How Not to be a Rockstar September 14, 2009

…  Jeff’s proposed title of the compelling bestseller he proposes I write. Not a bad idea, really, for a girl who spent a good 6 years pursuing a career in music, only to realize the pursuit had made her into something she was not. Into someone she did not envy or admire. And thus, she walked away from it all.

Not to say I was anywhere close to infamy. But those years did produce some pretty great stories of experiences both hysterical and terrible, both bittersweet and just plain bitter. SO maybe this is the new direction of my masters thesis… for the grad program I haven’t been accepted to yet…. because I’m still working on the application…. and because I can’t decided if it’s the right thing to do.

Which brings me to my next point.

Today is one of those thankfully rare days when, never mind all the a##-busting and name-taking you’ve been doing, you feel like you’re just not doing enough with your life. In fact, you can’t figure out what exactly you are doing, and why any of it hasn’t gotten you somewhere beyond serving shrimp teriyaki to college kids.

((Oh- great story – today, an elderly woman of questionable sanity walks in and tells the hostess that a friend recommended our sushi restaurant to her. For seafood. She is also allergic to shellfish. So when we settle on the seafood tempura, with only red snapper and salmon, I think it might just work out. I even bring her ketchup in lieu of cocktail sauce (Cocktail sauce. In an Asian restaurant. Seriously?). She looks pleased, but when I glance over a while later, she’s calling me over. “Honey… I’m sorry, but I just don’t taste any fee-ish in theya anywaya,” she says. She has eaten all the salmon, but the red snapper is there untouched. “I know it’s hard to see it with the batter, but these are the white fish,” I explain, pointing out all the fish she hasn’t eaten. “Well, I know forah fact they’s onions theya,” she says, pointing to the one white thing on her plate that, true, is not fish. Soon, I convince her to open up one of the “potatoes” so that she’ll see it is, in fact fish. She puts a small piece in her mouth. “Well that don’t taste like no fee-ish I evah had; try it,” she adds, actually offering me a piece of fish. I tell her that’s really okay, that I believe that she is unsatisfied with the fish and will see what I can do. I’m able to comp half of the price of her meal, tell her so, hand her the bill and get back to my other tables. Moments later, the hostess comes walks over and tells me the woman is at the front desk trying to get her bill decreased. I take a huge breath, trying to summon whatever patience I might have left. And to not drop my tray and run screaming for the hills. (Did I mention there is NO MANAGER ON DUTY??) Once again, I try to explain to her that we’ve already given her a huge discount on her meal. Somehow (and I’m a little foggy on the details here; I may have blacked out in order to save my head from exploding), I get her to pay 7 of the $7.51 she owed me. Victory? I’m still not sure.))

Clearly, my life is not glamorous.

But I don’t need it to be. The years in which I sought musical stardom (in one form or another) were some of my most exciting but undeniably my loneliest as well. I’ve traded it all in order to be true to myself, and was rewarded by meeting a most amazing partner. Together we traveled to a more happy latitude, and finally I live by the sea.

It’s like working on a puzzle, and your down to your last few missing pieces. But as soon as you find one that fits, you realize another has gone missing, and this continues until you feel like you’ll never get the damn thing together.

But if history repeats itself (and clearly it does) I know the feeling of being completely overwhelmed will only last so long, that tomorrow I’ll wake up with a renewed sense of purpose and optimism. Happens every time.

‘Til then I’m summoning my patience, not running for the hills.

Waiting? I Think Not. August 26, 2009

Waiting, mes amis, is what I might have called my previous position as office manager of an interactive marketing agency. There, at my “real” job, I sat at a desk for 8 hours a day mostly biding my time until I could figure out my next move (read: until I could convince myself to stop doing what I was “supposed” to be doing and start doing what I wanted to do).

And what did I want to do?

By god I wanted to leave by the beach.

Don’t ask me how it took 28 years to come to this conclusion. Haven’t I always decorated my apartments like beach houses? Haven’t I always doodled swaying palm trees and crashing waves in the margins of my notebooks? And haven’t I spent endless winters parked by a space heater vowing someday to replace all my pumps and stiletos with flip flops?

How, then, did I not get a clue a little sooner?

No sense dwelling on strangely spent years, however. Now that I write to you not from a swanky, little third floor office or even the Midwest, with its autumn already on the horizon, now that I’ve made it to the beach, I find that taking up waiting tables for the time being is not just bearable – it somehow makes sense.

