Growing up, there was really only one restaurant in town: The Rustic Oak. Sure, we had fast food places – McDonald’s, Arby’s, Arthur Treacher’s Fish & Chips – but The Oak was the only spot for a **good** meal.
The two things I remember most about The Oak was the massive fireplace that was always roaring (and the stacked wood outside the front door to keep it going) and their soup and salad bar. The salad bar wasn’t anything fancy – tan tubs of iceberg lettuce, grape tomatoes, olives, bacon bits that could crack your teeth, and croutons nestled in ice under a brightly lit sneeze guard – but as a kid, unlimited anything was exciting. If you saw me and my parents at the Rustic Oak in the 80s, we were probably celebrating something.
Photo from the New Haven Register
I don’t remember eating out much growing up, unless we were on vacation. And even then, when we would go to the Jersey Shore every year, we’d stay in an efficiency hotel room, equipped with a small kitchenette, where my mother would cook dinner for us after the beach a few nights during our week-long stay. The hotel hallway would smell like fried chicken cutlets all night.
This is the kitchen where my parents insisted on cooking dinner a few nights a week while we were on vacation. Photo from The Pan American Hotel.
Most of my restaurant meals were Happy Meals picked up from the drive thru after church on Saturday nights. My treat with my babysitter while my parents went out for the night. And when we did go out! Man, did those nights feel luxurious. It’s probably what led to my obsession with restaurants and food and eating out today.
I LOVE EATING AT RESTAURANTS.
Like, really love it. I would eat out every single night if I could. And it’s not because I don’t like to cook – because I do – but I just like having someone cook for me even more. I love reading menus and eating. I love to eat. My Insta feed is filled with deliciously plated foods and fancy cocktails, with the occasional sweater-wearing dachshund mixed in.
In what could only be described as a cruel twist of fate, I am raising a child who does NOT like to eat out. HOW IS THIS POSSIBLE??
To be clear: Little Mister likes restaurant food, but he wants to eat it at home (the place where – after you eat your meal – no one cleans up after you and does the dishes and offers you dessert).
Every weekend when Mr. KK and I are ready to leave the house and relax with an adult beverage and a meal cooked by someone who is not Yours Truly, the negotiating begins.
“Where are we going?”
“What kind of food is it?”
“What else is there to do there?”
“Is anyone else coming with us?”
“Can I watch a movie while I’m there?”
After a long week, I don’t want to see the inside of my kitchen – for cooking or for eating. Instead, let’s enjoy each other’s company, take our time easing into the weekend, enjoy some delicious food, and revel in the fact that we don’t need to clean up!
(Also, if parents say we’re going out to eat, WE’RE GOING OUT TO EAT!)
In honor of Veterans’ Day, I thought I’d share the story of my dad in the army.
Until the day she moved out of her apartment, my grandmother kept an 8″x10″ black and white photo of my dad in his army uniform on her armoire. In it, he look at 14 years old, crew cut, clean shaven, hat and deer-in-headlights look on his face. She was so proud of him for serving in the army, you would have thought he won the war.
The other day, Little Mister was surprised to find out that my dad – his grandfather – was a veteran.
“What did Grandpa do in the army?” he asked me.
And with a straight face I let him in on the long-running joke I have with my dad: “He was a secretary.”
True story.
And I have been joking with him about it for as long as I can remember. Mr. KK’s dad was stationed on a submarine, working as an electrician on a boat, while my dad sat behind a desk and answered phones.
Apparently, sometime between when he arrived at boot camp and was trying to avoid getting the shots necessary to actually be in the army, someone found out that my dad could type.
I imagine it went something like this:
My dad – in line for some ebola or rabies vaccine at the army base – joking with his buddies. A Captain or a General is walking up and down the lines of newbies, picking out the ones who weren’t going to make it and the ones who would rise in the ranks. Maybe one of them muttered, “Man, I wish we had someone who could take notes really neatly.”
