thewobblytableblog

MAKING FRIENDS WITH SUMMER

When you grow up in Florida, Summer isn’t a season, it’s a life sentence. Northerners welcome the season with open arms— a reprieve from a long dark winter indoors. In a taxi driving along Lake Michigan one Summer, I was amazed that every square inch of sand along the water was occupied. Locals were playing volleyball shoulder to shoulder and sunbathing under touching beach towels. Gleeful swimmers moved in groups like school of fish. I’d never seen such a concentration of rollerbladers on a single sidewalk. The whole city was out there with no time to waste. In comparison, the occasional dip below 75 degrees in Florida was rare – like a mirage in a desert. I thrived during those glorious cool days the way Chicagoans relished in Summer months.

When school was out I didn’t have nearby kids my age to play with. My brother would hang out with a group of neighborhood boys while I watched from the sidelines. They spent their days riding bikes around town, playing video games and throwing around a ball in the middle of our street like they owned the road. They were the kids from The Sandlot and much like the film, little sisters weren’t included. My coolness level wasn’t helped by the fact I didn’t know how to ride a bike. Two wheels gave kids a freedom I craved. I couldn’t keep up.

More than any other time of year as children, there was pressure to be having the most fun during Summer; to be doing something brag-worthy to bring up on the first day back of school.

The biggest negative impact with the warmest months was my discomfort in my skin. All throughout school, I looked about two grades younger than my classmates- a time when appearing young was not ideal. My friend’s bodies were changing in ways mine were not. It was ironic my mom didn’t let me pursue gymnastics in fear my growth would be stunted. “You won’t get any taller and it’ll screw with your menstrual cycle!” she’d say. While she may have saved me from broken bones, it hardly made a difference to my height or cup size.

Insecurities about my underdeveloped chest, short legs and gangly arms made the beach or pool a stressful place. A combination of heat and humidity caused my sensitive skin to flare up in angry rashes compounding to my stress. A trip to the dermatologist informed me of several chronic conditions that have followed me into adulthood. Eczema and a sun allergy known as Photodermatitis is filled out on every medical form. I spent an entire summer one year in my brother’s clothes because wearing anything that touched my skin was too painful. Flowy layers and long sleeves in the Florida heat were a protective armor against the elements. I was under 100 pounds and as delicate in every way you could imagine.

The irony of being born and raised in the sunshine state with an allergy to it was not lost on me. As advised by my doctor I became an avid daily sunscreen user for over a decade now. Even in the middle of winter or on gray days, SPF is always within reach. It’s helped immensely. And so has moving to a kinder climate.

Now that I’m older and wiser, I’m better able to manage my skin conditions and insecurities (thank you steroid creams and cooling Calamine lotion. And to the collection of cute sports bras that make me feel strong). I’m proud of my body for taking me to all the places it has. Sometimes it’s easy to look back at old photos of yourself and realize how cool you actually were and how great you really looked in retrospect. I’m choosing to appreciate my body where it is now and give myself credit the way my future-self would.

One of the things I was drawn to right away about my partner was his rich curiosity for nature. Empty pockets in college never stopped us from doing cool things together. Thanks to him, I got to live out the outdoorsy childhood summers I never had. He introduced me to camping, hiking, and cross country road-trips- things he was no stranger to growing up in the Carolinas. His brothers and neighborhood buddies would play outside by the creek unsupervised until his mom would call them in for dinner.

In recent years I can happily say I’m softening up to Summer. Thanks to my adventurous and encouraging partner and the milder weather in the Santa Cruz mountains, I see the longer days as ripe with opportunity instead of dread.

My town comes alive in a similar way it does on Lake Michigan. I can’t drive by the main cross street of town without seeing a neon poster alerting me of a farmers market here or garage sale there, causing fun shifts in my weekend plans. Parking lots to the local state parks spill out onto the street. There’s a buzz in the air. Summer invites people outside to be among a community; to be a little more in the moment. When I catch myself complaining about the Summer traffic of our unique beachy mountain town, I stop and remind myself how lucky I am to live where I do. We’re all just trying to have our Lake Michigan moment.

Instead of wishing Summer away, I’m leaning into July with a special bucket list. As my fellow late bloomers can understand, it’s better late than never.

-Enjoy melty ice cream by the lake

-Buy a bathing suit to replace the one I’ve owned for over seven years

-Take new bathing suit to a hot spring

-Family camping trips

-Bake a lemon cake from scratch

-Play tourist in a new town in my home state

-Travel for cheap by reading books set in places I want to visit

-Increase the female energy in my life and make friends on Bumble BFF

-Print out last years film photos

-Alameda Antique Fair

-Stock up on stationary and write people out of the blue

-Piece together a Halloween Costume from thrift stores (ideally planning and crafting starts mid-summer)

-Learn how to ride a fucking bike

MY EVENING WITH A BEATLE

I went to my first concert when I was eight or nine to see a Beatles tribute band at the local performing arts center. Peaking between the row in front of me I sunk deeply into the illusion. When I closed my eyes, I could imagine the apparition of John, Paul, George and Ringo playing in front of me. Every detail from their voice inflections, wigs, costumes and on-stage mannerisms were convincing to my family of die-hard fans. The show was so much more than a concert. It was part theater and part history lesson showcasing their evolution from pop icons during the height of Beatle-mania to the imaginative psychedelic-induced era of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. Songs from Let it Be appropriately closed the show. The evening stuck out as the closest I’d come to seeing my all-time favorite band perform live.

The global Beatle fandom overlapped in the venn-diagram of my Filipina-American upbringing. My parents, young teenagers in rural Candelaria, became huge fans of the four lads from Liverpool. They grew up listening to them and naturally their appreciation of the band was passed onto my brother and I. Lyrics to Norwegian Wood and Yesterday were the dominating languages in our household. Our shared passion bridged the gap for us generationally and culturally.

Sundays were for aimless driving around town listening to Joe Johnson’s Beatle Brunch on the local oldies radio station. We made a tradition of taking turns answering trivia and listening to the same interviews they had on rotation until we could quote from every sound bite. In the back of our old volvo with the broken a/c, life was simple. I didn’t think much of where we were going. We could hit all the red lights and get stuck behind church traffic. It didn’t matter when our favorite songs were on the radio.

Many summers growing up in Florida were punctuated by backyard pool parties with Rubber Soul was on repeat. I assumed the same went for all my classmates and couldn’t fathom that some of my friends never actually heard their music. As a pre-teen who freshly discovered MTV and VH1, I realized that modern music didn’t compare to the sweet spot of the sixties/seventies. In my little world, the Beatles were as current and happening as Britney Spears.

The influence of the Beatles followed me into adulthood. I took the advice of thinking long and hard about my first tattoo and placing it somewhere easily hidden – something I can’t say I followed with the other seven. Across the Universe lyrics felt right. A timeless, dreamlike song with words I’d still adore seeing across my rib cage when I’m old and gray.

The moment I was certain I was in love with my partner was while listening to Till There Was You in his dorm room. We were sharing the same headphones laying close enough to hear each other’s heartbeats. The lyrics I heard Paul sing many times before suddenly clicked into place like the last puzzle piece. “A-ha! So this what the Beatles were singing about all this time.”

Rain came down hard the morning of our wedding. As though on cue, the clouds parted while Here Comes the Sun echoed off the redwoods as I walked down the aisle. I later had my first dance with my Dad In my Life under twinkly lights. He introduced me to these songs as a little girl. I keep on listening. I reach for their albums during road trips and dishwashing out of muscle memory, just how my parents had.

Needless to say, seeing a Beatle perform live was a pipe dream of mine. The odds felt similar to winning the lottery. Something far out of reach in the clouds. I’m a dreamer but I’m not much of a gambler.

Much to my surprise, I scored a pair of tickets to Paul McCartney’s Got Back Tour two days before the concert. Even more surprising was I didn’t need to sell an organ or sacrifice a month’s rent to do it. In the opening of his show he mentioned it had been twenty years since he last performed at the Oakland arena. The night was serendipitous. I had won the lottery.

Fast forward a few weeks and I’m still coming off the high from seeing a dream come to life. Jordan and I half-joke that it was even better than our wedding night.

Funny enough, I’d been passively avoiding arena concerts. I had little interest in the massive crowds and bumper to bumper parking. It all seemed like a bigger hassle than it was worth. I had no idea the experience from the nosebleeds could still be overwhelmingly personal and moving. Of course, if there was one artist in the world to change my mind, it would be a Beatle.

It’s hard to put into words what it was like being in the presence of someone so influential in my life. Paul was full-energy, charisma and showmanship on that stage. I wanted to commit it all to memory. For someone pushing 80, he showed little signs of slowing down. For nearly three hours I sat in awe as he played without a break. Performing is in the man’s DNA.

I watched the Disney+ Documentary Get Back both at home and at a special live theater viewing with a streaming Q&A with Peter Jackson. Apparently 8+ hours was clearly not enough Beatles content for me. Coming off the heels of the doc’s success, he played Let It Be and Get Back as expected. But he also played so many other beloved classics – dating as far back as Can’t Buy Me Love and Love me Do. Blackbird and over a dozen other Beatles songs made my heart skip a beat with each familiar opening chord. Obli-di-obla-da was the one to get the entire crowd up off their seats. The silly song I usually skipped over ended up being one of my favorites to hear live. It was more of a scream-along than sing-along , in the best way possible. The set was a fulfilling mix of mostly Beatles tunes, Wings greatest hits and a few new songs to keep the audience on their toes.

