Holiday Vacation

I am of the camp that strongly believes adults need Spring Break (and other subsequent days off), too.

Perhaps it’s the 12 formative years of my life that formed a rhythm that ingrained summer vacation and days ending at 2:30pm into my bones, but I long for that schedule. Particularly, when work days start and end in nighttime dotted with lunch-time visits to Target encompass my encounters with daylight.

This holiday season flew in and landed on my lap with a notable bang. Making the most of our time in the cities doesn't leave much time for staying at home to nothing for the sake of doing nothing. Each time I’d lounge, I’d remember that the moments I was taking to enjoy my own company were moments I was missing with my friends. Memories I wouldn't have the opportunity to make when we move to Bismarck and so with the ghost of relocation future hovering at my shoulder, I made plans on plans on plans.

And then we had a party. And then I did my holiday shopping. And then it was Christmas. And oh yeah, I got sick.

Bedridden for a day and shaky at best post-nausea, I remembered the one thing I had always been so good about: I need to take time for myself. In the season of giving, we forget to care about ourselves. I certainly did. I stopped working out, stopped writing, stopped cooking all in favor of hunting for more garland and making sure I found the ‘perfect something’ for the special people in my life.

After being bodily forced to stay in and rest, I rediscovered the value of taking a break amidst everything we try to juggle during this season. I doubt I’ll ever win in the battle of Winter Vacation for Grown-ups vs. being a regular adult and letting it go, but it doesn't mean I can’t make the effort to rest and care for myself. A little bit of yoga, a lot of good meals, and an extra nap or three should do the trick.

Happy holidays and sincere wishes of good health to you all!

The Holiday Party

A cheers among neighbors to a merry night.

My neighbor, and gal pal (I think I’m at the appropriate age to use that phrase?) Karly threw a holiday party this past weekend.

How do people do this? I feel like Moms have these things down-pat. Did they all go through this process when they were pre-familia? As it is, I gave myself a pass for visiting Trader Joe’s and Target multiple times a day. Considering I had no garland or wrapping paper or anything of any holiday value to speak of, I’d say I built my stores like an efficient little squirrel planning for a long winter.

Anyway, the party went off better than I’d hoped. Karl, as she is known among friends, made a beautiful array of appetizers that were an absolute hit judging by all the empty plates at the end of the night.

Aside from wanting an excuse to sip cider and make pretty plates, the party was a way to bring worlds together if not for one last time. We go to weddings, birthdays and sometimes we have demi-reunions at Homecoming games, but how often do we intentionally unite multiple groups of friends for no reason other than “just because”? We move, we have kids, and we get consumed in our lives, but we decided to take some time just for us, as friends and enjoy the company before the opportunity slipped away with time.

For me, this was a way to celebrate not only the season, but also some of the people who make our memories so charmed. Melting together the generations (high school, college, post-grad, pre-baby, etc.) of our lives made my heart swell with joy; there are so many versions of yourself that certain groups get to know, that it almost seems like your life is a puzzle of pieces that don’t make sense until you put them all together. Some of us are lucky enough to have someone who has seen you through all those experimental stages, and as I approach the next year of my life, I am grateful (sometimes) that I have witnesses to the madness. But as I continue to grow and discover new parts of my personality and true self, I have the exceeding urge to bring these pieces and people together.

We did a circle of introductions and a white elephant gift exchange, and as my worlds collided before my eyes, I became so grateful for the family we've found and cultivated in this place I call home. I know when I look back on my life, this is what it’ll be all about. These friends, the laughter, the good food, the hilarious gifts (VHS tapes anyone?) and the ability to appreciate it all.

Under the tree or not, I got the gift I need this holiday season, 

and it didn't come from a store. 

Happy holidays to you and yours from a truly full heart.

Magic

No, not the Harry Potter kind of magic (although I LOVE that kind, too).

The kind of magic that happens when the lights, the music, the laughter and chatter fill a room to the absolute brim with full hearts and good intentions.

Last night at The Copper Hen, Johnna Holmgren, one part of the ever talented Fox Meets Bear, hosted an event to be remembered: Champagne and Chandeliers. An activity night built around creating festive Eucalyptus laden wreaths, culminated into much more than just arts and crafts.

