All posts tagged “adventure

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Birthday : Goals

photo of yours truly by the mr, scott eric johnson

For the past few years I’ve been doing a year in review .pdf thing courtesy of Marcus Buckingham after I read one of his books and signed up for his mailing list. (It’s the only thing I’ve ever gotten from his mailing list, and it has just now occurred to me that I hope tons of good stuff hasn’t been trapped in a spam filter or something.)

Essentially you write down the highs and lows of the past year, what you learned, what your goals are for the coming year and how you plan to achieve them.

Because I’m a procrastinator, doing this exercise gets later and later every year, and has now settled around my birthday, which I think is as good a time as any. My outlook on the prior year has gelled, and I have a decent stock of where I am and what I can get done in the next 8 months. Sometimes my goals are Mondo Beyondo level unrealistic and others have been downright manageable.

In an unprecedented move of transparency, this year I’ve decided to share some of them.

Here are the juicy ones:

1)  Create business plan, packages, website and take on 1 new client.
Now that I’ll be working from home and the proud owner of an extra 10 hours of time a week, I’ve decided I want to officially brand myself as a business manager, and reach out to creative solopreneurs and tiny businesses who are finding they can no longer do it all themselves and need administrative and strategic help, but aren’t ready to commit to hiring “staff”.

2. Focus on Honeymoon Diaries as a blog people might actually read, and/or as a potential business or stepping stone to other career opportunities.
Here’s the thing. I’d like my work to entail looking at photos of hotels all day. Yes, this sounds like a ridiculous thing to do for a living, but there are lots of bloggers and others doing ridiculous things for money, so why shouldn’t I be one of them? And yes, asking the universe for this scares the crap out of me for several reasons. Mostly because I don’t do well with good things happening to me, and so I can’t handle or imagine how GOOD it would be. How happy PLAYING in the world of pretty travel dreams makes me. Happy like a little kid happy. Summer mornings happy. Even though I’m now putting it out there for the world to see, I can’t imagine actually letting myself want this, this thing that I already do day in and day out, at least when I’m not actively avoiding the things that make me happy. (Which is a big issue for another post and possibly a therapist.) At the very least, if Jetsetter’s recent Pinterest contest showed Aimee and I anything, it’s that we’re not the only ones that want to look at travel photos all day.

3. Continue taking acting classes and find out what it is I’d have to do to do more with it:
Well this is a BIG and SCARY one. Perhaps the biggest and the scariest. The thing is, I like acting. A lot. I’d like to see what it’d be like to do more of it. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that, except the little voice that’s told me since childhood that the bananas-ness of “being an actor” is so, well, bananas, that I might as well not bother. Except that I have started bothering and all I want to do is see what it would be like to do a teensy bit more, so that stupid voice can shut the fuck up right now.

4. Write article about orphans and investing. Look into whether there are any personal finances blogs or components of personal finance blogs for high school and college kids out there. Get involved.
This is a good one, in two parts. See, I’ve been really into $$$ this year, and specifically I’ve been thinking about how us young adult orphans react to investing for retirement. When, you know, we saw our parents not make it to retirement. This feels like a real article, meant for somewhere bigger than this blog. And thusly, I’d like to make it so. And then keep that ball rolling.


So that dear readers, are my big scary goals for 29. I should probably try to have some fun in there too.

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Weekend : Asking for it.


Fiat 500 me and the Fiat500. getting to it, getting to it…


As we have previously discussed, I have a jest a touch of social anxiety.




For example, the other day at work my boss offhandedly mentioned needing to get in touch with the building dog-walker because the friend that was cat sitting for her over the holidays would be away for a few days around Christmas. A few hours later I happened to be in the lobby waiting for the elevator when I overheard a dog walker arrive and mention filling in for the regular guy. Now a normal person would’ve easily walked over to her and asked about getting her or the regular guy’s contact info.


And so for 5 minutes I was a normal person.


Because I did just that.


And that was HUGE for me. Seriously, embarrassingly huge. I was beaming proud of myself for a half an hour.


It’s like, which is more embarrassing, right? Approaching a stranger being a huge deal, or wanting to tell everyone I know that I had the courage to approach a stranger?!


But in all seriousness, I realized that recognizing/acknowledging my achievement as such, was huge in and of itself. What I more often do is berate myself for being such a wuss—regardless of whether I take action or remain frozen with fear. So yea, apparently mental congratulations are apparently way more rewarding and motivating.


Because not two days later did I get even gutsier.


