My Pick Six in Minneapolis

Being a transplant in a new city inevitably means that you will have visitors. Or…at least I hope so.

Dear new person in a new city – I really hope your friends from your former city come to visit you.

Dear former friends of new person in new city– GO VISIT YOUR FREAKING FRIENDS. MOVING TO A NEW CITY IS REALLY HARD, OK?

Fortunately, I haven’t had to be that blunt with anyone yet. I have been very lucky to have many visitors from my former life.

Planning weekend visits is beneficial for two reasons. 1) You get the chance to reflect on all the things there are to do. Suddenly you realize “Wait…this place isn’t that bad. Look at all this cool shit to do!”

And 2) Your friends are equally impressed with all the cool, new shit to do. And suddenly you find yourself bragging about how awesome your new life is, when in reality you spend a lot of nights home alone contemplating why the hell you ever left your old life behind…

jayIts kind of this self-fulfilling prophecy – tell everyone how awesome and cool your life is, and then all of a sudden, your life actually becomes that cool and awesome. And your friend’s positive reaction to all this cool stuff only validates that. And I’m all like “LOOK AT HOW I RUN THIS CITY! I LOVE MY CITY AND MY CITY LOVES ME!” like I’m Jay-Z throwing down for Brooklyn every damn day.

Not really.

But anyway…The Minneapolis Pick Six.

The top six places that I have taken my friends and family to show them just how awesome my new life is (without giving away that I miss them desperately and just wish we were all still together…).

Bryant1. Bryant Lake Bowl

And the award for most hipster joint in North America goes to…Bryant Lake Bowl. Craft beer, vegan, organic, locally produced menu, a vintage sign that hasn’t been touched since the 60’s (even though the place opened in 1993..), and an ironically never-renovated eight-lane bowling alley just casually chilling at the back of the bar. Bryant Lake Bowl is honestly the shit. You can bet your ass we are going there if you come to visit me. Doesn’t hurt that it’s only three blocks from my place…so no one has to feel bad about having one too many PBR’s…or rail tequila shots…



1029_lobster_roll2. 1029 Bar

Bingo starts at 2. And if you want any hope of sitting down, you best be there by 1. You’ll be sitting next to the North East locals that haven’t left the bar since 1975. Stella will call out the numbers, but don’t you dare give her a $20 for a $1 bingo card. She ain’t got that kind of change. And when you find yourself a little buzzed from their homemade bloodies served in plastic cups, you can order the infamous Smack Shack Lobster Roll. And you will never be the same.

3. Indeed Tap Room

In fact, any tap room is on my list. Tap Rooms are a new concept to me, as to probably most of the world. A couple of years ago, you used to not be able to serve beer in Minnesota at the same place you brewed it. Then one brewery decided that staproom1ucked, and the Surly Law was passed. So breweries started adding tap rooms to their properties. “Tap Room Lyfe” is very different than the Minneapolis bar scene. Tap rooms are usually only open til 10 PM, and they tend to feel like big open warehouses. Lots of windows, lots of wooden tables, lots of board games. You can actually hold a conversation with people. And – food trucks normally swing by since the tap rooms rarely serve food. Nothing like sipping a craft brew pint at 4 PM while playing Cards of Humanity over a wooden barrel.


It’s hard to miss the VFW in Uptown. See Photo. The VFW holds all sorts of tantalizing events –  Meat Raffles, Two Fisted Trivia (I have no idea what this actually is…), and of course, karaoke. My personal favorite. Karaoke is so popular at VFW that you to have to arrive early just to get your name on the call list! There is nothing sadder than when old man Richard gets up from behind his DJ Station to sing God Bless America at 2 AM…signaling that it is time to GTFO. You have missed your chance to sing Hit Me Baby One More Time.

5. Common Roots Cafe

common rootsI am in a serious love affair with Common Roots Cafe. Their slogan is “Don’t compromise your values or your taste buds.” And they aren’t messing around about that. Everything is made from scratch using local and organic ingredients – making for the most orgasmic breakfast sandwich I ever had had the privilege of eating. The staff is so cool that I almsot don’t feel worthy ordering from them – but they do provide great style inspriation like purple hair and white washed jeans. And they constantly rotate the art in Common Roots to feature different local artists – one of which I ordered a custom cow print from. Yes. A painting of a cow. And the artist turned out to be the sweetest woman ever, and now we follow each other on Instagram, so we are basically best friends. Because that’s just how Minnesota works.

