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I’m Amanda. I live in a tiny cabin tucked between hundred year old redwoods with my two dogs and partner. I’m a homebody, professional beginner and deep feeler. I’m filled to the brim with words. Too many, once you get me going. I love a good story and always have a journal, chapstick and a book at an arms length.
Birthday parties are a sore subject for me. When you’re young and your parents plan them for you, they’re the best thing in the world second only to Christmas. Gone are the days of inviting your entire class with everyone happily leaving with a party bag and frosting-colored lips. In junior high, the invitations dwindled, but it was high school where my relationship with my birthday became more complicated.
In between periods my sophomore year, I was told about a friend’s surprise party. Her parents planned it a week after her actual birthday knowing it would catch her off guard. Seeing as we had a few mutual friends and it would land on the night of my actual 16th birthday, I had a sneaking suspicion it would serve as a double surprise for us both. A perfect explanation for the lack of well wishes splashed on balloons or bouquets of flowers at school. My friends efforts to throw me off the scent was genius.
The night of the surprise party, I was one of the last guests to arrive at El Mariachi. My entrance coincided with the celebrant’s so we walked in together. After screams and applause, her father requested I move out of the way so he could catch his daughter’s full surprise on video. Little did he know, he’d also capture the moment of pure disappointment on my face. Looking around there were mostly a sea of strangers. Seated at the long table were her soccer teammates and relatives—even an old childhood friend flew out for the occasion. I stewed silently over my cheese quesadilla and refried beans, far too embarrassed to explain why I was so solemn. After our party got final drink refills, her proud parents and best friend clinked glasses to share a toast followed by a public gift-opening. Personally, I never really understood the need to open them at a party when you’re over the age of seven.
Luckily for us guests, only one gift was presented to the lady of the hour. I assumed the small box would reveal a piece of Tiffany’s jewelry or a sentimental family heirloom dating back generations. Inside was something every sixteen year old desired – freedom in the form of a shiny car key. The chorus of “oh’s” and “ah’s’” carried over to outside of the parking lot. Guests surrounded her brand new Toyota 4Runner tied with a bow. It was reminiscent of Valentine’s and Christmas car commercials where the recipient walks out to their driveway in near tears. For different reasons, I held back my own in the back of the crowd half expecting a hidden camera to pop out in front of me. While my peers threw elaborate sweet 16 birthday parties at golf clubs or got surprised with cars in public parking lots, there I was wishing to crawl into a hole like Molly Ringwald in Sixteen Candles.
Assuming that my parents’ planning responsibilities would somehow be taken over by friends, I thought mentioning my birthday to a group of them a few weeks ahead of time would suffice. My social circle at the time was out of convenience carried over from middle school. The two core people I was closest to moved away leaving me lightly tethered to the remaining group. Also keep in mind it was the early 2000’s, a social media-free time that had yet to keep tabs on important dates. I should’ve spoken up more. Or made better friends.
To compensate for a disappointing 16th birthday, I decided to make a bigger deal out of my 18th by throwing a fancy dinner party. I made invitations on Microsoft Word answering the classic details of: What, Where, When in swirly font. Suggested attire: cocktail. Eighteen is a milestone in Filipino culture. Many girls have a cotillion, a “coming of age” party similar to a quinceañera or bat mitzvah. I passed out over a dozen invitations by hand throughout the school day. I was most excited to give one to the crush I exchanged flirty texts with here and there. Since he wasn’t familiar with my friend group, I invited this girl we shared a History class with hoping to make him feel more comfortable.
On the night of my party, my crush texted saying he’s sick and could no longer make it. The table reserved at the Cheesecake Factory for 12 looked awfully big for our party of 4. I was embarrassed for putting myself out there but felt even worse the following Monday. A little birdie told me his sudden illness was really an excuse. He and the girl I invited ditched my dinner to hang out together instead.
The 1963 Leslie Gore hit, It’s My Party (and I’ll Cry if I Want to) was an accurate soundtrack to my formative years. It spoke to the pouty kid who indulged in feeling sorry for herself. I felt comfort from it.
With the scars (mostly) healed over, I can appreciate the irony and laugh about it all now. I retell my once horror stories as if it’s a scene in a comedy flick staring Ben Stiller. His endearing characters you can’t help but pity were relatable. But for years that followed, I let birthdays pass without fanfare. You’re far less likely to be disappointed that way.
With a Spring birthday falling perfectly between a long Memorial Day weekend, I prefer to enjoy things that bring me outdoors and out of my head. No RSVPs to hand out, unworthy crushes to dwell over or existential crises to speak of. Since I’ve reached my 30’s, I no longer put pressure on anyone but myself to make the day special. Call it a reclaiming of my power. Aging is a privilege and I honestly look forward to my birthday, again. Don’t get me wrong I still cry, but not nearly as much as I used to.
I love vacations. I prefer to maximize all the sights and smells by traveling on foot. It’s the best way to get to know a new city. The best feeling after overstimulating the senses is sinking into a hotel bed. There’s nothing like settling into sheets pulled tight underneath a cloud-like duvet. The thermostat reading 5-10 degrees cooler than what it’s typically set at back home. Black-out curtains drawn. They’re the perfect conditions for recharging after a full day of exploring. It’s a luxury I’d love to recreate at home and until recently never prioritized.
I’ve grown accustomed to a less than average bed set-up. The twin bed in my childhood room was superseded with a twin extra long mattress in the dormitories. Like most college students, I excelled at staying up late and sleeping in. A blue economical springless mattress was at least a step-up from friends’ floors and couches.
For over a year, Jordan and I regularly refilled a double air mattress in our first apartment together. By morning it was 80% deflated. Once we adopted Forest, we layered extra blankets as protection so her paws wouldn’t puncture a hole through it. I’d hold my breath any time she’d change positions anticipating a loud “pop” in the middle of the night.
Nothing made us feel more adult than the day we replaced the inflatable pool toy with a real mattress. The best we could manage at the time was the cheapest offering at IKEA. Jordan, myself and two dogs would try our best each night to not be the last one in our full bed. Similar to the wobbly table, it was intended to be a starter piece. Before we knew it, a “couple years” turned into a decade.
Towards the last few years together, I’d wake up with hip and back pain that I wrongly blamed on turning 30. No amount of yoga and stretching would alleviate the dull-ache I had throughout the day. Mornings were always toughest. I wasn’t prepared to admit the shelf-life of our $100 mattress was long past-due.
Moving into our house in Georgia (and out of our four floor walk up cabin in California) finally gave me the motiviation for an upgrade. Big names in the mattress community like Casper, Tempurpedic and Purple punched me in the gut with sticker shock. With the help of discount codes, I still couldn’t wrap my mind around it. Quality mattresses are an investment. A third of our lives are spent sleeping. Yet spending upwards of $1k at one time on something unrelated to travel or rent made me queasy.
My thinking was simple, anything would be an improvement to the dusty IKEA relic we currently were sleeping on. Maybe one day we’ll own a fancy king Sleep Number bed where the dogs can stretch out their limbs along the mattress and not our faces. But temperature regulation and trendy podcast sponsors aren’t the only markers of quality brands.
After some research, I landed on a gel mattress with over 100k reviews and a 4+ star Amazon rating. It was the next best thing to going in store and testing out mattresses ourselves. Shipping was free with a fair return window. It was delivered in a tall skinny box you would never imagine held a mattress inside. I proudly set it up on my own.
The verdict: There is no doubt an improvement to our sleep since we made the switch. The queen mattress brought more precious real estate and a breath of fresh air into our room. My bones are less creaky in the morning. It’s a perfectly good mattress. The firmness would be by one critique. My expectations were to sink into a luxurious hotel bed, falling asleep with a satisfied grin on my face like they do in commercials. I briefly considered exchanging it for something softer but the thought alone of trying to fit in its original box and take it to a UPS broke me out in a sweat. The truth is, what usually makes a hotel bed so comfy are the accessories: quality pillows, soft and breathable sheets, a fluffy pillow topper. Freshly laundered and always neatly made. If a humble Hampton Inn can turn their beds into a luxury experience, so can we.
A mattress topper arrived at my doorstep in less than 24 hours. Offering an extra layer of comfort and protection, its soft cooling fabric was the extra umph our mattress needed. I was really impressed at the low effort/high impact improvement I felt within the first night.
Paired with a sleep machine and silk eye mask, I’m getting better sleep than I did as a teenager. Conquering a good night’s rest makes me feel capable of so much. What’s next? Purchasing a home?? Maybe a post for another time (and perhaps another decade or so).
I don’t always make New Year’s resolutions. However, when I do, drinking more water and flossing often find their way onto the list. Despite these seemingly manageable goals, there are days when I fall short of achieving them.
I abandoned the idea of resolutions in 2024 in favor of adopting a ‘word of the year’—the prominent heading on my mood board, so to speak.
My chosen word is ‘FLOW.’ I aspire to embody the attributes of a steady stream: calm, fluid, and adaptable. These are qualities I greatly admire in others. Being in the presence of someone comfortable in their own skin puts me at ease as well. I’ve observed that life appears smoother for those who navigate challenges with grace. It’s not that they are impervious to misfortune, but rather, they possess the ability to pivot and problem-solve when faced with the unexpected.
The moments of greatest struggle for me occur when I resist change and stubbornly cling to expectations. My mind has a tendency to magnify minor inconveniences or irritating tasks, turning them into towering mountains that seem far more daunting than necessary. I tend to overcomplicate matters, becoming avoidant as a defense mechanism. Over the years, I’ve talked myself out of facing difficult challenges outside of my comfort zone.
This year, I am committed to making a conscious effort to flow with change instead of resisting it. I aim to navigate through narrow paths, brushing against the rocks and emerging on the other side relatively unscathed. It’s about less overthinking and more doing. Desmond Tutu’s wise words resonate: ‘There is only one way to eat an elephant: a bite at a time.’ A subtle shift in perspective can transform challenging situations into opportunities to seize—or, at the very least, into just another small task.
2023 proved to be emotionally taxing, a period I now dub as the year of impermanence. Within a span of 48 hours, I faced the heartbreaking loss of two dear people in my life. Additionally, a family member received a cancer diagnosis for the fourth time and is currently undergoing demanding chemotherapy. My cherished companion, Forest, my sweet soul dog, is gracefully approaching her 12ish years, and the signs of aging become more apparent each day. On a personal level, my own health issues surfaced unexpectedly during a routine doctor’s visit, adding another layer of complexity to my challenges. Amidst these upheavals, I experienced the unsettling act of uprooting from a place where I was deeply connected to. Life had never felt more uncertain, and the fragility of health loomed large. I was hanging on by a thread, navigating a dark room with a profound sense of solitude.
I find myself drawn to the word FLOW because of its versatility, seamlessly applicable in various situations: from celebrating joyful moments to embracing new experiences and overcoming challenges. It serves as my North Star. Embracing the flow of life prevents me from getting stuck in a slump for too long. Life unfolds as a series of peaks and valleys. Swimming with the current how you reach steady waters.