We were going away for the weekend on Friday, and on Thursday morning I looked out the window from the train at the parked cars and idly wondered to myself, Wouldn’t it be awesome if our rental car was a Mini Cooper…or EVEN BETTER, my personal reachable dream car, a FIAT 500?!


Well, as the Universe would have it, we roll up to Enterprise the next morning and sitting in the parking lot is a shiny white Fiat 500. Scott and I both ogle in unison and wonder aloud if it could possibly be a rental. He is convinced it belongs to a person.


“I’m asking,” I announce.


It has suddenly become glaringly obvious that it doesn’t really matter if the car is a rental or if we can rent it. (Though in my heart I’m already convinced it’s there for me and me alone.) What matters is KNOWING if the car is a rental or not. I knew I had to ask because the thought of sitting through a 3 hour drive upstate in a Ford Focus wondering if we could’ve been in a Fiat 500 was just unbearable.


And so we went inside and the second sentence out of my mouth might have been, “So, is the Fiat yours and if so, is it available?”


And you know what, ladies and gentleman [hi Scott], IT WAS.




My question was greeted by a room full of grinning women (it’s a whole nother story about why I was happy to be in a room full of women but suffice it to say that a previous Enterprise rep who made fun of myself and my friends for chatting about a Fiat 500 3 years ago is something I’m still angry about), that were over the moon about renting me the Fiat.


And so we took the little lady for the weekend, and were honestly just as happy with her comfort and driving skills as we had hoped to be—but I’ll save the car review for another time.


And then, because I am on a fucking roll here people, I asked if it was possible to request the Fiat for our next rental New Year’s weekend. And it was noted in my reservation.


And THEN, between drafting this last nite and posting it tonite, I totally grabbed yet-to-be-stocked polenta out of a carton in Trader Joe’s because I wanted it for dinner, and dammit if they’d yet to put it in the freezer case.


Apparently, I’m breaking all the rules here people, so just try and stop me.


our little buddy

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Weekend : Awesome

I had a really great weekend.

It was fun, but it was also meaningful. Friday on Twitter there was an ongoing discussion about weddings [imagine that], and loving or not loving one’s wedding, including whether it felt huge or not.

While I haven’t talked about it much yet, I can decidedly say my wedding did not feel huge. And oddly enough, for better or worse, this weekend felt more quietly huge than the wedding certainly did.

So I’m probably going to talk about it a lot. But not right now. Because I don’t feel like talking about much of anything. Which I will also talk about later.

I’ll leave you here with that photo that pretty much sums up what I’ve yet to talk about.

Sorry for the mystery…


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Weekend : Autumn in NY

Instead of rambling on and on about all of my issues, I thought I’d share some photos I took this weekend of Central Park.


Autumn has always been my favorite season, partially due to its color palette, but mostly due its demand that I stop and appreciate it because [unlike spring and summer], I am most decidedly NOT looking forward to what’s coming next.


Metaphor for life?1321125787764 1321127077141


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This is what insomnia looks like.


I’ve never had this problem before. I may not be the best at sleeping normally, but I’ve never been not able to sleep at all ever before in my life. I’m the person who can sleep just about anywhere for 12-14 hours at a clip. My cat naps are 4 hours long.


This is not to say I get to indulge in this behavior regularly. In the days and weeks leading up to the wedding I was averaging 5 hours or less a night. Therefore, armed with stories of post-wedding exhaustion, I was fully expecting these kinds of bad habits to backfire by the honeymoon. But what I was prepared for was too much sleeping, guilt-ridden lazy days on the beach with lots of naps.


Not adrenaline-filled, panic-stricken, lonely insomnia.


It started on the third night of the trip, just as I had concluded we’d escaped unscathed from the evil clutches of jetlag. At our secluded little house on a cliff face in a tiny village on the Amalfi Coast, we fell asleep around 10pm, much as we had the night before. Being on a geriatric sleep schedule didn’t bother me, because it meant getting up earlier and doing more during the day! Except then I woke up at 1am, feeling as alert as if I was waking from some kind of enchanted slumber.


So I read my book, which was just the kind of edge-of-your-seat-disaster-movie-thrill-ride to render it totally inappropriate for a relaxing honeymoon. And then it was 3am, and I finished my book. (The only one I’d brought with me!) With no TV, and the wine finished too, I started to feel a bit anxious.


This is when the noises started getting to me.


