New(ish) year, new shit, same me.

Today’s beverage: still working on my iced coffee from 5am…but at least it’s still cold!

So have ya missed me?! Been a minute, I know. But now that I’ll be in the car for the next 7 hours, what else am I gonna do? Fortunately for everyone involved I don’t get car sick.

2021 is turning out to be my year I think. I got my vaccine so the lower half of my face is now visible to the world again. I just closed on my house. I got engaged. I have a wedding date and a venue. I started a new job!

DO ALL THE THINGS!

Did you know that big changes, even when they’re good, are still stressful? Because I did. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t still get to me. It’s like how my fiancé’s friends threw him a surprise birthday party for three years in a row. He knew it was coming, but that didn’t make it boring. That example is kind of a stretch but Brigid is tired.

So yeah, I thought about naming this “New Year, New Me,” but the “me” is still the same. That’s the thing I don’t get about New Years resolutions. Like unless you’re a real dumpster fire, the goal shouldn’t be to become a new person. It’s more like you want to make some tweaks to the current model. Like you don’t need to get a new car, but maybe it’s time to get it detailed.

Also, the drunk version of you should not be allowed to make life decisions for the sober version, unless that decision is to buy a bulk quantity of dunkaroos and lunchables.

I was just telling someone how I only ever think to paint my nails when I’ve been drinking. And they inevitably look like crap, which I think is a suitable metaphor for setting self-improvement goals while you’re running around in a sparkly dress with your own bottle of champagne. It’s all fun and games until you’re sitting at the table locating any paper cut you’ve ever had with a bottle of acetone.

Also, it’s July. We are clearly not in a new year, unless you live by the timeline of an academic planner…which I just bought…for my new job!!!

And on the topic of that new job…

Those of you who have bought houses are probably remembering that the time to start new employment is not at the same time as when you’re starting a new job. The powers that be were not exactly thrilled with my timing. But guess what?! This was something I needed to do for me.

So we made it work.

Homemade butter is ideal, but if you don’t have your own butter churner and cow, store bought is fine.

Anyway, here I sit. Stuck in a car on the way to North Carolina, and taking the first breather in over a month it feels like. The fiancé and I get a week of relaxation and then it’s moving time! It’s painting time! It’s fixing things in the house we didn’t know were broken time! And most importantly, it will be time to put a wall around the freestanding toilet in our basement. I’m not much for peeing in front of people unless I’m three sheets to the wind, so yeah we think that will be step one.

The one nice thing is that we are opting to not make any big changes to most of the house because we figure that should be done after the puppy we are getting in the fall will be housebroken. No sense buying new carpet only to get it peed on.

DO ALL THE THINGS ALL AT ONCE!

Oof. Let me tell you, that IUD is staying firmly in place. There is a limit to doing all the things. This will not be a Jeebus Take The Wheel scenario.

I do want to share some of the highlights from all the big changes.

Let’s start with the getting engaged thing.

Have you ever pictured in your head how you’ll react when you propose or get proposed to? Does that picture resemble Gollum from Lord of the Rings? Yeah, me neither but here we are. I didn’t even realize until hours later that I never actually said yes. I just ripped the ring from the box and put it on. My manners are impeccable.

Let’s move on to the house.

I will say this one time for everyone who will ever buy a house. CLOSING IS ANTI-CLIMACTIC. At the end I felt like I had to ask and verify that we had actually just closed. It doesn’t help that we are “renting” the house back to the owners for a month for free so we didn’t even get the keys yet. It’s a seller’s market babyyyyyyy.

Now the job.

LOVE IT. I mean it’s the first week so it’s not like I have a real grasp on things but do you ever get somewhere and just think, “this is where I’m meant to be.” It’s the same feeling I get whenever I see an ice cream stand.

On to the future.

Within a week of being engaged, my fiancé and I have a wedding venue and a date. We thought we also had a guest list (or number of people list) but gosh dang were we naive. Either way, we are officially planning a wedding. Enter Bridezilla! No, just kidding. Honestly, and I know so many people say this, but as long as I can eat my own snacks and drink my own drinks, I’ll be happy. I feel like the only thing on my list right now is to start sweatin for the weddin. And I know, I know, that’s somewhat problematic, and my fiancé loves me just how I am. It’s not like he’s the one who told me to hire a personal trainer. He is paying for it, but that’s just due to my poor money management skills.

