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....

#LivingInSin

It's official: Year One of #LivingInSin is on the books!

Going into this, as you know, I was a bit apprehensive. And I had a freak-out (aka total meltdown) about all my stuff, as I attempted to squeeze my life into a shared space. BUT, I was also stupid excited about living with the beau.

Pre-move, in my glass case of emotion.

So... how did it go? We've officially been through four seasons, haven't murdered each other, and still cohabitate. So, something is going right. But was it as expected? Looking back at my original thoughts, pre-move (aka the posts linked above), was it par for the course?

Just as I thought

• While cohabitating, I still refuse to pee with the door open and walk around naked. Because I'm a g'damn lady and I am not comfortable flaunting my flub with anyone, no matter how much rent money they pay.
• Sadly, I was right. I don't dance as often. Making mental note to amend this. 
• I miss a good old fashioned full-bed, starfish sprawl. Luckily, the beau leaves for work an hour before I do, so for that last glorious time after he leaves, that bed is allll mine. All the blankets. I get to have them all perfectly arranged and stationary. 
• The access to Netflix, Hulu, HBO Go, etc. is pretty sweet. I watch way more TV than I used to. And all the choices stress me the heck out. 
• The beau balances me. Sure, I don't get to dwell in my anxiety and slip-slide around my doubt spirals all alone and unsupervised anymore, like I did when living alone, but that's probably a good thing. My freak-outs don't go unchecked. He checks me. It's comforting.
• I talk on the phone way less. Kind of a bummer. I try to save my chit-chat for when I'm in transit, or out for a walk, etc. so I'm not creeping around our apartment whisper-gossiping. Not that he'd be dropping any eaves anyways, but I feel like in a confined space it's hard not to overhear. 
• Hosting is more epic. Co-hosting and being able to split prep is fantastic. 

Didn't see that coming... 

• I still eat like a ten year old and have no qualms with being judged. I worried that my days of laying on the couch with a full pot of mac were going to be guilted away, but never fear, I've held strong in resolve to dump trashy food into my maw when I'm having a bad day. And the beau bakes. Which just adds to it. 
• Speaking of eating, yeah, I kind of thought we'd end up being one of those cute Insta-couples who meal preps every Sunday and grocery shops together. But honestly, we're busy. We don't often coordinate that much in advance. When we grocery shop, we both get what we want, and for the meals we want together, we each grab some of the stuff for it. It's not a total roommate situation where if I eat one of his apples he leaves a passive-aggressive note. (But if he eats one of my yogurts, he knows I'll panic. Yogurts are different, because I only bought four even though I need five to have breakfast every day at work, and if that goes down to three then I'm a starving angry bear for half the week).
• Oldies music still bumps out on a regular basis, just less so from my glow-dial radio and moreso from Alexa (that demon she-bot who moved in with us).
• I thought I'd be more assertive about taking me-time, but I honestly suck at it. My "me-time" is usually going to grab happy hour or a movie with the gals. (Lady time has not been dampened by living with the beau - huzzah!) On the occasions when I get the apartment to myself, I usually just hulk out cleaning / doing laundry and then frantically text everyone to spend time with me. It's actually not a great thing, because it comes with the occasional spaz out over needing alone time, even though I don't take advantage of it when I get it. Need to find some chill. 
• Paranoia. It's virtually gone (KNOCK ON WOOD). As someone who used to occasionally have a paranoia attack and lock herself in the bathroom with a kitchen knife and end up sleeping in the tub, this calmness is refreshing. I'm still 99% sure that someone is fucking with me though when things wind up in weird places or randomly moved. But that's just, some sort of karma probably.

