Amy, me, Hannah and Sam (Leen is both camera-shy AND a photographer). The sofa was such that it sloped in toward the middle, resulting in awkward inadvertent snuggling. Hannah has wisely chosen to use the pillows to keep Sam away. ;-)

Three days later — this past Sunday — I was speeding across Indiana with my friend Hannah, heading toward Ohio and our good friends Sam and Leen, whom neither of us had seen for nearly six years.

I didn’t think it was going to work. My Phoenix friend Alex was in Chicago Saturday, and I’d been looking forward to hanging out with him. Neither Greyhound nor Amtrak had available routes at decent times scheduled between Chicago and…well, and anywhere. I tried Indianapolis, where Hannah had said she could pick me up. I tried Fort Wayne. I tried Muncie, Warsaw, and Cincinnati. Nothing.

And then someone suggested I try Megabus. Lo and behold, one lone route could work. I could leave late Saturday afternoon — thereby getting to spend most of the day with Alex & co. — and return late Sunday evening.

The race was on.

The whole trip is a blur now. I hung out with my Phoenix friends for several hours, and was struck by how quickly I’d “gone native.” The 35-degree day was sunny and brisk in my estimation. My companions spent the afternoon with their scarves around their noses and continually commented on which extremities had frozen off. (Granted, they said it was 70 in Scottsdale when they left…) We walked around Navy Pier and Downtown, I showed them where to get deep-dish pizza, and then I ran to catch the bus back to my apartment. Grabbed my luggage, ran back to the bus stop, and arrived just in time to grab a seat on top level of the double-decker coach to Indy.

We pulled into Indianapolis around 10 p.m. As I got off the bus, I was overwhelmed by the strangeness of the city. I had no bearings, I didn’t know which direction Hannah would come from, and I had no idea what was near me. But a few minutes later, I was in Hannah’s car helping her navigate. Turns out she was almost just as lost as I. We took a left turn to the highway and ended up in a very creepy driveway that we swore could have been home to a maniac with a chainsaw. We kept missing turn offs because we were talking. We got turned around on the side streets near Hannah’s college campus, where I crashed for the evening.

Sleep is for the weak, however, and we were up bright and early to go see Hannah’s boyfriend sing at church. (Good lord, that boy has a voice!) It was a Lutheran church, which I had never been to one of. It was communion Sunday, too, which proved interesting. The congregation of about fifty people invited us to take communion with them. Now, keep in mind that I’ve been a Christian my entire life and have taken communion since I can remember. You pass the plate of crackers, the array of grape juice, drink and eat, done. Not so here. Members of the congregation gathered around the altar, kneeled, and were passed the sacraments — which included actual red wine instead of grape juice. I very nearly gagged (I can’t stand red wine and certainly was not expecting it).

With a blood alcohol level of something like .00000008%, Hannah got behind the wheel and sped us off across Indiana and into Ohio. Along the way, we had some deep conversations and prank-texted another friend (because we are actually twelve-year-olds), discussed religious stereotyping and listened to the Book of Mormon soundtrack (today I have had, stuck in my head, “I aaaam a Mormoooon!” which is not the sort of thing one wants to go around singing out loud even if one is a Mormon), belted out random Weebls songs, tried three times to get into vehicles that were not actually ours, got lost on mile 118 of a 120-mile trip, and finally, finally, pulled up to a little house in Monroe, Ohio.

There were Sam and Leen (and another friend, Amy, whose house it was). There were many hugs and a lot of laughter. Sam and Leen, who are New Hampshire-ites, were there sealing up final loose ends for what will, with any luck, be the adoption of their first child. It’s incredible to think about how long we’ve all been friends, especially considering all of us met each other online. Yes, it sounds creepy. No, it really isn’t. I’ve known these people for nearly half of my life now. They’ve been there for me through high school, college, my first boyfriend and my first breakup. Through moving for the first, second, third times. Sam, who is about eight years older than I, coached me through my first real programming of any kind. Leen shares my obsession with horses. They’ve both been Christian role models, great advice-givers, silly-story tellers, and just generally friends of the best kind. In return, I’ve been lucky enough to share some of their moments, big and small.

For three hours, we talked and made silly jokes and reminisced. There is no way I can recount the conversations in a way that makes sense. That is how fantastic they were.

