Hi, you shouldn’t be a Professor

It’s been nearly a month since I finished my first full year back at school, and I’m still irked to the core about one of my professors.  Part of me wants to forget about him and move on, and the other wants to write incessant letters and e-mails to the Dean of Students until he is released from his duties as Professor.

This class was an intro class for document design and was based heavily (and I mean every single thing we did) on Adobe InDesign.  If you don’t know anything or much about this program, it would likely be similar to sitting in a space ship and trying to figure out how to fly it.  Or reading Harry Potter in Italian.  It’s complicated and complex for beginners.  I would say it’s about twice as complicated and complex for Writing Majors who have NO interest or minute understanding of computers or technology.  Ahem, 98% of my class.

There were a few Advertising and PR kids who were already well versed with this program, and they quickly adopted the status of teachers pet.  Then there were the rest of us who simply tried to keep our grades above failing.

His version of “teaching” us this program was to give us YouTube videos to watch.  I basically stared cross-eyed at the screen for each of those videos and when the time came to apply it to our projects, they didn’t match up.

Ah, the projects.  Yes, three projects, all jam packed into the last few weeks of the semester, and these were the only grades that mattered.  So if you had no idea what you’re doing with the first project, or if he didn’t think your design was good enough – TOO BAD.  His feedback was anything but helpful and when one student asked for further advice he would say things like, “Maybe you should review the assignment sheet.” She e-mailed our class in desperation for advice, clearly, she had read the assignment sheets over and over. Don’t even bother asking questions in class, because that response will be defensive and mocking, making you feel like an idiot for even asking.

I’m livid because I see what I pay him per class, and any lack of success should reflect poorly on him as well.  I passed the class, but I feel like I could have learned far more had he known how to teach the subject matter.  The problem is that it’s not his first job.  Teaching college students is extra cash for him, and it’s clear we are not his priority.  I know my other classmates were frustrated as well (or those of us who had no prior training with InDesign).  We all felt loss and timid to ask questions.

I don’t like seeing our careless professors get away with it.  College is insanely expensive, but how are we supposed to reach graduation if we don’t have professors who want to see us succeed?   That’s fine for them to expect a lot from us, that I understand, but if they can’t back it up with being able to explain and teach without simply sending us to YouTube, I’m over you, and I’ll take that couple grand back also.

Any of you college kids feel my pain?

Angry about this, but secretly super happy with life,



I’m not a Hipster.

For a good portion of my adult life I’ve thought I was a hippie/hipster.




a person, especially of the late 1960s, who rejected establishedinstitutions and values and sought spontaneity, direct personalrelations expressing loveand expanded consciousness, often expressed externally in the wearing of casual, folksy clothing and ofbeads, headbands, used garments, etc.





noun Slang.


a person who is hip.
a person, especially during the 1950s, characterized by aparticularly strong sense of alienation from most established social activities and relationships.


It was about the time when my high school sweetheart and I broke up and I realized I had no idea who Hannah was without him.  I wanted to be different from the Abercrombie-clad girl that I was at that time, so naturally, I decided that I was a hippie.  In reality I was simply a funny poser, since I had no idea what this entailed or what it meant, but in my mind I was a hippie.  I began to smoke a tobacco pipe.  I went 4 solid months without ever wearing shoes. (Um, not even in bars.  I know.)  I wore long skirts and knitted caps in the middle of summer that I called “floppy knittas” and drank only sophisticated drinks like boxed wine.  I got big chunky glasses and began painting (horribly).  I got my nose pierced and wore a giant hoop in it.  I got a tattoo and looked into dreadlocks for my hair…because that’s what hippies do.

Some of you know this is true of me.  Some of you think I’m joking.


feet. bare. tattoo. anklet. Soooooooo artsy. (Side note: those jeans are from Express…true poser)


long skirt, floppy knitta.


The nose ring.  You guys, I KNOW.

Surprisingly, it took a good 4 years or so to realize that I am not, in fact, a hippie/hipster.

