Three years ago, I took a half day off from work (and enlisted Bre to come with me!!) and drove to ten different McDonald’s locations to try to figure out which had the best unsweetened iced tea. As it turns out, McDonald’s does not brew their tea fresh with tea bags. They use a mix, which I might have known if I had asked anyone prior to just. Driving around. Other than one location that had recently washed their equipment, which tasted slightly soapy, the teas were basically indistinguishable from one another.

Two years ago, I went to the Minnesota State Fair and tried thirteen lemonades over two days and returned home feeling like sugary, acidic hell. Last year, I drove all over the state trying dirty sodas and wrote about both of these journeys for this very newsletter!

When I first met my spouse, I teased him about his love of unsweetened iced tea – a beverage I associated with the elderly (sorry!) or dweebs with soda-phobias. But I’ve told him many times and now will put it in writing that he was right. Unsweetened iced tea is REFRESHING AND GOOD.

So, this year, I set out to try as many iced teas as I could find at the Minnesota State Fair. And though selecting the ideal chilled beverage depends on multiple elements, I have done my best to compare them side by side and rank them in order from least desired (by me!) to best.

12. Hibiscus Tea from Kosharina Egyptian Cuisine ($6)

With a brief moment to navigate the fairgrounds alone (my husband and young son were enjoying the Monkey Maze, which I blessedly eluded), I was on my way to Juanita’s Fajitas to try their raspberry iced tea1 when I saw Kosharina had hibiscus tea on their menu! While still carrying the hibiscus tea from French Meadow, I paid six dollars for a cup. Kosharina’s was a LOT darker in color than the other hibiscus tea I had, but I gave it a chance. Probably steeped too long, not chilled enough, and kind of tasting like grape juice? This tea seemed like an afterthought, so I shouldn’t have thought of it, either!

11. Cold Pressed Organic Black Currant Tea from French Meadow Bakery & Café ($7)

Spoiler alert, but I loved the hibiscus tea at French Meadow that I ordered on Day 1, so I returned on Day 2 to get it again and try their other iced tea – the black currant. I’ll admit I’ve never had black currant tea, but this one did not compel me to seek it out any time soon. It was refreshing and not a complete disaster, but very weak. And you could tell that based on the odd color it arrived to me. It sort of made me self-conscious to carry it around. I’m always teetering on the edge of feeling embarrassed, so that’s something to consider. But still!

10. Mango Dragon Fruit Tea from Chan’s Eatery ($10)

This was the very first tea I tried on Day 1 and my first thought was literally “yuuuuuuuuummmmmm!!!!” The fruit flavor is really good and there’s plenty of sugary zip for those that enjoy that (I do)! I decided to order it without anything added like boba, and that was a mistake. At this price point, I would not seek this out again. I am living with the regret that I didn’t get a potato Korean corn dog. You can tell people enjoy what they get here, and the cashier was super nice to me. I’ll go back, but not for any plain tea.

9. Dill Pickle Iced Tea from Loon Lake Iced Tea ($9)

I can appreciate ambition, and I like this attempt. When I had the dill pickle lemonade from Nordic Waffle two years ago, it placed dead last in my ranking. Mostly it was because it was super sloppily executed, and I have Big Beef with Nordic Waffle (who have since ended their stay as a vendor at the fair – SORRY I do not miss U, Nordic Waffle). But Loon Lake really tried with the pickle tea, rimming the top with Tajin and topping it with an (actually good quality!) dill pickle spear. As long as the pickle spear laid across the top of the cup, increasing the taste of the pickle with the smell, I almost enjoyed the tea itself. When I succumbed to my desire to eat the pickle spear, the pickle flavoring in the tea almost vanished. I had the feeling I was drinking regular black tea and there was just enough of something in it that was bad for me. My brain wouldn’t let me keep drinking. I happily finished the pickle, took a few additional licks of the Tajin, and hoped the Loon Lake employees did not see me throw away the mostly full cup.

8. Iced Tea with Lemon Flavor from Italian Junction ($3)

I feel the need to say here that I never expect a vendor that predominantly sells FOOD to present me the highest quality iced tea. So I’m not surprised I was underwhelmed by Italian Junction’s iced tea that is advertised as “pre-sweetened” with “lemon-flavor,” but you cannot really argue with three dollars! Italian Junction displays their iced teas proudly, in dispensers that churn the tea seemingly all day. Next time I will get Pizza Bread, which sounds amazing.

7. Ginger and Peach Iced Tea from Beans and Beignets ($9)

Advertised as an employee favorite, I was excited to order a tea with ginger and peach – flavors I like so much! Nice and refreshing, I loved this tea when the ginger and peach were present. But I was disappointed I had so many sips where there was much less flavoring or none at all? I never found a big pocket of syrup that would suggest I should have mixed it more, so I don’t think it was my user error. For the increased price (versus other teas), I just wanted more consistency.

Every time I eat a beignet in the Midwest, I think about the fact that I’ve never been to New Orleans and I SHOULD HAVE by now. To my tastebuds, clueless to the authentic ones, the beignets are good too.

6. Iced Somali Tea from Afro Deli ($8)

Afro Deli can do no wrong by me. When I worked in downtown Saint Paul, getting lunch from Afro Deli was always a treat. There was a cashier that always called my friend Nick by the wrong name, which landed as a hilarious dunk every time.

Day 1 at the fair, I order the Somali Tea and the guy behind the counter says “with or without milk?” and I say “what?” and he says “with or without milk?” and I say “what?” and PRAY I can hear him on the third go-around and I do, but I don’t have much time to think so I just blurt out “with milk!” While I’m drinking it, it’s nice and smooth and very chai-forward, but I kind of wish I’d ordered it without milk to see what it’s like!

On Day 2, I return and order the new Peri-Peri bowl from there (it’s sooooooooooooo good) and another Somali tea but without milk. When I drink it, I feel the whitest I’ve ever felt in my life. It’s so spicy, like chai and ginger and probably other things, that I’m not actually enjoying it. For those with more fragile palates, I would recommend it with milk!

5. Sweet Tea from Pickle Barrel Sirloin Tips ($6)

I couldn’t be less interested in sirloin tips, but this vendor has Sweet Tea printed TWICE on their sign, so I make a point to stop before I leave via the exit by the Miracle of Birth Center. The gal that rings me up hands me a reusable container full of sweet tea and lets me know that they offer refills for $3. If I had known that I think I would have stopped here first! The tea tastes fresh and sweet and is served with plenty of ice. The reusable containers get flimsier each year and make me sad. I always bring them home and wash and put them in my cabinet by my water bottles. I’ll likely never choose to use it again and will probably throw it away or put it in a household donation pile to lessen some of my guilt about overconsumption.

4. Iced Tea with Strawberry from Strawberries N Crème ($6)

This tea is wholly a delight. The strawberry is authentic and perfectly sweet. I’ve also never seen an outrageous line here, so it arrives to me quickly!

3. Caramel Apple Iced Tea from Loon Lake Iced Tea ($9)

I am wary of devoting myself to Minnesota state fair vendors that usually have long lines, but this year 2026 made a big Loon Lake Iced Tea fan out of me. In their defense, the queue moves relatively quickly. And I really fell in love with the Caramel Apple Iced Tea. Served with two old-school caramel apple suckers that pretty much immediately fall into the cup, the apple tea is topped with a (non-dairy!) cold foam. I basically chug this. It’s smooth, not too sweet, and the apple and caramel are both present. The only thing is, once the tea was gone, the suckers become a straight up chore. I carry them, alone and stuck together in the cup, for about an hour before I apologize to them and dump them in the trash.

2. Unsweetened Iced Tea from Loon Lake Iced Tea ($6)

After two days of hunting teas at the fairgrounds, I can say this no-frills black tea earns the second place spot. It’s really everything you’d want from an unsweetened iced tea – perfect strength and flavor and amount of ice served with it. Coupled with almost any food item or a sweeter drink, this one provides perfect quench and balance.

1. Cold Pressed Organic Scarlet Hibiscus Herbal Tea by French Meadow Bakery & Café ($7)

There’s something…..up…..with the French Meadow brand. With dicey labor practices at LEAST in its past, I mostly avoid it all together. But, for an iced tea with such an elaborate name, I really wanted to try. And I have to extend credit where it’s due, because this is flawless. To me, the perfect tea is unsweetened but lightly flavored and ice cold. The Scarlet Hibiscus Tea hits all the marks. “Delightful refreshing I could drink forever light light light,” I write in my notes. It’s so good that I return on Day 2 to get another cup and I wish I’d bottled a third for enjoyment at home.

I also split the Earth Wings (they are cauliflower wings and I wish they would just call them that) with a friend and they are a total delight. Cauliflower wings are still good!!!!

FINAL THOUGHTS

• Sometimes I respond poorly to caffeine (emotionally!!?) so I was a little worried about drinking this much iced tea in two days, but this was actually easier than the lemonades? I did not feel bad.

• I believe I found a couple gaps on this venture, and I’m trying to speak these into being filled. I don’t believe there is a MINT iced tea option on the fairgrounds, and I wish there was. ALSO, as we pivot from bacon to pickle to corn emphasis, I wish there was a CORN TEA. I’m not asking for corn chunks floating in tea! I’m asking for a beverage that would provide sort of a honey cornbread with tea flavor and I’m confident someone can execute that well!

• NOT A TEA, but I would also highly recommend the Salted Mango Yuzuade from Saturday Dumpling Co, a new vendor this year. This was SO good. I love salt in a drink. I love feeling like the electrolytes are making me more powerful in minutes. Like a Transformer. The fruit flavors are so good and this is not carbonated, which I enjoy. I would have purchased this to drink by the gallon, to lug around and bonk against my thigh until it bruised.

State fair season feels almost feels like New Year’s Eve to me. Each of these occur after a season of much busy-ness and activity. Even when I spend all summer miserable, I always find time to slow down and reflect at the fair. The thought occurs to me, “this wasn’t that bad,” which is about the best I can say about summer.

“I am never getting out of here.”

I was in seventh grade and, up until then, I had genuinely enjoyed school. It seemed the mundanity of middle into high school would stretch endlessly ahead of me. And being a teenage girl was hard, every day seeming to present a new and weird challenge.

At this time, I worshipped at the altar of the teen magazine. I liked Teen People, Seventeen, Cosmo Girl, and (my favorite) YM Magazine. Established in 1932, YM’s founders generated two publications - one for younger girls and another for older teens. In the 1960s, these efforts combined under the name Young Miss, which would later change to Young & Modern. This fit tidily under the lowercase ‘y’ and ‘m’ on its covers. In 2000, YM changed its title for the last time to Your Magazine. And during its final attempt to remain afloat and relevant, I subscribed.

I was interested in the exclusive updates about celebrities, the glittery make-up looks or complicated hairstyles that I could never build the courage to wear to school, but mostly I was laser-focused on my most elusive goal. I didn’t long to be stylish, successful, or popular as much as I wanted a boyfriend. And I was certain YM, the most boy-focused of my publications, could help me get one.

Once someone could recognize my worth as a romantic partner, all would surely fall into place. I was certain I’d be a quality girlfriend and that it would probably take only one catalyst to secure me a mate. The (incomplete!) list of things I tried that I was hopeful would instantly score me a boyfriend included –

• Wearing blue eyeshadow

• Straightening my hair

• Wearing a slinky black cardigan to the school dance1

• Squeezing the flesh of my lower belly, picturing how horrified Christina Aguilera would be if she woke up in my body, and praying this would shame me into eating less so I could be thinner

• Mocking my crushes mercilessly at every opportunity

• Casting spells on them

• Writing their names on loose drinking straws that I kept in a box in my closet that I combed through in the evenings (baby’s first manifestation????)

None of these proved successful, and I remained boyfriend-less. My fixation on coupling up is present in my memories as far back as they go. But in those early 2000s, I was grateful for YM’s validation that finding a romantic partner was worth very concentrated effort.

Recently, I remembered a letter I’d written to the editor that had been featured in an issue of YM. The original copies I paged through in my childhood bedroom are long gone, but I was fairly certain I’d found the right issue after some sleuthing on eBay.

Part thrilled and part mortified, I did find my teeny tiny contribution to 2000s print media on the page with other letters to the editor. And as I made my way through the rest of the issue, I (re)discovered so much more!

On the cover of YM’s November 2003 edition, Amanda Bynes wears a strappy brown and white polka-dotted halter dress with a cozy pink cardigan shrugged off her shoulder.

“BOYS! BOYS! BOYS!” shouts the largest headline.

A double-paged ad flops open heavily as I thumb through, plugging Stetson’s new fragrance, Untamed. The close-up image of the male model’s tanned belly button clicks like a puzzle piece in my brain, reminding me I’ve spent plenty of time on this page. “Scratch to Experience,” instructions read over a photo of the cologne bottle. Even after twenty-three-years dormant, I can smell the Untamed!

On page 28, a quiz inquires “are you ready for a boyfriend?” If the test taker’s score is low, the results read, “You watch movies like A Walk to Remember and get fixated on the idea of having somebody adore you. But your actual boyfriend will likely snort ketchup through his nose and make farting noises with his armpits. He’ll also take up your free time. Are you ready to tell your girls that you can’t make it to The O.C. night because Sweetie needs help with physics? That’s what I thought. Hold off on serious dating for a while.” Yikes.

The November 2003 calendar on page 32 includes a photo of Will Ferrell dressed as Buddy from the movie Elf. It’s hard to remember a time before that movie was a holiday classic (at LEAST to me). For some reason, I’ve retained the memory of seeing it in a theater on the 25^th of that month. During the peppy, animated opening credits, I had the thought “only one month till Christmas!” There were only things to look forward to. After the movie ended, my friend and I, with her dad as chaperone, walked out the theater doors to the parking lot. The sun had set and it had started snowing since we’d entered the theater. Thick and fluffy snowflakes fell slowly, only beautiful and inviting to me – an unlicensed driver.

By page 42, the second (of three!) mention of calcium appears as part of a list – “3 Things You Need to Know About CALCIUM.” Its importance for bone density health and optimal circulation is the main takeaway. The Savino household subscribed heavily to this, as we drank glasses of milk at dinner each evening. At the time, I credited this ritual for the fact that I’d never broken a bone and definitely not the fact that I was (/am!) completely risk adverse.

On page 13, Hilary Duff sports the classic milk mustache for one of two Got Milk? ads in this November issue. On page 68, a girl named Alyssa (!) wears a jean jacket and holds a glass of milk in her Got Milk? ad. “Alyssa’s wish was to be in a milk ad. It was granted by the Make-A-Wish foundation” reads the finest print. I Google to find her full name or what happened to her and find nothing.

Remember Polaroid’s i-zone cameras?? An ad for them on page 63 reminds me that I had the silver one. In 2026, I have an Instax camera. But I sort of miss the challenge of removing the photos from the i-zone camera. A firm and steady grasp required. It was not exactly portable (weird shape???) so pretty much all the photos I took were of things in my room.

“The cutest ones we could find this month” reads the top of the page for this month’s YM BOYS. Six teenage boys from England doing parkour are labeled with their names and ages. Followed by a paragraph about what cheeky lil bad bois they are. They are all 16 or 17 years old, but so is the audience for this magazine. So I try not to be too skeeved out in 2026.

On the very next page, 17-year-old Mallory Pickard is pictured surrounded by a group of jovial boys for an article titled “why you should have GUY FRIENDS.” “Guys don’t feel the need to fill gaps in conversation with gossip,” says Todd. One of Mallory’s very cool and platonic boy *space* friends. I Google to see what Mallory is up to in 2026 and only find a (maybe!) quote from a 2014 New York Times Article that suggests she was proposed to onstage at a concert in Raleigh, NC with a conflict-free 1.96 carat engagement ring. This article about guy friends reeks of misogyny, but I do not begrudge Mallory a fairytale engagement story.

In a reoccurring feature, Wise Guys, a few teenage boys give advice to young gals hoping for some real boy insights. Dave Rocco, an 18-year-old from Missouri, answers a question from Kelly from Ohio, who is 13 and recently received a too-short haircut. “Every guy I ask out says no,” she laments. Dave’s response? “Short hair can definitely be hot! Remember Winona Ryder in Girl, Interrupted?” and “After I grew my hair out, everyone started calling me a woman, and I didn’t care. Now I only cut (my hair) every two months, when I get lice.” WHEN I get lice?!? DAVE!

In the monthly installment, What I Was Like In High School, a photo of a young and doinky Chad Michael Murray is plastered next to some anecdotes and words of encouragement for those struggling through their teen years. “I was a nerd. I had no friends, and I got picked on because I didn’t have a lot of money …. The girls didn’t want to be with the nerds, so I dated ones from schools 15 or 20 minutes away.” Should traditionally hot people have to suffer character-building experiences? Discuss.

On page 70, I read YM’s article/interview with Amanda Bynes conducted by their entertainment director, Alyssa Vitrano. I expect to skillfully pinpoint the indicators of Amanda’s impending struggles between the lines, but her discontentment is not difficult to spot.

Though Bynes is described by Vitrano as hilarious, cool, hardworking, approachable, and down-to-earth, it’s hard to miss the multiple mentions that Amanda did not dream of a future in Hollywood.

“I felt like I was so much smaller than the whole thing and kind of intimidated by it. It was never like, Oh my god, this is what I was meant to be doing,” she says of the pressure she felt while filming The Amanda Show, starting when she was 13-years-old. Also regarding her self-titled show, she says, “I did the pilot, but I didn’t really care what happened with it. I just wanted to hang around with my friends, it wasn’t like I was dying to do it.”

“….I loved having it on someone else’s shoulders. I actually find it really stressful when it’s all you,” she said when discussing the benefits to her co-starring role alongside Frankie Muniz in Big Fat Liar.

Maybe she aims to appear modest, but these quotes are hard to read. As is the article’s mention of Amanda’s attempted emancipation from her parents, which was only halted after they fired her entire professional team. But this is a point dropped quickly between mentions of what Amanda is eating the day of the YM interview (edamame!) and how she deals with comparisons to Hilary Duff (Amanda Bynes was a girl’s girl before girl’s girl was a term that was coined and existed long enough to become a weapon waged by women against women).

It’s clear Amanda Bynes is presented as a sympathetic character, someone worth rooting for. But not every female celebrity in this issue of YM receives the same treatment. In many ways, it’s hard to keep up.

On page 108, Hilary Duff is praised for her philanthropic efforts volunteering with a non-profit. “We give money to foster homes and kids with AIDS, and we visit people in hospitals,” she’s quoted as saying. Jewel is criticized for her initial venture into pop music in this early 2000s era – “trashy” and “lame” declares a YM editor.2 Selma Blair is applauded for sporting asymmetrical bangs. An under-current of Britney-Spears-intolerance is ever-present in these pages. Even at the height of her popularity, Britney seems to represent all things inauthentic or manufactured. WILD given this was printed mere months after Britney declared “Pepsi’s Pepsi” with a shrug in an interview with Tucker Carlson! Our gal IS earnest!

It’s difficult to acknowledge the thinly veiled sexism in these precious TEXTS of my youth, but (unfortunately) they hardly differ from attitudes today! YM Magazine was far from the train choo-chooing at the forefront of CULTURE, but they didn’t push against.

With this in mind, I flip back to page 16 and read the words I wrote at age 14. Cringing in this mirror…..

Can you believe Alyssa Savino, age 14, of Lindstrom, Minnesota (Full name? Full city and state???), thought these harsh words about Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen?? And shared them?? For them to be printed in INK?

The morning after I received my issue of the magazine back in 2003, I was stopped in the hallway by my seventh grade history teacher. He was known for incorporating jumping jacks into his lesson plans. We were always doing jumping jacks in there even though I was sometimes dehydrated and this was very uncomfortable for my urethra. I should have been able to reliably anticipate I’d be sitting to learn that peanuts were called ‘goobers’ by Civil War soldiers.

“Hey! You were in a magazine!” he said as he passed me.

A few of my peers and a couple other teachers mentioned it, too. I don’t remember my eyes hitting the page to see my name printed first, but I do recall my little 15 Minutes Moment at school.

As an adult that Googles “billboard dad streaming” a few times a year (it’s on YouTube right now for FREE) and watches It Takes Two semi-annually, I’m mortified by my cutting words for the Olsen twins. But my aspiration for moral superiority at age 14 is genuinely so funny to me. And it is ironic that I’m certain, from this same desk I assembled these sassy thoughts, I longed to ping and pong instant messages with my OWN international boy.

Luckily, I have made reparations in the form of my decades-long effort defending women’s rights – civically, but also our right to be unlikeable, flirty, vapid, and to do stupid things.

In addition to the November 2003 issue of YM, I also purchased the April 2001 one with O-Town on the cover. In 2026, my husband lounges in bed giggling as he reads it. He’s here, the future husband I strained to picture for so long. I wanted to find someone beautiful and special that I could share laugh and loathes and life with, and I did.

When I show the cover of the April 2001 edition to my 5-year-old son, he has questions about the O-Town members’ stylistically damp photo shoot. “Did they just get out of the shower?” We go round and round naming each member until he has them memorized. Then we listen to “Baby I Would” together.

I layer this memory of us, my son and I relaxing on the deck behind our house listening to this song, over the memory of me listening to it from a boombox in the corner of my childhood bedroom. I love to look back and just think wow wow wow then and now then and now then and now.

I watched the Lilith Fair documentary recently. And though Sheryl Crow’s and Jewel’s CDs spun plenty in my mom’s car growing up, I’d never heard of this all-woman musical act mobilized by Sarah McLachlan between 1997 and 1999. Artists featured on this stage include the Indigo Girls, Sinead O’Connor, Missy Elliot, and a very fresh-faced Nelly Furtado. To learn of this gathering of most talented women in the face of blatant sexism in the music industry (if only it were behind us) was so inspiring, it brought me to tears!

Another artist that performed at Lilith Fair was Natalie Merchant, who was featured in some interview footage for the documentary. Admittedly, she’s an artist I’ve come to partially associate with Aileen Wuornos, the convicted murderer from Florida. Before she was executed in 2002, she requested Natalie Merchant’s song “Carnival” be played at her funeral.

For those that are less familiar with Aileen Wuornos or only recognize her from her haunting mugshots, she was a sex worker that killed at least six people that paid for her services. She was a person that caused great suffering. And she suffered greatly herself, as a victim of childhood abuse, set up to fail by her family and systems meant to protect the vulnerable. With better representation and understanding of the complexity of her mind and life, Aileen could have avoided the fate she fell to – death by lethal injection for her crimes, a punishment she hardly protested at all.

Because Aileen found comfort in Natalie Merchant’s music, I wondered if she had attended Lilith Fair. In July of 1998, Natalie Merchant performed with the festival in two Florida cities. I wondered if Aileen had purchased a ticket, attended the day’s events, heard “Carnival” from the crowd, perhaps comforted to sing along with a group. I resigned to never know, thinking of the ways the internet fails me. There’s so much information Out There, but I have very specific questions that remain mysteries.

However, it can be solidly concluded that Aileen Wuornos did not attend any performance of Lilith Fair, because she was incarcerated years before the festival came to be. I guess I have to extend credit to the internet (Wikipedia!) for one mystery solved.

The digital age has turned me entitled, and I know I’m not the only one. Information arrives quickly, without friction, and is assumed accurate. Since the introduction of AI tools around every corner, it feels like a traditional web search is more useless than ever.

So, I’ve come to the internet to complain about the internet’s growing list of failings. There’s so much information I WANT that is not searchable. Here are just SOME of the questions that the internet hasn’t been able to answer!

WHERE IS MY BLOG

In 1998, my parents bought a desktop computer. At first, it lived full-time in their bedroom.

It was a friend when it was time to send emails from our CompuServ accounts (the thrifty man’s AOL!) or watch the muffins video on early Youtube. But it was a foe when it was my dad using the dial-up connection, rendering the telephone line useless. I swear one summer he spent hours each evening researching Tilley hats on the web. My sister and I writhed on the living room carpet, suffering from telephone call withdrawal so intense, we nearly gouged our eyes out.

The two of us were not allowed to access chatrooms of any kind or the only real social media site at the time – Myspace. Confident I wouldn’t be able to learn enough code to gussy up my page (social media used to require SKILLS), I abided by its explicit household ban.

I did, however, have a blog that I utilized like a legitimate diary. To this day, I sometimes wake in the night with a start at its memory. I don’t remember the name of the blog’s host website, but I know it’s out there. I’m scared someone will unearth it someday, hoping to humiliate me (it will work.) Regularly, I logged on to provide updates about my high school days, especially any promising interactions with crushes or perceived slights by friends or nemeses. I miss that level of anonymity on the internet. It felt like screaming into the void but also totally naked and completely fine with that.

Despite the anti-chatroom rule, I did meet my own online weirdo – a boy named Jebber (who I suppose could have been literally anyone), who waged a one-man war against a popular blog that posted updates about a young girl dying of cancer. Even after he flooded the website’s message board attacking the sick child, I reached out to him, certain I could appeal to his humanity. He was expelled from the site, but not before I gave him my personal phone number. So I could fix him via text.

And where is my blog? What happened to Jebber (probably do not want to know)??? Under WHAT is that early web hidden? It feels like something I should be able to find and address, and YET.

WHEN HE SAID A LIGHT HITS THE GLOOM ON THE GREY WHAT DID HE MEAN

My favorite song of all time is “Kiss from a Rose” by Seal. Not only do I find it absolutely gorgeous to my ears from beginning to end, but I love that Seal is (maybe needlessly!!) coy about its meaning. It also reminds me of a time in my life that felt completely warm and happy and safe.

The year I started kindergarten, my parents had planned to move my sister and me from a second ring suburb of Minneapolis to a fourth-or-maybe-no ring suburb of Minneapolis. To create the smoothest transition possible, my mom drove me to kindergarten at the school district I would attend once we’d moved. She drove ninety minutes round-trip so I would not have to begin and end kindergarten at different schools. This memory warms me even more as a parent myself. I love my son more than anything, but I really don’t think I would do this.

In that fall of 1995, we spent a lot of time in the car listening to the radio. “Kiss from a Rose” played often. After it appeared on the soundtrack for Batman Forever, the song was even more popular than it had been when released in 1994.

Those initial ba-ya-ya, ba-da-da-da-da-das were so often MY soundtrack to this time in the car with my mom. Crisp autumn air blew in the back window while I watched the trees roll by on the horizon. I was excited and hopeful about school. In these, some of my earliest memories ever, I felt totally cocooned.

With lyrics like “And now that your rose is in bloom, a light hits the gloom on the grey” and “did you know that when it snows, my eyes become large and the light that you shine can’t be seen,” it’s speculated that this song is about a toxic love affair. Or drugs. But Seal has made such a point of denying an explanation! In 2015, he gave an official statement in response to the request for clarification about the song’s meaning, “I have avoided explaining these lyrics for 25 years. I am not going to start doing it now.”

Maybe he wants us to find intrigue where there’s basically none! But it works for me!

WHERE IS SHELLY

Where is Shelly Miscaviage, the wife of David Miscaviage (acting leader of Scientology) who has not been seen publicly since 2007??

