On lemon pound cakes. Or house-hunting. Or being bitter.

Imagine walking into Starbucks, FINALLY, after you have been fighting a day-long sweet tooth, stood patiently in line, walked up to the counter only to be told that the person in front of you bought the last Iced Lemon Pound Cake they had.

Yes, I am equating this house-hunting process to Starbucks pastries. And no, I see no issues with that.

Then imagine you tuck in your pouty lip, and go find another Starbucks, and you see that lucious, zesty Iced Lemon Pound Cake just flirting with you from the case. She's a beaut. And you order it, and your giddy and your mouth is watering, and the barista tells you that she's going to cost you roughly 4x what she's worth. And you try to reassure them that all other Starbuck's only sell them for a fraction of the cost, but the barista isn't budging.

And you untuck your pouty lip, and hand the most perfect little pound cake back, and walk out the door.

And every other Starbucks sucks. And every other pound cake has sucked since then. And you are about to become paleo just so you can't even EAT a pound cake even if you found one.

I'm not bitter or anything. I'm totally cool with house-hunting. I don't take it personally, or get upset, or fall in love with any of the houses. Me? No. Nooo.

We're back to square one. For the third time. Blah blah blah, don't try feeding me the 'we'll stumble upon the most perfect one when we least expect it' line, my level of patience is on par with that of a toddler.

Also, I've really been craving a lemon pound cake.


A house, and a home.

Have you ever realized how much more personal a home is versus a house? You 'house hunt', but it becomes your 'home sweet home'.  How is it that some freestanding structure becomes such a part of who we are as a person?

It's one of the oddest things, to tell someone you're contemplating selling your house. It's as if you're telling someone you're considering voluntarily becoming a paraplegic. There is so much shock and confusion.

Don't get me wrong, I love my home more than anything. I absolutely adore these four walls, the stair cases, the backyard, the little white fence. I love the paint colors I chose, the paint colors I painted over, the floors I stained, the things I furnished it will, the plants I planted. This house was my own. I hunted and hunted and fell in love and signed the papers five and a half years ago.

But to me, she's still just four walls. She made up the grounds for a lot of great memories, but she isn't the memories themselves. Everything filling this foundation are just additives to my life, they aren't my life itself.

Maybe it's because I am voluntarily selling my house. Maybe that is why it's so foreign.

All of this babbling is the long way of saying that Tate & I have started house-hunting. Yea, gasp, big step. It started as a hair-brained idea, as we were chatting longingly about exposed brick walls over a couple Moscow mules during one of our regular date nights. Our list of wishes and wants gracefully unfolded into a few peeks at local listings, a pre approval letter, and a call to our realtor.

I had forgotten how much I loved the house-hunting process. Stepping through front door after front door, never knowing what quirks you will find. Every house tells such a story itself, but it also provides such blank page and I can't help but start to fill those pages in my head with how our life together would unfold in each room.

Some have been total bunks from the get go, and some have sparked our interest. We already had our first minor heartbreak when we learned that a dream-inducing condo FULL of exposed-brick had received 3 offers just days after we looked at it.

All of this means that eventually it will be time to put my home on the market, to make that jump, and become an official downtown Indianapolis urbanite instead of just a suburban pretending to be hip. It's exciting, and also slightly terrifying. But mostly, it just feels right.

Here's to hoping this transition from home to house to home is everything we could have hoped for!



Recoccuring FOMO brings me back here often.

To this very page. This page, that you can't see, because if you're reading this it means I've actually hit the Publish button... this page is the draft page. At this exact moment there are 83 posts sitting unpublished in my draft page.

Fear of Missing Out. Which is weird. Because blogging is just rehashing your own life, so what am I fearing - missing moments of my own life?

But it's the truth. Because right now, I struggle to remember little moments I never wanted to forget. Moments from when I was in Ireland, or when I was receiving 'no more cancer!" results from my niece's doctor, or the moments when I first started letting myself fall in love again.

Those are the stories I miss sharing. Those are the stories I miss re-reading in two, four, seven years. Do yourself a favor though, don't go back to those 2009 posts. They're REAL awkward. I'd like to think at some point I developed a voice, and this place was halfway fun. Those first posts were anything but.

So, as with all things in life lately, I've decided it's time to put an effort to put my heart back into everything I once loved. Because why would I waste my life doing anything I wasn't absolutely crazy about?!


48 hours in Manhattan

We stepped off the plane at 8:30 Friday night, and stepped right back onto the plane at 8:40 Sunday night.

48 hours in New York rivaled 50 hours in Vegas. Regardless of the fact the flight was half as long, the city was equally as exhausting.