6. Lake Calhoun

lakeNow, in my former life in Madison, we all bragged about the lake. But I am sorry to break all you Madison lake lover’s hearts – Minneapolis KILLS Madison in lake life. All the lakes (all 12,000), are lined with walking and biking paths. As opposed to Lake Mendota, where it’s not plausible to traverse the perimeter of the lake due to….well…Maple Bluff. It doesn’t matter if it’s 20 degrees or 80 degrees. If the sun is out, all of Minneapolis can be found walking/running/biking/frolicking on the path at Lake Calhoun. With their dogs. And their babies. And their smiles. Lake Calhoun is the place that makes Minneapolis winter’s worth it.


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Writing about Writing: A Joan Didion Review

1383348_10152279756790726_743771316_nI had a thought to write a blog post about my vacation in St. Lucia. But how boring would that be? It was warm. I got tan. I swam in the ocean and drank approximately 600 rum punch cocktails. I posted 4,000 selfies to my Instagram. I called it #springbreakselfieseries. I probably lost a lot of followers.

Now. Let’s write about what really mattered in St. Lucia. Which is…well…the writing. I spent a lot of sleepless nights, writing in St. Lucia. Things that I will probably never publish, never share, never mail. But it was what I needed from that vacation. My parents must have had some premonition back in November that I was going to need to escape the winter blues in March. And damn, were they right. Despite being on an emotional roller coaster in the middle of March, there are certainly far worse places to sort out your feelings than by a turquoise ocean in the constant 75 degree sunshine. And for this, I am grateful.



A friend recommended I pick up some Joan Didion before I headed to the surf and sand. Her book “Slouching Towards Bslouching-towards-bethlehem-essays-joan-didion-paperback-cover-artethlehem” defined my vacation. The book is now smothered in pink pen and yellow highlighter (that was all I could find in my sister’s backpack…).

I was sitting by the pool, reading an essay on keeping a notebook. And I just started to cry. I’d never read anything so black and wIMG_8814hite about who I am. “I think we are well advised to keep on nodding terms with the people we used to be, whether we find them attractive company or not. Otherwise they turn up unannounced and surprise us, come hammering on the mind’s door at 4 a.m. of a bad night and demand to know who deserted them, who betrayed them, who is going to make amends. We forget all too soon the things we thought we could never forget. We forget the loves and the betrayals alike, forget what we whispered and what we screamed, forget who we were.”

I have been keeping a notebook since I was eight. I often go back and read my entries – to remind myself how far I’ve come, and how far I haven’t. To remind myself that the things that plagued me – in fact – ended. I did – in fact – heal. And the wounds I thought I’d carry forever, did in fact, disappear.

I do my best writings in the morning. Between 2 and 4 AM. I will literally be jolted awake, as if some phrase could physically grow a fist, and knock at my head. If I don’t write it down, it will never stop pounding. I know the feeling all too well, and I’ve grown to just accept it. When the old bits and pieces of my former self come knocking, I just answer with words. And there I lay them, in my notebook. Like my words are just infantile children that I must coddle, swaddle and burrito. A little baby word burrito. Just keep them pacified. Keep them at bay. Because the next time I look at these infant words again, they will not be infant words. They will be seasoned adults. Words as settled as aged cheddar cheese. And matured red wine. Words that don’t need my care and attention anymore. Words that don’t sting the way they used to.

IMG_8747Giving physical life to the words in my head immortalizes them and brings death to them at the same time. And it’s just about the only way I know how to cope. And it’s a very solitary way to cope. And I think it scares people. But I just came this way. Didion expressed similar sentiments in the same essay. “Keepers of private notebooks are a different breed altogether, lonely and resistant re-arrangers of things, anxious malcontents, children afflicted apparently at birth with some presentiment of loss.”

It’s this idea of needing to be “alone” to cope (and therefore, write) is probably what bothers most people about me. It’s the part of me they don’t understand. Ask anyone to describe me, and the first qualities named would probably be outgoing, social, vicarious, and loud. Retreating into isolation during times of trouble is about the most contradictory trait in my book (pun intended?).

IMG_8940In another essay, Didion wrote about the American Dream that we have all forgotten – the want to be alone. And free. She talks about the reasons we kept chasing the Pacific throughout the nineteenth century –“to be a free agent, live by one’s own rules.” Nowadays, being a social beacon is trait to be admired. And frankly, I think it is a trait I possess. But the older I get, the more isolated I get. The more I desire to be alone. It’s a growing want and need that probably scares those closest to me – more than my frantic notebook jottings. But it’s this side of myself that I grow more comfortable with as I get older. And I am proud of it. To sort out the inner workings of my brain and heart entirely on my own is a survival skill. And I think it will ultimately be the one trait that keeps me sane as I navigate “adulthood.”

When I am alone, I write. And when I write, I feel like the best version of myself. And I don’t think there is anything wrong with that. It’s the only time of the day that I can intrinsically validate myself. And that, above all, should be a trait to admire.


