An Anniversary

Two years ago today I started a new job—I was totally unqualified and still in shock that I had been hired. I wrote about my crazy interview here. Honestly, when I think about how that interview went, and knowing my now co-workers who were in there, I still can’t believe they hired me. I often wonder about the others they interviewed—did they vomit on the table? Or drop out of high school? I was that shocked when I got a phone call offering me the job only a few hours after my second interview—the one with the President of the organization, a former congressman. The one where I accidentally mentioned I didn’t vote for him when he ran for Governor—because I was only 14 at the time.

I was (and am still) immensely grateful that they hired me—for whatever they saw in me. It meant I could stop commuting 30 minutes each way. Old Highway 14, horrible two-lane interstate with cornfields on either side, allowed snow to whip across unhindered, creating a virtual blizzard every day, even when it wasn’t snowing. I hated that drive. I wasn’t too fond of working for a bi-weekly newspaper, covering mundane events of a small town where I didn’t even live. I was constantly out of ideas for stories. Most of the ones suggested to me were just local reprints of something published by our sister newspaper—the paper from the town where I did live.

I swore it would be my last time working in the newspaper world (although I’m pretty sure I said that after my previous newspaper job), but I was grateful for it at the time. That newspaper had taken me on as a temporary reporter, ending my seven-month unemployment—I hadn’t had a full-time job since graduating college. We were dipping into our savings, spending more than we were earning just to make our monthly payments. We lived in a basement cave and ate a whole lot of mac and cheese.

Those were good months, our first few of marriage, but I was grateful to be working. And even more grateful when I landed my current job—something I could actually begin to call a career.

It’s been a rocky two years. Like every job, there were days when I began to hate it, convinced I could never be happy here. But there are many more days when I feel productive, creative, and like I’m really contributing to the greater good. I do believe in my foundation’s mission. I want to see communities grow and thrive, businesses successful, and children prepared to learn. It’s good to know that I have a reason to get up every day—that I would be missed if I didn’t work here.

Write Every Day

Write every day. 

That's what every professor said. What every writing book says. What authors say. 

I try, but sometimes I'm empty. 

Many of my college friends seem to skirt around this by blogging something they wrote during their Northwestern days. A poem they sketched for a daily assignment, or a longer, edited, personal piece.

I still hate 90% of what I wrote during college. I didn't like it then and it hasn't been improved. I felt like I never had enough time or enough drafts to clean up a piece to where I truly loved it—loved every single word choice, was committed to every metaphor, and trusted its aesthetic. 

College is long behind me now, and theoretically at least, everything I write now is endless. There are no deadlines; I don't have to commit to a piece being "finished." And that's a problem of its own. I have no one forcing me to rush up four flights of stairs to turn in my personal essay as Hougen's packing her bag for the night. No one is expecting my work. 

This blog houses most of the creative work I do—which is admittedly, not very much.

Maybe someday—this week even?—as I force myself to write every day, I'll add something creative.

One of these days

There are days that I wake up late, stunned and scrambled. I can't find matching socks. I don't own a single shirt that matches any of my pants. I'm darting between bathroom and bedroom, forgetting one thing in each room on every trip. I brush my eye with the mascara wand. My elbow meets the doorway with a painful thud. There is only one pair of shoes in my entire closet that will work with my outfit and I can only find the left one. I spit toothpaste on my scarf. My sleeve is dipped in milk. My cell phone is missing, and I leave my wedding ring on the bathroom counter, so my ring finger feels scandously naked all day.

And then there are days like yesterday. I get up with Brett and eat a grapefruit on the couch while watching M.A. Rosco and the entire Fox 9 crew make fools of morning television. I shower and dress in an outfit I picked out last week. My makeup goes on smoothly, and my hair combs straight. My shoes, phone, and elbow all cooperate. I pack a healthy lunch (with mid-morning snack included) and gather my things for the day. I make it to work 15 minutes early, despite the snow. Our technology coordinator emails me in the morning that my new 24" monitor has arrived and he's ready to hook it up. My desk is (mostly) organized, my postcards are off to the printer, and my meeting with my boss goes well. She compliments my scarf.

I have an important client meeting tomorrow in Mankato. Let's hope for a good day. 

