lindsayruebens

[lindsayruebens]

The Grand #5-10-30

Last fall, Kane and I had two Frontier flight vouchers burning a hole in our pockets.

Also that fall, we celebrated being together for a decade. And then I turned 30 in December. April is Kane’s 30th birthday. And May is our fifth wedding anniversary.

And, for the past five years, we had exclusively used our vacation days for traveling to see family during the holidays and weddings. We were not only ready to celebrate but extremely ready for a vacation, and ready to do it up big.

Enter what my social-media-eschewing husband has persistently referred to as the #5-10-30 trip (yes I know there are no hyphens in real hashtags, but here we are), and he did so persistently enough that I too eventually broke down and also called it The 5-10-30.

Direct Frontier flights from Philadelphia narrowed our options considerably, and we wanted to pick somewhere we’d never been, so Denver it was. My parents very generously offered to watch Russ in Pennsylvania for a week, and after lots of research and planning, that’s how the best vacation Kane and I have ever had, or shall I say, The #5-10-30 Trip, materialized.

We rented a 2019 Nissan Rogue and basically did a loop beginning and ending in Denver. I kept a detailed journal of the trip, but I’ll spare you the less-thrilling details and share the highlights:

Day 1: Afternoon/evening in Denver

(^Ready for takeoff to Denver!)

Great AirBnB cottage in the LoHi neighborhood. After meeting us, our host ran into her house to bring us her own nice bottle of tequila, limes and shot glasses to start off our trip on a celebratory note. Cheers!

Speaking of cheers, we recommend the Recess Beer Garden, where we watched Virginia win the national title.

Day 2: Denver/Colorado Springs

We kicked breakfast off at Bacon Social House with a flight of bacon. And because we’re corny, we gave serious thought to ranking the six bacon styles (French toast was my fav, barbecue was Kane’s). Scissors for sharing the slices were included.

Next up: Garden of the Gods in Colorado Springs. The red rock formations were breathtaking, and we’re glad we went to the visitor’s center for info on hiking trails. Great views of both Garden of the Gods and Pikes Peak.

Another fantastic AirBnB in Old Colorado City, and delicious dinner — just say yes to the brisket grilled cheese and lamb sliders — outside at Cerberus Brewing Company while watching the sun set behind the Rockies.

Day 3: Colorado Springs

We spent much of this day in the earth.

First stop was Cave of the Winds. Holy cow, do the Lantern Tour if you can. Our self-described hippie tour-guide, John, thoroughly scared us before we even began, warning us of having to walk crouched low for a couple of minutes through under-4-foot-high tunnels, that we’d only be walking by the light of candle-lit lanterns (hence the name Lantern Tour) and that we were about to enter the supposedly most haunted caverns in North America. It’s not a tour for the faint of heart (nor the arthritic). Learned the history of the 19th-century pioneers who took ownership of the caves and held exotic parties in them, and of course there was a generous helping of spooky ghost stories.

(^Our only photo in the cave before the tour began-- not the kind of setting to take a selfie!)

Back in the sunlight, we had lunch at Ivywild School, an elementary school-turned community center/local business spot/brewery.

Dinner in downtown Colorado Springs at The Rabbit Hole, also underground. We did actually try rabbit with the Bunny Bites appetizer… a drier, leaner version of chicken nuggets.

Day 4: Cañon City/Nathrop

Spent the day at the Royal Gorge in Cañon City. The gondola ride across was slightly panic-inducing, but offered amazing views; informative short movie about the Gorge in onsite theater; then walks across America’s tallest suspension bridge. The gaps between some of the wooden planks of the floor allowed you to see all the way to the Arkansas River flowing below. YIKES. Of course Kane insisted we really feel “fully alive,” and so we were the only ones nutty enough to go back and forth several more times in the wind. Don’t worry, I felt super-alive, and thankfully, remained in such a state.

Spectacular mountain drive along Route 50 to Nathrop, where we checked in at the Mt. Princeton Hot Springs Resort. It’s in the San Isabel National Forest.

(^Serious room with a view.)

That evening we donned bathing suits in 30-something degree weather to recline in the hot springs of Chalk Creek. We laid our heads on rocks, stared at the stars and crescent moon overhead and enjoyed deep conversation that also included momentarily pretending we were contestants on The Bachelor, because it was such an over-the-top date, and I assured Kane I was most certainly there for the right reasons.

Day 5: Nathrop/Breckenridge

Hot springs again in the bright morning sunshine before driving to Breckenridge, which was a little insane with hairpin turns up and down mountains. We drove through Alma, North America’s highest incorporated town, and were relieved to make it to our AirBnB. Then: A scrumptious sushi lunch downtown at The Blue Fish and perusing the town’s many shops.

We called up the Lost Bus, owned and operated by the Broken Compass Brewing, which picks up people for free from downtown Breckenridge to its brewery site a few miles away. This was my favorite brewery of the trip! Fantastic craft beers and great local vibe.

Then we walked about half a mile down the road to Flight Club for food. It was an extremely local experience (complete with a guy glass-blowing pipes next to the bar!) and even featured a local battle-of-the-bands winner, Hollywood Farmers, who were actually quite talented.

(^My view from the bar. Just some casual glass-blowing, dudes.)

Day 6: Boulder

A crazy drive to Boulder on Route 70 with foggy snow showers. But we made it in one piece to Chautauqua Park and hiked around the Flatirons on the Enchanted Mesa Trail and loved it.

Lunched at Roxie’s Tacos, where they served amazing Mexican-Indian fusion in the lovely campus area of CU-Boulder, then drove to the Celestial Seasonings headquarters for a free tea tour and samples. A highlight was the peppermint room! Free aromatherapy.

Checked into a Courtyard Marriott and ate at Avery Brewing Company.

Day 7: Boulder/Denver

Amazing breakfast at Lucile’s in adorable downtown Boulder. Walked around Pearl Street Mall, where the tulip beds were in bloom. If I had to choose one of the places we visited to move, I’d pick Boulder!

Drove back to Denver and attended a beautiful Palm Sunday Mass at the Cathedral Basilica of the Immaculate Conception. Proceeded to a tour of the Molly Brown House. Loved learning her incredible story: a rags-to-riches miner’s wife, Titanic survivor, philanthropist, winner of French Legion of Honor… Google her if you have time!

On to Stranahan’s Colorado Whiskey for a delightful distillery tour. We learned how it was made and aged and also how to properly drink whiskey. Not sure I’m a converted whiskey-drinker, but loved every minute of the tour.

We ended our trip where we began, in the LoHi neighborhood, at a fantastic Mediterranean tapas restaurant called El Five. We sat outside overlooking the Denver skyline and the Rockies before catching a red-eye home. It was the perfect way to punctuate a pretty near-perfect trip.

(^Dinner view. Until we meet again, Colorado!)

[lindsayruebens]

Thoughts from the shower: High school math and turning 30

I was standing in a hot shower on the morning of my thirtieth birthday (that’s today!) when a memory almost half my age invaded my thoughts.