Last night I fully accepted this reality.  I went to a bar to listen to a few bands at Pyramid Scheme in Grand Rapids.  It’s grungy and eclectic and has numerous arcade games.  It is a hipster bar, and if you are not of this mold, you stand out.  I once had my friend meet me there and she showed up in a neon pink t-shirt which only enhanced her bright blonde hair.  I was so embarrassed.  And now, months after the incident and knowing full well the atmosphere of this venue, I decided to wear a black peplum top with skinny jeans and cute sandals and a chunky gold necklace.  It wasn’t neon pink, but I did not fit in at the metal/rock/mosh-pit themed concert.

I did stand out, but that was okay with me.  I sipped my gin and tonic and swayed with the beat (okay totally off beat because I’m that white) and sincerely enjoyed each of the bands.  Side note: Mosh pits are a major white people thing.  We had to have invented it because anyone who can actually dance would have to prefer that over shoving each other around in a manic state.

Anyway.  Everyone was really into the first band, which happened to include one of Ryan’s friends as the drummer.  The lead singer was addressing the audience and thanking them when he announced, “This will be our last song for you tonight.”

I was expecting an uproar of encouragement for them to keep going.  Instead it was dead silent aside from me screaming at the top of my lungs, “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

If I didn’t stand out before, I surely stood out then, as every eye turned to stare at the peplum-donning girl with fresh blonde highlights freaking out.  (maybe not every eye, but Ryan says a good 70 people were laughing at me…I wouldn’t know because I was covering my eyes in embarrassment, though I heard the laughs.)

I’m okay with not being part of this crowd.  They’re stylish and sexy and always know the name of bands no one else has heard of.  They can pull off nose rings and tattoos and dread locks.  They’re freaking cool, man.

But I’m okay with just being me.  As I’ve transitioned out of my desire to be part of any particular societal brand, (whether that be hippie, professional, glamorous, etc.) I’ve also taken on a saying that one of my dear friends from Wyoming always said, “If people don’t like what they see, then they can look away.”

It’s true.  We don’t need to dress or act or be a certain way.  If you think I dress like a weirdo, guess what? I completely don’t care!  And if you think I act like a weirdo?  Well, you’d be totally right.  I’m entirely out of my mind.


I hope you’re okay with not fitting any certain mold, because you’re totally perfect as you.

Here’s to you, but also to me (don’t want to be picking favorites!)

Cheers 🙂


This weekend we are celebrating four of my coworkers who are getting married. The theme: ugly dress competition. (Four weddings and a funeral)

Hannah's Thirties

Image Per your (maybe not YOU specifically) request, here are some pictures of the dresscapade I went on.  However, to fully capture its epic-ness, I had to schedule a reshoot this morning after I rolled out of bed.  Thankfully, my sweet sister and my dear nephew had spent the night and were more than obligated, I mean willing, to help.  The above and below dress belonged to Rachel, the picture  includes really rad dance moves and a super old family photo poking through in the background.  Her first comment when I walked out was “Oh my gosh, isn’t mine the prettiest?” and followed by a more nostalgic, “Aww, I want to have my wedding day again.” Image   This is Bekah’s. And no, I couldn’t get it zipped.  She is the size of my left ankle.  I remember before her wedding she would have a cup of chili during the day so she…

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I am currently listening to the Frozen soundtrack for the 9,472nd time this week.  That’s right.  For the past week my sister has been staying with us along with my 5 week old nephew and my 1 1/2 year-old niece who is infatuated with Frozen, just like every other young human in the world.  My eyes pop open in the morning and I’m immediately singing “Do you want to build a snowman?” and twirling around as if I have magical powers to freeze things.  Disney, man, you win.

But this week was more than an unending musical.  This week I finished my first year back to school after a four year hiatus.  I gave myself a pat on the back because I’m proud.  I’m proud that I finally took the initiative to go back despite every apprehension.  Part of me feels really cool and accomplished.  But there are actually tons of people doing things that are so much cooler.  Like the people who are graduating this weekend with their undergrad or masters.  Or, hi, how about Meb Keflezighi who just won the Boston freaking Marathon at the age of 38.