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Going To a Bar Alone

An opportunity presented itself last week – an opportunity to do something that utterly terrified me. I’m all about pushing my limits these days (new city, new job, new adventures, you know the drill), so I decided to go to a bar by myself. I’ve always stigmatized solo bar dates to be demeaning and depressing, but something about this seemed liberating. A chance to prove to myself that I was capable of sitting, eating, and drinking alone – in public. I mean…I am really good at sitting. And eating. And drinking. So I am not sure why this particular evening seemed more out of my comfort zone than normal.

42_01_ARTS_COURTESY_MOTHThe Moth radio puts on a live Story Tellers session once a month at the Amsterdam in St. Paul. It’s real people (as opposed to fake), that get up and tell real, live stories. Some are pros, some are not. But it’s always a good time.

I purchased tickets for myself and my main Minneapolis guuuuurl Ashlayyy. But she decided to have a client dinner, or some bull like that, and couldn’t attend. I know approximately four people in Minneapolis, so the list of back-up dates was short. And one was going to be in El Salvador (cough cough, Matt, I hate you, cough cough).

And I wasn’t going to go alone. No way.

So I sulked my way to a coworker’s desk, to offer her and her husband the tickets. My treat. Rather see them get used than not. She was unavailable, but our mysterious, trendy, art director overheard my proposal, and all about lost her mind upon hearing that The Moth had live events.

I don’t want to stereotype or anything…but Michelle looks like she would be totally into The Moth. Michelle is so cool that she doesn’t even go by Michelle. She goes by Meesh. She has the coolest hair – bleach blonde on top, neon pink on bottom, with some carmel-brown hi-lights. Her hair looks like a Neopolitan Ice Cream Cookie sandwich – and she freaking rocks it. Like…what the hell. Who rocks that?

tumblr_mlbaqnvtT91r4xjo2o1_r1_500 She has thick, black glasses. And wears bright blue ankle booties and cat sweaters. And her desk is covered in interesting art (and yes, cat gifs), – art that is probably so much cooler than my untrained eye can even comprehend. Meesh is honestly the only person in the office that I have barely interacted with, because I feel this insane pressure to say something awesome, interesting and profound to her. I am undeniably intimidated by her level of coolness, so I just choose not to approach her.

Meesh said she would love to take the tickets. She had a date that night, and it would be a perfect event. She kindly asked why I couldn’t go. I bashfully started picking at my nails and looking at the floor, and was able to mutter “Well…it’s not that I can’t go…I just…don’t have anyone to go with. I know like…4 people in the city…so…”

Bless her heart, Meesh offered to make a group affair out of it. She would bring her date, and they would meet me there, and it would be a joyous, fun event.

My first thought was to abort. Abort the mission before she realized I was a cool phony.

But then I thought about the 452 blog posts I have read titled “How To Make Friends In a New City.” I know that I am NOT ALLOWED to turn down ANY social invitations. So I awkwardly accepted her invitation to crash the party that I had initiated.

We agreed to meet there. I knew how valuable seat retail was at the Amsterdam, so I decided to go early and save seats for us. Then I thought about the traffic, and the parking, and decided I’d just go right from work. I arrived about 45 minutes before the doors were supposed to open. So there I was. At the bar. Alone. And I wanted to jump for joy and give myself a gold star for doing something that I had 100% sworn off.

5488823250_57d22f0c19_zI asked the bartender for a beer recommendation, since I was new to town and wanted to try something local. The couple sitting next to me overheard me, and in true Minnesota Nice fashion, began to ask me questions – about my move, my job, my favorite hobbies, my hometown, and my hopes, dreams, and future goals for happiness.

And then the man that I will forever refer to as “The Origamist” showed up. Probably in his mid-fifties. British accent. Yelling orders across the bar for a very specific drink with Bombay Sapphire and grapefruit. But of course he sounded adorable and not demanding. While he waited for his drink, my new friends and I struck up convo with him, and I too, was Minnesota Nice.

The man proceeded to tear about the 5X5 paper menu on the bar counter, and fold in every which way. By the end of our conversation, he had made a paper rose. That he handed to someone other than me.



Not Minnesota Nice.

I went through a state of black-out anxiety while at the bar alone. I don’t remember anything that was talked about or shared. I just remember being exhilarated that I was so uncomfortable.

But it wasn’t awkward. And the beer was good, and the portobello mushroom slider was even better.

I went to save us seats, and Meesh texted me to tell me she’d be late. But she had previously promised she would be late. So NBD. I’d forgive her for anything. She’s just too cool.

When she arrived, she apologized for being behind schedule. Her date was running late at his studio, because he’s on a deadline to finish the album artwork for Arcade Fire’s next album.

Really Meesh? Just. Stop. You have enough street cred.

