8 Minute Memoir, Day 48: Childhood Toy

My most beloved childhood toy is a stuffed dog that I got from my parents' as a Valentine's day present.  The dog was small and white with red ears and wore a cute little dress and had a bow.  I named her Courtney and she was my security blanket.  I still have her, actually; right now, she is in a storage bin in my closest here in the apartment with a bunch of notebooks and stuff from work. That bow on her small, stuffed dog head is barely hanging on after over two decades of love, worn in on the paws, incredibly soft after all these years.

The other thing that came to mind was... our playhouse.  We had a playhouse in the backyard, with swings and a bright yellow slide attached to the second level (that moved as the evergreen tree across from the structure grew wider and in the direct way of the landing zone).  At one point, there was an open space for a potential fire pole (that was eventually closed up, probably for the best).  The playhouse was built at my grandpa's house and then brought over to our backyard on the back of a trailer.  It was anchored to the earth with posts buried deep into the ground... even the most vigorous of swinging couldn't move it from the foundation, even if we felt that motion on the top level.

It was the home to our wildest imaginations.  Once, I brought all of my worldly possessions from inside the house out to the playhouse and declared that my new home.  I also have a memory of my little brother throwing my stuffed animals over the side and me yelling at him about it, haha.  I remember swinging, pumping my legs back and forth, over and over.  Setting up a home in the prime real estate, the "balcony" next to the slide, cozying up in the middle of summer in a Disney sleeping bag and an old pillow.  Eventually, we grew up and it became a place we could get a little peace and quiet...  And when we were old enough, we sat out there with our friends and drank cold beers and reminisced on our younger years, just barely on the other side of them.

Someday, I hope we have a backyard, and I hope we can give our kids a playhouse, treehouse, what have you.  I hope we can give them a space to create entirely new worlds, an opportunity like I got all those years ago.

8 Minute Memoir, Day 47: Swimming

My feet graze the sand as I float in the warm saltwater of the Pacific Ocean.  I am a little ways offshore, letting the gentle rolling motions of the waves bring me in and out.  It's a beautiful day in Costa Rica and the first time I've touched the ocean in over five years... we are here, together, for an entire week.  Our first adventure to a foreign country and so far, we are proving to be good travel buddies.

He and I have vacationed together before, of course, but never anything like this.  When we left the airport in San Jose we were given directions that included things like "make a left at the soccer field at the bottom of the hill" and generally didn't include many street names, only the vague notion of a final destination, a wayward path to our home for a week.  But we made it, and now we are here, floating in the ocean.

I have always loved swimming.  We were lucky enough to have a pool growing up and I can't tell you how many countless hours I spent in the water during those long hot summers, my hair turning green from the chlorine.  I took swimming lessons and relished the ability that I had to be in the water.  Of course I was going to go swimming in Costa Rica, it wasn't even a question.

Over the course of the week we spend here together, we go swimming until our skin is wrinkled and sunburnt (despite constant sunscreen reapplications) and watch the sun go down over the horizon.  We go wading in the mornings, the water knee deep, the sun already burning brightly in the sky.

We go swimming in the aquamarine pool of our hostel, the space entirely ours alone--languid and luxurious laps from one end to the other, occasionally meeting in the middle for a kiss or two.

Tom rents a body board and plays around in the surf while I see how long I can hold my breath underwater, gliding back to the sand with the current.

We spend a day with one of our best friends, Jackie, who has friends who live in the big bright yellow high rise on the south end of the beach... we check out their gorgeous condo, then we go swimming and get tipsy in the palatial infinity pool down on the ground level.

We make the drive to Manuel Antonio National Park... the colors on the beach are so vivid and the water is unreal, almost technicolor... but the surf is rough, and it knocks me around a bit, to the point where I spend the rest of the day on a beach towel, with a book, soaking up the sun and watching Tom swim.

Even later on in the week we spend there, when I start dealing with congestion and burning eyes from some sort of illness that follows me back to the States, I take medication (with labels in Spanish, from the pharmacist who I think could understand what I was looking for) and I throw myself into the water anyway, because even though I feel pretty awful by the time we have to leave, I can't stay out of the ocean.  In fact, on the day that we finally do our make our departure, I am quiet and observing during the 2 hour drive back to the city, to the airport, and I cry before I get on the plane to go home.

