Winter Survival Mode: Activated

It's winter (obviously).

In my (not at all) humble opinion, the best thing to do in the winter is stay home.  There's so much to do there!  There are books to be read.  There is food to be eaten.  There are television shows to be binged (we're currently re-watching Doctor Who).  There are projects to be knit (or crocheted, or cross-stitched).  There's a husband to snuggle.  And there's a lot of cleaning and organizing to do, when I can find the time and energy between all that reading and eating and snuggling.

Winter is not exactly my favorite time of year.  I prefer warm springs and mild summers, when I can wear cute little sundresses and short skirts and heels as often as I want and not, well, freeze.  I prefer when it doesn't look like midnight at five o'clock.

But, I live in the Midwest with no intentions of leaving, so I get to continue to experience the full breadth of all four seasons, including this incredibly cold winter.

My survival tactics have changed a bit over the years.  Winter Ashley used to look a lot different than she does now, and she was a lot less happy in the winters.  I didn't wear a lot of bright colors.  Instead. I wore a lot of leggings, T-shirts, and cardigans, which is a pretty far cry from my winter style these days.

The problem was that I've never been a huge fan of sweaters, since they tend to make me feel a bit stifled.  Really, I don't like bulky long-sleeved tops in general, which is unfortunately the Merriam-Webster definition for "sweater."

Now? There are remarkably more sweaters (since I've learned to be properly picky when shopping so that I will actually wear a sweater), more tights, more boots, more knee-high socks, and more layers.  There's a lot of colors.  And hats.

I love hats.

And while I proclaimed the virtues of staying home during the winter, I also recognize that isn't always feasible.  You might have a party to go to.  You might have to trek to the store for vital necessities (eggs, bread, and milk for French toast).  Your boss might unreasonably insist that he's not going to pay you to stay at home and knit. (How unfair!)  You might actually want to go outside in the cold and... enjoy yourself.

In that case, it's important to have the perfect winter coat (or two... or twenty).  If I have to cover up my outfit, it's going to be with a great - and preferably coordinating - coat.  I have a slight vintage coat addiction, so I have a wide variety to choose from, but the key things to remember are comfort, warmth, and, yes style.  Do you like how you look in your coat?  Great!  That's one step towards making winter less awful.

I need to dig out this coat.  It's my favorite.

Winter isn't exactly the worst thing in the world, I suppose.  It has it's magical moments, like the first snow.  And the first snowman.  It has my birthday.  It has Christmas and hot chocolate and comfort food and sneaking your cold feet under your husband's legs.  There's ice skating (especially if you're more graceful than me), and fireplaces, and layers upon layers of warm blankets to burrow under.

Winter weather also provides an introvert with endless excuses to stay inside and catch up on her reading.

Winter may be long, but it's not interminable.  Or unsurvivable.  You just have to know how.  And it's different for everyone.

For me, surviving winter is about continuing to dress like myself, continuing to wear color, and not letting myself stay inside too long.  It's about finding the little things that are still enjoyable, even in the bleak midwinter.  It's about not letting the cold and damp stop me from my regular lifestyle.

It's also about how much I'm looking forward to going home and watching Doctor Who.

New Year, New Blog: or, I'm Not Dead Yet!

So.... I bet you thought this blog was dead, didn't you?

I totally fooled you, didn't I?

Didn't I?

Actually... you were partly right.  It was mostly dead.  In hibernation.  A respite, if you will.  Otherwise known as wedding season.  And Thanksgiving.  And Christmas.  And...

I haven't just been working, but it would take several blogs worth to catch up on everything that's gone on since July.  Assuming I've just been working is easier.  Because if it wasn't work that I got actually paid for, it's been work on my own personal projects, on maintaining friendships across state lines, and (more recently) on our house and on myself.

It's also just been a hell of a year.  In a good way.  In 2017 I...

• Turned 32.
• Moved.
• Bought a house.
• Had an amazing bachelorette party.
• Got married to the love of my life.
• Officially became a stepmom.
• Went on a mini-honeymoon to House on the Rock/Wisconsin Dells.
• Read 55 books (my yearly goal is 50).
• Won judges choice in a poetry contest.
• Made a lot of fun projects.
• Watched the solar eclipse.
• Went to Chicago for my friend's baby shower.
• Dressed up for Halloween every single day of October.
• Went to three Christmases in one day.
• Got a brand new fancy smartphone.
• Stayed home on NYE and did absolutely nothing.

It was a truly wonderful year, one of my best yet in spite of the obvious stresses of so many major life changes in such a short time frame (especially since I basically planned our wedding in about a month!).

But now it's 2018.  I have absolutely no idea what is in store, but I hope to actually blog about it this time.

So, in case you'd forgotten, my name is Ashley and I (occasionally) write this blog.  I love clothes, pins, books, food, dogs, being an introvert, and lots and lots of nerdy things.

Over the next few weeks, I'm hoping to change the way I blog here, including more frequent blogs on a wider variety of topics than my week-to-week life.

In the meantime, you can always follow me on Instagram (username redhead_vintage_girl), where I share my almost-daily outfit post, along with photos of my crafts, food, and life in general.

It's 2018, guys.  It's a whole new year, with countless possibilities and adventures.  I'm looking forward to settling more and more into a daily routine, into our home, and into my still-newfound happiness.

What are you looking forward to?

Powerful Places

I feel like I've been on the go constantly.  So much so that I was literally in the middle of blogging about being busy last week when I had to leave to go somewhere, and never even finished the blog!