Or my friend Jamie, an insanely gorgeous and adventurous beauty I met when I lived in Jackson, Wyoming.  She’s originally from New York, and her quick wit and raw honesty are evidence of this.  She will call you out if you’re being an idiot and stand behind everything she believes with sincere grit.  Jamie also goes on travel adventures that can make the Homebody of the Year want to get out and see the world.

Like back in 2012 when she decided to spend some time in Thailand.  And then extended her stay and traveled through Vietnam, Cambodia, and Laos.  We were all back in Jackson just waiting for her to return and then she would decide to stay longer…and longer….and longer.  She met people along the way with whom she traveled, and went on solo adventures as well.  She’s truly a badass.






Gaaah, I love to hate her (with love).

There’s also the time, in 2011, when she traveled to South America and did things like this:




Yes, sand boarding down the Huacachina dunes






biking a dangerous 13,123 feet downhill road (with oncoming traffic) in Peru



ziplining….with that setting. GAH.



Hiking Machu Picchu




Doing this



I mean, really.  Just stop.

During her South America trip she visited Uruguay, Peru, Ecuador, the Galapagos Islands, and Argentina.  Whoa.  During the past couple years she’s gone on some shorter trips to Honduras, Belize, and Guatemala.

Jamie isn’t a born world traveler.  It wasn’t until 2007 at the age of 27 that she went on her first solo trip to Costa Rica, just after spending her first summer out west in Jackson Hole.  It gives me hope that maybe my traveling days haven’t even started.  If I can head anywhere in the direction Jamie has gone, I’ll be a wildly happy girl.  As I was going back and forth with Jamie today on the phone, she also mentioned that after this summer she wants to buy a one way ticket to…somewhere.  She listed off a couple places, but for the sake of keeping you in the dark, not giving away all her secrets, and for the hope that she may get back to sharing her adventures through her own blog, I’m not going to tell you.  (JAMIE’S BLOG HERE)

There are things that change us, and I think travel is one of them.  The kind of travel where you get deep into the culture and be a little vulnerable.  The kind of travel where not everything is planned out.  Where maybe you get lost and come out with a really great story.  You can start it with “Ah, that reminds me of that time I got so lost in the middle of the jungle on Easter Island and the natives spit on me because I have red hair.” …..or something like that.

My grandparents didn’t start traveling until they were in their 60’s, and my grandma was skeptical.  After their first trip overseas, however, she was hooked.  It’s apparently the best drug out there.

I hope with all my heart that I don’t wait until I’m 60.  I hope with all my heart that you don’t either.

Do you have any truly awesome travel tales?  I’d love to hear/read them.

Also, if you are one of my readers outside of the U.S., I want to say THANK YOU for reading.  Let’s get in touch, let’s connect, let’s talk about each other’s cultures and hometowns.  Seriously.  And then maybe we can visit each other.

Lastly, thank you, Jamie, for being as awesome as you are (and for letting me use your photos).  I have a very special place in my heart that is just for you.

To our passports,



Why I Need Goals and Goals Need Me.

I won’t bring up taxes if you won’t, deal?


Instead let’s talk about goals.  They can be our greatest accomplishments in life and also our truest struggles.  

I’ve told you all about my friend Ryan, who writes a list of goals to accomplish every year.  Kind of like resolutions, but without the “this is what I want to change” and more “this is what I want to do.”  Right now, he’s cruising all over the U.S. in an RV building his business and living day to day, adventure to adventure.  

His goals on that list were more important than any money a 9-5 job could offer.  So he quit his 9-5 job.  He became an entrepreneur (a huge goal of his) and is currently in Utah, hiking in Moab and daring his fear of heights to get the best of him.  

Ryan and I aren’t super close, but his stories inspire me all the time, and I love giving a shout out to those who either directly or indirectly impact me.  So, Ryan, THANK YOU!

