Pride and Podcasts Part 1

Last week, I crossed a big item off the bucket list.

I got to participate in my first ever podcast.

Like any narcissist worth her salt, I am fascinated the sound of my own voice and re-hearing bits I have already done to see if they make me laugh again.

Thanks to the amazing Mel Evans (who I have discussed ad nauseam on this blog) for hosting us for this first romp of many (I hope). 

Please give it a listen.Your reading or viewing of Death Comes to Pemberley is pretty inconsequential as we will explain all the important points of both the book and the movie while giggling. But here is my review of the book from a few years ago.

Also, you can totally download the podcast on iTunes (or your podcast app because it is 2014), if you want to listen to me "can't even" about most things on your morning or afternoon commute.

Thanks also to Jane Austen for the source materials. The amazing J.Ker_pow for being the calming to my manic. The cats for being an excellent source of entertainment, and the wine for allowing me to relax, maybe a little too much for my first podcast.

All critiques should be left in the comments of this blog for me to over-think and then slide into a deep depression.

Summer Friday

I wish I could bottle all the happiness I have during Chicago summer. I wish I could carry it with me throughout the cold, hibernation days of November and January.

There is nothing better than a patio and a plastic glass and a Friday afternoon stretched until the end of the weekend. There is nothing better than a Thursday night that feels like it will never end up a Friday morning. 

As I crash into this weekend, I want to remember my gratitude for how perfect this all feels and how fleeting it will all be. 

#herecomesthesun, Chicago. Get in it.

musings on motherhood

Last night I watched my friend be a mom.

I love having the opportunity to watch amazing women enjoy this new role in the simple matters of tutus and giggles and very first butt scoots. 

But last night it was sickness and messy and fear and doubt and the less fun, but so much more real, side of parenthood. 

And she owned it. Not to say that she didn't question panicked first thoughts, or ask her partner his opinions, or rely on others to help her but she took ownership of a very scary situation and didn't let the anxiety keep her from getting things done. 

I am amazed at this level-headedness. When I think about parenting and especially with the first go-round of just not knowing anything, it is completely terrifying.

It was fascinating to see it up close and in the moment. I never doubted this particular friend's capacity for getting things done but to see it, actually see it, was eye opening in a very good way.

I am very grateful for these friends who outpace me in life's obstacle course.  The ones who show me what it actually is, instead of just what it looks like. And now I get to take a moment to wonder if I have the trust in my own abilities and the same pragmatism during crisis.

Being a grown-up is weird, y'all.

The adorable secret (a love letter to Zooborns)

Guys, I have found the secret to positive and successful professional relationships at work.

Pictures of baby animals.

Anytime someone does something nice for me, or I do something nice for someone else - I find a reason to send them a picture of a baby animal.

It is solid gold in the professional development co-worker winning over department.

It may be that since I work in an office of predominately women, I have an edge over all of you Wall Street types. But we work hard and we are stressed and tired about 115% of the time and there is something to be said for an adorable baby otter making it all better even just for a moment.

I could not do this without Zooborns. And you shouldn't try it either. Zooborns is my go-to baby animal pick-me-up picture provider. You cannot go wrong.

Zooborns has been keeping me from crying at my desk since like 2010. Thank you for three years of adorable stress relief.

Happy Thursday, baby Otter, we're almost at the weekend.

Spring Swing

There might be snow on the ground, but I have quite the hankering to spend my entire tax return (note to self: do your taxes) on spring and summer dresses. Dresses for work are the best because they don't require me to put together an outfit, just throw it on with some wedges. Boom. done.

After almost a year, its fair to say, I've gotten a pretty good idea of what works and what doesn't in the office and when I am on the go. My goal is to find classic pieces with a bit of fun to them that are work appropriate.

Here are some of the dresses I'm eyeing for this summer.

Real quick, this Stripe Pocket dress from Gap is exactly what I mean.

So easy and so adorable. Plus comfortable! And hella versatile. I will absolutely wear this on your patio, drinking beer on a Saturday afternoon.

My love of Modcloth is not a secret and here's why. Without even trying that hard I found four dresses that are perfect for work and play and sunshine.

In case you have also fallen in love with any of these dresses, they are (from t-b, l-r) Dilly Tally Dress, Inlet's Get Together, Book Exchange Brunch (which will need a cami for sure), and A Whole Neutral Outlook. 