My favorite part about the Minneapolis-St. Paul community is the genuine charm of everyone in it. Amongst Instagrams and the pop of Veuve bottles, you heard the sound of people getting to know one-another with an authentic curiosity.

Johnna, the kind of person who calms the spirit with her presence, gave an overview of the wreaths but also took the time for introductions. I found this so incredibly valuable to unifying the space that I was too distracted to think of anything particularly clever to say come my turn.

We began our wreaths and instantly I was transfixed on working with the beautiful varietals of Eucalyptus, and the night's greenery VIP, Myrtle. It was a creative reverie with candles, brick exposed walls, and glowing touches of copper.

There was no pressure to compare wreaths and no compulsion to rush. The perfect antagonist to the previous days' Black Friday through Cyber Monday chaos. A wreath. So simple, and symbolic of whatever your heart's desire and yet each wreath that was built seemed to invigorate each creator with a similar current of energy.

Of course, I was also smitten with the food. In the excess of Thanksgiving, (and in the excess of pizza I regularly consume), the boards of cheeses were just the right kind of indulgent. A cheddar bleu (yes, it's a real thing) and a triple cream brie (yes, it's as glorious as it sounds) were among my favorites. Savories were abound but despite not being a huge cupcake person, I could not resist the beautiful house-made gingerbread cupcakes with a sinful layer of cardamom cream cheese frosting. It took all of my willpower not to abduct an entire platter and perform experiments to discover the secrets behind such a ridiculous combination.

If you're hungry, you should be. I am, and I was there. And I will most definitely be back.

In your holiday season, I hope you can discover this kind of magic. The pure and honest kind that reminds you what the festivities are truly all about.

Grateful

Thanksgiving? Oh you mean that holiday between Pre-Christmas shopping and Official Christmas shopping? Is it on sale? Yeah, I get into that.

Sad but true, right? It's like Back-to-School season in June: we see you marketers, we know you're sneaking into our retailers earlier each year, but is nothing-- even Thanksgiving-- sacred anymore?

Last year I noted this little injection of mass consumerism and couldn't help but be a little sick with myself. Um, sorry, I am admittedly the Queen of clearance and Sultan of sales, so for me this season is like, well, Christmas so I contributed to this disaster [insert Home Alone face here].

I couldn't help but feel my own participation haunt me as I gagged on how much I heard my co-cube fixate on gifts for her kids: tablets, clothes and more toys.

But what is it all worth? 

I love gift giving, I am pretty sure it's one of my love languages. But despite spending the last few years living at home, with a comfortable job, and an extended network of family and friends that love me, I was still a pouty little brat. So took a step back to consider what I was truly grateful for, some material, some not, but let's be honest, if you're reading this list on your Macbook and say you're only grateful for your friends and family, you're a liar.

• I'm grateful for the friends that make me laugh so hard that I cry. Friends that overshare and that are so sweet they cry with you. Happy and sad tears. Group texts that are technically conversations that have literally lasted for years. For random dinner dates or hangovers from reunions.
• I'm grateful for my family. They're messy and weird and basically can fill their own DSM-5 with drama-founded disorders but they're also mine, and made me who I am even if who I am is consistently annoyed with my family. (It's a cyclical thing.)
• I am grateful for the opportunities I've been presented. Not always ideal (ahem, Bismarck), but whatever. Trade-off for getting to go to Hawaii for two weeks? Ew, traveling and new adventures are the worst.
• I'm grateful for audiobooks, because without them I would never get any housework done.
• I am grateful for people who post pictures of puppies. I love puppies and those pictures have saved me from many-a-meltdowns.
• I'm grateful for drive-thru coffee. Because, duh.
• I'm grateful for people who still spell out "through" because "thru" looks stupid.
• I'm grateful for this country, and this era. It's not cheesy when you think about how as a woman, who is brown, I can do anything a man can do in this country without the fear of having my head chopped off. Literally. 
• I am grateful for wine.
• I am grateful for man-friend, because he tolerates me daily. Because he sacrifices his sanity for me for the sake of a well-cooked taco and a smooch. 

