dear you, my friend, my confidante, my pen-pals.

I have a lot of pen-pals. You know? Pen pals — those people who your third grade teacher somehow arranged for you to write to so that you, the youth of America, could get to know the intricate lives of other kids in other towns. So you could spread your mind. Expand your universe. Realize you're not so alone. Those. Those are the pen-pals, I speak of.

As I've continued on this seemingly endless journey, I've managed to keep a running list of friends who have become better friends as a result of letter writing, far beyond the bounds of that elementary tradition. As I continue to move and change and grow and live, people drop off and pick up — and it's fun. Sometimes I forget who I wrote to and what I wrote them until I get a letter back...like a little treat. I keep them all, the letters/cards/notes. I put them in a shoebox and every now and again, I pull them out, remember the moments that went into them. I reread over and over. They're reflections of the lives we were leading in that moment, however far apart, however close together.

I think there's something truly exciting about writing someone a letter. The reality that there is only one copy, that once the envelope is open and its contents delivered, that sensational anticipation withers until the next go-around. The struggle of a hand cramping, a tear smudging, the USPS seemingly dousing the whole thing in a bunch of dirt...

Sometimes I write long notes, sometimes short, but I sort of like not knowing exactly what I wrote once it's stamped, sealed and sent.

It's so easy to write and rewrite and go back and clarify things on a computer, that sometimes I wonder if it even matters — my life edited is not my life. There's something to be said about the intention that goes into writing a letter, hoping to remember exactly what I told someone, remembering the questions I asked, the thoughts swirling in my mind at the time.

With computers and email and texting and comment threads and message boards and all these different ways to "drop a quick note," I revel in the one-on-one correspondence of it all. I revel in having only their responses to go off of, like a Best Friend necklace, we each have our sides, even if we're not best friends.

A few weeks ago a friend sent me a letter that detailed his life.

We've known one another for years now, peripherally, but letter writing has since made it more apparent how similar our overall experiences and thoughts are, while also showing how incredibly different our day-to-day lives actually are. We started at the same University at the same time, wrote for the same college paper, and though we didn't know each other well — well enough to say, "Hi," to befriend one another on social media, to feel comfortable "liking" a photo on Facebook, or thoughtfully responding to a status update — we've struck up a friendship born from our mutual desire to share.

Putting our minds, our worries, our thoughts of the moment, to page in specific correspondence with one another — I don't know — it feels more real than some of my daily relationships.

At the moment I have three regular pen-pals, and a harbor stocked with friends I write regular emails to, and even more who read this blog (the ultimate one-way pen-pal situation, so I guess just pen?).

Sometimes depending on the pen-pal, it feels as if I'm reading the book of their life, and they're reading mine, like a memoir unedited, unabridged and unending. It's a delight, and I hope it doesn't ever stop. As friends come and go from my life, as in-person relationships fade with distance and time, I'm glad that however arcane it might be to grab a ballpoint and a college-ruled piece of paper, I have people who's addresses I can send to knowing they're excited to hear from me.

Write more, everyone.

moms book club.

The women gathered around Mary Tristan's kitchen table. Each held a copy of their latest fictional conquest, Dance While They Watch, a stupid novel that should only be sold at grocery store checkouts, but which they purchased in bulk from Sam's Club because Sandy Robinson had a 10 percent off coupon. It was the sort of empty, garbage novel that people leave on airplanes, or in hostels.

"I just loved how the author really seemed to...connect...with her characters," swooned Dawn Blanchette, one of Mary's neighbors who just "could not wait to join this book club!" She was the sort of woman that wasn't used to waiting around for an invitation.

"I know," replied Mary. "So interesting how the author, what's her name..."

"Isabelle Lawrence," filled in Kit Jeffries, who everyone could tell would have preferred to read Katharine Graham's memoir Personal History, which told the real story of the first female publisher of the Washington Post. When she attempted to throw the book into the running, everyone said they just wanted to have something to escape to, so Kit dropped it, knowing they meant they didn't want to feel bad about not being more accomplished themselves.

"Right, yes," said Mary, "Isabelle just seemed to really be able to jump into the reality of the story." Kit thought it was weird that they now were calling the author by her first name as if she were there and part of their little club.

"I know," cooed Dawn. "It's so hard to believe that every writer, especially one like this, hasn't just lived the lives of her characters."

"I know," chimed in Mary again. "I wish I could live all of these crazy lives, but what can you do?"

Kit sat at the end of the table where Mary's husband normally sat at dinner. She looked up at Mary's remark and decided to rejoin the conversation. "You know, we can live crazy lives if we really want to."

"Please," giggled Dawn. "My idea of a crazy life is walking up the street to Mar's here holding a bottle of wine in a paper bag in one hand and this little ditty in the other," she said, pointing to Dance While They Watch.

"Well, what does the back of the book say?" asked Jane Levinson, veering back to the book. Jane, a beautiful brunette who lived in the next neighborhood over, was invited to the group after Mary's daughter Emily became fast friends with Krissy, Jane's daughter, during an after school year book meeting. She normally didn't read books like Dance While They Watch, but thought it might be a fun exercise in doing that which you don't want to do to fit in.

"Well," of course Dawn stepped in, having already flipped over the cover of the book. It was a taupe colored cover, the title printed in cursive burgundy, with a woman's body from the waste down, in a tango position, wrapped around a man's outstretched leg.

"It says, 'Isabelle Lawrence has been hailed by the Global World Book review as 'one of the world's most popular authors, with over 400 million copies of her novels sold. Her many international bestsellers include Night Crawls, Visions of Shelby, Under the Gate, Everybody's Guest, One Week Left to Live, Elephant No More, The Bells of Churches, Afternoon Magic, Royal Wigwam, Belly Up Veronica, Sitting Alone Thinking, and the popular trilogy A Father's Daughter, A Father's Wife, A Father's Adopted Granddaughter, and other highly acclaimed novels.'"

The five women each sipped from their wine glasses taking in just how many books Lawrence had penned. Even Kit was a little amazed at the sheer ability to write that many words, despite the clear formula Lawrence employed: wealthy female protagonist meets someone/anyone, there are notions of crime, suicide, jail and fraud — and drama ensues!

"Looks like we have some reading to do!" said Sandy. "Good thing they sell these at Sam's! I don't know what my husband would do if I bought all of these full price!"

"Mine would give me a stern talking to," said Dawn a little too seriously, but then laughing, mostly from the half bottle of wine she had somehow swallowed down over the last 20 minutes of chitchat.

"Hearing all those titles makes me want to write a book," said Kit, surprisingly self-conscious all of a sudden. "Of all the things that her characters do, you think she'd write a book about an author."

"Ugh, I hate that sort of self-involved stuff. That'd be like me writing a book about being a wife and mom and trying to pass it off as if it were something special," said Dawn.

"You don't think it's something special?" asked Mary, slightly miffed.

"No, it's not that," Dawn shot back softly, in that passive aggressive tone that makes being a suburban housewife worthy of the reality TV show franchise The Real Housewives of Fill-in-the-Blank-City.

