map cork board + mini polaroids + my lonely bar

Even though I’m not a huge drinker, I’ve always wanted to have a fun bar in my house. And… I think I might finally have one.  

However, 98% of the people I know are pregnant. It looks like I’ll be drinking rose lemonade champagne cocktails and gazing at my ingenious map project all by myself. 

(By ingenious, I mean that I copied some DIY instructions, and then modified a second set of DIY instructions and then combined them for MAXIMUM ORIGINAL CRAFTINESS.)

By the way, this map represents the version of the United States where Maine seceded. Or got broken off in our move, same thing. Hawaii and Alaska aren’t accounted for, either.

The map DIY, an old one from Design Sponge, can be found here. In Louisiana, we used it to track where Y got residency interviews. 

The polaroid template can be found here. (Technically, the instructions are for making polaroid magnets).

Obviously, the polaroid pictures are pictures of us in [roughly] the place they are pinned. 

 This one is my favorite. How could it not be?


this is residency: waffles & rectums

On Y’s most recent morning off, he was adamant about making me waffles.

It was a beautiful morning. There was nutella on the table. The waffles were warm.

And then Y opened his mouth.

Tip: don’t let residents speak during meals. It never ends well. If you’ve learned anything from this blog, I hope it’s that. (example a, b, , d)

 “Your rectum is amazing.”

Imagine me choking on a mouthful of nutella. “What?!”

“I mean, not yours. Just in general. Rectums are amazing.”

I did the only thing I know to do in situations like these. I blinked.

“Think about it. A small piece of smooth muscle and nerve endings can distinguish between liquid, gas and solids.”


“It can let only gas through when there are solids present. It’s so sophisticated.”

I googled it, guys. This is the only time, ever, when sophisticated has been used to describe rectum.

And to think it all happened on my kitchen table. Over my waffles. 

crying over roadkill

I have a problem. Three, actually.

1. There are a lot of cars here. 

2. There are a lot of deer here. 

{this photo is actually from tennessee in 2008. i had to use an old image because in case you haven’t already figured it out, spoiler alert, all of the deer in this story are DEAD.}

3. I get way too attached to animals, even if the only time I’ve ever seen them is when they’re lying on the side of the road, no longer of this world. Which happens far more frequently in Minneapolis than it does anywhere else I’ve lived.

This, admittedly, has led to some tearing up on my way to work at least two times. 

But the other day, on my way to Target, there was some full on crying going on. 

Because first I saw a dead deer on the side of the interstate. And then, just as I was willing myself not to cry and telling myself the deer was probably killed instantly and without pain, Sarah McLachlan’s “ALL OF THESE PUPPIES WILL DIE” came on the radio. At least I think that’s what it’s called. 

Tears. They happened.

No enthusiastic Target lady could cheer me up that day. The gold nail polish, apple caramel swirl cinnamon toast, and chunky sweater certainly helped, though. 

Not that I went to Target for any of those things. 

minnesota state fair: people watching

They say that the best part of the Minnesota State Fair is the food and the people watching. To be honest, our first few hours at the fair I was too busy enjoying the food to notice the people.

But then I think I had a people watching moment.

Between our milkshake and our fried green tomatoes, we came across the Minnesota Public Radio booth, where the station was broadcasting live. 

A young girl was singing a show tune. You should probably press play to get the full effect of the moment.

Y and I stopped for a minute to listen. The girl was good, although at the time we had no idea what she was singing. We noticed a man who must have been her father recording her, lip syncing every single word. He was definitely her biggest fan. It was a sweet moment.

And then this guy ambled around the corner. 

He may or may not have gotten lost looking for the corn dog stand. 

I’ve never seen someone look so confused. He gawked at the MPR listeners, as if he was watching a group of erudite gorillas at the zoo. 

He didn’t stay long. If you can believe it, showtunes must not have been the fair experience he was looking for.

my bachelorette party

Meet Lauren.