In 2015, I devoured Leah Remini’s memoir, Troublemaker: Surviving Hollywood and Scientology. Filling me with the same thrill of dread I get while watching a scary movie, I read it on my commute by train to and from work. It’s a scary book about a scary topic, and it gave me some of the worst nightmares of my life!

I love and admire Leah Remini, whose vocal opposition to this religion (into which she was born) has gotten her into plenty of trouble. But she’s seemingly the only person that is openly and repeatedly asking about the whereabouts of her longtime friend, Shelly Miscaviage.

Leah and Shelly met as children, on the Church of Scientology’s floating place of labor and worship, known as the Sea Org. They formed a decades-long friendship before Shelly’s unexplained disappearance from the public eye. The official response from leaders of the church is that Shelly has opted to live a private life and is perfectly unharmed. She was last seen by most of her friends and family in 2007, leaving her father’s funeral.

In 2013, after untangling herself from the influence of Scientology, Leah Remini filed the first missing person’s report on Shelly’s behalf. Allegedly, the LAPD was able to get into contact with Shelly, and the case was closed.

Because of their well-documented clash with the IRS to maintain their tax exemption status, coupled with their “worship structure” that requires large sum payments from their attendees, the church has plenty of capital. Combine this with Scientology’s stance on any that oppose the church, and it’s clear a number of things could have happened to Shelly if she stepped out of line. It’s all speculation, but theories include that Shelly is being held in one of the church’s secure compounds, that she’s receiving medical attention that is not endorsed by the church (such as any psychiatric help) and hidden away, or that she is no longer alive.

I mourn for everyone that is missing a loved one without explanation. This highly visible disappearance, without pending investigation, haunts me.

IS GOD REAL aka what happened with Elizabeth Smart’s water cup

I was born in 1989, mere DAYS before Jacob Wetterling went missing. The eleven-year-old boy from a rural Minnesota town was abducted while biking on the side of the road. It was a case that would remain unsolved for almost thirty years, and it was a nightmare that cast a shadow over my childhood. Though it is well-known that most kidnapping is not carried out by complete strangers, my sister and I grew up with a present-enough fear of abduction. We were told early and often to never get in a car with a stranger. To fight and scream before going with someone we didn’t know, even if threatened with immediate violence (this is still very good advice!!)

When the kidnapping of Elizabeth Smart made headlines in the summer of 2002, I was very invested. Pulled literally from her bedroom in the middle of the night, the story was a nightmare come true.

She was held captive by two absolute freak jobs in the hills outside her hometown of Salt Lake City, severely abused, bounced around the Southwest states for months, and finally retrieved by law enforcement.

In her 2013 memoir, My Story, Elizabeth Smart recalls her return home after almost a year held against her will. Her family is happy to see her, relieved, but her mother pulls her aside quickly with some advice – to essentially put this whole ordeal behind her as quickly as possible. To not let her captors get any more of her time and energy. Even over a decade ago, reading this book shortly after its initial release, I was horrified by this. Without tools to process and move past it, I doubted Elizabeth’s ability to quickly clear her mind of the terror she experienced. But the conversation with her mother is not presented as shocking, and Elizabeth attests she did just that. I guess.

However concerning the ending, the story from Elizabeth Smart’s book that I return to the most takes place shortly after she’s kidnapped. She’s held at a makeshift camp in Dry Creek Canyon which, in June of 2002, was living up to its name. With no water source or recent rain, Elizabeth and her captors become beyond dehydrated. Wary of drawing attention to themselves, her captors don’t wish to visit the nearby Salt Lake City to collect water. For days, they suffer from extreme thirst.

At night, Elizabeth stays in a tent with her kidnappers, secured to them by a chain. One night, after days without water, Elizbeth is seemingly jostled awake. Surprised that her captors remain asleep, she notices something next to her pillow. It’s a yellow cup she’s never seen before or since. Even miles from civilization, there’s condensation on the outside and it’s filled to the brim with ice-cold water. She drinks hungrily, feels its chill running down her throat into her stomach, replaces it, and falls back to sleep. In the morning, she’s no longer thirsty or groggy as she’d been in the days previous.

In the book, she reports confidence that this cup of water was delivered by God. It gives her the strength she needs to survive the rest of her time held captive.

I feel the need to clarify my tone and that, though I’m uncertain about the existence of the type of God that is often described by Christians, I am being earnest when I say this anecdote feels like the greatest proof of God I’ve heard. I turn it over again and again in my mind, curiously attempting to poke holes in the logic. Obviously, she could have dreamed that the cup appeared. But would that have been powerful enough to calm her thirst? I rule out the possibility that her cruel abusers left her a glass of water, while they remained so thirsty themselves, especially considering its temperature.

This anecdote stands alone in the book, as the only one to present a physical divine intervention. In a belief system where allegedly everything happens for a reason, all good stems from God and bad stems from the self, miracles like the yellow water cup are not NEEDED to maintain belief in a merciful God. But wouldn’t it make sense that, if such a God exists, they would reach through the screen between Godly and Earthly to give a kidnapped and abused child a cup of water? Especially when it would mean so much?

When I think about my own spirituality, I think about the design of the world and justice and miracles. And the yellow cup. I’m not quite sure about anything, but I’m always thinking about that CUP.

There are more mysteries that compel me, certainly and obviously.

What really happened to Richard Simmons? After a sudden withdrawal from the public eye and even close friends, he spent years mostly alone in his house before his death. Did he suffer from childhood trauma that manifested in a massive case of body dysmorphia and agoraphobia? The people closest to him, his live-in housekeeper and brother have kept most of the information about his final years quiet. They clearly value his privacy. And so do I, on a technical level.

What is the name of that song that my friend Jolene and I always listened to when we carpooled back to Duluth after any time away? We’d play it the minute we crested the hill, the music swelling as the expanse of Lake Superior finally came into view. It was on her MP3 player that she can’t find anymore, and neither of us remember the words.

Why are [REDACTED] and [REDACTED] no longer friends???

A partial answer to many of these questions is that they are simply Not My Business.

But I hope this will serve as a reminder to seek information from the best sources (ideally multiple!) Read books about topics that interest you, in their entirety. Ask someone that is well-researched and passionate. And remain curious, and open to change your mind, as much as possible.

I will say I’m fortunate to not have to think about money all the time. I do not budget well (sorry 2 my husband who will read,) so it took me a while to feel What Is Happening in my wallet. But I’ve fully arrived.

I went to Whole Foods recently (ugh) and I paused to touch some very soft hot dog buns. I moved to place them in my basket when I noticed the price. Six hot dog buns for seven dollars. I put them right back. I’m having a lot of these experiences lately.

I’ve started a little list of things I can do for fun and intrigue that are not outlandishly expensive. I laughed to myself as I took a recent look at the list, realizing that some of the options border on pathetic – the ability to Spice Up Your Life more expensive than basically ever.

No one would or should look to me for budgeting tips, but these are a handful of small and good things that remain relatively accessible. Some hyper-local and some not, sort of drifting from valid recommendation to a place of a little more desperation.

Don’t forget about pudding.

I’m married to a person with very healthy food boundaries, and it is one of the oddest things to see in practice. My husband will stop eating with only a few bites of food left on his plate. And he outright rejects my requests to “help” me eat something if there’s only a small amount left and I don’t want to box it up or finish it myself.

I’m someone that subscribes to the knowingly illusory belief that a person has two stomachs – one for sweets and one for savories. And I’ve frequently “made room” for dessert, even if it means being briefly uncomfortable in my body. I just want to taste! Everything!

If there’s a dessert worth really prioritizing, it’s the butterscotch pudding from Brasa. Pudding is so often associated with childhood, but it is something that’s held up! The butterscotch pudding at Brasa comes in a perfect portion size (small but not too small), it has great flavor, and its whipped cream and toffee crumble toppings are a visual and textural delight. And it’s only $5.50!!1 It’s the perfect addition to any evening – whether you eat at the restaurant or pop over to grab an order to-go to remind yourself who you are after accidentally spending $9 on a clamshell of salad florals across the street (from the Brasa Grand Avenue location!) at The Golden Fig.

SHIRLEY TEMPLE AT THE ARMORY TONIGHT, QUEEN???

Since I have basically completely stopped drinking, I’ve saved a lot of money by not buying a gin and tonic at every concert I attend. But my mouth gets DRY. There’s nothing to sip as I fight for my life trying to shuffle to the perfect spot – not behind anyone too tall, not by anyone that seems like a collapse risk.2

In October, I saw Lorde at the Armory in Minneapolis and I made two splendid discoveries.

1) Just behind the railing at bar level is the best place to stand, a location I’d scoffed at in the past (sorry I thought it was for the weak.) It’s got the best vantage point and is best for those hoping to gesture OUT instead of UP while dancing (claustrophobes and me.)

And TWO) A (large!) Shirley Temple will only set you four dollars at the bar.

I bought two and “Escuseme scuseme sorry scuseme sorry escusemeescuseme”d my way through mean mugs back to the railing and had the time of my life. Lorde was a revelation, the Shirley Temple was a great choice, and I’ll never look back.

Actually you should eat at Costco.

Does everyone know that you don’t have to have a Costco membership to eat at the food court inside?

In order to shop, you have to have a membership. Your Costco card is scanned not only at the front entrance but at the register before payment is processed. BUT, it is always an option to walk in the “out” door of Costco, past the employees checking carts and receipts as customers are leaving, and order from the self-serve kiosk at the food court.3

Maybe some will read this and think “Why would someone even do that when you can get dinner……….anywhere else??” And I’ll address that here because the Costco food court has some real OFFERINGS.

I am a cheese pizza slice, Diet Coke, and a soft-serve-to-go kind of gal, but my husband prefers the hot dog combo. I know a lot of people really like that hot pocket chicken bake thing, but I don’t like it because I don’t like things that are bad. Anyway, food enough to feed a family at the Costco food court barely eeks over the five dollar mark.

I’m hesitant to say ‘Costco is a people-watching hotspot’ since sometimes ‘people watching’ is used as a euphemism for purely mean-spirted mocking (don’t get me wrong, I love snark), but it’s fun and almost relaxing to sit and eat just outside the chaotic bubble of those check out lanes! This is a lunch or dinner solution often overlooked!

Learn 2 love the game aisle at the thrift store!

Soft Earlobe will never be the place for board game slander.

I’ve been known to bring both GAMES (card, board, other) and a bully-adjacent/persuasive attitude to many social gatherings. I insist everyone tries playing a game, even for a short time. Most of the time a game DOES serve as social lubricant and is a total success, but I’ll admit sometimes it’s a flop.

But what gave games such an eye-roll-inducing reputation? Is it truly so childish to play games? Many short form videos on the web lead me to believe that people are upset by the prospect of learning rules to a new game, but is that really so bad?? I’m a firm believer that ANY gathering of three or more people can be improved by even a brief round of Game.

But not everyone has games! And they can quite the financial investment! A new box of Uno cards could set you back almost fifteen dollars and it hardly qualifies as fun. I just bought Six Second Scribbles at a Goodwill for less than five bucks! Me and my mom and my sister played it and laughed our dang heads near clean off. More recently, I nabbed Greedy Granny at a Savers for a few dollars and, though my son finds it humorous, we will probably re-donate it soon. There’s so little to lose, and SO MUCH TO GAIN.

Many of the donated games are brand new and not even opened! If they are, perhaps you’re repulsed by the idea of a used game. But a Clorox wipe should calm any of your concerns.

You can eat the flowers, actually.

If you’re not already, I would highly recommend foraging and eating flowers.

This requires a little caution. You shouldn’t eat dandelions from your neighbor with the almost pristine lawn. Those could be spritzed with actual weed killer. And you shouldn’t be plucking a tulip from a patch close to the sidewalk (dog pizz threat.) You need to rinse them, regardless!

But I’m being serious when I say that a handful of dandelion heads and a few petals pilfered can be the starting ingredients for a genuinely interesting snack.

Inspired by videos from @blackforager and @inthecottagegarden, last year I fried both dandelion heads and tulip petals I pilfered. And by pilfered, I mean I went out in the dead of night a week or so after peak tulip season and ‘sourced’ one petal from about seven flowers in my neighborhood. I should have planted my own tulips for this purpose this year, but I didn’t. So look for me on your Ring cameras, because I’m about to strike again.

Does this just prove that almost anything is good fried? I don’t know. But it makes me feel like a character in Little House on the Prairie. And there’s no time like now to establish new and fun springtime traditions.

I drizzled the fried dandelion heads with honey and dipped the fried tulip petals in a homemade tartar sauce. Both would pair well with a variety of condiments.

Receipt Game

This is my personal favorite way to kill time, especially while standing in line. And it’s even good for the environment.

• Find a receipt. Ideally one that’s been littered. They are EVERYWHERE.

• One person will play the receipt looker, and one will be the receipt guesser. So, choose those roles.

• The receipt looker will look at the receipt and tell the guesser the location where the receipt was generated, the date on the receipt, and how many items were purchased.

• The guesser must guess the total of all the items, to the best of their ability.

• Price Is Right rules apply (must be under the price for full credit.) No matter what, it’s fun to use this to inspire conversation. Which is as fun and free as the Receipt Game.

• Throw the receipt in the trash so it’s not gumming up the riverways or something.

HONORABLE MENTIONS that maybe just reveal that I only really frequent businesses that are very close to my house, but these are worth commuting for –

• $2.50 ginger house salad from Osaka in Roseville. BONUS - They have a koi pond that always looks clean that you can visit while securing salad.

• $4 crunch-dipped twist cone from Conny’s Creamy Cone (SEASONAL and it used to be cheaper, but this is the best soft serve a person can get outside of the Minnesota state fair season if you ask ME!) Go on a day that it’s raining to skip the long line.

• $8 car wash from Midway Express. For a car wash, this place is quite regal in appearance. And it’s the fastest car wash I’ve ever had! It’s become a family tradition for me and my son to drive through and scream in glee and mock-terror the entire duration of the wash.

• $2 cheddar and chive scone from Hampden Park Co-op - you MUST arrive early in the day to secure!!

When I think about the receipt game, sometimes I think about Squidward saying “Playing? With a reef blower?” because that is kind of the vibe. But, now more than ever, I am trying to have fun and be hopeful.

Sentiments like “find the small joys in life” sound so hollow and repetitive when I’m irritable. I wish it wasn’t so much e f f o r t. Indulging in the negativity is like eating a full bag of chips. Amazing while the crunching and grouching is happening but then arrives the stomachache. The bleck.

It’s worth it to prioritize a slice of something good in your day, to leave the house, to interact with another person. Even when staying inside and turning inward feel like the way to self-preserve.

I hope you’ll buy some pudding, play the receipt game with someone, or eat a tulip petal (RAW EVEN!) And I’ll hope you’ll share with me your little accessible joys.

Be kind to yourselves this week and always!

I think I was waiting for the feeling of dread beyond even my best efforts. I AM OKAY if I sleep enough, drink water, exercise regularly, and eat plenty of vegetables. If I can attribute these depressive episodes to external sources, my despair seems more normal.

Last fall, I felt like it might be time. With some encouragement from my sibling, I started taking Prozac and it has me like. Wanting to buy Prozac merch. It’s not without side effects, but so worth the stability I feel.

So, this is my very first springtime on antidepressants. And unfortunately, it has not eliminated all my seasonal dismay. I dread summer’s arrival. I get too warm in these upcoming months, I get grouchy, and my productivity lags. I like being outside, but not obligatorily! I need days to sit inside and eat soup and watch The Exorcism of Emily Rose (not a summer movie), and they won’t be back for a while.

And though the start of the year is months past, springtime feels like a beginning. It’s the time I do my most reflection, and often when I miss things the most.

There are so many(!!) things that are GONE. I have not experienced a ton of traditional loss and grief, so it turns out I actually DO get upset when I think about the fact that they leveled a restaurant I went to six times in a city where I no longer live!

These are some things I mourn sometimes, but especially in the spring.

Valentini’s on London Road in Duluth, Minnesota

For years, I lived within walking visit of this place. Like an Olive Garden with more charm, Valentini’s offered pasta and other “Italian” dinners under moody-ish lighting and wine-inspired decor. They also had a trellis-lined lakeview patio. I had dinner there a few times with friends, and once with my boyfriend at the time (a rarity since we hardly did anything without his friends or mine.) My favorite thing about Valentini’s was that they brought out a giant tray at the end of the meal with all the desserts displayed. I can understand why other restaurants don’t do this, but it WORKS. I don’t always have room for dessert, but I made room for many cannolis and tiramisus and strawberry-swirled cheesecakes at Valentini’s.

When I returned to Duluth for a visit last year, I thought of the dessert tray. I didn’t even web search to see when Valentini’s opened for dinner service. I drove straight to my old neighborhood and was so surprised to see no restaurant at all. The building had been flattened and replaced by a parking lot, of all things.

Neighborhood Little Guys

Recently my mom mentioned to me, in a bit of a conspiratorial way, that it’s odd there are so many birds everywhere and we don’t see as many dead ones.

I understand where she’s coming from, but I can’t help but feel inattentiveness plays a part. Where are we most likely to see dead birds? Out our car windows on the freeway? View from the couch? I’m just as guilty as anyone of looking at my phone while I’m literally on a walk through my neighborhood. But when I am looking, I see dead birds. I’ve seen two and half dead ones this week (sorry that’s so sad and gross but it’s TRUE!)

I never know what to do with the animals I find that have died. I want to honor them in some way, and I literally don’t know how. Many animals have unofficial graves in my yard. Baby birds that have fallen from the nest and passed overnight, beautiful tiny bumblebees, a vole I found (fascinating since I had never seen one.) I tell them they are loved by me and pat dirt over their little bodies.

This winter, I spotted a dead squirrel in the snow from half a block away. As I walked towards it, I talked myself in and out of its identification - it’s a dead squirrel no it’s a dirty lump of snow no it’s not yes it is.

I had been feeding the squirrels, placing dried fruit and nuts on the front step of my house. It seemed likely this squirrel was one that was unofficially “mine.”

I didn’t want to leave it laying by the sidewalk. I pictured all the neighborhood dogs sniffing it as they walked past, their owners exclaiming in disgust and pulling them away. So, I used a plastic grocery bag to pick it up. Relieved when it was cold and hard and didn’t wriggle when lifted, I carried it to the community garden nearby.

I thought it would be a decent place to let it rest, fenced and quiet in the winter off-season. I said goodbye and let it fall from the bag. It made a most unceremonious plop into the snow below.

I keep seeing people using the community garden as an unofficial off-leash dog park. And I didn’t see the squirrel again. Even when I tried to visit.

“The Sand Park”

The park by my house used to be home to the oldest playground in the city.

My son called it “the sand park” because he would often bypass the playground equipment to play in the sand. There were two slides – one covered and one twisty. A free-standing infant swing. A couple of those seats with levers and shovels attached that teach children the thrill of manual labor. And some VERY Montissori-ass structures that made no sense to me, but where children created their own fun. Like a L-shaped wall with a huge funnel attached??

I’d taken my son there countless times.

He spent hours scooping sand into that funnel, swirling it with the largest stick he could find.

I’ve scratched at the tube of the covered slide, howling even, playing the part assigned to me by my son. The monster, insatiable for the taste of his FLESH.

To contain the sand, weathered wooden planks lined the edge of the playground. I’ve listened to whole audiobooks pacing these makeshift balance beams. Waiting for forty-ish minutes to go by, so we can return home for MY nap.

One day I got dirty looks from other parents when I let my son wear his bike helmet while he slid down the slide. Maybe they’d thought I’d insisted he wore it like some over-anxious freak. And maybe I deserve the glances. Because though he WANTED to wear the bike helmet while he played that day, I AM an over-anxious freak.

I’ve connected with tens of parents, there with their own children. So many have given me advice, solicited and not. Things that were helpful and things that hurt my feelings. One woman told me I’d regret not giving my son a sibling, and I think about her all the time. But often, my son and I were the only ones there. Because it was the oldest and crustiest playground in the city. And I liked it that way!

Last summer, signs with QR codes on them popped up, requesting feedback for the city planners designing a new park to replace this one. I panicked, because I cannot handle almost any change. But I exhaled a bit, as the deadline for the start of the project passed. I hoped maybe a budget cut would delay the playground replacement, or maybe the promise to update it was empty, after all.

A couple weeks ago, the playground was surrounded by a temporary fence. Played upon for the last time. And only a couple days later, the entire lot was cleared.

A new park is planned to replace it, but I’ll miss what was old and tired and familiar and felt like mine.

Kate’s Chair

A couple years ago, my next door neighbor, Kate, passed away.

She was discovered unresponsive by her partner, who both called for help and fled to our house for support. Blessedly, my husband answered the door. He is who you want with you in a crisis. He held my neighbor’s partner while they waited for the ambulance to show up, stayed when Kate’s death was confirmed, and waited for her parents to arrive.

I don’t have calm reactions to anything, so I suppose I was most useful back at our house. Waiting in case our young son woke up in response to the commotion outside.

Kate was the same age as me, much too young to go, so her passing was shocking. We were not close friends, but she and I held many shared values. She was an animal lover with many pets. And we often texted about the social injustices taking place in our city. She put actions to words, bringing food and beverages to an unhoused couple that had set up a tent nearby instead of sending a panicked email blast, as others did.

From my son’s room, I had a perfect view into her backyard. Sometimes I’d be making his bed or opening his window to let some fresh air in, and I’d notice she was sitting outside in a canvas camping chair directly in the sun. I am almost exclusively a shade dweller myself, but I loved how relaxed and peaceful she looked. She did a little gardening and her trio of dogs was often outside with her, but a lot of times it was just her in the chair. Eyes closed and face tilted towards the sun.

When she wasn’t using the chair, she folded it up and leaned it against the back of the house. It lay tilted there, like a collapsed umbrella, until she returned.

After she passed away, her parents and partner were in and out of the house constantly. They carried stacks of books and boxes and furniture. Some of it went directly into the trash. But the chair remained. Even after they hired a staging company to prepare the house for sale, the folded camp chair leaned against the back of the house. Seemingly immune to the wind and rain. No one moved it or opened it or sat on it.

I stopped looking for it daily. The potential of new neighbors finally overcame the anxiety I had about the chair. I dreaded the day it would be gone, signaling the true end of an era. I’m glad I didn’t see them moving it or worse, throwing it away.

Sharpy the Sharp Branch

I know that obsessive compulsive disorder is a debilitating condition that many joke they suffer from when they set rituals for themselves, and I don’t want to be one of those people! But there has to be a term for the sick feeling that fills me when I walk through the park near my house and fail to touch this one tree. A low-hanging branch used to stick out from it over the walking path, and I started pressing the sharp end of it into the softness at the very top of my head. It embarrassed me to do with anyone else around, so sometimes I tried to walk by casually, but often failed. Looping back when no one was looking- to get my little stab in. It felt like good luck.

Someone (I suspect a tall person) lopped the branch off so only a nub remains. I understand it probably hung right at someone’s eye level, so it was probably for both preference and safety that it was removed. I jump slightly to reach the nub each time I walk by, but it’s not the same.

Izzy’s Ice Cream

Don’t even get me started on my one-sided beef with Nelson’s Ice Cream, a storied Twin Cities establishment well known for their massive portions. The excessive scoop of ice cream that constitutes a small is charming for about twelve minutes and two funny photographs. But the ice cream itself is totally uninspiring, and the situation gets sticky and messy FAST!!

A few years ago, Nelson’s opened a sister store in my old neighborhood in Saint Paul called Nellie’s. I resent it as much as the other sister, but especially because of its location. Because there used to be an Izzy’s Ice Cream shop there!

It was my go-to first date location when I was, a million years ago, On the Apps. Sorry to my parents who will read this, but I brought a lot of people back to my apartment. Sometimes for kissing and largely because seeing my space through the eyes of strangers was genuinely interesting and something I hardly have the opportunity to experience these days.

ANYWAY, I loved Izzy’s. It was a flawless addition to any summer day or evening, never too popular to have an incredibly long line, and they had a whole wall of Izzy polaroids – visitors (mostly kids and pets) that shared the store’s name. On top of any full sized scoop, you were offered an “Izzy” scoop – a melon baller’s worth of ice cream of the same or different flavor. This was a dream come true for those wishing to create a complimenting flavor combo OR those looking to enjoy a little cotton candy even on top of cookies and cream. You could even get a bowl full of only Izzy scoops! To me, seven little scoops of varying flavors will always be greater than one large scoop!

My favorite thing about Izzy’s was their ambition, which I speak of constantly to this day! Once I got a scoop of basil sorbet there that had significant chunks of basil in it- not subtle at all. It was bold, a little off-putting, and I loved it. Maybe people don’t know, but the Twin Cities have impressive ice cream offerings, but no one is experimenting as wildly as Izzy’s.

In April 2020, Izzy’s location in Saint Paul closed, but the Minneapolis location remained open. This was nice since catching a show at the adjacent Guthrie Theater, sprinting across the grassy park to Izzy’s before it closes, and quietly appreciating the I-35W bridge collapse memorial nearby was a perfect summer evening (I did this only one time but still.) A few months later, the Minneapolis scoop shop closed. For a couple years, the company produced pints of ice cream only offered in grocery stores. They shuttered completely in 2022.

One time I was biking to Izzy’s and I prematurely turned pretty much right into oncoming traffic. I’m glad I survived (dramatic- as I was completely unharmed), but I can think of worse ways to go than at the precipice of something so special and SWEET.

TURBO ROUND (would you believe there are even more??)

Ruth Martin Piece – I found this little clay piece at the Goodwill near my house and immediately snapped this photo (above!!) Thoughtful but absurd, I loved it immediately. I talked myself out of purchasing it, and that was a MISTAKE.

PYREX – On the 27^th of July last summer, I made pasta salad for my family with All The Good Stuff – fresh and pickled veggies and cured meats and several types of cheeses topped with crispy chickpeas. Usually I would be more generous with leftovers, but I packed most of the remaining salad in my largest Pyrex bowl and prepared to take it home. Maybe it was karma’s quick work that I dropped the bowl in my grandma’s driveway, shattering the glass AND my dreams of highly anticipated pasta salad lunches to follow.

That bowl carried so much in our time together. Once I’d made limoncello in it, not washed it well enough, and then filled it with puppy chow for a New Year’s Eve party. Unnerved by the citrus smell, hardly anyone had eaten it. On the drive home the next morning, hungover and embarrassed by memories of the night before, I’d put the bowl in my lap and shoveled huge handfuls of lemon-y puppy chow into my mouth. I’d cradled the bowl, and it kind of cradled ME.

Lakeside Elementary, Chisago, Minnesota – The elementary school I attended was removed and replaced by (what I consider!) a very sterile housing development. The place where I got sick at a lock-in after eating too many Cool Ranch Doritos, the library where I really fell in love with reading, the gym where I failed to shimmy up the rope hung from the ceiling, and the swing set upon which I learned the power of my legs – they’re all gone!

Watermelon Laffy Taffy with SEEDS – Ideally eaten courtside at a high school basketball game with Becca while Brick House by The Commodores blasts from the gym’s speakers, I miss the unreasonably HARD black seeds stuck to the top of the full-sized watermelon Laffy Taffy bars. I’m confident people broke their teeth on these and orthodontists everywhere probably came together to stop the production of them, but I miss when candy felt a little more dangerous.

