Category Archives: ahhh … memories

Love and laughter

Like every other couple on the planet, Jared and I often have important discussions about which celebrities we’d like to hang out with, specifying when, where, and for how long. I mean, Matt Damon? We could probably all go on vacation together and have a blast. Jack Black? He would be SO MUCH FUN … for a few minutes, in a group setting, and not in our house.

(The Jack Black verdict came down after watching him in the Weird Al Yankovic “Tacky” video. This is an important fact.)


Last weekend, we had a date night with dinner and a movie. Like, a real date, where we put our phones away during dinner and talked about stuff other than dogs and work and laughed — oh, man, did we laugh. After 10 years of marriage (back in March, holla!) we can still crack each other up, which is awesome and basically exactly what I hoped marriage would be like.

After dinner, we headed over to the movie theater and walked in just as the “Let’s All Go to the Lobby” song was playing. So, naturally, I started dancing like the sodas and popcorn boxes on the screen as we walked down the aisle toward our seats. I was starting to get into it when I hear Jared behind me saying, “Oh my god. You look exactly like Jack Black.”

I almost got offended, but then I remembered what we’d watched earlier in the day. Skip to 2:08 or so and you’ll get the idea.

So date night was a pretty big success, is what I’m saying.


The next day I joined a group for a bike ride on a trail an hour or so south of where we live, which put me fairly close to my parents, so I asked them to meet me afterward for lunch. On the drive down, I heard on the radio that it was the 45th anniversary of the moon landing, which, of course, was well before my time, but it’s still an important date to me — my parents met at a party celebrating the first man on the moon. At lunch, I brought it up.

Me: So the moon landing was 45 years ago today. Does that mean you guys met 45 years ago?

Mom (smiling): Wow! Yeah, I guess it does.

Dad (laughing): Yep. And that was the last time your mother ever drank a beer. The big phoney.

Mom: That’s true. I drank that one beer [to impress him] and never drank another one again.

Me: Ah, memories.

Dad: Don’t worry, I’ll smooch her when we get to the car.


Here’s hoping Jared and I are also still joking like this in another 35 years. Something tells me we will be …

You can’t go home again (but you can go to Canada and that’s almost the same thing)

I haven’t spent much time in my hometown since I moved to Florida 13 years ago. I don’t have any family there and most of my friends have moved away, and, I don’t know, I guess there’s not much of a draw for me.

But there’s another place that felt a bit like home when I was a kid, and it has a big draw. We spent a week or two every summer in Wawa, Ontario, at a place called Whitefish Lodge. My parents loved it for its solitude, remote location, and incredible fishing. I liked it because the town has a big Canada goose statue and people talked funny.

In fact, my parents loved it so much that, for several years after retirement, they became official snowbirds, spending the entire summer in their cabin near the lake and winters down here. They sold their place a few years ago and have said every summer since, as they packed their car to head back up to Whitefish Lodge, that this would be the last summer. Definitely the last summer. They have other things they want to do, and the trip isn’t as easy as it used to be, etc., etc. And every summer they’ve gone back again.

No, I don't intend to recreate these poses this year.

No, I don’t intend to recreate these poses this year.

This summer, Jared and I are joining them for a week. We’re going to hike and kayak and read on the porch. Jared’s going to fish with my dad and I’m going to do yoga on a stand up paddleboard out on the lake. (Well, attempt it, anyway. I fully anticipate falling into the chilly water a few times.)

I’m nearly beside myself to go back, just one more time, to a place that holds such strong memories. Knowing it’s likely my last trip there is a pretty sweet impetus to do all the things I’ve wanted to do, and it’ll be great to share that with Jared.

Aside from that, I’ll be forced to unplug — no phone, and no internet in the cabin — and, WELL. I know how this goes, and I know that, after about a day, it will be SPECTACULAR.

Is it weird to be this excited to basically say good-bye to something that’s been so important to me? Or maybe it’s just that I’m thankful to get the chance to say it. At any rate, man. I can’t wait.

What I learned in California

Clever Girls AND rock stars. Yep.