This was a solid way to kill an hour. I know it’s been an hour because my fiancé was counting down the minutes until noon so he could eat his sandwich. I feel like one of us used the time more productively, but I’ll let you decide who that was.

That’s all I’ve go for you, and maybe I’ll check back in on the return drive.

So until next time… I guess I need a closing catchphrase, but that’s a hurdle for another beer.

Ugh I really need to start incorporating booze back into these…

Ok Boomer, you win this time

Today’s beverage: coffee on an airplane

Leavinggggggg on an airplane, don’t know when I’ll be back again.

Just kidding, I have a return ticket for Sunday.

I hate flying, so I figured maybe I’ll write to pass the time and see what I come up with. Ladies and gentlemen, buckle those seatbelts, secure those tray tables, and hold on to your butts. We are headed to North Carolina for a girls’ weekend!!!

This is actually my first of three trips to North Carolina scheduled for this summer. If you know me (hi mom) you know that I have a brother in North Carolina, so you’d think this would be a great schedule to see my biggest brother, right? Nah. He is literally not in the state of NC for any of this trips!

Of course this would happen, because one of my friends on the trip has been saying for about 6 years that I made him up because she’s never met him. So I’m sure she’s “shocked” that he’s conveniently out of town this weekend. But he’s real, I swear! He’s just way too smart and successful and in demand at his job.

But anywayyysss, I’m sure you noticed that none of that has anything to do with the title of this entry.

Another thing that has nothing to do with the title? I have press on nails currently, and typing is so. fucking. hard. Like this is going to take me forever. But as I said, irrelevant.

No, this post is going to be about realizing that living like you’re in your early twenties would kill you now. I remember being in college and my dad told me that in his thirties he had a dream that he missed all of his finals and woke up in a panic. He said it was a real nightmare. And I just sat there like ok boomer, I have night terrors but go off.

But then it happened. I had the dream. The first one was a few years ago. I got lost on campus and missed my finals. Another time I realized halfway through the semester that I skipped two whole courses. Last night it was that I never handed anything in and flunked out.

And folks, the boomer was right! It’s awful!!! Sometimes I wake up from these dreams and almost need to go track down my diplomas to remind myself I finished all the things. I give so much respek to adult learners. I would not be able to hack it.

And it’s here that I ask myself, when did I get so old? There were definitely signs along the way. I had a MySpace. I have a Facebook. I have no fucking clue how to TikTok. I did not own a crop top or high waisted jeans in college. That last one is a real bummer because it sure would have been nice to discover that trend when I still had a six-pack. I was sub-tweeted when I didn’t even have a Twitter since I didn’t have a smart phone. Here’s looking at you, girl who wanted to fight me because I politely asked for my jacket back after you stole it.

It wasn’t until I was confronted with the idea of having to go back to school because my dreams told me that I never finished that I looked into the mirror and said, “I’m too old for this shit.”

I could not do college again. Or at the very least, I couldn’t do college how I did it the first time. I remember one Sunday, after beach party, rolling into the locker room for the long run. I was 5 minutes late, I was not coming from my own home, which it’s not what you think (not that it matters if I was coming from a night of getting railed), but I used to sleep at one of the other track houses all the time. Anyway, I roll in with nothing but a granola bar and probably beer in my stomach, and nothing but a bikini and a sweatshirt on my body. And then I ran 16 miles and went to brunch. Now I can’t have a beer within 72 hours of a long run, or I’m pretty sure I’d die.

Even beyond the party aspect of college, which I know was pretty minimal compared to the average college experience since I was an athlete, I don’t think I could handle it in general. I mean, all nighters to write a paper? My bedtime is firmly set at 10pm. I’d fail everything. And to think I didn’t discover coffee until grad school! My college roommate gifted me with a pretty solid caffeine habit.

