it's not easy: life as an adult millennial.

It’s not easy…

MAKING PHONE CALLS.

So many conversations happen through email, text, or Facebook that making an actual phone call has become borderline terrifying for some millennials. While I wouldn’t consider myself terrified, calling strangers is certainly not one of my favorite things. For example, when we have a question about adult things like our mortgage or taxes or insurance or whatever, I far and above prefer James (who enjoys phone calls with strangers) to do it. When I was attempting to plan a wedding, the number of phone calls I had to make was intimidating... to me, anyway. Work is different – it’s part of my job to talk to strangers all day long, and that is no big deal. Calling friends and family does not fall into my millennial phone call fear zone, either – just calling strangers about things involving my life. It’s weird and stupid, I know, but so is millennials’ irrational fear of phone calls. Seriously, it’s a THING: on the whole, my generation HATES making/answering phone calls. Real life example: I have a friend who will text me questions. No big deal, except when these questions involve multi-part answers, or perhaps asking another question before actually being able to answer. I don’t want to text all that, so I will then call. Said friend will NOT answer the call, even though they sent me a text mere minutes before. Instead, they will listen to my voicemail and then text me a response. Sure, I might do the same thing if I’m in a spot where I can text but not call (ie, the dentist’s waiting room), but I know for a FACT that this friend was just sitting at home, completely able to answer a phone call. I know I’m bad about phone calls, but I’m not THAT bad.

It’s not easy…

SETTLING DOWN.

“Wanderlust” has become a favorite descriptor of millennials everywhere. They put the word on swirly watercolor art, hand-stamped jewelry, and forearm tattoos like it’s going out of style. While I kind of hate the word because of all of these things (when you can buy “wanderlust” embroidered pillows at Walmart, you know it’s gone too far), I do appreciate the sentiment – because that’s exactly how I feel ALL THE TIME. There’s so much of the world to see and experience, so many great foods to eat and lakes to swim and places to explore, and here I am… in Luverne, Minnesota. James and I do our best to see what the Midwest has to offer, but with a limited amount of free time and funding, we can only get so far. I want to see something new EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. Luverne is not the place for that, nor do I think it ever will be. But then again, where is this mythical place I seek? I have a list of places a mile long that I’d like to live, but would any of them live up to my lofty expectations? And let’s not forget that moving isn’t easy, either – especially when you’re a.) a homeowner, and b.) married. Renting made it so much easier to move – I simply waited for my lease to run out, and then I found a new and fresh place to go. As a homeowner, you can’t really do that. You would have to sell your house, pack up your legions of things, and find a new place to put them. Marriage means that you have this whole other person to consider, and catering to your every “I am going to move to a different time zone RIGHT NOW” whim is not plausible. Marriage is great, don’t get me wrong: but it means that you can’t be as selfish as you once were (which millennials tend to be great at).

It’s not easy…

BEING REALISTIC.

This is directly related to settling down (see above). While I would like to move, I mentioned all sorts of things to accomplish before getting there. Realistically, it would be a lot of work. James and I both love our jobs, and moving somewhere interesting would mean finding not one, but two fulfilling jobs where we would be starting from scratch. Even if we simply moved to Sioux Falls and could keep our jobs, we would somehow have to sell our house in Luverne… and NO ONE wants to move to Luverne. There are so many things that I would love to do… but the pressure of real life makes them so much harder to accomplish.

WISH: a dog!

REALISTIC DREAM KILLER: James and I both commute and are gone a minimum of eleven hours each day, which would be pretty awful if you were a dog trapped inside that entire time.

WISH: to fix my two poorly done ten-year-old tattoos.

REALISTIC DREAM KILLER: To get a good tattoo to cover up the two shitty ones would be expensive, and we have a million other financial priorities. Boring adult stuff like new tires and dental bills.

WISH: to join the military and make a difference in the world.

REALISTIC DREAM KILLER: If I could do it all over again, I would join the military right out of college. I could have done something good instead of dicking around at unpaid internships and shitty part-time jobs. But I didn’t, and here we are. (Caveat: I got a lot of good experience and met a lot of great people while doing those internships and working eight million part-time jobs, so it wasn't all for naught.) Joining the military now would mean being stationed somewhere away from James, and even if he did come with me, we would be right back to the moving dilemma. Even if I joined the Guards part-time, I would most likely have to quit my current job to do so, and then where would we be? Bills don’t pay themselves, after all. And let’s not ignore the fact that I will be 29 in just DAYS… more than a decade older than most of the people with which I would go through basic training. Everything about this is scary.
WISH: to get my master's degree.
REALISTIC DREAM KILLER: When I was an undergrad, student loans were these mythical things you just magically got, and POOF! You could worry about paying for college later (which was quite abstract to my teenage self). Speaking as someone who is now paying off said magic loans, they don't seem as magic any more. And what's LESS magic is imagining adding even more loans on top of these loans. 

Don’t get me wrong: I do believe that it’s never too late to accomplish your dreams. I’m just saying that it’s gotten a lot harder.

It’s not easy…

BEING BORING.

THEN: You could just take an adventure at the drop of the hat. No matter if you had no money and no plan – you just did it.

NOW: There are a million things stopping me from doing anything like that. No money is a much bigger deal now than it was then, and I rarely go places any more without a maximum efficiency plan.

THEN: You call up your friend in the afternoon and get together that same night.

NOW: You have to make plans weeks, if not months, in advance. Free time is a scarce and precious commodity, and you must allocate it wisely.

THEN: You would drink pretty much anything that was handed to you, as long as it was free.

NOW: If a bar doesn’t have my preferred brand of gin, I’d rather go without.