"I think what Dawn's trying to say," poked in Jane, who had been mostly quiet, not knowing her place in the book club, as it was her first meeting, "She was trying to say that it's easy to make your life seem special on the page, but in reality everyones life is pretty..." 

"...boring," finished Kit. 

"Even if you are a wealthy writer or a lawyer or a trapeze artist or whatever," qualified Jane.

After a few more minutes of lightly discussing the book, which featured a scintillating scene where the protagonist, a buxom ballroom dancer from Asheville, North Carolina, runs away from home into the arms of her father's old business partner, and they begin to tango in the middle of the streets of North Carolina, the group's thoughts on Dance While They Watch fizzled. Everyone seemed to think that was a beautiful moment, except Kit who wondered at why Isabelle Lawrence didn't specify which city in all of the state they danced, let alone on which street.

"I think it's more metaphorical than that," reasoned Dawn with difficulty. Mary nodded her head in agreement.

"Sometimes you just dance through a whole state in a moment," added Mary.

"That's ridiculous," Kit responded.  

"Well, what I think is ridiculous is that this whole thing is gone," remarked Dawn, pointing to the empty bottle of Santa Margherita Pinot Grigio she'd drunk almost entirely alone.

After the women left Mary's home, she straightened her kitchen chair cushions, vacuumed the beige shag Pottery Barn rug in her front hall atrium, and took out the recycling. Her kids, Eric and Samantha came home later from a friends house and a soccer game respectively.

Mary asked them about their days, made them a dessert snack, which consisted of sliced up apples and caramel sauce. They said thank you, and left the table without clearing it. Neither of them asked how their mom's night was. 

Kit, Jane, Dawn and Sandy each had similar experiences once they too got home. Their next meeting is in a month. They're reading Captive and Captivate by Emily Daltessi.

they laughed easily.

The coffee mug Ben finished sipping from left a ring on Kate's refurbished wooden coffee table. She had sanded it herself and after two hours at Home Depot found the right color stain to match their Goodwill end table find.

"Come on, Ben," she said, exasperated.

Kate Sanders is sort of anal about using coasters. Ben obviously isn't. Ben, a just-a-friend friend, despite her roommate Tish's insistence that there was "something there," spent a lot of time at their house. He said it was because he could just chill without the continual buzz of gnats in his ear, apparently an ever present situation at his own apartment. Ben's roommate was a filthy guy he went to college with, but didn't know very well until they both ended up in Seattle three years after graduation from Denison University in Ohio.

His roommate's name is Arnold, but everyone calls him Arnie. It's not exactly a cool guy name, but Arnie was cool. That's the thing about a name, you sort of let it own you or you own it.

"I just am who I am," Arnie would say between flipping channels on his couch. Ben would look up from whatever it was he was doing, probably looking for a clean dish in the kitchen and say, "Yeah, but who are you talking to man?"

"You," Arnie responded from the couch, probably dusting off crumbs from the cookies his mom mailed for his birthday that afternoon.

These interactions were what Kate and Tish imagined when Ben wasn't at their apartment taking up space. It was a fun pastime for them, imaging the conversations between people they knew.

Kate met Ben a few months earlier at the coffee shop she inhabited on Saturdays. He'd noticed her when he was ordering, something about that curly blonde hair, kind of a  Shirley Temple look, he remembered thinking from time to time since they met. Kate had come up to the register three times asking if there were outlets, if she needed a key to the bathroom, what the Wifi password was, you name it. It didn't take Ben long to find her charming, and after her coming in about 10:30 in the morning three weeks in a row, ordering a hot chai tea, and holing up in an available corner at Espress Yourself, he introduced himself. It had taken Kate weeks to find a coffee shop she liked, and when she finally got over the name "Espress Yourself," she never went anywhere else. "It has the perfect blend of good drinks and available chairs."

"You know, they shoud really change the name of that place," Ben said to her from the couch. He was eating frozen grapes, not doing anything much.

"No," Kate responded, offering nothing else, going back to the book she had to read for her book club. The club had a dumb name, too: Literary Ladies. This name was harder for Kate to get over, but whatever. "What's in a name?" she eventually conceded.

"Oh, ok then, I'll just go on thinking something different then..." Ben saracastically responded, quietly drowning himself out, waiting for Kate to give him the response he believed his thought to have earned. Closing her book on page 134 with the wooden book mark she'd gotten on vacation in Thailand, and sitting up straight, she groaned and went into her logic.

"I thought the same thing for a while, but I think it keeps out pretentious douches who spend all day and order one thing."

"Like you?"

"Yes, essactly like me," Kate said, smiling. "Too many of us and it's not fun anymore."

They laughed. Kate could never understand what people meant when she'd hear or read the phrase "they laughed easily with one another" until she met Ben, this Ohio-born and bred guy. It was such a stupid idea to her. They laughed easily. Vomit. It was the sort of phrase you'd here at a eulogy or a wedding. But when she met Ben, it wasn't dumb. It was nice. To her, that phrase meant she didn't have to put up the facade of thinking something was funny or unfunny when she heard it. She could just react.

"Essactly," Ben said, chuckling. "That's funny, Kate."

"Thanks," Kate said, closing her book for good. "What are you doing for the rest of the day?"

"I don't know. I could work on this grant proposal that I should have finished at work Friday — or I could just sit here and watch you read while I think my thoughts or google babies eating lemons for the first time."

"Babies eating lemons?" shouted Tish from the kitchen. She was loading the dishwasher.

"Yeah," Ben shouted back. "It's the best."

"Well, whatever you do, do it well, sir," Kate said in her dad's military-man-voice. "But, I'm done with this for today. I can't concentrate when I have puns to think of."

"Hey guys," Tish said from the living room doorway, a bowl in her left hand, a towel in the other.

"Hey lady bit," Kate said turning around.

"What're you doing today?"

"Other than absolutely nothing?" said Ben.

"We're deciding whether or not productivity is worth it today," said Kate.

"It's not," said Ben. "But, we deal. It's Saturday."

Ben picked up his mug, stood over the coffee table and walked over to the kitchen doorway making Tish step into the living room. It was one of those swinging ones. Tish had it propped open with a door stop. The hinges weren't great because the owners of the house had painted over them so many times between different renters.

"Excuse me," Ben said to Tish.

"Well, I think I'm going to go ride bikes with some people, so if you want to come, you're welcome to." Tish was sitting on the end of the ottoman near the front door by all the shoes.

"That sounds fun," said Kate.

"I love kid things," said Ben from the sink.

"Ben does that sound fun? It sounds fun."

From the kitchen, "Yeah, that sounds fun. I just said that. I mean, does it sound as fun as babies eating lemons? No, but let's do it anyway."

The three then collected in the living room, each putting on their shoes: Ben, a pair of navy blue Vans, Tish, a pair of closed toed strappy sandals from Steve Madden, and Kate, a pair of orange Converse.

"Is it OK if I leave my backpack here?" asked Ben.

"Yeah. You'll probably want to come back here after anyway," said Tish, smiling at Kate.

Glaring at her and mouthing "Please," wondering why people always make things into stuff they aren't, Kate then opened the door, and grabbed her keys from the hook.

"Shall we?" Ben asked.

"We shall," Kate said.