My high school math teacher had just asked the seniors in the class where we were going to college. When I shared “UNC,” a kid who was a junior turned around and incredulously asked, “Chapel Hill?”

He, like a lot of his junior peers, had developed a superiority complex among the older kids in the split-grade math and science classes. He didn’t know my lengthy backstory that mean girls at my public middle school compelled me, for eighth grade, to switch to a small Catholic school run by nuns who had a dubious grasp on rigorous academics. Upon moving to Charlotte for ninth grade, I arrived behind the eight ball in my weaker subjects of math and science.

But he didn’t know any of that. He just assumed I was dumb. I don’t remember his name but I sure remember his face and the way he made me feel in that moment. I can’t tell you why — so many years later as I was lathering shampoo — that I brought myself back to that minute in 12th grade math, but it reminded me of a Maya Angelou quote that’s recently resonated with me: “People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

In my 20s, you might say my mantra was a quote I once accidentally attributed to C.S. Lewis. (It might be from the great, mysterious author Anon (Anonymous).) In any case, I loved it so much I wrote it on a piece of scrap paper and taped it to my mirror all through college and later tacked it to my bulletin board: “You don’t have a soul, you are a soul. You have a body.” I even referenced it here in a post I wrote after the disturbing experience of seeing my first dead body as a cub reporter.

I still love that sentiment, but it’s time for a new mantra. As the mom of a young one, I could easily pick “Embrace the exhaustion,” or “You don’t really know what you’re doing, and that’s OK.” But in an age where there seems to be a lack of compassion and a dearth of kindness, I’ll stick with Maya.

I wish I could tell that sad girl in middle school that one day, she would be the richest woman in the world. Immensely rich in love, in health, in faith, in family and friends.

So on this happy, sunny, cold December day (fully showered, I might add, which is a nice mom achievement), I enter my fourth decade with a grateful heart and a hope that the people I encounter will, fondly, never forget how I made them feel.

[lindsayruebens]

I had a baby! And too frazzled to come up with a clever title here

Hello, my name is Milk Machine—wait, no, it’s Lindsay. But don’t quote me on that, as my brain cells seem to be getting pumped out along with the breastmilk these days.

Although a whole six weeks has passed since my sweet Russell Francis was born, it is indeed a miracle I’ve snagged the time and energy to write this.

First, a quick sum of Russ’s birth: Contractions kicked in around 2 a.m. on Dec. 6; he had every chance to be born on the feast of St. Nicholas but stubbornly stayed put until 12:50 a.m. on America’s day of infamy. After a grueling hour and a half of pushing, Russ made his entrance into the world purple and silent; upon sending his mom and dad into a panic for a few minutes, he turned a proper shade of red and found the use of his lungs (and has since proved to have an excellent set). He came in at 8 pounds, 7 ounces and 20 inches. I did survive the ordeal, along with two lengthy repair jobs for horrendous tearing. Russ arrived with sideburns and a mullet and now also sports thigh rolls for days and a double chin I could gobble up forever.

(Russ at one month.)

He was named for treasured men in our families who (save for Kane, who’s Kane Russell) have gone before him: Kane’s grandfather, my great-grandfather and a beloved great-uncle (all Russells), and for my dear grandfather Albert Francis.

Women have been giving birth since, well, the dawn of humanity, so I won’t pretend to come up with anything that hasn’t been said before, but these are my initial observations of new motherhood:

I strongly resent Eve for eating that damn apple.

There is a massive difference between knowing about something and experiencing it. I knew childbirth would be tough. I heard breastfeeding is hard. I was told I’d be sleep deprived. I knew all these things, but there’s simply no way to fully appreciate them until you actually become a zombie with plugged milk ducts and questionable bladder control.

I thought that after nearly three decades of living, I’d experienced most emotions life brings, but I was wrong. Perhaps the very worst feeling in the world is watching your child suffer and not being able to stop it. I got a taste of this after some of the poking and prodding that happened to Russ at the hospital. He wailed. I sobbed. Gives you a deeper perspective of what Mary must have felt at the foot of the cross.

There’s something inherently bovine about using a breast pump. Moo.

So much of motherhood is about sacrifice. Sacrificing your body, your time, your sleep, your body, occasionally your sanity… did I mention your body? Of course, it’s your choice about whether or not to be joyful about it, and that’s what I aim for (keyword here is “aim.”).

It’s impossible to meet the quota for kissing my child’s cheeks.

About a week after Russ’s day of birth, on my own birthday, I was FaceTiming my parents and I apologized to my mom for everything I did to her that day and for the rest of my life. (I have since become aware of the grievous injustice to the majority of moms who don’t get the recognition they deserve on their children’s birthdays.)

She didn’t immediately brush it off and insist I’d never truly caused her pain. There was a pause, a knowing smile, and a more measured response. It was more along the lines of, “You were worth it,” and, “I love you.”

That’s basically motherhood summed up in two lines. You’re worth it, Russ. And I love you.

[lindsayruebens]

Diary of a Hungry Pregnant Woman

“You know,” Kane said as I harrumphed down the last leg of sidewalk back to our house, “the difference between happiness and anger here is just a cupcake away.”

Sage words.

I should note that husbands of pregnant wives don’t get enough credit. They really deserve awards for valor and patience.

My food cravings have largely subsided, but all day I hadn’t been able to shake the deep desire to sink my teeth into a mountain of silky, buttery frosting atop a rich, velvety cake. I can’t even remember the last time I’d eaten a cupcake, but there they were, calling my name.

About 7 p.m., we started an evening walk and agreed I could get a cupcake somewhere along the way. I love evening walks with Kane, but let’s be real: the cupcake was my true motivator here.

The fancy cupcake shop down the road had just closed, so that was out. We walked half a mile and paused outside Weis, a regional grocery store. I was feeling good and the weather was lovely, so we instead ventured to downtown Lititz, about a mile farther down the road, to a place I thought would do the job.

Here’s how the rest of the evening went: Cafe closed! All sweet shops, actually, were closed. Trek back to Weis. Nope. The frosting looks gross. Like one of Pavlov’s dogs denied, I’m miffed that walking three miles — in the body of a reincarnated Buddha — will not result in my promised treat. Kane buys a half-liter of peach seltzer, and on the final half-mile home, we pass it between us like a 40 while I stew over my lack of cupcake consumption.

We head straight to the car whereby Kane delivers me to the baked goods section of Stauffer’s, a local grocery chain. It’s almost 9 p.m. and I’m achingly tired. After much waffling, I finally choose some chocolate cupcakes filled with cream-cheese frosting and sprinkled with chocolate chips. Victory will be mine.

Back home, my cold glass of almond milk is ready and I peel back the paper cupcake liner. I take a big bite, and… nothing. It’s OK, I guess. Just not quite what I wanted. The cake is a little dry and the frosting a touch sweet. I keep eating it and telling myself this is all great. After it’s gone, I think maybe I’ll feel more vindicated in all of this if I eat a second cupcake.

