This is 30.

I turned 30 on December 1st. In the words of my Uncle Mike, "Oh, fuck it. Life is over."

Just kidding. It's a weird thing, though. And since a birthday party with all of my closest friends is never an option anymore, I decided to celebrate with a trip to Santa Fe, New Mexico.

This guy came with me. And made it his goal to eat All The Things. (Starting with breakfast at Tune-Up Cafe.)

We stopped at the Tent Rocks National Monument on our way from the airport. Matt was not impressed. I don't care what he thinks.

Matt vs. The Cactus. (The cactus won.)

Kowboyz, home of the most brilliant array of cowboy boots, hats, shirts, and anything else you could ever dream of.

The Santa Fe Railyard. Prettiest trains ever. Also, had the best mini (blue) corn dogs of my life at the Second Street Brewery.

We wandered through all the various levels of Double Take, an awesome vintage store filled with cool treasures. (I found a sweet little lidded basket for keeping my earrings and bracelets in.)

It's my birthday, and I'll go on long drives through the mountains if I want to!

We made it to Cowgirl BBQ and I finally got the t-shirt I always regretted never splurging on when I was a broke intern. (This may have occurred after several beers and shots of whiskey.)

Bye, New Mexico! Thanks for a special birthday. (And, y'know, thanks to my brother for coming with me. As my mother says: "Such a nice boy!")

Other notable stops not photographed for posterity: Cafe Pasqual's, Tecolote, Maria's, Kakawa Chocolate Shop, Jackalope, and the CVS where I stocked up on medicine to combat the Worst Cold Ever. (Happy birthday, have some germs!)

That Time I Sold Myself for Charity

I can probably count on two hands the number of times I've been asked out on a real date. Narrow it down to requests from someone I'm actually interested in? One hand.

I've never been the girl that guys flock to, or flirt with, or talk about with each other — like, "Is she gonna be at the party? Is she single?" 

I've never been the girl who gets the attention. 

Until two weeks ago.

My attitude toward life for the past six months has gone a little something like this: fuck it.

I was fed up with roommates, flaky friends, internet dating nonsense, money worries, job troubles, and my life in general. So I started taking a new approach.

Sick of my living situation? I moved, broken budget be damned. Tired of trying to arrange outings with other people? I started going solo and exploring on my own. Bored and unappreciated at work? Time to stop saving those vacation days.

This might sound like common sense to most people, but for someone who's spent the majority of her life meticulously planning, constantly worrying, and always trying to please everyone else, this was a revelation. And it was at that point that an email circulated around the office: a friend of an employee was running a date auction for a local charity and needed volunteers to be auctioned off.

Fuck it. Sign me up.

NAME: Lisa L
AGE: 29
OCCUPATION: Copywriter
INTERESTS/HOBBIES: Reading, road tripping, trying out new recipes, fixing up my apartment, exploring the city, pretending I'm outdoorsy
SUPERHERO POWER I'D LIKE TO HAVE: Teleportation (no more parking tickets or taking the T!)
ONE PLACE I'D LIKE TO VISIT: Iceland

I submitted my profile info and then promptly forgot about it for the majority of the next few weeks. It felt like this abstract thing that I mentioned to people, as a sort of "Isn't this hilarious?" conversation topic. (Also: a "these things still exist!" conversation topic.) It didn't feel like something I was really going to have to do.

Until the week before, of course.

In a panic, I got my hair cut and colored. It was a disaster, and I had to go back to the salon to get it fixed. I walked around with frizz and zits for days, certain it wouldn't get better before the auction. In my attempt to not make the night feel like a Big Thing, I hadn't bothered shopping for a new outfit, and that just added another layer of anxiety to the mix a few days beforehand: Do I own anything appropriate for this kind of scenario? Do I own anything that makes me look even vaguely appealing?

The day of, I rushed home from work, cracked open a bottle of wine, and frantically texted my friends for makeup tips. (When was the last time I'd worn eyeshadow?!?) My dress of choice was one I've had for probably four years at this point; the heels were shoes I cursed at last year's Christmas party when I could barely walk by the end of the night.

I inhaled a burrito, downed half the bottle of Chardonnay, and hopped into a Lyft.