Some of those things you can buy, but some you can't. For the memories of them all. That's what I'm most grateful for. I hope today, if you trample someone for a pre-pre-pre-Black Friday steal, that you spend equally as much energy spreading some love, because we can all be grateful for that.

• And bacon, obviously I'm grateful for bacon.

But that’s living, isn't it?

I write these back to back because the first post was getting long. But also because they are directly related. 

As I sent my emails and eagerly awaited the fatalist’s demise, I wondered what I would have to do to start actually pursuing a life outside of ‘wants’ and ‘shouldas’. What if I actually got everything I asked for now that I’ve let my fear stop ruling my life?

—Cue: Katy Perry’s “Roar”—

Don’t judge me, I love that song, jungle music video and all.

I have shortly found out that the answer to that question is: You get tired, and energized at the same time. I’m intimidated and inspired by all of the amazing people I've been able to meet in the last week.Yes, one week, and my mind is already blown.

I have drank an excess of café miels so much so that I won’t be surprised if I turn into a bee. I’ve stayed up late writing emails, squeezing in a round of dirty dishes, researching, and spent mornings taking tests and cackling with relative strangers of the sharpest wit. I’m exhausted at work during the day not as much physically, but more mentally if only because I’m riding a mental adrenaline rush that can only come from meeting brilliant, powerful, strong people who believe in pursuing your goals and dreams.

A tight-rope of sanity is being crossed, and the risk is falling into madness but, that’s life isn’t it?

 They are part of the world’s committee that says, “Yes, you can, dummy.” It’s a kaleidoscope of emotions and although I am not fearless by any means, I am alight with the momentum of the universe. There is no more silence, and it is a beautiful sound.

To exist is to throw oneself into the world. - Simone de Beauvoir
Image via @frenchwords 

Fear

One of my favorite quotes, I just happened to forget to live by it.

I've had a spell where I couldn't find words. What was I doing? Where was my creative drive? C’mon woman you’re a blogger now! Silence.

Ideas flowed through my mind like a river; never staying long enough to settle anywhere in particular, but always giving glimpses of an ‘almost idea’. Never fully formulated but a seedling for something to come. But still, silence.

I was washed up, dried out and rotting before my own eyes. Seriously, Jess get back out there! I didn't know until I saw a post by Elizabeth Dehn of Beauty Bets, that I was scared. It wasn't that the ideas were rushing past me— it was that I wasn't reaching for them because I dreaded rejection—  failure in it’s basest form.

Her post on realizing that she’s scared to fail resonated so true that I felt stunned for not writing it myself. Rejection. Fear. Pinning me down and holding me back from taking chances. And I let it.

So I stopped being afraid. I want to write, travel, explore, eat, dream, sleep in, stay up late, meet strangers, snort-laugh and happy cry. I want it all, and so I pursued it.

My personal fear begins with I sent emails to women I’d been scared to hear “No” from. (Or “No, thank you.”—because Minnesotans are just so damn polite). There’s a level of boldness and humor when you realize that hitting send in an email or on a phone isn't that hard. It’s terrifying, but instead of being self-conscious and thinking people will judge you, hit the button anyway. I did.

The universe heard my cry, and as I type, I received a response from one of the women I emailed. Is it a rejection? A warm welcome hug? I don’t know yet. But the fact that I took the chance feels good in and of itself. Thanks to @Beautybets for being brave and sharing her fear because it helped me start conquering my own. And also for posting delightful beauty tips. But specifically today, for her courage.

A Hunter's Widow//The Widow's Revival

Image via 

As a Midwesterner, it behooves me (get it?) to acknowledge the informal season known as hunting.

For those of you who hunt, kudos to you. You are not left behind in the dust when your partner decides to go all Bear Grylls and post up in the woods for days on end. 

This is the first year of co-habitation, so it's my first year of having to accept that I will be a solo domestic for many-a-fall weekends.  And I've got to say... I didn't hate it.

In fact, I kind of loved it. 

I missed man-friend in the most irritating fashion. I say irritating because while I was sprawled out on the couch taking up every Ikea inch-- a feat formerly thought physically impossible-- I was having the best time ever, but still kind of wanted him by my side. Is there an emotion that describes longing and simultaneous content?

