Houston, we have a job.

Guys, I've been so cagey with everyone about my Bay Area employment status, and it's led to SO many incredulous questions about exactly why I am making this move and WHAT the heck I will be doing out there to support myself in the 11th-most expensive county in the country (that's right, great life choice!). There is a good reason for this: I was waiting for every T to be crossed and I to be dotted before I made it official here in my most public of arenas! I'm so, so, SO incredibly excited to finally share with you all...

I have been offered, and accepted, a role at Stanford University!!

This has been the lengthiest and most convoluted of processes, as I referred to here (albeit obliquely). A couple weeks ago, I actually found myself trying to choose between Stanford and the freaking San Francisco 49ers, who had also come to the table with an offer. Talk about being spoiled for choice. Ultimately, the Stanford role was a perfect fit. Getting there, however, was a saga. 

I was initially offered an interview for one role at Stanford, and had a great screening interview with their recruiting group, a third party. That group then got me in touch with the Stanford crew, and I had, no joke, the most awkward, weirdest, hardest/worst phone interview of my life. I'm not comfortable sharing details here, but needless to say I knew, the second I got off the phone, that I would not be going forward with that position. I felt let down, disappointed, frustrated...a whole gamut of emotion knowing an opportunity to work at a world-renowned institution had just gone down the drain. 

Imagine my surprise when the Stanford recruiters submitted me for another posting with the university. Against my better judgment, I completely got my hopes up, and they skyrocketed after I had a great first interview with the university's new assistant controller and head of fund management. Before I knew it, I was flying out to Palo Alto mid-week in early May for a day of intensive interviews with half a dozen people. 

At the beginning of the following week, I received a call from the Stanford recruiter while I was at work. She led off with the caveat that "everything was ultimately good news," but my heart plummeted when she told me I would not be receiving an offer for the position I had interviewed for. She launched right away into the good news...that everyone I had interviewed with at Stanford had loved me, and that the university was going down the road of custom-tailoring a position for me. 

YOU GUYS. I was genuinely struck dumb...a rare occurrence for me. After mumbling my way incoherently through the rest of the call, I did a spastic total loser happy dance in the conference room I was hiding in, and promptly burst into tears. As the last few weeks have gone by, I've been in near-constant communication with Stanford and their recruiters, talking to others in the group, working on designing the role (because I've been given input on what I want my role to be!), discussing logistics and details, and handling all the official paperwork and red tape. 

I am so humbled by and grateful for this opportunity. For one of the foremost academic institutions in the world to think I'm someone special and worth bringing on board is an honor beyond anything I could have fathomed at the beginning of this process. And to have them place so much faith in me to pioneer a new role, the first of its kind at the university...that's an opportunity beyond my wildest dreams. I am SO EXCITED to start this new chapter, and to work my ass off to be worthy of the trust they've placed in me. 

Although it will make things interesting on November 25th when Notre Dame rolls into town for football...

(I mean, not really. GO IRISH, duh!) 

Goodbye, Minneapolis

As you read this, my mom and I are somewhere in western Minnesota or South Dakota, in a black Honda Civic packed to the gills with three suitcases, two lamps, a potted plant, and every article of clothing that was once hanging in my Loring Park walk-in closet. I said goodbye to the Twin Cities this morning, although it feels like I've been saying goodbye for a lot longer. 

Since I decided on this move, I've been thinking so much about Minneapolis. How this city has defined and shaped me for the last six years as a young adult, but really for my entire life. I had an almost out-of-body moment en route between goodbye parties last Friday, when I passed the building where I started my professional career at Ernst & Young. The café table where I sat the morning of my job interview was vacant, and I could almost see myself...black Calvin Klein suit, turquoise silk blouse from J.Crew, headphones in and my pump-up playlist blasting as I sipped a Caribou cold press. I remember feeling like my whole life was about to start that morning, and I imagined it all taking place right there. 

To think that I'm taking such a sudden, intentional left turn and leaving this city, this state, behind...it's a bit mind-boggling. I will miss so much about Minneapolis. I will miss how it feels like I can get anywhere in half an hour or less. Similarly, I will miss being able to see the skyline from half an hour away in almost any direction, thanks to Minnesota's prairie flatness. I'll miss the stillness of the Lakes on a summer morning, and the sunsets over Loring Park. The way the snow squeaks under boots when it gets teeth-hurtingly cold, and watching flaming red sugar maple leaves fall on Cathedral Hill in Saint Paul. 

Spoon and Stable happy hours, Tattersall's patio, and exploring new restaurants with friends and family. The moment when Erin Keefe tunes the Minnesota Orchestra, or settling into the rose velvet seats at the Ordway for another opera. The view from the Endless Bridge at the Guthrie. Baking in the sun at Target Field every summer, and watching Notre Dame games with friends at the Crooked Pint (actually, I WON'T miss the Crooked Pint at all...). And honestly, those friends, and my family. These are the things I'm intentionally giving up in leaving here, and when I stop to really think about that, it's a bit gut-searing. 