"Indeed, sir," Tish grinned wryly.

And the three of them bowed and curtseyed to one another.

"We are so dumb," Kate said, giggling.

Then all three of them were laughing. Tish closed the house door, and then Kate locked it.

with you.

"I can't believe how empty your house is."

"Believe it, Serge."

"I don't want to," he said. "If I believe it then it's real, and then you're —"

Serge cut himself off, and the six-foot frame lanky before her turned away.

"—then I'm gone?" Hannah offered. She was wearing a pair of jean shorts and an oversize grey t-shirt she'd stolen from an ex-boyfriend. It was hot in her apartment, but they had already removed her window unit.

"Yeah," Serge said.

Repeating him, "Yeah."

"I'm going to miss you." Serge was still faced away from her. He was fiddling with her curtain. It was one of the only things left in her bedroom. This curtain and a slew of dust bunnies where her bed used to be were the only markers she'd been there at all. Hannah was thinking of just leaving the curtain there, but when she remembered how much it had cost her at World Market, she decided on keeping it.

"I know," Hannah said. Her face was soft and warm, the kind of face that a child has but is supposed to lose when they grow up, but hers stayed the same — big eyes and round cheeks, and just one freckle left of center on her nose.

Hannah wanted to say she would miss him too, but she didn't want to give him the wrong impression, which is to say, she didn't want him to think that this was the time for him to profess his love for her. It was too obvious, how much Serge loved her. And Hannah had known for a long time. She had known and she had let him sit with it because she cared about him, but not in that way and couldn't help that she was the only person who could make his unrequited love requited, but she couldn't actually. We all think how simple it would be if love was returned when it was offered. It's not fair, though, life.

You love who you love, Hannah would catch herself thinking after spending the day with Serge. Then she would text back and forth with whoever guy of the week she crushed on at the moment. And of course, those texts would go no where, and she would be alone, and Serge would be there, until one day he wouldn't be, because eventually we have to leave those sorts of situations. You settle so that your heart stops aching. You settle because you think it's the only escape from the continual brokenness that's yours until it's not. But, you always know you're settling, and the ache dulls, but it doesn't stop existing. It's just a soft stab...a shard of glass from a broken vase that shattered months earlier.

 "I know, too," said Serge. He wanted to say he knew she wanted to love him. But needs, wants, desires, unrequited, some things just are those and nothing more.

Serge looked at her; he wanted to grab her hand, wanted to hold it, wanted for his to be the hand she wanted to hold. He wished he was wearing his shoes, but he wasn't, and he suddenly felt like he shouldn't be there anymore. It would be awkward though, to just say he had to go and then have to spend a few minutes locating his shoes and then putting them on. He couldn't just up and leave.

 "Can you help me with this?" Hannah had broken eye contact with Serge. It was all too much. She was pointing to the curtain. It was white, and the bottom of the fabric had what looked like a summer grassy motif printed on it. It looked like an afterthought, and every time Serge had seen it in the past he thought that.

Serge turned to face her again, resigned to his shoeless feet.

"You're sure you want to bring it with you?"

"No," she said, brushing a loose hair from her eyes, a motion that undid Serge. Four feet apart might as well have been a world away, and they both knew it.

There was too long of a silence.

"It's better than nothing," she said.

Serge moved to the right of the window and began loosening the rod.

"You're right."

Unlikely Acquaintances Who Become Friends.

There are thirty-seven cars on her street right now. She knows because she counted them. Earlier, Joanie (don't ask, she hates her name) went for a run...what was going to be a run, and instead, she got sidetracked into a conversation with her neighbor Manuel (that's pronounced Man-Well, not Man-You-Uhl, like she originally thought). They are in their building's downstairs lobby. He's sitting on one of the Pier1 Imports chairs that no one sits in normally.

"Hello pretty neighbor," says Manuel getting up to greet her. This is how Manuel speaks to all of his female building-mates. Just your typical overly friendly 65 plus Latino neighbor.

"Hi," Joanie says. "So good to see you." They hug, and Manuel gives her a small kiss on her cheek, very close to her right eye. Joanie tags on that last bit because Manuel's face is so expectant, his cracked corn cob smile visible behind dry lips.

"We are good today," he says hoping she's with him in his we-ness. She is. Manuel reminds her of her church growing up. There was an usher at Christ the King who was, well, too excited to lead people to their seats. He would say, "Today is the day, is the day, the day for you to sit...!" and he would guide them down the center aisle to whichever pew looked most empty, and shake everyones hands proclaiming the peace of the Lord be with them. She can't remember his name now. It's not really important, either.

"I'm just on my way out, Manuel," she says still smiling. Joanie is wearing bright violet running shorts with a zebra stripe down each side, Nike stitched onto the right, and a black dry-fit tank claiming: Strength. The green iPod nano currently playing her Top Tracks playlist is clipped to her arm. It will inevitably get annoying, as it will certainly hit the inside of her bicep. Eventually Joanie will elect to hold it.

"Oh, yes, yes. I see," Manuel says, adjusting his short-sleeved button up that is indeed buttoned up all the way. "I would fall down." He laughs at this sentiment.

Joanie smiles. "Me too," she admits, a girlish giggle cropping up.

Joanie hadn't gone for a run in over a month. The last time she did she was not three blocks from her apartment when she just face-planted, licking the pavement. As far as she could tell, no one had seen her Total Life Fail Moment, but in reality, someone did see and periodically when that someone is doing dishes and annoyed at her husband, she thinks of that girl who tripped and fell and smiles, laughing to herself. Her husband asks, "What's that about?" assuming she's laughing at him, because everyone assumes they're being laughed at when they're the only other person in the room, but she wasn't. She was laughing at the girl who fell, Joanie. Joanie doesn't know she exists, so the woman is no one important, thus she has no name.

Manuel shares his smile with her again. "Please, please, go on."

"Oh, thank you," Joanie says, turning her music down finally. "Are you going to be OK today?"

"Yes, I'm waiting for my daughter to come get me." He looks anxious.

"That's great. Are you getting lunch together?"

"Yes." He pauses, and Joanie starts to turn her iPod back on, but then, "She's looking at my apartment."

"Oh?"

"Yes."

"Is she helping you with something?"

"I'm going to go move in with her."

The unlikely acquaintances who became friends both look sad.

Finally, "When?" asks Joanie.

"This weekend."

"So soon?"

"Yes."

There's another long pause. Manuel's gaze is affixed to his friend, and then he hears a car pull up.

"Is she here?"

"Yes, this is her. Arabelle."

"Beautiful name."

"It is."

"Well, I guess, I'll —" Joanie cuts herself off. She didn't expect to be so sad. Manuel's her kind neighbor, but just a neighbor. A friend, who's about her own father's age. And Arabelle is about her age, maybe a little older. "I'll get going on this run. You let me know when you leave, though."

"Ok," says Manuel. He grins, waves at his daughter. She gets out of her turquoise RAV4, "Hi dad!"

Joanie waves, then turns to go, beginning her brisk run. A Ryan Adams song begins to play.

"Hello Gracie you're a good little girl. It's a beautiful world, oh when you're out in it. Last time I saw you playing in the yard, you were running with children and the old people were smiling..."