First it was the church bells which, ringing every fifteen minutes like literal clockwork, reminded me of exactly how long I’d been attempting to sleep. Then it was the remarkably persistent owl. Finally somewhere around 4:30am, after a solid hour of Angry Birds, and some reading of guide books which only deepened my panic about “how are we going to get things done if I’ve only slept 3 hours!, a rooster took over for the owl.


A fucking rooster.


I was disgusted at myself for being deprived of sleep by such aural monstrosities as church bells, an owl, and a rooster. Even the constant rush of the river down the valley to the ocean had gotten under my skin. (As well as the kids playing soccer and whinnying horses that later bothered me during a daytime nap.) Put me next to a freeway and it serves as a free white noise machine, but play some mountain village noises and I become a city girl losing my shit.


This pattern repeated itself on several nights throughout our week there, and as some days we had actual plans, I did wind up running on 3 or 4 hours of sleep. Not a great recipe for a relaxing honeymoon. It’s continued on and off since we got back, leaving me lying awake with racing thoughts about things I *have* to do the next day that aren’t generally all that important anyway.


In fact, according to Martha Beck (can I just say that I love Martha Beck) in November’s O Magazine, I have all the symptoms of burnout:


Me Pre-Wedding: “Driven: You’re working flat-out, in a non-stop blur of accomplishment. You feel you can go on like this forever! You can’t!”


Me Between Wedding and Honeymoon: “Dragging: You’re sucking up sugar and caffeine to fight fatigue…”


Me During the Honeymoon: “Losing It: You’re visibly tired, visibly plump (or alarmingly preskeletal), and perpetually grumpy. You lie awake nights, thoughts racing, longing for sleep. At work and at home, you’ve developed a charming habit of biting people’s heads off.


Me Post-Honeymoon: “Hitting the wall: You’re racked by aches and pains, gaining or losing weight, prone to temper tantrums or crying jags, hard-pressed to remember things like computer passwords or your children’s names.”


I don’t usually take magazine advice seriously, but I think maybe I’ll follow the steps in this one. Not surprisingly, it says to eat better, sleep more, exercise gently, and avoid sources of stress.


Anyone else ever take a relaxing vacation that backfired?

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I’m back.



Leave it to me to (half-assedly) plan posts for our honeymoon, and then totally disappear upon our return.




My absence has been the combination of a lot of things: exhaustion, sickness—but mostly an avoidance of all things wedding. I have a lot left to say about the wedding, but I’m not quite sure how to manage to say it.


But as far as the life of this blog outside wedding goes, here’s the deal:


As I observed several lovely ladies I admire struggle with the direction of their blog post-wedding, I put some thought into what I wanted to do with mine and formulated a plan.


When I started blogging (embarrassingly long ago, and very very slowly), this place was not so much wedding-oriented, as my mind was not so much wedding-focused, and so I should like to go back to that.


I’ve got lots of big ideas. And now, post-wedding, I have the time and the nerve to get going on some of them and I’d like to use this place as a laboratory for that. Some may never get off the ground, and others may eventually need their own space, but this is as good a place as any to start.


But more than that, I want to continue breaking down blog pretty.


Allow me to illustrate what I mean with an example.




A few days after we got back from Italy, I dragged Scott to the beach because it was allegedly the last warm weekend of summer (on October 8th), I was feeling crappy that we didn’t spend enough time sunbathing on the trip, and was excited that now we have free time to DO THINGS like go to the beach that’s all of ten minutes from our house.


It was late afternoon and getting chilly, but I kind of wanted to see the sun set, so I dawdled, reading and people-watching until us and the fishermen were the last people left on the beach. Eventually I could no longer pretend it wasn’t freezing or the sunset wasn’t blinding (I don’t think I’ve ever seen a sunset or sunrise without a single cloud in the sky), and we packed up and headed towards the car.




But as we were walking, the sun and light and waves aligned, and magic happened. We both dropped everything and got our cameras out. Planes and birds created picture perfect streaks through the cloudless sky. I went and dipped my toes in and the air was so cold the ocean felt warm. The view was so endless I remembered how one once could see the Twin Towers.



I think the pictures I took are more magical than anything from the wedding or honeymoon combined. BUT. What they don’t show is how my fingers and toes were purple from the cold. Or how sadly I hobbled across the asphalt parking lot because I couldn’t put  my shoes yet due to my sandy feet. Or how the fishermen looked at us funny. And then one peed.




Blogs and internet life in general can have a tendency to omit those things in favor of the pretty. I like the pretty an awful, but the real helps me sleep at night. My favorite posts to write have been the guttingly [not a word but I like it] honest ones where I said scary things and people chimed in and said, “Me too!”