When it comes to my own list of goals, I want so badly to be able to do such daring things like Ryan.  But instead, especially lately, I’ve been putting so much pressure on myself to do all of the grown-up things 27-year-olds like me “should be doing” like updating my resume and looking for a 9-5 job/career, saving for a house, getting approved for a home loan, fixing and cleaning my car, and totally not doing my taxes because we said we wouldn’t talk about them.

But then I sit down and see my List of Goals that I wrote 4 months ago sitting wrinkled and dusty on my nightstand and wonder how I could let them become so neglected?    

oh sure I’ve crossed a few off my list like going to Costa Rica and zip-lining through the jungle and getting good grades in school…but there are so many more that I’ve set aside and forgotten about, and now I’m craving that warm fuzzy feeling of accomplishing something you’ve wanted for so long.

For instance, a couple from my list:

  • take a road trip
  • save $______
  • become a morning person
  • be a clean person
  • go skydiving
  • visit mountains
  • pay it forward
  • drive a stick shift 
  • travel across the ocean

All quite Earth-shattering, I know.

It’s easy to look around and wish for your life to be like this or that, so it’s no wonder I feel like I should be at a certain point or have more accomplished. 

For instance, I’m currently sitting in a dear friend’s house after spending the weekend here taking care of her dog while she and her husband are away for business/pleasure.  It’s a gorgeous home complete with crazy stuff like furniture and decorations, stuff I haven’t had to think or worry about in what seems like way too long.  And I could very easily get sad/depressed/angry at myself/steal all of their things, but what would be the point?  It won’t change my situation one bit (except for that hat that I’m stealing…it changes up my head wardrobe a little).  

What would change my situation, however, would be to keep getting after my goals.  Without purposefully accomplishing the small, specific goals on my list  ( i.e. save $_______) I will never reach any of the big ones (purchase that home on the street that starts with a T, fly across an ocean, etc.).

I’m happy I updated my resume, and cleaned my car, and signed away all my money to the government on time.  And I would still love to buy a house, but I’m not going to be complacent with that.  I’m not cool with letting my age or society tell me I have to be a certain way at a certain time.  There is no real set of rules for how to live your life other than the rules you set for yourself. 

So here’s to getting back to the List and always striving to be better than the day before, 


P.S. You could cross off another one today for me.  (ahhhh so suspenseful!)


Finding Home


Yesterday, April 1, marked two years since I’ve moved back to Michigan. It was also my mother’s birthday.

Two years ago I walked into the house I grew up in after driving 26 hours across the country to surprise my mom on her birthday. What a fun birthday surprise, right?

What she didn’t realize was that I also had my car packed full of all my junk to move back into her house (for what would turn into a two year visit).

This video is of that moment, caught in all its awkward splendor by my sister, Rachel (she and my Dad were “in the know”). I remember being terrified, shaking, wondering how she would react. I also remember that I was terrified and shaking for more than just that reason. (um, i’ll work on the video…not tech saavy)

I made the decision to move home pretty quickly, and I had no idea if my soul was ready to be plunked so suddenly back into the town I grew up in.

I made the decision to move out to Wyoming late in November, 2009, after many conversations with one of my best friends in the world, Betsy. She was already living out there, and had grown in so many ways – personally, spiritually, etc. I craved the same experience, and finally, I told her, “I’m coming out there.”

She was the only reason it came to fruition. She found the apartment, put down the deposit. She made every single plan, and in a very short time, because just over a month after I made the decision to pack up and go, I was on the road. January 3, 2010, and told myself I would never live in Michigan again.

I can’t imagine that now. I’m going to be very real with you for a minute: I was a part-time waitress at Applebees. I had saved up just over $500. I had no job waiting for me out there.

I think about it now and wonder, how the heck did I dare to do that?!

There is no way it would happen today. I can’t commit to purchasing a brand new computer, for goodness sake.

