The Lucky Paw

My own, private, Inferno

2011-07-13T11:26:00.000-07:00

We are once again in Europe - more specifically in Paris - pottering about, eating too many croissants and trying our best not to look like tourists despite the need to trot out our map when off course. Having seen the sites in trips past, our intent is to wander, pretend our rudimentary French sounds as lyrical as Chopin and suss out the best cafe au lait. A few days in and I have achieved a sense of relaxation so profound that I found myself staring out of a window yesterday as a rainstorm thundered by and when I finally moved - out of a pressing need for more wine - I realized 45 minutes had passed. Such gluttonous stillness is my version of bliss.

The first leg of this trip was spent in London. Marc had been there for a week on a business trip and Dylan and I came to spent a few days with him before heading to the continent. I was beyond excited. I've said this before, but I feel most like myself when out of the States. This is not to say that I don't love America - Apple pie! Baseball! A pre-occupation with wealth! - but I have never really felt American. Perhaps this is a function of my parents being immigrants and always having declared themselves people without a country. I may have absorbed this lack of patriotic identity through osmosis, it's hard to say.

But I digress. I was thrilled about this trip! Of course, we had to GET there, and I was taking on this task with Dylan by myself. ARE YOU CRAZY? everyone said to me. Psh! What could go wrong? I was prepared! I had secured a bulkhead seat and a bassinet on our nighttime United flight. My plan was to board with Dylan in his pajamas, take off, put him in the bassinet, plonk a bottle into his mouth and then get him up as we approached London and voila! I was a paragon of calm, confident that my own, placid attitude would cloak Dylan and render him equally serene.

Aha! Hahahahahahahahaha! HA!

Were Dante writing his Inferno now, I'm almost certain that he would reserve a circle of hell just for United Airlines and all of their stewards who seem to relish their passengers discomfort. I am not exaggerating when I say that it was the worst ten consecutive hours of my life. I'd rather go through the part of hard child labor I endured without an epidural than repeat United 930, SFO - Heathrow. And my pre-medicated labor consisted of constant vomiting and a pain that I can only describe as doing the splits over a box of dynamite.

Before knowing any of this, however, we arrived, checked in, spent time getting Dylan sorted at the gate and then boarded, all with confidence. Dylan was tired, fed, and ready to lie down and sleep.

I boarded and walked back to our seat - 19E - which was supposed to be right behind business class, up against the bulkhead. After passing the last of those gloriously roomy loungers, we came upon the bulkhead and I started to remove my bag to plonk it down on the ground. BUT! WHAT HO! The row in front of the bulkhead was 17! My heart dropped as I looked further back at 19 and my seat, E, which was smack in the middle of no mans land where nice people go to die.

This couldn't be.

I stood in the aisle for a while, eyeball deep in a pool of sudden panic and nausea. Passengers started to bottleneck behind me and in a move of desperation and hysteria, I pushed my way back to the greeting steward who was ushering people into their first and business class seats. Plucking at his sleeve, I said, "THE BULKHEAD! I'm supposed to be in the bulkhead and I AM NOT." Seeing the film of sweat that was covering my brow, he stopped rubbing the feet of the woman in 1A and followed me back to the proletariat section to see what was amiss.

He inspected my ticket closely as I breathed over his shoulder. "I AM SUPPOSED TO BE RIGHT HERE!" I said, pointing at a seat that was occupied by a woman who already had her sleeping mask on. Dylan stirred and mewed, hot against my torso.

"Ah!" he said, "Well, you see, we changed planes at the last minute, so your seat is no longer in the bulkhead. So sorry. No one gives those up, you know. You'll have to hold him." He said this with a frightful calm, as though holding an eight month old child for ten straight hours was really nothing. Akin to sleeping on a cloud of kittens and butterfly wings, obviously.

"NO. You have to ask people to move. I paid extra for the damned bassinet."
"Really, miss, no one will mo--"
"I don't care what you don't think people will do. Go ask them to move. Now."

I think the four inches of height I towered over him pressed him towards action. With a very annoyed huff, he turned and went marching further into the bowels of coach to see what he could do. For all I know, he spent the next 15 minutes in the lavatory filing his nails before returning and saying, "Well, as I said, no one will move! Good luck!" and before I could protest, he was back off to first where the passengers were jostling for champagne and caviar, seemingly unaware of those of us suffering on the other side of the curtain.

Having no other options, I slid past two people into the cramped middle seat of the middle section. The rather large man to one side of me looked at Dylan with all of the hostility of the childless and the woman to my right seemed to favor hand-crocheted coats and was most likely unaware that she gave off an odor of saffron and garlic.

We took off.

There is really no way to make this amusing. I would love to tell you that there was a liberal amount of comedy mixed in with the misery, but alas, I just want you to feel sorry for me. Dylan cried for 8 of the 10 hours.

I cried for 2. During a particularly raucous session of wailing, I retired to the bathroom, held my tiny, tired and hungry son on my my lap while I sat on the closed toilet and sobbed along with him.

Two hours in, dinner service started and proceeded as an exercise in barely contained chaos. Dylan, bored and out of sorts, lunged constantly towards my tray which I hastily returned to the steward after being liberally sprayed with tomato sauce and salad dressing. All of the drama was obviously very bad for the digestion; the pasta didn't sit well with the gentleman on my right who proceeded to regurgitate it into his airsick bag. Having explored the seams of paper sac to their fullest extent, I handed him my own which he filled within moments. The stench of bile and tomato was overwhelming. Feeling better, he got up to visit the lav, leaving the bags on the tray table next to me. I watched as they slid gently to one side and then the other, sagging under the weight of their contents. During an air pocket, one lurched my direction and I defensively thrust out a hand, making contact with its side. The contents felt soft and warm.

During the lonely insomnia of the middle Atlantic, I wondered what I had done in the recent or long forgotten past that God felt the need to punish me so. Dylan played listlessly with my necklace while intermittently letting out plaintive cries and I felt the weight of exhaustion settle on me like iron shackles. I considered stopping by the kitchen for a bracing shot of tequila, but I didn't need to add "unfit parent" onto the list of things that were stacking up against me and so I slid down further in my seat and sat mutely, looking for significance in a long vertical crack that bisected the tray table in front of me.

We had five hours to go and Dylan had finally fallen into a fitful sleep. The woman at the end of the row reached across my crochet cloaked, sleeping neighbor and quietly whispered, "Why don't we trade seats? This way you can get up with your son if he needs walking about without crawling over everyone." I burst into tears afresh at this kindness and carefully, with all of the dexterity I could manage under such crushing fatigue, crawled over to her seat, thanking her the entire time. She stood in the aisle towering over me, an expansive woman with generous cleavage, wearing a suit wholly unsuitable for such a long flight. The skirt was of expensive material but unexpected brevity and no shirt was immediately obvious under the matching jacket. As she crawled over to my seat, I felt the need to shield her bottom which briefly made an appearance. The gentleman who had emptied the contents of his stomach earlier openly leered at her pendulous bosom, wondering at his sudden good luck. She settled into the seat and was soon fast asleep. The man spent a good portion of the next hour looking down her jacket until he caught me giving him a dirty look and with a harumph, sunk down into his chair and slept.

The rest of the flight passed largely in darkness with my pacing between my new aisle seat and the lavs. Dylan slept fitfully for a while and then woke again, bellowing out his displeasure at the lack of civilized sleeping quarters. We played on the changing table in the toilets. We paced some more. I acquired three new blisters and a backache. I was studiously avoided by any and all stewards, shuffled aside when they came through with meals and drinks, forced out of the aisle by the carts.

And so we landed. Dylan fell asleep again as we taxied the runway and I was able to get him into the front pack as he snoozed. I don't recall going through customs, though obviously we did and didn't end up in the Room With The Rubber Glove. Or did we? I don't know. My bottom was numb from the flight. Regardless, we somehow made it to the hotel where Marc met us and I blacked out until the next morning where I woke up on a feather bed, wondering if I had died or perhaps had just been admitted to a sanatorium where I would spend the next ten years convalescing or perhaps just drooling on myself.

We did survive. Dylan took a few nights to recover but snapped back and I found that a few glasses of wine put me in the right mind set as did nearly 12 hours in the prone position. Marc had to work for a while the next day and so Dylan and I sat in the hotel room, our heads against the cold glass of the window, looking out at the drizzle over London. We had endured the worst case scenario and it occurred to me that perhaps I am made out of sterner stuff then I give myself credit for. Though most of that flight was bathed in tears, it was also punctuated by the kindness of fellow passengers who offered sympathy, glasses of water when I couldn't move from my seat and the reassurance that they knew I was doing the best I could. Though the horror of those hours will be forever imprinted in my mind, so will the generosity of strangers, and for that I am thankful.

The plague of that experience has been somewhat softened by being in Paris with friends, but I wonder at United and their cavalier manner about relegating a mother and child to a middle seat when I had been told that I had to pay extra for both the bulkhead and the bassinet that of course never materialized. They will receive a carefully penned letter from me and a few phone calls just so that I'm sure my point is amply made that they totally suck.

In the meantime, I'm off to eat a crepe and enjoy the Bastille Day festivities and bid you au revior and that none of your travels are thusly stained.

Onward!

2011-07-09T12:31:00.000-07:00

I had dinner with an old friend last night (hi Justin! Look! I'm writing!) - someone who came to know me just as I was getting to know myself. Without meaning to, he shamed me a bit about how I've neglected this here little old blog of mine. And I have. It's been thrown up into my virtual attic and lost amongst my mental cobwebs with old stories and memories and last night I realized that I'm not really sure why as I can't blame the arrival of my son for my lack of entries. I have been successfully making time for writing since caring for Dylan has become a little bit easier and have entries littering my desktop that still need "polishing" or "editing" which is what I told Justin last night.

But why?

As I lay in bed last night with Dylan snoring on one side of me and Marc on the other (we were in London - and now Paris! I know! my life is really hard! - hence the cramped sleeping quarters) it occurred to me that I haven't been posting with my usual regularity out of fear. Motherhood, while wondrous in every single way, has made my head somewhat two dimensional. Days are full of feedings and are we going to get home in time for the next nap? and is there enough formula in the house and look at this new noise he is making now, isn't it darling? And while I relish each moment, there is some concern that perhaps I don't have anything left to say that hasn't been said before. I've mentioned this - this worry that parenting would knock the creativity out of me and that time would be so occupied with keeping Dylan alive and well that there would be no room for other thoughts to take root.

Thankfully, this hasn't been the case. In those quiet moments when my mind isn't making mental lists of what I need to get done on any given day, idea come to me and I find myself writing good sentences on scraps of paper that litter the inside of my diaper bag and purse. My wits seem to be knocking about up there, but are those wits as amusing as they were in the past or are they harder to recognize under the thin veneer of snot and poo? It's really just a small and silly identity crisis that is probably born out of too much navel gazing and not enough just getting on with it. Which is essentially what Justin said to me last night even though I hadn't confessed all of this to him over my chicken shawarma.

Justin and I met when we were both the American equivalent of juniors at University of St. Andrews. If I look at my life as a time line, certain moments stand out in perfect bas relief, so important were they in forming who I am today. That year carved out entire portions of my soul. On the day that Justin and I met, I had just taken a long walk on the St. Andrews pier and stood at the edge looking out over the North Sea wondering if I would be able to figure myself out in this rough and windy place and perhaps learn to live without fear and accept just exactly who I was. We met later that afternoon and over coffee he confessed his love for the woman he is about to marry in a few weeks and I think that might be the moment that I first said, out loud, "I want to be a writer". I was shocked that I wasn't smote down as I made this declaration (such fanciful thinking was verboten - I was supposed to become a doctor, you see) and it was the first tiny step I ever took in becoming my honest self.

But one cannot be a writer unless one writes, no? And so here I am, somewhat mired down by anxiety, but promising myself that I will indeed just get on with it despite my internal jitters and dread that whatever I produce might just be complete and utter crap. Because really, who cares? I mean, I obviously do, but I'm trying to get over that and just keep moving forward. So off I go. Promise.

What! I'm back!

2011-03-28T22:01:00.000-07:00

Hey there! It’s good to see you! Have you lost weight or is it a new haircut that’s making you look so different? Me? Well, it’s been a while. A LONG while...I’m a horrid friend, I know. But there’s a good reason.

So. Nearly six months ago, THIS happened:

That would be Dylan, or Pickle as we call him. (Dylan–Dill–Dill Pickle-Pickle in case you’re wondering what circuitous path brought us there. Just please don’t call him Dillie…it makes my soul weep).

Of course, he didn’t come out looking quite that charming. I thought I would spare the childless amongst you THAT horror show. No need to frighten everyone into ill-advised hysterectomy’s over fear of what you might spawn. You’re never really prepared for how ugly your newborn may be. Dylan, poor chap, had been so squished in the birth canal that upon his arrival, Marc and I just sort of looked at each other and silently worried - this HAS to improve, RIGHT??? - while everyone politely coo’d over our sons misshapen face. One family member got it right when she accurately stated, “He looks like a little prize fighter!” though she forgot to add that he was on the losing side without the benefit of a corner coach.

There was a smushed nose, a cone head that listed eastwards and a lazy eye that wouldn’t open properly. We slapped a hat on him and peeked over the crib each morning in the hopes that things had smoothed out over night. It was rough going for a while but fortunately, about two weeks later, his face unpuffed and his features settled into something more angelic and less like Gollum. We breathed a collective sigh of relief.

I mean, it’s a crapshoot, right? Just because you are reasonable looking people doesn’t mean that your children won’t get the unfortunate genes that are swimming about in your respective pools. So we’re just enjoying these adorable years that Dylan seems to be heading into. What I’m sure of is that his teenage years will be less kind and awkward seeing as both Marc and I barely skated through that era with our dignities intact - there was a braided tail for Marc and some perplexing fashion choices on my part. In fact, dignity might have taken a hiatus and caught up with us around 25. It’s hard to say.

But in the interim, here we are. In the deepest of love with our tiny boy.

And what can I say about parenthood that hasn’t already been said? All of the clichés are true. Every one of them. That your heart explodes and suddenly is outside of your body in the form of your child. That it is the hardest and most rewarding job you will ever have. That you will suddenly have a completely different kind of appreciation for your own parents. That you never knew the depths of your capacity to love until you are holding the little person that is a part of your very soul. It’s true. I thought I loved Kylie with all of my heart. And I do…I mean, my blog is named for her (and she is doing swimmingly, by the way – she feigns disinterest but goes and sits outside Dylan’s door the minute he cries) and I like her more than most people. But THIS love…I just had no idea. I marvel at it.

One thing that I have been shocked at is my ability to power through the fatigue. I’m a girl who likes her rest. In fact, I require it medically being immune system challenged. And of course with a newborn, there is none of that. It’s like freaking Nam…you’re up at all hours, waiting with ears pricked for the next shriek from the nine pound enemy that you’ve let into your home. I was worried that I might crack under the pressure of the constant care seeing as gone were the languid afternoon hours that I spent on the couch allowing my body to rest up for the remainder of the day.

But it’s incredible. Caring for Dylan, in every capacity, is a delight. My body, though broken in many respects, has responded to the task of being a mother in ways I didn’t think it would or could. I feel that motherhood has healed parts of me that were sad and downtrodden for a long while. I’m intensely aware that his very life, his existence depends on my being present for him at all times. And I’m here. I’m showing up for this little man and will continue to do so for as long as I draw breath.

For him, I would fight tigers.

On diaper bags and losing myself.

2010-09-20T14:21:00.000-07:00

When I announced that I was pregnant, a writer friend of mine said, "Oh my...you are going to have SO much new material for your blog!" Another friend said, "Are you going to become a mommyblogger now?" I'm not sure if the second comment was said with disdain or not, but I surprised even myself by how little I've come to this site over the past 40 weeks. I think the mommyblogger comment caught me off guard as there is something about that label that makes me feel stabby. Perhaps because it forces you to join in with a group of people who regularly discuss their sleepless night, love affair with strollers and which organic diapers best suit their little ones behinds. And really, the demographic that enjoys that sort of content is limited and also somewhat over saturated.

And while those subjects become central to one's existence when there is a miniature person in your life, I think part of me was/is scared that I'll lose a lot of myself in this process. My friends who are mothers assure me that you actually blossom into an even broader version of who you are meant to be once you become someone's mommy, there is that small part of me that is attached to my shoe collection, my travels and my bucket list and fears that once Dylan makes his appearance, my conversations will deviate from amusing to the consistency of his poops and later display a bumper sticker exclaiming how he made the honor roll at his school.

I suppose what I'm saying in my typical long winded fashion is that I'm trying to figure out where I go from here writing wise. I've looked forward to becoming a mommy since I was a wee one myself, so I'm not decrying this new phase in life that is upon me. It's more that I still want to have this as an outlet...and being that my life is soon to become full of all things Dylan, there may be more of that in here. And I'm coming to terms with that and hope that you all will too. Because if there is anything that supplies one with tales of the ridiculous, it's trying to segue from a sophisticated (ha! sort of), completely adult life into one that revolves around a baby that's primary skill is projectile poo'ing.

(And did you know? Marc has never changed a diaper before? In his 40 years? I can't WAIT...although that being said, I also have this vision of coming home and seeing Marc outside, rinsing Dylan off from a safe distance with the hose rather than deal with anything stinky up close.)

So we'll see. In the meantime, I have only a few more weeks to go and then the bomb of a new baby will be going off in our home. I can't wait.

Here is a story about how life and death are so entertwined.

2010-08-29T23:01:00.000-07:00

It's been a full weekend. An odd weekend. A good weekend and a devastating one all within 48 hours. Yesterday, for instance, we celebrated the impending birth of our son with a group of friends and family. There was joy and laughter and the all around glow that a new baby brings into the world. It was good.

And then there is today. Today I received the news that my friends 13 year old daughter lost her battle with cancer. She died. And as I pause in the writing of this, I rub my belly and feel my little son moving around in my belly, full of life. And it's strange.

It's always amazed me how joy and pain can be such bedfellows. Certainly, we spend most of our days hoping to avoid the latter, yet it seeps into our lives in the sneakiest of ways, shaping relationships and bodies and circumstances. And and I've always held to the dictum that it is our human responsibility to rise above our own personal pains in the best and most graceful ways possible. But how do you tell someone who has just lost that which is most precious to them that they must pull themselves up by their bootstraps and carry on? I don't think you do unless you want them to shut the door in your face and never speak to you again.

And so I'm sad beyond belief for my friend, yet at the same time relieved that her daughter's soul is no longer trapped within the confines of her broken body. I'm filled with sorrow, knowing that the next months and in fact years will be spent in recovery of the past two years of fighting - I know that my friend and her husband will in fact most likely never recover from having lost a child - and yet there is hope and joy in their two children who are very much alive and will go on to live, to fulfill their dreams and to dance with pain all their own.

But this pain. It is large. It brings up the question of why. Why a little girl? Why someone so innocent and not some horrid person who squandered their life? Why did she have to suffer so much? Why did God look down and say, "I want her back," despite knowing what wreckage it would leave behind? I have no answers for the slew of "Why's?" What I do know is that we live in a horribly broken world where there are many things that are not fair and we have no way of understanding. And I suppose this is where faith comes in.

