Please Don't Go, Kitchen Couch

From one of my biggest anxieties has sprung my newest favorite-thing-that-I-never-knew-I-needed: the kitchen couch.

A fascinating trend has sprung up since dating the beau: whenever we host an event, it tends to become a "first annual." The annual wine & cheese night, hosting Seder every Passover, a yearly Friendsgivinukkah feast, etc - there's still arguments that the crawfish boil from last summer needs to become an annual affair (#becausecrawfish). The problem is, after a few repeat gatherings started to occur, I began to internally freak out that people would get bored. You know, tired of the same old soiree. Sometimes as an "annual" the ability to switch things up is just limited by nature.

So, due to my rising panic and fear of bored visitors, I started trying to switch up anything that I could. Tablescapes, attire theme, guest list*, signature cocktails, and... furniture arrangements.

Cue me frantically disconnecting and dragging half of our large L-shaped couch into the kitchen one day, while the beau was out making a last minute grocery run for an upcoming party. I quickly rearranged all the other furniture and tablescaped. He was bound to love it, I told myself. And if he didn't, well, I had already rearranged the whole apartment so, too bad, it was too late.

His immediate reaction, and the eventual reaction of the guests** was pretty much the same: "So, a couch in the kitchen, huh? That's interesting...." But hear me out!

Having a sofa in the kitchen combines two of my favorite things: eating and lounging (#wheninrome). It allows you to be a culinary voyeur, watching the intimate comings and goings of one of the most essential rooms in the house - from a comfortable and interesting vantage point. It's a room that serves happiness and sustains life. Where tradition meets necessity, and where hunger goes to die. Why wouldn't you want to perch and play witness?

Besides, the beau loves to cook - and I love being fed. So why not move my feeding zone closer? Save the step of transporting the food? Cut out the serving dishes and the middleman and just give a gal a spoon!

True, it's also a room of mess and scraps and grease. A battle royale of scents. A spill and stain nightmare. And oh sweet lord - those crumbs! All these things make a kitchen couch a temporary joy. It cannot survive long in this non-native habitat. But like many such momentary things, it is therefore all the more enjoyable.

I say no shame, only semi-functional furniture, moved in a way that optimizes joy.  (I'm sure there's some hippie self-help book that preaches something similar out there.) Nested under a large set of windows, a perfect lake breeze keeps kitchen-couch at a perfect temperature. On the weekend, sunshine makes for a most content spot to roost. A glistening lake out the corner of one eye, a batch of brownies out the other. A literal heaven. A perfect pair.

((In fact, KC & the Sunshine Band? Probably stood for Kitchen Couch & the Sunshine Band. Just saying... think about it.))

Yes, kitchen-couch and I only shared a few beautiful days nestled up, as the holiday season approached, but I look back fondly at our time together. Some sunlight, a good book, snacks on snacks on snacks. If only the food mess hadn't become such a (literal) sticking point, I might still have a couch in our kitchen to come home to...

I stand by my choice: kitchen couch love is true love <3

* Guest lists for gatherings have become a slippery slope for me. I hate leaving people out, but sometimes there's just a limited amount of space, especially for meal related / sit-down dinners. And if something is an annual, it's not like you can just start excluding someone, so you just add more and more until you realize, whelp, there's just no spare but we'll figure it out! (Note: this is secretly my favorite problem to have - may I be lucky enough to continue to have many friends in close proximity so I can have problems like this. I WILL find a way to fit you ALL!) 

** As our party raged on, I continually hailed friends to join me on the awkwardly low cushiony oasis. Given the rising temperatures in our ever-more-crowded apartment (radiator heat is a cruel mistress), the spot grew steadily more appealing, for it was also next to one of the few open windows. A delightful breeze, a front row seat to all the action happening in both rooms, this corner space was a perfect party perch. By the end of the night I had a few converts, and a bemused beau who agreed to let me keep it for a little while longer. (Likely because I get extremely pouty and bearish in the winter months, and any little thing that can bring me joy, he tends to oblige. Because he's a good fella.)

Strangers On This Road We Are On

I miss the late-night weekend streets.