I feel like in general I’m just not suited for college life anymore. I was much more resilient back then. The world and life hadn’t quite knocked me down yet. I lived in a “garden apartment,” which we all know is just a nice way to say I lived in a basement, and we had ants. Because it was a basement. One day in class I pull out my laptop, and I’m typing away, when all of the sudden, ANTS START CRAWLING OUT FROM THE KEYBOARD! At the time I just put the laptop in my backpack before we had a locusts descending on Egypt situation. If that happened now I’d need to set up an emergency appointment with my therapist, and I’d have to set the thing on fire.

Speaking of things that would cause absolute trauma now, I once blew the circuit in our apartment. The breaker was in the landlord’s basement, which shared a door with our apartment (proof we lived in a basement). As a result, the door to the basement is supposed to be unlocked, at least on their side, at all times. Our side was a different story. While our landlord was very nice, my roommate and I had some feelings about the guy living with her, who we didn’t discover until years later was her nephew. So the door stayed locked.

Why were we not on Team Random Man? Let me paint you a word picture. Don’t worry, it all circles back around to my original point. Bear with me.

It’s not rare for college athletic teams to have items that are passed down from class to class. For us, it was a mannequin leg. All the seniors would sign it when they graduated and it would go to a younger house. My junior year it found its home in my apartment. After Christmas break I respond to a knock on the door from the landlord’s mystery boy. When I open the door, he’s standing there with a mannequin leg. Questions pop into mind. Where did you get that? Why do you have it? How did you know we had one? WHY DA FUCK WERE YOU IN OUR APARTMENT?

So now that you have that background, let’s go back to the power outage. I unlock the door from our side to the basement, but it won’t open. We are supposed to have access, so I’m sitting there like, imma get this door open. After pushing with all the might in my little runner body, it opens. So you may be asking, was it locked by accident? Nope. ‘‘Twas not. It was blocked shut….BY A PILE OF MANNEQUIN PARTS.

Now as an adult, this would be the point where I pack my shit and move home for the rest of my life. But because college students have zero living standards, I just flipped the breaker and went about my day.

Thirty year old me and twenty year old me have very different guidelines for fuckupedness. That’s a word; don’t worry about it.

Update: adding an airport beer to the works

Back to business.

The moral of the story here is that I never thought something so innocent as dreaming about missing a college class would cause me such distress, especially compared to the fact that I routinely wake up convinced that someone is standing over my face, but here we are. The boomer was right. You win this time. Also, I know my dad reads this, so don’t worry dad I love you! Except for the first day of your retirement when you were on the roof at 7am doing construction work. It may have been 11 years ago but I remember being so rudely awakened by someone who was supposed to be RELAXING!

What these dreams taught me is that despite the fact that I hate that my joints are crackly and my resilience in the face of nonsense scenarios has gone down the toilet, I’m not sure I’d trade it for going back to college. Because I’m tired. And I know, almost-30 is not old. I’m still a spring chicken. I’m in my prime (To my boyfriend, you can still put a ring on it any day now). It’s just a slower prime than it once was.

And since all this reminiscing is bringing me back to my college days, I want to leave you on a fun story. It’s my cousin’s favorite, and it really is a classic example of college kids being hella dumb.

To set the scene: winter after Christmas break my senior year. It’s cold. It’s the middle of the night.

All of the sudden, the carbon monoxide detector goes off. It does its job and wakes up me and my roommate. Now at this point we had already had a gas leak just a few months prior, so this should have been especially concerning.

So I crawl out of bed and check the detector, and as you likely know, there’s usually a guide on the back with different beep patterns and corresponding instructions. This particular pattern said “move to fresh air.” Ok, that’s easy. So I take the detector, PUT IT OUTSIDE, and go back to bed.

Fortunately, I realized that this didn’t seem right. In reality, it was fortunate that it ended up just being a malfunction, but we didn’t know this at that point. So I call the fire department, not 9-1-1, because it’s still not occurring to us that this is a real problem. I went to college in a rural area. We got the fire department’s voicemail! This led to a very casual 9-1-1 call, which led to a somewhat less casual argument with the operator as to whether or not we could just stand near a window as opposed to going outside because “we feel fine, and it’s cold!”

Ladies and gentlemen, I currently possess a masters degree.