And there we sat, on our awkward third-wheel date, listening to strangers tell us stories about heartbreak. Stories about abandoned love, abandoned children, and adolescent confusion surrounding the term “Blow Job.” And suddenly sitting alone at a bar for an hour didn’t seem like that big of a deal. amsterdam-b-fr-mtpmcg-1211-sm-3970

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Meeting New People

1474410_10152077459395726_1159010951_nI think the biggest fear of moving to a new place post-college is how to meet people. It’s always so easy in school. “Oh, I have class with you. Oh, you like pineapple Smirnoff too? Oh, yeah, I will be at the football game. Let’s get rip-roaring drunk together, spill our biggest secrets, and become best friends.” Nothing says friendship like doing a shot-ski together, and wiping mascara-soaked tears off your new BFF when the guy she is crushing doesn’t text her back.

Fast forward to this thing people keep calling “adult life” – where apparently it isn’t socially acceptable to puke on the first night of meeting someone. Suddenly there is all this pressure to have things of value to say. I can’t just complain about my Accounting final, or talk about our mutual friends that hooked up, or realize we actually used to live right next to each other sophomore year. Instead we talk about weather, our favorite local brewery, green tea, coffee addictions that led to green tea, and the recent sale on tights at Macy’s. Oh, and trend diets. My personal NON-FAVORITE OF ALL TIME EVER.

I’ve been trying to brainstorm ways to meet people – at work, at the coffee shop, at the tap room, and at the yoga studio. But the opening topic is the hardest. So below is my personal brainstorm session for appropriate starting topics while meeting new friends:

I don't discriminate. I like it all.

I don’t discriminate. I like it all.


  • Ranch Dressing is probably my favorite conversation topic of all time. My personal life-quest is to find the best ranch in the world. I put ranch dressing on everything. And if you can’t get down with that within the first five minutes of meeting me, then it’s just not gonna work out. This particular topic makes some people cringe, and they get this look in their eyes – like an internal alarm is going off, screaming “FATTIE ALERT. FATTIE ALERT.” But most true Midwestern-ers will usually just chime in with their poison of choice – blue cheese, guacamole, hummus, mayo… Condiments are always a safe and fun way to find commonalities when meeting new people. And maybe it can even lead to another meet-up, where we conquer the Ranches of the World together.

Croatia Yacht Week



  • Some friends and I recently decided that the main goal in meeting new people would be to recruit friends for Croatia Yacht Week 2015. #CYW2015 if you will. Hashtag Blessed. It is common knowledge that the perefect number for said week is 10. Hashtag 10 Friends. In fact, 10 friends is kind of the optimal number for everthing – camping, renting out tap rooms, potluck dinner parties, summer softball league – you name it. 10 friends is ideal. So when meeting new people, I think this might be a worthy starter. “So. We are currently recruiting friends for Croatia Yacht Week. It’s over a year away, so that leaves plenty of time to assess your character. Consider this an audition period. And the prize is a starring role as ‘champagne manager’ on our yacht. Think it over. I’ll need to make sure we both look good in the same filter too, so if you could just hold still for this selfie really quick…”
You see the resemblance now, don't ya?

You see the resemblance now, don’t ya?

Spirit Animals

  • I’ve found I have a knack for telling people what animal they are. Give me a few minutes of creepily stalking you and judging your every word, and I bet I can guess exactly what animal you would be. Although, sometimes this can create immediate enemies, rather than friends. Not everyone is comfortable with the truth about their spirit animal. But I am just here to serve the people, ya know? If things get awkward, I tend to just place focus on me. My spirit animal is  a moose. And I turned out okay. Kind of.


How About Dem Packers?

  • This particular topic is touchy. In Minneapolis, there is a good chance the person you are talking to is a Packer Fan. Because. The Packers. But if they aren’t, just run. It’s better than listening to them talk about their fan hood for some other team. Much like the ranch situation, if you don’t care for the Packers, then I’m over you, and you are not #10Friends material. Here’s the only problem with Packers talk. I actually don’t know anything about football. I know I want to have babies with Clay Matthews. And I know that Aaron Rodgers is the greatest human specimen on the planet. But the second you start talking about play-by-plays, it is pretty obvious I am a football phony. It’s kind of like knowing one phrase in another language. I ask you “Where is the bathroom?” in Italian, thinking I’ll  appear really cultured and sexy for knowing another language. And then you respond in Italian. Only for me to ask you to respond in English cuz I don’t speak Italian….. yeah…busted.

And lastly…weather.

  • Lord knows I’ve done it. We’ve all done it. It’s cold, okay. Winter blows. You know it. I know it. Can we just stop already? Cuz nothing says anti-friendship like complaining. No more weather. Just. No.

