Two Month Recap & Fast-Forwarding to 2019

I've left you for two months and for that I apologize. I know that it is not ideal blogger behavior - but the end of 2018 has been a hell of a ride between work, play, and personal. Which means that I have tons of ammo for new posts but don't even know where to begin. So I am going to start with a lessons learned at the end of the year and my Sankalpas for 2019.

Lessons Learned 1: Boundaries. I have been at the new job for 8 months now, and while I love it and am so happy I took the leap, I have done a terrible job at setting boundaries for myself. Not only have I been working 10+ hour days on a more than regular basis I have let myself get emotionally bogged down in some of the problems I have had to face. As I went into my holiday break I was burned out. I was at about a 9.7 on the emotional anxiety scale and I wasn't doing a very good job balancing or keeping it at the office. Basically I backslid in a huge way on three years worth of therapy. So I am reminding myself, boundaries are healthy and necessary and if I don't set them and respect them - then I won't be happy for much longer - no matter how great things are.

Lesson Learned 2: Patience. I am not a patient person. I have talked about this ad nauseam on here and don't think I will ever change that completely. However, when dealing with other people, especially as half of a couple, you can't push your agenda or your wants on to the other person and expect them to immediately be on the same page...even if it is a pretty great page and you know they would be happy there! :) As C. and I have traveled together over the last year and change I have had to force myself to just enjoy the ride and not be constantly focused on the next turn. I may not know where or when we are going to end up, but if I keep myself in the moment with him then I get to enjoy a pretty fantastic ride. Plus, showing up together is way better than waiting alone at the destination. (He may argue that I am not as good about this as I am making it sound - but he isn't the one writing this - so he can shove it and work on catching up so we can take the next turn together!)

Lesson Learned 3: Mixed Feelings Are Okay. Not everyone in my life knows that I have a brother, and there is a reason for that. The relationship is difficult to say the least and while we have reached a detente of sorts we are far from being friends or from him having my cell phone number and being allowed to use it. I have outlined to him that while he may live in the now, I have 20 years of learned behavior from him that is counter to the last year and a half of his life. He recently shared some news that shook my family to the core and we are still reeling from it. I wish I could be excited for him and I do truly feel empathy that he is not able to receive the joy from us that would normally surround such circumstances. However, I do understand my boundaries (here) and know that is not within my emotional wheelhouse. I accept the sadness and pity while also accepting the anger and disappointment in this situation. I also understand that I may never have easy, normal, or straightforward feelings in this relationship, but that for now we do have a relationship and that is more than I was willing to give a year ago.

And now for the Sankalpas. For the new readers - last year I tried this exercise in lieu of resolutions as a more positive approach to a new year on the planet. While I did not repeat them every day, I did at least once a week (often more) and found them to be an empowering and centering practice. As such, I wanted to make them a new tradition and for this year take in not only the lessons learned from above but also take a look at what I hope to accomplish in 2019 as I set these new intentions. So, for 2019:

I trust and respect my needs and boundaries. And, With strength and compassion I walk a path to success.  

While I think these are pretty self-explanatory, I will add that I really want to focus on trusting my instincts and being more kind to myself and others. Life is tough and I think we could all use a little more patience and compassion over the next 12-months. And with that, I wish you all a very happy end to your 2018 and big wishes for a spectacular new year.

3,264 Miles Later

On October 15, 2017 I went on a first date at IHOP. I showed up early, actually way early, as I often due when meeting people for the first time. I texted LC to complain about my inability to just be on time and to delay my entrance into the restaurant. After less than 5 minutes I gave in and went inside. The sign on the hostess booth clearly stated, Only Complete Parties Will Seated, but the host took pity on me and sat me immediately. I continued to text with LC about whether or not it was sexy to demolish an entire short stack, eggs, and bacon on a first date or to just take down half the pancakes (verdict: whole thing). Another 15 minutes went by and I realized my date should have been here by now and so now I was forced to start exploring the possibility of a 'getting stood up at IHOP' blog post. LC agreed that it would make a pretty strong post and that I should definitely get the Pancake Combo if I was eating alone. About this time, my date texted to let me know he had gotten hung up at church and was trying to find parking. It was fortuitous timing as the waitress had just arrived for the third time and I was about to give in and place my order. Instead, I put in an order for coffee and insisted that my date was about to arrive. She looked slightly pleased that I was at least ordering but did not look convinced that anyone was coming, possibly because I was still not convinced that this was not an elaborate ghosting scheme, but she did plop down a pot of coffee and a a mug before moving along to the next table. 

It would take another 5 minutes before he came in. He looked like his pictures - always a bonus in the online dating world. He also brought chocolates, "To start on a sweet note." It was so corny and old fashioned to get chocolates on a first date, but it was genuine and surprised me..and I hadn't been surprised on a date in a long while (at least not in a good way). And so we started talking. I won't say that the conversation itself was life changing conversation - we stuck to a lot of the tropes as we warmed up: college, family, DC life, travel, hobbies - but we got a rhythm going and I've never had a conversation feel so immediately natural and comfortable. Lacking the typical first date cocktails we had to rely on caffeine, each other, and real interest to keep the conversation going and we did. We spent over 3 hours in that IHOP booth. We lasted through the late breakfast, lunch, and into the late lunch crowds. The poor waitress may have wanted to murder us as we took up prime real estate on a Sunday morning and afternoon, but we didn't pay her any mind, instead we talked. 

Eventually, we recognized it was time to give back our table. I looked at my phone and had 20+ messages, you see I was supposed to meet J. to watch the Packers 1pm game and had completely missed kick off and the first two quarters. In fact, I missed the sack that took Rodgers out for most of last season because I was sitting in an IHOP talking to this guy. I put my phone away and let him drive me the 2 miles home. Those would be the first miles we traveled together. Over the last 365 days, we have managed to rack up more than 3,264 miles across multiple states and I have to say I'm really looking forward to seeing how many more we can add to that count over the next year.

