This past Saturday, Travis and I had a Chicago date night. We ate at a divine restaurant of a big-name chef, checked out an amazing new music venue (where one my favorite bands was playing), and relished that, two years later, we still get geeked up that the second city is our playground. From buzz to breeze, the best part of getting our city fix is retreating to our house on the Northshore. It just keeps becoming more and more our home and we simply love it.
(Left: Lake Street Dive at The Salt Shed, Chicago)
For me, a big part of our house being a home has been our family and friends coming to visit. Walking around the house, picturing a friend relaxing on the porch or a family member cuddling on the sofa with a dog fills the space with an intangible energy… love, light, happiness, and joy. I can almost feel our house inhaling the moments that fill it with life. The memories certainly do that for me.
A favorite project since we moved has been to chronicle these happy visits in a photographic guest book. I look at it often. It conjures up such goodness. When I flip through it, I’m always overcome with such gratitude for the wonderful people in our lives. How humbling that so many have been able to spend time with us up here. I cherish the time together … and the people. All such incredible gifts.
If you’re one of our dear ones who has not yet been able to visit, don’t worry…the guest book is infinitely expandable.
My biggest heartbreak in our move was the loss of our most precious piece of art – a portrait of our older child done by our younger child. Our son drew from a snapshot taken for our daughter’s SAT admission ticket. The casual photo captures her intelligence and brightness plus a fabulous hair moment. The portrait captures his (8th grade) talent and conscientiousness with the worn paper from where he erased and redrew the nose over and over again. Despite the background being yellow, it is my favorite non-living thing in the world.
When the movers left a rug here that wasn’t ours from another load in the trailer, we tracked the owners down through a cleaning ticket pinned to the corner. They had just moved from Illinois to Georgia (we swapped regional tips) and were most appreciative when we shipped it back to them. I couldn’t understand why someone wasn’t trying to track us down too. Who else would want that piece of art? I cried. I called the moving company. I had our framer (who had put a sticker on the back) on standby in case anyone reached out. And I told the story of how that work was lost and my sweet son had offered to recreate it, but it wouldn’t be the same without the worn part at the nose.
Yesterday, my son mentioned something else he hasn’t been able to find since the move, so I started poking around in the basement. It was one of those late-night-second-winds where you suddenly need to clean the fridge instead of go to bed kind of things. At first, all I found of note was an oversized pencil from Dylan’s Candy Bar and my college diploma. Eventually, I stumbled on the portrait in a container I thought was already unpacked. It was in a clear plastic under-bed storage box that I had filled with our daughter’s infant clothes and the like. I had wrapped the portrait in her baby quilt… which is something I probably need to unpack on multiple levels. I could also explore how sometimes you already have what you want most if you can just see it there. And maybe I will… after I have coffee with my baby girls.
Over the last few weeks, Atlanta has experienced something I’m gonna call “city limit creep”. Somehow Atlanta has spread to include my living room in Illinois…and maybe yours wherever you are. Nothing has been more fun than having my heart beat with the pulse of my hometown from all these miles away. Seeing friends on tv during the series. Picture after picture of folks cheering at home and at the games. Hilarious banter on group texts. Without being there, I was magically… there.
This past June, my family attended our first Chicago Cubs game as new Illinoisans. We were all enamored with Wrigleyville and the rich traditions of the club. I complained that while Wrigley Field stayed constant, I’d been to three different ballparks with the Braves in my lifetime. Where was the history and charm the Cubs have so abundantly? This post season, I’ve realized that IS history. I’ve lived through three different ballparks with the Braves… and so many more iterations than just where they play. And Joc Pederson’s pearls are down right charming. Sure he came from the Cubs, but did he bring the charm or did Atlanta inspire it? Braves history is so ingrained in the fans that even when we were up 6-0 at the top of the 9th inning, we couldn’t let ourselves believe it. With the team described as “the oldest continuously operating professional sports franchise in America” I publicly apologize for doubting those roots.
Any sports fan has a million memories of their team. My personal moments with the Braves include: a jackass who grabbed a foul ball out of my seat before I could put my beer down, meeting Hank Aaron in the hallway of the Ritz-Carlton Downtown, and the time my daughter’s choir sang the National Anthem before the game. Side note, I also selected my lasik surgeon based on who had operated on Greg Maddux. (His eyes are clearly more valuable than mine, so I felt success was guaranteed. AutoMaddux). I suspect my friends and I will share more Braves memories over the coming months as we bask in this championship. The top two for all has got to be from 1995… and now 2021. (Any of ya’ll remember 1957 or 1914?)