I dream of those waves, the crystalline glitter of the sunlight hitting the surface, the salt sticking to my skin.  The rhythmic melody of the waves, always consistently rolling in, over and over and over.  A rhythm not unlike that of my own feet on a run, dependable and steady.  I'd go back there in a heartbeat.  Hopefully someday, I'll get to experience the emphatic delight of playing in those waves again.

8 Minute Memoir, Day 46: Christmas Tree

Somewhere in my childhood home, there exists a home video, recorded on a camcorder that was set up on a tripod on the other side of the room--and in the middle of the frame, my dad, putting our claimed from the tree farm Christmas tree into a tree strand and slowly, meticulously, stringing it with lights.  Also featured in this video, my little brother and I, taking turns sharing the spotlight in front of the camera while my dad got the tree ready for decorating.  My mom, meanwhile, would bring the box of ornaments up from downstairs: delicate, handmade projects from school holiday parties; Hallmark ornaments to commemorate birthdays and anniversaries.

I feel so grateful that as a child, the holidays always held such a particular magic for me.  Even now, thinking about it, I am filled with the utmost nostalgia and warmth.  Every Christmas Eve, we would make the drive to my grandpa's house... pulling up his long driveway and coming inside, everyone's arms filled with presents and food.  A veritable feast, delicious desserts, the exchanging of gifts, the grown ups drinking coffee and having conversations.  Thinking about these Christmas Eves now, at nearly 30, has me near tears because I am overcome with how magical it was to drive to my grandpa's, through the cornfields, the snow, the skies always so clear and filled with glitter... stars twinkling overhead.

And then leaving Grandpa's house and driving home, the car cold and crisp, but warming but before we even got inside...  driving home, coming inside to find the house lit up only by the glow of the Christmas tree, there in the corner of the living room, everything set in an ethereal haze.  My heart beats a little more quickly just thinking about it, how loved and how safe and how lucky I felt.

This is exactly the kind of thing I hope to replicate for my future children because I believe without question that it was an important part of my childhood, the wonder and delight of being a kid, getting my toes wet and learning new things and exploring the world, on the road to becoming an adult.  I want to give them as much sparkle and joy as I felt... I grew up in a technicolor world and I want that and more for them, I want the moon.

8 Minute Memoir, Day 45: Something Scary

Something scary that I have done in the last two weeks...  I haven't exactly been going outside of my comfort zone especially considering that I spent one of the last two weeks sick with what was probably the flu, just with weaker symptoms cause I got the shot in December.  Anyway... something scary... probably driving in the recent bouts of snowfall we've had.

After all, it's February, but I feel like we've been pretty lucky so far to have a pretty mild winter with not a ton of snowfall.  But I got stuck either commuting to or from the suburbs for work during the last most recent snows (with the exception of the snowstorm that hit last night) and that has been pretty nervewracking.  Monday night, on the Edens, behind slow moving cars with semis flying by, the road conditions just awful.  And I'm drivng the new car, the Fit, which I love and which has good handling, but also has the standard all-weather tires, so it doesn't necessarily handle the snow very well.  Not to mention, I still haven't been driving the car for very long, so I'm still getting used to it.

In general, I am confident in my driving abilities, especially in the snow.  I am less confident about others, but trust that good driving will work in my favor.  I had to drive to work in poor conditions when I opened Wednesday morning; I left earlier than usual and still showed up a little later than normal.  Needless to say, I was definitely awake that morning as soon as I pulled out from my parking spot and turned out onto Granville.  Tomorrow I'll have to dig the car out and make the drive to the suburbs; I'm hoping that enough time will have passed that the roads won't be too horrible, that I'll be able to get to work without much incident.

I'm glad that it's already almost the middle of February... somehow this always manages to be both the shortest and the longest months, and I am glad that it'll be March soon enough.  It's the Midwest so there's always the possibility of snow even until spring, but it's nice to know that we are eventually going to see a light at the end of the tunnel.  Until then, I'll be dreaming of sunshine and warmer weather.

8 Minute Memoir, Day 44: Leaving

This one is dedicated to the love of my life.

I attended Northern Illinois University for my undergrad experience and so, lived in DeKalb for four years.  I spent 2 years living on campus (one year in Grant, one year in Neptune), two years living off campus--my senior year living with Tom, who had graduated from Loyola and who had moved to DeKalb to await the imminent completion of my degree.  Up until that point, though, we spent the previous three years doing the long distance relationship thing.