Sunflower Field, Downtown Saint Paul – When I worked in downtown Saint Paul, there was truly nothing like a payday Friday at the noon hour. Bursting out the back door into the parking lot with my favorite coworkers, an indulgent trip to the salad bar or an expensive sandwich in our near futures, noisy and chatting with the sun finally on our faces – the paydays of today pale in comparison! Sometimes we’d cut through a park near the downtown area’s sole grocery store, Lund’s. For years, a swirled path through the park was lined with sunflowers. They grew tall and heavy-headed in the late summer days, creating that momentary illusion you were somewhere else. Far from parking lots and city blocks. At some point, they stopped planting the sunflowers. And now the park is gone completely. Can you believe it’s (also) a parking lot?

I’ve forgotten so many things that are bad. Plenty of my memories are rose colored. I have to remind myself that there were disappointing things, too. Pain (physical and not), lack of security (monetary and not), and things that didn’t work out. But I mostly remember the ease, the fun, the possibilities, and the beauty! I struggle so much with change, getting rid of things, leaving things behind. Even though I know I probably wouldn’t like to be zapped back to then, I long for so much.

This year I’m going to try – to appreciate things for what they offered me when I encountered them. And be grateful I’ve encountered them at all.

When I was in high school and even before, I watched most of the seasons live as they aired. Later, I rewatched the seasons on the Oxygen channel, where they played as marathons basically every weekend. I worked in hospital housekeeping, and I kept a little remote control in the front pocket of my scrubs so I could click on the TVs as I cleaned. Coryn’s harsh words to Lisa in Cycle 5 “And what are you doing- alcoholic bitch?!” Brittany’s instructions to Natasha in Cycle 8 “STOP TELLING ME NOT TO BE UPSET!” Brooke’s improvised explanations during a Covergirl commercial “I just love wearing Covergirl. It’s just sooooooo! Nice to wear!” They were the soundtrack to my tidying.

It’s been a few years since I’ve revisited any of the seasons in their entirety, but I watched a few episodes as I anticipated the release of the recent Netflix docuseries, and it alllllllll came rushing back. The quotes, the characters, the photoshoots, the outfits, the good, the bad, the ugly.

For Reality Check: Inside America’s Next Top Model, Tyra Banks sits down in front of the camera in her Inspector Gadget trenchcoat seeming nervous to speak, guarded. She extended “I’m sorry”s to a handful of contestants (some she’d already publicly apologized to but probably not on this scale) and offered justifications for some of the more shocking elements of the show. Ken Mok (co-creator of the show and producer), Jay Manuel (creative director), Miss J Alexander (judge and runway instructor) and Nigel Barker (panel judge and frequent photographer) were also featured and took turns throwing Tyra under the bus to varying degrees. But they all seemed slightly more open to questioning. Ultimately, Tyra was not vulnerable or earnest. I refuse to place all the blame for the show’s shortcomings on her shoulders, but she did herself no favors!

I’m hopeful that the former contestants interviewed and those whose stories were retold felt validated by the audience response. Shandi Sullivan (of Cycle 2 of the show) was sexually assaulted on the show, but the moment painted her as a promiscuous drunk that let an evening go too far. Danielle Evans (winner of Cycle 6) was harassed into undergoing a dental procedure to close her beloved tooth gap. And seemingly everyone in the world remembers Tiffany Richardson (Cycle 3) as the recipient of a monstrous outburst by Tyra when she failed to have the perfect response to her elimination from the show.

Countless contestants were humiliated on the show, criticized for aspects they could and could NOT control about their bodies – especially their weight. Blackface was utilized multiple times during photoshoots by (admittedly) Tyra’s design. It was a relief to hear these addressed during the Netflix docuseries, but I came away from my viewing surprised by so much I felt was omitted. I understand this was a three episode series and only so much could fit, but it really barely scratched the surface!!

Here’s (ALMOST) everything I feel was missing!

SORRY BUT NO ONE CAN MAKE ME LIKE GISELLE OR SHANNON

I understand why three former contestants from the first season of the show were interviewed for the docuseries, since the conception of the show was explained. I was genuinely compelled to hear Ebony Haith speak about her experience. As a Black and open(ish) lesbian, she was hopeful to serve as a role model for the under-represented! She described a slow descent into a pit of disappointment as she felt betrayed and unprotected by producers of America’s Next Top Model.

But in Netflix’s seemingly ENDLESS reach, how could they not secure interviews from more charming characters than Giselle and Shannon from that first cycle??? Shannon, whose storylines revolved around her virginity and refusal to pose nude (or even in underwear-on-a-technicality during her appearance on the All Stars season), I have heard from enough!

I would have loved to see Elyse interviewed, another contestant from Cycle 1 that is only shown in this docuseries in a clip when she calls Giselle the C-word (in a long rant aimed at every remaining member of the show, which I found very relatable as someone that gets grouchy and spares no one) and celebrating her excessive thinness as she says aloud pseudo-surprised “am I the lightest one?” after a group weigh-in. Yikes!

Netflix likely knows they did a disservice only showing Elyse in that unflattering moment. They did something similar to Brittany (Cycle 4) who is shown gushing about how much she loooved wearing Blackface makeup for a Got Milk? photo shoot, but it’s clear her enthusiasm was to match Tyra’s for the resulting photo.

It’s not an all-inclusive list at all, but I would have liked to hear from some more endearing former contestants– Furonda (Cycle 6), my fellow Minnesotan1 Kahlen (Cycle 4), Sundai (Cycle 13), Chris (Cyle 15), Will Jardell (Cycle 21- the only boy contestant allowed in the franchise sorry), Kim (Cycle 5), Toccara (Cycle 3)!!! Where were they!!? I would like to hear nothing else from Shannon.

THIS ONE’S FOR ALL MY MEAN GIRLS?????????

I’m glad the docuseries touched briefly on the cruelty of SO many comments extended by judges, designers, and photographers towards the contestants. Robin of Cycle 1, Anchal of Cycle 7, and London of Cycle 12 were all memorable recipients of harsh words regarding their weight. Simultaneously, Elyse of Cycle 1 and Cassie from Cycle 3 were among the contestants confronted for potentially displaying more overt signs of eating disorders. Conflicting pieces of advice from the panel of judges were IMPOSSIBLE to keep up with, but almost virtually anything could be used to justify the alienation and/or elimination of the contestants. The environment was high-pressure by design, and many of the women lashed out in response to frustration, exhaustion, or stress.

There was ALWAYS a villain.

When I watched the show live in 2006, I specifically hated Monique, the supervillain of Cycle 7 who acted so outrageously, it felt like glimpsing pure evil. Hogging the telephone to chit chat with her mother while another contestant begged for a moment to call her landlord, terrorizing the house when a bag of her chips went missing, and wiping a pair of her used underwear on a bed where another contestant lay sleeping. At the time, I thought I was witnessing a psychopath in action, but now I can’t help but wonder how much of this probably exaggerated persona was encouraged by production.

I would have been interested to hear from some of my other favorite ANTM bad girls!! Jade (Cycle 6), Melrose (Cycle 7), Bianca (Cycle 9), Alexandria (Cycle 16), Erin from Cycle 13 who elbowed fellow contestants to the ground during a foot race and complained when she won a helicopter ride instead of something tangible! A lot of these young women were merely DETERMINED to reach out and snatch the opportunities that the show promised!

I have to assume it was difficult to reacclimate or pursue jobs in entertainment with the added stigma of being a “”bitch”” on TV, but we won’t know unless someone interviews my gals in a better documentary!

ANGELEA PRESTON

Speaking of bad girls, I think the biggest gap in the Netflix docuseries was the complete absence of Angelea Preston. Her history with the show fit the somber theme of the series, but there wasn’t even a WHISPER.

I watched both cycles of the show Angelea Preston appeared on live, Cycles 12 and 17. Cycle 17 was the sole All Stars season of the show, and though I was disappointed nose-bleed-enthusiast Allison Harvard did not take the crown, I felt okay about Lisa D’Amato winning. With one finalist’s elimination not even featured, the All Stars finale was odd to say the least. When it aired in 2011, there was at least enough internet to poke around and investigate what had happened to Angelea. At the time, the web only offered the explanation that Angelea had been named the winner of the All Stars season but had been stripped of that title. Years later, after a lawsuit was filed by Angelea, the details emerged. Angelea had allegedly worked as an escort between the 12^th and 17^th cycles, justifying her removal as the winner.

Considering how heavily the show emphasized Angelea’s Cinderella story with ANTM positioned as Prince Charming (during her on-camera first audition in front of the show’s panel, she revealed *at Tyra’s prompting* that she’d spent the previous night sleeping at the bus depot), I was repulsed that her struggle with real poverty was turned against her! And THAT was when I thought she’d turned to sex work intentionally!

But this Bustle article explains Angelea’s story most clearly, including that she was essentially trafficked (per the article, she would NOT use this word but these words are mine) by a former boyfriend. Per Angelea, producers of ANTM (including Ken Mok!) were aware of this history before they started filming the All Stars season.

It may not be a frequent feature on Soft Earlobe, but the ‘lobe stands FIRMLY as a safe space for sex workers. I’ll advocate for safety and respect of sex workers always, and I’ll always want justice for Angelea!! I hope she’s found it.

At the conclusion of the Bustle article, it’s mentioned that Angelea may be writing a memoir. The moment it’s available for pre-order, I will be adding to CART.

MODELS ON ICE

One thing about me is I actually don’t think anyone is entitled to a modeling contract and I would not identify modeling as a job vital to the function of society. I understand that reality television is created predominantly to entertain, and the potential models didn’t necessarily need to be treated like royalty. But! At this point, we’ve heard from enough former ANTM contestants to know that their treatment and conditions on set were often poor! I was surprised, in this Netflix docuseries, to hear so little about it.

In the lawsuit Angelea Preston filed against Tyra and the show’s network in 2014, Angelea alleged that the show runners withheld food and water for hours at a time, did not provide proper rest breaks, and denied Angelea prompt medical attention when suffered a panic attack.

In Sarah Hartshorne’s book, You Wanna Be On Top? A Memoir of Makeovers, Manipulation, and Not Becoming America’s Next Top Model, Sarah details the show’s “on ice” policy which forbid the contestants to speak to each other when the cameras were not rolling. At times, when cameras were capturing judging deliberations, the models were “on ice” for large portions of time, often held in rooms in complete silence with limited access to food, water, and bathroom breaks.

In Sarah’s book, she says the “on ice” rule “had the added benefit of silencing contestants into submission and making (them) feel isolated and crazy.”

In the Netflix series, I think one person mentions that the models were overworked and underfed, but no other mentions of this!

PRANKS AND UNNECESSARY CRUELTY

In the first episode of the 16^th Cycle of ANTM, Tyra Banks dresses up like Ashton Kutcher on an episode of Punk’d and preps the audience to watch a seriously sick little prank. A group of twenty eight women stand before Jay Manuel and Miss J. Alexander, vying for a spot on the show. Half of them are dismissed in mass to return home as the other women erupt with glee as they’re informed they’ve made the final cut and will be moving into the models’ house and beginning filming! The “rejected” group relocates to another room where they’re surprised by Tyra who informs them they HAVE been selected for the show after all! A weird thing to do to both groups of contestants - but I can’t help but wonder what happened to the group of women that were informed they’d be moving on in the competition, only to have the rug pulled out from under them!!2

In a widely circulated clip from Cycle 6, Tyra pretends to pass out in front of a circle of contestants, only to spring up and tell them it was all fake to prepare them for a day of acting lessons.

During Paulina Porizkova’s FIRST appearance on the show (Cycle 10), she lets the models know that they’ll have to get used to the harsh judgement of the beauty industry. Starting now! Then she queues them up and bops down the line – pointing out who has bad skin, a “smooshed” face, looks old, too masculine, etc.

And nearly every season, some secret challenge would include enduring excessively harsh criticisms from actors posing as established members of the fashion industry. A fake photographer in Cycle 4, assigned to terrorize a tennis photoshoot. A fake designer in Cycle 6. Professional models tasked with terrorizing ANTM contestants backstage before a runway show in Cycle 15. These are only the ones from my memory! I’m sure there are so many more – unnecessary twists and turns to make the contestants feel bad about themselves and also stupid. Even when the “joke” is revealed, the rude comments from the actors must still sting. And lordt help the contestants that did anything but thank Tyra and/or any of her counterparts for these valuable lessons or experience.

OTHER BAD GUYS

I was pleased to hear from Keenyah Hill (Cycle 4) in this Netflix series, who was repeatedly chastised by the panel of judges for gaining any weight while featured on the show. In Reality Check, she was also given the opportunity to tell her side of the story regarding the sexual harassment she endured at the hands of a male model assigned to costar in a photoshoot with her. When Keenyah asked to take a pause to request support, she was refused and belittled for halting the shoot. To the day the docuseries was filmed, Nigel Barker doubled down on his 20+ year old opinion that she should have internalized that discomfort for the sake of the photo. Ew.

The rehashing of Keenyah’s experience also made me think of Jaeda from Cycle 7, who was paired with a male model for a commercial shoot that straight up told her he did not like Black girls! “He doesn’t want to help me,” she explained to those at a shared dinner table with the remaining contestants and the same number of male models, all paired off. From the footage the audience sees, no one came to her aid. And everyone she explained the situation to afterwards failed to make her feel heard or safe!

Two other relevant instances came to mind! Adrianne (Cycle 1) was approached by a man that reached up her skirt while she hustled between the model “go-sees.” Kayla (Cycle 15), who was a victim of childhood sexual abuse, was reduced to tears when she was instructed to kiss a man as part of a commercial shoot for a fictious water brand! Even when indirectly the ANTM producers’ doing, women were traumatized on this show!

STRAAAIGHT UP EXPLOITATION

In response to the promises made by the show to kickstart modeling careers, many of the young women auditioning for America’s Next Top Model were desperate for an opportunity to change the trajectory of their lives! Many of them were not well-connected or supported in their home lives.

This was not unique to ANTM (other reality television shows utilize this tactic), but it was always so gross to hear a contestant describe the most painful thing they’ve endured to the camera, all backed by some sad sack music to fit the mood. Models described abusive home lives, recently deceased family members and friends, housing insecurity, and one contestant even attempted to navigate the show while Hurricane Katrina ravaged her hometown and her family was actively missing.

When I was a young viewer of the show, I figured that Tyra and/or the production must be helping the contestants off-camera. But I doubt that narrative now.

TYRA’S SUCCESS(??) STORIES

During her interviews on Reality Check, it was wild to hear Tyra champion herself as some trailblazer of inclusivity. She held up her casting of Isis King (Cycle 11), the first transgendered contestant on the show, as proof. The representation was significant, especially in 2008 when the cycle aired, but I was surprised Tyra mentioned Isis at all considering her treatment on the show! Isis quickly became a victim to transphobic idiot, Clark, and other ignorant comments from contestants. In her final photoshoot, Isis was obligated to wear a bathing suit that made her uncomfortable for an underwater photoshoot where the bathing suit was not even seen????? Unnecessary!

Tyra was also eager to hold up Winnie Harlow as a poster child for America’s Next Top Model, as though the show had much of anything to do with her massive success! Winnie, who went by her given name Chantelle on the show, received a mostly villainous edit. I remembered a scene where Winnie is confronted by a large group of contestants for fabricating details of a hook-up between her and season winner, Keith. When I sought to rewatch this episode, I realized how challenging it is to find this cycle to view! It isn’t streaming anywhere and my library has almost every season’s DVDs except Cycle 21 (when Harlow appears.) I had to text all my friends who have illegal streaming service access for help! I don’t know how to use that part of the internet!

It seems most former contestants of the show would tell you that their ANTM stint did nothing to advance their options in the modeling world, but who knows! I have personally witnessed many of them go on to find at least commercial success! Remember when Raina from Cycle 14 was in that Maroon 5 music video?? And I’ve spotted Cycle 21’s Kristin in Target ads.

WHAT ABOUT OLIVER TWIXT

Though I genuinely enjoyed the commentary provided in the docuseries by journalist Zakiya Gibbons, she was an unfamiliar face to me. I would have LOVED to see Oliver Twixt, who became well known in the America’s Next Top Model fandom after he began interviewing MANY of the former contestants for his Youtube channel in 2021. From what I understand, he has no history in journalism and was simply a guy sliding into their DMs with a dream! But he’s so charming! And many ANTM mysteries were solved during the airing of his Youtube series. He was also featured on Netflix’s reality television show, The Circle, so I was very surprised he wasn’t interviewed for Reality Check.

If the Netflix docuseries left you wanting more, I’d highly recommend watching some of Oliver’s interviews. He’s chatted with Alasia (Cycle 14) who appeared in that full butt photo that Andre Leon Talley would hang in his salon, eliminated-the-night-of-her-high-school-graduation Brooke (Cycle 7), “This is my signature walk and this is what’s going to make me famous” Camille (Cycle 2), “Did you just remove that from your ass from the last panel?” Caridee (Cycle 7), Claire (Cycle 9) who at least HAS a husband, and the photoshoot diaper pee-er herself, Lisa (Cycle 5). And so many more!

ANYTHING FUN OR STUPID

It was SO cool to hear from Bre Scullark, a very memorable contestant from Cycle 5, and I totally admire the fact that she does a lot of victim advocacy work now! But it would have been nice to hear the solution to a decades-long mystery that is WHO took her granola bar!

Towards the end of Cycle 5, with only a few contestants left and the pressure of the competition mounting, Bre discovers her groceries have been tampered with, and one of her granola bars is missing. Mistakenly, she assumes that fellow contestant Nicole, has pilfered the granola bar. Bre reacts by dumping Nicole’s energy drinks down the sink, leaving the empty cans as evidence of her revenge. Allegedly, Lisa ‘I Be Like Whoa’ D’Amato was the one that stole the granola bar just before she’d walked out the door, eliminated days before the crime was discovered.

Beyond granola bar drama was the highly manufactured absurdity of MANY of the photoshoots and challenges. Models walking water-y runways in plastic bubbles, dramatically posing through a maze of laser beams, harnessed up to tromp down a runway straight off the side of a building, mirrorless makeup challenges where the contestants are criticized for the sloppy results. Many of these things were mostly harmless and literally laughable.

ANTM was such a silly show in so many ways, I’m honestly surprised the opportunity to feature any of that was completely squeezed out.

REST IN PEACE for REAL!!

Is it unreasonable that I thought there would be any mention of those involved in the show that have passed on? Given the vibe of the series, I don’t know where it would have fit. But I couldn’t help but think about Andre Leon Talley, former judge and total angel, as I watched. Additionally, contestants Jael Strauss (Cycle 8), Kimberly Rydzewski (Cycle 10) and Mirjana Puhar (Cycle 21) have all died since they appeared on the show.

WHAT COULD HAVE GONE MISSING

The weird B roll photos they used of Tyra and Jay Manuel in the Netflix docuseries almost seem doctored to appear more sinister, but I can’t say for sure. Here’s what they looked like on my television screen. It felt cursed to pause, but I did it anyway.

I would have preferred to live longer without hearing “No. Sacred. Cows.” as many times as Tyra said it (the actual count is three, but it felt like so many more.) Apparently, the saying is centuries old, but it is new and unwelcome to ME.

It’s important to me to say that I DO think America’s Next Top Model accomplished something! It was disappointing to see Tyra select women that were not “traditionally beautiful” to feature on the show, only to insist they try their best to adhere to the standards of the industry. But when I was a young girl in a small town watching America’s Next Top Model, Tyra SAID that beauty could be more than one thing and I believed her! In many ways, you could see Tyra’s intentions. Though they were undermined by a million other statements and actions, there were many attempts to emphasize the importance of health and mental wellness discussed on the show. This was NOT as common a conversation as it is today!

And I won’t validate All of This with excuses, but I do think that America’s Next Top Model was hardly doing anything more outrageous than any other reality television show at the time (I still rewatch Big Brother seasons from the same era and WOOF.)

I refuse to defend Tyra or even pity her – she’s a household name with beyond enough money and power for several lifetimes. But she made something that compelled people long enough to stand the test of time, in its own way.

To end this, I have assembled a few graphics that highlight some of my favorite ANTM participants and moments. These will ALWAYS inspire joy in me!

Adam, hissing after Hannah, insists what is happening in the next room is not her business.

“Everything’s my business,” she tosses back as she creeps closer to the closed bedroom door.

If you haven’t seen it, you SHOULD. But now you have the idea. There’s more context within the show to explain the moment’s significance, but the statement is what stays with me. And Hannah’s lack of hesitation. Everything is her business! I couldn’t relate to anything more!

This all-encompassing attitude is one I bring to many topics, including Valentine’s Day. The approaching holiday is one that’s often under-appreciated due to its connection to romantic love, (now) excessive consumerism, and its association with femininity!

I stand in opposition to the eyerolls. EVERYONE’S my Valentine!

I like to approach this holiday the way we did as 4^th graders – when we brought enough Valentines cards to school for each member of our class. Your crush received the one with the most discretely flirty messaging, you addressed the cutest one to your best friend, and you might pretend you forgot the one assigned to your nemesis. I took the task of labeling the remaining Valentines very seriously – to best suit ALL recipients.

To this day, Valentine’s Day for ME is not just about kissing (though there should always be kissing) but about expressing the affection you have in your heart! For your nearest and dearest and even those less so.

They are all my Valentines, as far as I’m concerned. My husband! My child! My parents! My other relatives! My friends! But also the people I see consistently on walks in my neighborhood that I’ve never met formally. Every roommate I’ve had. Jen, my car’s angel who used to work at the Midas in Roseville but has since moved to another location (I miss her!). The produce guy that worked at the downtown Saint Paul Lund’s whose friendly wave brightened so many of my mornings (RIP to that Lund’s – a cherished friend on its own, basically). The guy at the Piada place at MOA that gave me a free lemonade. Angela, my cool aunt’s cool friend who will sit with me at any social function we’re both at and go line by line on our Goodreads, discussing literally every single book we’ve read since we’ve seen each other last (also I think she reads these – HI Angela!). Every single childcare provider that has made a positive impact on my son’s life and mine. Including Lenea, a teen that lives nearby so I walk her home after she babysits for us and she’s so forthcoming about what it’s like to be a young person today (honestly so valuable). Even Shelby from the pet food store who told me she liked my sweater this week.

If I had the means to hunt each one of them down with a Valentine’s card and a box of conversation hearts and I didn’t think it would make them feel uncomfortable, I WOULD.

Whether they’re aware of my sentiments or not, here are some more of my cherished Valentines I’ll be celebrating this glorious holiday season.

My Favorite Co-op Employees

I live two blocks from a tiny little co-op grocery store. The first five years I lived here, I hardly ever visited or bought anything there unless I was desperate to avoid a lengthy commute. I haven’t always been in the financial position to afford a four dollar bell pepper, but it’s something I really prioritize now. It’s a JOY to walk around the store, support a local business, and soar on the moral superiority of not driving a car somewhere.

There are a handful of consistent cashiers at the co-op, but I have two favorites.

One is a guy that mumbles too much when he speaks and is a little rough with my produce while scanning them, but I can tell he recognizes me (goes a long way!!!!!!!!!!!!!) and one time he really helped me try to find wonton wrappers (they don’t carry them.)

My tip top favorite employee is most efficient, knowledgeable and kind, but also definitely aloof. I am CONFIDENT they live right across the street from me because I literally see them leave that house and walk down the street towards the co-op, but we’ve never shared brief eye contact, a wave or even head nod of recognition outside of the store! I always think about saying ‘I think we’re neighbors’ when they are bagging up my items at the register. But I don’t want to make them feel weird or excessively watched. Our consistent orbit intrigues and charms me.

Bless them both! And the novelty beverage selection at that co-op.

My Son’s Bus Driver

My son was four years old the first day he stepped onto a school bus. It seemed absolutely absurd for me to just let him get on a BUS filled to the brim with people I do not know (his peers) and without a seat belt! He was so baby!!

The first time he loaded onto the bus, I pulled myself up the first step of the bus and explained to the driver “This is his first time on the bus.”

I searched the driver’s eyes for some compassion or assurance that he would deliver my son extra carefully to school. But his gaze basically said “….oookay.”

We’ve come a long way since then. Gradually, we began waving each day. After the last kid has filed onto the bus and taken their seat, the bus driver raises one hand high in the air, and I smile and motion back enthusiastically.

In my Christmas card to the driver, I mentioned that I absolutely live for the assurance of the wave. And I swear the gesture has become more spirited since.

CARLY at the UPS Store

My most preferred and precious Carly is my one and only sibling, but my second favorite is Carly who works at the UPS in Roseville off Lexington.

The first time I met Carly, I was weary from a trip to FedEx where I had attempted to send a package. It had been YEARS since I’d sent a package and?? Irrationally, I thought you had to show that you weren’t sending any forbidden liquids??? I had my cardboard box and printed label ready but had not taped it closed. Between my extended wait for any FedEx employee to acknowledge me and the fact that they wanted me to buy a twelve dollar roll of tape to secure my own box, I left.

CARLY let me use a roll of UPS communal tape and guided me through the package submission process with confidence and efficiency.

Since then, I have been thrilled to see Carly each time I visit this location. She’s hefted my Nuuly returns over the counter, rung up my stamp books, printed receipts with my tracking information. She’s just a gem! I sense no familiarity when we correspond, but I always tell her she’s the very best. I hope she hears it!

Taco Bell Sticker Vandal

The Taco Bell closest to my house was glorious before, with a staff so jovial that I finally built the courage to say something.

“…….it just seems so fun to work here,” I told them genuinely.

“It is!”

But they leveled the Taco Bell with the friendly staff and a lobby and put up a compact rectangle of a building without anywhere to sit, as a deterrent to those that might wish to linger too long.

The Taco Bell has lost a lot of its charm in this transition, but at least one person seems to be working to entertain and delight the location’s visitors. And it’s whoever keeps attaching human-rights-themed stickers to the outside of the building. Specifically on the bollards (I had to look up this word – the short concrete pillars covered in their plastic yellow shafts) along the length of the drive thru line.

Right now one says ‘Fuck Ice’ and another ‘Fund Healthcare not Warfare.’ There have been sillier ones, featuring goofy animated creatures alongside social-justice-seeking sentiments, but also more direct ones. “No humans are illegal on stolen land.”

Regularly, they are peeled or scraped off, which I’m sure is frustrating to the employee that has to complete that task and of that I’m not a huge fan. But I like the idea that the Sticker Bandit is ONE persistent Taco Bell enthusiast. I hope they never stop!

Emily, My Dental Hygienist

I stopped visiting the dentist consistently after I finished college. I relocated a few times, and finding a trustworthy dental office was not often a top priority.

“It’s important for your heart health,” my mom told me, basically begging me to make an appointment somewhere.

That actually did work. I swallowed my pride and deep concerns I’d have 1000000000 cavities and made an appointment at a highly rated location near my house. I waited to hear the cavity count or the tsk of disappointment from the hygienist. And to feel the scrape of those tools between my teeth. To see the smears of blood from my bloated gums wiped onto the napkin they placed on my chest, a Scarlet Letter for the dentist to see when they came to assess the inside of my mouth. I did not FLOSS.

