allowed to touch anything."

At various points, I settled into my lovely living room of choice and take a little sit break to tally up what things I plan to squeeze into the car (and to calculate dimensions to see if it will jigsaw into the trunk). The whole plan of attack went smoothly.** We also stopped for some meatballs #BecauseSwiss (and because whenever I'm even slightly stressed, the beau assumes hanger and promptly feeds me - a fair bit of assumption that I chose not to argue against). And in the end, we both spent barely any money (sub $100 between the two of us) but took home lots of goodies and a few essentials.

En route back home, we swung into a swanky strip mall restaurant (where the walls were literally just bottles of wine and we were next to a fireplace) to meet up with some of our best dear friends for a catch-up dinner. Hours later, after what was probably our fifth meal of the day, darkness surrounded us as we cruised up the super-secret-spy-route to avoid tolls and head home. We were exhausted, and we had work the next day, but we were content.

So there you have it, a skip day that was perhaps the opposite of oh-so-glamours (NO-so-glamorous?), but was just what the doctor ordered. Candy, cocktails, furniture, food, friends. And at one point, sure, maybe we randomly broke into song in the middle of a parade. Maybe. It's all a bit of a blur. After all, life moves pretty fast...

* Fun fact: mall walking is one of my fave things. Like, old people mall walking where you just get your steps in, not even like shopping mall walking. 

** Until we ran into the random houseplant section near the checkouts - where I ripped open my wallet, started making it rain credit cards, and shouted "take my money!" Or something to that effect. 

#CompanyIsComing

AKA Weird Shit I Clean / Do to Get Ready When We're Going to Have House Guests*

Tis the season... for guests! Holiday travel means overpriced and overbooked hotels. Which also means holiday crashers.

Given my extreme extrovert tendencies, the more humans in my presence, the better. As an incognito 50s housewife, hosting is my bag. Tag on the fact that we have a second bed/bath in our apartment and live in a city with a viable airport and BOOM, we're a prime candidate for taking on company!

Since we're often a boardinghouse, I've refined my approach to prepping and have expanded my previous routine. I still firmly stand by my list of hostess essentials (snacks, drinks, sheets, towels and TP), but I've added a few other tricks up my sleeve. Sometimes I'll even just do basic tidying plus these, and nothing else - that's how stellar they are!

1. Greenery: Make sure it at least looks like you can keep something alive (gives visitors confidence that can keep them alive, too!). That means putting out flowers and/or making sure all potted plants are alive and watered. Or, sometimes, buying new potted plants that look more alive than the ones you've already let die. (Hide those.) 
2. Floorboards: Seriously. Clean them. You'd be amazed. Instant adulthood level cleanliness. Our little dustbuster hand vacuum with a bristle attachment, I just cruise around with that. If you don't have one, a swiffer works, too! Or, grab an old sock and put it on your hand and just run around - hell of a thigh workout since you're basically squat shuffling. (Vacuum after you do this, so you don't knock dust down onto a clean floor)
3. Focused Cleaning: Instead of losing your mind deep cleaning, think about the places your visitors will be the most. An overnighter: second bathroom, bedroom, living room. A party goer: any bathroom, living room, dining room. A dinner guest: any bathroom, dining room, kitchen. ETC. (Note the common rule: BATHROOM. Everyone will always go there at some point!) Anywhere that's not a main area, just tidy up, and don't freak out about. 
4. WiFi: Make sure you have WiFi deets written down somewhere so people don't have to ask. I cross-stitched ours and framed it in the second bedroom. 
5. Hot Stuff: In our apartment, we have blasting radiator heat that we can't control. Meaning it can be 10 degrees outside and a tropical heatwave inside. Warning guests in advance allows them to dress appropriately. Then they're more comfortable and you magically seem like a better host because they're happy. If you live in a cold, drafty space, either warn in advance, or have extra slippers and blankets at the ready.
6. Get Lit: Light up one candle per room, a half hour before arrival. Keep the scents generic, like good old "fresh linen" (some folks hate candles that smell like food, like my beau, so you don't want to put anyone off - though in the kitchen that works). Blow them out before you go lead the welcoming committee - that way, when they enter they don't see 800 candles lit and think you were desperate to cover up something nasty. I usually leave the living room candle still burning, just in case they call me out on the candle smell.
7. Stock Up: Yes, "drinks" was always on my list, but now we have both a bar cart and a beer fridge that need stocking. If the cart / fridge are stocked, no one feels like they're imposing / being that asshole who's taking your last beer. A pile of snacks is always a win as well.