So until next time… I guess I need a closing catchphrase, but that’s a hurdle for another beer.

Early Pandemic Brigid Can Catch These Hands

Today’s beverage: Michelob Ultra…3 weeks out from the beach y’all!!!!

Guys, I’m tired. Like I’m just wiped. out. This week has felt so long.

It’s not that I haven’t been sleeping. I mean, I’ve never slept well, but like I just feel like sleep is not my problem. I have strong negative feelings towards anyone who can just put their head on a pillow and just fall asleep. It’s just not right.

In general, I’m just not a great sleeper. I take forever to fall asleep, and I wake up a lot during the night. And no, it’s not because of a prostate problem, like in the commercials, because I don’t have one, obvs.

No, I’ve come to terms with the fact that sleep would not go on my resume as a skill. I will say that recently, my boyfriend’s snoring problem hasn’t made things any easier.

To clarify, the fact that my boyfriend snores is not the problem. He can’t help it.

The problem is the fact that he snores like a fucking psychopath. I woke up the other night to a very terrifying knocking sound. After spending about 15 minutes trying to identify the noise and deciding who should inherit my jigsaw puzzles when I’m murdered, I discovered that the knocking sound was snoring. I shit you not, the man throws his voice like a ventriloquist when he snores. Add that to the fact that his snores are not noises that should exit the human noise/mouth area and you’ve got a real situation on your hands.

Now, I accept that I’m not always a dream either during my REM cycle. I have this really fun habit in which I will occasionally experience night terrors several nights in a row with no warning. These started back in college. It’s fun for everyone involved, really.

Let me paint you a word picture: I’m sleeping. Peaceful as a lamb. Then I “wake up” and there is 100% without a doubt someone standing over me. So I immediately throw the closest object at them as hard as I can. This object is always a pillow. Because that’s for sure going to help me out with a real intruder.

So that’s the fun part for me. The fun for the other person comes when I do actually wake up, but I’m still terrified and freak out on whoever’s closest to me. Again, usually with a pillow. This time it truly is a good thing.

But I digress. Because as I already said, this is not about sleep. I just can’t pass up a good tangent.

I’m tired because my main personality trait is burning the candle at both ends. And then for funsies, I go ahead and set the middle on fire as well.

I’m finding myself to be suddenly committed to various athletic events, and to say I’m unprepared is an understatement.

So here’s the thing. What had happened was, early pandemic Brigid made the mistake of thinking that a pandemic was the perfect time to get back into the best shape of my life. And I know, I’m not the only one who made that foolish decision. I have Instagram. I get it. This is my first pandemic, and I didn’t understand the rules. I didn’t know that the goal is just to, like, exist to the best of my ability until the world starts to straighten itself out.

The result of this is that I’m currently signed up for two half marathons and the Tough Mudder, all between May and June. In fact, the second half marathon is the week after the Tough Mudder. How did this chaos happen? Deferrals. That’s how. All the races I signed up for last year got moved to this year. Since I have the memory of a goldfish, I forgot and signed up for new races this year.

RUN ALL THE RACES!!

So now I’m trying to learn how to run more than 5 miles at a time again. I’m also trying to get myself to finally be able to do a pull-up. I’m still teaching spin, and I’m hell-bent on getting my six pack back. Essentially, everything is about to fall off. It’s great.

And the kicker is I’m sure there are more things that I signed up for, and now I just have to wait until they pop up. It’s a mess. I’m a mess.

How tired am I? I dozed off during Peaky Blinders! Because nothing relaxes you more than wondering who’s next to get their eyes sliced out by razor blades, right? This is especially risky, because falling asleep on the floor when the rabbit is looking for attention is a good way to get bit. You don’t mess with the Peaky Fucking Bunnies.

Had to do it. Not sorry.

I’ve also been running slow as molasses, which is fun. There’s nothing better than taking a peak at your watch and finding out that you’re going about a minute per mile slower than usual. It’s a real confidence builder going into a race.

To top this all off, my first race is a trail race. Last year, I decided I’d try my hand at trail races. There’s nothing too outlandish about that. The part that makes you facepalm is that my logic was to immediately go for the half marathon. Honestly I’m surprised I didn’t try and track down a full marathon right off the bat. Shit, if I knew how to do it, I’d probably have signed up for the Barkley Marathons.