I guess I should back up and explain that this great big, exhilarating, New York weekend was my birthday gift. Yea. You heard that right. Because I'm not spoiled or anything.

A few weeks earlier that sneaky fella of mine sent me an airline confirmation.

Having never been to the BIG CITY (yea yea - insert gasp here, I am used to it) I had no clue what to expect. Of course, everyone passed along their long lists of Must See's and Must Eat's and Must Drink's and Must Avoids, but we pretty much decided to go into it with an open agenda.

The taxi ride from LaGuardia to the W Hotel may have been the most tortuous ride of my life. Tate decided to book our hotel in Times Square so we were in a central location to everything... which was fantastic, but also terrible, because Times Square is... well terrible, as I quickly learned. The concept of traffic flow (both by foot and automobile) seems lost on everyone there.

As soon as we got checked into our room on the 36th floor, we were back out the revolving door, in search of food. Thus began our first leisurely stroll (and by leisurely I mean, block after block after block), where we stumbled upon a little Argentinian place in Chelsea (how fitting). By the time we walked in the door, I was less than pleasant, and an eleven on the hangry scale. They immediately brought me my wine and a basket of bread and all was right in the world again.

Porteno did not disappoint, and I would highly recommend it to anyone who asks. But then again, they brought us complimentary wine after our meal too so I may be biased.

Can I pause for a second and ask if there is an over-abundance of Irish in New York, or if every other bar genre just threw in the towel and added a 'Mc' in front of their name and Guinness to their tap line?

After a few drinks at one of the local Mc'watering Holes, we decided we better call it a night, and trekked back to the hotel. Saturday took us to the 9/11 Memorial, and museum (a sombering experience, but I somehow managed NOT to cry, so there's a miracle),

When we left the museum we made a pact not to spend the rest of the day dipping into depression, and proceeded to wander around the city and saw EVERY OTHER THING THERE IS TO SEE IN NEW YORK CITY. No really. I think at the end of the day we had logged like 20 some miles. Thank god, for once in my life, I heeded advice and wore practical(ish) shoes.

And then I did what any sane female would do. Dawned 4" heels for a Broadway show that night. What doesn't kill you only makes you stronger, no? That's what I kept telling myself as we climbed the stairs to our balcony level seats. (We saw An American in Paris )

Guess where we went after the show -- yep, another Irish pub. Shocking, huh? I told Tate we had to get drunk and find trashy New York pizza joint for a night cap (hey, you're only young once) so we did just that. Lucky for us, the one I picked had a cocaine dealer out front, so we had prime entertainment for the 14 minutes it took us to scarf down the most delicious thin crust pizza and a few bottles of water.

Sunday morning it poured, which was perfect because we wanted to do nothing but sleep. We finally managed to get up and showered shortly before checking out of the hotel at noon. Leaving our bags behind we headed back to Chelsea for brunch (Tipsy Parson -- GO! So good), wandered the High Line, hit up Chelsea Market, then were off to Central Park and the last leg of our whirlwind see-it-all-do-it-all Manhattan madness.

As late afternoon rolled around and we hopped into the taxi to head back to LGA, I closed my eyes and sank into the seat. I had achy legs, and a happy heart. It's not that I haven't traveled to a hundred cities, it was moreso who I was travelling with.

New York City wasn't what I expected it to be. I anticipated huge, bustling, high action... it was big, and it was busy... but it wasn't unmanageable. I anticipated overwhelming, but we conquered it easily. Guess that just proves you never know til you try

Interested in where else I've traveled? Check out my wander page to find out more!


Oh hey. Again.

I think the only reason I'm back here is because I stumbled upon this girls blog, where she was telling stories about the ridiculous adventure that is known as "getting to Little Corn Island" (I know, I am bringing up Nicaragua again. Ugh, say it with me: Ugh.) And I was all "I REMEMBER THAT!" and then got disappointed that, while I remember it in my head, I never shared all those hilarious stories.

Or any story after that.

Or any of the not-so-hilarious stories, maybe the more serious stories, like the ones about when you date really poopy guys for most of your life, and then you are trying to learn how to date a not-so-poopy one and constantly teeter on the line of being psycho complements of your past? (I think us crazy chicks should at least get a nod, for being well aware of when we are toe'ing the line of crazy).

Maybe we won't dive right into those stories. It's been kind of nice not having the whole internet whispering that I'm crazy for the past 8 months.

On the flip side, I just ordered a windbreaker for part of my Halloween costume. It's going to be another great year of festivities. Can't wait to share.

Oh, and I've got a few more trips on the horizon. Like New York (for the FIRSTTIMEFFINALLY)... and oh Fiji... and London... and Paris...

Welcome back, buckle up and return your tray tables to the upright position... this is gonna be fun kiddos


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