March

It is March 1. The sun is just barely peeking out of the gauzy, gray sky, though it is trying desperately. I cannot wait for spring. As much as I love fall, it is spring that I long for. The fall season is beautiful—in its colors, smells, and soft orange glow—but spring is new. It is refreshing. It is what I dream about on those painfully long and dark Minnesota nights. In mid-February, when the only possible way to describe the day, the weather, the mood, is gray. 

March 1 promises spring is coming. There may be a few more snow storms to weather, a few more weeks of leggings and scarfs, but the gradual trend will be towards warmth and new life. 

I'm not sure about everyone else, but I'm ready for the tree in my front yard to look like this again very soon:

 

Stream of Consciousness

Today I'm holding auditions for the play I will begin directing. I'm under-prepared and over-exhausted. That should make for a good combination of crabby director and whiny actors. This promises to be a delight.

It's lunchtime, but I'm not excited about my turkey sandwich. There are still some cinnamon rolls in the fridge...

My outfit today is ridiculous. It looked much better in my mind. I was late, so I didn't have the time to switch shirts for the fourth time. I'm hoping the black belt and black and white scarf tied like a skinny tie is hiding the fact that I'm wearing a white undershirt to work...

I slept with my hair in six braids with the intention of flat ironing them this morning into beachy waves. Right now, my hair is a giant ponytail full of static electricity. Like some sort of deranged Pomeranian Chia Pet...

There are deep thoughts in my mind, discoveries I uncovered over the weekend. Things I'm not sure I'm ready to share...

I'm fighting yet another cold, longing for spring flowers, and enjoying Jennifer Lawrence's trip up the Oscar stairs...

I badly need to start eating healthier and running. The sink is full of dishes. I think I'll plan a little spring break vacation for the two of us...

What Kind of Girl

I really don't know what kind of girl I am.

So says Juno in Juno at the point where the film goes from overly-kitschy to beautiful. This is the moment where the dialogue moves from oh-my-gosh-did-she-really-just-say-"honest-to-blog"-please-stick-to-stripping-Diablo-Cody to art. 

Because that is every girl everywhere, sitting on that couch, facing her father, regardless of the extenuating circumstances, and not knowing who she is. It's every teenager. Heck, it's everyone. It's all of us—at the coffee shop with your best friend, a phone call to your mom, a late night moment when you sneak into your older sister's bedroom, looking into the mirror on your 25th birthday—when things just aren't turning out the way we thought they would.

I really don't know what kind of girl I am. 

I spent the last several weeks at work preparing for a conference. It was a big, regional event with over 30 important speakers. To prepare for the day, I put together a packet with photos and bios of each presenter. This is always my favorite part of a big event—collecting all the bios and organizing them, reading how each of these highly successful people choose to write about themselves in a short paragraph. Each has held several high-level positions with powerful corporations, they hold multiple degrees from top universities, they serve on the Board of Trustees to grand organizations. I'm fascinated by what they choose to include, and in what order, in how they present themselves to strangers.

And I wonder, when was their moment when they chose to say instead:

I really do know what kind of person I am.

There are days I know exactly who I am. I paint my toenails red, pull on my favorite tights and boots, curl my hair in messy waves, and knot a scarf. I present my designs and copy at meetings truly happy with what I've created.

And other days I wonder if I'm alone in the big sea of designers and writers who submit their work even when they aren't happy with the finished product, knowing a photo could use another hour of editing, submitting for a deadline even when the lines aren't just right in the bottom left corner. 

Those are the days I wonder, Do you really know what you are doing? Sometimes I slip on nylons and a blazer and those painfully pointy black pumps and try to look older. 

Maybe I'm still becoming the kind of girl I really am.  

Our Story

Today marks nine years. 

On February 6, 2004...

This boy:

asked this girl:

 to be his girlfriend.

Then, on New Year's Eve 2009, came the ring:

Then this happened August 14, 2010:

 

And now:

My dear Brett,

I still smile every time I see Husband come up on my Caller I.D. 

I love the way every kid instantly becomes your best friend.

I cannot fathom the string of songs you must have stuck in your head all.the.time by the rotation you choose to sing them out loud.

I love that you ask me if your tie matches your shirt every Sunday.

When we slow dance together in the kitchen, I close my eyes and breathe deep because this, this is what I always imagined our marriage would be. 

Love,

Bean