And how seductive the waiting game is… I can think of at least five instances in which I’ve sworn it off forever, only to find myself tying on another apron. How hard it is to deny something when (damnit!)  you’re just really good at it. And then there’s the cashflow. Between that and a skin that’s been thickening for some six years, I’ve amassed something of a protective shell capable of deflecting any swing a customer can throw.

Add to that the rush. I liken it to a runner’s high – which I think I may have only experienced once, and which I’m convinced is only experienced by someone who runs infinitely more frequently than I do. What I mean is – you keep at it long enough, and you get into a sort of stride. And when you’re in the stride, and the tables are full and everything clicks… well it’s far more satisfying work than wearing adorable outfits behind a desk. There’s something to physically earning every dollar you take home that has always (and will always) appealed to me.

And because serving shifts are typically shorter than the average workday, I arrive home with time to attend to creative projects, to get outdoors, to head to the beach I moved here to be close to.

To live.

I’m not implying I’ll be a server until I’m old and gray. Of course I hope to mold one of my 342 interests into a career that’s both lucrative and stimulating. But in the meantime, I’m happy to serve a bunch of fellow sushi connoisseurs (or even the California Roll types – you know who you are) and to never again find myself just… waiting.

~a

Gainfully Unemployed August 11, 2009

Ah, to be young and unemployed!! To live out your days sending out and dropping off resumes! To dream not of finding work in the field you spent 4 years preparing for, but of finding work in a restaurant where the entrees cost more than $8.99 so that you might at least have enough free time to pursue your creative endevors pro bono on the side.

To be entirely honest, back when I held a 9 to 5 in a young, sleek, hip office, I caught myself silently envying my lesser employed (read: jobless) friends. Their daily struggles (which included quite a bit of free time and sleeping in because there’s only so much job groveling you can do in a day), announced via Facebook status,  read like mini adventures, romantic tales of strife, struggle and sacrifice. And free time.  Did I mention free time?

And now here I am. Walking in the shoes I had just months ago dared only to experience vicariously.

Am I nervous that after two months I still have no job awaiting me when we arrive in Wilmington? Does it frighten me ever so slightly that my bank account balance creeps perilously downward each day?

No, mes amis!!

In fact, I find it exhilarating! Like a swan dive into a crystal clear lake lit by the early morning sun!! Like biking down a hill with the wind in my hair!!!

Or so I tell myself – every time I feel like I’m being sucked down into a spiral of frustration and self pity. Every time a cover letter goes unanswered. Every time I wonder if I made a huge mistake leaving my safe, if terribly unsatisfying, office management position.

This morning, I spent half an hour filling out an application for an assistant manager position at a health food store. I was feeling especially bold having just proof read a gloriously written cover letter, when the application asked me several questions about my grocery management and/or grocery store experience (of which I have approximately none). It was at this point that I realized I would not be considered for this job no matter how eloquent my treatise on why I was the obvious choice.  That, and I really didn’t want the job.

So it was back to the drawing board – namely, the Craig’s List bulletin board.  My latest motivational theory? That these employers must simply meet me in person to understand the force of nature that is Amanda Heironimus. That once my irresistible life force is transferred via a simple handshake, they will be powerless to turn me away. So, all I have to do is get to Wilmington (moving day = Thursday), and all will be made right in the universe!

Or something.

It keeps me going anyway. Making follow-up calls, sending e-mails, applying for jobs I probably have no business applying for, but which sound interesting and not overly difficult to figure out nonetheless (cough… Marine Finfish Cultivation Technician… cough, cough).

So to all my fellow unemployed (I prefer the kinder, gentler, if less widely utilized term, “Vocational Explorers”): keep calm, carry on and make productive and creative use of this rare surplus of time. And maybe do your job-hunting using the pool’s WIFI, because when are we ever going to get to do THAT again??

All my best,

~a

Jaquish, Son of Jaquish July 21, 2009

It’s a mad world we live in, indeed, when we learn of a friend’s death not from a late-night phone call, or urgent e-mail, but from a Facebook invite to a memorial service that we accidentally come across one week too late.