During the week I lived in DeKalb but on the weekends we lived together; most of the time I went to Chicago but occasionally we'd spend weekends in the cornfields.  I'd take the train from Elburn to the city, then the El up to campus, make the walk to the dorm or to the apartment.  We'd spend Friday through Sunday together, a regrettably short but always wonderful period of time together.  But Sundays, Sundays were always so hard, Sundays always meant leaving.

Especially when I was driving to the city and back...  choking back sadness as I drove Sheridan to Lake Shore Drive to Congress, navigating my way towards Interstate 88 with a desperate and deep desire and longing resonating in my being.  Leaving was always so hard.  I always felt it so acutely...  I spent the entire drive away from the city just aching, wishing with everything I had I was still back there, with him.

And then eventually the day came where... Sunday happened, and that night we brushed our teeth together, making each other laugh in the reflection of the mirror, and went to bed together, and we didn't have to say goodbye till next time, goodnight.  To say farewell with five days standing between now and the next time.  We woke up together on Monday morning: I went to class and he went to work.  The luxury, the delight, the contentment of a building a life together... after over a decade, it is always more rewarding and more reassuring and more wonderful than I could have anticipated.  The leaving, now, is only a distant memory.

8 Minute Memoir, Day 43: Thank You

Dear K,

Thank you for being one of my oldest, dearest friends; a steadfast presence in my life.

On the eve of our birthdays--a little over 20 days away--I'd just like to remember our first meeting: roommates at speech camp, our lives crashing together at gale-force speeds.  A forever friendship, a bond formed over a week.  Then, over a year later, a happenstance meeting during the first weekend of college... so delighted to have found one another again.  And so it goes.

We saw one another through love and through heartache, college dorms and cute studios and townhomes... dinners together, adventures in the cornfields.  Always there for one another, no matter what.  You have never held any judgment towards me, and you always provide a reasonable opinion on things.  If you don't agree, you tell me so--there's never been anything but trust.  We got married to the loves of our lives, we had babies, we got grown up jobs and navigated the whole adult thing together, always there still--even if it's been a while since we last spoke.  We live hundreds of miles apart now, but whether it's by text or by phone, we always pick up right where we left off.  And I'm so grateful for that.

I just want to say thank you, because I'm so lucky the universe brought us together.  I'm so lucky to know you and your husband and your sweet boys, and think of you often.  We've been friends since we were 17 and that's not something to take lightly (especially because we're turning 27 this year, you know, LOL).  I'm looking forward to getting together in a few weeks, to having that precious time together.  (Feeling pretty lucky about that, too!)  We've been through a lot together, we've grown up together, and I couldn't imagine it any other way.

Love you!

8 Minute Memoir, Day 42: When I Grow Up

Devil's Lake; August 2006

When I grow up, I want to be a doctor; I watch ER with rapt fascination and find myself calling surgeries into imagination, putting my Barbie dolls into emergency situations.  I want to be an equestrian, and I tie a sweatshirt around the seat of my bike as if it's a saddle and I ride my bike up and down the street in front of my house, in circles around the front yard.  I want to be an ice skater--desperately.  I take literally one round of lessons, the funny thing is that I thought I could overcome the whole, lack of grace thing... not so much.  Obsessed with the movie Ice Castles and the Olympics and these books about this skating club called Silver Blades (holy cow, my childhood)...

I go to high school and I want to be a nurse, an editor, a journalist, a teacher, an artist (I take painting classes and I do an artist study of Edward Hopper... I paint a chair, one I hope is still at my parents' house because someday, I'll be displaying it in my own home).  I actually go to an art school portfolio day at the Rockford Art Museum with fellow art students, where you show your art to various schools and needless to say... it is clear that maybe art school wasn't my forte.  I would to go to school for one of my other passions, instead.

I go to college, I declare myself an English major and decide that I'm going to be a teacher.  When I grow up, I want to be a teacher.  I even helped teach a class, UNIV 101, that basic entry level, Welcome to College, here's how to not fuck up kind of class.  And, to my disappointment... I didn't love the experience of "teaching," as much teaching as I was able to in that kind of classroom setting, anyway.  I much preferred moderating smaller groups, that kind of leadership.  So I end up dropping the education part of the degree, and pick up a journalism minor.  Then I take a few journalism classes, and I decide I don't really want to do that, either.