Fake Barking

"Can you believe we've known each other for more than a decade?"

Caitlin looks up from her book, muffles, "Yeah, weird," brushing off Liv, and goes back to A Moveable Feast.

"I mean, like, it's crazy that I remember that far back. Like, sometimes I can't even remember something that happened last week, but then at the same time I can remember when we used to have swim practice at Lake Bluff pool and your mom would pick me up, and I'd always forget my towel, and—"

"Yeah, it's nuts, Liv."

Liv gets up from the kitchen bar stool she'd been sitting on. "Anyway, I just thought it was weird," she says defensively.

She closes the IKEA catalog she'd absently been flipping through, then she adjusts her sweatshirt, which had gotten bunchy from sitting.

Caitlin's eyes follow her. Liv's doing that thing where she wants to talk, and Caitlin's doing that thing where she doesn't want to talk. It has nothing to do with the other, just on different wavelengths this morning. It's Saturday.

"Sorry, Liv," Caitlin says. "I'm—"

But before she's done, Liv cuts in, "It's fine. I'm just being dumb."

"You're not. I'm just tired." She thinks to herself, it's 10am, and says, "Well, that's not an excuse—"

"Except that it is."

"Right."

"Right," says Liv.

"I don't want to fight with you, Liv."

Caitlin gets up from the couch. It's a New England red, the kind that mens J. Crew shorts are colored to look like, almost like they're covered in dust.

"Do you remember that guy in the car yesterday?" Caitlin asks.

Stopping in the space between her bedroom and the hallway, "When we were walking?" Liv asks.

"Yeah."

"I remember." She was neither smiling nor frowning, but her face was mute because she didn't know where this was going.

"And he was yelling so much, so loudly and we could hear it all."

"Yeah."

There was a guy who was driving a silver Lexus SUV down Windsor. There was a passenger in the seat next to him. The girls couldn't tell if the passenger was a man or a woman, and frankly it didn't matter. Not because the person looked like either, the SUV driver was going too fast, and it was an odd angle, even when he had to stop at the red light. The driver was yelling so loudly. He was yelling about how much he loved the person sitting in the passenger seat. He was yelling, and he was exasperated, and it was hard to understand because Caitlin and Liv hadn't ever felt that kind of 'frustrating, over the top, I can't deal with you because I love you too much kind of love.' The couple was fighting because they couldn't spend as much time together as they wanted to, the very best kind of terrible fight, because it means they care, and they want to continue to care, and it's hard. It's the hardest kind of fight.

"No one should fight like that," Caitlin says. "That was the kind of fight, if you're going to have it, that you shouldn't have while operating heavy machinery." She was laughing now.

"It was funny," Liv agreed. They thought it was funny because they couldn't identify with it, not really. Their reaction was inappropriate for the situation, like laughing at a funeral, or something less trite.

"God, that uninhibited rage," Caitlin giggled. "Maybe rage isn't even it."

"Yeah, maybe it's more like unwarranted frustration."

Mock holding an invisible badge, Caitlin uses her policeman voice, "I have a Warrant For My Frustration."

"Officer, please, come on, you know me," Liv plays along.

"Like that time my mom was so mad at us for both forgetting towels at swim practice, and we just were so soaking wet and sat in the backseat and we looked like wet puppies."

"And she was like, 'Girls, I just got this.'"

"And, we were like, just, like barking?!"

"Arf! Arf!"

"Arf!"

And the two spiraled into a bark session.

Bird.

There's a bird outside the one window in this Brooklyn apartment. Specifically, it's a pigeon. And specifically, it's Prospect Heights, on the very Northwest tip of the park — Prospect Park, if you can believe it.

Anyway, there's this bird that sits outside her window ruining the only thing that's beautiful about her converted two-bedroom — which was essentially a one-bedroom split in half by a partition. It's the kind of partition that separates large classrooms into smaller classrooms. That taupe plastic...thing.

"Her" is Kat Muller. She's thirty. She has a roommate. She has brown hair. It's wavy, but she wants it to be curly. She curls her hair with a large barrel curler from ConAir. She hates that movie. She wishes she didn't waste energy on hate, but she does. She says ones thing, and then normally attaches a qualifying "but." Everyone knows what she's thinking because her face doesn't hide like Mona Lisa's. If she knew I wrote that just then, she'd make a "You're retarded face." She wishes I would say "stupid," but, I didn't and I don't because, frankly, I don't give a shit.

"I" am her roommate, Emily. What a simple name? I put a question mark at the end of that, then I deleted it, put a period and then went back to a question mark. I used the word "what," which should denote that I asked a question. "Should." I love the conditional. I have brown hair too and a soft chin. Boo! Soft chins suck no matter how old you are, but they just keep getting softer with age and fat.

We have lived together since 2007. It's 2014. That's a lot of years. If we were different genders we could apply for Common-law marriage...or be considered for it. I don't really know how that works. I don't even know if marriage equality exists in New York. I like to think that I would know if I lived in, like, Chelsea.

Anyway, that bird. Ugh. That stupid bird. That retarded bird. It comes by every day, and I have never seen it fly. It must though. It walks over from the neighbors every day. It doesn't start the day at our place, or end it there. It's as if it is going to our house for "work." It's there 9am-5pm, and then the F train steams by, and it's out of here. Gone...to be seen from again. Tomorrow at 9am. It's never been late, which to me, is hilarious. If it were, I would expect a verbal apology with words and apologetic hand gestures.

I've named him Bird. Sometimes less is more. My mother says things like that to me. I imagine her needle-pointing onto shitty pillows when we talk on the phone. I'm from Michigan: the birthplace of crappy pillows and the best trees. Whenever I'm home in Michigan I feel naked. I'm convinced it's the crispness of the air. It cuts straight through clothing, no matter the amount of hipster layering I attempt.

It's not really fair that the only window we have goes straight into Kat's section of the apartment, which is just barely a step-up from a cardboard box. It's better in the winter, but not in the summer. "It's" meaning the apartment. In the summer it's a boiling cesspool of my and Kat's sweat. I mean, no it's not an underground garden unit, which basically is just asking for a rat to be your unofficial nonpaying roommate — but it's not a far cry. The first time we had an issue with the apartment, I cried. I never thought of myself as a crier, or an emotional person, but when it happened, it was so disproportional that I came to the conclusion that I am an emotional person, I just don't know when's an appropriate time to let it out, so I hit this tipping point, and then I was toast. Burnt toast that's no good.

I'm looking at Bird right now, and I'm wondering where he calls home. I'm wondering who's waiting for him to get back at 5:30pm. I'm not wondering how long his commute is. Everywhere in New York is a half hour. Or should be. Whatever comes first.

Maybe I'll move back to Michigan. There's birds in Michigan.

Un-unique

Elaine Terre, Ellie to her friends, leaned gracefully over her egg white porcelain sink. Her eye make-up smudged all over her upper and lower lids. Trapped in the corners of her hazel eyes were the remnants of tears she was attempting to wipe away.

"I'm just done." She thought it out loud. "I'm just," a pregnant pause, an exasperated sigh, "done."