Hey, would you look at that? It’s been almost a month almost TWO months since I went out to California (and about a month since I started writing this post) and I have yet to post anything about it. Awesome.

(But in my defense, I’ve been busy. The site I’ve been working on nonstop,, has launched! You should check it out! And I’ve been doing lots of work with Clever Girls Collective, and writing for Fit Bottomed Girls and Zootoo. And I’ve been traveling a BUNCH. Also, we started obedience classes with Hollie. And I’m still trying to train for a triathlon in a few weeks. Yep. Busy.)

Still, better late than never, right? So, I thought I’d share a few lessons learned during my trip out to Cali.

  1. When flying out of a very small airport, schedule an early flight. I was scheduled to leave Gainesville at, like, 1 p.m. We ended up actually getting wheels up closer to 7, after many hours waiting, five delays, and 30 minutes sitting on the plane on the runway (during which the woman across the aisle from me called the airline attendant to request a barf bag and some water, so, yes, when you start thinking, “Could this get worse?” YES, it could).
  2. First class is all that and more. And as many bags of chips as you want. No, I’m not suddenly a baller who springs for fancy upgrades. For my much-later-than-originally-planned connecting flight out of Atlanta to San Diego, I was given a first class seat — it was a full flight and I got crazy lucky. And, you guys. YOU GUYS. Did you know that they not only pour you a pre-flight drink of choice (I went with Chardonnay, obviously), but they just … keep … pouring. Like, the whole flight, the attendant kept coming over to me and asking if I’d like my glass topped off. Who am I to say no? I had no driving to do, and it was already way past my bedtime, plus I’d had a pretty rough day. I always just assumed you got a bigger seat and some crappy food, but that’s not true at all. You get a very big seat with lots of room, and there was a pillow, blanket, and bottle of water waiting for me when I got there. The food was actually really good, and if it hadn’t been, I could have had as many snacks as I want. That’s right. As many as I want.
  3. This may or may not have been after a lunchtime margarita. I'll never tell.

    I need more excuses to wear glitter eyeliner and false eyelashes. Also, short skirts and killer heels.

  4. If you want to meet people at an event, put it out there. In this case, it was a blogging conference, and I know a lot of people get very nervous about telling someone they only know on Twitter that they’d like to meet up. But, when you put it out there, it generally happens, and, in my experience, it’s completely awesome. I had made up my mind that I wasn’t leaving California without meeting Leah from agirlandaboy (and Nice Things Now) and Wendi Aarons. I was a little anxious about both because, well, let’s be honest — they’re both way cooler than I am. (No, seriously. I know it’s hard to believe, but it’s all true.) It turned out, though, that for some reason they were both excited to meet me, too, and oh, the hugging and the laughing and the drinking and the subsequent “ZOMG so glad we finally met” tweeting … it was really, really great. Truly. So, you know, put yourself out there. Just do it.
  5. California is ridiculously beautiful. I drove up to Corona del Mar and, well, this wasn’t news to me, but man, it’s pretty. The drive was pretty (despite the terrible traffic), the houses were pretty, and when I got to go for a run along the beach with my friend Nilo, I mean, I think even my sweat was pretty by proxy.
  6. Even if my aunt had let me take him, he wouldn't have fit in my suitcase.

    I need more horses in my life. I visited my aunt, who has a few horses, and you guys. You know the feeling when a horse rests his massive head on your shoulder and you can feel the warm breath from his nostrils move your hair? That, my friends, will cure what ails you. No doubt in my mind.

  7. I’m probably going to move there. Not right away, and maybe not for a lot of years. But it’s always felt like a place I belonged, and every time I go, I feel that more acutely. Do you guys ever get that way about a place? It just feels right. So, one day, Cali, one day.

I’m sure I came away with loads more lessons that I intended to share, but, well, since going to California for BlogHer, I’ve been to Las Vegas, Michigan, and am currently doing laundry so I can head out to St. Louis and Kansas City within the next week. My brain is shot. Or shit, which is how I initially typed it. But, bottom line, I promise you I’m still here and will bring back the funny in no time.

I think.