With living together, I've loved our location, our creepy old apartment, our proximity to cool shit and friends, my commute, and above all, my time with the man who agreed to dwell - he's swell. The main thing I haven't loved: myself. After so many years of living alone, all my very worst traits crept back out to play as soon as they had a roomie present to put on a show for:

• My OCD over stupid things: Like, how there IS a RIGHT way to hang your wet towel on the bar so it dries quicker and doesn't get moldy. Or how to load a dishwasher so you can fit the most things, so you save water and energy and little dishwasher tablet thingies. I really try to not sweat the small stuff, but sometimes I just sweat it out. It makes me seem like a g'dman nag. NO one wants to be a nag.
• My hangry attitude: Seriously. When I'm hungry, I'm just an awful person. Living together and seeing each other all the time vastly increased the likelihood of the beau seeing me famished. To his peril.
• The exposure of my post-work-day angst: Living alone, I had time to come home, fume a bit and blow of steam so I could be all smiles by the time I interacted with other humans. Now, on stressful workdays, I have a 5 minute commute home before I'm stomping in on the man I love, with fire in eyes and rage in my voice. He gets hit with the brunt of it unless I awkwardly run away and hide while I decompress. (Usually I go to the bathroom and putz around in there. He probably thinks I have awful digestive issues...)
• Social anxiety: You'd think that always being around another person, I'd have my fill of socialization. But honestly, I get worried about being one of those people who only ever spends time with their significant other. We all have a friend like that. You know... what's her name. She started dating that one guy and was never seen again. I can't. That scares me. 

I don't want to point out every little baddie, or pretend that everything is always shiny when living with someone else. It's just not realistic. I have been so so lucky though that I get to live with someone who makes me smile and laugh. Who lets me paint radiators or closets at a whim. Who kills centipedes (if I can't get to them first). Who loves me even when I'm wearing that ratty old pair of PJ shorts from college (how did they survive the moving purge??). Who knows my Erbs and Gerbs order and preemptively orders it as he sees me having a rough day (because that Quatro always makes things better). So yeah, overall, I'm thrilled that #LivingInSin year two is going to be a thing. Cheers to another year!

What if we don't want to yield? #CantStopWontStop

The '017 Files: June: Breaka Breaka

As 2017 rolled into view, I made a decision to buckle down and become more "goal-oriented" in my daily. Each month, I wrote up a new set of to-do's and evaluated how I'd done the month prior. As June approached though, I hit that most annoying feeling: exhaustion.

It's not as if I was setting extremely laborious goals for myself. They weren't out of reach, and many of them were just centered around life improvements that I should be making anyway. BUT something about having a list for life bothered me. Having a bucket list never bothered me. Having goals and deadlines at work never bothered me. But the more months I plotted out a list for myself, the more it started to irk me. Everything just felt like such an obligation.

Maybe it's just a temporary feeling because of the ramp up in summertime busy-ness. Or a spillover in exhaustion from my work life that makes me want to shake a stick at any form of productivity in my non-work hours. Or that I wasn't focusing on the right type of goals for myself to bring joy (or whatever goals are supposed to do). Regardless, as June arrived, I decided it was time for a hiatus.

For the past month, I haven't even opened up this little blog, because for some reason, it stressed me out, too. Maybe my postpartum* struck two years after giving birth to it, because I didn't even want to think about it. I've been a bad mother to GTTP this past month.

And you know what... it's okay. There is so much pressure these days to maintain every form of communication, every social channel, to post every day-to-day moment. There's pressure to live fabulous lives to fill those channels with, and to keep up on everyone else's channel, too. I had a freak-out a month back that I'd not kept up with viewing Instagram stories and had MISSED something. Because it expires in 24 hours, so you HAVE to keep up with it.

But no you don't.

None of it really matters. It's great to pass the time. To check in on friends. To oogle the lives of beautiful strangers. But, dear friends, there's a big world out there to be enjoying beyond that.** Even if you don't Instagram every minute of it, that doesn't mean you didn't live it. Taking a month away (in which, to be honest, I did still liberally Insta my life) to not be so plugged in - it was good for the soul.