So dear reader, if you have wondered why my dating stories have been light over the last year - blame this guy, a Sunday morning date at IHOP, and 3,264 miles. And to that guy - Happy Anniversary. 

NOTES: Yes, I ordered the Combo. No, I didn't make it through the whole short stack, but I did make a valiant attempt. And yes, IHOP, I will take any and all endorsements.

A Double Date With My Parents

I had about nine months at home in Florida post-college before moving to New York, and it wasn't until the last few weeks that I had my first and only date while living there. Granted, a big piece of this was because I was sick for those first six months, but it also had a little something to do with the dating pool at the time and my utter lack of social life. However, as I was getting my hair freshened up in advance of the big move, a guy came into the salon for a trim. He was about my age, quite engaging, and vaguely familiar - it turned out we went to high school together, although we didn't really cross-paths. As I sat there chatting with J., I realized that this was the most interaction I had had with the opposite sex in, well, nine months; so before I knew it I agreed to go out with him that night. Problem was, I had also agreed to meet up with an old high school friend that night. Rather than cancel either plan, I figured why not do a complete throwback to high school and make it an awkward group date...little did I know just how awkward this would get.

I met up with my friend first, I am still unsure how I talked her into going along with this plan, but bless her soul because she was game. We got ready and then headed over J.'s house. Upon walking in, the first thing I noticed were the Playboys artfully arranged on the coffee table as reading material for guests. Nothing says classy and mature like adult magazines fanned out in the middle of the living room. He gave us a tour, which included his handgun collection, rifles, and samurai swords. We didn't stick around his place for too long, instead we headed off to dinner.

A Friday night date called for margaritas and dinner at Applebee's. Since we were drinking, we didn't want to go to far from there, so we headed down the street to Club 41 - one of the diviest bar in town. Shockingly, it was my first time there...we walked in and were met by a layer of smoke. It was still pretty early when we arrived, so we were able to play a couple games of pool and have a few drinks. As it got to be later, we started to see a shift in the crowd. I decided it was time for us to go somewhere where we stood out a bit less, when I turned around and saw the largest woman I had ever seen walk in in the smallest gold lame top I had ever seen. I couldn't take my eyes off of her, as she shoved her way towards the bar, pulling along a behemoth of a man clad from head to toe in leather, once there she spat on the ground and ordered two shots of Jim Beam for her and Tiny. It was definitely time to head across the street to the new bar that had opened up a couple months prior.

Shockingly smoke free, it was nice to look around and recognize at least half the crowd, not as nice was seeing my parents. Apparently they had been inspired by my date night and had decided to have their own and we had just stumbled into the middle of it. I should take a moment here to mention that somehow in the course of the first half of our awkward group date, J. had taken a shining to me. I not so much to him, but I was enjoying being out so I wasn't willing to cut the date short. Instead I mentioned my impending move to J., hoping that would cool his jets...he did not see it as a deterrent to our budding relationship. And thus, given the chance to meet my parents, instead of finding it awkward and suggesting to get a seat elsewhere, he asked if we could join them. My friend, who was quite fond of my parents, was happy to have other people to talk to and readily agreed. So our group date expanded to include my parents. 

I'd like to say that at this point I decided to call a spade a spade and end the date, but I didn't, so I will take a moment to once again stress that this was my first night out in nine months. And so we joined my parents table, I went and ordered drinks while J. laid out his plans to come visit me once I was up in NYC to my parents. When I returned to the table my parents were both horrified and totally entertained by my situation and quickly offered to play darts with us. The conversation continued to circle around my future with J., no matter how I tried and steer it away, and my parents - completely enjoying themselves and my discomfort - egged the conversation on and then escaped to chat with other people they knew at the bar. My friend abandoned me to catch-up with some friends - so I was stuck at the back of the bar trying to talk him out of buying tickets that night and instead waiting for me to get settled before he planed his grand visit. By the grace of all that is holy the bartender finally did last call, and I could sense my escape, I saw my parents dart out the door with a snicker and a wave, and I was prepared to call it a night. Only J. and my friend decided we needed to close it out in true hometown style and the next thing I knew we were at Perkins. 

I wish I could say that we grabbed some fries and sodas and the night finally ended. However, we ran into a couple people from school who my friend knew - they happened to be big shots from back in the day and my friend had had a crush on one in school. Problem was, it turns out that J.'s ego was a bit sensitive and he didn't like being upstaged by three dudes, who were now getting all the attention. We were all joking around and J. started getting quietly belligerent and the next thing I knew a chair was getting knocked over and there was talk of taking it out into the parking lot. I'd like to remind you once again that - We. Were. In. A. Perkins. So yeah, at this moment, I had had enough and so had my friend. We excused ourselves under the guise of using the restroom and covertly paid our bill and escaped to the parking lot. Once I made it out I realized that J. had left his car somewhere along the way - and in a time before Uber and living in a small town, this meant he really had no way home. Not able to be a complete jerk, I instead had to go back in and admit to the 3am Perkins crowd that the most embarrassing person in there was with me. Talk about a hometown humiliation. I extracted him, drove him home, and finally crashed.

The next afternoon I awoke to 12 texts from J. asking me out again and then annoyed that I didn't immediately reply. I tried to let him down easy, but eventually had to be blunt, and finally I had to figure out how to block a number. When I stumbled into the living room I discovered my parents waiting for me with coffee, Tylenol, and Cheshire cat grins waiting to roast me - because when your first date with someone ends up being a double date with your parents that ends with an almost fight in a Perkins parking lot...what more can you expect the next morning?