I just realized that 3rd Street downtown becomes Central in Nordeast. Isles Bakery, my favorite little breakfast hole in the wall, isn't so little anymore after an expansion. Continually realizing and discovering little gems like that make me happy, and remind me that there is still so much about this city that I don't know and haven't explored. 

While I am incandescently excited to take this next step, I can't deny how bittersweet it feels to close this specific chapter. Saying goodbye (for now?) to the city that has played such a huge role in shaping who I am today breaks my heart, but makes me incredibly grateful to have had those moments. Four apartments, one broken heart, numerous friends, one first date at a VFW, too many cocktails, 57 Guthrie shows, two jobs, three promotions, and myriad adventures later, I think that I can comfortably say that the girl waiting in the lobby for her EY interview would be excited and proud and thankful to be where she is today. I am. And though I'm so excited for the next chapter in California, I'm completely okay with saying "Au revoir" instead of "Adieu" to the Twin Cities. 

Til we meet again, you lovely.

Bookworm: May 2017

“There's nothing wrong with reading a book you love over and over. When you do, the words get inside you, become a part of you, in a way that words in a book you've read only once can't.” - Gail Carson Levine

Loved: 

Terrible Virtue: A Novel, Ellen Feldman: It felt timely to read a book about one of the major crusaders in the fight for women's reproductive rights. This (fictional-ish) tale of Margaret Sanger was a fantastic read...I've seen it compared to "Loving Frank" and "The Paris Wife," which I also loved. 

The Names They Gave Us, Emery Lord: This sits solidly in the young adult readership camp, but I've loved Emery Lord's writing since she wrote for a website I follow like...eight years ago. This story of cancer and faith and finding one's own way was so light, quick and beautifully written. Totally recommend for any age. 

Enjoyed: 

Diana in Search of Herself, Sally Bedell Smith: I went on a royals biography kick and thought this biography of Princess Diana handled a really complex woman with candor and impartiality. Definitely recommend, especially in light of the 20th anniversary of her death this summer. 

Tolerated: 

It Seemed Important at the Time, Gloria Vanderbilt: Oh god this was just obnoxious. A totally self-serving account of how awesome heiress Gloria Vanderbilt is and how many men she's slept with, basically. Waste of about two hours of my life. 

Re-reads: 

The Night Circus, Erin Morgenstern: Magic and a circus at the end of the 19th century. I've read this about half a dozen times in the last five-ish years and I still love it every time. 

The White Queen, Philippa Gregory: Plantagenets doing duplicitous things. Very fictionalized, and not as fun as her Tudor works, in my opinion. 

The Red Queen, Philippa Gregory: Lancasters doing duplicitous things to Plantagenets. Again, not my favorite (If I'm going to read really fictional historical fiction, I want it to be sexier and really lean into the fictional aspect, HA.).

The Royal We, Jessica Morgan and Heather Cocks: Another perennial fave - an imagined depiction of a fictional "William" and "Kate," but Kate (Bex) is American. I've read it about five times and it's still so fun. 

Love the One You're With, Emily Giffin: She wrote "Something Borrowed" and "Something Blue," and this one, about the trials of old and new loves, is a quick, good beach read. 

Baby Proof, Emily Giffin: Ditto above, only with babies and whether or not people should/can/want to have them.

The Debutante Divorcée, Plum Sykes: The frothiest, silliest mid-2000s romp through upper upper class Manhattan. Super fast, super perfect for a beach or poolside (with a cocktail mandatory). 

Bergdorf Blondes, Plum Sykes: See above, minus the divorce stuff, plus falling in love adorably and a little bit of England, OOH! 

artichokes, alors

I needed artichokes.

I had an egg bake to make to use up a bunch of random crap in my pantry, and I needed one jar of chopped artichokes for said recipe. After a particularly stressful week – my last few days at work, trying to wrap up dozens (hundreds?) of miscellaneous little things and transition as much as possible, as smoothly as possible, my nerves were shot. Even making it through the doors of my local downtown Lunds felt like an utterly Herculean effort…one more line item to cross off the to-do list before three more mushroomed up in its place.

Basket slung over my arm, purse swinging off my other shoulder, I started working my way through the aisles of the store. It was a busy time to be there – in hindsight, I should have gone earlier or later in the day than the post-work rush. As my basket got heavier, my mind drifted away from the task at hand and on to other things…how to best pack my gallery wall pieces for safe transport? When the heck would the purchaser of my barstools commit to a pickup time? How does one actually clean a dishwasher? And I got careless. I reached up to grab a jar of artichokes, and my basket snagged on the shelf of jars below and knocked several of them off, which shattered – shattered, I tell you - all over the floor and my feet.