So there will be more of where that came from—“Deep discussions from wedding planning past” and no doubt current discussions from marriage living present. There will be pretty—the new rugs I bought months ago! And practical—a rundown of [pretty] shoes for endless walking in Europe!


And much much more, as I enjoy having the time to read, learn, absorb, and live again.



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Weekend : #YayNY and #Irene

There is nothing quite like a joining of forces between Team Practical and a hurricane to realign one’s priorities.

With three weeks until the wedding it has been painfully obvious that I am deep in the throes of Planning. The kind of Type-A checklist-driven-the-world-revolves-around-my-wedding, right? planning that I would seriously fault myself for if it wasn’t so damn common.

Enter Yay New York and Hurricane Irene, poised to knock me right off my feet (and schedule).




Making time for the Yay New York party in the midst of our madness was non-negotiable, but I hadn’t really had time to get excited about it until I was sitting at my desk Thursday morning. I had been too busy being up picking out an outfit and shaving my legs at 1am, dragging myself to yoga at 10am, and slogging through the rain with 3 outfits (yoga/work/party) worth of crap at 11am to even think about what the point of it all was.


Once I started reading Meg’s live-blogging, I found myself hit by not excitement over partying and raising money for a good cause (well maybe a little of that), but by what really mattered—the very personal impact of the day on the couples getting married. For the first time, something I have read over and over, but had never felt for myself, hit home: We are so, so privileged to have the option to marry. And I am so thrilled/relieved/proud to be living in a state that is *finally* extending that right to everyone.


Philosophically, I’ve always been a supporter of gay marriage, but I’ve never been able to shake the feeling that it’s not my place to fight for it. But Meg managed to convince me otherwise both in her writing that day, and in her thank you speech that night—which I wish I could quote to you all, because the lady is even more eloquent, funny, and persuasive in person than advertised.


The gravity of all of this made me determined to treasure that evening, even when I had a million and one things on my mind and to-do list—from the lovely dinner with my fiance before the party, to getting to see faces (Meg! Zan! Sarah! Rachel! Mary!)  in person(!), to the happy, glow-y dancing in a night that became my de facto bachelorette when my actual party was canceled due to Hurricane Irene.


I momentarily wished I could hear above the awesome music to actually converse in person(!) with these ladies who I virtually chat with all the time, until I realized we could go back to chatting on Friday, but the physical connection of being there dancing, actually together in the same state/city/room, was what was magical that night. And we danced our faces and asses off—not that I was surprised, because MY people are always the ones that dance. If Yay NY was a glimmer of the joy and fun I have waiting for me at my own wedding, then it is going to be so, so worth it. And every single person in love deserves the opportunity to have that, and all that comes after.






Friday morning I woke up slightly hung over, to the news that my Saturday night bachelorette party had been canceled because of Hurricane Irene. (Which Sarah, as awesome as she is, did her best to resurrect for me.) I thought my friends were overreacting just a teensy bit, so I started reading the news. Whereupon my commitment to wedding-planning productivity on my day off gradually dissolved, and by the time Bloomberg announced that transit was shutting down at noon Saturday, I was having a mild panic attack and my canceled bachelorette was the least of my concerns.


I went for a run, trying to quell the physical sensations of anxiety that were gushing through my veins with a persistence I hadn’t felt since the days leading up to having minor surgery last February when I discovered my phobia of anesthesia. “I don’t do natural disasters,” I thought to myself. Whenever shit has gone down in NY, I’ve been in LA or vice versa. And then it occurred to me that maybe my old roommate Kim was the good luck charm, not me, as I had experienced Hurricanes Gloria and Bob right there on Long Island, and of course, as soon as she left the state we had a horrible heat wave, earthquake, and now hurricane…


Why was I so panicked, you ask? This is why:




My beloved, and inappropriately close oak tree, which has weathered Gloria, Bob, and my entire childhood, is nearing the end of its days. I had to stop ignoring this imminent threat last March when a Nor’easter (That came out nowhere! Life is less stressful when you don’t watch the news!), knocked down tons of huge trees in our neighborhood, and Scott insisted, moved ours about 4 inches closer to the house. I denied it, but he was totally right. This big girl has to go.


But, we’re procrastinators, and have a wedding to pay for, so she’s still here.