The most heartwarming moments were during tributes to George and John. He traded his acoustic guitar for the ukulele George gifted him. Paul shared that his friend had amassed a collection of them in his lifetime. Soon after Paul heard him first play Something, he came over George’s place and they played a tender rendition together on the ukulele. I felt let it on a secret after he played it for us. It was like getting a glimpse into their friendship we weren’t usually privy to. Mid-way through his playful strumming came the hauntingly beautiful electric guitar riff and the drums that are still pounding in my soul. The chills haven’t left my skin since.

Frank Sinatra famously labeled Something as the “most romantic song of the last 50 years.” It comes as no surprise that it’s written by my favorite Beatle. I’ve had my phases with each member, but George is the one I’ve grown to appreciate the most as an adult. After reading a biography and attending a talk by the author, Joshua Greene, a decade ago, my view of the “shy mysterious” Beatle changed. Yes, he was the most private member and the most interested in walking away from fame, but he was also the one that I deeply connected to. The gentle way he lived off-stage when he hoped no one was watching said so much more about him then any interview or photo could. He was one of the major reasons I became vegetarian and took to a dedicated yoga practice. Not to mention, he had an impeccable sense of style. I aspire to have a closet as cool as his one day.

Paul later shared how uncommon it was for men of his time to share their feelings with their friends. Here Today was a ballad he’d written for John after he passed away. It was as much a letter to his friend as it is a cautionary life lesson to listeners. Tell people how you feel about them while they’re with us.

Later in the evening Paul got to share a special duet with John. Peter Jackson isolated John’s vocals during his rooftop concert performance of I Got A Feeling. Seeing John projected on the screen, wind in his hair for their last live performance together felt so tangible. It was a healing moment that mended my heart back together again.

Before the show began a guy in the row behind me mentioned that his dad was at the Shea Stadium concert in 1965. I was among thousands of life-long fans that grew up on his music who gathered to relive their youth. I too felt younger that night. Music connects us and can be passed down like stories for generations. It was so much more than a concert. I watched a moment of history unfold in front of me. That’ll be something fun to tell the nieces and nephews and grandkids one day.

I’ll always have that night in Oakland, my evening with a Beatle.

THE WOBBLY TABLE TURNS ONE

Where did the time go? It feels like I published my first post yesterday, Welcome to my Writing Corner. I immediately shut my computer and went on a hike after to settle my nerves. “What if no one reads it?….Yikes, but what if people actually do??”

After some fresh air and vitamin D, I was reminded of why I created the blog in the first place. The Wobbly Table is my safe space to create.

I’m an over-sharer by nature. Always a short step away from avalanching into detailed stories and heart-to-hearts. Some people build a protective wall to keep people out, I provide a swinging door to let people in (as long as I don’t have to leave the comforts of home too often). Long-form posts are the perfect vehicle to do that. For the last year, the blog has been akin to a room in my home over a corner of the internet.

Blogs are like a dinosaur to the internet-world.

Maybe that’s why I’m still drawn to them after all this time. I do my part in keeping the art form alive by following a handful of inspiring accounts. I look to Pretty Little Fawn for her cinematic lifestyle posts, Keiko Lynn for her colorful retro wardrobe, A Beautiful Mess for DIY projects and Out of the Blue for insightful words from an author I adore. Their social media gave me hints of their unique voice but seeking out their blogs offered a better understanding of who they are as creatives and as lovely human beings. We’re all so much more than a photo captioned by a single sentence.

Writing won’t go out of style.

I’m convinced WordPress will outlast the Facebook’s and Instagram’s of the world. The blog community is patient and intentional about where they’re spending their time. I picture a reader nursing a coffee or tea as they click around my page, an image that makes me smile wider than any amount of followers or stats ever could.

In the same vein as blogs, I tend to lean into the charm of older things: I listen to music from generations long before me, keep physical journals, rent books at the library, send off snail mail via post and tune into NPR on long drives. Truth be told, they’re some of my favorite pastimes. Despite my some-what dated sensibilities, they shape the old soul that I am.

Sunday drives were often spent listening to my favorite NPR radio show, The Moth: The Art & Craft of Storytelling. Similar to a poetry slam, guests would throw their name in a hat and if selected, they’d share a prepared story with a predetermined theme of the night. Without flashcards or slides to reference, they’d stand in front of an audience and spill their heart onto the stage. Judges then pick a winner who advances to bigger stages with bigger audiences. In case you miss them live or on the radio, crowd favorites are neatly archived on the Moth podcast. For a moment you feel like you’re front row to the storyteller’s life. Sometimes they came in the form of authors or comedians but most of the time they were ordinary people like you and me. Some stories make me laugh, some make me cry – the best offerings accomplish both. A few years back I finally got to sit in the audience of a live Moth show in San Francisco. The energy and immediate connection among strangers that evening was palpable. Not a soul was talking over the performers or pulling out phones to capture or escape the moment. Everybody got a standing ovation. It’s one of the most supportive rooms I’ve had the pleasure to be a part of.

To be a good storyteller and writer, you have to first be an observer. When the words don’t come easy, I find it best to listen. To read. I’m a student still learning the craft; sharpening my skills with every post.

The Wobbly Table is my way of getting on stage and sharing my story. Perhaps the day will come when I throw my name in the hat and stand on a real-life stage to a crowd of kind faces. To the reader of this post, thank you for pulling up a chair to my wobbly table and listening as I practice.

TO KINDLE, OR NOT TO KINDLE?

Since my niece Ellie was born, I’ve made a tradition of gifting her books.I often hear about how rapidly babies and toddlers outgrow clothing. Toys can take up a lot of space and over entire living rooms. I’ve seen it happen. Books, on the other hand, will grow with her. Whenever I pick out a book for her, I write a note on the inside cover before sending them off in the post. The packages travel thousands of miles to reach her doorstep. Soon, she’ll be able to read my messages all by herself. Over the last five years of birthdays, Christmases and “just because”, she’s inherited many of the classics I grew up with as a kid. Her expanding library already out-rivals the one I had when I was twice her age. Perhaps the sweetest thing about it all is that she calls me the book-fairy, associating me with every single one on her shelf. While it isn’t completely accurate, it’s a title I love more than anything. I see no need to correct her.

For a long time, I considered myself a purist when it came to reading. I favored used books over new ones, paperbacks with broken spines over stiff, heavy hardcovers, and libraries over pretty much everything else. Part of the charm of reading is the simplicity in it. There’s nothing to download, no home screen to navigate from, and no battery to charge and later store away with the scary drawer of tangled up chargers.

I’ll read all the way up to the touching acknowledgements. The author’s thank you’s and parting words often turns me into a bigger fan of theirs than I was prior. It’s empowering to close a book you’ve nursed for days/weeks/months for the last time and with a slightly better understanding of the voice behind the narrative.

A couple friends told me how much they enjoy their e-Readers. Their convenience and portability was often mentioned, but what it offered in practicality, it seemed to lack in romance. A kindle sitting on a coffee table isn’t as aesthetically pleasing as a cozy bookshelf against a wall. Beautiful covers with handwritten notes inside are so much more personal than cold metal.

I spent over a year waffling back and forth on whether someone like me had any business with one. I’ve reached an age now where I understand why generations before me tend to resist new technology (hence, my lack of interest with figuring out TikTok). My mind was intrigued by them however my heart wasn’t convinced.

Last summer, Jordan put an end to my indecision and surprised me with a Kindle Paperwhite for my birthday. The timing was perfect. I didn’t have a new book to bring along on our camping trip. With excited hesitation, I downloaded a sample of The Coincidence of Coconut Cake by Amy Reichert, a charming tale about a chef and a food critic who meet and fall for one another without realizing that his scathing review was responsible for her restaurant’s near-closure. Within a few pages, I forgot I wasn’t reading from a traditional book. It’s gentle on the eyes and looks so similar to reading print on paper. I don’t know if I would’ve crossed paths with one of my most beloved books had it not appeared on the Kindle homepage first.

Like many things, I’ve come to realize the debate of book vs. Kindle is not an all or nothing situation. Truth is, I enjoy both for different reasons and regularly alternate between them depending on my mood.

I have fond memories dating back to childhood at the library or local bookshop. Thumbing through covers, pulling them out and putting them back; breathing in the stale paper smell. Even when I walk away empty-handed, I always leave in a better mood. No matter how many books await in my digital queue, I can’t stay away from the visceral experience of being surrounded by shelves stretching out before me in all directions.

Scrolling through webpages of books online however, doesn’t offer the same sense of satisfaction. I prefer to search for electronic books with a more focussed game plan. If I can’t find what’s on my read-list for free or a good deal, the algorithm directs me to recommendations of similar authors and titles that I might enjoy. With my library card number, I can access the virtual library via Overdrive and Libby and place holds on e-books from the luxury of my couch. It’s like magic.

