Breaking down my barrier, letting someone in

I’ve realized in the last two months that I forgot how incredibly nice it is to have someone to do nothing with. And it scares the bejesus out of me.

It has been so long since I’ve had a boyfriend (!!) that my prolonged single life allowed me to forget how great it is to have someone else to share days, hours and moments with. I think this is sort of survival mode for singles. We learn to do everything independently and be really, really happy with it. “I LUURV being single!!” we tell everybody. And there’s definitely some truth in it. But, during all those single moments, sometimes a little thought would creep into the back of my mind… “Man, it would be really, really nice to have someone to stay in and do nothing with tonight.” But, as a perpetual single, I pushed the thought aside and filled my quiet moments with books, bars, family, cats, music, friends, exercise, writing and a few short-lived men. And it’s been an incredibly satisfying and enlightening chunk of time.

But the last couple months, I’ve suddenly found someone who fills all my quiet moments. I’ve had someone to go to all those restaurants with that I’ve always wanted to try; to take the bus downtown and peruse through the Market; to stay in, getting silly off wine and watching trashy TV; to hold hands with around Greenlake; to snuggle with in bed till 2 in the afternoon; to plan dinners and evenings out with and to go anywhere, or do anything, and have the most amazing time because you’re together. Through this time, I’ve realized that I’ve held in a whole lot of love and affection for years that I’ve been dying to unleash. And it feels really, really amazing.

But I’m oh so scared that this feeling will take away my contentment with being alone. I’m scared that when he’s gone, or if things don’t work out, I’ll have remembered how great it is to have someone to care for, and who cares for you, and being single will suddenly lose the shine that it’s had for me in my 20s. I’m worried that while I’m potentially building a foundation for a new life with someone, I’m erasing a foundation of independence that it took years for me to build. It’s scary to feel like you’re letting go of a part of yourself and letting someone in. Breaking down that barrier. Hoping that if and when it’s over, you won’t have completely lost sight of who you are and how it’s okay to be alone.

Currently Feeling: Chunky and squishy. I really allowed myself to enjoy the holidays this year.
Currently Anticipating: Getting a call back for a second interview?
Currently Watching: My So Called Life on DVD.

It doesn’t get much better than this…

I am still spinning from my date on Saturday. I can’t quite act all squishy and excited on my dating blog because I know he’s reading (considering that’s how he contacted me), so I’ll share the details here.

For those of you not up-to-speed, I received an email from an interested reader who had spotted my profile on The Stranger’s Lovelab, discovered I wrote for Metroblogging Seattle, then was friends with the girl who previously wrote the dating blog I just took over, so he noticed when I started writing for that too. He sent me an email, asking me out (with his profile attached, natch), and I accepted for Saturday.

From his pictures, I could tell he was at least a little cute. But, I was not nearly prepared for just how damn cute he was going to be. When I walked into Oliver’s Twist on Saturday at 8 p.m., I could have just died and gone to heaven. My whole “super suave, not nervous at all” attitude went right out the window. Cute boys make my knees weak.

Interested Reader is tall, with a fantastic body, cute clothes, brown hair and sexy nerdy/”I’m an intellectual” glasses. He is a physical therapist with a graduate school degree, a Portland/Montana transplant, a reader of books, a liberal, an agnostic, a listener of KEXP, a player of sports (including kickball !!), and as passionate and level-headed as can be.

From the moment we started talking at Oliver’s Twist, (over two drinks, the blue cheese-stuffed dates and tomato cappuccino with grilled cheese, thanks Jenny), we did not have a moment’s lull in the conversation. We continued to the 74th Street Ale House, then onto The Great Nabob to meet a couple of his friends. We even continued our one-on-one conversation while sitting at the table with his friends, eventually resting our knees against each other (yes, I noticed), and engaging in a little flirty elbowing/other innocent contact.

By the end of the date, I was more than eager to throw my “no kisses on the first date” thing out the window. All I could think about was, “Make-out city, U.S.A!” He asked me to his car to listen to a band he kept talking to me about, which I of course accepted. There, I managed to snag a completely awkward first date kiss before I thanked him for the wonderful evening, and bid him goodbye.