The twist is: vodka!

8. Spare key: If you can provide one, do. Especially if they're staying for more than a night. Because we've all been that person who forgot something in the car and has to awkwardly ask how to get back in the building (#apartmentliving).
9. Spot Check: Magic Eraser sponges, the white ones that wear away as you use them, are actual magic. After I hit both toilets with bowl cleaner, I spend the 15 minute "wait time" running around spot checking with that soapy magic sponge in one hand and a dry rag in the other. I systematically stalk** my way around the walls of the apartment, stopping at every light switch, door and corner. It takes only 15 minutes to do this rapid spot check. A swipe with the sponge, dry towel it off, move along.
   At lights: wipe the switch, plate, and any smudges around the plate - also make sure switches and bulbs work fine. At doors, on both sides: wipe down the knob, any hand smudges above or below the knob (you know, where you put your hand to push/pull a door instead of using the knob), and also any "kick board" smudges (aka the bottom of the door where your foot might hit it). At corners: jutting corner walls are surprisingly easy to smudge and nick up, so wipe that shit down!
10. Expiration: Clean out anything in your fridge that's overdue for tossing, so someone doesn't accidentally find themself drinking chunky milk. 
11. Big Fan: If you have any fans, dust the damn blades. Else, any cleaning you did is automatically null and void as someone flips that fan on and it starts shooting dust around. As someone with allergies, if I see gross looking fan blades, I'd rather sweat to death than turn it on.
    For ceiling fans: take an old pillow case, put it around the blade and pull the dust off - it'll fall in the pillow case instead of all over your stuff then! Other fans: unscrew the blade and take it with you the next time you shower (aka detach and hose down). 
12. First impression: Make sure whatever your entryway is, it's clean. And guests know just where to put shoes/hang coats, so it doesn't become a cluttered tripping nightmare. 
13. Dishware: Leave some out or make it obvious where dishes are. I added a mug rack to our counter by our coffee maker. So, at the very least, people know just where to get a cup for their morning brew / water in the night. 
14. Spruce: Fluff up at least one element in each room to make it looks like your space is slightly more badass than it is normally. Bathroom: new funky shower curtain. Bedroom: more pillows and throw blankets. Living room: put out a good coffee table book. Kitchen: squirrel away anything cluttering counters. 
15. Outlet: Have extension cords handy / outlets exposed - someone will always need to charge something!

An equally important outlet... is one for you as a host. Even with visitors, you need a place / time to get away. Whenever we lodge out-of-towners, I keep our bedroom door shut (normally it's open - except when sleeping #becauseserialkillers). This also shuts off our bathroom, making it clear that guests have their sleeping space and their bathroom, and we have ours. If I need to go hide for a minute, there's a closed door to go throw myself behind.

Having guests is supposed to be fun: there's no point in driving yourself crazy. Sometimes (even if you're a hostess with the mostest), you still need just a minute between crazy ramp-up cleaning mode, being chairman of the welcoming committee, playing chauffeur, being tour-guide extraordinaire, and running a bed & breakfast for family and friends out of your apartment. So hang in their, friends, and get that Treat Yo'Self spa day in now, because company is coming!

Just for good measure, I also usually spray paint
something gold. Totes profesh decorator, right here.

* The internet has mixed feelings about spelling it as "houseguests" vs "house guests." To me, no space looks correct, and the word "guests" along looks completely insane the more times I stare at that string of letters. Literally, it's a freak word with too many vowels and S's. </rant>
** Instead of the classic fave "the floor is made of lava," it's the new age fave "I'm stuck to the walls" - sure to be a big hit with the youths!

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! 

If I can make it there...

I can’t hide it: I’m having an affair.

A love affair that started many, many years ago. One that I’m not ashamed to have last a lifetime. We don’t see each other often, but when we're apart my mind wanders and I can’t help but think about the time when we can be together again. Maybe someday forever…

It’s New York. NYC. The Big Apple. The Empire State. The city that never sleeps. 

And it’s got my heart.

Growing up, my addiction to silver screen classics often led my small-town imagination down its

crowded streets. As sewer steam created a smoky frame around a smoldering dame and some suited Mad Man / sing-songy sailor, they fell in love, just as I did. Sure, they were mostly all just cheesy sound stages of city stoops with bright lights flashing in front of painted backdrops featuring one of the many iconic locales, but they were enough to hook me. When we got the new TV guide each week (dating myself much?), I’d scan for “On the Town” and would insist that my grandma turn it on if she was watching us (she had the cable, duh).

