"So how's married life?"

Let me preface this entire rant by notifying my friends, acquaintances, and small-talking family members that I genuinely appreciate your curiosity about my recent nuptials. You are sweet for asking. I love you.

That being said, I hate when people ask me "So how's married life?!" or "Sooooooo... how's married life!" or "And how is married life, Sades?"

Because in all reality, life is the same. I have the same schedule, in the same apartment, with the same job, and the same workout regime. The only difference is that I've inherited a roommate whom I enjoy naked breakfasts with.

So, friends, acquaintances, and small-talkers - let's put to death the tired and shallow "So how's married life?!" and bring to the table a new utterance for inquiring about what it's like to be married:

"So what's it like to share an 800sq ft. apartment with Gerry?"

Oh! So kind of you to ask. Here, I'll tell you.

• Gerry is physically incapable of closing things. Doors, cabinets, shower curtains. He is, however, strikingly good at putting the seat/lid down.
• Gerry sleeps diagonally across the entire bed. So, that's awesome.
• Gerry fears the tupperware bin. And he fears he might die should he attempt to put things away in an orderly manner. 
• Gerry's snuggling demands are just shy of being considered snugglerape. 
• Gerry greets his day by yelling. Loudly. Oh, and slamming things. Loudly.
• You think my tumblehairs are ubiquitous? Gerry's beard hair. Everywhere. All the time.
• Gerry's nightly ritual includes a 15 minute shirtless posing sesh in front of the mirror.
• Gerry keeps his toenails at nothing shorter than razor sharp length. They're like little spears being plunged into my calves during the aforementioned snugglerape. 
• Eggs: it's what's for breakfast. And dinner. 5 nights a week.
• Gerry's really great at over-the-shoulder cooking. "You making eggplant parm? Do you know what you're doing? You have big shoes to fill... my grandpa's eggplant parm was phenomenal. What are you doing? Why are you doing that?" 
• Gerry's sporadic sock piles.
• The 20 minutes before a meal... You won't like him when he's Hangry. 
• Gerry has a fierce handicap when it comes to laundry. "Babe, I don't know where any of this goes so I'm gonna leave it on the bed." Later, he will windmill the bed (Windmilling: whirl your arms round and round like an epileptic rotational energy machine) so that all of my clean, folded clothes are now in landmines on the floor.

But then, he puts on a suit and makes this face and I think, "It's okay. It's okay. He will help me make beautiful, athletic children."

I mean, look at him. It's okay, you can look.

Also, we've given up on the foodscapades. Hooray for New Year's Resolutions! #whomp

March Madness, as seen in Austin Woman Magazine.

In celebration of my birth month (who are we kidding, this tradition will never die!), here's a story I told in the March issue of Austin Woman Magazine. Shameless plug.

Enjoy.

I wish I were that cute as a rotund tween.

               

                In my youth, and well into an age where it stopped being cute and started being socially questionable, any time someone asked me when my birthday was I would sharply reply with a “March”.

                Like, the whole month.

                I would then go on to explain that the celebration of my birth was not limited to just one day - rather it was to take place on all 31 glorious days. Following the self-righteous explanation, I would often encourage my audience to shower me in a jubilee of gifts.  Most of the time, the audience who would have to endure my all-hail-for-I-am-queen tangents about how important it is to my social status that I get a pink Skip-It would be my parents. They’re good people.

                The month of my 10^th birthday, however, I was finally introduced to reality. We were nearly 2 weeks into March and the only buzz around the house was the sound of my brother’s electric shaver as he perfected his angry, teenage, thunder-stealing double mohawk. Later, he will be kicked out of the house for obvious reasons. But that’s for another time.

                Appalled that no one was making a ruckus about me and all my glory, I tried to create my own birth-month buzz by planting pictures of things I wanted. I even created a convenient ranking system based on my level of want with Lisa Frank stickers.  Needless to say, no one cared. My dreams of continuing my celebratory birth month forever were being crushed with every passing moment.

When my actual birthday rolled around, I woke up to a phone call from my dad. Usually, he would call to schedule a time for him to whisk me away and spoil me with sugary treats and a trip to Toys-R-Us. Excited to answer, I began spouting off my expectations for the afternoon. This time, however, he called me at 7am to wish me a happy birthday from California and to let me know that my age will be in the double digits for the remainder of my life.

The rest of my 10^th birthday was lackluster, at best. No Skip-It. No cookie cake the size of my torso (which happened to be very bulbous at the time, so that would have been beneficial). No surprise visits from famous celebrities. Just dinner. With my family. And no celebrities. And a box of 96 Crayola Crayons to accompany the myriad of coloring books I demanded.

I was blind to not see the downfall of my birthmonth coming. On my 8^th birthday, I was attacked by a goose. On my 9^th birthday, I harassed Chuck-E-Cheese and was removed from the scene. And just for laughs, on my 11^th birthday my sister kidnapped me and drove us all the way to Abilene to see a mediocre country band – leaving my suitcase behind and forcing me to squeeze into her size 1 clothes that I’m pretty sure were made at Baby Gap.

But you know, in addition to the mass madness of basketball fans meticulously crafting their brackets and the madness that the onset of another Texas summer brings – my favorite form of March madness has got to be the flood of memories from my many years of birthday madness.

You’ll be happy to know that the celebration of my birth is now encouraged only the one day. 

Which is the 18^th. 

Of March. 

I take cash.

The Month of Thai: An Incredibly Stupid Review

Classic.

Minus the fact that I neglected to blog every week, and minus the fact that we only tried 3 of our 4 desired locations, and minus the fact that my photos grew increasingly lackluster... our Month of Thai went swimmingly! But, in my attempt to get back on track for February, I'm going to lump all of our foodscapades into one, glorious, foodporny blog post.

Try to contain your excitement.

Also, as I embark on this new food-blogging journey, I will be providing, for your reading pleasure, an amateurishly detailed, pretentious, and completely irrelevant review comprised of improperly-used adjectives and run-on sentences.

Pad Thai: A preface
As stated, we first tried the aptly-named restaurant: Pad Thai. We decided to commence our foodscapades on a brisk winter afternoon (New Year's Day), around 3pm. Being the only diners at a random ass Thai restaurant in the lull of New Year's Day, we were offered a choice booth with a street-facing view. I was pleased by this selection for we then had a front row view of all the, what I like to call, Resolution Runners. Assessing the scene, I determined that Pad Thai met all the necessary requirements for an establishment worthy of a foodscapade (as stated in my previous post), with a heavy emphasis on the "authenticity" of its staff, as well as a humorous number of spelling and grammatical errors on its menu/website.

Waste not, want not.

Gerry ordered something I can't remember and I, being the adventurous one, ordered my usual Panang Curry. Why? Because in order to appropriately judge a Thai restaurant's goodness, one must order the Panang Curry. Sure-fire way to tell if there's white people in the kitchen.

Anyway, Resolution Runners miserably jogged by as I wafted the warm delicious scents of basil, coconut, and mystery meat that was just placed in front of me. After I took some obnoxious food photos, we dug in.


Pad Thai: A review
With it's smooth, forthright consistency, the Panang Curry at Pad Thai was exquisitely predictable. Robust, lively, and drunk - the Panang quickly soared to the top of my list of favorite things to say repeatedly in Fran Drescher's voice. With every bite, my taste buds were both ubiquitous and quasi-aroused. So much so, that it was ragingly inappropriate. In short, the Panang Curry from Pad Thai was worth more than 140 characters on Twitter.

But, meh.

The other white meat.