But I have, somehow, picked up enough credits in classes relating to Southeast Asian Studies that I can add that to my degree, a minor in the very same.  I become semi-fluent in Thai (a skill I should really pick up again... I bet it would be like riding a bike) and I take politics and art history classes and I really enjoy to this unexpected twist in my education...  I actually almost go to Thailand to become a teacher, but...  my heart keeps me home, and I know it's the right decision.  I don't regret it, though I would still love to go and visit someday!

And so, I get a degree in English, a minor in Southeast Asian Studies; the economy is awful when I graduate, like it was awful when my husband-then-fiance graduated, and eventually there is a long and winding road that, happily, fortuitously, leads me to what has been my dream career.  I never would have guessed.  When I grow up, I want to be an expert in food and drink, a runner, a wife, a Chicagoan.  Who knew I'd be so lucky as to become all of those things.  My heart, it could burst!

8 Minute Memoir, Day 41: Favorite Recipes

There is a family recipe I love, so coveted and a little intimidating, that I have only made once.  I really should give it another go, except for my fear that it won't come out right.  I'm sure we all can relate to that... that one recipe passed down through the generations, the one that everyone knows exactly how it's supposed to taste.  This one is written on a faded green index card, in beautifully fine and delicate cursive that is almost indecipherable.  A recipe passed down on my mom's side--diamond cookies.

These are so good.  They're the kind that smell good even while you're mixing up the dough.  Brown sugar, molasses, and so on, rolled out into long, skinny pieces... then cut at an angle, thereby making the "diamond" shape.  The perfect diamond cookies have the finest layer of sugar sprinkled on top and have a soft inside.  They are, of course, amazing just out of the oven, with a tall glass of milk.  Like I mentioned before, I've only made them once, and they looked pretty close but they definitely weren't quite right... they didn't taste like my mom's!  And hers are the benchmark.  I should work up the nerve and try again, especially considering that the only way I'll get better at them is by practicing.

Other notable family recipes... all of my aunt's pies.  Tom's family has a particular Thanksgiving stuffing recipe that is always a favorite.  My mom's chocolate chip cookies.  Tom makes bacon cheddar mashed potatoes that are out of this world, with a perfect flavor and texture I would struggle to replicate.  Deep dish pizza in the cast iron pan and chili in the Crockpot, two of our favorite recipes to make together.  These, along with our photos and social media accounts and journals, will be our lineage--perhaps one day, my daughter's daughter will make diamond cookies in her own tiny urban kitchen.

8 Minute Memoir, Day 40: Family Pictures

I am sitting here thinking about family pictures and all of the great ones my family has taken over the years.  When Tom and I are lucky enough to get our own little family started, it's definitely something that I'm going to insist upon.  I think it's important to be able to capture a moment in time, so that someday we can look back on it and say, remember when?

When we were younger, family pictures were casual shots in living rooms and backyards, but I also remember those posed affairs at mall portrait studios, all of us in complementary matching clothing (I do remember one family picture in particular where the theme was denim.  It was the 90's, that's all I can say!)  Hair brushed just right, shirts tucked in, our best smiles.  Looking into the camera, to be immortalized in print for eternity.

As we've grown up, our family photos have changed a bit...  impromptu group shots at every family get-together, birthday, holiday: all of us squeezing into the frame in the kitchen or out in the yard (where we will always remember and miss the picture tree) so that we can remember what it was like when we were all there together except for one, when the tiny redhead was 2 and Tom and I were both training for a marathon and my brother's sweet girlfriend had long dark hair.  To remember us when...  later on, down the road.  Comfortable group shots in bars and baseball stadiums and museums and at weddings, where we danced all night.  All of us there, together.

As I've gotten older, I've come to realize that every photo is important, every memory a gift.  I am lucky to have a smart phone with a really good camera and ample storage on the cloud for all of my pictures.  I also know the value in putting my phone down and just being and I try very hard to maintain a good balance.  Still, being someone who loves to document, who loves to remember and reflect, I'll always keep taking photos.  And who knows... maybe someday, my many beloved family members and I can get together and coordinate our shirts and smile in a portrait studio, for sweet nostalgia's sake.