But Emily greeted me warmly. Without knowing her age, she seemed like the youngest dental hygienist I’d ever met. I wondered about the average age of a dental hygienist while she gently prodded my teeth with that thing. Maybe I was just getting older so everyone seemed younger?

She was so gentle that sometimes I worried that she wasn’t doing an adequate job (SORRY to my gal.) My teeth never throbbed with a dull ache hours after she was done the way I’d come to anticipate when I left the dentist as a child.

Emily encouraged good oral hygiene habits without shaming me. She knew how to perfectly time a conversation when one participant frequently has hands in their mouth, pausing to let me rattle off responses.

We’d talk about books, movies, and television shows we enjoyed. I’m confident that the Venn diagram of our media interests would be blank white in the middle. Truly no overlap. But I listened to her tell me about the primetime TV drama she was watching. And she never stopped me when I talked about Tonya Harding too much.

Around 2019, when I was planning to get married and thinking about my potential future as a mother, my chats with Emily deepened. We complained that weddings make everyone involved lose their minds. She told me she worried about how she’d balance motherhood and a quality relationship with her husband. After I had a child and struggled with postpartum depression, I reminded her that having children wasn’t mandatory at all. When I saw her last, she told me she was pregnant. In two weeks, I’ll be seeing her for the first time since she became a mom and I literally cannot wait. I know she’ll be honest with me about how it’s going.

I always thought part of adulthood would be having a hair stylist I told everything for decades. It never happened for me.1 I don’t dye my hair anymore, and I have hardly gotten a haircut since I’ve stolen my sister’s hair cutting scissors and started experiencing bouts of over-confidence with them.

Instead, I really feel lucky to have Emily. Outside of her hygienist scrubs and behind the mask she wears, I’m not even sure I’d recognize her if she walked past me on the sidewalk. But I care for her so much! And she’s got me flossing consistently!

When I consider everyone I’m pleased to encounter regularly, I realize I don’t usually remember names. Or I don’t ask for them! Sometimes it feels prying to ask for someone’s name without a prompt or offer from the other person, but that feels distinctly Minnesota Nice in a bad way. I think I’ll try working on that this year. People want to feel seen and special! And I want them to feel seen and special by me!

If this moment in Minnesota and in TIME has reminded me of anything, it’s that connection will save us all! I want to appreciate openly and freely and often.

Happy Valentine’s Day to you as a reader of Soft Earlobe. Y’all are my angels, too.

These were earlier days of the internet, but I did a little research to see how sustainable the salary would be (practical for a 16 year old I think.) Even then, the web was honest with me. It was difficult to secure interior design gigs, especially in the rural(ish) Midwest and as someone with zero social connections to the elites. But I hadn’t talked myself out of it quickly enough, as I’d enrolled in an interior design class at my high school. For our final project, we were to design an entire house with scaled layout, specify flooring and paint colors, and use magazine clippings to relay the vibe. I accidentally indicated carpet as the only flooring for the home and received a C. The idea of a carpeted bathroom is revolting.

I did not and do not have the eye for interior decorating. In some ways, it’s a gift. It really doesn’t bother me that none of the woods match across our television stand, piano, dining room table, or bookshelves. My son jumps on our sofa with abandon because we do not own gorgeous or precious furniture. Gaudy toys occupy much of the space in our common rooms. I genuinely enjoy art, but my pieces are hung mostly where I find space and with less intention for balance. I don’t feel smug or superior for this lack of awareness at ALL, it just IS.

But I do own many things that improve my spirits, even moderately, each time I look at them.

In these uncertain and alarming times (I’m referencing the ICE agent surge in the Twin Cities today but that’s far from the only thing), finding the good takes intentional effort. I’m looking for something good. Desperately. Within. Like literally within my house.

And though I haven’t curated anything cohesive, I have collected some items that improve my mood as soon as they’re glimpsed or used. Here are a few of my favorites.

LAMP

I bought two of these lamps1 from the clearance section at Target in probably 2002. One I gave to my friend, Briana, as a birthday present (I think she was turning 11.) Buying lamps for others is something I actually do not recommend. This is a lesson I’ve learned as both a giver and receiver, but this was my first taste.

My lamp held central real estate in my room – on the shelf just above my bed. I quickly learned the benefit of soft mood lighting, adjusting the lamp’s face towards the ceiling or directly towards my bed to alter the vibe. I even bought a handful of novelty colored light bulbs I loved installing and uninstalling.

With her birthday party weeks behind us, I hardly thought of the lamp I’d given Briana. Until I spotted on my next visit to her house.

She and I were taking turns pretending to be “Luna,” a gentle monster that lived in her closet and visited the children that attended her mother’s in-home daycare. We worked diligently to assure the children that Luna was real and certainly not me or Briana draped in a bedsheet, squeaking in our version of a monster’s language and waving shyly with cloaked hands.

I was in the closet, taking a moment to breathe out from under the sheet, when I spotted the lamp. Its cord was wrapped neatly and tucked beneath it, unplugged. The lamp’s face was darkened and directed towards the wall. On a shelf. It embarrassed me instantly. I hadn’t even considered that Briana might not like it! Or think it was ugly! I never talked to her about it, and I never saw the lamp again. I just have to hope it was donated to an enthusiastic home and not pitched into the trash.

My lamp has stood the test of time! It’s moved with me eleven times – lighting up desks and bedside tables and shelves along the way. To this day, I love its soft glow. And the hollow click it makes when I turn it on. Though I’ve lost touch with Briana, it still makes me think of her (fondly!) too.

(Authentic??) Signed photo of Rosie and Tom

Early in 2023, I learned about Tom Cruise’s tradition of sending cakes to his friends for the holidays. I searched high and low for a list of recipients and was surprised to find Rosie O’Donnell remained close enough to him to (allegedly, I suppose) receive an annual cake. In February of that year, I wrote about their friendship which continues to intrigue me to this day.

Hustling off the bus after a long day of attending middle school, I loved watching The Rosie O’Donnell Show. Rosie’s over-excitement each time Tom Cruise was a guest on the show always seemed feigned, and I always figured it was possibly even annoying to him. So when I reviewed the footage of their interaction and heard/read the way Tom and Rosie speak about each other to this day, I was surprised! And warmed!

These two seem to have so little in common. Rosie is a compelling host of multiple shows and comedian, expressive and often brash (and I love her almost implicitly.) And Tom is a 90s movie smolder-y heartthrob that has a reputation of intensity and prides himself on doing his own stunts. Plus, the Scientology of it all (yikes). But they clearly enjoy and respect each other. I genuinely find it so lovely!

So, when I was browsing eBay one day and found this very budget-friendly signed photo of Rosie and Tom, I knew I had to have it. It was especially inexpensive because it has not been verified as a legitimate Rosie O’Donnell signature, but that only adds a layer of intrigue to me.

Mystery Fork

It’s heavy in hand, luxurious without even looking. And a pleasing shape to its tines.

I know what most likely happened is someone left it here after bringing a dish to share, or we mistakenly took it from elsewhere.2

But I like the idea that maybe it’s lived here longer than we have. Unearthed from a gradual shift of the floor or the walls or the stairs. Maybe it appeared one day and was picked up off the floor and placed in the sink with the dirty dishes, unknowingly.

Ceramic Chicken

In December of last year, my husband bought a ceramic chicken from Home Goods to offer as a prize for a team building exercise/competition taking place at work. She sat on our dining room table while she awaited her relocation into the hands of the winner. In the weeks she was with us, I formed a real attachment to her. For a moment, I tried to convince my husband to buy something else to gift the company champion. I ultimately yielded and she was gifted for her novelty.

In December, my husband and son were shopping and spotted the chicken’s doppelganger and purchased her for me. I was beyond thrilled and surprised to receive my first real gift selected partially by my son, and to come into new ownership of another ceramic chicken! This time for good! She sits in the center of the dining room table where she belongs. Often next to a bouquet of flowers.

I’ve been thinking about making her some seasonal accessories. Maybe a flower crown. Or a Santa hat.

Birthday Bunch Button

Becca of Stuff I Typed, By Becca throws the best birthday party every year. There’s always a theme (aliens, Willy Wonka, 80s prom, Goosebumps, everything but a birthday party party) and thoughtful games (some of y’all are so weird about board games they are FUN okay) and the guest list is very consistent over the course of the eight years I’ve attended. I know other people have birthday parties every year and they are fun, but there’s just no normal way to tell you that part of my sanity hinges on my attendance at this birthday party. It’s pure delight.

Last year, Becca’s sister brought embroidered pins she made that said “Becca’s B-Day Bunch” on them and mine sits on the windowsill directly next to my work desk, on display and at the ready to be pinned to my outfit for this year’s party. And the next and the next.

Diet Coke Punch Needle Masterpiece

My friend (and podcast cohost!), Kevin commissioned me a Diet Coke can punch needle piece from talented writer and fiber artist, Michelle Beaulieu Morgan. Kevin is an exceptional gift giver, which is a stressful trait to find in a close friend. But this is one of the nicest gifts I’ve ever received. I’ve done a little internal work and now I feel like I deserve and can enjoy it.

Mystery Gal

It was 2013 and I was walking near 10^th and 2^nd Street East in Duluth when I found this photo on the sidewalk.

I’ll admit I found it comical and definitely embarrassing. It seemed like the person in the photo would likely not wish for this to be seen by a stranger. As a born nosy person, the vulnerability thrilled me. Also, I had NO idea what was taking place the moment the photo was captured. Reaching? Slightly turned? Seems posed but also surprised a photo is being taken?

Today, I enjoy the photo in earnest – not a bit at the person in the photo’s expense.

Kewpies On The Switch

I’ve watched a thousand videos about “dopamine décor,” objects and fixtures arranged in homes that inspire more delight than serve a function. As someone without decorating taste, this really appeals to me. Small efforts can create large impact. And WHY NOT.

The light switch in our dining room is not built into the wall, but within a small box with encased wires that run from it into the ceiling. On a whim, I placed two little Kewpie dolls on the box.

They’re CUTE. And their precarious placement on the tiny platform means that sometimes they are brushed off when one reaches for the light switch.

I’m the only one that can resituate them. My son is still too short to reach. And my husband struggles to return them to their place when they fall (this shocks me since he is MUCH more spatially aware and agile than me.) So, I collect them each time, kissing both their faces and tapping them together to ‘kiss’ each other before refixing them on their ledge.

This isn’t useful in any practical way, but in the moment it’s indistinguishable from what is. The house is messy and the dog needs a walk and the dinner needs to be prepared, but the Kewpies are tended to.

Often, I’m vague regarding which events are most upsetting to me currently, with the understanding that most that will read this will understand what I mean. In this case, I want to be clear that I’m horrified by the excessive number of federal agents present in the Twin Cities metro, needlessly and violently terrorizing our streets, neighborhoods, businesses, SCHOOLS, places of worship, etc. I reject any notion that this is helpful or necessary and implore anyone reading to consider donating to one of the organizations listed here. Whether you’d like your dollar to stretch towards food security, rent relief at this time that many are literally sheltering in place and unable to work, immigrant defense efforts, or directly to families separated by ICE, there’s a link here for it.

I have to believe I won’t be disappointed forever. And I cannot become too exhausted by things that disappoint me that I fall over and just. Stop. So I will keep looking for the good things. Clinging to them. Even when it’s technically Just Stuff.

PLEASE feel free to share with me in the comments about some of your special things! I literally love hearing an anecdote about how long someone has held onto something small that’s special to them. Or something weird. Or something you thrifted. I love personifying things and find pleasure in them securing forever homes.

It grossed me out sometimes. Thinking about how infrequently it was washed (by me!). At night, I slept with my hands folded under my face/partially directly on its wristband. As I drifted off, I tried not to think about where I had probably bonked it during the day. Door handles, grocery store baskets, dirty dishes, bathroom stall doors etc etc. But I was addicted to the sleep data, basing my attitude for the day on my “sleep score” without considering if I felt that I’d had a quality night’s rest.

And I really liked Fitbit games. Absolute strangers invited me to rounds of Fitbit Bingo, where fitness accomplishments could be applied to tick Bingo board spaces. If I could take enough steps, log enough consecutive activity minutes, travel farthest distances, I could maybe win a Bingo round against Kim, someone with an orange Care Bear as their profile photo. Sometimes I would add another consistent virtual Bingo participant as a Fitbit “friend” and that’s how I connected with Tracy P.

Tracy P had springy curls in her profile photo, glasses, and (based on the time of day she was most active) probably lived in a different time zone than me. As my Fitbit friend, her weekly step count appeared on my leaderboard in the app. In a ranking consisting mostly of people I’d met at old jobs or once or twice in college, my little profile photo moved up and down in response to my activity level for the week. Tracy’s step count usually hovered just above mine.

It got to a point where I’d check the app in the evening and if Tracy P’s numbers indicated she’d taken a walk recently, I would do the same before going to bed. Tracy P once took her Fitbit off for a while. I could tell because her steps number plummeted to zero on the leaderboard. When she returned weeks later, I messaged her in earnest that I’d missed the motivation of her step rate. And she responded favorably! We had something!

Shortly after Fitbit removed the option to play Bingo and other games, I stopped wearing mine. But I’ve never completely lost my interest in personal DATA. Even though it’s embarrassing.

Music streaming app numbers are one thing, but I can tell you that I really didn’t need a “Crumbl Unwrapped” to notify me how many cookie flavors I tried in 2025.1

I think part of the reason I’m so interested in any numerical information about how I spend my time is because I have a poor memory! I actually do need to be reminded what’s happened, because I don’t recall. This is the greatest reason I’ve completed my third full year of diligently keeping a cry log.

At this point, I have enough information to create a compelling line graph that suggests trends from month to month/over the years. As expected, I cry a little more during the summer because I overheat and get grouchy, except for June 2024 when I cried once??? That does not seem right. And, as I did last year, I assembled a pie chart to track the reasonings that inspired the most upsets this year.

So, here is 2025 by (cry log) numbers.

And some notable and representative lowlights – in sequential order!

February Twenty-Sixth – When I find out Michelle Trachtenberg died, I do what many people do – visit her IMDB page and reflect on how life-changing it was to see her play Harriet the Spy. And remember how jealous we were of her character in Inspector Gadget. Because of the gadgets, but also because her name was Penny and she had a hot uncle (Matthew Broderick!!).

Desperately scrolling through photos of Michelle, I searched for clues as to what happened that probably only I could discern. Pictures of her on television sets and movie premieres in the 90s, wearing a genuine smile and her long brown hair straightened and parted down the middle, transformed into more vacant expressions as the years passed. Even just in front of the camera at event she attended towards the end of her life, her struggles are visible.

Unspecified illness and probably the effects of child stardom brought her to a dark place from which she never escaped. And we all forgot about her. Including me.

April Eleventh – In the middle of a Google search to find a suitable supper club to stop at on the way home, my phone died fully on my solo trip to Door County, Wisconsin.

On the drive back, Bon Jovi’s “It’s My Life” plays on the radio and I have vivid memories of singing along to this song with my dad and sister, piled together in the front seat of a truck with the windows down. As I recall, the sun is setting and my hair is whipping in the wind. Getting caught in my mouth.

I cry because I miss the simplicity of childhood but also I’m grateful that I had a simplistic childhood but also because things are so different now. My son doesn’t like loud music in the car and always asks me to turn it down. I love him more than anything, so I do.

April Fourteenth – I stagger from a hot shower into my bed without drying myself off with a towel first. I lay on my side and bicycle my legs in an attempt to lessen abdominal pain that has arrived quickly. Humming nonsensically to myself, I wonder if this is how I would have felt if I had declined an epidural while giving birth.

My sobs serve a purpose, distracting me briefly from the pangs in my midsection. I’m scared and confused but also immediately thinking of everyone that has a uterus in this country/world where it’s become so precarious to seek solutions to its problems!

After about forty minutes, my pain lessens and I fall asleep in my damp sheets. I think I had an ovarian cyst that burst or something. Having a vagina sometimes means having no answers.

May Twenty-Ninth – I don’t have enough PTO to both go to Europe in the fall and attend a road-trip to South Dakota with my son, husband, and some of his family over the summer. The decision is not a complete no-brainer for me. I really like tacky things, and I’ll be missing a trip to Wall Drug. Mostly, I’m worried about the moment I’ll receive a photo of my child in front of Mount Rushmore, and I will not be the one that took it.

Sometimes when I cry about something particularly pathetic, I hear Judd Nelson from The Breakfast Club sarcastically spelling out “b-o-o h-o-o” and this is one of those times.

I receive the photo of my son in front of Mount Rushmore. The moment passes.

June Second – A fledgling living in my backyard has a foot stuck in its birdhouse. It flaps and flaps, trying to free itself. I reach and cup the baby carefully, trying to help.

My spouse is working from home and available to assist. I call to him with panic in my voice, and he uses an electric drill to dismantle the birdhouse so the little guy can be released. The bird flies away, but not before I notice its leg is rubbed raw and red.

I hate that I can’t know for certain that the bird was completely okay. And I resent my inability to be calm, collected, and useful in these situations.

I kind of hate animal rescue stories because I hate thinking about those that were not.

June Fourteenth – The day two Minnesota state representatives are shot (one killed), I take my four-year-old son to a library behind an assisted living facility. It’s Flag Day and a No Kings Rally was supposed to take place at the state capital but was canceled due to recent events. I’m genuinely frightened by the targeted political violence so close to home, and my heart is heavy as the events intended to unify and provide comfort have been called off.

As my son and I drive past the assisted living facility, we wave as some of its occupants are gathered on the sidewalk with their No Kings rally signs. Democracy is important and has mobilized them, even though they can’t go far.

From the backseat, my son asks why I’m crying. I try to decide if my current tears are from sorrow or hope, and what is even appropriate to try to explain.

“Those people really care about something, and it means a lot to me.” I choose vague for now.

July First – I’m stuck in road construction on the way home from a nice lunch with friends. It’s so hot outside. In this moment, I cannot believe I have chosen to live somewhere with SO much pavement! Concrete! Nowhere forgiving to place my FEET.

Plus, I didn’t want to try to find a bathroom at the unfamiliar restaurant I’ve just left, so I have to pee so badly that I start crying.

July Twelfth – I’m camping with my son, and he falls face first into a super gross slimy puddle because he was bent over, looking too closely at a cluster of tadpoles. I hope he didn’t kill them with his face. We both return to our tent in tears.

August First – I’m in the kitchen with a clear view of the backyard where my son is playing. I hear him scream over the sound of music playing while I prepare dinner. Somehow, I just immediately know he’s been stung by a bee.

With tears streaming down his face and arms outstretched towards me, I rush to meet him and ask where he’s been stung. He exclaims, “Everywhere!”

I’m allergic to bees or wasps or something, so I’m wary as I remove one from his shirt. He’s been stung four times on his tiny little body. After he’s bandaged and calmed down, I return to the back porch to clean up. The wasp is still alive, but barely. I crush it till it’s a powder and hope it can feel it.

September Second – I’m in Amsterdam with my husband and we’ve rented bikes so we can see a real windmill. It will be one of my favorite memories of the trip, both pedaling past vacant gas stations at the edge of town and down meandering roads surrounded by fields of swaying grasses.

But my husband bikes so much faster than me. I’m killing myself trying to keep up but also annoyed when I see he’s pulled over to wait for me. There’s no winning. We go around fifteen miles round trip and even though I’m drinking water and using balm at pauses, my lips hurt from the dry wind coupled with all the panting I’m doing. I feel like a crusty doinky loser. It starts to rain.

September Tenth – I worry that my son is drinking too much juice at school.

October Eighth – I attend a scheduled vaginal ultrasound to investigate my irregular periods. While they’re shuffling around In There, they discover my IUD is crooked and should be removed. Since I’ve first had an IUD installed (this can’t be what it’s called, but you should know that’s the vibe), this has been my nightmare. That it’s just floating around up there.

The doctor pulls to release the IUD and makes the mistake of telling me the strings have fallen off. I cry so hard that she thinks I’m laughing and asks me to stop so she can finish the removal.

November Sixteenth – I find out a friend of mine has visited the area where I live and chosen not to contact me. This hurts my feelings in all the obvious ways but also sends me reeling. To what else have I been so clueless?? I think I’m extremely aware of exactly the amount of value I add to interpersonal exchanges, but I’ve miscalculated. Though I sent her an awkward and desperate message in a birthday card months earlier, it is confirmed I am no longer a priority to her.

December Fourteenth – I have to stay thirty minutes late for work, delaying my arrival at a holiday gathering where good food and familial warmth are waiting for me. I am a word beyond ‘weak’ when I am inconvenienced.

It’s been another year marked by a horrible news cycle. I make less cry log entries in response to exploitation of power, racism, transphobia, homophobia, and senseless violence mostly because these just shut me all the way down or find me struggling to remember all that I’ll lose if I let my purest anger dictate my actions. I want it to be clear that I’m angry and I refuse to yield.

With last year being the one of avoidable crises and this one the year of often petty pouting, I AM grateful that so much that upset me was a little pathetic and/or a little boring. It’s a gift that 2025 provided to me.

I’m hopeful for the new year every single time. I dread the awareness that I will feel pain and discomfort in 2026, but I’m confident I will hear a new song I like, read a book that will alter the way I see the world, witness something that makes me happy I was BORN. And I cling to those.

See you in 2026 for more of the softest lobes. Happy New Year, y’all!

October is such an exciting time to be a beverage enthusiast! The apples and the gourds are readily available and being put to good use, and I sought out to sip as many fall-inspired beverages I could find.

It is my aspiration for WHO’S THIRSTY to be accompanied by an audio element, but Substack’s recording option is really bleak and I do not yet have another solution (yet!!) It’s my dream that by the time I’m writing about winter beverages, there will be quality accompanying audio. So thanks for your patience with that! Without any more delay, here are the notable and seasonally relevant drinks I consumed this month.

Sweet Potato Chai – Moona Moono

This place is actually a dream come true for me. A coffee shop that serves an extensive drink menu, they have a little rack of genuinely interesting packaged snacks by the register, a freezer full of ice cream novelties, tables for socializing, and an entire gift shop with offerings for people of all ages.

And I’ve enjoyed the beverages prepared here, especially their flavored matcha drinks. So, I was beyond thrilled to learn they were releasing a full fall menu. From it, I tried both the Asian Pear Cider and Sweet Potato Chai.

As I’d anticipated, the Asian Pear cider was delicious. Really flavorful but also light and pear is an underrated fall flavor, so I thoroughly enjoyed it. But the Sweet Potato Chai really blew me away. The drink combines the classic chai flavor, pureed sweet potato, milk, and it’s topped with whipped cream and a drizzle of caramel. That unmistakable holiday chai flavor pairs so well with the sweet potato, and the milk added perfect creaminess. It wasn’t exactly a light drink, but even served iced, it tasted like autumn coziness, unique but also so cohesive that it could become familiar quickly. I will certainly be prioritizing a return for another one.

Sweet Potato Chai – 5/5
Asian Pear Cider – 3.5/5
Buying a toy potato for a friend’s daughter’s birthday party from Moona Moono– 5/5

Pumpkin Juice – My friend Bryan’s Halloween Party

I never dress up for Halloween, but this year I secured an invite to my friend Bryan’s Halloween Party, where it was implied I’d be shamed if I didn’t dress up. Maybe I’ve wanted to be bullied into it for years, because it was genuinely fun to pull an outfit together.

It was a witch-themed party, so I wore a bald cap covered in fake scabs, gloves to my elbow, pointy boots, and ate a blue sucker before the party to complete my get-up as one of the witches from Roald Dahl’s The Witches. It was my first time dressing up as something kind of gross, and there was a lot of liberation in that.

Anyway, at the party Bryan had filled a pumpkin shaped beverage dispenser with pumpkin juice he’d made. I’ve never had pumpkin juice before, and only heard of it in association with the H*rry P*tter movies, but I was super excited to try it.

I’m unsure of the exact recipe used, but apparently traditional pumpkin juice is made with pumpkin puree, apple cider, and other optional additions such as vanilla extract or spices. Upon first sip, I was thrilled by the drinkability. I figured the GOURD flavor would be more polarizing, but the apple cider flavor made it sweet and lightened the consistency. Still, the pumpkin puree was very present, added a thickness to the drink, and a lot of authenticity!

And the experience really did inspire me. Reflecting on events I’ve attended recently, including a gathering I hosted at my house, I realized I’ve been missing something. Batch beverages. It’s much easier to offer cans or bottled drinks at parties, but I long for a punch bowl! The container of pumpkin juice definitely made me want to make a big batch of something next time people come over. I’m thinking like a punch bowl with floating cinnamon sticks, bobbing cranberries, and a LADLE.

The pumpkin juice – 4/5
Asking everyone if they like my scabs all night – 5/5

Pumpkin Spice Soda – Marty’s Deli

If you have not visited Marty’s Deli in Minneapolis anytime recently or anytime at all, I have to highly recommend it. They are best known for their sandwiches and rotating desserts, but they’ve also cultivated a lot of regular enthusiasm for their seasonal items. During peak tomato season, they serve a gorgeous open-faced tomato sandwich. And Marby’s Day is celebrated annually, when the deli offers Arby’s copycat recipes, including roast beef sandwiches and curly fries.

So, when I logged onto social media on October 16th and discovered Marty’s was celebrating a self-appointed Pumpkin Day, I basically got right into my car and drove there. Pumpkin desserts and pumpkin cold foam to top their coffee were among the offerings. But I was most excited to try the pumpkin spice soda.

Made to order, combining pumpkin spice syrup and club soda, the pumpkin spice soda was first so visually striking. With a perfect ombre orange hue and just enough visible specks of pumpkin spice, I couldn’t wait to try it.

I will admit I’m more impressed and excited about commitment than execution, so this soda was perfect for me. Technically, it needed to be stirred before each drink, as the syrup heavily found its way to the bottom of the cup, but it was fizzy! And spicy! And so obviously pumpkin! It was genuinely so fun. Marty’s is simply a gift.

Pumpkin Spice Soda – 3.5/5
Their Seward sandwich – Consistently 5/5

Beetlejuice Punch and Witches Cider – BlueNose Coffee

If you read my dirty soda round-up, you may recall I visited BlueNose Coffee in Farmington, Minnesota this summer. This destination is thirty full miles from my house, but it is worth the trip to the southern suburbs.

Judging only from its exterior, I’ll admit it looks like any other coffee shop in a strip mall surrounded by plenty of parking lot. But each time I’ve been to BlueNose, I’ve been impressed by the quality of service and beverage options. In addition to their full menu of coffee and other drinks, they rolled out a full dirty soda menu this summer. Like fifteen drinks deep. As the season changes, they have a brand new line up of dirty sodas for the fall. And they’ve already hinted that they’ll have a new dirty soda menu for the holiday season. I’m impressed, I’m thrilled, and you can bet I’ll be there to try them.

I can’t really overstate how genuinely delightful it is to sit at BlueNose. When I visited this month, I stayed long enough to enjoy both the Beetlejuice Punch and the Witches Cider dirty sodas.