THEN: Your most exciting purchases were treasures from Goodwill.

NOW: You love buying throw pillows and succulents.

THEN: You could gorge yourself on greasy state fair food all day and never feel a thing.

NOW: Half a serving of cheese curds is enough to make you regret everything you’ve ever done. Now, you're supposed to eat shit like quinoa.

THEN: Constant broke-ness was an accepted state of being. All of your friends were broke. It was not a big deal.

NOW: Being broke is a HUGE deal. Your friends are no longer broke, so you'd damn well better not be either.

THEN: You could stay up until 3 in the morning talking to your friends about life’s greatest questions, or maybe nothing important at all, and it was absolutely thrilling

NOW: You talk to your friends about home improvement and your jobs (which, contrary to what your younger self would believe, you actually find fascinating), and you’re in bed by 10.

It’s not easy…

KNOWING ADULT STUFF.

Adults are supposed to know and understand SO MANY THINGS, and I feel like I’m not even close. As an adult, you’re supposed to know how to choose the right insurance, and how to properly invest your money. I barely even know the proper way to cook eggs. I feel like I should have my adult card revoked. Or do you suddenly learn these things when you turn 30? Maybe I have not actually graduated into adulthood yet, and I’ll be struck with all this great adulty knowledge on the day I turn 30. Like a lightning bolt, except with IRAs and deductions.

It’s not easy…

DOING THE THINGS ADULTS SHOULD DO.

There are so many things that real adults do that I do not WANT to do. Adults exercise every day – which I try to do, but the real adults get up super early to exercise and claim they enjoy it. Meanwhile, I curse every second and don’t do it until late at night when I realize I should go to bed. Real adults eat kale salads for the entirety of their lunch, which would only tide me over until mid-afternoon. I am one of very few people in the staff lounge who drinks soda with lunch and sometimes eats Cheetos, which real adults do not do. Real adults probably don’t buy swimming suits with dinosaurs printed all over them, which I recently did. Real adults are good at small talk, while I am certifiably terrible. Real adults blow dry their hair, know how to buy the right watermelon, never forget to get an oil change, and don’t play Plants v Zombies on their smartphones. Real adults don’t go home after work and binge-watch Bob’s Burgers when they should be cleaning or doing yoga or crafting or anything productive. I am not a real adult.

It’s not easy…

REALIZING THAT YOU ARE ON A TIME LIMIT.

When you are a teenager, you feel like you have the whole world in front of you. You’re young, and you have a clean slate: you can do ANYTHING. Nothing is holding you back, so go out there and CHASE YOUR F-ING DREAMS! The older you get, the faster this idea fades. I am in my late 20s, and the burden of realism is so very real. My time to be young and worry-free is behind me – I’m pretty sure that ended the day I signed the mortgage. Not only that, but as a married woman of a certain age, the pressure to have children is very real. It’s what society expects of you, and to a certain extent, it's what you expect of yourself. I am reminded by my doctor on a yearly basis that I'm not getting any younger ("don't let your eggs rot" is a direct quote), so if I want to provide the world with teeny James/Calla hybrids, I'd better get on it lest I die of old age before they reach high school. And that means that my freedom has an expiration date. (I realize this is not the best way to envision potential motherhood, but that's where I am right now.) That would mean the end of road-trip filled summers and nights out with friends. That would mean I would really have to be an adult. 

It's not easy...

LOOKING PERFECT ON SOCIAL MEDIA.

This is an adult problem not limited to millennials, but I'm including it because of the incredible impact Facebook has had on the formative years of my generation. Like many of my friends, I signed up for Facebook when I was 18 and a freshman in college... and I've been on it ever since. Ten years of ups and downs... but on Facebook, you only see the ups. There have been legitimate studies that say the more time you spend on Facebook, the more depressed you are likely to be. That's because Facebook users don't post the realities of their lives - they need a new refrigerator, or their kid has just been suspended. They post the highlights: vacations, new cars, happy times. All of the bad is filtered out, and the rest of us see nothing but 100% sunshine and roses and wonder why our lives aren't like that. Facebook is responsible for inferiority complexes all over the world. I experience said complex, and yet am driven to perpetuate it. You won't know from Facebook about my not-so-great days, but a cursory glance will show you my recent trip to Kansas City or that I was a guest speaker at UMM. The very minute something good happens, we are quick to post a photo. For most of us, only the wonderful stuff makes it to social media - and it would do us all good to remember that next time we see a picture of one of our friends on a white sandy beach drinking out of a coconut. 

It's not easy...
REALIZING THAT YOU ARE OLD.
When I was at UMM for my aforementioned talk, I strolled on campus fully (and delusionally) expecting nothing to have changed. A lot of it hadn't, true, but the student population sure as shit had. They are all BABIES. Most of them were born in the mid-90s, and they all had smartphones. I didn't have a smartphone when I was in college, and neither did ANYONE I KNEW. I graduated seven years ago, but it might as well have been a lifetime. With the self-centeredness typical of millennials, I found it extraordinary that Morris could be there before me and remain after I was gone. To me, Morris existed only during my four years there - to hear stories from people who came to UMM before I did or graduated after I did is almost baffling. But how could UMM function without me? Easily, that's how. It seemed so odd that things I once claimed as mine - a certain spot in my oft-attended art history classroom, a section of the university newspaper - have since been adopted by others. LONG AGO adopted by others. And no one on campus (save for a few professors, who are awesome) knows your name any more. (I feel as though this paragraph has morphed from "it's not easy being old" to "it's not easy coming to the realization that you are irrelevant in a place where you once were at least moderately relevant." Sigh.)