A Bookworm Story

I wasn’t always a reader. My parents actually had to bribe me to read growing up, and even then I was a wee bit stubborn and the offer of a $1 to read anything – cereal box, comics, the back of a book, a menu, “anything for the love of God!” – were blithely ignored. I don’t know why I fought reading so hard, but I did. That is until my parents – apparently at the urging of my Aunt D. – bought me a poetry collection. I wish I could wax poetically about that particular volume, but it has long since been lost in the shuffle of bookcases during one of my many moves and I have no idea who I even fell in love with. All I can tell you is that it sparked a lifelong love affair with the written word. 

I stuck with poetry through those emotionally charged pre-teen years but added in chapter books that took me away to far-fetched lands. Romances and titillating thrillers joined the fold as I entered my teens, and by college I was experimenting with Vonnegut, Hesse, and Coelho. Each new book brought me to a new place, let me taste new food, experience love, betrayal, strife, joy, anger, despair. And with a college schedule, I was free to dive in to as many as I wanted. Amazon had become a thing my freshman year and I reveled in being able to order all my favorite guilty pleasures at the click of a mouse. By the time my parents came to pick me up at the end of the semester my bookshelf had swelled and would continue to do so over the next four years.

By the time I moved back home I had amassed quite a collection. In a fit of what I can only describe as insanity, I cleaned my shelves off before I left for the Peace Corps. I decided I had outgrown many of the stories of my youth and with an air of idiotic superiority, I said goodbye to 100s of books from my youth – goodbye Baby-Sitters Club, goodbye Nancy Drew, goodbye The Secret of the Seven Crows, goodbye Love Stories – I felt a pull of a regret as I packed them away for Goodwill, but not enough to stop my 22 year old self from tossing away my dear friends. 

Traumatized by the experience I held on tightly to each story after that and brought them all with me when I moved to New York. As I made no money, buying new books became a luxury and so I learned to scour the used book websites and would spend hours pursuing the shelves of the Strand to find the cheapest used copy to rebuild my collection. On occasion I would still splurge on the newest edition by one of my favorites, but for the most part my collection didn’t expand at quite the same pace that it had once. 

Regardless, by the time I moved to DC, my collection was close to what it once had been. My bookshelves had reached capacity, I had begun to decorate my room with small piles of books. My roommate at the time D, kindly tried to encourage me to let some go – but they were old friends that I could visit after a bad day – warm comfortable sweats that I could slip into to escape reality. Sure I knew the story by heart, but wasn’t it comforting to flip to just the right point in the story and be with the heroine as she realized who the killer was and that he was in the house with her and then heart-racing you fell into step along side her as she navigated through the house to grab the knife and fling herself out the back door just in the nick of time?! Is there a better feeling than to know what is going to happen but still get so caught up that your heart races as you turn those well-worn pages?! I defy you to tell me something quite as wonderful as that.

However, there were stories that I had neglected and try as I might I could not fall into step with them any longer. Luckily for me, I had made some new friends in DC, and received a well-timed invite to a book swap. Bring along books you were planning to donate and we’d pile them on a table, have some brunch and champagne, and we’d all paw through and come home with new treasures while off-loading some that had run our course. That first swap was a nerve wracking experience. First of all, I knew three people but only one well – which is always hard for me. I’m a great fake extrovert – but in reality, I am still that shy little kid who didn’t turn their homework in for an entire year because I was too nervous to ask the teacher which bin it went in (true story). Plus, I love popcorn entertainment, and this is DC, which is notorious for highbrow and a low appreciation for the lowest common denominator. However, a book exchange and a true respect and appreciation for my new friend N, were too big of lures to resist and so I very carefully picked out a very appropriate outfit – put together a mix of my most neutral books that I was ready to part with and for the heck of it threw in a couple of my trashy faves. Upon arrival, N. plied us with champagne and made the introductions and before we knew it hours had passed and we all had a stack of new and interesting books. Unsurprisingly, I was the only one who brought smut, but all those smutty stories were snatched up by the end with eager hands – quite possibly egged on by the bubbly. And thus a tradition was born. The book swap is on year 4 now, the circle has changed slightly, but for the most part remains a dedicated group. I am looked on for the popcorn, N. brings the cookbook and cup of joe reads, each member has an expected genre but over the years we have gotten to know each other and find ourselves buying with the Group in mind. I got this because I thought you’d love it, I wasn’t sure about this- but just knew one of you would love it. Where we would have bought something on the ereader we seek out the paper coup to ensure we can share with this circle. Twice a year we meet and twice a year we spend hours catching up and sharing thoughts on life, love, successes, sorrows, and most importantly on the books that have shaped us. It is one of the most intimate circles you can be a part of and I am forever changed and a better person because of it.

So thank you mom and dad for not giving up on me when bribery failed. :)

Finding My Happy Place

I spent my 30th birthday with my mom. As I was gearing up for the big 3-0 I debated doing a bash with friends or taking a trip somewhere; instead I decided to embrace who I am and booked a B&B with my mom. But not just any B&B, the Nora Roberts' B&B in Boonsboro, Maryland. 

For those of you that do not share my passion for trashy romances, Nora Roberts is a New York Times bestselling author with over 225 novels to her credit. Her husband owns a bookstore in Boonsboro and in 2007 they bought the Inn and remodeled it as a B&B. In 2011, Nora released a trilogy based on the Inn and by the time my birthday rolled around in 2014, I knew how I wanted to spend my big day. As I considered who to go with I realized that I wanted someone who would completely embrace this with me and who would indulge my total fandom...so I called my mom and asked her to be my plus one. 

As background and in case in case you aren't catching on, I am a huge Nora Roberts fan. It all started at 15 with the Three Sisters Island trilogy, picked up from the used bookstore around the corner from my house. I tore through the trilogy in a week and by the end of the summer I had bought all the Nora Roberts books in the store and was quickly working my way through Books-A-Million's supply. Before the year was out I had finished off her readily available backlog and was stuck waiting for the new releases. Fast forward 20 years, and I have an entire bookshelf in my room that only sports Nora Roberts books. I do a mix of hard and electronic copies these days as I fear going beyond one dedicated bookshelf may put me on some sort of watch list. 