Doing so quickly engenders self-loathing, and, totally spent, I’m on my way to bed, devastated that this cupcake escapade went ALL WRONG. A few minutes later I’m crying in bed, not because of horrendous things like Nazis openly marching about the country or potential nuclear war with North Korea or that horrific mudslide in Sierra Leone that killed about 500 people that no one’s really talking about… but the horrible shame that my quest for, and subsequent devouring of, cupcakes was exhausting and subpar. True trials of a pregnant lady.

Kane tries to soothe me by saying we can go to the fancy cupcake store tomorrow. Of course, I don’t really give a hoot about cupcakes today and I’m mostly embarrassed and feel bad that I made him endure the Great Cupcake Meltdown of 2017.

So, I’m sorry dear, and thanks for putting up with me— I guess the lessons learned here are 1) sometimes acting like an insane pregnant lady just can’t be helped, and 2) the next time I have a strong craving, no walking a few miles and hoping for the best. To the car we go!

[lindsayruebens]

I accidentally ate a watermelon seed…

The day after Carolina wins the NCAA National Championship is always a glorious day. And so it was on April 4.

I had no idea the day was about to become far more momentous.

At one point, I was basking in the revelry of Tar Heels victorious and texting people to send me bracket pool winnings. In another, I was dunking HCG strips into a paper cup of pee one after the other.

Positive. They were all immediately, unquestionably, blazingly positive. I was going to have a baby.

“Sounds like,” my boss later said in an email, “the surgery worked.”

It did! I was overjoyed to have a successful surgery in January to remove endo, and post-surgery I was blissfully pain-free and back to being myself. I thank you for all your warm wishes and prayers during that time.

I understand that some (or even many) of you will want to chuck your laptop or phone out the window upon seeing yet another baby announcement on social media. So many couples carry the heavy burden of the inability to conceive or the loss of a baby. When I’ve been pukey and headachey and otherwise miserable, I’ve tried to offer it up for your heartache. I keep you close to my heart and in my prayers.

That said, Kane and I are thrilled. I’m possibly even more thrilled to be in the second trimester because, frankly, the first one was rough.

A summary of Trimester One:

Excitement! YAY! Mom and Dad, we’re having a baby! YAY! Happyhappyhappy.

Palm Sunday: Body decides the time is ripe to kick off a torturous morning sickness sojourn by fainting in the middle of Mass. Huge spectacle; ambulance ride included.

Puking, vomming, retching. And pretending to be Kate Middleton by taking a hospital trip after too much puking.

Indigestion, belching like an over-beered frat boy, constipation, gas, horribly sore boobs, fatigue, headaches, mood swings, having to pee all the time. Pregnancy is fun!

Cravings. Satisfying them is reaching nirvana. It’s a When Harry Met Sally diner scene every time. This particularly applies to Wendy’s Junior Bacon Cheeseburgers. Five Guys if we’re being fancy.

Tempering the nausea and vomiting with the one morning sickness prescription out there and some digestive products from a company called Pink Stork. (Weak “yay!”)

(Baby Podraza’s first photo op in April.)

I should note this baby is more than worth every minute of hunching over the toilet and all that. I’m immensely grateful for this gift of life God has given us, and I’m ecstatic at the thought of meeting him or her on or around Dec. 10 (yes, that’s three days before my own birthday).

Happily, the morning sickness is gone — HUZZAH! — and I’ve gotten some energy back. Life is good. I’ll leave you with a picture of me (us):

This is what happens when you eat too many cheeseburgers. Just kidding! There’s a baby in there. Please pray it’s growing healthy and whole!

[lindsayruebens]

Telling endo where to stick it, among other New Year’s resolutions

For quite some time, I’ve thought New Year’s resolutions are pretty dumb. Mostly because I usually forget about them and never keep them.

This year, though, will be different. Just 10 days into the new year, I’ll be having another surgery (about 4 years later) to remove endometriosis. And man, that stupid disease is motivating me to make some changes this year.

The first will be to make new friends, something I’ve given about zero effort because these past few months I’ve generally been stuck on the couch with my heating pad.

The second will be to exercise regularly again, and maybe I can kill two birds with one stone on this one. The last time I really exerted myself was at a 5K at the end of October. Kane and I, when we signed up for it in advance, had thought it would be a great motivator to really get in shape in preparation for it.

The chronic pain turned up to ruin that notion, though. I was able to muster one short jog, which hardly qualifies as training.

But pride can be a terrible and wondrous thing.

I had monstrous cramps the morning of the 5K, but when the herds began pounding the pavement at the starting line, I wasn’t about to be the wuss who walked. We ran all the way past our house, which covered about a mile, and Kane, surprised by my vigor, was telling me this was my big f*** you to endo.

Woo! Yeah!

… Not so fast. (Literally.)

The next mile or so was excruciating. I’d slowed to a snail’s pace and really wanted to quit. Then the last third of the trail was almost all downhill and I got a bit of a second wind. We decided to jog.

About three quarters of the way through, as I was happily thinking I’d actually finish this thing, I somehow lost my footing and slammed spectacularly onto the concrete sidewalk. I scraped up my palms and tore a big hole in my favorite exercise pants. As my knees bled and my abdomen throbbed, a first aid woman told me she could get a car to pick me up.

I politely declined. This race had somehow turned into my arch-nemesis and I wasn’t about to lose. Blazing hatred for endo fueled my run to the finish line as I screamed F*** YOU, ENDO on repeat inside my head.

Of course, later, I paid dearly for my persistence — or some might say, pig-headedness — as every nerve ending in my body howled with pain. But to me, it was still a triumph.

(I wasn’t smiling for much longer, but here I am as the exhilarated, scraped-up victor.)

So on Jan. 10, I hope to give a final (one-finger) salute to endo for what I hope is my last surgery. Please pray that the anesthesiologist is a pro. That the doctor finds it all and fully destroys it. That I heal quickly. For my sweet mom who’s flying up to take care of me for a few days while Kane is at work. While you’re at it, please send up a prayer for the many, many other women who also have this really frustrating affliction, and for a cure.

And my sincere prayer for you all this new year, dear friends, is not only for a happy 2017 but for one filled to the brim with good health.

[lindsayruebens]

On life and loss and what’s really important

I’ve seen — and felt — a lot of heartache these past few days.

I’ll get to my hometown of Charlotte in a minute. But before all that, I had to deal with the sudden loss of my grandfather and everything that comes with it. I’m fully aware the death of a grandparent is a common experience for young adults, and the death of my paternal grandfather back in 2000 was the first time I fully understood that the people we love aren’t immortal.

But this loss was a heavy one. He was 94, sharp as a tack and the glue that held our family together. He had a rare zest for life, corny jokes and telling good stories, and he loved God, family and country above all else. To say he was beloved by many would be an understatement: About 1,000 people came to his wake, and several repeatedly said they didn’t mind having to wait 1-2 hours in line to pay their respects.

(An oldie but goodie from the vault.)

It all started on Sunday, Sept. 11, when he fell backward down six steps in his house and in doing so, broke 13 ribs, his sternum and sustained internal bleeding. That might sound bleak, but if anyone knows Al Chestone, they know he’s a fighter. We spent most of our lives believing he was invincible. For two days in the hospital, he chatted and joked and ate meals. We worried about the tough road ahead of him, but his seemingly strong will to carry on faked us all out. Or maybe we were delusional. In any case, his children and grandchildren who live far away didn’t come running ASAP because everything sounded so good.