I've been recently pulled into some squabbling in these past few weeks, the effects of which have made me very tired, sad and feeling as though people have lost sight of what is important. Another dictum I hold to be true is that we are all in charge of our own happiness...to me, a lot of that is keeping peace with those at I love. What this event has made reinforced for me is that it is never worth not telling those that you love what is bothering you in a kind and loving manner, asking for forgiveness when necessary, trying to see their side of the story and telling them that you love them. It disrespects those that wish they just had one more day with the person that they've lost. So let's all do those we love a solid and communicate, shall we?

Marc and I are naming our son Dylan Thomas after the poet who left behind such a beautiful body of work when he went on to drink himself to death at the Chelsea Hotel. One might say that our son has no where to go but up from there with that legacy behind him. But the reason Marc and I chose the name is that we each were struck by a poem of his long before we knew one another. For Marc it was, "Do Not Go Gently Into that Goodnight" and for me it was, "And Death Shall Have No Dominion" which I will copy here. This poem has always struck me as being about the lust of life, of love, of adversity and hunger as well as hope and joy and that mad surreality of the world in which it all takes place. Life will succeed no matter what is done to stop it. This is to Jensen, who will speak beyond the grave in the souls of her parents and brother and sister who will carry her through their lives.

And death shall have no dominion.
Dead mean naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
Under the windings of the sea
They lying long shall not die windily;
Twisting on racks when sinews give way,
Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;
Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
Split all ends up they shan't crack;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
No more may gulls cry at their ears
Or waves break loud on the seashores;
Where blew a flower may a flower no more
Lift its head to the blows of the rain;
Though they be mad and dead as nails,
Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,
And death shall have no dominion.

An adventure!

2010-07-12T10:22:00.000-07:00

We went camping! A few weeks ago! I love camping, truly, I do. However I haven't attempted it in some time. Especially since my figure has taken on the description of "spherical." But how hard could it be? Marc had recently bought a new thermarest which was approximately 2mm thicker than my OLD thermarest which in his mind meant a restful nights sleep and in my mind meant that the bump I tried to avoid but invariably found its way under my delicate back during the course of the night might be marginally dulled. If I could drink. Which I cannot. But! Onward!

Most of my friends have reservations about my camping acumen and wonder if Marc somehow is forcing me into these particular activities. I don't know, perhaps my dependency on hot rollers, fake eyelashes and my silk housecoat makes them unconvinced that a city girl like me could possibly rough it. "Of COURSE I love it, darlings!" I say as I powder my decolletage. But it's true, I do. I was hesitant this time around, however, given the pregnancy bit. But you know, it won't be just the two of us much longer and so I thought, "Hang it all...even if I don't sleep for two nights, this is valuable togetherness time!"

We drove up to Yosemite Valley in what felt like newly-wedded bliss. The weather was beautiful, we only took the wrong road once and we arrived at camp well before dark. As we checked into the campsite, the very well meaning camp hosts said, "Please be sure to remove everything from your cars at night as we've had several bear break-ins. One just last night!" Marc smiled and nodded. My mind heard, "BEAR! BEAR! BEAR! BEAR! BEAR! IMMINENT DANGER! MURDER! DEATH!" I turned to Marc, plucking at his sleeve and whimpered, "Are we going to be MAULED this weekend?" And then I immediately broke out into panic-induced hives. You see, for all of the joking I do about wanting to SEE a bear, I really only want to participate in that activity if they are on the other side of a set of bars. And perhaps even some bullet proof glass. My communing with nature is very specific and organized.

But here we were in a campground that even had a bathroom. I like bathrooms! Marc set up the tent on the flattest stretch of earth he could find and I stood by with a large stick to be sure he wasn't attacked from behind by anything large and furry. This made me feel better but had him snorting into the nylon. We wandered around after that for a bit, held hands, had some dinner and then came back to camp where I made Marc escort me to the bathroom and wait outside in the event that the bears liked whatever pregnant hormone twinged scent I was emanating and decided to ferry me off into the outback for a late night snack. This wasn't the particular brand of togetherness he was looking for, but I told him to suck it.

Then it came time to sleep, so I settled into my bag on my 5mm thick thermarest that was also as wide as my hips and proceeded to try to negotiate the bump that indeed was present under my lower back all while Marc drifted off into slumber land as soon as his head hit the pillow. People often ask me, "Why? Why would you sleep on the ground like that when there are perfectly good hotels nearby?" And I really don't have an answer for them other than, "It's part of the experience." "Of what? Having no sleep and an aching body the next day?" In my 20's I would have said something inarguable like, "Psh!" and moved on to the next subject. On this particular night while I tossed and turned and consistently fell OFF of my thermarest and into the gap between Marc and me, I wondered if the Ahwahnee Hotel had late check-in and how far of a walk it would be.

But then I thought of the bears. The bears that were likely lurking along the perimeter of the camp thinking, "Which of these easily clawed through tents should I go for this evening?" And then you wonder what jackass decided that nylon was a great material to make a shelter out of and then your mind just spins and spins and spins at which point you really have to go to the bathroom but you've decided to hold it until dawn as being mutilated on the way to the loo in the middle of the night isn't at all dignified. So you lay on your thin mattress very quietly until you're just about to drift off but are startled awake by a noise from OUTSIDE, but realize it was just the wind. This wakes up Marc who is all, "What? Where? You still up?" and then looks at me like, Perhaps we should make good of this moment, us both being awake! Let's have a party! But that's the last thing on your mind and so you go back to the spinning mind and the sore body and somewhere just before dawn, you fall into a fitful sleep which lasts for about two hours.

This is what I consider a good night!

But then that morning Marc made me breakfast and coffee and broke down the tent and let me sit in the sun while he cleaned up everything and only made me roll up the stupid thermarests which should come in a pregnancy size - meaning next time we're hauling an air mattress in with us. And then we took a long hike which ended some eleventeen million miles later at the top of Nevada Falls where we sat for a very long time on a warm rock, eating lunch and feeling pretty good about ourselves for having slogged all of that way without even whining once.

And I finally had a better answer when that following week as I stretched and tried to work out the kinks in my back as to why I subjected myself to such discomfort and pain. Because I get to spend time with my husband who considers sleeping on the ground preferable to a weekend at the Ritz. And because by doing so I'm rewarded with a happy spouse AND get to see things that not everyone is privy to. Though I have to say, that if we came with a thicker mattress and a maul proof tent, I might be more filled with glee at the prospect. I'm sure you can buy one of those, right?

The pain. It's in my arse.

2010-07-07T19:22:00.000-07:00

I've been feeling a bit off lately. My right hip, specifically, has felt like something other than a hip. Like a hot poker, perhaps, or a porcupine. Something that you wouldn't want lodged in your body. Something uncomfortable. The important thing is hip, pain, ouch.

The hip has been a nuisance over the years and has at time morphed into the Hip of Many Horrors. It began some 8 years ago in the Throes of Love, or dating Marc. We were climbing and I was in a chimney some million feet up off of the ground. Not the type of chimney that might produce the smoke from a charming fire, but a chimney like this:

What this photo doesn't convey is that one can get stuck in these things, which my right shoe DID. This was most untimely, as I was trying to go UP and my shoe was happy to stay there and not finish our ascent. So after some choice, unprintable words and Marc pulling the rope up several times (checking my progress and wondering what was taking me so long as he was hungry and I had the snacks) and my screaming up at him, "FOR GODS SAKE STOP GIVING ME A WEDGIE! I AM STUCK!" I went with the old tactic of Yanking Really Hard and freed my foot and tore some muscles that I don't think cottoned to the tearing so much. Meaning the hip never really healed properly as when one is in the Throes of Love, one does not admit to one's boyfriend that one is in terrifying pain. One soliders on! And I did! I finished that climb and descended it and walked back to the car carrying climbing gear and every time Marc turned around and said, "Are you CRYING?" I would blink profusely and comment that I had dust in my eye. But really, I was trying very hard not to weep and continued to do so for what seemed like weeks after wards. My hip finally got wise to the fact that in my early 20's I didn't believe in such things as giving oneself time to Rest and Heal, so it patched itself up as best as it could. And so now once in a while my right hip just inexplicably stops working and I collapse in a heap for no real reason and can also tell you when it's going to rain. It's all very dramatic.

But lately it's been more than an occasional trip to the floor. While on down there, I don't just say, "Whoopsie!" and get up. There is some writhing and some clutching and gasping involved. It's been hurting in a way that I can only describe as pain that gives me the right to complain. A lot. And I try not to do that as an achy hip is optimal on the scale of Things One Could Endure. I'm not, for instance, going through chemotherapy, or having someone point a gun at my head. It's a joint! Silly joint! Stop hurting! But it won't.

This morning I kept evaluating my hip from the discomfort of my bed. Did it hurt? Was I imagining things? Is it really sore or just sore from my poking it? I got out of bed and immediately fell down, so I ascertained from carpet level that perhaps it was time to visit someone who would know more about these things than I did.

There was some poking and prodding at the doctors. And of course, I felt very superior when I told him that the pain stemmed from an old climbing injury - I am a badass! Look at my war wounds from doing a sport that not many attempt! Instead of being impressed, he intimated that perhaps I ought to take up an activity that I was better AT, one that didn't leave me maimed and falling on the floor at irregular intervals. Psh.

SO! It would appear that it is pregnancy related and that I have a raging case of sciatica!

Really?

That is not exciting at all. I was hoping for something with more umph than "Your son is sitting on a nerve and since you have old damage there, you're going to suffer discomfort for the next three months!"

The solution is ice and massage. Two things I can get on board with. Well, the ice more for when there is a margarita involved, but if it brings me some sweet, sweet relief, then I will walk around with a cold pack secured to my right buttock with pleasure.

So if you come over to our house and find yourself being served a warm drink, and should you go over to the fridge to solve this problem and find me swatting your hand away from the ice machine and screaming NO ICE FOR YOU! This is why.

It's either ice in my pants or a permanent hobble. Good fun.

Babies, The Having Of

2010-07-05T20:30:00.000-07:00

I've decided that I will no longer address how long it's been since I've written as I believe these pauses in writing might happen with some frequency until the Offspring has made his appearance and we have some semblance of order back in our lives. So see you in, what, 18 years?

In truth, I've been going through what pregnancy books poetically describe as "nesting." This conjures up such bucolic and charming thoughts of wading through a field of some sort, collecting flowers and Other Pretty Things with which to fill ones house in the hopes that everything will be festive and lovely when the child arrives. In reality, it can be pretty hard core. For instance, I'm not sure any member of my family will willingly take a phone call from me for the rest of the year given the amount of work I've put them through the in the past two weeks. We have overhauled the entire house. It's not nesting so much as, "Let's Tear This Bish Down and Start From Effing Scratch."

It came as a shock to both Marc and me that you can't just leave a baby with a few mixing bowls of water and a salt lick and ask the neighbors to check in on it once or twice to be sure he hasn't peed on the bed or started growing pot in the sunbox. Not only is this chap going to require a lot of work on our part, but he also requires a lot of STUFF. Stuff that we didn't have. I was under the impression that we would just empty a bottom drawer and put him in there for a while like the pioneers did, but apparently that is frowned upon. So now, I have a crib in my house, along with some other furniture that I hadn't planned on acquiring. Marc, wisely, fled the country on a "business trip" that involved a week in London followed by a weekend in Paris. I'm still suspicious that it wasn't all just to get out of dodge so that I wouldn't hand him an Allen wrench, some pieces of plywood and say, "HERE! Twirl this! It's going to be the poo changing table!" Though had Paris been my alternative, I would have followed suit. Instead, my parents and siblings are all now in possession of achy joints and broken nails, wondering how it is that I got them to do all of this stuff in the space of ten days. German efficiency! (Always blame genetics.) I think they also feared that they might end up at the bottom of the river if they didn't obey the pregnant woman - such is the power of hormones.

But honestly, I couldn't be more grateful. I'm nearing the 6.5 month mark, and now that everything is complete, I can skate through the last trimester and just enjoy it...that is if you call losing sight of your toes enjoyable. But I'll be able to escape for weekends with my husband, focus on these last months of it just being the two of us, walk the dog, add little things to our sons room here and there and just be at peace knowing that all of the big things are DONE, and done well. I am so blessed in my family.

I'll post photos soon of what we did so that you can sit back and be impressed. For now, however, I have to go shower and throw myself across my bed at the young hour of 8pm. The fatigue is hard to describe, but if I attempted to walk down the street right now, I think I would just lie down in the gutter forever after a few steps. And considering we live across the street from the police station, I'm sure I'd get ticketed. And at my size, it would be considered a moving violation. Who needs that kind of humiliation?

Four week review

2010-06-11T13:52:00.001-07:00

Holy crap! It's been a while. I didn't fall into a hole or move to Morocco or get distracted by my ever growing mid-section. It's just been a really, REALLY busy month. In fact, I just realized this week that it is June. JUNE, people. That means that we are half way through the year, I'm half way through my pregnancy and Lost will never be on TV again. EVER. So sad. Great finale, by the way. The island was real, the flash sideways were purgatory. If I have to explain that to ONE MORE PERSON, my head will turn inside out, I swear.

Anyhoo, a brief recap would look like this:

1) Marc discovered the existence of a money tree in our backyard as we bought two new cars and sold our old ones. We now both own proper parent-mobiles, neither of which is a mini-van, THANK THE GOOD LORD IN HEAVEN. My sweet and darling Blaze - the car I have driven since high school - has found a new home with a friend so I can go over and pat her hood once in a while when I'm feeling nostalgic. My new car - Harriet - has all sorts of nifty buttons and features, most of which I have not figured out, mainly due to ignorance and fear of accidentally launching a missile which I'm fairly certain this car could do. Also, the owners manual is about 400 pages thick and that would require a bottle of wine to get through - verboten in my delicate state. My old manual was one page and consisted of two bullet points:

Insert key and turn to make car start. Use hand crank when this fails. Horse and buggy are out back if this doesn't work either.

Everything else can be solved with duct tape and prayer.

And this seemed to work for the 18 years that I drove her. Though sometimes I was late to work, what with hitching up the horse and all.

2) I have been nesting like it's my job. There is nothing quite like the realization that come October activities like showering, sleep and a lazy morning perusing Elle Decor will be a thing of the past. The walls need to be painted, like, NOW. By me. Which is what I have been doing with every spare moment. My client who is an OB/GYN asked the other day with a horrified expression, "You're not going up and down a LADDER, are you?" when I explained the paint in my hair. Sensing that this was not a GOOD thing, I lied and said, "Of COURSE not!" But what kind of question was THAT? I mean, how is one supposed to get the corners and stuff if I DON'T go up a ladder? I can't send Kylie up there with a brush attached to her tail, after all. She has no sense of how to paint a straight line. I've tried.

As a footnote I should add that I've gotten all cowboy about the painting and don't tape or tarp. People regard this with a lot of suspicion, like I'm committing some sort of foul play by not taking proper precautions. But you know how in grade school how they taught you to color IN THE LINES? I'm really good at that. So stop with the gasps, please.

3) I've been doing the kind of writing work that hopefully brings in actual profit. Which takes us so much brain power that at the end of it all I can only really drool onto my keyboard which really doesn't produce the kind of riveting content that you all expect from this site.

4) I've been staring with horror and fascination as my body goes from "svelte" to "sea manatee." Dude. There is a human being in there and no matter how much I acknowledge that fact, I don't think it will really become something more than an abstract idea until I meet our son in October. Marc is convinced that I'm just eating a lot and slipping the doctor a dvd of someone else's sonogram when we go on our visits. In the meantime, I can tell you that maternity pants rule. I'm retiring my Official Eating Trousers and keeping these on standby for every big meal.

This weekend, Marc and I celebrate six years of marriage. We dated for some four years prior to that, so we've put up with each other for roughly a decade. Yay, us! Marc is gifting me with his presence since he has taken my pregnancy as a mandate to go climbing every weekend until the baby arrives for fear that he will NEVER GET OUTSIDE AGAIN. Logical, since my first reaction after giving birth will be to scream "GAH!" at my flabby midsection after which I will chain Marc to the changing table. This is what you do, right? Never allow your mate to have any sort of life again? Or at least until the kid is 18?

Do you sense my sarcasm?

So my gift to him is an afternoon spent at an art exhibit we're both interested in followed by dinner in San Francisco. Which is really a gift to me as well, thus sparing him the need to buy me an anniversary present. See what I did there? I am a giver! Sunday, I'm sure Marc will flee to the forest and I will continue with the painting that never ends. How is it that our house has so many WALLS? My mom always said that life would be so much easier if we just lived in a tent that we could shake out every once in a while, this usually after a morning full of choring. I'm beginning to see her point.

Have a great weekend everyone!

Screw the muu-muu.

2010-05-18T21:03:00.000-07:00

I'm just home from the dermatologist. I had to go and have some stitches removed. A mole had gone rogue, had skittered and grown across the back of my thigh. This all happened without my knowledge until one day Marc was brushing his teeth and - as I dried off from my shower - pointed at my rear. His eyes widened and through his froth-filled mouth he chocked, "What the hell is that THING on the back of your leg?"

"WHAT!? Is it moving?" I cried, and after some gymnastic-like twisting, I saw what he was talking about in the mirror. There was the mole - large and dark with a pissed off looking halo of red around it - sitting under my right butt cheek. We decided that calling the doctor was the prudent choice, even though Marc offered to lance it.

I mean, let's face it, I'm super pale. I bathe in sunblock and am the chick in the huge hat with the muu-muu sitting under an umbrella at the beach. Somehow, the family stores of melanin had temporarily run out while I was in utero. My younger brother came along just as a new order had arrived as I'm the only one in the family that is this bone white. I glow. So I'm pretty on top of doing my own skin checks along with getting my dermatologist to eyeball me annually. The first time I went in she screeched and hollered, "HIT THE LIGHTS!" as she was afraid anything coming out of a bulb might burn me. Or cause me to disappear. Then she gave me a pamphlet on SPF clothing. None of which is cute, by the way.

I went to my doctor, a woman who is most likely in her 50's but has had enough procedures and what-not to seem 30. (I say this is an admiring way as when I start getting sick of my crows feet I'm just going to point at her and said, "I'll have what you've been having.") I showed her my mole and she agreed that it needed to be taken off. Immediately. Since she doesn't seem to do that kind of dirty work, she sent me to her partner, a verbose young man who looks perpetually surprised, a trait amplified by the magnifying goggles he wore to inspect my mole. After much pushing and pulling of the area, he hacked off what felt like an acre of skin and then sewed me up with some nylon rope. He tied me off, slapped a band aid on it and said, "It's abnormal, but let's not borrow trouble."

I mostly forgot about it. Except when I had to sit. Or put on underwear. Or pants. Or go to the bathroom. Which is often. Marc suggested that I carry around and employ a hemorrhoid pillow. He might still be blacked out from the blow he took to the head after that one. I should really check on him.

So today I returned to get the stitches taken out and hear the pathology results. Which were vague. Had the lab tech been there, I have a feeling he would have given his diagnosis with a lot of hemming and hawing, "Weeeellllll...it's not the WORST thing we've seen...but it's not the best. Hmmm. It's ABNORMAL, but not within the range where we suggest you PANIC. It's odd. I don't really know...read any good books lately?" The startled looking dermatologist took a more pointed approach. "I need larger margins." I could work with that.