Perhaps soon I will have data to support the success (or failure) rates of these topics. But in the mean time, I could use some suggestions for how to talk to strangers. Where all my adult friends at?!

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How To Have a Bad Morning

imagesYou know it’s going to be a rough morning when you wake up and it’s the warmest it will be all day. At 7 AM. 4 degrees below zero, and the temperature is steadily dropping. Your car will struggle to start, you will soon lose all feeling in the tip of your nose, and the coffee in your thermos will lose 90% of its heat before you finish your 15 minute commute to work.

Or. Your front tire will blow out in the middle of a five-lane highway interchange, and you won’t make it to work. That’s definitely one way to have a bad morning.

I don’t deal with crisis well. ESPECIALLY car crisis. See previous post: Dealing With Car Troubles as an Adult. So when my front tire exploded while I was going 60 MPH during rush hour at a curve that three major highways meet at, I kind of broke down. Quite literally.

firestone-tire-blowoutI was able to move onto a shoulder and avoid any collisions. Blessing #1. But there I was, at one of the busiest interchanges in South Minneapolis, and it was a whopping -8 degrees outside. Luckily, I had just recently switched my insurance to include Emergency Roadside Assistance, and had the number on speed dial before I had ever even moved to the Twin Cities. I called only to hear this lovely recording: “We are currently experiencing heavy volume of callers. You’re wait time is 20 minutes.”

And that is when I lost it.

It was only minutes prior that I had been listening to the weather on the radio – with the alarming warnings that even five minutes outside could lead to frost bite and hypothermia. I internalized that as “If you are outside, you will die.” So I messaged my parents to say my goodbyes. They calmly responded with “Stay in your car, and call a tow truck.”

I googled Minneapolis Towing – another reason I was hysterical. I didn’t have the first clue who to call or where to even get my car towed. That was the whole point of having Emergency Roadside Assistance, so I didn’t have to do this. I called the first company on the list. The guy who answered could tell how distressed I was. Maybe it was the sobbing, breath-inhibiting sentences I was failing to form. He told me they were swamped and gave me a different number to call – a smaller company that probably wouldn’t be as busy. I had almost managed to keep my composure with the next tow truck company – until the woman told me it would be about 40 minutes til the truck could get there. And then I lost it again. Black-out hysteria style. The last thing I remember saying is “So you are sure I can’t freeze and die in that time period?”

Meanwhile I had texts out to everyone I knew. Including a friend at work. Who informed the rest of work. And then I had a call from a very concerned superior. Who caught me at a particularly rough moment of hysteria. So…that’s awesome. Three weeks into a new job, and I’ve already cried to my boss about how I can’t handle adult problems. Great start to a working relationship, right?

geicoI decided to pass the time in my frozen tomb by hunting down Geico. When I got through, I had some very choice words from them about what it means to pay for Emergency Roadside Assistance and to be abandoned during an emergency. Let’s just say I think I have free emergency towing for the rest of my life.

What felt like four hours later, I was finally rescued. The first thing the tow truck driver said was “You just had to break down in the busiest and most dangerous part of town, eh?” I immediately felt that my hysteria was justified.

The best part of the morning was by far the conversation that took place between the two tow truck drivers. They bantered back and forth in some of the thickest Minnesota accents I have ever heard. And yes, they had beards. I lamented about why I chose to move to an even colder city than Madison, and one driver responded with “Yeah…I’d live down south fer shure, if it weren’t for all dem critters.”

I didn’t ask him to elaborate on critters. But yes sir, I agree. Critters are the worst.

Moes_Southwest_Grill_homeI finally strolled into work at quarter to 12. Where a catered taco buffet lunch was waiting for me. Bad mornings always have a way of turning into good afternoons.

Alas, the Polar Vortex strikes again. Claiming my two front tires, my office reputation, and my waist line. Cuz you know I stress-ate those tacos all damn day.

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Everyone is Happier Than You

downloadUntil recently, every job I have held up to this point has involved social media in some way. While managing social media campaigns, I became hyper-obsessive with Facebook. Not just the posting – but the analytics that followed. The “Why” behind good posts and bad posts. I became obsessed with having the best pictures, picking the perfect words, and always challenging myself to do better. Gain more likes. More shares. More comments. I really only spent an hour a week actually creating posts – but it was the constant analytical monitoring that consumed my free time. I justified such behavior because I was “working.” Running an amazing social media campaign was my job. Spending an entire event taking photos, editing, and uploading to capture a digital audience when a real audience was right in front of me….that was my job. I had to. Phrases such as, “DON’T EAT THAT YET. NOT TIL I’VE SNAPPED A PHOTO FOR FACEBOOK!” were said on the reg. And then I quit my jobs managing social media. So here I was with a regular, obsessive habit (checking my Facebook 312 times a day) and nothing but free time to do so.