The first time I met Cary, I was auditioning for his new cover band. I wanted to be a rock singer, they needed a feisty frontgirl, and Cary seemed to think I was it. From that moment on, Cary became the big brother I never had. He kept an eye on me, showed me the ropes, and drove me insane with his constant worrying. When I began dating our guitar player, he nearly disowned me for my poor decision. And while he could drive me crazy with his lecturing, he was more often than not correct and always had my best interests in mind.

After I’d quit the band and struck out for Austin to make it as a “real” musician, the calls began. The first came as I waited at a Jiffy Lube for my car to have its oil changed. To hear Cary’s familiar voice on the other end of the line as I paced the sidewalk in my new, alien town was a comfort and relief. Sometime during our conversation, the mechanic told me I was all set. I waved him an “ok,” but my phone call went on for a good half hour more.

Every few months I’d get a call from Cary, checking to see how my music was going, if I was safe, if I was happy. I’d ask about the circus (he was touring with Barnum & Bailey’s, playing bass in the circus band), and if he was headed my way, we’d set up a reunion. The first was in Austin, where we talked into the wee hours at a local favorite bar of mine. The next night, he took me out with the circus crowd to a salsa club where we danced with clowns and animal trainers and trapeze artists.

My most recent Cary call came as I was preparing for my going-away party, the day before J and  I were to move from Columbus to North Carolina. I had about 20 minutes to tell him what I was up to, that I was happily in love, that I was on the move again, that the music was on hold. He was excited that things were going so well, and said that he’d let me go because I sounded busy. I said I’d give him a call when the madness dies down.

I never made that call. I regret that painfully.

Instead, someone  from the old band days recently befriended me on Facebook, and as I was going through her photos, I saw that Cary was now on Facebook also. I went to look him up, to add him to my friends, to finally be better at keeping track of him the way he tried to continue to watch out for me.

There was no page for Cary. There was an invitation to remember him at a memorial service. Held last weekend.

I know Cary had an unusual and fantastic life. I know he saw endless outdoor wonders and traveled the country on his motorcycle. I know he lived precisely the way he wanted to, by his own set of rules.

None of that makes his early end hurt any less.

All I can do is try to express how grateful I am to have known him, how drastically he swerved my life’s path, how special he made me feel, and how lucky I was to have known him.

It’s a bit of a cruel reminder that I perhaps need to work harder at keeping in touch with the people I love and care about. But a reminder nonetheless.

I have some phone calls to make.

~a

Red Hot American Summer July 13, 2009

All right, all right.

I’m forced to give in here and admit that the London post is going to take much longer than expected to pull together, and I’d feel like a bad friend, daughter and blogger if I left the slate blank for much longer without so much as a word to indicate I’m still alive, kicking and screaming at the top of my lungs a la John Mayer (anyone else captivated by the irony that he sings that line in falsetto – and that he still has a career?)

I’m writing to you now from Davidson, North Carolina, no longer an Ohioan, no longer 9 to 5-ing it, no longer sure of the future, and bizarrely at peace with all of this.

And assuredly having the best summer of my adult life.

Probably because it so closely resembles the summers of my childhood. Yes, we’re fixing up a house and I do wait the occasional table. But somehow I’ve been granted this incredible situation in which I (for a couple of months, anyway) have less cares and more free time, in which I ride bikes, go swimming, get enough sleep, go for ice cream, go to the movies, take late-night walks, take road trips, take naps. I was finally able to visit Evil Twin,  who’s now a mere three hours away, and not only did we go out on the town dressed to the nines and drank a few pints, we STOLE A DOG. Yep, this dog had run away from its home too many times and when it nearly got hit by a car, its family officially lost ownership rights. Now she’s Moose’s new big sis.

I live this way knowing that, just like summer break, the bells will soon be ringing, calling me back to a more regimented lifestyle in which there are rules and responsibilities. We’ll be taking another day trip to Wilmington to scout the campus area for apartments. J and I came to an agreement that  our safety and well-being are probably more important than being able to walk to the farmer’s market. And then there’s also an impending job hunt looming over my head.

But right now I’m going outside to catch some lightning bugs.

And the rest can wait.

~a

Oh, and, P.S.  Something completely unrelated, but nonetheless hysterical:

The Everything Update June 8, 2009

As questions abound as to my whereabouts, activities and general existence, and as my head’s still too deeply buried under the pile of everything-that’s-happened-in-the-past-week, I thought I’d take this rare quiet moment to let everyone know that A) J and I have made it safely to Davidson, B) we’ve spent the majority of our time here preparing his former childhood home for sale, dividing its contents in order to get them to a number of different final destinations, and C) I do generally still exist.