She'd been fired. It felt like a glorified dumping. Broken up with by the career that didn't want her anymore. Left alone on the skirts of Unemploymentville Co. Population: her. She felt like a cliché, and all of her thoughts backed that feeling up.

It happens to everyone. The phrase echoed in her head from a conversation she'd finished earlier that evening with her sister. Her sister, Carolyn, was an attractive young woman, aged 29, single, with a semi-high-powered career on the way to an actual high-powered career in fashion merchandising. She had little empathy for anyone when it came to relationships, jobs or general livelihood, likely due to her lack there of.

Carolyn and Elaine had a tumultuous relationship growing up, not unlike most sisterly relationships. Elaine, being the younger, found talking to Carolyn exacerbating, and would dodge opportunities to do so regularly —that is she until Carolyn would figure out a way to corner Elaine into conversation, often by trapping her in actual corners.

During the summers the pair would play a game in their country club swimming pool called, Spider. Essentially, one of the girls would hold onto the sides of the pool, often in a corner, with their legs spread while the other would have to attempt passage through the triangulated legs and arms of her sister without touching. If one indeed touched, even a hair, a strike would be marked. Three strikes and you would have to run around the perimeter of the pool. It doesn't sound as bad in retrospect, but summers in the midwest still brought about a cool air that made the pool a warm sanctuary once you were in, as the outside world remained an icy fortress.

Ellie thought about all those memories as she starred past her own reflection, wiping away her history and whatever Revlon still clung to her cheeks. Still, more tears clouded her vision.

Was I wrong? She questioned for the nth time. But she knew the answer. No, she wasn't wrong. And, she shouldn't have been as upset as she was.

It happens to everyone, El. 

HANG UPS. (At the Jewel)

HANG UPS

BY BRIGID MARSHALL

DRAFT 2

CAST

AMY – mid-twenties, disillusioned

EMMA – mid-twenties, silly

KRIS – mid-twenties, sensible

Jewel-Osco. Three girls are in the fruit aisle.

AMY I mean, exclusive hook ups are a far cry from a real relationship.

EMMA Right?

AMY Yeah. I mean. I think so. Apples?

KRIS Well, it’s not really.

EMMA Yeah, apples — What do you mean, Kris?

KRIS It’s not really that far of a cry from a real relationship. Oh, Asian pears!

AMY (Picking up Asian pears) How so, sensei?

EMMA (Buddhist-y, picking up carrots and petting them) What is real anyway?

KRIS Well, it’s exclusive, darling grasshoppers.

AMY Yeah, and?

KRIS Well, isn’t that the biggest part of what “being in a relationship” is?

EMMA No.

AMY No, I don’t think so. See, you need to like, talk about it and stuff.

KRIS Fine, then what is?

AMY Love. Or something.

KRIS So you’re not in a relationship until you’re in love?

AMY No, that’s not what I’m saying.

KRIS Then what are you saying, Confucius?

EMMA More like confusing-cius.

[EMMA high fives herself.]

KRIS You win, Emma.

AMY I’m saying, stay with me here. But. Ok. So, if you’re exclusive with someone sexually that doesn’t mean you like them as like in a boyfriend kind of way. Necessarily. You might just like them for their hot toosh.

KRIS God.

EMMA (All existential, but jokey) God?

AMY Yeah. Well, that’s what I’m saying.

KRIS You’ve seen too many movies like that fuckin’ No Strings Attached and whatev.

AMY What of it?

KRIS It’s kind of gross, Amy.

AMY Banging for pleasure?

KRIS Jesus. Yes.

EMMA I mean, I don’t think it’s a big deal, or whatever. I’m not going to judge you.

KRIS I’m not judging. I have no room to. Ugh.

EMMA So wise. But yeah, I get your point, K. But, I guess I just…don’t necessarily…agree?

KRIS That wasn’t a question. Stop upturning your statements.

EMMA (Upturning on purpose) OK?

AMY Well that’s because of Jim.

KRIS Oh, la la! Jiiiim.

EMMA Shut up. (Completely changing subject) I wish I had those tiny Asian lady shoes.

KRIS The ones made of wood and stuff?

AMY Like the ones they wore on the Chipmunks? – Stop changing the subject.

AMY/KRIS Jiiiiim!

EMMA Shut up.

KRIS/AMY SH’UP!

AMY I don’t think so. Jiiiiim!

EMMA Seriously. We are not in a relationship, unless relationship means never sleeping over and getting texts at 12am and answering them like an idiot.

AMY Or maybe that just makes you someone who just understands the thing of it, and wants some booty, too?

KRIS But don’t you want more than just booty, Em?

EMMA Yeah.

KRIS Well, then, change the relationship.

EMMA Easier said than done.

AMY Yeah, what a greeeeat suggestion, Kris.

KRIS I’m only saying you can’t expect the relationship to change if you don’t change.

AMY WISE SENSEI!

KRIS (Does something dumb physically, like bowing too emphatically) The wisest!

AMY Fortune cookie, Sensei.

EMMA/KRIS/AMY (All bow to each other repeatedly repeating over and over) WISE SENSEI, SO WISE, kanichiwa, etc.

KRIS Wait. Stop. You’re just a booty call if you’re not in a relationship, even if it’s exclusive. OK?

EMMA/AMY WISE SENSEI, SO WISE, Kanichiwa, etc.

KRIS This turned real quick.

(Black out.)

Five

Things. I. Love.

1. bicycle rides when it's 65 and sunny
2. gelato
3. unexpected hangouts
4. following through
5. belonging

i forgot how much i love writing these short lists. today i went through some old emails from a good friend of mine, and finally downloaded all the music i've been waiting to listen to from said emails. how much do i love paul asjes' weekly monday music emails? hint, it'll be in my next five things.

a sincere thank you

in keeping with this desire to express myself, as ms. madonna insists i should, i have some heartfelt sentiments to send out.

1. thank you to my friends. seriously. thank you. thank you for not dismissing my sarcasm as cruelty. thank you for realizing my intentions even when they seem vague or insincere. you know they're not, and i appreciate that beyond comprehension. thank you for opening up my heart to all you have to offer as i realize my own potential. thank you for accepting my faults, helping me get past my self-imposed boundaries and loving me for all that i am. and thank you for never ignoring me.
2. thank you to my family. again. this is serious. i love you. i love you more than i can put words to and the thought of you in any sort of painful situation, physical or otherwise, literally make me tear up. my heart breaks at these mere thoughts. even as i write these words my heart is racing and my eyes are welling up. i love you. i love you so much.
3. to my new friends. i am a "jar with a heavy lid," and maybe this defense mechanism isn't the best choice, but i do believe in the validity of having a thick door to break down, and i commend you if you even try. i'm not difficult to see through if you take the time. i just seem like it. but. i do believe that when it comes down to it honesty, availability, and the ability to take life with a grain of salt are prerequisites —

so, if you like, go on this journey with me. i'm a good friend, a solid listener and someone that will bring you a smile when you feel like crying. just let me.

Twenty Questions on Steroids

So a few months ago I received a sort of questionaire from someone. I don't usually do these as they take me forever, but this one had some good questions. So, if you don't mind, here's the top 12: or at least the ones that best describe me.