There was a time, not so long ago, where I was a frequenter of nighttime sidewalks.* Basking in the street lamp light. A silent observer of the not-so-silent crowd of merrymakers, pouring out of various establishments. Making the pilgrimage home from an evening of friends and frivolity, in the period following the witching hour.

In an era of readily available transport (and a higher disposable income), I don't often travel on foot. Especially not so late, when I'm already up well past my bedtime. It's easier and faster to have someone else drive my lazy bum, so I can get to sleep sooner. However, every once in a while I still find myself hoofing it.

Cue a Friday evening farewell gathering. The main event having dispersed, and the beau having already voyaged to bed (he had to work at dawn the next morning), I set my sights to a rendez-vous with a friend at a nearby bar. Upon arrival, I discovered she had already moved on and was now across town. There I was, at 1 am, without plans. But instead of calling for a car, I turned my feet towards home and started walking.

A majority of the entertainment was still confined within the local pubs. With an hour of flowing libations remaining, few were opting to depart any drier than was needed. The occasional gaggle of smokers dotted the walkways, enjoying the unseasonably warm weather. Bass-beats and indistinct conversations floated out the occasional door, as a patron stumbled into the night. And I strolled along.

As I rounded off a main bar street, towards the gap leading to the next strip of taverns, I noticed a man  on the opposite side of the road. Gangly at best, he was wearing a beanie hat but no coat. What drew my eye was not his appearance, but that he had jumped up on to (and was attempting to climb) a tree. In this particular case, the road verge was fairly new due to recent construction, and the tree in question was in fact... a sapling. Somehow he managed to mount it and made a scrunched, awkward "climb" six feet up to the top. Luckily, it was still pliable enough to bend with his weight and instead of snapping,  it sprung back into place as he leapt off it again, like a cat jumping off a countertop.

Still walking, I watched him take the same approach with the next tree, and the one after that, and the one after that. He continued to launch, climb, and dismount his way down the boulevard until coming to an intersection. We both turned left, but he crossed the street. Leaping about, clearly disappointed by the lack of shrubbery on that block, I couldn't help but wonder if he was taking some sort of amphetamines.

A car pulled up as he pranced, and hailed him with a drunken invite to ride. With a sweeping arm gesture, he hopped into the strange car and rode off. Now ten minutes into my route, I stared, bemused, thinking my standard paranoid phrase, "And that was the last we saw of him..."

Well isn't that just fitting?

Sprinting through a less well-lit area, I was soon to the next series of gin joints. Several more minutes afoot, and I was over halfway there. Smiling at the lively drunks, I suddenly saw someone dash out from an alleyway a few yards up. It was the same guy.

"Hey!" I called, as he zig zagged along. "HEY YOU!" He glanced back and paused his stride as I demanded, "Are you the guy who was climbing the trees before?"

Keeping pace next to me, we continued down the block as he confirmed my suspicion. I asked him why, to which he said, "What are trees for, if not for climbing?"

"Well, couldn't you pick some bigger trees? Those were pretty small, you could've uprooted one of them." I laughed.

Looking at me as if the notion had never occurred to him, he explained how of course bigger trees were more convenient, but the purpose of any tree was not just to produce oxygen, but to be climbed, no matter the size. He made a comment about a nearby forest with good trees, saying he didn't make it there frequently enough so had to make do. I stared ahead, wondering what kind of loon I was getting into conversation with.

As he spoke, he made elaborate motions with his hands (due to the Speed?). It was then I noticed and exclaimed, "Oh my god, your hands! You must have cut them up pretty bad on the trees, there's blood everywhere. You should really take care of that..."

Offhandedly, he said it wasn't blood, and held up a large industrial marker. Ink, only ink, he claimed. Putting together the pieces, with the mad dash out the alley, I said, "You don't happen to be the guy tagging Forein on the east side?" A slight hesitation in his step and a shit-eating grin, and I knew I was right. It was him. For the past several months, someone had marred various street signs in our neighborhood. With only the word Forein,** and occasionally an arrow or placement "pointing" to the next tag, it's not street art (which I love), but a discreet "I was here" note of sorts... And it has really pissed me off.

"That fucker," she thought politely.