My kids’ 1st Braves games, 2003 & 2006
I’m not gonna pretend I watched a lot of regular season play this year. I didn’t. Never do. But the Braves only beat me to Atlanta by 6 years, so I’ve had a seat on the bandwagon a long time. Lately, it’s been a super fun ride. And this squad, with their je ne sais quoi voodoo magic, has been a blast to watch.
Atlanta Braves, congratulations. Thanks for bringing that trophy (and those of us who aren’t there anymore) HOME.
Hi! Long time, no write. Been busy making our Illinois life… a rewarding task.
We’ve been here a year. Met amazing people. Soaked up gorgeous scenery. Enjoyed Chicago. Survived our 1st winter. Become Cubs fans. Learned about black squirrels and buckthorn. Recommitted to our dislike of deep dish. Discovered cheese curds are simply fried cheese. Been identified as Southern from only saying “hi”. Decided that conduit makes for much neater (and pricier) wiring. Figured out how to shovel snow and not hurt our backs. Rated every bakery in a 20 mile radius. And made great new friends, while missing our great old ones.
So a quick catch up. If a picture is worth a 1,000 words, here are 109,000 words you don’t have to read.
August 2020
[clockwise: the drive, seeing our new kitchen for the 1st time, breaking in the inherited pool table, the train station, Finn’s new high school, the charming garbage collection, the view of Lake Michigan from our dog walking route]
September 2020
[clockwise: Lake Forest beach, playing into Emma’s joke of our house being a lovely hotel to visit, exploring with Poppet, Anniversary celebration in the city, Nana & Pop come to visit, Lake Forest Open Land’s Bagpipes & Bonfire covid-style, and the work on the house continues]
October 2020
[top to bottom: exploring Chicago, Poppet’s 1st winter wardrobe purchase, Finn’s surprise “Day Off” for sweet 16 when M’Lyn and Emma flew in to celebrate, my favorite market in Lake Forest ready for Fall, black squirrels make a meal of pumpkins, 1st snow flakes, Finn’s 1st in-person day at school, the drive to city is worth it for neapolitan pizza]
November 2020
[top to bottom: pretty Lake Forest, work on the house continues, Chicago Botanic Garden, Thanksgiving at home]
December 2020
[top to bottom: pretty Lake Forest (I could say that every day), to-go cocktails from Deerpath Inn!, ice skating the ribbon, the many moods of Lake Michigan, Poppet loves him some snow]
January 2021
[clockwise: tubing with the fam, Poppet is crazy, Poppet and his alter-ego Creepet celebrating Emma’s birthday from afar, record snow fall, Rogi is born, salt caving with friends]
February 2021
[top to bottom: Lake Michigan is pissed, cold outside, warm inside, yurt dining in the city with friends]
March 2021
[clockwise: sun bathing, dog walking the golf course, Rogi joins the family, channeling Moira]
April 2021
[work on the house and with the puppy continues, Rogi’s 1st touch of Lake Michigan, puppy needs Dad’s coat in April!]
May 2021
[clockwise: Rogi walking Poppet, Elawa Farm – a favorite, M’Lyn visits, baby girl is home after freshman year of college]
June 2021
[top to bottom: earning birthday cake, thought Lake Forest was on fire but it’s a cold lake/warm air thing, Lake Bluff street party, cubs fans are born, when your kids are grown you do dog playdates, “Chicago Summer” begins, Segways are our friend]
July 2021
[top to bottom: visiting the boy at work, magical 4th of July in Lake Forest, entertaining friends in the city, Rogi learns to swim, Neon Summer, Fuck Regina George, Second City!, a near death experience on “the zipper” at Lake Forest Day Festival – note how smiley the teen is about that]
August 2021
For the anniversary of our move, Travis and I hosted a “Toast to our Tribe” this past weekend. There are so many wonderful people who have done so much to help us transition to our new area/home… it was our small way of saying thank you. We’ve been constantly touched and humbled by the efforts of our friends here. We are overcome with gratitude.
