Story Potluck – The Wobbly Table Blog

I’LL CRY IF I WANT TO

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.

LEAVING HOME

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.

FEELING BETTER ABOUT FAILING

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.

IMPERFECTION: A WEDDING STORY

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.

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.

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 GREATEST LOVE SONG YOU’VE NEVER HEARD OF

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:

My Brilliant Feat
Man Without a Name
Overkill
Waiting for My Real Life to Begin
Norwegian Wood (Beatles Cover)

IN THE DARK

I love the rain.

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.

Despite everything, I still love the rain.

A HATE/LOVE RELATIONSHIP: HOME EDITION

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.

WITH A LITTLE HELP FROM BUMBLE FRIENDS

Making friends as an adult is hard.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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?”

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??