Upon hearing this, my dad’s ears perk up and his arm shoots into the air. “Sir, I can type 80 words a minute, Sir!”
Upon hearing this, the Grand Puba plucks my dad out of line. “Boy, can you type without mistakes? Can I count on you to take notes and memos?”
And just like that, my dad avoided combat and got himself a desk job. Pretty smart if you ask me. It’s like getting the best job at the worst place to work; it’s not great to be there, but you could be getting shot at.
At family gatherings, I will tease my dad, mimicking him typing on typewriter, and tapping the point of a pen to his tongue to start writing a memo. I’ll yell out, “You! Take an emergency memo! The troops are moving in! STOP. We must prepare. STOP.” and then we all laugh and laugh.
But jokes aside, I’m proud that both my dad is a veteran. Even if his greatest weapon was Wite Out.
It was my first time traveling to Europe and I experienced it with Mr. KK’s cousin and Aunt – a girls’ trip with 3 generations of women (with me in the middle).
This was the first vacation I’ve even been on that I did not plan. As the resident family vacation planner, this was a foreign concept for me. I literally just showed up. When asked what I wanted to do on our trip, my response was: “Eat lots of croissants and see the Eiffel Tower.”
Mission accomplished!
We spent 5 days in the City of Love, where we ate all the food, and drank all the drinks. Our trip was the perfect balance of seeing the sights but not overdoing it. I’m so excited to share our 5-day itinerary with you!
Business Class for the Win
Yes, we flew business class overnight from JFK to Paris. And it was the single best experience I have ever had flying. First of all, the whole seat situation was amazing. Roomy. Reclining. Padded ottoman foot rest. Blanket. Sleep mask. Private TV. You would have thought we were flying on that plane for a week with all the amenities!
My home for 7 hours. This cubicle is almost bigger than a room in my house.That look when you realize that you are a travel princess. Also, travel outfit on point.
We were welcomed with a glass of champagne! “Oui, merci!” Followed by a multi-course meal that included lobster salad, a cheese plate, chicken, more champagne, baguette, dessert, and more champagne. And then, they took our order for breakfast, which was to be served approximately 3 hours after we finished eating our late-night dinner.
I am spoiled for all other travel.
Day 1: Arrival & First Meal
We made it! We checked into our super cute boutique hotel, Grand Boulevard Experimental. It was every bit as charming as you would imagine a hotel in Paris would be. It had this lovely rooftop bar where we had our very first cocktails of the trip. The rooms were quaint, and I had a room all to myself, including a HUGE bathroom with two sinks and mirrors. Truly indulgent.
The hotel still used real keys. And held them at the desk for you. A whole big beautiful bed to myself!
Our first meal was at a traditional French bistro, Bistro Des Tournelles. We were starving! We ordered the mushrooms with garlic and parsley, Croque Monsieur, ravioli, filet of beef with fries (steak frites!), and the roast chicken.
And I couldn’t go to bed without doing one VERY PARIS thing on our very first night. We hopped on the Metro and went to see the Eiffel Tower all lit up at night!
Pictures don’t do it justice. And it sparkles on the hour every hour.
Day 2: Eiffel Tower, Champs-Élysées, Arc de Triomphe, Cocktails & Dinner
The sun shone bright on our first full day in Paris. I was so exhausted from traveling that I slept for 10 hours. TEN HOURS! I woke up with a start at 8am just minutes before my breakfast was being delivered. Can we pause to talk about how delicious the yogurt in France is? Thick and creamy, topped with honey. I ordered it every morning.
The Eiffel Tower was majestic at night, and equally as impressive during the day. We rode the elevator up to the top for the most fantastic panoramic view of the city.
If you look closely you can see the Olympic Rings on the bridge over the Seine.Bonjour from Paris!
After the ET we walked over to the Champs-Élysées (so many tourists) but we felt the need to see the Arc de Triomphe and be all Paris-like.