I guess the great-date feeling was mutual, because I woke up Sunday morning to an email in my inbox from him. He sent me a silly inside joke ecard, and wrote:

Ha! I hope this card is as funny to you as it is to me after 5 hours of sleep. I had a great time last night with you. Definitely, looking forward to seeing you again! Have a Great Day, E

I have to admit. I CANNOT WAIT to hear back from him. Perhaps it’s super premature, but I think we’ve got something here…

Currently Feeling: Busy and content.
Currently Anticipating: The return email or phone call.
Currently Hating: Juggling.

A Conversation at My Local Bar

“You look like a heartbreaker. I can tell. You’ve broken a lot of hearts, haven’t you?” said a man to me in the bar last night with a hazy smile and creepy lilt in his voice.

“Um, no. Not really,” I responded, completely and utterly uninterested. I turned back around in my seat and took another sip of my wine.

“Oh yes you have. Don’t by shy to admit it. You’re a total heartbreaker,” he continued, despite my obvious attempts to blow him off.

“Uh. NO. Actually. I’m. NOT. I’ve had my heart broken more than I’ve broken hearts. Come to think about it, I don’t think I’ve broken anybody’s heart.”

“You fall in love with everyone you meet!” chimed in my male friend, sitting next to me at the bar. “You jump in way too fast and always get hurt!”

“Um. Okay. Maybe…what can I say? I’m a one-man kind of woman. I like ‘em, and I fall hard,” I responded. Somewhat a little taken back that I’m categorized and obviously a girl that “jumps in too fast” when I SO thought that wasn’t me. Gee thanks. Nothing like reading me like an open book.

“I don’t care what you say; I still think you’re a total heartbreaker,” says the bar patron again.

Some guys will never get me…

Currently Feeling: Like I’m a writing machine!
Currently Anticipating: Our pumpkin carving party this weekend.
Currently Hating: Hurting someone’s feelings.

Oohhh. Shiny. Shimmery. Sticky icky icky!

Lip gloss—it’s a woman’s paradise.

And I’m pretty sure I have an extremely unhealthy obsession with it.

I’m always on the endless search for the perfect lip gloss—the right color, the right applicator, the right consistency—it’s a very fine-tuned, particular recipe. Anytime I’m at Target or Bartell’s, you better believe that I’m going to spend roughly an hour in the make-up aisles and walk out with at least three new lip glosses. All of which, I try on—one by one—as soon as I get back to my car. I’ll toss the new ones in my bag, which at any given time, you’ll be able to find six or more tubes of gloss.

“Do you have some chap stick I can borrow?” someone will ask.

“No, but I have lip gloss!” is always my reply. I mean, really, who wants to taste like a medicine cabinet anyway when you can taste like Cherry Cola Slide or Strawberry Melon Delight?!

I remember, once when I was in high school, I had a huge crush on a very sexy, outdoorsy type guy. One night we were at a party, sitting on the couch, while I rifled through my purse for a lip gloss I wanted.

“How many of those do you have in there?” he asked me.

I reached in, pulling them out one-by-one, and counted eight tubes.

I’ll never forget the look on his face. It was a mixture of appall, incredulousness, shock, pity and disgust. I think he truly thought I was completely crazy. I wonder if that had anything to do with him never giving it up to me…

Occasionally, I’ll have my absolute favorite that I’ll tote around with me for any given short period of time, but it’s only a matter of time before I’ve bought a new color or brand that I decide I like much more. When I find one that’s really great, I’m bound to tell at least two of my girlfriends about it. I’ll get really worked up and excited and say, “Oh my gosh. I just bought the best lip gloss EVER…”

I know you’ve heard it.

And my favorite Christmas present last year? Not my digital camera. Not the crock-pot I was dying to own. Oh no—the six pack of Juicy Tube lip glosses my Lancome make-up lady Aunt got me for free.

Have I painted a good picture of crazy yet?

So, I’ve always known that I’m teetering on an unhealthy level of lip gloss obsession. However, this morning it was even more apparent to me when I opened the drawer I keep—overflowing with at least 60 tubes—searching for a color that matched the sweater I was wearing to work. And what should I see? But at least three tubes I’ve had since early college, and even worse, high school. They all have nothing more than two or three more applications in them. But, I stopped using them and threw them in the drawer—never to use again—just because I couldn’t bear the thought of one of my favorites being gone and irreplaceable. Every time I think about throwing them away, I’ll whine to myself, “Oh, but I really like that color.” And there they’ll stay. So, I’ll probably keep the three-quarters-empty tubes forever and never use them. As long as, if I ever FEEL like wearing that color again, they’ll be there. Ah. What a comfort.