The Beetlejuice Punch was Mountain Dew, caramel and black cherry syrups with coconut milk. Initially, I found this drink very ambitious in its combinations, but I LIKE that ambition. Even with that being said, I mostly staggered through the drink. The Mountain Dew and the black cherry and the coconut milk seemed to all compete for the primary flavor, and it left my tastebuds overwhelmed.

But the Witches Cider was sparkling water mixed with cranberry, caramel, and apple cider, and it was everything I wanted. It was super drinkable, perfect fall apple flavor, and inspired me to try to recreate it at home. I can’t wait to see what BlueNose comes up with next.

Beetlejuice Punch – 1.5/5
Witches Cider – 4/5
Enjoying these beverages on a comfy couch by a nice big window - 5/5

Sparkling Apple Ginger Sour Cherry Mocktail – Betty Buzz

Like so many, I have been somewhat following the “”downfall”” of Blake Lively, which was accelerated by her recent legal dispute with costar Justin Baldoni. Though I’m not interested in truly defending Blake Lively, I am mystified and often disappointed by which public personas we choose to hate so loudly (especially women!!) Do all of them earn the tides that turn against them? Or do we tire of things we used to find charming? I will at least be defending Blake Lively’s right to Be Annoying, a very mild transgression against society.

For those that don’t know, Blake Lively released a mocktail line called Betty Buzz years ago. But I had not really seen them anywhere, nor had I heard if they were any good. I approach most celebrity branded products with skepticism, but I will admit I saw the packaging, gasped “Blake Lively!” in immediately recognition, and scooped them up the second I saw them on the shelf at Whole Foods. Even the price tag of twelve dollars for four cans didn’t give me much pause.

The length of the flavor name is a little unhinged - Sparkling Apple Ginger Sour Cherry is too many things, but these look CLASSY. The cans are almost matte, a rich maroon color, and have a soft and luxurious texture in hand. When poured into a glass over ice, the mocktail is a really beautiful apricot color. And the flavors pair really well together. Ginger can be aggressive and overpowering, but its bite pairs well with a very present and sweet apple. There’s definitely a nice sour element, but the cherry felt a little light, not really detectable.

Either way, I have had a lot of mocktails that are truly Just Juice. (And don’t get me wrong, I love juice.) But this mocktail from Betty Buzz is genuinely intriguing and delicious in a market where it’s needed most! Those that do not drink alcohol deserve options beyond water or drinks with alcohol merely removed, that are often completely unbalanced.

Sparkling Apple Ginger Sour Cherry Mocktail – 5/5
Being at Whole Foods and supporting J*ff B*zos – 0/5
Whole Foods condiment spread – 5/5

What is everyone looking forward to drinking as the end of the year approaches? I have it on good authority that the Christmastime Cranberry Fizz Poppi is for sale at my local Costco, and probably yours too. That has become a new classic to me, and I can only imagine the exciting, maybe WARM beverages, I’ll be enjoying as the weather continues to cool.

Thanks for your support in reading this second edition of WHO’S THIRSTY! Stay hydrated, my buds.

Reaching my arm back from the passenger seat awkwardly and somewhat painfully, I grip his hand and tell him we’re not going anywhere for a long time. How important is it for me to emphasize the uncertainty of life? He’s not even five years old.

And what can I personally really say about life’s uncertainties when I’ve been so set up for success? I feel healthy day-to-day, have access to medical care, quality groceries, and feel financially and socially supported.

With his lower lip quivering, my son insists he never wants to live without or away from us. It’s just one of the hundreds of surprisingly challenging conversations we’ve had. Luckily, moments later, he’s encouraged to learn he can live with friends, share household chores, and invite us over to his house someday.

And hopefully there will be much more time for him to process my inevitable end.

As my birthday approaches each year, I often find myself frozen in moments of pure reflection. Unmoving, maybe my hands underneath a running faucet, reaching as far back in my memory as possible. I want to retain everything, recall names and faces, preserve the interiors of places that no longer exist as they were.1

I have always anticipated living a pretty ordinary life by Midwestern standards. I was sure I’d grow up, go to college, buy a car, get a desk job, find a husband, have kids, retire, and grow old. So far, I am predictably on track.

But in my quest to recall every single thing in my years on this earth, I remember a LOT of worry. Threats to my very traditional life path, whether legitimate or not. I suppose no one can say for certain whether my wariness of these dangers actually translated to self-preservation. But I guess I’m just surprised by the obstacles I’ve been presented in life versus the obstacles I anticipated!

Anthrax

When I am horrified by the news cycle (literally every single day), sometimes I find the tiniest and darkest bit of comfort in the fact that I have lived through different(!) times of uncertainty. I think about how terrifying it was to witness the terrorist attacks that took place on September 11^th 2001 and, only days later, learn of a disturbing trend of high-profile individuals receiving anthrax spores via the mail.

I was only eleven years old, but anthrax really scared me. It’s not that I thought I would be a targeted victim, but the concept that deadly harm could be done from such distance. Arriving in an ordinary-looking envelope. It shook me to my core. Anthrax felt like a brand new form of violence, surely to become more common.

But I have hardly heard the term anthrax in years and years.

These days, I open mail without pause. Sometimes I even open mail that isn’t addressed to me, but to the previous occupants of the home, since we have lived here eight years but continue to receive it. For legal purposes, I am definitely joking.

Temple Strike

I think I was at daycare the first time I watched Simon Birch, the completely traumatizing 1998 film about two childhood best friends, Simon and Joe.

Simon was born with dwarfism, so he is the tiniest guy on the baseball team where he is a very underrated player. One day, he finally hits a line drive. Right into Joe’s mom’s temple, killing her instantly.

Joe’s mom is played by Ashley Judd(!!) and she really sells it as she sends a friendly wave to a fellow baseball patron one minute and lays motionless on the ground the next. Several other parents and the baseball coach gather around her quickly, but no one even checks a pulse or attempts CPR before it’s declared a certainty. She is super dead.

Simon and Joe struggle to maintain their friendship after this tragedy, and there’s a harrowing scene at the end of the movie involving a bus full of school children sinking into a partially frozen lake. But for me, I was all about temple preservation after viewing this movie. One on each side of my head?? At all times? They were two silver-dollar-sized bullseyes, and I needed to stay diligent.

Fortunately, I’ve evaded both accidental and malicious events anywhere near my temples all these years.

Achilles Tendon Slice and Dice

If you are reading this and grew up with me, I would LOVE to know your theory about how this rumor grew legs (sorry).

Legend had it that danger lurked in the Maplewood Mall parking lot, around fifteen-ish miles outside of Minneapolis. Allegedly, unless you were cautious and observant, you could approach your car in the lot after a successful shopping trip only to have your Achilles tendons sliced by someone laying beneath your vehicle. I guess my concern was not that I’d die this way, but that it would definitely hurt very badly, and that the assailant would take off with my scores from Wet Seal and Maurice’s.

Despite my best efforts to web search, I can’t find much information about whether this rumor was regional only to the suburbs of Minneapolis (doubtful.) Or if this was a tale inspired by the excitable story-telling of high school students or fearmongering of Twin Cities-phobic adults. These days, when I hear about grown people scared that sex traffickers are marking their parked cars with leaves on windshields, I long for the days that conspiracy theories were a bit more camp.

Either way, I hate thinking about the things happening inside my body. The fact that I even have tendons. Or blood. So, this threat was very impactful to me.

Semi-Truck Bolt Roulette

Like so many, I was fifteen years old when I drove a car for the first time. With my dad in the passenger seat, we looped around a vacant church parking lot until I felt comfortable maybe navigating the quiet nearby roads. Pausing before entering the street, my dad said, “now signal your intent.” And I said, “signal my what?”

Nothing about driving came intuitively to me. And I was scared beyond belief of the freeway. I wouldn’t attempt any high-speed driving without the help of my very strict and crotchety driving instructor, Chester.

When I finally earned my license, I still lived in a town twenty-ish minutes from the freeway, so it wasn’t something I encountered often or became comfortable with right away. I didn’t feel like I had the reaction time to control a car at seventy miles per hour, something I wish more people would consider.

And I soon learned to have a very healthy fear of semi-trucks.

My dad encouraged me to never drive evenly with one, directly in the next lane. I was to either pass efficiently or pace myself to lag behind. Did he actually tell me a bolt could fling off one of the wheels and crack through my driver’s side window, striking me in the temple probably, or did I just envision that scenario? Either way, the combination of the size of the bolts, the height of the wheels, and the sheer number of miles they drove made it seem plausible.

To this day, I hold my breath when I pass a large truck in an adjacent lane.

ANTS

In the early 2000s, my family and I often visited Video Vault, our local movie rental store. The smell of both the complimentary popcorn and the lingering tanning lotion, from the handful of tanning beds in the back, greeted us as we walked in the door.

In the earliest days we visited, empty VHS clamshells lined shelves on every wall. We often indulged in the five movies for five days for five dollars deal, bringing our selections to the checkout counter. The actual tapes would be produced from a library of plain black cases lined behind the desk, to be navigated by the employees only.

As a youth, I picked a movie from the children’s section more often than not. I liked Hercules, Mulan, and that movie about a 1930s horse diver that goes blind because she has her eyes open when she hits the water. But I browsed the other categories, to ensure I was solid in my picks. And a movie cover so vivid in my mind is this one for a film called Ants (but now sometimes referred to as It Happened at Lakewood Manor??) that often sat in the daunting horror section. The depiction of the ants plus the nudity inspired in me a confusing clash of feelings, intrigue and fright.

Just as memorable, a VHS tape I owned included the trailer of this Ants movie before the feature. In it, Suzanne Somers lays mostly unclothed and motionless in a bed with her costar, both covered in crawling ants, frozen in terror.

I never watched the movie. Reviewing all that’s available regarding the film (there’s not much!), it’s clear it aimed to be sillier and more lewd than truly scary. But the cover art stayed with me. And the fear of being suddenly covered in a blanket of ants was a fear that loomed beyond my childhood years.

Inevitable Alcohol Poisoning on my Twenty-First Birthday

I wish I could remember the name of my boss for my housekeeping job I had when I turned twenty-one years old, but I can only remember her face. The day before that birthday, I loitered at her desk after clocking out and admitted I was very nervous about drinking the next day. I would be making my first bar outing with my boyfriend and his friends, the only people I knew that were old enough to drink, as all my friends were younger.

By my third year of living out from under my parents’ roof, there were fewer circumstances when I needed An Adult, but this was a time I longed for advisement from a parental-adjacent figure. I had never heard of a twenty first birthday being fun, almost all stories relayed to me ended in puddles of vomit and lost memories. I fixated on the concern that I could straight up expire, and worried that my anxiety was an indicator that it was more likely to happen to me.

I had almost no drinking experience, usually acting as the designated driver for my friends. This was less out of responsibility and more because my friend would let me use her car to drive to my boyfriend’s house at the end of the night if I drove everyone home.

My boss told me to approach the bartender and ask for a club soda in a lowball glass if I wanted to stop drinking for the night, or even a break. Even just the validation of my concern was comforting.

When the night arrived, we walked to a bar by my house and my boyfriend ordered me a Sex on the Beach. Drinking milk and juice and alcohol together was a good first test of my endurability, and I passed. I ended the night blissfully, dizzily watching my bedroom’s ceiling fan blades spin on their lowest setting. Hardly even feeling bad. Very much alive.

Other things have gone wrong, new fears and anxieties have emerged, but I made it to thirty-six!

If there’s a way to have a light-hearted conversation about fear of our mortality, can we have that here? Were you also certain you’d encounter quicksand? Sure you’d be swept up in the scoop of a snowplow? Worried a space rock or airplane would fly straight into your childhood bedroom? Breathed a sigh of relief when you turned 28 because it meant you didn’t meet the same fate as the 27 Club even though you have NO musical talents?

Please, for my birthday (technically the 19th!), tell me what worried you as a younger person and maybe is only silly in retrospect because you eluded it!

And there’s no reason to delay! Here are a few drinks that inspired thoughts and feelings in me this month.

Mango HOP WTR

When I was growing up, every trip to the airport was basically agony. Commuting from forty-ish miles away, with multiple elements that needed to fall into place with a family of chronically tardy and anxious people, it was very stressful! The arrival at the gate was both the biggest sigh of relief and the true marker of the beginning of the vacation.

To this day, the short Uber to the airport is still one of my most dreaded semi-regular experiences. I’m worried I forgot my passport, the stove is on, I accidentally left my cat outside, and I need to quiet these concerns and look as tooootally normal to the person driving, unless I want my Uber passenger score to suffer, too.

So, when I finally made my way to my assigned airline gate earlier this month, it was enough cause for a celebration of my endurance. I skimmed the bright wall of beverages at one of those self-check-only kiosks at the airport (don’t get me started on these) and picked out a Mango HOP WTR, which I’ve spotted in the wild many times but have yet to pick up.

I decided to visit the HOP WTR website as I enjoyed my first sips. I had a suspicion this is a company with INITIATIVE and I was right. According to the web page, HOP WTR was invented by “two dads working crazy hours, trying to adult, and still have some fun.” HOP WTR is non-alcoholic, and includes NO calories, sugar, carbs or gluten. It’s been infused with adaptogenic and nootropic functional ingredients. Functional, they say! And isn’t that hard to disprove?

What I’ll probably mention many times in these conversations about beverages is that I very rarely drink alcohol anymore. And I actually do miss the flavor of a beer and especially the bitterness of an IPA. So, the fact that this tastes exactly like a diluted IPA is actually very welcome by me. The mango is not jarring or noisy, and I would try other flavors! Per the website, they offer mango, lime, blood orange, and “original.”

If you do not like the flavor of hops, I would definitely skip. But I would love to enjoy one of these on a nice summer evening, watching some adult recreational softball league game or something. It’s a 4/5 for me.

Coca-Cola Light

As you may or may not know, I went to Europe for the first time this month. And while there, I missed a few things from home. And solidly on that list was Diet Coke.

People that do not drink soda seem to have a superiority complex about that, and honestly I probably would if I could endure it, too. Additionally, I know it’s eyeroll-inducing the way many people talk about Diet Coke – specifically the way that many have adopted its consumption as part of their personality. Unfortunately, I am one of these people and can hardly see beyond it to laugh.

If you are a Diet Coke fan, you probably have a hierarchy of preference for how it’s served. For me, it’s all about the crispness! It’s about the carbonation! To me, the preferred method of delivery is the Diet Coke can, followed by GOOD fountain Diet Coke, and third is from those Coca-Cola Freestyle machines (which do not produce the best quality soda, but the sheer amount of flavor options are too exciting.) Beyond that, my interest takes a nosedive. I honestly think glass bottle, plastic bottle, and the wretched two liter of Diet Coke belong together in a dumpster.

So, when I was in Amsterdam and I saw a slim can of Coca-Cola Light with the same type of can design as a Diet Coke, I knew this was about as close as I was going to get overseas.

So, I cracked that thing open. And you know when you open a Diet Coke and immediately lift it to take a sip and it burns your entire esophagus on the way down and both soothes and wakes you up more effectively than anything else? Coca-Cola Light almost has the burn. But it is crisp and the flavor is very similar to Diet Coke.

America really has carbonation on lock. This is only a 2/5 by my standard.

Khaleesi by Mooshi Tea

Sometimes I take my son to this big, beautiful park in White Bear Lake. They have this zip line he really likes, I use one earbud to listen to a podcast, and then we go to lunch. When it goes well, it’s literally the stuff of my dreams. Like I was born to have a kid and take him to a park and then bribe him with gyoza from a nearby strip mall to get him to leave the playground.

The restaurant in the strip mall is called Zen Ramen, and it’s in White Bear Lake, too. Right next to a Golden Corral Buffet and Grill that is exponentially more popular. I order a couple of appetizers for my son, and I can get a poke bowl and a bubble tea for myself.

And they have this extensive bubble tea menu, including this drink, the Khaleesi. And yes, it’s named after the character in Game of Thrones. I was reading the name aloud and I was thinking there’s no way we’re still there, are we? But there’s dragon fruit in it, so. Yes, we are.

I’m not yet a bubble tea expert. But if you’re completely new to bubble tea, just know it combines tea with some kind of milk, sugar, and oftentimes boba or fruit that sinks to the bottom that you slurp up with an oversized straw. There’s jelly and crystal boba which are more gelatinous, and I like popping boba which is basically a flavored water bead that explodes in your mouth and leaves behind a little shell like a chickpea skin. If you’ve ever thought “drinks should be chewier,” you will love bubble tea.

The Khaleesi is Jasmine green tea, coconut milk, both dragon fruit and lychee, crystal boba, and topped with a vague “mousse.” It’s this incredibly vibrant pink color, both fruits are very present and but it’s not overly sweet, and the coconut milk and the mousse make it super creamy. Something that is not listed as an ingredient and maybe should be is shredded coconut, because that’s a little surprising coming up the straw. But every minute with this drink is an adventure and I love it!

Does it pair well with a spicy poke bowl? Not necessarily. But it’s still a 4.5/5 for me.

Refrescas from Taco Bell

I’m not really a big pursuer of “dupes,” but I will admit very quietly here that I miss Starbucks. If you still drink at Starbucks, I understand because their accessibility is unmatched, and shame culture doesn’t really work (much to my dismay.) But Starbucks has done me wrong way too many times, and I’m not going back.

I’m not too proud to say I miss their Refreshers.

They’re so perfectly named as they are so supremely refreshing. It is actually hard to strike that balance of not-too-sweet, delicious, and feels more hydrating than water somehow. And I know because our local chain, Caribou, and many other coffee shops have Refresher-esque drinks on menu, but many of them feel obligatorily placed there versus intentionally crafted.

So, imagine my surprise when Taco Bell released its little line of Refrescas earlier this summer and I found them so familiar in taste. They have Mango Peach, Dragon Fruit Strawberry, and two types with Rockstar energy drink additions (Pineapple and Tropical Punch). And their Strawberry Passionfruit flavor is a flawless dupe for the Strawberry Acai Refresher from Starbucks.

I’ve tried all three of the flavors that don’t include caffeine, and they are all so light and well-flavored and pair well with a Cheesy Gordita Crunch. It’s a nice departure from Taco Bell’s Pepsi or intense array of Mountain Dew flavors.

Also, they all come with a little scoop of dried fruit. And I love that dried fruit. I will fish the nine dried strawberry pieces and especially the dried mango cubes from the bottom of that empty cup with the straw and that is work.

These are all 5/5 bevs.

Thanks so much for being here for this first installment of WHO’S THIRSTY. At the end of my last newsletter, I asked what everyone has been drinking recently and was reminded that many of my nearest and dearest are kind of only drinking water, which is good and healthy! But if you find it in your heart to enjoy a different beverage soon, I hope you will!

The fact that it is a different day on the same planet elsewhere is the type of thing I have to avoid thinking about as I’m trying to fall asleep.

So, on an international flight that left at 8PM from Minneapolis and arrives at noon Central European Summer Time in Amsterdam, I’m trying not to think about it. Because this is my only opportunity to sleep for the night.

The panic as I struggle to get comfortable in my airplane chair feels grossly familiar in my body, reminding me of my early motherhood days. Tossing and turning, squeezing my eyes shut as if that would work. At home with a newborn, I’d desperately look to the horizon for the first sign of light. The trophy to indicate I’d made it through another long and fitful night’s sleep.

On the airplane, I pull up the window shade and pray each time that I’ll glimpse the sun. Will we spot daylight sooner since we are in the air? Due to the shifting of the horizon?? I don’t know how the sun works.

Another problem is I am so repulsed by so much on an airplane. In my mind, the seat, the tray table, the blessed video screen, the floor, the wall where I lean my head are all FILTHY. I try not to imagine the person that has sat in my seat before me. What if they didn’t wash their hands when they went to the bathroom?? Maybe they were coughing, sneezing, spilled their sloshy airplane stew where my body rests. With each disgusting idea, my shoulders tighten. My skin crawls.

Frustrated, I rise from my seat and head towards the bathroom. On the way there, I see a young boy (probably 9 years old??) zoned out watching a show on the monitor in front of his seat. Both his pointer and middle fingers from each hand are hooked into his mouth from either side. SHUDDERING, I lift my hands up to the sides of my face, creating horse blinders for myself.

But I survived the flight.

My husband and I were in Amsterdam and then Luxembourg earlier this month, as a pre-excursion to a business trip he had scheduled.

We toured the Van Gogh museum, as well as the Rijksmuseum, took a (nighttime!) boat cruise through the canals, strolled through Vondelpark, bopped through the Red Light District, pet the cats that lived in grocery stores, rode the train, rode the bus, rode bikes.

I’m the furthest thing from a frequent traveler (this is my first trip outside of North America!!) so I can provide little insight into European tourism, but I had some nice times!

Hyper-specific, but also somewhat replicable (if you find yourself in Amsterdam or Luxembourg anytime soon!)– I’m grateful to have had these moments that I will cherish!

POFFERTJES While Admiring the Canals

There is no illusion as we walk through the narrow and cobble-stoned streets that we are anywhere near the Midwest USA.

Bikes zip past, seemingly barely avoiding pedestrians that wander too confidently (in my opinion!) into their paths. Impossibly tiny cars veer around corners, side by side with the bicyclists and pedestrians. I’m confident I will be one of their casualties by trip’s end. My husband, Jarred, and I have zig-zagged across the city all day, and are in search of a snack as dinner hours approach.

We dip into Pat’s Poffertjes, mere blocks from our hotel. The shop only sells these mini fluffy pancakes with a variety of toppings, so I’m grateful we won’t have to say poffertjes aloud. We order a pack of ten, half topped with powdered sugar and a slice of un-melted butter and the other half covered in Nutella and sliced bananas. The young person behind the counter collects our payment, pivots to the grill, and immediately begins making them fresh. It occurs to me that he has not washed his hands, and this is a common sight in Amsterdam. As a hand sanitizer enthusiast, I’m horrified, but willing to consider that maybe my habits aren’t even as effective as I think they are. Attempting to shift my focus elsewhere, I browse the line of beverages displayed by the cash register, recognizing a pouch. Capri Sun is ALIVE and well here.

A wide grill with a hundred or more little cups is where the little pancakes are cooked – poured and flipped with a toothpick one at a time. All The Things She Said, the 2002 song by t.A.T.u, blasts over the speakers as the employee behind the counter flips flips flips and dusts the pancakes with powdered sugar.

We cradle our baby pancakes and walk to the nearest bridge over a canal to enjoy them. I spy the woman staying to an adjacent hotel that looks exactly like Whitney from The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives. The only reason I’m certain it’s not her is because she is very visibly pregnant, but it thrills me just the same.

The sunlight positively glitters off the canal as it stretches in front of us, only broken by parallel bridges decorated with potted flowers. House boats line each edge of the water, all uniquely designed. Some sleek, some cluttered, some old, some new, some with gardens atop, almost all covered in pigeons (my angels!!).

I snap a photo of the canal, unsure if I already have a photo of this one, yet. Jarred and I pass back and forth the miniature wooden fork that comes with the poffertjes. They are simply SO good. Fluffy and delicious and the perfect portion so the sweetness doesn’t overstay its welcome. As I fork them into my mouth, I think “this is SO cool – I’m in Europe. Right now!” This trip has been highly anticipated by me, and to note this explicit gratitude feels important.

Soon, the little boat of proffertjes is empty and reveals a message on the bottom written in tidy font.

“Lick it now, lick it good.”

Authentic Windmills ONLY - By Bike

One of the most embarrassing things I do while traveling is probably mis-identify plants and insects as specific to the region. Buzzing past a bush with purple and yellow flowers with oversized stamens that jut out from the center, I’m certain I’ve never seen such a flower. The bees are a different color – a deeper shade like honey mustard than the vibrant yellow of the bumble bees back home. I marvel at the extraordinary wildlife as I peddle as quickly as I can on a rental bike.

Jarred and I have secured bikes for an afternoon so we can visit a windmill, a popular attraction for those looking to step outside the bustling city of Amsterdam. We stop by the one closest to us, next to a picturesque stream, its rotors moving slowly. I snap a photo, charmed by its appearance and proximity to the slow-moving waters, but Jarred is disappointed.

“This one isn’t real,” he tells me, referring to the merely decorative windmill. It is unlike the windmills deeper into the countryside that function with purpose. Because Jarred is a REAL utility enthusiast.

So, we set off on a near-fifteen mile loop into the more rural area of Holland to find an authentic windmill.

Along the way, I oscillate between relishing the wind in my hair and the simplicity of this pursuit on a gorgeous day (coasting downhill) to shooting daggers with my eyes at Jarred, who bikes much faster than me, resenting each bump in the road for its slam to my crotch (struggling uphill). We bike on and off a ferry (a THRILL), through quaint neighborhoods, alongside lakes that look identical to those in Minnesota, and past grassy fields dotted with cows.

Sweaty in the angled sun, we arrive at the windmill. Though its role is to manage the water volume of the nearby lake, it’s unmoving. Not working at the moment. Luckily, our utility enthusiast is still pleased.

It’s the top of dinnertime hours, so we navigate to the closest restaurant – an establishment that can only be referred to as (affectionately) the Perkins of the Netherlands. At just after 4PM, we are one of only two tables occupied in the largest restaurant we’ve seen in Europe so far. We order very Perkins food – a crispy chicken sandwich with fries and a massive pancake.

Another stereotype about European dining that I’ve found to be true is that it can be a bit challenging to gain the attention of waitstaff, to secure one’s bill or refill drinks or otherwise. I’m so thirsty from biking, I take to carrying my water glass up in my sweatshirt sleeve and filling it in the bathroom sink. By the time we leave and re-mount our bikes, the sun is low in the sky.

The restaurant sits next to a towering ropes course, vacant in likely its off-season. Its structure looms ominously without any participants as we cruise by.

The bike back is as breathtaking in views as the route there and we only stop once so I can cry (I feel slow as hell and I’m still THIRSTY). I take comfort in the near-constant chatter of birds. At one point, I whip out my Merlin Bird ID app on my phone to try to identify who is chirping. The only bird that pops up is a Common Chiffchaff.

Not so common to me!

Bao Buns in Luxembourg and a Cozy Walk through Fort Obergrunewald

After we wrapped up our time in Amsterdam, we caught a train to Luxembourg.

Our hotel in Amsterdam was tiny, resembling other hotels in major cities and especially New York – only large enough really to hold a bed. Luckily, these types of rooms always feel cozy and secure to me. But our hotel room in Luxembourg has TWO hallways, a room for just the toilet, large closet, a bed and a desk and a table and a fridge, plus a bathtub. Luxe. We settle into these new digs, and I charge my phone while we search for a place to have dinner.

I love the wall outlets in Europe – two prongs only with a deep socket, those plug-ins are SECURE and I’ll actively miss them.

Quality and convenience and authenticity so infrequently collide in a restaurant so close to a hotel, so I’m wary as we loop only around a corner to Bao Bar. But we are greeted by an expressively warm man and a delightful little amuse-bouche immediately after seating. Pickled veggies wrapped in thinly sliced cucumber really hits the spot as I’m in the phase of the trip where my body is screaming for vegetables.

We order fried chicken and pulled beef bao bun sandwiches, a smashed cucumber salad, and a roasted broccolini dish served with a savory miso whipped cream situation that changes my entire LIFE. For dessert, sesame ice cream is sandwiched between two crispy and caramelized sesame buns, and all of it is drizzled in honey. I never forget a good dessert. And this one will stand the test of time, I’m certain.