Note: if you have not watched The Barkley Marathons: the race that eats its young, you need to. Like right now. Finish reading this post, then watch. Even if you don’t run, it’s wildly interesting because Lazarus is a crazy person and I’d like to adopt him as my grandfather.

Don’t worry, though. I corrected my mistake by finding a small trail 5k a few months back. All better, right? Nope. I decided to choose a race that involved running up a ski mountain and essentially making a controlled fall back down. But hey, I came in second! And then I got bit by a dog. That part is irrelevant, but here we are.

Circling back, Brigid is an exhausted son of a gun. I’m not sure if this epitome of “stream of consciousness” was a clear enough symbol of my current physical and cognitive state, so I figure I’ll spell it right out for ya. I’m nice that way. I care about my audience.

So why don’t I take a break? It’s just not in my nature. Why take care of yourself appropriately when you can just run yourself into the ground and then reset later. This whole thing is clearly Future Brigid’s problem. Live in the now, people.

I should take an example from my dog. Yesterday, Littlefoot got up at 10am and went outside to pee, came in and ate breakfast, and plopped her butt down on the couch. It was 5pm before I realized I plum forgot about her existence because she NEVER MOVED. This dog can nap. She’s taking a nap right now. Life for her is a spectator sport.

Honestly, the most frustrating part of this whole week is the fact that all I’ve wanted to do is write, but I literally have not been able to figure out what to write about. Writing is such a relaxing activity for me, and weirdly enough, it’s an effective method of resetting my brain. But I can’t write if I don’t have anything to write about! Hence today’s stream of nonsense. The main benefit here is that I actually feel better now than I did when I started this post. That may also be the beer, but who knows.

This does give me an idea, though. I’m gonna try something with you all; a choose your own adventure of sorts. If you follow me, and you have a topic about life in general that you’d like to see if I can’t put a few hundred coherent words together about, send it on over. If you don’t follow me, get off ya butt and follow me. And then you too can participate in the fun. This may ultimately be an unwise decision and I obviously have the ability to veto any topic I choose, but hey, toss it in the comments and see what happens.

So until next time… I guess I need a closing catchphrase, but that’s a hurdle for another beer.

LET THE GAME$ BEGIN

Today’s-ish beverage: Michelob Ultra Infusions: lime & prickly pear cactus

I have to say, the seltzers are way better, but the calories are still low, and I have a beach vacay coming up in May.

Either way, that’s what I was drinking when I started this post 2 days ago. Now I’m actually just drinking iced coffee, because my body runs almost exclusively on caffeine. I’m not even sure what being properly hydrated feels like. I’d probably get fewer headaches, but I just like to think of those as one of life’s little quirks.

Well folks, I did it. I arm wrestled a bear.

No. I submitted my first pitches for freelance writing gigs. My hat is in the ring. I have entered the gauntlet. I put some skin in the game. I have tapped out on that analogy.

I did arm wrestle my friend last night though. She destroyed me. She’s not a bear, but she does cross fit, and she’s very strong. There’s a reason I’m the only one on our Tough Mudder team that can’t cross the Funky Monkey. These guns are for display purposes only.

*kisses each “bicep”*

Shout out to Overall Obstacles. Returning to a Tough Mudder near you (if you live outside of Boston) June 2021

I also officially received my first, and likely not last, rejection. I’m not sure why I’m telling you this part. I could lie and say I was wildly successful right out of the gate, and you should all bow down to my excellence. Kiss the ring!

But as the kids say these days, honesty is the best policy. And don’t part your hair on the side. And don’t wear skinny jeans.

Jokes on you Gen-Z, I usually just wear sweatpants. And I look terrible with a center part so I guess I wasn’t destined to fit in with the youths. That’s fine. I just want to do jigsaw puzzles and paint by number on my phone all day anyway.

Back to writing pitches.

It honestly wasn’t as scary as I anticipated. I’m not sure why I procrastinated so long. Oh wait, yes I do, it’s just part of my charming nature aka my anxiety disorder. It’s cuter if you call it charm. Kind of like saying a house is charming when what you really mean is it’s smaller than your car and hasn’t been updated since it was cool to put carpet in the bathroom.

