Well, look-ee here, folks- we've got a toddler on our hands! On March 1, The Sunnysideup celebrated two years in existence which is to say, decades long in blog years. 

No, really, it's something to be proud of.  I know so many people, myself included, that have started blogs with gusto and promise only to let them fizzle out in a matter of weeks or, conversely,  update them once every turn of the century.  Starting a blog is easy. Maintaining a blog is the challenge. 

Now, this blog isn't perfect, mind you.  It's not expertly budgeted out into a neat and tidy schedule. It doesn't have a crazy good readership. It's not winning awards or receiving national attention (or local attention, for that matter).  I haven't made a penny nor have I been invited to travel the world to eat beautiful food and share my infinite wisdom with an adoring public. Although I am still (and always) available to do that if anyone needs me.  

None of these things have happened, but I'll tell you what has occurred.  Starting this blog has changed me. 

When I began, I referred to the blog as an "exercise in happy living" although it was really more an act of courage than anything else. For so long, I flirted with countless ideas and plans, things that I was "going to do" that no sooner left my mouth and evaporated like cigarette smoke, spindling off into the air in well-intentioned curlicues, eventually disappearing into nothingness. 

 The truth is, I was afraid. I was afraid to start something that could possibly fail. I was afraid of what people would think or that they wouldn't think of it at all.  I was afraid to put myself out there. I was afraid I wasn't good enough. 

But, I decided to do it anyway and so, made a beginning. I decided that I was going to start this blog for me and no one else. I would leave my expectations out of it and simply take action, baby steps, one post at a time. I began writing and posting. I started taking pictures. I took a stab at various columns and let myself post whatever it was that inspired me. I began to see the world differently and each time I pressed "publish" I became a little less afraid. 

For an entire year, I allowed myself to freely explore the world I lived in without rules or limitations and after my first year, I began to notice an affinity for the kitchen. I was cooking more. My camera contained an inordinate amount of  food photos. I obsessed over beautiful food photography and developed crushes on food bloggers. I gardened. I grew vegetables. I discovered my passion! 

Armed with that knowledge, I pursued adventures in the kitchen and started gobbling up food writing and food journalism wherever I could find it. I started reaching outside of the blog and pretty soon, things began to change. The Mister had to point it out one day, "Do you know that you're a writer?" 

Some days, I can say "Yes, I am a writer" and some days I still don't see it.  I still have days where I am less than inspired and it feels like creativity and humor have permanently left the building. And, yes,  I still get afraid. 

But this blog, this simple act of putting myself out there regardless of the outcome, post after doggone post has changed me in ways I could not have imagined. I found courage here and new parts of myself.  I am grateful for these last two years and all that this blog has given to me. It has been an incredible gift and for those of you who have stopped by, thank you. 

Life has a funny way of being in accordance with the seasons. As change sweeps over the trees in the form of golden leaves and copper hues, my life is taking on new color too. For one,  I am a new wife. 

But, as is typical of life, more than just my relationship status changed. After working in a restaurant for the last two and a half years, I got a new job. I. Got. A. New. Job. !!!!!!!!

It's not just any job either. It is one that suits me and the things I love most- local food, connecting with people, writing and creativity. More than that, I get my nights and weekends back. By far, the greatest gift. 

For the last two years, I have lived on opposite schedules to that of my husband and friends. I have missed out on opportunities available only to those with free time in the evenings. I have had to squeeze a full day of tasks into half a day. I have had to endure rejection and loss. I have had to be patient and proactive. For all those things, I am so grateful because I can fully appreciate what has been given to me. No squandering here. 

It's time to "Brang home that bacon!" 

Last Friday, I attended the NODA All Arts Market, a monthly market of local artists and vendors for the first time in a loooong time. The Mister and I, newly married and stoked for a "real" Friday night out strolled around wide-eyed with excitement. Now that we're all domesticated and stuff, we sought out some new pieces to hang on our walls. 

Of course, there is food involved. 

The bacon print is a hand-printed piece by Human Shaped Robot, a one man screen-printing  operation featuring pieces that "speaka" my language.  Seriously, I say things like "Brang it!" all the time and how appropriately motivating for this new time in our lives.  

The next piece we bought was this lovely sentiment captured on a wood block by Bethany Hadden of m.i.i studio which stands for My Invisible Ink. There are two loves in my life, the Mister and big fat cups of coffee. This piece was obviously meant for me. 

It's a new week, y'all. As far as I'm concerned, everything is new. Look out for new food posts and a few backlogged gems from our Denver trip plus our wedding projects for your viewing pleasure. Happy Monday! 

The road to happy living is paved with interesting twists and turns and a healthy dose of honesty. Here's a little bit of my latest. It's raw. To thine own self be true. 

I'm starting to get my elevator pitch down and with more ease. I can now sit tall, look someone in the eye and with confidence tell them why I won't be accepting my recent admission to graduate school. 

"I'm going down the road less taken," I say. 

I vacillate between feeling passionate about my decision and trembling with overwhelming doubt. Even the slightest experience knocks me off kilter. 

Last night I met a woman who, in the 1980's, almost won a Mazda hatchback car but instead won a Mary Kay package on The Price Is Right. No kidding. She showed me the video. 

Today, that same woman lives a privileged life as the National Sales Director of Mary Kay Cosmetics.  She's been privileged to drive 15 pink cadillacs and has been a conversation piece for Bob Barker twice. Once when she was a 21-year old contestant (Bob had brown hair back then) and 12 years later when, a grey-haired Barker referenced her success as a credit to his show. 

This woman and her husband of 36 years took a special liking to me. I was articulate, intellectual and "not your typical server." No offense taken. 

Their story of faith, family and fortune fascinated me. Their kindness signaled a genuine connection, a look into the crystal ball of my own life, maybe.  Just like that I came home, lip trembling, tears welling up- Should I be looking into the Mary Kay Empire? Why did our paths cross? Was God trying to tell me to pursue cosmetics? I was confused.  Am I even supposed to be writing? 

Currently, any stable faith in myself is short-lived. The only thing that restores my shaky house of cards is a loving fiance who reminds me that I love to write, that I've always talked about this sort of thing. But have I? I'm not sure. 

Still, the words "I'm not going to graduate school" come out of my mouth and I am writing. And reading. And reading about writing. And posting. 

Something is stirring. It's terrifying. It's schizophrenic and it feels like something I could get used to. 

Sitting in th bookstore today I think I cried, laughed out loud, thought of three short story ideas and witnessed my future self receiving a spot on The New Yorker's list of 20 Under 40,  all within a 20-minute span. 

Sitting here today I remembered the times I wrote just to write. Traipsing across Europe documenting the sights and smells, making up stories about my server while eating breakfast in Midtown Atlanta, scribbling my coked-up soul on to anything that would hold ink including the refrigerator which, turns out,  soaks up permanent marker surprisingly well. Journaling, reading,writing, thinking. I've done this off and on for years. 

When it comes to writing, I've never consciously turned on the faucet and left it running. I've always been too afraid to flood the house. Too worried about ruining all the things that lived inside.  I'll never be able to replace what's there. Or will I? I'll make too much of a mess. I won't have any place to live. I could lose everything. 

I'm so dramatic. But, it's true. 

I don't know what's going to happen by choosing this path. All I know is that, at this moment,  I'm definitely not going to graduate school.