Wendy, modeling the versatility of Samsonite’s comfy, padded interior.

I’ve been commuting to my job for six years next month (umm, wow…really? Where have the years GONE?!), during which time I’ve put a number of bags to the test. I’ve tried the two-fer: the purse and work bag double whammy (too much to carry). I’ve given the messenger bag a go (not enough room for a change of shoes, lunch, and everything else without looking like I’m hauling a small child). Eventually though, I found a happy medium with the now ubiquitous Longchamp Le Pliage large zip-top tote bag (in Billberry and with the As Seen on TV Kangaroo Keeper to organize the gigantressness of the bag itself- can NEVER find my keys!).

But then a couple of weeks ago, I was given the opportunity to try out a backpack from Samsonite’s new line- although I have one of their pieces of luggage, which I love and would recommend, I wasn’t aware they had backpacks too. But oh do they ever (and FYI, they’re on sale here until August 31)!

When I began carrying the Samsonite Tectonic backpack during my daily commute, the first thing I immediately noticed was how freely I was able to get around, even running after the bus and hopping on an earlier train! Can you imagine?

Even though I’d loaded every inner and side pocket and zip-close pouch with my nomadic accoutrements, I found that the weight of the bag was more evenly distributed compared to my over the shoulder and messenger bags. In fact, I actually felt lighter and promptly demonstrated said lightness by evoking various “superstar” poses à la Mary Katherine Gallagher to the dude also known as my boyfriend. Over the top perhaps, but this bag single-handedly has made my 3 hour round trip daily commute easier and much less of a strain.

Aesthetically, I think this backpack fits within my lifestyle remarkably well. I find that the backpack is sporty while also maintaining a professional appearance. Some of the other backpacks I’ve seen people carrying around look like they’re part of an outer space program! Seriously, what is that all about anyway? Still other backpacks are a bit “much”- I’m only going to work, so why do I need to look like I’m heading out on a 12 day expedition to the Arctic Circle?  

This is certainly not one of those bags! It’s compact and sleek in black with grey padding and mesh fabric accents on the straps (it is available in three colors however). I particularly like that they chose orange for the thread, zipper pull, and logo accents. A small but nice touch that someone like me appreciates.

Overall, the zippers themselves are sturdy- especially the closure for the laptop pocket, the straps have a thoughtful rounded opening at the end to cinch the backpack to your shoulders and can be used to rest your thumbs in while walking, there’s an extra padded top handle, and durable utilitarian fabric (that withstood an accidental soaking after toppling under one of the automatic faucets in the work bathroom- long story).

Since I’ve completely made the switch to this backpack, I decided to “jazz it up” and make it my own with a few little buttons… one from CHIRP Radio (which I’ve become a bit of a groupie of thanks to the dude’s extensive involvement with them), a foursquare “swarm” badge because I’m completely addicted to checking in, and an ampersand that I picked up at Longman & Eagle during @bayjb’s birthday dinner last August because I liked it’s simplicity- though the food I decidely did not care for (Jess, can you believe it’s been a year already?). Of course, my most favoritest must-have accessory of all is Wendy. She loves the new bag too, and promptly fell asleep shortly after our photo shoot commenced.

Beyond using the backpack for work, I intend to put it to good use during upcoming bike rides (the new bike- I went with red- is here at last!), trips to the dog beach with Wendy (girl can’t go to the beach without her towel!), and maybe even to the @20SB Summit next week (I have no idea what to bring so why not everything?).

So tell me, do you commute to work? Take public transportation regularly? What bags do you like/ recommend?

**Please note that while Samsonite provided me with this backpack free of charge, my review and all of the subsequent opinions and recommendations contained therein are my own and given without compensation. I just like a good product when I see one! 

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Last week, though (like the bad little blogger I’ve been lately) I only just realized, marked five years for me as a blogger. Reflecting on that time, both upon blogging and the content on which I write, I’ve experienced quite a bit of Life over those years…

I fell in love. And out of love.