Full to our brims, we walk alongside the river that cuts through the sleepy historic neighborhood where we’re staying. At the base of the stone arch bridge, an unmarked set of stairs leading into a wooded area entices us enough to follow it up the hill.

We stop a few times to take in the view – the ancient ruins of a city created hundreds of years ago is breathtaking from above, but only a slope beyond, a modern city skyline is silhouetted. It’s fascinating, being immediately surrounded by castle-esque structures, while what appears to be Pittsburg stands in the distance.

A fog, or maybe just a cloud, descends upon us as we crest the top of the steps and get a look around. A fort constructed in the 1600s spans massively, covering nearly all of the hilltop. An arched and dark opening at its center faces the rolling hills of Luxembourg.

We watch impossibly tiny flocks of birds swoop through the frenzied air. It occurs to me that it’s about to rain mere seconds before I feel the first drops. Only when I hear my name called from behind me do I realize I’ve been standing alone.

The fog that’s settled onto the hill makes Jarred appear hazily in the mouth of the fort. His wave almost looks pixelated, dreamlike.

Rushing out of the rain, I join him under the cover of the ancient bricks. A tall hallway stretches further than the light allows me to see, with several pathway openings on either side. It inspires a lick of fear in me, but a couple holding hands walks confidently down the dark hallway. Jarred and I are left alone at the entrance of the fort to watch the rain. Without the view of the modern day city-scape, it truly feels like we’ve stepped back in time.

We explore briefly ourselves, walking deeper into the fort’s cave-like hallway. A scene from the movie, Barbarian (2022), comes to mind. When the main character begins an impossibly long descent into an unseen basement. It’s excruciating to watch, and this real-life moment feels like this type of turn in a scary movie. When the happy couple, laughing together moments prior, loses track of one another in a concrete maze without flashlights.

The creepy chill lessens a bit as I desperately reach for and grasp Jarred’s hand.

In our version, we watch the rain for a while. It occurs to me that there’s no need to hurry. In a departure from the pacing of a normal evening back home – dinner and our son’s bedtime and chores take priority – we have nowhere to be.

Once the rain lessens, we exit and slowly wind back down a different steep route to our hotel.

The bathtub is waiting for me.

Public Urination and a Trip on the Funicular

It can be a humbling experience to find a public bathroom in America. Some businesses don’t offer one, some are dirty, some are for paying customers ONLY. In many places in Europe, there is less guessing regarding the stipulations of public bathroom use – because many of them cost a small fee to use.

I’m only slightly torn about this, as I believe that accessibility to bathrooms is important (especially for those populations that simply need them more often!), but I would pay for access to a cleaner bathroom, especially if some of the funds went directly to the person cleaning it (slim chance).

In Amsterdam, the public restrooms that cost money to access have a card option. One tap of a credit card and you’re granted entry. But even in the train station in Luxembourg, we are humbled to learn that the local currency is required to use the public bathrooms stationed across the city.

Because we are scheduled to only be in Luxembourg for about 36 hours, we bypass obtaining any local currency and suffer a little bit of the consequence.

I was about to type that I’m married to a golden retriever-type person, but that’s actually not true. He’s more like a wolf. A pack animal with leadership tendencies. Looks intense. Runs fast. BUT, he will definitely play with a ball in a yard. He gets excited about things, and on this final full day of our trip, he’s excited to board the funicular.

For those that don’t know, a funicular is essentially a counterbalanced cable car system that runs two cars in opposite directions continuously. It kind of looks like an elevator mixed with a ski lift and it’s very slick, very exciting to my husband. And this excitement is contagious to me.

BUT, I can’t rouse the same enthusiasm. Because I have to pee. And we have no local coins or knowledge of the next bathroom we’ll pass that will be available to me.

So, we find a patch of woods, invent a code word to shout if we see anyone approaching, and complete what is referred to as a “bush pee” in our household. As I squat, I think about how much my son would love this. He, like many young boys his age, thrills at the opportunity to urinate in public.

There should be a different word, beyond relief, to describe the feeling after eating or drinking after excessive hunger or thirst, sleeping a full night after exhaustion, and peeing after holding it. I am euphoric as Jarred and I stride towards the funicular.

I’m not sure how it comes up, but suddenly Jarred is telling me about his favorite PROVERB (for which he does not know the name – after we return from the trip, I look it up and it’s called Sai Weng Lost His Horse). Essentially, the story goes that a farmer loses one of his favorite horses, then he gains ownership of an exceptionally beautiful horse, then his son is thrown from the horse and breaks his leg, but then his son is not eligible for a draft for the Chinese army. All the while, the farmer accepts each fate, neutral in response to every circumstance. Knowing the good and the bad will both continue.

I’ve never heard this story. I’ve been married to Jarred for six years and never known he even had a favorite proverb. And, as a generally anxious person, the message comforts me.

It’s a completely splendid day, sixty-five degrees (Fahrenheit!!) and partially cloudy. Beauty in both urban design and nature surround me. In this moment, again, I say to myself - “I’m in Europe! Right now!” I feel fortunate to have a life partner that loves and supports and intrigues me, and I want to capture this moment in a plastic Easter egg. To be opened and peeked at when I need it most.

The lobby leading to the funicular is nearly empty. We load onto the next available cable car with only one other commuter. In the very front, we sit on a bench seemingly designed for children, evidenced by the low fingerprints and nose smears on the angled window ahead of us. The doors close and the funicular begins its smooth glide down the hill as its opposing cable car travels back up the hill towards us.

We watch wide-eyed, mouths open, barely stifling “weeeeeeeee”s.

As the summer comes to an end, I’m not only reflecting on the memories I’ll hold onto from this trip, but from the entire season. Upsetting news cycles inspiring feelings of helplessness, excessive heat, smokey skies, and general poor weather dampened my enthusiasm for frolicking, but I refuse to disregard the fun I DID have and the beauty I STILL witnessed. I hope everyone reading had a reasonable summer, and I’m crossing my fingers the fall will be kind to us.

I’ll be back soon to talk about beverages, I think. If you got to this part of the newsletter, can you tell me a beverage you drank this summer that was good? I’m trying to see something.

When does something become a tradition – after two or three times?

This is what I’m wondering as I park my car to meet my friend, Trisha, for a walk around the Minnesota State Fairgrounds. It’s the final day they’re open to the public before it closes in preparation for the twelve days of the fair. Last year, we gathered for a tiny picnic on the final day before the grounds closed, reflecting on our summers and enjoying cheese and crackers. I’m hopeful this will remain annual.

Zig-zagging behind Trisha’s massive dog, Roscoe, who leaves nothing un-sniffed, we walk and talk and I snap a few photos of empty spaces. The amphitheater without any attendees, its benches rigid in readiness for almost a year. Waiting to serve their purpose. The winding streets look wide without masses of people hustling in both directions, as they’ll be in a few weeks. I highly anticipate the chaos of the fair each year, but the quiet of the off-season is something far fewer get to witness.

I haven’t seen Trisha in weeks, so we catch up. Events passed and plans upcoming, how is work, how are our families. We stroll the route under what will transform into the Sky Glider ride. The gondola seats are not yet attached, so only metal bars hang in upside down Vs.

Just across the street from the Kemps Little Farm Hands building (upon which Sky Glider riders often toss their bras1), Roscoe alerts us to a woodland creature sighting. Trisha tsks and steers him to keep walking, to leave the critter alone. But we pause when we realize the animal looks stuck.

Upon closer inspection, a squirrel is caught in the drainage hole in the bottom corner of an empty dumpster. Its face peers out, but its body shuffles helplessly on the metal bottom of the container. The little guy seems to have tried both – pushing forward with hopes of slipping through the hole entirely (impossible as its shoulders are too wide) and pulling its little noggin back into the dumpster.

I don’t play video games,2 but this almost feels like one. Two gals plus one dog plus one empty dumpster and a stack of wooden pallets next to it. What combination of these items will result in the release of this petrified angel baby?

It’s confirmed the squirrel doesn’t require only a gentle forehead nudge to pop back into the dumpster, Trisha is too short to safely and efficiently jump into it to try to finesse him out, and Roscoe shamelessly salivates at the sight of our rescue mission subject. I’m useless in this crisis – holding Roscoe’s leash, groaning, covering my eyes, and offering to take my sweatshirt off if it’ll be a useful tool in place of gloves.

“I think we need to find someone. Unfortunately, probably a man,” Trisha announces.

I call my husband, but I only get his voicemail message. He’s busy occupying our son while I’m on this alleged leisurely walk with a friend.

I’m dreading asking a passerby and I realize why.

One of my 2025 goals was to talk to more strangers. I’m terrible at this. I don’t want to bother anyone, everyone is always on their phones (including me!), and awkward social interactions literally haunt my dreams. But there’s something else I’ve identified recently as an even bigger issue, and I think it stems from my time on the internet.

My eyes simply cannot unsee the hatefulness I’ve discovered in the most unsavory comment sections on the web. To respect other humans, extend grace, prioritize our environment and the wildlife that depends upon it are not humanity’s shared first priority. And at every turn I’m surprised by this.

It actually does make me fearful as I maneuver through the world. And I’m not worried that I’ll become a victim to some psychopath or bigot personally, but I’m almost afraid to witness hatefulness and apathy. If I see it with my eyes, I might become too bitter or angry to function. Or worse – so disappointed that I shrivel up. Maybe I’ll just blow away like a dead leaf, useless and discarded. Worm food.

My motivation to Keep Going, Keep Trying, Keep Caring often feels this fragile.

I’m nervous when Trisha suggests we find someone to help us, because I’m worried we will be dismissed by whoever we find.

But Trisha can talk to almost anyone, and she hasn’t seen an Instagram comment section in YEARS. So, I trail behind her as we approach a man laying out floor mats at the nearby Harley Davidson vendor.

“Do you have a ladder? Or a soft spot for squirrels?”

He does. Swiftly and quietly, he locates a ladder and follows us to the dumpster. I offer my sweatshirt again, desperate to contribute anything. He accepts it and I cover my eyes, again. Somehow writhing while upright, I’m anxious and feeling exposed in only my athletic onesie.

After a few silent minutes of gentle coaxing, the squirrel is unstuck and handed to Trisha in the cradle of my sweatshirt. Dazed, it takes off up the trunk of the closest tree to regain its bearings.

“Cool. I did something good today,” the hero with the ladder says, mostly to himself? He walks back to the Harley Davidson booth to resume his tasks. It feels like this moment should bond us forever. I should give him a fifty dollar bill or take him to brunch. For this most charitable act to go without immediate reward feels wrong.

I sputter out a “that was very cool of you, dude” before he rounds the corner out of sight. We don’t even learn his name.

The vibe of the jaunt undeniably altered, I walk with my sweatshirt balled up in a limply outstretched arm to my car. It’s covered in squirrel hair and essence of dumpster.

Trisha promises to come back with a little dish of water for the squirrel, and we hug goodbye.

When she returns, a group of Sweet Martha’s Cookies employees have arrived at the adjacent location, and she fills them in about the recent rescue and the fragility of the squirrel. They say they’ll keep an eye out for him, too.

This is another ridiculous element of my stranger-aversion. Do I really think I’m the only person that cares about small creatures? That finds rodents cute and redeemable and worthy of life? Obviously not. I’m glad my knee-jerk pessimism has been proven wrong this time.

In the face of constant exploitation of power, humanitarian crises across the globe, preventable and haltable suffering, is 2025 the year I gain a little faith in humanity?

I would like to believe this is a ‘happily ever after.’

At least everyone tried.

I had only recently moved into a room of my own in the basement, and in the corner of it sat a retired living room chair upholstered with multicolored plaid fabric. Behind it hung my bulletin board of serial killers I found most intriguing which, even at the time, felt a little performative sometimes. If I practiced the motions, could I shop at Hot Topic one day??? (No.)

But I hardly used the chair for lounging. It held all my once or twice worn clothing, in the limbo between dirty and clean. Its seat unavailable, I sat perched on the arm of the chair, using an adjacent space heater as a footrest until it threatened to scald me through my socks.

In my first college dorm, a laundry basket in my closet served as the ever-growing and shrinking pile. And when I moved into a house after my second year of college, I moved a pile of clothes from my bed to the floor and back most nights.

In ten years I moved as many times, and I always had a pile.

In this current year 2025, after living in the same house for seven years, The Pile has roots. Its own personality. A smugness with the knowledge that it is so low to the bottom of my to-do list. My family’s care, meal prep, and upkeep of the common rooms take priority.

The Pile is sometimes reduced in size/weakened, but never truly dormant. No longer only partially clean clothes, books and spare papers and lotion I feel like I might need some day contribute to its mass. I plug my phone in for the night and toss it indiscriminately, letting The Pile swallow it. Recovering it is a problem for the morning.

So when my husband and my son are scheduled to travel to Rapid City without me (long story short, I had to choose between going to Europe or South Dakota and it was HARD. I love South Dakota!!), I set a goal to tame The Pile for good. With five days home alone and far less responsibility than usual, I was confident enough to encourage my husband to get one last look at The Pile and say goodbye.

On Monday, my first day solo, I wake later than I’d expected. When my family is home, someone usually wakes me. The dog whines to be let out, the cat screams to be fed, or my four-year-old son approaches my bed and asks me to play a game with him before my eyes are open.

His current favorite is a roleplaying exercise where he pretends to be a rock on the side of the road that I lug home. When I’ve placed it pleasingly in my front yard, it morphs from a rock to a dragon that demands to be fed a hyper-specific meal. I do not miss the rock game this morning, as I rise and clock into work.

The ninety-degree heat battles against the efforts of our window AC units and makes considerable blows, warming the house uncomfortably. Seeking a change of scenery and the sanctuary of crisp central air conditioning, I drive to the library. I journal for two straight hours, mostly petty concerns not meant for anyone’s eyes or ears.

Arriving home, I eat dinner straight from the fridge, letting it da-ding da-ding da-ding to indicate I have left the door open too long. Wrapping baby pickles and cheese in salami, I shovel them straight into my mouth. I cup grapes into the bowl of my palm and eat them one by one. No plate dirtied.

Afterwards, I craft a complicated card for my dad’s upcoming birthday and watch The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives. When my family is here, I might watch something both my husband and I can enjoy and we keep the volume level low as to not wake our son. In the absence of anyone else to consider, the contentious chatter of the wives blares from the speakers.

I fold into bed. In the glow of my nightlight, The Pile is the last thing I see.

Though we live fifty miles apart, I always assume I’ll see my dad at Costco. We frequent the same location, and he is there often. When I visit on Tuesday at the midday, I’m confident I’ll see him. And I’m proven right when I find him in the most Dad place ever- talking to a Costco vendor about kitchen countertop replacements or something. Positioning myself in his peripheral line of vision, I creep closer and closer until he notices. We agree to shop separately and meet at the food court. I buy him a $1.50 hot dog combo and he tries to pay me back.

I plan to address The Pile immediately after work, but I’m hit with a minor inconvenience via email and spend two hours after I clock out in a prone position, too depressed to do anything. When my son and husband are home, I feel they are most often likely to alter my mood or distract me, even positively. During this week, I hoped to find true productivity. But in this moment, I realize I really need them to pull me from my funks.

After bullying myself about it enough, I rise and take the dog for a walk. Someone keeps leaving orange peels under a park bench and I take this personally. No little woodland creature eats orange peels, and they do not simply rejoin the soil as this litterbug might believe. I consider how I could get them to stop without ever catching them in the act. Maybe I’ll write “Stop leaving your orange peels here or I’ll curse you” on the bench in Sharpie. That would work on me.

Isolating myself to my room for a while, I begin work on The Pile. Sorting through my extensive stack of books yet to be read, warm sweaters I forgot to store with my other cooler weather clothes, tampons I don’t like but keep for emergencies, I find a number of old journals. I open one from 2013.

“I might lose my energy drink virginity tonight” reads one riveting excerpt.

A few pages later I’m hit with this one, “Watching kids getting picked up from daycare and looking at their parents. I wonder if they’re happy. Will I be happy at that age? I wonder if I’ll look back on myself now and want to kick myself for something. I feel real anxiety in perhaps disappointing my future self.” Woof. I put the journals aside.

After an hour or so, I’m pleased with the amount of work I’ve done for the day. But the room is a disaster, my progress unclear as The Pile has split into several. My bed supports two massive mountains of clothes – one for keeping and one for donation. Shutting off the lamp, I cross the hall and sleep in the vacant spare bedroom instead.

The moment I realized I’d be home alone for a week, I scheduled an IRL friendship interaction for Wednesday. I figured I’d be lonely by then, the illusion of interpersonal communication via working from home and brief grocery store interactions sure to find me disconnected. I travel an hour south to visit friends. They’ve prepared a delightful meal for me, for which I sit between them at the table. This never fails to make me feel like a very treasured guest. The three of us watch Never Been Kissed on DVD afterwards, a movie that has aged poorly in its themes but has a STACKED cast.

Driving home, I relish the treat that is being out after dark. I hardly leave the house after my son has been tucked into bed these days. I let the summer air snarl my hair as it whips through my car’s open windows. I mostly dislike summertime, but this feeling is unique to these warmer months.

Back in my room, I spend another hour digging through The Pile. Tossing deodorants I must admit I won’t use (I actually don’t want my armpits to smell like apple cider, Native holiday collection) and printed accident reports from my son’s daycare they give to me every time he bonks his head. While I separate trash from not, I half-watch a documentary about a woman that fell off a cruise ship thirty years ago and hasn’t been seen since. I know this will give me nightmares and it does.

On Thursday, my solitude has lost its charm. I miss my family, and I’m disappointed I haven’t accomplished as much as I wanted to. The Pile calls to me when I pass it walking down the hallway and I shut it behind a door, sending a clear message.

My bad mood leaks into the evening, threatening to ruin my highly anticipated social plans. I know being around kind and interesting people will fix my attitude, but mobilizing is hard.

My friend Julia’s husband, Sam, invented Garlic Party last year to celebrate the harvest of his many varieties of garlic. The cloves are infused into oils for taste testing, children participate in a pin-the-scape-on-the-garlic-bulb game, and everyone is invited to harvest more garlic from their extensive garden. As it turns out, Garlic Party is the softest cloud to land on. I warm to socializing slowly, greeting the resident chickens, dipping delicious focaccia bread into garlic oils, and digging my fingers into soil to loosen garlic bulbs. The satisfaction of pulling them cleanly from the ground thrills and replenishes me, and I regain my ability to mingle. A group of men express their gratitude for the friendship they share in a male loneliness epidemic, a circle of moms discuss whether or not to introduce the idea of Santa Claus to their young children, and the merit of each garlic is considered.

Though I’m energized upon my return, The Pile will have to wait. I’m gathering with some family tomorrow for a weekend cabin stay and I’ve set high expectations for myself as far as my contributions. I prepare a pasta salad, strawberry refresher drink, and a fruit salad. The key to the fruit salad is to dice watermelon, mango, kiwi, and strawberry into very small pieces. So each bite contains multiple flavors. I chop chop chop chop chop chop chop into the night, do the dishes, and collapse into bed.

Friday morning, with only hours till I’m scheduled to leave, I resign myself to the fact that The Pile will remain. I make the bedroom useable again by stuffing my clothing donations into trash bags for transit. Everything else is shamefully shuffled back into the corner of the room.

After tidying the rest of the house, packing, and driving, I arrive at the cabin and into the arms of loved ones. My mom, aunt, grandma, and sister and I dip into the lake, chat and laugh endlessly, snack, swing on a zipline, apply facemasks and listen to spa music, and watch each night as a treefrog emerges and hunts moths from the cabin’s sliding glass door. We cheer as he captures them, watching his belly fill and stick heavily to the glass.

When we eat the fruit salad, everyone marvels at how small the pieces are. I don’t realize how desperate I am to hear it until my grandma says, “This must have taken you hours to prepare.”

The concept of “little by little” is popular, even to me, when applied to different projects. I make to-do lists and cross off items as they’re completed. And I’m locked into this idea of writing and creativity for the long haul, even if it’s time consuming and challenging. But I really hoped that identifying the problem of The Pile, plus time to address it, would find it quickly solved. But not yet.

There may be fewer mediocre novels in the stack. Less crumpled receipts, less clothing. But much of it remains. A reminder of the limitations of time and resources in this life.

This inspired an experiment at my home, for which I made a CHART, mixing milks into different sodas. Validly, many are wary of adding milk where it does not belong, but a root beer float is timeless and Pilk (Pepsi mixed with milk) and floats are related! And root beer floats, Pilk, and dirty soda all belong to the same family tree! Overall, I was very fond of most of the combinations.

So, imagine my glee when I learned about Swig, the customizable soda shop that is popular in many Southern states (tragically the one nearest to me is states away in Indiana). Sometimes I just browse the menu and imagine what I would order if I was ever lucky enough to visit one.

At least partially due to their appearance in Hulu’s new hit series The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives, Swig and other soda shops have started popping up everywhere. Members of The Church of Latter-Day Saints are forbidden or at least discouraged from consuming alcohol or caffeinated beverages, so soda is very popular. And as sober-curiosity rises, people are in search of something else to sip! Blessedly, dirty soda options have even arrived in our very own Twin Cities area in Minnesota. I’ve been on the lookout for them, prioritizing a visit to every establishment that offers dirty soda by name or recognizable recipe.

To me, the ideal dirty soda is either ambitious in its flavoring or a classic combination with good ratios, offered at an accessible price point, and present on a permanent menu. I’ve completed a few loops around the metro area in search of this ultimate summer beverage. Chronologically as I consumed them, here’s what I’ve gathered.

Sonic

I love going to Sonic, parking in one of the drive-up slots and spending seven full minutes reading the menu - something you can’t do in the drive-thru line if you have any decency.

A couple years ago, when everyone was obsessed with the idea of Girl Dinner, I often thought of Sonic. They’ll fry anything and it can all be ordered in very snacky portions, but for me, their drinks are the stars.

They have slushies, ice cream drinks, lemonades AND limeades, soda, and you can even add Nerds candy to any beverage. So of course they had a dirty soda option early.

“Make it dirty” is how it’s listed on the menu. For $1.30, any drink can be made dirty with the addition of sweet cream, coconut, and lime. And in most moments, I love a crass joke or an inappropriate saying, but I transform into a prude while ordering. Awkwardly stumbling over “make it dirty” so the employee taking my order asks me to repeat it a few times.

Sonic’s beverages arrive in Styrofoam, which I hate, and the lime flavoring is very artificial mixed with Diet Coke as I’ve ordered it. But they have that supreme pebble ice, and the coconut and cream is smooth mixed with the Diet Coke. Plus, the accessibility of Sonic, geographically and economically, cannot be denied. So I will likely return to enjoy another dirty soda flavor. Maybe I’ll add Nerds.

Price: $4.80/Large
Overall experience: 3.5/5

Applebees

With their sights set on the summer that lay ahead, Applebees has had dirty soda available since at least April of this year when I visited with my family. I ordered the appetizer sampler as a main because it’s better than any of the other entrees, and I was thrilled to see the option to add “swirled cream” and whipped cream to any soda on the menu. A photo of Applebees’ exclusive Mountain Dew Flavor, Dark Berry Blast, was prominently featured in the ad, midnight blue and topped with whipped cream and a maraschino cherry. So I ordered that.

It was delivered to the table looking like any dirty soda skeptic’s worst nightmare, the cream coagulated and floated in stark chunks in the dark soda. I gave the straw a good swish and things looked promising again. But this Mountain Dew flavor and cream didn’t blend well together, almost battling each other and sticking to my tongue. To no one’s surprise, this also did not pair well with buffalo wings or artichoke dip. But I have to praise Applebees’ timely dirty soda offerings. I’d recommend ordering Pilk, instead.

Price: $3.00
Overall experience: 2/5

Taco Bell

I can appreciate a regular Mountain Dew occasionally, but I find their popular variations Baja Blast AND Code Red medicinal at best and repulsive at worst. Yet when Taco Bell added a Dirty Baja Blast to their menu, I knew I had to at least try it. And I’m so glad I did.

Even in the bottom of the large-sized cup, it seems like the employees only drizzle about a tablespoon of sweet cream to the bottom, then fill it to the brim with Baja Blast. I felt disappointed watching this process the first time I ordered it, certain the slightest addition of cream would do little to alter the taste of the polarizing soda. But it really transforms it, smoothing the medicinal bite of the Baja Blast.

I ordered many of these over the span of weeks (stopping at Taco Bell on our weekly trip to my grandparents’ house is a family tradition), and I started to believe maybe they’d remain on the menu for good. But the Dirty Baja Blast was swept from the menu and replaced by their new Refresca drinks. The only silver lining is perhaps the simplicity of the Dirty Baja Blast recipe, as Baja Blast and cream are readily available and this could be recreated at home.

Price: $2.99/Large (tragically you can no longer buy one!)
Overall experience: 5/5

Dunn Brothers

For many reasons, Starbucks is dead to me. But I’ve been refreshing the webpages of pretty much every other coffee shop chain in search of dirty sodas. With their accessibility to flavored syrups and variety of milk products, dirty soda seems an easy and logical add to many coffee shop menus. But Dunn Brothers was the first larger chain willing to give it a try. At the top of June this year, they offered a drink that mixed Dr Pepper, coffee, and creamer and a Mountain Dew drink with blue raspberry syrup, strawberry “accents” and coconut milk called the Blue Raz Dew’d. Because I don’t like coffee (and I’m EMBARRASSED by that so I’m being vulnerable), I ordered the Blue Raz Dew’d for pick-up at their Arden Hills location.

They have one of those cork boards with photos of their employees accompanied by little blurbs about their interests, which always delight me. A young employee named Grace had this sentiment - “I am passionate about: not touching paper receipts with my bare hands.” I read it and thought THIS is what we need to combat individualistic obsession in this society. To see the photos of employees, their names, a little nugget of information about what makes them unique is this clear reminder that people work here. But how do we teach that added element of care and curiosity?? Either way, it’s something other than my phone to look at while I wait for my Blue Raz Dew’d. The paper receipt thing made me laugh aloud, my name was called, and I took my drink to go.

The first few sips were dreadful and I didn’t really want to go on. I’m not often deterred by food coloring, but it really tasted too BLUE. Before I knew it, I had driven home and most of the drink was gone, leaving a diluted slosh at the bottom amongst the melty ice cubes. And THOSE few final sips tasted exactly like Lucky Charms milk, my favorite.

Sadly, at the time of publishing, I see that neither dirty soda drink remains on the Dunn Brothers menu.

Price: $7.15/Medium
Overall Experience: 2/5 – one point for the cork board and one point for removing the Blue Raz Dew’d from the menu. Dunn Bros, if you try again, so will I.

BlueNose Coffee – Farmington, MN

On a brightly colored menu that reminds me of those little disposable paper cups mouthwash enthusiasts kept in their bathrooms in the 1990s, Bluenose Coffee announced they were offering an extensive list of dirty sodas. I’d never heard of BlueNose, but the menu excited me enough to prioritize the trip. I drove thirty-five miles to the southeast to try them.