The event was held at ICON nightclub, and this marked my first ever visit to a nightclub, period. I teetered up the steps, signed in, and was forced to slap on a name tag that I spent the rest of the night trying to smooth down. I'd known that another girl from work — the pitcher from our company softball team — was doing the auction, too, but it turned out that two more Wayfair people had volunteered, as well. I chatted with them for bit while I sipped my $14 (it's-for-charity, it's-for-charity) vodka tonic, and then forced myself to work the room.

We were encouraged to mingle and talk to guests before the auction, but at that point in the evening, it was nothing but a sea of fellow auctionees. I was impressed by the array of people who'd thrown their hats into the ring: heavyweight fighter, CEO, personal trainer, designer, police officer, engineer, performance artist (yup), marketing manager...the list went on. One thing I realized after talking to people was that most had brought along an entourage of friends and family who could be relied on to bid for them if things became dire.

Per usual, I was completely and utterly solo.

I was having a pretty good time talking with the others, joking (but secretly serious) that my goal was to go for at least $30. It was at that point that one guy, who had participated in the auction before, proceeded to tell me that the highest bid last year was $450.

Whaaaaaaat.

If you know me, if you've read this blog, if you've ever talked to me for a significant amount of time, you know that I'm a total Scrooge McDuck. I don't pinch pennies; I cling to them with a death grip.

It's at this point that people usually chime in with "Yeah, but it's for charity..."

Valid. But the way my mind works? Something like $175 would be my big, all-out bid. Even if it's for a good cause. So, needless to say, I was pretty shocked.

At that point, guests had finally begun to arrive, so I said goodbye to my comrades and started circling the room, awkwardly trying to insert myself into conversations and introduce myself to people. I managed to talk to four non-participants before the bidding began and I was summoned to the stage, told that I'd be the second woman auctioned off. (What do you mean, second?!)

The stage was a tiny thing at the front of the club, and our hosts for the evening were two local radio personalities. (Thanks for dressing up, guys.) The first man up had a little choreographed number planned to the James Bond theme song, and bidding started at $100.

It started at $100?? There went my $30 goal.

Number One had bids pile up pretty quickly, and eventually sold for $300 (they went in increments of $50). One of the next guys opted for a PG-13 strip tease to earn his bids. The first female was an executive chef who loved yoga (theme of the night: all girls "love yoga") and she had a respectable number of bidders.

It all went much too quickly. It was my turn before I knew it.

The upside? There was no time for a full-blown panic attack. I clung to the stair rail and made my way onto the stage. The hosts had some fun with my profile, offering to the crowd that I was good at fixing things: "Guys, she can fix your toilet!" (Nope, really can't.) And the second they started the bidding, I had an offer — one of the people I talked to earlier in the evening! Two points for awkward socializing.

And then something crazy happened. Someone else put in a counter-bid. It was a guy in the back of the room, too far to tell if it had been one of the other people I'd met. But it set off a full-on bidding war.

If there's anything more surreal than watching perfect strangers offer to pay large sums of money just to spend an evening with you, it's this: watching a perfect stranger pay $650 to spend an evening with you. Also known as: the highest bid of the night.

I think the look on my face in that picture pretty much says it all.

So what have I learned from this experience?

#1. I will do almost anything for a good story.
#2. I should probably invest in different shoes.
#3. I'm actually pretty good at holding a conversation when forced to turn on the charm.
#4. I should avoid mentioning my love of yoga in any future dating profiles.

Am I pleased I was able to raise that much for Project Smile? Heck yes. Did I gain a little smug boost of confidence in that moment? Guilty. By the time the night was over, though, that had worn off and mostly I just felt a combination of hysterical laughter, confusion, and squirming uncomfortableness.

I don't all of a sudden think I'm hot stuff, and that guys are going to actually start noticing me now (though I did leave the club with a phone number). Realistically, I just happened to talk to the right person at the beginning of the night — someone who was willing to donate a significant amount of money to the charity no matter what — and I managed to pick a good conversation topic (books, you never let me down).

But at the very least, I learned this, too:

#5. I'm worth more than just $30.

5 Things I Googled This Week

I'm a curious person. Don't get me wrong — the library is great and will always be one of my favorite places in the world, but I LOVE Google. From my time as a student, to my days as a fact-checker, all the way up to today, I find myself looking up weird stuff all the time. So, rather than doing a weekly round-up of the same interesting links that all my favorite blogs are already showcasing, I thought I'd try something a little different. A little more random.