That bring us to today… sort of. Hard to capture it all. There were more fun times than pictured. And home sick days that are already fading in my memory. And also, laundry. I have lots I want to write about when I can find time. But the work on the house continues (literally have 6 guys here today doing stuff). And I’m making the beds up for our next round of visitors. Text anytime to book YOUR stay at our daughter’s favorite inn – Locanda al Lago. We look forward to welcoming you. Now that we’ve been here a year, we may not get lost showing you around.
Nice to meet you! Thanks for being late. Thanks for not getting too serious straight out of the gate. I’m impressed with how you’re making up for lost time and breaking all kinds of records. We feel like you eased us in beautifully and now are initiating us properly.
People like to trash talk you a lot, so I’m gonna share 10 things I don’t hate about you…
Lake Michigan looks pissed now. Don’t turn your back on it, Poppet.
1. Scooping that poop
Never been easier to not miss a pile. And the regular threat of fresh snow has kept me on top of this dreaded task.
2. Scratch and sniff
I smell good (literally all. the. time.) with the enormous amounts of lotion I use to battle dry skin.
3. The Show White effect
Fresh snow = fresh tracks so we know our animal friends have been around and are doing okay.
4. The [Szwast] Winter Olympics
They may not look like you expected. But the events were varied. The competition was fierce. And we’re all pissed that Travis won … per usual.
5. Hide-giene
Bad-hair-days are now bad-hat-days – which are much easier to fix. Boots and pedicures aren’t friends either.
6. Snow dog
Poppet loves him some snow.
7. Seize the degree
I personally think schedules suck. So I love that no matter what we have planned, we drop it if the sun comes out or if it hits 24+ degrees (f)… which somehow feels downright balmy to me already.
8. Winter spying
The bare winter trees make it so much easier to see (and salivate over) Lake Forest’s gorgeous homes.
9. Winter Wonderland
The obvious one… What is prettier than a fresh snow before the roads have been plowed and all is quiet.
10. Fireside naps
Illinois winters are very conducive to my favorite state of being – coziness.
In 1961, Rita Moreno sang those famous words in West Side Story’s show stopping “I want to be in America”. It was a ground-breaking performance in that a Puerto Rican played the role of a Puerto Rican in American Film. In a sea of cringe-worthy “white wash” casting (think Mickey Rooney as Mr. Yunioshi in Breakfast at Tiffany’s), how refreshing. Moreno became the first hispanic woman to win an Oscar (for Best Supporting Actress).
PHOTO BY EVERETT COLLECTION
Like the rest of us this year, my pipe has been pretty full of stuff I need to smoke. If only that was as much fun as it sounds.
This morning, I woke up feeling very emotional because one of my best friends had breast cancer. Her diagnosis was December 2019. Other than the whole “you have breast cancer” part, she had the best case scenario and has been cancer free for months. She is healthy. She is fine. But I woke up reliving some of the worst and most vulnerable parts of her journey and I realize… I stuffed that shit in my pipe 9 months ago and it’s just now coming out the other end. Time to light it up.
I think this time in history has helped many of us make our pipes longer. There is only so much we can truly deal with at a time. Our miraculous brains have added compartments on top of compartments to our compartmentalizing. And bonus, if you happen to live in America, your micro problems are topped with very bitter and contentious macro issues. (Actually, I don’t think that’s limited to America).
Based on my morning, I can determine it took 9 months for my friend’s cancer to move through my pipe. I’m guessing the things we have to deal with don’t always move at the same pace or come out in the order they went in. Some things need more time in there. Some things may need a little patience, a little push, or not just a match, but a torch. And some things just don’t need to go in there at all. I unfriended someone on FB this week for the 1st time ever. I decided I didn’t need to smoke his tasteless memes about RBG’s death. It felt empowering to control something, anything! I got the same feeling from early voting. I recognize that there are many who still wish to “be in America” and we can’t take that right for granted. It’s the only way to be at peace with whatever tobacco we have to smoke come November.
It was announced this week that Stephen Spielberg’s much anticipated remake of West Side Story (featuring Rita Moreno!) has been pushed from a December 2020 release to December 2021. Turns out even some happy things need more time in the pipe.
This gorgeous view is still a little blurry. Let’s review to examine why.