Our itinerary included some of the best known craft bars in the city, and our stop that night was The Cambridge Public House.
Dinner that night was at an Italian restaurant, Carbonis. This was my favorite meal of the entire trip (imagine, my favorite restaurant was an Italian restaurant in Paris!). Every bite was amazing.
We needed to start with drinks, of course. My introduction to the Sbagliato Negroni.Heirloom tomato salad, watermelon, marigold, bottargaMy favorite bite of the night: pappardelle with sweet corn, crispy shallots, guanciale, chili oil.Cacio e PepeGrilled octopus, green beans, caponataCaserecce with tomatoes, fried eggplant, spiced lamb, dukkah
Day 3: Train to Reims to tour Veuve Clicquot
You can’t go to Paris without taking a day trip to the Champagne region. Well, I can’t. And the Veuve Clicquot tour in the caves is not to be missed!
The tour ended with a tasting of four signature champagnes, one of which is not sold in stores and only served in the caves.
After a short nap on the train on the way home, we relaxed at the hotel until it was time for dinner. That night, we went to Le Mary Celeste, a cute little wine bar with small plates. We sat at a crooked little table, squished in the back corner, and basically ordered almost the entire menu.
Highlights included:
Tuna sashimiDeviled eggsVeal tartareRisotto
Put a fork in me!
Day 4: The Louvre, Notre Dame, Cocktails & Dinner
We started our morning at the Louvre – pre heist. I wanted to see the building, as it’s an impressive city block; however, I didn’t feel the need to go inside. But we did have fun taking photos outside.
Notre Dame was, well, it was a church. Mostly covered in scaffolding. With a ridiculous number of people trying to see it and get inside. I’m glad we walked by to snap a pic so I could cross it off my list.
One and done with the Hunchback’s home.
During the afternoon we did some shopping around Le Marais. We became regulars on the Metro. I felt like a local.
Sabre
Another day, another cocktail bar! This time we headed to Little Red Door, named the Number 5 best bar in the world in 2022 (and Number 6 in 2023). Hard to get in, hard to leave. Dark. Moody. Delicious.
After cocktails, we headed to dinner at a mediterranean restaurant Kubri. There were so many things we wanted to try, so naturally we over ordered!
Look at these shrimp!This roasted cabbage with aleppo pepper butter and peanuts was divineBeef tartare
Day 5: Charcuterie and Pasta
After a weather forecast that threatened rain the whole week, it finally came. The lunch vibe we wanted was wine and charcuterie, and we found the perfect place. It was a BYOB – build your own board, from a thick booklet of cheeses, meats and accoutrements. I present: Le 17.45
That lunch required some rest before gearing up for our last dinner in Paris. We went off itinerary and ended up at a little hole in the wall Italian restaurant Sugo. The menu was small, but the pastas were fresh and delicious.
Cacio PepePesto MalfadineAmatriciana
We headed back to the hotel on foot, hoping we could walk off some of the pasta, and I captured this beautiful street in the quiet of the evening.
What a memorable trip! My pants are still tight!
My one request was croissants, and they didn’t disappoint. The patisseries were magnifique!
If you hold onto something long enough, it will come back in style. And this year – among the wide leg jeans – it’s the barn jacket.
photo: J. Crew
It was during my time in college that everyone was wearing barn jackets. Neutral colors. Plaid interior. Corduroy collar. Big buttons. My college campus looked like a walking J. Crew catalog.
My barn jacket was light khaki in color, dark brown collar. And the pockets! So big and roomy! My claim to fame was the time I was able to sneak a 12-pack of beer (Icehouse – what were we thinking??) on my person into Flynn Hall because of my barn jacket. Cans in the outside pockets, cans on the inside pockets, maybe one or two in the small of my back. This feat could not have been accomplished without my trusty barn jacket.