Spin Modern Thai Cuisine: A preface
We invited another married couple along for our second foodscapade. You know, because once you're married it is considered a faux pas to associate with the scum who remain in singlehood.

Just kidding. Shout out to all my single ladies out there.

Anyway, they, too, were enamored with the idea of a food adventure and wanted to come along to try some Thai. And, as the food gods would have it, Spin was conveniently located near us both. So basically, let's do food round #2, suckas.

Sorry.

I, for whatever reason, walked into Spin with an air about me. You attempt to write one food review on your small-time blog about a dish you've eaten a thousand times, and suddenly you're a renowned food critic. Needless to say, no one gave a single shit.

The snooty and unexplained air continued through our appetizers and entrees. As did the obnoxious photography. A word of wisdom: when trying to make new friends, avoid taking multiple-angled photos of your food and humble-bragging about how adventurous you and your newly-acquired husband are together.

Anyway, we started off the dining adventure with the Sweet Corn Taro Tempura and the Moo Ping. Which, if you are a 5 year-old, "Moo Ping" would be renamed "Poo Ping" with immature giggles to follow. And now, 2 short app reviews.

Poor little guys didn't even stand a chance. 

Sweet Corn Taro Tempura: A review
Comparable to a dish featured at the Texas State Fair, the Sweet Corn Taro Tempura danced in your mouth like deep fried air. With a confident crunch and a sweet sexiness, the elaborately-named appetizer was about as filling as floss.

Moo Ping ("Poo Ping"): A review
Tasted like pork on a stick.

For dinner, I settled on a dish that I had seen (enviously) many times before on Instagram, the Clay Pot Shrimp. Excited to join the ranks of those who put on the facade as culinarily cultured on Insta, I didn't even need to look at the menu. But then, I looked at the menu. And my mouth was really lusting after the Full Spin. Before I even had the chance to discuss my choice change,  Gerry's that-is-more-expensive-and-worse-for-you eyes burned right through my soul. I'm shackled for the rest of my life in this food prison of a marriage!

Clay Pot Shrimp: A review

Who knew Ramen would be THIS GOOD?

A truly carnivorous experience, the disassembling of the shrimp in the Clay Pot Shrimp will both butter your bread and tickle your predatory senses. With an excessive amount of, presumably, iodized salt, you are representing a dying snail in this edible trip on Thai acid. The poise and grace of the bean noodle is a hook, line and sinker into the Hoison sauce euphoria. Overall, the ranking of the Clay Pot Shrimp is similar to that of the Nebraska Corn Huskers.

(Post Script, this is an effing long post. I'll definitely be splitting these up for February. I should probably send the readers who see this to the end some sort of participation award.)

East Side Kings: A preface
A week ago, I would not be able to accurately describe how badly I wanted to dine at East Side Kings. Austin has a perpetual raging boner for that Asian-fusion empire, and I was among the drones who bought into the media hype. So, naturally, when I initiated a triple date (second shout out to my single ladies!) for Friday night, I didn't even present another dining option. Baby gets what baby wants.

Gerry was responsible for ordering the dishes as I was busy with a pitcher of Shiner. And let me say, he was well-advised in his ordering decisions: Chicken Tortilla Ramen, Tori Meshi, and Brussels Sprouts Salad.

Mouthgasms. Many, many mouthgasms.

Chicken Tortilla Ramen, Tori Meshi, Brussels Sprouts Salad: A comprehensive review
First, if you want an actual description of the dishes we ate, peep their menu.

This is an excellent way to eat fried vegetables and sweet bread.

The college-staple Ramen noodle coupled with a soft-boiled egg amidst a jubilee of brothy vegetables with splashes of Mexicana glory poses for an intense culinary and sexually adult experience. Treating the dishes like an around-the-world-in-40-minutes tasting, once your mouth explosion from the Ramen settles, the Tori Meshi chicken dish provides a motherly calmness of sweet and savory beauty - right on your tongue. Top off your tasteful experience with a veggie favorite that has been warped and twisted into a massively impressive mix of flavors. Should you want to die a person that has truly lived, my recommendation is to enjoy this meal lying down, with someone nearby in the event you slip into a food coma from all the insurmountable deliciousness.

On to the next foodscapade: The Month of Gerry's Native Land (Italian)

Get in my mouth: The Month of Thai

Alright, so before we take off on our foodscapades, the ground rules of resolution #6 have to be laid out.

1. One new restaurant per week. I always dreamt of having a grandmother who sends me money and cookies just for being me, but instead mine send me seasonal cards and garage sale gifts (love you Gram, love you Shana). Alas, our budget allows for only one new restaurant per week. 
2. A new dish each time. You know, to get cultured. Although, I might eat a multitude of Pad Thai and Panang Curry and call it "research". 
3. Only eat half the dish... Get real, Gerry. 
4. Take an obnoxious amount of photos and write a kitschy critique complete with 5-dollar words, a splash of wit and arbitrary adjectives. As if there was any other way.

Food porn.

Now that ground rules have been established, it's time to hunt down our top 4 eateries of the Asian persuasion. We took to the web and perused many reputable hubs for Thai restaurants in Austin. However, I may or may not have previously performed some extensive "research" at a number of Thai spots in town (Sway, Thai Passion, Madam Mam's, Saps, Satay, Titaya's, don't judge me), so those are out. 

Some would say I have a problem, but I'd like to call it helping the economy through an excessive expression of love. 

Anyway, after doing some actual research we quickly realized that there are a shit ton of Thai restaurants in Austin. Advice: Don't research food joints of any kind when your husband is hangry. 

One hour, sassy fight, and protein shake later, we mustered up the following list: 

• Pad Thai (The name sold me)
• SPIN Modern Thai Cuisine
• East Side Kings (A Hole in the Wall)
• Muangthai Thai Cuisine

These decisions were based on the following factors: the popularity of the establishment among our peers (so  tired of people who aren't me Instagramming SPIN's delicious-looking dishes), the number of grammatical errors and lack of spell check use on their website, the number of quirky plates present on the menu, and finally - the authenticity of their staff. 

Despite our slight racism, we have officially developed a platform for our first month of foodscapades. 

First up: Pad Thai. 

Doing all the wifey things in 2013.

Now that I'm married, I suppose it's customary to start get back into blogging, buy a puppy, engage in a new entrepreneurial/creative endeavor, host dinner parties, and attempt countless Pinterest projects as Gerry rolls his eyes incessantly.

Notice I didn't say "have a baby".

As I embrace wifehood and 2013 graces the world, I thought it would be appropriate (read: cliche) to make my resolutions public. I think I wanted to do this for some sort of public accountability and/or validity of my attempted commitments. That, or I thought it'd be the perfect post topic to re-emerge into the blogging world.

Enjoy judging my goals and finding better ones to tackle:

Resolution #1: When one freelance business dies, another one is born. I'm bringing The Sutherly Workshop to a halt. Whether permanently or temporarily, I'm not sure. I do know, however, that my co-worker and I will be launching a different entrepreneurial adventure very, very soon.

Resolution #2: I will become a self-proclaimed writer. Whether it be a book, at the magazine, or some famous internet troller stumbles upon my blog and loves it and wants to pay me to write silly things all day. Writing is my ultimate joy, and I'd like to make that complete.

Resolution #3: I want to lose 10lbs.

JK LOL.

Resolution #3, for real: I want to finish a sprint triathlon. How badass would I be?

Resolution #4: I want to start a small group bible study among my Austin peers. On top of getting further involved in our church family,  I think this would be an incredible growing experience for Gerry and I. Might be something that we pray about for a while. But, you know. It's there.