I went to London, Jamaica, the Dominican Republic- twice, Philadelphia, San Francisco, Napa, Seattle, Alaska, Las Vegas, and South Carolina. And New York- how could I forget New York?- again and again and again.

I met a boy. And another one. And then another one. Until there came the one who’s stuck by me- so far at least.

I got a dog and am convinced within myself I’ve met my soul mate.

I wrote letters to Jessica Simpson and openly adored Tina Fey.

I got fucking WHOOPING COUGH like it’s the Eighteenth century or some junk, birthed a kidney stone as though I’m some infirm old fucker, and managed to garner food poisoning while stranded in Vegas for 48 hours after a flight cancellation.

I observed and questioned motherhood first hand. I feared babies and their ability to, like bees, smell that fear.

I gave voice to my angst for pregnant smokers, Drunk Bus, Facebook, Icky Couples and other such Toolbags.

I threw a pity parade for myself as friends got engaged, married, had babies, and moved on.

I swore a lot and not always as a result of Who the Fuck is Sharon.

I fell into a depression. And I admitted the one thing I’ve always kept secret and for which I still feel ashamed.

I authored posts about which I am proud and not so proud, and still others I have, at times, felt disappointed went nearly without comment.

I celebrated birthdays and turned 30. Then realized, holy fuck, I’m now IN my thirties!

I bitched about work and covered my ass by requiring a password as my blog took on a more “real life” following.

I said good bye.

I wrote and I didn’t write. And other times I wanted to, but avoided what needed (still needs) writing.

I discovered Twitter and became completely addicted.

I left my home of six years and moved in with a man for the first time in my life.

I baked, took calligraphy, made Thanksgiving turkeys, and ugly Christmas sweaters.

I met other bloggers and became close with several others, and others still whom I have yet to meet in person but hope to one day soon. I greatly admired/ still admire several others from afar.

I Dressed for Dinner.

I found inner peace. Other times, not so much.

I drank. A. Lot. Of. Wine.

I allowed two people and 60 minutes to throw me into what wound up being a mid-life crisis that I still wrestle with some days.

I moved from Blogspot to WordPress and became “Nic Narrates,” then rebranded with my own site.

I contended with the Bathroom Troll. And other related topics.

I mourned for those bloggers who blogged off into the sunset…Charming But Single, Petite Anglais, Anonymous Coworker, Little Red Cape, Ashton Likes, and Surving Myself.

I wrote the things I cannot say to my dad, my mother, my brothers, and my grandfather.

Five years.

In five years, I grew to embrace blogging, found my voice, and began to identify myself as a writer foremost. I’ve been heartbroken, infatuated, furious, defeated, whimsical, sarcastic, jaded, humorous, naive, envious, and sentimental.

In five years, I’ve let you in, let you “know” me. Let you have a bit of myself and tried always to be honest with you despite the discomfort of knowing who else may be reading.

Thank you for indulging me (and my obnoxiously nostalgic links). More than anything, thank you for joining me along the way.

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See, the couple sitting next to me turned out to be one of THOSE couples: an Icky Couple. And they were proving to be your quintessential Icky Couple. You know, the kind that can’t seem to walk down the street without grasping hands and kissing at each red light, the kind who can’t eat an otherwise perfectly acceptable meal without rubbing each other’s backs, necks or legs (BARF!), or the kind who has to stick their tongues down each other’s throats before parting each morning like one of them is being sent off to war or something. Dude, it’s nine or ten hours apart. I think you’ll make it.

As for this particular Icky Couple, they were making quite a show of it, acting like a bunch of janky ass fifteen year olds, holding hands, kissing each other’s cheeks, practically crawling into each other’s laps, laying their heads on one another’s shoulders à la “oh-my-god-we’re-so-sleepy-because-we-presumably-were-up-all-night-hahahahahahaha,” and talking in a tone louder than a whisper. Can you imagine?