It's my part of town, and I don't appreciate it being defaced. So, I made it my personal mission to cover them up. Slapping stickers from local coffeshops over the graffiti. And here he was, the guy who had no clue I regarded him as a secret menace. The climbing made sense now, as he mostly wrote on signs above my reach.

As we meandered, I recounted my tale. He laughed and I had to laugh back. How ridiculous that of all the people in the world, this tree climber and I should find ourselves together, chatting, at 1:30 in the morning, about how I hated him.

"I'll admit..." he said, his eyes wide and a tinge crazed, "I think I did cut my hand climbing. The ink stings like hell." I asked if he was almost to where he was going and he said yeah, it was just a block back. He just had enjoyed talking so had just kept walking. I told him to get the hell home and waved him off as he turned down the next block.

"Don't forget to tend to those wounds!" I shouted.

"Try not to get any yourself!" He yelled as he took a few backwards steps and made an elaborate hat tip gesture. Then he turned away and was off. An anonymous local celebrity, bouncing down the middle of a deserted street. Shrouded in darkness and mystery, probably on drugs, and happy as a damn clam.

I smiled the rest of the way and as the sleeping beau groggily asked about the night, I told him I couldn't wait to tell him who I'd met. The next day I recounted my an unplanned journey with the total kook. I may not like his hobby, but I definitely give him points for effort on the tree climbing. It just goes to show, even if people don't agree, we can find common ground : underfoot. Cheers to making the world a little friendlier and to conversations with strangers.



* Note: not a street walker, but a walker of the street. Big difference there. 
**  Often tagged on top of a white postage sticker and not on the signs themselves, which I assume takes down the misdemeanor charge since you're not permanently defacing anything -- if anyone's a cop or a lawyer, let me know if my guess is right! 

Cold-blooded killer

After being without a car last week, Friday was a welcome return to independence. It also meant that I didn't have to get up for work at dawn to grab a ride with the beau. While he had to go in for an early shift (hello, 4 am!), I was able to sleep in until a lovely 7 am. Driving myself to and from work is one of those little luxuries that I definitely take for granted.

Cue Friday at 4: a very cold quittin' time. After parking in my spot (a blockish away from our place - thanks, east side!), I stepped out into the bitter lakeside wind, and muttered frozen profanities as I walked to our apartment. All I could think about was how wonderful our sweltering apartment was going to be. Living in what used to be a hotel back in the 20s, we're #blessed with radiator heat. AKA our heat is free... and beyond anyone's control... and we live in the tropics approximately 11 months of the year (or, well, in the winter more desert than jungle). As I stumbled blindly, eyes watering from the icy breeze, my one saving grace was that I would soon nestle up in that blistering heat. The thought  kept me going as I waited for traffic to clear so I could cross towards home.

Entering the lobby, my numb hands wiped the streaky mascara across my cheeks. Opening the mail slot, I found nothing, which meant the beau had beat me home, per usual. I made my way down our hallway (reminiscent of the Shining, minus the twins at the end of the hall - usually), deciding that I would not leave the warmth again until forced out at gunpoint. I dashed around the cat-lady on our floor and rushed away from her attempt to trap me in conversation (she uses the WTFuck-is-this-cat-doing-in-the-hallway-alone as bait). Keys in hand, I unlocked, entered and relocked in one fell swoop, glad I had escaped.

But something was wrong.
It was cold.

I immediately froze (literally and figuratively). Maybe the heat was out, I thought. Not yet removing my shoes, I did a quick assessment... No lights on - the sunlight was all but gone from our windows, so I flipped on entry light. The beau's work shoes were in their usual place - several inches off the shoe mat, in a slowly widening salty puddle, which I made a mental note to clean up. His work bag was at his desk. I tried a tentative "Hey babe, you home?" as I set down my bag. No response.

Not moving in any further, I tried to rationalize. He must be out for a run -- but his running shoes and the spare key he uses were there. Or maybe he'd popped out to the grocery store, or stopped by his mother's -- but his coat and car keys were there. Maybe he'd gone to talk to the building managers about the cold and gotten locked out of the apartment and -- no, our apartment door had been locked, you have to lock it on your way out, it doesn't auto lock. Standing there in my coat, all these things ran through my head in the thirty seconds following my abrupt entry. Where was he and why on earth was our apartment cold? Our apartment was never cold. Something was wrong.