Flow embodies movement, yet it also emphasizes the importance of knowing when to be still. Initially, I believed that practicing daily yoga, indulging in reading as a cherished pastime, and ensuring a full night’s sleep were sufficient measures for self-care. It wasn’t until I contracted Covid in November that I realized my body and mind resisted embracing true rest. Throughout my adult life, I viewed rest as a reward earned only after being productive. Taking a break in the middle of the day without exerting physical activity or a full workday seemed inconceivable, especially with errands and household chores looming over me. To do lists are my achilles heel. Those 4-5 days of being incapacitated and the subsequent weeks of sluggishness and mental fog prompted a rewiring of my perspective. I learned to prioritize napping when my body required it and indulge in mindless entertainment without seeking permission. The dishes and chores could wait. It felt good to rediscover the joy of convalescing on the couch, reminiscent of the days spent as a kid home sick from school. December turned out to be eventful, with half of it spent away from home. Considering the surge in Covid and flu cases, I’ve decided to embrace my rest era. I’ve become more attuned to listening to my body, recognizing that slowing down is my version of preventative health.
Ever since embracing the concept of “flow,” I’ve integrated it into my daily check-ins. I regularly assess how I’m feeling in the moment and consider what I can do to recenter myself. Recently, I navigated a lengthy work meeting effortlessly—even as new tasks were added to my plate. I held onto my favorite mantra: “one bite at a time.” In my yoga session, I consciously flowed, breathing deeper and slower through the parts I typically rush through. This weekend, I immersed myself in a new book, relishing every page penned by my favorite writer.
The terms “thriving” and “surviving” have become somewhat cliché, causing a reflexive flinch in response. They present a binary view, an either/or scenario, with little room for the nuances in between. Much of where we find ourselves on this spectrum is dictated by circumstances beyond our control. For me, the sweet spot lies in the act of flowing.
Flowing is a dynamic verb, embodying flexibility and complete presence—whether navigating the joys, enduring discomfort, or finding beauty in the mundane. In a state of flow, I hold onto things lightly, allowing for pivots and embracing life’s surprises.
This year, I aim to shift the focus away from mere accomplishments, and instead, emphasize the concept of evolving. Choosing a word of the year serves as a guiding prompt amid life’s inevitable chaos. I can always reach for the light switch to avoid sitting in the dark for long.
Leaving California for Georgia wasn’t a journey I expected to embark on willingly. After Santa Cruz, everywhere seemed like a hard sell. The picturesque, coastal town dotted by mountains and redwoods is close to perfect. A seven year stint was long enough to feel like a local but short enough to maintain a twinkle in my eye when the special things became routine. Magic was easy to spot in my neighborhood. I was convinced anywhere else would fall short.
Academia is a competitive job market to enter. Jordan spread his applications across the country. We both assumed the hiring process would be a long one with the possibility of reapplying into the following semester or year. We’ve seen it happen before but neither of us minded. It bought us more time in the place we loved.
Things moved quicker than expected. He accepted a job offer in July while still interviewing with a few other schools. We only had a month to pack up our lives and move across the country.
Under normal circumstances, a partner earning their PhD and entering a career in a field they love would call for celebration. Well-intentioned congratulations and best wishes from loved ones were undercut with grief. Sadness became coupled with guilt. Georgia wasn’t either of our top picks. For me, it was a breakup that didn’t end on my terms. I left kicking and screaming.
In 2016, Jordan accepted a spot in a philosophy PhD program where we made a similar journey in reverse. From North Carolina to California, we packed the little we had into the trunk of my car with Forest and Hunter in the backseat. Each day we’d unzip the tent door to a different state. Not having a forwarding address or hardly any belongings to my name was romantic. My fearless mid-20’s mentality left me without a care in the world. What occupied that space of wonder in my thirties was an aching homesickness I couldn’t shake. I cried halfway across the country.
A big part of my identity was wrapped in the woods. The slow lifestyle. The 600 square ft cabin. Towering redwoods. The smell of fresh pine stabilized my nervous system. Without these things, I was unmoored. In no mood to rough it in my delicate state, we booked whatever dog-friendly hotel we could find off the highway.
Jordan’s career aside, we wanted to be closer to family. Georgia was the conveniently situated “in between” of loved ones: Mine rooted in Florida; Jordan’s in South Carolina. They were our North Star during the weary journey.
My sweet in-laws generously offered their cozy book-shelf walled guest room until we found a place to land. Immediately I unpacked our bedspread and my favorite candle. If you can’t sleep in your own bed, sleeping on familiar smelling sheets is the next best thing.
His family lives two and a half hours from Atlanta in a beautiful rural wooded area similar to our old neighborhood. Loved ones were in my periphery and, once again, so were the Applalachian mountains. Despite working remotely, those few weeks almost felt like vacation. A time to heal and regain my footing. Under the same warm roof, we shared home cooked meals, long walks and movie nights in between searching Zillow.
The first couple of houses we toured were immediate “no’s”. One smelled so strongly of smoke that I had a headache by the time I got to the bedrooms. We drove past another desolate-looking listing where every other house on the street had a boarded up window or foreclosure sign. The third house was tucked in a suburb similar to the ones we grew up in in Florida— insert: generic plazas, cookie cutter houses and manicured lawns. A copy and paste of what we were hoping to avoid.
We decided to regroup at a coffee shop. Navigation routed us to a charming town outside of Atlanta. Suddenly we were canopied under miles of tree-lined streets and parks on every corner. The “Welcome to Decatur” sign was a marking of green space, quaint local businesses and so many people out walking their dogs. It reminded me of Stars Hollow and for the first time since leaving California, I could picture laying down roots. We narrowed our Zillow search moving our target closer to the area we just discovered— a town I later learned is known for their local festivals and impressive dining scene. A coffee shop brought us to Decatur. The strong sense of community made us want to stay.
A listing for a mid-century redbrick popped up on my Zillow notifications like Christmas morning. Because of the walkability to the town square, the landlord was only showing the property that weekend. We eagerly hopped on the opportunity and were the second to schedule a tour. All the houses running along the historic neighborhood were unique– a mixture of charming Tudors, bungalows and artisan homes with a few modern flips in the mix. It was the type of neighborhood Jordan and I would seek out on “date-walks” dating back to college. He’d have his coffee, I’d peek into people’s gardens while playing hypothetical House Hunters. Here we were, doing it in real life.
A good energy surrounded the house as soon as we stepped inside. It had 3x more square footage than our cabin— more space than we knew what to do with. The mostly blank canvas was broken up by a powder blue Jack- and-Jill bathroom and baby pink main bathroom hinting at its age. It was like a nod to our quirky 70’s avocado tub in the cabin. Old houses have character. Stories that give it life. I wanted so badly to be a small part of this one. During the tour we learned the property manager studied Philosophy at Harvard. It was our in. He and Jordan geeked out about their dissertations and mutual acquaintances in the field. I really think it made our application stand out.
It’s no surprise that Jordan would acclimate to the change of scenery. All the moving he’s experienced in childhood set him up to be a pro at adapting. He could be happy anywhere. It’s one of the traits I admire most about him. Letting go and starting fresh never came as natural, personally. I find change terrifying, even when it’s good for me. I was convinced my adjustment would take months to a year, if at all.
In the funny way life works, the uncertainty I packed with me from Santa Cruz melted away into excitement. With house keys in hand, I could exhale. Nesting with sentimental reminders of home mixed with lucky Facebook marketplace finds filled the blank space with so much warmth. Looking around, it felt like us. I’m enjoying the process of watching the place come together, room by room.
My new town shares a lot of things I loved about Santa Cruz and even checks off a few boxes that Santa Cruz was missing. The dogs now have the backyard I always promised them. We can walk to breakfast and grab coffee in the time it took to drive out of our old neighborhood to the nearest stoplight. I’ve seen family more in a few months than I’ve been able to in years. So far, we’ve celebrated a few birthdays and Thanksgiving together. The “just cause” visits have been the biggest luxury. Moving at the cusp of summer and fall helped expedite the transition. My mood is always better during the -ber months. A long time dream of mine was to live in a festive neighborhood that shares a love of Halloween. I lost count of the trick or treaters that stopped at our doorstep. Currently, Christmas trees are glowing from almost every window.
I traded 100 year old redwoods for impressive maples that gleam orange. I didn’t learn this until recently but they call Atlanta the city in a forest. As Gilbert, a wise prior neighbor said before the move, “the way to look at change is not a matter of better or worse, just different.”
Uprooting as an adult has taught me that magic can be found anywhere, even the places we don’t anticipate. The more we’re willing to look, the more we’re bound to find it. Decatur opened my heart to change in a way I could’ve easily overlooked.
A common occurrence when I lived in the cabin was feeling a rush of bittersweetness before a vacation. Regardless of where I was going or for how long, there was an intense eagerness to come home. To get back to my life and the nest. It was my litmus test that I lived somewhere special and that was never more true than in California. The feeling resurfaced recently when I left town for a cousin’s wedding. I couldn’t wait to get back to the comforts of the redbrick and neighborhood date walks. To visit our local bagel shop where they know our order. Just four months ago, I doubted that feeling would return. I’ve never been more happy to be wrong.
My closet has remained relatively consistent for the last decade. I don’t hop on every trend like in my college days when I’d take on a new personality with every outfit. I know what I like and stick to it. Most of my wardrobe purchases I’ve made on a whim usually ends up in a bout of buyers remorse. The items often get returned within 48 hours and my indecision to buy anything becomes more crippling.
The moment I locked eyes with a pair of bold green Steve Madden ankle boots on my IG feed, I saw myself. Not the Amanda who reaches for the same 3-4 outfits out of habit but the bold expressive Amanda who took fashion risks and got excited to dress up for no reason at all. I missed that girl.
A screenshot in my camera roll of the emerald kicks dates back to last September. Eight months later I added them to my birthday wishlist (thanks, Mom). My usual rule of thumb when thrifting is if I’m still thinking about them the next day, to go back for it. When purchasing new, I try to extend the rule to a more intentional timeline. The approach is serving me well.
Christmas came in the Summer. Ripping open the package was similar to being five again and sliding on my tap shoes for the first time. To the annoyance of my parents, I’d click around our tile floor for hours. My instinct was right to size-up. The block heel and extra wiggle room made the leather “break in” period totally manageable. An hour or two of wearing them around the house with thick socks melded them to my feet effortlessly. I guess it also helped that I would throw them on to walk the dog or go to the park. They came with me on errands. I gained a noticeable pep in my step doing the most mundane activities and an excitement that I didn’t remember clothes could bring out in me. Comfort and great quality aside, I was impressed with the vibrant color that was true to the photo on Steve Madden’s site. The great thing about western style boots is they often look cooler the longer you have them. A little dirt and wear and tear will do them good. In the meantime, I love the brightness they bring to every outfit. The steel-toe adds a badness-ness. They elevate my most basic monochrome outfits into a playful more put-together look. I’ll be making an excuse to wear them year-round.