With that in mind, you can imagine what sort of excitement and ridiculousness that needed to be embraced on the first visit and can probably see why mom was my only option as a guest. I chose Elizabeth and Darcy (each room is themed after a famous couple in literature) for our stay as it is haunted and plays a big role in the trilogy. I won't give you a play-by-play of the full two days, but I will tell you that it was everything I hoped for and more. They have a nightly happy hour with the guests and with only eight rooms it is a perfect size crowd to sit and debate favorite Nora books, compare rooms, and see who has the most stays under their belt. There is a library chock full of Nora's books as well as a diverse collection of favorites from her bookshelf and a decanter full of Jameson. There is also a solid movie collection that leans towards the romances and black and whites and is perfect for curling up in your robe and noshing on the homemade cookies that are waiting for the guests. Breakfast is a 2-course feast that inspired a cookbook last year (and that I will probably end up with this year). Those first two days at the Inn were the most relaxing vacation I had ever had and before we left we agreed that a tradition was born. 

As we gear up for visit number five, I can honestly say that each year is somehow better than the last. We've stayed in the penthouse (Mom's 60th), discovered a fabulous massage parlor, spent a small fortune in the shops, found the local winery that does the Inn Boonsboro wines, and stumbled into an art show with Nora's husband. Although we have yet to meet Nora, I'm convinced it will happen by the time we hit year eight and until then, I get to anticipate what new wonder we are going to find this year, because I swear this place has some sort of magic and I cannot wait to step into the honeysuckle entrance this Friday and embrace it.

Copper Pineapple & Stories in a Philly Bar

We were sitting in the hotel bar in Philadelphia. We'd long since checked out but still had hours until our trains back to our respective cities and realities. We had ventured out earlier for one last round of playing tourist but finally gave in to the winding down clock and settled in with cocktails and conversation. Although neither of us said it, we both knew that this would be it. There would be no going back and trying to make long distance work. We would have a perfect weekend to remember, but this wasn't going to be our reality. And yet as we sat there, neither willing to say the words, we kept sharing our stories and our secrets. Maybe it was knowing that everything we said would stay suspended in the air of the bar, our words clinging to the smoke like the heat that had stuck around late into September. The hours ticked by, the ice cubes melted in our drinks, and yet the words continued to flow. We talked about broken dreams, disappointing realities, about getting up and trying again and again. He talked about immigrating to the US, of college at 14, of starting businesses and failing. He talked of life and love, of that desperate and ongoing search to find passion and then the disappointment when that passion changes. I talked of family, of getting sick, of giving up dreams, of starting over, of writing. We circled on delicate subjects, refilled our drinks, and then dove in again. Time continued to tick on, and the words got more rushed. The need to say it all, to purge ourselves of the stories we wouldn't get to share over the course of a normal courtship, forced us to pack them into this finite moment of time. Our voices would get hoarse and we'd interrupt the flood of conversation to order another drink, everything would get hushed as we waited. Each time this happened I would stare at the pineapple on the shelf of the bar. I had spotted it as soon as we came in and joked that it belonged in my apartment. It was copper and stood guard on the shelf above the liquor. It looked like a relic from the 50s. Copper wasn't in fashion yet, nor were pineapples, so this lone statute looked fanciful and out of place above the bottles standing at attention. During these quiet moments, I'd look at that thing and wish it were some sort of magical beacon that could freeze time and let us just stay here forever and make our own reality. As the last hour started winding down, our conversation began to meander toward reality and the logistics of saying goodbye and suddenly he called the bartender over. I thought he was going to have him take one last picture of us and instead he asked how much for the pineapple. The bartender was confused and said she'd have to check with the manager as it wasn't for sale - he simply replied, everything has a price, find out what it is for the pineapple. As the bartender went off to make the call, I asked what he was doing and he said that this was for me to remember the feeling of not doing the expected and of just letting go and enjoying the ride we are given. Pictures fade, but this would be a tangible reminder that I don't have to stay the course. The negotiations took longer than expected, but finally he was handed the pineapple - turns out it was no relic from the 50s, but instead a promo item from Absolut (apparently they knew that copper and pineapples were about to be the new thing). As he handed me my prize, he said that this was just for me and wasn't something I could share on the blog. I asked why not, and he responded in very much his fashion: tell me why you write your blog. I paused and knew that these words mattered, perhaps more than anything I had said all afternoon, and so I bared the last piece of my soul: Because it is how I am the whole me. I have written for as long as I can remember, even if I wasn't putting pen to paper or words to type, I was writing a story in my head. Years ago I accepted that I won't be a writer, not in the traditional novelist sense, I simply do not have the patience to tell that tale. But I still need to write. When I got sick, the storyteller voice quieted and for a long time I let it go and just focused on the next thing that needed to be done. But the stories started to come back and I began to get my voice back. It started slow, a whisper here, a phrase there, and before I knew it, it was flood of words that could not be ignored. And this time, I knew I needed to share those stories. That is why I write, because to not do so is to not be whole, and I won't do that again. And with that, he handed me the pineapple and told me this was my story to tell when the time was right; and as I look at that pineapple and contemplate another year about to be complete on this earth, I think that this is the perfect time to tell you why I write this blog and about how I ended up with that damn pineapple.

This Can Be Yours For The Low, Low, Price Of....

At 25 I found my calling. At the mark of my quarter century on this earth, my life was coming together: I had shed the multi-roommate life and moved into a two-bedroom with M.; I no longer lived in fear that I would get fired at my job for having no idea how to work the copier; and I was about to enter what would become my longest relationship. Life was good, if only I could figure out what I wanted to do with it. And then one night it came to me, I was meant to be a host on HSN.