The Kindle doesn’t try to be something it’s not. Unlike a tablet or iPad, the device can’t surf the internet or access apps. Multiple windows aren’t competing for my attention. I can stay wrapped up in fiction for as long as I want without notifications snapping me back into reality. Behind their fancy facade, Kindles are an earnest product that sets out to do one thing: make reading more streamlined and convenient.

Sunlight floods our cabin in the daytime but turns into a moody cave at night. For anyone who shares the woes of minimal overhead lighting, you know that small lamps and candlelight aren’t well-equipped for night-time reading (as cozy as it feels). The subtle blue-light-free glow of the Kindle resolves my problem. I can now read comfortably from anywhere while laying pretzeled in different positions. Since it weighs less than my phone, the amount of fumbling awkwardly against gravity or losing my page is down to a minimum. My wrists and eyeballs are so much happier now. I love the feeling of being tucked into bed without needing to get up to turn off the light when I’m ready to drift off to sleep. The device powers off on its own after a few minutes. Some of the best sleep I’ve gotten is after being mid-sentence on my Kindle.

Recently I let go of the idea of needing to suffer through bad books for the sake of completing them. Seeing a physical book taunting me from my nightstand used to make me feel a moral obligation to it. Reading on a Kindle is far less committal. I can swiftly remove a title from my library as quickly as it took to download. Out of sight, out of mind. As my brother once said, “there’s too many books in the world not to prioritize the good ones.” I’ve dedicated most of my Kindle reading to the thousands of free Prime books or to renting electronically which has saved me so much time and money.

Stories are the best gift to give and receive. They grow with you. Whatever form it takes on, it’s a gesture of connection and a way to share an experience from a few miles away to a few thousand. The constant rotation of reading material has only enhanced my experience, not taken away from it. In the debate of book vs. kindle I say, why choose one when you can have both?

FILMS THAT HURT SO GOOD

I was the tender age of nine when I got my first taste of a broken heart. Surprisingly, the end of a week-long relationship with my fifth-grade boyfriend that same year wasn’t the cause. My parents took my me and my brother to Magnolia Theater to see the PG-13 film everybody was buzzing about. Miraculously, the Titanic kept my attention for the entire runtime of three hours and 14 minutes. I fell head over heels for Leonardo DiCaprio with the rest of the world while simultaneously being weighed down by the crushing historical tragedy. As a highly sensitive child, I held out hope for a redeeming Hollywood ending that never came. In Jack and Rose’s final moments, my young mind couldn’t fathom a world where they didn’t safely end up together. Lead characters weren’t supposed to die. How could I possibly untether the fictional characters from fact? (Mind you, Google wasn’t able to provide quick fact-checking back then). Their love story was as real to me as the wreckage found on the depths of the ocean floor. My world was rocked.

By the time the credits rolled, I was living in between two worlds- one foot was suspended in childhood and the other was stretching into adult territory. From my heartache, grew a penchant for more serious films about love and loss. I was tired of predictable happy endings. Any protective cushion in kid’s programming seemed like a sham. The raw and tender variety were a more honest depiction of real life, not to mention a hell of a lot more interesting.

Call it a coping mechanism, but sometimes observing someone else’s crappy scenario makes our own seem less crappy in comparison. During puberty I was under the impression that if I studied these teen and R-rated dramas hard enough, I could navigate through life easier. Witnessing the anguish and longing firsthand prepared me for when real heartache eventually met me at my doorstep. Like many other children of the nineties, television and movie screens were a babysitter. A teacher.

If you’re anything like me, you’ll find the emotional hangover strangely satisfying. Like returning to an ex you know is bad news, I regularly revisit my broken hearts through my film rotation. Please enjoy my go-to recommendations that hurt so good.

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

After a painful breakup, shy and risk-averse Joel and impulsive, quirky Clementine undergo an elective procedure to erase their memory of each other. Desperate to call the whole thing off mid-way through, Joel realizes happiness is worth remembering even if it’s temporary.

At first glance, Jim Carey and Kate Winslet may appear like an odd pairing (the same can be said of her and Jack Black in The Holiday) but if you’ve seen either you realize that something about them together makes perfect sense. I stand by my claim that both actors give the best performance of their prolific careers.

The non-linear storytelling is told from the inside of Joel’s mind — a jumbled up knot of overthinking, past arguments, tender moments and the regret of walking away. The watching experience feels like a fever dream and for me, a hit of nostalgia since I’ve revisited it every year since high school. It’s weird and trippy and emotionally exhausting at times but, I do consider it a deeply thought-provoking romance at its core. When it’s over, it just might give you a strange urge to visit Montauk.

Like Crazy

At the height of their whirlwind romance, an expired student visa wedges thousands of miles between Anna and Jacob. Their once young care-free relationship spent intertwined with each other all summer is put to the test as they navigate the uncertainty of long distance. Budding careers and the flourishing social life of twenty-somethings adds a complexity to the plot that deeply resonated with me.

It was comforting to come across this film while in the throes of my own long distance relationship. No one in my friend circle was experiencing one at the time. In a way it was like having something to compare notes with. I was less alone.

This is a classic example of a movie that makes you forget you’re watching one. You feel like a fly on the wall in their relationship with the naturalistic script and improv giving it a veil of sincerity. I gather they were each other’s first serious relationship. Their inexperience came off in in a very believable way. Moments of tension grow slowly from scene to scene. So much is revealed by their body language and the stretches of silence. The patient pacing of the film feels like watching their love unfold and fall apart in real-time.

Blue Valentine

An examination of the crumbling marriage between working-class parents Cindy and Dean. The ghost of their budding relationship follows them around as it weaves in and out of their hopeful past.

Ryan Gosling as Dean, and Michelle Williams as Cindy have an undeniable chemistry delivering raw and moving performances. Neither play a villain or a hero – just deeply complex and flawed individuals. One being already halfway out the door while the other begs them to stay.

The genuine performances of the small supporting cast felt as though they pulled real-people off the streets of New York, in the best way. Despite the A-list leads, the independent drama pulls back the curtain on Hollywood. It makes the whole experience feel so real, you can touch it.

The stark contrast between their madly in love beginnings and their strained and distant current circumstances represent the way many people reflect on relationships nearing the end – in extremes. If you have a pulse at all, this film is guaranteed to put you in a funk. But I promise it’s not all depressing. A delightful ukulele and tap dancing scene will offer reprieve from the heaviness.

PROFESSIONAL BEGINNER CLUB

I have a tendency to divulge in long-winded explanations. I used to chalk it up to being a chatterbox with an appreciation for flowery adjectives. But with age, I’ve come to realize that it also comes from a place of insecurity. I over explain out of fear of being misunderstood. This behavior often led me to downplaying my accomplishments or tempering my achievements. “I love to write, but I’m not a writer” was a way of eliminating people’s expectations about my abilities, mine included. Admittedly, the term ‘blogger’ still feels foreign to me despite a year of consistent posts and a lifetime of writing in journals.

The thing that made the biggest impact on my confidence has been rearranging my language.

Like a hermit crab seeking a more spacious home, I’ve traded my tattered ill-fitting imposter syndrome for the title of professional beginner.

Embracing a kinder outlook towards my abilities has noticeably shifted my perspective. It came just in time for my transition into a new role at work where I’m learning unfamiliar systems and am brushing up on old skills, i.e scary Excel spreadsheets. Part of “flipping the mental switch” was exchanging my inner monologue of shame and self-doubt for one of tenderness and exploration.

A professional beginner is dedicated to being a life-long student.

They’re the type of person who changes careers after forty or tries on different cities until they find the right fit. They pivot and collect fresh starts like stamps on a passport unapologetically asking questions and changing their mind along the way. The imposter doesn’t convince them to stop before they start. For them, success comes from a willingness to experiment.

“Don’t try to be young. Just open your mind. Stay interested in stuff. There are so many things I won’t live long enough to find out about. But I’m still curious about them.” The beloved and quick-witted icon, Betty White was a beginner, even at 99.

I aspire to live with as much moxie as Betty had. I carry around a mental image of my retired-aged self enrolling in ballroom dancing while dressed in bold mixed prints.

To manifest that future version of Amanda, I continue to nurture the interests I currently have brewing inside me; the blog, my expanding bookshelf, picking out a bold print from a clothes rack that I would’ve shied away from not too long ago. The dusty sewing machine in my closet calls to me to create the fun outfits I visualize dancing in someday. In virtue of stepping into untapped interests, I welcome the other beginnings that await.

It’s a mystery to me why some folks’ knee-jerk reaction to people’s hobbies is to question their skill-level and how they should monetize it. As if the purpose of pursuing a new interest is solely to become an expert and make a living or side hustle from it. At what point between childhood and adulthood was having fun not enough reason to do things?

The more I exercise my beginner-muscle, the more capable I become.

Most of us are figuring things out as we go. Without the inner-imposter taking up precious headspace, I’m proudly celebrating my big and small wins and offering myself grace and patience during the occasional missteps. In attempting something new, I’m already at a better place than where I started.

From time to time, the beginner in me will get scared and wonder what the heck I’m doing. I just go for it anyway.

Meeting adjourned.