1. What do you usually have for breakfast? Diet Coke and a Granola Bar running out the door
2. What characteristic do you despise? Thoughtlessness
3. If you could go anywhere in the world on vacation, where would you go? France, or somewhere new
4. What was your most memorable birthday? My brother Sean's birthday when my mom had a penny treasure hunt in the living room.
5. Are you a morning person or a night person? Night
6. What did you want to be when you grew up? An actress or a singer, some sort of creator
7. What is your favorite candy? Kit Kats
8. What is a day on the calendar you are looking forward to? The day I start classes at Improv Olympic
9. If you were a crayon, what color would you be? Orange
10. Coffee or tea? Plain Coffee, Chai tea
11. When was the last time you cried? yesterday while watching
Brothers & Sisters
12. What are you afraid of? Not having any options

5 Things I love

A few months ago I started writing down a few times a week five things that I love. It really helped me see things in perspective, and I'd encourage you to do the same. For a while I was pretty distraught at feeling like (slash being) a know-nothing, unemployed sucker who went to college only to get diddley. So, it really was necessary for me to write down all the good things that were going on — because there actually were and are a lot of good things going on. So, here's a taste of what I'm talking about. Here are some of the things I collected from different lists I wrote this week in no particular order:

1. 5 minutes after my alarm goes off, all snug in my warm sheets.
2. When things work themselves out.
3. Rebecca, sad she's leaving for Spain, but so happy for her.
4. Sending postcards and cards.
5. Reading on the train.
6. My walk to work, it smells like chocolate and brownies.
7. Catching up on shows with Brian.
8. Talking about the book I'm reading.
9. Seasonal drinks at coffee shops.
10. Larry, Colleen, Sean, Timmy, and Kevin.
11. Options.


What's funny is when I was working in the cubicle I actually wrote Things I Do Not Love lists, which isn't good, but can be funny to go back and read. Here's one of those:
1. Losing jewelry and knowing it's around here somewhere, but still no luck.
2. Cision, my job at Cision.
3. When Corner Bakery runs out of chocolate chip cookies.
4. Not having a pen and paper when I need one.
5. Kankersores.

Swimming.

So far working at Liz Laine Reps has been really freeing. Literally. Today I got let out three hours early due to a phone and Internet problem. But, even if I was still there it would be great. Working in an environment with just a few others around truly affords the hard to come by visibility that's really difficult to access in a big corporate environment. Already I've been able to meet the creative team from DDB Chicago and have scheduled screenings and trips to other advertising agencies, along with introducing myself to our roster of animators and directors. Really I'm just jumping into the thick of it and hoping I won't make a mess of things, but actually will exceed expectation.

And, it's helpful to check in with friends, too, who are diving deeply into their chosen life-for-the-moment. Here's a quote from Paul's blog that he practically never posts on, hence the title of the post: "I haven't Posted Since my Birthday."

"nothing else that needs to be said except life is predictable but at the same time full of surprises. i am learning to give all i can in the situation that i am in, and when it is over, i can move forward knowing that i did what i was supposed to do."

We Should All Be Jacks

Periodically I am vain and re-read my past posts. I think I like to check in with myself to make sure I'm not just the sounding board. However, I feel like I have been. In reading the post "Compiling the List of Yesteryear" I left the list with the possibility of gaining a position with Teach For America (TFA) and/or going to Graduate or Law School, slash getting a job.

In another previous post I mentioned that I had gotten my heart broken by various jobs and interviewees at not being selected to work at their organization, company or publication. Unfortunately for both me and TFA (yeah, I said it), I did not get the position to be the Public Affairs Coordinator. Though I would have killed at it, apparently I wasn't a "right fit." Upon asking how I could have strengthened my position or what I was missing or what they wanted and I somehow didn't deliver, they said, "No comment." This, I fear, has become a regular response from the dumper in these short-lived relationships. I've never really been privy to being in little week to month-long relationships, so I a. didn't realize I had been dumped and b. definitely didn't know how to react. My natural response was to ask why, and I guess it makes sense why they don't want to relive their thought-process. I'm convinced that for every job I didn't get over the last year, I am, indeed, the one that got away.

But, alas, I digress — going back to past posts.

I would like to say that in everything I have ever written on this blog I am and will continue to be 100 percent candid. This has, I think, gotten me in trouble, hence making the blog private. For your eyes only. The trouble with being so truthful though, is you see my direct stream of conscience. In re-reading posts I am afraid that I sound like a flake. Bouncing from idea to idea, grad to law to advertising to PR and public service to this, that and the other thing, somehow landing in a cubicle amidst the mayhem — I'm sorry.

It should also be noted that I view myself as a Jack of All Trades, as narcissistic as that may sound, which is why I jump around. I think it's an exceedingly good thing to jump around though. At this time in most of our young lives, we don't have real obligation, we don't have real needs, we just need a roof, a blanket, some food and livelihood, when it comes down to it. So, I suppose, I encourage you to re-read who you thought you were going to be last year, re-think who you are now, and make a list of all the things you want to do. (Maybe even make an outline with roman numerals, and the works.)

What's scared me most in the last few months was the fact that I thought in order to live, to do what I wanted to do, I had to compromise somewhere along the way. Eventually that may be the case, but right now, no way. It may seem like we don't have the luxury of choice, but friends, that's all we have here, and it's awesome. The thought I had constantly rotating in my mind if I didn't quit my job was, if I die tomorrow it will say somewhere in my obit that I worked in a cubicle (maybe not verbatim, I hope), but it definitely wouldn't say I was pursuing my passion — and I couldn't, then and can't now, live with that.

So, I close now by saying I still have real goals and real hopes and real things I'm pursuing, but they will change, and I will too. Graduate school or law school, living abroad, traveling often, making and donating money, giving my time, owning my life, and walking with my friends and God, learning from experience, and watching in excited anticipation for the world to throw unexpected things my way, but might be just the ticket at that very moment. I can't wait for the next exciting thing to happen, and right now I am hopeful that I'm walking more in its direct path, rather than darting left and right.

Wisdom & Working

"They weren't born like that, you know. The self-made millionaires, the now-famous who started with nothing...They learned the skills that brought them to the top, then they practiced, and through practice they changed their behavior — and their behavior made them different people; wholly different. You can be different too — any way you want to be..."

-originally from paragon-athletics

I read this in an e-mail a good friend sent to me about a month ago. Since then I have tacked it up in a cubicle, carried it around as a bookmark (in my Personal History book) and read it nearly a hundred times. It helps me.

The thing is, I've realized that through keeping an on-going list of all the books I've read this year that my most enjoyable have all been either autobiographies or biographies. Even the fiction works I've read all fall into a sort of realistic fiction where something reads as if it could have happened. But, what's more important is that it's through seeing my enjoyment in reading real-life stories that I've come to want to live a life worthy of recounting (slash I've always wanted that, just affirmation). It seems unfortunate to me that many people lead lives that (perhaps I unfairly judge) seem mundane to me. There's a sort of rhythm to life I've noticed as evidence in taking the Chicago Metra train to work every day. People sit in the same spots, wear the same self-given or office-given uniform and talk about their lives by the copy machine, how their significant other is being difficult, how they wish they could take off the afternoon, skip out early on a whim and go on a trip to Lake Geneva. I never wanted the pinnacle of my day to be leaving work.