It started with a bout of insomnia. I have never been what you call a good sleeper. My mom can regale you with stories of sleepless nights before any big life event, which ranged from the first day of school, to finals, to the season 2 finale of Buffy (spoiler warning: I think I'm still traumatized from Buffy killing Angel and then running off to be a waitress). Needless to say my first year on my own was fraught with varying levels of stress and sleep was not my friend. As such, I took to watching HSN at night to try and lull myself to sleep. Instead I developed a love affair. Had my credit card had a limit higher than $500, I probably would have developed a shopping addiction as well; as it was, I only ever bought one necklace and my only Heidi Daus ring came as a present from M., who bought herself one as well. After about a year of falling asleep to the pleas to call-in before they ran out of Heidi's latest exquisite elegance infinite sparkle oval ring the seed was planted. It took root a year later when I joked about it with D., whose immediate reaction was: "Oh dear god, you would." This was said with real dread, as I think she feared letting me loose on the masses - after all I was responsible for every single impulse buy in her closet, which were numerous. Between my Midwestern charm and love of spending other people's money I was notorious for having to know how much I could talk someone into spending before going shopping with them. And so I was off and running. A quick visit to the website showed that they were hiring and that proved it was meant to be...I'd soon be moving back to Florida and making $80k a year. I.Would.Be.Rich&Famous!

But first I had to create the audition tape. It just so happened that my old roomie K.R.'s boyfriend was a videographer on the side and he agreed to help out. For moral support, K.R. came along as well as D. and M. While my videographer/producer spent an hour trying to figure out how to make our apartment not appear slanted (the building was falling down and no amount of adjusting made the ceiling appear other than what it was), the ladies helped me run lines from my carefully crafted script and advised me to throw in some ad lib. Within minutes of what would become 2 hours of filming, I made my live audience move into M's room as they made me too nervous. Nevertheless I persisted. Following their advise I went off script in take after take, at one point I told the viewers that they never knew when they may need a dress for a New Years Eve party (spoiler alert: every NYE!). Finally, my very patient producer called cut and assured me he had enough footage to put together the final video.

We went to a celebratory dinner and assured of my soon-to-be fame and financial status, I bought a round for my lovely audience and videographer/producer, which I am pretty sure is the only payment he received for this whole thing. He then spent days editing this video into what would become a masterpiece that clearly showcased why I was MEANT to be a HSN host. I confidently mailed the audition CDs out and waited for my new career to come calling. Each night as I watched HSN, I wondered which slot I would get...probably the evening jewelry slot as I was sure that they would be dazzled by my sales pitch of my grandma's amethyst ring. I imagined my life in Florida, I'd buy a Honda Pilot and get my own place in St. Pete, enjoying a luxurious commute to Tampa every day and still a short drive to my parent's place. I wondered what it would be like to have my hair and makeup done each morning, and most importantly what would the employee discount be like?! 

After a couple weeks I started to get nervous, why weren't they calling to fly me down to Florida for an in-person audition?! And then it came. A little post card thanking me for applying and letting me know that they would keep my CD on file for future opportunities. I was crushed. It was obvious what the problem was, I was too young. Heidi would feel threatened by my youth, I'd make those biddies look like the grandmas they were by comparison. I stopped watching HSN, I couldn't bear to see what could have been and never would be. And in what can only be attributed to the resilience of youth, I bounced back almost immediately and found my new calling. I applied to grad school and within the year I started at NYU's Silver School to get a Masters in Social Work, but that is a story for another time. For now, please enjoy a portion of the masterpiece that was my audition to HSN, and remember to always follow your dreams...no matter how harebrained they may seem.

One Deep Breath

As most of you know I recently started a new job. I've been promising a blog post about it for a couple weeks and owed you one for much longer - but I've struggled with where to start. In a very un-me like twist, we are going to start in the middle.

My recruiter called me a week after my first interview and asked if I would take the job if they offered. My heart was pounding in my chest and my hands were shaking because I knew my answer was yes; but I was terrified that this big of a change could happen so fast. I am a creature of habit, I like to ease into things - not leap - and boy this was a leap. It meant leaving the firm I grew up in, the one where I was promoted, a trusted adviser to my attorneys, a friend and a confidant, where my mentor was one floor away, and where I knew where all the skeletons were buried. This would mean starting over from scratch, building all those relationships, stumbling on those skeletons, earning the credibility from the ground-up, and a lot of long hours figuring out how to crawl before I could walk - let alone run. 

With a thin sheen of cold sweat covering my brow, my head spun - law firms are notorious for taking months to build-up to an offer, how could they know so fast if I didn't know? But I did. I knew the moment I finished the first interview that I wanted it. This was the kind of offer that you grab onto with both hands and run. This was taking over the marquee practice, this was managing three people instead of one, this was taking a well oiled machine and bringing them to the next level in the industry - this was a giant leap and they wanted me. 

As the roaring in my ears grew, I looked around my office. My fifth home in the firm. My pictures were hung, my drawers full of shoes, a scatter of nick-nacks covered my desk, my files perfectly arranged, and Muddy Waters playing quietly in the background ramping me up for the trip to NOLA in just under a month. I remembered the hours spent trying to get up to speed after the promotion. I would have to go through that again, learning all the practice - only this time I would also be trying to navigate unknown department drama and three direct reports who wanted this job. The memory of my first direct report sullenly staring at me in our first meeting, her whole face a study of petulant accusation - why were you promoted over me? - flashed before my eyes.