Then, of course, it dawned on me. And I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt....
Someone must have broken in through a window and had murdered my boyfriend.

Years of watching Criminal Minds had prepared me and built up a perfect level of paranoia. Like all the soon-to-be-victims in the show, I wasn't just going to leave the apartment. I needed to investigate. To see the corpse and find a way to fix the window (or grab another sweater). As a precaution, I quickly typed a text explaining that we were both murdered and had it on deck to send to my sister, mom, and a coworker (so people wouldn't just think I was tardy for work come Monday - even in death, I couldn't besmirch my reputation of punctuality) the second somebody assaulted me.* I grabbed our letter opener - because I wasn't feeling creative enough to think of another weapon.

Friday night cut-a-bitch stealth mode

Still in my coat and shoes, I began to flip on light switches as I slowly made my way down the hall calling out "Hey hun, I'm home. You here?!" Looking around, I saw and heard nothing. Not a peep, not a floorboard creak. Nothing but an ever increasing chill running up my spine that I couldn't be sure was from the cold versus the assumption that I was about to be offed by a maniac who probably had some sort of twisted fetish with silver foxes and had quietly been stalking my beau as a victim for weeks...

A slight bang made me turn my attention right, towards our second bedroom. This was the source of the cold, no doubt about it. I could see the curtain blowing about as an arctic gust whipped into the room. My contempt over not being comfortably wearing shorts in my scorching rental already got the best of me, and I rushed at the window. Looking wildly about so I'd at least be aware of an attack, stopping the cold air was my only real concern. Flailing in the curtains, I slammed the window shut and snapped the ancient lock into place. The window hadn't been broken into, but it has no screen on it anyways... and someone could have easily scaled up to it using the iron gating on the window of the floor below....

So I still assumed their was a killer present.

Looking back to the hall, I saw our main bedroom door - closed. It was never closed unless I was in it (to protect me from serial killers and fucking situations like this). So obviously, that's where the body must be. My handsome beau, with some sweaty-toothed madman waiting to get me. I'd made enough noise already so I gave one last shout into the void, "DEAR, are you dead on the street somewhere??!"** No answer. So, I threw open the door (the little bells I have on it jingling hysterically - again a warning system for me while I'm sleeping #becauseparanoid).

A wave of trapped warmth hit me. And there he was. Starfished on the bed, half tangled up in sheets, snoring quietly. I lunged at him, giving him a scolding hug, as I began rambling about how the window was open, how I assumed him dead, how he had to go search the apartment for psychopaths, etc. He sleeply mumbled about how he was napping since he'd had to go into work early. I asked if the window had been open when he had come in or if it's just blown open at some point later. A dreamy smirk and a half-asleep shrug accompanied by a "I guess I thought it was a little chilly" and I was already out of the room with a scoff.

This is how men act like boys sometimes. Paying attention to their surroundings: meh, hit or miss. He walks in, feels a chill, doesn't question it, and just goes about his day. Heads for a nap. I walk in, notice one thing slightly amiss, immediately assume someone is fucking with me or that I'm about to be murdered, grab a weapon, build a backstory, prepare a farewell text, shoot off a flare gun, and become fucking Nancy Drew.

Avoiding paranoia isn't exactly my strong point. But really, isn't it just be me being prepared? Like some sort of jumpy and neurotic boy scout? How badass that I was ready to fend off an attacker. How awesome that I realized the source of the cold and fixed it. Problem, solution. I basically came in out of the cold and was Wonder Woman. As I returned the letter opener to its place, the beau continued his nap. Walking past the kitchen, I set out some cookies - a snack for the murderer that was surely still in the apartment. I wrapped up in a blanket and curled up next to the radiator thinking about how many hours it would take for the entire apartment to reheat. And I flipped on Criminal Minds. Like a good boy scout. Getting prepared for the next time...



*After all, maybe the killer had already left and I wouldn't be killed. In which case, why cause a false panic. OR, maybe they were waiting in the lurch / were the kind to get weird with a dead guy, and I was about to bust into the room shrieking and then would get murdered myself. Either way, I couldn't send that text preemptively -  that's why people go investigate. 
**This is a typical greeting when he comes back late from a run -- "I assumed you dead. Dead on the street somewhere." Because I've always been a bit of a mama bear with a flair for dramatics.