He decided to wait to hack of more skin real estate being that I'm almost five months pregnant. So come December, we'll deal with it. After this discussion he then asked if I wanted him to do a thorough skin check since I hadn't during our initial visit. I told him no, that sitting there pants'less in his office while he blinked awkwardly at me through his magnifying goggles was enough humiliation for one day. We could do that in December when I came in for further maiming.

I plan on keeping the rest of my moles in line. I'm taking a prison lock down approach here. If everyone stays where they ought, my skin gets one hour of outside time a month. The rest of the time the moles are remaining in solitary under a kevlar suit which in turn will be covered by a full body ski bib. Screw the muu-muu. I'm not messing around.

Fifteen thoughts on becoming a mother.

2010-05-11T21:37:00.000-07:00

The doctor gave me the news while the ultrasound wand was still inside of me. That alone was traumatic. You’re not supposed to be given bad news while you’re being penetrated. “There is nothing really for you to do. It’s just likely, given what you have going on here, that you won’t be able to conceive. I’m sorry.” She then removed the instrument and patted me condescendingly on my knee. “When you WANT to explore having children, I would say try, but know that you’ll most likely need a medical intervention and even then...we’ll just have to see.” She was calm, but I sensed an undercurrent of pity, as though my faulty uterus was a failure on my part. She shrugged and left. I dressed, left the building and sat on a bench in the wan light of a San Francisco evening. I didn’t move until the sun had set dramatically over the hospital and my seat had gone cold. I had just come in for my annual exam. I hadn’t expected a life-changing verdict. I was 21.

I am one of four children with two older sisters who have four and three children respectively. My first niece was born when I was six. I was a nanny for a family with two children and they had a third while I was in their employ. I started working for them when I was 12 and their oldest was four. I worked for them every summer all through college. I have potty-trained, been spit up and pooped on and can get any child to sleep no matter what the circumstances. Whenever I talked with my friends about our futures everyone always remarked, “Well, Jen will be the first mother and probably have the most kids…” and I would smile and agree. Wasn’t that how life was supposed to go? You worked towards your college degree, found a career and someone to love, married them and then, after a sensible amount of time, started a family? It seemed like an easy enough plan. When I was 17, this is what I thought.

At the moment I found out that I might not be able to have children, my world split into two paths. The one I was supposed to follow veered one way and I went in the other, ridiculous direction - the road down which I might find myself without offspring. I wasn’t supposed to be there. I was supposed to be on that other path. But two roads collided and I took the road I didn’t want to travel because the other one had a sign that said, “CLOSED” across its entrance. And here I was on this other route, feeling lost. It had been a forced departure and there was no way back.

But I was 21. I was single and not in immediate danger of having to tell someone that if they wanted to procreate, they might want to find another uterus. One with an extended warranty. And I hadn’t even though of having children for years…years and years. But for a while after that appointment, I saw babies everywhere and felt heavy at the thought that I might never have one of my own.

And then I fell in love. I thought he was the one. It was passionate and fast and I saw everything I wanted when I caught our combined reflection. One morning as he made breakfast with his shorts slid down to his hips and his hair all slept on wrong, I said, “I think I’m falling in love with you.” I was just as startled as he was. I had never said those words and meant them. He flipped the eggs and looked up at me. There was a long pause and his jaw tensed and relaxed as if he was chewing on his words and then he said, “I think I’m getting there…” And it was then that I didn’t feel safe anymore. I let it go on like that for a while - my youthful inexperience willing his heart to catch up with mine. It didn’t. I couldn’t remain within the still, stagnant well of incomprehension. And so I left. He didn’t stop me. I spent years balanced on the fulcrum of anger and anguish. I was 23.

Later, we are still friends and I meet him for a drink when I’m in town. We sit cross-legged at either end of a bench, like book ends, watching the sun set. He says, “I made the biggest mistake, not fighting for you. Come back. I want to have a family with you. I want you to be the mother of my children.” My head rings with the words. I tell him my secret. I haven’t though about it in some time – there has been no reason to. But his confession deserves one of my own and so I reveal what is broken. His face changes and in his eyes I am now somehow damaged. The world feels tilted as I tell him no - we made the right decision in separating when we did. He doesn’t press the issue and goes on to talk about other things. The sun goes down and we leave and I don’t talk to him again for a very long time. I feel barren for many reasons but I’m simultaneously reminded of how lucky we are when we are spared what we want.

Summer slid into autumn and one night while I out with friends, I met the man that several years later I married. Marcs equilibrium doesn’t tilt easily and I admire that. He always walks around with a trace of a smile, and in that smile is a hint of generosity, as if he expects you to be right about most things and will be kind to you if you aren’t. Being with him, I felt as though someone had turned on all the lights inside of me. I don’t remember exactly when we decided that this was it, that we were each others one. It just happened. And when I told him that my insides might not work properly, that carrying on the family name might turn into something of a science project, he just smiled and said, “That’s fine. I’m not sure I want kids anyways. I’m with you,” and went back to what he was doing. The corners of my mouth hurt from smiling. Our wedding was in June. I carried pink peonies. I was 28.

Marriage with Marc hasn’t always been easy, but our mistakes, our difficulties have been solved and swept aside by mutual acts of will. We went on for years in our cocoon. Marc held me up when the world was unjust, ever offering his helping hand, and I did the same for him. Our friends married and prospered around us, and by and by some of them started having children. This was new for Marc who had not been surrounded by babies as I had. I saw something soften in him as he picked up these new little lives and saw his friends in their faces. He turned to me one day and said, “I want one.” Half sick with fear, I said, “All right. We will try.” I wanted to give him everything he wished for and I was afraid my destiny instead would be to unwillingly sell him short. We had been married for two years. I was 30.

I took my temperature. I peed on sticks. Marc came home at lunch for sex. I was aware of when I was ovulating and when I wasn’t. At first we were filled with glee, like we were getting away with something. That faded. Soon, every month became a heartbreak. Every time I looked in the mirror, my blue eyes shone on the edge of panic and my stomach often hurt, as though I was lifting something heavy. My insides felt like a hushed and vacant space. In my mind, I was permanently sitting on that bench outside of my doctors office in San Francisco, hope washing out of me. I was 31.

“You have time. I mean, it doesn’t look good, but nothing is for sure,” said my new physician. “You know all of your options. You don’t really have to worry about closing up shop until you’re 35. You have, by the way, very happy looking ovaries. Why don’t you just keep trying and then come back in a year?” My insides were wracked with endometriosis. While my ovaries were “happy” they were simultaneously being swallowed by this mass of tissue that was keeping them from doing their job. Despite a large percentage of women suffering from infertility due to endometriosis, there is little research being done to combat this condition. We are simply told that motherhood might not be within our grasp and then given pamphlets on adoption and support groups or told to have surgery that in many cases isn't a permanent solution. The tissue grows back like a cancer. I returned home and summarized what the doctor had said to Marc. He said we would just keep trying…that he didn’t marry me for my eggs. I hadn’t married him for his sperm, either, but knowing that I wasn’t able to give him a child made me feel haggard and spent.

I don’t remember much of 32 or 33. I remember feeling as though the world did not play fair; that it didn’t care if I learned my lessons from it or not. I felt like something washed ashore after a shipwreck. I attempted to forget that we had ever started this project and instead tucked it away with other nonsensical things we said or did. It was filed away next to ideas such as the time Marc thought shaving his head would make him look like a badass and my temporary foray into kick-boxing. I just wanted it to disappear into the ether.

I turned 34. After a harsh winter I crawled out of what felt like a fugue state. We went to Mexico. I sat and looked out over the water. Sun sparkled on its surface; a tiny sailboat tacked. The sky above was an enameled, solid blue and it was here that something inside of me broke and all of the sadness leaked out and away and into the sea and I felt for the first time that I could take a deep breath. I felt as though I was able to stop yearning for more and instead could regard my life and say, “Look. Look at all that I have.” I went up to our room and layed myself carefully down on our bed as if all of my bones were sore and slept deeply. Later, Marc came in after a run and joined me, holding me close. “Are you happy?” he asked. “Yes,” I replied. And he knew that it was not a lie.

Towards the end of the trip, my body had begun to hurt and ache in a way that reminded me of the flu. But it was different. The last night we were there, we went down to the beach to watch the sun set. We stayed long past dark, listening as the ghostly surf rumbled before us. The sand was almost cold and Marc piled a mound of it on my feet, patting it around my ankles. “Have you had your period yet?” he asked. I did the mental math in my head. “I think I’m a little late…but that’s not unusual.” I said this with a great deal of nonchalance, but something inside of me exploded and I found myself holding my breath. That night, as we lay in bed, I adjusted myself to fit alongside Marcs arm and tried to match my breathing to his. I knew. I spent that night staring at the ceiling. Happiness mounted inside of me.

We flew home the following evening, the land beneath us an inky chasm lit by the scattered sparks of suburbia. The next morning, I sat on the toilet and watched the pregnancy test change colors. The second line turned pink. I felt something drop in the hollow of my back and I knelt on the floor staring at this thing, this silly little stick that told me I was going to be a mother. I looked in the mirror. My eyes were filled with brightness. It had happened.

I’ve often felt defeated, as though I’m not a good woman, that I’ve failed those who love me and as though I’m always on the verge of losing my grip on everything. Marc would say that I judge myself too harshly. I would just say that it’s taken me longer than most to find my place in the world and that I had to stretch and break away parts of myself to find this version of me, the one that leans into love and understands how to be a part of this life. And that my faith in things happening as they ought, though sometimes dim and covered in shades of gray, finally brought me to a place of peace. And that perhaps by letting go of my rendition of my story, a new one was finally able to form.

Come October, I’ll know how it’s supposed to go.

Maybe being a mouth breather isn't so bad.

2010-04-21T14:47:00.000-07:00

We were fully intending on going to see Date Night on Sunday night. Really. We were going to get up off of the couch and go forth into the world. But somewhere between dinner and the gastrointestinal gymnastics that are usually required for me to digest food, my throat started hurting. And it wasn't just a little tickle. It was as though I had had a side of acid with my salad and then made sure it was REALLY in there by scraping away at the flesh of my esophagus with a dull fork. It was a sudden onset - one moment I was trying to wrestle the remote away from Marc and then the next it hurt to swallow. Or breathe.

We decided to stay in.

"Allergies!" yelled Marc, who is a constant sufferer. His religion is the neti pot and some sort of nasal spray that he jams up his nose each morning and night. That ritual is followed by a hefty, "hhhhhhhhnnccccccCH!" into a tissue which usually results in the deposit of some matter which he then views and comments upon. "Wow! You should see this!"

I've never had allergies that were not food related. And then two years ago I started having a lingering sore throat whenever the pine trees out back were full of pollen. But even then it was more of an annoyance. The two times a year it happened, Marc would say, "NETI POT! YOU SHOULD USE THE NETI POT!" I always declined. My friends, do you know what this is? It masquerades as a charming, miniature tea kettle that you actually force up one nostril (after filling it with a saline solution) then allowing the salt water to flow into one side of the nose and out of the other washing out any lingering debris, pollen, spare change, what have you. Marc always seemed remarkably refreshed and buoyant after his sessions. They proceed like this:

Prologue: Enthusiasm! "Honey! I'm going to go and use the neti pot!"
Stage 1: Deployment!
Stage 2: Euphoria!
Stage 3: VICTORY!

Despite my love of a natural and home remedy, I remained unconvinced. It had problems written all over it, starting with drowning and ending with loss of sex appeal. Then my niece Heidi wrote this about it and I told Marc to stop wielding the stupid thing at me each time I had a sniffle as it wasn't going to happen.

Exh. A - Sudden Loss of Sex Appeal

I can still see that photo when I close my eyes.

But by last night, my congestion had taken a turn for the worse. Marc, unable to stand the thought of spending another night next to his sniveling wife dragged me into the guest bathroom and said, "Look. You're going to do this. I'll do a demonstration first. You are not going to drown. It's not hard. It won't hurt. It will give you tremendous relief." So he showed me. Of course, I knew what was involved, but he was talking to me the whole time while his nose drained, so I thought - ok, this can't be all that bad. And I was sick of breathing through my mouth. He went through his above steps, ended with a flourish and then prepared a pot for me.

My own experience went something like this:

Prologue: Trepidation! Suspicion! Horror!
Step 1: Excitement! Perhaps I'd be able to breathe again! Perhaps some voluminous amount of snot would pour forth and I'll be healed! Sort of like fishing a large clump of wax out of your ears - gross, but so satisfying.
Step 2: Quiet contemplation. Hm. The water just poured out one side, and then half way through, I switched nostrils. Marc watched in fascination despite my demands that he GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT.
Steph 3: THE BURNING! What they don't tell you is that if you tilt your head back just a small amount, the salt water goes cascading down your throat. Which, in my case, was completely RAW. After much sputtering and expulsion of water and snot and other random bits and some unprintable language, I put the damned pot down and blew what felt like a gallon of water from my nose.

I didn't feel much better. But I didn't feel worse. I was more shocked over the fact that I had survived the ordeal even though the outcome - the lack of joie de vivre or even a new pony - was disappointing at best. Instead, I just really wanted to lie down and kept worrying that my head would leak if I leaned over too quickly.

Today, things were worse. Not from the neti pot but just because my "allergies" had blossomed into a full blown cold. I always hate it when a formerly compliant body part suddenly goes rogue on me, and the fact that I use my nose with some frequency and suddenly couldn't made this whole thing pretty disconcerting. I look resplendent, let me tell you...like something that feeds on the flesh of the innocent. I spent the morning at work shouting instructions at my clients from across the room and willing the minutes to move quickly so that I could get home. Despite last nights lukewarm performance, I was holding out hope for the neti pot. Perhaps it was an experience that improved with practice?

I dashed upstairs, prepared the pot and stuck it up my nose and tilted. And waited. And waited. So profound was my congestion that only after a good 30 seconds did a small drip make it's way out of the opposite nostril and into the sink. This was not the progress I had been hoping for and so thought I would speed things along a little bit by taking in a short breath and then forcing it out of my nose quickly. Which did nothing to help my nose.

But my left eye. SWEET TAP-DANCING H MOSES.

I may have some sort of degree in Biology, but even I'm not sure exactly what happened. When I exhaled, the water that was supposed to come out of my nose instead shot out of my left tear duct and splattered all over the mirror which was a good two feet in front of me. I looked on in horror as the liquid gently dripped down towards the counter and wondered if that had actually just happened. A quick survey of my face showed it to be true, and I immediately put down the pot and called Marc at work to ask, "What does it mean if it shoots out of your EYE?"

There was silence on the other end...I think while Marc wondered if he had passed the stage where an annulment might be an option. "It came out of your EYE?" he said in a stage whisper. I relayed the story again in greater detail. He remained silent. He had no answers. I had waded into unknown territory.

I hung up the phone, neither comforted or feeling any modicum of relief. My eye still oozed and I couldn't breathe out of the center of my face. I rinsed the pot and set it back on Marc's prescribed towel and decided that perhaps my relationship with it, though brief, had been turbulent enough to warrant backing away from the device forever. Perhaps, my work here was done.

Perhaps, I'll rely on modern science instead. Perhaps I don't always need to seek out a home, natural remedy first. Perhaps a poultice and twirly dance won't cure the itching. Which is why I immediately went to CVS and purchased some Tylenol Cold & Sinus and have taken to my bed for the rest of the day.

There is still salt water leaking out of my left eye. This is the opposite of rad.

A+

2010-04-15T15:11:00.000-07:00

Did you know that everyone seems to know their blood type except me? Which is odd as over the years I've been through my fair share of blood letting, and one would think I would have spotted my blood type somewhere in there. I probably was too busy burying my head in a bucket to much care given my hatred of phlebotomists. What drives you towards that profession anyways? Not that I don't appreciate them. I suppose my severe aversion towards watching my own life support drain away into any number of tubes just makes me balk at the idea of doing such a thing on a daily basis. Can't we just go back to leeches?

So two weeks ago I had to go and have some more blood tests done. Knowing my history, Marc came with me to hold my hand. I believe my nail imprints have finally started to fade from his palm and he's getting the feeling back in his forearm, so vigorous was my clenching. But it helped. I started intently at him and he asked all sorts of ridiculous questions to distract me and the clinician was really very nice and it was the first time I've ever not thrown up after such a visit. 10 points for Marc!

Monday, we went to the doctor to get the results of the test and he turned to me and said in his very kind voice, "You have A plus blood! It's really excellent!" Being that I was an overachiever in school and spent much time wearing a frock made out of goat hair and covering myself in ashes if I DIDN'T receive A's on my work, this was stellar news. I turned to Marc and said, "I HAVE THE VALEDICTORIAN OF BLOOD! I ROCK!" This, of course, in front of my very intelligent doctor, who I then turned to after my gloating and asked, "Great! What type am I?" Marc snorted from the corner and my doctor, with a bemused expression on his face said, "You're A POSITIVE, like I just said."

Oh.

Those first glorious two seconds I thought I had the blood of a superhuman and could go forth and resume licking doorknobs and perhaps even put on my resume, "A PLUS BLOOD, BITCHES!" But no.

It's possible I'm taking this harder than I ought to.

Pink blossoms

2010-04-14T16:12:00.002-07:00

The weather has been so fickle lately. We had what my mother referred to as "a REAL German rain" on Sunday. I'm not sure what that implies...that if you stood out in it you'd have a sudden proclivity for Spaetzle and Schnitzel with side of cabbage? Or that you'd suddenly become blond, blue-eyed, precise and efficient (this rain WILL STOP in two more minutes!)? Regardless, it's been wet and then dry and then wet again. And now it's just windy. But I took this the other day on a walk with Kylie and it was a nice reminder that though April seems to need a rather heavy dose of Ativan to deal with its apparent bipolar disorder, that spring is on its way. My lily white skin is looking forward to it. I'm rather sick of people sticking a mirror under my nose to see if I'm still alive and breathing.

No need to call out the cavalry.

2010-04-13T22:40:00.001-07:00

Wow! That last one was cranky, wasn't it? I got a few emails from people regarding my state of mind and my need to allow my anger to go. I suppose it could come across that way, but the point I was trying to make it that perhaps we all ought to revisit the Golden Rule and remind ourselves that what we put out into the universe should reflect what we would like bestowed upon us. I could use the reminder myself. Especially when I'm in an annoyed mode and barf all of my cantankerous thoughts onto the internet. Next thing you know I'll be poking at people with my walking stick if they're mouth breathing in my presence.

So do not worry. I'm not descending into a negative vortex. On most days, I'm positively ebullient! Just not yesterday. I just don't cotton to those rude types. That is all.

On manners

2010-04-13T17:43:00.000-07:00

I've been frustrated. It's not you, I promise. Well, it MIGHT be you. It depends. I don't know what it is but I've noticed an increased amount of horribly bad manners from the general public and it's getting to the point where when I say, "I hate people!" I'm really only sorta kidding. If even a little.