Maybe it’s because I’m used to professional rejection. Sometimes it feels like it doesn’t make a difference whether I send my resume to the employer or just use it to line Elephant’s litter box.

Side note: I have done that many times. It’s called being economical and eco-friendly.

Saving trees one failure at a time.

I once went through a series of job interviews where the interviewer informed me that I was almost the top choice, but there was just one person with better qualifications.

Always the bridesmaid, never employed I guess.

*hair flip*

I’m sorry, but what makes you think I’m going to feel better if I know that I barely missed out? Just tell me no and move on.

One of the best parts of pitching for these freelance gigs is that I don’t have to do the usual job interviews.

I hate job interviews. I’m sure that’s how most people feel, unless you’re some sort of masochist. To each their own! Whatever floats your giant, Instagramable unicorn raft.

Ohhh to reminisce on my old job searches…

There was the time I interviewed for an internship and the interviewer asked me what I weighed. And then, they had the balls to tell me that I’m not that small, compared to a figure skater. I mean ok, oddly specific and inappropriate, but you do you, boo boo.

There was the interview I did with a minor concussion because I fell on ice the night before. That was fun. I also couldn’t turn my head at all.

There was this interview:

“How comfortable are you with informatics?”

Me: “I don’t know what that is.”

“….Ma’am this internship is called ‘informatics in public health.’”

That ones on me, but in my defense I had found an internship already and had one foot out the door.

By the way, public health informatics is the process of using data systems and technology to shape public health practice. See? I would have been fine.

And then there are those interviews where you know the interviewer very well and you have to ask and answer questions like you’ve never seen them before in your life. As someone who spends most of their waking hours being nervous and awkward, this is a friggin nightmare!

In summary, the idea of sending someone a writing sample and they just tell me yes or no is pretty relaxing.

I just need some people to say yes. I need the money! I have mouths to feed! Specifically, Elephant. If you’ve ever been bit by a rabbit, you can understand why I focus all of my efforts and resources on not pissing her off. The trick is to drop the treats from about waist level so she can’t rip them out of your hands.

In hindsight, maybe BrigidandaBeverage, while an excellent name for this whimsical blog, was not the most professional name to use for my writing portfolio, but I already bought the domain so I sure as shit am going to use it. Plus, I knew a guy who got a job as a ski instructor despite never having skied before, so I feel like anything is possible!

I also like to tell myself that putting both sides of my writing styles on display shows that I’m a real Jack of all trades…Jill of all trades? I don’t know how that expression works.

I was reading a book the other day (it was a trashy book, but it’s funny, and I can do what I want) and the author wrote “Jilled off” as opposed to “jacked off” and I have to say, it gave me the heebie jeebies.

So anyways, keep your fingers crossed that someone thinks I’m a worthwhile hire.

Ok, I need to wrap this up; I have a Lunchable to eat. Because I’m an adult, and again, I can do what I want.

So until next time…I guess I need a closing catchphrase, but that’s a hurdle for another beer.

You’d think by now I’d have that little phrase memorized, but nope, it’s copy/paste until the day I die.

Bye friends!

Remember being young?

Today’s beverage: Sam Adam’s Boston Lager, Long Trail Angry Gnome IPA, and Long Trail Blaze IPA.

Don’t judge me. I was supposed to be at my brother’s house today, meeting my baby niece for the first time, and yet I’m here in my own apartment. Stupid ice storms.

Back to the blog.

As my boyfriend and I continue the journey to thirty (it almost rhymes if you don’t think too hard) we have decided that the next step in adulthood for us is to own property!

We are thinking a house, but I could be convinced to buy a plot of land and build a porch. Here’s looking at you, Scrubs.

Enter real life House Hunters!

But Brigiddddd, House Hunters IS real. No it’s not, we all know that. It doesn’t make it any less fun to watch. Calm down.

I am excited to look for a house. It’d be cool if it wasn’t a pandemic so I didn’t have to worry about germs, but you gotta take what you can get.

The first step was to decide what we wanted in a house.