I’m one lip gloss away from crazy.

Currently Feeling: Like I might take a weekend away at my dad’s house—mmm, Country home-cooking, here I come.
Currently Anticipating: Oktoberfest in Leavenworth next week. Can’t wait!
Currently Watching: Season one of Ugly Betty. It’s fantastic!

Dubliner Man Crush gets his haircut: love blossoms

When I lived in Fremont with Amanda, the two of us would frequent The Dubliner every Wednesday for $1 well drink night. It was incredibly, incredibly hard to pass up a chance to get wasted off $6 and then walk two blocks home. So, we made sure to never miss out. Let’s just say we were thrifty. One night, an incredibly good-looking man immediately caught my eye. Oh boy. I couldn’t stop staring. I was smitten—he was gorgeous. After a lot of coaxing by Amanda—the perpetual flirt—I finally went over to him, and we had a short butterfly-ridden conversation. This was before my “all you gotta do is put it out there and they’ll bite” days. Oh. To be naive and innocent again.

I went back, week after week, hoping to catch a glimpse of my Dubliner Man Crush. One night, he walked in the doors on the arms of a former high school nemesis (that snatch licker!) and my hopes and dreams were crushed forever. Until, a year or so later, I ran into him again at Peso’s with a mutual friend. Of course, he didn’t know who I was, but I immediately recognized him and couldn’t believe my good luck—if he’s friends with this friend, and I’m friends with this friend, then I most surely have more of a chance than before. Right?! Well, occasionally, I’ll run into him with her. But, I can’t really bring myself to say hi, or flirt, or do anything else besides stalk him on MySpace. (Where I learned he has a great job, owns a house, and likes to snowboard and wakeboard. He also has a comment list full of beautiful, cute and gorgeous women.) You don’t have to tell me that it’s creepy I SpySpaced him; I already know.

So, a couple months ago I stopped into Lucky Seven on the LQA for a haircut. Immediately my stomach did a flip-flop—there was my Dubliner Man Crush, seated in the salon chair, one away from mine. It was only the two of us in the salon with our hairstylists. The four of us had a couple brief conversations and interactions where I tried to be my ridiculously, ridiculously clever, witty and funny self. But before long, he paid and walked out. As soon as he left, I let out a big sigh, “I’ve always thought he was so good looking and have had a little crush on him for years,” I said.

“Joey?!” his hairstylist exclaimed. “He comes in all the time. He’s a really good guy and has a great job and all that. You should ask him out! I’m pretty sure he’s single!”

“Oh, I’m too shy,” I replied, soon after which I paid for my haircut and walked out.
I immediately called Amanda and had a conversation with her somewhere along the lines of, “Fate, fate, fate and more fate, don’t you think it’s fate? I’m pretty sure it’s fate. What are you up to, did I tell you it was fate?”

Last week, I returned for another haircut. About ten minutes into it, my hairstylist looks over and says, “Oh yeah. The next time Joey came in, we asked him if he remembered you, and he said he totally thought you were cute and was checking you out. He said to give you his phone number, but I don’t know where we’d find it… you should give us yours, we could play match maker and set you guys up! We have to figure something out!”

“Ha! A little salon love,” I said, mostly joking because the thought of actually putting myself out there and calling him after all these years made me instantly feel queasy. “I can tell everyone that I met my husband in the salon chairs.” (No, he’s totally not gay! What made you think that?!)

So today I received a phone call from an anonymous 206 number. Naturally, I screened the call. When I listened to the voicemail it said:

“Hi Jeanna, it’s Shane down here at Lucky Seven. Um, give us a call when you get a chance. We have something for you,” to which I heard a very manly, hearty laugh in the background. Possible Dubliner Man Crush laugh?!

I eventually worked up enough nerve to call Shane back, waiting for enough time to pass so he wouldn’t be around still. (See, I can’t even bring myself to call the same building he’s in and talk to someone standing in the room with him. How would I ever go on a date with him?!)

Sho enough. Joey left his number to give me. And he said that if I want to text him my number, he’ll call me cause he wants to take me out. Oh jesus. Can I do it? Am I too shy? Will I be able to get through a date with him without wanting to pass out from nerves?!