And I'm not talking about table manners, though I'm the first person to say, "SWEET MOSES CHEW WITH YOUR MOUTH CLOSED!" if you're chomping in my vicinity. Or elbows on the table. That I CANNOT abide by. Were you raised by wolves? My Mother actually made my brother and I endure what she called "Manner Meals" when we were little which included what fork to use when you were seated at a table that had a confusing array and what kinds of conversations were proper to have at dinner parties. This was all so that she could relax if we were ever invited to the White House. She didn't want to be associated with offspring who didn't know their soup from their dessert spoon and ate with their fingers. That would be worse than voting Democrat.

But as much as I despise the above, what I've noticed is a general disregard by individuals for the people around them. I would hope that we would all realize that we are not the only people on this planet. That there are those that perhaps need a door held open for them or for you to just move your grocery cart out of the way rather than leaving it in the middle of the aisle while you ponder the olive oil selection. Today I was at CVS and as I paid my bill, my wallet fell out of my hands and my change scattered everywhere. There were two people behind me, neither of whom were infirm or incapable of bending at the waist, and rather than reaching down to help, they just stood there while I scraped around their feet for my escaping quarters. Really? You're not even going to step aside? You're going to actually look down at me while I reach between your legs for my change and give me a hostile glare? After I chased down the last dime I stood up and turned to the person behind me and said "Thanks!" sarcastically. I'm not proud of this, but by the surprised look I received in return, I think I got my point across.

I'm by no means perfect and could often be accused of being off in my own world, but I'd like to think that when I'm out, that I'm aware of those around me and am willing to help should the need arise. My Mom and Dad raised us under the premise that other people's needs were greater than our own - they were not advocating that we allow ourselves to be taken advantage of but rather to be aware of others and to be the kind of people who politely step aside when we're in the way and have enough spatial awareness to anticipate that kind of thing. I can't tell you how often I'm in a store or a restaurant where people are standing in the middle of a traffic area and I have to actually physically touch them and say, "You're in the way" to get them to move to the side despite the obvious fact that I cannot climb over them in a dress and four inch heels. A simple "excuse me" doesn't even seem to work anymore . Perhaps a swift kick in the shins would deliver the message more clearly.

It's made me crotchety, and I don't like that. I've started being more rude to get my point across, having less patience. I used to assume that people weren't trying to be asses, but now I just feel as though I live in an area where people are so largely concentrated on themselves that simple manners and consideration are no longer considered necessary...that everyone should be aware of THEM. Therefore they should be able to leave their cart where it's a pain to get around, not let the pregnant mom with two small children in line first, not offer their seat to an elderly person and not hold open the door for the person behind them because they are too busy texting some other Very Important Person who is probably talking loudly on their cell phone while at a restaurant.

I mean MY GOD. I feel like at 34 I've turned into my parents who are always muttering something about "kids these days." Instead it's PEOPLE these days. They are bringing me down. I realize I'm entering the Freakout Territory From Which It Is Difficult to Exit Gracefully, but seriously, I'd like to know what I could do besides wear a sandwich board that says, GOT MANNERS? all while standing on the busiest corner in Silicon Valley. Because if one more person cuts in front of me in line all while talking into their Bluetooth headset and then brushes me off when I tell them that THE LINE ACTUALLY STARTS HERE, BEHIND ME, I might just lose it and move us all to Iowa. I hear they know how to chew with their mouths closed there. It's a start.

Sleepless in Mountain View

2010-04-10T05:10:00.000-07:00

Hi all! I just thought that since I was awake at 4:30am on a Saturday morning that I would write to you! And Share Why I Am Up! Because when one is AWAKE at these unholy hours, it seems only logical that one should Tell Everyone! Or I'm just delirious! It's hard to say!

About an hour ago, I was jolted awake by this short burst of sound that I think was loud enough to liquefy at least part of my brain. I recognized it immediately as the fire alarm that is hard wired into the house. Not the nice civilized smoke detectors that say, "You know, don't hurry up from your tea or anything, but I think your toast might be burning. No, no...no need to panic...we're just letting you know with this lovely, lilting beep that you might want to consider that something is amiss." It was not that noise. It was a noise more akin to, "THIS IS YOUR LAST DAY ON EARTH GET OUT OF YOUR HOUSE NOW BEFORE THE ENTIRE WORLD COMES TO AN END RIGHT ON TOP OF YOUR HEAD GAAAAAHHHHHHH!" and then your ENTIRE brain liquefies and you die. And the caps are bigger. It was that sound. This alarm has only gone off once. It was this winter and we had made a very enthusiastic fire. It was the kind of enthusiasm that caused smoke to pour forth and no amount of newspaper flapping was going to divert it from every corner of the house. When this foghorn from hell started going off, Marc and I of looked at each other and wondered what kind of demon was possessing our home. We located the noise (an alarm we had never looked high up enough to see - we have delicate necks that don't respond well to craning) and did some MORE vigorous flapping along with a pathetic jump or two up towards the blooming thing and the noise eventually stopped. Kylie didn't come back into the house for hours or stop panting for days, so we thought, "Well, let's not do THAT again!" It was the opposite of fun.

So when that alarm interrupted a VERY IMPORTANT DREAM - I was in the midst of a tête-à-tête with Timothy Olyphant - I was annoyed. It was only a 3 second burst but enough to get my heart racing in a way that would indicate defibrillator pads needed to be employed. I lay there waiting for my heart to stop pounding - or just STOP (which took a while), rolled over, started to drift off, and the stupid thing went off AGAIN. I got out of bed, went out into the hallway, shook my fist at it a few times and said, "JUST SHUT UP ALREADY!" Kylie in the meantime was weaving around my ankles so I went to let her out as any noise like that usually ends up with her vomiting on my feet. As I was downstairs, the alarm went off two more times, and I knew sleep was futile. I went to our circuit breaker box and looked to see if anything would indicate I could cut power to the thing. Nothing. I went and stared really, REALLY hard at it. It went, "BLLLLARRRRRGGGHHHHAAAAAAA!!!!!" at me again. If this thing had a middle finger, it would have been rubbing it with glee into the middle of my forehead.

I called the non-emergency 911 number for Mountain View. The woman on the other end of the line sounded less than impressed about someone calling with a malfunctioning alarm. "Can't you just check to see if the battery is old?" she asked, I'm sure filing her nails and snapping her gum in boredom. I had this whole visual of how she looked that dated back to a wartime operator in the 1940's - sort of like this only less cheerful:

I'm fairly certain that is not what was on the other line, but it's what came to mind. I considered adding, "Oh, and my carotid artery is spewing blood!" just to get her attention, but what I really wanted was to go back to sleep.

I explained that we have VERY VAULTED ceilings and that there was just no way, despite my climbing prowess, that I was going to be able to reach up that high. She sighed and said, "Allllll riiiiiiight. I'll send out the firemen." I imagine that she rolled her eyes to her fellow operators as she connected my call.

The advantage of living so close to the firehouse is that they showed up in less than five minutes. I had a Claire Dunphy in Modern Family moment and wondered if I had enough time to change and put on my eyebrows, but I was distracted as the alarm went off two more times and then Kylie deposited her dinner into the ivy out back. Better there than my feet.

They sent out three firemen (all of whom were VERY good looking...and here I was in old sweats! Without so much as a swipe of lip gloss!) who all seemed rather bemused that this blond person with no discernible facial features couldn't deal with something so trivial as a fire alarm.

Long story short, the alarm didn't go off ONCE while they were here. NOT EVEN ONE TIME. The brought in a Very Large Ladder and went up to the alarm to have speaks with it - it remained silent. All the while I willed it to GO OFF, but it just smugly sat there, thinking, "I'll just bide my time and wait until they leave and she is just on the border of sleep..." It would appear that our system is just very, VERY old and they couldn't disable it, so after about 25 minutes of mucking about, the three of them said, "Well, good luck with that. Call an electrician in the morning." I did a very good job of not clinging to their ankles and saying, "TAKE ME BACK WITH YOU SO THAT I CAN GET SOME REST! I DON'T NORMALLY LOOK THIS WASHED OUT!" Instead I just forlornly watched as the Very Good Looking Men left. I let Kylie back into the house and now am shuttered away in my office, writing this to you.

Marc is, of course, out of town and not privy to all of this excitement. I think I'll give him a smidge of the experience when he gets home by pouring some ice water over his head around 3:30am. It's only fair. Or, does anyone have an air horn I could borrow?

I promise, I'll get back to stories that don't include my reno. Soon.

2010-03-28T20:06:00.000-07:00

The cabinets are done! Ponies for everyone! Today our cabinet people finished the last little bit of work, Marc handed them the final check while I hid in the corner and finished the vermouth. I had suddenly realized that all of that packing I had done last week needed to be UNPACKED...and put away. The thought made me want to weep into my fists, BUT! There is a new kitchen at the end of all of this, so onward I shall press.

Photos! We are without granite, but that will be coming on Wednesday.

Although even sans granite it's a sight lot better than it was before. Say it with me: NO MORE ORANGE BIRDS! And yes, that is a very large sink. We plan on using it as an extra bath in the event of an onslaught of guests.

I call this, "Stove with Drill and Random Detritus."

I'm going to have to get rid of the pathetic blue drapes. I hung them three years ago as they were preferable to those horrid vertical blinds that hang in every apartment in your 20's. Like many things in my house, I stopped seeing them after a while. But our new kitchen so clearly demands better accessories that I'd best heed the call and take care of that before the cabinets up and leave on account of my poor fabric choices.

And here is what I did this afternoon because I just wasn't ready to face unpacking and it was 70 degrees out and...well...how could I NOT be outside?

Happy dog. Yay.

My name is Jen and I'm addicted to iPhone photo applications

2010-03-26T22:02:00.000-07:00

I'm posting these for my sister Steph who has been all, "WHAT DOES IT LOOK LIKE TODAY?" as reveling in a reno not your own is far better than actually experiencing the dust, the annoyance of strangers using your toilet and the spirited exchange of ideas that one has with ones neighbors regarding the piece of plywood that was taking up an INCH of their parking space. One might suggest to that neighbor that shoving said piece of wood in a place where the sun does not shine would solve the problem, but I believe that space is currently occupied by said neighbors head. I am not being Biblical in not showering this particular person with love, but given the hole she tears DAILY in my joie de vivre, I feel justified.

ANYHOO.

What we have here, my friends, is progress. You have to keep in mind that they tore out everything on Wednesday. EVERYTHING. And two days later we have a whole bank of new, shiny cabinets that I'm going to go down and rub my naked body all over. There will be no photos of THAT, mind you. You're welcome.

It IS impressive what they have accomplished in a few short days. I think my threatening to water board them if they weren't done tout suite had something to do with it. It's all in the delivery.

Tomorrow the granite chap comes to measure, I have to go and buy some flooring from the Mensa like people over at Home Depot, we'll get the sink in early next week and then PRESTO! New kitchen!

I've come to the conclusion that going through a renovation is not unlike being stuck on the New Jersey Turnpike. I probably don't even have to go into detail as to how the two compare as anyone who has been been in that situation will nod sagely and then go and weep in a corner. And I realize that we are only three days in and therefore terrible wimps to be complaining about ANYTHING AT ALL. My point is that those of you who do this to an entire house or who attempt to do it yourselves, I admire you.

I also think you're a special sort of crazy. That is all.

Better than a shiny new toothbrush

2010-03-25T15:07:00.000-07:00

I had to go to the dentist today. Unremarkable, I know. You'll all be pleased to note that my tendency to binge floss two weeks before any dentist visit paid off and the hygienist stated with a dramatic sigh and an accidental squirt to my face with the rinsing gun that she wished her other patients were as diligent. I nodded sagely as I dabbed at my eyes, lamenting with her how those other people make her job so much more difficult.

I left with my new toothbrush and the promise to continue my flossing habits. As I walked outside and towards my car, a mother was trying to console her toddler who wasn't having any of it. The mother looked sleep deprived and in a last ditch effort to understand her child who was letting off a high pitched "fehhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh" sort of half screamed, "JUST TELL ME WHAT IS HURTING YOU SO THAT I CAN FIX IT!"

Her tone stopped the boys whine and he looked at her, wounded that she would dare raise her voice when clearly that was his job. Writhing around in his stroller so that he could adequately point to his bottom he looked up at his mother and said through his sniffles, "I. Have. The. Backdoor trots."

BACKDOOR TROTS.

Just let that soak in for a moment and tell me that's not the best thing you've heard all day.

Heh.

The birds. They have flown south.

2010-03-24T16:21:00.001-07:00

There are, in short, no more birds. For this, I could not be more grateful. Honestly. Last night I was near tears, having spent the better portion of a week packing, sorting and wondering why two people and a dog need so many damned spatulas. Suffice to say, some of the kitchenware that has spent the duration of our marriage stuffed in the back of various drawers made its way to the great kitchen in the sky - otherwise known as my brothers house. My rule became: if I haven't touched you in over six months, you don't get to take up my precious cabinet space. Last night I had had enough. The last box had been packed, the final dish stashed and we were both trying to subdue Kylie who was wondering what the hell was going on and why her living room had suddenly become a makeshift kitchen. Out of fatigue and just general hatred of the color orange, I started vandalizing my own home. If you ever need to get some aggression out and want to practice your penmanship, I highly recommend it.

I feel compelled to state that my handwriting is usually much better than this. The Ambien I had taken a few minutes earlier kept me from writing in a straight line.

My art major, being put to good use. I killed in Drawing 101 with my stick figures and smiley faces.

So this morning, I rubbed the countertops with my middle finger and when I came home! THEY WERE GONE! BEHOLD!:

A view into and out of the kitchen. With Kylie's rear. She had to sniff every square inch of floor space when we came home as STRANGERS HAD BEEN IN THE HOUSE. I believe she has come to the conclusion that it is all right for us to stay here and quite likes the new space between the kitchen and dining room as it allows her more convenient access throughout the front part of the downstairs. I like it myself, but we need the cabinets that are going to go there so the both of us will have to be content with a pass through and less floor space.

As the workers were leaving, one of them said, "Don' worry. We move stove back to kitchen when everything done." He's Chinese, so the accent is approximated. Not that I had thought that it was STAYING in the middle of my dining area as that would be the height of awkward, but I suppose it would solve the problem of getting food to the table while it's still warm. You could just fling it from one surface to the other all while screaming, "HOT PLATE HOT PLATE!" And while I'm all for a good shortcut, that might really be pushing things.

Say it with me: NO MORE BIRDS!

2010-03-23T16:23:00.001-07:00

I'm afraid that anything I attempt to write today is going to be tainted with the fact that I AM SO TIRED. Really, I am. It's true that I didn't sleep particularly well last night. Marc has been gone for a week and finally returned home last night and so after 6 days, I had to reintroduce myself to his nightly activities which include stealing covers, pillows and invading my side of the bed. Understand that I missed him dreadfully and was terribly happy for him to arrive home, but he is as active in sleep as he is in life and it takes some getting used to when you've had all of that mattress acreage to yourself. Kylie sleeps up there with me when he is gone, but the most she does is press a paw into your forehead when she's ready to get up, and that's usually around 9am. Oh the bliss of a pet that follows your sleep patterns.

No, the real reason for my fatigue is that I spent a lions share of this last week and all of the weekend packing the kitchen up for our reno that starts tomorrow. Did you know that two people can have, like, 201 sets of dishes? And almost an equal amount of glassware? I'm not sure where it comes from as I swear we had only 8 wine glasses once upon a time - I think they procreated behind closed doors one night as I was packing and packing and PACKING and wondering if it would ever end and if my life might be much improved if I threw it all into the recycling bin and just walked away. Either that or we need to cut down on our booze consumption. WHAT? Somewhere Marc's heart just stopped.

So most of it is done. I have a wee bit more to finish up today along with making a temporary kitchen on top of our bookcase in the living room so that Marc can still have his morning coffee and toast. He'll most likely take the time between brewing and consumption to read some Camus or Stegner or Rand, what with the proximity to good literature and all. We like to keep our brains working, you know, despite our surroundings.

I'll take some photos of the process but for now I'm focused on the fact that THERE WILL BE NO MORE BIRDS by the end of the week. Sweet fancy Moses, I can't tell you how happy that makes me. The glee in my heart, it's immeasurable. For now, I'm off to pack up the remaining items. Or throw them out. I'll see how I feel after that shot of tequila that's calling my name.

Hall of horrors

2010-03-14T17:12:00.000-07:00

Hello! I have had too many Mike & Ike's and while the sugar was coursing through my veins, I took pictures of our aesthetically challenged house. You know. Those photos I promised you last week? Before I came down with something we'll call a cold but felt more like pleurisy. Or consumption. Take your pick. Regardless, I finally took the photos and am ready to take you on a tour of Things That Will No Longer Be. Come along, won't you?

Let's start in the kitchen. The cabinets and counter tops will be torn out in about 10 days. And I will never again have to look at the birds. That are flying...where? It's hard to say. But they are directionally challenged and I have a hard time not stabbing myself in the eye each morning when I come down and look at them, flying without regard for my feelings all over the back splash. I wish I could tell you that the color, that lovely beautiful rust color, was a trick of the camera. Alas, someone actually thought it would be a good idea to install not only the tiles, but then a counter of a matching hue. THEY WILLINGLY CHOSE IT. To have poo colored birds and counters. They must have been hopped up on WAY more than Mike & Ike's. I'm doing your eyes a favor by only showing you a sliver of the place. You're welcome.

Let's move on to the cabinets, shall we? Again, so as not to offend, here is a mere glimpse. The 1980's came to roost and never left. We'll be watching movies from that era and either Marc or I will go, "Hey look! Our cabinets!" I'm sure if I looked hard enough, Tom Cruise would be lurking in a corner somewhere. I'd have to shoo him off to the Scientology center down the street because we really don't have the space to spare, no matter how small he is. And no, I didn't open the door in that jaunty manner so that you could get a better view of the veneer that covers the plywood doors. The door is ajar because it decided to stop shutting last week. Just like that. I think it knows its days are numbered and is expressing its displeasure. The door can just SUCK IT.

Behold! Our faucet! As faucets go, it's totally functional. It's also totally ugly. So OUT. OUT WITH YOU. It should be mentioned that we have some of the most awesome water pressure known to man. This faucet amplifies it somehow and we're often baptized by the enthusiastic spray of water that issues forth. It's not uncommon when we're having a dinner party to hear guests shriek, "WWWLLLLAAAHHHHHHGAH!" and then come out of the kitchen completely soaked down the front. They often make some succinct observation - "You have crazy strong water pressure." Indeed. So we'll be getting a deeper sink and a faucet to mitigate some of that flow. Again, you're welcome. AND MY GOD THOSE BIRDS ARE EVERYWHERE.

And then we come to the lights. We have three of these beauties that flew in from the planet Fluvenzorgen some 20 years ago, found out that Earth girls were easy and never left. Honestly. Beyond the problems I have with the person who BOUGHT this, I have an even bigger bone to pick with the person who DESIGNED it. They ought to have their colored pencils revoked immediately.

See? Here's one of the original little guys. Captain Fritz. He's coming off of a bender but has enough energy to say hello. He's the fleet commander and I find him in states of disrepair all over the house. I think he's figured out how to get into the liquor cabinet.