We just got back on Sunday from our "honeymoon," which was really just a whirlwind weekend away to Wisconsin Dells and House on the Rock.  A "mini-moon," if you will.  (Which also either sounds like something entirely inappropriate, or a slightly momentous lunar event.)

I've wanted to take Mark there ever since I went with Jessica, Sandi, and Kim several years ago.  I thought it was the most magical place I'd ever been to, and still generally speak of it in a wistful, awed tone of voice.

Plus, we're watching American Gods (omg it's so good) right now, so it only seemed fitting to go (even if they didn't actually get to House on the Rock this season).  We also wanted to go somewhere we haven't been together, and somewhere we didn't know anyone.  Wisconsin fit the bill pretty well.

The thing about us is that was really suck at vacations.

We do.  We actually kindof dread going.  We're overbooked introverts, after all.  We pounce on things like "free time" and "staying home."  So the idea of taking that precious free time, getting in a car, and paying to stay somewhere that's not home?  It's not the most appealing, to be honest.

But, we pry ourselves away from our couch and our comfort zone anyway.  Because, well, adventure is out there, right?

In American Gods, Thursday explains to Shadow that tourist traps are "places of power."  They draw people in, without reason or explanation.  And that's exactly what House on the Rock is.  It's unexplainable, indefinable. My mom has asked me for years what House on the Rock is, and I still don't have a good answer for her. 

It's somewhere between a waking dream and a nightmare.  It's a hallucination.  It's a curated obsession.  It makes absolutely no sense whatsoever. 

And, best of all, it doesn't try to.  There's nothing else in the world like it.  And that's why people go.  That's why we went.  It's why I've been twice, and why I would go again.

It was, in spite of our general trepidation about vacations, a very good trip.  We stayed in a kitschy motel in the Wisconsin Dells complete with a hot tub (and a shower that was probably from the 70s).  We ate at touristy places and did touristy things like take pictures and buy cheese and souvenirs and take an "old-timey" photo.

We spent the whole weekend alone together (which was a huge step up from my first honeymoon that we basically spent with friends) and did exactly as we pleased.

And we returned exhausted and with plans to go back in the future, Kaylee in tow.

Maybe vacations aren't so bad, particularly if you're with the right person.

Just don't expect us to go on another one anytime soon.

Wicked Stepmothers Day

Is there such a thing as Wicked Stepmother's Day?  Because I think there should be.

I know, in theory, that Mother's Day is supposed to encompass mothers of all kinds: birth, step, adoptive, grandmothers, great-grandmothers, aunts, godmothers, etc.  And so, according to that theory, this past Sunday was my first Mother's Day (outside of the one year when one of my foster dogs "gave" me a hand mixer).

I even got a free meal and free cheesecake at Pasta House out of the deal.

But, honestly?  I felt like some kind of imposter.

I'm not a mom.  Not really.  I happened to marry the love of my life, who happened to have a kid.  That doesn't make me a mom.

I joined this kid's life like some people join the army midway through the war.  I haven't been down in the trenches since the beginning, slogging through the muck and dirty diapers.  No, I joined up once the tides had turned and potty training battles had already been won.  I got here just in time for games and adventures and crafts.  (And the occasional meltdown.)

I'm not the first line of defense.  I'm not even the second.  I'm back there in the reserves, just in case backup is needed.

But, you say, you're there, Ashley.  You took on a role that no one forced you to take.  You Google mom questions like, "how do you a get a kid to stop sucking their thumb?"  You stand in the middle of the living room while drinking a glass of wine with a kid wrapped around your leg.  You wake up to tiny feet against your back.  You eat Fazoli's even though you loathe it.  You play Chutes and Ladders ten times in a row.

And that's true.

It is.

All of it.

But, I don't know.  I still don't know if I feel like a "stepmom."  Maybe it's that I've already been around for a few years, just as "Ashley" and nothing more.  The transition into living in the same house on the weekends even happened before I was officially her stepmom.  So there's been very little major shifting of roles or expectations.  I'm still Ashley.  I just also happen to now be legally bound to her dad.

I want her to be happy.  I want her to enjoy our time together, and to like me, and to make good choices.  I want her to be as well-adjusted as humanly possible.  I want to figure out the best way to make all that happen (hence the Googling).

I also love that she writes notes for "Daddy Ashley," and draws us pictures, and wants to hang out with me and play games and read books.  I love that she loves when we match.  I love that she picks out what pin I'm wearing on the weekends.

I guess that's the important part.  It's not the name that matters, it's the intention and the actions.  I would tell anyone else that, except when it comes to myself.

So, I guess I am a stepmom.  If you insist.

And maybe, just maybe, I'm not that wicked of one.

Come On and Feel the Illinoise

It's completely official: I'm once again an Illinoisian.  An Illinioisan?  An Illinosan?

(Fun fact: all of those terms are technically correct, though I think my preference is Illinoisian, for the sheer fact that there are a ridiculous number of I's involved.)

To be fair, my citizenship transfer was mostly official a few weeks ago, when I got my new driver's license.  But now it's really really official, since my car is now an Illinoisian as well.

All this after a very unfortunate incident on Tuesday involving my getting pulled over in East St Louis, discovering my Missouri plates were actually expired, getting a ticket, and the police officer then driving off while still in possession of my drivers license and insurance card.

Yeah.  It was a great day.

... Not really.

So.  Yesterday I left early, went to the DMV, and got new Illinois license plates (for the low low cost of $200 plus that pesky expired plates ticket).  I even put them on my car myself.

I admit, it was a weird feeling.  After all, it's been ten years since I had Illinois plates.  The drivers license was one thing, but the license plates seem somehow more official.  I don't know if it's because I had to physically remove the very old and very battered plates and replace them with ones so new they practically sparkle.  The whole car looks different and unfamiliar with them on.