Okay, fine, I get it now

You all are probably expecting me to start out with some explanation as to why I haven’t written in so long. (And by “you all,” I mean my mom and the other three people out there who haven’t given up on poor ol’ Jeez-o-petes.) I’m not going to. I’m not going to go into the crazy that’s been going on, about how a ton of people I’ve worked with and truly like and respect were laid off and my employment future is a little uncertain, and I’m not going to talk all about how my dad was in the hospital but was finally released today.

No, I’m just going to dive straight into the fact that I might kind of love New York.

Yes, I know, I know, way to be original. I KNOW. But hear me out.

The first time I went to NYC, it was basically Big and Cool and Scary. I was with Jared, who’d been there as a child but not as an adult, and we really didn’t go anywhere without either a guide or very specific instructions. I think we used the subway once. I found it to be an amazing city, but I had a hard time understanding the concept of living there.

After going there a couple of times last summer, I started to get it a little more. It still absolutely wasn’t for me, but I got outside of Midtown and rode the subway by myself and visited more friends who really lived the NYC lifestyle. It wasn’t so scary anymore.

This was a whole different trip. For starters, I was there for a week (Jared was working a trade show, so I went to a few meetings and lunches and otherwise did my normal work thing, except that instead of sitting in my office without pants on, I wore a dress and boots and makeup and worked from a Starbucks in Soho. I have never seen a busier bathroom than the one there, let me tell you.) I had some amazing experiences — going to the top of the Empire State Building, attending a Knicks game in a suite courtesy of Jared’s work, attending and photographing a charity event on behalf of Paw Nation (not something I generally get to do in Gainesville), and eating what might have been the World’s Best Lunch with Metalia.

No, seriously, I might not have great pictures from the fancy basketball game, or any actual pictures of myself with friends I visited, but food? You know it!

avocado toast

Avocado toast with lemon-infused olive oil

crispy artichokes

Crispy artichokes with magical dipping sauce

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Small town girl, after all

Moving to Florida made me feel adventurous and daring, and, if I’m being honest, a bit special. I didn’t know many other people my age who’d moved across the country like that, and I think that was part of the appeal.

It was also my way of formally breaking ties with where I grew up. It was never a fit for me, and, as I’ve mentioned, none of my close friends were surprised to hear I was leaving the state. When I left Woodland behind, I really thought I left any part of me that identified with that small town behind as well.

A friend of mine from high school came to visit last weekend, someone I haven’t seen in years — I saw him a couple of times when I went back up to Michigan for weddings and such, but, shortly after that, he packed his bags and left the area, too, and now lives in Arizona. And it was so interesting to see the little things that we both seem to have hung onto despite the fact that we’re in totally different parts of the country.

There were little things, like the fact that we had basically the same shoes (gray Converse All-Stars) but, you know, in vastly different sizes (seriously, it was comical), and he brought along a Detroit Tiger hat — a staple in any Michigander’s closet, including mine. But there were a lot of other things, like views on finances and homes and family, that were still remarkably similar even though we’ve ended up with totally different lives in completely different communities.

I don’t know if those things remain in common because of where we grew up, or if they’re just things have always made us who we are and are probably why we became close friends in the first place. Or maybe some of it has to do with the fact that we’re both only children. I really have no idea. But I do know that, for as far away as I tried to run from the girl I was in Woodland, there was a bit of comfort in knowing that at least a little piece of that small town Midwestern girl survived.

Going “home”

Several thousand miles above Georgia (or maybe it was Ohio, or possibly North Carolina), the idea of home hit me. I lived in the same house in Woodland, Michigan, until I went to college. When I was at Michigan State, just an hour away, home was obvious — it was the white farmhouse on a tree-canopied dirt road, across that road and up a steep hill from a lake, with a view of forest and fields and ponds and deer. It was where I had sleepovers and parties and watched movies and basketball with my parents. It was where my childhood dog was buried.

In about a month, I’ll have lived in Florida for 10 years, and my notion of home is a little hazier. My parents moved out of that house the same weekend I moved south, and, honestly, once they were no longer there, it was just a house. The small town in which I grew up, though I know every inch of the park and the school and the Dairy Queen (especially the Dairy Queen), well … it’s just some small town in Michigan there. A town where my dad used to have a store. I’ve been back a couple of times, but I feel like a visitor.