So the tour is now finished and I hope I haven't seared your eyes with the birds and the brown and the rust and the ugliness. To be quite frank, I'm just happy to have a home and a kitchen and all of the amenities that many other people do without. I ought not to be complaining about the flight patterns of my tile as we are fortunate to be able to call that tile our own - AND to be able to RIP IT OUT. It will be nice to have that gone. You'll all be invited over for dinner. You just might have to bring your own food. And eat outside. To keep the new kitchen clean.

What is our fire insurance policy, anyways? I should know that.

2010-03-08T18:15:00.000-08:00

I was going to post pictures today, to give you some sense as to what has been going on over here at TLP HQ, but then Marc came down with a cold that is masquerading as The Plague which means that he is twisting and listless on the corner of the couch moaning all sorts of unintelligible, phlegmy things that translate into "I AM SUFFERING O WOE BRING ME SOME TEA AND A HOT POULTICE AND O THE MISERY!" So I've been alternating between ferrying various healing items to said corner to make him feel better and wondering if I'd really get caught for smothering him. HA! Kidding! Sort of!

Anyhoo, the tea making and airing out and chasing of used Kleenex all over the house has kept me from taking photos of what is going to heretofore be known as The Lifting of Jen Out of Her Home Decor Related Despair, 2010. Which might be a bit dramatic, but it is something I've been looking forward to since the day we moved in. In to this little house that possesses the most 1980's of kitchens, the ugliest of tile choices and lighting fixtures that have set me running, screaming into the night on more than a few occasions.

We are also swimming in a sea of brown. I know that sounds alarmingly fecal, but with the mismatched wood colors, the brownish counter top and tile of indeterminate color, the only word that comes to mind is poop! It's a petrified wood forest of horrors and later this month it is ALL COMING OUT. Well, we're starting with the kitchen. I'll post pictures this week so you can adequately understand what we're dealing with...and when you see them you'll scream, MY EYES! MY EYES! JUST SET IT ALL ON FIRE! But! There is hope!

So this weekend, we spent a lions share of Saturday picking out granite, light fixtures, a sink, a faucet. Activities that have the potential to make a husband and wife want to kill one another because you come to realize that you've married an aging frat boy who bases his preferences on whether or not the sconces adequately represent boobs. I'm thrilled to report that this was not the case with us and that we were in and out of all stores in a maximum of ten minutes, agreed on everything and managed NOT to slaughter the irritating children at the granite place. We even high fived over burgers at lunch at our timeliness! Our ability to acquiesce to the other one's wishes! That we didn't get pouty when the other person said no! Marriage at it's best people.

We returned home and Marc promptly fell ill. I think all of that compromise and good humor and the irritating kids really took it out of him. I brought him some tea yesterday and as I stroked his head, he sneezed in my face. I got excited for a moment thinking, "Perhaps I will fall ill and have to take to my bed with the vapors!" You see, I could use some time off before the Kitchen Overhaul. But alas, my new, super-powered immune system laughs in my face at my wishes to be bedridden just long enough to get through the stack of books on my nightstand. Instead, the next week will be full of culling and sorting and packing and rending of my garments as I wonder what sane person needs so much tupperware and three types of vegetable peelers.

But! Shiny new kitchen! And lack of brown! And odd wood assortments! Hooray!

Photos forthcoming.

You cannot relax to Bob Dylan

2010-03-02T16:21:00.000-08:00

Amazingly, I didn't bring back a crippling intestinal problem from Mexico. I was prepared to. We set out with all sorts of pharmaceuticals to combat everything that could go wrong with one's colon. Enough, in fact, that I was afraid we might exceed our weight limit on Air Mexicana given the sheer volume of Miralax and Imodium we were toting. Happily, we never had to use any of it and I stopped looking for a Medivac wherever I went. I attribute this gastrointestinal strength to tequila, handiwipes and the fact that I've stopped licking doorknobs.

Near the end of our trip, my mother-in-law, Charlene, had arranged for a spa afternoon for the two of us. The way to my heart is via a thorough rub down of my body, so of course I was delighted at the prospect and on the morning of, did a little dance in front of Marc that concluded with my saying, "I get a massage! SUCK IT!"

And, oh, how the mighty fall.

After check in and changing into fluffy robes, my masseuse led me back into her room. There was an immediate problem with the language barrier. I speak no Spanish but had been able to get by most of the week by saying things like, "Cazadores! Guacamole!" phrases that, sadly, would not apply in this situation. So I gesticulated, pointing at my back and neck and then at my feet yelling "WORK ON THIS!" at top volume. That always helps, you know. I then made a sweeping gesture down my legs and, with a face that was supposed to convey "You can ignore this part" but I fear mistakenly expressed that I was holding back a fart, we concluded the initial meeting and she left so I could disrobe and crawl under the sheets.

I hung my robe and, now completely nude, started to climb onto the table. Most women will attest to the fact that there are moments when naked that your body does not look it's best no matter how much time you spend at the gym. One of those is when climbing into a bed and wrestling with the sheets before you lie down. The stomach somehow looks like a Shar Pei and things wiggle that really ought not to. I was in this position, trying to push my feet down to the bottom of the sheets when I realized that they were stuck. I had a terrible flash back to college, a time when I mastered the art of short sheeting rather than going to my chemistry lab, and wondered if this was some sort of Karmic retribution of my having trapped so many friends in their beds years ago. I wrestled with the sheets, unable to get my legs to move and somehow completely tangling up my left foot in the process. My body, from the knees up, was entirely exposed.

It was at this point that I heard the soft knocking at the door and before I could scream, "MAYDAY! MAYDAY!" the knob turned, and in walked my masseuse who, taking one look at my stricken face and akimbo body flew to my side and began trying to help me. Unfortunately, she could not, and at this point I was in the midst of severe cold sweats at having a complete stranger so close to my privates. And I KNOW that I was about to let her oil me up and rub me down, but at least with a strategically placed SHEET in play.

Not to take you through all of the grisly details, but she finally took a proactive stance and just ripped the sheet off of the table, releasing me from it's hold with one swift tug. I wasn't sure I could go on after this without being simultaneously bathed in gin, but there we were, with no bar in sight, and I was going to ENJOY THIS MASSAGE, dammit.

So she began, and I tried to regain some of my composure...my dignity had clearly left the premises and was probably enjoying happy hour in the hotel lobby. That slag. I was trying to breathe and forget what had happened earlier while my masseuse started in on my neck and shoulders. Tinkly music was playing in the background and I felt myself slowly relaxing. Who cares if my vagina had just been on display? Lalala...

"HHHHHHHHNNNNNNNNAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHPSSSSHHHHH!!!"

This earsplitting noise suddenly ripped through the speakers and filled the room with a sound that I can only describe as Bob Dylan being water-boarded. It lasted for a good 6 seconds, causing me to tense suddenly and my masseuse to put inadvertent pressure on a nerve. I joined Bob Dylan with a startled, "GAH!" and then suddenly the room went quiet and the tinkly music resumed. My masseuse paused for a moment and then, satisfied that this audible Sherman Tank wouldn't return, continued her work.

This went on throughout the hour. The speakers suddenly blasting feedback through the foresty noises every five or so minutes, me tensing in response and the masseuse, similarly startled, responding with intense pressure on various parts of my body and me shouting, "OHOWAHHH!" like a crippled walrus whenever she did. This was not exactly the relationship I had hoped to form with this masseuse. A flagrant and unflattering display of nudity followed by my flailing around on her table like I was being gnawed at by fireants.

Finally, I could feel her wrapping up. After a particularly long solo via the speakers and her muttering what I can only imagine where some Spanish swear words under her breath, she moved behind my head and started clattering around in the cabinet that was back there. She had given up any pretense of trying to keep the room peaceful and banged a few doors open and shut, looking for WHAT, I had no idea. Finally the noise stopped, and through my eye pad, I could feel her leaning over me. After one deep breath, she made this little motion resulting in a tiny gong going binnnnnnnggggggggggggggg somewhere over my left breast. I assume that this gong nonsense was to signal the end of your peaceful hour. Instead, I felt like I needed to find a world wherein nothing moved and everything was silent.

I trudged upstairs to our room and Marc came in shortly after, having apparently joined Dignity down at the bar for drinks. He was luminous, happy, relaxed, shiny. I hated him for just a moment. I relayed the events of the past hour and when he finally stopped laughing, Tecate tinged tears rolling down his cheeks he said, "Well, I suppose that hour of suffering was better than dealing with intestinal warfare," making a sweeping gesture at the piles of pills and medications we had brought with us. A Metamucil tablet rolled onto the floor and settled in between some tiles. Then he said a magical, healing word, "Margarita?" The evening got MUCH better from there.

But I'll never be able to listen to Bob Dylan again without cringing, waiting for sudden pressure on my sciatica from some invisible elbow.

"February is a suitable month for dying." - Anna Quindlen, One True Thing

2010-02-25T15:35:00.000-08:00

So, I'm not super clear as to where February went. The calendar gods have always seen fit to throw in this ridiculous month which is fraught with problems...fewer days, and then MORE if it's a Leap Year which solves the problem of the Lunar Calendar vs. the Gregorian Calendar. Or that's what I gather from having read about it for .02 seconds on Wikipedia. Then my brain exploded.

February was exceedingly full. We went to Mexico, came back and had Valentine's Day, which Marc and I both completely forgot about and celebrated by having Cory over for dinner and watching Hurt Locker. And then the following week was spent executing the precarious dance that was arranging Marc's 40th birthday surprise party (which was nearly ruined by a wintery storm in which rain drops the size of dinner plates were falling out of the sky...I went outside and screamed STOP IT! STOP BEING SO STUPID AND ILL TIMED, WEATHER! [I said some other salty things too, if I'm being honest] And what do you know? It did! Stop, that is. Just for one day, but that was all I required.) (Otherwise, the party went off without a problem! I highly recommend marrying a gullible man if you can arrange it...it makes these kind of things SO much easier! Hi honey!), and then I've spent the past week recovering from said party and so here we are, on the cusp of March.

It was difficult to come home from Mexico. Because it looked like this:

And was filled with many of these:

Which made us oh so happy and content and lo! Full of much glee! See?

I highly, HIGHLY recommend this kind of escape during the cold months. Normally I would spend February in a mid-winter funk, wanting only to watch tv without my pants on, and then do productive things like whine about how cold I am. I'd don the same, pilly sweatshirt that I swear I've had since the day I was born and retreat to a quiet corner of the house, which happens to be our arctic bedroom and is full of annoying things like laundry that requires folding and random detritus that needs to be put away. But in February, it's easier to kick all of that to the side and hide under my duvet until something nicer, like Spring, comes along. So see, you were saved all of that by our timely trip to the tropics. You're welcome. We'll have to do this every year, even if we have to sell a couple of kidneys to make it happen.

To the one I love

2010-02-14T14:29:00.000-08:00

We have finally returned from a week in Mexico. I would be lying if I didn't admit that I entered the airport last Friday in a cold sweat of worry and trepidation. We had not embarked on a vacation like this - one so purely decadent that catered solely to my love of lying on a flat surface with a cocktail in hand - since our honeymoon. While I have many advanced degrees in Being Quiet & Still for seemingly endless stretches of time, Marc is of the WHAT ARE WE DOING TODAY THAT WILL TAKE MY HEART RATE HIGHER THAN WHAT IS RECOMMENDED BY THE HEALTH PROFESSION AT LARGE school of thought. And yes, he speaks in all caps. To say our definition of what qualifies as a "vacation" differs at best. And because of this, because of the hyperactivity and the need to MOVE AROUND ALL OF THE TIME, we have schlepped thirty pound packs up very high peaks, woken at dawn to climb things that we were perhaps just meant to be observed from sea level and hanged out over precipices that made me finally demand a life insurance policy.

To quiet the noise in Marc's head requires a dose of activity that the normal person would perish just to listen to. The noise in my head, however, is easily shut off with a margarita and a view of the sea. Marc, perhaps seeing some sort of desperation beginning to cloud my vision came home one day and announced that we were going to Mexico. To lie very, very still. I wept with joy. And so for the past week, my head has been blissfully peaceful. I have spent hours gazing out at the deep blue ocean and my troubles seemed to wash out with the tide. It was the healing balm I needed.

And Marc? My nerves about him being able to enjoy a vacation like this and not drive us into some sort of argument that would include my yelling "O MY GOD CAN'T YOU JUST ENJOY THE TROPICS LIKE A NORMAL HUMAN BEING???" and him throwing himself off of the balcony? It would seem that having access to a gym, several Tecates at lunch, an afternoon nap and sufficient quiet time with his wife were enough to keep him from committing hara-kiri with a broken beer bottle. I was shocked! The man only naps when he is sick, or I am sick and he is faking the same symptoms. But the time together? I don't know that we have had anything like that in years.

Marriage is a funny thing. In the space of a day you can feel like bashing your spouses skull against a very sharp object and then make love to them that evening in a way that communicates that you will never, ever let them go, despite having wanted to induce threatening trauma to their heads earlier. Mexico, in its infinite beauty, in its slowness, its blue blue sea and rocky sand and beautiful stray dogs that I always had to stop and pet afforded me the peace of mind that allowed me to fall in love with my husband all over again. Not that I was out of it, mind you. I just had the space and time to appreciate all over again why we were HERE, here with one another, in the first place. And I reckon these re-births happen continually over the course of a life together, but this one is mine and is covered in sand and lime and beautiful sunsets and endless sleep and looking over at his smiling brown eyes and being flooded with that rush of knowledge that I did a good, an excellent thing, by saying yes to this version of my life so many years ago.

And so we come home and unpack and pet our dog who will ignore me for the first 24 hours because I dared leave her. And we will fall asleep in our own bed tonight and wake up tomorrow to schedules and bills and unanswered emails. And I'll go upstairs to fold the seemingly endless trail of laundry that follows me wherever I go and perhaps some sand will fall out of an undisturbed pocket or my collar will chafe against the sunburn I carry on my neck or Marc will look up at me, over his newspaper and I'll remember how deeply he slept every afternoon, waking with the imprints of the sheets creasing his face. And I'll be happy.

This life. It is more than enough.

And while I hate Costco, technology hates me

2010-02-01T19:27:00.000-08:00

So there was this moment last week wherein I realized that I hadn't written in a while. And so I sat down to do so and had a few funny stories going. I just needed to import them from Word and then push that handy little "PUBLISH" button. But then this little thing kept flashing on my Mac dashboard...something about computer updates and I was all, "Oh, I should probably do that!" since once, I hadn't updated in, like, MONTHS, and Marc was using my computer and was all, "WHY IS THIS THING SO SLOW?" and I was all, "I don't know...because it's TIRED?" And then he checked and realized that the software was SIX MONTHS OLD which we all know means that I might as well be etching my posts on stone tablets. And I was all, "What? I like marble!" and he shook his head in disbelief that his wife, who grew up in Silicon Valley could be so horribly inept at computer maintenance and then my eyes glazed over and I went and made a cup of tea and he solved the problem and I yelled, "YOU MEAN I CAN RUN SEVERAL APPLICATIONS AT A TIME WITHOUT THE SPINNING WHEEL OF DEATH APPEARING?"

And then he fell over and died. Of frustration and defeat. It was sad. But my tea was good.

SO! Having learned the hard way, I went to update my software, not really paying attention to what I was doing because Jersey Shore was playing on mtv.com, and The Situation was talking about the crucial aspects of GTL. And all of a sudden, my computer went black and SHUT DOWN. Apparently, I had given it permission to do so, as it started up right away again. BUT! ALL POSTS WERE LOST. I hadn't saved them. Or I think that's what happened. It's hard to say. I spent a lot of time tapping my screen going, "HELLO ARE YOU IN THERE?" but nothing appeared except my screen saver so I'm assuming they are permanently lost, at least to me.

And that is why I haven't posted in a while. I'm mourning the loss of all of those typed words that are no more.

I hate Costco

2010-01-20T00:38:00.000-08:00

Now, I'm just a simple girl from the suburbs without a lot of fancy book learning, but I'm pretty sure I once read something by that Dante chap about how Costco was the tenth or eleventh circle of hell in his famous book How All of Your Dead Loved Ones and Pets are Burning Eternally for Sins Otherwise Committed or Merely Thought Of.

It’s fair to say that I hate all big-box stores. It has less to do with my politics and more to do with an extreme case of claustrophobia and a dislike of the general public. After almost hyperventilating and seeing my life flash before my eyes while lost amid the vacuum cleaners and printer paper and surrounded by high, high shelves of one such place, I made a rule - I declared that I wouldn't willingly enter a warehouse type store unless there was an emergency or Christian Bale was spotted shopping there.

But once or twice a year when the moon is full, I find my house in need of bulk paper items and large jars of artichoke hearts and so I fortify myself with virgin’s blood and enter Costco with all of the enthusiasm of the restless dead. Ostensibly, Costco sells everything one might need. Where else can you buy a years supply of underwear and a book on Ass-Kicking Yoga For Fights? I'd just like to know why such a possibly fulfilling shopping experience has to be accompanied by surly children who's parents must have recently hit the crack pipe? Crazy guy who yells HELLO to everyone in a really loud voice? Miserable hippies who ensure that the book area smells like patchouli and armpits? Hipsters with their star tattoos clotted around the wine section comparing their tasting notes and disagreeing haughtily with the Wine Spectator's reviews? And the elderly who vibrate in anticipation at the idea of saving money and wield their age as a weapon as they run you over with their motorized wheelchairs in a hysterical and hostile attempt to get at whatever they need FIRST. I was once in a crowded aisle waiting to pick out some cereal when a small, older man elbowed his way through the throngs and found himself at an impasse once he reached me. Regarding how to best navigate his way quickly towards the mini-wheats he put his wretched, gnome like hand on my arm and began pushing with all of his might until an oily sweat broke out across his forehead from all of the effort and grunting which sounded like this, "Nnnnnnnnnnngh! Nnnnnnnnnngh!" As if he could just shove me aside, like normal people do with cripples. Or babies.

Last week, I had run out of toilet paper and my hoo-ha was chafed from using paper towels. I had ransacked all other bathrooms and was having company over the following night and offering them a Kleenex box stolen from work would not do. So I decided to brave Costco, prepared as always to drop any pretense of being a polite, contributing member of society upon entry. You have to arm yourself. There are those housewives who will stab you in your lady parts with a hypodermic needle if you dare reach for the last copy of Oprah's Guide to the Universe.

So I stood amongst the rabid throng, trying to decide whether to body check a hipster over some scotch or kick a hippie who was taking too long to choose a cheese. I chose neither but instead held my breath, tried desperately not to make eye contact with anyone and dove forward, struggling to tamp down a series of panic attacks. I emerged some time later out of breath and with the wild look of someone who had just rediscovered her will to love and feel. I was done! And had survived rubbing shoulders with lepers, endured getting yelled at by some hostile, bespectacled and beige middle-aged person of indeterminate sexuality over the meat counter and weathered listening to someone of Mensa intelligence loudly recommend Mary Higgins Clark as a master of English literature while taking a short-cut through the book section. I made my way towards the lines which snaked their way around the warehouse for at least four miles, crossing each other and looping back on themselves several times. Then began the internal debate over whether anything was worth the impending wait. But the toilet paper raised a few startling and well thought out points regarding the delicate state of my privates and so I shut up and leaned onto my cart for what I was sure would be a small eternity. Each moment I was in there was resulting in a loss of IQ points and I was anxious to get outside and once again see the sun and gasp at the beauty of the sky and trees and burst into tears.