See, I figure if you're going to be somewhere for 40 to 60 hours per week, you should like it. Maybe that's a development akin to recent years of easy-living for the under 30s, but I don't care. Why shouldn't you like your life away from and at the workplace? It seems a bizarre notion that every day, in order to be productive, has to be recounted in an excel spreadsheet with a regimen that looks, feels and is exactly the same.

Fortunately for me, I've been able to surround myself with people that have higher hopes, and more so, expectations than that — and even still the ability to carry out those passions. Thankfully after sending out an e-mail letting friends know I was leaving behind Cubicle City for some fresh air, I didn't receive any "Are you insane?" messages back. That's just a testament to good friends, good character and like-mindedness, that unfortunately many aren't accustomed to.

History (see autobiographies and biographies) has time-and-again proved that real success doesn't come from sitting on the sidelines. Waiting out the big dogs. Or sitting in a cubicle waiting for someone to give you the go-ahead. I don't want to keep my head down and act natural. There's something to be said for biding your time, but there's also something to be said for knowing what you want, and knowing what you don't want. And if you can be decisive, then be that.

"Who am I?" "I don't know." "I guess I have a lot of things to ponder." -Derek Zoolander

“You don't know me at all.” –Ben Folds, featuring Regina Spektor, “You Don’t Know Me”

We all know what happens when we say things like, “ You don’t know me at all” to a counterpart—whether it’s a friendship where one’s Batman and the other’s Robin, or a parent to a child. The relationship is cut off and you start at scratch (or at least as much scratch as you can get). But what happens when you don’t know yourself at all? You can’t exactly sever all ties.

Ben Folds and Regina Spektor sang a duet on Fold’s semi-recent album Way to Normal (a route unknown all together), titled “You Don’t Know Me.” With a few small tricks of the piano, the melding of a man and woman’s poppy voices together, and rather depressing lyrics, a song was born. It’s actually sort of like The Weepies’ “Nobody Knows Me At All” from “Say I Am You,” but more about a sour relationship than a statement on repeat like The Weepies.

I was listening to both songs tonight. A friend sent me The Weepies tune earlier tonight, and last week Spektor dropped her follow-up album to hit-machine (though not her debut disc) “Begin to Hope.” The album, titled “Far,” plays sweetly, sometimes sadly, but mostly it’s just interesting. Sort of like this question I posed.

I’ve been thinking about the notion of Quarter-Life Crisis’s. Everyone’s heard of the pending Mid-Life Crisis, but it seems that everything is becoming fast forwarded, and now we’re stressing ourselves out earlier and earlier. This evening I was chatting with a friend from college about how I have these mini crises every day about life choices and the like. It got me to thinking about being 50 and wondering if I’d make the right choices. I guess I’m trying to get my crisis out of the way today, make the correct decisions now, so that I won’t have one comes the big five-oh. See, I can’t imagine being nearly done and thinking, “Well, what was the point? Was this the right path? Or just the path of least resistance?”

The only problem is that I don’t quite know what exactly I want to be doing. Leading me back to the serious issue of perhaps I don’t know myself (not necessarily a completely bad thing). We’ll see how this all pans out. I love that phrase, “It all comes out in the wash.” It makes me feel secure in my own strength, even though it’s meant to make people wary about telling lies.

“When I was a child everybody smiled, nobody knows me at all/ Very late at night and in the morning light, nobody knows me at all.” –The Weepies. “Nobody Knows Me At All”

Compiling the List of Yesteryear

I really enjoy making lists: to-do, check-lists, lists about things I enjoy, etc. etc. I'm a list girl. So, in keeping with my list satisfaction, I've decided to make a list chronicling all of the things I've done in the last year. My first year out of college went quickly at times and slowly at others, but now it's complete and I need to make sure I haven't wasted my time.

1. Graduated from the University of Iowa with Honors degree in Journalism & Mass Comm. and Distinction in English

2. Left Iowa City one week after graduation.

3. Went home for two weeks, began work at L. Marshall Inc. as an administrative assistant until my life caught up with me.

4. Turned 22, basically just 21 plus 1, no big thing.

5. Traveled to Rockford, IL for my good friend Meagan's wedding - was a bridesmaid

6. Applied to numerous positions, including one paid internship in San Francisco, California at Ode Magazine.

7. Took the editorial internship. Moved to California three weeks later. First day was July 6. Mommy Sheila flew out with me. We took a tour of SF to make sure I liked it enough to stay. Visited the Japanese Tea Garden, had sushi in the Richmond, met and fell in love with roommates Nancy and Drina.

8. Jumped headfirst into the job. Wrote dozens of articles for Ode, compiled special reports, edited, copywrote and lived.

9. Colleen visited SF. We went to Muir Woods, ate at Cha Cha Chas Tapas in the Haight, thrift shopped by Golden Gate, visited SF Museum of Modern Art's (MOMA) Frida Kahlo exhibit, drank California wines, and saw a movie about California wine making at Robert Redford's Sundance Theatre.

10. Brian visited SF. We wine tasted, went to a Giant's game, walked around the downtown, ate Mexican in the Mission, made homemade cookies, hit up a sweet Ryan Adams concert at the Fillmore (it was a surprise!) and went to the San Francisco Outside Lands Music Festival.

11. Roommate's Nancy and Drina, and I hit up Golden Gate Park for the Hardly, Strictly Bluegrass Festival. We watched Emmylou Harris, Odetta, Iron and Wine, Joe Purdy, and everyone great during a beautiful San Francisco Indian Summer October day.

12. I went back to Chicago for my cousin Maureen's wedding in October. Stayed for a little over a weekend. Colleen came back from LA too. Family bonding to the nth. Go back to SF to finish the internship and tie up loose ends for about a month and a half.

13. Squeezed in a trip to Las Vegas visiting then-Newly Weds Meagan and Dan Walsh with Brian. Went rock climbing at Red Rocks, hit up a few casinos, lost $20 to the locals, saw the Beatles Love Show at the Mirage, imagined myself as one of Ocean's 13, and jumped out of an airplane for a little mid-morning skydiving. Lived to tell the tale.

14. Kerstin squeezes in a visit to San Francisco while she's working in LA on an engineering job for the Nokia Club. We obviously go shoe shopping, travel to Alcatraz Island, go out to a fancy restaurant in the Marina and meet up with some of my friends for a comedy show downtown. Celebrate Nancy's birthday with a party in the backyard and an apple dessert bar!

15. Somehow now Californian's, yet Midwesterners, Brandon, Kelly and I manage to meet and hang out multiple times during all of this mayhem. Though we never made it into the SF Zoo together, we did do a wine tasting, hang at the beach, see movies, and go out to dinner.

16. Last day at Ode. Get a ride to work with managing editor, Marco, as per usual. We talk about nothing and writing and everything, and then have the last day, which is like any other. Eat cupcakes with the staff. I had a double chocolate Oreo: Hostess Mostess concoction. Wonderful goodbye treat.