Not only do I exist, but my existence has so greatly improved in the last week that it pains me a little that I had to leave so much behind to feel this great. My body prefers the climate, my mind prefers the pace and both prefer the work. Sadly, the work isn’t permanent, and there’s the task of securing some kind of job looming ahead.

Nevertheless, it’s been a much-needed change. The absence of Gabe (who, by the way, we heard from HART, has quickly adapted and is getting to run and likes the company of his fellow canine roomies) sometimes tugs at my heartstrings, but has also left a blanket of calm over my day-to-day. Not sitting behind a desk for 8 hours a day makes me endlessly happy – even if it means finding myself in the back of a garage closet,  forearms draped with cobwebs, trying to convince a house mouse that he should probably find better digs than inside the camping equipment I’m trying to remove. And then there’s the big change of scene – I went from living across the street from a funeral home to having a family of deer dining at the treeline in my back yard.

In a couple of months we’ll be in Wilmington, and our lives will inevitably change again, but for now I dig the quiet life. And anyway, before the next move there’s the trip to London, J’s family beach vacation and my cousin’s wedding in Atlanta (right, so it’s possible my idea of the “quiet life” is a little warped).

We did get to take a day trip down to check out Wilmington (J had never been and chose UNCW for grad school site unseen). Evil twin drove down from Raleigh to join us, as she had once lived there and we hoped she could serve as tour guide. (She is, by the way, doing quite well, despite rooming in a house with a reckless, young, drama-prone lesbian couple). Turns out she only actually lived in Wilmington for 6 months and couldn’t even remember where her house had been, so she made a horrible tour guide, but great company. The three of us terrorized the historic downtown area for a while (offended an entire rooftop bar crowd, contemplated crashing not one, but two wedding receptions and discovered a piece of purple lingerie strewn across a historical statue that I swear we didn’t put there but were inclined to photograph nonetheless) and waded in the surf (read: got our clothes soaked because we weren’t paying attention to the size of the waves) and ate sundaes at Wrightsville beach that were called something unfortunate like Peanut Logs.

So let it be known that I have no complaints about my current existence and will be sure to write something more substantial and topical when things settle.

Which may be around Christmas time.

~a

All Good Things… May 18, 2009

Question: If a moving van leaves Columbus, Ohio at 8am on May 31st, and the moving couple departs from the same location at 9:45am (running late due to animals, long goodbyes and several “final” sweeps of the house), how long will it take said couple to question whether or not they’re making the right decision?

Answer: Approx. -17 days.

That’s right, it really hit us last Friday – the questioning of our sanity, that is. J and I were sitting on the front porch at a friend’s house, celebrating someone’s birthday with a cookout and good conversation on a beautiful spring evening. A warm breeze tousled our hair; we ate strawberries and cream and sipped gin and tonic and laughed. A lot.

I looked at J.

J looked at me.

And the look said something like:

“Dude. Wtf?”

It was the pained expression of how-can-we-leave-all-this-behind? I mean, what were we thinking when we decided to chuck the city we’ve both come to love and defend?? (Actually, I think we were thinking how much we loathe only getting to have real lives 6 months out of the year due to Ohio’s atrocious winters. And we’d just been to Miami in March, which will make anyone want to go beach bum). So, okay – we had our reasons. But that doesn’t make it any easier, now that the Dark Ages of winter have subsided, to let go of some of the more positive relationships we’ve established here.

It’s the few negative ones I’ve established, however, that are helping to ease that blow.

Like the guy at UDF who insists on being weird about my ice cream order every bloody time I go in there? Him I can do without. (If he’s not giving me 12 scoops of ice cream, he’s doubling my Deep Freeze into a melty tower of ice cream doom). And the parking lot attendant I walk past every day who finally put his head out the car window and screamed, “Hey pretty girl, what’s your name?” perhaps not thinking that if I took this poorly (which I did), we’d have to have a nice, awkward moment EVERY MORNING that I have to walk by his car.