Enjoy.

1. "What is a group of sharks called?"
   Among other things, a group of sharks is called a frenzy or a shiver. So appropriately cool. Other awesome ones: a crash of rhinoceroses, a tower of giraffes, a prickle of porcupines, and a kaleidoscope of butterflies. Believe it or not, this was work-related research.
    
2. "How to move on Sept 1st in Boston"
   Fun fact: the majority (like, almost two-thirds) of apartments in Boston have leases that start on September 1st. That means that a  good chunk of people are moving out of their old apartments on August 31st, and I have no idea what happens in between. You could theoretically have to be out of your previous place by midnight on August 31st, but not allowed into the new spot until as late as 11 a.m. the following day. Does everyone just sleep in their moving truck? One recommendation I'm looking into: negotiating with the previous tenant to try to move in a little early. Every hour helps!
    
3. "Michigan Mystery Spot"
   I'm planning a trip home over Labor Day weekend, including a jaunt up north to one of my favorite places ever: the Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore. Every trip to the Upper Peninsula, however, comes with the urge to check out the famous Mystery Spot in St. Ignace. TripAdvisor reviews call it both a "fun time" and "boooooooring." I know it's a tourist trap, but I'm SO TEMPTED. 
    
4. "Louis Vuitton store in the middle of the desert"
   I was at a party last Saturday night, chatting with some new people, and when I mentioned that my office is located in "the fancy mall," we got onto the topic of high-end stores, which lead to them telling me about this store that's in the middle of nowhere in Nevada that existed solely for the sake of being unusual. I vowed to look into this more later. Searching with "Louis Vuitton" yielded no results (hey, I was kind of tipsy at the time), and I started to feel sad that maybe they were mistaken, but when I changed my query to "High fashion store in the middle of the desert": BINGO. There is a Prada "installation" in the Chihuahuan desert, near Marfa, Texas, that has drawn thousands of visitors (including Beyonce).
    
5. "Michelle Obama speech dnc 2016"
   Gave me goosebumps.

Zen and the Therapy of Driving

I love to drive.

Well, that's not completely accurate. More like: I love to watch the scenery whiz by through the window. I love to sing along to the radio — loudly, badly, and unapologetically. I love how smoothly I can turn the wheel with one hand while simultaneously eating a slice of pizza with the other. I love that I'm better at parallel parking than 99% of my friends.

I love the moments when you can just cruise, not worrying about making an exit or a turn, because either you know the route like the back of your hand or you're still miles and miles from your destination. I love taking my sweet time in the summer, one arm hanging out the window, letting the warm air drift through and watching the sun just begin to set.

I love the freedom that comes with driving. And, more than anything else, I love the peace and clarity that often accompanies getting behind the wheel. 

I tried seeing three different therapists last year. 

That's something no one tells you about seeking professional help: how it's like dating (something I'm terrible at), but instead of sharing a few personal details and your likes and dislikes with a complete stranger, you have to spill your insecurities, fears, and worries so shameful that you don't even discuss them with your best friends. Oh, and then you have to fork over a $40 co-pay. Nice to meet you, too.

After striking out with the first two, I found myself in yet another tiny waiting room. This one had an abnormally loud door that would creak and slam no matter how gentle you tried to be, and the carpet was so thin that the walk from your chair to the therapist's office always sounded like a march to the gallows.

The woman was short, overweight, and walked with a kind of shuffling waddle. She kept a dog with her at work, something I was pretty excited about until I realized that it would be nothing more than a snoring, furry lump in the corner. She wore so much makeup that I often became entranced by her thick red lipstick and gunky black eyeliner; it was a puzzle, trying to figure out where her real features ended. Her office was dimly lit and dominated by an old couch that had an indentation in the middle so deep that no matter where I tried to sit, I always felt like I was slanting sideways about 45 degrees.

But her office was close to work, she could see me after 5 p.m., and she took my insurance. It was the Holy Trinity of requirements for psychological treatment.

Despite these much sought-after features, and my hopes that the dumpy facade was just the superficial window dressing of someone who would be truly caring, insightful, and helpful...she was a pretty shitty therapist.

