Back to Land.

Hi everyone,
I have made it back from my trip and boy do I have stories to share. Unfortunately, school also started up again this week and work+school+jet lag is really not giving me the energy to write a fabulous post.

Tomorrow I shall write you a blog entry reflecting on my trip, which was simultaneously the most fun and the most lonliness I have experienced in a very long time. Until then...

Blogging from a Boat

Hi all,
I'm signing off for the next 9 days in seek of adventure and relaxation in Central America. I plan to blog overtime when
I return about my hijinks abroad that, hopefully, reveal some themes (because evolution of self>hijinks) for us to discuss here. In the meantime I wish
you all a very happy week and I'll see you all on the other side!

-Mara

Guest Blog: New Year's Resolution Confession of a Compulsive Target Shopper

Well, I promised a sassy guest blogger, and I have delivered! Kaitlan Capalbo is the kind of person that when you meet her, you decide immediately that you really want to be friends with her. She is super fun and witty, and always has a sassy response for every question or quandary. She is a person who is not afraid: to laugh loudly, to sing karaoke, to speak her mind. Her confidence is contagious and her wit is absolutely magnetic. That said, it didn't surprise me that she sent me this little essay that is as introspective as it is sassy. It takes a strong person to honestly reveal little chinks in their armor, and discuss ways for self-improvement. I like it because it reminds me that we are all on this earth to learn from every experience. This year, The Epic New Year's Resolution Project asks us to do just that: to look closely at ourselves and resolve to be better (whatever that means for you.) That, my friends, is a brave undertaking upon itself. Enjoy our little resident sassy's piece...let's continue our discussions about an epic resolution for 2010, and show Kaitlan some love in the comments.

New Year's Resolution Confession of a Compulsive Target Shopper
By Kaitlan Capalbo





I can always think of a reason to go to Target. I love Target. My boyfriend says my demeanor and attitude lightens the moment I walk into a Target, like I am passing through the pearly gates of heaven. I just love it. And it’s not just Target -- I love to shop. For anything: clothes, shoes, Swifter products, or cat litter. I can always think of something I need. This is why I am writing this blog, to introduce my New Year's resolution and put it out there for the world to see and, maybe, hold me accountable. My resolution is to want less. To ask myself, before I get the bug up my butt to go buy the new Pledge Fabric Sweeper literally 8 seconds after I see the commercial, 'Do you really need this'?

I didn't map out a plan to measure my progress in achieving this goal, which probably isn't good for someone like me, who needs a trainer to hold her accountable for what she eats on a weekly basis or to motivate me to workout. (“Kaitlan, you have to go to the gym cause Susan is going to yell at you if she doesn't see you there every day.”) My loose plan is really to dig deeper when I get the urge to run to Target, or go buy some new jeans at the mall. I resolve to ask myself the tough questions: you don't have a job, do you really need those $200 jeans? Is it absolutely essential to buy your cats three different kinds of wet food? I realize I am making myself sound like a shopaholic, but I am really not. Denial? Maybe.

I am just hoping to become a better person by making this resolution. I have caught myself saying 'I want, I need, get me' an awful lot lately and I don't like the way that sounds coming out of my mouth. I sound like a spoiled little brat. I'll keep you posted on my failures and successes (through hopefully more of these writings.) Happy new year!

Happenings Around the Blogosphere

Because blogging is such a community, I just had to share a bit about some of my favorite WelcometoAdulthood contributors. As emerging bloggers, it is all of our efforts (and all of our dear readers, like you) that keep our blogs relevant. In the spirit of this kind of community of support, I am proud to announce some really cool happenings.

Sarah Busta, who is all over the blogosphere with The Papery Dolls, and the amazing Call-it-Inspiration (and who also designed this very site) has been featured on Brooklyn Bride's Annual Card Swap!

Here is a little peak at her expertly designed original holiday card.





This is a huge accomplishment because Brooklyn Bride is a well-established national (maybe even international) blog and Sarah is a talented lady who deserves tons of accolades.

Second, check out guest blogger Morgan Leahy, who recently got married and was featured on Ruffled at her "Vintage Mexican Wedding."

Sneak peak from photos as seen on Ruffled.


Congrats to Morgan on your feature!

Annnndddd, coming up next on WelcometoAdulthood, we will continue our theme of The Epic New Year's Resolution Project with a guest blogger with a lot of sass, and a great new year's resolution. That's all I'll tell you for now...
Stay tuned!

Want to contribute to The Epic New Year's Resolution Project? Send me your thoughts on our theme, what it means to you, or why it is epic, and we'll keep the conversation going.