For years, I called myself an Illinois ex-pat.  Even though I was born in Germany, Illinois had always been my home.  I grew up in Collinsville (notable only for the World's Largest Catsup Bottle and a remarkable absence of anything interesting to do besides hang out at Denny's).  I went to college in Chicago.

I didn't grow up with dreams of leaving home for the great unknown.  I'm a solidly Midwestern girl.  I like the slower pace.  I like the smaller towns.  I like that traffic isn't a complete nightmare (at least... not all the time?).

Even though I've been all over the country, I've never once wanted to move outside of the Midwest.  I don't even want to move outside the St Louis area, which is, thus far, as far as I've wandered from home.

A lot of people seem to have a lot of disdain for St. Louis.  I've never understood that.  It's a great town, not too big and not too small, filled with tons of things to do.  It's not quite bustling, but certainly not pokey.  There are a multitude of different neighborhoods, ethnic food galore, and we even have an IKEA now (like anything else matters?).  There's a free zoo, free museums, festivals, great parks, an awesome baseball team, and highways that are continually under construction (and often all at the same time!).

Okay, maybe that last one isn't exactly a plus, but it is strangely endearing all the same.

It's all so very Midwestern-y, isn't it?  There's gooey butter cake and toasted ravioli (which I actually despise).  There's the World's Largest Catsup Bottle.  There's farmland and county fairs and random French names that no one pronounces correctly.  You can have every single season all in the same week.

It is, in a word, home.  For all it's quirks and annoyances (Why are there no left turns on Gravois?  Why are Illinois drivers so terrible?  When will Kingshighway reopen?), I've never wanted to be anywhere else for very long.

They say home is where the heart is, and if I'm being honest, mine has always been here.  It is most definitely here now, as the main reason why I moved back across the river to join the other Illinoisians in our ridiculously corrupt and broke state.

And so the ex-pat has come home.  It wasn't a long way to travel, even though it took me 10 years to get here.

Not surprised?  Neither am I.

After all, there's no place like home.

Happy and You Know It

I like to think that I'm a happy person these days.

Why shouldn't I be?  I have a good job, a wonderful husband, a sweet stepkid, a house of my own, still-married parents, and an amazing circle of friends.  I have money in the bank and all my basic needs are met.  Sure, I go through my sometimes-monthly moodiness and have moments of melancholy (and always adore alliteration), not to mention recent wedding-and-house-buying stress, but for the most part I would say that I'm definitely happy.  At the very least I'm content, and I think that's pretty awesome as well.

It's not that I expect to be happy all the time.  That would actually be boring, not to mention unrealistic.  And obviously, even though I have every reason to be thrilled with life, I'm not always.  It happens.

But I do very much enjoy my happiness.

And, quite frankly, I think I could improve on it.

Mainly, I struggle with the fact that I often let myself get overly upset by the little things.  More specifically, I let myself get overly upset by the little things that I can't control: by the guy who doesn't have his turn signal on but turns anyway, by the client who misses a question that I asked, or by someone not acting exactly how I think they should act.

Coincidentally (or not), I recently read The Happiness Project, by Gretchen Rubin, a stunt book (do something slightly crazy for a year and then write about it in a very clever manner) in which Gretchen spends a year trying every means possible to be happier and more invested in her own (already very pleasant) life.

I recognize that this kind of book is not for everyone.  But I find that I'm actually a sucker for the stunt genre.  I adored The Year of Living Biblically, The Know-It-All, and (of course) Julie and Julia, the book/movie that forever changed my attitude about cooking.  I'm unashamed of my love for the year-long-commitment genre of books.  Maybe it's because I do my own yearly commitment to reading at least 50 books.  Maybe it's because I've always subscribed to the mantra of "you can do anything for a year."  Maybe I just like the fact that I'm not the only person who writes excessively about their daily life, and the fact that some people actually become famous by doing so.

Whatever the case, I completely loved The Happiness Project.  Gretchen dealt with a lot of the same issues I have (or have had).  She's a bit of a control freak.  She's messy.  She's a slight hoarder.  She judges herself for the things she enjoys, and struggles with an innate sense of "I can totally make do without this necessary item."

In her book, Gretchen works her way through 12 months of happiness improvement, focusing each month on a different aspect of her life (kids, friends, husband, work, creativity, money, etc).

While I certainly don't intend to undertake a similar project right now, I do feel like I can improve my own happiness in baby steps, mostly by chilling the fuck out and recognizing that I do not have to (and, quite frankly, should not be allowed to) run the whole world.

So far, it's (kindof) working.

I'm trying very hard not to immediately rant when someone doesn't answer my entire e-mail.  I'm trying not to swan dive into automatic road rage (curse words and middle fingers blazing) when other drivers fail to follow common sense road rules.  I'm trying not to think that I know best about what other people should be doing.  Just because I'm multi-tasking doesn't mean everyone else needs to be.

I'm trying, ultimately, to cut other people some slack.

Is venting fun?  Is feeling superior to the idiotic drivers on the road enjoyable?  Hell yes.  Why else would we do it?  But what I'm wondering is if it is actually worthwhile.  I'm starting to think that, instead of innocently blowing off steam, I'm more likely blowing things out of proportion and giving myself a reason to be upset.  Negativity breeds more negativity, at least for me.  Once I start looking for the bad, I can always find more.  And more.

I'd rather focus on the good.  I'd rather focus on and remember Kaylee's joy of waking up and looking for Easter eggs and of opening her Easter basket rather than fixating on her stubbornness the night before.