So here it is. My goals for the rest of the summer, that I hope to follow based on my experiences in June:

• Don't check my phone after 9:30 pm (except to set alarms / see if I have any last minute meetings added to my work calendar that would make me have to get up earlier) - they say the blue light messes with your sleep anyways, so maybe this'll help me sleep better too on accident
• Only 30 minutes max each night of random Insta/FB scrolling. (Thank goodness I never fell to far down the Youtube watching wormhole.)
• Unfollow a few more people on social media. Too much clutter. Need to focus. 
• No browsing on the internet while having conversations. OH my goodness, it's so awful. I realized the other day how often I do that and it is really just kind of sad. And so rude. And I need to cut that habit entirely. I don't need to keep up that badly that I can't be fully invested in a conversation happening right in front of my face.
• Spend more time writing. Because even though blogging wasn't on my mind, storytelling sure was. It's an outlet that I love. And I have SO many things to share. May as well put them "to paper" here!
• Make time for people. Don't just say you'll make plans, make them. 
• Make time for myself. Don't just say you'll relax and enjoy some free time to read a book and lazy about, do it. 

So, friends. If anything super exciting happens this summer - if you have a baby, or get engaged, or buy a house, or adopt a dog, or have an epic vacation, or eat an amazing sandwich that I should definitely go get to eat too - please point it out to me next time I see you. Because I may miss it on the interwebs... #SorryNotSorry.

Promise I'm not ghosting you. Just out there living.

* Promise I'm not trying to make light of postpartum here. Postpartum is serious shit and absolutely horrifying. 
** Don't get me wrong, I'm happy you're here to share a little bit of my world. But if you've got other plans and don't have time to hang out with me anymore, it's cool. I don't mind. We're still good. I still love ya. You'll come visit if you find the time, no worries.

Anniversary, Happy

One thing that has become abundantly clear about the beau and I over the past three years: we're both suckers for traditions.

Almost any time we have a gathering, or do some out-of-the-ordinary activity, you'll hear one of us let loose the phrase "first annual..." Oh, let's have a crawfish boil. Our... first annual crawfish boil? Wine and cheese night, seder, friendsgivinakkuah, etc. Because if something was a blast the first time, surely it's worth repeating - forever. Or maybe it's just because we're sentimental like that, and if it was good, we want it to be good again.

So, each year when our actual anniversary rolls around, it's no surprise that we find some way to nod to previous doings. Every year, the beau has let me decide, and every year I've found a way to make it as throwback as possible. Because it's been an extra sappy week, and because I've been having to constantly explain why yes, I chose to get divey gyros for an anniversary dinner, here's the highlight reel:

1. For our first anniversary, I figured it should be an ode to our first unofficial "date." We had stayed up all night talking when suddenly the beau said to me, "Hey, do you like breakfast?" I, of course, gushed about how brunch is my favorite hobby and asked why he wanted to know. He said, "Well, since it's already morning, we should go get some." So we went to a 24-hour diner / MKE staple: Ma Fischer's. I got a shake. Both during that 6 am visit and when we went back a year later. 
2. When year two rolled around, I said we should go back to the place where we had our first "real" dinner date: The Knick. Once again, I got ice cream. This time in the form of a giant "cocktail" ice cream, mounded on a martini glass. Classy AF, as always.
3. This week, we hit year three. Sticking with the theme of firsts, and with this weekend officially marking one year of living in sin, I wanted to have the first meal we had in our new apartment together. We had gotten the keys, and had spent several days cleaning up and starting to move over boxes. With no furniture yet present, our first meal consisted of to-go containers and plastic utensils, on the floor, in the middle of our empty living room. Another MKE staple, we got the greasy goodness that is Oakland Gyros. It was heaven. So this week, we pushed aside the coffee table and had another little "picnic" on our living room floor (which I vacuumed moments earlier - because we fancy), complete with chocolate shake.

Gyro picnics, mounds of ice cream, and a whole bunch of love. I'll keep it.