The place the barn jacket truly came into its own was for parties at the Caves. When I went to Stonehill College, it was surrounded by woods. Now, those woods have been leveled to make room for dorms and buildings. But back in the day, following a path behind New Hall (the new dorm that no one could apparently name?), up hills and through trees and around thickets, there was a clearing with huge boulders. This could be one of those times that the boulders felt huge looking at them through my beer googles, but if I saw them today theywould just be regular sized rocks.
The barn jacket was the perfect outerwear for the Caves. It was likely the only coat I had at college or was willing to wear out, jury is still out on that one. No one gets cold in college. Hundreds of kids would gather at the Caves to drink and party. I think there might have been music if someone had enough batteries to power their boom box (hey kids today, your lives are so pampered with music libraries in your pockets!) and we’d listen to Pearl Jam or Nirvana or Oasis. Someone made a bonfire in the middle of a wooded area, tended by drunk twenty year olds (how did we not burn down the town?), which looking back seems like a sure fire way to draw attention to underage drinking in the woods. “Hey Earl, do you see that FIRE over there on the top of that hill? Wonder what that is?”
The barn jacket held many purposes on Caves nights.
Transporting beer
Providing a nice little shield for your privates when you had to pee in the woods
Warmth (questionable during winter months)
Making it nearly impossible to find your friends in a sea of neutral-colored barn jacket-wearing drunk kids
Repelled any beer spilled on you
Camouflaged you when you were running from campus police
If you’re getting nostalgic for your barn jacket reading this post, you’re in luck. They. Are. Everywhere! Long and short lengths. Variety of colors. Snaps, zips or buttons. Quilted or canvas. A style for every day of the week.
And if you want to go old school, J. Crew is selling a vintage barn jacket this year for $188!
NOTE: I’m sad to say, that the Caves no longer exist at Stonehill College. They are now dorms or buildings or some shit. I feel sorry that the students do not get to experience a Caves night. My 22nd birthday was celebrated at the Caves at a party during the day (man, we were bold!) and I will never forget running through the woods being chased by campus police careful to not spill a drop of beer out of my red solo cup. Now, they have fancy lounges and bars on campus, and I feel sorry for them. You have not lived a true college experience unless you wake up hungover with twigs and leaves out of your hair, and you glance over to your desk chair for the comforting sight of your barn jacket hanging on it (most likely with mystery stains on it).
Staying true to the tagline on this blog of “You can’t make this sh*t up”, get a load of this story.
A few Fridays ago, my dad had routine kidney stone surgery. This is when they give you propofol (aka: the good stuff) and put you to sleep and then go in with a laser and blast the kidney stones to smithereens. (I can’t tell you how excited I am to have used the word ‘smithereens’ on my blog!)
My dad has had this surgery before, it’s in and out of the hospital on the same day, then go home and rest and don’t lift anything heavy for a week. And this is exactly what we did. However, the weekend following the surgery, my dad developed a fever and the chills and was lethargic, and on Monday the morning the nurse told him, “Go to the Emergency Room!” And so Uber KK went and picked up Mom and Dad, and drove back to the hospital, this time to the ER. Blessedly, there was no one there and he was taken back immediately.
My dad was in his street clothes on a gurney, parked in the hallway due to no open curtained rooms. It’s possible my dad was one of the only sober person being treated. The guy behind him was hacking up a lung and throwing up on his gurney. A woman was screaming for hematology and ripping all the gloves out of the boxes that hung on the wall and throwing them all over the floor. Someone else kept a steady tempo of yelling “Nurse!” for a solid hour. During all of this they poked and prodded my dad, taking urine and blood and his temperature until finally they admitted him with an infection. (No medical training over here, but hearing his symptoms when I picked him up that morning, I diagnosed him with the same thing).
When they wheeled my dad into the room, there was already someone else there in the bed by the window. He was about thirty or so, walking with a limp and cane. His music was blaring and he was singing loudly. If he walked by us once, he walked by us a thousand times – grabbing pudding out of the floor fridge, handing out at the nurses’ station, visiting other patients on the floor.