DECEMBER READS

A December book review is my version of an end of year recap. Each time I look back at a book, I remember the headspace I was in at the time of reading it.

Tan France’s memoir kept me occupied in line for my first covid vaccine.

The Coincidence of Coconut Cake was eaten up on the crisp new Kindle I received on my birthday camping trip.

The Silent Patient grieved with me on a solo plane ride to my late aunt’s service.

The boundaries I learned from How to Break Up With Your Phone still cross my mind many months later, especially into the New Year.

My memories cling to the pages lightly coloring each story with a unique shade leaving a shadowy bookmark inside. Before I knew what shape The Wobbly Table would take, I was certain I wanted to share book reviews. If not for my love of reading, my love of writing would feel underdeveloped; incomplete. Together they satiate my hunger for words.

Cheers to the first post of the year!

For the Black Mirror audience: Sometime in the future a DNA-based dating program matches couples based on genetics. The pairings are supposed to indicate people’s perfect partners by a swab of saliva and the click of a button. Fast forward ten years since its launch and the company rivals all other dating sites and is a household name like Apple or Windows.

The cautionary tale is told from the perspective of five couples who used Match Your DNA’s services. For one of my first forays into sci-fi, I was impressed with how quickly and deeply I fell into the storyline. For the longest time, I associated the genre with space, robots or some dystopian universe that was lightyears from what reality looked like. I would timidly convince myself that I didn’t have wide enough an imagination to resonate with them and that only when they’re projected onto a screen could I fully lose myself in that kind of world.

The One was a perfect example of not judging a book by its genre, or in this case, by its title. It resembled more of an episode of Black Mirror than the drama I was originally expecting and was not at all far-fetched from the direction that social media and dating apps are headed. It cleverly explores the ethics behind technology, science and social responsibility and the implications of having such life-altering information at your disposal.

The author did a superb job examining the ways dating is completely thrown out of whack and how a service that may initially sound well-intentioned can go awry. Love is a high-stakes game, even when the outcome appears to be clear.

I guess I like Sci-fi now?

4.5/5 mugs

For the introspective: The short story takes place within a 24 hour period where a young women visits her grandfather for the holidays in a current-pandemic world.

The reader is dropped into the anxiety and isolation that came in the beginning of quarantine. For me, the feelings were a little too fresh. And now that a lot of places reopened and vaccines have allowed social interactions to be more commonplace, it simultaneously felt pre-dated. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy a feel-sad story from time to time but this one was a hard one to relive. After reading this, I realized that I need more time before I consume other pandemic-focused media, especially when it serves as the mechanism for moving the plot along.

Like many relationships, the dynamic with her Grandfather is noticeably stifled without the cushion of having other family around. Her atrophied dating/social skills bleeds into other relationships as she reconnects with a boy who lives in the neighborhood.

It was an important time capsule of the heightened uncertainty of Covid and the toll it takes on relationships. But it lacked something that I can’t put my finger on. I’m not sure if the short story format helped or hurt the story-telling. With that said, I likely wouldn’t have been compelled to finish had it been a full-length novel.

1.5/5 mugs

HYGGE FOR THE HOLIDAYS

The Little Book of Hygge found me in the sleepy time between Christmas and New Year’s of 2020 – a time when I was both surviving and overcompensating for the holidays.

It may be commonplace for some but it was the first year I decorated and listened to Christmas music before Thanksgiving. It was my earnest attempt at willing the joy and light that was missing in the earlier part of a pandemic- ridden year. And you know what? It worked.

Soon after a visit to the local bookshop gifted me with more ideas to lean into the season. The unassuming book that fits in the palm of my hands made a huge impact on my heart. A review for The Little Book of Hygge can be found in my January Reads post.

The Danish concept of hygge, or hyggelig (adj.), refers to finding comfort, pleasure, and warmth in simple, soothing things such as a cozy atmosphere or the feeling of friendship. My favorite definition describes the term as a “hug for the soul.”

As the author Meik Wiking explains, “hygge is humble and slow. It is choosing rustic over new, simple over posh and ambiance over excitement.” I love the idea of doing things based on what feels good rather than just on what looks good.

The Danes rank at the top of the happiest countries year after year. They’re obviously doing something right.

Identifying the name to something I had valued but had trouble expressing felt like reaching a breakthrough in a therapy office. It gave me clarity to understand myself and my needs better.

My goal is to adopt hygge as a philosophy rather than an item to obtain or a room to retreat. I want the feeling before bed on a Friday evening to follow me wherever I go. To do away with words like: busy, productive, or restless when asked how I’m doing. Instead I strive for my baseline to be: balanced, present, and fulfilled.

Although the hygge lifestyle is attainable year round, I significantly turn up the dial in winter months. Below is a list of nourishing things I’ve incorporated in the spirit of hygge.

Night showers with the lights turned off and the soft glow of a nightlight, candle or salt lamp
Dedicating a day to creating – whether writing personalized holiday cards or crafting on a rainy day
Color coordinating pjs – instead of purchasing a new trendy set piecing together beloved and lived in separates that match
Incoporating an eye sleep mask and sound machine to my sleep routine
Keeping the Christmas tree lights on all day
Voice memos to friends
Enjoying soup out of a mug
Starting a Grateful Journal dedicated to a loved one and gifting it to them for the following Christmas, birthday, or rainy day.
Throwing on my favorite sweater straight from the dryer
Complimenting a stranger and a loved one at least once a day
Frequent library visits
Being rich in candles
Putting on a fire on our wood burning stove and on Youtube for double coziness.

I try and include a handful of these hygge moments into my daily ritual as a way of slowing down and checking in with my soul. Everyone’s deserves to be hugged and often.

FIVE YEARS TIME

Jordan applied to a handful of practical options for his Ph.D program. Together we agreed on cities we could see ourselves flourishing, most of them being sprinkled around the Southeast near family and friends.

The University of California, Santa Cruz was a reach school. A wildcard he threw in last minute.

I drastically underestimated the sprawling state. In my mind, California consisted of LA and San Fransisco, and at the time I knew little about what potential laid inbetween.

I convinced myself California was too expensive, too unapproachable and maybe too good to be true. It was akin to moving to places like Hawaii or New York. I unfairly wrote them off as mere tourist destinations. Somewhere with as many visitors as locals couldn’t feel familiar, could it? Oddly enough my brother in law and one of my best college friends now call those desirable states home and love how life got them there.

When he got accepted to UCSC, we were invited to orientation. The University was fitting the bill. If nothing else, we thought it would serve as a fun vacation.

Little did we know, we’d fall in love with a town we’d never heard of in a state that for so long felt out of reach.

Our quirky AirBnb was a camping trailer in someones driveway. We ate the best Mexican food from a taco window, watched a golden sunset in Big Sur, and got engaged in between foggy Redwoods. Everything about the trip invigorated my senses.

Santa Cruz is full of character – a community of mostly local businesses, surfers, artists, musicians, hippies and students from all walks of life. The Beach Boys sing about it in “Surfing, USA” for a reason.

The clean sprawling air from the Pacific Ocean pushed up against the forest filled my lungs. Just about everything grows here. Wildlife and plantlife thrive. I could see myself thriving too.

On the flight to Charlotte, I knew deep down that we’d find our way back to California.

The decision was easy on our hearts but our minds were pulling us in opposite directions. Logistically it was more challenging than our other choice of staying in the comforts of the Southeast. Not to mention more expensive. It would be the farthest we’d ever be from family in our lives. There were a handful of reasons we could have chosen the easier option. But we knew that if we did, we might loose the moxie to pick up and move across the country while there was an open invitation.

We let our lease in Charlotte expire and sold majority of our belongings six short months following our visit.

The family went on a 40-hour road trip across the country with whatever fit in my reliable Subaru.

Jordan planned the journey into two weeks spreading out our time so we could get to know the country better. Only two of those nights were spent indoors; the rest were under the stars in different parks and campgrounds.

The summer heat was at it’s thickest so we overcompensated any way we could. Hammocks were set up under the shadiest trees we could find and hikes were timed perfectly with the sunset; we dipped our toes in lakes and took turns roaming inside of Walmarts for the A/C and restrooms. It wasn’t always glamorous. The important thing was we were doing it dogs in tow and for one of the first times in our lives had no routine to speak of.

The only detail we hadn’t ironed out was where we would live once we got to California.

Prior to hitting the road we came across a promising listing. The dark and blurry photos didn’t do the cabin justice. I’m convinced they were taken on a flip phone.

Even still, the charm of the one bedroom/one and a half bath was evident. From the retro seventies floral tile in the kitchen, wood paneled walls and tall redwoods surrounding it- it checked off boxes I didn’t know I had.

With our hopes set for a site unseen, our fingers were crossed throughout the journey that we’d beat renters to signing the lease. It was a risk, probably the biggest we’ve taken but we had little choice. The other dozens rentals never got back to us about our inquiries. The market was tough then. It still is.

The cabin wound up being available by the time we reached California. To our surprise, it was set far out on top a mountain. As lovely a landlord we have, she glossed over how remote the cabin was. It was the first time I saw two-way traffic lanes merge into one. Narrow cliff-sides without guard rails were at multiple turns. For miles you lose phone service until you reach the top of the four flight walk-up. I honestly think it’s what deterred potential renters who saw it in person.