Resolution #5: I want to become an Austin youth soccer coach. I think taking on a team of kids in something that I love dearly would be a tremendously humbling experience.

Resolution #6: Become a better Austinite. Gerry and I have agreed that each month we will go on a food adventure. Example: January will be the month of Thai. Any time we go out we try a new Thai restaurant. Each month will be different. And I'm going to get so fat.

Whoop, there it is.

I am an engaged person.

Repeat: I am an engaged person. As of last night, I will no longer feel like a ridiculous psycho want-to-have-a-wedding-so-I-will-Pin-all-the-wedding-things lady when talking to vendors and clients. Typically, conversations are as follows:

Me: "Well, I'm getting married in November."
Client/Vendor/Passerby: "Ohhhhh my gosh! Congratulations! How exciting! Show me the ring!!!"
Me: (After they realize I have no ring to present) "Well, we're not engaged, per se."
Client/Vendor/Passerby: "...oh..." (Updates Facebook check-in to say "with Insane Wannabe Bride")

Embarrassment and justification ensues.

Now, though, I have tangible proof of my upcoming nuptials. And a story to back it up! Let's relive last night, shall we? I know you're itching to find out details.

T'was the night before Friday, and all through the apartment, not a thing was suspicious - not even my roommate...ment. As we're sitting on our couch that rests upon cinder blocks, Erin hopped up and decided to clean the bathroom, a feat she never voluntarily tackles. But you know, I cleaned that hair-laden vinyl hell last time so it was her turn. Needless to say, I didn't think anything of it.

Later, I will find out that she confessed to a thread of Facebook friends of mine that if she cleans more than one entity of our home in one sitting that I will become suspicious, due in part to the blatant fact that Erin cleans about twice a year.

After about 45 minutes of thorough scrubbing, she re-emerges in the living room, removes her rubber gloves and notifies me that Lennald (boyfriend's nickname) would like to go on a double date to South Congress Cafe on Friday night. She said that Gerry was already on board.

"Sure," I said, "I hope Gerry feels like paying as I have $36 dollars in my bank account." (I'm already petitioning to get a sponsored blog called "How to have a wedding for $20 dollars," so I'm obviously living out my blogging ambition...)

The Friday workday came and went, as usual. And I headed home to get changed for dinner at 7:30.

Sidenote: On the one hand, I love surprises. But on the other hand, I love ruining surprises. Permanently skeptical, I never snoop (cop out) but I thoroughly enjoy probing. I suppose I see this is a true testament to whether or not my friends and family love me as much as they say they do. I mean, it must be love if they plan and scheme for days and weeks just to fool me for one single moment. It's fun to be friends with a pain in the ass, isn't it?

Anyway, Gerry picked me up for dinner and we made our way to South Congress. Me, still totally unsuspecting at this point, just chatted casually with my soon-to-be and unbeknownst-to-me fiance. When the other half of this seemingly normal double date arrived, we were seated in a cozy booth adjacent to the bathrooms (lovely). As of the sit-down, Erin had already mentioned about 4 or 5 times that she was sweating profusely, and they must have their dial turned to the setting that resembles hell. Usually, I'm the one that is ever-sweaty, but Erin is known to be hyperbolic at unnecessary times. So, still clueless at this point.

Dinner ensued. I couldn't decide what I wanted to eat, wound up not choosing the scallops, poked Gerry's "keys" (ring box) at one point in the evening because he was wearing what appeared to be jeggings and it seemed his "keys" (ring box) were breaking skin. "Those are my keys you idiot!" says Gerry. Slight overreaction, but nothing out of the ordinary for that high-tempered New Yorker. Erin's texting feverishly through dinner, Lenny becomes condescending. Thus far this is shaping up to be a totally normal, completely standard hangout.

In retrospect, Gerry just let me consume whatever was in front of me. And that isn't normal. Baked Brie, crab cakes, sourdough bread, 6oz filet (medium-rare, duh), white wine, roasted garlic potatoes, DESSERT - without so much as a peep from my self-established nutritionist. Usually, he is sweetly concerned for my sensitive health and prefers I stick to my diet of celery sticks and baked salmon. But... screw that. We're at South Congress Cafe!

After I was rolled out of the booth, Erin wanted to snap some photos outside of the cafe. Still nothing to be suspicious about. What would have been suspicious, however, was if I had actually seen Katie Huddleston roaming around the front of the giant cafe window like a little lost puppy. Which, she was doing. But, alas, I didn't. And she made it to her destination in the nick of time. 

Erin and I did our usual 8 rounds of photos because one is never enough, and she encouraged Gerry and I to take one. I'm never opposed to documenting moments, so document away. Round 1 of picture-taking happened. Erin said, "Do you want another one?", then presented Gerry with a fierce batch of  wide "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" eyes. Right as we started round 2 of picture-taking, Gerry fell to the ground at such a rate I thought his leg might have been sliced off. I started to help him off the ground when I realized he was down on one knee.


With an open black velvet box. With an open black velvet box with a shiny ring inside of it.


"Is this a joke?" I said.
"Wait, you guys, is this real!?" I reiterated.

Skepticism first rushed into me because for the last month, my father has been pushing Gerry to go buy a Walmart ring and to "get the job done". And, might I add, I had just spoken with the designer and she said the ring was still in the process.

Obviously, it wasn't a joke. And it was very real.

After my brows un-furrowed, and after Gerry got done silently sitting on the ground, I put the ring on my finger. Jumping, screaming, hugging, and kissing (sorry, no crying) immediately followed. Then I heard a group of people scream something indecipherable from across the street. Staring at my hand, then back at Gerry, then back at my hand, I made my way across the street only to greet the familiar faces of Whitney, Katie, Whitley, Andrew, and a double-fisting hobo standing too close to Katie. I hugged everyone (even the hobo) our of sheer excitement and then began my round of phone calls to alert my loved ones.

All the while still staring at my hand.

Most of you know me. Therefore, most of you aren't surprised to find out that we've already booked a date, venue, taken care of the food, dress designer, officiant, our wedding stationary, hair and makeup. DJ, florist and dessert appointments are next week. What? While I had to endure a few months of crazy eyes and awkward conversation, it's nice not to have to hit the ground running!

All of you are invited. But only like 150-175 of you can eat. See you November 30th!

A girl's gotta eat.

Below is a real conversation that was had with a coworker of mine:

D: Hey Sadie, can you come take a look at this?
Me: Sure, let me get a couple hard-boiled eggs and make my flax oatmeal right quick.
D: ...do you eat anything that tastes good?

To some, I tend eat things that resemble cardboard and moss. While my body chooses to love an unreasonable portion of fruits and vegetables over a tall salty stack of McDonald's hashbrown pucks - my mouth begs to differ. Thus, I bring you my [shortened] list of scrumptiously horrible foods that my mouth could eat for the rest of my life.

Behold:

My man.