Here's how it went: I would talk — and, let's face it, usually cry — and she would sit in her wingback chair, occasionally nodding until, inevitably, her eyelids would start to droop and flutter.

My mom conks out every time she's in the passenger seat during road trips, so I'm pretty familiar with what a losing battle with consciousness looks like. Add in the slow, heavy breathing and a slightly gaping mouth, and by the third real visit I was fairly certain: my therapist was falling asleep during our sessions.

Originally, I just wanted my car back because I was sick of being limited to areas accessible by public transportation, and I was tired of always having to bum a ride if I wanted to hang out at a friend's house. I missed the freedom and convenience that came with having a car, and ultimately, that overrode all of the hassles that come with it, too. So, after a year and a half of being without it, I drove my trusty Honda CRV back to Boston with me after Thanksgiving.

Make no mistake: my car is a piece of crap. But it's my beloved piece of crap. If you ignore the fact that it's almost 30% rust at this point, it's actually kind of adorable, and I have a hard time imagining anything being a better fit than that silly shade of blue and awkward, compact body (just like me!).

I had this car for my last two years of college, used it for the 7.5-hour trips between Michigan and Syracuse during holiday breaks, drove it across the country to live in New Mexico, and then drove it back across to live in Pennsylvania. I practically lived in this car for four months during my road trip around the United States, and I shuffled it from parking spot to parking spot for a full year here in Boston.

We've been through a lot. So when I'm in my car, I feel completely at home. At ease. Like myself. But it was during the 13-hour journey to Massachusetts that I remembered something else: how soothing driving itself can be. And how much I genuinely love it.

I broke up with my therapist — in a voicemail, left at her office after hours. (I've never claimed to be emotionally mature or good at confrontation. Hence, therapy.) I haven't tried to find another one, though that's not to say that I never will. But for now, instead of a one-hour session each week with a $40 co-pay, I take a drive whenever I need to and pay $65 a month for car insurance. It's been a pretty decent trade-off so far.

Some people do their best thinking in the shower. Some people find peace and purpose at church. Some people work through their issues in a therapist's office.

My car fulfills all three. And the driver's seat is so, so much more comfortable than that couch ever was.

Thanks, World.

I am, generally, a cold and unfeeling person. I tend to save shows of emotion for a select group of situations, like my best friend's wedding, saying goodbye before college, or the end of Marley & Me. 

I know a lot of people celebrate Thanksgiving by going around the table and sharing what they're thankful for, but in the Lombardi household, we show that we care about each other with constant, unrelenting teasing, so such a sincere exhibit of love and gratitude would just be weird.

That being said, in a time where it seems like so much is wrong with the world, I actually think it's necessary to stop and take stock of all that is right every once in a while — plus, I complain a lot, so, short of magically halting all the negativity that comes spewing from my mouth on a regular basis, this seems like the best way to counteract that horrible habit of mine.

So, without further ado, I am thankful for:

1. A mom who owns a Pope bobblehead and loves me enough to make two gallons of spaghetti sauce for me to take home and hoard away in my freezer for the next six months.
2. A dad who will take me out to lunch on my birthday, thinks that I should run my own business, and always tells terrible dad jokes, even in front of my co-workers.
3. A brother who is one of the most sweet and generous people I know.
4. Another brother who has become someone I go to for advice and sharing jokes.
5. Grandparents who continue surprise and inspire me all the time.
6. Best friends who are there for me 24/7, whether I'm having a mini emergency or just feel the need to randomly quote Friday Night Lights without looking like a weirdo.
7. A job that challenges me and provides new opportunities for growth and learning.
8. A commute that's short and sweet...most of the time.
9. The existence of Wayne Gretzky Highway and the Canadians who decided to name it that.
10. Niagara Falls. (The Canadian side.)
11. The slow-but-very-real revitalization of Detroit.
12. High school friends who give a fuck.
13. Random people who, for some reason, wish me a happy birthday.
14. Hedgehogs eating birthday cake.
15. Pope bobbleheads.
16. Mulled cider.
17. Random acts of kindness.
18. Nerds.
19. Netflix.
20. Really good Italian food.
21. New friends.
22. Dogs. A thousand times: dogs.
23. Pine-scented candles.
24. Storytelling and imagination.
25. Generous return policies.
26. Free parking spots.
27. Long road trips.
28. 90s hip hop.
29. Rocks, trees, rivers, lakes, and all the beauty there is in nature, everywhere.
30. Ugly Christmas sweaters.
31. Acoustic covers.
32. Comic book heroes.
33. The freedom to be a smartass.
34. Cheeseburgers.
35. Hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of other things, which in itself is a blessing.