It’s not easy…

GROWING UP.
I'll let you know when I get around to it.

on this day in 2005: excerpts from a journal, March edition.

I have to tell you: I'm getting a big kick out of re-reading these old journals. Some are excruciatingly embarrassing, but that's the nature of the beast. I had also forgotten so many of these little details, and it is pretty delightful to spark my memory with something ridiculous that I had totally forgotten about.

A little background: this entry takes place during spring of my senior year, and my family had gone to Disney World with our neighbors. And... ACTION!

27 March 2005

On Friday the 25th, we got up early and caught our plane to Chicago. We had a creepy flight attendant named Armando, who sported slicked-back hair and a single rubber glove. In Chicago, we got on our plane to Orlando. I ended up sitting next to a crazy woman and her son. They were both very irritating, but the lady gave me some gum. On the plane, I listened to Newsboys' Shine: The Hits. Unfortunately, I enjoyed it; I hate it when Bob's right (for the longest time, he's been saying, "I know you'll like Newsboys"). I especially liked "Shine" and "Breakfast."

When we got above Orlando, we couldn't land because of an electrical storm. The pilot told us that we may have to go to Tampa and get fuel, but luckily, we could land. We got our rental cars, checked into our condos, and went to bed.

We got up early on the 26th and went to the Animal Kingdom. We went to a Lion King show (we waited in line for an hour, and I was the poker champion - eight out of twelve games won), and that was really cool.

After the show, it started to rain. Darrah, Mitch, Dad, and I went on a roller coaster, and we got absolutely soaked. It was like the State Fair all over again. (Editor's note: I had gone to the SD state fair with friends over Labor Day 2004, and we got rained on THE ENTIRE TIME.) All of us went on a different ride (for which we stood in line for over an hour), and then we went to the Epcot Center.

The Epcot Center rocked; seriously. We visited all those little countries. Mexico was first, then Norway. We went to the Norwegian bakery and got all sorts of confections. (Editor's note: yes, I really used the word "confections.") We then went into a little shop, where I bought a silver ring. There was a really good-looking guy in a Norwegian outfit, and I told Mom to tell him that she liked his socks. So she did! Except she mentioned that I liked them. I walked by him a couple of minutes later, and he said, "I like your socks, too." So sexy!

At the Chinese place, I bought an orange bird puppet for Meagan's birthday, a blue handbag for me, and a chicken for Mom's birthday. We visited Japan, Morocco, France, England, and Canada. By this time, it was about 830, and Mom and I went back to Norway to see if I could get a picture with the sexy guy and his socks. He wasn't there, but I took a picture with someone else.

We went back through a gift shop, and I found Bob some mouse ears. The cashier said I could get them embroidered for free at MGM studios. Then, Mom and I made it back in time for the fireworks, which were really amazing.

Before we came back to the condo, we went to Walmart for supplies of the food variety. The line to pay was an hour long, but we stood by some really nice (but odd) people from Cincinnati who let us share their cart. We didn't get to bed until nearly 1.

And today: Easter. We drove to Clearwater Beach, which was four hours away. Upon arriving, it was cold and windy, so I didn't swim. We were at the Gulf of Mexico, so I picked up some shells for my friends (I also got them airplane peanut and am working on other fun stuff). We didn't eat lunch until 5, and when we got back, I ate frozen grapes for supper.

Our condo is nice; it's got two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a kitchen. I'm on the hide-a-bed, and it's fine. It is, however, located in Ghetto Florida. Everything is so trashy around here. On Thursday night, we all went to a little shop to get a few foodstuffs, and Taylor and I found personalized condoms... one of them even read "Grandpa"... yikes. One said "Mom," and Taylor said, "Why would you buy condoms for your mom?!"

We're going outlet-malling tomorrow; yay!

Current music: "Pay You Back with Interest" by the Hollies

the story of the coupon.

Let it be known that I am a saver of things. Toys from childhood, books that belonged to my grandma, every card or letter that anyone has ever sent to me... I save things.

Let it also be known that I don't save nearly as many things as I used to. As a child, I kept things with a tendency akin to hoarding. (Not that I was ever crushed by towers of old newspapers or found myself surrounded by rotting food.) The things I kept were my "collections." Among the stuffed animals and Barbie dolls were little plastic boxes (usually empty baby wipe containers) filled with seashell fragments, neat-looking rocks, colorful erasers, and even crayfish claws (and you can imagine the smell when you opened up THAT box).

It was my collection of paper artifacts, though, that have proved most interesting. I retained all the drawings that my brother and sister made for me, even though - at the time - I wasn't particularly fond of my brother and sister. My elementary school artwork is stored in paper boxes at my parents' house, as are some of my old papers and projects from high school.

Since I am a grown-ass adult with my own house, I have (slowly, slowly) been working on cleaning out some of the junk that I still have at my parents' house. Thankfully, they are quite patient with me - I haven't officially lived there for more than ten years, and yet, my old room looks pretty much the same as when I left it.

It's tough to clean out all that old stuff for myriad reasons. Allow me to lay them out for you so I seem like less of a deadbeat. 1.) I don't live that close, so when I come to my parents' house, I am usually there for a reason that does not include cleaning. And I sure as hell am not going to miss out on a day at Lake Poinsett in lieu of sorting out my old toys. 2.) My house in Luverne is tiny, which means I cannot house all of my old stuff. That in turn means that I need to get rid of TONS of things, which is time-consuming and has the potential to be emotionally draining. 3.) I suck at being an adult.