• Fletcher's Corny Dogs.
Really, any brand of corn dog. But there's a special time of year when my family and I venture to the State Fair. Upon arrival of that redneck playground, my eyes widen like Jesus is coming and I run with both hands fiercely stretched out in front of me as if Fletcher himself were going to issue me a hug and a lifetime supply of Corny Dogs. After my fat girl dash, I revel in that little fried delight. Then, hours later, I will have a second Dog to end my trip to the State Fair of Texas and begin my week-long digestion battle. 
• Taco Bell's Crunchwrap Supreme. My love affair with these little saucers of Tex-Mex glory first began in high school. Specifically, when I realized I was starving at the end of every volleyball game. After each game, there was a brief time where I would retrieve food, and eat it at my then-boyfriend's house. There was a mini "restaurant row", so to speak, and among those dining establishments was a KFC/Taco Bell combo. What would my high-school self order nearly every single game night? A Crunch Wrap Supreme, potato wedges, a steak Grilled Stuff'd Burrito, and a sweet tea - for good measure. How am I alive? 
• California Rolls. Ah, the universal roll in the sushi world. While a Rainbow Roll typically wins me over on the menu, there's no escaping that the base of that colorfully delicious masterpiece is, in fact, a Cali Roll. "But Sadie, sushi is fish and rice and seaweed and avocado. That's pretty healthy!" Yes my readersan, normally you'd be right. But 99.9% of all California Rolls are made with crab stick. Which is mostly composed of 3 parts random white fish, 2 parts food dyes, 1 part incomprehensible chemical, and 10 parts tasty. 
• Chocolate covered almonds. If ever I wander away from you in the grocery store, you will either find me reading labels of obscure foods - or staring at the bulk chocolate covered almonds tube that you can pour into a large bag at your leisure. There might have been a time last month where I filled a 2 pound bag as a "road trip snack" and ate it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. One is just never, ever enough. 
• Lil Smokies. If you bring me to a barbecue or house party that is serving these little weens on a toothpick, it is probable that I will consume no fewer than 35 smokies in one sitting. That is all.
• And lastly, A fat Chipotle burrito. Many of you are aware of my mild obsession with Chipotle. But it may come as a surprise to most of you that every time I open those faux chrome doors and see the beautiful assembly line of Mexican goodness - I weep. I weep, because I know I cannot order that warmed flour tortilla, I cannot order that cheese, and I cannot add the dollop of sour cream. Instead, I order the stupid salad with no dairy. Someday soon, I'm going to order that perfectly crafted burrito that I first fell in love with (tort, white rice, black beans, peppers and onions, steak, pico, lettuce, cheese, sour cream, guac, and a sprinkle of green sauce. Omg.), and my mouth will love every bite. Then, my mouth will laugh in the face of my soon-to-be-unsettled bowels. 

This is what it feels like I'm eating when I finish my dream burrito.

I'll spare you the details that I know would accompany a Chick-fil-a breakfast bagel sandwich, a medium rare filet from Ruth's Chris Steakhouse, glass upon glass of Ovaltine, and a heaping bowl of Oatmeal Squares - for I know the longevity of this post could far surpass just 6 bullet points.

Note: during this post I have since completed nearly a pound of chocolate covered almonds. I would say I have a problem, but I don't. So shut up.

It costs more money for me to work, than it does to play.

So, as most of you know, I am gainfully employed at a little company that is responsible for publishing two magazines tailored toward professional women and men here in Austin. As you can probably imagine, my distant dreams of working in a fast-paced, political, obviously not eco-friendly, and inconveniently located office have finally come true!

While seemingly unfortunate, working for a local publication has its perks. For instance, we garner a lot of attention from various community-sponsored events and/or big wigs in a number of societies within Austin. Every month, once our magazine has been put to bed, we host a launch party for all of our advertisers, prospective clients and obsessive readers. Basically, we throw a party and give each other alcohol-induced high fives for doing our job. Moreover, on top of our own soirees, companies and organizations alike invite us  to galas, benefits, parties, happy hours, sporting events, showcases and any other affair that would forge even the slightest social scene.

"Sadie, would you mind telling me what your humble-bragging point is?"

Observe:

Prior to the monthly closing date of our magazines, the art director, fashion editor and a photographer all assemble their stupid talent into a whirlwind of creative splendor and style a product shoot.

1. I hate them all for being my age and having my dream job(s).
2. During these shoots, I am absolutely not working due to my fierce staring laser beams of jealousy getting in the way of my computer.
3. The more I gaze drool longingly at our fashion editor while she brings in the bags upon bags of luxuriously expensive couture from Saks Fifth Avenue the more I am aware of what is fashionable/trendy/not in my closet*. 

*Often, on the evening of these wonderful wonderful shoots, I will go home and I will stand in my closet. I will stand in my closet and I will shake my head in utter disgust. Then, I will stew over my apparel timeline and try to pinpoint the exact moment that I crossed over to the world of unfashionable. Now, obviously, when I partake in this self-loathing I'm drunk off of unattainable, expensive trends. Otherwise, if anyone else stood in  my closet they would label me an ensemble-glutton with a bad habit of buying Little Black Dresses.

Basically, unless my salary goes up considerably - I won't have the income to foot the bill for all this shit! I'm braving the catty world of social elitists and I cannot be seen in the same dress twice. These people are straight-up Real Housewives of Austin status. Except, replace "Real Housewives" and insert "Bewilderingly Successful & Self-Established Socialites".

So, the financially tumultuous point I'm trying to make is this:

Lest I buy a dress, a pair of shoes and - for accessory's sake - the occasional necklace, bi-monthly, for the rest of my career...

I'll die.

Let's get physical, physical.

As I sit on our plush couch with no legs, admiring our near-fully furnished apartment and digesting the mass amount of fibrous food I just consumed, I observe my roommate Erin. At the moment, she's removing her shirt in a sweaty haze and scouring the kitchen for sustenance. For the hunt, she's donned in a sports bra and knee-length running pants that are pulled up to her belly button. "Excuse my fat rolls," she says.

Let us remember, Erin is a 5'11" stalk of celery; long, lean with a heap of hair on top.

After I avert my eyes, I attempt to rise from the world's lowest couch... But... I don't. My legs are too sore to stand up. After living  being a sloth in Austin almost 2 months, I've only recently started working out again. And what have I done? I've conned Erin into buying a gym membership to be my workout buddy. And this Sunday marks the end of week 1. And with that, marks the end of the first week of Erin's Hell.

One time, I played college soccer. That brief stint taught me a little bit about how to work out. One other time, I discovered I had an immune deficiency. That precious blessing taught me a little bit about how to eat. With my vault of nutritional knowledge now open, I'm pulling a Mr. Miyagi and enlightening Erin about the dangers of eating Conversation Hearts for dinner, and how detrimental it can be to your liver if you replace water with Blackstone Merlot.

We're working on it.

Anyway, our athletic endeavors began last week and I was thrilled, THRILLED to have someone to be miserable alongside as I lay my cellulite to rest in cottage cheese hell. Though, on the inaugural session of Mission: Sexy Celebrity Body Double we discovered that Erin, immersed in her classic novel reading and adolescent poetic composing, was never introduced to the wide world of pushups. Or split jumps. Or shoulder presses. Or anything that sorority sisters everywhere can't bob up and down upon. So, I have taken it upon myself to nurture this newborn gym baby. We spent a lot of this week just learning how to do things. And considering I've begun growing a front-ass orb, I didn't mind the easing-into-things.

Now, earlier this week we put pushup-position rows into one of our circuit workouts. Unfamiliar with exactly how to do it, Erin asked I watch to make sure she was executing the exercise at peak athletic performance. Mind you, we had already done about 150 reps of other things so our muscles were already burning. But in the middle of her pushup-position row I see Erin slowly fall to the ground. On the way down to her death, I hear her desperately wheeze out the phrase, "My arm, Sadie... my arm won't hold up my body." And just like the waning moments in the renowned scene of Titanic when a weary Rose lets go of popsicle Jack, down Erin went.

Disclaimer: Erin is a champion. She's been pushing through these workouts with an intense amount of reluctance, but determination to accomplish. And that's admirable. Plus, the counselor who signed Erin up for her membership is spicy hot. Motivation City, population: Celery Stalk.