Then Tuesday afternoon happened. Everything rapidly took a turn for the worse, and I suddenly found myself driving like a maniac to New Jersey and praying I’d get there in time to say goodbye.

Grandpa wasn’t conscious when I got to the hospital, but that’s OK. I whispered in his ear how much I loved him and held his hand. I told him how much my mom, in North Carolina, loved him.

(Celebrating his 94th birthday last November.)

I’ve seen and done many interesting things, but without a doubt, the most surreal experience is watching and hearing someone who means the world to you pass from this life into the next. It is simultaneously horrible and beautiful.

Then I had the unenviable task of calling my mom to tell her that her beloved father was gone. That was terrible.

The next few days were a whirlwind of funeral planning and insomnia. It was kind of like planning a huge wedding, but having to smash it all into a few days whilst suppressing grief.

Grandpa didn’t waste a minute of his 94 years, which I attempted to detail in his obituary. He was a World War II vet, an FBI special agent and loved connecting and helping people. One of his greatest gifts was making each person he met feel like the most special person in the room. There was a lot of heartache in realizing what this loss meant. There’s time for grieving. But I also choose to look at the positive:

It was incredibly heartwarming (and foot-aching) to stand in the receiving line with my family for almost five hours to hear, in a constant stream, how he had helped them get a job, checked in on them, had written a special poem for them. How he gave wise advice and always cared. It’s an inspiring legacy.

Nothing would have made Grandpa happier than seeing so much of his close family, sitting for a few hours around a huge table the evening of his funeral, laughing, crying and sharing their favorite memories of him, sending up many a toast. And I feel closer with my family than I ever have. It makes me happy that I have a hunch I’ll be seeing a lot more of my cousins in the near future.

As life starts to go back to “normal,” I’ve watched from afar with great sadness as my Queen City self-implodes. There’s already enough heartache in this world without us piling on more with shootings and riots. I don’t have all the answers, but if we look to my Grandpa’s example, maybe we’d start loving each other a bit better, and listening to each other with open minds. We’d look to see what we could do to make connections, work together and make a difference.

So here’s to you, Grandpa, and your one heckuva life and legacy — as we all agreed upon for the kicker in your eulogy: You hit it out of the park.

[lindsayruebens]

A key mistake

“This will be a humorous story eventually,” I texted my friends. It was a quarter past 5 p.m. on Sunday, and I was sitting in the passenger seat of our new car on the way to Washington, D.C.

First things first: We finally got a second car! I’ve become so used to doing things at home or by walking that I keep having to remind myself that I can go places. We got a black 2013 Hyundai Tucson from CarMax, which offered a pretty great car-buying experience, and we love it! Yay.

Back to the questionably humorous story.

I had just seen all of my best friends at a D.C. wedding where I was a bridesmaid for one of the bunch. It was a wonderful, wonderful weekend, but I was exhausted: The weekend was nonstop and I was already physically exhausted from a week of dealing with endo pain (ugh). Needless to say, I was positively thrilled at the prospect of lounging on the couch when we pulled into our driveway late Sunday afternoon.

I got out to move the Corolla out of the way — we had kept it in the driveway in an attempt to appear at home. Once the Tucson was in the garage, I returned the Corolla to its driveway spot and started lamenting a Papa John’s flier someone left on our front door for goodness knows how long.

Kane shut the garage door behind us because we were tired and not in the mood to chat with neighbors.

“You got the keys?” he asked.

And that’s when a great weekend was punctuated with a blow to the soul.

As I fished around my small purse I knew I didn’t have them. They’re bulky — I’ve got my Mace on there — and they would’ve been fast to find. Instead I pulled out a different key:

It was the key to our hotel room safe. Kane and I had forgotten that we didn’t want to deal with the bulky keys and had put them there for the weekend. The hotel had valet parking, so we had used a spare car key for driving.

And speaking of spares, we haven’t hidden one at our place, which is perhaps a hazard of previous apartment life where hiding spares was never an option. We were locked out of our own house.

I lost it. And Kane, God bless him, didn’t. I started crying and couldn’t stop. After calling the hotel and discussing our options (there weren’t really any), we felt we had no choice but to retrieve the keys.

The Corolla had to be moved again. Still weepy, I refused to look at my my next-door neighbors, a chatty couple in their 50s, who were in their driveway. It was only after parking across the street that I looked at myself in the rearview mirror and saw garish black streaks running down my face. (Not unlike the time I accidentally rubbed jalapeños in my eyes.)

I could feel them staring, and upon taking refuge in the Tucson’s passenger seat, Kane said the lady looked worried. I’m sure they think we had some kind of domestic incident. (“But he seemed so nice!” I can picture them saying.)

I rallied and we called it a good ol’ Podraza roadtrip and then I cried again that I’m so lucky to have a guy who can take adversity in stride. He wasn’t even (outwardly) upset about the fact that he would miss his NFL Fantasy draft (we did it via the app on the return drive home, so it all worked out).

It was a massive relief when we got the keys back in our hands. I’m sure the guy at the front desk thought we were morons, which we kind of were.

In sum, there are six morals to this story: 1) Never go ANYWHERE without making sure you have your keys, and 2) always keep tabs on where they are. 3) Hide a spare for your house if you can. 4) If you are so moved to use a hotel safe, for the love of all that is holy, check it before you leave the hotel and drive 2.5 hours away. 5) Invest in some waterproof mascara. And 6) if something bad happens, you’re the luckiest person in the world if you have a Kane there with you.

[lindsayruebens]

Hello, Pennsylvania

When I started telling people that we were moving to  Lancaster County, all anyone said was how great the area was, that they knew friends and family who lived there and loved it and that it was a wonderful place to be. 

So far, they’ve all been right.

Kane and I keep joking that eventually we’re going to meet a mean person in Lancaster County, but who knows when that’ll happen.

As of this posting, we are about 90 percent settled, and the biggest thing left to do is the aesthetic stuff like hanging things on the walls.

(The changing of the plates.)

Kane started his job and all is going well. I’m loving being able to work out of one of our bedrooms upstairs, which I’ve made my office. It SO beats working off of the couch in our small living/dining room back in Wilmington, where it was hard to separate work and the rest of my life.

I don’t have a yard big enough for my chicken coop and vegetables — and I’m okay with that — but I would like to grow some fresh herbs, which I think is doable, and there are tons of opportunities to get local produce, meat, eggs and dairy, which makes me a super happy camper. 

We have a church just down the road from our house (we could walk if we wanted), and I’m really loving the community vibe Lititz has. Case in point was this holiday weekend, which included an hour-long parade, a massive candle-lighting tradition, the 75th crowning of the Queen of the Candles Pageant and the wildest fireworks show I’ve ever seen. I’ve never felt so American in my life.

I still can’t believe I live here.

I’m hoping that we’ll actually get some visitors now — we can’t wait to show our friends and family our new home. (Our parents aren’t wasting much time; they’ll be visiting at different times this month, which we’re thrilled about.)