But it’s because Michigan no longer felt like home to me. I felt suffocated, branded, and judged by it. I felt like it accused me of not fitting in (and feeling like an outsider in your hometown isn’t fun). I also had this free-spirit-wanna-be-hippie-but-totally-not thing going on inside of me that was the most tumultuous roller coaster, and the only way I can describe it is that I was at a loss for an identity. Which makes perfect sense. Because if you don’t feel at home in yourself, how are you supposed to feel at home in your hometown?

But that brought on another issue: If you have no sense of who you are in one place, you are not guaranteed to find it in another.

I thought Wyoming would solve my problems. Small town, mountains in your backyard, how could that not fill your soul every day with answers to life?

Well, it doesn’t. There were times out west when I felt more detached, more lost, confused, anxious, and angry than I ever felt in Michigan. I know without a doubt that the emptiness I felt was as present as my physical self. If I thought leaving Michigan would only make things better, I quickly found out how wrong I was.

Okay, the point I’m trying to make/the blessing. (I know, I know, thank you God there is a good part, because seriously, super depressing here)

Things slowly began to heal inside of me. I thought I was so tough and so (eek, this is hard to write) right, (No seriously, I thought I was always right) when I actually had NO idea what was going on in my life or where I was going. If anyone asked me what I believed, what I thought was important, or even what my goals in life were, I had no answer. They would receive from me some confused babbling (trying to sound philosophical, probably). And seriously, when you don’t know this about yourself and then you realize it, you suddenly know deep in your core where you are really supposed to be; where “home” is for you then.  It’s whether or not you take the step to get there.

I packed everything, including anxieties and fears, into my little spaceship-looking car and headed back to Michigan. You can see in the video how unsure I am. I mean, come on, I’m looking the mother who loves me beyond my wildest imagination in her eyes saying “I’m home” and then I just stand there. (No wonder she didn’t get it.)

Michigan may not be my home for the rest of my life, and I hope that you can see by now that that isn’t the point. Home is knowing/finding/being comfortable in the search of what you believe in and physically and emotionally stand for every day. It’s the very core of who you are. It’s surrounding yourself, no matter where, with those who bring out the absolute best in you. It’s being caught in the scariest, saddest, most heart-breaking time of your life and having someone to turn to. Those people that will see you for you and, even after you’ve broken their heart time and time again, and love you beyond your shittiness.

Right now, y’all, I’m home.









Can I give any advice?  Okay, I will

If you’re looking, start by looking at whom you are surrounding yourself with.  It’s everything.

If you think I sound like a crazy person, well, congratulations, because you have probably never had an overdrawn account, broken bone, lost a loved one, or had any other sad moment in your life. Or maybe go take a shot of whiskey and re-read once your emotions are a tad more revved up.

To kicking off your shoes,


On Not Being a Machine

Vacations are the most necessary thing.  They are also a rude tease, because they wipe out your to-do list for that period of time.  While this allows a space for needed relaxation, reading, personal reflection, and several rum and cokes, what it does not allow is mental preparation for the evil bombardment of “busy” the moment you step off the plane and back into reality.

Costa Rica was everything I dreamed it would be.  It had the flair and culture of a small local town and it had the little luxuries of condo vacationing – complete with air conditioning and internet connection.

We ate endless seafood, visited local dives, went zip-lining through the jungle while angry monkeys cursed squeakily for us to leave their territory.  We scoured rocky beaches, visited local festivals, drank cuba libres on the street, and I found a passion for cooking that must have been waiting to be unearthed, because it arrived with vehemence.   


A Restaurant/hotel called Villa Coletas.  It overlooks the jungle…no big deal





Jaime and Chelsea, two beauties I was lucky to get to know 


the aforementioned Cuba Libre (note: you do not need more than 1)


Back at Villa Coletas on our last night for drinks and a sunset


And we got a freaking sunset.  This is #unfiltered, people.



….still there!


And finally, a photo I took on our final morning from the living room of our condo.  

