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.