Greeted by one of my enemies (a patio seating area surrounded on all sides by parking lot), an exterior sign with a mishmash of colors and fonts, and about fifty wicker baskets displayed as décor inside, I was unsure what to expect from the beverages. But the thoughtfulness of the menu (variety of flavors offered and clearly marked for any with different dietary requirements) and the friendliness of the person working at the register won me over and almost had me rethinking my stance on the baskets. They are kind of funny.

I ordered the Pretty in Pink Fizz, a Sprite beverage with cherry and vanilla syrups and coconut milk, and it was delightful and well-executed, all flavors present in every sip. If I find myself back in Farmington, I would definitely return.

Price: $5.00/one size
Overall experience: 5/5

Dirty Sota – Chisago, MN

In what will maybe become a trend*, I took a half day off from work and recruited my friend and fellow Substack-er, Bre of Too Many Feet, to do over a 100 mile loop around the metro area to try dirty sodas.

Our first stop was Dirty Sota in Chisago, very near to where Bre and I attended high school together. This soda shop just opened in May of this year, but their sweet pink interior and Minnesota-themed drink names charmed me even before we ordered anything.

It’s absolutely pouring outside the day we visit, so we don’t get to sit on the shop’s micro-patio (SO cute) but we do rest briefly on the squishy couch to enjoy our drinks. I ordered The Cities, which promised Mountain Dew with passion fruit and strawberry puree, plus lime. Bre ordered the Up North, root beer with marshmallow cream and vanilla syrup. And these were adorable upon arrival, with colorful twisty straws, but I thought both of them tasted mostly like their dominant sodas and little else. When I revisited a week later with my spouse and child, the drinks we ordered tasted more like mixed drinks, bolder in their combinations. So maybe, Dirty Sota is still ramping up.

Price: $4.00/large
Overall experience: 4/5

Kwik Trip

The option to make dirty sodas ourSELVES always exists. I added Kwik Trip to my list of spots to score a dirty soda after a friend (hi, Kelsey!) mentioned she likes to DIY dirty soda at the elite gas station. So, Bre and I tried.

I love Kwik Trip.

The bathrooms are clean, the snack selection is VAST, their Krispy Kreme-wannabe donuts barely fall short of those they imitate, and they consistently have a large section designated for hot food, pastry case, and hot and cold beverages. They have both Coke AND Pepsi products, cherry and vanilla syrup dispensers on the fountain beverage machines, and even more syrups and coffee creamer offered for their serve-yourself coffee. Bre and I grabbed plastic cups and went to combining. I tried Diet Coke, cherry syrup, and the final few pumps of Half and Half in the coffee creamer machine. Bre concocted her own drink, sipped, and reported “I don’t think I should be in charge of my own destiny for the dirty soda.”

And honestly, I agree. My drink from Kwik Trip was my least favorite for the day but wasn’t undrinkable. Maybe I need more practice. And NO ONE can argue with the price for this one.

Price: $1.40/small
Overall experience: 1/5

Sota – Maple Grove, MN

In the absence of a legitimate Swig, Sota seems to be trying the hardest to create a similar experience for their consumers. With their original store in Maple Grove having opened in late 2024, and two additional locations opening this summer (in St Louis Park and Edina), they’re establishing a formula for generating hype and delivering the goods with a larger menu and efficient staff.

Even though I’d seen a few videos online of the popular Sota shop’s line out the door, I was sure we’d encounter very few people visiting in the middle of a cool and rainy Wednesday in June. But there were a handful of people already in line when we arrived. As though we were waiting to board the Wild Thing at Valleyfair, Bre and I shuffled up and down roped-off rows set up for the store’s busier times.

The dreariness of the weather outside extended inside, and very little was done to create any ambiance in the store. No decorations were hung and there was nowhere to sit down. It’s clear the staff’s goal is speed, and they’re reaching it. Patrons paid for and received drinks quickly, and I advanced towards the register, scrambling to figure out which to order.

Blessedly, Sota indicates which drinks on their menus are “fan favorites,” a flotation device for those like me, unsure of what they want to try. I ordered the Raspberry Beret, a drink with Sprite, raspberry syrup and both raspberry and peach purees. While I waited for it to be made, I visited their bathroom, which was perhaps the coldest room I’ve been in since I worked at Arby’s in 2009 and would steal away to the walk-in cooler for a few minutes alone.

By the time I emerged and began my dethaw, a Styrofoam cup with my Raspberry Beret was waiting for me. And the fans of Sota weren’t wrong. It was one of my very favorite drinks of the day, well mixed and brightly fruity with plenty of pebble ice.

Another thing that warmed me to Sota was that most of the customers in the store were teenage girls, and it is one of my core beliefs that businesses frequented by teenage girls should be held dear and protected.

Price: $3.00/small
Overall experience: 5/5

Macarons by Maddie Lu – Bloomington, MN

Macarons by Maddie Lu used to have an awkwardly shaped store on the first floor of the Mall of America, but they’re leveled up quite literally. Now located on the third (top!) floor and right by the West parking ramp entrance, Macarons by Maddie Lu still offers their signature beautiful macarons (the Google reviews of this place are SO harsh – to my untrained palate, these are GOOD) but they’ve added a soda machine and syrups behind the display case.

The store itself is shallow-er, so a line accumulates and sticks into mall traffic. But a lone employee behind the counter mixes our drinks QUICKLY, the line shrinks, and we’re back doing a loop of the mall before long at all.

The drinks have human names, likely in a theme that I can’t identify and I forget to ask. I select the Greta (Dr Pepper, lime juice, coconut cream) and Bre orders the Billy (lemonade with blueberry syrup and vanilla cream) and they are both very good, Bre’s more intriguing and inventive than my classic combo. At this price point and prepared as promptly as they were, I would definitely prioritize them even amongst the excessive beverage offerings at the mall.*

Price: $5.00/one size
Overall experience: 5/5

Bebe Zito - Woodbury, MN

In an area with plenty of ice cream options, I think Bebe Zito is currently offering the best in the state. Though they have a location in the food hall at Malcolm Yards that is basically my back yard, I frequently traveled to their original location in Uptown Minneapolis to bashfully greet Kahlen, a contestant from America’s Next Top Model’s Cycle 4, that worked there until she quit earlier this year to pursue a career in a different field. Emerging from Bebe Zito with a scoop of uniquely flavored ice cream, a bag of their incredible frozen cookie dough, and fresh from yet another deliciously awkward interaction with Kahlen (on my part! She is an angel!!) provided me with immense joy many times.

About a year ago, they opened another location in the Woodbury Lakes Shopping Center. It’s only at this location that they’ve advertised dirty sodas for at least (seemingly?) the summer. And as I’ve come to expect from Bebe Zito, their dirty soda menu offered more ambitious flavor pairings. One with Mountain Dew and green apple and another with root beer and butterscotch intrigued me, but I ordered the Bahahaha Blast, with Baja Blast, blackberry, and vanilla cream.

In the photo on the menu, the Bahahaha Blast is the familiar turquoise of a Baja Blast, topped with light colored foam. But when it was handed to me, the blackberry had turned the drink a darker pink and I had to confirm it was what I’d ordered. On taste alone, this was one of my favorites of the day. The blackberry had a unique fullness that other berry flavorings throughout the day did not. It was delicious, and the price is right.

Price: $5.00/one size
Overall experience: 4/5 (one point deducted because the restaurant was filthy - soorrrry)

Dunkin Donuts

The day after Bre and I drove the giant dirty soda loop, I logged onto social media to see a friend (hi, Franki!) had tried a dirty-soda-adjacent beverage offered by Dunkin Donuts.

Dunkin had partnered with Sabrina Carpenter to release Sabrina’s Strawberry Daydream Refresher. Made by combining Dunkin’s traditional strawberry refresher with oat milk and topped with cold foam, it was a little bit of a stretch to attach it to the dirty soda theme, but it felt too close to miss.

Plus it looked beautiful, online and in person. Absolutely radiant pink liquid capped with a generous amount of cold foam, it immediately reminded me of the summer of 2023 when every single brand had to carry a Barbie-inspired product by law, I think. A quick web search confirmed that Dunkin DID have a Barbie drink.

After making my way through the cold foam, the pink drink was addictive. And not necessarily in a good way. It tasted exactly like Crème Savers, the strawberry and cream flavored candy that was popular in the 2000s and was unavailable for years until their recent re-release. I never liked those candies, but I winced through the rest of the drink, unwilling to stop sipping for some reason. This drink would have a captive audience, but it’s just not me.

Price: $7.50/one size, I think
Overall experience: 1.5/5

Northern Soda Company – New Brighton, MN

In a suburb north of Minneapolis, I drove through a giant parking lot into the very back of a business park to visit Northern Soda Company. Their craft soda taproom is only open on the weekends and looks like any other brewery tap room at first.

Upon entry, I took in the isosceles triangle of a room and waited my turn while Davod, the bartender, showed a couple ordering just how massive their pretzels are. He pulled one from the freezer still in its plastic bag to demonstrate the size. When it was my turn to order I realized with delight that this place only offers non-alcoholic beverages. The taps lined on the bar were all limited-edition soda flavors, and they also offer cans of their more widely-produced flavors for purchase.

I ordered the Huckleberry dirty soda with cherry, cream, and a cherry on top. Davod filled a glass with ice before I asked if I could take the drink to go. Admittedly, I was on my way to try even more dirty soda, but I told him next time I would bring my family and stay for the drink. This place was clearly kid-friendly, with a long table with paper and a big bucket of crayons for doodling.

The huckleberry soda is unique from some of the other dirty sodas I’ve tried, but also familiar. Almost like drinking a blue Tootsie Pop (I looked it up- the blue Tootsie Pop is NOT huckleberry flavored). And because it’s soda made locally with premium ingredients, I’m more willing to pay a little more for it. I only wish they were open more days of the week.

Price: $7.00/one size
Overall experience: 5/5

Cakewalk – Northfield, MN

On the main street of Northfield, possibly the loveliest town in the world state, sits Cakewalk. Though their emphasis is baked goods, I was summoned by the dirty soda ad on the sidewalk sign in front of the store.

I ordered the Cake Float, a combination of Dr Pepper, cake batter syrup, and strawberry cold foam, served with a single gummy ring around the straw. I am such a sucker for a candy garnish, so I was excited by the presentation. However, the cake batter syrup was lost completely in the Dr Pepper, and even the strawberry flavor was barely present. But Dr Pepper with a little creaminess added is still delicious, so I wasn’t unhappy.

My friend, Kevin, picked a Sippin’ Pretty drink, which combined lemonade, “Galaxy syrup” and strawberry popping boba. And like my Cake Float, it was beautiful in appearance, the Galaxy syrup added a little shimmer and hovered above the lemonade and boba in the cup. The lemonade was bravely very tart, a bold move that always wins with me. The Galaxy syrup tasted like almost nothing, but I would drink popping boba out of a puddle probably. So I considered the whole drink a win.

With their ambitious flavor combinations and endearing presentations, I believe a walk by the Cannon River with any Cakewalk dirty soda would improve any summer afternoon.

Price: $6.00/one size
Overall experience: 4/5

While on this months-long, extended dirty soda tour, I couldn’t help but frequently think of Cherry Berry. The frozen yogurt shops opened up everywhere, remained open for less than a decade I think, and pretty much all simultaneously shuttered after the trend of enjoying frozen yogurt with one hundred toppings atop ended. But I miss Cherry Berry and mourn it regularly. In a world with so much uncertainty, the option to consume one of a million combinations of sugary treats is sacred and grounding. I hope dirty soda is here to stay, but I’m ready to be hurt again if not.

Ultimately, I emerge from this venture validated that dirty soda is as fun as I’d hoped it would be. Could most of these drinks be made at home more consistently and to our specific preferences? Yes! But I actually do love to spend seven dollars on a drink and sip it while walking outside, suspended in the moment as though I don’t have a care in the world. And I’ll be chasing that feeling, and trying to duplicate it, all summer.

* In 2022, Bre and I drove to ten McDonald’s locations and ordered unsweetened iced teas from each. I wanted to know which location had the BEST iced tea before I discovered they use identical processes to make them at every location. As always, big props to Bre for being the best sport.

* It should be specified that the BEST beverage in the entire Mall of America is the Blackberry Hibiscus Lemonade at Piada Italian Street Food. DON’T stand in the Piada line! Just order the drink at the register!!

Something horrible happens, and I am both horrified by our obligation and astounded by our ability to just keep going. To work, drop children off at school, make dental appointments, and walk to the store to buy yet another bell pepper. The last couple of weeks have felt consistently absurd. Learning about a politically motivated assassination in our very own Twin Cities but also picking up a cake to celebrate Father’s Day. Our deranged president bombs Iran and I lay down and spiral for 30ish minutes before I start making dinner.

And it’s all I talk about to those I love – my spouse, my grandma, my best friend, my sister – “blah blah blah can you believe this is how we LIVE??” And they say “I can’t believe it” and I say “I can’t believe it.”

In the last week or so I’ve read two Substack pieces that have given me glimmers of hope - this one about how important it is to take care of each other when things are very bad and this (fascinating!!) one about finding common ground with those whose priorities do not align with our own (without implying can’t-we-all-just-get-along).

But beyond searching for genuine and realistic words of encouragement, I am zoning OUT.

There’s really nothing that numbs my dread like coveting beautiful PRODUCTS. In five minutes on any social media platform, I can get my feelings hurt in six different ways. But browsing through eBay is actually a very safe space.

I have a cultivated list of items I’ve repeatedly viewed and longed for most. And I convince myself that pining is better than owning them. I don’t need more STUFF, consumerism is suffocating this planet, or maybe they would disappoint me anyway. But let’s be honest. I would love $10,986.19 and I would use it to buy these.

Vintage Ceramic Cat

There’s an antique shop across from one of my favorite bakeries in the city (Sarah Jane’s!) with like nine of these lined up in the window. I wouldn’t dream of asking how much one would cost or removing them from their pack, but my son and I like to pick which one is our favorite of that day.

Last year, I bought him a toy horse that measures a little over a foot tall (about the size of the ceramic cats). Alert, it stands on our deck or in the yard and keeps watch all day and night. At first, both my cat and my dog hated it, visibly startled each time they rediscovered it in the yard. I wonder if they would approach an indoor ceramic cat with comparable skepticism. But I would hope they’d grow to accept their inanimate sibling, because I really want one of these!

Cost: $190

Hailey Bieber Smoothie From Erewhon

I love nothing more than a fancy grocery store.

Erewhon, an upscale grocery store chain located exclusively in the Los Angeles area, exploded in popularity after it became a hotspot for health enthusiasts and content creators looking to make videos about the store’s outlandish products and prices.

$80 for a 24-pack of Erewhon Spring Water, $12 for a small square of Keto Vegan brownie, $25 for an organic rotisserie chicken, $19 for a container of precut organic papaya, $88 for a jar of Sea Moss Gel. And $20 for the smoothie I can’t stop thinking about. The Hailey Bieber Strawberry Glaze Skin Smoothie blends almond milk, organic strawberries, banana, avocado, dates, maple syrup, collagen peptides, hyaluronic acid, sea moss gel, and coconut cream, and claims not only to be delicious, but also improve the appearance of your skin.

I’ve watched likely fifty videos of people trying this smoothie to mixed results, but it’s potentially a mistake I need to make mySELF.

Price: $349 (for a round-trip flight to LA, lodging for one night, and only the smoothie to sustain me)

Norma Kamali Sleeping Bag Coat

Like many Midwestern gals growing up in the early 2000s, I learned much of what I knew about fashion watching America’s Next Top Model. And in 2010, when Cycle 14 debuted, I was introduced to André Leon Talley when he joined the show’s judging panel.

In an episode where the contestants each posed nude save for one item of clothing or accessory, 18-year-old Alasia wears a vest backwards, open at the back, as she stands with her backside to the camera. Tyra Banks and the other judges chastise her for the bizarre posing choice, but André Leon Talley sees something exceptional.

He tells Alasia he would place the photo in his salon, swallowing the final N as he uses the French pronunciation. Like “say-lah.” None of us, including Tyra, knew what that meant so he explains, “A salon is a room where you go and you converse and you serve beautiful drinks and you talk about politics, religion, art, love, sex, beauty, wine, roses, and that fabulous girl with the fabulous derriere.” His distinctive eye, generosity of knowledge, spirit, and kindness were clearly novel traits in the fashion industry, and it made an impact on me as a viewer.

So, when I found myself burdened under the weight of my 2021 tax return, I perused the Norma Kamali website considering the sleeping bag coats, a closet staple of André Leon Talley.

I never completed a purchase because they don’t have zippers(??) which, upon reflection, should not have been considered such a barrier since I hardly ever zip up my coat in the winter.

I really want one.

And RIP to André Leon Talley, a class act.

Price: $675

Freewrite Smart Typewriter

I’ll say right at the top here that I’m almost positive this wouldn’t improve my writing process.

Freewrite’s website offers a small collection of typewriter-like devices which assist in creating a distraction-free work environment. Featuring aesthetically pleasing keyboards and smaller screen displays, the user is encouraged to Just Write.

I have plenty of problems when it comes to writing, but distraction by a browser on my computer is not one of them. If I want to derail my efforts, I click around on my PHONE. But these Freewrite machines are SO cute, I’ve wanted one for years, and it feels like no one could deny my commitment to the art of WORDS if I had one.

Price: $699

Nativity Scene from the Mall of St Paul

The parking situation near the Mall of St Paul is not ideal in that, by the time you spot something of interest sitting on the sidewalk outside of it, it’s too late to park. And what’s happened to me many times in the last few months is that I turn at the corner by the Mall of St Paul and gasp as I catch a glimpse of the vintage blow mold nativity set on the sidewalk. I realize I can’t park without risk of destroying the flow of traffic, and grumble to myself that I NEED to stop next time.

I finally found the foresight to park and check them out recently. For vintage pieces, the colors of the members of the nativity set are vibrant. Loosely tied together by rope and propped on a wheeled cart, the gang is nearly all there. Three wise men, Joseph and Mary with bowed heads, and two angels with hands clasped all wait for me to swoop them up. Price tags indicate the Baby Jesus is accounted for, but likely held elsewhere due to his pilfer-ability (he’s small!).

I don’t own much Christmas décor at all, and in fact do not own any nativity scene yet. But I envision where I would line up each member of the group in my yard and how proud seeing them would make me as I approach my house. Would it make my family’s holiday season exponentially more special?? We will never know until I fork over the cash.

Price: $556

Flip Clock by Schoolhouse

Multiple days a week, I stop by one of the many thrift stores near me. In an effort to consume LESS and reuse more, I’m on the most passive secondhand hunt for some household items.

I’m always on the lookout for a Hot Wheels track for my son (he doesn’t know they exist yet but I know he’ll be into it), I’ve been hoping to stumble upon a butter bell, and I really want to find a cute clock for my bedside table.

There’s an entire clock section at each thrift store, there are SO many clocks in the world, and I just think to myself the one destined for me will find its way. But I have grown concerned that the clock of my dreams is not a secondhand one at all, but this Flip Clock from Schoolhouse. Vintage in appearance only and so charming, it is just around a hundred and ten dollars over my ideal budget.

Price: $129

She is Sheval - Blame It On the Boogie Shoes

I saw a pair of these nestled amongst dozens of other shoes by the front door at a Friendsgiving gathering a couple years ago. Looking exactly like your grandma’s Velcro tennis shoes, but with bedazzled accents, these sneakers have RANGE.

They were so striking, I kind of demanded to know who they belonged to, what they were called, and if they were comfortable as they appear. Admittedly, I was told they were expensive and uncomfortable. But I’ve yet to drop them from my eternal wish list.

Price: $225

The Whole Pantry by Belle Gibson

Earlier this year, Netflix released a dramatic series called Apple Cider Vinegar inspired by the story of Belle Gibson. A wife and mother from Australia, Belle alleges she successfully treated her terminal brain cancer with a healthy diet. The Netflix series mixes in quite a few fictional elements, but far before its release, I was captivated by the story of a woman encouraging others to use “clean” foods to treat serious ailments. She had developed a large audience on social media, had a deal with Apple to create one of the first apps available on their smart watches, and wrote and published The Whole Pantry cookbook with a massive publisher.

But things fell apart, she admitted she was never diagnosed with cancer, and an interview with 60 Minutes Australia, featuring Belle wearing a memorably bright pink turtleneck sweater, was seen and mocked by millions.

Her discontinued cookbook, The Whole Pantry, floats around on eBay, hovering between $250-500 a copy. And though I’m dying to page through it, my morbid curiosity has a budget ceiling (for now).

Price: $300

Polly Wales Confetti Ring

After I had dutifully dated my ex-boyfriend for seven years, the unspoken implication was that we would marry next. I read a few articles on xoJane (RIP - miss you every day of my life) about how normal it was to drop subtle or less-subtle hints about engagement rings, so I emailed him a link to the Polly Wales website.

They’re each one-of-a-kind and SO distinctive in style. They also cost thousands of dollars and, at the time, the two of us were the only paying occupants of a house we shared with one thousand bats. I was still surprised when he received my email and screamed at me that I was going to “RUIN IT” which ultimately meant he already had a ring. A family heirloom that I was mostly too scared to wear once he gave it to me.

I forgot about the Polly Wales ring but returned to her website more recently for a browse. And they hold up. When I indulge my delusional mind, I imagine this is my first purchase after I secure a book deal.

Price: $7,480

Every Single Flavor from Conny’s Creamy Cone

When my son was only weeks old, I started bringing him to a daycare center in the Como neighborhood of St Paul. Every day I drove past Conny’s Creamy Cone, a walk-up ice cream place that has been open seasonally for over twenty-five years. I dreamed of stopping there on our drives home from daycare all the time, watching my son grow over years and countless ice cream cones. The daycare center closed but my love for Conny’s will never die.

I love their goofy name, the massive ice cream cone affixed to the roof ensures you can’t miss it on the corner, and they have some of the best soft serve I’ve enjoyed in life. A butterscotch dipped twist cone from Conny’s rivals the ice cream cone I pine for all year from the Dairy Building at the state fair.

So I follow Conny’s on social media. Earlier this year, a fellow Conny’s fan tagged Conny’s in a photo of their birthday gift from their husband. He had purchased a pint of each flavor of Conny’s soft serve flavors- thirty-one in total. It was an instant dream realized for me.

I definitely spend two hundred dollars a year on ice cream, and I know I would love trying and comparing all the flavors to each other. But Ice Cream We Have At Home never stands a chance against a spontaneous cup or cone on a beautiful summer’s day. To determine exactly when I would lose interest in the thirty-one pints in my freezer, I would love to bring them home and find out the hard way.

Price: $201.19

Forme Power Bra

Popularized after Taylor Swift revealed she wore one while training for her extensive Eras Tour, this sports bra allegedly improves moderate(!) posture issues. A flurry of reviews that followed this discovery revealed mostly positive experiences.

The more I dig into my archives to find things I want but probably won’t buy, the more I reconsider actually letting them die in the shopping cart. As I type this in this instant, I am hunched over my computer. I have exactly moderate posture issues! Maybe this ongoing wish list item will prove to be the exception.

Price: $182

As you may have noticed, I’ve considered some of these items for YEARS, and yet I remain without them. Due to their price inaccessibility or because I haven’t prioritized them. But would any of it fix anything for me??? Or is it better to keep them at arm’s length to stave off my impending apathy (sorry I’m sooo intense – I do not like summer)?? In a way, I like to be reminded that I will always desire.

Also, does everyone have a continuous and frivolous wish list and if so, what is on it????

Though I recommend self-soothing by “adding to cart” with the intention to follow through or not, I genuinely hope everyone is finding a way to enjoy softness and beauty in some way right now. There are good things in the world we haven’t yet experienced.

I don’t spend a lot of time there, so it’s hardly updated. An image of me and my son on a hike is my profile photo. He’s four now, but in the photo he’s a lumpy little baby in a carrier I paid like two hundred dollars for and used three times.

The scroll through my feed starts innocently enough. Many people have recently attended baby showers. A friend of a friend of a friend recently adopted a cat (I like) and another adopted a dog (I keep scrolling - SORRY). Someone I used to work with just took a balloon ride (I’M JEALOUS).

But it’s not long before things take a turn. My college roommate’s little sister has a new boyfriend with very sinister facial hair. Someone from my neighborhood wants to know if they can compost a baby bunny her dog killed (UMM). The mom group I joined when I was pregnant is the most reliable source of bleak concerns. A hundred variations of the same question are posted – what should they do about the fact that their husbands seem to actively hate them and contribute nearly nothing to the household??

The post that sends me absolutely reeling is a photo of a woman, a former coworker of mine, smiling in a red life vest from a canoe. The water behind her is calm, the sun shining. Her name is Kelly, and I haven’t thought about her in years. If I decided to post an update on Facebook, I wonder if she’d see it. And I wonder what she would remember about me. Would her mind jump to one particularly humiliating night of my life, for which she was a reluctant observer?

During the summer of 2012, I was living in Duluth and was publicly intoxicated following a bayside musical event where my even-more-drunk boyfriend spit on a security guard and was banned from the premises. He sprinted into the night, leaving me behind. Chasing after him and sobbing so hard I lost one of my flip flops, I ran into Kelly on the street. She greeted me and likely hoped to enjoy the rest of her evening, but I let it all out. Blubbering to her about my relationship woes and even holding her arm the whole time. Acting as a literal anchor.

When I saw her at work a few days later, I apologized for cornering her and she was very forgiving. But for witnessing my vulnerability and living to tell the tale, I resented her, and it ruined the friendly connection we’d shared.

To see a photo of her and become overwhelmed by this reminder had me thinking - who else have I forgotten??? I scrolled through Facebook and a photo of one person reminded me of another and on until I had a growing list of acquaintances and temporary nemeses in mind. And it really had me wondering – where are they now??

The Middle School “Bad Girl” Who Choked On A Fruit Roll Up

One thing that has remained constant in my life is my desire for constant communication. All day I send texts, emails, social media messages, quips to coworkers, and I LOVE to talk on the phone.

And when I was in middle school, I was an active member of the superhighway of note writing and passing amongst my peers. My best friend received several from me per day, a constant stream of who was doing or saying what in each class from the school day’s beginning to end. And I had a roster’s worth of pals I connected with in this way.

One of them was a friend, Amanda, who once wrote me a note so vulgar that, when confiscated by our math teacher, we BOTH got in trouble. It contained a “rap” she’d written about rough sex that I’m sure was legitimately alarming to the adults in our lives.

During the duration of our friendship, I visited her house only once. We watched David Bowie’s Labyrinth and, even at the time, I felt confident I wouldn’t endure it again (I have not!). We made a tent around the living room television with blankets that partially obscured the screen. The disorienting themes of the film plus the slow collapse of the tent around us made me feel like I was in hell. But then we enjoyed pizza in the adjacent dining room.

One Monday, Amanda and I chatted on our way to class about our weekends. Almost casually she mentioned that she’d had to perform a self-Heimlich Maneuver in order to dislodge a Fruit Roll Up from her throat after she’d swallowed too big a piece.