And so I panicked. All through a Friday planning meeting at our venue (wow, there are a lot of trees there too) with our wedding stage manager, all through a Michael’s shopping trip to pick up things I could craft with no power. And all through Saturday AM’s beach yoga class that for the first time in 2 summers was moved indoors. I panicked through a Trader Joe’s shopping trip which resulted in a shit ton of chocolate-based products, and through a Saturday spent doing everything I could on the computer/internet in case we were out of power for days on end, watching CNN compulsively and downing said chocolate products.


Somewhere in there we also “battened down the hatches,” which resulted in the two of us being covered in so many mosquito bites they made us violent with rage for the whole weekend.


I panicked straight through Saturday night until a 1am brooch bouquet crafting session, until we settled into a sleeping spot that I hoped and prayed was out of the way of a tree branch (doubtful) and passed out from sheer exhaustion at 3am. I promptly woke up at 5am, and panicked through the worst part of the storm until Scott got up and convinced me that everything was really fine by standing outside and smoking.


Twitter confirmed, and finally I was brave enough to go outside and discover this:




I’m calling it a triumph.


What did I learn from all of this? From googling “what to do if a tree falls on your house” and reading the fine print on my homeowners insurance?


I learned that being a homeowner is a game changer. (Being parentless helps too—as I realized when Scott’s mom called him more times last weekend than in the entire 5 years we’ve been together combined.) I am officially a grown up. There’s no way around it. If I don’t stockpile water (in empty tequila bottles), or pack an emergency bag, or pay the homeowners insurance bill at 11pm the night before a hurricane, no one else will.


It was frightening, and yet liberating, as I finally felt justified in my worrying.


And what did I learn about worrying?


Less chocolate, more vegetables.

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Weekend : Road Trip

In the spirit of Wednesday, and the major FAIL that was to be last week’s working weekend (and I don’t mean wedding work, I mean 3 different real work jobs), I thought I’d post about how I did not work—on work or wedding—in July.

Funtime weekend #1:
One of Scott’s old bands had a reunion show that we drove up to CT for. It’s been a couple of years since I last slept in a car for a band, and I’ve never slept in a car with a member of the band. But I’m getting ahead of the story (which—like that day—is pretty monotonous).

We aimed to pick up our rental car and hit the road around 9am. The state of the rental car office should’ve been my first clue that it was going to be the loooooongest day ever.

When we finally got up to the counter, we were so lucky as to be standing next to the Most. Amazing. Transaction. Ever. Starring people who didn’t understand the stupid rules of rental cars. No, you cannot add a 2nd driver who doesn’t have a major credit card. No, you cannot pay as the 1st driver with a major credit card that is declined(!) and say you’re “just going to pay in cash when you return it.” No, at this point, complaining that you’re getting a Navigator and not a Tahoe is not a good idea. Let’s just said that if the Enterprise employees could pee in these customer’s soup (car seat?), they would’ve done it.

Alas, we never heard how it all ended up because our car was ready. Our first car. Whose front seat did not adjust forward from “gangsta recline.” Luckily we were able to switch the one next to it, which did just fine to CT and back. And while I’m bitching, let me just say something about Connecticut drivers. Wow. Unless there was some kind of “don’t speed today” memo that we missed, they give Florida snowbirds a run for their money. 55 and not a mile over. Plus as much rubber-necking as inhumanly possible for the slightest roadside excitement.


Somewhere around 2:30, we got to the venue, where I discovered that waiting for a band to go on when you’re with the band might be even less interesting than waiting for a band to go on when you are (or are with) the lunatic that sits outside the door hoping to get a glimpse of them.

But the pluses included getting to sit (on a chair!) inside the venue’s outdoor patio area blogging while the band rehearsed, and being looked after by a total doll of a venue owner who kept asking if I needed anything.

And then we went to dinner at what was quite possibly the worst “restaurant” (snack bar in a bar?) that I have ever been to. The whole day was like National Lampoon’s 90’s Band Reunion, but this was really the worst. Honestly, it was so shockingly unbelievable that I couldn’t even get upset about it. They were out of everything and everything they weren’t out of, the cook—on his first and last day—had trouble making. Like had trouble making grilled cheeses and Caesar salad. I was treated to the saddest, barely toasted, BLT ever.


And then we waited. And attempted not to drink too much since we were driving home that night. And waited some more. And mingled awkwardly with people Scott hasn’t seen in fifteen years and may or may not have hooked up with. And didn’t drink some more. One vodka soda and part of a beer and I was sober and bored out of my skull for about 4 solid hours of waiting, as a reunion of people we didn’t know and their toddlers swirled around us.

