Tag Archives: friends

I Had A Favorite Sweater



It’s been a few weeks, not A week, I know, but I’ve had good reason! I needed some time to process because a thing has happened. (and no, to all you well-wishers and dreamers, I AM NOT PREGNANT).

Have you ever owned a sweater that hugged you in just the right way? It gave you warmth when you were cold. It gave you comfort when you were sad or lonely. It gave you confidence when you were insecure and overwhelmed. It was your happy place.

Then one day, the close friend who gave you the sweater asks to borrow it. They won’t have it for long. They promise to have it back to you in no time. Reluctantly, you agree. I mean, they gave you the sweater after all…

Time goes by and you have had yet to receive your sweater. You miss it, but know that it’s safely in the hands of your trusted friend. It will come back to you soon.

More time goes by and you miss it so much. You finally ask your friend how your favorite sweater in the whole wide world is doing because life just isn’t the same without it. You want to know when your happy place is coming home. Your friend promises you’ll have it back soon.

Again, more time goes by. You inquire about your sweater once more as your patience is growing rather thin. Weirdly, your friend deflects, speaks in vagaries and about other sweaters they think you might adore as much as the one they borrowed from you. Essentially, you don’t find the answer you seek.

The next thing you know, sweater season is half way through and you haven’t had an opportunity to enjoy your happy place once. It’s bullshit. You call out your “friend”. You demand answers. You want your favorite sweater back and you want it now.

It is finally back in your arms, but instead of your favorite sweater returned in its pristine condition, the threads are unravelling, the body’s been stretched, and the yarn’s been worn bare. The entire sweater is coming apart at the seams. This is not your sweater. This is not your happy place. You don’t even recognize what you’re “friend” has given you. You want to believe it can be salvaged, but there’s just no way. THIS is a pile of shit masquerading as your favorite sweater. You won’t wear shit. Shit is not your happy place.

THIS is what the Arrow writers have done with my favorite show. Don’t trust people with your favorite sweater.


52 Drinks A Year …

So, I have a drink every Friday because a year ago, around New Year’s, my two best friends and I made a pact (because that’s what best friends do). We decided we would have a drink every Friday, take a picture, and text it to one another. I usually post mine on Instagram, so anyone that follows me there probably thinks I’m a raging alcoholic since they constantly and only see pictures of me celebrating with a glass in hand, but that is not the case.

I have a drink every Friday, no matter where I am or what I’m doing, as a toast to two irreplaceable human beings in my life. We may not always get to chat on the phone or even hang out now and again because the laws of life have dictated we remain many hundreds of miles apart, yet that doesn’t negate nor dictate our closeness and fondness and trust and belief in one another – essentially, our friendship.

We started a bond too many years ago to count that is a living breathing thing. It has ups and downs and gaps and harmonies, but never absences. Having that drink and sharing it with them, wherever they are, reminds me of that.  52 drinks celebrating births, mourning loved ones, battling flu, making fun of one another, making fun with one another, playing Fantasy Football, traveling the states, sharing career frustrations, dealing with family matters, building things, moving out and moving on… 52 drinks that I’ve had with my friends and I wouldn’t trade a one of them for the world.

So far, we’ve continued our pact, toasting to one another’s day, accomplishments, or just each other. It’s an appreciation of our history, a celebration of our present and a hope for our future. Missing you guys terribly, but loving you all the same – to Chelle and Darewood — Happy Festive Friday, my dears!

My 52 moments shared with Chelle and Darewood this last year.

My 52 moments shared with Chelle and Darewood this last year.




Throw-Back-Monday: Going Home

I had to go home a little over a week ago. I don’t know when I’ll stop calling it home. I haven’t lived there for nearly 17 years, but for some reason, I still call it home. Maybe because I don’t feel like Atlanta is my final calling and more like a temporary stopover to wherever my home will one day be (which will never be in rural Northern Indiana, I assure you). I don’t know. The thing is, every time I go “home” to that small little town twenty minutes from Michigan, a tiny part of me wishes I wasn’t there. I like remembering how things were, and things have changed so much over the years. Old haunts and locales I thought I’d never forget are sometimes unrecognizable to me now. But then there are the few things that never change – like idiots driving 54 in a 55 on US6 (I curse each and every one of you. Every. Time.) OR Ruth’s and Joe’s house.

I wasn’t “home” for the happiest of situations.  I was home because Joe had passed away. Ruth and Joe are Chelle’s parents. Those of you who read my blog regularly know Chelle’s my best friend in this world.

That's us. Two besties playing it bad ass. That's how we roll.

That’s us. Two besties playing it bad ass at Ruth’s and Joe’s. That’s how we rolled. Still do.