Move – 10 days • pack up Atlanta house
Move – 8 days • load up Atlanta house, move to rental
Move – 7 days • close on Atlanta house
Move – 6 days • daughter’s Senior Honors Banquet
Move – 5 days • daughter’s Graduation
Move – 1 day • move daughter to college
Move Day • pack up dog & cat and drive to Illinois
Move + 1 day • moving truck arrives with belongings
Now, we’re move + 35 days in. Like a ballerina doing pirouettes, I’ve had to use spotting to keep my balance. Here are some things that have definitely gotten my spinning head to snap to attention…
Step out our front door, take a left and then a left, and BAM. Breathtaking Lake Michigan. Poppet and I walk here every day. I’m addicted to the view.
This is a Lake Forest Sanitation truck. If you place your elegant little garbage cans outside your garage door, they come right up and empty them for you. If for some reason, they miss your house and you call them, the message says “if you leave a message by 4 PM, we’ll be there by 5 PM to get your garbage”. AND THEY ARE! I had no idea waste management could be so charming (and efficient).
I know nothing (yet) about the history of Lake Forest, IL. What is very clear from being here is that, over the years, there have been many dedicated stewards preserving the beauty and spirit of the town. The photos above show our street lights. They are stunning. My son thinks they belong in a Tim Burton movie. They take me back to the George Balanchine days of the Atlanta Ballet’s Nutcracker and conjure up such wonderful, comforting feelings. I have the perfect view of one of these from my bedroom window. I find myself checking in on it every night before bed. It’s grounding.
Being near the lake makes everything 10 degrees cooler (which I will not appreciate soon enough). And you would not believe how cunning the neighborhood raccoons are on garbage day – they’ve gotten us twice. I can’t find pizza up here that is worth the effort of chewing. But man… it is BEAUTIFUL.
When we were house hunting in 2007 (after our first false move to Illinois), we kept asking our real estate agent to show us lofts in neat urban neighborhoods in the city. My sister is our agent, so she felt comfortable reminding us (repeatedly) that we were not, in fact, young movers and shakers, but middle aged parents without the mini-van. Because she’s GOOD at what she does, she found a house that had the neighborhood our kids needed, but the walkable urban feel the grown ups wanted. The house was a duplex that would need to be converted to a single family home. We were no stranger to home renovation and decided we were the right couple for the project.
During due diligence, our home inspector kept mentioning “steel frame construction”. He likened our house to a battleship. I didn’t really understand what he meant, but was assured by his words that we were getting a good one. One of our elderly neighbors used to stop by and tell us stories of how, as a young boy, he would play on the steel beams of our house as it was being constructed. Over the 13 years we’ve lived here, we’ve understood what he was referring to more and more…seeing hints of steel beams in our crawl space and between windows. We love this history and these details that (we’ve been told over and over again) are so unique to a residential 1950s build.
Within our first year in the house, the paint on our bathroom door frame chipped to reveal what looked like metal underneath. Eventually, curiosity won (as it so often does) and I decided to strip that bathroom door frame to confirm what that chipped paint hinted was underneath. Yes, indeed. Shiny, fabulous steel was suffocating underneath layers and layers of old paint. It took a lot of experimenting to determine the best method for removing it all. Heat gun. Sanding. Scraping. Many rounds of chemical remover. Airplane paint stripper was the clear winner. I LOVED the way the naked frame looked, but hated how labor intensive it was to get it that way. It had taken FOREVER. Alas, that bathroom doorway became the lone stripped door frame for YEARS.
At the start of a major renovation in 2016, I showed that doorway to our builder and said “I want them all to look like this”. He thought hiring a laborer of that level would add a lot to our budget and suggested I hire myself since I’d proven so capable. I love working on houses and wanted something to do while here supervising the project, so I took his suggestion and signed on. Fast forward to hell.
If you happened to talk to me during that time frame, you probably heard more about steel door frames than you ever wanted to know. It took 240 hours, many breakdowns, my sanity, and my sister jumping in to help to properly strip, sand, clean, and seal the 13 original door frames of the house. Luckily there wasn’t a shortage of masks then. It was a dark time under pressure of a deadline, but I was SO driven by how cool the end result could be. One time, the can of stripper exploded in my face, knocking my face mask off, getting all up in my eyes. I was convinced I was going to go blind as I fumbled my way to a working sink while calling for help – which no one could hear with all the air compressors on around the house. I still dream of getting up in the cracks and crevices with an exacto knife, chipping out paint like a dentist attacking tartar – which was oddly satisfying. I cried when I finished what I thought was the last frame, only to realize I had forgotten one. I may have had a hint of PTSD when I finally finished #13. After searching high and low for the best way to seal the steel in the final step, I settled on a sealant artists use to protect outdoor sculptures. It was not only a good product, but also felt appropriate somehow. When I stepped back to admire the end result, I felt like I’d created something by bringing it back to life.