8 Minute Memoir, Day 39: Pomegranates

The girl traveled to the city most weekends.  She made the drive from that tiny metropolis in the cornfields to the bustling city skyscape on coast of Lake Michigan... before long, she knew it by heart: the rhythms of Friday afternoon rush hour traffic, inbound towards the city.  Congress to Lake Shore Drive--that long slow drive up the lakefront, the tremble of anticipation as she turned onto Sheridan.  She was almost there.  She was almost home... she felt like she was home, anyway, when she was there with him.  And so, there she was, there 'til Sunday, trying to make every possible second count.

She was still so young.  She was an English major, throwing herself into her studies.  She was finally learning how to exist in this world she'd chosen for herself, her home (at least for the duration of her undergrad).  Her hair was turning back to its natural color (after dying it rather earlier on in her collegiate studies: dark brown in a dormitory bathroom), back to a honeyed dishwater blonde, almost falling to her shoulders.  Her eyes, a forest green especially vivid in the hours of the early morning, winking mischievously. Her lips were the color of pomegranates, a soft, dusky reddish pink, and her footsteps were careful and measured as she walked through his apartment, sitting on the couch, there in the late morning haze.  Sure, she had reading to catch up on, homework to do, which she would either do on Sunday before leaving or put off until she got back home, late at night... after a drive she always enjoyed in such a sad way, it always hurt; miles heading the opposite way from the other half of her heart, a drive filled with longing and lingering memories of a goodbye until next time.  One more kiss.  Sometimes it was too much to bear.  She told herself eventually that it would be worth it, that eventually... there would be no goodbye until the next time she held him.

It's been years since that girl lived in the city on the weekends... in fact, now she lives there full-time, living with him, now her husband.  But you never know... walk by that two flat and you might still see her there: the reflection of her young, hopeful being, sitting next to him on the couch, long golden curls catching the sunlight.

8 Minute Memoir, Day 38: Someone

Real talk.

Today, when I read the word "Someone" in this prompt, the thought I had was this:
I am someone who experienced? Witnessed? Lived through? A school shooting.

In less than two weeks, it will have been 10 years since the shooting at my university.  10 years since a gunman walked into a lecture hall and opened fire on a large group of innocent students, my classmates.  I was a sophomore, 19 years old.  The gunman killed five people and injured 17 others before turning the gun on himself.  This happened on Valentine's Day, in a building just across the parking lot from the main campus library, where I was working that afternoon.  The library, from where I watched people run across MLK Commons, then police cars racing the other way, where I'd been texting with my boyfriend all afternoon about how excited I was to skip my Thursday night class and come to the city to be with him for the weekend--well, those texts turned serious really goddamn quickly.  The library... where I called my mom from the break room, in a low, quiet voice, trying to warn her before she saw the news on TV, trying to hide the terror in my words--because I wanted her to hear it from me first.  The library--which after being on lockdown for a while, was evacuated by officers and agents in bulletproof vests holding huge rifles--where I'd spent all afternoon laughing and goofing off with coworkers and daydreaming about what might be waiting for me when I got to Rogers Park... that joy immediately turned to sadness and horror and above all else, fear.  How fortunate I was to run into some of my high school classmates, sweet girls who took me under their wing that afternoon, taking me just off campus (I remember the slow walk to the parking garage, the time it took to go less than a mile, the helicopters hovering overhead, the insane amount of emergency response vehicles that almost immediately filled up campus).  How fortunate I am to be able to think of them, a bright spot on such a dark, horrible day.

Eight minutes is not enough time for this; I should have known better.

But I'll never forget how I got back to my dorm room and turned on the TV and saw my beautiful campus, the building I attended my English classes in and the lecture hall that would become famous via aerial view over the coming weeks, surrounded by ambulances and SWAT teams, and falling to my knees, completely breaking down.  I cried the entire time I packed my bags and called my mom and dad and walked to the parking lot on the other side of campus, getting in the Cavalier and heading towards Chicago because in that moment, that was the only place I wanted to be, somewhere I felt safe.  I'll never forget stopping for gas just off I-88, and a man and woman rushing up to the counter, asking them for the nearest directions to Kishwaukee Hospital, mentioning something about their child being there.  I'll never forget sobbing my eyes out as I drove east, finally making it to Chicago and my boyfriend's apartment and falling into his arms.  Watching the news.  Trying to understand how something so horrible and so terrible could have happened.  I knew people in that classroom.  Those who lost their lives... they had so much potential.  I didn't understand it then, and I don't understand it now.