With my cherished long-time coming green birthday boots, I’ve racked up more compliments on them than I have any other item in my wardrobe. I walk into a room with a little more pizazz. A moving conversation starter. Everyone deserves a go-to statement piece that gives them confidence to shake up their sleepy wardrobe. Fashion should be fun. Find your version of green boots and wear them proudly. You look fab!
A friendly cafe employee complimented my wobbly table tattoo the other day. I told her about my blog when she asked the inevitable question, “what does it signify?”. When hit with the follow up question of what I write about, my shaky response surprised me “it’s, uhh…a lifestyle blog – I write book reviews and monthly recommendations… pretty random stuff.” The innocent exchange shook up my insecurities. Distracted from the plate of food in front of me, I fell down the self-inflicted rabbit hole. What do I write about?
Truth is, after publishing 50 posts I still don’t know the answer. There’s not a succinct elevator pitch in my back pocket for moments like these. “Pick a lane” is as commonly thrown around as how important it is to “stay in it.” I’ve never felt great about the expressions limiting undertones. As if we should only stick to one thing and not change course. What if we find a highway exit that interests us? Every writer has a unique perspective, maybe that’s more important than the genre of stories we tell.
A little while back, I turned the question around using the pink bubble-lettered “NGL” app and asked Instagram friends to write in anonymously. My goal was to do as the app requires, “not gonna lie.” It doubled as a fun prompt idea and unknowingly got me closer to figuring out my “why?”
Where do you want to be in 5 years?
I’m unsure where I’ll even be next year. What I do hope is for my baseline to be at ease. At ease in my relationships, my lifestyle, my routines. An ease at trying new things. I don’t drink the hustle culture kool-aid. I don’t thrive off a full calendar. I hope wherever I am in five years, it’s a place of comfort and a willingness to start over. Sitting in a cushiony reading chair with Jordan and a couple dogs at my side unconcerned about what’s ahead sounds pretty wonderful to me.
Who’s your worst enemy?
I have a drama-free existence compared to my reckless twenties when I let anyone walk into my life like a revolving door. Thanks to the pandemic, my tolerance for luke-warm relationships let alone toxicity is pretty non-existent.
Only one person comes to mind when I read the question. Let’s call them, Karen. Every workplace has one, right?
A scene in Madmen will forever be etched in my mind. A colleague of Don Draper confronts him in an elevator after a heated meeting. Don’s response is probably the best comeback in tv history. You thought Game of Thrones or Succession were ruthless? What’s better than telling off an adversary? Hitting them with “I don’t think about you at all.” *walks away without looking back*
Introvert or extrovert?
Outwardly I may appear as an extrovert but I’m an introvert in my bones. When I’m not being a homebody, I much prefer intimate gatherings and one on one catch-ups. The idea of jumping around from conversation to conversation or having to be the loudest in the room to be heard is exhausting.
What’s your dream house?
Living in a treehouse is a dream. The cabin we’re currently in is full of character and checked off so many boxes I didn’t even know I had.
As far as the checklist of my future dream home: a yard for the dogs, a bay window with a bench seat, a fireplace, charming little nooks and crannies for storage. A close proximity to nature will always be a high priority. Every home carries an energy. It may sound woo-woo but I truly believe home is a feeling.
Did you have an imaginary friend?
I’m positive I did but there’s not a specific imaginary friend that sticks out. My stuffed animals were as alive and real to me as the kids in my class. Aside from a dog, I wished for a sister growing up. I daydreamed over what they would look and sound like and all the advice they’d bestow onto me. When I realized girlfriends can become sisters, I stopped needing to daydream. (Also worth noting, my brother is my best friend now and I couldn’t have asked for a better sibling).
What’s self-love look like to you?
Thank you to the person who asked. Self love looks like gassing myself up before a big task. Reaching for a book instead of my phone. Letting myself rest without the silly idea that it should be earned first. Self-love is going to that thing alone and enjoying my own company. And probably most relevant these days, not taking everything so damn personally.
Self-love looks a lot like being my own best friend.
What keeps you going?
Sometimes writing is therapeutic, sometimes it’s more like pulling teeth. What keeps me going is what got me started. The creative spark.
I’m a writer regardless of how often I publish posts or whether I have a certain amount of people reading my work. Taking that unnecessary pressure off makes keeping up with my blog a much more enjoyable and sustainable process.
Whenever I’m knee-deep in a creative slump, I remind myself that if I have nothing to write about, I’m not paying close enough attention.
Rick Ruben was brought up in a meeting recently. The prolific American music producer wrote a book called The Creative Act. The opening chapter gave me chills (and tears to match.)
“Those who do not engage in the traditional arts might be wary of calling themselves artists. They might perceive creativity as something extraordinary or beyond their capabilities. A calling for the special few who are born with these gifts.
Fortunately, this is not the case.
Creativity is not a rare ability. It is not difficult to access. Creativity is a fundamental aspect of being human. It’s our birthright. And it’s for all of us.”
The Creative Act: A Way of Being by Rick Rubin
Who you tryna get with?
Honestly, I expected more questions in this category. Maybe the next AMA will be more spicy. I welcome it.
I’ve had a crush on you for years and you still don’t know.
The HBO true-crime drama is about a suburban Dallas love-affair that ended with a brutal axe murder. The show doesn’t reveal the victim or killer until a few episodes in. As a viewer unfamiliar with the story in the 70’s, my suspicions oscillated from scene to scene. The last show that bubbled over with this much tension was another HBO gem, Mare of Eastown.
Elizabeth Olsen’s captivating performance stole every scene. She’s somehow likable even when her character, Candy isn’t meant to be and tows the line between subtle humor and drama effortlessly.
The other star of the series is the set and costume design, plopped into a dreamy seventies Pinterest board. Candy’s house is basically a character in the show. I regularly hit pause to relish in the yummy details of the floral wallpapers, wood paneling, mid-century furniture, and statement curtains. A red front door with three panel windows add to the charming curb appeal. I didn’t expect a true crime drama to offer me home inspiration but here we are.
If you’re a fan of aesthetically pleasing interiors, well-paced storytelling and the talented work of an Olson sibling, Love & Death should be your next binge-watch.
Antique glasses
The 60’s & 70’s were a golden time for music, fashion and one of my current obsessions: kitchenware. They have a sensibility opposite of fancy china collecting dust in a cupboard. Earthy colors, playful patterns, and sturdiness make them as practical as they are a piece of artwork meant for display. All the beautiful pyrex floating around in Estate sales and eBay prove they were built to last.
Finding a fun vessel to drink from helps tremendously in my mission to stay hydrated. I acquired a vintage set of four checkered glasses adorned with a row of sweet tulips around the rim. I’ll be reaching for them every Summer.
Compared to my mason jars and mix matched mug collection, the glass set fits in with my groovy floral plates- not overly matched but definitely from the same party.
Antiquing everyday functional items feels like the most responsible form of shopping. Sipping from the checkered glass makes water taste more fresh. Dish-washing less cumbersome. They’re worth breaking my 24 hour or less drying rack rule. I’m no longer in a rush to put them away.
A summery PJ Set
Most of my matching pjs are fall and winter specific. The long sleeves and pants stamped with a fun holiday theme mark my favorite time of year.
In the warmer months, I default to sleeping in baggy t-shirts and boy shorts long past their prime. A Target set consisting of a cropped tank and matching shorts with flirty frills has been a seasonably appropriate to my dresser. The buttery light-weight cotton feels surprisingly more luxurious than to what the $15 price-tag alludes to. For the time being, it’s the closest I’ll get to cashmere sleepwear. As a professional homebody, it’s nice to throw on a pj set and feel instantly put together. I’ll slowly piece together a few more flowy pieces to my wardrobe once the temps start to climb. Until then, I’m wearing the grey number on repeat.
Butter Candle
Another candle made it onto my happy-list, but it’s not one I have the heart to burn. Its sole purpose is to look adorable on my fireplace mantle for as long as humanly possible. Why a butter candle? For the last handful of years, I’ve adopted an obsession with sourdough bread. While everyone was obsessed with baking with their homemade starter during the pandemic, I was simply enjoying eating it nearly everyday with salted butter for breakfast. Kerrygold salted butter is my drug of choice. The hyper-fixation of toast and butter replaced the once reigning avocado toast breakfast. Sometimes simpler is better.
The social media algorithms somehow caught wind of my habit after an ad appeared on my explore page. Urban Outfitters target ads got me good. It’s true to size and even felt about the 5 ounce weight of a stick of butter. A perfect replica. I think everyone should have things in their house that are a little silly and random. It’s the details that differentiate a Crate & Barrel catalogue from a lived-in space. We all want our house to feel like a home. I aspire to find a version of the butter candle in every room of mine.
BobaX Ice Cream
About a decade ago, I tried Boba tea for the first time. I was in Orlando, interning at Disney World with two buddies. It obviously made a lasting impression to remember where I was and who I was with. At the time, it wasn’t common to come across boba shops the way you can now. In Central California specifically you can find them as commonly as smoothie and juice joints. With all the shops popping all over town, I’ve come to realize, not all boba is created equally.
BobaX’s texture is bouncy and creamy. It’s similar to the consistency of gelato but with more chewiness thanks to the tapioca. Nutty rich Double Espresso pairs perfectly with the high quality boba texture and crushed coffee beans. Jordan’s pick of Gooey Fried Banana was basically a decadent pint of banana bread. I really love their thoughtfully diverse flavor selection. Mango Chamoy and Salted Ube Smore offer a breath of fresh air in the frozen food aisle. I’m excited to try both of those next.
Dare I say BobaX ice cream rises to the level of some of the best boba I’ve ever had. It’s a good thing I’ve only seen the brand carried at Sprouts. An hour drive is a big enough barrier to prevent me from regularly clearing out their weekly supply.
Anyone who knows me, knows I’m a Fall gal. I try to hang onto the crisp cozy feeling by stocking up on every variety of pumpkin, maple and cinnamon-y scented candle once they go on post-Thanksgiving super sale. An easy justification for having a special cabinet dedicated to candles is how often we lose power. A new candle entered my life in the Target aisle: a little sweet, but not overpowering. Fresh, but not soap-y. An invigorating aroma that made my mouth water. The Salted Lemon Meringue Pie by Chesapeake Bay is the first candle to lead me astray from my signature warm-spice scents. Truth is, I wouldn’t hesitate to order it if I saw it on a dessert menu. The bright seasonal mood in the cabin when I flick a match pairs well with the sunshine and slight breeze outside. Lemon bars, lemon flavored- yogurt, limon-cello La Croix, lemon in pasta and doused over avocados. I want it all. It’s the fruit of the season. Why not enjoy their invigorating smell on demand?
Fresh herbs:
My affinity for lemon and its enhancement in many dishes lends itself to another kitchen obsession: fresh herbs. There was a special weekend plant sale inside a big open barn on UCSC’s campus. Varieties of pumpkin, squash, peppers, and tomato plants were tempting me but as is usualy the case, a critter will enjoy them before we can. Instead we went for something that flourishes indoors and doesn’t take up a ton of space. We picked up fennel, chives, and two kinds of basil (sweet thai and Mrs. Burns Lemon). Something about Spring gives me the urge to cook fresh meals and the aromatic additions will give me so much more motivation to experiment in the kitchen. Not to mention, I always dreamed of keeping fresh herbs on a windowsill. Goal accomplished.