When we were in Delaware, we survived with just one car (the trusty Corolla!), but we’ll need to get a second one here. Kane has been taking the car to work, which means for the time being, I’ve been limited to places that are within walking distances. But, when we do get another car, I’m excited to do some exploring of the county and the many farmer’s markets and farms and shops — and write all about it, of course!

[lindsayruebens]

So long, Delaware

I remember when Kane got the clerkship offer for the Family Court of Delaware in Wilmington. It was back in 2013, and my first reaction was excitement and pride that my soon-to-be husband, fresh out of law school, would have employment when we got married. My second reaction was along the lines of “Delaware… Delaware?” 

I knew absolutely nothing about Delaware, and discovered most people I knew didn’t really either. When we said we were moving to Wilmington, also a popular and beautiful city on the North Carolina coast, we constantly had to clarify that this Wilmington was in Delaware, which generally prompted mystified looks. 

Time flew, and it’s hard to believe we lived there for two years (almost to the day). I’ll always have a soft spot for it, and our minuscule apartment, as the first place Kane and I started our married lives together.

Here’s what I learned in my time there:

Though it’s Delaware’s biggest city, Wilmington is still small: 2013 data puts the population at 71,525. That means the state’s most powerful and influential people (especially U.S. congressmen and the governor) are at local events ALL. THE. TIME. It’s this cool phenomenon that can only happen in a tiny state, and it’s a huge advantage in getting major players to work together to make changes. I covered an instance of this when the state’s movers and shakers banded together to convince a group of cutting-edge app developers to relocate from Austin, Texas. And when Delawareans started a successful coding academy through the national TechHire initiative. The list goes on.

It is indeed above the Mason-Dixon line, but folks in Delaware are pretty friendly. 

Wilmington’s motto is “A place to be somebody.” It’s on all the welcome signs dotted around the city, and for some reason that line always cracks me up.

Delaware lingo: Wudder is water and mum-mum and pop-pop are grandparents. And for goodness’ sake, Newark is New-ARK, not New Jersey’s NEW-irk.

Violent crime continues to be a sticking point in Wilmington. In December of the year we moved there, Newsweek came out with a cover story about Wilmington titled, “Murder Town USA.” It caused this big stir, predictably, and enraged many Wilmingtonians. It was a damning piece about the fact that Wilmington’s murder rate per capita was the third-highest in the country. (Unfortunately, the city police’s PIO wasn’t well-prepared or trained for a national reporter shadowing her.) The city is working hard to revitalize downtown and attract millenials, and its main street, Market Street, has really come along. But something more has to change, starting perhaps with the mayor, who, for instance, refuses to give data to the state about the city’s police activity. In doing so, he’s preventing the city from receiving $1.5 million in state money for increased patrols in high-crime areas. 

Delaware boasts some pretty good beaches. We enjoyed taking day trips to Cape Henlopen, which is part of a state park. Also, the seafood is amazing in Delaware.

Something has to be said about Wilmington’s ideal location. It’s a half-hour drive from Philly, a couple hours to New York and D.C. and also not far from Baltimore. Somehow, though, in the two years we were there, just one (ONE!) friend stayed with us for a visit. Delaware’s gotta work on its allure for visitors.

The DuPonts are royalty. Their name is everywhere, they basically made Delaware, and practically everyone works or has worked or has a family member who works for their engineering and research companies. But, it was a major blow last December when DuPont merged with Dow Chemical, which resulted in 1,700 layoffs.

Perhaps this is the case in most northern cities, but Catholicism appears to be dying among my generation. No one goes to church. Last summer, I organized a 6-week summer series of Theology on Tap, which was successful enough but a lot of work. The whole no-one-goes-to-church (or is-active-in-helping-the-community-through-their-church) thing was a bit of a culture shock, and if I’m honest, disappointing.

But we loved the location of our apartment, in the Riverfront area of Wilmington. It boasted a riverwalk along the Christina, several restaurants, a brewery, a minor league baseball stadium (go Blue Rocks!), a nature preserve, a movie theater, a wine shop, a hair salon, a winter skating rink, putt-putt golf, even a trampoline gym. Not shabby.

(On the Riverfront last fall with Mom and Dad.)

I’m confident we saved oodles with Delaware’s lack of a sales tax. 

I also learned a lot about the area’s tech industry while working as the lead Delaware reporter for a daily online publication called Technical.ly. Along with it, I learned about the culture of young entrepreneurship and innovation and cool things like coworking spaces and open data. I even tried my hand at coding. It was a particularly great experience overall because Delaware’s tech community is super-welcoming and willing to patiently explain things to non-tech-savvy people like me.

Almost as suddenly as we came to Wilmington — it was in a two-week whirlwind of getting married, going on a honeymoon and driving the Corolla and a U-Haul from North Carolina to Delaware — we left in a similar flurry. Shortly after The Boob of a Day, we ended our Delaware jobs on a Thursday and drove down that evening to North Carolina, where we attended a wedding and enjoyed the company of friends and family for a blissful week. Then we spent the next few days packing, cleaning and making multiple trips — the Corolla and a U-Haul back at it again — from Delaware to the next chapter of our lives.

[lindsayruebens]

A Boob of a Day

Meanwhile, in the midst of the news that we were moving, and moving surprisingly soon, and while I was still holding down two writing jobs, I thought I might have breast cancer. 

When you entertain the possibility of what life would be like when you have cancer, you realize what your priorities are. And just the threat of cancer is enough to shake you up.

The process of determining breast cancer is a racket: At appointment number one, my doctor told me to get an ultrasound, so I did that the next week at a local hospital’s breast center. After taking some pictures, the technician went to show the photos to the the radiologist. Then he comes out and says he wants to take more pictures. Then he says, “It’s probably OK, but you won’t know unless you have a biopsy.” Then before I can schedule a biopsy, I have to first make another appointment for a “breast consultation” with a breast specialist so we can do some more consulting.

At that appointment, the doc tells me again that it’s probably not cancer, but you should have it biopsied to know for sure. And then, the next week, I finally go for the biopsy. Then I have to wait a week for results, and regardless of cancer or not, I have to find out at a final appointment, because I just haven’t been to enough appointments yet.

A few days before the results appointment, Kane discovered the unthinkable: A townhouse in Lititz (the Promised Land, remember?) that was in our price range. To see the place, I’d have to go without Kane, and the guy who was arranging showings said I’d have to come the day of my big appointment because showings were filling up.

I wasn’t sure what I was going to do if I found out I had cancer. I assumed for the best and that I’d be in shape to drive the hour and a half to the showing afterward, and goshdarnit was I laser-focused on getting there on time. Maybe it was a coping mechanism. Plus I really, really, really wanted to live in this place. 

But I had to sit in the waiting room, and then an examination room for an excruciating hour and a half before the doctor got to me. That was cruel. And while I’m sitting on the table in that stupid open-front gown, I’m hyperventilating about getting to the showing on time, and calling the guy to say that I’ll be late, which is something I didn’t want to do in the hopes of impressing him as a reliable rent-payer.