Life isn't always going to be good.  There are going to be times when I'm going to be sad, or anxious, or sick, or heart-broken, or any number of negative emotions.  I'm going to be criticized, or be frustrated, or furious.  But while I'm happy, and while I can be happy, I don't see the point in blatantly spoiling it for myself for no good reason.

Definitely a happy day.

I can't tell you I'm going to stop being snarky and sarcastic.  Because I'm not.  And if you consider that to be a character flaw or negative trait, then so be it.  But I consider it to be an inherent part of my personality, and I actually do find happiness in a perfectly-crafted snarky comment, particularly when it makes other people laugh.  My favorite relationships (both fictional and my own) are based on the snarky, witty repartee of two people generally giving each other a hard time.

So, I'm not going to turn into Little Miss Sunshine, but I am going to try to stop bitching quite so much about things that don't really matter in the grand scheme.

And I don't care what Yoda says, because "try" is truly the operative word here.

The Long Haul

For this blog, I would just like you to picture me flailing around.

Actually, no.  Don't.  Because I'm getting pretty bored with blogging about my stress levels and the many and various things I have to be stressed about.  Which should seem contradictory, but really?  It's getting dull quickly.

Instead, can we talk about the fact that I'm now officially a "commuter"?  I haven't had to actually commute in nearly ten years, and even that was only for a few short months before I moved to St. Louis with my ex.  After that, I had a 15 minute drive on bad days.  Then it became a 10 minute drive.  Then it became a 6 minute drive, and I thought I had officially won at life.

Now?  It's a half hour each way if the rush hour traffic isn't too bad, if I cut into the bridge traffic as late as possible, if the weather is good, and if no one got in an accident.

Honestly?  As much as I don't want to move back to my old apartment, I do very much miss my six minute drive.

The question is: why do you people do this every day?  How do you do this every day?  I'm barely a month into my new commuting life and I'm kindof tired of it.  Or at least tired of how much gas it takes up.  And how late I get home.  And brake lights.

On the other hand, I'm burning through audiobooks at a much higher speed (an hour a workday, minimum), so I'm looking forward to seeing the boost that gives to my yearly book count.  So it's not all bad.

Really, it's actually not the worst thing ever.  People tend to act like Illinois is a foreign country when it comes to commuting.  Without rush hour traffic, I can make it from St Louis to home in twenty minutes.  I couldn't get to the airport in that time.  Honestly, people, I'm driving over the river, not canoeing.  My commute could be much worse.  It could be an hour each way.  It could involve a canoe.

But instead, I get to listen to books.  Or to music.  Or to nothing.  I get at least a half hour of downtime where I literally can't do anything but drive (or sit in traffic, as the case may be).

The worst part, as in much of life, is the other people.  The other drivers, to be accurate.

It's possible I'm biased from years of torture experience, but St. Louis and Illinois drivers are honestly some of the worst in existence.  Whether it's the inability to understand the simple concept of a turn signal, or that fact that merging is nothing more than a glorified game of chicken, or that traffic will be quite literally backed up for miles merely because someone got pulled over for speeding, or the fact that stop signs often seem to be all but invisible to most people... driving in the St Louis metro area can be challenging at best, and a sometimes-full-contact sport at worst.

But, it's home.  I'd rather live here than anywhere else, and if having our own house means I have to live on the Illinois side of the river and drive a little farther to go to work, then so be it.  Overall, it's worth the tradeoff.  (Or, at least, it will be once the place is actually ours.)

If nothing else, this experience has at least more adequately prepared me for an inevitable Mad-Max-style post-apocalyptic existence.  Lord knows I'd never make it if I stuck with my six-minutes-through-side-roads commute that I had for the past seven years.

Until then, I will ride eternal, shiny and chrome.  (Or, perhaps, shiny and ginger.)

With Friends Like These

I talked only last week about how awesome my friends are.

Well, this past weekend, they one-upped themselves.

The bitches.

This past weekend was my bachelorette party.  Unlike my previous bachelorette party, this one did not take place the night before I got married, and thank God for that!  Admittedly, I drank a lot less at this party, but I'm also ten years older and now get hangovers after a few glasses of champagne, so the recovery time was greatly appreciated.

I'm pretty sure that some of my friends have been planning my bachelorette party since before I was actually engaged.  I know the planning began in earnest as Mark actually asked me, and once we picked a date, so did they.

It was not your typical bachelorette party.  I didn't wear a tiara or a necklace covered in tiny penises.  I didn't wear a blinking "Bride-to-Be" pin or go bar-hopping til the wee hours of the morning.  Instead, I had a lovely day of adventures and new experiences, specifically catered to what they knew I would enjoy.

And I personally had no idea what to expect.  The entire day was a surprise, with the exception of knowing that the final stop would be a co-ed party with a literary theme (everyone was supposed to dress like a book character).  All I was told was to dress like I normally do for the daytime events and to show up at my chauffeur's house at 10:15 am.  Outside of that, I had absolutely no clue what was going to happen!

Our first stop was afternoon tea at the London Tea Room, where the six of us spent quite a while drinking as many different teas as possible and trying (unsuccessfully) to eat all the amazing sandwiches, scones, and tea cakes.

Then they gave me the clue to the next stop.

I read it, read it again, looked up, and asked, "Are we going to Cabaret?!"

And we were.

They had gotten us amazing seats (apparently bought practically as soon as tickets went on sale), and it was an incredible show with an excellent Emcee.

After the show, I was allowed some "introvert time" before the night-time party, which was just as great as the rest of the day!  And I dressed like Pippi Longstocking.