But I thoroughly enjoyed the time alone. With the winds kicking up and cold-fronts rolling in on the regular, I avoid the outdoors between bare-tree and snow season. It's a personal preference, but it also limits me from impromptu exploring. 

So what did I do? Well, I didn't do the dishes, but I did deep clean the garbage cans. A cleaning process that is not logical, and also cannot be explained to a partner without them wondering why you would do one without doing the other. Why did I do such an obscure task before something that actually requires regular attention? Because I could. 

I sorted through my mail, and moved things into storage. Lit candles and ate pizza in my most unattractive clothes*. I listened to my audiobook and organized my mind while creating a mess in our apartment.

I don't think the fluorescent orange widows should dread hunting season. I think it should be viewed as a time  of freedom where we, the left behind gatherers, take life by the horns!

I know that was a terrible joke, but you get the point. 

*I'll point out that even with man-friend home, I don't dress like a Desperate Housewife, but while I wore socks, slippers and no pants, I felt a special kind of liberation that comes from being alone.

Coming Home.

It's Homecoming season, one of my favorite times of year. I love the spirit that oozes from schools and the enthusiasm in which people bear their colors, wearing them like a badge of honor. With recently moving to St. Paul, and another relocation on the horizon, it's made me reconsider what I call "home".

"Where are you from?", people will ask when you're new to an area. My answer is inevitably A) Annoyingly vague: "The cities", or B) Mind-numbingly specific: "I graduated from Shakopee, and lived in Duluth for six years but when I travel next weekend, it's actually to man-friend's hometown, although it's basically mine now too..."

Ramble, ramble, ramble.

What makes a place your home? It can't just be where your possessions are, because if that's the case I'm pretty sure I've left a trail of stray left socks across the entire Midwest in rooms I once called my own.

My heart swells with pride when I travel and meet someone from Minnesota, and they innately understand the bittersweet love we have for food-on-a-stick and sub-zero winters. I grin when people say Midwest folk really are the nicest. When I rewind to my salad days, we moved a considerable amount (five different schools before 7th grade), and until we settled, I realized that I never felt lost--more like a person of all places. Minnesota was my home.

But last weekend man-friend and I went to visit our beloved Alma mater in Duluth, Minnesota. If anyone has ever resided in Duluth, you know the feeling that comes with rounding the last bend before you see the harbor. Driving the highway, the emotions rush back and the roller coaster feeling I experience is more than just the rolling hills taking their effect. It's love and tears and youth. It smells of fallen leaves, midterm-stress and stale beer. It sounds like Kanye on repeat and lectures with hangovers. It tastes like Sammy's Pizza and boxed wine. In every way possible, I found a family and I made a home.

We missed the official University Homecoming, but we visited the old haunts as time permitted. Even without the welcoming banners and pep-rallies, the city enveloped us in a familiar embrace. The memories are faded, yet the new changes were distinct-- things had evolved without us. Nostalgia withdrew it's grasp and reminded me how it has that funny way of letting us forget the sharp edges of our memories.

Regardless, the Northern Shore will always hold a part of my heart; a hopeful adolescent part of my history that can never disappear and for that alone I will always celebrate the city and school, as one of my first and truest homes. I'll bear a maroon and gold flag with pride for this, and every fall to come, but it won't wave alone as we discover new places on the map to add to our adventure.

And when we do move in the spring, someone will ask where we are from--because people always do--and I won't know what to say. I'll stumble and think about this post (but let's be honest I'm prone to rambling anyway) and they'll probably get the long answer. We've yet to settle permanently and thankfully have no rush to. Even with the move westward, I've no certainty that we'll remain there, but I am sure it will at some point deserve part of my heart as it becomes more than just a place, it will be somewhere I belong, somewhere we call home.

The Cool Kid

I was totally a cool kid last night.

I went out on the town with man-friend to a trendy (at least I think it’s still chic?) bar and saw three live performances by three very different groups of musicians.

ON A SUNDAY.

In your face mid-to-late twenties! No room for a Buzzfeed joke here! I’ve bucked the stereotype and stayed up past my bedtime (on a work night, no less!).

The headliner, Allen Stone is one of my favorite artists, not only because of his jello hips that make me sway unconsciously, but also because the man can sing like there’s no tomorrow.