And then there’s the literal relationships: the ex I won’t have to run into because we’ll no longer live down the street from each other. I cannot WAIT to live in a place where I don’t have to hear all about his g.d. band and to not have to tell people that, no, I do not in fact enjoy his music and, no, I would not like to go see him play at the local bar, and, yes, he DOES sound like a blatant rip off of Bob Dylan and/or Bruce Springsteen (depending on the song), and, yes, I have noticed that every song sounds like the last and, oh yes, he does really seem to like himself. (These conversations are admittedly somewhat enjoyable as they round the corner and become full-on Haterade toasts)

Finally, there are a few that I can’t even mention due to the expanding readership of this blog. You just never know, and I’m not in the clear yet. Lame People I Can Do Without – you probably know who you are, anyway.

Despite all of these, for the first time since I’ve started serial relocating, the mass of “Things I will Miss” is formidable. So much so that when J gave me that look, and I returned it, I really did have to think hard about what we’re on the verge of doing.

And yet….

I came out on the other end of all that contemplation still ready to pack my bags. Because this time, we’re doing it together. And this time, we’re going to do things the way we want to: create friendships that can be our own and not remnants of previous relationships; control our house (i.e. without the t.v.-as-background noise philosophy and as though Mr. Clean was our bald-headed third roomie – which could make a really awesome sitcom, come to think if it); fill our bedroom with playpen balls because we’re grown-ups now and it’s our turn to decide what that means!!! (Thank you, xkcd).

I’ve done one helluva job as a loner for the majority of my life, and I can’t speak for J (actually, I can; he’s lived with girlfriends before and is admittedly terrified of ruining everything…), but I’m hell bent on learning to live with someone else. I want a partner this time around. I’ve done Independence! and I’m tired of doing it all alone. Now that I know I’m capable of surviving without anyone, I want to do more than just survive.

And I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather take that ride with.

~a

In the event you have no idea to what I was referring...

A Modest Proposal… February 20, 2009

It has been too long since I’ve posted a Wondermark, my friends. TOO LONG! And so, to undo this egregious slight, I offer you a clip from this week that was too close to my recent thinking to pass up.

Normalcy.

What exactly can we define as normal? As little kids we don’t generally pause from playing house or learning our letters to consider this concept, unless one of our classmates smells bad or has a strange mole or is allergic to food coloring and can’t eat the birthday cupcakes. Obviously, these kids were not normal. And sometimes they were made fun of. As teens, we strived to have the “right clothes,” to go to the “right hangouts,” to blend in. To be “normal.” (Ok, except for the goth kids who were a step ahead of the game and were already anti-normal – and they were DEFINITELY made fun of).

As we headed off to college (or not), we split in two directions. Some went the normal route – joined greek systems, wore college sweatshirts and pajamas to class, studied a lot or partied a lot, but mostly blended in. The others strove for individuality: made their own clothes (or looked like they had), created their own majors, spent more time off campus than on, discovered and loved (or pretended to love) really REALLY fringe music, but mostly attempted various forms of weirdness. Beyond college, I’ve been to towns as generic as they come (Ft. Wayne, IN, for one) and to one that goes so far as to campaign fr its strangeness (Austin, TX).

What I’m finding now is that, while I’ve swung between the two ends of the spectrum for most of my life, the whole IDEA is becoming decreasingly important to me. I’m starting to care less and less about whether or not the way I live is on par with the national average, and more and more about whether or not I’m happy with that lifestyle. If I like lying in bed on Sunday mornings and reading the paper with my dog, or siting in a coffee shop sucking up massive amount of caffeine and free WIFI, and these happen to be what “everybody’s doing,” well so be it. Because I also hate going to sporting events (which I’m told is practically unAmerican) and am about to audition for a community theater produciton of Reefer Madness.

So I suppose my point is Wondermark’s point. We’d all be happier (or at least feel a weight lifted) if we could stop comparing ourselves to those around us. Stop worrying about what other people think and believe (ahem… religious zealots!… ahem), find what makes us deeply content and get to it!

On this note, I propose we all wake up at whatever time strikes our fancy tomorrow (be it 8am or 2pm), throw social “norms” to the wind and enjoy our morning coffee. Or morning Mountain Dew. Or morning Jack and Coke.

Take your pick – no one’s watching.

~a

Halloween Escapades (Cont’d) October 30, 2008

But first -

I had to share this with you, as it’s got me mercilessly nailed-down:

I feel ya, Turn-of-the-Century Guy. Hang in there...

Okay. Now, down to business.