And now it's official, from this point forward we have a tradition for our anniversaries. It must incorporate some important/memorable/sentimental meal from our time together. I must be allowed to consume a shake or some sort of ice cream treat goodness. And we both must still look at each other with that stupid look happy couples have. Because we've worked through any ups and downs, had our good times and bad, and through all that decided that sticking together made life better than being apart. We earned that sappy stupid look. And on our anniversary, we get to bust it out. Because after all, it's tradition. 

The '017 Files: May

You know what they say, April showers bring May flowe--- HOLY COW I am SO ready for summertime! Here is hoping that this chilly rain (which has been nice enough to bring beautiful flowers, no doubt) subsides soon and morphs into those summer nights soon. I could stand to start summering in May.

Here's a quick look back on how it went for the April goal list before I jump into May...
Habit Forming

• Exercise tracking / ramping up the running: Was super dedicated in week one and in the last few days of the month, but my random tooth infection and the surrounding madness really threw me off on caring about exercise at all, unfortunately.  is coming back. Must ramp up walking/jogging/running with the 5k coming in May.
• Seven flights a day: Almost hit the mark on this one, but again, wasn't very active for the weeks surrounding my head exploding tooth pain. 
• Nail polish: Crushed it. My nails were poppin' all month long! #BossLady

"Big Goals"

• Hit the mark:
• The Seder tablescape (not to toot my own horn) was a thing of legend (toot toot), as was the evening itself (#MosesLovesMezcal).
• Put up ONE (of promised two) new FB album - captions take too long.
• Book = finished. Next book in the series = half done.
• Started cleaning up typewriters and "know a guy" to help with the ribbons and repair, so that's a major victory in the works!
• Saw so many old friends, and it made my heart smile. Thanks for still being their, peeps, even after all these years of chaos!
• Swing and a miss:
• Passports, WHY do I fail at getting you!?
• Still massively adding to the basket bound for the Women's Shelter.
• Rolly cart was not yet spraypainted: delay of game due to rain.
• Ten blog posts = major fail. Sure, I did finish three. And have about a dozen half done. But sorry don't feed the bulldog, sweetie! All the work stress and teeth time, plus a ramp up in socialization, and I just could not get into the zone for writing. 

Overall, April was wonderfully busy. Which is something I desperately missed but also wore me the hell out. This month was also my BLOGIVERSARY! This lil guy is two years old. So let's hope it behaves itself going into the terrible twos!

Make a wish!

Next up on the goal list... Mayday mayday mayday!!
Habit Forming

• Exercise log: This is going to be essential for both our 5k this month and to get this walrus to squeeze into the itsy bitsy bikini for Vegas the first week of June! 
• More music in the workplace: I've had my nose so close to the grindstone the past few months (while working to get my... promotion! Which finally becomes official this month - Yay!) that I'm starting to burn out a bit. Need to rejigger to have fewer meetings and work time where I can put on some jams and go kick butt.
• Walking and watering: Vegas prep! I don't plan on going into the desert to die. 
• Chill the fuck out: But seriously. Must keep calm and carry on.
• Quit eating like a college kid: Takeout and Easy Mac aren't acceptable on this large of a scale anymore. Need to dial that shit back. 
• Ten minute daily clean: little cleans, to make big cleans swifter. 

"Big Goals"

• Derby Prep: Figure out if I want to make another new hat and where I want to go drink my juleps to celebrate my favorite sporting event of the year.
• Closet: Paint, reorg and assess my closet and dressers. Need to do a full inventory on clothes so I'm ready for summer trips, weddings, life, etc. 
• Carry on: Put up another FB photo album. Finish my book. Get up some blog posts. 
• Old school: Send off at least three letters to friends. 
• Give the gift: I need to make sure I don't totally fail on getting gifts for Mother's Day and for my third anniversary with the beau. Let's be real, I've already got stellar cards picked out, but just need to make sure my gifts don't suck.

With work and life so busy lately, I've been trying extra hard to keep down that bubbling anxiety. The distractions have been plentiful, and the beau and family so very supportive, but these rainy days and dental woes have made the past month a bit funked up. Excited to give my endorphins a wake up call and hit the ground running for this last month of spring.