Note: I found this photo on Google by typing "Camel Selfie" I do not know this person and yes, "camel selfie" was a bad idea.

Note: I found this photo on Google by typing “Camel Selfie” I do not know this person and yes, “camel selfie” was a bad idea.

Every time I checked my newsfeed, it was like  a part of me died a little. “So and so” was engaged. Her sister was also engaged. Oh, and her other sister was recently married. “So and so” just took a job working at the coolest, up and coming company in the heart of San Francisco. And his brother recently got back from traveling the entire Eastern Hemisphere. And his profile picture is of him riding a camel. By the ocean. With the sun setting. And  his girlfriend is gorgeous. And he will probably propose on Christmas in a butterfly garden. Oh and “so and so”? She just got back from her six-months abroad where she became best friends with Victoria Beckham, and now she is working as a model in Miami. And she doesn’t have a boyfriend, but she will no doubt get proposed to, because everyone and their mom is getting proposed to. And then my profile. Here’s a picture of me doing yoga. Again. Oh. And here’s a picture of a sandwich I ate.

IMG_20131229_222526It was pretty obvious that every person on the planet was happy but me. I mean, all I was doing was taking an awesome job in a new city, where my very best friend in the world lived, in a brand new apartment with granite counter tops and dishwasher, and I was about to spend three weeks in Boston with my unconditionally loving family and see Blue Man Group on New Years Eve, and eat homemade, smoked BBQ chicken wings while watching football with my new seven-month-old puppy named Meatball. Yup. Everyone was definitely happier (prettier, cooler, funnier, smarter) than me. janelle


It was very hard to vocalize how I was feeling because I knew I was being completely irrational. So naturally I turned to Janelle – a godsend from Craigslist that has been the answer to all my problems for many years now. Perhaps the reason she is always so helpful is because she is just as irrational and dramatic as me (luv ya gurllll). So it was no surprise that when I texted her to tell her I was deleting Facebook, her response was “Oh my God, me too. Everyone is happier than me.” Soul mates. I didn’t have the balls to do away with my Facebook account entirely. After all, how would I remember when anyone’s birthday was? But I did delete the app from my phone. Because it was always in moments of boredom or free-time that I would check on my phone. And it only took about four minutes and five newsfeed stories to feel insecure and worthless.

Janelle and I theorize that without the app, we will be happier. Without the constant comparing of our lives to others, maybe it will give us a chance to just focus on our own. And to stop being jealous of a life that is probably inaccurately portrayed. But I want it to be so much more than dropping the judgments and the unnecessary comparisons. I want to stop assuming that everyone is happy all the time.  My bet is that for every picture posted in happiness, there’s probably about 100 unhappy life moments that go un-posted. Cuz who wants to read that shit? Well. You just did. About how I went through a two-month period before Christmas where I was extremely unhappy.

There. I said it.

My life isn’t perfect. And neither is hers. And neither is his. And neither is his brother’s. Or his fiance’s. Hell, Victoria Beckham’s life probably isn’t perfect (but I’m still gonna need someone to provide hard and factual evidence before I really believe that). I don’t plan on getting rid of Facebook entirely any time soon. And I don’t expect you beautiful people to stop posting all the Facebook-worthy moments of happiness that lead me to believe you are happier than me. What I think I am trying to say is “Count your blessings.” The next time you get on Facebook and feel like crap, know that you aren’t the only one. And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll log off, pull out pen and paper, and write down three things you are grateful for. You’ll be amazed at how different things feel moments later. Now. To post a pic of the sandwich I am eating.


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Wanted by Minocqua Police Department

If there ever was a testament to how safe and crime-free Wisconsin is, I think this may be it. I will personally sleep better at night knowing that our tax dollars are going to hunting down dangerous outlaws like myself.

Darryl and I traveled to Minocqua, WI this last weekend for a wedding. Minocqua is a hot tourist destination for Sconnies and FIBS – which makes for an interesting dynamic between those visiting and those that call themselves “locals”. The town pretty much shuts down during the off-season, when the college kids go back to school, and the grandmas take over running the bars and gas stations.

We drove up Saturday afternoon after spending a couple days in Tigerton, where Darryl’s hunting land is. We affectionately refer to the land as “The Farm,” since Darryl’s mother’s family used to own and run a fully-operational farm on the land. The farm house has since been burned down, and a large shed remains – chalk full of ATV’s, bicycles, hunting gear galore, scrap metal, and most importantly – a keg and a deep fryer.