Sprocket Printer:
While roaming Pike Place Market in Seattle, a maker was selling his handcrafted leather bound journals with recycled cloth paper. To give us a feel of the unique weight and texture, he generously handed me his personal journal. Accompanied with a curvy scroll, mini-pictures of beautiful landscapes were adoring every few pages. He shared how much he loves his Bluetooth thermal printer. Perfect for traveling and capturing moments on the spot, he explained how it’s completely improved the way he journals. I immediately resonated with his excitement in documenting life in a tactile way. For $25 bucks you get a box of 2×3” 50 sheets with a sticky backing. If you don’t want to commit to adhering them, you can keep the sheet on. Jordan and I ordered one after we returned from our trip and we already know it’s one of the best purchases we’ll make this year. You can chose filters before printing the pocket-size photos. I made one black and white but also love to print them as is because they already have a kind of vintage sheen to them. My favorite memories are much happier out in the wild than lost in my camera roll or floating in the Cloud.
Life Kit Podcast:
We’re all just figuring things out as we go. Life Kit offers listeners digestible tips on a spectrum of topics regarding friendship, travel, finances and personal style. There’s something for everyone. Episodes are usually about 20 minutes or less which makes the information easy to process and allows me to retain what I learned. It’s also the perfect amount of time to drive into town or walk my dogs. For the indecisive type, I find the approachable format to be extremely informative, often touching and noncommittal. Some of my favorite recent listens are:
How to be a better movie watcher, according to film critics
Practicing the art of saying goodbye
Planning a trip? How to pack like a pro
5 things to remember when a friendship ends
Be an awesome gift giver
You can also learn super practical things like how to make the most of your tax returns, what to do when driving in a flash flood and how to beat extreme heat, when you’re channeling your inner responsible adult. Learning is meaningful and way less intimidating with Life Kit in your back pocket.
Most of my adolescence was spent avoiding the spotlight. One day in a student government meeting, the fresh paint fumes of my new high school gave me the temporary boldness to write my name on the sign-up ballot sheet.
The Class Historian combines similar duties to high school newspaper and yearbook. They’re responsible for writing narratives on school activities, taking photos and collecting keepsakes for the year with full creative reign. Between my long foray in journaling and scrapbooking, I’d basically been preparing for the position all my life.
As the title may have given away, the person who ran against me won.
Before I had a chance to take my campaign poster off the hallway wall, a blank space was left in the center where my photo once was. A second loss in one day.
The Postal Service album aptly titled “Give Up” served as the soundtrack to my self-pity. My peers offered some variation of “at least you tried” with sad eyes. At the time, their attempts to make me feel better did the opposite. I preferred a solo pity-party. The sooner my schoolmates forgot about it, I could too.
At sixteen, it was my most public setback. I could’ve easily withdrawn into myself and vowed to stay within my comfort zone but after ample wallowing there was a shift. In a similar logic to falling off a bike, taking that first big fall made risks seem less intimidating. Sure they can sting but I’ve bounced back from them before.
The following year, I landed a position as an Orientation Leader at my college. A year after that I was selected as a Resident Assistant. The public facing roles built my confidence back up and reminded me of my capability of strengthening a community. Not to mention the free room and board sweetened the deal.
“You don’t know, if you don’t try” is an adage that usually applies pre-risk and in hindsight. But I find it softens the blow in the face of failure, too. Trying (and failing) is a sign of growth. Gumption is a great side effect of aging. Behind every laughter line is more moxie than I had the year before.
If I waited until I was ready and 100% comfortable, I would’ve never committed my heart to a long-distance relationship or switched majors three quarters into college or auditioned to be a Disney princess (I’ll save that story for another time). To this day, I could’ve been tweaking my blog until it was “perfect” only to push out the release date indefinitely. Some of the most rewarding things in my life were born out of shaky hands. I’m sad to think of an alternate universe where I didn’t take leaps out of my comfort zone.
If social media went away, I’d still have years worth of journals and a box of postcards and letters to paint a picture of my life. The Wobbly Table Blog is an extension of record-keeping in the best way I know how. By virtue of picking up a pen or opening a new Word doc, I’m a self-historian.
I felt as exposed sharing my first blog post as I was waiting for the school election results. Is being vulnerable worth it? Will I fail publicly? Am I speaking into an empty room?
In the two years since I started The Wobbly Table, the blog community has been a supportive space. Members of WordPress are the kind of people I was searching for in high school. Fellow writers and readers are intentional with their time and are here because they chose to be.
A stranger recently came across my post about making friends on Bumble. She moved to a new town and was nervous to download the app. After reading my post, she commented that I had convinced her to go for it, “after all, everyone is on there looking for the same thing.” Perhaps what made it mean so much was that she had no obligation to read my words or interact with my writing. To know that I’ve inspired someone to take the leap is more than I hoped for from my little corner of the internet. Sixteen year old me would be proud.
At the end of every podcast episode of NPR’s Pop Culture Happy Hour, the hosts reveal one thing that’s “making them happy lately.” To help get me through the darker days of the pandemic, I adopted the idea and journaled about my personal faves. I’ve kept it up ever since. There’s enough to-do lists spilling over with errands and future goals, why not carry along a lighter list of current joys?
Maybe it’ll spread some happiness to you too? Continue reading if you enjoy randomness:
Dawn Platinum Powerwash dish spray: It feels appropriate to start off my faves by mentioning a recent upgrade to my spring cleaning. Thanks to Vanessa Amaro, a professional house-cleaner who’s amassed 1.3 million IG followers, I was influenced to use the spray as a multi-purpose cleaner beyond the confines of my kitchen sink. It’s as basic with ingredients as you can get: soap and water and some alcohol. No harsh smelly chemicals but all the strength of one. Don’t get me wrong, a good Lysol wipe down once a week is important. But this comes in handy in between mid-week cleanings or small messes. I look forward to busting out the blue bottle that leaves dishes and house hold surfaces spic and span. The best part is the versatility. I’m no longer concerned about which cleaners don’t mix well with each other or which don’t work for certain surfaces, Dawn Powerwash works with and on practically everything. If you’re low maintenance and love a fresh laundry smell, this cleaner will be your best buddy.
Dance 100: If you’re growing a little tired of reality love competition shows, Dance 100 makes for the perfect feel-good palette cleanser. The Netflix original features eight professional dancers competing for the $100,000 cash prize. They’re given a pre-selected song and must choreograph and dance each week with a growing number of performers starting at 15, 20 and eventually 100 dancers. I love looking behind the curtain into their rehearsals. Very few shows make me both smile from ear to ear and sweat from the couch. The interesting catch: the judges are the non-competing dancers who decide who goes home each week. The winner must not only be an impressive choreographer and dancer but equally as important is their leadership, creativity and storytelling abilities.
Quadratini: The fancy Italian packaging at my local grocery store didn’t initially catch my eye but I caved when I realized they carry them at Trader Joe’s. Something about the ringing bells and colorful homemade art puts me in an adventurous mood. I describe the hazelnut flavor as a cross between a Ferrero Rocher and a KitKat. They’re basically a candy but because they’re marketed more as wafer cookies, I allow myself to enjoy more than I probably should in a sitting. The balance of the light and airy wafer with a decadent filling will always be one of my favorite texture combos. Excited to try the lemon flavor next.
Madewell Perfect Vintage Wide Leg: I rarely reach for denim. I prefer softer materials with some stretch to them. Overalls, jumpers, dresses, sweatpants are my M.O.
The exception: the perfect vintage wide leg pant. I purchased a black denim pair a month ago and I’ve been wearing it multiple times a week. They’re great quality, comfortable and flattering on my 5’2 frame. The high waist and relaxed fit around the leg will never go out of style for me. The best part about a black denim is the versatility of dressing it up or down. I’ve even hiked in them! Also worth noting, if you shop in store, Madewell offers free hemming services and they can ship it to you within a week timeframe. Win-win.
Everyone has that thing on their thrifting radar. Lived-in leather shoes have been on mine lately. Instead of adding more articles of clothing to my wardrobe I found that when I slowly expand my shoe options, I naturally wind up wearing more outfits I love but avoided reaching for because they felt incomplete. A pair of sleek black cowboy-esque boots, chocolate brown square toe mules with a block heel, and a black timeless above-the-ankle boot have filled the gaps in my closet. You can never go wrong with interchangeable basics that carry you through multiple seasons. I’ve been sliding into the mules a lot lately. Soon I can ditch the socks and go bare-heeled.
Then there’s the item on your wishlist that you subconsciously look for but never expect to find. It’s at the center of your radar like an illusive bullseye. Under normal circumstances the perfect piece would take many man hours scouring on Facebook Marketplace or originate at a rare estate sale. Months or years can go by before it crosses your path. The process can’t be rushed.
Furniture is a rare purchase for me. We lugged our wobbly table and collapsible nightstand across the country. Both are preciously wabi sabi but not exactly special to look at. We’re lucky to have started off with the essentials. Our cabin came with a basic wood bed frame, dresser and a futon couch (an infamous style choice that I go more in depth about here: https://wordpress.com/post/thewobblytableblog.com/1838). The deck included a picnic table and lounge chairs handcrafted by our landlord.
The bones of our home have plenty of character. Between the wood-paneling and beams, yellow and brown 70’s floral tile kitchen, stone mantle behind a wood burning fireplace and the bold avocado-color tub in our bathroom, it didn’t take much to make the place cozy.
We haven’t replaced or amassed furniture because 1) we didn’t really need to and 2) the limited space. The center of our living room was an exception.
Near the dressing room at my regular thrift spot, a beautiful mid century modern coffee table was tucked in a corner. My radar alarm sounded off. In another life it could’ve been one-half of a pair of end-tables. Some hats and a scarf were strewn on top obstructing it’s shiny wood finish. Like a paleontologist digging for bones, I happened to be the lucky one to notice the uniquely carved legs and the potential underneath the clutter. A quick google search informed me of similar Lane Alta Vista pieces that retail for upwards $1k. At $25, I knew I had to act fast before I could get Jordan’s approval. I didn’t mind that I’d be carrying it up four flights of stairs by myself. The sore back would be worth it.
Jordan returned from a work trip pleasantly surprised with the living room upgrade. Despite its crazy affordability, it still felt like a big adult purchase. We never owned a coffee table in our previous places together. For years we used our window sill behind the couch to perch books, mugs and other odds and ends. Permanent coffee stain rings have become a part of the wooden ledge like our fingerprints on the cabin.
I love the asymmetrical lines and extra book storage. A delicate gold trim runs along the surface which give it a slightly sophisticated feel like a subtle nod to old Hollywood Glamour. I visualize the table sitting on the set of Mad Men accompanied with a dirty martini and crystal ashtray as jazz plays in the background. It can’t be far off from how it spent its hay day.
Finally, a statement piece that holds its own in the cabin.