So this week, we are selling our house and those precious door frames, that unfortunately won’t travel. We are thrilled that a wonderful couple, who seems to love the funky details of our house, are buying it. Thinking of the life that awaits them in this incredible neighborhood in this house that we love so much has brought us great joy. Of course, they may paint over the door frames. If that happens, friends, don’t tell me.
I’m a singer in what I like to joke is a mid-life crisis, neighborhood, garage band. Even though we’ve grown well beyond that description and played many kick-ass events and venues, we’re still friends-who-make-music-together at our core.
More than eight years ago, I saw an ad in our neighborhood newsletter. A group of men (made up of neighbors/friends) were forming a garage band. The ad was concurrently looking for a lead guitarist and a space to practice. I guessed if you had both, you were in? I thought it was badass. A few months later, having secured a lead guitarist (the only non-neighbor – saving us from being a full on cult), a place to practice, and a first gig at our neighborhood’s “New Neighbor Party”, they advertised again… this time looking for a female singer. Oh how I longed to fill the spot. I mean, who hasn’t always secretly wanted to sing in a band? Insecurity and fear kept me from answering the ad. A month or so later, at a Roller Derby tailgate, I had the opportunity to casually (yep, tried to play it off as casual) mention my interest to two band members. They’d never heard me sing… were possibly inebriated (if not selective)… so I was in. I was told to learn a Tom Petty song and show up. Been showing up ever since.
At our first few gigs, we got a kick out of introducing ourselves by a different band name each time (some favorites are in the name of this post). I’m not sure anyone noticed. Even for those who never plan to play music, brainstorming band names (and album covers!) is an entertaining pastime. (Seriously, add it to your list of quarantine diversions). Between the six of us, we had a hysterical and huge list of options (some more appropriate than others). It was impossible to decide on one. Finally, our lead guitarist’s daughter threw out the perfect name, and we’ve been Goat Rodeo ever since.
Our fabulous logo, designed by Donald Mock of MOCK, the agency
In the Urban Dictionary, Goat Rodeo is defined as:
A chaotic situation, often one that involves several people, each with a different agenda/vision/perception of what’s going on
This describes us perfectly. All six band members have very different taste in music, making new song selection a mega hurdle. On the flip-side, if a song passes, you know it’s gonna be good. We all have our pissy and can’t-get-it-right moments. We all have our best quip and bust-a-gut-laughing moments. It’s hard for six busy, career, and family-oriented adults to find time to practice, much less schedule gigs. Somehow we’ve made space for it and enjoyed the hell out of it (98% of the time?) for 8 years. Our spouses have been our biggest supporters and best groupies, doing much behind the scenes to make it work. Thinking about them, gig after gig, dancing in the front row and singing along to songs like it’s the first time (for the 800th time) makes me tear up from the pure beauty in it.
Goat Rodeo is the best kind of family. While well aware and accepting of each other’s faults and idiosyncrasies, we don’t have the bitterness that comes from messy family histories. One of my bandmates is always late. One always wants to leave early. One is really opinionated during new-song-selection. One has never heard half the songs proposed during new-song-selection. One won’t let me sing KT Tunstall. Instead of maddening, these things are endearing. One band-mate had the brilliant idea to start the band. One can improvise a killer guitar solo in a blink. One has encyclopedic knowledge of musicians and bands. One can engineer our entire sound mid-song while playing guitar without missing a beat. One can play any song he’s only heard once. After 8 years, I’m still in awe of all of their talents. And all five of them have my back (on and off the stage) like we were on Normandy Beach together. It takes balls to put ourselves up there in the spotlight, but somehow together, we’re safe. And boy do we have some stories. I mean, DO WE HAVE SOME STORIES. (Some of ya’ll don’t behave on big nights out. Sometimes we don’t either.)