In spite of my roadblocks, I have spent a few days going through my old things - and I have discarded garbage bags full. Go me. But as I mentioned in the above paragraph, it takes FOREVER. I saved EVERYTHING, and of course, I have to look at each and every thing and reminisce. That's just how it goes.

During one of said cleaning sessions, I came across a veritable treasure: a small orange piece of paper that I had socked away for who knows how long. Written on this small orange piece of paper was a note from my brother.

When we were growing up, my siblings and I would often give each other coupons for things, as they were great gifts for children low on cash. I was a prolific pop-drinker back then, and Mitch undoubtedly gave me this coupon assuming that I'd use it up on huge bottles of Mountain Dew.

Mitch was wrong.

I wish there had been a date on this note, as I have no idea when he wrote it. I left for college at age 18, and Mitch was 12 then - so he could not have been any older than 12. If I had to guess, though, I would say that he was younger still. In any case, Mitch gave me this coupon, and I put it away and forgot about it for YEARS.

I rediscovered my little orange coupon several years ago. I showed it to my family, who could not believe that I had not only kept this coupon for so long, but somehow managed to find it again. When I dug up this coupon, Mitch was not yet 21 - I think he was 19 or 20. I made the decision then and there to hold off on this coupon for a couple more years... until Mitch turned 21.

You'll recall that the size limit on these drinks is 24 ounces. 24 OUNCES. This coupon was going to prove to be quite valuable.

Sure enough, I hung onto my precious coupon until Mitch turned 21. It was January 25, 2014, and I spent my first drink on Mitch’s and my very first time in a bar together – seems appropriate, right? We were in Wooden Legs in Brookings, and I had some sort of hard apple cider. The drink was less than thrilling, but the fact that my freshly-21-year-old brother was buying it for me was truly delightful.

Since that first cider, I have been carefully rationing my remaining drinks. The second drink I crossed off my coupon wasn’t until May 8, 2014. Mom, Mitch, and I had gone to Arizona to visit Darrah, and we were having lunch out at Joe’s Crab Shack. I cashed in on a peach honey smash (some kind of whiskey peachy minty concoction in a jar), and let me tell you, it was DELICIOUS: vacation drinks that someone else buys for you always are.

It took me nearly two years to choose my third drink, and I chose one very special occasion. Six of us Bjorklund cousins had miraculously lined up our schedules/lives and had met for a long weekend in Boston. I (the planner among us) had read up on Boston in my handy Lonely Planet book, and they suggested a bar in Charlestown called Pier 6. It was relatively unknown, so it wouldn’t be crowded, and it offered a view of the sun setting behind the Boston skyline – and it was RIGHT on the harbor. I was sold.

Our evening on the balcony of Pier 6 was indeed chilly, but we ordered our drinks and sipped them over good conversation and with one hell of a view. 

My drink was called the peach pit: homemade vodka, peach puree, mint, and tea. Despite the cold breeze coming off the harbor, my refreshing fruity drink made it feel like summer. (Sort of.)

I have two drinks left on my coupon, and I am going to use them wisely. It’s a goal of mine to make sure at least one of those drinks is actually 24 ounces (the maximum size as dictated by the coupon). Las Vegas, here I come?

Whatever happens with my last two drinks, it’s downright amazing that I’ve been able to use it as such. Who knew that a little lost-and-found orange scrap of paper could bring me so much joy? I guess good things really do come to those who wait… or accidentally hoard a coupon for a decade and then miraculously find it. Whichever.

baseball stuff!

Like basically everyone ever, I look forward to summer with rabid anticipation. Winters in the Midwest drag on and ON, and the promise of summer is the only thing that keeps us going. All it takes is one day above zero degrees for us to ditch our winter coats and staunchly declare that spring is here.

It’s only early March, and the possibility of more blizzards is all too real. We’ve had snow in MAY before, for crying out loud. However, this first week or so of March has been downright glorious. Our snow has all but melted, and I have given up on wearing a coat altogether – and I’m weaning myself off socks. I was at HyVee the other day to pick up some food to grill, and I waited in line for FIFTEEN MINUTES at the grill case. Everyone had the exact same idea as me, it seemed. We Midwesterners start our summers as early as possible.

I love everything about summer – the lake time, the road trips, the beer… EVERYTHING. Summer makes me feel like a person again after a long winter of just existing. And today I want to talk about one of my new favorite summer pastimes.

Baseball.

It should be noted that my interest in organized sports is quite recent. (Or, organized sport, to be more accurate: baseball is the only thing I care about.) And maybe “interest” is too strong a word. I don’t play baseball, as my hand-eye coordination is a tad pitiful. I’m not dedicated enough to listen to baseball on the radio or watch it on TV or learn stats and the like. But I love watching baseball in a stadium.

South Dakota doesn’t have a baseball team, so most everyone in my home state roots for the Minnesota Twins. When I was younger, my family would make the occasional summer trip to see the Twins play in the Metrodome. I went once or twice, but was never that interested. I was also a grumpy teenager and not interested in much of anything, so there’s that. Even by the time I was done being a grumpy teenager (at age 17), when offered the chance to see a Minnesota Twins spring training game in Fort Myers, Florida, I chose to go shopping at the outlet mall instead.

I did, however, love baseball movies. Baseball movies are clearly the cream of the sports movie genre crop: A League of Their Own and The Sandlot come immediately to mind. Rookie of the Year wasn’t bad, and I have vague memories of Angels in the Outfield being an ok way to pass an afternoon. But those first two? A League of Their Own and The Sandlot? LIFE CHANGERS.

Movies alone weren’t enough to make me want to watch a baseball game. A regular old baseball game didn’t have the heart-stirring stories and life lessons that my favorite baseball movies did. So what was it that changed my mind about baseball games? I can tell you EXACTLY what it was. And by what, I mean who.