Summer Checklist: Accomplished

Oh, hi there. Been a while, I know, but I promise it's because I've been busy doing actual things and not because I've been re-watching every episode of Parks & Recreation (that part has only been just recently).

This summer coincided with some big changes, some terrifying revelations, and some venturing outside of my comfort zone (spoiler: I now own a maxi dress). In my attempt to cope with it all, I made it my mission to do as much as possible with my weekends so I could enjoy my summer to the fullest.

It may not have reached Summer of George-level epicness (Adrienne: it is very important to me that you learn this reference), but I think I did pretty good.
 

HOW I SPENT MY SUMMER VACATION
By Lisa Lombardi, age 28

1. Went to the Beach (a lot, actually). It seems like everyone in Boston and the New England area in general has their own opinion regarding which beach is the best — and there are plenty to choose from. North Shore, South Shore, Revere Beach. (Just kidding. No one thinks Revere Beach is the best.) Personally, I always head north to Manchester-by-the-Sea and camp out at Singing Beach. You can get there by car or via the Commuter Rail, it's a beautiful beach, and the town is pretty cute — perfect for walking around when you're done baking in the sun. Parking can be tough; your best bet is to shell out the $25 to park at the train station and walk to the beach. (Go with a group of friends to split the cost.) A daily beach pass is $5, but if you think you'll go multiple times during the summer, spring for a season pass. No, it's not free, but it's worth it. And coming from a cheapskate like me, that means something.
 

2. Saw an Outdoor Concert. Outside the Box is an annual six-day free festival that takes place on the Boston Common, and before this year, I'd never heard of it. Surprisingly, no one I talked to had heard of it, either — but everyone probably should, because it's a pretty sweet deal. In addition to showcasing local performers and putting on family-friendly shows with magicians and dancers, it draws some major acts. This year's big names included Kasey Musgraves, the Gin Blossoms (I KNOW), and, most importantly, Guster. Guster is a Boston-favorite because they started at Tufts, but they're a Lisa-favorite because they were essentially the soundtrack for drives to and from high school with my brother, Kevin. I've loved them ever since and they are AMAZING live. One word: bongos.

3. Got Dressed Up. In addition to seeing one of my good friends get married at the historic Whittemore-Robbins House in Arlington, I scored an impromptu invite to a July 4th wedding that took place at the Boston Tea Party Museum. The best part? I actually had some decent dresses already that were ready to wear. My fellow ladies will understand what a score this is. (Oh, also there was an amazing, patriotic drag queen performance. NBD.)
 

4. Spent Time with the Fam. Summer is the time when the whole clan on my mom's side gets together for a week in New Jersey at my grandparents' house. It typically involves up to six of us — myself, my brothers, and my cousins — camping out in one room on foam sleeping mats, and we spend the week eating, watching way too much pointless TV, and going to the Jersey Shore. Frank Bruni recently wrote a piece in the NY Times that sounded a lot like our annual trip and pretty perfectly summed up its worth.

5. Kayaked on the Charles. Despite its reputation for being pretty filthy and disgusting, I kind of love the Charles River. I've even swam in it. But up until recently, I'd never taken advantage of the rental services offered by Charles River Canoe & Kayak (they have SUPs now, too). The rate for a single kayak is $15 an hour, and you can explore a LOT of the river in that time. Afterward, maybe head to the Cambridge Brewing Company for a late brunch and rehydrate properly with delicious, delicious beer.
 

6. Had a little too much fun. Public Service Announcement: Deep Eddy's Lemon Vodka is dangerous. Also, trying a fish bowl for the first time in my life was probably enough to last me until my mid-life crisis. If anyone knows of good places to dance in Boston where the floor won't still be empty at 10 p.m., let me know, because I'm officially too old to get started any later than that. Remember, the best way to recover the day after is with plenty of water and the Parks & Recreation episode "The Fight."