I am someone who experienced that herself, 10 years ago, who can't understand how it happened, and how it still. keeps. happening. at schools and universities around the country.  I am someone who wishes for change, who hopes with all of her being that one day, no child (nine years old, or 19 years old) will go to school in fear of experiencing what happened that day.  I am someone irrevocably changed, and I will always remember that day 10 years ago like it was yesterday.

Forward, together forward.

8 Minute Memoir, Day 37: The Sunrise

I think it's safe to say that I've always leaned towards being a night owl.  This comes from a young age; I was always wanting to stay up late.  In fact, I do remember a few summer nights when I was 9, 10, 11 years old, where I made it my mission to stay up late enough to catch MTV After Dark or VH1's Insomniac Music Theater (may they both, especially the latter, rest in peace).  In those cases, I was really only catching the sunrise if I hadn't slept.  Getting up for school was about as early as I wanted to manage... because in reality, I was much more a fan of staying up late and sleeping in late.

Growing up, for me, has meant that while I still enjoy staying up late...  I can see the value in early mornings, waking up even before sunrise, in that part of the morning where it's still, for all practical purposes, nighttime.  Yeah, it means I have to go to bed earlier, but there's something to be said for getting to see those first waves of twilight growing brighter from the horizon.  It's mid-afternoon from where I sit, but I am thinking about the sunrise and how I've been lucky to see some lovely ones...  the sky turning from dark to light, awash in a cotton candy gradation.  Watching the sun come up over Lake Michigan, ready to run on race morning, or when I'm outside in the early morning for work, or on a long road trip: salvation from a dreary dark night.  That early morning atmosphere, the world waking up, the sky an ever-changing canvas of color. 

And then that glowing orb rises higher above the landscape, a clean slate, a fresh start.  To get that every day is one hell of a gift.  I'll always love staying up late, but trust me when I say that I definitely appreciate those early mornings, too... those electric sunrises stirring my soul awake.

8 Minute Memoir, Day 36: Winter (In Lieu of This Election)

Enough has been said about the Election of 2016 and the events that have followed in the long passage of time since then that I don't feel like I need to add to it.  Honestly, even just thinking about it sometimes can be overwhelming enough, and I don't know if I have it in me to give voice to all of that.  I have so much respect for those who can but right now, it's just not for me... I'd rather write about winter!

It's the beginning of February and we're looking towards the weekend and snow.  This time 7 years ago we were in the midst of a crazy snowstorm that left cars stranded on Lake Shore Drive.  There hasn't been all that much snow this winter, but it sure has been cold...  And that's the thing I struggle with most, the cold and the wind.  If it were just a little warmer, I wouldn't mind being out in it (going for runs, the elements of my job that require me to spend a little time outside) but for the most part, I really dislike being cold and especially the bitter gales of wind this winter has brought.

I have strong memories of winter as a kid, of playing on the giant mountain of snow, all that cleared from the parking lot and becoming our own personal mountain.  Having to spend all that time dressing for playing outside in snow pants and boots, hats and gloves.  Playing outside with my little brother, trying to make snow tunnels and only coming inside when our cheeks were frozen pink, our noses numb... and then Mom would make hot chocolate in the microwave while she threw our snowy wet winter clothing in the dryer.

It was like magic, then... it is less like magic now, having to be out in it, digging out my car, driving to the suburbs in it, but there are moments when I'm looking out the window or I'm out on a run, on a crisp, sunny day where it doesn't quite feel so cold... and the knowledge that already the days are starting to get longer.  I can endure six more weeks of winter... I can get through this with warm running gear and layering up at work and looking forward to that sunset getting later every day.  I can see the beauty in winter, lingering a little longer, making way for spring.