Fast forward to age eighteen, where I frantically signed up for a UN Seminar class that would take me to that concrete jungle where dreams are made of. For several glorious weeks, I got a little taste of what I wanted to become: a badass boss lady in the big city. Of course, three years later, as graduation approached, my logical bastard of an inner voice talked me out of it... How could one afford the big city without a good paying job? No job, no move. Too pricey. You don’t know anyone. Totally rebellious. Be safe. You can always go later. It comes down to reality...

And later I did go. Back to visit as often as I could (earlier this month being one such occasion). But every time, I swear it only makes it worse. It’s always just a tiny taste. Like getting a big burger and fries, and you can only nibble at the fries because you’re still waiting for everyone else at the table to get their food and don’t want to be rude. Sure, the fries are good, but like, you WANT the burger.

I'm in a New York state of mind...

So I go. With a shit-eating grin plastered firmly underneath my stern New Yorker face. Because I don’t want everyone to know how thrilled I am. I want them to think I belong.

• I stomp rapidly down the sidewalk in Midtown, crossing just before the light changes, in my business best.
• In Chinatown, I pretend to walk away from that bag that I “don’t really like all that much” and then haggle over dollars that don’t really matter with a woman who barely speaks English.
• I can gather all the news I need on the weather report.
• On the subway, I avoid eye contact, while discreetly judging everyone around me (earbuds firmly in). I run to switch to an alternate line, even though I’m not in a hurry to get anywhere. And then spend all day bitching about that “crazy commute.”
• I get my pizza for 99 cents ($2.75 if I want two slices and a coke). And I fold it when I eat it. Standing on the sidewalk. Next to a trash pile and a sleeping homeless man (and his cat).
• On 5th Ave, I window shop at night: after all the tourists are gone.
• I wear practical footwear, but have heels in my bag.
• Like a pro, the Staten Island Ferry is something I take to avoid paying more money at other tourist locations. I’d say that I pretend to be a commuter there: but no one really wants to go to Staten Island.
• Bagels. I eat SO many bagels. And I suddenly have strong opinions on them. 
• I don’t use a map (on my phone or in hand) to navigate: I use the g’damn grid. Except when I’m south of 14th. Then I’m just lost.

And when no one is looking…. I put one hand in the air for the big city. And give change to that oddly talented homeless saxophone player on the street. And I smile; I smile like a damn fool as I grab photos of some hilarious graffiti on an alley wall or a wittily named ice cream joint (looking at you, Cold Mess). And I sing Frank Sinatra under my breath. And, yes, I’m that asshole who feeds the sparrows in Bryant Park. Just because I like to watch them fight.

Every time I wake up in that city that doesn’t sleep, I am recharged. I see iconic places, which I would go back to every single day and stare at if I could. Also, I see places that I never knew existed. There are entire boroughs I have yet to explore. Even the thought, gives me a thrill. There is so much new food to try. New faces to see. Streets to stomp. There is just so much that draws me in.

I don’t want just the fries. I want the whole damn burger. Now. Not later. Because there may be a

turning point…. Maybe later it won’t be as good. Or maybe making the move would ruin it for me. Maybe New York is meant to remain the mistress in this story. I hope she knows how much I adore her, and that she’ll be well taken care of, no matter what lies ahead.

Til next time, these vagabond shoes are longing to stray.

I don't have any reasons, I left them all behind.

That's what you get (for waking up in Vegas)

Staggering our way out out into the light, I couldn't help but feel a bit like a mole. Blinded by the light. Stunned by the sudden dazzling sunbeams.

Only instead of being a furry little rat clawing at dirt, this mole was wearing a low-cut LBD, clutching a handful of singles and a devil-may-care attitude. The underground we were emerging from was a strip club. The time was 7:20 am. It was departure day.

This was Vegas.

After three full days of shenanigans in the desert oasis, this was it. We'd made the most of the final evening and now it was time to make a frenzied return to the real world. The four of us found a chariot and were whisked back to our borrowed mansion, returning twelve hours after we had last left it. 

Pool inflatables lay scattered about. Most of the house was still asleep. Those awake were gathering belongings and seeking out additional trash bags to contain the overflow of bottles. Someone was rolling up a life-sized poster of the groom, covered with "decorative" stickers. This bachelorette party had been a roaring success. 

I nodded to my airport carpool buddy and we parted ways. She to a bed, me to a shower. Still filled with sugary sweet libations, I sang my best Elvis in the shower - wishing that there were more than 24 hours in the day. 