Finally the doc comes in, tells me the best news ever and maybe three minutes later is already running off to the next person she made wait for an eternity.

I didn’t give myself time to process any of it and went full speed ahead (at lawful and safe speeds, of course) to Lititz, armed with my little checklist of questions about the property.

(A shot of the Lititz townhouse the day of the showing.)

The townhouse, in my eyes, was fairly spectacular. A driveway and one-car garage, basement space, a deck and small back yard, an actual area for your kitchen table, three bedrooms, a laundry room with excellent American-made washer and dryer (a detail of great importance), one and a half bathrooms (with DOUBLE SINKS upstairs) and of course, proximity to Target, grocery stores, and it was all in America’s Coolest Small Town. 

(Behold. A thing of beauty. #coldcycles)

I was sold. Kane was on board. I just had to wait, yet again— this time to see if the owner deemed me a good fit as a tenant.

He did.

After weeks of anxiety about the possibility of cancer, I broke down a bit later that night, and they were tears of gratitude, tears of relief. Life is so good and so precious, my friends. And on top of that — moving to Lancaster County was becoming more and more of a reality… and we were getting to move to America’s Coolest Small Town.

Note: I call this post A Boob of a Day for the obvious reason, and also because I sometimes have the maturity of a 12 year-old and pronounce “Lititz” in my head as the Sean Connery character does “Let It Snow” in this SNL classic:

[lindsayruebens]

‘Take me to the country,’ I said. ‘OK then,’ he said.

After enduring the torturous percussion of Bongo Man for several weeks, I begged Kane to take me away to the countryside. 

Be careful what you wish for.

Here’s Part I of what happened: (Spoiler: We moved! Whaaaat. It’s been a whirlwind.)

The Interview

Kane landed an interview for a public defender position in Lancaster County, home of the Pennsylvania Dutch. I decided to go along and work at a nearby coffeeshop. 

It was a misty Thursday morning, and we decided to take the extra-scenic route (they’re ultimately all scenic routes) because we thought it would calm nerves. But instead we spent much of the drive navigating around a multitude of horses and buggies on the road. Where could they all possibly be going?! I kept asking Kane. Turns out, Thursdays are apparently the days the Amish do weddings, and the May month was prime wedding season. How ’bout that.

Fast-forward several hours: Kane gets a phone call with an informal job offer. I’m super proud. Toodles, Bongo Man!

(A view of beautiful Lancaster County from the road)

A First Look

Knowing almost nothing about Lancaster County, we decided scope it out a few days later and see if there were areas we might want to live. 

One of my flaws, I’ve come to understand, is often having too-high expectations. I was envisioning idyllic countryside, a yard where I could have a chicken coop and grow my own vegetables and live near a darling general store — a fictitious store I occasionally fantasized about working at — and a house where you actually had the space to move and breathe… and of course have all of it be in some wonderful location that was near amenities like a Target and a CVS and a grocery store but without the un-charming bustle of suburbia.

Oh, self. You and your expectations. Upon riding around the county for a day, four viable options became apparent: 

Life in fairly rural “towns.” If there was a “main street,” we often were asking ourselves, “Is this the main street?” and were sometimes still unsure after turning off.

Life in isolated apartment complexes off of ugly thoroughfares that were crammed with Big Box retailers. 

Urban-ish life in Lancaster City. Street parking, higher prices, no conveniences in close proximity. This wasn’t what I pictured.

A town called Lititz. If you Google it, you’ll see it’s billed as America’s Coolest Small Town. It was the Promised Land. I almost cried, actually, maybe I did, when we drove through because I knew THIS was what I wanted, but I couldn’t see how we’d ever be able to afford it.

Stay tuned for which one we picked.

[lindsayruebens]

A Tale of the Phantom Window Screen

I’ll chalk this one up to #apartmentlife. And #liarliarpantsonfire. If I haven’t seemed well-rested this past week or so, here’s why.

Part I: Mystery Morse

This story begins at our own lovely apartment, which, for the most part, has worked well for us for the better part of two years. As happens in most complexes, people tend to keep to themselves. It’s been fairly quiet on our hall: An older man moved in across the way several months ago after a fiery couple left when it came out that the fiancée cheated on the fiancé. The guy to our left got kicked out sometime last year after getting caught running an AirBnB operation out of his apartment, and it’s not clear if someone else lives there.

We’ll call the tenant to our right Mike. We loved Mike. He was nice, and most importantly, he was quiet enough that it was hard to tell when he was home.

Then something terrible happened. Mike moved out. 

And a couple of weeks later, at odd hours of the night, we started noticing erratic, rhythmic tapping noises: dum-dum-dum-dum-DUM. Over and over.

It got annoying enough that we broke out the noise machine and cranked that baby on Rain. But it became consistent enough, unmasked by the sound of Rain, that I decided to ask some reliable sources if someone had indeed replaced Mike. 

My sources proved valuable: A young guy we’ll call Joe moved in from a faraway state to be nearer his girlfriend. I learned some other interesting details, but the most pertinent here is that Joe doesn’t have a job. 

A guy who works for the complex happened to walk by and, upon hearing me drum out the repeating rhythm, said he’d write him an email about the tapping. I wasn’t enthused about starting something with a next-door neighbor, but agreed it was probably for the best.

Part II: Time to Be Nancy Drew

The next night was blissfully tap-free. We assumed the letter from the apartment folks did the trick. Hooray!

Just kidding! The tapping returned with a vengeance the next night, maybe around 10:45 p.m. Crouched on our bed, we pressed our ears to the wall.

I ran to the kitchen to get a drinking glass because I feel like I’ve seen detectives in the movies listen better with a glass to their ear, but after jamming my ear to both sides of the glass, I couldn’t hear a blessed thing, so I was either doing it wrong or the whole glass thing is a farce. 

After listening to several rhythmic rounds (ears-to-wall only), we agreed: It was the sound of drumming, probably a hand-drum, and lyrical chanting. Yes, chanting. 

Kane wasn’t having another night of it, so he jammed some loafers on his feet and knocked on Joe’s door. I prayed someone who liked chanting and drumming wasn’t trigger-happy. 

When he came back, Kane said they were on fine terms, although Joe seemed to know exactly why Kane was there and apologized before he could get a word in. “I’m just getting settled in the new place and putting together my bed and hanging some posters,” he told him.

Kane asked to keep the “bed-building” and “poster-hanging” to daytime hours. All seemed well.

Part III: All Was Not Well

After the nighttime chatsky the night before, we thought the next evening would be drum-free. We were wrong.

Bongo-Man, as we have henceforth called Joe, was at it again, this time at 3:30 a.m. Steamed, Kane didn’t bother with with shoes. I waited by the front door to try to eavesdrop. 

Hearing nothing, I peeked out and saw my sweet husband, glowering in his jammies and pacing in the hallway. He had knocked, but no one answered. We continued to hear the drumming and — and if you pressed your ear to the wall, chanting — intermittently and well past 4 a.m.