“This guy is like the mayor,” my dad commented as our roommate hobbled by.
The next morning Uber KK picked up mom and then we headed down for another full day of bedside sitting at the hospital. I was reliving my childhood sick day dreams: glued to the TV watching Let’s Make a Deal and The Price is Right (RIP Bob), plus more hours of news in one morning and afternoon than I have consumed in the last 20 years.
A nurse came to check on our roommate, and – with those flimsy curtains doing nothing to block sound – I heard her ask: “Did you break your parole?”
Say what?!?!
Not long after this exchange, three hulking men in street clothes with multiple guns strapped to their legs and waists came into our little hospital room.
“Excuse us, ma’am,” one of them said to me. “We’re just going to move that gentleman to another room.”
It was like we were in a COPS episode. At once both of my parents started talking.
“SHHHHHHHH!” I commanded, waving at them to be quiet, my eyes bulging at them. “I can’t hear!” I whispered.
The cops moved the curtain aside and smiled at the roommate. “I’m going to have to take your phone,” the first one said.
A second officer glided in, ordered the roommate to lay down, and handcuffed him to the bed.
This was really happening!
With little fanfare, besides multiple men with giant guns and the arrival of a uniformed police officer, they starting wheeling our roommate out of the room. I didn’t know where to look! Do I pretend to be into the muted episode of Judge Judy? Do I bury my face in my phone? Do I look him dead in the eye…no definitely not that one!
“I need to finish my antibiotics,” he said to one of the officers. “Oh you will,” the cop replied. “And when you’re done, you can go back to jail.”
When my dad’s nurse came in to check on him, she peeked on the other side of the curtain to see if he was gone.
“See all this entertainment I provided for you?” she joked, taking my dad’s temperature.
I asked the obvious question: “He has been walking around this floor for two days, why did they now handcuff him to the bed?”
The nurse said matter-of-factly: “Oh, that’s because they just found out where he was.”
Oh.
“They came in here to arrest him. That’s what they just did. Now he’s in a private room on the other side of the floor.” She finished up with my dad. “They’ll be in soon to clean, someone else is moving in here.”
I looked at my dad. “We have to get you out of here,” I said. And then the news came on. Again.
I think my last post brought the mood around here down to near depression level, so I thought we’d lighten things up.
Let’s talk about pizza.
Oh, delicious, cheesy, salty, crispy pizza. I don’t think a more perfect food exists. (Prove me wrong)
Living in Connecticut means being able to enjoy the best pizza any time you desire.
My perfect pie looks like this:
It’s a mozz, bacon and black olive pie. Perfectly thin and crispy, salty from the bacon and olives, gooey from the cheese. Well done but not burnt. Minimal bubbles. If given the time and elastic waist pants, I could probably eat the entire thing myself. (Seriously, just look at that pizza! If your mouth isn’t watering you are made of stone!)
New Haven pizza is the only pizza, in my opinion. You’ve got the big 3: Pepe’s, Sally’s and Modern (my personal favorite). But then, as you slowly move away from Wooster and State Streets, you still are surrounded by amazing pizza joints. Olde World (our Friday night go-to). Fuoco. Ernie’s.
Non-New Haven pizza? You have no place here.
Square pizza? Um, no.
Deep dish pizza? Why is it so thick?
Chicago-style pizza? Is this a cake?
Pizza is good hot, warm, or cold out of the fridge. And while you could eat it any day of the week, I feel like Fridays are the traditional pizza night.
Much to Mr. KK’s dismay, I am a knife and fork girl when it comes to pizza. At least the first two slices. Then, once the pizza is at it’s optimal stand-up-on-its-own temperature, I’ll pick it up. I’ll leave you guessing if I fold oversized piece in half.
And, sure, I could call it pizza like everyone else. But I prefer to call it by it’s proper name: Ahbeetz!