7. Explored Massachusetts. My lack of car means that I don't really get out of the city much, and when I do, it's because I'm leaving the state. Thanks to Leela, I spent a weekend in the Berkshires region, which essentially boils down to the Massachusetts equivalent of a Michigander's Up North: it's where a bunch of people have vacation homes and a lot of the area is in the middle of nowhere with tons of forests and lakes around. It was beautiful; we ate some great food, explored local attractions, and I scored some choice finds at the local yard sales. Word on the street is that I need to go back in the fall for some quality leaf peeping, though I remain skeptical that New England autumns are really prettier than ours in the Midwest.

8. Returned to my roots. I typically head back to Michigan maaaaaybe twice a year, sometimes for Thanksgiving and always at Christmas — which is sad, because the best time to be in Michigan is definitely the summer. So, this year I made it a priority to get there, and it worked out that I got to see the whole family while I was there. The trip included a jaunt up north to see where my brother Kevin now lives and, because my dad flew us there in his tiny Cessna four-seater, four hours of me desperately trying to focus on my book and squeaking every time we hit some turbulence. Family time!

9. FINALLY went to Brimfield. For the less decor-obsessed than I, allow me to explain: the Brimfield Flea is a massive market of antiques that takes place three times a year in Brimfield, Massachusetts. It's like, the holy grail of flea markets — bloggers, professional interior designers, and editors from shelter mags all flock to it every year, and I've wanted to go since before I even lived in the state. And last Saturday, I DID. It was unbelievably overwhelming and more massive than I ever could have imagined, but it was also really, really fun. No major finds to share with you, because it's really not my scene for shopping (too many options, no time to really think over a decision, prices higher than I'm used to for impulse-buying), but it was so cool just to wander and see all the different things, including: one giant, furry rabbit costume (head only); way too many baby doll/robot hybrids; a full-size covered wagon. Yay, Brimfield!

Reliving My Model Days

This is my absolute favorite picture of myself.

This Lisa is silly, snarky, adorable, and unbelievably confident. She doesn't worry about wrinkles or zits or fitting into that new pair of jeans. She doesn't brush her hair — more importantly, she doesn't do anything to her hair. And good luck to anyone who tries to come near her with a comb.

She wears butterflies without a hint of irony.

She is my hero.

If it were up to me, this would be the headshot used for my driver's license, work profile, and online dating account. Alas, we live in a world of national security, professionalism, and creepers, so I'm stuck relying on contemporary photos of myself. Lame.

Confession: Despite a short-lived career as a Little Tikes model*, I hate getting my picture taken. I curse the inventors who integrated cameras into our phones and made it that much easier for relatives and friends to take crappy, red-eyed snapshots of me looking my worst. Yep, I'm that stereotypical girl who's overly critical of her appearance — it's terrible, I know, but it's also a really hard habit to break.

So I thought maybe a good first step would be to get some legitimately decent photos taken. I work on my confidence and get some acceptable headshots at the same time? Win-win. Ample preparation, carefully planned conditions, and — most importantly — a professional photographer seemed like a recipe for photo success, so I not-so-subtly reached out to my old co-worker Leela Briggs and shamelessly offered my services as a model if she ever wanted to add some more portraits to her portfolio.

Never underestimate the power of a thinly veiled request.

Together, with the help of our friends Molly (photographer's assistant extraordinaire) and Jamie (stylist and fashion expert), we somehow cobbled together an afternoon photo shoot at the Arnold Arboretum — followed by food and copious amounts of wine as a reward to myself for enduring several hours of awkward posing.

Leela's a total professional, so she came armed with a rolling arsenal of gear and tools. We started by testing the color settings. (That's probably a lie. I have no idea what purpose the color card served. Someone told me to hold it, so I did.)

People riding their bikes and walking through the Arboretum were pretty curious about what was going on until they realized that I was just a random girl and not Barbara Streisand or Sarah Jessica Parker (the only two celebrities I've ever been compared to — it took a while for me to grow into my nose).

I may have had a hard time taking things seriously at first.

My default reaction to getting my picture taken is to make silly face. That way, if I look weird, at least it's on purpose.

Luckily, Leela waited me out.