Everyone was wearing literary costumes, there was champagne and a nacho bar, and my favorite Jack Sparrow impersonator (who turned out to be nerdy as hell) had been hired!

I was maybe a little excited about that.  Maybe.  And I possibly stole his hat for a little bit.  

All in all, I have some really nerdy friends, guys.  And I'm entirely alright with that.

Photos by Carrie Meyer of Insomniac Studios! You can see all the photos that Carrie took here.

Once again, I find myself telling you how incredible my friends are (like you don't already believe me).  I'm not sure how I ever came to deserve a group of girls who takes it upon themselves to give me a perfect day of low-key adventures, but I'm endlessly glad that they consider me to be worth the effort.

In spite of my introvert anxiety over not knowing what to expect or how much I would need to socialize (and in spite of all the rest of the wedding/house stress I'm dealing with), they made it easy for me to have a good time, eat more than enough, forget about some of my stress, and enjoy myself.  I even stayed at the party til 12:30, which is an incredibly rare event indeed.

As much as I enjoyed myself, I don't intend to do this whole bachelorette party thing a third time.  (Mark is stuck with me, for better and for worse.)  But if I had to do it twice, this was definitely the way to go.

Even the hangover the next day was pretty worth it, if only because I got to lay in bed for a few hours instead of go get married.  I guess you figure these things out a little better the second time around.

Still not going to aim for number three, though.

There's No Place Like Home

Yesterday, I left the apartment I've lived in since 2009.

I moved there with my ex-husband after he was asked to leave the seminary when they decided that he wasn't fit to be a pastor (and when he apparently hadn't been paying any of our bills).  It was a refuge, an "us-against-the-world" kindof place.  It was the happiest I'd been in the two years since I'd gotten married.

Obviously, that didn't last long.  Us-against-the-world situations rarely do.

I thought I had fallen back in love in that apartment, but it was just an illusion.  Eventually, I fell completely out of love and lost track of who I was in the process.  I lived, or I existed, in a mostly alcohol-induced numbness, surrounded by books and foster dogs, until I fell in love with my soulmate.

That apartment has seen a lot.  It's seen pole parties with my half-naked friends.  It's seen dinner parties.  It's seen me coming home drunk on multiple occasions (or just getting drunk in the living room by myself).  It's seen a divorce-aversary party.  It's seen fights and tears and many rather unmentionable things.  It's been the home to 13 dogs.  I've snuck out of the house (and snuck into it).

I have memories in every single room.  There were love notes on my bathroom mirror and there was dog hair in every nook and cranny.  My ex grabbed me by my hair and pinned me to the wall in the dining room and there was a hole in the bedroom where he punched it.  I spent afternoons reading in my office.  I wrote stories and heart-broken poems there.  Mark and I danced in the kitchen.  We spent hours entwined together talking on the couch.  We kissed at the front door for ages rather than say goodnight.

I grew up there, in a way.  I stopped being an immature and naive little girl who was hiding from the world and became a woman, a divorcee, and, ultimately more honestly myself.

It was my first real apartment, and hopefully my last.  It was home, even during those long months of my separation when I tried to avoid it as best I could.  It held my entire life (and after packing everything up, or throwing it away, I can tell you that that is no small statement).

And yesterday, it was empty and practically sparkling from about two weeks of deep cleaning and painting, with the amazing help of so many of our friends.  I've cleaned things I never cleaned before (and never want to clean again).   I never want to look at mini-blinds again.

Was I sad to leave it?

I'm not sure I have time or energy to be sad about moving.  There's too much else to do.  We're getting married in literally one month and we've barely done anything towards that because we were so focused on the move.

It's the end of an era, that's for sure.  But it's mostly an era I'm glad to be done with.  I'm thrilled that we're going to be living in a place where my ex has never set foot, a place that can be exclusively ours.  And as much as I hate and am stressed out by change, it's well past time to move on.

I'm fairly confident that I will be worth it.

Also?  I'd better get my damn deposit back.

And Many More?

I have no idea how it happened, but I turned 32 this past weekend.

I'm not going to say I'm old, but I am going to say that I turned 21 eleven years ago, and that seems... impossible.

I mean, look at that kid.  She's a baby.  She has no idea what the hell is in store for her.  I have to fight the desire to shake her, quite frankly.

But, a lot (and I mean a lot) of time has passed since then.  I got married, got divorced, and am about to get married again (because I'm apparently a very, very serial monogamist).

Eleven years is a long time, and now?

I'm 32.

It's not ancient, but it's by no means young.  And I'm fine with that.  I like my age, I like myself, and I like my life.  I like what I've accomplished, particularly over the past few years.

And I (still) like my birthday.

Last year was probably one of my favorite birthdays ever.  I had a fabulous, low-key party and spent my entire birthday day with Mark.

This year?  Things were a little different.

For starters, my family met Mark's family for the first time for a birthday lunch.  It... well, let's just say it did not quite go as planned, and leave it at that.  That lovely experience was followed up by seeing Trolls with Mark, Kaylee, and my parents.  (Cute movie, bit too long.)

Then I went home to get ready for the Prohibition Party, a long-standing event that my friends Jessica and Chris throw every year.  This year it happened to fall on my birthday, so Jessica got me a cake.

And by cake, I mean the best cake ever.

Seriously.

Being the birthday girl, I decided to wear something a bit fancier than my usual costume of a slip and a see-through lace dress.  So I crossed my fingers and slipped into my great-grandma's wedding dress.  And it actually fit... kindof... if you ignore the fact that it doesn't fasten up on the side.  At all.

