I like to think of myself as an adventurous character, but it's really a matter of opinion. What is an adventure anyway? Is it traipsing through Southeast Asia, alone, with no solid plans or ambitions other than fun? Or is it simply seeking out whatever is new and unusual for you, be it on the grand Southeast Asia scale or the more attainable and achievable day to day trying a new neighborhood restaurant without checking Yelp score? What have I done that screams "ADVENTURE?!?" in the last months? I booked a trip to Portland to visit my best friend, having never stepped foot on the West Coast. Travelling cross country alone will surely be an adventure, right? I continue to ignore past lessons and try to date in the least dateable city in America, is this a form of adventuring or a form of insanity? Perhaps both? Now I am wondering if there is an element of insanity in any adventure- we know the risks and yet we make bold moves, hoping that this time will be different.

Maybe an adventure is any bold more you make, unique to each person. It's choosing the unknown or uncomfortable in hopes of an outcome that you have no control over. A mix of blind faith, boredom and insanity. Why not take the chance? At least you'll have a story to tell.

Driving into Winchester, VA right after you crossed over the railroad tracks on Millwood Avenue there was a billboard. Small, not the kind you saw driving down 95 towards to beaches, only a few feet off of the ground. For most of my childhood it advertised Hardee's Restaurant, even when there stopped being a Hardee's in town. More importantly, it was a landmark signaling that we were moments away from Grandma Jane's house.

Our trips to Winchester were frequent and fun. Bear hunts through to neighborhood down and around the Handley High School campus, living room wrestling matches with Uncles who could wield us all off at once while swigging from a cold Yvengling. Big family dinners, two cousins per chair, stuffed shells oozing ricotta cheese. I never remember feeling anxious there, worried what anyone might think. It's special and rare and wonderful to be able to just be somewhere. Which is probably why I feel such tenderness towards that Hardee's billboard, it signaled a promise of belonging, warmth and familiarity.

A time when food was not a reward or a punishment, friend and enemy, but most often a secret. Maybe having a mother who struggled with her weight influenced this thinking. Maybe it's more innate, ingrained, genetic. Could the potato famine lead to inherited trauma? Where did it start? M&M's as potty training reinforcement, Dairy Queen dip cones after school. 6 butter Santas missing their heads, pewter bowls of Doritos before dinner to keep the children quiet. Celebrations and gatherings and funerals. Ample bottomed aunts and uncles who buckle their belts under their bellies. Instead of asking questions I don't have answers to (or need answers too, really) perhaps I just need to reframe my thinking entirely. Choose acceptance and letting go. No more shame. Fuel. Joy. Celebration.

When the first day of school was fraught with anxiety and anticipation. Every detail was fretted over, from my choice of shoes to which pencil cases as the RIGHT one for that school year. It was exciting, it was scary it was NEW. Forget Spring- Fall and the start of the new school year was all about rebirth/beginning anew. In early elementary school it was all about who your teacher was going to be and if your friends would be in your class. Which neighborhood kids would walk to school with you,  if the 6th graders would be nice.  The supplies and fashion were secondary… Though I can also remember almost every first day of school outfit I ever wore. Plaid and denim played such a major role in my elementary school wardrobe you might think I grew up in the country. As I got older the fashions and accessories became MUCH more important. As if the right outfit, sneakers and backpack would set the tone for the PERFECT school year- a balance of popularity, academic achievement and athletic prowess that I had yet to achieve. And never did, come to think of it.

This morning, on what was (give or take a few years when I wasn't a student or an educator of some kind) my 22nd First Day of School I rolled out of bed at 7:20 (after snoozing Frank Ocean's morning serenade for 45 minutes) made coffee, threw on my "uniform" (office appropriate wrap dress with bun and conservative for me lipstick) and rushed out the door. No anxiety, no anticipation. Excited, yes but not at all nervous. Have I figured out that there's really nothing to worry about? Or have I figured out how little I am actually in control? Probably both.

Inspired by one of my very favorites, someone I consider to be a great friend whom I have never met but just KNOW we would be soul sisters, I am comitting (almost a month late) Ann Dee Ellis' "8 Minute Memoirs". Because I need to write more because I like myself more when I am writing. Because writing about my love life (or lack there of) or weight loss or fitness goals gets a little boring (monotonous, depressing…) Because why not commit to something NEW?

Join me, won't you?

at what point does optimism become masochism?

I've perpetually taking a break from dating or falling head over heels with the WRONG (engaged to two other women, still paying his ex's rent, in it for a green card- the list goes on and on) man. There is seemingly no in between, and there is certainly a pattern. What am I really after and why is it so elusive?

I've fallen back in love with aromi matte lipsticks. Or become reacquainted? super saturated  colors that wear and feel like a dream.


These women. I can't being to imagine fighting for a cause for 35+ years, the work that they've done and change that they've seen and one of their peers is about to change the world. The stories they tell. I'm such a fan.
Bringing practical gifts. They can be fun, they can be thoughtful, but dear god- bring something useful. A person just shot out of your body- do you want balloons or a beer? That was a rhetorical question.

Summer produce. Winter is coming. In February I want to know that I ate as many tomatoes as a could while it was still summer.

"When they arrived, they hugged and hugged from the kitchen to the front room."

Atticus Conaboy.

We love him, he has the best ears, but we do not trust him with babies.




As a child, you are meant to experiment. You try things on, dress up, pretend, play. Act out the world as a way of understanding it. You explore. The things that stick, those that you have a talent or passion for become your pursuits. The things that you failed at, that you showed no talent or propensity for or simply hated, you stopped doing. Why pursue something that you weren't good at, something that didn't make you feel good? As a child I tried many things on. I loved many, excelled at some, hated others, and stuck to few (foreshadowing, perhaps?) But the one thing that was constant was that if you weren't good at something, if it didn't bring you joy, you didn't have to do it. Flute not for you? On to the next. Two left feet? Maybe swim team will be a better fit. There were countless options, countless niches to be filled, ways to be and feel special.

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But the one thing I am worst at, the area where I excel the least I can't quit. I mean, in theory of course I could, but the alternative is a little grim and totally depressing. This is what I think is so hard about dating. I fail constantly. Epically. So much so that I started this blog, and named it for the fact that I just couldn't seem to get it right. Were this 2nd-grade ballet, or 5th-grade flute, or 9th-grade lacrosse I  could walk away. It would be alright to say, I tried, it sucked, I hated it and now I'm done. And yet…

And yet I have to keep trying. Because the alternative is too sad. Because to give up and throw the towel in at 32 feels too final and too lame. And, I will say it again, too sad.

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