8 Minute Memoir, Day 35: What's In Your Bag

This is a fun one.  I love a good purse and have several that I adore.  My current bag is one I got from Target, on clearance for only $14!  I know it's kind of hard to tell in the photo, but it's a really pretty navy blue color and has so far held up to daily use.  It is the perfect size and has a divider in the middle, which makes my little organizer's heart so happy!  Here is a comprehensive list of the things that are currently in my bag:

-Wallet
-Cell Phone
-Keys (to the Fit, the apartment) on a purple carabiner
-My journal (currently a small blue spiral bound notebook, one that has a pocket in the front)
-A book, always (right now I am reading Our Hearts Will Burn Us Down by Anne Valente and Alexander Hamilton by Ron Chernow so it just depends on what I have picked up at that particular moment; the former is a pretty intense read, and I find I need to take occasional breaks from it.
-Several pens, generally of the Pilot G2 or V5 variety
-A Sharpie marker or two that I have accidentally brought home from work
-Burt's Bees Lip Balm and the Walgreens brand eye drops
-A microfiber cloth, for cleaning my glasses
-A Trader Joe's reusable bag--I am trying to be better about that, as one of my goals for the year is to use my own bag more regularly
-A grocery list from my trip to Aldi earlier today

8 Minute Memoir, Day 34: Candy

I am sensing a theme here (see my previous 8 Minute Memoir, heh) but I'm going with it.  What's your favorite candy of all time?  That's an easy one--Kit Kat Bar.  I'll take that over anything else, every single time.  I work at a place where I have the opportunity to try a lot of really high end, high quality, delicious candy from all around the world... but sometimes, I just really want a Kit Kat Bar.  Though I'm a fan of the original, I do also like the dark chocolate variety.

Sitting here, thinking about other favorites...  My grandpa always kept a white plastic Tupperware bowl in his fridge filled with Hershey Miniatures--I always picked the Hershey Special Dark, the Milk Chocolate, and the Krackel bar.  (In fact, I can taste them now, and feel the cold wrapper on my fingertips).  I always look forward to the Hershey Kisses candy cane and the milk chocolate bunny from my mom every year.  I love the nostalgia of pink and red Starbursts and the most sour of sour Warhead candies.  I have definitely toned down my candy consumption over the years, but of course I can't help but remember.

In just a moment's time, I close my eyes, and I am taken back to a simpler time...  M&M's in the blondie bars my mom would make for my birthday class treat (can't do that anymore, such a shame...), candy canes off the Christmas tree, hands minty and sticky.

8 Minute Memoir, Day 33: Halloween

I love fall and all of its associated indicators--a chill in the air, leaves turning vibrant colors and falling on the breeze, pumpkin spice lattes--and growing up, also loved Halloween.  I've never been a fan of haunted houses and the like (still not, haha) but I loved a good trick-or-treating adventure.  I certainly had my fair share of interesting costumes over the years.  I lived on a street in a relatively small neighborhood, which wasn't exactly the most exciting for the candy game.  When I was younger, we went trick-or-treating at the houses of our family members, via car.  As we got older, into grade and middle school, we went to our friends' houses--and we always knew which of their neighbors was giving cans of soda and full sized candy bars.

By the time I was in high school my interest waned; in college, I had several dorm-mates every year who went as a "Sexy (fill in the blank)" and went out to, well, black out... but that was never my speed.  In fact, I only dress up now for work; I'm still pretty unlikely to go out and celebrate on my own accord.  It's fun to observe others getting into it, but that's how I like it to remain.  I expect that may change if we are lucky enough to have kids; I would be surprised if it didn't.  For now, I will reminisce on brisk, chilly nights soaking up every second of that sanctioned candy gathering time, excitedly sorting out our haul in costume, with scary movies in the background and jack-o-lanterns twinkling away on the front porch.

8 Minute Memoir, Day 32: Beauty

Eight minutes to write about "beauty."  Okay, here goes.  The first thing that popped into my head when I first read the prompt was my own sense of self-worth, the understanding and acceptance of my own personal beauty.  It has taken me a long time to become comfortable in my own skin.  I am almost 30 (only a few months shy) and I would say that it is only within the last 5-7 years that I have gained a stronger sense of self-confidence and self-worth.  I spent a lot of time growing up (even into my high school and college years) comparing myself to others (classmates, the media, and so on--I'm sure you can relate) and I know I spent a lot of time being down on myself.

(circa 2007)

And man, it was a rough road to realizing that I am actually worth a lot more than I realized, that I am beautiful in so many ways, but I feel like at 29, almost 30, I am getting a hell of a lot closer.  I wish I could go back in time sometimes and tell the younger versions of myself that she, that I, am beautiful how I am, that I am worth it, that so much of my worry was in my head.  I wish I could go back and tell those versions of myself that it gets so much better, that if they could see me now, they'd be shocked and delighted.