Nothing's Gonna Stop Us

Saturday morning, I woke up to discover my car wouldn't start. It was only like -6 degrees, so it should've been fine. But, there's a joke in Wisconsin in the wintertime: come for the cheese, stay because your car won't start.

Upon discovering my dead car, I was already running late to meet up for a mall walk with my sister (yes, with the old people on a Saturday morning). The winter grumpiness has already been in full force, and I was pissed. So, I frantically ran inside, garbled some words at my sleeping beau (something to the effect of "I'm stealing your car" - which, for the record, he consented to) and dashed back out into the cold. A minor setback, and I was soon to my destination, gossiping and walking with my sis.

Leaving the mall later, I had a quick stop at the Post Office which put me in a wonderful mood (not even sarcasm: they were super helpful), and was back in the beau's car. It was a chilly but sunny day, and already the temperature had risen about 20 degrees (heat wave!). Everything was turning around and starting to look up. Things only got better when, cruisin' down the highway towards downtown, a mega jam came on the radio: "Nothing's Gonna Stop Us Now" by Starship.

I cranked that little hybrid's radio up to full blast and started to belt out lyrics as I maneuvered towards MKE. The slow burn intro verses hit as the skyline was coming fully into view and I got slammed with a wave of emotion. There it was, my town. Full of vibrant, bustling people. Buildings tall enough to give that city vibe, but a place small enough to feel intimate. Small-waukee, where you run into a friend of a friend at the grocery story and spend an hour chatting. That city that gave me a chance to "make it on my own." Where I found my beau and have had some amazing laughs with wonderful friends. There it was, a concrete jungle, glistening in all its glory. Zipping amid highways in the sky, I took the off-ramp towards downtown, hitting the chorus with full vocals. I was literally a Brad Pitt gif with my epic in-car dance moves.

As I hit every single red light on my way through downtown, my full on jamming hit a crescendo. Zero regard for anyone in neighboring cars, I thought about how lucky I've been to find a home here. How lucky to have a man who just lets me take his car to go on a walkabout with my sis at dawn on a weekend. A guy who's supported me and put up with living with me, even in the winter months when I'm arguably only one notch nicer than an angry bear. My heart was beaming as I rolled up to one more stoplight and the bridge of the song ("Oooh, all that I need is you..."). I was excited to get home and tell the beau about my happy moment.

Singing to myself at the light, just past the War Memorial, I noticed that there were an alarming number of geese in the park next to the intersection. There were people walking down the trails who were  avoiding that area because of the intimidating swarm. I made a vague mental note that a flock of geese that big was clearly stupid, because they should've long been south by now. The last chorus kicked in as the light turned green. (I was more or less screaming about how we could "build this dream together" by this time and punching my fist into the air like I'd just won the frickin' Breakfast Club.)

As I rolled forward, one of the walkers on the trail veered towards the flock. Small woman that she was, she was trying to restrain what was a very determined tiny dog. To no avail. She lost grip on the leash and the dog took off into the gaggle. Nothing was going to stop that dog now.

It almost seemed to play out in slow motion.... As Starship boomed on into the outro, my singing turned to a loud shrieking as I slammed the brakes and was enveloped with the scattering birds. They knew they needed to escape the dog, but didn't quite calculate what elevation they could reach in a matter of feet before clashing with the road. Flopping all about, the geese skimmed across the hood/top of the car. A flurry of feathers and avian adrenaline surrounded me. 

And then... it was over. The geese were lollygagging about trying to return to the park. The dog had been tackled and restrained by his owner. And I was free to drive again. My screaming ended with the fade out of the song, and I carried on home (where I quickly evaluated my beau's car for damage / feathers - and luckily didn't find either present). By the time I got into our apartment, the warm and fuzzies had mostly faded, as I returned to preparations for the day. Cleaning, planning logistics for the two surprise parties we were to attend that day, and other adult nonsense. I fully left the Starship, and settled back into my winter blues for a bit until I had to ramp back up for socializings.