The Epic New Year's Resolution Project

Every year I make the same resolutions: not to bite my nails, to exercise more, and to not procrastinate. Last year, before 2009 rolled around, I went on a quest to find an epic resolution -- one that I could hold onto, learn from, be moved by, and spread like the most delicious cream cheese frosting. I wanted a resolution that would be a daily practice in a really epic way: I wanted it to be a habit I never kicked, and something so big I couldn't explain it to anyone without reaching my hands out to my sides, as far as they would reach, and laughing a big belly laugh with my mouth open wide. I wanted it to focus on laughter, and love, and kindness, and singing, and the smell of ocean on a sunny day, and spinning round in big poofy-skirted dresses, and ants opening peonies, and skipping and swinging, and 100-piece orchestras.

But I wanted it to be little too. I wanted it to be simultaneously small, something I could hold inside my heart like a warm, soft glow. Something subtle, like the smell of lavender, a mini-earthquake, or a dog's soft ear. I wanted it to be tiny enough to take with me, to fit in a pocket, maybe the size of a bejeweled blue button. A little, loose button of meaning to remind me to be compassionate, better, grateful, open, bright.

I searched for this epic resolution and I found it. With my firmest resolve, at the stroke of midnight in 2009, I was resolute to be an instrument of peace.

What does that mean exactly? To me it was a hybrid vision of the prayer of St. Francis (though, I must note, I am not religious), and the Jimmy Eat World song Goodbye, Sky Harbor (from their early and quite amazing album, Clarity. The song is noted to be inspired by John Irving's A Prayer for Owen Meany -- a book I must resolve to read in 2010.)

The prayer of St. Francis is really simple and beautiful. Abbreviated some, it reads:

Make me an instrument of your peace.
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury, pardon;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
and where there is sadness, joy.

That I may not so much seek
to be consoled as to console;
to be understood as to understand;
to be loved as to love...

And then the Jimmy Eat World song, from an album that reminded me of a time in my life when, after a too-long period of less-than, I had finally felt inspired, living, and whole. It is not as much the lyrics, as the song with the lyrics -- loud and quiet, loud and quiet, repeating, repeating, crescendo and quiet, drums and voice, long and finished. But, I'll try:

"Is tomorrow just a day like all the rest?"
How could you know just what you did?
So full of faith yet so full of doubt I ask.
Time and time again you said don't be afraid.
"If you believe you can do it."
The only voice I want to hear is yours.
Again.
I shall ask you this once again.
And again.
He said:
"I am but one small instrument."

(Interested in the song? Check it out on YouTube here.)

Being an instrument of peace was everything I had wanted in a resolution, and the first resolution in memory that I have stuck with, held tight to, and braided with my hair. I have kept it with me, like my blue, sparkly button, for the whole year. I think any of my friends who interacted with me on a regular basis in 2009 could attest that I wore this button like a proud cape, or some shiny shoes, or a toothy grin. I quoted it, "I am an instrument of peace," I would say to myself (and sometimes aloud.) I would channel my instrument: a violin when I was cut off on the freeway; a cello when I felt really sad; trumpets in times of great joy; an acoustic guitar to forgive; tiny, high celeste timbres, like music box notes while a sugar plum fairy dances, for when I was angry; Rhapsody in Blue for those long walks and good conversation with friends; Leonard Cohen's rich molasses voice for my mom. And for love, it is the full symphony, or the full chorus in a joyous musical.

This year, I have reprised my epic resolution that is as big as an ocean, and as tiny as map pin. I am but one small instrument.

May 2010 be a year of peace for the world, and for our lives.

Guest Blog: Graduating into Fred Mertz's Pants

The new year is upon us and the world of Welcome to Adulthood 2009 just wouldn't be complete without a guest blog visit from Lukus Williams. When I first read Luke's piece I literally laughed out loud in my super quiet office. (Hopefully my colleagues didn't catch on that I was spending a little down time reading and chuckling about Luke's metaphor for adulthood -- a pair of extremely high waisted dress slacks.) Luke's piece is as funny and entertaining as it is insightful. I could brag about how talented of a writer he is, his impressive list of writing gigs, his graphic design-cred (photo credit below goes to him also), and all that good stuff, but I will let his piece speak for itself.

I am thrilled and honored to have Luke as a guest blogger (yes, his comments are the ones that usually generate lots of great discussion, and we are happy to finally hear more of him) and I hope you will "LOL" just as much as I did when reading his work. As always, let's show him some love in the comments!