My breathing grew tight as I asked myself - could I really do it? It was such a big leap, could I clear that hurdle? Did I really have the chops to do all they were going to ask of me? Lord knew I sure have bumbled that management stick a few times and now they wanted me to manage not one, but three people. Three people who also wanted the job? Putting that aside, what about the actual job? Goodness gracious they were light years ahead of a lot of firms out there - could I really figure out the what's next in the industry? What was I thinking?

My vision started to tunnel and the thought drifted in - you don't have to say yes. You can stay here and be perfectly fine. You can stay the course and put in another couple years and then go after the next rung. You don't have to rush it. No one will know that you turned this down. No one will know that you didn't grab on with both hands and lean in. You can be content and perfectly fine staying middle of the road, middle of the pack. You can just be fine. 

And then something happened. A thousand other voices crept in and started a new conversation. You could also be just fine there. In fact, you could be fantastic there. You could be thrive and flourish and grow leaps and bounds there. You could fit there, in a way that you never quite fit here. You could be surrounded by a new and wonderful team. You could learn new things and make new mistakes. You could develop lasting relationships with new attorneys and a new camaraderie. All the work you have done over the past 5 years has led you here. You can grab this and run. The voices of my wonderfully supportive and strong mentors, of my pushy and bossy friends, of my ever loyal and faithful family rang up into a chorus that said - take the leap, you got this.

I sucked in a deep breath, oxygen flooding my brain and shocking my system back to life, with a rush blood roared through my brain and on my exhale I said yes. The rest of the call was a blur of haggling over salary and bonuses and then suddenly I was sitting in the office that would soon not be mine trying to figure out how many trips it would take to bring home all my shoes and then bring them back into a new office that was just waiting for me arrive and dive in. 

It would take 9 trips. 

A Friendship Like This..

Back in 2007 Barack Obama was running for President of the the United States, and one of my roommates - K.R. - was working on his campaign in Hoboken, New Jersey. During the campaign she became friends with J.K., who was running the campaign headquarters. I got pulled into some volunteering for the campaign but somehow managed not to meet J.K. until after the victor was declared and she needed a place to stay. K.R. asked us if we would mind J.K. coming to stay with us for a few days while she found a new place to stay - and oh she would be bringing her pup, Shamu. Looking back, I am pretty sure Shamu is the only reason that we agreed to this stay. J.K. showed up three days after she was supposed to, I got home from work first and was supposed to let her in, each night I got there and waited only to have no one show up. I was over J.K. before I even met her. 

And on the third night - bam - Jen shows up. She was a whirlwind of flyaway red hair, bags, dog, and chatter. It was quite a first impression and boy was it accurate. It didn't matter that I hadn't met her - I was friends with K.R. and so instantly we were friends. There are very few people that are as open and accepting as J.K. and as I would learn over the next two weeks (not a few days) it was a bit like what I imagine living with Pippi Longstocking would be like. J.K. was a whirlwind of mothering and bad influence - she would cook us chicken pot pie while we were at work and then take us out and convince us that 5 tequila shots on a Tuesday was a good idea (they were not). She would clean the apartment and then read aloud from my trashy romances. She would drive us to Trader Joe's and then convince us that making out with a boy in a bar was totally classy (it never is). In two weeks we became life-long friends. Sure she moved on to someone else's couch and eventually find a place in Jersey City - but our friendship was set. 

Over the next year and a half, J.K. talked me into some of my most memorable and least memorable moments in all my time in New York. She was a voice of empowerment as I made big, life altering decisions; a wise sage as I tumbled and struggled with what I was doing with my life; a role model as I began to truly own my feminism; and the whisper in my ear as I took that 5th shot of tequila (yet again) and started hitting on the son of Mr. McFeely from Mr. Rogers (yes, true story).  

J.K. is one of those people who decides they are going to be your friend and there is no going back after that moment. She is the kind of friend that everyone needs in their life: the one you call when you need help no questions asked; when you need a complete confidence boost; when you need someone to give you that final push to take a plunge; and when you need someone to take you out and make you forget about all the crap that life is throwing at you. At 23, she was exactly the new friend I needed as I was getting my bearings in NYC. I can't think of my time up there without being flooded by memories of J.K.: dancing in the park, singing along to Miley Cyrus (no shame), figuring out how to eat gourmet on a shoe string budget, gossiping about dates, and long talks talks about changing the world. 

Two years after first meeting, J.K. announced that she was moving to Spain to teach English. She knew no one in Spain and was jumping without looking - very typical. Yet, in the way of J.K. she managed to overstay her Visa by years - leaving and re-entering the country without issue, made a tribe for herself, started a business, lived on a shoe string budget, fell in love, got married, started a family, and eventually landed in London right before Brexit. A whirlwind of adventure and perseverance. And our friendship has stayed strong through it all.

Last week we chatted and I promised to write a blog just for her as she and her family are dealing with some stressful times. I toyed with telling a tale from one of those tequila filled nights at Maxwell's, or one of the many times she pushed me out of my comfort zone; but when it came down to it I thought she could use a reminder as to what a ridiculously fabulous woman she is and a thank you for changing my life. I would not have had nearly as much fun or jumped quite as high had it not been for you, J.K. So thank you, there is truly no one else in the world quite like you and I am a better person for having you in my life. My love to you, L., and A. - if anyone can make it through this - it is the three of you! And always remember - that 5th shot is totally worth the story you will tell later. 

Stories from Standby

Dear readers, I’m in the middle of travel adventure- desperately trying to get down to Florida to help my parents out so that my Dad can get up to Minnesota for his brother’s funeral. Already emotional and chaotic circumstances but then add in a Windagedum here in DC yesterday when I was supposed to fly out and you can imagine where that leaves me: with a 17-hour travel day today. It began at 5 am when I arrived at the airport, per the insistent woman at American’s instructions, so that I could make it through TSA and be at the gate promptly for my priority standby. I made it through security in 20 minutes flat and stumbled through the terminal trying to find something open with caffeine - but not too much in case I did get on as I wanted to sleep. 30 minutes later, I’ve eaten a breakfast burrito and sucked down two glasses of terrible iced tea and decide I’ll just nap at the gate until 7:30 and then worry about paying prompt attention to the standby list.