Our flights were cancelled, re-routed, cancelled again, and delayed, but eventually we slid somewhat safely (yes, our plane slid on ice as it landed) in Chicago and made our way over crazy icy highways home.  What an un-warm welcome.

And now it seems like Costa Rica is far in the past, although my skin flaking away my tan is a hint that it wasn’t all that long ago.  Since I’ve been back, Ryan and I have been frantically trying to get back on track and caught up with school – assignments, papers, tests, extra-curricular assignments (such over-achievers, right?) – and the anxiety has been UNREAL.  It has made me wonder on more than one occasion if vacation is even worth it.  

We go to escape our CRAZY BUSY lives for a few short days, only to bask so heavily in our time off that we nearly squeeze the seconds away more quickly, and then we are forcefully returned to our lives of GO, GO, GO. 

There are the people who do it without a hiccup, but I’m not one of them.  And it makes me wonder if we all tend to over-do things in life.  Do we take on too many projects, too many hours of work, too many activities?  We should all be able to make time for ourselves with or without a plane ride.  Don’t get me wrong, I will fly anywhere any day of my life if I can, but I guess this is a quick reminder to you and to me to always find time to turn off your inner To-Do list and do something for you.  Something that will help quiet and calm your busy soul, and remind you that you don’t always have to be doing.  Sometimes when we think we need a vacation maybe that should be our hint that what we really need is to turn down our GO! meter, just a notch.

So relax.  Take a deep breath.  Read, write, paint, garden (inside), cook, listen to music, stretch your muscles, have a cocktail.  (and for the love, don’t let Facebook be part of your “you” time)

To taking my own advice,



For the past few days I’ve been debating what the best thing about vacation could be narrowed down to.  Is it the lack of snow and the 90 degree sun that replaced it?  Is it the complete lack of decisions that I need to make?  Is it my adorable man friend strutting around in his speedo?  I cannot put my finger on it.

I had been counting down the days to head out to Costa Rica since we booked our plane tickets a month prior, wondering what it would look like, what we would do, see, experience.  But since I have not fully practiced fortune telling, there was no telling until it happened.

And then we got to the airport in Chicago at 4am and Ryan and his dad started talking about the time Ryan walked through an airport with assault rifles (military reasons, people) and I was like Well I guess I won’t be going on vacation since they clearly are not going to let us through security.  And then I squeaked out in a frantic voice, “Can you guys talk about that later when we are not in or near an airport?”

Thankfully they let us on and Ryan met a baby and stole it from the lady next to us, so he was temporarily preoccupied.


We avoided all of the most fearful things of travel: snow storm delays, short layovers that lead to missing flights, losing luggage, but we came close to each.  So when we finally arrived to San Jose, Costa Rica, we high-fived each other in jubilee, hopped in the cab for our hour ride to Jaco, and stopped for a six pack of Costa Rican beer to enjoy on the way.  Because we could.


Blah blah blah, we stopped and saw T-rex sized crocodiles that I couldn’t get good photographs of…now here are pictures of the trip thus far:



view  of the Pacific Ocean from our spot at the pool


first sunset (awwww)


With his speedo and my nearly uncontrollable hoo-has, we fit in quite well here.





me getting a massage on the beach, with all my side-boob glory


flea market coconuts, rum not included

And tonight we are going to celebrate the engagement of Ryan’s brother, Steve and his beautiful fiance, Jaime.  This morning Ryan wandered in to the bedroom Jaime and I share after she went out for a run on the beach with Steve.  We had dozed off and woke up to Jaime knocking quietly, and then throwing the door open and jumping on us shouting, “I’m engaged!”  To which we responded with screams (okay, that was just from me) and hugs and tears and joy.  It was the most beautiful 7am wake-up I’ve ever experienced.

Coming down here, I totally expected to get a killer tan, but this vacation has also had so many unexpected surprises.  From the people we’ve met (including, but not limited to the crazy New York boys, Brian from Canada, all of the local Ticos, and Steve and Jaime’s dear friends Chelsea and Robb) to Steve putting a ring on it after cordially dating the woman of his dreams for five years.  It’s been a trip that has warmed up my frigid Michigan heart to the very core.