Copyright 2005 Dean BrownNow –  I’ve had friends that like to talk about “going up north.” Or going up “Nort” as the real Sconnies say. They talk about their warm log cabins, cozy fires, homemade crock pot meals, watching old Hollywood movies with Mom…things of this nature. When I tell people I am going “up north,” usually that’s the kind of imagery provoked. Let me take the opportunity to displace all imagined “up north” imagery with this:


The glorious camper.

It comes equipped with coffee pot and propane tanks for heat. And I’ve grown to really love it.



My favorite part of going “Up Nort” is Darryl’s inability to use the syllables T and H. Within four minutes of passing into Shawano County, Darryl begins to talk “like all da odder folk from up in dose parts of town.” He loves to talk about “da big ol’ bucks in da field dat don’t seem to be movin’ dat much.” But he is confident “dat if we just move dose apples around, da does will smell ‘um and da bucks will be close behind.”

My next favorite part of going “Up Nort” is when we “head up to da bar for cold ones from Brenda.”


Speedpass-DeviceAfter north woods shenanigans ($10 all-you-can-eat fish fry and a haunted forest), we headed up to Minocqua, leaving plenty of time to get ready at the church. While traveling, we always make it a point to stop at Mobil gas stations when we see them, because they can be scarce outside of Madison. We are loyal to Mobil gas stations for one reason, and one reason only: the Mobil Speed Pass. The Mobil Speed Pass is a little, black stick that is connected to a credit card that I don’t pay the bills for (Thanks Dad! You’re the best in the whole world! I love you!).

We spotted a Mobil on our way to the church and thought it would be best to fill up. We were also somewhat lost, so Darryl wanted to run inside and ask for directions (how un-typically male, right?). I was left with the responsibility of filling up while Darryl inquired inside.

Now. Whether or not I actually held up the speed pass or just began pumping fuel is up for debate. We were excited to get to the wedding. We were in a rush. We were a bit flustered. My memory is hazy. But as far as I am concerned, I most definitely used the speed pass. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it. If Darryl asks, I definitely used the speed pass.


Fast forward to later that evening. We are in St. Germain for the reception- another small town about 20 minutes east. I get a call from a northern Wisconsin number around 9 PM. They leave a voicemail :

“Hi, this message is for Melissa Faulkner. This is the Minocqua police department and we are calling to report a guy drive off in your vehicle earlier today. Please call us back so we can clear this matter up.’”

I listened to the voicemail in the reception hall – which was loud and crowded. I immediately looked at Darryl and said “Um…the Minocqua PD thinks you stole my car.”

We were fairly perplexed by this voicemail, considering A) we drove the car to the reception, and it was parked outside and B) the guy driving off in the vehicle was my boyfriend, and I was in the passenger seat.

We head outside just to make sure the car is, in fact, still there, and we listen to the voicemail one more time. Turns out I heard “guy drive off” but what the police officer really said was “gas drive off.”

It’s 9:30 PM on a Saturday, and the Minocqua police is on an all-out man-hunt, trying to find the person that left behind a $27 gas bill… I can only imagine what they thought when they looked up my license number. Zero speeding tickets. Zero infractions. 23 year old blonde female registered in Cross Plains. Typical criminal profile.

The next day Darryl and I returned to Minocqua to settle our debts with the 78 year old grandma that had called us in. She said she was grateful for our honesty and was glad we were there to do the right thing. I responded with “Um…my license gets revoked if I don’t pay this so it doesn’t have much to do with being nice…so if you could call the police officer, and call off the man hunt, that would be great…”

We headed out of town on our drive-of-shame, only to get a call a couple hours later from a good family friend asking if I needed bail money.

My driver’s license is registered to a Cross Plains address, where a wonderful family has adopted me. I use their home as a permenant address cuz changing addresses every year as a college student is a pain.

Michele proceeds to tell me that the Madison Police Department showed up at her house at 9 PM last night looking for me…something about an unpaid gas bill in Minocqua…

mapOh really? Cuz that makes sense. I buy gas in Minocqua at 2 PM on a Saturday and am probably at my southern Wisconsin home a few hours later… Yeah. Ok.

Ladies and gentleman. Rest assured that our state is on top of doing everything in their power to stop those dangerous outlaws that drive off without paying for their gas. Think twice before you drive off without paying for your $27 gas bill!

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A Short Film starring: The B-Cycle

Melissa Faulkner:

awww yeahhh.

Originally posted on Madison B-cycle:

Seeing as it is the first of the month, it would be fitting to post a “first.” This is the first short film ever created starring The Madison B-cycle. You could argue that our intern-extrodinare Connor does his best to steal the spotlight. But regardless of who you believe the true star of this film is, we just want you to believe it’s awesome. Please enjoy our first Madison B-cycle video production:

This video would have never been possible without the amazing help of Paddy Cassidy.  Paddy was 100% instrumental in the creation of this video, and we want to make sure his work is honored. The best way to honor a video editor? Share his material. Post the link to any social media site, retweet it, share it with your friends that love bike share (or Connor). As the internets say, let’s make this baby viral!