You know the feeling of everyone looking at you and quietly judging you? That urgent need to melt into an invisible puddle and just totally disappear from an utterly mortifying situation? I could feel my entire face flushing beet red from my neck up, hands shaking and the microscopic cuts on my foot starting to bleed just enough to look gruesome and alarming. Two Lunds employees converged on me to start cleaning up and make sure everything was okay, and immediately freaked out and started making a scene asking for a first-aid kit, as a concerned middle-aged woman came over and started proffering Kleenex and reassurance.

I, naturally, being a self-possessed and rational adult, burst into tears that probably made it look like what was happening was a lot worse than it really was, and apologized no less than twenty-nine times for breaking four jars of artichoke hearts. And they all started looking at me like I was certifiably insane, probably like “Okay, you loser, it’s four jars of artichokes, nbd,” but it felt like A HUGE DEAL at the time. Like – get your shit together, Liz, pay attention, who the hell just goes around breaking shit in a grocery store? And finally the little teenage Lunds employee who was sweeping up broken glass and artichoke juice put his hand on my shoulder and was like, “Dude, we have concrete floors. This happens six times a day.”

So I took a deep breath, and sucked in my quivering bottom lip and wiped my mascara tracks off my cheeks. I smiled, got my shit (sort of) together, and bought a pint of pistachio Halo Top (it’s totally the best flavor). And I got to the checkout line, and the middle-aged man checking me out started chatting (clearly having heard about the trauma, or just seeing that I was upset). We talked about random stuff while he rang me out, and he mentioned that his favorite pistachio ice cream came from Berthillon, in Paris. I perked up right away – Berthillon is the BOMB – and he gave me props for pronouncing it right.

“Zut, que vous avez une belle accent,” he effused, and I, being a self-possessed and rational adult (HA), responded in French. As one does. So then we had the most charming conversation about how hard it is to find French speakers in the Cities – though I seem to be doing a decent job of that lately – and how fun it is to find someone with whom to converse. And we wound the conversation down with lots of “a demain”s and “au revoir”s, and I figured that was that.

Then I went in there again last night after a family dinner to pick up some coffee (I’ve been out for days and it’s untenable), and he was ringing out. And the second he spotted me walking through the door, he bellowed “MON DIEU, C’EST LA PETITE PARISIENNE DE MINNEAPOLIS!” (My god, it’s Minneapolis’s little Parisian!) I turned beet red, but for such a better reason than shattering artichoke jars. And we chatted at checkout again, and I left for home with a smile on my face.

This is mostly a pointless and rambling story, but sometimes it’s nice to be reminded that there are such wonderful people lurking in even the most quotidian places, especially in this bizarre and transient phase of life. Here’s hoping that you find one today, whoever you are reading this.

La Vie "Boheme"

I'm currently losing my mind packing (or doing everything possible to avoid it because packing sucks), winding things down at work (or leaving at 2:30 every day because #quitter), and saying as many goodbyes as possible (or drinking as many drinks as possible because that's what we do). Today's post, therefore, is just a quick dump of pretty photos from a few weeks ago, when Michael and I met up with Antinea and Michael ('other Michael') for our last opera of the season, "La Boheme!" 

We dined at Moscow on the Hill beforehand - my first caviar experience - and were treated to champagne with the other donors/patrons in the gallery at second intermission. All in all, an incredibly delightful evening with people I'm going to miss so much! 

I will forever envy Antinea her incredible height and stunning Badgley Mischka shoes (my 4-inch heels still barely get me to clear the shoulder, BOO). 

What is it about men in tuxes? I wish people dressed up more. 

Breaking up the "photos by the Grand Staircase" binge with a snippet of the loveliest aria, "Che gelida manina" as sung by Scott Quinn as Rodolfo. While I think "Boheme" has some of Puccini's most stunning music, the plot (rather, lack thereof) left me cold...starving artists have tuberculosis and feelings! Oh my! That said, the performance by the Minnesota Opera's cast was absolutely beautiful...sassy Musetta, romantic Rodolfo and tragic Mimi were all sung to perfection.

Also perfection: Antinea's vintage dress, a 1950s find. 

The lighting in the Ordway is so tough - what a nightmare. Loving the Ralph Lauren gown I purchased day-of once we decided to go black-tie as well...there's something sort of decadent and adult about owning gowns that aren't from prom, ha!

BOO BLURRY. All in all, the loveliest night with the loveliest people. Made even better by a nightcap at Spoon and Stable with Michael and the one and only Matt Callanan, who outdid himself afterward by inviting us to his place for a raucous game of Cards Against Humanity, vodka-Diet Mountain Dew in a champagne flute with a Sour Patch Kid garnish, and his fantastic French whiskey. The after-after party with Michael on my roof with a double-pepperoni pizza just cemented a superlative goodbye to our opera nights! 

Now to find myself a crew even half this tall and attractive for the San Francisco Opera...