Not one to give up so easy, I pinned together one of my furs into a makeshift sleeve, pinned that to the dress, threw on some pearls, grabbed my champagne, and managed to socialize for almost four hours.

Sunday was birthday brunch, followed by a well-earned food coma and Kaylee wanting to come over and give me my birthday card, followed by the official start of packing up the apartment I've lived in for seven years. 

And then on Monday Mark had the day off for our now-traditional birthday adventures.

Which... also didn't quite work out the way we planned, as the Contemporary Art Museum was closed.  So?  We walked around IKEA (which is basically some strange form of modern art itself), had lunch at Crown Candy Kitchen, and later had buffet.

It obviously wasn't the most remarkable of birthday adventures, but I'm not complaining.  We're both under a lot of stress right now with preparing for both a move and a wedding, so a low-key and unremarkable day was probably more along the lines of what we needed.  And all I really wanted to do was spend the day together (and get a BLT at Crown Candy Kitchen), so mission: accomplished.

32 definitely was not a bad birthday, in spite of all the reasons it could very well have been.  I got to dress up, have amazing cake, and go home whenever I was ready.  I got to spend a day with the love of my life.  I got brunch and so many lovely and thoughtful presents from my lovely and thoughtful friends.

I'm a little older, a little wiser (I hope), and about to embark on one hell of a life adventure with a guy who makes me feel like it's always my birthday.

I could do worse.

And (Another) Happy New Year

So... it's been a while, eh?

What can I say?  It was December.

Not only are there two holidays obnoxiously and uncaringly crowding their way into the end of the month, but I work for a company that took part in 54 events just in December.  I also didn't get a big enough head start on Christmas gifts, so I ended up making at least 7 different handmade gifts in the span of a month.

Just a few things I made.

I made 33 dozen Christmas cookies, a pie, and a tart.  And?  I had my own Christmas parties to go to.

All this is to say... I have reasons why I didn't blog.  Maybe not the best of reasons, but reasons nonetheless.

But.

It's a new year (with the same old me), and I suppose it's time to climb back on the horse.

So.

The year is already off to a bit of a rough start (literally).  I slashed open my own tire on New Year's Day by somehow hitting an incredibly jagged edge to a curb.  It wasn't fair.  The only reason I was pulling over was so I could type an address into my phone safely instead of while I was driving.  See where that got me?

Then last night, my dog tried to eat several of my new pins.  This is after he ate a whole packet of ham and the Reese's trees I got in my stocking the week before.  An attempt was also made on a box of chocolates, but I retrieved it from the dragon's horde inside his crate.  He is, remarkably, not buried in the back yard yet.  But it may only be a matter of time.

Jumping back to Christmas itself.  I was in an astonishingly bad mood for most of the week of Christmas.  I was stressed and frustrated, people were being stupid, Mark was working ridiculous hours, and I had lost whatever Christmas spirit I usually manage to find by the week before Christmas.  All the spirit I had left went into a week's worth of Christmas outfits, with strong showings by what I started referring to as my "officially pin of Christmas," a candy cane pin that came free from La Vidriola when I ordered that amazing Christmas tree/car necklace in the second picture on the top.

But Christmas?  Christmas itself was very good.  I spent Christmas Eve devouring ribs and hanging out with Casey and her family.  I got up early on Christmas and drove to Mark's parents house for what was probably one of the most special Christmas mornings I've had in a while.  We opened presents with the two of us, Kaylee, Mark's parents, and Mark's sister (and her husband and daughter).  I've never had such a big Christmas morning, or seen so many presents all in one place.  There was a stocking for me.  There were presents for me.  And Kaylee was so, so excited about every single thing she got, including the Snoopy scarf I made for her.  I'm not going to lie; that made me so very thrilled.

Later, Mark and I went to my parents and had Christmas dinner with the usual suspects there.  We had a pleasant time occupying our traditional place as the oldest people at the kids' table, giving my parents their gifts, and eating far too many desserts before heading home for an early night and a day off together the next day.

Honestly, I'm not sure I'm recovered from the holidays yet.  I'm definitely not back on my usual schedule, the apartment is still a disaster zone, and I'm a few weeks behind on putting away laundry.  In other words? Holidays as usual.

I have the best of intentions for 2017.  I always do.  So I'm trying to ignore the very little bit of bad that's already happened and count my blessings.

2016 was, in many ways, a rough year.  It started out with my furnace, dryer, and car all breaking down in the same week.  But, I also traveled to Mexico with friends, got a raise at my job, and got engaged to my best friend/love of my life.  I had wonderful holidays, lots of parties and dinners with friends, a better relationship with my parents, weekend trips, and more happiness than I ever thought I would have. 

Evidence of a very good 2016.

I could complain, but why bother?  There's so much good to focus on instead.

Adulting Through the Holidays

I didn't blog last week, mainly because I was covered in flour and immersed in baking for about 6 hours in advance of Thanksgiving.  I took off from work early, went to the store, then went home and made two pumpkin pies, a German chocolate and coconut cream pie, and a Twinkie bundt cake.

Mark and I delighted in our freedom to stay up late, then promptly realized we're old and exhausted and went to bed around 10.

On Thanksgiving itself, we loaded up the various desserts in my car and then went our separate ways. I went to my parents' and Mark went to go pick up his daughter from her grandparents'.

This year, just to mix it up, I had invited my friend/co-worker/sisterwife Casey and her family to join my family's annual Thanksgiving gathering.  (And, in spite of my warnings, they actually showed up!)  It's already not exactly an exclusively family event.  If it were, there would usually only be about 4-5 of us total.  Instead, there are usually around 10-12, since Jake and his family have apparently become extended family over the past few years.  So, the more the merrier, right?