And it’s not over.

With my rum and coke, from me to you,


Why I am a Terrible Birthday-Haver

February in Michigan is arguably the gloomiest, most depressing month available to the human race.  It’s a stream of days without sun, a mix between harsh snowstorms and wet, icy rains.  It’s cold in your bone marrow.  Then there will be a day full of sun and the temperature will sky-rocket to 35 degrees and everyone hugs and rejoices in the end of winter and we go running outside in our tank tops, and then the next day we wake up to schools being closed due to a fresh foot of brown snow.  Brown snow, people.  It exists.

But February is my birth month, and if you know me, you know how much I love my birthday.  Sometimes I even get too excited to enjoy it.

For example, last year:

Three of my work friends had won hundreds of dollars to spend at our gorgeous establishment that I’m honored to work at.  They also won rooms at the JW Marriott hotel in Grand Rapids.  These friends invited little old me to dine with them on behalf of my birthday and invited me to stay with them at the hotel.  We are talking concierge floor with free drinks, food, killer views.  I mean, come on.  

You can read the full post here (ooooh, someone learned how to add links…and yes, I’m aware that that should be basic computer knowledge), but I ended up getting so excited that I made myself sick and had to leave dinner early, missing out on savory bottles of wine and even better company.  

A couple years before that, when I still lived in Jackson, I woke up to my roommate and dear friend, Betsy (she is an incredible photographer, find her webpage here) who had made me breakfast and mimosas.  It was the perfect birthday morning.  After that I did a little dog-walking (yes, it was one of my many professions there) and went home to take a nap.  Again, Betsy woke me up to remind me we had dinner plans before our night on the town.  I was still a little goofy from the mimosas, but managed to pull myself together to go to dinner.  

I again was so excited for my birthday night that the wine flowed a little to smoothly.  We left dinner and crossed the street to a sports bar to play some pool.  At one point I stood up from my stool, the wine went straight to my head as the blood drained from it, and I fell face first, smashing my head into the side of the pool table.  Thankfully, I had two wonderful gentlemanly friends carry my home, tuck me into bed and set a bag of frozen peas on my head.  It was 9pm.

Birthdays man, I love them a little too much.

This year, however, I did everything I could to remain calm.  I went to class, got a manicure, pedicure (thank you, Ryan), and then relaxed as I gussied up for the evening.  (I love any excuse to get fancy).  Ryan and I had dinner plans to eat at one of our favorite seafood spots downtown, but as the afternoon led to evening, February took hold once again and transformed a partly cloudy morning into a disastrous snowstorm of an evening.  Ryan got stuck in stand still traffic.  

I called the restaurant to see if they could push back our reservation a half hour.  The lady on the other line informed me, “We are hoping to close early, so just get here whenever you can.”  No pressure.



Good news, people.  I didn’t smash my head on anything, I was able to eat my entire meal, and I only broke one glass.

I was nervous about turning 27, because if you’ve been following this at all, you know that I’m not at the same place in my life as most of my 27-year-old friends, and there are still some times when I’m hard on myself about it.  But the fact of the matter is that, if my life had gone the way my mind sometimes wishes, I would have missed out on so many of the best things that life has brought me to. 

I know I’m being vague and wishy-washy, but I hope that when you start thinking about the shoulda-woulda-couldas in your life, you also remember that every single thing happens for reasons we will never understand.  The things you think are terrible in your life right now could ultimately lead you to happiness you never thought existed.  Just wait, and then thank me later.

To Birthdays, because they’re secretly just another day,



Also, nine days….that’s it….just nine more days…..


I’ll take you with me in spirit.

Why I’m a Crazy Dog Lady For Life

Today is the day where we all take a look at ourselves and realize that we all have some serious sucking up to do.  Generally, Valentine’s Day is dedicated to those who are blissfully in love and have totally forgotten that they are so, and therefore, need a special day to remind themselves that they are, in fact, in a relationship, and they should probably do the annual nice thing for their significant other.