If they were “just kids,” maybe I could have kept my disdain from growing into the seething fire breathing rage dinosaur it has become, but they weren’t. No. The Icky Couple consisted of two otherwise professional-looking adults, dressed for a day at the office where presumably they hold actual, grown up, professional jobs. So I have to wonder…who’s all this ickiness for anyway? Is it really necessary demonstrater your “love” amidst your fellow CTA bus riders? And is the 15-25 minute bus ride the right place and time to properly display said love? The way I see it, romance isn’t about being an Icky Couple to everyone around you. It’s about genuine and PRIVATE moments that don’t result in PDAs on the #135 route into the Loop before 8 am on a Tuesday.

Which brings to mind the day my own boyfriend and I accidentally wound up on the same bus route downtown. Strolling up to the bus stop that morning, I decided it would be best to throw my hip into him from behind, then wait for him to turn around all surly and shit. Which he totally did, except “Hi! It’s just me! Ha ha ha ha ha!!! Good morning!”

After the initial “Oh, it’s you” moment, we go on standing there all aloof and junk until the bus comes and then we sit down side by side, barely touching. And- this is key- for the short 15 minute ride downtown we don’t talk because 1) we don’t have to, and 2) it’s fucking annoying when people do that on public transportation in the morning. Seriously. Just don’t do it. Whether you know someone riding the bus with you or you dare to use your cell phone. DON’T. And, no, there’s no “texting loophole” either- unless you have your phone on silent and don’t make Icky Couple faces while sexting or whatever the fuck else it is that you’re doing. 

Anyway, to cap off the bus ride with my boyfriend that morning, we parted ways with a blasé eyebrow raise and head nod (from me) and a “peace out” punch to the arm (from him). You know, totally normal stuff really and, most importantly, no one’s morning was stymied in the process.

In closing, all you Icky Couple toolbags out there take note and keep it in your pants. No one wants to witness your “love” on public transportation, in the gluten free aisle at the Jewel, while you’re dropping off your dry cleaning, or you know, like ever (unless it’s your wedding, in which case, fine…I guess).

Shut it down, fuckers. Shut. It. Down.

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She began her behest innocuously enough with a whisper into the phone: “Shhhh…don’t tell your father,” she said as I heard her hastily scamper into another room in the background and shut the door. “I have money I want you to take to your brothers when you see them and I don’t want him knowing because it’s just for you kids.“

“Seriously?” I asked her. “You realize they’re grown ups now, right?”

“Oh, I have money for you too.”

“Mom, I’m not joking. You need to stop- we’ve talked about this before,” I tried for what had to be the bazillionth time, knowing full well it was useless.

“Shut up, you’re taking the money and that’s all there is to it. I have Girl Scout cookies for you too.”

“Well fuck, when you put it that way….”

Hate me if you must; I couldn’t say no. There were peanut butter patties. And thin mints. And, yes, even samoas.

So, just like that, I became my mother’s mule. I carried $50 and three boxes of Girl Scout cookies for each brother from my parent’s home in WI to my own, then to Midway, and finally to South Carolina. Was I proud of it? No, not really. I hate taking money from my mom, but she’s the type who refuses to allow you to say no. She will shove it in your pocket and do so in the most embarrassing way in public until you take it just to get her to stop. Or, she’ll be sneaky about it and hide her stash in a purse pocket you didn’t even know you had only to find it two weeks later and resort to shaking your fist at the sky and shouting “Curses! Foiled again!”

The thing is, even though my brothers and I are grown up, in my mother’s eyes, we’re still her kids and she wants to give us money so we can “go get a coffee with a friend” or “go see a movie” or “treat ourselves to something nice for Easter.” It’s thoughtful of her and everything, but it also isn’t necessary and is often really uncomfortable because my parents aren’t in a position to be concerned about giving us $20 here or $50 there. Plus, it’s awkward because she always sneaks it to us without my dad knowing. At this point in my life though, I’ve realized that my mom is sure to ferret money away until the day she dies because she wants her kids to have a little something from her if she can give it. True story.