When it first happened, those four words – I was laid off – were hard to think, let alone write or speak. How could I be laid off? I am a great employee, hard worker, and hell – I was even recruited for the role I was in. But, it happened anyway. My client just didn’t have the money to support keeping me on their business. So I was let go. Ugh, and that term “let go”, like I’m a kite or a piece of rope.
Part of my exit plan was to bestow all of my knowledge of the client and the business onto the remaining team members, as well as the senior team member who was going to take over my role. I showed up every day, gave them my best, and even traveled to manage a TV shoot for four days. Two weeks later, I mailed my laptop back.
In the days that followed my last day of work, I experienced all of the stages of unemployment: shock, anger, fear, grief, and then…a quiet acceptance. I would find a job, the right job, and I would fill my time in other ways. After all, I couldn’t just do nothing. I have always had a job, since I was 15 years old. I don’t know what it feels like to not have a job.
Here, in 2025, it’s easier to find Bigfoot than it is to find a job. Resumes being read by computers. Ghost posts of jobs that don’t even exist. Your application going into a black hole, your hopes and dreams along with it.
This is the actual applicant count for a job to which I applied.
The job market is so broken. 7,000 applicants? Sure, some of them are bots. Others are not qualified. But I have to think at least a few thousand of those 7700 have the chops to do the job. My LinkedIn feed is filled with hundreds of connections all looking for work right now. It’s scary. We’re all of a certain age, experience level, and salary. We’re all vying for the same roles. It’s bananas.
I can honestly say, I’ve been tremendously busy each day in the last month.
Of course I’m spending time networking and job searching for roles that I truly can see myself in. After two days of panic applying to every job in sight, I’ve calmed down. I don’t just want to “work anywhere”. I’m looking to work for a company or brand, not a creative agency again. Titles like “Creative Director, Copy” and “Senior Writer, Brand” excite me. I love to write, and I’m good at it.
I’m also taking care of things that I could never find time for. Organizing. Appointments. Crafting (more on this in another post!). I end each day with a sense of accomplishment; checking items of a to do list or making time for myself.
Lastly, I’m freelancing until the right permanent role comes along. It’s giving me the flexibility I need right now while life is…life-ing.
When I shared the news of my layoff on LinkedIn, I was humbled by how many people from my past life and jobs reached out to me. Some I knew well, others I had managed, and a few were coworkers who were at the same company at the same time, yet we didn’t even work together. But their messages were all alike: “I’m sorry” and “they are crazy to let you go!” and “let me know how I can help”. These messages boosted me up and reminded me that I know a lot of really amazing people.
At the same time, I was disheartened by people I DIDN’T hear from. The ones who I thought for sure would say something (even just a ‘it’s been great working with you! good luck!’ before I was shut off from Teams). In certain situations, people will surprise you. And not always in a good way.
It takes a village to land a job in 2025, and I’m truly grateful to those willing to make a connection, pass on a resume, send a referral link. I certainly didn’t have “Get Laid Off” on my 2025 BINGO card. But I’m ready to play a new game.
In perusing the DSW clearance rack, this pair of sneakers stopped me in my tracks.
It was seventh grade gym class. Our teacher took us all out to the track and informed us that we all had to run a full mile, and that we’d be timed. Excuse me? At the time I had no concept of how far a mile was, and I also was not a fan of running. I was – and am – more of an indoors kind of girl.
On this particular, horrible gym day, I remember panicking at the thought of running a mile. A mile was something you drove in a car! I didn’t even live a mile from the school! Plus, I was wearing my raspberry colored high top Converse sneakers; not exactly athletic footwear.
The class staggered and took off running on the teacher’s cue. Or – in my case – more like wogging, which was a clumsy cross between jogging (when the teacher was looking at me) and walking (which was every other minute on the track). My feet ached, my arches were screaming, and I wanted to cry.
After being lapped by most of the class (who didn’t stick around the cheer me on), I was, officially, the last person to finish. I think I clocked a 10+ minute mile, barely finishing in our allotted time for gym class.
