Check Yes or No

When we moved to Atlanta, we walked up into a ready-made group of friends we lovingly refer to as The Tacos. When we’re all together, there are 21 of us (adults & kids). And, pre-quarantine, every Thursday we’d taco. All together. In a restaurant. (Actually, there may be 23 of us … this is why no one ever asks me to do the final headcount before we get seated on Thursday nights).

We’re oh-so-lucky to have had this big group of friends in Atlanta from the get-go. Because, let’s be honest: making friends as an adult can be tricky at best.

I mean, where is one supposed to find these friends, exactly? Sure, you can be friends with your neighbors. And sometimes that evolves organically. You say “hey,” then you bbq together, then it’s all Saturday-afternoon-hangouts and backyard luaus.

Not really. I’ve never even been to a backyard luau. Ever.

You can be friends with your kids’ friends’ parents. But that can be as convoluted as it sounds. Just because your kids bonded over a great (and obsessive) love of building intricate Minecraft worlds doesn’t mean you will have a damn thing in common with the people who spawned that tiny human that your own tiny human finds so delightful.

Or maybe you stumble upon someone at work, or while you’re volunteering, or between the barbs flying at your neighborhood association meeting, that seems like quality potential-friend material. But then what?

You basically have to ask them on a friend date, for coffee or drinks or something of the sort. And friend dates have always made me even more nervous than regular dates–which means I bring all my awkward and only a fraction of my charm. And for the first few minutes, I’m so anxious I can barely hear myself think, much less hear the words coming out of my trial-friend’s mouth.

Fun times.

But something weird and cool has happened during quarantine. It’s like there’s a sensitivity/truth switch that’s been flipped on. I watch what people post on social media, and these posts have stopped being something to just kill time while I wait in line somewhere, something I scroll through while my mind is really somewhere else (how many distractions can I take on at one time, and still not really feel distracted?). They’ve become these little portals into other people’s worlds–not a constant stream of vacations and parties and activity, but a look into what really makes them them.

Because I own a bookstore, people also reach out to me all the time via text or email to see if I have a book, can recommend a book, have heard anything about a book.

I love books of all types. And I love to chat (much to Simon’s dismay sometimes).

So, when someone requests a book that I loooooved or they hit me up with a list of books about a topic that sets me on fire, I get to see a piece of them that might take about forever to get to in regular chit-chat out in the normal world. Which is so cool. Like truth serum. But with books.

Three times in the past (almost) 3 months now, after texts back and forth about books and then about kids or BIG life issues or COVID or protests, I’ve found myself texting: Hey, when this is over, let’s be better friends IRL.

And it’s not even like asking someone on a friend date–because I already know. I already know we can be friends because we are. We’ve built a friendship in this super-weird quarantiney world one text, one social media post, one one-liner joke at a time. I know more about them, I can guarantee you, than if we’d had 5 awkward coffee dates.

There’s something so simple and straightforward about sending that text. It’s like sliding them a note that says: Can we be friends? Check yes or no.

They’ve all checked yes (with smiley face emojis & exclamation marks), in case you were wondering.

Photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash

Pura Vida, Y’all

Because my best friend is an epic vacation planner, my family & I spent Spring Break in Costa Rica this year with 20 of our closest friends. Literally.

Playa Langosta, Tamarindo, Costa Rica


I could go on and on about this vacation. But that’s kind of reminiscent of the 1970s slide shows that over-enthusiastic travelers would share with their bored to tears friends.

Not cool, man. Not cool.

But I will share what’s been playing over and over in my mind. It’s something our tour guide/transport driver extraordinaire said about the Costa Rican people: They work enough to earn a living. And that’s it. No need to accumulate things. Or buy a bigger house. Or work overtime to climb the corporate ladder. Enough is actually the goal. Not more.

Nature cruise on the Palo Verde River

I guess I feel convicted by that, because it won’t get out of my head. I’ll let you in on a little secret: 7 times out of 10, I’m in a complete tailspin about money. I never, ever feel like we have enough. That scarcity mode of thinking is so toxic. But it’s hard to shake. I grew up in it. And, although we have always gotten by, Simon & I have experienced some pretty lean times.

But we’ve always had enough.

Now, back in the States, I’m considering my own consumerism. What do I have that’s extra? What does having enough mean to me? Have I ever really NOT had enough? Where does my privilege come play with my perceptions?

Recognizing enough, being grateful for enough, not striving for extra, sharing what I have… I am 100% convinced that this is the key to happiness.

This is what it looks like when you know you have enough. It’s bliss.

I know these things, and still… I forget them all the time. So, I’m soul-searching for the stuff that really matters to me. The stuff that is enough. The stuff that is joy and goodness and contentment.

Pura vida.

Big Plans, Y’all.

WTacualF do folks mean when they tell me to “get organized”?!? Shouldn’t this organization stuff come with an instruction manual or something?

Know what my 4th grade teacher said about me? That I needed to be more organized. What a weird thing to say about a 9 year old. Or, more to the point, what a confusing thing to say with no further instruction on the matter. She might as well have told me to make my freckles disappear. Because I was just as likely to do that as to get more organized out of the blue.

As I made my way toward adulthood, my mom hopped on the organizational bandwagon, too. She and my father bought me a very professional looking bonded leather planner with my initials engraved on a gold nameplate in the bottom right hand corner (90s chic, for sure). But I had no idea how to use the damn thing. I’m sure I made an attempt. I’ve always made (half-hearted) attempts to “be more organized”–for real, what does that mean?!?–to satisfy the people around me. But it never sticks.

Simon really wants me to use the calendar on my phone. (No.) He’s been butting his head against that wall for years. Poor guy.

But so constant is the organization refrain that it’s seeped into my self-narrative. I am unorganized, I think. I should get a planner. So I do. And I used it for approximately one week. Same thing with blocking time on my calendar. One week is the lifespan of my organizational endeavors.

But, y’all… New Year, New Me! I know, I know. I just told you that it’s hopeless, this quest for organization that’s been happening since I was 9. But 2 things happened recently that caused an epiphany of sorts:

  1. Simon got all geeked out about Michael Hyatt, who’s apparently some sort of organizational & leadership guru. Or something. You know this stuff makes me roll my eyes (interiorly, of course. Outward eye rolling is just rude). But Simon was so excited about goal setting and organizing and blah blah blah that somehow I agreed to watch some videos about a planner Simon is using in 2019. And–lo & behold–they made sense. Things like breaking down projects into smaller goals (wait… what?!? Is that what people have been asking me to do all along? Because NO ONE SAID THAT.) and checking in frequently to make sure daily activities are moving me toward a weekly goal, that supports a monthly goal, that supports… you guessed it… an ANNUAL GOAL. Well, shit. I could’ve been getting more stuff done ALL ALONG, if I’d known this crazy alchemy for productivity!
  2. My best friend got me a planner for the new year. She handed it to me and said (and I quote), “Because you’ve got a lot of big goals this year, and you don’t always remember things as well as you think you do.” This is obviously the Universe conspiring to make shit happen. Because, although I am resistant to taking direction from most people, my BFF gets Platinum Status in being able to gently direct (read: boss me around) in a way I can actually hear.

So, where does that leave me for 2019? Well, right now, with  annual goals, goals for January, and weekly goals written out in my rad planner in pink pen… and possibly a roadmap to opening this bookstore I’ve been talking about and finally publishing that middle grades novel I wrote almost 2 years ago.

But, mostly, it leaves me with more faith that the Universe is working together for my good. Because it seems like the entire UNIVERSE is conspiring get me organized. And who am I to back-talk the Universe?