After my conversation and after she’d made the exchange, I sat contemplating my plight while absently watching the TSA German Shepherd at the airport. I’d have loved to have made friends with him but remembered I was carrying SIX BOXES of cookies and wouldn’t it be a little odd if he smelled them and security was all like “Dude, what’s up with all the cookies, yo?” After considering the consequences, I opted to reach into my bag and surreptitiously eat  a peanut butter patti instead. Less evidence.

As I nibbled one, then inhaled another and another until a whole row of cookies disappeared, I let myself off the hook. So what if my mother tricked me into doing her bidding? So what if I’m a 30 year old GROWN ASS woman who just accepted $65 and three boxes of cookies from my mom? So what if I’m enabling her ridiculousness in giving money to my brothers as well? So. What.

Sometimes you just have to suck it up and bite the proverbial cookie. You have to listen to your mom, do what she says, be a good daughter. Even if it means you become her secret allowance mule. Even if it involves payment in Girl Scout cookies.

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No "sweater weather" here!

Last week, my friend Fancy and I went to San Francisco and Wine Country (for those of you who follow me on twitter you’re likely all too aware and I apologize for being an asshole with all the Foursquare check ins!). A girls weekend to Our Lady of the Vine, albeit during the week.

We gave ourselves one day in San Francisco, which to our dismay quickly diminished into only half a day thanks to American Airlines’ four hour delay due to late boarding, pushing off from the gate, a fuel pump light that wouldn’t turn off, finding a new gate, waiting on a repair crew, waiting on repairs, deplaning, finding a new aircraft, and finally reboarding and waiting in line to take off.

In that time we managed to watch two episodes of The Office and the boarding video all the way through to the credits. Yeah, turns out there’s actually credits to that video of flowers and waterfalls set to sleepy music that they show before takeoff. Once we were finally underway, we settled in and realized that from the time we arrived at O’Hare (5:30 am) to the time we arrived in San Francisco (noon), we could have flown internationally. It certainly felt like we should be landing in Japan!

Aboard the cable car to Fisherman's Wharf.

After checking into our hotel (the surprisingly-lackluster-for-a-Kimpton Serrano Hotel with utter Sketchville a mere block away), we scrambled to get in line for the cable car (a feat in and of itself after a couple of wrong turns that landed us in The Tenderloin- we’re talking actual human feces in front of a boarded up storefront, half-naked cracked out women laughing as they shuffled down the street, and having to step over a man laying in the middle of a sidewalk) to make it to Fisherman’s Wharf for a late seafood lunch and boat tour of the bay.

We glimpsed the Pier 39 lazy ass sea lions; zippy dolphins along our boat; a shoreline view of the city; barge, sailboat, and kite board traffic; Alcatraz, and of course the Golden Gate. The bay was a bit rough and hella windy, but I still managed between my hair slapping me in the face every three seconds to chastise children whose parents neglected to inform them that throwing food overboard “for the fishes” was, at the less than observation-friendly speed we were traveling, basically just littering. Brats. The wind unfortunately carried away my sentiments.

Blue & Gold Fleet boat tour of the bay.

After the boat tour, we had planned to take the cable car back to our hotel, but short on time, we balked at the once again long line at the cable car turnaround and tried unsuccessfully to hop on a few blocks up.

Fancy Chinatown billboard.

For all our savvy, every cable car passed completely full both inside and out. So, we did what any torqued city dwellers would do. We said screw this noise and we walked. Strike that, we CLIMBED A VERITABLE MOUNTAIN. In a heat wave (so much for that cool bay weather- it was 90 freaking degrees!). With clam chowder and Sierra Nevada IPA sloshing around in our bellies. Stomach. Bloat.

Union Square at dusk.

We felt drunk. We looked drunk. And a few of those lucky souls passing by on the cable cars actually took PICTURES of us- we, the super smart girls who said to hell with you “San Francisco treat.” Ding ding, my ass.