I get to the gate settle in, plug my phone in, and prepare to crash..only to be blasted with a Windagedum-like gust of frigid air. Turns out my gate is next to the transfer door for the other gates, every couple minutes the helpful TSA agent opens the door to yell down to the bus driver that no one is waiting but it sure is busier than yesterday. I still manage to catch about 30 minutes of sleep- until the door gets stuck open and i admit defeat. It’s not even 7, the flight is set for 8:40...but st least people are starting to wake up so I can annoy people with texts and Instagram.

Around 7:30, the genesis for this story arrives. She’s about 5’2, 40ish, and full of pure cray-cray Mom-mess. She and her daughter were 3 and 5 on the standby list of 14. I am 7, i was higher yesterday, but i choose to believe she and her daughter are the reason I’ve been demoted. When they arrive they start in on with their sob story: They are on the way to a wedding in FL and just HAVE to get there. They waited all day in the airport yesterday. (Like this didn’t happen to thousands of people on the East Coast, but hers is more important because it’s her telling it apparentl). During the third telling of her saga, she pauses to check her phone and then announce - rather loudly- that the bride had just texted her to ask if her daughter can be a flower girl in the wedding that is taking place today! Apparently, another family is stuck in NYC and won’t make it! 😱 Obviously, now they must do everything they can to ensure they get on this flight- including saying a Hail Mary (out loud). She’s now furiously chatting up the people near her adding in “ maybe I’ll see if they can do an announcement asking if someone will give up their seat so my little girl can be a flower girl!” and then doing a little laugh and pause waiting to see if they will offer. When she says this to me, I tell her I hope not because I want one of those seats to get to a funeral. (Burn!) 

Sooooo, flash forward to when the standbys start getting called. There are 3 seats. First one goes to #10 on the list (I’m still baffled about this and they explained it twice to me) then 1 & 2 get called..1 doesn’t show up...so drumroll- Mom has a seat. Little girl start bawling. Mom starts walking up and down the line of boarding passengers going “anyone wanna give up their seat so a little girl can be a flower girl?” Meanwhile, I’ve now identified standby passenger #4 - who stands between crazy Mom and crying child - and he is pissed, because there are no more seats, so if she wrangles someone that surpasses him and he has no time for this crazy. 

Well, some woman who is trying to get Racine - yet is being routed through Tampa- looks at crying child and crazy mom, back and forth, back and forth- the standby crowd (all 6 of us) are watching, cringing and the she says it, “she can have my seat if they can get me on something going West.” We are fuming and the gate agent is fuming, because he knows he’s going to have a standby riot - plus everyone is now boarded BUT crazy Mom and Racine lady. He’s like - “ma’am you’d have to go to customer service to find out that” and then tries to explain why she can’t just hand her ticket to the kid to get on and then get a new one without charge! 

Racine realizes she has tried and it ain’t happening and proceeds to board. Which leaves Mom with a ticket, little girl crying, and #4 looking at Mom waiting for her to call it and give up her ticket. Gate agent goes, “Ma’am, are you going or not?” And damned if she doesn’t go- “oh I’m going. Sorry baby, but I’m going to go.” And goes to get on board. I swear you could hear a pin drop. Little girl is like 6, bawling her eyes out and finally gate agent is like- “what about her?!” Mom is like, “oh I’m calling her grandpa- he’s waiting outside security for her. She can walk down.” We’re like- what?! You’re just leaving her. Not even going to make sure she gets there?! After all that- you’re just getting on?! It was the craziest and coldest Mom move I’ve ever seen. Gate agent ended walking her down and got her to gramps (or some dude claiming to be her gramp for all we know). #4 looked devastated as his chance at warmth and FL sunshine were snatched away and I went and got coffee and wrote this up for my dear readers.

You’re welcome. 

Happy Saturday

Falling In Love Again

Last year my heart was shattered into a million pieces. On July 22, two days before my birthday, I took Byron to the emergency vet center and 4 hours later I said goodbye to him. It was the most devastating day of my life and I experienced a level of grief I had never imagined. Losing a pet is a singular experience. People can empathize, especially other pet owners, but no one can quite experience the grief in the same way as you - because you are the only one who is truly experiencing the loss. I was lucky enough to not have to be alone on that fateful day, but I cannot begin to tell you how alone the apartment felt once I got home. In the days that followed I slept on the couch and dreaded coming home to an empty apartment - not having my chatty little man waiting for me at the door or hearing him click around at night...It was deafening at times. 

I knew I would adopt another buddy, I'm a pet person and I knew I had room in my heart to love and rescue another baby when the time was right. About 6 weeks later I went to the shelter to look and ended up bringing home a little girl. Unfortunately for everyone involved the match wasn't right. Much like dating, sometimes you can have a great first date but the follow-up ones you realize you are on different pages. And so I waited.

On December 30, I knew it was time. I had been stalking the Animal Welfare League of Arlington's website for weeks and had picked out the perfect boy - Macaroni Bob. He was a big orange reformed tomcat. He was FIV positive and needed a special home and I was sure that was mine. I made an appointment to go visit him at his foster home and arrived promptly at 9:30 am on that Saturday. Once again, much like dating - a stunning profile does not a match make and I knew within minutes that he was not to be mine. On my ride home I debated whether or not to visit the shelter and check out the other residents or to give it some more time. After some back and forth I realized that it was silly to not go and keep dating, if you will, just because one match didn't work out. So at noon I headed back to the shelter and within moments of walking into the cat room I fell in love.