That day is burned into my memory, and likely the reason why I never wanted to run. In my late thirties I ran my first 5K, mostly because I needed to do some type of exercise and a friend said she’d train with me. And there I was, back on that SAME track, doing the couch to 5K. Hating it just as much as I had 20 years earlier.
But back to the sneakers. How I LOVED those raspberry Converse! Fast forward a few decades and here was this pair sitting on the clearance rack, in almost the exact same color, except they were suede – a total upgrade. But I didn’t get them, because the minute I saw them, I was transported back to that horrible day of gym class, and how they were the worst shoes to have on that day. And I reminded myself that I’m too old to wear shoes with no arch support and that hurt my feet.
We’ve all been there: you’re mindlessly scrolling on Instagram and your finger slips, accidentally clicking on a sponsored post of a dog dressed up as a newscaster, and all of a sudden your entire feed is filled with talking dogs. Or kids who swear. Or the clogs that will haunt you until you buy them. Or whatever plagues your feed.
For me, it was a ring. A gold ring that looked like an octopus. Except I didn’t click on it by accident, I clicked on it purposefully.
I’m not a big jewelry wearer. I have a ‘kk’ necklace that I’ll wear. And my wedding rings. But that’s about it. No earrings. Nothing extra.
But there was something about this ring. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. And then – because I clicked (or thought about it?) – it was everywhere in my socialsphere.
image from atolea.com
I showed it to Mr. KK one day casually. Like, ‘you know me, I’m not a jewelry girl, but this ring is pretty cool’. And then life went on, as it does.
In August, Mr. KK and I celebrated our 20-year wedding anniversary. I’m using the term “celebrated” loosely, because while the three of us had a nice dinner out on the actual day, we didn’t really do it up big. In the past, we likely would have gone away somewhere. But, because 2025 was such a bitch, our anniversary came and went quietly.
A few days after our anniversary, Mr. KK handed me a box. And inside was the octopus ring! (Mr. KK is always paying attention and listening! Even after 20 years!)
I love the ring! And not only is it a cool design, what it represents is so meaningful to me. My friend ChatGPT had this to say:
The significance of the octopus lies in its remarkable intelligence, adaptability, and regenerative abilities, which symbolize a range of concepts including versatility, creativity, resilience, and transformation….in contemporary culture, they represent problem-solving and innovation.
But that’s not all!
Octopus Symbolic Meaning
Intelligence and Creativity:
As one of the most intelligent invertebrates, the octopus represents problem-solving, creative thinking, and innovation.
Adaptability and Versatility:
Its ability to change its color, shape, and texture, along with its fluid movement, makes it a symbol of adaptability and the capacity to navigate complex situations.
Resilience and Regeneration:
The octopus’s power to regrow lost limbs symbolizes renewal, healing, growth, and the ability to overcome adversity.
Multitasking:
The eight limbs of the octopus are often seen as a representation of the human ability to juggle multiple tasks and responsibilities.
This is me! Maybe I loved this ring subconsciously because of what it represents.
It’s November! That means I’m back for another full month of blogging.
Apologies for starting the month off on such a negative vibe, but the last 10 months have felt like a heaping pile of steamy shit.
First, our country is a disaster. I’m embarrassed to live here. We traveled outside of the United States in April, and while I was floating in gorgeous turquoise waters sipping on a frozen cocktail trying to forget real life, travelers nearby from Canada heard our American accents and dog paddled over to simply ask, “What is happening to your country?”
I don’t know, fellas. It’s falling apart?
Closer to home, 2025 has tested our resilience, emotional strength, and mental stability.
So far this year, we have endured:
Surgeries
Illness
Loss of a family member
Job loss
Hospitalizations
And that’s just the big stuff.
Doom and gloom aside, there have been some bright moments this year. I traveled to Europe for the first time. I prioritized my health, I joined a gym and stuck with it. Little Mister is thriving in his last year of elementary school.
But big picture, 2025, you have been lackluster at best.