Joe Mauer.

SIGH.

 When I was a sophomore in college, I took an absolutely useless speech class. I was toying with the idea of becoming an English teacher, and my friend Sara was thinking about a major in speech communication. We both signed up for a 3000-level speech class during the spring semester, and we quickly realized how ridiculous it was. I had taken a harder speech class in high school. HIGH SCHOOL. I think we only gave two speeches during the  course of that class, and I have no memory of what they were supposed to be about. I do, however, remember that one girl did her speech on Joe Mauer. I don't recall anything about that speech except for one thing: Joe Mauer and I have the same birthday.

I know it's a tad childish, but you can't deny that you automatically like someone better if you find out that they have the same birthday as you. It's just a fact of life. I had a couple of pretty great birthday buddies - Dudley Moore, Tim Curry - but Joe Mauer? He was a hometown hero.

That is the one and only thing I gained from that speech class in 2007: Joe Mauer and I have the same birthday. And that was enough to pique my interest in the Minnesota Twins.

Still, it was quite a long while before I actually went to a baseball game. One needs money to do these things, after all, and I had none. I didn't go to a Twins game until 2010. They were in their new home at Target Field - and it was AMAZING. My dad, brother, and aunt came for a game while I was living in Minneapolis, and they invited me along.

I had to buy this Twins shirt ON THE WAY TO THE GAME. The first of a whole drawerful of Twins apparel.

It was an evening game in early spring, and I loved the fresh air and the palpable excitement emanating from the crowd. It was intoxicating, and I finally began to understand what the big deal was about baseball.

The first time I went to a Twins game of my own accord was... wait for it... my honeymoon. YES REALLY. Of all the people to go to a sporting event on her honeymoon, no one would've guessed that it would be me. While planning James's and my Winnipeg road trip honeymoon, I got a wild hair to swing home through Minneapolis and catch a Twins game. James - who cares even less about sporting events than I do - wasn't so sure. But he was easy to convince: all I had to do was ply him with ballpark hot dogs and beer, and he was on board.

We picked a day in early August, and the weather was downright glorious. Minnesota summers can get stiflingly hot and humid, but our wedding and the week or so following it hovered at a beautiful 75 degrees. James and I had purchased nosebleed seats, but no matter. I had my first ballpark beer, and let me tell you, it was the most delicious beer I'd ever had in my life.

 

On that day, I decided that Twins games were an essential part of my summers. Granted, living nearly four hours away from Target Field makes that more difficult to accomplish than I'd like,  but I still wanted it. Oh, how I wanted it!

2015 was a fabulous year for Twins games. In April, I traveled with my parents and James to Kansas City, where we met my sister and went to a Twins vs Royals game. But that's not all: we went with Dad's crop insurance underwriter WHOM HE'D NEVER MET BEFORE! She knew Dad was a Twins fan, and Dad knew she was a Royals fan. They'd sprinkle their crop insurance emails with comments about how either team was doing, and Dad decided that - should schedules align - we needed to go to a Twins v Royals game in Kansas City. So we did.

 

Kansas City was one of the most wonderful places on earth - the people were delightful, and the food was phenomenal. And so was the baseball! It was a close game, but the Twins lost. If you recall, though, the Royals ended up being the 2015 World Series champions, so it makes sense. It was there that we learned the rally cry for Mike Moustakas ("Moooooooooooooose!") and that people in Kansas City will feel absolutely terrible if you get barfed on. (Yes. That happened to us.) Barfing aside, we all loved Kansas City so much that we're going back for another Twins game this April. 2016 is your year, Twins!

James and I went to a wedding in Duluth in May, and we went to a Twins game with James's brothers the next day. Our seats were way WAY up there, but honestly, I don't think there's a bad spot in Target field. We were so far up there that we had a little cement ledge to put our drinks on. It worked out beautifully. 

At that game, the Twins gave out embroidered pillows! That was my first game with freebies, and those smushy blue pillows are all over our house.

The last Twins game I attended in summer 2015 was in July, and it somehow worked out that my parents, brother, sister, James, and I could ALL GO. A minor miracle, indeed. We had great seats, great weather, great everything. The Twins won – and they’ve won every home game at which I have been present. It must be me.

Bonus: we got a picture for the Christmas card.

 Now that I have a few Twins games under my belt, I’m thirsty for more. I still don’t know anything about baseball stats, nor can I name all of the players (but I know Brian Dozier now, and he’s important!). But I understand the fundamentals of baseball, and I understand what’s so great about it. And I want to experience that as much as possible.

Besides, it's on my bucket list to be circled by Bert. I can’t do that without being physically present at a Twins game, so there’s another reason for you.

Take me out to the ball game.

five for Friday: five photos from UMM freshman year.

I don't know what's gotten into me, but lately, I've been awfully nostalgic for college. Maybe it's this time of year: February is notoriously dreary, and I find that the best way to get through the blah factor is to get out and do stuff. Even though James and I live way the hell out in Luverne, we have friends and family that brave the drive to see us - and we, in turn, brave the drive in the opposite direction to see them. And that's awesome.

HOWEVER.

Adult life means you can't hang out with your friends all day, every day. College meant exactly that - your friends were your roommates, your classmates, and your coworkers - sometimes all three at once. It's a lot easier to muddle through a long winter when you are up to your eyeballs in great people with whom to commiserate. All day. Every day. Winters in college just didn't seem as long as they do now. (I'd venture a guess that my 40-minute-one-way commute is mostly to blame for that.)