Then Sam and Leen left to catch their flight, and Hannah and I turned back around to head for Indianapolis. I boarded a bus back to Chicago at 9 p.m., fully intending to work on my lightning talk for an upcoming conference. Instead, I watched Wrath of Khan. I have no regrets.

I finally got home just after midnight. Nearly fifteen hours of travel for a three-hour visit.

It was worth every second. I am so glad to be at a point in my life when I can take a weekend to spend having last-minute adventures with friends — and so grateful to have crazy, wonderful people like that in my life.

Originally, I was going to make split pea soup, but, to be honest, split pea soup is kind of boring. And I didn’t quite have enough split peas to make a whole batch. So I improvised and added some black beans to the mix. This had two effects: one, it gave my mushy split peas more texture, and two, it made what looked like a pot of mud (or something worse). But one bite of this mess made it clear that the shabby presentation belied the flavor.

Coyote Ugly Soup

1 cup of black beans (I used “black turtle” beans)
1 cup split peas
1/2 loop good Spanish chorizo
1 Tbs. bouillon paste, or one bouillon cube
3 1/2 c. water
3 cloves garlic
2 tsp. chili powder
1 tsp. salt
Sprinkle of allspice
1 tsp. Mexican oregano

Put the black beans and two cups of water in a slow cooker. Peel the casing off of the chorizo and chop it into small bits. Add it to the beans and cook on high for an hour.

After an hour, add the split peas, boullion and another cup and a half of water. Chop the garlic and add it, the salt and the chili powder. Cook for about an hour and a half, or until the peas start to fall apart.

Add the oregano and allspice and cook for another 20 minutes.

Protip: Make some sriracha peanut butter cookies for dessert. Twice the spice is nice.

There aren't really any words for this.

The answer was, of course, “yes.” Because who could pass up something so…odd?

A few hours later I was traipsing around somewhere in downtown Chicago with my boss, who was hell-bent on making it to the grand opening of a new butcher shop-slash-lunch joint at which one of his good friends is head chef (and butcher). I had no idea where the hell I was, though my boss did his best to insert some Chicago knowledge into my fuddled head.

And then we crossed a bridge, and he stopped.

“That’s one of my favorite views of the city,” he said.

It was gorgeous indeed. An old drawbridge was cranked up to one side, permanently leaning out over the river. On the other side, a set of rooftops almost (but not quite) paralleled it. Half a mile down the river, the lights of downtown bounced off the dusky twilight water. It was almost quaint, which seemed laughable here in the heart of Chicago.

And then we were off again, through the West Loop and the restaurant district, while Brian told me about the industry that was formerly here, how this part of town smelled strongly of chocolate in the mornings because there was a factory here, that butchery was central to Chicago’s history.

We squeaked into the butcher shop fifteen minutes before closing time. Never have I seen meat treated with so much love. A sampling of something resembling prosciutto was handed to me on a piece of white paper. Sliced thin enough to see through, it was delicate and smoky. I bought a loop of chorizo, which I plan to make into something delicious this weekend.

My boss asked how I was getting home. I rattled off a bus number and made my way to the stop. I thought on the ride home how different I am from the girl who moved from Fresno to Phoenix three years ago. That girl didn’t even visit the farmers market three blocks away from her for about nine months. She wouldn’t have felt comfortable going on such an adventure, and as a result she would have missed out on a lot. Part of that was due to the pressures of grad school, but part of it, too, was learning how to not let my introverted self get in the way of having new experiences and meeting people. After moving so many times in the last few years, I feel like I’ve finally started to develop a bag of tricks for making a new place feel like home. I share them now with you (and welcome your suggestions):