If navy or stripes ever go out of style, I am totally screwed (and they won't because everyone will always romanticize the sea, so that's convenient). 

I think a work dress is something with a classic waist (ie, your waist. It is so bonkers how much skinner you actually look with a belt at your natural waist), and either a classic pattern/solid or a classic neckline. You should be complimented but people shouldn't wonder if you're going to a little kid's birthday later.

Of course, these rules were made to be broken for the very fashion adventurous among us - but if you're like me and dread the thought of having to put four pieces of clothing together in semblance of an "outfit," these rules will do you good.  Play with fun patters in a simple shift, or do a crazy cowl neck with a gorgeous charcoal. 

And here's a favorite from Loft (the Loft? Ann Taylor Loft? I have no idea). A store I used to make fun of my sweet friends for shopping at, but 10 years later, I find myself wearing my newest LBJ from there, at least once a week.

This guy is so simple and perfect. Which is all I want out of my clothes, things things that are easily cute. This floral cutout dress fits the bill.

How many times am I going to beg for summer this year?

Sorry to let you down.

Today's blog is preempted by Fancy Pants wine, strawberries, very serious talks - with special guest appearance by soy sauce.

Boyfriend turns 29.

Twenty-nine things I like about Boyfriend (in honor of his 29th birthday):

1: He is always up for a giant delicious breakfast full of waffles and goodness.

2: He lets me put my cold feet on him in bed.

3: He lets me watch Downton Abbey on the big TV and hardly ever makes fun of it.

4: He is really into his bread maker.

5: The one time he got triple mega bonus points on the Indiana Jones pinball machine at Excalibur in Las Vegas he said I was his good luck charm.

6: He lets me sit on the couch when I am hot power fusion yoga-sweaty.

7: He researched the best way to store bananas. It's that important to him.

8: He cleans the litter box when I forget to (which is most times).

9: He thinks I'm sweet.

10: He hardly ever makes fun of me for that time I did a triple pirouette in the dining room and fell down so bad I sprained my wrist. 

11: He knows what he wants from life (we are working on knowing what he wants for dinner).

12: His best friend is one of my best friends. But they do all the stupid boy stuff together so I don't have to do it.

13: His patience and steadiness in the face of my manic fear and doubt. 

14: He taught me all the Notre Dame cheers and doesn't get mad when I yell, "suck it, Wolf Pack!" even when they aren't playing Nevada.

15: The first time he held my hand in The Dark Knight and I felt a fire bolt travel up my fingers and arm and through my whole body.

16: He likes a good adventure and things wrapped in bacon.

17: He knows how Excel works. Like really knows. It's impressive.

18: He lets me drink from his glass because I am too lazy to get my own.

19: He lets me be the funny one. 

20: That one time he rode the Everest roller coaster at Animal Kingdom twice in a row even though he almost threw up.

21: He lets me sleep in the car.

22: He refuses to let my inner demons win.

23: He always gives me at least half of his pickle.

24: He loves Hazel more than I love Hazel. They are the best of companions.

25: He is actually the funny one. The funniest one.

26: He always makes coffee.

27: He makes my heart feel like it might burst right out of my chest. 

28: The oven mitts that look like space gloves he got me as a prize from the Orlando airport.

29: He is my favorite person to go to sleep next to, to wake up next to, to eat new food with, to watch old TV until midnight with, to fight with, to miss, to go home to, to celebrate one more year of this with--

Happy Birthday, Boyfriend. I love living the good life with you.

Hazel eats



For Christmas, Santa Claus got Hazel the type of present my grandmother is

 notorious for getting people- the type that you didn't ask for, that you didn't need, and that is making your life way worse than than no present at all.

Her vet, Dr. Danny (seriously) who is all of ten years old told us last year that our baby girl is chubby and if she ever wants to make the cheerleading squad she's gonna have to drop some of that 6 year-old pudge that cats get when they are not required to actually hunt for her food. 

He said she needed a feeding mechanism that was mentally stimulating because that's totally not psychologically messed up at all for a girl who is overrating because she is sad and lonely. 

So we got her this half-moon thing that she hated but eventually it became no longer a challenge for her. Eventually kids learn how to climb up to the top shelf and you have to start all over again. 