Once the news of the Szwast move to Illinois was official, Goat Rodeo started planning a blowout gig, aptly named “This Is Not Our Last Rodeo”. I was thrilled to secure a date at the perfect venue. With the finality of writing the gig on my calendar, the excitement quickly turned to tears. I let myself grieve that day. Every day since, I’ve been focused on the fun of another magical night on stage with my brothers. As you might expect, that night (this Saturday) is now one of the many casualties of Covid-19. It’s time to grieve again. For years I’ve described myself as “the band bitch-wife”. You’d think I’d be ready to move on from everything that title implies. Turns out it’s one of my favorite roles.
When will it be safe to have 650 of our closest friends gather for a party? Will we ever gather en masse again without a tiny worry in the back of our minds? Our world is going to be different after this. And though I wouldn’t have said it’s possible a month ago, being on stage with the guys again is going to feel even sweeter than ever before. And everyone being together, singing along and dancing, is going to heal us. And now who cares if I can’t ever seem to remember all the lyrics? So, April 18th, quite ironically, will not be our last rodeo. And I will be back. So, until our next pre-gig shot, here’s a toast to my boys. This next one will go to eleven, cause that’s what she said. Fired up!
I have two teenagers… and yet it feels like I was one yesterday. In so many ways, I haven’t changed. I vividly remember being in a motel room with my BFFs during the 8th grade school trip (34 years ago) and spontaneously making up an ode to Milano cookies as I danced on the beds and devoured a bag. I ate Milano cookies today… except this time I hummed the tune to my dog and my bed doesn’t have a quarter slot to make it vibrate (not making that up). In other ways, I’m thankful things are so different. The hormones! The angst! I was a boy-crazy fool. On occasion, my feelings for my crush-du-jour were just too much to keep inside (read with drama). My outlet became a graffiti wall of confessions in the basement of my childhood home in Atlanta. (I’m so sorry, Mom.) This wall-of-fame-of-unrequited-love is filled with the names of boys I desperately “loved” through my teenage years. Most of them I don’t even remember.
My mother has never painted over that wall. Today, however, it looks a bit different. In the early days of our relationship, my (now) husband took offense that I had not added his name to the list. It started as a joke, but leaned towards serious as the years passed with no fresh additions. I would argue that he was in another league than the names on that wall, but he maintained his position on it.
For our 5th wedding anniversary, I presented Travis with a homemade book telling our story. We have a neat meet-cute that was fun to write. The first words we ever spoke to each other were “movie theatre” and “bicycle” – two words that still very much represent who we are today. We met on a Wednesday and picked our wedding date the following Sunday. We took our time getting to the altar though, so the 5th anniversary book wove through an almost 10 year tale. The best bit, however, was the last page that told the part of the story Travis didn’t know about yet. It was a picture of the basement wall with a null-set drawn over all the other names and his name painted biggest of all. Imagine my mom and me in the basement with the paint brush, giggling as we revised such silly history. Travis loved it.
Names are blurred to protect the innocent objects of my previous affections
Fast forward 18 years. We’re renovating a house in Lake Forest, Illinois that will be our home by the end of summer. A long-distance project of this scope should be incredibly stressful, but some dear friends introduced us to the most amazing builder, Brad Meyer. He has gone above and beyond to keep us connected via FaceTime, texts, phone calls, and photos.
Travis & Brad on our first
walk through of the house
One day, not too far into the demo phase of our project, Brad sent us a picture of the basement of our new house. When the crew tore down the existing paneling, they revealed a hidden love graffiti wall. Brad thought we’d get a kick out of it, but had no idea how meaningful of a find that was for us. I mean, crazy! Right? All these years later, I’m moving into a house that was also inhabited by love-crazy fools. I’ll feel right at home.
When we started this project, I had planned to travel to Lake Forest to work with Brad on a regular basis. Enter Covid-19 and we’re all sheltering-in-place. You know you’ve hired the right builder, when in the middle of a pandemic, you’re comfortable saying “hey, could you do something for me?”. Since I won’t be getting up to our new house before the graffiti-love-wall is once again concealed, Brad kindly made our mark for us.
Travis loves Amanda. A (who for sometime has been one-boy-crazy) loves T … who puts Milano cookies in her stocking every Christmas.
Note: If you too want a builder who indulges your crazy instead of judging it, check out: https://meyerhomesinc.com/. They can build a home anywhere from anywhere with or without the graffiti.
Special Thanks to Pepperidge Farm for being the only company to never discontinue something I love.