1. Be okay with being awkward. This has got to be your ground rule. Eventually, it will get less awkward — but trying to pretend it isn’t will only make things worse.
2. Go places. Just go. Just go and do. Ride the train to nowhere (just make sure it’s safe first). Go see a play. Go to the museum. Yes, it will be awkward by yourself (see point #1). Some of my favorites are craft fairs and farmer’s markets. The vendors at these are often only too happy to talk about their work, and sometimes you’ll end up pulling other shoppers into the conversation, too.
3. Go to social events. Meetup groups are great for this. Church is great for this. There are often other new folk, and if there aren’t, the regulars are often more than happy to see a new person interested in what they’re doing.
4. Get there early. If it’s an event (for me, church) with a set start time, get there fifteen minutes early. Grab a cup of coffee. I often just end up standing awkwardly in the corner, but sometimes I have a good conversation out of it. Offer to bring snacks, if it’s that kind of group. If it’s the sort of recurring event that needs set up (chairs, A/V equipment), help. That is the single best way I’ve found to meet people. Speaking of which…
5. Volunteer. I’m biased toward the Scouts in low-income areas, where leaders will welcome the extra help and you can often make a difference to kids who need it, without the kind of commitment that programs like Big Brother, Big Sister require. This is also my trick for making a new church feel like home. Because I’m an introvert, I do NOT enjoy approaching people and introducing myself just for idle chatter. But if I have a job, I can introduce myself because I need someone to pass me a cable or show me where the kitchen is. And it gives me something else to focus on besides how awkward I am.
6. Show your personality. I wear cowboy boots a lot, just out of habit. It’s ridiculous how often people comment on them out here. Or on my “OMG PWNIES” ThinkGeek bag. Or my favorite brightly colored, fair trade shawl. Or my pink houndstooth sneakers. Have flair, look interesting, and it will give someone else a reason to strike up a conversation with you.
7. Don’t turn down opportunities to go new places, even if it sounds odd. Even if you don’t meet someone new there, your life will be richer for it. I’ve been to pastors conferences, codeathons, horse shows, rodeos, Ethiopian restaurants, diners, dive bars, cupcake trucks, and, yes, butcher shops with beautiful meat.

My ill-fated apple pie. The low point of my baking career. (Okay, maybe that was the over-tequilaed margarita cupcakes. Those were pretty awful.)

It started out with Mom’s pumpkin chocolate chip cookies (yum). Since then, my apricot kolache and Mom’s gingerbread have gotten rave reviews.

And then there was the apple pie. It LOOKED beautiful. I lovingly arranged the apples in the traditional spiral. The filling was even tasty. But the crust… well, I should have known something was off when a recipe that was supposed to make a top and bottom crust only made a bottom crust. The crust could have rivaled a proud Chicago deep-dish pizza. This is what happens when you improvise rolling pins. It was a very sad day for pies.

I have since acquired a proper rolling pin (silicone-covered, which helps prevent sticking) and developed a new, better technique. I’ve got a craving for blueberry pie, but several of my foodier friends tell me that I need to wait for “blueberry season.” I’m rather embarrassed to admit that I didn’t know there was such a thing as blueberry season! ‘Twas a bit of a blow to my earthgrown pride, which can talk at length about how farmers save their oranges when the temperature is below freezing or what the best variety of strawberry is.

“Michigan blueberries,” my boss told me, “will change your perspective on blueberries.”

My rolling pin and I await with great excitement. Until then, maybe I’ll make some oatmeal rum-raising cookies, or perhaps some chocolate cocoanut cake…

Team lunch at Manny's, in which we all look ridiculous. (Photo courtesy Brian Boyer, by which I mean I lifted it without permission from his Twitter account.)

The team went to a place called Manny’s today to have a celebratory lunch. (Or, at least, celebrating was our excuse for going there, after the fact.) It’s a Chicago tradition, they told me. It reminded me of the Old Pantry in LA. We all had pastrami sandwiches, which were basically a plate of meat with a slice of rye bread for decoration. You certainly couldn’t pick it up. On the side was what seemed like an entire pickled cucumber and a potato pancake. I ate until I was stuffed, and you still couldn’t actually see any of my plate underneath all the food that was still on it.

Wonder if my benefits include needing to buy jeans from eating with my coworkers? ;-)

I was browsing through the old records, explaining that I had an idle thought that I might decorate with some of the cooler covers because I loved the art. I came across this one, which seemed quaint at first glance. Then we noticed the odd script of “BRING ME EDELWEISS!” below the image. A circle proclaiming, “When you PLAY IT, SAY IT!” adorned the right-hand corner. We later learned that this was a sticker targeted at getting DJs to say the name of the album on-air, but at the time, it seemed like a demand to say the lyrics with the song when you played the album yourself.

Then we flipped it over. I only wish I could find a picture of the back cover. Stretched and distorted video stills of a pink cow and a midget, beer maidens with tattoos on their chests, and men jumping off of cliffs alongside text about the sad quest of lovers for the edelweiss flower. (It caused many to meet their makers and left young women sad and alone, proclaimed the randomly bolded words.)