17. I managed to get published in each Ode Magazine while interning and in the next four issues after said internship. Learned a ton about publishing, what it takes to really make it in magazines, and figured out I wanted to go to graduate school eventually for something.

18. Mommy Sheila flies to San Francisco on my last day at Ode. She hangs with Nancy, then meets me after work. We get tapas in the Mission. Next day we visit the San Francisco Zoo (finally!) with Drina. Brandon and Kelly can't make it. No bigs. We visit SF's de Young Art Museum. Then, we rent a car and drive 12 hours along the Pacific Coast Highway stopping in Monteray for lunch and Sea Lion sightings and then go to the Hearst Castle in San Simeon for two and a half hours. It was a long and beautiful dream.

19. Finally arrive in Los Angeles. Angry elves: Sheila and Brigid. Annoyed that the other exists at all. Get Italian food with Colleen. Visit with Graham, Charlie and Jordan, while Pat sleeps. Get an angry message from Pat that still hurts my feelings. Colleen and I decide we want to go to the Laugh Factory, we see John Lovitz after getting sushi with She-She. Mom and I take a tour of Hollywood. We go shopping in all the hot spots. I get a Michael Kors dress. I am in love with said dress. See Paramount studios. Visit with Elizabeth Steele, college roomie, who now lives in Hollywood. We get icecream, obviously. Visit to LA is too short. Sad.

20. Fly home. Graham is in the car with the three Marshall women. We apologize incessantly.

21. Get home just in time for Thanksgiving and Mommy's birthday.

22. Two weeks go by. Visit alma mater, Iowa, and all my friends there. Another week goes by. Christmas shopping, hanging with Brian and friends. Christmas arrives. Receive banjo from Brian. Go to Michigan for skiing with family. Get back New Years Eve. That night go out with Brian, his roommates and my friends. Have a good time, all said and done.

23. January, drive with cousin Colleen Quinlan to Georgetown for her final semester. Stay for 6 days. Visit National Archives, visit with friends Abby Bartine and Kyle Simpson. Want to move there. Still in my mind. We'll see. Visit the NEWseum, see a friend, who works there randomly, ask for a job. Drop off resume. No word. No bigs. Drop off more resumes. Visit American University's Journalism graduate program and their International Communications program. Really loved it. Plan on studying for GRE and LSAT. Higher education, here I come.

24. Get home. Meet with family friend to figure out job situation. Send out resumes, get recommended, fly to New York for three interviews. Find out there is no job at the end of the Yellow Brick Road, just informational interviews. Stay with childhood friend, Kate Hawes, yay no hotel fees!

25. Apply for more jobs. Valentine's Day happens. Hang with Brian. He makes delicious lobster and fillet dinner. :) Vow to learn banjo well. Start lessons. Get ready for a week in Florida with Grandpa Harry, Grandma Celeste, Mommy Sheila and my cousin Patrick with his wife Susie. Bonding!

26. Get a job as a regular substitute for St. Martin de Porres High School in Waukegan. It's a work4ed school for disadvantaged students. Good stuff. Get another job as a temp worker for 33 Personnel in Chicago. Get another job as a Sales Associate at J. Crew Inc. in Skokie. Finally am more busy, but still feel like I need something more.

27. Visit Iowa City again. Hang with Paul and baby Isaiah. Guest host for KRUI 89.7's 25th Anniversary Weekend. Woo! Catch up with friends finishing school, and figuring out lives. Go home in time for St. Patrick's Day: Southside Irish Parade with cousins.

28. April: Brian's Birthday & Anniversary. Woo! Celebrate with his family just a few hours after a wake. Sad. More sad for Brian though. Strange birthday. April was a big month. White Sox Opening Day happens.

29. Cassie's wedding shower. Buy a griddle. Experience what it's like to buy cutlery. Interesting. I will wait.

30. Erwin and Medina wed! May 16. Colleen's birthday too. Travel to Iowa City for John Wilmes, Sarah Burnett, Sara Stratton and Anne Lingwall's graduation. Continue driving on I-80 into Des Moines. Bachelorette Dinner Party and Wedding Shower with bestfriend Elizabeth. Get interesting advice for her from the marrieds in the group. Spend time with Elizabeth and her family. Get nails done, hang with Steele and Meagan. Rehearsal happens. We cry. Rehearsal dinner happens. We laugh. Meet Elizabeth's friend Lisa, all is well with the world. Next day. Brian drives in from Chicago. Wedding. Somehow Steele, Ekberg/Walsh and I are early. Like by an hour. Amazing. This never happens. Erwin is late. Wedding happens. She is now Medina. Reception. Beautiful. Wish it would have never ended. Jacob, Dance Monster, Erwin, Elizabeth's 4-year-old nephew, dances like a fiend and then invites Steele and I to his 5th birthday party. He let's us know there are extra beds in the basement. Nice. Was a bridesmaid.

31. Fly to New York again for a job interview. Meet up with Kate Hawes again. Hang in Central Park. Really pleasant. Enjoy a nice spring day. Wear new suit I bought from J. Crew. Don't get job. Sad. Fly home. Blackhawks get out of the Stanley Cup runnings. Sad. They fly home from Detroit. Sad.

32. Contact Teach For America people. Apply for a job. Get an interview. Interview is next week. Preparing now. Hope I get it. Doesn't start until August. Would be perfect.

34. Have a feeling I will be attending some sort of higher education in the near future. LSAT prep course and possible GRE prep course are in the works. I love to learn, an exciting thing I'm trying to convey to my sub students.

35. Wait. We'll see what happens next.

big ideas. friends. change.

"A big idea will change you. Your friends may love you, but they don't want you to change. If you change, then their dynamic with you also changes. They like things the way they are; that's how they love you - the way you are, not the way you may become... Good ideas alter the power balance in relationships. That is why good ideas are always
initially resisted." ~ Hugh Macleod

The Peace Out Explanation

Left: Photo of Iowa earth post my weekend trip to Iowa City





I went to Iowa City over the weekend to catch up and slow down at the same time. Ever since the culmination of my latter educational years, I've felt a bit of a mess. Internships, deadend retail jobs, family happiness on repeat, etc. has been a bit draining. So, I headed back to what had been my homeland for real growth and change, and it was a joy.

The best part of Iowa City is you never really know who will be there, when, and for what. I know things will change even more in the next year, because then I really won't know anyone anymore because we'll all have moved on, but it will still be the same. The thing is, once you accept that a place is fluid, that people are interchangeable, and visiting is always the correct antidote, it's fine. Iowa City can stand on its own in my mind. This morning before my favorite shop opened, a good friend of mine (Sarah) and I grabbed a warm beverage and chatted up one another about what this town has meant to us, how we are or were ready to move on from it, and how we're going to embrace everything it gives us. College towns do that. They have this warm, cozy up next to it feel, just as much as they have a cyclical, "get outta here and see the world" vibe. And we love it.

The only down beat is that the weather is cyclical too, and to really enjoy Iowa you have to remember and accept that it might snow at the end of March two weeks before Easter. It's a cruel weather world out there, regardless of which Midwestern town you've stumbled upon.