This addition was notable for being the first time that small children have been in my parents' new house since they moved in over five years ago.  Ever.  We kept the kids mostly contained in my mom's sunroom and entertained them with games and balloons and prop hats (see above).

After dinner, Mark and Kaylee showed up, and then the madness truly began.  My parents haven't even seen me interact with children in I don't know how long (we somehow haven't ever managed to coordinate our lives and schedules well enough to hang out with them and Kaylee together before), and suddenly I'm playing with three children aged 5 and under.  I'm surprised one of them didn't fall over in a faint.

After Casey took her crew home, Kaylee decided that she and I were going to play (of course), and that evolved into playing hide-and-seek all over my parents's house until I proved my hide-and-seek expertise and hid in the bathtub behind the shower curtain until she gave up and recruited Mark to help find me.

All in all, it was probably the most eventful Thanksgiving ever, and definitely the loudest, and my first holiday actively being a stepmom-in-training.  But?  I enjoyed it.

Thanksgiving, as we've all been told, is supposed to be that special time of year where you think about all that you're thankful for.  This year, I didn't really have to think about it, because I was literally surrounded by it.

While I may be entirely too grumpy sometimes about my overly-full schedule and my lack of sleep and free time, I'm still honestly still happier than I've been in a long time.

I might complain and bitch more than I should, but it's all sound and fury, signifying nothing.  I have wonderful friends who want to spend time with me no matter how many times I don't go to their parties, an eternally supportive family (in spite of how crazy they drive me sometimes), and the best fiance´ (and future stepdaughter) I could ask for.  I'm never ever at a lack for food or clothes (or pins), I have my own divided plate for holidays, and I've learned that I'm actually not terrible with children and am pretty much an expert at taking selfies.

I'm not the person I used to be, I don't have the life I used to have, and all of that is more than fine.  To quote a book I just read this past month, life is so good.

And for that? I'm very, very thankful.

A Pretty Vintage (Engagement) Photo Shoot

Obviously, I'm a day late in blogging.  But yesterday was a day for recovering from the election results, and both Ben and I took a day off work.  I did some retail therapy at Goodwill and then got to have lunch with my friend Katie (who I haven't properly hung out with in ages).  So there was no blogging.  Sorry not sorry.

Today?  Today I'm not going to talk about politics.  Enough people are doing enough of that.  I don't need to join in.  Today I'm going to talk about something much better: engagement pictures.

Instead of waking up to discover the new president, like yesterday, I woke up this morning to a text from Casey (my co-worker, friend, and photographer) with a link (and, more importantly, the password) to the rest of our engagement photos that she took a little over a week ago!

It was the first Sunday where I wasn't working, the weather was finally vaguely fall-like, and we were all amazingly free.  We met up at Lafayette Square Park (along with several other groups and their attending photographers), and dived right in.

Obviously, this was not my first time for the whole engagement picture thing.  The last time was, oh... 10 years ago?  I'll admit I tried to find some lingering proof of those pictures to serve as some bizarre time capsule (I had bangs, my natural hair color, and was dressing boho-chic at the time), but I'm pretty sure I very thoroughly destroyed nearly all evidence that I was ever married before.  And that's more than fine with me.

So while it felt vaguely familiar when Casey started posing us, it wasn't exactly as if I'm an old pro at it.  Plus, I still get incredibly self-conscious whenever someone points a camera at me.  (I know, I know.  I'm the queen of selfies and I take pictures of myself, selfies and otherwise, all the time at work.  But that's different.)

It helped that Casey is a good friend and that I feel comfortable with her (and, more importantly, with Mark).  I will admit that there was a brief moment in the bookstore where I flailed around and exclaimed that I "didn't know what to do with my arms!" but otherwise, my posing game has gotten a little bit better over the years.

We may have been a little too comfortable with Casey.  I don't know how many times we cracked up when we were supposed to be looking at each other "lovingly."  Moreover, we had to hold chaste little kisses so repeatedly that the whole concept of kissing just became... odd.  So very odd.

But, I think she got some good photos.  Maybe.

After walking all over Lafayette Square Park, we drug Casey over to one of our favorite bookstores, The Book House, and continued the madness there.  And I bought a few books, of course.  Well... Mark bought them for me, since I had accidentally (Mark: "Sure, accidentally.") left my wallet and keys in my other purse.

Obviously, we had a pretty good time taking pictures.  That in itself is not surprising, seeing as we generally have a good time no matter what.  But it was great having Casey along for the ride to make us look all presentable and photogenic and tell us where to stand (and what to do with my arms), instead of looking like the hot mess we usually are.  Plus, it's nice to not have the only pictures of us be a) selfies or b) Fish Eye Fun photos.

So.  We still have absolutely no plans as far as what we're actually doing for our wedding (besides "as little as possible"), BUT.  We have engagement pictures accomplished!  So, I think that's something.

It's better than nothing, anyway.

Right?

Of course right.

Tis The Season, Sort-of

I'm not going to lie, I've been super boring this week.

It's been, oh, what's the word?

That's right.  Awesome.

It's been awesome.

The main excitement (besides driving to DuQuoin for work and discovering where all the Trump signs are being posted) was going to the St Louis Renaissance Faire (I refuse to call it a festival) for the third time this year.

To be fair, it was only the second time this season.  The first trip was during preview weekend last spring.

This past weekend, though, we did Ren Faire big.  We got parasols, corndogs, and a Hanging Sky Chair.