I like it because sometimes we need that reminder to do nice things for our loved ones, but I also despise it, because at the same time we totally should not need it at all.

My Valentine’s Day gift for Ryan was making him breakfast before he scurried off to class.  I do this for him every so often, but today was different because on behalf of Valentine’s Day I went out and bought an onion and spicy sausage to put in our scrambled eggs.  Love you babe, now don’t even think of breathing near me. 

Valentine’s Day for me, however, has a little more meaning, aside from the goopy lovey crap.  Today is my dog’s birthday.

Even writing it seems so stupid, because he is, in fact, a dog.  So let me tell you quickly and lovingly the story of Cooper.

I chose to “foster” Cooper on a random May morning when I still lived out West.  I frequently scoured Petfinder.com to weep over all the dogs who needed homes and then sulk with a glass (bottle) of wine because I was not at a time in my life where owning a dog was a good idea. The night before I met Cooper, I stumbled on a page featuring a litter of freaking-adorable-I-can’t-stop-squeaking puppies.  They were at a shelter two hours away.  Knowing I would never make that drive, I e-mailed the contact for more information.  I sent this late in the evening and she responded very quickly with “I’m actually fostering them in Wilson.  Feel free to stop by any time to see them.” 

Wilson was a ten minute drive.

Obviously, I went to see them the next morning with my roommate and his girlfriend and we took two puppies home with us to our apartment that was not at all pet friendly.  We snuck around for two weeks with our four month old puppies, but if you know anything about four month old Labrador mixes, you know that they are not at all easy to sneak around.  Nor are they easy in any other way.  Cute, eff yes.  Easy? Ha!


My roommate and I would pass each other on the stairs at 3am, each holding a whiny puppy that needed to relieve himself.  There was one time when Cooper was so whiny during the night, and I was positive it was just because he wanted to cuddle with me and not be in his crate (since I had just let him out) when all of a sudden I heard an enormous fart with squishy spatters of poop smacking every single square inch of his crate. 

Our landlord eventually found out about our puppies and I had to stay with a friend for two weeks until our lease was up, meanwhile searching for the impossible – a pet friendly apartment.  When I did magically end up in one, Cooper formed a habit of destroying books and newspapers, digging through the trash, and if I were gone, he’d pee in the house. 


He got hit by a car when he took off toward who knows what, leaving me to pay a $500 vet bill for what was maybe a sprained toe.  

He also had three more butt explosions, entirely destroying two separate crates.

I was so quickly in love with this dog, and he grew so attached to me that he formed separation anxiety, where, to this day, if I do not lock him in my room with all of my Hannah-smelling stuff whenever I leave, he will 100% take a crap in the house.








(Let’s be real, I so don’t mind…and seeing as how I take him wherever I can, I must have a bit of this separation anxiety as well)

When I first decided to keep him, I had sincere hopes that he would hinder me from always going out at night, maybe slow down my party mode.  He did, but only a little.  I tried to use him as a tool to change myself immediately, when what I really had to do was make that decision myself, and it would not at all be immediate.  I put a big job on such a little dog.

I wasn’t immediately successful, but he loved me despite me hating myself. 

Like I said, he loves me to the point where he takes a crap in the house every single time I leave, because he misses me so much.  My boyfriend doesn’t even do that for me.

His furry, intrusive, obsessive love has had a profound impact on me.  Because despite his crazy bowels and his incessant habit to lick anything and everything, he is the best at cuddling, he doesn’t impose his beliefs or his unwanted criticism or advice, he is gentle beyond words (with dogs and babies, it’s the kind of cuteness you want to die from), and he lives to love.  Not many of us can say that.





So happy 3rd birthday, my sweet little canine.  I’ll be that crazy dog lady any day for you.





We all know who I’m raising my glass to today,

To the Coop dog