8:30 am, my head hit a pillow. 9:30, with those neon lights still flashing in my eyes, I was back up, jamming possessions into my bag as we summoned an Uber. At the airport, the tiger mom with the hook-up and I parted ways and headed to our respective airline terminals. 

Buzzing on a Vegas high that just wouldn't quit, I sought out the drunk food that I'd been craving all night. A retro diner in the airport, bumping the very best oldies, called my name. And I answered. In spades. Moments later I was at a table with a large burger, heaping basket of fries, and a chocolate shake, merrily watching the passers-by and stuffing my face. I perused photos on my camera, hummed along as Mr. Presley's ode to the city once again filled the air, and waved jovially at anyone who walked by. 

Eventually I moved to a slot machine (#BecauseAirportSlots #BecauseVegas), where I continued to lose money and have a good time, as is the way in that City of Sin. My own flight departure was not until 1:30, so I had plenty of time to walkabout, enjoy my food, grab a giant bottle of Mountain Dew to chug, etc. By the time we were boarding the plane though, the lack of sleep and constant frolicking in the 100+ degree heat from the past several days started to sink in... I was damn tired.

The second my butt hit the seat, I clunked out. Nestled against my window wall, using my scarf as a blanket, I was down for the count. 

Dreaming of that desert oasis and the fountain of boozy youth.

My dreamless sleep abruptly ended with a shudder. A child slamming into my seat from behind. I groggily looked about, my brain filled with the plane engine hum, thinking we must have landed at my layover in Minnesota. The woman next to me was mumbling curse words under her breath. No one was deboarding. I opened the shade and there it was: that same glaring desert sun and the glittering strip. Checking my watch, it was just after 2 pm... We hadn't even left yet. 

The engines flared up and an announcement came over the speaker: we were cleared for departure, apologies for the delay. The plane lurched forward. 

And that's when my hangover hit. 

(Like a ton of fucking bricks.)

As the plane slowly rolled forward, I was filled with utter dread. Waves of nausea swept over me. The woman next to me continued her quiet stream of swearing (apparently a nervous tick) as I muttered, "Get your shit together, girl, this'll pass" and started taking deep breaths. Mentally begging my stomach acid to chill and deeply regretting every round of bottle service. As we taxied in line, I leaned back in my seat, eyes closed, but it was no good. I was death.

The plane then made its final charge down the tarmac and I experienced what was literally the worst turbulence I've ever felt in my entire life (and I used to fly RyanAir so like, that's saying something). My deep breathing became frantic as we were jostled about and I gave up on the attempts to be zen. Ripping out the stupid airline mags and miscellaneous trash left by a previous passenger, I searched desperately for an air sick bag.... only to find that there was none.* The lady next to me glanced over, in realization, and her eyes took on a slight look of pity as she went into her latest round of what sounded like an explicit rap version of Hail Mary. She had her own shit to deal with. 

This wasn't going to pass. I looked down at my purse for a split second and then quickly thought better of it. My only hope was to make it to the restroom.

I stared up at the seatbelt fasten icon, still illuminated, and cursed the gods (the old and the new) for the lengthiness of this ascent. The unsteady rise through the clouds grew rougher. With the jolt of what was surely a battle-royale with a particularly gnarly cloud (or penance for every sin I've ever made), my stomach swayed - the burger. The shake. Oh sweet lord, the fries. All sloshing about with three days of booze and a giant Dew serving as the mixer.

The odds of me making it shot to zero as the seatbelt light continued to shine. 

But then - just after the jolt hit, I saw her. A petite Asian woman who had sprung up, clutching her willpower and her stomach, and had bolted towards the bathroom as the flight attendants squawked their warnings. That was all I needed. I, too, sprung up from my seat, emboldened by her mad dash. Pushing aside the woman with the extensive vocabulary, I clung from seat to seat, aisle after aisle. I heard the ding noise, as the seat belt sign finally went off, just as I made it to the restroom. Someone else had beat me to the second stall already, so I waited.

Now standing, I took a deep breath and thought, "This is okay. I'm okay. I think I just needed to stand and stretch out." Looking around, I saw several other folks, green in the face, glancing back to see when the bathroom line had died down. One of them, with a deep sigh, grabbed the nearest attendant and ordered a Bloody Mary. "Make it two," proclaimed his friend. And I smiled. We were all there together, having survived that bright light city, which had set all our souls on fire. With a little solidarity and some hair of the dog, we were going to make it. It was going to be fine. 

The bathroom door opened, and the petite lady who had inspired us all darted out. I shrugged at the guy in the back row and he chuckled, "Some people just can't handle Vegas!" I gave him a grin as I closed the door. We were a kindred, and we were a-okay.