Did I mention by this point, my well-used phone which had already been charged once, had died?

So I played Angry Birds on Scott’s phone. And waited. And we manned the merch. And waited. And Scott drew things. And we waited.



And then they played. And it was just like the rehearsal but with more people. Include a Russell-Brand-alike who was their biggest fan.

And after the set a kid (he was probably my age), came up to Scott and told him they played the first show he ever went to and he loved them. And it was adorable and kind of sad all at once.


And then we waited.

For the last band who were the guys that invited them to play at this reunion of people who used to play in bands and now had a lot of toddlers running around wearing those punk rock baby earmuffs.

And then perk #2, when the last band played, I got to sit off on the side of the stage behind a speaker and hope no one noticed while I full on slept with music raging around me.

And then at 2am, we left.

12 hours after we had arrived.

17 hours after we left home.

On 5 hours of sleep (my bad), a protein shake, 2 eggs, and the worst BLT of my life, we hit the road back home.

And then an hour and a half into the drive, 1 awful McDonald’s coffee, and the world’s most expensive large fries later, we gave up. And slept in a parking lot. Of a different McDonald’s.

And woke up 3 hours later to dawn at a Connecticut McDonald’s and finished the drive home.

I didn’t get to stop at Stew Leonard’s, but I did get to see Scott play in a band.

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House : Kitchen Difficulties

This weekend my lovely girlfriends are throwing me a bridal shower. This required registering. That we’ll talk more about tomorrow. But first, why I didn’t feel ready to register.

To stock up a kitchen full of nice things, we should probably have a nice kitchen.

And right now? We have a very not-so-nice kitchen:




These photos are about a year old now, and actually paint a fairly nice picture compared to its current state. Let’s just say we got ambitious and decided we should do an “interim fix up” of stripping the wallpaper and cabinets and repainting, and then we, uh, didn’t get past the “stripping” stage.

Last year when the bathroom was being remodeled and the electricity updated we started constructing a plan for the kitchen.

My lovely boss was so kind as to draw up our house, kitchen included:


kitchenplan1 1

Unfortunately, her ideal kitchen plan would’ve involved some serious moving of the plumbing (think moving the kitchen sink, washer/dryer and adding a dishwasher), something that our home improvement grant didn’t cover.

But her plan did give me a great starting point for tackling the IKEA Kitchen Planner.


After playing with many, many different versions, what I finally settled on was fairly similar to the original. The sink, stove and washer/dryer are in roughly the same places, but the fridge is freestanding (I hate covering the window, but it is really the only option that allowed us to keep the sink in the same spot and still have room for a washer/dryer).

It’s a solid plan, but unfortunately 2011 became the year of the wedding, not the year of the kitchen, as wedding planning (and budgeting) took over our lives before it could be executed.

Eventually, I hope it’ll look something like this…


But first we have to:

1) Figure out what to do about our sinking slab floors and asbestos tile. Self-leveling concrete and some respirators, I think…

2) Decide whether to make do with the existing walls work or re-drywall the whole thing. Based on the state of the peeling ceiling, it’ll probably be option B.

3) Upgrade some of our appliances, as our current vintage sink and stove are far too large for the space. Fabulous, but impractical. And our washing machine is neither fabulous not practical, but it does work! Eventually, I’d also like to upgrade the fridge to a counter depth model that will block less light.

4) Save up & buy those IKEA cabinets.

5) Do all the work.

So it’s a long road until we have a place to proudly display a KitchenAid…

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Life after Wedding


me in Mexico


As I was writing my Honeymoon Diaries post on “doing” vacations, I started to ponder why I’m that kind of “doing” crazy.


Not to justify my own insanity—and it is insanity, as I’m sure you read—but I think this comes out of wanting to squeeze every ounce of amazing out of every moment of traveling.


When I’m on a trip, I’m constantly afraid of missing out on something great, I always wanting to be doing, and seeing, and exploring and making the most out of every second.


Even if every second is spent at an all-inclusive resort in Mexico.


I want to incorporate more of this kind of passion into my daily life, and I think after the wedding is going to be an easy time to start.


There is so much I CANNOT WAIT to do come October—some of it productive, like get in touch with a couple of possible mentors and brainstorm and test some new career paths, and some of it is indulgent, like reading magazines again. (God, I miss magazines.)


And that’s also part of why I think this honeymoon is going to be perfect for us. One part doing, and one part stopping to enjoy the view (guilt-free) equals a happy life.