So for Christmas, Santa went to Fab.com and got her this thing that basically looks like it should have come with some teenage mutant ninja turtle action figures.

She is still not speaking to me. What kind of terrible cat mother am I? As if wrapping it in Santa paper made if less of a dick move on my part. 

She has started to get the hang of how to eat out of it. What I did not take into consideration was that for the most part her method is to stick her paw in the little bin and then pull it out so as to fling as much cat food all over the floor as possible and then just eat it right from the filthy wood.

Not only is she pissed at me, and covering my floor in passive aggressive crunchies, she now has the table manners of a goddamned raccoon. 

When that method of eating doesn't work she just waits until three in the morning and stands on my side of the bed yowling her displeasure like a hippie on a hunger strike. 

I am not sure why I feel the need to torture this animal in such an elaborate and overpriced way. I really felt like it was in her best interest, which is fairly indicative of where I am in "starting a family," department. 

Seriously, what self respecting animal drinks like this?

TBIF: Tee blues

Sometimes you make rules that are rational and necessary. Like "stop sleeping with that guy," or "try to be only a half hour late to work at least a couple times a week."

Right now, my rule is, "No more t-shirts."

There is a t-shirt problem in my apartment. They're everywhere. In every drawer and stacked in piles in my closet. There are t-shirts in bags that I've sworn will go to good will and an even bigger pile that I have double sworn are going to be made into a quilt.

I have been pretty good about no more t-shirts and added the challenge of no more tank tops to the rule. Everything was going Just.Fine.

And then I stumbled on this picture.

This is easily the most badass photo, possibly of all time, and I do not even care if it is photoshopped, because it is that good.

I had to go on a quest for these shirts because hot damn do I love manners and brunch.

It did not take too long to find Buy Me Brunch and decide that I wanted nearly every single shirt they sell. It hurts me. It physically hurts to not already have the "Buy Me Brunch" tank on its way to my house. 

Every single shirt I see has people who I know need it in their lives. My brother? Absolutely needs a snuggle monster tee. 

Most of my friends from high school (and some of my friends from the rest of my life) need the Surprise I'm Drunk tee.

If it had not literally just been Christmas about six minutes ago, and if I did not spend my life in everything except t-shirts, ugh, it would be mine.

I'll see if I can wait until February before I bend because my will power is actually nothing. For those who do not make arbitrary rules, buy a shirt. Immediately.

Bounce for Joy

I get really, really excited when Target sells fancy clothes that I can afford. My Jason Wu black cocktail dress continues to be one of my most favorite pieces of clothing. I wear it at least four times a year.

I am hella pumped for the Peter Pilotto for Target collection. It gives people like me, who like to play it safe in the colors and patterns department, an opportunity to branch out and try new things without spending approximately ALL of the dollars.

I am not wild about the separates, but I love the dresses in the collection.

 

Refinery29 has the whole look book for your lunch time browsing pleasure.

 

What I love even more than these two dresses, which I will get dirty and fight to the death for, is the fact that when I searched Peter Pilotto Target, this is what came up:

 

Dude makes real fun printed dresses and trampolines. I'm sold.



TBIF: for Bros and Creepers.

Mel Evans might be the funniest person I know in real life. Its real creepy and weird how much I like her and not-so-secretly would like to be her friend. Its mega strange and if she is reading this (which, lets be real, she isn't.) she would probably be hella uncomfortable and rethink all those cat pictures of mine she liked on instagram.

At any rate. She is a contributor to the perfect on-the-clock time-waster Bro Jackson which is basically if Deadspin was like, "Fuck you, Nick Denton, we're in charge. Jezebel, you can come too. Be cool."

Her columns, introducing bros to the finer, loved-by-the-ladies, things in life, are consistently hilarious and worth a read. This week's installment about Flowers in the Attic was particularly eloquent and on point as it discussed why girls in 8th grade are weirdly into incest and inappropriate boinking of other varieties.

I, myself, did not read Flowers in the Attic, though I have no idea how I missed such an essential part of adolescence, though I am sure this rationally explains my fears of commitment and twins.

What I did read was Return to the Secret Garden which had to have had the same effect. My mom purchased it for me in an insane error of judgement (seriously, do not judge a book by its cover unless you want your child's favorite childhood stories being beat up and kicked down a flight of stairs).