We didn’t have a chance to shy away at the ruggedness. The remote land was vastly different from anywhere we’ve visited let alone called home. With shaky hands, we welcomed the privilege and the challenge.

The untraditional journey felt both long and short to get here. One that’s felt like winning the lottery every day since.

As Jordan wraps up his PhD program and the time in our mountain town dwindles, I’ve lived and learned a lot here. Arriving five years ago has taught me this, the secret to enjoying your golden years is to appreciate and romanticize them as they are happening.

A CASE FOR HOME ALONE 2

No movie is as nostalgic as Home Alone 1 and 2. They make the cut for my most beloved movies of all-time, and easily ranks at the top of the holiday genre.

Year after year, the timeless writing perfectly captures the perspective of a kid who feels like the black sheep of the family. I think we all could relate with Kevin McCallister to some extent. That’s what made him so fun to root for.

The other shining star of the films: the musical score. John Williams composes masterpieces that do a damn good job at tugging at our emotions. Think of all the recognizable scores of the last 50+ years. Williams’ is likely responsible for them. His impressive resume includes Star Wars, Jaws, Indiana Jones, Harry Potter and Jurassic Park. They seamlessly move the story along as any good musical score does but the best ones stick with you long after the credits roll. In December, The Home Alone soundtrack is on repeat morphing it’s way into memories of my own. When I listen to it, the first fall of snow on the east coast comes to mind. I think of Jordan and I assembling the train set with the dogs investigating each piece before they click into place around our tree. Or baking in my tiny kitchen using a wine bottle as a makeshift rolling pin.

My next point may be controversial. It’s an opinion I’ve held for majority of my life so I had plenty of time to mull it over before publishing this post.

Home Alone 2: Lost in New York is the better movie.

It’s one of the rare times a sequel rivals the original. Let me explain.
Within a year, Kevin outgrew a lot of his brattiness. There’s a shift at the end of the first film after he witnesses his elderly neighbor reunite with his family. It’s in that moment he appreciates having a big one. He continues to evolve throughout the second film into a (mostly) well-intentioned nine-year old.

Kevin’s grand taxi entrance into Manhatten was the perfect kick-off to his unsupervised adventures. I fill up with joy during the montage of him playing tourist with a film camera in hand and firecrackers from Chinatown in his backpack. Bystanders are too busy to notice a care-free child roaming around by themselves. The early nineties marked a simpler time.

There isn’t a more festive backdrop than New York City all dressed up for Christmas. The bustling energy and sea of locals and tourists have all the ingredients of an exciting cat-and-mouse chase.

With the sparklier location comes a wider cast of characters for Kevin to outsmart. Tim Curry and Rob Schneider as the suspiciously dim-witted hotel employees add a new level of humor to Kevin’s misadventures. They’re a riot in every scene and help balance out the menacing antagonists (we shamelessly love them too).

Harry and Marv’s vengeful return raises the stakes. Since the duo are better prepared for Kevin’s trickery, the under-renovation brownstone helps level the playing field. Giant holes in the floor and rickety fire escapes add to the danger of the break-in scene. The unfinished space allows for bigger messes compared to at the manicured McCallister residence.

Kevin’s growing street smarts is matched with a stronger moral compass. He really starts to understand the spirit of Christmas when he donates money to the owner of Mr. Duncan’s toy shop. Would younger Kevin have done that? I’m not so sure.

To see the leading character evolve into a better person gives Lost in New York the biggest advantage. Namely the pure and unlikely friendship between Kevin and Brenda, the Pigeon Lady.

As a child, we often don’t realize how the holidays can be lonely and painful for people. Their scenes together were some of my first lessons in empathy and honestly still serve as a sobering reminder as an adult. Both Kevin and Brenda save each other in their own ways. I’ll be eighty and still get choked up over the Turtle Dove ornaments. Cue goosebumps.

Then there’s Kevin’s mom, the talented Cathy O’hara. I’m 100% onboard with the better utilization of her character. At the end of the day, she’s a parent trying her best. I’m thankful for the moments that humanize her in a way that the first film was lacking. The audience is taken on the journey of a Mother’s love to get back to their child just before Christmas. She’s his North Star. Enter the lovable late John Candy who makes anything he’s a part of better. The audience goes from rooting on Kevin against the bad guys to rooting for him and his Mom’s reunion. The storylines run parallel grounding the plot in all of its outlandish antics. Their bond is the heartbeat of the film.

The second iteration has all the heart from the original film with an extra sprinkling of Christmas magic and the good kind of mischief that the franchise is known for.

If you love Home Alone and want to learn more about how the film came to be, I highly recommend The Movies that Made Us on Netflix. The special covers a lot of the production and budget hurdles that almost prevented the first one from coming together.

No Christmas is complete without an annual viewing of both films, they’re a perfect pairing – like two turtle doves.

NOVEMBER READS

A recent reading slump almost prevented me from writing this post. Work picked up significantly, social festivities marked up my calendar and to be fully honest, the book I was in the middle of this month felt more like a chore than an escape from life’s busyness.

Not long ago my expectations were to suffer through novels I didn’t like for the sake of finishing them.

My perspective changed after a conversation I had with my brother. He’s always been an avid reader; a quintessential English major turned English college instructor. His ranging bookshelf included The Goosebump series to classic American literature to British Romanticism. I marveled at them like trophies. He told me once “there’s too many good books out there to not prioritize the good ones.” Hearing it from him of all people gave me the permission to stop and start over fresh when I needed to.

I admit to losing sight of my reading oath this month. The first couple chapters of Devoted by Dean Koontz were promising enough. Before I knew it the plot branched into multiple dizzying storylines.

The genre started out under heartwarming magical realism about a dog and a mute boy with a special connection. It’s what drew me in. Then it took a turn into a dark sci-fi about an evil man transforming into a beastly super villian until it morphed into some kind of bad action movie including hitmen and a secret evil corporation. Believe it or not, all of that unraveled within the first half of the novel.

The deeper in I got, the more I avoided picking it up.

I missed joy-reading. With the extra push from my brother’s wise words, I let go of expectations and walked away nearly 400 pages lighter.

Reading should be for enjoyment and enlightenment— not responsibility.

By closing one book, it freed up the time to dedicate to a new one worth keeping up with. My brother was right, there really are endless good stories to get lost in. Some you have to hunt for like treasure, some that find you just when you need it.

For the travelers: My favorite social media accounts, blogs, and newsletters all have something distinguishable in common: a love of story-telling. I’m drawn to vulnerable captions that shed a light on someone’s mind. Words hold power. They can transform mindless scrolling to a genuine connection; a stranger or acquaintance into a complex human that we may share more in common than we realize.

For years I’ve followed a joyful flight attendant with a vibrant feed. Taylor Tippett speaks from the depths of her heart for 100k+ of her following.

Words from the Window Seat was born out of her desire to spread kindness to strangers on her flights. She’d write an uplifting note and tape it on the window for a passenger to find. The messages were shared via Instagram accompanied by a personal story or lesson from the friendly skies.

The book is a compilation of her pay-it-forward project. It’s three-parts self-help book and one-part memoir. A tender pep-talk close out the chapters like a comforting episode of Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood.

She reflects on becoming a flight attendant, mental health, healing from broken romantic and familial relationships and she shares a sprinkling of travel stories she’s collected over the years.

With someone with a unique and worldly perspective, I would’ve loved to dig deeper into her off-the-clock traveling. When a friend returns from a trip- especially somewhere I’ve never been, I tend to ask so many questions. I’m fascinated by delicacies, traditional customs, hidden gems and surprising misconceptions about popular cities. And surely I can’t be the only one who wants to know the juicy details behind the first class curtain. Maybe that can be saved for another book.

The cloud-covered paperback was a refreshing segway into reading for joy again. Although at times formulaic and advice-driven, Words from the Window Seat was a quick feel-good read that’s as accessible to her following as to a stranger roaming a bookshop.

4/5 mugs

IN THE CLOUDS

I’m a low maintenance flyer. First class and business status haven’t yet appeared by my name. As tempting as it sounds, I’ve never shelled out the cash for the comfort seats with extra leg room either. From what friends tell me, if you do it once it’s really hard to go back.

The humble rear of the plane with one free carry-on is the kind of traveling I’m accustomed to. A window or aisle seat serve as a consolation.

Besides securing an armrest of my own, I travel best from the window or aisle to better handle my distaste for enclosed spaces. I could never be an astronaut.

Having even an illusion of more personal space helps with my self-diagnosis of Restless Leg Syndrome – a condition often connected to anemia (something I’m professionally diagnosed with).

I’m not sure what came first, the RLS or my claustrophobia.

It’s a sensation I’ve experienced as far back as I can remember. Simply the thought of sitting in a car for more than twenty minutes or a two hour movie used to make me uncontrollably antsy. I’d shuffle up and down theater aisles or watch while standing up counting the minutes till the credits rolled. My attention could only focus on the nagging discomfort. The more crowded it was, the worse off it became. I’d feel trapped.