Graduating into Fred Mertz’s Pants
By Lukus Williams

It was long, it was messy, but I did it. I’ve graduated from college (well, as soon as ‘State gets back from vacation and mails out diplomas). Now I may have been living on my own, holding various jobs, and being more or less self-sufficient for some time now… but I’ve always been in school. From Little Bo Peep Daycare in Lansing, Michigan to San Diego State University.

By all measures, I’d say this blog entry will be as close as I get to a proper debut onto the adulthood scene. So, let it be official: I’m of good breeding, marriageable-age, and now eligible for a career with retirement benefits. Hello world!

But before I tackle Aldous Huxley’s future with my journalism degree in hand, I’m allowing myself a bit of regression. A last hurrah. A chance to relish my final, guaranteed vacation: the likes of which only students and teachers are allowed.
I’m home for the holidays. Cue Christmas music and G-rated hi-jinks.

I get to be fourteen instead of twenty-four (or maybe sixteen since I’m driving) at my parents’, and that means having fun, and being waited on. Not that I’m lazy here, but having dinner made and laundry washed (if put into the clothes hamper!) sure makes me feel like I’m being pampered. Living on my own might be a blast, but my roomies never pick-up after me.

It hasn’t been too difficult, this letting go and enjoying a break. However, there are a few anxieties about my near-future tiptoeing around the edge of my thoughts. You might think I’d be biting my fingernails at the prospect of finding employment in this economy. Luckily I didn’t major in artistic philosophy, so I’m not too concerned with my serious, full-time (and grown-up!) job search, as I’ve got a modest-sized bag of experience along with mad skillz and many prospects.

My true fear is in regards to the real, concrete changes that I see on the horizon. Want to know the biggest one of all? The giant antagonist in my adulthood future? Clothes.

That’s right, clothes. Suits, ties, slacks, sweater-vests (shudder), loafers, blazers, and suspenders… I cower in fear and disgust at the thought of wearing such a costume everyday. Because up until now, that outfit was just a costume, something I put on for a meeting here or and interview there. I readily grasp the importance of professional dress and its impact on personal impressions, I’ve simply had little need or desire to appear professional more than a couple hours out of every week, but now I’m faced with the prospect of looking like that Monday through Friday. It’s horrifying. I don’t even like pants to begin with, and I make attempts to wear shorts whenever possible!

I’m resigned to the fact that I’ll need to wear my hair short and boring so as to not offend my potential 30-something bosses that began to bald in their 20s. But the suits. Ugh. I just can’t wrap my mind around it. The inner-child who’s been in the pilot’s seat for the last twenty-four years will surely be kicking and screaming all the way to the Men’s Warehouse.

I’ve heard many pro-suit arguments, from the whole “look the part” set all the way to “women dig it,” but what I’m really looking for now are coping mechanisms. Is the paycheck motivation enough, or will I need to bring an SDSU shirt and some boardshorts with me to work so I can change the moment the clock strikes 5? Someone have a list of the top ultra casual businesses in San Diego hiring writers/editors/graphic designers/manual laborers? Does David Tennant’s Dr. Who “geek-chic” count as professional attire? Do slacks always have to look like Fred Mertz’s pants? What are the things that you attach from the bottom of your shirt to your socks to make the shirt stay in place called, and do people actually wear them? Why must dress-shirt manufacturers assume that my arms are impossibly long simply because I’m over six feet tall?


This adulthood thing, it’s going to be like my stint as a four-year-old ring barer all over again, isn’t it?

Guest Blog: Mastering the Art of Laundry and Other Lessons on "Growing Up"

Today I am so excited and proud to present Emily Lieber as our guest blogger. Emily is really a phenomenal writer (she is also a writer-by-profession) and I have been hinting to her for the past few months how honored I would be to have her as a guest blogger. Well, Merry Christmas to me, because this morning, in my inbox was this little jewel of a piece. It is so spot on our theme of adulthood, and so insightful, funny, and poignant, especially during this holiday season when many of us will be going back to our parents house for celebrations. I hope you will enjoy this one as much as I did. The best part is, Emily promises it as part of a series, so we will have more to come from this talented lady.

Enjoy it! Show her some comment love! What kinds of social norms exist when you go back home? Do you still live by the "house rules"? How has your relationship with your parents changed/grown/evolved (pick any, or others, that apply) since adulthood? We will all be expecting riveting stories in the comments after the holidays are over (because we know we will all have lots to share after 4 days of family bonding.) I look forward to our discussion! And, of course, may your yuletide days be merry and bright!