The Amazon page for this book is really quite spectacular. The summary has a bulleted list of facts. And those facts are mostly about the original. Also, everyone in the comments section is mad. The Amazon page might be more entertaining than the book itself.

There are some passages to that book that I read so often as a ten year-old that I still have them committed to memory despite my insistence on killing of brain cells at an alarming rate in the interim.

The book got passed around my middle school like the new Green Day CD. By the time I retired it, the spine had been taped back together numerous times, so exhausted had it been lying open for the young, impressionable girls to learn about the intricacies of marrying your cousin (spoiler alert) and the complications that arise after illicit garden sex.

I cannot in good faith recommend this book. I can tell you that if you should find it for sale for under a $1 then sure, let me know how it goes. I can in good faith tell you to be really, really awkward around Mel Evans and read Bro Jackson around 11:30 a.m. when you have already given up on the day.

Thursdays best Internet finds - the grass is greener edition

When I say my life is at Def-Con Bravo stress levels, that is only a gross over-exaggeration in that my job has very little impact on the world. It is stressful because I am bad at managing stress. I am particularly bad at managing stress that comes from things out of my control. I am stressed, but only because I am terrified of failing and I am leaving my success up to others.

That being said! One of the ways I deal with stress is thinking about all the other things I could be doing. I dream about other places, other careers, other whimsical things that strike my fancy. 

One of my favorite stress-relieving day dreams is here- at Longest Acres.

Reading this blog is like talking to the coolest girl you know who also happens to be the kindest and the most badass. Except she is a stranger. But I think we would be friends. Right? How creepy and stalker am I? I want to steal your life and be your friend. Yikes.

Her life doesn't sound perfect, in fact it sounds like it comes with all it's own stress and anxiety, but at the end of the day, when I have been sitting at a computer for 12 hours trying to make bagels appear out of thin air- it's the simplicity of her life that makes me so envious. 

It's not something I could sustain but to escape to a place where you get to control everything and find pride in that sounds pretty awesome. 

A little more about Love

My first massive project at my (still-)new job is coming to a head. There are no less than one million things hanging over my head and I spend most of the day with just a hint of anxiety attack looming in my frontal cortex.

So yesterday, when my boss came over to my cube and asked, "how are you feeling?" I think we were all surprised when the answer was,

"I can't believe my friend is getting married on Saturday." 

But there you have it, the emotions that were the deepest set in my subconscious were the ones about Brother (not my brother, but Brother) getting married this weekend.

Having a good, true, real, awesome guy friend in Brother is something I will be grateful for all eternity. And what's astonishing is he never once ditched me through all of the terrible set-ups and nights at the bottom of fishbowls. 

And then, to meet my companion and have them get along just.so.perfectly in their singing of the Monday night football song, and watching of Dr. Who and over-indulgence of straight Captain Morgan and Jagermeister is more than I could have even dreamed of in my most practical, Midwestern dreams. Boyfriend needs someone to see bad movies with, and I am so happy that it isn't me. 

And THEN! To have him find J. And for her to be all the right kinds of awesome and smart and be the missing puzzle piece of person I need in my life. My talk about the New Yorker, go see plays, commiserate about non-profit jobs, celebrate the joys of dating an introvert friend. How does that even happen so perfectly? 

I could not ask for a better wedding to distract me from the impending insanity of my work. I could not ask for two better friends who want nothing more than to sit and eat pizza and enjoy each others' company. I could not ask for a better forever friend from a guy who I met because he randomly came to watch his coworker do crappy improv in a crappy bar. 

I am so happy Brother found J. And then fought through all the scary bullshit of life to take her to a Storytown show one Saturday afternoon. And then despite being surrounded by a bunch of lazy, drunk, commitmentphobes, he lit those special occasion candles and made the right choice. 

Happy Wedding Brother & J. You'll find me at the dessert table. 

Not into me, part 2

I have talked before about the fact that since entering the land of monogamy, I have started flexing those underutilized awkwardness muscles on the ladies (hey, ladies).

This is still happening, and now I am recognizing an additional phenomenon - Girls trying to politely and quietly break up with me and me not getting the hint. 

I will try to make plans with a lady and she will either a)not respond or b)respond with a "hahahaha, sure lets talk next week." Rather than putting my thinking cap on and realizing that this means she wants nothing to do with me - I wait awhile and then reach out again. Nearly always with the same result. 