Part IV: The Whopper

The next day we discussed filing a formal complaint but waited to see if it would happen again. I don’t know why we decided that, but we did. 

That night Bongo-Man only waited till about 10:45 p.m. to go full-force.

This time Kane used the doorbell.

Bongo-Man answered the door this time, saying he heard the door-knocking the previous night, but didn’t answer because his girlfriend was there. He opened the door with a cat in his hands and Kane, diplomatically enough, said we’d been hearing drumming from his bedroom, and it needed to stop at night.

Bongo-Man suggested the noise might be his washer and dryer, or maybe the cat.

At that, Kane said that unless we figured out what it was and stopped it, he’d have to get the apartment people involved to solve the mysterious drumming issue.

As Kane relayed all of this to me as we stood whispering in our dark kitchen (why?), BANGBANGBANG on our door.

Turns out Bongo-Man decided to solve the drumming conundrum.

Big reveal: It was the “window screen” (in the bedroom, with the candlestick). That doggone window screen seemed to have been flapping in the wind (What wind? The weather’s been lovely), and that must be what’s making the noise. He said he removed it.

We’ve had a couple of drum-free nights. (Although some nimrod decided to burn a lot of rubber and drag-race himself on the street below at 1:40 a.m. last night… No rest for the weary.)

I’ll be fascinated to see if another “window screen” starts “flapping” in particular rhythms only late at night — but goodness gracious, for the sake of our sanity, I really and truly hope the drums are done.

UPDATE: I was literally about to hit “Post,” and the drumming kicked up. It’s 9:30 p.m. Guess that window screen reinstalled itself! Pray for us.

[lindsayruebens]

Il Papa! Why standing for 6+ hours was worth it

At some point a long time ago in Catholic grade school, I saw one of Martin Sheen’s lesser-known films, The Fourth Wise Man. Sheen’s character, upon seeing the star in the sky at Jesus’ birth, spends the rest of his life trying – and failing – to meet, or even catch a glimpse of, Jesus. It’s not until he’s an old and dying man that Sheen catches up with Jesus as he’s being put to death. But grace unexpectedly comes to the fourth wise man on Easter Sunday.

In Philadelphia this Sunday on a quest to see Pope Francis, I found myself feeling a bit like Martin Sheen’s character.

After eating breakfast and perusing center city, Kane and I met with a couple of friends and were excited to catch up with them. But by noon, we really had to go: To attend the 4 p.m. papal mass on the Ben Franklin Parkway, we needed to get to a security checkpoint to land a spot in the designated “non-ticketed” area (the purple area below).

Along with thousands of others, we were herded along a circuitous route. Dotted along the way were people with bullhorns and big black signs screaming that the pope was the anti-Christ and we were all going to hell. I felt like I was back at the DNC in Charlotte.

Finally, police started calling for people without tickets to go one way and for ticketholders to go another. I didn’t know it yet, but I was about to have my low point of the day. I was glad to reach the line, but we were at the front. The end wasn’t in sight. More walking. We went the better part of a mile before finding the end and, the whole way, it was many people deep. I started to lose composure and had to reach for my sunglasses. We had four hours until mass started, but at this rate, we would miss the whole thing.

We returned to the spot on the parkway where we’d met with friends near 17th Street. For those who like landmarks, it was between Logan Square and Love Park, near the Embassy Suites. Kane pointed out the pros: It was only about 300 yards farther from where we would’ve gotten in, we could still see the Art Museum, and we had a great view of one of the many Jumbotrons along the parkway. I chose to be happy about it, and that’s when the standing began. We had a place near some metal fencing in place for crowds, and people filled in behind us.

After a while a garbage truck rolled up in front of us enough to block our view of the Art Museum (you can see its annoying grille below). In a tease, police kept moving the barricade back to make more space for vehicles. The motorcycles we’d seen leading the pope’s motorcade faked us out a few times riding past.

We were all hopeful to catch a glimpse of our pope, the man who has so beautifully represented Jesus and Catholicism. We wanted to make eye contact, to see his smile, to reach out to him, to be blessed by him. We were on the parkway after all, right? Surely he’d come see all the faithful who had waited so long there.

His parade began, and he came around the bend, far ahead of us, at Logan Square. I could see the police lights in the distance, and the crowd around us roared with excitement. Everyone held their cell phones aloft. And right when he would’ve passed through my line of vision, an eager garbage man opened the truck door, keeping it open, and blocked my view. I got a split-second look of the pope-mobile, but nothing long enough to register a sight of the pontiff. He didn’t come our way again.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed that I didn’t get to see his face in person. But still, I’d get to participate in his mass. The thing is, we were so far back – and among so many – that everyone around us had agreed we wouldn’t be getting holy communion. That was another disappointment, but I tried to make the best of it. I’d also be lying if I said I didn’t think about how, as my legs and lower back ached and as the slow and often wildly incorrect translations on the Jumbotron distracted me, I could be watching this all from the comfort of my couch.

After a while, I scored a spot against the metal railing, which was wonderful to lean on. My spirits rose again when we said the prayers of the mass together. I was struck at how hundreds of thousands of Catholics, along with the pope, were celebrating our mass, our quintessential expression of faith, in public on the street in total peace.

When it was time for communion, I was wistful again. The whole thing had been nice, but I was wondering if all the hassle had been worth it. So far away and without a real glimpse of the pope, I felt a bit excluded from it all.

A Latin communion hymn switched to one everyone knew, and I began mumbling along to “Gift of Finest Wheat.”

We saw these yellow and white umbrellas (á la Vatican flag) on the Jumbotrons that accompanied priests distributing the Eucharist to people in the far-away ticketed area.

Slowly but surely, those yellow and white umbrellas started bobbing our way. The crowds in sections ahead of us started going wild. I was hopeful but doubtful—we were pretty far back.

Then I got my moment of grace, just like Martin Sheen’s character, who feared he’d never fulfill his quest.

A priest went to a section near us across the street (see below), and my hope of receiving Christ’s presence, in communion with our Church, and, no less, the Eucharist blessed from the pope, grew stronger.

Against the railing, I waved out to those white and yellow umbrellas, which continued bobbing toward us up the street. A deacon came to our section and began distributing communion, but I wasn’t sure he’d get to me.

He did.

And as he did, the hymn changed to “Taste and See.” Taste and see the goodness of the Lord. I held my hands outstretched over the barricade, overcome. Kane was next and suddenly it was spirit-filled chaos as we stepped aside to let others get to the deacon. Nary an eye was dry. Many hugged. I was so touched that 1,500 priests and deacons, as I later discovered, walked so many blocks to give the Eucharist to the masses. What a gift to us.

In the end, we got what we had come for, and that was Jesus. We look to Pope Francis as the Vicar of Christ, and it’s amazing and inspiring to see him in the flesh— but the real miracle is the one that’s available to us every day in the Eucharist. The beauty in that is breathtaking, and in Il Papa’s spirit of joy, grace and love, it is enough.

[lindsayruebens]

That time I got 1K+ retweets about being a lefty

Twitter and I had a moment yesterday. Actually, the moment is still going, but I suspect it’ll end soon.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” Kane told me last night. (He, by the way, doesn’t use Twitter.)