So, ::drumroll:: without further ado:



Part I: Mastering the Art of Laundry and Other Lessons on "Growing Up"
By Emily Lieber


My husband and I are in the process of buying and renovating our first home. With escrow, permitting delays, cracked slab fixes, and other hidden problems, the process has taken more than twice as long as we thought it would. In the meantime, the house we were renting sold and escrow closed. We would have been searching for a month-to-month rental had it not been for my generous parents, who have opened their home to us and our two dogs until our new house is move-in ready.


We moved out of our old house and into my parents home, the one I grew up in, in one, long day. It has been good thing for all of us that my parents have a granny flat of sorts, complete with a restroom, bedroom, and living area separated by a door from the main house. We do have privacy and space so that we are not underfoot, but we still must venture into my parents’ space for meals, shows recorded on the DVR, and laundry. We spend most of the evenings eating dinner and sitting by the fire in the main house, so there is plenty of time to discuss healthcare reform, watch shows like the Sing-Off, and play board games.

There have been primarily positive things about our temporary living arrangement. For example, I no longer have to worry about making dinner. My mom works part-time and is a great cook, so she is fairly content handling that area. My mom has also taken over the daily task of walking our dogs at lunch, something I used to run home from work to do every day, making my life fairly harried and rushed. More importantly, I think my husband and I get along pretty well with my parents. We enjoy spending time with them and get to do a lot of that right now.

But this is real life, and with the good comes the “less-than-pleasant” things that come with sharing living spaces (in my life that has included parents and siblings, roommates, and my spouse, and all have come with very different, but still “less-than-pleasant” things). In my current living situation, the main issue that has arisen is the laundry situation. My mom has a knack for cleaning, sanitizing, and organizing, and laundry is one of her favorite things to do. Seriously. Not favorite cleaning task to do, favorite thing to do. I, on the other hand, absolutely despise doing laundry. When I had the luxury of my own washer and dryer, I would stuff them as full as I possibly could to get the as much laundry washed and dried as quickly as possible. I don’t like the process of moving wet things from the washer to the dryer, the process of folding piles of clothes and towels, or the process of hanging damp clothes to dry on hangers. Somehow, I have still managed to do this task weekly for the 9 years I have lived on my own since I left for college at age 18.

Despite my many years of experience in this area, I failed to realize when I put in my first load in at my parents’ house that my process was quite deficient. I stuffed a couple of blankets in the load (and maybe some towels) and went out to run a quick errand. When I returned, my mom and a little girl she watches from time to time were waiting triumphantly to tell me how my too-full load had caused the washing machine to jiggle out of its place all the way across the laundry room floor (or so they say). The washing machine had already been returned to its rightful place, and my load had been pulled out, divided into thirds, and restarted by the time I had returned with plans to transfer it all to the dryer. I really do think that part of the issue is that my mom has super high-tech machines that require more delicate handling. I will admit that another part is that I definitely push the limits of how much can fit in one load. I accepted their joking at my expense and promised to run smaller loads in the future.

I tried to continue doing laundry as the weeks progressed, but I soon realized that it was best for all of us if I simply dumped our dirty clothes, the doggie beds, our towels, bedding, and blankets onto the laundry room floor for my mother to sort, wash, dry, hang, and fold as she sees fit. I simply am not capable of doing laundry to the standard that my mom does it. I wash blacks and navy blues with light blues and reds. I throw all whites, regardless of fabric type, into the wash at once and douse the whole load with bleach. I throw in tennis shoes to dry on air dry instead of using the special drying rack. I pretty much always use the normal cycle, failing to use the special options like “sanitize,” “wrinkle care,” and “delicate.” Based on all of this, you might think my husband and I look like ragamuffins. Maybe we do, but if you ask me, our clothes always come out clean and seem to last as long as ordinary clothes should. Yet, I am confident that my mom still has a mental checklist of things that I do “wrong” in the laundry room.

Sometimes when you grow up and move out you think you have accomplished something. You think, okay, I’ve learned to do my own laundry, make my own meals, and plan my own day-to-day activities. Well, if your head is getting a little bit big regarding the accomplishments you have achieved in adulthood by living on your own, you might want to spend a weekend at my parent’s house. My mom will reeducate you on what temperature to cook things at and how long to microwave them, how to properly wash dishes, when you should bake cookies (not at 9:30 p.m.) and for how long, and when you should go on runs (not after dark). You will quickly learn two things: (1) what you thought you knew about the domestic realm is not enough; and (2) while you toyed with a false sense of independence for a time, you likely need to be retrained in the art of running your own life.

(Photo by Anne Taintor)