At the end of every workout, we limp out of the gym as if our brain isn't sending the message "bend" to our knees, all the while discussing how many ripped cut abs we're going to have and how many quarters we will bounce off each other's firm badonks. We are living the lives of real twentysomethings; we have 9-5 jobs, a church we frequent, an apartment that resembles a knockoff Anthropologie store, virtually no money, and a workout regime.

Now, someone to come over and slap this delicious chocolaty treat out of my hand before I eat it and it's 9 other friends.

I will no longer be smelling like a deep-fried onion: I'm employed!

Hello, my name is Sadie. You might remember me from such careers as "Wild Bill's Burgers' Scene/Emo High School Waitress", "From Lifeguard to Headguard Then Demoted Back To Lifeguard" or "Lesbian UPS Truck Driver's Package Runner". I'd like to inform you today that as of November 28th, 2011, I have hung my part-time-job hat (knock on wood, touch a screw, hold your breath while driving through a graveyard, keep your freaking umbrella closed indoors and rub that lucky rabbit's foot raw).

I'm on day 8 as AW Media's Office Manager (plug), and while I would rather impale myself into a pit of letter openers than write invoices and manage payroll - I'm beyond thrilled (THRILLED) to have this job. Not only do I plan to kick the ass of all things administrative, but I plan to do it with the swiftness of a ninja so I can wiggle my way into the pages of the magazine. I want to contribute less to the filing cabinet, and more to the final product.

In light of my recent career-switch. I'd like to take this time and dedicate this blog post as a written memorial highlighting my soul-sucking, part-time past job life. Let the pitiful hilarity ensue.

The Early Age: Wild Bill was never really that wild.

I'm sure all of my high school friends can agree that Wild Bill was about as wild as a jar of pickles. But despite his resemblance to Bill Nye the Science Guy, the man knew burgers. My most fond memory of my working stint at Wild Bill's was getting the esteemed pleasure of serving one particular gluttonous contestant of the Monster Burger Challenge. First of all, the Monster Burger Challenge was a time-sensitive competition that summoned eaters to scarf down 3 1/3lb patties and 1 whole bun in 10 minutes or less. Second of all, disgusting. If you successfully achieved the goal (of which my dear friend Cameron Gregory puked and paled in comparison. 3 times.) you got your picture on the wall (sadly, Cameron never did). As I said, the walking seventh-sin came in and asked for the Monster Burger. With fries. I brought it out to him and we started the timer. After folding each patty into quarters and soaking the bun in his glass of water, Porky the Pig managed to finish the burger and fries in 2 minutes. 

2 gargling, snorting, panting minutes. 

He then wiped off his sweatstache and asked for a dessert menu.

The Demotion Age: I should have pooped in the pool while I had the chance.

Due to the longevity of my employment as a Wendy Peffercorn stand-in with the City of Hurst at the Central Aquatics Center (RIP Skin Cells: 2004-2010), I have concocted a list of favorite daily tasks/events/pastimes that seemed to never get old despite my ending salary being $9.97 and my age of resignation being 22. The list goes as follows:

• Babies, toddlers, children, tweens, pre-teens and foreigners never understanding that every time they take a fat dump in the pool, we have to evacuate the water for 30 minutes, giving them a self-established timeout and us an opportunity to do even less work.
• Having a tab at the concession stand and not paying it the entire summer.
• Asking women of all shapes, shades and sizes to wear a City of Hurst t-shirt because we can see their saucer nipples through their sheer thong bikini. 
• That summer Cameron and I had a crush on each other. While not an impressive burger-eater, he always had those chiseled pecs and an endearing incapability to effectively serve a volleyball.
• Playing an intense game of sand volleyball on rainy days. Also, watching Kathryn Wren do rain dances to the tune of "When The Thunder Rolls" by Garth Brooks while everyone else played volleyball.
• Hating the Asian family of 42 that came in 30 minutes prior to closing time. Every single night.
• Playing baseball, a sophisticated game of fencing, or jousting my arch nemesis with the Children's Pool measuring sticks.
• My amazing, beautiful, Brazilian-like tan.
• When patrons would clap after I heroically saved a drowning child or stereotyped adult.
• The inservices when I was Guard of the Week.
• The inservices when my best friend Whitley would rant about lifeguards less perfect than she.
• The inservices when we would go down the slides naked.
• Summers when my closest friends were my superiors.
• The summer I was promoted.
• The summer I was demoted.

And it all kind of went downhill from there.

The Lezbiazoic Age: What can brown do for you?
For a couple of Christmas breaks during college, I worked as a package runner for UPS. Actually, Cameron got me the job. Add "in the vocational know" to his list of qualities. Anyway, from 8am until 8pm I was running boxes (probability of the boxes being full of drugs: high) from a giant brown truck to various locations. Some of these locations included my friends' houses, some of these locations included the mall. You can imagine my 19-year-old dismay when I would catch eyes with people I knew who, unfortunately, noticed that it was indeed me sprinting through the mall, or hurdling up and down front walkways, donned in a dook-colored outfit made for a man who was shaped like a rhombus.

One Christmas, though, I had the spicy titillation of working with Gretchen Vandyke.*

*I can't remember her name, but I will work through my depression/early onset Alzheimer's and create a pseudonym for story's sake.

To sum up my lesbian UPS adventures, Gretch would often discuss her personal life with her mistress of 20 years prior. Seeking my womanly wisdom, she and I would go to lunch at any of these family-friendly locations:

• Buffalo Wild Wings
• Hooters
• Chili's Too!

One particular afternoon, as we were delighting in our boneless wings, she received a "hella funny" text from one of her "dudes." Why I gave her my personal cell number I will forever wonder, but the message was instantly forwarded. A picture message! How fun. A picture message with sounds that reached the loudest decibel that could measure utter embarrassment immediately upon opening! How mortifying. It's a hazy memory, but I know the text said a variation of: "HEY EVERYONE, I LIKE GAY PORN. ALL THE TIME. EVERY DAY, Y'ALL!" And with the push of the down button, there lay a graphic picture of something to the Brokeback effect on my Nokia Brick's screen. 

Gretch wound up tipping me 100 extra dollars after my seasonal schedule ended. I wound up blocking any more forwarded texts from her hella funny dudes. 

The Dark Age: Outback and Outofmymind.

We all remember The Outback Chronicles, hmm? While I feel I was employed with that corporation for far too long, I will say I gained some sodium-laden weight, and some valuable insight from my relationship with waitressing. Such key knowledge includes:

• Knowing just how disgusting restaurant kitchens are.
• Understanding that butter is the main dish, and vegetables are the garnish.
• Servers who spit in your food are real. And they are rampant.
• If you order something that comes in multiples (fries, chips, vegetable medleys), you're likely missing 4 or 5 pieces from your plate before you even get your plate.
• Ordering drinks that don't come straight from the fountain (excluding the bar), or ordering 2 drinks at once is a spit-worthy offense. 
• Does your plate look immaculately displayed? Your food was probably been poked and prodded by bare, unwashed fingers. 
• Realizing that there is at least 1000mg of sodium in everything you order.
• If I ever catch you not tipping the appropriate amount, I will impale you into the aforementioned pit of letter openers.
• And lastly, grasping that no matter how much you complain, you still don't matter. You're an amoeba in the restaurant world. And, again, spit-worthy. 

But I digress.

Male Gynecologists: OBGY?

Over the past few weeks, my daily conversations have been riddled with vagina. Why? I don't really know. But I do know that sometimes I feel like I'm in an episode of Sex & The City. And it's scary.