The day felt like a blur. A cross between floating on a cloud and having an out-of-body experience. Maybe it was all the stimulation or a glass too much of champagne. Majority of the night I was on a five second delay. There’s pressure for your wedding to be the “best day of your life.” There’s pressure for it to be memorable for your friends and family, too.
I wish I remembered more, mingled more, had more photos. You trade in conversations with one guest for another, sacrifice eating a fluffy piece of wedding cake for time on the dance floor. The night was over in a flash and no matter how many times people told me to soak it all in and stay present, I couldn’t ignore the nagging desire to be at all places at once. For a long time, I held onto the idea that I fell short of my hostess duties; of checking in to make sure everyone was enjoying themselves and encouraging them to take multiple party favors home because we allotted for extras. Offering introductions to table mates and bringing up their mutual interests. Seeing guests off before they headed to the airport one by one. There wasn’t enough time or enough of me to go around.
Jordan and I celebrated our five year wedding anniversary over the weekend and with some distance, I can fully appreciate our wedding for what it was (not just what I was lacking). The day was unique and lively and tailor made for us.
More than half our guests came from out of state so it was important to me that they experience the redwoods we know and love. Luckily the hail from the morning cleared. Friends and family rode the vintage steam train at Roaring Camp to the top of Black Mountain. The thrifted carpet was my “something borrowed.” I walked down the aisle to The Beatles with my Mom and Dad and The Beach Boys hand in hand with Jordan.
Unbeknownst to our guests, Jordan accidentally ordered a ceramic urn instead of a pot for our tree-planting ceremony. An honest and hilarious mistake that I couldn’t get upset over. He and his brother ran to the hardware store to find a suitable replacement just on time. The tree we planted after our vows died within a year. Naturally we blamed the urn for its early demise. Neither of us had the heart to get rid of it. My eucalyptus crown is wrapped about the gold and blue urn. It’s sits in our bedroom collecting change, a sweet but kind of morbid memory that only we share.
MVP groomsmen of the evening
Prior to the toasts, we heard murmurings of there not being enough cork openers to spread around. Our groomsman, Chris, stealthily stepped in and opened every table’s champagne bottle with a knife. A fancy party trick he got to impress upon our guests. The sound of glass breaking followed by a roar of cheering and chuckles came from each table, charming Aunts from both sides of the family.
The highlight of the evening
A nostalgic mix of 60’s, 70’s and 90’s hits played under a sparkly disco ball. Late into the dancing, my bridesmaid and Leslie Knope to my Ann Perkins, Margaret made her way to the stage and serenaded me with a tipsy rendition of Mariah Carey’s “You’ll Always Be My Baby.” People swayed their arms, lighters in hand—a signal to the DJ to let her finish the impromptu performance. It was such a hit that another friend requested an encore for her wedding.
Notice my friend, Kat passed out in the middle chair. Needless to say her tacos got eaten.
At the end of the evening, our MVP groomsmen Chris placed a large order at Taco Bell where a group of us took over the Hilton lobby. I had never been so well-dressed eating a Cheesy Gordita Crunch. The stress of planning and the heady buzz of alcohol wore off and in its place was a steady stream of dopamine. I got the chance to properly catch up with my people. Old friends from out of town hit it off with newer friends from Santa Cruz. I didn’t need to play hostess. They were having a good time all on their own.
Two guests actually met at our wedding and are still dating to this day.
The mishaps and surprises helped shake me out of my overstimulated haze and into the present. They left the biggest thumbprints on our big day.
A traditional wedding where everything goes as planned sounds a little boring to me, anyway.
The decision to visit Seattle for our five year wedding anniversary was unanimous. Long before we could travel without supervision, Jordan and I felt a pull toward the city. What put it on the map for me was The Real WorldSeattle, circa 1998 For Jordan, it was a steady flow of alternative rock bands and indy music. If Disneyland is for the kids-at-heart, Seattle is the playground for the 90’s babies.
Coming out of the airport, it was like the volume got turned down a few notches, to an almost imperceptible chatter. I rarely heard the raucous of sirens, car horns and random TikTok clips blaring from strangers’ phones. Compared to other cities of its size, there was less hustle and bustle. Locals took more time chatting in line and getting to and from places. I think it’s a big reason why everyone was so friendly. A hospitable clerk at a clothing store eagerly offered to write a list of her favorite local spots. She even went through the trouble of going through my existing lists and made note of what we “couldn’t miss.” At the crosswalk someone complimented my outfit from their car window. The warm welcome into the city stretched throughout our stay. My sneaking suspicion is the gray skies and lush greenery puts folks at ease. When you’re relaxed, you’re naturally more open. And maybe the proximity to Canada came into play, too.
If I had to describe Seattle in one word, it would be approachable. I felt invited to be myself, to wear my checkerboard pants and beret with confidence, to chat with fellow storytellers and connect beyond small talk. At night, I felt safe walking down the unfamiliar streets that I was easily able to navigate by the next morning. Gloom may be the city’s M.O but I found so many vibrant things about it.
I love to wander. The best way to get to know a place is on foot and by eating your way through it. There’s not enough meals in the day when you’re in a foodie-city, here are the most notable food stops from our visit:
Hot Cakes (Ballard): Traveling throws my routine out of whack so we doubled down and stopped in for a pre-dinner dessert. The classy atmosphere matches the elevated menu. They’re known for adding their own spin on ice cream sandwiches, impressive pastries you would find on The Great British Bake-Off, and dessert cocktails. We decided to order the molten cake and ice cream. The cake was rich and moist with just the right amount of bitterness. Accompanying it, was a scoop of vanilla ice cream topped with delicious cocoa nib toffee in each bite. The nuttiness of the ice cream was top tier, it’ll be hard to look at other vanilla flavors the same again. Open from 4pm-11pm, Hot Cakes is the perfect date night for you and your sweetie.
La Panier (Pike’s Place Market): I’m always a little wary of super touristy areas but a long-time Seattle resident and friend reassured me that even locals frequent Pike’s Place.We strategically visited their farmer’s market on a Monday at the tail-end of off-season. The food stalls and restaurants that typically experience hour long waits were whittled down to 15 minute lines or less! La Panier is a French Bakery next door to the famous Russian bakery Piroshky Piroshky and the original Starbucks— probably the most lively strip of shops in the market. La Panier doesn’t have much of a seating area, which is fine with me because I love a pastry on the go. The man behind me in line mentioned whenever he’s in town visiting his daughter, he can’t resist stopping in for a raspberry croissant. I imagine it’s a crowd favorite because the customer in front of me ordered one, too. Since we planned on getting bites from several places, I kept to my plan of ordering one chocolate and one almond croissant. They also have a chocolate almond croissant, if you can’t decide. Each were flaky, buttery and well worth a long wait if you happen to visit the market on a busier day. Truth be told, almond was the winner but next time I’ll be trying the raspberry variety.
Beecher’s (Pike’s Place Market): Jordan’s name was written all over their famous mac n’ cheese made with penne pasta and a creamy white jack cheddar. He inhaled it so I only got the chance to try one bite. But who can blame him, it was packed with flavor and leaves a fun little peppery spice mingling on your tongue. Passersbys can stop and watch the staff masterly prepare cheese curds through a glass window. They still squeaked as we snacked on them, a sign of true freshness. Lucky for us, we were able to snag another container of curds at the airport that I made sure were split evenly.
Ramen DANBO (Capitol Hill): We couldn’t visit Seattle and not get a piping hot bowl of ramen. There’s no shortage of ramen and pho joints in the city, in fact I lost count of how many I came across on google maps. What I loved about Ramen Danbo was their extensive menu for vegetarians. Instead of having one broth to choose from, they offered a variety of four and even had a faux hard-boiled egg option for vegans. You could also personalize the spicy level and noodle texture to your liking. The place was packed but service was quick and efficient. After a particularly long day of meandering, it was really nice to feel the communal experience of slurping noodles on a cold night.
Plum Bistro (Capitol Hill): I wish I could convince the owners to open a Plum Bistro in Santa Cruz. They fill a gap in the market that I honestly think most U.S cities could benefit from. It’s a vegan and sustainable comfort food restaurant with American, Asian, Southern and Italian influence. Where else can you order a pimento cheese BLT and pesto gnocchi on the same menu? They also offer bahn mi, burritos and overflowing colorful salads. The ambiance was cozy and intimate enough that I could gaze at fellow patron’s meals—every plate was a piece of art. I know it may sound like a mish-mash concept but it works. The quality ingredients, excellent service and fancy presentation turned the dining experience into a show.
With the exception of Glossier, every shop I visited was local and had such a unique feel to them. Seattlites embrace an individualist style. I found myself taking notes of people twice my age as inspiration. I wish I could recall the names of all of the cool shops I visited but here are some standouts:
Ballard Furniture Consignment: Fresh after checking into our Airbnb, we stopped into Ballard Furniture Consignment and immediately daydreamed of how we would furnish our home if we lived in Seattle. The two story building was full of pieces that spanned decades and styles. Beyond the unique selection, there was an artistic sense of curation. Living room vignettes were put together tastefully. Items were in excellent condition. On the way in and out, happy customers were loading their cars with lamps, chairs and paintings so I get the sense the inventory moves quickly. If I lived locally, I would have such a fun time making monthly trips to see what’s “new.”
Fremont Antique Mall: After visiting the Fremont Sunday Antique Fair and the Fremont Troll (highly recommend both), we headed to the neighborhood’s downtown with an open mind for the rest of the day. Fremont was a neighborhood I didn’t know very much about so it felt very serendipitous that we stumbled upon an inconspicuous Antique Mall. The unassuming front door leads you downstairs to their basement and into a colorful treasure chest of the coolest vintage collectibles, clothes, accessories and furniture. Sprawling room after room of goodies spanning across 6,000 square feet of vendor space, I recommend giving yourself a generous amount of time to peruse.
Lifelong Thrift: The non-profit’s proceeds help to provide food, housing, and health needs to individuals with HIV/AIDS and other chronic conditions. Imagine the nicest Goodwill you’ve ever been to with a staff of stylists and interior designers, and voila! The store was spotless and organized and resembled more of a boutique. Everything I came across was under $30. I overheard numerous other shoppers mention a similar sentiment to their companions, “can you believe this only costs x?”, “This is something I would find at Nordstrom’s.” Despite the curated sheen, the racks were still full and plush for digging. The staff just makes the hunt a lot easier.
Elliot Bay Books: It’s not a vacation if I don’t check out a bookstore or two… or five. Similar to having a vacation soundtrack (for us, it was a lot of The Verve, Ben Folds Five and other 90’s gems), I love the idea of a fictional story mingling with your own memories from a trip. The atmosphere was inviting and cozy upon walking in. An added perk of Elliot Bay Books was the cool cafe attached to it, Oddfellows. Wood panel floors creak as you walk the aisles, people respectfully spoke in hushed tones similar to a library and there were plenty of communal tables that welcome you to stay a while. It reminded me of the really, really old days at Barnes and Noble when you could spend hours parked in a corner of the kids section under the carved out tree or cozy up at the cafe or bench by the magazines. I rarely feel encouraged to read in bookstores, that was always more of a library activity. I enjoyed taking my time in each aisle and letting myself be immersed in someone else’s shoes for a bit before buying them.