Thank you again…

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Why I Owe My Happiness to Ali Bergmann

The story of how Ali Bergmann and I came to be is a great one. It is a story I probably would have never told if it weren’t for a few glasses of wine over dinner in Copenhagen. Most pretentious sentence ever…

I was finishing up my junior year at UW-Madison, and was still taking stupid business prerequisites (read: Accounting). I was struggling in the class, and signed up for a supplemental study group – which forced me to actually look at the material, rather than spill Mac ‘n’ Cheese on it while studying Real Housewives of New Jersey.

Screen Shot 2013-09-30 at 1.11.31 PMI joined the group late and was fairly nervous about my first session. We get started, and I immediately start to fall asleep. Then the door opens, and in rushes this jaw-dropping girl. I mean, stunning. Her waist-length golden hair is perfectly curled. She is wearing great boots. She has thick-rimmed black glasses on, making her look the perfect combination of sexy and smart. Everyone cheerfully greets her. “Oh my gawwddd, hey Ali!”

I decide to hate her immediately.

As the session progresses, it is clear she does not need to be here. She has already done her homework three weeks in advance and knows all the answers to every problem. She has already started studying for the midterm that is six weeks away, and she just wanted to freshen up a bit before she went away for the weekend with her club hockey team. Beautiful, smart, and athletic. I hate her even more.

Fast-forward three months.

Screen Shot 2013-09-30 at 1.27.41 PMI am trapped in a weekly three-hour lecture learning how to study abroad. Things like “don’t get in a stranger’s van” and “everyone hates Americans.” At the beginning of the class, we all introduce ourselves and state our study abroad destination. I’m mid-tweet about soy lattes when some girl announces she is going to Copenhagen for the summer. I look up. It’s her. It’s Ali Bergmann. My arch nemesis. I contemplate switching programs.

The following class I decide to have an attitude adjustment. Mainly “keep your friends close but your enemies closer.” I decide that traveling abroad with a super model may end up working in my favor. Men will buy her free drinks. Men will lead to other men. And sooner or later, I will get free drinks. I sit down next to her, and we make small talk about accounting. I am thankful that I made it out of the class with a C. Ali is still emailing professors about unfair questions to get her final grade bumped from a 96 to a 97…

Ali cracks some joke about illegal drugs, and it turns out she is quite funny. Her stellar personality adds to my hatred of her, but at least I am being entertained.

Fast-forward three months.

Day One in Copenhagen. She is the first person to contact me. She is dying to meet up with me and can’t wait to have the time of our lives together. She thinks I am the greatest person ever and is ready to go party and meet hot Danish men. She bought a bunch of new clothes that I am totally welcome to borrow any time. I decide she isn’t so bad after all.

After six-weeks of non-stop laughter, border-line criminal shenanigans, and Ali basically being my mother (despite her being two years younger …), I decide she is the greatest person I could have ever studied abroad with. This statement is factual, and can be supported by the 19 blog posts I wrote while studying abroad. It’s cliche but I don’t care – it was the best time of my life. And Ali Bergmann was there every minute of it.

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Fast forward two months.

249503_10152166115675066_651599279_nAli is the only person that understands me. She understands how hard it is to come back from Copenhagen. She understands how much school sucks. She loves sushi as much as I do. We are the annoying girls in Grainger High that giggle about all our inside jokes. We support each others ridiculous notions that we are cooler than everyone else.

One day Ali and I are reminiscing about the good ol’ days, and she pulls up a YouTube video about the Danish Bus system. A few days earlier I had applied for an internship at Madison B-cycle and had not heard back from anyone. I was bumming a little about it, but the second I saw the video, my wheels started turning. I could recreate this video for B-cycle – and it would be incredible. Ali forwarded me the link, and I emailed it to B-cycle – telling them it would be an awesome recreation. I got the job the next day.

469007_10151654704990726_1398938757_oFor anyone that has paid mild attention to my blog or my Facebook in the last three months, they have seen how much I love my job at Madison B-cycle. It has been the greatest, unexpected blessing during my time in Madison. And now, three months later, we are finally set to release the video I created.

So here’s the math:
If it wasn’t for Ali Bergmann, I would have never had the time of my life in Copenhagen. If it wasn’t for sharing those memories with her, she would have never thought to show me that Danish bus commercial. If she hadn’t of shown me that commercial, I would have never forwarded it to B-cycle. And I would have never gotten the job. And I would have never been as happy as I am now.

Thank you Ali Bergmann for being the reason for my happiness. And without further ado…

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