A few tips if you're nervous about getting your picture taken:

• Wear an outfit you're comfortable in (I was wishing for my jeans and flannel shirt by the end of this)
• Don't smile all the time (give your face a break!)
• Accept the fact that it's going to feel awkward at the beginning, and that it might take a while to get some good shots
• Choose a location that you love or that relates to your personality and interests
• Despite popular belief, a cloudy day is perfect for taking photos outside (skip those overly bright, sunny days)
• If there's anything you're self-conscious about, let your photographer know — they can work magic
• Have FUN (any time I started to feel a little wooden, I'd just start dancing. It made for some amazing gifs later on!)

Of course, despite all of Leela's hard work, my favorite shot from that day is this one:

Yeah. Some things never change.

*Oh, what's that? You thought I was lying? BAM:

Hanging up my Apron

My first kiss was sprung on me by a boy I'd pined after my entire senior year of high school. We were saying goodbye before leaving for our respective colleges in the morning, and all of a sudden his mouth came out of nowhere, leaving me feeling both terrified and confused.

I did not appreciate it. At all.

My second kiss came from an older gentleman who was watching a Syracuse sporting event from one of the upper-level suites of the Carrier Dome, where I was stationed as the Suite Manager/Suite Liaison/Suite Bitch/whatever they called it. I was in charge of getting the food and drinks to the suite at the right times, and just generally making sure everyone had a good time and that the buffalo wings weren't cold.

It soon became clear that my duties also included making polite small talk with guests who couldn't care less about the game and just wanted to hang out by the bar the whole time. So I did. And when the game was over and the stadium began to empty out, this man walked over, bade me goodbye, laid an efficient smack on my lips, and pressed a $70 tip into the palm of my hand.

This, at least, I appreciated.

It makes sense that the food service industry has played a part in some of the more formative experiences in my life: I've held jobs ranging from bored hostess to harried bartender at various points in my life from the time I was 17.

It all started with a part-time hostessing gig at an Italian restaurant franchise in my town, something to fill my summer days and then, when school started again, the odd evening or two each week. I was in charge of walking patrons to their tables, pre-slicing endless loaves of crusty bed, and telling every group — no matter how small or large, no matter how busy we were or weren't — that it would probably be no more than a 15-minute wait. Okay, if we were really busy, then maybe I'd predict a 20-minute wait. Max.

First lesson of the food service industry: hostesses are full of shit. At least, the teenaged ones making only $7.75 an hour are.

Second lesson of the food service industry: be wary of restaurant owners whose idea of appropriate business attire is a quarter-zip fleece pullover that fully exposes their yeti-like chest hair. Give your two weeks' notice the second said owner tells you that you're "looking foxy today."

The summer after my sophomore year of college, I graduated to a waitressing gig at a Middle Eastern place in the middle of our downtown. Its central proximity didn't do much for its popularity, though; when friends and former classmates learned where I was working, their first response was usually "Where? Never heard of it." That should have been my first hint that I would be making no money that summer.

At the time, it had the look of a dingy cafe — nothing terrible, but nothing particularly appealing, either. The menu options averaged $9 and there was no liquor license, so I quickly realized that I would essentially be making only $2.75 an hour. My "tips" were like puddles in the desert: juuuuust enough to keep me going.

I was also the only person working there who didn't speak Lebanese, something the assistant manager — a tiny, somewhat shriveled old lady with a permanent frown — seemed to hold against me, if her constant glare and muttering whenever I asked a question were any indication.

The restaurant has since acquired a liquor license and undergone a full renovation, turning it into a swanky-looking place that's packed every time I've driven by during visits home. 

I bet the tips are amazing now.

I curse its name every time I see it.

In college, I worked a variety of odd jobs, but the one that stuck all four years was slaving away for the Carrier Dome's catering department. I started out as a runner, literally running giant platters of food from the kitchen to the suites just before the mad rush of halftime. I then worked the hotdog concession stands on the lawn before football games, waking up Saturday mornings while it was just barely light out and walking to the Dome through grass that had begun to frost over during the night. When it switched to basketball season, I mastered the cash register at the Italian Stand, handing over endless subpar chicken parm sandwiches and overpriced meatball subs.