I'm 23 years old. And apparently at my age, I should have a vagyno picked out and put on speed dial. I have yet to divulge myself in the wide world of OBGYN, what with my abstaining from being wang banged and being prescribed birth control for whatever reason. So, that makes me out of the loop when my friends are swapping Gyno stories or sharing shaving secrets or gushing over whose uterus is the most normally shaped or, my personal favorite, whose Gynecologist is sexier.

And that brings me to my current ridiculous query, Male Gynecologists: The 8th Wonder of the World.

The Pyramid of Giza, The Sydney Opera House, Dr. Kenneth Furburger. What do these boggling works have in common? They all blow my mind. Now, I've pondered this. Really. I've spent many a minutes brooding, trying to understand why a man would want to go noodling around our great divide all day long. I just can't wrap my head around why someone, let alone someone of the male persuasion, would want to wake up, go to work and stare at a bushy bajingo day in and day out.

Women fanny nannies? Sure. We know what to expect. We know that beneath the Fruit of the Loom armor we will find God's sense of humor. We see it every day, and in the most unattractive and farthest-from-sexy way for one week a month.

And so, my bewilderment has led me to whip up a pros and cons list as an attempt to deem it acceptable for a man to be a doctor down south of the mouth. Observe:

Pros to being a medical Mr. Whiskerbiscuit:

• You're gay, and are therefore visually unscathed by the daunting coslopus.
• You are well-versed in the Chronicles of Vagarnia, and said knowledge could give you the upper hand in maintaining a strategically happy, healthy sex life.

Cons to being a medical Mr. Whiskerbiscuit:

• You're gay, and are therefore visually scathed by the daunting coslopus.
• You have to platonically poke, probe, feel around, lift, move, scrape, smell, slide, enter, exit and most importantly, look fixedly upon a flesh-toned venus fly trap for breakfast, lunch and dinner. 

Cons > Pros. The defense rests.

Confessions of an ex-heifer part 2: Once you go fat, you never go back.

Last night, as I was eating  relishing the gluttonous glory of life in my Ghirardelli Almond Sea Salt Soiree dark chocolate bar, I began to think about my journey with food. If you'll recall, I've already delved the physical joys of being an ex-heifer, but being a bulbous baby doesn't only take a toll on your muffin top - it leaves a sticky-sweet fingerprint on your will power. That's why I, and all my once-a-whale sisters out there, can say that once you go fat, you never go back. There will always be something that tickles your binge button.

Observe:
Katie Miller (to Gerry Flynn): "Is your girlfriend still eating?"
Gerry Flynn (to Katie Miller): "Cheerios twice a day, then two pounds of sweets at any given moment in time."

You see, many of those who know me me know that I am a pretty healthy human being. My meals are for the most part green and/or organic, sometimes consisting of things people didn't even know came from the earth. And stop rolling your eyes, I don't eat like this for hipster or granola reasons. I eat like this because prefer the way my body feels after a hearty salad (so good), as opposed to the way my body feels after a 7 piece student special at Chicken Express (so good). Unfortunately, though, many of those who know me also know that I have a deep-seeded affinity for Chocolate.

Like, it's stupid.

As the 30 extra pounds of my youth began to slowly shed (heavy on the slowly)(pun!), I began to see my will power become enclosed in a chocolate vault.

When placed in front of me, the bag of Dove dark chocolate covered almonds becomes my prey. And I, the lioness hunting for her family ...myself, must ravish this 3-serving-large bag of pure bliss before anything might happen to it. Like a house fire. Or a tornado. Or my mother catching wind that I have chocolate goodies in the house. That woman is like a bloodhound for the sweet mixed scent of cocoa butter and semisweet chocolate.

While I do have my chunky childhood mostly to blame, it doesn't help that I believe this unhealthy adoration is genetic. I believe that my mother is the tippy top of the coocoo-for-cocoa family tree. And I absolutely believe that she passed on to me, along with the aforementioned baby weight of an extra baby, the inability to resist a nibble or 60 of anything of the chocolate descent. And it's going to be a slippery slope for the generations to come (sorry Gerry). Because on the one hand, I'm not interested in my children having type 2 diabetes at the ripe age of 7. But on the other, my milk-chocolatey heart would weep regularly if I robbed them of the wonderful, orgasmic, mouth-watering world of Dove chocolate products.

I've contemplated getting a grip on this "problem" since I no longer have obvious weight issues and I'm kind of a control freak, but... no. Besides, dark chocolate has heart-health benefits. So in my mind, the more dark chocolate I consume, the healthier my heart.

It's a win-win.

The Purgatory of Adulthood

Full disclosure: I'm at my wit's end.

Upon my return from The Land Down Under, a.k.a The Land of Enchantment, a.k.a The Land of Perfect Weather, a.k.a The Land Where Katie Danced On A Stage In The Middle of a Night Club - I have deduced 3 things:

1) The Texas heat can kiss my recently-sculpted ass.
2) I underestimated just how much I missed Chipotle and Panera Bread.
3) I hate the transition.

That is to say, I hate the transition from college to adulthood. It's frustrating, indefinite, unreliable and belittling. I imagine that is what Purgatory would feel like; not too fiery hot, not too cloudy/golden/heavenly - but juuuuust annoying.

Going to Australia for 6 months was, by far, one of the best decisions of my life. The things I experienced, the memories I made, the lessons revealed to me by God - all things I would never want to give up. Not even for a lifetime supply of Chipotle burritos.

However, going into my adventure - I knew it had to end. Hoorah for realism. I knew I had to come home and catch up to everyone who had already landed jobs or internships or were handed down daddy's multi-billion dollar company.

So! Where does this bit of bitching and moaning leave me? Stuck between an 8oz sirloin and a treadmill. I'm [arguably] gainfully employed at Outback Steakhouse (yep, STILL) and 24 Hour Fitness. I'm working 2 part time jobs in order to catch me back up to speed financially. In doing this, I'm hoping to graduate from adulthood purgatory to adulthood heaven come November. Once that brisk month approaches, I'll hopefully be living on my own in Austin with a career, a roommate and a boyfriend right around the corner. Until then, I will endure the unstable income, the management staff who think I have rocks for brains, and the coworkers who will have liver transplants at 32.

But despite the first-world pain that I'm forced to survive, I'm excited for the after-purgatory-life. And really, really, really eager to get there. Don't tell anybody, though. I wouldn't be able to show my face in public if people knew I were thankful for any income at all, grateful for a surprisingly pleasant workplace, and glad I get to take home nightly a fist full of ridiculous stories about the clowns I work with.

In the mean time, everyone console Gerry. The next few months for him will be riddled with earfulls of stress-related vent sessions and financial complaints. Thank God for patient boyfriends.

Bye, I'm going to eat Chipotle.

I've got the Black Lung, Pop.

I head back to the states on May 16th. That's in 6 days. 

Shit is bananas. 

A moment ago, I was watching fireworks at the Sydney Harbour Bridge to ring in the New Year. Now, I'm plotting ways to avoid American Airlines from slapping a fee on my checked bags and carry-on cardigans. Where did the time go?

In celebration of my departure from the land down under, Katie and I took one last trip up to Queensland. If I were a compulsive liar, I'd tell you that we went up there to assist with the flood relief and find a way to keep bananas from being $12 a kg. Unfortunately, I'm neither a liar nor a saint. Instead, we went up to Queensland to do nothing, sleep in, go to the beach, meet people, eat, drink and be merry. We're so selfish. 