And now I know what I'm doing for the rest of fall/winter.

No, really.  I'm set for fall.  I have new dog slippers (complete with bows and tails).  I have more books than I know what to do with (and the ever-present desire for more).  I have knitting/cross-stitch projects galore.  I have daily writing to do, at least through the end of October.  And I have a new-found love of my bread machine, so there will be no shortage of carbs to fatten myself up with while I lounge around in my hanging chair.

Oh, and I have a shark onesie.

I'm not sure I've ever been more ready for fall.  Other girls might have their Uggs and their PSLs, but I have other loves that rear their cozy heads around this time of year.  I have leggings and crock pot recipes and soup and the smell of bread baking.  I have scarves that I knit, a snuggly dog, and a fiancé who lets me leech off his body warmth without much complaining.

I know, I know, the temperamental St. Louis weather has been bouncing around between the 50s to the 80s, but never you mind.  Fall is coming.  The leaves are starting to turn, Halloween decorations abound, and there's a nip in the air that has me beginning to shy away from my beloved summer dresses.

Honestly, I'm not sure why I'm so into the thought of fall this year.  It's a bit out of character for me.  While I always enjoy the cooler temperatures, fall is in actuality merely the herald to the oncoming and disgusting slog of winter.  My wardrobe is mainly fixated around a world that is perpetually 80 degrees, so declining temperatures leave me scrambling for cute outfits to wear, and most of my shoes are non-functional for getting around in the snow.

Maybe it's the fact that I'm waist-deep in the busy season at work with no end in sight.  The introvert in me (okay, the introvert that I am almost completely comprised of) longs to go into full-hibernation mode, to set up camp in that sky chair with coffee and books and only move to get another piece of bread or snuggle my loves.

That's obviously not possible, but it doesn't change the fact that it's what I want right now.  I want to be home, cooking and reading and eating and wondering why we ever go out to eat.  I want to knit and snuggle and work on my writing while Mark works on his art.  I want to ignore the craziness of the world around me and focus on what makes me happy.

So if I'm a little too excited about fall, please excuse me. It's just the introvert in me, looking for any and all excuses to stay inside.

Morning Coffee in Stars Hollow

I grew up with Rory Gilmore.

Not literally, of course.  She is, obviously, a fictional character and all I could do was watch Gilmore Girls on television, not live it.  But, in a way, I felt like she was a possible classmate and might have been a friend if I was very lucky indeed.  We were just about the same age and went through high school and college together, as far as timelines were concerned.  She may have lived in quirky and idyllic Stars Hallow while I lived in less-than-exciting Collinsville, IL, but she was still, as they say, my spirit animal.  We were both studious, mostly-unpopular bookworms who always brought along a back-up book and who were completely devastated by a bad grade.  I modeled my own 16th birthday party on hers, complete with pink boas.

Of course, she had far better hair than I ever have managed to have, her boyfriends were all remarkably attractive (if all generally rather terrible ideas... like many of mine), and she seemed to subsist on a diet entirely comprised of coffee and junk food, all while maintaining a perfect figure and flawless skin.

Some people blame their unrealistic life expectations on Disney princesses.  I rather think I can chalk mine up to Rory Gilmore.

I watched the show religiously all through its seven seasons, have re-watched it twice since, and am ridiculously excited about the mini-series coming up later this year! (Though, if Luke and Lorelei don't get married, it might be over.)

All this is just leading up to explaining why exactly I spent an hour and a half this morning standing in line for a free cup of coffee.

The short answer?  Because it had a Luke's Diner sleeve around it, that's why.

The long answer? Let's back up a moment.

Today is the 16th anniversary of the show's premiere (ohmyGodI'msoold), and so Netflix sponsored around 200 coffee shops around the country to turn into pop-up Luke's Diners for the day.  Clearly, I had to go.

And clearly, I had to be a complete nerd about it.

Guys, I cosplayed Rory Gilmore.

I dug out my old "Reading is Sexy" shirt, which she wore in a college episode, and my Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, which she is also seen reading in an episode, and I headed out the door to meet Jake (appropriately dressed in flannel and a backwards hat, a la Luke).

I also was unknowingly headed out to meet half of St. Louis.  That's a slight exaggeration, but only slight.  The line to get in to Luke's Diner/Shameless Grounds was half a block long.

I had expected a bit of a crowd.  Gilmore Girls had a large following, after all, particularly among my age group.  But the announcement of the pop-ups had only gone out yesterday, and surely most people would have jobs to go to on a Wednesday morning, wouldn't they?

Apparently not.

But, I had company, I had a book, and I was surrounded by other apparently just-as-rabid fans who were equally as willing to waste over an hour of their lives to get a few photo ops and a free coffee.

At last, we reached the counter and achieved our goal.  I appropriately geeked out, took selfies, got my coffee, and headed in to work.

Was it worth the wait?  Hard to say.  It's not like I couldn't get basically free coffee at home.  Or at work, for that matter (and in much less time).

But it was the experience.  That's the part that I couldn't get at home, or at work.  Like Mark told me, it was like standing in line to buy Harry Potter at midnight, or camping out for a midnight showing of the new Star Wars movie (all things that I've done).  It was all about the experience, about being there, not necessarily about the end result.  It's about being surrounded by like-minded weirdos who get excited about the same nerdy things you do.  It's about reliving the days when I'd sit down with my mom, or my roommate, to watch a new episode of Gilmore Girls.  It's about taking time to do something just because, and to indulge in the silly and pointless side of life that says, "why not?" instead of "why?"

It's about getting the chance to be in Stars Hollow, even if just for a cup of coffee.