I don’t know. But something tells me, after three years of Dubliner man crushing from afar, I just might have to take the chance.

Currently Feeling: Giddy and nervous.
Currently Anticipating: Brewery bike ride with the Dolphin Sisters this weekend.
Currently Wondering: Who would ever put black olives in spaghetti?!

Thoughts on three of them

I read a fellow blogger’s thoughts on three men in her past. And it seemed cleansing and like reckless heart abandonment. So, I figured, Jeanna could always use a little cleansing. It helps me get a little closer to exactly what I want and need in life, eh? One more step in solving the puzzle…

Here’s my take on her ex-orcism:

_________________________________________________________

I don’t miss how my family didn’t like you and would never have shared my love for you. I don’t miss your constant need for reassuring in everything in life: yourself, your job, your personality, my love. I don’t miss standing on a curb, waiting to see your car come pick me back up, feeling like the world was falling out from beneath my feet. I don’t miss never explaining or justifying myself enough to others when they wondered what I saw in you.

I miss that out-of-control love that I’ll never feel twice. Cause I’ll never be un-jaded like that again.

_________________________________________________________

I don’t miss knowing that I could never convince you that we were perfect together and would have been happy, well, forever. I don’t miss feeling like the smallest flaw in myself meant that I was not the perfect person you imagined spending your life with. I don’t miss feeling like I’d rather die than live life without you.

I miss eenks and wobbles. I miss feeling like I was the luckiest person in the world. I miss our after-softball-game ritual. I miss that plate of lemon bars you’d leave for me in the fridge. I miss your silly love poems and that goofy face you make when you play the guitar. I miss looking at you when we were sleeping and feeling like you were perfect and there was no way I could ever love someone so purely, completely, wildly again. I miss loving someone purely, completely, wildly. You are the only man to truly capture my heart.

_________________________________________________________

I don’t miss how your actions never matched up with your words. I don’t miss the constant letdowns and disappointments. I don’t miss feeling like everything was left unsaid, but if I would have said it, it wouldn’t have mattered. I don’t miss knowing that I was never going to be the woman to snag you, that being crazy about you was always to remain unrequited.

I miss our naughty text messages. I miss setting the alarm an hour early before you went to work. I miss feeling like I couldn’t get to your house fast enough and the butterflies in my stomach might cause me to float up and fly away. I miss that crazy, crazy chemistry. You made me feel sexier than any man ever has.

_________________________________________________________

Awww. Phew. That felt great. Now, here’s the real challenge for those of you who feel like you know the ins and outs of me… name the three.

Currently Feeling: Impatient. Just let it all out.
Currently Anticipating: Caitlin’s going away at Kell’s tonight.
Currently Reading: The Things They Carried.

Oh, it just feels so damn good

Today, at lunch, I started thinking about habits and how bizarre they are. We’ve all heard the “Creature of Habit” cliché. Mammals are creatures of habit, cats are creatures of habit, men are creatures of habit, women are creatures of habit, I’m a creature of habit, you’re a creature of habit and reefers habitually smoke marijuana cigarettes.

It’s obvious that habits are part of everything and everyone’s day-to-day existence. If everyone’s life is a series of habits, what are some of mine?

I know that my morning ritual is the same each day. I always get dressed, do my hair and then put on my make-up. And I never stray from this particular morning routine. It’s the same every day. I don’t know if I’m even capable of doing my hair before getting dressed, or putting on make-up before doing my hair. It’s all a very precise process that would make me feel all jumbled up if it were changed.

I LOVE reading on the futon in my living room with my feet propped up on the big pink pillow, and eventually falling into a very satisfying nap.

Every Saturday and Sunday morning I like to eat two fried eggs on top of toast with cinnamon sugar.

And I habitually match my eyeshadow with my shoes with my earrings with my bag.

Then there are the bad habits. Biting nails, smoking, swearing. I do all three.