We got up to the Gold Coast/Surfer's Paradise late on the 27th, and it was raining. Then, we realized we missed the shuttle back to our hostel. Then, we walked around aimlessly in desperate search of our hostel. Then, we walked around aimlessly in a desperate search for for food that had a menu in English. Soon, though, it stopped raining, we found our hostel, dropped off our overpackedforaweek'stime bags and finally found food.

Dining at the elegant Hard Rock Cafe, we feasted on a decent cheeseburger and a fat glass of beer - our vacation had begun! We nestled into our tissue paper sheets and fluffed up our Legal Pad of a pillow and drifted asleep to the sweet sounds of beer bottles clanging and toilets flushing every 20 minutes.

The next day, it rained. 

The day after that, it rained. 

The day after that, it rained some more. But I demanded we suffer through the sand blasted wind chills for the sake of my bronzed skin.

On the way to the appropriately deserted beach, we met a guy in a kiosk. His hair looked as if it had been styled with Redbull & Vodka. 

And so began the spiel. 

"Look, you're American, I'm American. Let's cut a deal. What's your hostel charging for the club crawl? 30 bucks each? I've got a better deal. I'll give you a buy-one-get-one-free party pass - only $60 bucks."

"..."

"I'll give you 5 free drinks, free entry to all the bars in Queensland on Thursday night for Ladies Night, free food at the bars, hanging out with me all night (he winked just now), and free entry all night to the bars on Friday. That cool? Alright, I'll book you in. What are your names?" 

"We don't have any money on us."

"Do you have credit cards?"

"Yeah, in our hostel."

"Alright cool, we'll just mark you down for Friday night for the Wicked Party Tour with me. I'll just need your money before I can give you all your sick passes."

"No, like, we don't have any money on us. As in, we can't give you any right now because it is not in our possession."

This little exchange went on for about 10 minutes too long. Eventually, out of pity and boredom we agreed to go on the club crawl with Wicked Party Tours and Winky McSellsmeshit. We figured if we were going to go out at all, we might as well get the best deal. Club entries in Surfer's Paradise are about 10 bucks at the door, and drinks cost about the same. So, 1 club entry and 2 drinks for 30 bucks? Grow up. Besides, Katie was sold on "free food." 

Looking back, the night was hilarious. In the moment, the night was awkward, humid and smelled of drunk sweat. You know what I'm talking about. 

The most awkward thing about the night was that the crawl started at 5pm. Everyone was lingering around each other, commenting on how hungry they were and how they weren't drunk enough to be drinking the weird radioactive energy drink they gave us. Except, however, except the people that wanted to take the term "crawl" literally - they were already exclaiming "WOO!" in various octaves and dancing to the sick dubstep beats in their heads. 

The awkwardness subsided at about 10:30 and the night suddenly became fun. At that time, we were at a club with a lavish resort for a bathroom and everyone began to lose their inhibitions. Which means! Cracking jokes at people having dry sex on the dance floor, making new friends, being lumped in that pre-existing group of friends and reaping the benefits when someone says "this round's on me!"

We escaped the club just as the ripe stench of alcohol was seeping out of everyone's pores. On the way home, Katie honed in on a 24 hour pizza joint with $3 slices of margherita pizza. I think in another life she should have been a Bloodhound. That schnoz can find food from miles away. 

And the consensus is: I still hate clubbing.

The next day, I was dying. My voice was completely gone and my nose might as well have been stuffed with corks. I think God was punishing me for going clubbing. Both for that I was being debaucherous, and because I wasn't helping rectify the banana crisis. 

After our stint with the tiny town that's perpetually on Spring Break, we headed to the sunny, beautiful, quaint city of Cairns.

Cairns was a trip filled with much more nature-fueled activities, better food, a hostel that doubled as a luxury hotel and feeble attempts at keeping my illness from evolving into the Black Lung. Being on the Great Barrier Reef for 9 hours was warm, brilliant and absolutely unforgettable. However, I think the group of foreigners in front of me could not have been more grossed out at how much snot was running out of my nose and into my napkin. 

What's important, though, is that I was getting a tan. Deathly ill on the inside, bronze and hot on the outside. My priorities are totally in line. 

Katie was keen on being submerged in a rainforest. I, on the other hand, was keen on shriveling up and dying.  Due to my failing as a self-propelled doctor, the rest of the trip for me was hard on my body. I'm convinced that I lost a lung at some point during our adventures. But I was in Cairns! I couldn't waste our days getting drunk on cough syrup and buying prepaid internet cards - I had to make it memorable. Sick or not. 

And what's more memorable than biking 28 miles to a body of water? We rented bikes and rode up to this little spot called the Crystal Cascades. It was a pretty little spot with a slew of waterfalls, swimming holes and creeks. And aside from my developing pneumonia and getting a taste of what my wedding night will feel like (bike seats on long-distance rides are unforgiving), it was a beautiful day. Later that night we feasted on some overpriced Australian-native animals and onion rings. Immediately after, we went back to the hostel suite so I could be horizontal and go to bed at 9:30.

If you're wondering, Kangaroo tastes like an overcooked sirloin. And if you're also wondering, I'm a douche bag for eating a precious Kangaroo. 

"So like, Sades Magades, why are you even in Australia?!?"

Some of you have asked me repeatedly why I'm even here in this mystical land of sun, beer and boxing marsupials. And it occurred to me that the lot of you don't really know. So, I will take this time to escape having to have 45 different personal conversations and notify all of you simultaneously why I decided to travel across the world and play in Australia for 5 months.

Yay social media!

Nearly 2 years ago, my roommate Kathy Frances Miller (Allegedly, she hasn't read a single blog post I have written, so I feel zero sympathy for my blasphemous use of her middle name in a public forum. Take that, roomie.) and I conjured up the brilliant idea to fly out to Australia and live with my aunt and uncle after we graduated from ACU. 

And that was about it for the brainstorming.

We got our Visas about a month after we applied for them, and that was a nailbiter. Turns out, Aussies don't want you in their country if you only have 2,000 dollars to your name. But I found a loophole. Anyway, after the long-anticipated approval we started saving that skrill. Meanwhile, God threw a wrench into my seamless plans and made me fall in love with Gerry. I then began to earnestly pray about why I was still on track to fly out here, and why God wanted me to.Why would I leave Gerry now? What am I going to be doing? In between banging my head against a wall whilst working at Outback and banging my head against an InDesign-slathered computer screen whilst trying to finish my degree, my brain was just busy all around.

I didn't really understand why I was here or what I was doing until well into my trip. And being away from my friends, family and boyfriend has been really hard. (Awwwwww! Shut up.) But! God prevails. And I'm now due to return home in less than a month with a clear mind, and a stronger heart. 

Having just been deemed a college grad, you can get a little insecure about your sanity and your financial future. With that, I totally advise escaping reality and taking a would-be-semester-long vacation across the world. It really lets you figure out what you want to do. Not to mention that the change of pace and the break in monotony does wonders on your point of view. 

Does anyone remember when I launched my very first website? It wasn't that long ago, nor was it very successful as more people pay attention to my Facebook than the actual site, but I already want a change. I already want to do more with it. And I already want to promise that I'll pay more attention to the new site. Perfectionism is a bitch, you know. 

Anyway, I think we can all agree that I'm not the cooking-blog, make-your-own-headband kind of person. But when you're seeking your next move, and comparing yourself to other people you know who are kicking out admirable, quirky blogs and DIY websites, that aforementioned insecurity kind of eats at you. So there I was, praying and writing to God fervently, seeking answers to my vexing questions.

But silly me and my mildly unhealthy habit of comparing myself to others.

