I’m feeling tapped out lately in this space. Not so in life, which is still just as full of walks and good food and nice chats with people I love. We agree on everything, followed by a joke and occasionally someone suggests we get donuts. It’s ideal.

But not blog-worthy. The lull here is definitely the result of some hardcore Middle West hopping over the past month. Writing something inspired or even uploading pictures to this space can be tough when all I want to do after work is take a long walk, see what needs to be seen (corn dog flags), cozy up on the couch with C then go to bed staring at pictures of my new niece.

My field of ambition for the summer has narrowed significantly, and I’m feeling good about that — especially after reading this, a breath of air. It’s a reminder that, whether we ease up on ourselves for a few months while the temperature’s at its most brutal or adopt a completely different lifelong philosophy toward forced ambition, it’s OK to take a timeout. To channel our energy where it’s most effective at making us feel awesome.

Lately, I’m feeling drained by the ambition to curate the hell out of this space — to blog about things that are better lived and savored — so I’m taking a timeout here. (And because I’m taking baby steps, I’m posting about not posting as much.) I’ll post when I feel like it, but otherwise concentrate on Fourth of July parties and weddings and babies and feeling so content right now it doesn’t need to be tirelessly documented. Ciao for now!






What’s up, rainy June? Fourth of July is creeping up on us, and Midwesterners aren’t getting the quality creek-wading, dusk cycling, crickets-at-night lullabies they deserve. Here’s small consolation:


If there’s one thing my parents taught me while growing up (besides the quality of real maple syrup and my own self worth), it’s the importance of calling someone you love once a week. My good friends scattered after school, but we’ve been able to sustain that weekly conversation habit. This weekend, we had the keen pleasure of talking in real life.


On Friday, Cedar Rapids nearly flooded and A and K traveled by plane and automobile to this disastrous city to drink mojitos and eat bumbleberry pie. The gigantic downtown farmers market kicked off, welcoming 16,000 visitors with open arms and tightly wrapped breakfast burritos. We danced to crappy music at Liquid Lounge, a “Parks and Rec” Snake Hole-style dungeon club, and sauntered around Brucemore’s gardens right when the peonies were popping.

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Katie’s about to get married, and Annie’s about to move even farther east, but not much has changed since our Kirksville weekends. We can’t drink as much and prefer to go to bed by midnight, but that’s the natural order. It gave me a very clear picture of our friendship in 60 years, when we’ll mostly just be napping and talking about dogs.

After they left, C asked me if I missed them. The plain answer is yes, but deep down, I don’t miss them like miss them. Our phone calls make it feel like no time passes. They’re always 10 digits away when dogs need to be named and milestones need to be celebrated.


When I was a toddler, before the dog and rabbits and mice, my family had an ant farm. It was set up like a Connect Four board, a tall and thin glass-sided rectangle filled with solid sand — until we added ants. The ants came in the mail, hundreds together in a vial (this seems unsafe and unsanitary, which is probably why ant farms went out of style), and we dumped the lot in the tank.

The little guys carved out ancient letters in the environment, working constantly while we watched, agape mouths filled with bologna sandwiches. I don’t think the ants had anything to eat. They explored the sand until their untimely demise, living little ant lives that, to my little eyes and little sense of time, seemed to last years. I memorized “Hop on Pop” in the time it took them to make it to the bottom of the tank.

Maybe with these electronic jams, their busy lives could’ve been a little more like a party and a little less like  eating miles of sand.