She felt lucky to be alive and it had changed her priorities. I marveled at her resourcefulness, picturing her in the dining room where we’d eaten pizza. Throwing herself over the chair I’d sat in. The fragility of life was arriving to me like this. In fragments.

I started replacing her face with mine in the mental imagine I held of her life-preserving actions. Would I have been able to stop myself from choking? And if not, I wondered how many people would come to my funeral. Probably a lot and probably my crushes. Those that were cruel to me in life would be turned away at the door.

Kind Of A Karen Before That Was A Thing

My first full time job was in the registration department at St Luke’s Hospital in Duluth. I bought exactly two pairs of business casual pants from a Maurice’s and a number of flowy blouses from Modcloth. And no Modern Day Career Woman Outfit in 2012 would be complete without a chunky statement necklace and shapeless ballet flats (worn without socks).

On my first day of work, I was paired with an older woman named Carol for training purposes. We started at 5AM and wrapped up by 2PM, an unsustainable schedule for me but Carol loved it. She told me the only unfavorable thing about this shift was how often she was pulled over by police on her commute for driving too slowly. She felt no need to drive the speed limit, since she was always so punctual. At the time, I didn’t even own a car and this infuriated me.

Mostly we checked in patients for their colonoscopy appointments, and they’d arrive looking hollow and exhausted. Carol patted herself on the back every time she asked someone for their insurance card, even if she’d confirmed prior to their arrival that they were recipients of Medical Assistance.

And when she casually asked me about my starting hourly rate, I told her because I’ve never been on the lookout for potential manipulation. When I gave her the number, she called a coworker of ours into the room to express her resentment right in front of me. For my starting pay rate, I could tell she never forgave me.

The Squatter With Le Creuset

I was 22 and had recently moved in with two women I’d found via a Craigslist ad when one of them asked if it would be okay if her friend stayed on our couch for a while.

The ask felt more like a formality than the beginning of a conversation, and seeking to demonstrate my flexibility, I definitely said yes. So, a few days later, a relatively nondescript man moved in and started spending almost every hour of the day sprawled out in our living room.

This cramped my style. I was working evenings. Trudging back from the hospital to eat potato chips and Top the Tater while lounging pants-less on the couch with little to no worry of being interrupted had become a treat upon which I relied.

And this guy loved to cook. Days turned to weeks, and our refrigerator struggled to cool ingredients for three paying occupants of the house, plus one’s ever-present boyfriend and now one drifter. Dirty dishes were stacked on every available kitchen surface. I vented to my friends on the daily, nearing my breaking point. Growing certain he wouldn’t leave without confrontation, I readied for a battle that would never arrive.

Abruptly, he announced he was leaving. And he prepared us this grand meal – roasted chicken with fresh herbs, a salad with apples and soft cheese atop, and absolutely the best baked macaroni and cheese I’ve enjoyed to this DAY.

Over this unexpected family meal, and after so few interactions with him in the weeks he’d stayed with us, he shared with me a retail “secret” that led him to ownership of some of the nicest kitchen staples I’d seen. He told me he’d bring his desired item to the youngest looking cashier at a department store. Armed with a search result on his phone of the item sold for cheaper at another location, legitimate or not, he’d insist on a price match. It had worked enough times that he had a collection of the newest and most beautiful Le Creuset pieces stacked in the corner of our living room.

As I touched the cookware in awe, he insisted his system was foolproof and I should try. But I lack the audacity and confidence to haggle, so I never did.

The Guy That Never Paid For Parking

When my eight-year-long relationship with my college boyfriend ended, I moved into a studio apartment with one of our cats.

I oscillated between spinning around my apartment, elated by my independence, and hunched over my phone beyond midnight, desperately swiping for a suitor on Tinder. And it was through the dating app that I met Ryan, a father (I used to have this suspicion I was well-suited to be a stepmom but it hasn’t happened yet and now probably won’t) who aspired to be a professional writer and/or standup comedian.

During our first text conversation, he mentioned he was trying out some “race work” in his standup routine, including a joke about how the color of his penis implied that it had been on a beach vacation without him. Instead of returning to my hunch to search for my next suitor, I argued with him that he should tread lightly as a white man in comedy. It was a disastrous scenario, but somehow toed a line between disagreement and banter, so I agreed to a first date with him.

We walked a loop around Minnehaha Park before settling onto a picnic table to share ice cream. He told me he never paid for street parking and just paid the parking tickets he received as they arrived. Unfortunately, I adopted this bad behavior and only pay for parking when I’m parked in a tow zone or somewhere I would be too embarrassed to pluck a ticket off my windshield. I’ve only gotten two tickets in ten years.

I didn’t think the date had gone well. We mostly bonded over our shared love of The Office. But everyone liked The Office. When he texted me that we seemed really well matched, I believed him.

When I wound up visiting his apartment, I searched every corner for hints about his son, surely my future stepchild. He told me I couldn’t meet him for a long time, but I wanted to be ready to charm. While there, he let me read a manuscript he’d been working on. It was about two secret agents that fall in love while trying to solve a crime. It was so simple and embarrassing, but I frantically racked my brain for a compliment. I told him it was a classic tale and people love those.

The Guy Who Reached Out To Touch The Ribs

Before my husband and I started dating, we rode the Twin Cities’ light rail together to and from work.

We’d breeze by the capital building, St. Paul’s Frogtown, and the Target off University that Justin Timberlake would visit when he was in town to perform for the Super Bowl – all while mostly gossiping about our coworkers. And we weren’t alone. Our friends from work, Ayan or sometimes Dean, would join us.

Dean was tall with graying hair and a goofy smile, definitely a decade older than us, and often seemed to be struggling to maintain his status as our coworker. But he was genuinely funny and good company.

And I guess we weren’t always only talking about work, because one day my now-husband, Jarred, was talking about his ribs. Using his hands to demonstrate, he explained to me and Dean that they were more angular than the average rib cage. More rectangle than oval. By this time, I had acknowledged I might be attracted to him. So, my heart rate spiked when he reached for my hand to feel the edge of his ribs over his shirt.

As I palmed the mostly normal curvature of his ribs, I nodded dumbly and tried to control my breathing. I remember deciding to shut my mouth, worried it was hanging open like an overheated cartoon dog. Chemistry was certainly the right word, as my insides all but audibly fizzed.

“Let me see,” Dean requested, popping the bubble of the moment.

I had completely forgotten he was there.

Jarred smirked and led his hand to the ribs.

I think if I tried HARD, I would be able to find neglected social media pages or employment threads on LinkedIn belonging to these people and others. But would that answer my questions?? Is Carol still driving 34 in a 55 zone?? Did that guy get heckled on stage for his “race work”? How often has Dean found himself cluelessly on the edge of someone else’s moment of intimacy? In this year 2025, I’m used to the internet offering answers to most questions. But probably not these.

And it occurs to me that I am probably a shadow in other people’s minds. What do people remember about me? Specific memories come to mind right away that I hope no one has retained. If your name is Lydia and you drove me to a business meeting at the Mayo Clinic and I wore wet ballet flats that smelled up the car, I hope you’ve forgotten it until I mentioned it right now.

I have lost touch with people. I've forgotten everything but maybe their name or face. I know this is Part Of Existing, and it is unrealistic to expect otherwise. But if I had my way, I'd keep literally everyone.

I’ve lived in Minnesota my whole life and never too far from a bridge to the adjoining state. And this proximity fueled animosity amongst the local motorists! When I saw the white license plates proclaiming “America’s Dairyland” on the tail end of a car failing to signal when switching lanes or driving too fast, I felt validated.

Of course there is no legitimacy to the claim that Minnesota only homes safe and courteous drivers. But as long as I can remember, I’ve thought of our neighbors to the East as the wilder and much more indulgent. With a cheese or sex toy emporium at every freeway exit, a massive waterpark smack in the middle of the state, and a reputation for producing some of the gnarliest serial killers in history, it’s easy to at least poke fun at Wisconsin, if not make it a punchline.

Yet I have a very soft spot for what I’ve deemed the most chaotic state in the Midwest. And I embrace that when I cross that border. Even on this platform I’ve written about many of the cheese shops and my love for the Mustard Museum. Additionally, I’ve spiraled into madness on a tour at the House on the Rock in Spring Green (which I LOVED) and feasted my eyes on the plastic carcasses at the Fiberglass Mold Graveyard in Sparta.

So, when I book a few nights’ stay in Door County, Wisconsin in the spring of this year for a little solo road trip, I search along the route I’ll be taking to add some intrigue to my travels. I will be driving a nearly straight slice through the middle of the state, West to East, and it seems like a lot of the area offerings are. Creepy.

Unfortunately, I won’t be navigating past the cat figurine museum or the world’s largest penny. But I’ll be driving past a wide-eyed talking bovine and a long-abandoned golf resort, so I may as well intend to pull over.

As I plan my passage through Wisconsin, I feel giddy as I do before a trip to a scary movie or a Halloween haunted house attraction. Mixed security and thrill.

Chatty Belle - Neillsville, Wisconsin

Photos available online of Belle, the “World’s Largest Talking Cow”, are innately creepy. Belle stands sixteen feet tall, with wide eyes and dark centered pupils. Beside the cow figure stands the Wisconsin Pavilion of the 1964-65 World’s Fair, a building absolutely out of place surrounded by rolling hills of farmland. Its Mid-Century-Modern-style base is wide, with a giant Teepee-shaped roof and a radio tower stacked atop. Its basement houses local radio stations and a glorious 1970s pink-tiled bathroom.

I know this because I go inside to ask how often the cow talks and if I’ve missed it. The kind employee behind the counter tells me I only need to deposit a quarter to hear what Chatty Belle has to say.

And sure enough, there’s a box directly in front of Belle with a coin slot.

I figured she’d function like a Tickle-Me-Elmo, reciting one of a few witty sayings each time a quarter was paid. But Chatty Belle lets out one long moo before launching into a three-minute spiel about hers and the Pavilion’s history.

Her voice reminds me of a straight-A student presenting a report to a high school class as she tells me she was moved to Neillsville in 1967, how the Pavilion was transported, that it used to have a restaurant, and a little about the restaurant’s MENU (this seems silly but I guess is effective – I actually do wish I was here in 1982 for the steak and potatoes they served). More recently, it’s become home to two local radio stations, in addition to the gift shop I’ve already visited.

I press another quarter into the slot to see if she’ll say anything else, but her monologue starts again.

After a web search, I discover that Chatty Belle used to have a SON named Bullet that stood near her for years. Allegedly it’s said that Bullet “went to college” after he was vandalized a number of times. I wish Belle had shared a little more about him.

Kate Blood’s Grave – Appleton, Wisconsin

Sometimes when I’m in an especially sour mood, I can’t even stand to be around anyone openly happy. A walk around the block isn’t sufficient when a couple could saunter by me laughing. So, I turn to cemeteries. I can expect to see almost no one and if I do, they will likely be somber.

And I respect cemeteries, so I almost skipped the couple of locations on my itinerary that encourage me to seek out specific graves. I don’t like to gawk, but I do think cemeteries should be frequented. When I’ve been dead for 100 years, I hope anyone would think of me. See my resting place. Say my name.

So I visit Kate Blood’s grave in Appleton, Wisconsin. Local legend has it that Blood lived a violent existence and met a violent end, and that Blood’s grave oozes (you may have guessed) blood on full moon nights. But a quick web search suggests this is mostly inspired by Kate’s distinctive surname combined with the fact that her grave is isolated from most of the other burial grounds. Actual documentation asserts that Kate Blood was a young mother from a well-respected family in Appleton before she died of tuberculosis in 1874.

And the creepiest thing about this stop of my tour is searching the tree-lined edge of the river to find the grave itself. Spotting it for the first time inspires a nervous lurch of my stomach. Blood’s headstone stands tall and solitary on a flat piece of land down a small hill from the rest of the plots, but it isn’t alone as alleged. A low grave marker with the last name Authier and three other nameless stones share the space.

As I approach, I realize that Kate’s headstone holds a number of little trinkets, surely affections from those that have come here to pay respects. Rocks, coins, multiple keys, bits of colored glass, a tiny little pencil, and a mini framed photo of a man (who?? Google Lens cannot even tell me) clutter the hollow square on top of the monument. A few coins have likely been blown off by the wind and lay at the headstone’s base. I place them back on top, audibly mentioning that I didn’t bring these myself. As though my actions would suggest illegitimate credit for the gestures and bring me bad luck or something. I take in the view from here toward the river, appreciating the rustle of wind blowing through tree leaves. It doesn’t seem like such a bad place to rest.

“Hamburger Charlie” – Seymour, Wisconsin

“Home of the Hamburger!” a street sign screams as I enter Seymour to view the Hamburger Charlie statue. Like Chatty Belle, I’ve long seen images of Charlie online and hoped to one day make the drive. To see this likeness of Charlie Nagreen, the alleged inventor of the hamburger, towering tall from his platform. His unsmiling face and chef’s uniform.

I was also intrigued. There’s no way a little town in Wisconsin is the home of such innovation as the first hamburger, right?

They seem to think so!

The Hamburger Charlie statue stands next to a children’s playground, industrial farming equipment tower beyond him. And before I even approach him, I spot a squat building across the street. An artist’s recreation of a cheeseburger tops it, complete with painted red ketchup dripping from its top bun.

A sign next to it names this structure as the “Charlie Grill”, an enormous grill created to cook the World’s Largest Hamburger in 2001. A photo of a man distributing seasonings onto a huge burger, swinging over it on a rope, is displayed next to a blurb about Burger Fest. Apparently, each August, Seymour celebrates the origin of the hamburger with a parade, family activities, and (obviously) hamburgers.

I cross the street to visit Charlie, whose sun-bleached face looks right into the lowering sun, daring it to tell him he didn’t invent this iconic meal. His hand on his hip, his other one extending a burger between two buns, forever in declaration. He is only a little creepy, mostly intense.

In the distance, two young children on bikes whiz across the street, silhouetted by the angled light of the falling sun. Seemingly a few neighbors are stopped and laughing together on a sidewalk. Someone drives by them and waves. Before I decide whether or not I believe Charlie invented the hamburger, I decide I really like Seymour.

When I Google “who invented the hamburger”, Charlie Nagreen doesn’t appear in any of the top results.

Crypt of Dr. William Edward Minahan – Green Bay, Wisconsin

For the second time today, I find myself in a cemetery and walking with purpose, which I do not like. But the sun continues to lower, and I am realizing with every step that even making this stop goes against some of my VALUES.

I am at Woodlawn Cemetery in Green Bay to visit the Crypt of Dr William Edward Minahan, a man most well-known for sinking with the Titanic. Mostly I have questions about the collection of his corpse (sorry), but the little research I’ve done about him has only revealed that the most important thing he did was be sooooo rich he got to eat and sleep well on the most infamous ship in history. I hardly find that compelling.

And unfortunately, I’m even less impressed when I find the crypt. At the time of establishment, I’m sure the private spot that overlooks the Fox River was prestigious, but now a highway separates the crypt from the river’s edge. And it buzzes busily as I take in the structure. It’s much more peaceful back up the slight hill where the rest of the cemetery sprawls.

I feel almost nothing looking at the crypt. And quickly return to my car.

The National Shrine of Our Lady the Champion – New Franken, WI

Just East of Green Bay, between endless farmlands, sits a cluster of buildings and a football field’s length of parking lot. Maybe it has to do with my lack of control on a bicycle, but these giant lots always make me want to get on a bike and peddle as fast as I can. No hills, no traffic, no destination.

But I have no bike, so I choose one of the hundreds of vacant spaces and park my car.

That National Shrine of Our Lady the Champion grounds includes a traditional chapel, a long looping Stations of the Cross walk, a history center, a hall for larger religious gatherings, a former schoolhouse turned café, and a gift shop. As I wander the property, I wonder when this place is most often visited, if the parking lot fills. But it’s clearly not peak season on a Tuesday in April at 5PM, as I am mostly alone the entirety of my visit.

As I approach, a sign for Adele’s Gravesite beside the chapel catches my eye. It’s here I learn that Adele Brise is the name of the woman that was visited by an apparition of the Virgin Mary here in 1859. She was instructed to build the chapel and spread the word of the Lord to as many children and sinners as possible, which she did until she died in 1896.

I was raised attending the Catholic church, but sometimes I feel too intimidated by the idea of determining where I am on the belief spectrum now. I try to be kind and generous and honest as possible, and hope for the best. But I love churches. Especially beautiful ones. And like cemeteries, my intent as a visitor is to only be silent and respectful of the space and those that interpret its value differently than me. I usually visit a church during non-service hours, sit quietly for a while, and leave feeling centered and hopeful.

But I can hardly explain how odd I feel upon entering the Apparition Chapel.

I don’t know if it is because I have been alone for hours already in the car, only to be the only one in the pews. Or if, for once, a deeply religious space seems to reject my attempt to belong. I feel no peace, only eeriness.

Though arts and monuments displayed in Catholic churches can be intense, the solemnness usually feels pretty familiar to me. Reminding me of the times I shared with family and friends at the Catholic church I attended growing up, even if I don’t always feel connected to the denomination now.

But not in the Apparition Chapel at The National Shrine of Our Lady of Champion.

I leave the chapel within five minutes.

Luckily, the schoolhouse built in 1885 that has been partially converted into a café is more charming, even as I can only peek through its windows. This and the gift shop are closed. Except when I cup my hands around my eyes to peer through the latter’s glass door, I am struck with the unnerving feeling again making eye contact with a line of Virgin Mary lawn ornaments.

Against the Mother of Mercy Hall, where larger gatherings are hosted, a stark white statue of the Virgin Mary stands with hands outstretched. Another white statue of a woman kneels at her feet, depicting Adele. My shoulders relax as I feel its significance. I don’t know how I feel about The Bible, but I certainly believe a 28-year-old Adele witnessed something here that changed the trajectory of her life completely. And that experience started a ripple, affecting the lives of so many in the area and beyond for over a century.

But then a door slams, and an employee loads himself onto a golf cart and takes off noisily and diagonally through the adjacent parking lot, startling me.

I try one more time to soak in some tranquility. On the large loop behind the cluster of buildings, lined with benches and tiny enclosures displaying the Stations of the Cross. As I gaze into one of the displays, I notice a live fly twitching on a crucified Jesus’ neck.

As I return to the road from the parking lot, I notice a home with handwritten posterboard signs that read “Apparition Soil $10.00” and “Perfect Souvenir” propped against it. I’m equal parts offended and intrigued as I consider the jars of soil alongside padlocked box. If they had a Venmo code, I would have swiped one.

Chateau Hutter – Sturgeon Bay, Wisconsin

I don’t like to do ANYTHING that could even get me lightly chastised. And so I am physically sick as I navigate away from The National Shrine of Our Lady of Champion and drive towards Chateau Hutter, a resort that has stood abandoned for over fifty years.

“Blue Lives Matter” signs are stuck in tens of yards along this part of my route, reminding me that the people here hate disrespectful trespassing idiots. And tonight, I am that.

Chateau Hutter’s sign is old etched wood stretching between two brick pillars. A No Trespassing Sign lays below it in the dead and untrimmed weeds, and I’m grateful I can claim partial ignorance if I’m confronted.

And that’s all I’m thinking. I will be confronted. I WILL go to jail. Embarrassingly, I consider the fact that people will read this essay if it results in jail time for me. But would I want everyone finding my mug shot? I already know I’ll be ugly-crying in it.

But I park my car in a short gravel strip just off the street and near the sign. I’ve come this far and want to see this. Before I can talk myself out of it, I throw open my driver’s side door and sprint towards the dilapidated building.

I hate the way my breathing sounds when I run. Its cadence always reminds me of Elton John’s song Saturday Night’s Alright (For Fighting). The endless way he sings Sat-ur-day. Sat-ur-day. Sat-ur-day.

I endure my jagged exhales long enough to cross the field and near the two-story building with the boarded windows. I thought viewing it this close would excite me more, but it looks so beautifully sad.

The sun is orange-ing and rapidly setting to meet a very calm Lake Michigan. I hustle towards it and down enough of a slope to lose sight of my car and some of my fears of being spotted. A long line of brick lodges stretches along the shore, and I walk to the end of one and look inside. Through a broken window, I gaze down one continuous room to the other side. An old couch is pushed against one wall, the cushions ripped to shreds. I wonder if animals or illegitimate visitors are responsible. The remains of an old desk stand against the opposing wall, all the drawers removed. Gutted and left.

From everything I’ve read online, it seems the founder of this resort, John Hutter, was a pompous businessman with more imagination than know-how. Though he poured funds into the resort, he prematurely advertised its amenities as elite before they were even completed. He claimed he was unfairly ostracized by the community, and the site was abandoned before it ever saw guests.

For a few minutes, I genuinely enjoy the view and feel sorry for Hutter. And everyone that has to let a dream die.

And because I have this problem of personifying everything, I feel sorrow for the buildings themselves. Constructed with such potential and overlooking this gorgeous view only to sit vacant until they crumble to the elements.

My shadow slants far in front of me as I rush back to my car, mirroring my erratic movements back to me. I am unpracticed in running and know I look absolutely bonkers, but in my mind I am racing from sirens.

For all my efforts to witness something safely unsettling on my drive, nothing compares to the apprehension that falls over me after I leave Chateau Hutter. At the very end of the annual tourism lull in Door County, I see almost no souls or even cars in the final forty-five minutes of my drive.

Entire hotels, countless restaurants, and a whole complex of condos remain completely dark as I pass. Even winding through residential neighborhoods in the early evening, I am the only car on the road. No lights shine from windows, implying that the occupants of these houses are not simply retired for the evening, but gone completely.

The sun has disappeared beyond the softly rippling lake, multi-coloring the sky. I think if I see even two people, I will be able to relax and enjoy the scenery. Mostly irrationally, I worry I’m driving to a motel without a room for me after all. Maybe the entire peninsula that is Door County is closed till the temperature reaches a consistent sixty degrees.

Ultimately, I reach my lodging which, as I suspected, is completely dark for the exception of my room. When I finally close its door behind me, I let out a relieved exhale as though I’d been chased inside.

During my few days’ stay in Sister Bay, towards the tip of the peninsula, I oscillate between delight and dismay at the town’s sleepiest vibe. I love to vacation in the off-season, but this is next level. Only a handful of businesses are open, so I mostly walk to the lake and sit amongst the seagulls. They don’t bother me for food or immediately fly away as I advance, and I pretend they understand my intentions.

I know other places have quiet and lakes and seagulls, but this is what brought me here. What Wisconsin has to offer. Its contradictions and its magnetism.

The gentle bobbling of a vehicle on the road often makes me sleepy. I’d rather drift to sleep, or look out the window, or eat something that requires both hands, or cultivate a playlist, or TEXT. And I take the slights of other drivers incredibly personally.

I don’t like to be behind the wheel.

For many years, I was either car-less or primarily a public transportation utilizer. There were perks to this- I never thought about gas prices or parking spots. But it could be stressful. Poor weather was more likely to ruin those days, I couldn’t hide from everyone if I was in a sour mood, and the straps of bags dug heavily into my skin as I carried everything! Everywhere!

Just before the summer of 2012, my best friend moved from Duluth, Minnesota where we both blissfully lived to Indiana. We were supposed to spend all summer working uninspiring day jobs, then sprinting to Park Point off Lake Superior for a dip in its icy waters or to start an illegal bonfire before bar hopping. To see my dreams of a debaucherous summer fade into the horizon, along with her Mazda 6, totally crushed me! I ended my car-less-ness the moment she asked me to visit.

I bought a Ford Five Hundred that I named Jason (after my philosophy professor, but ultimately affectionately called Jason Derulo). As I drove out of the car dealership, Alicia Keys’ This Girl is on Fire blasted from my speakers, and it felt like Jason and I might actually liftoff.

Then I pretty much drove straight to Evansville, Indiana to attend an event called Zoo Brew, where young adults gathered to drink countless beers while holding eye contact with the saddest monkeys in the world. I wish they’d ended this annual tradition long ago, but no such luck yet. Regardless, my new car meant new freedoms.

In 2015, I had relocated to Minneapolis and my long-term romantic relationship was falling apart, there was only one constant. Jason the Ford Five Hundred. Everything else felt precarious- my living situation, emotional state, employment, pet ownership, financial status, the future.

Jason was there. With a five CD changer and plenty of interior space to scream and cry. Even completely stationary, I spent a lot of time in there. I looked around at the interior. Could I fit everything I owned in here and start a new life? I could and I did. And Jason helped me.

When I became pregnant with my son, I retired Jason. He’d become older, less reliable to start, and loud as hell. But it broke my heart to watch him pulled away to an undetermined fate by a tow truck.

The car I own now doesn’t have a name. I’ve had it for five years, and its most important task is moving my family safely from place to place. Sometimes we weather a bad storm, slippery roads, or even just a street with a bunch of potholes and I pat the dashboard to say thank you for its efforts.

While I love my car, I want to be clear that I would put it directly in the trash if we, as Americans, ever started to really pivot towards larger scale public transportation. I LOVE trains especially. But until we make the societal shift from individualism and efficiency-over-everything, it’ll be me and my silver little roller skate (Nissan Versa Note) out on the open road.

And about twice a year, I take my car on a mini road trip by myself. When my son was much younger, these felt more necessary. To relax, separate from all daily responsibilities, and to practice steering at my own will without alerting anyone in the back seat. I’m the sole contributor to the itinerary, readily adding and subtracting destinations at my will. Naps are taken at rest stops, I snack sloppily, every cup holder is occupied, I talk to myself, I listen to music and incrementally increase the volume until the audio quality is horrible. The car holds me, contains the snack wrappers, passively listens, and buzzes dependably for hours.

And tis the season for one of these road trips, as I’m currently writing to you from a coffee shop in Door County, Wisconsin. I camped here years ago with my family and only remember a few things about the trip. I read my first adult mystery romance novel, which felt like a developmental landmark. We visited a tiny store where glass blown pieces were sold, my first dose of Enya delivered over its speakers. And my sister got in so much trouble with my parents that we left early. But they’re fond memories.

“Egg Harbor Fun Park” a dilapidated sign alleged as I drove into Door County this time. The tone of these signs shifts from informational to desperate when the area is this dormant. Sleeping can easily be mistaken for dead.

I’d been on the road for over eight hours and made many cursed stops (bizarre monuments, light trespassing – more to come on these in the next month), and I was desperate to arrive at my finish line. Plus, I really had to pee.

Did you know Door County is beyond sleepy this time of year? In the final twelve miles of my commute to a motel, I saw almost no one. I don’t mean no one walking around or driving by me. I mean no business open at 7PM. I mean no lights on in houses I passed. Could ALL these residences be seasonal? My shoulders crept towards ears as the eerie feeling descended. I can’t always tell in these moments if I’m relishing in something creepy-adjacent or if my body is instinctually responding to a real threat.

I got a little lost, my phone battery declined rapidly as the GPS struggled to find a signal, and the door of the motel that was supposed to be left unlocked was locked after all. Peeking in through a window, the room glowed with soft light, surely forty degrees warmer in there than outside. Crouching outside by a dumpster the color of the Charli XCX album everyone was obsessed with last year, I lost the battle against my bladder. Collapsing into my car to wait for the motel owner to get back to me about access to my room, I felt slight relief. No matter what, I have my car.