Parched and panting, we dragged our sorry asses into a corner store and bought lukewarm water and a Pellegrino Limonata which we sucked down at an 8% incline. But then we found the Chinatown gate and strolled through Union Square, and all was right in the world again. An hour later, we arrived back at the hotel in a pile of sweat and blowsy hair and wound up a mortifying 35 minutes late for our dinner reservation.

Foreign Cinema's courtyard & movie screen.

But the people at Foreign Cinema in The Mission were understanding and kind and seated us right away at a great table. Both Fancy and I loved everything- from the food we were too full to really eat to the ambiance of the courtyard where they play old movies on a screen-lined wall to the friendly service and greeting. Definitely a unique restaurant concept with a caliber of food and service that make it more than just a “cute place” to go out to eat.

Remnants of sea bass, heirloom tomato, & garbanzo bean deliciousness.

The night we were there they were showing Monsoon Wedding and we lingered over our meal, then dessert. The restaurant staff was so accommodating that we were still there as the movie started over! I have to admit, being a slow eater and worn out from traveling, it was the perfect way to finish the day. I’ve never had a more relaxed meal at such a beautiful restaurant.

In the morning, we picked up our rental car, which was easier said than done (transportation did seem to be the bane of the trip). Our quick five block cab ride turned into a fiasco involving me having to remind the driver that we didn’t ask to be dropped off three blocks downhill from the address we’d given, then making him drive us around the block to the right address only to find out it had been relocated up the street another four blocks. Thank you Kimpton for providing the wrong address! Which reminds me- I have an angry email to write.

Tartine, aka porn for bread & pastry lovers everywhere.

The salve to this early morning drama took the form of pastry porn at Tartine. Oh my god Tartine. I want to make out with that place and can’t stop thinking about it…I’m head over heels absolutely smitten. I just…I…I have no words for how much I adore it. Needless to say, the Tartine cookbook is already on this girl’s Christmas list.

Croque Monsieur- I ate all but two bites!

I should note that our experience was all the more enjoyable because we went on a Tuesday at 11, thus managing to avoid the lines that plague its doors and small seating area.

With the majority of my Croque Monsieur devoured and the plate of my lemon tart literally scraped clean, and with a morning bun in my bag for later, we took to the road for Wine Country.

I leave you now with the promise of a similar post (tomorrow Thursday?) on our time in Napa and mayhaps a Very Special Edition of “Dressing for Dinner” later this week. But, most importantly, I leave you with Tartine’s LEMON TART, (i.e., a “tart” that even church going sorts can deem heavenly).

I actually debated getting the larger size, which is intended to serve 8.

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My experiences leading up to 30 have been a bit…different.

A couple of years ago in a session with my therapist, at the end of a long term relationship, she asked me to think about where I wanted to find myself at 30. She asked me to make a new “list.” I haven’t thought much about it since, I’ve been busy working and living out the days between as I would have regardless. My inner compass always seems to guide me toward opportunities or people or places that I’m happy to find along the way.

So with or without that list, I’m excited to turn 30 tomorrow. Thirty feels “right,” feels like the age I’ve already been for years, feels like where I belong. And the list? I revisited it the other day and was amused by what I read. For the most part, I think it holds up.

1. Find a new job.
2. Get out of credit card debt.
3. Go to Paris.
4. Buy the Louis Vuitton Speedy 30 handbag.
5. Keep writing my blog.
6. Be a better friend.
7. Date again, and hopefully find someone to have a relationship with.

Taking stock against that list: I’m still with the same company although I’ve just been promoted, I’m $700 away from being out of credit card debt, I haven’t seen Paris but went to NYC three times, the D.R. twice more, am in Seattle right now (hellooo, Seattle!) and am about to board an 8-day cruise to see Alaska instead, I haven’t and no longer want to buy the LV bag, I still (sometimes and would like to make the time to more frequently) write here, I’ve worked hard at making new friends and maintaining both old and new friendships, and I began dating again and am with someone who makes me feel safe and loved whether or not marriage or babies are down the road for us or not. All in all, I think I’ve done a pretty good job of ending up where I wanted to be at 30.