Ollie was in a cage at the back and as I walked up to his cage he mewed and rubbed up against the bars in a bid for attention. Upon opening the cage up - he let me pick him up and carry him to the holding room where he slunk around for a minute and then sat on my lap. I tried to play coy saying there were others I wanted to meet, but as the minutes ticked by, I knew that I was done dating and that I had found my perfect little man. He came home with me about an hour later and each day I fall a little more in love and so my dear readers, may I introduce you to the new love of my life, as you can see - he is living a rough life... 

My Life is Mine

In November I listened to the most powerful and relatable speech I've ever heard. If anyone hasn't yet had the pleasure of listening to Tracee Ellis Ross' speech at Glamour's 2017 Women of the Year Summit, go listen. Now, like right now. because it is wonderful and it will also give you context for this post.

The first time I had someone question me about being a single woman was when I was 27. It was my first week in DC and at my job and a co-worker asked why I moved away from my boyfriend, "didn't I want to get married and have kids before it was too late?" Yes, that really happened. In fact, it happened three times in my first week here. I love so much about DC, but DC is still the South, and the mentality here was (and is) different than New York. The idea that, at 27, the clock was already ticking down on my 'use-by-date,' and that it was actually acceptable to say something about it was baffling to my NYC-minded self. And after 6 years, and countless iterations of this conversation, it still is. The fact that my not being married or having kids is something that people in DC believe that they have a right to comment on - either warning me that time is running out or consoling me that they know lots of people who never got married and are still very happy - still boggles my mind.

However, after watching Tracee's video I realized - it's not a DC-thing and not just a thing that I face. It is a woman thing. My single male friends in their 30s are bachelors, not spinsters. No one tells them that they better get on this marriage thing. No one tries to assure them that it "isn't them, they just haven't met the right person" or that "they could still live a very fulfilled life as a single man," because it is alright for men to live their life however they choose. Because men get to choose. But if a woman is single, it clearly can't be by choice- it must be something out of their control. I call bullshit. I'm not married because this is the life I chose. And getting married and having kids, was not a priority for me in my 20s, and to be frank - still isn't. 

Last year a lot of pieces of my life came together and I had this stunning revelation about my life: I love it. I love everything about it. I have worked damn hard to build this life and the people I have chose to have in it, and I feel so satisfied with who I am, where I am, and where I am going. I don't know exactly where I will end up, but I love the path I am on to get there. I feel strong, and secure, and fierce in that knowing. And from that revelation, came another: marriage is not my end goal. Despite being told that it should be quite a bit over the last 6 years, that is not what I am working towards. What I am working towards is a fulfilled and happy life. One where I enjoy what I do, I enjoy the people in my life, I get to see the world and have new experiences, I enjoy my time with myself, I make a difference, I laugh, I cry, and I live. I don't care if this life involves a marriage certificate and a white picket fence or not. This doesn't mean I am against that life, it just means that I am not limiting myself to that picture of happiness. If I end up meeting someone who I fall in love with and who will be a partner to me and me to him, then by all means - Yes! That life will be a wonderful tapestry that we will build together. But, if instead I live my life as a single woman, who when it is right dates someone (I am looking at you Mr. Italian chef who makes me pasta and takes me to Italy), and when it isn't, enjoys her life independently, then that too will be a wonderful tapestry. Marriage isn't the end goal for me. The end goal for me is the beautiful tapestry I am making and being proud of it. 

When I listened to Tracee talking about her life being hers, I felt like she was pulling the words from my soul and blasting them out to the world. My life is mine. Who I share, or don't share, it with is my choice and doesn't define me and certainly doesn't get to define my success or failure. They are merely threads that get woven into whatever life I chose to live. My life is mine and I am so in love with it.

Time's Up

I had planned to talk about how fast you can fall in love today. Before you get too excited, this was going to be your introduction to my new furbaby, Ollie. But as I scrolled through Insta this morning, I saw all the posts about Time's Up and realized that this is what I needed to be talking about.

Aside from my post last year after the Women's March I haven't written much about this or really anything political. Until this moment I hadn't contemplated why I have stayed away from this topic, but forced to confront the why, I can say it is because it breaks my heart. I am truly saddened that we are now in 2018 and this is still a fight that we are in and the end doesn't appear near. I am sickened that people are still surprised when these stories break and that the refrain continues to be "but he was such a nice guy." I am exhausted realizing that each time we march forward and gain ground that I look back and see how little we have actually moved. And yes, I am angry. I am furious that we look to our leaders, only to see them tumbling down as perpetrators. I am enraged to still hear people making excuses and assigning blame to the victim. I am flabbergasted when I read that attackers are trying to clean up their reputations. And so, I haven't written about it; because in so many ways, I couldn't help but wonder - what will it serve?!

That was wrong of me. I marched with a sign that read "I will not be silent!" And I have been, at least here and here should count. I am not going to pretend I have millions of readers, but there are enough of you that a voice speaking out counts. 

And so here I go. It has been almost a year since that March and I take heart in how much women have banded together and that we are raising our voices and saying that we will not be silent any longer. I will not be silent any longer, my voice will be heard. I will not let the anger and sadness take my voice from me. I will say - Me Too, because I have been a victim: from the basics in the office of: "Yes, Dear." "Don't worry your pretty head about that." "Those shoes sure do make your calves look great." "You look tense, want me to rub your shoulders." "Your tone was so cold." "Why don't you smile more." "You should be a lot nicer to me;" to having men grab me on the metro; to having someone I dated grab me by the throat and threaten me because he didn't like the way I interacted with another man when we were out. 

So yes, #me too. And yes, the time is up for silence.

By sharing my story and promising to continue to talk about these issues moving forward, I stand in solidarity with all the women and men out there who are saying TIME'S UP. I hope you will join us, because we may have a long way to go - but I know we will get there.

In solidarity.