In a lot of ways, Florida feels like home, but it doesn’t feel like where I’m from. I’ve changed and grown in a lot of ways since I arrived, but my foundation was set before I ever paid a cent toward rent. Yes, I have history here now, but it’s not a history that really formed me.

This weekend, I was in Indiana, in a town called La Porte, for my Grandma Sara’s memorial (which was moving and beautiful, hard, but much-needed). What’s fascinating to me about La Porte is that, even though I’ve never lived there, it feels more like a home town than any other place on earth. My grandmother lived there until she came to live with us in Michigan in the ’80s, and we visited her often. I have family there — a big deal for someone who’s the only child of two onlies. There are businesses and plaques and gravestones marked with the names of people in my family tree.

Nobody knows me there, so it’s not like I go into a restaurant and am called by name, but there’s a strange sense of belonging, nonetheless. I know a lot of it has to do with who I see when I’m there — aunts and uncles and cousins who aren’t actually aunts or uncles or cousins (more like seconds or greats or twice-removeds). It’s because I go to the same house I visited on special occasions as a child, and because we talk about people like my grandfather, who I didn’t get a chance to know very well before he died.

What makes a place home? I think for me it’s partly the people, partly the memories, partly the actual location, and partly some sort of connection I can’t begin to understand. But it’s good to have, that much I know.

One week (give or take)

Just over a week ago, I turned 30. This is a big deal, but, on the whole, not exactly unexpected. (I’m no psychic, but this, I totally saw coming.) And actually, it was fun — my fabulous cousin flew down from Michigan to help me celebrate, and there was good food and drinks, and honestly, no room for complaint. I mean, hell, there was Mexican food and a tiara. Oh, and also? My husband was back from Hawaii and had bought me a really beautiful necklace that I didn’t even have to pick out. NO COMPLAINTS FROM ME.

Then, a week ago today, we sent Holly (our latest foster pup) to the vet. I suspected some hip issues, and I was right — degenerative hip disease, which will likely need surgery. Which means that her chances of getting adopted were, more or less, zip. Jared and I were both totally in love with her (big surprise), so, although the news was sad, it helped us make an important decision — we’re keeping her. So, yay! We’re back to being an official two-dog family!

That night, after I went to bed, the phone rang — it was my parents’ ring tone, and I just knew something was wrong. It was. My Grandma Sara had passed away.

Like the birthday, this wasn’t a huge shock. She had turned 91 the week before. She’d been battling Alzheimer’s for over a decade. And for the last couple of weeks, she had become more and more jaundiced. We knew the end was coming, but didn’t know if we were looking at days or weeks or months.

It’s never easy losing someone you love, whether you expect it or not. And though not everyone will understand this, in some ways, a sense of relief accompanied her passing. She died peacefully, in her sleep — she hadn’t experienced much pain, and someone had been at her bedside moments before she died. Our greatest fear had been that her death would be slow and agonizing, that the strength of her body would betray her and drag out the pain. It didn’t, and though I’m not particularly religious, I have no doubt that the prayers we had been sending up made that transition easier.

Additionally, though I wasn’t there for those last moments, I had seen her just days before — my cousin, who had spent lots of time with her as a child, was there as well.  I don’t think she truly recognized me, but I know for a fact she was happy to see us both.

In so many ways, we lost her years ago, but it’s still hard to know that she’s gone. No more visits. No more feeble hopes that she’ll say something, or give any indication that she knows who we are. No more stumbling over my words, trying to find something interesting to say to the grandmother I had spent so many afternoons with and watched as she deteriorated year after year after year.

Grandma Sara taught me so many things, but I think the biggest lesson I’ve taken away is this: It’s inner beauty that counts, and being kind is far more important than being gorgeous. But, a little rouge and some bright lipstick never hurt anybody, either.


This New Year’s Day is a particularly big one for me, both because of what this year will bring and because it brings a major, MAJOR decade in my life to a close. On New Year’s Day in 2000 (omg, 10 years ago!), I was a student at Michigan State, and had come down to Florida with two of my girlfriends to watch the Spartans play UF in the Citrus Bowl. And holy cow, did I ever hate that stupid Florida Gators “Gator Bait” chant (I’m still not a huge fan).