My symptoms peaked in the evenings. There were many memories of sleepless nights trying to convince my mom I wasn’t just avoiding bedtime. I would describe the sensation to her as “a pin-pall bouncing around in my stomach and creepy crawlys in my legs.” I wasn’t a super active kid but whenever I experienced strong RLS symptoms, the only cure was to get up and move around.

I still experience the physical urges from time to time, but thankfully nowhere near as intense. I’ve also learned how to tone down the dramatics around it.

It wasn’t until I saw a pharmaceutical commercial for RLS as an adult that I realized my condition had a name. To my relief, suffering with tingly legs wasn’t all in my head. The condition affects 7-10% of the US population.

I’ve been lucky enough to have a thoughtful travel companion who always takes the middle seat.

In our thirteen years together, I can’t remember the last time I sat in the middle. Jordan never announces it or makes it a thing; I never ask. It slips into both of our subconscious, like going to sleep on our side of the bed. The subtle gesture says a lot about him.

In fact, his kindness extends to strangers thousands of feet in the air. He can make a friend anywhere. On last month’s trip to North Carolina, he pushed through flight anxiety and the Dramamine in his system and made a connection with a chatty window seat-passenger. David was traveling alone to attend a relative’s funeral. I was touched by the warmth the stranger radiated under his circumstances. He had a contagious husky laugh that reverberated to the front of the plane.

By the time we touched down on the tarmac, we were invited to visit his family-owned farm and hardware store – locally beloved businesses a town over from where we live.

Before the days of Netflix, Comedy Central constantly replayed The Wedding Singer with Adam Sandler. Somehow I never tired of it.

If you’d never spent afternoons after school rewatching it the plot is simple: His character is heartbroken after getting stood up at the alter. At a tender age, the irony of singing about love after being dumped was not lost on me.

Enter the lovable banquet server, Drew Barrymore who befriends him. Together they plan her dream wedding to the absolute wrong guy. The two hit it off and develop genuine feelings for each other.

There’s a touching moment when Drew, riddled with red flags about her own relationship, asks how Adam knew his ex wasn’t right for him when they were together. After thinking about it a minute he recalled, “I remember we went to the Grand Canyon one time. We were flying there and I’d never been before and Linda had, so you would think that she would give me the window seat but she didn’t… not that that’s a big deal, you know. It’s just there were a lot of little things like that.”

Her response, “Not at all. I think it’s the little things that count.”

I thought I understood it back then. I understand it so much more now.

AFRAID TO LOOK

Growing up America’s Most Wanted and Home Alone had perpetuated my fear of intruders breaking into the house. When I was younger, I would build a barricade of pillows and blankets between my bed and the door, I’d clear hiding places to sneak off to, and, some nights, I’d hang a slinky across the hallway to trip up clumsy bad guys including my older brother. Upon retuning home from family vacations, I’d ask my Dad to check every room before I was cleared to roam around safely.

I’ve since traded in haphazard booby traps with proper security systems. The upgrades have helped put me at ease into adulthood but I’d be lying if I said a bump in the night didn’t rattle me. My longtime fear occasionally bubbles up to the surface when I’m home alone at night or when watching a scary movie before bed.

Around this time of year six or seven years ago, we were in our North Carolina apartment. At the time we were a one dog household. Much like our sleeping arrangements now, Forest snuggled her way between us which always made me feel so loved and safe. It was an ordinary night, just like any other.

At around two in the morning a loud crashing sound vibrated from the living room. It’s universally known that nothing good comes from an ungodly early wake up call.

The three of us simultaneously sprung out of bed. Forest’s body must have jolted up inches in the air from our mattress. My fearless protector was scared too. I was just as startled by her reaction as my own. The abrupt disturbance left my brain unable to function properly. My heart was pumping fast but my body wasn’t having the normal fight or flight response. Instead was the worst physiological survival instinct possible – I froze.

In my mind I immediately pictured our sliding glass window shattered into a hundred pieces. More disturbing than the initial noise was the eerie melody that followed from the other side of the wall. I could only describe the chimes and bells as the kind of music associated with a children’s birthday party or a carnival. We weren’t dealing with a run of the mill burglar. We had one twisted enough to play a soundtrack to accompany their crimes.

Jordan slinked off cautiously to the closet and emerged with a wooden hanger – apparently the best self defense he could find on short notice.

With Jordan leading the way, my legs finally sprung into action. Together we walked slowly over to the bedroom door with dread. From the foyer we could get a clear view of the living room to the source of the noise. As I write this, I’m curious as to why we hadn’t booked it out of the front door and called 911 instead.

In hindsight, I’m glad we didn’t. The hallway light illuminated the two fallen bookshelves that hit the t.v before crashing onto the wood floor. Our shelves were no match for the IKEA screws and weak drywall of an old apartment. I followed the unsettling tune back to a thrifted decorative owl figurine. It doubled as a bookend that I hadn’t realized was also a music box. The drop must have set off the metal wind-up screw at it’s base.

To our relief, there was no clown intruder in sight. Our doors and windows were intact and locked. Somehow the TV we’d had since college still functioned perfectly without a scratch.

Peek at the bottom shelf in the lower right for the mystery owl music box

What started out as a traumatizing night ended up being nothing more than an explainable series of misunderstandings. Turns out many of my fears are a lot less scary than I anticipated, I just need to turn the light on them more. And while I’m at it, I could work really on my “freeze” response too.

OCTOBER READS

True to the month of October, I turned to moodier novels from the selection at the library. They’ve been a nice pairing with my Fall Watchlist helping me soak up every drop of spooky season. I’m sure I’ll read happy things again, just not today.

For the broken hearts: All Your Perfects explores the unraveling of a marriage after years of infertility. Chapters juggle back and forth between the hopeful beginnings of their relationship to the current state of their marriage making the reality of their circumstances even more painful to watch unfold. The nonlinear timeline of happiest and bleakest memories swirl around into a blur of emotions. Needless to say, I had an emotional hangover after the chapters that take place in present times.

In a lot of ways, I was reminded of the films, A Marriage Story and Blue Valentine (highly recommend both, just keep tissues on hand.) I appreciate how no one in the relationship is the “bad” guy. No one is free of faults but no one intentionally tries to hurt the other either. It’s a vulnerable tale of slipping away from each other little by little and the efforts taken in order to get back to one another. At the core of everything, it’s a love story in all of its imperfections.

4/5 mugs

For the fans of Real Housewives with a dark twist: A high stakes chess game of two women; one willing to seduce and manipulate her way to get what she wants; the other that seemingly has it all – a picture-perfect marriage, fancy house, and the social status of someone who lives life on a pedestal. They tow the line between friendly neighbors and dangerous enemies, a predictable plot at first glance but I was pleasantly surprised to see the story pick up and take unexpected turns in the last half.

It’s told from both women’s perspectives allowing the reader to toggle back and forth between who to empathize with and who to loath. The storytelling was rich but I found the husband in the middle of the love triangle to be infuriating. In a way, it’s clever how uninteresting he was written. The women were so much more complex than the man at the center of it.

I love a good cat and mouse chase, especially when the roles are reversible. The rating was knocked down a few points because the opening chapters dragged on. The author spent a lengthy amount of time offering the background of each character and their motives as opposed to dropping us right into the story and letting us figure things out on our own.

3.5/5 mugs

For the not easily disturbed: Well intentioned and loving couple, Chris and Hannah struggle with fertility issues until an opportunity to become a family falls into their lap. A neglected child, Janie is found alone roaming a parking lot and shows up at the hospital where they work. While it’s clear she’s been malnourished and mistreated, the details of her case are a mystery for her health and social care workers. When Chris gets assigned to be her surgeon, little Janie steals Chris’ heart. Only trouble is she doesn’t have that warm affect on Hannah.

Despite the red flags, Hannah sees the undeniable bond between her husband and Janie. With some convincing she gets onboard with her adoption knowing how happy that would make Chris. She assumed that with unconditional love, structure, therapy and patience, they can become the family she’s always wished for. However, the behavioral problems and disturbing interactions that occur between them whenever Chris is at work only worsen with time. The new parents argue over how to handle Janie which drives a bigger wedge between them.

I had a sense of dread throughout the entire novel thanks to the exceptional pacing. There were enough sweet and hopeful moments sprinkled in the beginning to make you think that the outcome might actually turn out alright. I was rooting for this family’s happy ending. Alas, if you’re familiar with Lucinda Riley then you know that’s not how she operates.

The Perfect Child was more unsettling than the “sinister child” plot of it’s film counterparts. I’m filing this under one of the most eerie reads to date. Read at your own risk.

Trigger warning: child abuse, violence, animal cruelty

5/5 mugs

FALL WATCHLIST

Most nights include the time-old question, “what should we watch?” Unless we’re in the middle of binging a show, we often spend half the time browsing selections across four platforms in the time it takes to actually watch a movie. The hemming and hawing can last so long that we wind up reaching for the same books we put away to turn on the tv.

All that changes in October. Every year I create an Autumnal Watchlist mixing cozy family flicks with the horror genre. While some classics remain, I try and switch out a handful of titles to mix things up. As a 90’s kid, the majority of my picks fall under the golden era of film and television. There’s a campiness to slasher flicks like Scream and I Know What You Did Last Summer that I find eerily comforting. For me, the mixture of over the top gore, outlandish scenarios and a nostalgic soundtrack make it much easier to digest than the dark reality behind true crime.