We couldn’t check off National or State parks on this trip since we didn’t rent a car. But I will definitely be saving places like Olympic National Park for the future. Turns out, you don’t have to go far to find great green spaces to tuck into within the city.
Gasworks Park: My iconic Seattle moment was walking to Gasworks Park. It was our first full vacation day and we hadn’t yet been downtown in the heart of the city. I just remember standing in front of the lush green hills taking it all in as the wind blew on my cheeks. I’m shocked the park wasn’t more busy. There’s a major payoff when you reach the top of the hill – a sweeping view of the Seattle skyline and our first glimpse of the Space Needle. On the other side of the hill were a handful of family and friends picnicking. Seattle has some of the best behaved dogs I’ve come across. We enjoyed pointing out our favorites and imagined what our crazy girls would be doing if they were with us. It was such a relaxing stroll and one of the peaks of the whole trip. If I were a local, I imagine myself spending many afternoons there being pulled around by two happy but misbehaving-in-public pups.
Volunteer Park: I search “nearest botanical garden” in every new city I visit. Volunteer Park was one of the things I was looking forward to most so I’m glad we saved it for the end of our trip. It was the perfect place to unwind. Similar to Pike’s Place Market, I was surprised to have the conservatory practically all to ourselves. The white glass house is full of impressive plants from all over the world. After experiencing so much rain and cold weather back in California, it was nice to step into somewhere warm and temperature controlled. The climate was a lot like Florida’s. My skin loved the humidity. I tend to gravitate to the desert cactus rooms but the room of pastel colored tulips was a nice surprise. It was like getting a sneak peak of Spring in Washington. I highly recommend enjoying a Top Pot Donut amongst the flowers because it’ll do something euphoric to your brain-chemistry.
I hope my rambly Seattle recap has convinced you to visit or revisit the magic of the Pacific Northwest. I was worried all my years of romanticizing would lead to disappointment. Turns out that wasn’t the case at all. The elements of an effortlessly cool and creative city came as no surprise. What I wasn’t expecting was how inviting the locals would be. I buddied up with fish-mongers at Pike’s Place market, Gen Z’ers at Glossier and an older gentleman in line at a bakery who called me a snazzy dresser. The infectiously joyful staff at the original Starbucks were singing and making jokes with one another, it was refreshing to see people having so much fun at work. The lovely interactions colored in my trip. I usually don’t leave a vacation feeling so connected and centered.
With all of its offerings, the city encouraged me to stay curious and intentional. There was little pressure to be constantly moving. Like my lifestyle in the woods, I enjoyed things slowly and left a lot of things worth returning for. One thing’s for sure, Seattle is more than a one-time visit city.
I wish I could properly thank the neighbor who left a copy of Tell The Wolves I’m Home in our Little Lending Library.
June Elbus is a character I’ll remember forever. While I take periodic breaks from writing thorough book reviews, I knew I needed to share her with the world.
The focus of the story is 14-year old, old soul, June. She’s different from the kids her age. She likes to escape into the woods and pretend she’s living in the middle ages. Preoccupied with work, her parents aren’t as involved with her as they’d like and her older sister, Greta went from being her best friend to a stranger. The only person she connects to is her Uncle Finn. The two are kindred spirits who share an appreciation of classical music, tea and regular visits to the Met. Their tender relationship gives the book so much heart.
After the devastating loss of her Uncle to AIDS, a stranger walks into her life changing the fabric of it forever. The mysterious man is Toby, Finn’s partner. She thought she knew everything about her best friend. Shocked and hurt that such a big part of his life was a secret to her, she tries to grapple with the fact that Toby knew so much about her for years. As the two people who knew and loved Finn most, a slow-burning friendship blossoms between them. They’re able to grieve and piece each other back together again by sharing stories of Finn. Their relationship becomes a secret of her own.
I tend to prematurely judge stories from an adolescent perspective and stash them in the Y.A box along with Harry Potter and the Nicholas Sparks stories. I’m so glad I didn’t put TTWIM in that category because it belongs on every bookshelf. Regardless of age, I think readers will take a lot from this story and easily be able to recall the confusion and nostalgia of their youth. Of how painful and beautiful life can be at every stage and how important it felt to be seen by someone, really seen for the first time. It’s a love letter to the safe people in our lives.
I did a lot of highlighting and marking up inside the pale bluish-green cover, a sign of it speaking to the soul. June is written with such love, she’s a poet and a romantic and is emotional and messy and likes what she likes and doesn’t apologize for it. I felt very much like her at 14; always observing from the periphery, not wanting attention but wanting to be seen. It was refreshing to not be fed the angsty, shallow boy-crazy teenage girl troupe that gives the demographic such little credit.
An excerpt depicting how thoughtful June was towards her Uncle Finn:
“I understand how just about anything in the world could remind you of Finn. Trains, or New York City, or plants, or books, or soft sweet and black-and-white cookies, or some guy in Central Park playing a polka on the harmonica and the violin at the same time. Things you’d never seen with Finn could remind you of him, because he was the one person you’d want to show. “Look at that,” you’d want to say because you knew he would think it was wonderful. To make you feel like the most observant person in the world for spotting it.” – June
Tell the Wolves I’m Home will fill your heart and break it multiple times. It’s an untraditional love story about grief, family dynamics, chosen family and forgiving yourself for things left unsaid. It reads so honestly to life. A part of me describes the story as a tragedy, another as a poignant coming of age tale about hope. There’s no big shiny bow tied at the end. Nothing’s worse to me than a lukewarm book. Some of the best stories will leave you feeling deeply, whatever that may be. This made me feel a lot of things. Maybe it’ll shake something loose in you, too?
There’s a million love songs dispersed into the ether. Songs about first love, an all-consuming love, unrequited love. Break-ups that ended bitterly and premature break-ups that never got to see their full potential. The universal experience can feel so intimately particular for each person. There will never be a shortage on the topic.
Some of the greatest love songs allow you to insert your experience into them like they were written just for you.
If you’re familiar with the heavy films and books I gravitate to, it won’t come as a surprise that I most often reach for songs about lost love. I fill my ears with sentimental tales of the one that got away and relationships that quietly ran its course. It’s safe to say I like to break my own heart.
Anyone can muster up sweet declarations while they’re in the midst of love. I’m far more interested in what someone says after. I want to know people’s reflections when enough time has passed and they can see the relationship with clarity. When any lingering resentment is replaced with affection. It poses the question, why do some relationships carry nostalgia and others don’t?
When I’m feeling introspective (which is all the time), I like to throw on a Sad Girl playlist.
The post-love ballad I wish more people knew is from an artist that may also need an introduction. Colin Hay, is a Scottish-Aussie singer/songwriter and guitarist. Originally the lead vocalist of the 80’s band Men at Work, he broke out into a solo career throughout the 90’s. In the early 2000’s, he was introduced to a newer fanbase after being regularly featured in the lovable sitcom, Scrubs. He’s currently pushing 70 and is still touring and making audiences laugh and hang onto every word.
A month before the pandemic, I watched Colin play at a small historic theater. It could’ve been the last concert I ever went to and that would’ve been okay. I took myself out to dinner and an evening stroll before finding my seat sandwiched between strangers. The entire night felt as though we were hanging out in someone’s living room. It was intimate and casual, a comfortable gathering of old friends that ended prematurely. I attended the show alone but I wasn’t lonely.
Do yourself a favor and listen to “I Just Don’t Think I’ll Ever Get Over You.” It’s a wistful story of a man who recounts a past relationship. She’s fondly preserved in his memory when he’s doing simple things like drinking his morning coffee. ”Without you here, there is less to say.” He transforms a simple sentence into a heartfelt confession. After losing someone, the most mundane things can be what you end up missing the most. You’re left wondering where your thoughts and jokes go now? So much gets left unsaid.
Hay’s comforting voice carries a richness in life experience. I imagine the subject of the song wasn’t a first or last kind of love. Regardless of the years that passed, this person has reserved a room in his heart. It’s not explicit whether things ended due to a breakup or if they passed away. Somehow the open interpretation makes it more poignant.
The stripped down acoustics lends itself to the melancholy lyrics. Every note and every word is placed thoughtfully. No component competes with the other. Part of the emotional effectiveness comes from it being a quiet song, almost a whisper.
The most romantic lyric comes at the end of the chorus, “I knew that if I lived till I could no longer climb my stairs, I just don’t think I’ll ever get over you.”
Not enough love stories talk about the absence after losing a loved one later in life. I’m not talking about the emotionally-charged weeks or months after a tearful goodbye. Rather the hole left in your heart after years or decades, even after you’ve found little touches of love. The ghost of their presence never fully leaves you when you’ve built routines around each other and watched a lover’s wrinkles etch deeper along their laugh lines. Maybe this relationship didn’t make it far enough along for that to happen, but I like to think it did.
For other Colin Hay should-be-classics, check out:
The way the clouds and fog soften the sky like a slowly rolling ocean. I like to think it’s the world’s way of encouraging us to slow down. Mother Nature’s weighted blanket.
Some of my favorite memories are associated with rain. On our first hike in California, Jordan proposed in a wet foggy redwood grove. Years later we got married at the same state park. The hail and clouds magically parted before I walked down the aisle to the Beatles, “Here Comes the Sun”. And it certainly was no coincidence that our honeymoon in Scotland and England landed in the middle of the U.K’s rainy season.
A grey backdrop carries a romance that a blue-bird sky can’t quite match up to.
California is known for being in a chronic drought but all bets are off in the winter. In fact, it only took a week into the New Year for the post-holiday glow to fade to darkness.
From Christmas to mid-January, we received a whopping year’s worth of rain. The over-saturation created an obstacle course of our roads. Mail and trash services temporarily shut down. Lakes at the base of the mountain overflowed, exiling us on an island. If it wasn’t for flooding trapping us in our secluded neighborhood, then it was the unpredictable landslides or fallen trees that did. Sometimes the combination of all three.
In the midst of everything, a 10-day power outage landed me on an emotional rollercoaster— not even I could romanticize the excess of rain.
We’re no strangers to outages. Tucked deep in the woods, neighbors joke that a slight breeze will cause the wifi signal to flicker. Most of our home-owning neighbors invest in two things: a chainsaw and a generator. Being the stubborn renters we are, Jordan and I have neither. Twenty-four to forty-eight hours without power is a walk in the park for us seasoned campers. We wear the badge of honor proudly with how often we’ve had to do it over the years. It was only a matter of time before our naivety caught up to us.
Similar to camping, we passed the time with Scrabble, boxed Mac & Cheese and headlamp-assisted reading. It was fun and carefree for the first few days.
One of the most terrifying nights of my life came on the third day of the storm. I awoke to angry howling winds that not even my rock of a husband could sleep through. I almost texted my family on the East Coast panicked “I love you’s” at 2am in the morning when I heard what sounded like a car crash outside my window. At one point I thought our cabin was going to blow away like a scene from the Wizard of Oz. It wasn’t the first time I traded in rest for “what-ifs?” and worst-case scenarios.
