I spent the weekend in Massachusetts and it was one of those perfect late summer/early fall weekends where the leaves are just starting to turn and there’s a breeze in the air, but it’s still warm and sunny.

I got to have a long lunch with an old friend who was my roommate when I lived in Boston about a billion years ago. Walking down Newbury Street and into the Common with her felt oddly like time traveling. She’s the best kind of friend—one for whom the years just fall away as soon as you sit down across from them.

The rest of the weekend was spent getting in as many chubby thigh squeezes as possible with my sweet nephew, Patton. I know I’m biased, but I seriously think he’s just wonderful. He’s all giggles and wonder and play—with just a tad middle-of-the-night screaming charm tossed in.

We went to a dairy farm and its cheese shop, bought still-warm apple cider donuts at an orchard, and went for a late afternoon hike in the woods. Which all seems like exactly what you’re supposed to do on a New England fall weekend.

I recently started working for a company that has half a million employees. So about the same as a mid-sized US city’s metro area. I’ve said the words, “Hi, I’m Sarah,” what feels like around 40 billion times in the last two months. So this is hashtag goals, as the kids say.

I’m obsessed with Audible. I’ve been listening to books on it for a few years, but mostly on car rides and places where I couldn’t read. But I’ve recently had a breakthrough. I can download a fun, fictional novel on Audible and then do all the things that distract me (and my teeny, tiny attention span) from reading WHILE I’m listening to it. I go on walks, do yard work, cook, paint my nails, play with the dogs, browse online, catch a flight, eat a meal, act like I’m paying attention when someone else is talking… everything…. all while listening to a book.

I realize this isn’t exactly new information. But for me it’s been a game changer. I no longer have the attention span/time I once did to read. But I totally have it to listen to someone read a juicy novel to me. The two at the top are my latest downloads and I really enjoyed both. They’re thriller mysteries and hold your attention.

Slaughter’s gets predictably (for her) violent and overly descriptive of violence. Seriously, I hope that woman is in some kind of therapy. But it’s a story of mystery in a small Southern town that folks in the olden days of print would have called a “page-turner.”

The Secrets She Keeps was especially fun. There were some unexpected twists and I loved the character development. That it takes place in London (best city ever) and is read by someone with a British accent (best accent ever), are just added bonuses.

 

I read a quote recently that said, “Do more things that make you forget to check your phone.” That was this weekend.

My friends and I sat in the warm sand, around big tables, in porch rocking chairs, and on sunny docks—having long conversations, eating way too much food, and soaking in what I think is the most beautiful place on earth. If a soul can breathe a sigh of relief, mine did this weekend.

 

I love Uber drivers. I’ve had some terrible ones—a guy who I’m pretty sure was drunk and who kept referring to liberals as “snowflakes” comes to mind. But also some really great ones. Last night was a great one.

Thomas picked me up in downtown Minneapolis where I am on a work trip to return me to my hotel after dinner. He immediately began sharing his entire life story with me. He’d been in Minneapolis for 20 years, ever since he’d moved here so he wouldn’t have to raise his children in his violent Chicago neighborhood.

Thomas was an older black man who admitted early in the ride that his rather large girth came from a love of Southern cooking. His mother lives on 40 acres in the middle of Mississippi and he is confident she’s the greatest cook on earth.

I’m fascinated by the kind of insane cold that Minnesota deals with, so I asked Thomas about it. He told me about massive snow drifts and “cutting temperatures.”

“You know, the worst part is every winter as it gets cold you start hearing the stories of the homeless people who die,” he said.

I nodded sadly. “Yeah, I can’t imagine how hard it would be to be homeless in that kind of weather,” I say.

He nodded, then said winking, “Of course, they find their ways to escape it.”

I nodded, not knowing what he was talking about.

He went on, “I don’t want to say what they do, but you know what they do.”

At this point I’m thinking that perhaps Thomas is alluding to homeless people breaking into places to stay warm. I nod again.

“I really shouldn’t say what they do, but we all know what they do,” he said. Then he paused and said matter of factly. “They get with a fat chick.”

Thomas feels certain that accepting the sexual advances of overweight women was the primary method for homeless men surviving the Minnesota winter. “I mean, the other thing with a fat chick is that she knows how to cook. So you won’t be hungry. And you’re out of the cold. So you do what you have to do.”

His logic seems sound. And Thomas seemed like he knew things. I feel like as far as Uber rides go, this one was especially informative. So, I’m passing on my newfound knowledge. Now you know.