Lauren is always up for an impromptu party — especially one where fascinators are required. She always reads the book at book club — especially if it’s written by a blogger.  My one regret in my too-short time living in the same city as Lauren is that I didn’t beg her to teach me how to put on makeup. Her engagement story involved Tebow-ing and I think that’s just amazing. 


Lauren just got home from her bachelorette bash, and while she recovers, she asked me to post on her blog about my own bachelorette party. Spoiler alert, it involves a museum. I never claimed to be the most exciting person on the planet. 

While I was writing the post, I started getting all wedding nostalgic. It was a magical time, before Y talked about disgusting bodily functions over brunch, and Ike was just a wee puppy, and people liked us enough to give us kitchen appliances. 

So — after you check out Lauren’s sweet blog — here are some pictures to help me overcome my mild case of nostalgia:

And one from our honeymoon in Ireland, for good measure:

this is residency: carrying leeches in my purse

When Y started residency, I committed to a few things: keeping the house clean so he wouldn’t feel stressed the precious moments he was at home (failed), having dinner waiting for him after a long day (failed), and carrying around leeches in my purse (succeeded!).

After he realized that hanging out with Ike and me wasn’t relaxing enough — I beg to differ, the soothing high-pitched tones of WHOSTHECUTESTPUPPYINTHEWORLD are quite relaxing — Y decided he needed a hobby. He picked fishing. Ike and I were not invited.

When a resident decides on a Sunday evening that he wants to go fishing on his next day off (in this case, a Wednesday), he has to plan carefully. On Tuesday, he had a 1 hour window of opportunity when he got off work before every other business closed for the day. In that sliver of time, he bought a fishing pole and whatever other accessories fishing requires — except for bait. 

That was when he turned to me with resident eyes (which are similar to puppy dog eyes except that I don’t have to pick gunk out of them).

“Will you pick up bait tomorrow on your lunch break?”

Sure, I said. This is how I imagined the errand would go: I would buy a can of worms (what other container was I supposed to assume worms come in?), throw it in my car and head back to work.

It was more difficult than that.

There happens to be a bait store not far from my work. When I told the cashier where Y would be fishing, he nodded knowingly. “You need leeches.” 

Just the word leeches made me want to vomit, but I managed to keep it together and accept the two most disgusting plastic tupperware containers to ever exist. As I walked out, I was reminded to keep the containers refrigerated or their contents would “turn to mush”.

I gagged silently. 

So much for forgetting about the bait in my car. I started hatching a plan to secretly store leeches in my work refrigerator. Luckily, the cashier at the bait store had put my disgusting purchase in a white paper bag that looked a lot like a lunch.

(Speaking of lunch, I needed to pick mine up. Which involved leaving my car in the hot sun for several minutes. Terrified of leech mush, I reluctantly put the white bag of disgust in my purse while I ran into the grocery store, sneaking a peek every few seconds, and gagging as I felt everything slosh around in my purse. I’m positive I looked like a shoplifter with morning sickness.)

When I got back to work, my heart was pounding as I prepared to act on my top secret mission. I didn’t know if leeches smelled. If they could escape from their tupperware. If they made noise. I had only been working at my job for a few weeks, and I didn’t feel comfortable enough to ask the forward question Can I store leeches in the refrigerator?

I stuffed my little pets into the back of the fridge, behind a 2 year old jar of peanut butter, and proceeded to check on them every 15 minutes. On check-in number, oh I don’t know, 12 I noticed that the bottom of my white bag was soaked through. 

THE LEECHES HAVE OPENED THE TUPPERWARE, I instantly thought. I peeked into the bag and, for the first time, actually looked at the leeches (which were still safe in their plastic container).

And that was how I found myself, on my 15th day of work, sitting on the communal kitchen floor, gagging and wondering what my life was coming to.

PS. Y has been fishing for several weeks, and the only thing he’s caught is this old fishing pole.

PPS. I went fishing once, for an hour, and caught 20 fish.