But, while I’ll disclose a number of habits—weird, bad or good—there’s one that I’m particularly embarrassed of. It has to do with Taco Bell. (The greatest place on Earth besides the Sand Bar.) I don’t eat at the Fourth Meal Haven unless I’m a) very drunk or b) it’s been six months or more. I try to stay far, far away from fast food, but I just can’t give up the Bell. So, since it’s been a month of Sundays since I’ve enjoyed all its greasy gloriousness, I went there for lunch today. I always order the same thing: two soft tacos. Then, I’m incapable of not doing the following habit, which I’ve done since age 8, at minimum:

1) I empty out all the contents of the soft taco
2) I fold the tortilla in half, then half again, making one tortilla triangle
3) I bite all the way around the tortilla until it creates four little separate triangles of tortilla
4) I mix-up all the contents of the soft taco into sort of a salad mixture
5) I spoon one-fourth of the mixture into one of the four little tortilla triangles
6) I roll it up into a mini, bite-size soft taco
7) I eat the mini soft taco roll-up
I repeat steps one through seven until the whole soft taco is gone

It’s by far the strangest thing I do. And I’m actually really, really embarrassed by it. I hate it when anyone sits by me in Taco Bell because I know they’re probably thinking to themselves, “What in the hell is that girl doing? What a weirdo!” I want to sit there, shielding any onlookers from my habit with my arm. Sort of like I’m in 5th grade and someone’s trying to cheat off my Taco Bell wrapper. It makes me feel like that fat woman—the one who really wants to lock herself in a closet and finish an entire container of peanut butter and marshmallow cream—carefully spooning them into her mouth and licking the spoon—so no one will judge her.

I can’t explain it. It’s completely weird and creepy. But, I’ve been doing it for years. It’s just a habit, like everything else in our lives. But one thing about habits is that while some are strange and some are bad, they just feel so damn good, don’t they?

Currently Feeling: Oh geez.
Currently Anticipating: Beerfest for the Redhook outdoor summer movie tomorrow and the Seafair festivities this weekend.
Currently Hating: My inability to express my feelings.

[See my July wrap-up in pics below]

I want to evolve organically

I can’t tell you how unsettled I am lately with some peoples’ life-partner choice. Is it just me, or is the world full of 80 percent bad couples and 20 percent good? I can honestly only think of maybe three couples who I’d want to model a relationship after. Now that we’ve been out of college for three or more years, it seems everyone is in the race to find someone they can settle down with or tie the knot with their long-term college sweetheart. A lot of people measure their success by plus or minus one and can’t move on from a relationship that’s terrible, while everyone on the outside is going, “what the hell do you think you’re doing?!”

I feel like some people just have relationships fall into their lap and are bouncing from one commitment to another. Frankly, it gives me the heebie jeebies. What happened to healing, discovering yourself and your mistakes, and waiting for something genuine to come along? Maybe I’m too picky and know what a great relationship is supposed to feel like, so I’m less likely to kangaroo myself into a new one every six to eight months. I’m what I’d like to call a Healer. I need a healing period after dating someone. A little Man Break. A time to collect my thoughts, figure out what happened, and just forget the whole stress and hubabaloo for a minute before picking up the pieces and moving on to the next one. It’s becoming increasingly more real to me that I probably won’t be getting married before I’m 30. If you would have told me that a couple years ago, I probably would have grabbed the edge of the couch to brace myself and breathed deeply into a paper bag. But now, I feel it’s much more realistic than settling.

However, I’ve been known to get occasionally down on myself for the whole “perpetually single” thing. But then I rationalize my life Carrie-style, and say, “I have a great job, apartment, car, friends… “Why does one-minus-a-plus-one feel like it adds up to zero?”

Good point. It shouldn’t. But, sometimes it just does. Can we chalk this up to societal pressure of what a successful person or woman has—the perfect, successful relationship?

Today I ran into a celebrity quote from this month’s issue of Cosmo. Celebrities. Wow. What a junk show. They’re in bad relationship from bad relationship, entering rehab, getting DUIs, puking up their food, flashing their va-j-jes. Why should I listen to what any of them say? But, this one struck close to home:

“I think women get caught up too much in having a plan – I’m going to get married at this age; I’m going to have a kid at this age – and then they just try to find a guy who will fit into that picture…I don’t want my life to be based on that. I would rather it all evolve organically.”

Wow. That’s it. I want to grow. I want to never look back with a life of regrets. I never want to say, “What if…” I don’t want a cookie cutter life, nor do I want to run away from anything out of fear.

I want to evolve organically…

Currently Feeling: Frustrated with the job search. I’m feeling REALLY impatient.
Currently Anticipating: DOTL tonight. So super serially excited.
Currently Loving: The dog days of summer.