And then I turned around.

I'll spare you the lavish details, but... as the smell hit me and I saw the remnants of her weekend sprayed about the tiny space... It was over. I was toast. 

No point in pretending that it's all glitz and glam. Sometimes, that's just what you get for waking up in Vegas. Til next time, Sin City <3

Party on, lil guy.

* What the HELL kind of plane doesn't have air sick bags on a flight OUT OF LAS VEGAS?! Are you mad?? That whole damn plane was full of hungover people! Was the staff just like, playing a practical joke on the entire plane??

Give up the Ghost

(Note in advance: this one isn't a happy fun post.* I promise to follow up with one of those soon. Just FYI.)

It's almost 11 pm in our tiny kitchen. I just baked a batch of cookies using wax paper. Apparently you're not supposed to put wax paper in the oven. I feel like this is something I've been told before, but so it goes.

Today is a special day, in an odd way. It's been two years now since my grandma decided she was ready. Ready to leave and go see her husband, son, and friends.

Standing in the kitchen, ripping off parchment paper, I think about a plaque that used to hang on her wall, that my uncle Vern had written about her. It talked about her kitchen, the tiny one that she had managed to feed a small army out of. Her kitchen had been filled with love and shared whispers. Secrets and sometimes tears, between her and her children. Whether by birth or by proximity, they were hers to care for.

Nearing midnight, mine is just filled with the scent of waxy cookies. And shared only with a ghost.

In a lot of ways, that ghost follows me around all the time. She appears in my mannerisms, in my weird choice (and semi hoarding) of knick-knacks, in my every day conversations. Only an hour ago, as I chided the beau out of the kitchen, I heard myself saying how there should only be two people in the kitchen, one for cooking and one for cleaning, and anybody else should get out.

That's a paraphrase of my grandma, I just know it.

Or at least, I think I know it. Two years gone and I feel like I've begun to curate a version of her in my mind that hits all the marks I need it to, while smoothing out anything else. I don't think about the later, cranky years as much. Except for the occasional smirk about her very best scowling faces. Or mockery of the pitiful voice she saved just for voicemails to guilt you into calling her back (even though you'd just spoken to her a day ago) - you know, the one that is half whiny, half 'help I've fallen and I can't get up,' and all the best mastery of manipulation. The voicemails that I wish I'd saved at some point. Instead of just rolling my eyes and making a note to call her back... tomorrow. Because there was always a tomorrow.

Until there wasn't.

The timer goes off, and batch two is through. I drop molten chocolate on my shirt, after burning my thumb. As I try and fail to fully remove the stain, I accept that this shirt will always be a bit chocolaty. But hey, if anyone is looking that close, you just smack em!

And there she is again. Putting words in my mouth.

All the memories I use to craft this ghost grandma, this cherished curation, they blur together to create something I can keep not on a pedestal, but can instead use as a shield against anything sad or bad in this world. She exists only in our minds, in our stories, and in the imitations of her walking about still. She may not be as vivid, but all the moments leading up to her departure are just so clear in my mind...

-

I typed up everything for you, dear friends. Every memory. Every moment from that week before. Every regret. Every thought and feeling from the day of and the days that followed. I put it here in black and white, while the ghost shoulder-read. The timer went off, and the oven ran on, and the cookies saw a darker shade of pale.

Then I wondered why I'd kept all those thoughts inside so long. If that had been that dull, aching feeling in the pit of my stomach all these years. Maybe I just needed to tell the story so I could move on. You know, hang out with the ghost only on special occasions and not just anytime I allowed a free thought to wander.

Or maybe I need that little bit of sadness, to better appreciate the present and the ones I love.

Maybe I'm not ready to give up the ghost.**

So I took that black and white, and I wrapped it back up. In a little box. With a bow. And I tucked it away again. In the back, bottom corner of the little metaphorical chest where I hide all my other treasured thoughts.

I'm sorry I couldn't share it with you today. There may come a point where I'm ready. Or there may not. Either way, I sure do miss her. But, at least - and I'm sure she'd agree - all things are better with cookies...



*If you know me, I'm not very "good" at grieving. I don't express it well in person. That's why I burrow into a blog post and hide there instead. It's easier to walk around with a smile on, then to try and explain what's wrong. Because no one accepts the answer "I'm just sad today, is all." (Or I just act bitchy and cranky so people leave me alone, but that more often backfires...)
**In this sense or in the typical sense of the phrase either! Yet another phrase I never understood the meaning of....