Except there was a tomorrow and it involved that fun thing we refer to as a nine-to-five. ‘Nine’ came too soon and even my hip young-ish adult charade couldn’t resist an extra cup of coffee.

Like any cool kid, man-friend and I arrived early to the show to get a good spot in line. Our efforts paid off when, while we were parking, Allen Stone's glorious bearded fave was spotted in the glow of my reverse lights. 

Obviously I was calm and collected, casually went up to him, and we chatted about the show, life on the road and what it means to create art.

…

OR at least that’s what I did in my head right after I squealed over seeing the tour bus (yes, I got excited about the bus) and before I walked a tight set of spastic U-turns on the sidewalk deciding if it would be lame to ask for a picture with him.

Man-friend stood by as all hopes for being considered “chill” swiftly crumbled away.

Allen, in all his glory.

Um, sorry I had a total fan-girl moment because I was 25 feet from a man who I just paid to see in an ocean of humans on a night that usually involves jammies, Pinterest and reruns.

I have no shame in shedding any former illusions of my persona because cool kid or not (clearly not) the show was worth every minute. Hey Allen Stone, you nailed it. Minnesota loves you, and it mostly radiates in the vicinity of myself and anyone else who has ever heard you hit a high note for any amount of time. Your soulful vibes run off you into your crowd and we dug you and your six-person ensemble as they brought down the Fine Line Music café with a serious homage to rocking out.

Forget that I completely failed in the face of stardom, I’m claiming residual cool from what proved to be an amazing show.

Cooking for Two

Over the last week I've had the apartment to myself, and with a dinner party and strategic placement of leftovers, I haven't had to cook much in the way of dinners and lunches. But now he's back, and the reality of co-habitation is beginning to set in by way of "What's for dinner?" on repeat.

For the most part, man-friend is satisfied with anything I cook. He politely offers suggestions about which flavors are too strong, and sheepishly notes that I could add more spice to each dish. (With my preference for salt over heat, he is regularly ignored.) But now that we're full time, I've come to realize that cooking every night isn't as much of a whirlwind romance as I had anticipated. 

Monday through Friday I mimic a circus sideshow act known as "The woman with eight arms and not enough time or energy", so coming home only to jive my creative juices towards what goes on the table seems laughable. 

HOW DO PARENTS DO IT? I don't even have kids and I've already resorted to spaghetti twice this week.

Practicality rings loud and clear when I think I can just casually pop over to the grocery store to get whatever ingredients I need. I thought it was going to be easier now that I have someone to help me eat the leftovers! Luckily it is helpful for cleaning the refrigerator, but not so helpful come work-week lunch plans.

I've found websites are actively trying to maintain our sanity by creating lists of "Ten Meals to make from Five Ingredients or less", but let's be honest, after the third day of chicken breast, you're over it and ready to order a pizza. Mission fail.

How does one prevent cooking-- and therefore eating-- from becoming a chore? 

Food. Fun. Alone.

I was up until the wee hours of the morning slicing, dicing and doing dishes from previous said activities, and it was absolute heaven. I was prepping for hosting my first "Girls Night" [i.e. excesses of: carbs, wine and cackles] in years, and being in that kitchen had me bliss-ed out in a way that I haven't experienced in far too long.

I am completely okay with the fact that my hands are paper-dry from too-hot water and dish soap. The sense of relaxation I found at 2 a.m. seems somewhat surreal. Solo in the kitchen I felt like my bones had settled; there was no where else to go, and nothing else to do but maintain the right temperature of my stove-top flame.

Where was this kind of focus in college? 

Now let me be clear-- I am an absolute tornado in the kitchen. I do not look like the next Food Network Star when I'm bouncing from cupboard to cupboard looking for the salt. Getting me to prep anything is painful, and I insist on 'lone-wolfing it'--not only because I'm a temperamental chef , but because you're more likely to get shanked mid-tornado-whirl on accident. It's my own recipe for madness.

But I'll be damned if I didn't let three hours fly by in a state of pure, uninhibited joy. Maybe it was the bacon I used in my lazy girl's attempt at Beef Bourguignon ala Ina Garten/Julia Child, that got me giddy. Yet the fact remains that I was having fun. Alone. And it was glorious.