The idea for spiritual gifts, or God-given talents, or innate abilities, is that no two people share the exact same gift, talent or ability. You bring to the table something completely different - regardless of field similarities. And that's what I came to realize. My desire to do and be more was becoming less of my own and more of whoever I was stalking. And it's far too easy to fall into these days, what with everything being so accessible and constantly thrust your way. I then began to fully take advantage of the isolation that is my closet-shaped room in my uncle's house and focus on what my next move is going to be. 

I had been blessed with a realization that has sparked huge things for my self-esteem, the evolution of Bee Creative Serivices and my potentially successful career. Unfortunately, you're not going to get to know what my big lightbulb moment is just yet. Though, stay tuned. It should be up and running by the summer. And if my oh-so-talented graphic designer is reading this, I do believe a deadline has just been set. Oopsie. 

I'm beyond, BEYOND excited to unveil my new ideas with all of you. I think it's going to be a really great thing, and I know I'll be happy doing it. So long as all of you continue your trend of getting engaged and choosing to hire me to be your wedding photographer.

What tops the list of all of these pensive nights, powerful prayers and perfectly timed ideas is that I'll be able to start a new chapter of my life in Austin, Texas with Gerry sooner than later. 

Being across the world has given me ample time to figure out a lot of things pertaining to my overall happiness and the happiness of those affiliated with me. It would appear that I lived a quintessential college life, in that I really "experienced" things and "found myself", so to speak. Hard and dark at times, but worth the light I'm feeling now. 

If there's anything I can take home from my experience here in Aussieland, it would be to live simpler, love deeper and wear sunscreen.

Well I would walk 500 miles, then I would walk 500 more...

Aussie slang defined (I found one!):

• Arvo = afternoon. I received an email from an employer asking me if "Saturday arvo would work" and to let her "have a proper think". I'm living in a Dr. Seuss book. 

Choosing to see New Zealand in exactly a week was a tricky commitment. On the one hand, we always had something to do. On the other hand, we always had something to do. By the end of the week I could fall asleep standing. I mean, I could probably fall asleep standing at any given moment, but you get the gist. 

We got to our first hostel late on the 29th, feeling a little winded from our travels but really excited to start exploring. We managed to book a private hostel room with a double bed. Snuggle time with Katie! And that was the only bed that my body didn't reject completely, so that was a nice trend setter. Too bad none of the other hostels wanted to pick up on that trend...

After we settled, peed, and poked around the hostel for a while we remembered how ravenous we were. Luckily, we were staying at a hostel that was right off a happening strip of restaurants. What was doubly fantastic is that they were all mostly Asian restaurants. My taste buds were high-fiving each other. 

But... whomp whomp: everything was closed. 

Except a pizza joint at the end of the strip. Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaydamnit. At this point, if Italian food was banned from Australia I think I would leap and bound in utter happiness. I was raped with Italian food during our Melbourne trip since Katie's mother and her mother's best friend are from Kansas, and don't stray too far from foods they can't pronounce. What we lacked in edible diversity, we made up for in shenanigans and laughter. I forgave them.

Anyway, we found that stupid pizza place as it was nearing closing time. They grabbed us two pieces of pizza from a giant pan that was sitting out for God knows how long and popped them in the oven. Afterward, we decided that the most satisfying thing to do would be to wash our overpriced pizza squares down with some chain Asian food. This just resulted in my stomach being confused and my wallet being annoyed. Confused, annoyed and smelly - we stopped by a convenience store on the way home to buy some toiletries that we couldn't bring on the plane. You know: shampoo, conditioner, face scrub that we thought was body wash...

The next day was our only full day in Auckland, so we didn't want to waste any time. We got up at 9, snoozed 3 more times, waited for the receptionist, checked out of our luxury double bed and into our Nazi concentration community dorm room, then mozied on out the door and into the city for lunch after a yawn and a stretch.

And so begins our 9 hour walk/hike across the entire city. But first! I will excuse the fact that I have mozzarella dripping from my veins, and indulge in literally the best margherita pizza to ever hit my lips.

On a happy belly, we begin our walk. And immediately, we get lost. This might come to a surprise to all of you as Katie and I are capable, brilliant, ravishing young college graduates, I know. But in our defense, the "marked pathway" that guides us along this coast-to-coast walk was made for the ants that attend Zoolander's School for Kids Who Can't Read Good. Later than sooner, though, we made it to the base of Mt. Eden. Then we climbed it. Then we were slapped silly with amazement at God's earth, and the amazing things it does naturally. Volcanic craters? Tectonic plate-shifts to create regions and regions of hills and mountains? Geothermal parks?! Ridiculous.

We got lost on the way home. Shocker! But you can forget it if you thought my Chacos and I were walking back home. It was 7:30pm and the walk to where we got to was a 9 hour walk. Do the math. Instead, we opted for a 30 dollar taxi ride back to the hostel. Shut up, it was worth it. Covered in dirt, sweat and city sludge - all I wanted was a shower. We walked into our dorm and noticed that one of the top bunks of our set of bunk beds was being occupied by a young gentleman who had the musk of not showering and weed. German, high, and uninterested in getting to know us - we avoided the hug and howdies and immediately went to shower so we could eat. And I think I ate enough Thai to successfully cancel out my mozzarella veins.

When I said that our next place to sleep after our double bed ecstasy was a Nazi concentration community dorm room, I'd like to think I wasn't exaggerating. I'd also like to think that these new German roomies were related to our previous German roomies that we stayed with in Wollongong. We <3 the Gong! Around 3am I hear a rustling from our window, one of our roommates staggers/climbs in the window and makes his way to the bunk above me. Wreaking of booze and weed, he squeaks his way into comfort. About an hour later, I hear him dictating orders in German. Thoroughly freaked out and in complete discomfort on the tissue paper pillow I'm "sleeping" with, I lie awake. I think at this point, Hitler had ordered his troops into the ghetto. Or something. All I know is that I'm balls ass tired.

My eyes finally shut, only to be immediately reopened by the poke of Katie's finger in my shoulder. We needed to get up and walk to the city so we could catch our Naked Bus to Rotorua. In a haze, I gather my belongings and head to the front lobby so I can set my bags down to go brush my teeth. I peer at the clock. It's 5am. We don't have to be awake for another 2 hours.

You suck, Katie. You suck bad.

In her defense, daylight savings time in another country while your phone is set to the time of a different country can get a little trixie. But she's not excused. We arrived in Rotorua and were blasted with the horrible stench of sulfur. Among that, we were also greeted with a barf-worthy meal from a could-be-great hole in the wall cafe. So far, not so good. But! All was forgiven when we got to our hostel. Our lovely, chill, complete with hot-tub hostel that we were residing in for the next 5 days. And we had our own room. And we didn't sleep with tissue paper pillows. Success!

While in Rotorooter, we hiked, got lost, walked, smelled too much sulfur, got lost, sulfur, walked more, took hundreds of pictures, coddled my mozzarella veins, walked, saw an uncountable amount of colors, ate Thai, sulfur, walked through geothermal parks and ate an unforgettably delicious chocolate crepe. But my favorite part had to be the 4 hour 1,500 acre farm and lakeside horse trek we went on. Why? Because we went on a 4 hour 1,500 acre farm and lakeside horse trek. Then, we got free drinks.

New Zealand was like nothing I've ever seen. Both
literally, and figuratively. Geothermal parks are one of the coolest things on this planet. The fact that the deep earth is so unbearably hot that it creates fluorescent colors on the earth's surface is just amazing to me. So many colors! Though, I could do without the jank rotten egg smell of sulfur, but it comes with the territory.

Sort of like Gerry. He's hot, but his donk smells like rotten eggs, too.