Real talk, I have no idea if that’s the first step. We literally have no clue what we are doing. Like, do I just show up to someone’s house and say “this is mine now” all Christoper Columbus style? Do I convince the homeowner that the place is haunted by my family and they miss me? Can I pay with discontinued Girl Scout cookie flavors? I don’t know. I guess that’s why realtors exist.

Anyway, we decided to figure out what our “non-negotiables” were.

Here’s what I came up with. The house has to have:

1. Backyard – preferably fenced. Buy all the dogs!

2. Two toilets – ideally not in the same room

3. A space for my jigsaw puzzles

And that’s it. Pretty simple. 10/10 would not be a good House Hunters contestant. Especially because I have a job that’s not “baked potato artist,” and a budget to match my income.

But it got me reminiscing about the house I thought I wanted when I was a kid. In elementary school, I was 100% convinced that my house would have a room with a trampoline floor and Velcro walls, a room with a trampoline floor and padded walls, and a ball pit. Essentially I just wanted to throw myself around in a somewhat safe manner.

I also wanted room for my 100 dogs, because I anticipated a future animal hoarding problem.

Now that I’m old and wise, my priorities have changed. Not the animal one; that’s really only being limited by my finances and landlords. My boyfriend accepted long ago that if there’s a dog that he wants, it will just be in addition to whatever I have already decided we will have. He once said he likes golden retrievers, so I guess it will just have to get along with our Great Dane and future St. Bernard.

Multiple trampoline rooms would be awesome, don’t get me wrong, but when you throw all that in with the rest of the mansion, there’s no way I’d be able to clean all of that. And don’t get me started on the homeowners insurance. Good grief.

That right there is how I know I’m getting old and boring. I don’t want a big house anymore because I don’t want to clean it. Not that I clean much currently in my manageably sized apartment. The assumption upon entering the house is that you will leave with dog hair on you. If that’s a problem, then you’re likely not in my pandemic circle anyway, so it’s not an issue.

This brought me to a million dollar idea, though. House Hunters, but with KIDS. Like the kids pick the houses; not like adults see three kids, compare the pros and cons and then pick one. This TV show would be the end of my need for any future career soul searching.

Kid House Hunters (it’s a working title): Kids get to go through the houses and pick what will and will not work for them. Because kids aren’t burdened or bogged down with things like mortgages, or resale value, or making logical decisions.

Theres no way this room will fit all my Legos.”

None of these sinks dispense fruit punch. That is unacceptable.”

This could work for a trampoline room if we knock down that wall. Do you know if it’s load-bearing?”

No granite countertops?! What am I, some sort of peasant?!”

You have to admit, this show would be fantastic.

I’ve been spending so much time lately thinking about my profession, that it’s been nice to shift my focus to another aspect of my “growing up.” I’ve always wanted to own a home, and in partnership with my boyfriend, we are in the fortunate position to make this dream a reality.

For one thing, I’m so excited to hang a picture using a hammer and nail, instead of a command strip! That’s it. That’s the only reason I want a home; my hatred of command strips.

Ok obviously that’s not true…most of the time. But I have had the same picture frame hanging on the wall for 6 months, right up until that little bugger decided it didn’t want to be sticky anymore. So boom, down it goes. This wouldn’t have happened if the sucker was nailed up there.

Let’s get back on track here.

In my first post, I said I was in the middle of a quarter life crisis. I have been getting to a point where I’m not really sure my career goals are what they once were. I sometimes question the academic path that led me here. But times like this, where I’m taking steps forward in other parts of my life, make me grateful and proud of where I am now.

I have a masters degree, a stable job that has thankfully survived the pandemic thus far, a comfortable living situation. I know that wherever I go from here, I have so many opportunities that will stem from where I’ve gotten myself so far.

I cannot end on such a sentimental note, so I will leave you with this: if you own a home that you are thinking about selling, and you have a working toilet in your basement, no walls, just out there living its life, waiting for a butt to grace its presence, you need to wall that shit off. Pun intended. Also maybe add a sink create the illusion that you occasionally wash your hands.

So until next time…I guess I need a closing catchphrase, but that’s a hurdle for another beer.