I’ve yet to return to the movies but recreating my own spooky home theater has been an added benefit of living in a moody old house on a hill. At the top of a long driveway meets four flights of rickety stairs surrounded by thick woods. We joke that the neighborhood kids must think our place is haunted. We don’t mind at all. In fact, we’re proud to live in a classic horror movie troupe.

However creepy the woods appears at night to outsiders, the inside of our cabin is inviting and festive. I don’t hold back with decorations. I counted fourteen pumpkins around the tv/bookshelf alone. We also go ham with concessions this time of year. Lined in our pantry is a generous bag of kernels ready to be air popped on the stove and doused in a selection of Trader Joe’s seasonings. Familiar orange Reeses cup wrappers are stashed in a drawer for safe keeping. And a warm glow of candles and string lights sets the mood just before the sun hides behind the mountains. It’s a routine I look forward to most in October where no time is wasted on what to watch.

Autumn Watchlist:

Scream
Gilmore Girls – Season 1
I Still Know What You Did Last Summer
The Thing
When Harry Met Sally
The Nightmare Before Christmas
Se7en
Sleepy Hollow
Hush
The Others
The Simpsons Treehouse of Horror episodes
It Follows
Idle Hands
The Craft
Death Becomes Her
Boy Meets World Halloween episodes
Final Destination 1
Casper
Hereditary
BeetleJuice
Arachnophobia
Edward Scissorhands
Hocus Pocus
Halloween
The Shining

SEPTEMBER READS

Reading in the fall/winter months is a special kind of satisfying. The sun sets sooner, and the chill in the air offers more reason to hibernate indoors. Sleepiness falls on me when I read in bright sunlight. Pool or beachside reading wasn’t something I caught onto. To me, it should feel like I’m watching a movie; curled up with a blanket draped over me and a candle flickering from my periphery. Add rain to the mix and there’s nothing else I’d rather be doing. You’d think it’d be easier to nap under these conditions, but lately all the books I’ve picked up have been too engaging to put down without a fight. An upswing in consumption lends itself to this time of year. October has some big shoes to fill.

For the reflective: Jedidiah Jenkins is a writer, entrepreneur and enigmatic personality that I stumbled upon on Instagram. His adventurous photos in exotic locations are what first drew me in, and his unique perspective and soul-touching words are what kept me around for years. Many of his vulnerable captions lingered in my brain long after closing the app. I read his debut memoir, To Shake the Sleeping Self about his travels from Oregon to Patagonia with a smile plastered on my face and adrenaline in my bones.

His follow up book, Like Streams to the Ocean, is a candid collection of essays on matters of the ego. It was akin to sharing a late-night dinner with a friend and closing out the restaurant with empty wine bottles on the table. He dedicates a chapter on family, home, friendship, love, work, death, and the soul. Jenkins seamlessly blends philosophy and poetry – it’s as if words roll off of him with no effort at all (I’m sure that wasn’t the case, but the best writers create the illusion). He can articulate familiar ideas into something brand new and shiny coloring everything around him with depth.

In one chapter, he talks about his childhood home. Most of his formative years were spent in a Nashville farmhouse that got later turned into a restaurant. He describes the surreal experience of visiting and seeing people eat in the same place where he would watch his Grandpa make donuts. He tenderly portrayed the visit in a way that felt as though I was there with him, like those memories belonged to me too.

My only regret was renting a copy from the library first. I had to resist highlighting, notating and dog earring passages. Instead I wrote page numbers and quotes in my notes app to remember them for later. I plan to purchase a copy of my own so I can mark it up and lend it out. His writing is meant to be shared and revisited whenever your soul needs a hug. Not to mention, the cover of Yosemite would make anyone smile when glancing over at their nightstand or coffee table.

4.5/5 mugs

For the hurting and healing: Coming off the heels of her latest novel, Verity I knew I had to go down the Colleen Hoover rabbit hole. Luckily for readers, she’s produced almost two dozen books in her prolific career.

It Ends With Us, is a story depicting different kinds of love: the purity and eagerness of a first love, the strained love of imperfect parents, the platonic love of a best friend, and the love of a beautiful whirlwind romance that turns dark slowly and then all at once. Lily Bloom is at the center as she navigates through the complicated relationships in her life that for better or worse, shaped her into the person she is today.

I had the same urgency in reading it as though it was a thriller or mystery. Unlike Verity, this book doesn’t fall under either category yet the tension built up from the first chapter stretched it’s way to the final pages. Colleen Hoover is quickly becoming one of my favorite authors for that reason. Her writing style is gripping and vulnerable and addictive all at once. She melds romance with heavy subject matter adding layers of humanity that ground her stories to reality. Certain chapters were particularly difficult to get through. My heart broke in a million pieces then somehow got put back together again. The book portrays the courage to love and the courage to let go. Lily’s story will stay with me for a longtime.

Trigger warning: contains emotional and physical abuse

5/5 mugs

For the broken: A bone chilling novel about the aftermath of three mothers/childhood best friends who experience the worst night of their lives when their high school aged sons don’t all make it home after a sleepover. One son ends up dead, one in a debilitating coma, and the other is left too traumatized to speak needing psychiatric attention. Detectives, lawyers and doctors wedge themselves in their lives as they investigate the crime scene and continue to poke at the women’s broken hearts.

The mothers shared grief and their longing for closure is enough to pull some relationships closer and some further apart as each family tries to figure out what really happened the night of the accident.

The tragedy is heavy and unexpected amongst the backdrop of a gated suburban community. I am not a mother, but the sense of loss and heaviness that these three women face is palpable and expressed in such a raw way.

Before Lucinda Berry began writing fiction full-time, she was a former clinical psychologist and leading researcher in childhood trauma. Her writing is so real you can touch it making it even harder to put down. I desperately needed closure.

The Best of Friends doesn’t have a happy ending. It doesn’t make you feel good by any means but some escapes don’t need to. Some are meant to shake you emotionally and take you to a place that you’re grateful to only read about and not experience first hand.

Trigger warning: contains gun violence and trauma

5/5 mugs

THE JOYS OF WRITING IT DOWN

I’m an avid note taker, a result of being observant and curious yet wildly forgetful. It’s my way of making sense of the world.

Writing lends itself to the way I navigate: an eagerness to learn and a yearning to remember.

When I was a kid, I created stories to an audience made up of my Dad and stuffed pig. I was a child with equal parts imagination and old soul. It made sense I preferred the library and Barnes and Noble over Toys-R-Us. It was one of the few places I could roam around unsupervised and not have to beg my parents to pull out their wallets. I have fond memories of planting myself cross-legged between aisles with a pile of books on the floor beside me. Some were familiar and well-loved, others a shiny new adventure. On special occasions, my folks let me pick out a journal or stationary to take home under my arm; my prized possessions.

Journaling was never something I outgrew.

If anything I become more fond of it with age. Luckily I broke the habit of moving onto new journals before filling up all the empty pages. Regardless of gaps of time stretched between entries, pages no longer go wasted.

Sometimes, writing comes in small spurts. The streams of consciousness that don’t make it to the inside of my moleskin live in my notes app. They serve as a snapshot of the in between moments. A Rolodex of categories get filed under: observations of strangers, words/phrases that make my heart dance, thrift wish lists, blog post ideas, etc. Each note is a bookmarking my thoughts.

In The Midnight Library there is a quote I keep chewing on, “Never underestimate the big importance of small things.”

The words are reassurance to my soul. As an empath, it’s one of the things I caught onto early in life. Pay attention to the little things, celebrate them, write them down. Future Amanda will appreciate it when memory escapes me. It helps work out the hard, messy stuff too. Writing often untangles my thoughts and rearranges them in a way that I can process.

I was inspired by a podcast episode about the importance of keeping a grateful journal. In the past, I contributed to them sporadically. I’d only feel compelled to write on really good days or really bad ones. Last year, I gifted Jordan a Book of Love. When you have a partner for over a decade, you learn to get creative with gift-giving. Inside I compiled his kind gestures, inside jokes and our fun dates together. No matter how small or silly, he made filling up the pages easy every single day. Every so often we’ll open up the love book on a random page and read a few entries; the returns on joy exceeded my expectations. It turned out to be a gift for both of us, really.

Sometimes when the creative well runs dry I remind myself that note taking is still a practice in writing. A place to draw inspiration and meaning. Direct and in the moment, lists are writing in its purest form. There’s something refreshing about leaving explanations by the wayside.

I don’t jot everything down, but I’m thankful for the things I do. It’s a moment in time that tugs at my sleeve and says “hey aren’t you glad you were paying attention?”

AUGUST READS

The photo at the top of the page was taken in front of Armchair Books, a quaint little bookshop in Edinburgh. It’s been around forever, and I can’t imagine its changed much since it first opened. Their collection is vast and thoughtful arranged in what I’d describe as an organized chaos. First editions, collectibles, and classics are scattered everywhere. The space is tight, but not an inch is left unused. Ladders adorn most bookshelves conveiniently located for the brave and curious enough to browse the shelves that meet the ceiling. My memory may be a little fuzzy but I swear the shop owner had elbow patches sewn into his wool blazer. At least that’s what I imagined.