Ruth and Joe were like second parents to me. They were ridiculously supportive in my formative years and beyond. They welcomed me and all of Chelle’s friends into their home asking us to make it our own.  And we did.

The house is down a long gravel lane set back from a country road (for those of you not from these parts – everything is off of a country road). The moment I pulled in, this time in my Acadia in lieu of the old high school Ford Taurus Sedan, I still peeled down the drive like I always did leaving a cloud of white dust in my wake. I remember every time he saw me do it, Joe would say, “There’s Lib. Driving like a bat out of hell.” And yet he still trusted his daughter’s life in my hands as we’d take off for our next big adventure to parts unknown. Ok. They were always known; we were teenagers. So maybe to like the Friday night football game?


I stayed at their house for one night while I was up there. Just walking through the front door brought so many memories rushing back . Maybe some of the furniture had changed, but the feelings the house evoked hadn’t changed at all. I was left alone in it for a little bit, locking things up before the viewing that day.  I took the opportunity to wander around, not knowing when I’d be there again, and smiling as certain moments from events past sprang to mind (For the record, Ruth, I was totally not creeping in your house—  just wandering and reminiscing, NOT CREEPING. I promise!).

Apparently some furniture had stayed the same. I found one of the old couches we used at every get-together. I was surprised we hadn’t completely destroyed it all those years ago.

Just one of many times we used the famous couch for goofy photo ops.

One of many goofy photo ops on Famous Couch


Case in point.

Just another case in point.

It was still sitting upstairs in the loft. That’s where we would always be – upstairs in the loft. We’d play euchre. We’d watch movies. We’d enjoyed games like Truth or Dare.

A little Twister.

A little Twister here and there.

We had slumber parties.

Chelle does have pants on. I swear ...???

Chelle does have pants on. I swear …???

Superbowl parties. Dinner parties.

Typical bunch of misfits having dinner at the house.

Typical bunch of misfits having dinner at the house.

We did makeup and hair…

After my brief stroll down memory lane (in a not creepy way remember), I had stepped outside to let the dogs do their business (one was Chelle’s and one was Ruth’s and Joe’s) . I was promised neither one would run away. Apparently that rule only applies when squirrels aren’t in the picture as I watched, completely mortified, as Ruth’s and Joe’s little sweetheart tore off for one of the speedy rodents across the property towards the open field.  So there I was, running over the lawn in sharp high heels, screaming at the top of my lungs in 25 degree temps, trying to stop him when suddenly all of the nights we spent playing capture the flag hit me, too. We’d don black clothes and divvy up into two teams. We’d run covert ops through the woods and over the grassy knolls with only the moonlight to guide our way… For those still worried about the dog, Barkley did make it back to the house while I was lost in my mind – crisis averted. Thank God!

I remembered bonfires and swimming parties. I remembered teepeeing those woods more than once  and hauling ass with Darewood down that damn gravel drive (we’d park by the country road so we wouldn’t be seen – it’d always seem like a smart idea before we tossed the tissue in the trees, but it became the dumbest idea ever as we sprinted back like half a mile in the middle of the night as if our lives depended on it).

I remembered Chelle’s engagement celebration. I remembered sitting on the back porch sharing a glass of wine with Ruth and Joe.

As much as things feel a bit foreign when I’m back now, Ruth’s and Joe’s house made me feel like I was home again. That feeling wasn’t because of the house they’d built, but because of the love they provided to anyone and everyone who stepped foot inside. I am so lucky and thankful for the Blackburn clan who unconditionally adopted me into their family so many years ago. I would do anything for those people as I know they’d do anything for me. I can never thank them enough.

The Blackburn Clan

The Blackburn Clan

I didn’t mean for this post to get so sappy and sentimental as basically every story I have relating to Ruth’s and Joe’s is actually rather crazy, comical, or fun. I was just a bit surprised that day because though I was brought there under sad circumstances, I found my heart wasn’t filled with sadness at all. It was filled with the purest  joy and love as I wandered around reliving those amazing moments we shared. And that’s the way life should be.

For Joe …


Throw-Back-Monday: Pen Pals

In hindsight, I was destined to marry a foreigner. Some people are born to marry a NASCAR fan, or a banker, or insert whatever “type” you have here ___________.

I’ve always been fascinated by cultures outside of my own. Toss in a pair of puppy dog eyes and a sexy accent – I’m sold. No offense to my hot red-blooded American men, though I adore you, the spark was never going to be the same. We would have been like a one dimensional 4th of July fountain fizzling out far too quickly whereas me and a man from a foreign land would be like those crazy aerial cakes shooting for the stars in multi-colored glory leaving lingering picturesque impressions in the skies.

I owe my destiny (and type) to that of pen pal writing. Continue reading