Traverse City in The New York Times

Right when I get settled back in L.A., there's an article in today's New York Times coaxing me back Up North: "In Northern Michigan, Cherries are Just the Beginning."

And here's a house for sale within walking distance of The Cook's House, the farm to table restaurant mentioned in the article above. I made Adam turn the vespa around so I could take a picture of it.

Can't you just imagine life-size dolls having tea inside?

Buy it: here.

Why Cutting Education Funding is A Bad Idea...

Dear Driver with this back window decal,

I get that you're angry, that you have a right to exercise free speech, and that you love to party. What I want to know is: Did you make this window decal yourself? Or did you buy it? Did your friends think it was cool or laugh behind your back? You assume I'm offended by the middle finger or the hostile font. You're wrong. What ticks me off? The missing O's. 

Ellie's Guest Post for Yipster

You know those girls that you wish would adopt you/marry you and make you cooler, smarter, more cultured, and interesting in a carefree bon vivant way? Bridget and Tess are such women. While they aren't taking adoptions (except for rescue mutts), we can take notes from their blog Yipster (think Yuppie+Hipster). It is a window into the better life.

My guest post for Yipster is up: Guest Postcard from Michigan.

Take a looksie. It's a cheeky list of the often overlooked essentials for a trip Up North. And then, peruse the rest of their site. You'll want to move in.

Yarn Bombing

A little over a week ago, I happened upon this cheerful surprise in Traverse City, MI. Onlookers were mesmorized by the vibrant knit graffiti. I spotted one of the culprits wearing a t-shirt that said: Hookers. I want to be a part of this underworld. I want to jazz up the Hollywood sign. (I just need to sign up for some knitting 101.) Who's in?

Oh Snap!

Borders Closing in Traverse City, MI

Sorry No Public Restroom. Try Amazon.com

Dethawing in Lake Michigan

I’m standing thigh deep in Lake Michigan. Pink goggles are tight on my head, stamping ovals into my furrowed brow. Two ladies in one-piece suits wade out past the buoys. “Whoa. You’ve gotta dive under,” says Adam, emerging beside me from under the glassy water. “So invigorating,” he says, shaking water out of his ears like he’s one of the guys at the Roxbury.

Lake water is nature’s espresso shot. I like caffeine. I’ll like this. I pull the goggles down over my eyes. I adjust my Lycra wedgie. One. Two. Threeeeee…Nope. The bay is Titanic cold. Why would I put my face in that? Adam grins. “I’ve never seen anyone so scared of getting wet.”

I’m not scared of getting wet. I’m scared of being uncomfortable. Another kid barrels into the water like a yellow lab, splashing me. A minnow swims by, mocking me, like it’s perfectly natural to be in glacial water.  

Through my fogging goggles, I pretend to admire the sailboats on the horizon while I analyze the costs/benefits of going under.

The cost: I’ll need to wash my hair again. I might lose a contact lens. And on the drive home, I’ll have to sit on the fabric seat with a wet bottom. Is that worth “the experience”?

People I’d like to hang out with would say, “Hell yes!” I’m not necessarily someone I’d like to hang out with.   

I wasn’t always a Paul Giamatti in a padded Victoria Secret bikini. I remember when taking a shower meant running through a sprinkler, when sand in the sheets meant it was a damn good day, when a root beer float was worth the I.B.S. flare up. Dear God, how did I grow up to be such an a-hole?

I look down at the frigid water. I’ve got to go under.  I have to drown the cranky old man inside me. One. Two. Three. Mid-dive I brace myself for the cold--like a cat being thrown into a pool--and belly flop into the bay. The water is even colder than I suspected. But time is suspended. The shot of adrenaline erases the nagging thoughts--a momentary lobotomy. I kick back up to the surface and do a few free style strokes like it's no big deal, like my hands aren’t going numb. I stand back up, wring out my ponytail, and grin back at my husband. The old man inside me is still there, but he’s momentarily stunned into silence. And that feels fan-fucking-tastic. 

Keep It Simple Stupid (K.I.S.S.)

In case I forgot my grocery list...(see photo).

My Karma Ran Over My Dogma

 

Cottage Read: ONE DAY by David Nicholls

 

The perfect beach read for people who are normally repelled by the very idea of beach reads."

-Nick Hornby, from his blog

Summary: A graduation hook-up is the beginning of a beautiful friendship. ONE DAY tracks Dex and Emma's relationship spanning twenty years on one day: St. Swithin's Day (July 15th).