I am also nostalgic for college at this particular moment because adult life is WEIRD. In college, my number one stress was always homework and exams. What am I most stressed out about at this particular moment in my life? TAXES. LIKE A BORING ADULT. In college, freaking EVERYTHING was exciting - and a lot of it was stupid shit that was totally awesome but nothing you'd ever do now. My friends and I went on midnight bike rides to the mysterious west side of town. We hosted theme parties that involved the attendees decorating shirts in honor of Heath Ledger. We wrote newspaper articles about Crocs. We adopted dogs on a whim. (His name is Buddy, and he's the best.)

I don't do anything that ridiculous any more. My life is unquestionably full of good stuff, but my excitement bar has been far lowered. The other day, I was super psyched because the picture frames I ordered came in the mail. Read that last sentence again and just try to tell me that I'm not a boring adult.

As someone who is closing in on 30, I realize that it's not necessarily a bad thing that I do adult things like order picture frames online and wait anxiously for them to arrive. There comes a time when one must outgrow college behaviors: mostly, acting like the complete lunatic. And let's be honest: we are all lunatics, but after college, you're just supposed to hide it better.

I really shouldn't compare college life and adult life: it's apples and oranges for sure. But college was awesome: I had the best time, and I met the greatest people there (including my husband). UMM was straight-up amazing.

So here's what's happening after that rambling introduction. We've established that I love to take pictures, and I have a shit ton from college. I have chosen my five favorite photos from my freshman year, and I'm going to do the same for my sophomore, junior, and senior years. (I'm already concerned about how to narrow down the pictures from senior year... that was the BEST.) 

Travel back with me, then, if you will, to those glorious by-gone days... way back in 2005, when no one had a smart phone and my freshman friends and I excitedly signed up for accounts on this new thing for college kids called Facebook.

This, friends, is where it all began. This was move-in day: August 2005. My entire family brought me to Morris - including my siblings, who TOOK A DAY OFF FROM SCHOOL DURING THE FIRST WEEK OF SCHOOL. I was beyond excited, but just as beyond terrified. This picture was taken after we had hauled in all my college belongings, set up my loft bed, and unpacked. (If you look closely, you can see my red retainer case on the little stand by the bed.) My family was mere minutes away from heading home, and they all appear more-or-less gleeful to leave me in a different state. I also seem to be fairly confident, but years later, my mom informed me that as they left me in my dorm room, I looked "like a deer in headlights." Thankfully, I got over the deer in headlights thing.

As you well know, college band was a big part of my UMM life. From day one, I was involved in concert band, jazz band, or both. I was not a music major (fun fact: at the time, I was a psychology major. like every freshman ever.), but I was welcome to play my clarinet to my little heart's desire. It was because of band that I met the most wonderful people - nearly all of my UMM friends were in the bands, and one of them was even the guy I married. My family was pretty pumped that I had joined the band, and they came nearly every concert band and jazz band concert. This picture is from my first concert. It was October, and my family trekked to Morris for the homecoming concert. I was so excited: not only did I get to play with this fantastic ensemble, but my family would be there to hear me! I was (and still am) moved that they would give up their Sunday and make the five-hour-round-trip journey to hear me perform in a long concert - and by "hear" I mean "see me there holding my clarinet and assume that I was playing as it was basically impossible to pick my sound out from the din." I had also been in school for nearly two months and had found my footing, so I was thrilled to be able to introduce my family to my new band friends. Freshman year was a time of miracle and wonder, and that is the truth.

Every time I look at this picture, I have to smile. This is the very first picture of James and me together. It would be nearly two years before we started dating, but by this point (December 2005), we had been great friends for months. James was the very first UMM friend I made - it was move-in day, and we were both signing up for concert band. We became fast friends, and I loved hanging out with him. James was not like any guy I had ever met before - there was just something about him that I really liked. I could count on him to make me laugh or to lend an ear when I'd had a tough day. I absolutely love this picture - first of all, look at how YOUNG we are! And our so-very-middle-2000s clothes! But more importantly, look at how happy we are just to be sitting on a shitty couch next to each other. Of course, neither of us had any idea that we were sitting next to the person we would eventually marry. But goshdarnit, we sure are cute.

James and I bonded over many things: bad jokes, late-night chats, a love of Mountain Dew... but the thing that brought us closest together was swing dancing. UMM had a Swing Club that one could attend every Thursday night, and it was there that we learned how to swing dance. But wait - let me clarify. That is where JAMES learned to swing dance with (gasp!) another girl, and he would then come to my dorm room and teach me what he had learned. (Sophomore year, James ditched his swing partner and took me on instead.) I never knew how to dance - probably because the only dances I attended were full of high schoolers who were either grinding up on each other or doing the middle-school slow dance. But James taught me how to swing dance, and that has opened up so many doors for me. I found out that I actually really loved to dance, and James and I would swing dance at the thrice-yearly UMM jazz dances. As we got older, we would swing dance at other people's weddings, and then at our own. And now, we teach swing dancing classes at the library. And it all began at UMM! This picture was taken the night we performed as swing dancers in this bizarre UMM Jazz/Morris Community Theatre holiday show. A weird experience, yes, but we sure had a good time practicing in the parking lot.

Remember the UMM jazz dances? They were held in December, February, and April. The December dance was a holiday dance (obviously), and the February dance was Valentine themed (obviously), and the April dance was... uhh... whatever. There was a tropical theme once, and this picture was from one of two toga-themed dances. I had been a failure and had not gotten a toga, and God only knows what I'm wearing instead. (WHY SO SHINY??) But the reason I love this picture is not because of the togas (or lack thereof). The person in the picture with me is my dear friend Sara, who would become my partner in UMM crime for the next three years. She was integral in getting James and me together, and she encouraged me through long nights of English and art history paper writing. Sara and I moved into a house our junior year and stayed there through graduation, and I cannot WAIT to show you those pictures in the next installments.