My line was next to the pharmacy, which allows those who enter this hell-hole and manage to leave with only three items to pay and exit quickly. A middle-aged man with a mole of startling hairiness stood in that line with an overflowing cart. Clearly, he was over the item allowance but didn't seem to care. Either that or the mole, which was near his eye, obscured his vision enough so that he couldn't see the sign indicating the limit. A Costco worker approached him and murmured something about how he needed to get into a line that could process his 314 wares. This didn't go over well with Mole. Instead of moving, Mole started loudly berating the worker. "WHAT? What are you going to do? What DAMNED difference does it make what line I'm in? WHAT? Are you not gonna take my GOD DAMNED MONEY? Is my money NO GOOD?" and so on and so forth. To the Costco employee’s credit, he kept his cool, but Mole persisted. We were all trying to ignore him, but he was getting louder and more insulting. He was far enough away that I couldn't actually reach out and kick him, but I glared at him with all of my might and tried to will him to just shut up and behave with the power of my mind.

This, shockingly, did not work.

Eventually, this human skid mark, sensing the murderous intentions of the crowd, settled down and moved off to a line that would accommodate him. As he passed, I noticed a book pushed in among the many wine bottles that were rattling around his cart. The title was partially obscured by some sausage, but what I could see said, Stretching! and then, also, Namaste! Interesting, considering the man didn't look like he had bent over for at least a decade and hadn’t a hope in hell of ever getting his leg over his head without the aid of dislocation. I went back to my patient wait.

After eight hours of pain, humiliation and oxygen deprivation, I paid for my things and emerged, pausing to bathe in the sunlight. I fell to the ground and kissed the pavement, sobbing. My hair had turned gray, my skin ashen. I couldn't remember my name, where I lived or my birth date, but I knew that I'd regain those memories as the horror receded.

I drove home, windows open, groceries, toilet paper and sundries tumbling around on the back seat. I was filled with joy. I had survived. The garage door opened to greet me, and there, sitting on one of the many shelves which line the garage walls sat an economy sized flat of toilet paper, unhidden, bright and shining. How I had missed it will forever remain one of the mysteries of my life.

I sat there clutching my steering wheel twitching in a way that communicated quiet rage. And then I decided to go into the house and have a drink. You know, to reduce the level of danger that I was, at that moment, posing to society. Having just lived through such a harrowing experience that was, at the end of it all, completely unnecessary was just too much to bear. On the other hand, with the amount of toilet paper I now have floating around, I won't have to go back for at least five years.

Namaste, indeed.

One perfect day.

2010-01-10T12:08:00.001-08:00

We were on vacation with friends and had woken up to that bright morning light that means you are next to the water. I sat up on the fold-out couch that had been our bed that night, rubbed my sore back and looked out through the open window at the impossibly blue sea and said, "Oh!" as though any word could sum up the beauty of what was before me. You pulled me back to you, covering both of us with the thin duvet that smelled of mothballs and lavender and we both fell back into that nirvana-like sleep that blesses us once or twice a year.

Later, after everyone had stumbled out of bed, eaten and made plans for the day - when we would eat next and what we would drink? - you looked at me and said, "Walk?" We had brought the dog and, at the mention of her favorite word, she started dancing around our ankles and you laughed, a perfect web of lines scattering out from the sides of your eyes as your mouth broke out into a grin. You looked up at me as you rubbed her neck and something inside of me felt like it was falling.

We walked north for miles. The beach stretched interminably before us and, as the dog inspected the dunes and sniffed at every vertical object, we moved easily between talking and silence. We stopped now and then to comment on the beach houses that rose to our right and you would say things like, "Let's buy this one. Right now. I have 14 cents on me. You?" And then you would grab my hand and we would walk on, smiling in the knowledge that even if, someday, we could afford something that grand, what we had right here between us was enough.

Hours later, the beach ended in a peninsula, and we stood there for a long while, surrounded on three sides by sea. I dug my toes into the sand and threw my head back into the afternoon breeze. My skin was warm and coated with the salt air. My hair had become a mess of tangles from both wind and moisture. Before we left the house, I had pulled it back and a few moments into the walk you had pulled out the elastic and said, "You know I love how your hair gets when we're at the beach." And now your hand crept up my back and into the nape of my neck where you interlaced your fingers with my curls. We stood there for a long time. I didn't want to turn back for home.

But we did. And about two hours later we saw our friends camped out under an umbrella. Our hands parted as we walked up to them and I flopped down at the edge of their blanket, popping a chip into my mouth. The dog sought shelter under the porch of a nearby home and proceeded to dig herself a hole in the cool sand and fall into an exhausted sleep.

"Where have you two been?" our friends asked. "You were gone for hours."

You looked at me and smiled and said, "We walked until the beach ended." I smiled back. I felt, somehow, as though I knew you more completely than I had before. I don't know why. I still don't.

But I sometimes, when life is difficult and I need a reminder of things that are good, I look back and remember that moment and think to myself, whatever happens in my life, I have had one perfect day. And in truth, there have been many, but that is the one I think of the most.

Our house is one full of genius. And horomones, apparently.

2010-01-07T08:00:00.000-08:00

Marc: I just got the new Taylor Swift album downloaded!
Me: Wait, what?
Marc: You know, the new Taylor Swift album? I got it because she is REALLY talented.
Me: Also because she is hot and young?
Marc: Well, DUH.

and then later...

Marc: Our new Netflix movie came!
Me: Oooooooooooo - the one with Christian Bale in it?
Marc: Yes!
Me: Do you think he takes his shirt off? Because he'd better.

I resolve NOT to...

2010-01-06T15:43:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year everyone! I was trying to do a wrap up post about the rest of my holiday and then realized that it could be summed up in four words: I ate too much. So if you hear a "Rrrrrrreeeeeeeeeeeeaaaahhhh" sound coming from Mountain View, those are the seams of my pants straining in their valiant effort not to give way. Good times.

I was talking to a client this Monday about New Years and she asked if I had made any resolutions. Normally, I don't. I just sort of look at the year and think about what I would like to accomplish and then formulate a plan as to how to make that happen. And then I take a nap, because all of that thinking can really wear a girl out. For 2009, my primary goal was to Remain Upright. So, yay! I can check that one off of the list! But this year? For some reason, and this is the first time I can say this in a long time, I'm filled with an extraordinary amount of hope and, dare I say, joy. Gasp! I KNOW! It's weird. Everyone just CALM DOWN.

So that being said, I was talking to her about resolutions and said, "You know, I saw this article about making a list of things you resolve NOT to do, and I think I'm going to make one myself!" I've been thinking about it a lot over the past few days, and here is what I have come up with thus far...

My 2010 Not To Do List:
1) I will not check my iPhone when I am with someone else. First - RUDE. Second - Why? And third - it's not good for my relationships or my mental health.
2) I will stop telling myself why something won't work out or be a success and start telling myself why it WILL.
3) I will stop spending mindlessly. I want to stop wondering where all of the money in my (and in Marc's) pocket went. I want to focus on my own personal economy.
4) I will stop worrying about where I'll be in the next 5-10 years and think instead about what I want to do NOW. Because if I'm doing what I want to DO, then I'll be where I'm supposed to BE, right?
5) I will stop thinking about how hard life has been and instead focus on all that I have. Which is a lot. I will cultivate a spirit of contentedness.

I know. I've been smoking some weird stuff up in here, but all of you who are yelling, "GAH! SHE HAS GOTTEN ALL POSITIVE! UNSUBSCRIBE!" can just suck it.

In the meantime, rest assured that some of my original spirit is still intact since I'm HUGELY irritated by all of the people flooding the gym and my Zumba! classes. I can't wait until February when everyone succumbs to their old habits so that I don't have to watch where I'm flailing while I dance. I have bony elbows people. You've been warned.

Auf weidersehen, 2009

2009-12-30T23:11:00.000-08:00

I keep reading all of these posts pointing to the end of this year, this decade. They address their best of, worst of, what rocked the nation and what we'll remember going into 2010. I've been sitting here trying to come up with some dramatic thoughts regarding 2009s end and have come up short. A friend asked me if I was going to do a list like last year, and I don't think I will. I've been bathing in some sort of cerebral melancholy for the past few days and I think a list would include a lot of emotional dribble that would prompt you to phone me up and inquire as to whether or not I've been sleeping properly. Which I have. Thank you.

This year was difficult. And I say that with the knowledge that I have an extremely nice life, so I'm aware that my perspective of difficulty is somewhat different from the poor chap sleeping under the freeway. But I was looking over my posts from 2009 and they seem to be a blur of insomnia, general fatigue and me yelling, "NO REALLY! I PROMISE I'LL GET BACK TO THIS EVENTUALLY!" But I don't think I've totally recovered my verve and passion yet - some of it was squelched by professional disappointment, some just because I've had to focus so much of my energy on the healing process necessitated by an auto-immune disease.

I noticed that most of what I wrote this year was steeped in the pain of love lost...almost as though all of the heartache that I've tucked away over time needed to find an avenue out. There are some things I wrote that I just immediately banished into the far corners of my hard drive as reading them brought me back to a place that I thought I had recovered from and I'm not sure what any of that reveals. I suppose the silver lining in that is that I can mine my own psyche for material if I need it - but what? What does it indicate when one's gray matter pours out so much sorrow? It's puzzling. It's what marked most of 2009. Like the entire creative output of that year was covered with a veil of oft-hidden grief. As though somehow, there was no room for joy.

What do I hope for 2010? I hope to not only know but believe that I am brave. I hope to write more. I hope to have the energy to do so. I hope to get outside of myself and make the world I live in a more beautiful place. I'm on the edge of turning 34 and I'm very conscious of how very quickly time is moving forward. And I have felt, sometimes, like it moves forward without me. I want to grasp onto it and bathe in the deliciousness of my life. I want to love more, complain less, be an encouragement to those around me and be willing to admit when my spirit is broken. I want the blue hue of 2009 to lift and to move into a new decade with a spirit that is ready to be happy. I think I'm ready for that.

Notes from SoCal

2009-12-25T11:20:00.000-08:00

A Southern Californian Christmas landscape. Please note the palm trees.

I hope everyone is basking in the warmth and happiness of family. Or friends. Or people that you just sort of tolerate accompanied by egg-nog with a certain amount of oomph added in. However it is that you roll. I am down in Southern California with most of my family. It's 11:30am and I'm still in my pj's which would indicate that it's already a very good Christmas indeed.

In the past few years I haven't been able to spend the holidays exclusively with my branch of the family. Marriage tends to complicate things - in the best of ways usually - but often during the holidays you find that the push-me-pull-you becomes increasingly intense. I come from parents who graciously have always said, "Do whatever is the least stressful for you," and I feel that in years past this has led to a certain amount of neglect on my part towards them. While they have never once made me feel guilty about this, my own conscience has prodded me with some vigor - sort of like a steel toed boot in the kidneys, if you will - and so this year I remedied that and flew down to San Diego with them and have been fully immersed in the usual family traditions, some of which I have forgotten after years of not being present for them.

And to be here with them? Oh, it has been heaven.

We have eaten and laughed and opened wine and snacked and told stories and traded recipes and made plans for the week and giggled at each other and poked fun and loved and have not let an hour pass without someone exclaiming, "This is so much FUN!" And it is. It is hilarious fun. Two days in and I already feel refreshed, if not somewhat fatter than when I stepped off of the plane on Wednesday. But that is what January is for - vigorous cleansing. So I will just continue to enjoy this time and hope that each one of you is doing the same.

I think we spent a lions share of Christmas Eve shopping for food. It's a family sport. Our team always wins.

Yesterday was spent in the gathering of ingredients and preparing of Rouladen which is a German culinary masterpiece. It sort of looks like a turd landed on your plate amidst homemade noodles and red cabbage. So from a visual perspective it's not the best thing you've ever seen. But the flavor? Holy Moses. It's something I cannot even begin to describe, which is probably better since I can't have all of your showing up at my sisters doorstep demanding a bite. I took this opportunity to learn how to make them properly since my parents have never written down the recipe and their version is peerless. So if I know you and you bring me a present (I wear a size 8.5 shoe), I'll perhaps make them for you. I'm now being summoned to the kitchen to learn how to make the corresponding noodles, so I must fly. Happiest of Holidays to you all.

Haggling over radishes.

Magic

2009-12-15T16:13:00.000-08:00

It would appear that everything in my life currently needs attending to. My car just got back from the shop - did you know that if you leave $700 with your mechanic you'll get a new battery and an alternator and lose your will to live? It's true. I know.

There are a few other household things that we've been doggedly ignoring. It's amazing how you can just stop seeing things, like that splotch of paint color in the kitchen that I was "trying out" two years ago and haven't gotten around to painting over, or the hole in the ceiling that makes my brain hurt to think about fixing. It's so high up and people REALLY have to crane their necks to get a view of the gash in the drywall, so perhaps we're ok as long as we just put sparkly things in front of our guests or distract them with jazz hands.

But the dog. The dog cannot be ignored. I started getting notes from the vets office earlier this year that sang the tune of, "Kylie needs her rabies vaccination updated, lalala!" I sort of put it off for a while until a wretched, WRETCHED flea hopped on board and decided to bite the ever living shit out of Kylie which then turned into a full two weeks of scratching scratching SCRATCHING to which I recall saying to Marc, "This doesn't seem right...she never scratches this much," to which he responded, "Meh, she's fine. Did you finish this episode of How I Met Your Mother WITHOUT ME?" And since this is my blog, I feel entitled to point out that Marc will sneeze and IMMEDIATELY take himself to the doctor, all while gripping his throat, clawing at his eyes and screaming, "BLARGH! I HAVE THE PLAGUE AND AM DYING IS MY WILL IN ORDER?" He'll also mysteriously come down with the same symptoms I have whenever I fall ill and sequester himself into the best corner of the couch for a day or two, asking that I stop typing so loudly and will I make him some tea? It's true. It will be interesting to see what happens should I ever bear a child.

Anyways, this flagrant hypochondria does not extend outside of his own orbit, meaning I had to physically point out a raw spot on the dog and say, "I'm taking her to the vet RIGHT NOW!" to which he responded, "Are you sure it's not just the lighting in here that's making that area red?"

So. Fleas. I won't go into what kind of work that caused me as I'm still recovering from all of the laundry and scrubbing and apologizing I did to my dog for not taking her in the minute I suspected something was wrong. BUT, while I was at the vets, I decided it might be the right time to get the rabies vaccination updated. I mean, let's get this shit DONE. Kylie hates the vet and uses each visit to almost physically crawl up my body and wrap herself around my head all while shedding her entire coat of fur. There are not enough lint rollers to combat THAT, let me tell you.

I told the vet we were seeing that day that we ought to also follow the vaccine protocol and get Kylie updated. I should mention that he's not our usual vet and was someone I requested we NOT see again while checking out. He liberally smattered expletives throughout his speech, which is totally un-fucking-professional, and I think had this idea of me the moment he saw me...that I must be the kind of girl who sups on caviar and sleeps in the Chanel boutique at Neiman Marcus. I disliked him almost immeidiately.

So the vaccine. I mentioned it. He looked at me quizzically and said, "I think that vaccines are bullshit. Unless you're in an area where she is going to come into contact with wild creatures, she's fine." Um, like bears and bats and coyotes and things of that nature that you see when you're in the back country? Because she sees those things a LOT - our recreational activities involve carrying large amounts of gear deep into the wilderness where we then sleep on the ground and poo behind trees. I said as much (minus the poo) and the vet looked at me in complete disbelief and then said, "No, I mean, like WAY back in the woods...NOT just car camping." That's when I kicked him in the head.

I finally just said, "Look, just give me the vaccine." He seemed put out that I would at all challenge his opinion, but at this point we were neck deep in tufts of Kylie's undercoat and he fled the scene telling me he would send in a tech to administer the shot. I swear he told the tech to really go for it as she walked in with a needle the size of which I hadn't seen outside of a Halloween novelty store. This thing could have stitched a leather couch together. The tech was bubbly and sweet and trying to coax Kylie out from underneath my legs where I assume she was saying things like, "Fuck, NO!" I asked the tech to ratchet down her enthusiasm a notch since at this point Kylie was in danger of leaving the office bald. Finally, she just sort of wrapped her fist around the syringe all Dexter style and JAMMED! it into Kylie's rump. Kylie just wilted against my legs and looked up at me in a way that said she would rather have been left on the streets of LA if being rescued by me meant THIS sort of abuse. Especially since she didn't even get a fancy band-aid or a lolly pop. Just a smack on the ass and a GOODGIRL from the tech who left promptly...probably to go and find the nearest lint roller.

Regardless, my dog now has super human blood and can go and smack a bat or lick a monkey or harass any feral creature and not be in danger of dying a foamy death. She is magic. Marc is jealous. There is nothing he can come up with health wise to compete with magic blood. Though I'd like to see him try.

Recovering from Last Week

2009-12-13T21:19:00.000-08:00

So Last Week? Let's just promise each other we won't talk about it, all right? Last Week was a straight up bitch and I'm doing my best to remove all memory from my mind. Come Friday Marc and I opened a bottle of VERY nice wine in an effort to erase the past five days, and by the time 11pm rolled around all I could do was sob something incoherent about chicken soup and Chris O'Donnell so Marc declared an immediate and swift moratorium on all outgoing calls, texts and or Internet communication and sent me straight to bed. You're welcome.

Saturday, I spent most of the morning sacked out on the couch dozing and avoiding the laundry that was screaming FOLD ME! from upstairs. I did manage to rouse myself by the afternoon to go wine tasting which was glorious. The weather has been Arctic and so pumping our veins full of the grape helped numb us from the nearly freezing temperatures outside. (Though I said I wouldn't talk about Last Week, I do have to mention that almost everyone was updating Facebook with some version of "What is UP with this weather?" Like the cost of living here should mean certain things...for instance: we don't have to put up with temperatures that require a parka AND a hat AND gloves. No one living here owns all three items. If we're not warm enough with a sweatshirt and Uggs, we're not going outside.) Despite the cold, the afternoon was lovely and we managed to go through what I can only imagine was at least a barrel of wine.

BEHOLD! The Carnage.

I woke up yesterday with an extreme desire for a crab sandwich. And no, that is not a euphemism for something else. I was craving an actual crab sandwich from Duarte's, which is this random, little restaurant along the coast known for its artichoke soup, various berry pies and the crab. OH SWEET LORD IN HEAVEN THE CRAB. The first time I ate there I though I saw Jesus and the second time I went through something not unlike a conversion. All I know is that I fell to the floor in ecstasy and when I woke up I was covered in butter and was spouting off the recipe for sourdough, so SOMETHING holy happened while I was passed out. Either way, my very obliging husband who was also recovering from Last Week said, "Ok!" when I expressed my desire for the religious sandwich. After years of marriage we have fallen into a routine of sorts. We have our Evening Routine, the Santa Cruz Routine, the Let's See How Long We Can Get By Without Folding the Laundry Routine, and the Jen Needs a Crab Sandwich Routine. This entails driving over to the coast, getting drinks at San Gregorio General Store, walking along the beach in search of seals and then driving to Pescadero, home of Duarte's, home of my Holy Grail of crab.