I think in the tedium of sleeping, working and attempting to have fun, sometimes we forget that the best times can be had alone. All week I looked forward to Girls Night, but didn't put any stock in the cooking I'd get to do for said event. But that late night spent chopping carrots (which is awful by the way) brought me back to a version of myself I haven't seen in a while. Exactly what I needed to shake me out of a work-sleep-work reverie and rejuvenate me for an evening with old friends.

Hello Fun, it's nice to see you again.

In case you're curious, the Bourguignon turned out more like a shredded beef stew, but my guests went for seconds so I'd say it was a success.

Nesting

I thoroughly planned to hate all of man-friend's belongings and decorating style. I even plotted out how to get rid of it all discretely, but ironically enough, 'twas I with all the junk.

So. Much. Pink.

Also a lot of floral.

At least I'm consistent?

Man-friend went on a trip the day after we moved in, and I worked all weekend. In between work and assembling Ikea parts, I've run myself ragged trying to nest in this apartment, but have spent more time at TJ Maxx and Target scouting glamorous accessories like door mats, than I have just getting to know the new space.

What makes a house (or apartment in this case) a home? At what point do you stop feeling like a hoarder and give up on coordinated towels?

Turns out that the minute he returned from a weekend in the woods, we sat on the couch together and it instantly felt like it was finally ours. Towels and rugs be damned, this time, with him it what makes it all worth it. 

Wish I would've watched that after-school special before the weekend-- I'd have gotten more sleep. 

Regardless, I'm already completely smitten with Saint Paul. The smell of leaves, the quiet winding streets, and the sweet elegance that comes from seeing streets lined with historic mansions is enough to fill my tank with joy.

It's hardly been a week but I think with the dude back, and delivery Chinese food already on speed dial, I'm going to start feeling like this place is my home sooner than I think.

What the Bismarck?

I had all these plans for things I wanted to do for the rest of 2014 and going into 2015. Then, the stars aligned and promptly crushed all said plans with a cackle and cheeky grin.

I should have known. Planning out my life never seems to work out despite my best Type A-ish efforts, but even the best psychic could not have guessed under any circumstances is that I would be making plans to move to the Great Plains of Bismarck, North Dakota.

After the first post, had a barrage of friends texting me, "What the Bismarck?"

Good question.

Just kidding. Actually, my man-friend Josh (frequently my subject in my pictures against his will), was promoted at his job. So there is an entirely logical reason for why we are voluntarily relocating 8ish hours from all friends and family.

But, if you can't tell I'm actually kind of excited about it! Why? Well, if you don't already know, the man-friend and I have been long distance for nearly all five years of our romantic relationship. So the opportunity to finally be united under the same roof, trumps the location.

How does that Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros song go? "Home is wherever I'm with you." And they're right. So, come Spring 2015, we pack up and hop the border.

In the mean time, I'll be soaking up all the glorious places, faces, tastes and activities I can during my last remaining months as a Minnesota resident!

On a related note: I hope I don't have to change my license...

New Beginnings

They (whoever they are)  say you only have one life to live, but I must wholeheartedly disagree.

Moving boxes and the man-friend. It has begun.

I'm 26 years old, and I swear I have lived what feels like a thousand lives in my short time on this earth. I was once a mute, shy and awkward-- oblivious to what the world had to offer. Another time I was a party girl, just one Greek t-shirt shy of a sorority. Then there was the life where I was a jellyfish: moving--albeit slowly-- fluidy on my way to nowhere in particular. 

But now I'm here, and it seems like the paths of my past are converging; ending, and starting anew all at once... time for the next life.

Where I've been in comparison to where I'm going seems hilarious, and if you ask me to, I'll gladly tell you it all, but for today I'll keep it relatively brief. As fate would have it, I'm moving in with my man-friend. Most certainly the beginning, and end, of an era.

Our story, although certainly not original, will surely provide comic relief. But aside from our unholy union taking a pit stop in the Twin Cities, we relocate our romance to the Great Plains of Bismarck, North Dakota.

Yes, that Bismarck. 

Plot twiiist!

Welcome to my adventure, friends.

-XO