I found my car buried underneath redwood branches and a tangle of power lines the next morning. My sense of freedom whisked away, I realized we would be trapped longer than anticipated. (The poor Subaru spent a month in the autoshop getting a $7k makeover. Thank god for car insurance.)
Days without power turned into a week; a week turned into a week and a half. The restoration notifications would give us a semblance of hope only to be crushed when they were pushed back out further. We were rationing snacks and batteries and splitting up a pre-downloaded podcast into parts so we could savor the little entertainment we had left. Scarcity mindset permeated all our decisions.
All the processed foods had me fantasizing about broccoli and salads as if they were a basket of French fries. Being stripped of so many basic comforts also took a mental toll. Jordan had to pull me out of a dark place after sitting in my feelings for so long. My morale and patience were as low as my dwindling phone battery.
Without a space heater and dehumidifier, the damp air hung over the cabin keeping the thermostat at a cool 50 degrees. When it wasn’t raining, there were parts of the day that were actually warmer outside than in. Foggy windows skewed the little sunlight from peaking inside so lanterns were kept on and candles were burning around the clock. Five-six candles were lit at a time giving off the illusion of heat.
Being cold and wet is one thing, but not being able to dry off and get warm wears down the spirit. Any attempts of wiping down the dogs after a rainy walk was futile. Every towel was sopping wet. They would instinctively jump on the bed and couch leaving no escape from the dampness. The neglected dirty laundry hamper was as scary as the work I had piling up in my inbox.
Leaving the house was reminiscent of the beginning of the pandemic —even a trip to the grocery store was a triumph.
Similarly, first responders advised locals to limit outings for essential trips only. Jordan kept a pulse on reopened roads and pockets of clear weather like a flight captain. One landslide or fell tree is all it takes to block our route home.
The library was my refuge. Until then, I’d never seen it so crowded. Strangely enough, the uncharacteristic chatter echoing inside was incredibly comforting after going so long without stimulation. I craved noise: Netflix, music, and being amongst people. Anything that could momentarily pull me out of my own head.
Locals huddled over outlets and made phone calls with FEMA and insurance agents. I caught up on overflowing work emails and updated loved ones at the last open table. It wasn’t long before the seats around me filled with strangers doing what I imagine was the same thing. Seat-mates and fellow librarians would share war stories and commiserate with one another. An unusual place I sought comfort was at the restroom hand dryer. I imagined it as a tiny fireplace. Under the round metal opening, I lingered longer than usual letting the hot air disperse around my rain jacket and still-wet hair. I also left three books richer on that visit. My electronic devices and spirit were recharging simultaneously all thanks to a little plastic library card.
On the 10th day, the sun shone through. A convoy of Blue Pacific Gas & Electric trucks arrived in the neighborhood marking the end of what I call “the dark era.” I thanked the crew profusely before they left, resisting the urge to cheer them on as they pulled out of our driveway. PG&E are like the underrated I.T team at every company, everywhere. People come to them with an issue predisposed to a bad mood. No one notices their job well done when everything’s running smoothly. I.T and PG&E workers deserve more fanfare. Not having the internet or power for an extended period really makes you appreciate the times when things are properly functioning.
The calm clear skies that followed offered a reset to the cruddy start to the year. A collective sigh could be heard all throughout the Santa Cruz mountains. I won’t be so quick to write them off anymore.
After we returned to a sense of normalcy, my mom texted, “I think it’s time you move.” I still don’t have a response to rebuttal with. Depending on Jordan’s post-grad job offers, we may be relocating this year. The thought alone has riddled me with anticipatory grief. Tight knots in my body are as present as the trauma I now carry from experiencing multiple natural disasters in my backyard. In the seven years residing in the woods, I’ve lived through the gamut: multiple landslides, flooding, frozen pipes, outages during 100+ degree heat waves, and wildfires. Some would consider just one of those a deal-breaker. The thing is, my relationship with living out amongst it is a tumultuous love affair. And like every love-story, you can only understand what it’s like if you’re one of the parties involved. The winter storms snuffed out the flame briefly but to my relief, it’s back and shining rebelliously.
As soon as the power kicked on, I booked a trip to quell my cabin fever. Next month, I’ll be exploring a new city that my heart’s been pulling towards for years: lush and moody-skied Seattle.
2022 was my year of ruthless reading. I shamelessly left behind more half-read books in recent memory. A book that will be left unnamed was returned to the library after the second chapter. I haven’t looked back.
In place of a numeric reading goal was a simple mission: to seek stories that pull me out of a reading rut and let go of what sunk me further into one.
A benefit of completing less books this past year was the intentionality I took to what I consumed. Whether it be what I read, watched or listened to, I placed more focus on the way they made me feel – a metric I now place above anything else.
The beauty of reading is twofold. Stories provide a tool for escapism and a tool for connection. A character from the Alan Bennet play “History Boys” eloquently said, “the best moments in reading are when you come across something – a thought, a feeling, a way of looking at things which had once been thought special and particular to you. Now here it is set down by someone else, a person you never met, and it’s as if a hand has come out and taken yours.”
I hope more stories will take me by the hand as I continue my practice of knowing when to let go and when to see them through til the end.
I’m back from my long book-review vacation in time to share my favorite novels of the past year.
Nowhere for Very Long by Brianna Madia
Brianna Madia’s memoir was a full course meal. It satisfied many genres I love: the-coming-of age-tale of her adolescence was the appetizer, the adventure was the main course, and her poetic prose was the sweet dessert.
Like many readers, I was introduced to her on Instagram thanks to a viral feature of her family on the feel-good animal loving account, The Dodo.
Beyond vibrant photos in Moab with her growing dog-pack and recognizable orange set of wheels, Madia is a gifted wordsmith that can make even a trip to the post-office sound captivating.
Before van-life blew up into a hashtag, she and her ex-partner were soaking up the desert sun off-grid. Before the term “influencer” entered the internet vernacular, she had amassed nearly 300k Instagram followers. Her authenticity being the common thread to her wide audience.
Her writing is as vulnerable as diary entries but as polished as a seasoned writer wise beyond her years. She recollects quitting her 9-5, buying a van with nearly every penny in her bank account, some personal devastating losses and her unbreakable bond with her dogs that she never leaves behind. Her specificity paints a vivid picture within each chapter that readers can conjure up and appreciate without seeing her IG feed.
Fair warning: after you put down her memoir, you’ll likely wipe away tears, hug the nearest animal in your vicinity and hit the road someplace beautiful. Lucky for us, book number 2 is on the way.
The Light We Lost by Jill Santipolo
Two strangers meet in the middle of New York City on a day the country won’t forget, September 11th 2001. The unique circumstances ignited their wildfire romance until their careers split them up to opposite ends of the world. Despite the distance, they re-enter the revolving door into each other’s lives.
I enjoy a romance or drama now and again as a cushion from intense thrillers. Little did I know how heavy this story would weigh on my heart. In place of a Hallmark template with vanilla love interests, are two earnest and mature but equally complicated people. It’s refreshing to meet characters with as much depth as Lucy and Gabe. I was rooting for them as individuals and together.
One True Loves by Taylor Jenkins-Reid
A young woman’s high school sweetheart goes missing after a helicopter crash shortly before their wedding. Years later after she falls in love again she hears the news that changes her world – her fiánce is still alive. Torn between the two most important people in her life, she must decide who’s promise of forever she’s willing to keep.
Taylor Jenkins Reid is the modern fiction author of our time with a distinctive voice that feels as familiar as an old friend. I’m a fan of TJR’s works in The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo and Malibu Rising but for me, One True Love is at the top of her fictional hierarchy. Perhaps I’m partial to it because it was reminiscent of the love-story in Pearl Harbor, a film that left a lasting impression in my romantically naive teenage heart. Unlike so many movies involving love triangles, neither of her partners were the bad-guy or the obvious choice. In real life, there’s rarely a villain. Reid is able to create nuanced relationships that breathe life into her tender writing.
We Were Never Here by Andrea Bartz
I mentioned We Were Never Here in a previous blog-post but it bears repeating, I’ll scream it from the rooftops: READ THIS BOOK!
Two girlfriends annual backpacking trip goes awry after a dead body is found in their hotel room. After the pair covers up their tracks and vows each other to secrecy, they start to question why tragedy follows them when a similar situation happens to them the following year. As they handle their guilt and grief differently, the dark secrets wedge between their fragile relationship.
The horror they experience consists of several acts 1) how they found themselves in their precarious situation 2) the will-or-won’t they get caught paranoia and 3) maneuvering the lost trust between their unraveling toxic friendship.
It’s a murder-thriller as much as it is an exposé on female friendship. In your twenties, your friends are your chosen family. Your world. The author has an intimate understanding of the looming bitter anxiety of a friend break-up. There’s a slice of relatability for readers to connect with amidst their ugly history.
We Were Never Here reminded me of the electricity that can live inside of a good book. I’m indebted to Andrea Bartz for pulling me out of the depths of my reading rut and making it fun again. I’m in the middle of another of her nail-biting novels, The Last Night with fulls plans on enjoying it until the end. The new year is looking bright.
I’ve been badmouthing the clunky futon from the day we moved in. “It’s an eye-sore.” “It’s not big enough for the four of us, let alone for when guests come over.” What’s a girl gotta do to keep the mattress from sliding off?!” If I had to guess, the couch dates back to when the previous owner’s remodeled the kitchen in the seventies. A couch should be the centerpiece of a home. The eyes are naturally drawn to it.
I used to daydream about replacing it with something aligned with our style, but the four flight walk-up discourages any heavy purchases from coming through our front door (yes, I curse all fifty-four steps on grocery day). Even if we were to brave the first hurdle, we would be stuck with another dilemma. It isn’t ours to get rid of and storing it is complicated. Begrudgingly, it remains on our home improvement wish-list, right under the lack of dishwasher and above the loose staircase railings.
The other day I noticed Forest, laying on a bunch of freshly washed blankets. From her improvised den, I could feel a sweet pair of eyes tracking my movements from across the room. Our pups rack up countless hours sprawled on the couch. It’s as much theirs as it is ours. We spend a lot of time together piled on top of the futon, a tangle of limbs, laughing and telling secrets to each other in the dark. Daily life (and couch) complaints melt away into the lumpy cushion.
I watch the whimsical French film, Amélie every year. The character I’m most fascinated by is Raymond Dufayel, described as the “glass man with bones as brittle as crystal” His unique condition confines him to his apartment, isolated from the world. He relies on a neighbor to drop off his groceries. Occasionally, visitors come by and check on him. He wraps his furniture in blankets to protect him from the threat of hard edges. Despite all this, he’s not an unhappy man, like you’d suspect. Aside from eccentricities, he’s imaginative and talented- a result of constant observation. Most of his life is spent staring out of his window painting the lives he sees in the building across the street. Raymond’s painting chair is his cocoon.
