Divorced Before 30

My life was in flux, and as much as I longed to nail down all of the unknowns, I just had to be patient. I’d been jumping through hoops for potential employers, and I was anxious to hear back about two jobs in particular. One was a challenging position that would build on my publishing career and might be relatively lucrative. The other would involve running two student leadership programs at a non-profit org and would probably involve a pay cut. From publishing, mind you.

I wasn’t sure which one I really wanted, and I thought I might have to resort to my dad’s Dunkin’ Donuts plan. This decision-making technique–which he invented when I lived across the street from a 24-hour Dunkin’ Donuts–is quite simple: 1) Go to a donut shop with paper and pencil, 2) buy a huge coffee and a couple of donuts, and 3) sit down and figure your shit out. Try it—it works.

I was also wondering where I would live once I found work in the Twin Cities. If I stayed in my parents’ basement, I’d spend two or three extra hours in the car every day, and I didn’t think that would be good for me or my dog. Josh had recently suggested that we live together, but he and his roommate had a lease through the summer, so I’d have to find another solution in the interim.

In the midst of this, I had to take a week-long road trip back to Illinois for some work meetings. The timing was perfect, as I also went to a baby shower for my friend Megan, visited Shannon and her newborn son in the hospital, and drove to Chicago to celebrate my cousin Laurel’s 30th birthday. The whirlwind trip provided a nice distraction from my job search, my lingering post-divorce anxiety, and the mid-March-in-Minnesota blahs.

When I got home from the road trip, I started a now-defunct blog called “Just Plain Nuts,” which is a phrase commonly muttered among my family members. Affectionately, of course. The original inspiration was “The Far Side” cartoon in which a patient yaks away while his shrink sums up his diagnosis in a notebook. You guessed it: “Just plain nuts!” The blog title seemed appropriate given my mental state, and jokes aside, I thought it would be a good creative outlet as I worked through my issues. What follows, dear reader, is a slightly edited version of my first post.

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My cousin Laurel and I emerged from Tru, a swanky Chicago restaurant, dressed in smart outfits, high heels, and makeup that suggested catwalk. We giggled for champagne-induced joy. It was a 30th birthday celebration, and after appetizers and bubbly at Tru, we were off to Blackbird for dinner.

We hailed a taxi on the corner of Huron and St. Clair, and upon shuffling our tipsy selves into the backseat, we were informed by the driver that he was “Sicilian!” With a thick accent, the cabbie told us that he owned his own taxi company, and this was a special occasion, because he—the boss—didn’t usually drive.

We could tell that it would be an interesting ride.

The cabbie commented on the unseasonably warm weather. “It’s a good day for tequila!” he said. We agreed, though added that we were feeling more like champagne. “Ah, champagne, tequila—it’s all the same,” he said, like some people refer to Sprite and Pepsi as “Coke.”

“Where you girls from?” asked the cabbie. We told him that we’re both from Minnesota originally. Best friends and born six weeks apart, we liked to call ourselves Minnesota twins. But he didn’t take our baseball bait. Something else about Minnesota piqued the Sicilian’s interest.

“Oh?” he asked. “Maybe you know my friend, Garrison Keillor?” We laughed and said that yes, we were familiar with his radio show. “I like to hear the news from Lake Wobegon,” the cabbie said. This admission seemed unlikely for a man who had repeatedly told us that he was in the mafia. We decided to dig for some more information about our intriguing chauffeur.

This was not difficult, for he was quite comfortable talking about himself. He told us that he’d recently decided to continue to smoke. “You never know what kind of cancer you might die from, right? So why not enjoy life and smoke some nice cigars?” I admitted that I would never give up coffee, no matter the medical evidence. “I don’t need the coffee, but cigars! I saw a new cigar at 7-Eleven,” he told us. “Al Capone cigars!”

He was definitely not in the mafia.

As we pulled up to Blackbird, Laurel and the cabbie debated the virtues of various Chicagoland Italian restaurants. She was a serious foodie and assured him that such-and-such place had more Sicilian wine than any other establishment in the city, but he wouldn’t have it. “The only place to go is Mia Francesca!” End of story.

We were greeted at the restaurant door with more champagne for the birthday girl. Special occasion dining with Laurel is always an adventure because she has to try some of fabulous this, a touch of beautiful that, and ooh, the whole dessert menu. We splurged on a worth-every-cent meal and enjoyed a few more hours as would-be glamour girls before returning to our real lives as a couple of Midwestern women who wore practical shoes and listened to National Public Radio.