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The five freshman year photos are pretty heavy on a "new beginnings" theme. Move-in day, my first concert, my first picture with James, James and I learning how to swing dance, and my first picture with Sara. SO MANY NEW THINGS, and they all have turned out wonderfully. Stay tuned for part II: sophomore year! (Hopefully, the sophomore year and on pictures won't be quite so grainy, as I acquire a digital camera at some point during that year. No promises, though.)

reflections on Valentine's Day.

(So I know I’m a day late – or three– and a dollar short with this one, but bear with me. My schedule has been a bit hectic as of late, so my Valentine’s Day story is showing up after Valentine’s Day. I’m ok with it if you are.)

I am no romantic. I can’t sit through a romantic comedy without making cartoon gagging noises. When a customer at the library asks for a romantic fiction recommendation, I rely 100% on the trusty old internet… as I have never read romantic fiction. Hell, even James’s and my wedding was light on the romance – it was heavy on “we are totally perfect for each other in every nerdy way,” but no mushy stuff. 

No, I am no romantic. 

But you know what?

I kind of totally love Valentine’s Day.

With my aversion to all things romantic, you would think that this is highly unlikely. You know what makes it even more unlikely? 

That fact that I didn’t have a boyfriend with whom to share Valentine’s Day until I was the ripe old age of 19. 

And that’s damn old, considering most of my high school classmates had gotten their first boyfriends out of the way by about 13.

So why on earth would I enjoy this sugary-sweet holiday, even during my boyfriend-less high school years when whether or not you had a boyfriend was basically a measurement of your value as a human being? 

Because I don’t see Valentine’s Day as a day to celebrate romantic love. To me, it is (and probably always will be) a day when you appreciate all the awesome people, places, and things in your life. Valentine’s Day is for ALL: not just those of us who are coupled-up, but EVERYONE who loves and is loved.

I have my parents to thank for this. For as long as I can remember, Mom and Dad had Valentine's cards for us - always specific to each child. Lion King for me, Power Rangers for my sister, whatever car my brother happened to be into at the time. And of course, these cards were accompanied by our favorite candy.

As I grew older, all the boyfriended-girls were getting flowers delivered to the school on Valentine's Day - their names were read over the intercom as they were asked to pick up their flowers in the office. Indeed, I had more or less resigned myself to never hear my name called over the intercom on Valentine's Day. Until one day... I did! I arrived in the office with trepidation, wondering what I had done wrong or which one of my siblings was sick. To my surprise, I found a bunch of red carnations waiting for me with a note wishing me happy Valentine's Day from Mom and Dad. My heart? Melted.

Elementary school Valentine's Day was also totally awesome, but incredibly stressful. In my elementary school, you were expected to provide a Valentine for each and every person - this was not a hard-and-fast rule, but everybody would know if you didn't. And then you were an asshole.

It was stressful not just because you had to provide a Valentine for each kid in your class, but you had to provide the RIGHT Valentine for each kid in your class. You had to reserve the super-awesome ones for your best friends, and you had to make sure you didn’t give cheesy ones to the boys. You couldn’t have them thinking you liked them. And you couldn’t give the popular girls the Valentines that said things like “Let’s be friends, Valentine!” for fear of appearing desperate for their friendship. It was an amazingly delicate balance, and I spent hours agonizing over which Valentine would go to whom.

I was, and still am, a world-class over-thinker.

Emptying out your Valentine box was unquestionably one of the highlights of the school year. You got to soak in all the nice things the cards said, and you got to gorge yourself on pink-and-red wrapped candy. (And ceremoniously chuck the conversation hearts into the garbage. Those are the worst.)

This year at work, we had a Valentine exchange. I suck and therefore forgot about it until the night before and found myself dashing to ShopKo at the eleventh hour in search of Valentines. And you know what I found out? Valentine cards now are much more elaborate when I was a kid. I bought two boxes: one set came with erasers shaped like bunnies, and the other set was watercolor dinosaurs, complete with a little watercolor sheet and a teeny plastic brush. Back when I was giving Valentines on a regular basis, you were lucky if you got heart-shaped stickers with your Valentines. The times, they are a-changing.

But anyway, the Valentine’s Day work exchange was absolutely dandy, even though I dropped the ball and didn’t get a fancy Valentine’s Day box made like I should have. Next year. If I remember. Because I suck.

Valentine’s Day, of course, is not all about cards and candy and gifts. Many of those who hate Valentine’s Day will bring these things up: a commercialization of love. I totally get that, and I don’t need a card or a gift to appreciate Valentine’s Day. All I really want is to spend time with people I enjoy. (Though who am I to turn away a gift? James got me the most delightful sparkly shoes for Valentine’s Day this year, and I just want to spend my days staring at them.) James is a total believer in buying flowers for Valentine’s Day – one year in college, he went out and bought flowers for all of his female friends. James is a gentleman and a romantic, and I am still fairly stunned (and glad!) that he ended up with a non-romantic like me. 

Spending time with James on Valentine’s Day can be trickier than you might think. James is a music teacher, and his annual Minnesota Music Educators Association conference often lands on or right around Valentine’s Day. When it does, we have made a semi-tradition of meeting in the cities and squeezing in a few hours of Valentine’s Day joy. It’s usually too cold to do much of anything except eat (enormous cupcakes, if you please), which is one of our favorite past-times anyway.

