Dear Bree. Advice from you to me.

When I learned I was going to be a mother , I decided upon two simple rules:       1)     No wire hangers.       2)     My baby would not board an airplane until she turns 72. One of these rules is about to be broken. Any guesses ? Turns out, there was an imaginary amendment. It was this: Unless the in-laws plan an awesome family trip and driving is not an option. Not gonna beat around the bush. I’m nervous. Real nervous. I mean, I’ve never seen a mom and a baby in an airport that don’t look like they might break-up when they get home.  Growing up, we were van family. And when I say van, I’m talking VAN . Eight track player? Yep. Carpeted walls? Mmm-hmmm. Zero seats in the back so the kids could jump around like lunatics while my parents looked at actual maps bigger than their bodies? You. Know. It. We drove to the Black Hills. We drove to the Grand Canyon. We drove to the Corn Palace. ...

Hi. So, some of you may have met me via We Hope You Like This Song , the memoir I published in 1942 . (Okay, not that long ago, but feels pretty close.) If you read it, or even just skimmed , you're aware friendship is kinda my bread & butter . Scratch that. It's my vodka & soda .  While I may’ve been screwed by the friendship gods when my childhood bestie  died at the age of 25, I won the friendship jackpot in Chicago when I met a flock of ladies that became my everything. And now I’ve abandoned them all by moving to Iowa. Don’t get me wrong, I have friends in Iowa. Three of them , in fact. (Plus my kickass sister.) And they are the bees knees, shins, and mandibular . But there’s a different kind of friendship I’m craving. And it comes in the form of (gulp) neighbors .   Friendships based on convenience have never really been my thing. (Well, except for my entire childhood when I'd literally be friends with anyone who lived in walkin...

Hi , I'm Bree .  A little over a year ago , my husband and I packed up our awesome Chicago life , left our awesome Chicago  jobs , and migrated to the awesomely under-appreciated city of Des Moines, Iowa . (We're actually just outside of it. Meh, details.) Our decision was met with enthusiastic, whiskey-fueled support. Sure, our friends were bummed to see us go, but they understood our reasons . (Biggest reason = Warner Lucille. She's our first child. And she cray.) However, there was ONE co-worker , (who will remain nameless because I don’t want to give him credit for inspiring this blog), that said the following words: "What the f*ck is she doing?"  Not TO me, of course. That would be far too respectful . But it got me thinking, perhaps this judgmental sage knew something I didn't. Where did such a strong reaction come from? He didn’t know all the factors behind my "insane" decision. And I didn’t know what kind of experi...