We must have spent a solid ten minutes laughing at this cover.

Then we went home and looked it up, wondering if we could find anything out about this seemingly obscure bit of music.

We found it on YouTube. And there are no words.

Hannah and I had many excellent, sometimes deep, conversations, about our faith, relationships, the arts, our lives’ challenges and joys. But blatant ABBA ripoffs… angry edelweiss rappers… resampled yodeling… men in lederhosen taking turns slapping each other…this — THIS is the stuff friends bond over.

A church near my house displays icicles, the stuff of legend.

“The Weather Channel says it feels like minus four there,” wrote Mom helpfully in an email to me today. “Do you have plenty of supplies in case you get snowed in? You know, like 20 cans of tuna, 5 jars of mayonnaise, 60 gallons of water, 40 pounds of turkey jerky?”

Or you’ll get the messages complaining about how cold it is there. In California. Where it might, on a rare occasion, freeze.

Meanwhile, I’m watching the harbor outside my window become a solid sheet of ice.

I feel like a freshman in college again, figuring out how to do simple things that everyone around me has already mastered. Boots? How do I wear boots? Do I wear them all day at the office? (Some helpful people have told me that I am supposed to carry shoes to change into in my bag. This is a bizarre notion, and one that disturbs my germophobic self.) What about transit? Can I take the bus when there are 8 inches of snow on the ground? How do I dress? How many layers is too many? (My default mode is to WEAR ALL THE CLOTHES.) *Do* I need 60 gallons of emergency water? (No, but I’ve been advised that stocking up on toilet paper is a good idea.)

But it’s FUN. It’s different. It’s a challenge. An adventure, as my father likes to say.

Which might be why I let myself take a dare — I never turn down a dare — to go stand outside in six degrees in a tank top and shorts this evening.

Chicago, I have never appreciated hot cocoa so much.

Coffee with Mom on New Year's Day. One of the moments I'm glad I have time to soak in now, without worrying about meeting the next deadline.

I’ve always sort of looked down on people who make New Year’s resolutions. I’ve never understood why resolutions should be the sort of thing made only once a year, or why it’s okay to put off doing something you know you should be doing, like getting healthier. I’m a person of action.

That said, this year I have one resolution and a list of things I want to accomplish. (Suddenly the year-end introspection makes a little bit of sense.)

My resolution isn’t to exercise more or pray more or spend less, although it is. It is simple: make time for what matters in the long run and cut, as much as possible, what doesn’t.

“Simple,” I said. And yet so very difficult. I’ve gotten so entrenched in my routine of running as fast as I can for as long as I can that stopping to breathe — important! — is sometimes hard to sell to myself.

My list of things I’d like to do this year reflects my resolution:

• Sleep earlier, rise earlier
• Find a group to volunteer with
• Draw more
• Do music often
• Run a 5K
• Visit home often
• Make a stronger effort to keep in touch with friends via letters and calls
• Do a data visualization that tells a story that I think is important
• Find a place to ride (horses)
• Go sailing at least once
• Hike another section of the John Muir Trail with Dad
• Make at least one silly video

Breathe. Recover. 2011, while full of many wonderful things, put me through the ringer in so more ways than I thought possible. I moved six times, through three time zones and four states. I’ve learned how to manuever public transit. I’ve started learning how to deal with prediabetes. I endured the sleeplessness and caffeine addiction that was necessary to finish grad school. I’ve had my heart twisted and bruised and healed and filled to overflowing. I’ve been to a best friend’s wedding and gotten news that my childhood neighbor has terminal brain cancer. I’ve learned old loves have new loves, I’ve made new friends, I’ve lost old friends. I’ve gotten lost in strange places and been scared and alone but too stubborn to let those emotions determine my actions.

I’ve been told “you seem to blossom wherever you’re planted.” Learning to “blossom wherever” — which is really learning how to look at uncertainty as adventure, trusting that God has you where He has you for a reason — is the great lesson that 2011 taught me.

That lesson came with some cruft. In 2012, my goal is to cut away the self-centeredness and tunnel vision I acquired in the interest of survival. (Yes, it sounds a bit melodramatic. But it’s rather true.) Instead of always looking down the road at what’s next and telling myself things will be different as soon as I get over the next hurdle, I need to enjoy the moment for what it holds. I need to make sure those moments are full of the things that really matter, because given half a chance they will sneak away from me. I need to let things go if they don’t happen on schedule, as planned.