Looking back at who I was when I began my twenties compared to who I am as I depart them, I’m still very much the same hopeful girl. Only now I’ve realized that you can’t really “plan” life, that sometimes life happens and it’s more about what you make of it than what you make of what you didn’t end up with for all your planning.

At 30, I’m not going to make a new list. I’m going to keep living much the way I have since I made the original one. But there’s one glaring omission that I’d like to add and hopefully “achieve” in my thirties.

I’m still battling the same insecurities as I was when I was 10 years old and it harms me in countless ways. I don’t necessarily show it or write it or talk about it, but it’s there inside my own thinking nearly every day. I may know my capabilities and strengths better 20 years later, but I’m still my own worst enemy. I’m the first person to criticize myself, deem myself “not good enough,” and take that disapproval out on myself. Still.

The eighth item I’d add to the list is “be kinder to myself.” I want to find happiness at 31 and 35 and 39 because I’m nice to myself, because I’ve learned to no longer rip myself to shreds over what are ultimately inconsequential things. I want to unfasten my negative inner monologue and accept and appreciate myself flaws and all. No small task, but it’s probably the most important one.

The thing is, I can always be a better person, a better friend and daughter and girlfriend and coworker and neighbor. I can always strive to be better than I am. But the person I already am is pretty damn good too. If I write it enough, maybe I’ll believe it. If I think it enough, maybe I’ll feel it.

I haven’t seen my therapist in three months, but I know she’d approve and be proud of my addition to the original list. I know she’d tell me I’ve figured “it” out, that I’ve learned a lot from my twenties, am on my way to many happinesses in my thirties, and that when sadness or hardship finds me again I’ll be better equipped to not only live through it but thrive.

I think she’d be right.

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Salomon Exit Aero Hiking Shoe

Today I am wearing a really special pair of shoes. They’re not strappy sandals or brightly colored peep toes or even Tall Girl shoes. No. These shoes are a completely foreign concept…they’re comfortable and supportive and built for wear and tear. These shoes are what I plan to wear when I turn 30! next month, when I first step foot in Alaska!

Oh, by the way, I’m going to Alaska.

In a matter of weeks, my boyfriend and I are flying to Seattle to spend a day bumbling about (restaurant recommendations anyone?), then cruising the Inside Passage for a week. We’re going to Juneau, Hubbard Glacier, Sitka, Ketichikan, and then Victoria, B.C. We’re going to go whale watching and glacier hiking and mountain biking and ohmygodIcannotwait!

I’ve always wanted to go to Alaska, always wanted to smell the pine trees and the rain, always wanted to measure the blue streaks of the ice against the blue sky, always always always wanted to see a whale. A whale! I will literally cry if I see a whale. They’re miraculous to me. I don’t know why, but they are.

So, for my thirtieth birthday, I’ll be celebrating the best way I know how- doing one of the things I want to do in life now rather than waiting until “someday” or until I “retire.” I don’t want to wait because…well, what if? I want to do it all, see it all, now.

At 10, I went to Disney World. At 16, I backpacked Glacier National Park in Montana. At 27, I went to London and Derbyshire (and a part of me never left). Now, at 30, there’s Alaska- where I’ll wear these shoes to run and jump and hike and bike and…knock down all the old geezers who’ll be on the cruise with us (you better believe I’ll be the first one off that boat in each port- look out Mildred and Herb! I’m spry and swift like a cheetah!).

Alaska. Even just whispering its name feels like an adventure. A mere word, but it instantly brings to mind all that is still wild and beautiful and untamed…and seemingly so far away from my little world here in the Midwest where there are no such things as oceans or whales or glaciers. A world away, finally within reach in four weeks time.

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