I can't think of one instance where I saw a movie and said, "I've gotta go read the book now." So, I was in a hurry to read ONE DAY before Anne Hathaway spoils the ending this August. 

The WRITING is what makes this novel special. It's scientifically impossible for all the little insights that make this book to find their way onscreen. There are so many treasures, paragraphs that make me go YES! That's it exactly! that will inevitably get lost in translation. 

It's a very fun read. DEX is a young Hugh Grant. He's a handsome, drunk trainwreck, but charming enough that you keep hoping he'll get his sh*t together. Emma reminds me of so many girls I went to Smith College with: smart, literary, bursting with ideals and hopes of political change. She even owns hiking underwear.

It's worth reading just for the social commentary. There's a genius bit comparing the first, second, third, and fourth waves of weddings...

The second wave, the mid-twenties weddings, still retained a little of that tongue-in-cheek, home-made quality. The receptions took place in community centres and parents' gardens, vows were self-composed and rigorously secular, and someone always seemed to read that poem about the rain having such small hands (263).

It's a great read for the plane, cottage, beach, hammock, or doctor's waiting room. But, I suggest reading the last seventy pages alone in a hot bath, or with a box of kleenex, or perhaps with a therapy dog in lap. It hurts so good. 

After reading it, one can't help but reflect on one's own life: how everything changes and nothing changes at the same time. I couldn't shake this excerpt. I want to tape it to my fridge. 

'Live each day as if it's your last', that was the conventional advice, but really who had energy for that? What if it rained or you felt a bit glandy? It just wasn't practical. Better by far to simply try and be good and courageous and bold and to make a difference. Not change the world exactly, but the bit around you. Go out there with your passion and your electric typewriter and work hard at...something. Change lives through art maybe. Cherish your friends, stay true to your principles, live passionately and fully and well. Experience new things. Love and be loved, if you ever get the chance.

The Abandoners

By now you've heard of Chubs, our wondermutt. We've taken him everywhere with us: Texas, Colorado, Michigan, Palm Springs, even Vegas. And yet, whenever the suitcase comes out, he goes into panic mode. He has abandonment issues that are clearly unfounded. That is until now.

Chubs was on edge all morning as our family packed for the drive from Detroit to the cottage Up North. My sis-in-law Natalie commented, "Chubs is so anxious. What is that about?"

"Our packing," I said, rolling my eyes. "He thinks we'll forget him."  

As hubby loaded the trunk, Chubs scrambled to sit on the top of the luggage heap in the driveway. Don't forget me. "You crazy dog. We're not leaving yet." He followed me back into the house.

Later, in the kitchen, hubby unzipped Chubs' travel bag and he dove right in. No fuss. He never makes a peep. We checked emails and I found my sunglasses. Phone-check. Wallet-check. Keys-check. Our three car caravan hit the road. 

For two hours, hubby and I discussed important matters such as: the endless summer road construction, a billboard with the caption "I used to be a tool. Now I'm the whole shed!," whether Meijer sells John Irving books on tape.

Somewhere around Grand Rapids, my Maternal Alarm finally went off. (Very faint beeping sound. Made in Taiwan. There was probably a recall.) "Where is Chubs?" I asked. I looked on the floor of the backseat. He wasn't there. "Could he be in the way back?" 

"No. Oh my God. We forgot him. I'm pulling over." It was a HOME ALONE moment (Kevinnnnnn!!!).

My grandmother once buckled up three kids and started driving Up North before she remembered she had left the baby (my uncle) in the crib. This sort of scatterbrained forgetfulness must be genetic. Is there something about the excitement of getting to the cottage that makes us irresponsible dullards?

Worst case scenarios rushed through our minds. What if Chubs wasn't inside the house? What if hubby carried Chubs' travel bag out to the car and forgot to put him in? What if Chubs was trapped in his doggie suitcase baking in the driveway for the past two hours? What if we backed over him and didn't notice?  

We called my dad-in-law still at his office. He always comes to the rescue. Vito might as well have a superhero cape in his glove compartment. He rushed home to his empty house to find his grandpup.

Luckily, Chubs was inside, safe and sound, still zipped up in his bag by the fridge...waiting.

We're all together again. I know he'll forgive us. He's already given me a thousand (undeserved) licks since we've reunited. He's the best dog ever and also the smartest. He's been right all along; we're not to be trusted.