I unknowingly picked out a first edition copy of Harry Potter and The Philosopher’s Stone (”Philosopher’ was changed to “Sorcerer” when the book was published in the States.) Turns out the majority of the franchise was written in and inspired by Edinburgh.

The total of my new souvenir came out to about forty U.S dollars. While I was initially surprised, I caved and handed him my debit card with a smile. Window shopping in an antique Scottish bookshop on a moody Fall afternoon was entirely worth it. I want to spend more afternoons like that. Only next time with a stricter budget.

For the shock value: After best selling author Verity Crawford suffers a crippling accident, her husband hires unknown writer, Lowen Ashleigh to complete her renowned book series. Deep within Verity’s manuscripts and sprawling notes, Lowen discovers an insidious link between Verity’s dark writing style and tragedy-ridden personal life. The new information quickly turns a promising and high pressure job assignment into a threatening invitation.

I’m relieved this novel is a creation of Colleen Hoover’s wild imagination. Without a doubt, it is the most nail-biting, twisted and manipulative story I’ve read to date. I wanted to throw the book across the room on multiple occasions only to crawl back to the next page feverishly. Not only is the plot line juicy and original, it’s also clever and disturbingly addictive until the final act.

Warning: contains pulsing suspense that will send shock to your bloodstream. It’s certainly not for everyone but I will say, for the friends who claim they “can’t get immersed into reading”, Verity may be the thing to change your mind.

5/5 mugs

For the misunderstood: Bold and alluring Hollywood starlet, Evelyn Hugo is ready to reveal a tell-all book that the public have been hungry for for decades. She hires struggling magazine writer, Monique Grant as the only appropriate person to take on the job.

The interview covers the span of several decades from the start of her acting career in the fifties to the privacy of current day. She discusses the misogyny of the entertainment industry, the unexpected friendships she found amidst the chaos of fame, her failed marriages, and the one true romance that she was willing to give up her career, money and accolades for if only she had realized it sooner. At the the end of their time together, the young writer learns how her and Evelyn’s fate intertwine answering “why was she slated for the position?” and “why now?”

Taylor Jenkins Reid is masterful at fleshing out characters with substance. None of her characters are simply “good” or “bad.” They’re far too complex and human to fall under one category. I fell in and out of love with the enigmatic woman over the course of the novel, but deep down I was always rooting for her. To come across strong human connections amongst fiction is a huge feat. The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo was a cinematic experience of emotions. I used to believe historical romance was not my cup of tea but my mind has since changed. For a heroine who takes big chances in life, I’m glad I took a chance on Evelyn. The joys of letting a book surprise you.

5/5 mugs

For the melancholy: A public service program called “Deathcast” alerts people on the day they’re going to die. After receiving the news, Rufus and Mateo connect on the app, Last Friend, to live out their final hours so they don’t have to go at it alone. As they brave through the city saying their goodbyes and crossing off bucket list items, together they learn the importance of trust, empathy, and getting big meaning from small moments. Amidst the grim reality, I appreciate how the coming of age tale doesn’t focus on how they go so much as how they live. It’s a story on perspective.

A unique thing happened to me while reading. The synopsis on the back cover pulled at my heartstrings more than when reading the book. I really wanted to like it. I tried. But it left more to be desired; a disappointing delivery to a plot dripping with potential.

Told mainly from the perspective of Rufus and Mateo, their cadence and vocabulary added a distracting element to the narrative. I wasn’t a fan of the choppy tone that differed from chapter to chapter. The ping pong match storytelling took too long to find it’s groove, and by then the book was nearly over.

The intentions are genuine, but I think the film Stranger Than Fiction did a better job executing the “imminent and untimely death” plotline and infused the heart that was lacking in this book. It may be an unpopular opinion, but Adam Silvera missed the mark for me.

2/5 mugs

FOR THE LOVE OF COTTAGECORE

A trend a millennial like me can get behind.

When I think of Cottagecore, I imagine romantic and flowing dresses, puffy sleeves, peasant tops, woven baskets filled with foraged flowers and mushrooms, and a big sun hat while tending to a garden or baking bread in an English countryside. In the midst of 2020, it helped remind me of a simpler time – one I welcomed with open arms.

I resonated with the Cottagecore aesthetic before I knew it had a name thanks to iconic period pieces like Little Women, The Secret Garden, and Downton Abbey. The dreamy costumes and rustic set designs transport me to a calm place eternally lit by candle-light. I revisit them often. Kate Winslet’s charming Rosehill cottage in The Holiday sticks out as the pinnacle of modern day Cottagecore fantasy.

My favorite Instagram and Pinterest accounts offer a peaceful corner of the internet featuring homesteading, cabin dwelling and other rural lifestyles. They’re a well of inspiration to draw from.

Moving to a cabin in the forest provided a blank canvas to indulge in my Cottagecore tendencies, including my wardrobe.

Since college I gravitated for earth tones and pieces that served in both comfort and utility. Admittingly overalls and dresses make up majority of my closet. Throw in the occasional fringe, groovy florals and wide brimmed hats to mix up my beloved mono chromatics. It’s only natural that one-pieces are first to fly off my hangers.

While I own mostly flowy articles of clothing reminiscent of a farmer/flower child, I recently filled a gap in my wardrobe that I had gone too long with out. A delightful dress with big sleeves pulled my Cottagecore aesthetic together. When I throw it on, the serotonin kicks in and the soundtrack to Sound of Music plays. The dress is roomy but still looks put-together. Romantic yet effortless. A lightweight linen material is perfect for both twirling and napping in. In the summer months, they make picking out an outfit a no-brainer.

The timeless peasant dress isn’t a far departure from the style I’ve cultivated over the last five or six years fitting seamlessly into my closet alongside other comfy classic pieces. So much so that I had to pick up another on my last Target run. How many puffy sleeves is too many??

JULY READS

A local bookshop guide and a pair of reviews on highly buzzed about suspenseful thrillers.

My soon to be twenty one year old sister-in-law spent the last ten days with us as we traipsed through the Bay Area. Her visit made summer feel like the one’s I had as a kid, filled with ice cream consumption and long days under the sun. Of course we had to show her the tourist traps and sweeping views that her southern college town doesn’t offer.

Lucky for me, she initiated visits to all the local bookshops I had been side-eyeing. Together, we browsed the aisles with glee, knowing full well we both had a queue of novels waiting at home. It never hurts to look. What better souvenir to take home than a growing pile of stories?

Here’s a short list of old and new bookshops I highly recommend if you’re in the area:

Bookshop Santa Cruz, Downtown Santa Cruz – make sure to read the framed newspaper clipping located by the register. It uncovers the charming history of how the owner’s love story and shop came to be. It’ll make any purchase you make with them feel warm and fuzzy.
Abbot’s Thrift Store, Downtown Felton – I dedicated part of an earlier blog post to my love of this thrift store. Their comprehensive and organized selection puts some bookstores to shame
Two Birds Bookstore, Capitola/Seabright – the owner’s two adorable dogs, Tio and Marshmallow greet you at the door adding to the coziness of this independent shop. The owner’s are just as friendly! Their unique offerings of Knick knacks make an excellent spot for curated local gifts
Green Apple Bookshop, San Francisco/Inner Sunset – located in one of my favorite neighborhoods in the city, the small unassuming storefront has shelves stretching on forever like magic. A welcomed and memorable surprise for first timers. Founded in 1967, it’s been repeatedly voted the best bookstore in the Bay Area by SF Weekly and The San Francisco Bay Guardian

For suspense-seekers: A decade after her daughter went missing, a mother finds out the heartbreaking truth behind her child’s disappearance and how the power of closure can both heal old wounds and create new ones.

Lisa Jewell is undoubtedly a compelling writer. The tangled mystery stared off strong. It was a quick and enthralling read until I hit a couple snags towards the middle. I couldn’t ignore the plot holes that pulled me out of the story as quickly as it had sucked me in.

Without giving too much away, I found the character’s half-baked, and the big twist far too unlikely. I also wish the synopsis on the back cover didn’t give away as many poignant details. I found myself hypothesizing way too early on (why I avoid film trailers these days).

I wanted to like this more than I did. Then She was Gone didn’t live up to the expectations of it’s promising introduction. An unsatisfying ending sealed my 2/5 star rating.

2/5 mugs

For fans of Clue: The Guest List kept me up until the wee hours of the morning. The plot is simple: a beautiful young couple weds on a remote island. It has all the ingredients for disaster: An equally adored and envied couple, a mischievous bridal party, family drama and a barrage of secrets that tie them together.

Each chapter is told from a different guests perspective as I teetered between who can and cannot be trusted. The Guest List sunk it’s hooks into me from the very beginning with the atmospheric location and ominous weather playing as important a role as the characters themselves.

The eerily fun novel covers the span of a tense forty-eight hour period, successfully portraying the claustrophobia of the island. I had the role of both a passive reader and an active wedding guest adding to the immersive murder mystery experience- one I haven’t felt since my annual Halloween viewing of Clue.

The non-stop sleuthing made the big reveal worth all the sleepless nights and tired mornings.

5/5 mugs