I won't go into great detail about the day only to say that the healing power of time with one that you love is magnificent. It's the perfect balm for tattered nerves and any lurking unhappiness that might spot your usual glow. Marc and I didn't speak much. We just listened to great music, pointed out things that made us laugh, held hands and were peaceful in the knowledge that when we have weeks that do their best to stomp out all of our resolve and joy, we still have one another to come home to. And that thing, that care and love that we provide for one another in the eye of all of the muck and mire of life, well, that's erases a world of wrongs.

BEHOLD! The weary couple. I need more sleep. Or some REALLY good eye cream.

So it was a good day. The sandwich was as amazing as it was the first time I ate it. The weather was perfect...that stormy, Gothic kind of feeling that makes you want to run along a moor and call out for Heathcliff. Byronic tendencies aside, added to the fact that my hair was starting to do strange things, we headed for home where we cuddled up on the couch and watched Up! and then retired to bed early. I'm now paying for the sins of ingesting WHEAT & BUTTER! But I'm just going to sack up and not complain about it. Marc, on the other hand, might have a thing or two to say to you tomorrow about my intestinal gymnastics. Whatever. He signed on for it.

BEHOLD! The sandwich.

Overheard

2009-12-08T08:00:00.000-08:00

"All I want, just once in my life, is to rappel out of a helicopter with an assault rifle in my hands. Is that too much to ask?"

And here I thought finishing the New York Times crossword all by myself was a lofty goal. Note: aim higher.

Wherein I prove that I have some effing holiday spirit.

2009-12-06T18:58:00.001-08:00

So something strange has happened this winter. I'm not as paralyzed by the holidays as I've been in years past. Usually, December rolls around and I automatically break out into hives and lock myself in a closet with a jug of cabernet. I can usually drink my way out by mid January in time for my birthday. To me, Christmas is a time of closeted resentment and seething frustration. Usually, the only nice thing I can come up with about December is, "I like ham," and even that is sort of a lie because I'm not sure I really DO like ham. But this last week, I was in the grocery store and actually found myself humming along with Frank Sinatra who was crooning SOMETHING. I don't know. All I know is that I didn't get kicked out of Whole Foods for standing in the middle of the frozen food aisle shouting "Fuck THAT guy!" I then had "Silver Bells" stuck in head for a day or two and it didn't drive me to plunge a dull pencil into my ear. I caught myself humming "Make Me a Christmas Bride" while chopping onions and didn't automatically thrust the knife up towards my jugular to MAKE IT STOP. So either my meds have given me a stronger immune system AND holiday cheer or Marc is slipping something into my cider. Hard to say.

Either way, it was time to bring out the fake trees! that I bought last year. I say that with an exclamation point because I unfailingly kill live things. Well, plants, let's be clear. If you bring your kids over, they'll be in one piece upon leaving. Mostly. If they don't like salt licks, you might want to find someone else to babysit.

So the trees were yanked out of storage by their trembling limbs, stripped of their Glad bag covers and the halls were decked. So here. Photographic evidence that I'm slowly moving past my brittle acceptance of Christmas.

All good decorating starts with a fire. It should be stated that the women in my family - along with being prone to bossiness and never having to ask for directions - are complete pyromaniacs. Let me be clear: if you cannot get your fire started, call one of us. We can get wet logs to throw out a flame that will negate your need to get your eyebrows waxed. Perhaps ever. It's on my resume.

Kylie does not like fires. Her bed normally sits in front of it, but the moment she sees me carrying logs into the house she high tails it into the dining room and spends the rest of the evening alternating between peering around the corner at us and disappearing upstairs to polish her nails black and read Sartre. But look how cute she is:

And then! LOOK! ORNAMENTS! I have this extreme aversion to Christmas colors (shock) and so the ornaments are what my nephew would refer to as "dull colors". But I think decorating with the standard red and green and those shitacular epilepsy lights would cause my spleen to explode. And who wants to clean THAT up?

And then I took a nap. Or stumbled across that jug of cabernet that I was talking about earlier. I don't know. Either way, I woke up under the cabinet that houses our liquor and BEHOLD:

Small trees with Buddha! Who is holding a candlelight vigil. Presumably for the tequila that seemed to have walked off the other week and hasn't returned back to the cupboard yet. Strangest thing. Actually, I'm full of shit here. I put these little trees up last Christmas and then just totally forgot to take them down and then got used to them and then just stopped seeing them altogether, so really, they were already there. But let's just focus on the nice photo composition. Lalala.

And then finally, the outdoor wreath. This photo caused a bit of consternation. Kylie was trying to get outside to avoid the fire, I was opening the door wider and wider to get a good angle on the thing and Marc was screaming, "YOU'RE LETTING ALL OF THE HOT AIR OUT!" and I was yelling back that he ought to just speak more and then that problem would be solved and then his cerebellum exploded. Either way:

There you have it. We are CHRISTMASSY, dammit! And there is cheer. I think.

Wherein I talk about my dogs inability to produce a normal poop.

2009-12-03T15:32:00.001-08:00

It seems as though my entire week has been focused on poo. That's right. I just went there. Kylie spent a lions share of Saturday through Tuesday in a state of complete digestive disrepair. It started on Saturday with a steady 24 hours of vomiting which turned into my favorite - diarrhea! She thoughtfully kept her anal leakage for the night hours, coming up to my side of the bed each time she needed to be let out (which was every hour on the hour). Consequentially I've wandered through much of this week with wild hair and bloodshot eyes muttering things like, "I HATE LOOSE STOOLS!" I've met a lot of new people this way. You should try it.

To wrap up, I took her for a walk yesterday and she poo'd normally, and act for which I did a slight jig on the sidewalk and then called everyone and shouted, "SHE DID IT! SHE POOPED!" Clearly, I need more excitement in my life. Either that or I'm overly prepared for parenthood. Regardless, Kylie is thrilled that I'm no longer following her out into the backyard to watch as she let out an audible "Pffffffffffft" along with the contents of her ass. She had taken to hiding behind every available vertical object just to shield herself from my eyes while she went. I imagine if she could speak she would be yelling something like, "OH THE HUMANITY!"

In addition to this weeks problems, my car started making a really weird sound on Monday. In sixteen years of neglectful auto ownership I've heard my fair share of jacked up car noises, but nothing that ever sounded like Cirque du Soleil came to town in my steering column. It's so out of nowhere and so ridiculous that when I hear it I can’t help screaming, “OH MY GOD, WHAT?” Then my car responds and I get kind of scared so I just settle back to ten-and-two and shut my mouth. The first few times I heard it I tried to convince myself it was my imagination so I wouldn't have to tell Marc about it. Because the second I go, "It's like a weeeeeeehaaaaaaaahhhh! sound," he's going to completely lose his shit.

And you know it's going to be one of those sounds that no one else will ever hear and after hours of me going, "No, wait, shhhh! Just listen. Keep driving. JUST KEEP DRIVING! FUCKING LISTEN!" and Marc looking at me as though all of that Zumba! might have twirled my brain in the wrong direction, I'll go insane and jam a nail clipper in his eye.

Having said that, I have to do something. I can't go on like this. The upshot is that I'm pretty sure a WEEEEEEEEHAAAAAAAHHHH! sound isn't indicative of something morbidly wrong, but it's like I'm driving around with a clown committing suicide underneath my steering wheel. Would a clown do that? Because they shouldn't.

I'm really a 12 year old girl.

2009-11-29T20:35:00.001-08:00

I've been busy this weekend writing fan/fic about my soon to be occurring love affair with Robert Pattinson. This came out of my purchase of the new Vanity Fair, the cover of which he graces and O. MY. GOD. If I wasn't on Team Edward before, I am now. My friend Tina and I were talking about the various bad things we would like to do to him. She pointed out that we were not only competing with, well, most of the female population of the free world in a certain age bracket but were significantly older than most of his fan base. Whatever. I have my leopard print dress and cigarette holder all picked out. Come to mama.

Because lookit:

I mean, right? If I were in junior high, you can bet that photo would be gracing the interior of my locker and perhaps even the inside of my Trapper Keeper next to my algebra notes.

Tina bought all of the books after having seen New Moon last week. They arrived on Wednesday and I believe she tied a salt lick around each of her sons necks so that they wouldn't disturb her for silly things like FOOD and WATER - GOD! - while she dove in. She texted later to inform me that along with the books, Amazon had seen fit to tuck in a full sized poster of R.P. as well. Her husband is often away on business and I told her she ought to install the poster on the ceiling over her bed as a distraction. Because I'm brilliant. And am looking out for her needs.

Did everyone get through Thanksgiving in one piece? I did! I didn't even have to employ the Official Eating Pants, so ironclad was my resolve not to overeat this year. Normally, we all end the meal by clawing at our throats and lurching into the living room, hoping to find a flat surface on which to lie down and stretch out our stomachs. This year we all somehow contained ourselves, perhaps because we had extra guests and didn't want them to forever associate us with gluttony. Normally, I loudly proclaim my thankfulness for the elastic waistband, but my jeans didn't have to work very hard to stay shut and I didn't have the normal nightmares brought on by indigestion. Moderation for the win!

So I hope everyone is sliding easily into the holidays. I went with my family this evening to the Festival of Lights which is a parade in held annually in downtown Los Altos to ring in the Christmas Season. I hadn't done this in years and was cracking up with my sister as the floats went by - many of them were the same ones that we waved at as they drove down Main Street in our youth only a wee bit worse for wear. But, there is something nice about that kind of continuity. I don't easily embrace change and love tradition and so it was fun to be there with my nieces and nephew, watching my high school marching band go by and seeing Frosty the Snowman drive his float somewhat erratically down the street - I think he'd hit the bottle first.

Regardless, here's to a happy December to everyone, no matter what or how you celebrate. I, for one, will be pulling out my fake trees and Christmas music this week in order to get into the holiday spirit. It takes some doing for me since I'm notoriously anti-Yuletide, but this year! I'm going to be cheerful! Dammit! Perhaps I need a poster of R.P. above my bed to get me in the mood...

I carry you in my heart

2009-11-23T22:29:00.000-08:00

You'll have to read this through a thick gauze of forgiveness as I took an Ambien about an hour ago and am really only half aware as to what I'm writing. Also, I think I just bought a set of steak knives and a vibrator. Hard to say as I temporarily fell asleep and then came to on a website that my mother would qualify as unladylike. I'll see what shows up in the mail over the next week...

...I've done this a few times before. Taken a sleeping aid and then woken up in the morning with my inbox filled with shipping notifications for things I bought while under the influence of my medication. When a faux fur vest showed up that gave off the impression that I had taken up wearing road kill as fashion, I knew I had to limit my access to the outside world once an Ambien has taken a swim down my gullet. So this foray, here, is somewhat verboten. Normally, I put myself straight to bed and read until my lids need to be propped up. However, I'm feeling frisky this evening.

Well, not frisky so much as just thoughtful. I'm home from yet another trip down south. This time it was for my nieces wedding and from Wednesday evening to Saturday night, I think I only sat down once, and that was to watch Heidi and Scott say "I do" to one another. It was an amazing ceremony. I've been having a hard time putting into words my feelings on how this weekend, this wedding, went. I spent much of it in tears, for reasons I'll explain later, but more than anything, I was just in awe. In awe of the strength of the love that they have for one another. In awe of how much their relationship has touched those around them. In awe of how peace just seems to surround Heidi and Scott and how their love for one another extends so beautifully out towards the people that they care for in their lives. As individuals they are each unique and people that you want to know. As a couple...well, it's inspiring.

I think everyone who walks down the aisle with the person they intend to spend the rest of their life with has just as much of a chance as anyone else of making it the distance. But then there is this little subsection of people. This tiny percentage who, before they even take their vows, seem to have a more mature and wizened understanding of what marriage is and how theirs will proceed. They grip each others hands tightly and you know that they are one before they ever proclaim that before their friends and families. They are the marriages that you look up to even though you might be married already and have several years on the newlyweds. And this is how I feel about Scott and Heidi. That they found each other amidst the quagmire of this life and created their own little oasis and have, in this imperfect world, found a tiny bit of perfection in their love for one another.

It was one the most beautiful things I have ever seen.

A shameless plug for BabycakesNYC.

2009-11-11T15:35:00.001-08:00

So it turns out that I might have a minor case of OCD. It so happens that I will become totally focused on one thing and become unable to do anything else...like make my bed, or work out, or apply my eyebrows in the morning. The last couple of days I have been so totally immersed in gluten free/vegan baking that the rest of my life has taken a rather disastrous turn. Just this morning I left the house and realized that I had been so involved in thinking about the double chocolate chips cookies I was going to make later that I had neglected to brush my teeth OR my hair. Thank heavens I keep a full bathroom kit at work.

This preoccupation is significant for two reasons. One, since I've been stripped of all wheat and dairy privileges, I've been not unlike the street urchin who presses his filthy face up against the glass, looking longingly in at the family tableau within that he will never be a part of. I pass bakeries with a sigh, look on as people eat ice cream and frozen yogurt with the wounded air of a child who has been denied her favorite toy. And once in a while I transgress, eating a cupcake or a cookie and then spend a day or two on the floor writing in such intestinal agony that I'll spare you the details of what transpires only to say that God was kind when He bestowed us with air freshener.

The second reason is that I've always eschewed baking. I love to cook, primarily because there are few rules, and even those can be bent. The rigors of baking have always offended me. I'm supposed to be the bossiest thing in the kitchen, not this book that is telling me only to use TWO TABLESPOONS of vanilla. What if I don't want to? This attitude resulted in flat cookies and bread that my mother used for a door stop for years. My sisters were both accomplished bakers and so I let them, lending a hand when the bowl needed to be licked and then disappearing conveniently until things actually came out of the oven.

Then, last week, I happened upon a cookbook that I think I might marry. I've been stuck to it since Saturday and SWEET HOLY MOSES! The things that are coming out of my kitchen! Not to mention the fact that I've been making friends with things, like, measuring cups! and spelt flour! and coconut oil! And now my trousers are tight, but I've been able to enjoy a chocolate chip cookie for the first time in my adult life without the agonizing stomach cramps that usually followed consumption. The extra time on the treadmill is well worth it considering a whole culinary world is opening up to me that had been padlocked and duct taped shut with the word "VERBOTEN" spray-painted across the front in red, graffiti type letters.

So this is where I have been. And I promise, next time you see me, I'll bestow you with the fruits of my labor. You'll never miss the butter or flour, I promise. If you are a fellow suffer'er, I can recommend this book/bakery with the highest of accolades. Happy baking!

http://www.babycakesnyc.com/

The tranny danced wide

2009-11-02T21:18:00.000-08:00

So. I went to Zumba! last night as I do every Monday night. I've been very excited lately about attending the Monday class because a REAL TRANNY has been showing up with startling regularity which is SO EXCITING. Actually, the proper term for her might be transexual, as I do believe she is post op. I assume this only because she wears pants so tight that I'm worried about her ability to breathe and there is no way even the best tucking job could hide what a man is packing. There has been LOTS of surgery (and a very well done weave). The eyes, the nose, SWEET MOSES THE BOOBS which would put an eye out if you fell into them. She has yet, though, to do anything about the Adams apple that bobs up and down as she talks with a voice that is still lower than any woman that I know. It's distracting, this particularly male piece of anatomy that stares at you from a unnaturally female face.

I first spotted her a few weeks ago. She was vogue'ing in front of the mirror which was perplexing since most people sort of slouch into class and plop onto the floor to reserve their bit of space. She, however, posed in front of the mirror with great focus, pursing her inflated lips and moving this way and that. I sidled up behind her for a better view, and immediately grabbed my phone to text my friend something appropriate and mature like, "OMG U are going to be SO UPSET that you missed class! THERE IS A TRANNY!" My friend was, in fact, upset. The tranny wiggled her nonexistent hips. I updated my friend. The tranny executed a high kick, which didn't go as planned as she stumbled back and directly into me. This too, was reported, "Bish almost just TOOK ME OUT with a high kick! This class is going to ROCK!"

And indeed, it did. I decided to dance next to the tranny. For research purposes. Given her elaborate warm up routine, I was expecting her to bust out some serious moves, Tabitha and Napoleon style. It would appear, however, that her expertise didn't move past posing in front of the mirror. The tranny spent most of the class dancing to music that I believe only she could hear. I've never seen someone move in such a manner that I can only describe as both painful and spasmodic. She hit me twice while spinning while the rest of us squatted and kicked me twice while the rest of us spun. It was confusing and I left feeling deflated and very much in need of some ice for my limbs and a whiskey and someone to hold me. I texted my friend, "Tranny = hot mess. Hope she comes EVERY TIME. In pain. She kicked me. I love her."

So for the past few weeks I have kept my distance, dancing several rows behind her (when she has shown up...it's random but class just isn't the same when she's not there) and to the left so that she is still in my eye-line but out of flailing distance.

Last night, however, she flanked me.

I had claimed my turf, which is important given that class is packed and I need space to get my proverbial groove on. The music started and two songs in I felt something smack the back of my head and I turned to the right to see the tranny dancing next to me. I don't know how she crept into that spot, but I smiled and moved slightly to the left. She commenced some random arm gestures and followed. Perplexed, I moved forward. She pursued. The hour went on like this, with me billowing around the room like some flustered paper bag and her right behind, taking out her Monday's frustration on my shins and upper arms. Granted, I don't think she was doing this on purpose. As you dance, you sort of peripherally keep an eye on people and gravitate in whatever direction the group and your surrounding people go. So I understood. There was just no where to flee to, so I endured the onslaught and was relieved when the hour was over and I could return home and nurse my bruises.

But what I was recalling the entire time was this scene from Will & Grace, which was one of my favorite shows. Will and Jack were at a club and Jack, seeing someone he wanted to talk to instructed Will to save his spot on the dance floor. Will protested and said, "How the hell am I supposed to save you a spot?" to which Jack replied, "Dance wide, Will. DANCE WIDE." And then he demonstrated what he meant by flailing wildly so that no one would get near him thereby ensuring himself enough space. Being a good friend, Will danced wide, and I often think of this when I'm at a club. I thought of it last night after the tranny had hit me in the shoulder for the third time.

Because the tranny dances wide. VERY WIDE.

After class, I was gathering my things and the instructor came up to me and said, "You looked in pain through class...she hit you?" (I'm approximating his accent here. He's not retarded.) I laughed and said, "Yes, she seems to have her own thing going." He replied, "Yes...no rhythm. She dances like a white man. Which she was. So it makes sense."

CONFIRMED. And that's when the week took a turn for the awesome.

Things I Do Not Understand - Foundations

2009-11-01T21:07:00.000-08:00

Sweet fancy snickers, it's Monday already? It would appear that since this was the first weekend in for-eh-EH-var that I didn't have a million and one things to do that it sped by with warp speed. I'm just getting ready to settle in for a Friday night movie and already here we are at the start of another week. WHAT?