Neighborhood Battle

Ahh. Summer. It’s that time of year, finally, where windows in your house are constantly open, the fan is drug out of the hall closet, and it’s necessary to sleep in only what’s necessary.

For me, this newfound, bedroom-window-wide-open state of sleeping has led to another summertime gem:

Neighbor Sex.

Ewww.

I hadn’t noticed it before, but my bedroom window faces out to the street, and my neighbor’s bedroom window faces toward my window on the side of our building, (the two walls form a 90-degree corner). Basically, this puts our two windows mere feet from each other. Even Stella is a little disturbed by it, and took up meowing and staring from my windowsill to theirs every time they talk or make noise.

I first discovered this new Neighbor Sex when I came down from our rooftop patio late last week after having the “I’m just not that into you” conversation. I was lying in bed, trying to figure out how I felt—sad or complacent—when I heard the moans. Ok. That’s always a little weird. I mean, we all have loud sex, but who wants to hear others doing it? It’s just creepy and gross. It’s bad enough when you overhear your friends or roommates, but it’s even grosser when you overhear people you don’t even know. And let me tell you how fun it is to hear passionate lovemaking when you’ve just been dumped.
Jerks.

But last night was seriously over the top. It was way more details than I EVER needed. For instance, I heard their conversation before they got nasty. I heard him tell her she looked pretty (did she put on some skimpy lingerie?!), then I heard the moans…both female AND male. But, for the male it was more grunts than moans. And I heard bodies slapping. I mean, really, slapping, breathing, grunting, stopping and changing positions, moaning and then the finale.

I felt really, really violated. I was in my own bed…where else was I supposed to go? And I was reading and didn’t have a movie to watch, so drowning out the sounds with the television was out of the question. And no way was I going to shut the window! I would have melted to death by morning.

This, my friends, is a conundrum.

I’m sure it’s going to continue. And I’m not going to sleep elsewhere or shut the effing window. So, I’ve decided that I’m just going to have to beat them to it. I’m going to have to have the loudest, grossest, most detailed sex ever…hopefully when they’re listening. And we can have a f*ck-off.

That’s right. I’m challenging my neighbors to f*ck-off.

Currently Feeling: Sad and bored without Amanda or a boy toy.
Currently Anticipating: Drinks on the Links starts tomorrow!
Currently Reading: Twilight: a 14-year-olds book about love and vampires. (Weird.)

When I Grow Up

Have you ever taken a minute to think about little old ladies?

Weird, I know. But, this was just running through my mind this morning. I walked into work, and there’s a little old lady front desk person who seriously is one of the cutest things ever. She’s really super nice, and has the biggest smile on her face all the time. I want to just let her pinch my cheeks, sit in her kitchen eating neon pink freezer jam spread on melba toast, and wear around my house the slippers she knitted for me.

I starting thinking—how come there are always two different types of old ladies—those who are cute as hell and those who you want to beat with their own cane? Seriously. I’ve never met a middle-of-the-road old lady. It’s either total bliss or total misery.

So, how do you end up on one side, and not the other?

When I worked at J.C. Penny’s Styling Salon (otherwise known as the little old blue-haired ladies’ beauty shop), I dealt with old ladies at the front desk on a daily basis for three years. Some I’d see every Sunday at the same time, and they’d never acknowledge me. It was a brisk little nod and they were off. One even got in my face one day, pointing her finger. Over what? I can’t remember. A lot complained about me. My shirt was too low, or I was rude. I think they just hated me cause I was young and reminded them of what they once was, and aren’t anymore. Who knows. I have no idea what it’s like to be 65. And honestly, I’m not looking forward to it.

But, then there’s was one who came in every week and LOVED me. Her name was Ernie. Every Sunday she’d tell me how beautiful I was, and ask about school, and keep saying, “You’re so pretty.” She wrote me birthday cards. I loved her. How could you not love someone who told you every day that you’re beautiful? I thought she was beautiful. So happy and content. She spread her happiness around to me, a receptionist at a desk that she saw once a week for five minutes. She made me feel good and some days, I’m telling you, I really needed to hear that someone thought I was pretty.

I want to grow up to be just like Ernie.

Currently Feeling: So, so super excited about this crazy idea I have in my head for a story to pitch. It’s going to be good!
Currently Anticipating: Happy hour.
Currently Reading: Lucky. Alice Sebold’s memoir. (Author of The Lovely Bones).