It's always hard to be the one who wants it more and especially as I work hard to make friendships count - it's hard to let go when you want someone to be a part of your life.

Recently, I had a run-in with a girl I think is great and at the end of the day I realized that she doesn't want to be my friend. And I think that knowledge, more than the unhappy results of the day's event, bummed me out to the max.

 I am not in anyway complaining about my lot in life. And menfolk - please do not think this in anyway means I pity you. You get to stand up to pee and make more money than I do. You're fine.  

I think I just need to be more grateful for all the amazing friends I have that I don't need to try out for anymore.

Goulden Oldies.

Football Sundays used to look like this:

Now, its far more likely to look like this:

I will say, it is nice not to have to put on pants. And it is ideal to get projects done with no distractions. And I have far more money to spend on dresses and throw pillows when I'm not paying a $100 bar tab every week.

I miss that face though. The face of irresponsible bliss.

So this Sunday, I'll work hard. I'll imbibe nothing stronger than coffee. I will go to bed knowing that I'll wake up in one metaphorical (and literal) piece on Monday morning.

Next week though? Next Sunday is a return to going for the Gould.

Another added bonus to this new version of Game Day:

How to do it: paint something.

I have been on a She-woman-can-do-it-herself kick recently and Labor Day weekend was the perfect excuse to tackle another project and learn something new.

Here's how you paint something (for example, this random shelf that you use for towels in your bathroom):

 

1-Clean it. Really good. Get some fantastick and a paper towel and go to town. Clean the whole thing. Twice. Get even the bits that you don't think you need to, because guess what? You do. The worst thing is finding a giant tumbleweed of hair as you are trying to paint. 

2- Prime all the edges.

"But my paint has primer in it!"

"Stop talking. Prime it."

The whimsical painting of furniture that you are getting yourself into probably involves painting surfaces that have no business being painted. You're way better off just getting in the habit of priming.

3- Prime the rest of it. With a roller. Like the grown ass lady you are. This is not third grade art class. You need a roller even for a job that seems small.

4- Wrap up your brush & roller very tightly in plastic bags (grocery is fine). You want the paint to stick to the bag & for it to get as little air as possible so that they don't dry out during the next step. 

5- Watch an episode of Orange Is the New Black (or two episodes of Arrested Development, depending on where you are in life).  

6- Reprime everything in the same order (edges then everything else). You want the original color to be kind of a mystery. Wash your brush and your roller really, really well or you will be sad later.

7- Go hang out at your friend's pool. Feel real fancy. 

8- Draft a mediocre fantasy football team because there are some things you can only care so much about. 

9- Figure out where you put that Oops Paint you bought on a whim a few months ago.

10- The primer should be dry enough now, go ahead and paint, in the same order you primed.

11- Stop being such a weenie, you probably won't run out of paint. 

12- Once it is all painted and you haven't missed anything and you've checked four times, give the cat a quick talking to about not getting near the paint. Wash all the things.

13- Wait a day. Find all the spots you missed. Paint one more time. 

14- Be so impressed with yourself it doesn't even really matter that you kind of hate the color now.

 

A new season

While I did not love this book about friends, it has made me incredibly thoughtful about how I spend my free time. Recently, a mantra has been running through my head:

                                 

For the past few weeks I have jammed my schedule full of people who I don't always get to see. It's the last weeks of summer and patio-seated, margarita-drinking, out-too-late living. We're all about to crawl into our caves and hibernate until Spring, only peeking out for the occasional football game. And I am trying to make the most of it. 

But sometimes it means making choices. It means sometimes saying no to what has always felt like the obvious social invitation and saying yes to the one that requires a little more work.

It always feel better. Every time. It feels better to spend that time with people that matter to you.

I am finding myself being more thoughtful about what I plan, working harder to reach out to people, and grateful that I am surrounded by so many great people who want to be my friends.

Let's just call it a midlife resolution.

A rescuing.

Two nights ago, I tweeted this:

Then this conversation happened between Boyfriend and I:
 

For clarification: Wilson = Target, and Argyle = Home. 

Here are a couple of awesome things that happened in this conversation:

1- Boyfriend responded to a tweet with a text message. Which seems strange to me because I am a slave to technology.