Because I am beautiful...  I'm never going to be the skinniest woman or have the best fashion sense, but damn if I don't work at being the best version of myself every day, pushing myself to make healthy eating choices and running and working out.  The running, I think, has been a huge part of the equation, and I am so eternally grateful that I got tired of telling myself I couldn't do it.  I am creative and passionate and smart and highly motivated; I am capable of so much, I always have been.  I am beautiful, and I know it.  (And you are, too.)

8 Minute Memoir, Day 31: Mourning

I got a text from my mom this last Wednesday afternoon: Gracie, the sweet kitty pictured above, had passed away.  When I saw her last, just a few weeks ago at Christmas, I noticed how skinny she was getting.  However, I didn't realize the end would be coming so soon.  It was unexpected and it hurt.  The hardest part of having pets that are more like family.

We adopted Gracie when I was in middle school--our next door neighbor worked at a veterinary clinic, and someone had left a box of kittens on the front door to the office on a cold and rainy night.  Gracie was one of those tiny, roly-poly kittens... and it didn't take much convincing for her to come home with us.  Gracie held her own with Sadie, our older cat, and I will forever have memories of them running around the house together, rough-housing and playing and hissing and even curling up together, occasionally.  Whereas Sadie was a little more reserved, Gracie was in the middle of the action all the time.  She put up with the rough, playful adoration of daycare kids and was so well loved by her people.  I'm grateful that the end for her was peaceful and quiet.  I'll miss her.


"A home without a cat--and a well fed, well-petted and properly revered cat--may be a perfect home, perhaps, but how can it prove title?"  --Mark Twain

8 Minute Memoir, Day 30: Road Trip

When I saw this topic come up, I smiled.  I am a sucker for a good road trip.  Being that I live in the city and most of my family lives 1.5+ hours away, that means even a simple visit home can be an easy change of pace.  But what I'm really thinking of are those pack up the car, load up on snacks, passenger seat navigating/dj-ing, long distance adventures.  Throughout the last decade, Tom and I have been lucky enough to have some pretty amazing expeditions!

In 2008, for example, we drove to Colorado with his younger brother.  It was my second time in the state, and it was a really fun trip.  We went in the middle of winter where it was snowy and cold and majestic.  Over New Year's Weekend in 2009, we decided to drive down to Shreveport, Louisiana.  Our reasoning was that we wanted to go somewhere warm and we'd never been there.  It was a rather quick trip, but a memorable one...  The brakes went out on Tom's old Volvo so we were stranded for a few days in a tiny, pretty rural town while they got fixed.   In May 2010, we drove to Las Vegas with a few close friends and had an incredible time out in the desert, a trip that is still one of my favorites.  Later that year, we made a whirlwind trip to Washington D.C. to attend The Rally to Restore Sanity and/or Fear (when I say whirlwind, I mean, we were there and back in less than 36 hours!)  It was worth it, and certainly makes for a good story!

Then of course, there was the road trip that wasn't to Colorado in 2014, the accident that happened instead. Heartbreaking, but since then we've been able to go on some great adventures.  We've gone to Michigan, Wisconsin, Nebraska (exciting, I know, haha) and we have plans for more.  I will never pass up an opportunity go on a road trip--I hope that sense of wanderlust never fades.

8 Minute Memoir, Day 29: Birth Order

I find birth order to be quite an intriguing concept.  Though I think the stereotypes that go along with birth order can be a bit much sometimes, I do think there is some truth to it.  I've seen it not only in my own family, but in others as well.  I looked up a list of birth order traits to see what the most commonly held ideals were and I found it pretty interesting, especially when applied to my own life.

I'm both an older and a middle sibling, so that means I'm filled with ambition and responsibility but I'm also looking for a middle ground.  I'm a peacekeeper but I'm generally on the side of what is right or fair in the current rule of law.  I find I'm pretty driven and I'm good setting the example.  I don't really feel like I fit the "middle child" stereotype of being invisible or feeling left out, which is something I will certainly be cognizant of should I have an oldest, middle, and youngest child. 

I think birth order effects you as much as your geographic location growing up or your home environment.  While I've seen the typical traits play out in those around me, I also have friends whose families do not necessarily fit the types of personality dictated by birth order.  (If I ever go back to school, it will be to study psychology because I just find it so damn fascinating and also because I get to see psychology in action at work every day.  Pretty neat stuff!)