Pictured: enormous cupcake.

In college, not only did James have to go to this convention, but he was also in a band called Funky Gumbo. They would play each and every New Year’s Eve, and each and every Valentine’s Day. Also every weekend. Funky Gumbo was the worst. One year, when James was booked to play on Valentine’s Day (a Saturday, no less), my parents made the two-and-a-half-hour drive to Morris to have Valentine’s Day dinner with me. They joked about me spending Valentine’s Day with my parents, but you know what? I loved it.

In the years since Funky Gumbo, I’ve been able to spend more Valentine’s Days with James than not. In 2010, he and I had just moved to a tiny garage-turned-apartment near the cities. I was working as an unpaid intern and juggling four part-time jobs. James was student teaching. We couldn’t afford to go out for dinner, so we bought a frozen pasta meal for six dollars and dined on plastic lawn furniture on our only two plates. And it was really quite nice. 

Can you see that the vase is actually an empty alfredo jar?

Honestly, I don’t know if I’d be so pro-Valentine’s Day if I didn’t have James. We have been together for almost nine years, and that’s lots of time for me to enjoy Valentine’s Day. The older you get, the more it is expected for you to have a significant other with whom to spend days like this. Lucky for me, I do: and a great person, at that. But if I didn’t, I probably would have soured a bit on the concept of Valentine’s Day. I’d like to think that I wouldn’t, but me being me, who knows.

But that’s not the point. The point is that I grew up appreciating Valentine’s Day as a bigger picture holiday – like Thanksgiving is not just about the food, but about the things you are thankful or, Valentine’s Day is not just about having a date, but about all the people you love to have in your life and who (hopefully) love to have you in theirs. 

Valentine’s Day was on a Sunday this year, so James and I ate gigantic burgers in northeast Minneapolis and walked around downtown as much as the biting cold would allow us. 

The night before, we had gone to Gasthof  zur Gemutlichkeit (a German restaurant) with my parents and our cousins. We ate about a million kinds of breaded pork, were serenaded by an accordion player, and toasted by saying, “Ziggy zaggy, Ziggy zaggy, oi  oi oi!” 

That is my kind of Valentine’s celebration.

So that is why I – the non-romantic – love Valentine’s Day. To me, it’s all about spending time with great people. And luckily, I know a lot of those.

on this day in 2005: excerpts from a journal.

So, given my blogging propensities, you may not be surprised to learn that I was once a rather prolific journaller. 

Full of the thoughts of a teenage Calla.

Not too long ago, I unearthed this journal trove from my parents' house and dragged them all back to Luverne with me. They sat in the basement for a good while...

...until I got an idea.

Would it be fun to see what I was up to on this day in 2005? Or 2004, or whatever year I happened to be journalling?

So I did.

And friends, it is painful.

It's amazing to look back and see what was so important to me then versus what is now. What tiny, insignificant things occupied my brain - almost all of which I had forgotten about until browsing these journals. So ridiculous.

And what better thing than  to share them with you?

I must warn you: there is no way in high hell that I'm going to type out these journal entries in their entirety. That would be too embarrassing, even for this blog. I'll be giving you the CliffsNotes version of the journals (notice how I don't call them diaries? THEY ARE NOT DIARIES. I had SOME self-respect, thankyouverymuch). But I will have you know that while I am not including the whole journal entry, what I do include will be exactly as it appears in the journal. I may remove an embarrassing sentence here and there, but I am not changing words. 

To start us off, I have a journal entry from February 5, 2005. I was 17 and a senior in high school. One final thing you should know: I was never great at journalling every day, so many of my entries cover multiple days. And... here we go.

The pink leopard-print journal was a gift. Don't judge.

FEBRUARY 5, 2005

Ok, since there are more than ten pages left in here (editor's note: I was reaching the end of this particular notebook), and tomorrow is Super Bowl Sunday (which will, hopefully, require more than ten pages), I'm going to finish out this diary/journal (editor's note: huh... I guess I didn't have the self-respect that I thought I did) right here and now, beginning with yesterday: Friday.

Bio held a test for us. When I was going up to get my test, I shook Meagan's hand and wished her luck. Tiff tried to crush my hand in her handshake, and Bob said, "Look, her fingers are turning purple!"

Today was cleaning day, and I vacuumed, dusted, and washed. Then, Mom and I were off to Sioux Falls to get my prom dress. Our first stop was Marshall Field's, of course. We made a beeline for the dresses, but the only two left of my dress were size 9/10s. I was so sad. Luckily, the saleslady said we could order one. It will take seven to ten days, and it will be shipped straight to our house. I'm so excited... I have a prom dress!

I strolled around the mall after that, buying a sweatshirt at American Eagle and a Nordic sweater at Hollister (I got it for $10, used to be $50). Mom and I split loaded fries at Ruby Tuesday, and then we headed home. It was a fun day. Dad did call once, asking how many cases of beer would fit in Susie. Heh.

Well, here I am on the last page-and-a-half. This crazy little pink leopard-printed thing has taken me through quite a bit in the past weeks. (Editor's note: this particular journal begins on December 29, 2004.) We've seen a DeGrassi marathon, bangs for Calla, a play with a beefsteak tomato (editor's note: I was in a play that required me to wear a red sweater and proclaim that I looked like a beefsteak tomato), my final All-State audition, college acceptances, a prom date found, and a prom dress purchased.

Current music: "The Only Living Boy in New York" by Simon and Garfunkel

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We have successfully traveled back eleven years into the mind of a seventeen-year-old me. Stay tuned for more of these... what can I say? I'm a glutton for punishment.