It was that trip that really set my life on its current path, and it blows my mind to think about it. I had no idea. We didn’t even plan on visiting Gainesville, but we ended up spending a couple of nights there, and that was all it took. And so, here are a few of the more noteworthy events of the last 10 years. You know, in my life, not in the world. Because I’m pretty sure that my accomplishments don’t mean too much to most of the world.

I packed my life into a car and drove from Michigan to Gainesville, Florida, where I (sort of) knew all of two people.

I met a boy at a country bar who wasn’t afraid to be goofy. He asked me to dance, then he asked me to marry him. I said yes to both.

I got a college degree, and realized I didn’t have a damn clue what to do with it.

I was accepted into my husband’s family, and grieved more deeply than I knew possible when my father-in-law passed away.

I learned to golf.

I was a salesperson, a bridal consultant, a dj, an after-school counselor, a volleyball coach, an administrative assistant, a blogger, a writer and an editor.

I adopted two amazing dogs, lost one, then fostered and found homes for two others.

I was in seven weddings (eight counting my own) and attended lots more.

I battled depression and anxiety. For a while, with meds, and now, with running.

I gained and lost (and gained) 15 pounds.

I became a godmother.

I completed a half marathon and several sprint triathlons.

I bought a home.

I think I became a grown up, and I think I’m okay with it. But this past decade makes me wonder — if this much happened between ages 19 and 29, what in the world do my thirties have in store?

I can’t wait.

Can you think of a better reason?

Tomorrow, as I’ve mentioned, I’m walking in the Alzheimer’s Memory Walk in honor of my Grandma Sara.

Grandma Sara, me, and Mom on Grandma's front porch.

Grandma Sara, me, and Mom on Grandma's front porch.

I’m about to go visit her now, but I’ll tell you, the visit is more for me and to make sure the nurses know she has family who visits her than it is for her. She won’t know who I am. If she’s having a good day, she’ll politely smile at me for a few seconds, and maybe say a word or two that doesn’t make any sense. She might laugh if I say something in the right tone of voice. But she won’t know I’m her only granddaughter.

She won’t understand when I tell her that, this past weekend, I went to the beach where she and my Grandpa Chuck used to vacation. They’d come down from La Porte, Indiana, where they lived all their lives, and go to Treasure Island, Florida. They stayed at the Trails End motel and ate at Gigi’s, which is now one of my favorite pizza places of all time.

Grandma Sara, Grandpa Chuck and me in Treasure Island, FL, 1983

Grandma Sara, Grandpa Chuck and me in Treasure Island, FL, 1983

She won’t remember the story about the last time they went, before Grandpa Chuck died. How I was three, and my mom and I came down for a week. How I jumped off the diving board into the deep end and nearly gave Grandpa a heart attack. How I fed bread to the seagulls and swam until my eyes were so irritated by chlorine I couldn’t open them in the sunlight for a whole day.

I’m nowhere near meeting my fundraising goal, but I’d still like to raise as much money for the Alzheimer’s Association as I can. I know times are tight, but if you have even just $5 you can donate, please consider doing so. It means a lot to me, and I know it would mean a lot to Grandma. If you can’t donate, but have a story you’d like to share about a grandparent or someone else special in your life, leave a comment — I’d love to read about it.

But, you know, if you want to donate, too, well, that would be swell.

The end of the circle

This morning, I made the most difficult call of my life. I made an appointment to have Yuki — my Yuki — put to sleep.

The coolest dog I ever knew.

The coolest dog I ever knew.

As many of you know, she’s been having some difficulties — running into walls, panting nonstop and circling, circling, circling — and as it turned out, it was from a tumor or some other form of swelling on her left forebrain. Yesterday, we took her to the neurology department at UF, and, short of putting her through radiation therapy (which would have cleared out our savings and given us no guarantee that it would help or make her less miserable), we had just one option: Put her on a steroid to see if it reduced the swelling. We knew it would be borrowed time, even if it worked, but if we could make her comfortable for a few days, we felt like we owed it to her.