And so I want to make 2012 the year of Things That Really Matter: friends and family, reaching out to help others, doing something for no other reason than that it is delightful and restorative. It feels good to be in a position, finally, where I can have those priorities.

Brian flies Trib Apps' new drone FOR GREAT JOURNALISM. (And y'all wonder why I love my job so much.)

“…one white-breasted nuthatch, 12 chickens, 17 bluejays…” (I have no idea what this story was about.)

“It’s a picture of me surrounded by three babes in 1976.” — crotchety reporter

“My face is dark, but my legs were always my best feature anyway.” — One of the “three babes,” looking at the above photo

“He’s the kind of guy who could beat up a unicorn with a sack full of rainbows.”

“I wish I could grow a beard on my nose.” — a coworker with his face half-buried in a scarf, when I pointed out his chin was beard-insulated

“I’m saving journalism! Shut up, Andy Boyle!” — an impersonation of me

During a discussion of the idea that some animals might be smarter than humans:
“Have you ever read Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy?”
“No…”
“There’s a part in which the dolphins leave earth because they know it’s going to be destroyed. They leave a message that says, ‘So long and thanks for all the fish.’”
“…the Miami Dolphins?”

“Hey, Scott, are you doing Playboy?” (Covering the story about Playboy moving its HQ to LA from Chicago.)

Answering a cell phone: “Hello, Chicago Tribune newsroom, home of your husband! If you would like a husband tonight, press one now!” *beep from the other end of the phone* “I think that was a one! I’m on my way now!”

“I think I’m going to have a stomachache from all the hipsterness in this drink.” (After my team went to a snooty coffee place for our afternoon break instead of our regular place.)

“I think you could reassure me about nearly anything with ‘we’ll play with helicopters.’” (My boss got a new drone and issued an open invitation to come play.)

Screw you, Today's Chicago Man.

I’m not really a fan of Monroe’s. She led a troubled life, representing many negative things, and I have a difficult time with the glorification of that. But there’s one thing you can say about Marilyn:

She was a woman.

Sure, she was a sex kitten. But there is nothing girlish about her. She stands memorialized in her size 8, curvy glory outside the Trib. And if you’ve seen her on the screen, you’ve seen how she can own the stage. It is hers when she demands it.

I recently saw a TEDTalk (which I have searched for again fruitlessly) about how women do themselves a disservice when they call themselves girls. Girls aren’t threatening or powerful in any way, the speaker said. Women, on the other hand, take responsibility for things by nature of their maturity.

I really wish I could find the talk, because it was synced well with images of women, doe-eyed and ponytailed, dressed up in clothing that was too young for them, in bodies that were too skinny for them. And as these images went by, the speaker talked about women in the workforce and the very real double-standard that guys can just be guys, but women can’t be girls if they want to be taken seriously.

I’ve struggled with this lately, physically and mentally. As a college athlete, my muscle-to-fat ratio actually brought me in as underweight. As I worked through the stresses of grad school, I lost muscle, but I didn’t gain any weight. Because of my odd schedules throughout college, I developed the bad habit of eating whenever I had the time, whether I was hungry or not, because I never knew when my next meal would be.

This year, as my life has gradually settled into less frenetic patterns, I’ve noticed odd things happening. Jeans that I had left behind as too large became skin-tight. Bras were too small. A form-fitting dress revealed bulges that at another time would have been my six-pack. The backs of my arms developed these weird jiggly bits.

For someone who’s been skinny all her life, this set me into a near-panic. I’m getting fat.

Except I’m not. I’m about eight pounds heavier now than I was in grad school (and it’s all in my hips). Healthy women come in many shapes. Some of them are skinny. Some of them aren’t. While I’ve taken steps to become healthier, such as going to the gym a few times a week and re-training myself about how and when to eat, I’ve (almost) made peace with the fact that I’ll never look like I once did.

So I’ve got an ass now, and the dark circles under my eyes don’t go away no matter how much sleep I get. You know what? That’s OK. I’m 26. There’s more to me than being pretty. I gotta age at some point, and life is getting better with time even if my thighs aren’t. Girls are focused on trivial pursuits like appearance. Women might like to look nice, but they’re too busy pursuing things that actually matter to let trivialities consume them.