2- He rescued me again! He really enjoys being a knight in shining armor- if shining armor is Notre Dame sweatpants and a Hanes white t-shirt. 

3- I said yes to being rescued. This could have been like one of the millions of other  times when someone said, "let me help you," and I, like the stubborn 3 year old I am say, "No! I do it myself!" But I said yes, because I am working on this.

4- Yes, I absolutely changed my clothes in the back of boyfriend's car as he drove me back down to Belmont. There are some skills that you develop as a young ballerina that turn out to be very useful in later life.

5- Turns out that with the rescuing the trip took 25 minutes instead of 15, but thankfully theaters run later than me a lot of the time and I still saw the whole show. 

I wanna dance.

I am having booze problems these days. I assume it has something to do with being older (and therefore lamer). The last few times I've been trying to get all cray-cray, I've just gotten really miserable and sick and its been the worst.

Last night was my chance to redeem myself at the annual Andersonville Bar Crawl. Its the best party of the year. It deserves a yelp review its so good. I didn't want to puss out before the big finale dance party. I kept reminding myself to pace myself and listen to myself and drink water...myself.

It was strange, to be listening to my body rather than just trusting that its been down this bumpy road before and knows how to come out on top.

At bar one, it was time for a Little Sumpin' Sumpin' (no more Miller Lite over here folks, we're grown-ups), I drank. I kissed and hug all the friends, who if I don't see them once a week, it feels like I haven't seen them in foreeeeever. I saw people from the past. Stories were told. More beer please. I asked my friend to explain to me what his rap lyric, "Louie on my booty" meant (answer: he doesn't really know). More Beer. I'll show you a little sumpin, sumpin.

By bar two, those beers had kicked. in. So. I did what I was supposed to do. I drank water. I still felt a little sick. I drank more water. I ate pizza. I felt sick. I cursed the gods who made getting older a thing. Talked about feelings. More water. Maybe its the water making me drunk. Sick. Pizza. Pizza. Water.

At the third bar of the night, I felt ready to drink again. I ordered prosecco. Dumb choice? Maybe, but it came in this adorable little quarter bottle. I like small versions of big things.

Drink Prosecco. Wish aloud that I could get some orange juice up in this piece. Little bottle! Wax poetic on all things East Coast (typical). Prosecco. Mmm. Bubbles. Bravery followed by immediate cowardice. Declaration that my friend Laura's nickname was los tostadas. Clapping and demanding attention.

I knew that the clapping meant we were in trouble, so at the final bar (the dance party) it was water. Water. Whitney Houston. My favorite girls. a troublesome strapless shirt. This being my jam. Water. Not quite enough air in the room. Fog. Miley Cyrus. Water. Dancing in a circle. Knowing all the words. Being a little embarrassed  Not giving a fuuuuu. Carly Rae. Water. Stage time. More water. Spilling the water everywhere. Giving up on water. Dance party. Dance party. Dance Party. Whoops, its only couples left? Peace out.

This morning I woke up to no voice and a sizable hangover for what amounted to four drinks in seven hours. This from a girl who used to drink Miller Lite by the gallon and then take a fifteen minute nap before working for seven hours. Its a strange adjustment to be making - this whole not drinking until it comes out my pores - but a good one I am sure. Anything to make sure the dance party doesn't stop.

Outside and Off.

Sometimes I get home earlier that Boyfriend. Earlier enough that it doesn't make sense to start dinner yet. And occasionally I manage to make it home without feeling the heaviness of work that must be done before the sun goes down. On those days I have made it my mission to turn everything off.

I leave my phone and my laptop inside. I take a book and a glass of something delicious out onto the deck and I read. I know this doesn't seem particularly luxurious, but it is my favorite part of my week.

If I am awake 15 hours a day, I probably spend 13 of them staring into the soulless brightness of a screen. And its totally my own fault, I will admit that. Between having a job, looking for a job, and Dance Moms - I find it hard to tear myself away from them.

But for, like, 40 minutes, twice a week - I make a decision to just let it all go. Its wonderful. Its amazing. Its all the adjectives. Four out of five Rachels agree.

So my new goal is to do it more. By the end of the year, it should happen almost every day. Granted- if I am unemployed by that point - it shouldn't be too much of a struggle, but jic - let's enjoy the world beyond the internet.


***bonus points if you can figure out what book I am reading...