After coming out of the light sedation they gave her yesterday in order to do the x-rays and ultrasounds on the rest of her body, she was worse than ever. Jared and I spent the whole night holding her and trying to keep her from running (well, trotting) straight into walls and corners. She didn’t know us and didn’t seem to be aware of where she was. The decision was obvious to us — get her in to the vet as early as possible in the morning and put her out of her misery.

Still, it was the hardest decision either of us has ever made. The entire ride to the vet, I held her in the back of the car, and tried to memorize every bit of her. I love the way the white spot on her chest wasn’t symmetrical, and the way her black fur was actually kind of brown. Three paws had bits of white on the toes, while one was all black. And her tail had a slight upward curl that made her look so happy.

Cute as a puppy. Nothing changed.

Cute as a puppy. Nothing changed.

It was hard to walk in, harder to listen as the vet explained how the process went, and almost impossible to hold her and try to calm her as the medicine took effect and she slowly sank to the ground. By the time she took her last breath, her coat was wet with our tears — the vet’s included.

That’s part of what makes this so damn hard. I know, everyone thinks their dog is special (and of course, they are). But man, Yuki was something. She touched the lives of so very many people, and I can’t imagine how many tears have been shed today. Without any training, she was a wonderful companion when I took her to my grandmother’s nursing home and visited with the Alzheimer’s patients. She was calm and gentle and let them pet her at their own pace. But, she was also a fantastic running buddy, and immensely entertaining at the dog park and at home.

Are you going to throw the stick? How about now? Now?

Are you going to throw the stick? How about now? Now?

Above all, god, was she ever a good girl. All she wanted was to please us, and she brought us such joy, such happiness. She loved wearing bandanas — I think she liked the extra attention people paid, and she would just prance around like a show pony (although maybe this took it a little too far).

Our family portrait, shortly before Rudi came along in 2007.

Our family portrait, shortly before Rudi came along in 2007. Photo: David Bowie Photography

As a puppy, she was absolutely fearless. She would run full speed and jump off of docks or dunes or anything. It was both terrifying and exhilarating. She played so hard, as puppies are wont to do. Shortly after we got her, we took her to a friend’s get-together where she played for hours with people and pets. I had to carry her tired little body to the car and put her on my lap, and she was so worn out that she peed in her sleep. All over me.

Her first birthday party was attended by tons of people — it didn’t take her long to worm her way into anyone’s heart. We held it at the dog park so the dogs could play and the people could eat. She might not have appreciated effort that went into making the homemade dog treats, but she ate them with gusto, just the same.

All dressed up for her first birthday party.

All dressed up for her first birthday party.

And she loved the water. When we took her to Canada, to my parents’ old cabin, we were wondering how to get her down to the lake — the house was on the lake, but there was basically a small cliff leading down to it. Within moments of arriving, Yuki found some way to climb down and was happily splashing in the water. Fortunately, she found a way up again, too.

For seven years, almost to the date, she’s been by my side. She was in our wedding, she attended my graduation (which consisted of me, my family and friends sitting outside at The Swamp after my last final), she moved from apartment to condo to our house with a yard.

I couldn't have found a cuter flower dog.

We couldn't have found a cuter flower dog. Photo: Aaron Lockwood Photography

I had planned on another seven years of her chasing tennis balls and sticks and squirrels, barking at the UPS guy, and licking our faces endlessly (particularly when sweaty). She should have had another chance to climb in the chair with my dad and clean out his ears, and there were supposed to be more trips to the dog park. I wanted more walks and treats and time to cuddle. And even though I held her as the last bit of breath escaped from her mouth, I just can’t believe she’ll never be here again.

Diving in head first -- that's my girl.

Diving in head first -- that's my girl.

To Yuki: The dog who taught me so much, brought smiles to so many faces, and asked for so little in return. You’ll be missed more than you can possibly imagine. Your circling has stopped, but my broken heart is just getting started.

If any of you have a favorite story about Yuki, or any dog for that matter, I’d sure love to hear it about now.