Whenever life gets hectic or heartbreaking, solace is found on our inherited couch. On especially taxing days, Jordan has made an adorable habit of leaving pillows and the softest pjs out for me atop the creaky wood frame. He’ll place a candle burning on the window sill, beating me to my own ritual.
My corner of the couch with a view of the redwoods is the safest place I know. Time slows down, productivity shuts off. It’s unfair I don’t give it the kindness it gives me. Sure, we may not agree aesthetically, but the older I get, the more focussed I am on the way my life feels over how it looks. Lots of living happens there. More meals are eaten cross legged on it than at the wobbly table. More books are enjoyed there than on our “reading armchair”. On a nightly basis, I extricate myself from the sea of blankets and migrate to the bed. During winter it’s nearly an impossible task.
If the kitchen is the heart of the home, what is the couch akin to?
Someday, in our next home, we’ll get the couch that screams “us.” Perhaps a modern green one made of luxurious velvet or a previously loved and lived-in brown leather sectional. Until then, I’ve put a hold on Pintresting “living room decor” and plan to inject sentiment in the things I once wanted to change. What started as an unwanted placeholder seven years ago transformed into the thing we didn’t know we needed. Maybe the couch is the heart of the home, after all.
There’s something distinctly satisfying about flipping the calendar from September 30th to October 1st. Groundhog days are broken up by a cozy, intentional season. I welcome the shift.
October 1st is like my New Year’s Day. My candle-lit rituals include deep cleaning the cabin to make room for Halloween decorations, rearranging my closet from Summer to Fall and stocking up on stamps for letters and postcards to be sent off to far away places. With my orange hue rose-colored glasses, the good things seem that much better; daily inconveniences and life stressors seem more tolerable.
As a kid, I loved the idea of transforming into someone else, letting my imagination run wild and getting frightened just by the sound of the X-files theme song playing in the next room. I still love getting dressed in costume but I lean into being the weirder, more playful version of myself. I buy my favorite candy, seek out scares, and even keep the decorations out for too long (maybe even the whole year, who knows, I’ve done it before!)
I usually stick to a familiar rotation of spooky movies and shows but this year I strayed from my comfort zone and relished in new/new-to-me discoveries. From one Halloween lover to another, enjoy some binge-worthy treats to stretch out the spooky season.
Pearl:
Pearl is a small-town farm-girl with big-city aspirations of being a dancer. Trapped by an overbearing mother and sick father she’s responsible for, she’s also struggling to manage her murderous tendencies. If The Wizard of Oz was a horror film, Pearl is it. The fantastical vibrant reds and blues predominant in this film benefited on the big screen. Taking place in 1918, there were scenes of people with face-coverings to avoid the Spanish Flu. Perhaps the eeriest moment of the film was when Pearl snuck into a matinee with a mask as I was staring back at her with one on too. I normally don’t associate quality acting with the horror genre but Mia Goth deserves all the recognition in her performance as a hope-filled, complicated serial killer. Pearl lets audiences walk the line between empathizing with a monster and hoping someone intervenes and ends her rampage. Pearl is the origin story of “X,” and if you’ve seen the latter, you know she’s only warming up for her grand performance.
The Curious Creations Of Christine McConnell:
Addams Family meets Mystery Science Theater meets Martha Stewart, the crafty off-beat Netflix show is delightful to throw on while making dinner. Christine is a DIY triple threat: baker, sculptor and sewer with a penchant for Halloween. All the while, glamorously poised in tailored vintage outfits.
Inside her life size haunted dollhouse, she walks us through her masterpieces of intricate chocolate peppermint bark octopus tentacles, spooky tree candles and even a stunning red pin-up dress. Each project is more imaginative and elaborate than the next. Her soothing voice and funny banter between her kooky houseguests are a gothic fever dream.
Barbarian:
The less you know about Barbarian the better. I will say this, I hadn’t been as genuinely excited or startled by a horror film since Hereditary. The story has two, nail-biting acts and a climax that made my adrenaline pump hours after I walked out of the theater. It was such a well-thought out horror film with thrilling performances, sprinkles of humor (thanks, Justin Long) and the right amount of jump scares to color in the story-telling. Barbarian is an instant cult classic I’ll revisit year after year.
The Rental:
Released in 2020 and directed by Dave Franco the winning ensemble includes actors plucked from my favorite shows—The Bear, Downton Abbey and Madmen.
When two brothers and their partners take a coastal getaway, they are met with an unsettling Airbnb host that lives up the street. The ominous tension brims over the edges once they realize they’re being filmed. It’s a character drama first, horror film second. Something that may disappoint some audience members is actually what drew me in. The close-up look into the couple’s relationships are what made me care deeply about them. Each bad decision avalanches into a heart pumping nightmare. This film is an example of a slow-burn done right.
We Were Never Here:
An annual backpacking trip goes awry after a dead body ends up in a hotel room. Fearing their argument of self defense wouldn’t excuse them in a foreign country, the best friends cover up their tracks and vow to secrecy. When a similar situation happens the following year, the two start to question why tragedy follows them. As they handle their guilt and grief differently, the dark secrets wedge between their fragile relationship until the friendship unravels into a game of cat and mouse. It was impossible to put down. I’m filing We Were Never Here under one of my favorite books of the year and look forward to falling in the author, Andrea Bartz rabbit hole. This book reminded me of how immersive reading can be if you find the right one.
There’s an unspoken transition between your twenties and thirties. Turning thirty was more monumental than eighteen and twenty-one. No one older than you calls you a kid anymore and people younger than you will see you as a full-fledged adult.
Without warning free-time becomes a prized commodity. Priorities shift and next thing I know I turn into a pumpkin by midnight. There’s a meme that claims the reason we don’t see our friends is because they enjoy being home as much as we do. Sometimes it boils down that simply. Add in remote work and an address deep in the woods and it’s no wonder my social skills have atrophied.
In comparison to a decade ago, stepping out of my college dorm room often resulted in random adventures by the time I hit the elevator. A consequence of living amongst 18-24 year olds down for a good time, plans would find me even when I wasn’t looking. We’d travel in pairs or packs mingling in and out of friend groups seamlessly. I had neighbors to skip class with, join on late night Denny’s runs, neighbors to party with. Hell, I even dated and eventually married the boy down the hall. It was a different time. While I no longer have the social battery to keep up with a buffet of plans, a part of me does miss the spontaneous opportunities that came with communal living pre-full-time job.
During the pandemic there was a mass exodus out of the expensive Bay Area, many of them including my dearest friends. The majority of my little Santa Cruz community are now sprinkled across and out of the country. I might’ve been swept away along with them had it not been for my unicorn of a landlord who hasn’t raised rent in six years.
I received an excited phone call from a girlfriend years ago. She met someone. They fell in love and moved in together. Fast forward to last fall I attended their beautiful wedding that began with a swipe-right on Bumble. More recently over summer a friend that relocated mentioned their positive Bumble BFF experience. Up until then I thought the platform only served singles looking for a relationship. They instantly hit it off and toured the L.A food scene together. She deleted the app after one meet-up. I took another personal Bumble BFF testimony as a sign. Her social circle was naturally expanding after one friend introduced her to another and before she knew it, she found her community. Bumble’s success rate was 3 for 3.
The world of swiping was foreign territory. I started dating Jordan long before either of us had an iPhone. Instagram wasn’t released at the time, let alone Tinder. I went many years shielded from a common activity that millions of users were well-experienced in and in some cases jaded by.
For someone who fancies themselves a writer, coming up with a bio was challenging. The same anxiety I experienced when I published my first blog post or whenever I revamp my resume came floating over me like a storm cloud. How do I market myself? Luckily there were helpful profile prompts to get me started. “Your ideal friend date would be…”, “Best travel story”, and “Are you an early bird or night owl?” helped break the ice. In hopes of setting clear expectations, my response to the last prompt was that I peak in the afternoon. I won’t agree to a sunrise group workout or stay out late bar-hopping. An afternoon coffee date or stroll around an antique fair or farmers market however and I’m your gal.
Bumble offers three profile versions: dating, friend and business. Depending on the membership tier, you can unlock features i.e allowing more swipes per day, profile spotlights to reach more members and backtracking options in case you want a “re-do.” I stuck with the basic free BFF version.
For anyone that’s used Bumble or a similar platform, you’ll recognize the oddity of profile swiping. All of a sudden I was transported to the first day of high school where I’m both the vulnerable kid at lunch looking for a place to sit and also the person dictating who joins the table.
Compatibility is hard to determine by a handful of sentences and photos. The simplest parameter for me to narrow down options was keeping the location to a ten-mile radius. Convenience is important. It can be tricky enough to make plans with my remaining local friends. And I adore my long-distance friendships but it’s not the ideal foundation to start a relationship.
I’m seeking a friendship that’s easy. Easily reciprocated, easy to be myself in and easy logistically. There’s no greater comfort than being in good company without the pressure to be always doing something (I picture sharing stories sunk into a well-lived in couch or a park bench under a tree as pique friendship level.)
Home is where I want to be most of the time. I don’t want to exhaust myself with a friend speed-dating marathon just for the hell of it. I know what kind of friend I am and what kind of friend I’m looking for.
A cool feature of the app is you only have 24 hours after you’ve “matched’ to strike up a conversation before they expire. The extra nudge gives members the initiative to make a move before an opportunity passes.
Once the matches started rolling in my inbox, my lacking conversation skills were put to the test. Some conversations would peter out before talk of meeting up. The strangest scenario would be when a conversation is going pretty well in my mind and there’s the back and forth game of “let’s get together” that plays out to some unforseeable date. Turns out you can get ghosted by a potential friend like you would a potential partner.
My first blind-friend date resembled a job interview. We were polite and slightly guarded versions of ourselves – sussing out the likelihood of a call-back. Once we loosened up with breakfast mimosas I learned we both spent time living in Charlotte. While the years didn’t overlap, we shared memories of good southern cooking and visits to The Sleepy Poet, an impressive local antique mall. She held the title of an “elite Yelp reviewer.“ Initially I thought, excellent, a fellow writer! The red flag came after we met up at my favorite cafe. She wasn’t a fan of the beverage she ordered, finished only half her sandwich and commented on the chips being “too crunchy.” I didn’t know there was such a thing.
After a few false starts and meet ups that never came to fruition, I was ready to hang in the towel. I only planned on using Bumble over summer and the end of the heatwave was my cue to remove the app. As I was about to reclaim much needed phone storage, I happened to match with someone who had a similar penchant for nature and long thoughtful responses. We followed through in our plans to meet for coffee with as much to chat on as we had to type about. The effortless conversation reminded me it’s possible for connections to feel like they did coming off the dorm elevator. Bumble BFF just helped me get there.
I’ve decided to keep the app throughout the fall season. Similar to with dating, friendships involve patience and realistic expectations. And let’s be honest, there’s no better time of year for cozy gatherings.
For transparency, I should probably update my Bumble profile to “Looking for an easy-going friend. Willing to take turns driving to each other’s houses. Must love dogs.” Stay tuned for a part 2.
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