Having resolved to go all out for All Hallow’s, despite the late start, we headed out into the streets of downtown last night for that all-important Trick-or-Treat necessity: the perfect costume. a mediocre costume. any costume at all!

As it was just two days before the Big Night, we knew we were in for a challenge. It was far too late for the make-something-witty-from-coffee-filters-and-a-glue-gun type of disguise. Sadly, we knew we had to go at least partially store-bought.

Our first stop: a popular trinket emporium known for its seasonal treasures. This smelled like trouble, however, from around the corner. The large store was both packed and picked-over. It’s stock was on the cheap side (which is fair – they’re not much about quality goods), and while I wouldn’t have minded seeing J in a mash-up of random costume accessories (“I’m a mustachioed Grecian pilot bullfighter…. duh”), the crowd was a little overwhelming, and we knew of a slew of costume retailers not far down the street.

So off we went.

Now, if this isn’t a commentary on the State of the Halloween Costume I don’t know what is: The area in which we went hunting next is, any other month of the year, a string of (for lack of a better word) sex shops. Each has it’s niche (the gay men’s boutique, the ladies (read: exotic dancers ((read:strippers)) shop, and the hippies-love-sex-too store (which combines the best of kink and smoking paraphernalia). This particular time of year, however, our shady little strip becomes a bustling mecca of Halloween retail. So enamored are we with dressing naughtily (although, I suppose this is not such a bad thing if we considered looking like tartlets to be a departure from our day-to-day dress) that we now buy our costumes where we buy our porn. (I mean, you know… if, hypothetically speaking, we bought such things).

It is a little fascinating, however, to bare witness to the obliteration of taboo. There I was scouring racks of tiny dresses alongside cleanly dressed college kids, other couples… even one mom and dad searching with their teenage twenty-something daughter. And we’re all shopping gleefully, paying little mind to the assless chaps and ballgags on the wall behind the counter.

And unlike picking through cramped, disorganized costume houses surrounded by screaming children and unable to find anything in my size, here I had a multitude of options and, I can’t lie, a damn good time trying out different ideas.

The one downfall – scary dude at Shop #2, which was still a little quiet when we walked in. He must’ve been bored, or really wanting to sell us something, because he followed us around the store hand-selecting ridiculous costumes for me. (We’re talking lame, two-piece Wonder Woman, skanky vinyl gold digger…) After a good hour looking over my options, I found myself imagining the impending frigidity of midnight in November and gravitating toward anything fuzzy and/or fur-lined (Frosty the Snowvixen? Hell yeah! And nothing says Halloween like Rudy the Rednosed Rein Dear!).

In the end, I left pleased with my choice. J already has something that will match it nicely, and I feel confident that we will make a fearsome duo Friday night. We’ll be heading to a street carnival that evening, and I promise thorough documentation (at which point our costumes will be revealed in all their glory).

My one regret? That we didn’t have time to make our own. But we already have our idea for next year, so I can safely swear off store-bought from here on out. We will, however, have to hold several costume theme parties to make the most of our purchases in the meantime. Check your mailboxes for invites in the upcoming months:)

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!!

~a

Sushi for Breakfast October 15, 2008

Anyone else having a little trouble grasping the whole concept of adulthood?

I mean, yes, there’s the job (the “REAL” job I have for the first time in my life). And bills and insurance of varying natures and a home (granted, a rental) and bars and running errands on your lunch breaks and traffic tickets and dining out at places with black napkins and change-of-address forms and student loans and credit cards and bank accounts and stock options and oil changes and dating and so on and so on.

But….

There’s also ice cream for dinner and sushi for breakfast and playing hooky from work instead of school and road trips and house parties where no one will be busted and funding your band with your “REAL” job and staying out too late on a work night to walk the neighborhood under the influence of a bottle of wine seeking out Halloween decorations (and gladly paying for it the next day) and decorating your house (granted, a rental) in aforementioned decorations and taking your lunch breaks on the rooftops and so on and so on.

I suppose it’s something like landing on Mars, or arriving at the gates of the afterlife : the concept of adult-ness we form as kids, and then as teenagers, is, in a sense, blown away the minute we realize we’ve done it: we’ve made it to adulthood ourselves, and it looks so different from anything we could’ve perceived.

To that end – a gift to you: one of my favorites from one of my favorites…..

~a

(Do comment. Don’t be a stranger. I love hearing from you…)

Courtesy of xkcd