Perhaps I have been. It’s safe to say I probably reached my peak for online coolness yesterday after tweeting the following:

Seems like a decent enough tweet, but nothing particularly noteworthy, right? Au contraire. Lemme tell you, #teamsouthpaw was all about this tweet. As of this posting, it’s been retweeted 1,171 times and favorited 782. I’m not joking.

After the initial 20 retweets and 10 favorites, I thought it was pretty cool and sent Kane a screenshot. I had no idea I’d created a mini-viral tweet.

Interacting with the World Wide Web is always a mixed bag. A Canadian tried to capitalize on my sudden popularity by sending me flattering tweets about the great state of Delaware and my looks (“Hope u don’t mind my saying you have a nice photo. Looks good. Wishing you and yours the very best.”), after sending me a tweet containing a “free gift,” or a link to a dreadfully boring document about social media. He hoped I’d share it.

I received a link to anythingleft-handed.co.uk, memes, and a link to the YouTube video of Inigo Montoya and Westley’s left-handed swordfight in “The Princess Bride.” A passionate orangutan scientist retweeted me and three hours later was moved to tweet again:

Amen lefty sister, you save those orangutans.

One sage teen wrote, “I’ve had these problems for 17 years.” Another lefty asked – acknowledging that only those in the exclusive lefty club would understand her question – if I was a paper-tilter or upside-down writer. (The answer is both.)

So what made this tweet so resonant? I don’t have a definitive answer, but I suspect the feelings of mingled commiseration, unity and pride have something to do with it. Broken down, here’s what the tweet comprised: A wistful, perhaps tongue-in-cheek, acknowledgement in fragment form about a problem-- but not just a problem, something only a specific group of people understands and (surprisingly?) feels passionate about. A BuzzFeed-y link with a photo attached. A communal spin on a well-known phrase, making “the struggle is real” ours. The day’s top-trending hashtag. Voila!

I’ll try the recipe again if the opportunity ever presents itself, but until then, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed my day of Twitter notoriety.

[lindsayruebens]

Confessions of a 1-year housewife

When I was a young, my big life goal was to major in home economics and become the next Martha Stewart. I can only imagine my Jewish grandfather’s chagrin at this news, as he already expected I’d someday be a graduate of Harvard Law.

My, how things turned out differently.

Crazily enough, a year has already passed since getting married. I work from home and I’m a wife, so does that make me a housewife? Debatable.

Regardless, I recently deleted pictures on my phone to make space, and laughing to myself, realized I’m more of a Lucy Ricardo than a June Cleaver (my 9-year-old self would be scandalized).

Here’s why, as Martha would say, it’s a good thing I was a journalism major:

Cute outfits at home are a no-go.

Pumpkin spice blondie… drops?

 “Friday night” takes on a new meaning when you’re hitched.

 Charlie Brown’s tree would upstage this one.

When you deviate from the recipe, sometimes that means your cookies won’t flatten.

“Dish detergent” is different than “dishwasher detergent.” I nearly ruined a pair of silver earrings I was cleaning for a wedding because I missed this distinction (they turned black). Especially because the dishwasher detergent contained bleach. WHOOPS.

We bought a parsley plant when we were at the Home Depot. Didn’t realize when we got it that it needed a pot. So it looks like this.

I’m sure there are many more I’m forgetting, but the final one, fortunately for me and unfortunately for you, doesn’t have a photo. The moral of the story is that in this case, using dish detergent, heck, even dishwasher detergent, would’ve been better.

I was cooking dinner and chopping jalapeños. I was picking out the seeds and membranes with my hands, la-tee-da. Everything was peachy as I turned to tend to something on the stove. My right eye itched a little, so I gently rubbed it.

FIRE. MY EYE WAS ON FIRE. I basically Maced myself. While I was screaming and dancing around the kitchen, Kane frantically thought hot oil splashed in my eye and blinded it. Soon my head was in the kitchen sink, face drenched, but water was not helping.

“Milk!” Kane yells and suddenly I’m pouring it from an ancient “Sweet Home Kappa Gamma” plastic cup into my eyeball, and all I can see is white. Does milk cause blindness? MORE WATER!

The end result, thankfully, did not result in blindness. Just a fire-engine red eyeball, water and mucus streaming from every facial orifice and several creepy black streaks down my cheeks from eye makeup. Dreamy!

So like I said, hand-washing with any kind of detergent would’ve prevented this mishap… or simply nixing the jalapeños. Maybe next time I’ll just stick with red pepper flakes. Or reservations.

[lindsayruebens]

An employment status update

Right around my birthday – mid-December – I was feeling a bit dejected. More like really dejected. With the exception of a few freelance things here and there, I had, in the six months since moving to Delaware, zero luck finding a job.

I decided to answer an email from a young woman reaching out to people in a local Meetup group. She said a friend was seeking someone with a communications background for a marketing position and asked for resumes to pass along.

About a half hour after I sent my information, she called me. I’m secretly ecstatic.

The request for resumes wasn’t really for a friend, she says— she was searching for applicants herself.  The position is for a window company, and it’s one of the most important jobs because you’d be the face of the company, she says. I’m compelled to mention here that she sounds about my age, probably younger. With a very high-pitched, squeaky voice.

First, let me ask you about yourself, she says. I see you’re from North Carolina. (Yes.) How was that?

Umm, what?

She goes on to ask other important questions, like if I had been to festivals before and what I learned from my time in Dallas, the place I interned for a summer in 2011.

Finally: Do you have a car? Because the job requires 25 percent travel.

What, precisely, that job entailed was tricky for her to properly divulge, and I could hear a man coaching her in the background. What I eventually gathered was that I’d have to travel 100 percent of the time to housing and construction expos in Delaware, New Jersey and Pennsylvania, where I’d sit at the window company’s booth and entice people to make consulting appointments. She refused to tell me what the salary was, except that I’d be paid well, and that the company gave excellent bonuses.

So you mean it’s by commission?

There was a pause. I could just see the man sitting next to her shaking his head vigorously at mention of the “c” word.

No, no, it’s not that at all, we offer bonuses. Anyway, we think you’re well-qualified with your journalism background, and we’d love for you to start as soon as possible.

She actually used the word “desperate” in describing their need to fill the position.

My ecstatic feeling had mostly dissolved, but I couldn’t bring myself to immediately say no. I thanked her and told her I’d call her back.

Then I came to my senses. I called back the next day and went straight to her voicemail, where she identified herself as a Mary Kay representative.

I clearly dodged a bullet there, and a few weeks later, was lucky enough to make a connection with a Tar Heel (and funny enough, Charlotte Catholic) alum, whose contacts most auspiciously lined me up with the two jobs I currently have.

I remained in the journalism-ish field with a position writing for the Penn Law Journal, the school’s alumni magazine, and also as an editor and contributor for a startup community news site called Town Square Delaware.

One publication’s been around a long time, the other is just getting off its feet and figuring out new ideas and approaches. Both are exciting. And, I’m pleased to say, I enjoy them a lot more than I would selling windows.