I soon graduated to Suite Master, and then some sort of vague senior role during my final two years due mostly to the fact that I was reliable and had been around long enough to know the ins and outs of most of the jobs. I started working during the week, managing the meals for the different sports teams after practices or helping with special event dinners. I stocked the suites in between games, riding pallet carts filled with cases of beer down the empty halls of the stadium and having endless pointless conversations with my coworkers about how much homework we had, how we longed for the free time our peers wasted, which events we hated working the most.

It was expected to bitch about the job, but I wouldn't have had it any other way. There was something eerie and exciting about working in that giant space when no one else was around, and I secretly loved it. My meals were more often than not provided by the events I worked, or simply care of the friendly kitchen staff who would feed us leftovers even on days when there was nothing going on. If I could change anything about my college experience, I wouldn't have worked less — I would have chosen to simply study less.

So that's how I ended up in Boston, nearly three years ago, applying to work for a catering temp service that hired out servers and bartenders to events that needed the extra help. That's how I worked my first wedding that was marked by a hysterical bride and three gigantic performing drag queens. That's how I slowly got to know each of the million universities within the city limits, serving re-heated bacon-wrapped scallops and mini quiche by the trayful to both alumni and prospective students. That's how I had my first visit to the Cape (summer wedding) and attended the very first Boston Calling concert (beer garden).

When I finally landed a real, full-time job, I continued to bartend on the weekends because I have never been one to turn down extra money. Time went by. Raises and bonuses happened for the first time in my life. I got another new job. And I finally realized a month ago, with a weird jolt, that I really didn't need to keep bartending.

Maybe, instead, I should, like, try to have a social life? We'll see.

Either way, it's time to hang up my apron for good; pack away my bow and bistro ties, my scuffed black wingtips, and my now-dingy white Oxford.

Goodbye, my friends. You served me well. Probably better than I served anyone else.

A few more friendly tips learned from the food service industry:

Lesson #3: When they put out coffee at the end of an evening event, it's all decaf — no matter what the sign says.

Lesson #4: If the hors d'ouevres look like the frozen stuff you can buy at Costco, they probably are.

Lesson #5: You can become — and remain — a bartender without knowing anything about mixing drinks as long as you're charming and hard-working.

Lesson #6: Everyone should work a food service job at least once in their life. At worst, it will teach you humility and appreciation for others. At best, it will bless you with endless crazy stories and experiences, as well as some impressive biceps courtesy of all the heavy trays, racks of glassware, and cases of beer.

Things!

Here's what I've been up to this winter:

1. Listening to the Pitch Perfect soundtrack on repeat. Sometimes it's the only thing getting me through the godawful commutes to and from work. Just try listening to this and not feeling happy. (Sequel's coming out in May. Who else is excited?)

2. Rearranging the built-in bookcase. Not much changed, but now everything fits in an orderly manner, which soothes me. Some people do yoga, I organize.

3. Learning how to make cheese and ketchup from scratch. (Really.) (I know.)

4. Eating way too much cheese.

5. Finally getting stuff up on the walls in the dining room. There are two camps of thought when it comes to hanging things. One states that you should carefully measure everything out and tape up paper templates and I think use toothpaste to help mark where the nail should go or something. The other is a more "just start hammering" mindset. (I'm with the latter — is anyone surprised? Our walls are in crappy condition to begin with, so I'm not too worried.)

As Andy put it, the ink blot posters are "a little Rorschach for our shack." I originally bought this pack of cards, then scanned my favorites and ordered prints from Snapfish. There was initially a mistake made with my order, and delivery was delayed by all the snow, but it worked out in the end (and props to Snapfish's customer service for helping me out, too).

6. Taking a Jamaican cooking class. I'm obsessed with the jerk chicken we made.

7. Using the hallway to showcase my postcard collection. The wall was looking a little too bare without the Christmas banner. Clothesline presentation FTW!

8. Treating the gym like a second home. It was one of the few things both open and accessible during all the blizzards, and I've reached the point where I feel weird if I don't go for more than two days in a row. Good for my body, bad for having any free time ever after work.

9. Enjoying having the apartment all to myself...for this week. Not gonna lie, if it wasn't winter and freezing, I'd probably be doing this. (There's been plenty of singing and bad dancing, though.)

10. Counting down the days until I escape to Florida. I'm in desperate need of a legitimate vacation, and this one will combine two of my favorite things: warm weather and Katie! What could be better?