Later, I did explain to the beau about the geese, pointing out that I did NOT hit any birds with his car, and that the birds effectively hit ME. He laughed, gave me a forehead kiss and gave me his typical "oh you" look. I grinned. The warm and fuzzies (which usually hide in the winter) came right back. This world that I found is too good to be true. Dead cars, rogue dogs and crazy geese... Let the world around us just fall apart. But baby, we can make it!

Let 'em say we're crazy, what do they know?

Gonna Kick Until I Need New Shoes

This is it. 2018 has officially arrived. With the chiming in of a new year, I raised a glass specifically with three dear friends to toast us in particular, as we enter into what will be our 30th year. The other revelers we were with had already crossed the threshold, but there we were, four fools, still in our 20s, toasting to life and ready for more.

Livin' that dream, stuck between 28 and 30.

The big 3-0 is still many months off in what will be a divided year for me. 2018 straddles my second vs third decade of life, so it's bound to be a year of self-created chaos, reflection, and debauchery. As such, I figured I should put down a few little anchors for myself. I've done the resolution thing some years, and tried for smaller monthly objectives in others. This year, I figured a few general guidelines and some specific to-do's wouldn't go amiss.

1. Check my credit score: like an adult.
2. Become debt free: only a few thousand bucks on my car stands between me and unshackling my burden. Could pay it off immediately, but will let this low interest loan trickle down - at least until we've nailed down vacation plans (and costs) for the year. For sure before my birthday. 
3. Get back to and maintain "base" weight: without letting the summer slide balloon me back up to walrus mode. This equates to losing about the weight of the holiday goose the beau cooked up the other day (#becausegoose) and keeping it off for all of 2018. Anything beyond that would really just be a bonus. 
4. Vacation like a boss: tentative travel plans for the years include: Vegas, Faroe Islands, Copenhagen, a few pop-downs to Chicago, and if I can swing it, another bout in NYC. 
5. Be a boss lady: time to decide what my next position at work should be. Movin' on up, friends! Gotta make those boss lady decisions and figure out which direction to go (and support my fellow boss ladies in the process). 
6. Maintain blogging pace: for the past three years, this little bloggie has been averaging about 2+ posts a month. With the summer dip (in which life is crazy busy and I neglect the internet entirely), that sounds about right. I could lie and say I'll increase my posting, but. Lies. We don't lie to each other on here.
7. Shower mindfully: speaking of nighttime zen, I plan to take more candlelit showers as night. Also, to take shorter showers. A hot shower is fab in the winter, but those long liquid blasts of heat also really dry out your skin. And, it uses up a lot of water as well, so, mother earth and all.



Part "E.T. Phone Home," part Bates Motel

8. Declutter: specifically underneath the beds in our apartment. If I can continue to purge junk throughout the year, like normal, and attack the stuff squirreled away under the beds. It'll be a win all around. 
9. Book it: must book appointments for both dental and eye check-ups. Mustn't skip it. 
10. Call: because the last iOS update was a personal attack on slider phones, texting has become a pain in the ass. Back to good old fashioned telephone calls. 
11. Shut down: no internets after 9:30 pm. Nothing is so important that it can't wait, and this gal needs some end of day zen time (maybe that'll give me time to read the next Outlander book).
12. Drink: water. Like it's going out of style.
13. Listen: to more Mika. Seriously, his music always makes me smile. That'll get me back on my French music track as well, which is always a good time. 
14. Turn 30 gracefully: we'll see how that goes. But at this moment: I'm nothing but excited. 

Beyond this short list, my top goal is to stay feisty. It's easy to grow complacent. It's easy to be bitter. It's easy to hate. One must stay lively. Be determined. Keep fighting until love wins. Kick down every barrier to happiness. Prove that age is just a number, and badassery is timeless.

So. Let's go team. Let's keep kickin' it in 2018.*


* Kick ass. Kick the dust off this old town. Kick the patriarchy square in the balls. Kick a bad habit. Get a kick in the pants and get out there. Get a kick out of living. Get your kicks. Don't get kicked to the curb, or be dragged kicking and screaming into the new year. Whatever you do, just be alive and kicking! (I think you get the point.)

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.