I think if I had a time traveling machine, the first place I’d travel is back in time to figure out how my back yard ended up the way it did. Forget time travel to the Elizabethan era, Biblical times, or the Kennedy assassination. I want to know: Did someone use my shed as a garage? Did they use part of it as a chicken coop? What’s the story with that hole in the middle of its wall?

These are questions for the ages. Working in my backyard often feels like a (really, really boring) archeological dig. My latest project is taking down a chain link fence that is up against a wooden fence that runs the length of my property. It’s been there for decades and inexplicably has a gate leading into the neighbor’s yard.

It never really bothered me because it was covered by trees and vines and you don’t really see it that much with the wooden fence. But this summer I decided I was finished with those vines and the fence. Mostly because some of the vines are poison ivy and the small animal who sleeps with me rubs against them on romps through the yard (see the threat below).

Here’s a fun fact: The city of Charlotte won’t collect chain link fence in their bulk waste disposal service. Personally, I feel I’m paying way too much in taxes for that not to be included, but that’s a blog for a different day.

So, after some extensive Googling, I found a scrap metal yard just north of town. I went there on a Saturday morning, when it opened at 8:30, and thus began a journey into a world I didn’t know existed.

I ended up having to go to three scrap yards. Turns out no one likes chain link fence. All of them were packed with people before 9 a.m., driving their cars onto massive scales and receiving money for their scrap metal. The scrap yards themselves were crazy places—wide open red dirt landscapes just outside of town filled with twisted pieces of metal. At the first one I felt like I was driving into some African military base (in large part because the man who came to greet me was Kenyan and wearing full camo and aviator glasses).

When I finally found a place to drop the metal, I was simply told “Just drop it by that rusted out refrigerator.” Sure. That’s usually where I put things.

I’ll have to return to the scrap yards a few more times as I finish up this yard project, and I’m thrilled about it. I love discovering entire subcultures I know nothing about. Life can be feeling a little boring and then all of the sudden you find yourself navigating rusted out refrigerators and the cost of galvanized steel. I take adventures where I can get them.

The weather this weekend was gorgeous, so I spent most of it outside and near the water—enjoying a cookout in a quarry on Saturday night and a kayak ride down the Catawba on Sunday.

But, as one does on weekends when they’re old, I also had a bunch of chores—including hanging a painting in one of my new offices. This particular office is in a kind of random location north of town surrounded by warehouses and distribution centers. It doesn’t feel like the safest place to go alone, but I also don’t want to be the annoying person carting in stuff and banging on walls on the weekday. So, off I went on Saturday morning, painting in hand.

I made it in past the barbed wire fence, walked the 200 yards or so from the parking lot to the entrance, swiped my card, opened the door, and promptly heard the shrill beeping of an alarm about to go off.

Somehow, in the eight billion questions I’ve been asking everyone at my new job lately, it had never occurred to me to ask if we had an alarm.

Lest you wonder if I kept my cool and reacted like a normal human being in this situation, let me assure you I did not. I sprinted through the building in the dark to my office with the painting, hammer, and nails and dropped them in the middle of the hall. I don’t know why. Then I ran back to the alarm, where I noticed a note to call the office’s director if you somehow accidentally set off the alarm.

So, I sprinted out of the building and back to my car to get my phone to text him. He kindly told me that he’d let the alarm company know not to dispatch the police and then gave me a code to disarm the alarm.

Of course, in my pure panic (I seriously envisioned a SWAT team entering the building and catching me in the act of hanging my painting), I’d dropped by key card with the hammer and nails. I couldn’t get back into the building.

So, as the alarm wailed, I called the director and started the call with “You’re going to think I’m crazy, but…” Because he’s a nice human, he assured me that it was ok and he took care of it. So much for all my good first impressions.

I used to imagine that I’d reach an age and stage when I wouldn’t have to start sentences with “You’re going to think I’m crazy.” But I’m starting to think that’s just not in the cards for me. Oh well. Saturday was just a little more thrilling than I’d anticipated.

 

 

 

I recently started a new job, which has been fun. My new job, as I see it, is to help a talented team of people make beautiful publications and presentations that tell the story of great food and the impressive people behind it. That we happen to be telling pretty stories about food for the largest food service company in the world is just the icing on the cake. (I love when metaphors match up like that, don’t you?)

Anyway, my job came with two offices. I’m not sure if you’ve ever tried to simultaneously start a new job and decorate two new offices, but it’s kinda hard. I feel really proud of this wall though. It serves three purposes: 1) Inspire creative design. I need that. 2) Really cheap decor. I needed that too. 3) Make me hungry All. Day. Long. I did not need that.