I'm starting to realize what it means to be an adult. I spent Sunday morning cleaning out gutters in my town home complex...well, I didn't personally clean any gutters but I offered up encouragement and directions to those who were. This falls under the category of KNOW THY STRENGTHS. And I'm best with two feet on the ground and telling others what to do. Fact. I was in the middle of instructing my neighbor where to throw some leaves - NO TO THE LEFT! - when my OTHER neighbor called me over and said, "Jen, do you think the foundation should look like this?" My first instinct was to say, "I don't know. Let me go check with my dad." I think those words actually started to fall out of my mouth and then I realized that she was asking ME. As though I would have anything profitable to offer about foundational integrity! HA! I mean, we didn't float away in the last storm, so I'm assuming it's solid! High five! Let's have some drinks! What I did do was lean over and look at the area she was talking about while cupping my chin and going, "Hmmmmm...I'm not sure that looks right. Should we call someone?" Because when in doubt, PASS THE EFFING BUCK.

She stared at the spot in question for a bit and then said, "Maybe." Relieved, I went off to hold a ladder for someone and wrestled, as I often do, with the fact that I'm a homeowner and therefore responsible for things such as roofs and foundations and sprinkler systems. This makes me want to fall to the ground in horror as I feel like it was just last week that I was paying rent for the first time and calling my mom to say, "HA! I can make it on my own! Oh, would you put dad on? I can't figure out how to plunge the toilet." The sad thing being that I'm 33 and I still can't unclog a toilet properly. I just cover my eyes with one hand while stabbing at the bowl with the plunger, praying that it doesn't turn inside out and douse me. Because that happened once and I still haven't recovered my ability to feel, or love.

Why are we talking about this? Oh yes...adulthood!

Which isn't all that it was cracked out to be, right? But there are some good things. For instance - sex! And we're now allowed to stay up late and watch bad tv! And sex! Or eat 12 Tootsie Rolls in one sitting without my mother stabbing my in the back with her bony finger saying, "THAT IS TOO MUCH SUGAR!" (I did that on Saturday night, and it just so happens that it IS too much sugar.) And all of the sex!

Anything else? No? I know, I can't think of anything either.

Sigh. Happy Monday people. I'm off to go and boss around some clients.

On being a girl and my inability to do so.

2009-10-29T17:40:00.000-07:00

I finally went in for a hair cut today. I was several months overdue and my poor stylist nearly had a heart attack as she surveyed the split ends and tangles of blond. Anna should be given some sort of award - she labors over my head only to have me wrestle it continuously into a pony tail or something that gets it the hell OFF OF MY NECK. I'm terrible at the grooming part of being a girl. I feel as though much of my life is a battle between me and my eyebrows, my hair, my ragged cuticles. The clothing thing I have under control. I can rock the shit out of my closet, but the upkeep it takes to look as though I didn't just fall out of bed...sheesh. My beauty barometer is really based on whether or not I look homeless and/or washed. Today, all signs pointed towards my having spent a rough night at the shelter wherein I got thrown out of the line for the shower and had to use my ninja like knife skills.

I didn't sleep well and when my alarm went off this morning a parade of expletives fell out of my mouth as I batted around the nightstand in search of the snooze button. When I finally had gathered up enough resolve to get out of bed (that, and my bladder was screaming ATTEND! ATTEND! that bitch) I realized that I had 15 minutes to get ready and to work which meant a baseball cap and very little makeup. It wasn't until three hours into my work day that I realized I was wearing the same pants I had slept in. I was bossing my clients through some ab work and looked down only to realize, "Fuck, I totally wore these to bed last night." Being me, I also felt like this would be an amusing diversion for my clients who were writhing around in pain on the floor, "Hey guys! I'm still in my PJ's!" This startled them out of said writhing and one of them screeched, "Dear GOD, please tell me you at least brushed your teeth!" I did a quick tongue check and things seemed to be smooth, so I said, "Yup! 20 more, please!"

I relayed this to Anna as she was dancing around the back of my head, swearing at one of my many cowlicks. She raised her eyebrows in concern and said, "Don't you have two sisters? How did no one ever teach you to be a girl?" Clearly, I wasn't paying attention when classes were being held re: playing with dolls and eyebrow maintenance and how to apply eyeshadow so as not to look like a two bit whore. (Note: dolls don't do much, but they make great targets when you need something to shoot out of a tree. That's really as far as I got.)

So despite it's rough beginnings, today ended well. My hair is bouncing around and Anna insisted that I not leave until I apply some lip gloss...which I have an astounding number of despite my inability to keep anything on my mouth for more than five minutes. (Is there some secret to that? I'd love to know it.) I was thinking that it would be a great night to go out since I actually am wearing something other than workout clothing and my hair has been washed. But then again, there is an open bottle of wine downstairs that needs company and the rest of me needs showering. Plus my neck is itching and I need to find my hair elastic which is probably in the pocket the pants I slept in last night which look awfully comfortable...

As you can see, I'm not making a hell of a lot of headway here.

Are you still there?

2009-10-27T16:11:00.000-07:00

HELLO! Here I am! My name is Jen! tap tap tap IS THIS THING ON?

Hm. Let's try this again.

Greetings! Anyone there? Do you remember me? I'm that person who used to post regularly with witty and hilarious stories about my daily mishaps (adjectives mine). That seems to have gone by the wayside a bit. Sorry about that. From the amount of hate mail (both real and imagined) in my box that say things like, "YOU REPUGNANT SHREW. UPDATE." you would think that my lack of blogging was contributing to both Global Warming and the leggings trend that seems to persist despite my hatred. My apologies. I didn't know my own powers.

I sat down today to write and realized that I hadn't flexed that muscle for a while. It cramped in a way I can only describe as tragic, so I backed away from my computer and went to make some tea and stretch in the hopes that something intelligent and sparkling would come out. You'll have to let me know how I do.

So Angie's wedding happened on Friday and it's taken me almost this long to recover. AND NOT EVEN FROM THE OPEN BAR I'll have you know. I was remarkably well behaved which is worth noting because, well, OPEN BAR. Everything went off without a noticeable hitch and Angie is now wed to Mike and they are off to live a long and happy life together with their two cats and collection of Transformers. Seriously. But apparently I'm an aged and easily fatigued woman since I spent most of the weekend working on making a believable ass imprint on my couch. And I succeeded! HURRAH! Also, I made a considerable dent in my Tivo cache. See? I can be productive and lazy all at the same time. Ingenious, I know. Regardless, their wedding was an incredible way to spend a Friday. And I'll have you know that I wore nearly five inch heels and didn't fall down once. The bride didn't fare as well - she brought comfortable shoes to wear to the reception and still ended up on her ass. So I felt particularly smug when I honestly answered "NO!" to all of my clients who asked, "BUT DID YOU FALL?" They seemed so disappointed. Jerks.

So now I'm gearing up for wedding #2, that of my niece Heidi to her fiancee Scott. This takes place in a few weeks in San Diego which means travel! Yay! I was driving by the airport Monday night and my car inadvertently veered towards its exit. I screamed "GAH!" and pulled the steering wheel to the left so as to continue on. Once my passengers settled down from their coronaries, I explained that it seems odd not to be heading TO the airport when in such close proximity. I've always loved to GO places, but this wanderlust has reached a higher than normal peak in the past two years. I crave stamps on my passport.

And it would seem that fall decided to appear out of no where. I'm sitting in my office in a parka wondering how long I'll be able to hold out until putting on the heater. I might just go ghetto and light up my discarded stories in a trash bin by my feet. I live right by a fire station, so they could just aim the hose over the fence should things go awry. But Sweet Moses, I was just wearing shorts last week and suddenly the leaves have changed and the days are dishonest. They are full of skidding clouds and ethereal breezes that coax you outside only to get dumped on an hour later, too far from home to grab the coat you left hanging by the front door - we've officially slid into autumn.

So more later. I'll be better about updating. If only for the environment. In the meantime, stay warm.

I need to let the leggings thing go, I realize.

2009-10-19T11:16:00.000-07:00

I was in Santa Barbara this weekend as, apparently, I start to get itchy if I'm not going somewhere, anywhere, far, far away every couple of weeks. It was fun, albeit short as I was in LA the night before and after. It was a mini SoCal tour of sorts, you see. I like to dip in and out before I get too tarnished by the locals. I've seen so many abuses of the dreaded legging this weekend that I feel as though perhaps I should just give in a write a five paragraph essay about how insulting leggings are to, ahem, legs, and women and MY EYES! MY EYES! and humanity as a whole. I only saw one woman sporting the trend who didn't look like a jackass, and I'm pretty sure if I could figure out how she managed that, I would be a step closer to solving the issue of world peace.

So where was I? Ah, yes! Santa Barbara...thank you.

So I was in Santa Barbara this weekend at a birthday dinner for my friend Andrea. I was talking to one of the guys at the table and conversation had veered towards vacation and I lamented that I needed about five days on a beach somewhere to give my head a rest from my life. And! how I was sad that winter was approaching because that would mean the loss of my tan and OH MY GOD I'm boring myself recounting this conversation. He looked at me quizzically and raised and eyebrow and said, "Wait? You mean you're able to tan?" And I'LL HAVE YOU KNOW that I'm currently quite dark. For me. Which means that safety goggles are not required when looking directly at my face to shield you from the rather awesome glare that usually comes off of my lily white skin. So I replied, "Dude. I could practically pass for a native right now." And then we took a picture together and I was just this white smudge on the left hand side - sort of like an apparition that's only noticeable as this queer glow in the corner of photos. The person who took the picture is quite possibly still blind, poor thing. The guy laughed and said, "You look like whatever is haunting that house in Paranormal Activity." So naturally I kicked him in the shins and pushed birthday cake up his nose.

So I'm now waiting to head to the airport in the hopes that my flight home is as uneventful as my trip down here was. Of course, now that I've said that, I'm screwed and will most likely end up flashing the TSA agents while going through security. I'll let you know how it goes.

I ought to come with caution tape

2009-10-14T16:17:00.000-07:00

OH MY GOD. It's mid-October and I've barely posted for the latter half of this year and I'm having mild panic attacks about everything that is going on until December is over. I never thought I'd say this, but I'm going to breathe a gigantic sigh of relief come 2010. I feel pulled in so many directions and would happily dismember myself if that would mean getting more done, but I'm afraid you'd just find all of those pieces rolled into several separate fetal positions, unrolling intermittently to take long, healing sips of tequila.

BUT! I'm pretty happy as I received the shoes that I'm going to wear for Angie's wedding today and they are A-MAZING. I mean really - I'll be over six feet tall in them which brings me unparalleled joy. And also greatly increases my chances of severe physical injury, but I'll at least look good whilst being wheeled into the ER.

We had bachelorette party #2 for Ang this weekend which meant that the girls and gays converged on a spa in the Castro (called Hand Job! which begs for some puns but I'm just too tired. Someone else take that) and then proceeded to be very, VERY loud at a restaurant, Limon, in San Francisco. I was seated at a banquette, surrounded on several sides by people and decided that the most efficient way to get in and out would be to go under the table because I'm breathtakingly dexterous. Why go through these gymnastics, you ask? Well, I had forgotten to don my Stadium Gal and my bladder was shouting, "ATTEND! ATTEND!" and I'm nothing if not obedient.

I managed to get in and out with little damage to either myself or the table, which is somewhat miraculous. I teetered down the stairs with my friend Jason behind me, because ladies always go to the bathroom together. I suppose I'm a more efficient pee'er than he is, or he got distracted by his reflection in the mirror - hard to say. Either way, he finally came out and we strolled down the hall to go back upstairs to the party, me in the lead and Jason behind.

Let me start by mentioning that Limon has a polished concrete floor, which looks fabulous. I turned to tell Jason this, because the gleam of the lights off of the floor was really quite fetching. As I turned, my left heel sort of bent to the right and in a spectacular combination of blond hair, legs and arms, I flew a few feet to the right and landed with a sickening thud at Jason's feet. He looked down at me in shock and squealed, "GIRL! What are you DOING? NOT CUTE!" I popped back up, grabbed his arm and said, "HOLY SHIT!" and then rushed up the stairs. Once we were back under the table and in our seats and Jason had relayed what had just transpired to everyone who would listen he said to me, "I'm sure no one saw...you got up so FAST!" To which I replied, "I'M OVER SIX FEET IN THESE HEELS AND I FELL IN FRONT OF THE OPEN KITCHEN. I think EVERYONE saw!"

But that's okay since in my long, tedious line of falls, that one really wasn't the most memorable.
Though the bruises along my upper thigh and on my knee beg to differ. Also, I can't use my left hand - I've been typing this entry with my right index finger since Sunday. Also, I keep hobbling away from Marc who wants to slap a leech on my bruises to see if it will quicken the healing process. Also, where is that healing tequila?

What? It's Monday?

2009-09-20T23:14:00.000-07:00

Um. When did it become Monday? Because I just got comfortable with it being the weekend.

This week involves such things as:

PREPARING FOR THE UPCOMING BACHELORETTE WEEKEND IN NORTH CAROLINA

Oh? Do you need more information to adequately understand my stress levels? Because that would involve a lot of screaming and garment rending that I just don't think I can properly describe over my blog. Let's just say that I have a paper bag at ready should anything go awry and I feel the need to hyperventilate. That and tequila, which I feel Rod should know he's allowed to pour in copious amounts in case I start speaking in tongues come Thursday when we meet up at the airport. We have a lay over in Vegas which will only work in his favor as I expect the first leg of the trip I'll be speaking in ALL CAPS ABOUT HOW MUCH I NEED THIS TIME ON THE BEACH. For the rest of you, that means that anything I post up until Tuesday of next week might have a shade of incoherency about it which you ought to just meet with shades of sympathy or perhaps gifts of alcohol. Or just kick me in the shins. That usually brings me back to reality.

Either way! Good times! I'm spending the early part of this week looking for Polaroid film and my sanity which I think fell behind the couch this weekend while I was watching St. Elmo's Fire for the first time on Saturday. Can you believe I made it to 33 without ever having seen this cinematic masterpiece? To give you some perspective, I just saw Dirty Dancing for the first time last year and now every time we're in a remote situation I keep waiting for a hot blond in a leotard and skirt to waltz in and hit me up for an abortion. Because that's what happens, right? Sweet Moses...what were these 80's film makers aiming for? I either have Demi Moore shoving Rob Lowe aside in some ill-advised narcissistic moment or Jennifer Gray making up for her nose by rubbing crotches with Patrick Swayze (God rest his soul). Regardless, everyone is self centered and obnoxious and I left both movies with a feeling that I would never get those hour back in my life. AND IF ROB LOWE IS OFFERING HIMSELF TO YOU, YOU NEVER SAY NO.

Ok. Off to bed. Speaking of ill-advised, I might feel that way about this post in the morning. There may or may NOT have been some glasses of wine involved. Either way, welcome to a new week.

Because I like my legs...

2009-09-13T19:58:00.001-07:00

Dear Powers That Be In the Fashion World,

I get it. You clearly hate women. Otherwise, why would LEGGINGS STILL BE IN VOGUE AFTER SEVERAL SEASONS? Will they not die? Will the damned hipsters stop flocking to American Apparel and buying them in bulk? PLEASE?

I was a child of the 80's. I remember wearing (nay - ROCKING) The Leggings ancestors, The Stirrup, with a bright-assed draw string top. Usually from, say, the Limited. After a while, the stirrup was dropped in favor of lace, zippers and other accouterments...and I find that these hideous things are back. And they are shiny, and sometimes liquidy, ripped up and being touted as the only thing you'll need to get through fall and winter. Really? Do they come with a liposuction coupon, because I fail to see the allure unless you have Gisele Bunchen's legs, and last time I checked, you couldn't purchase those on the Internet.

I respectfully decline to participate in said trend. Why would I put on something by choice that is just going to make me hate my thighs? They are nice thighs. They get my from point A to B and don't need to be shoved into something that is akin to sausage casing. I just refuse to insult them thusly.

So suck it. Especially that designer that came out with a pair of leggings in Gold Lamé and then went on to describe them as neutral. They go with everything! Pardon me, sir, but are you retarded?

Sticking to my straight legged trousers,

There's something about men in skinny jeans with ill advised facial hair that I just can't get behind

2009-09-08T18:00:00.000-07:00

So my phone has been out of commission since yesterday. I was late to Zumba! and left the house without a water bottle which is IMPERATIVE since I sweat enough that once, after class, I was at the market and the check out guy asked, "Oh, did you just go swimming? And what smells?" I scrounged around in my car and unearthed a water bottle from ought nine that didn't have any suspicious floaties in it. So! Score!

I arrived at the studio and grabbed my bag as I ran towards the entrance. Something felt queer, and I looked down to notice that my entire left side was wet and that there was liquid leaking out of the bottom of my purse. The water bottle. The lid had come undone and the contents were now giving my wallet, iPhone, iPod and some assorted lip glosses a free swim. They looked like they were having a good time down there, floating around in the pool of my bag. They just needed mai tais and a beach ball and it would have been a party. I tried to play it cool, but actually was having one of those fucking huge internal crisis' since this isn't the first time I've done something like this which resulted in my frying out several (phone, iPod, camera) pieces of electronica and having to endure endless conversations with creepy IT people who immediately run you through the reboot/unplug/restart gamut when you've already done that three times BECAUSE YES YOU HAVE AN ELEMENTARY GRASP OF ELECTRONICS AND I DON'T THINK THAT HOLDING DOWN THE START BUTTON FOR A LITTLE WHILE LONGER IS GOING TO SOLVE THE PROBLEM OF MY HAVING ACCIDENTALLY DROPPED MY ENTIRE PURSE INTO THE TOILET.*

I squatted down on the stoop of the dance studio, removed all of the soaked contents and poured about 24oz of water into a nearby bush. The iPhone protested as she had been enjoying a vigorous back-stroke and immediately went to a black screen to show her displeasure. Whore. I dried everything off as best as I could, meaning I wiped it all against the dry seat of my pants, and went into class. My heart really wasn't in it as I spent most of the hour thinking about the sanctimonious boobs over at the Genius Bar who would cluck-cluck at me for allowing such a silly thing to happen and then demand my firstborn in exchange for a new phone. My hip swivel suffered. My teacher came over after to compliment me on not giving in to heart failure during class and when he saw me bent over my pile of sopping wet things and coo'ing to my phone to please stay alive he said, "Oh! You should NOT have gotten that wet! That's bad!" I think I yelled something like, "AAAARRRGGGHBLAH!" And then I kicked him in the back.

I came home and spent a long while in prayer and mental bribery (I will stop yelling "DOUCHEBAG!" whenever I see a hipster fly by on a fixie if you'll make my phone work!) while shooting warm air from the dryer into what I imagined to be the business end of my phone hoping that the moisture would evaporate and bring the innards back to life. Instead, I got a limp response - a quick flash of light which I interpreted as something akin to "Meh," and then the screen would resume its plunge into the inky maw of death. What ensued then was a lot of crying and screaming from me. Then I think I blacked out. Hard to say.

This morning I woke up and ran to my phone which I had tucked in with baby kittens and angels. It lay there blankly, mocking me with its blankness, all blank. I plugged it gingerly into iTunes. Your phone it in distress! Let's restore its factory settings and see if we can't save it, shall we? Oh please oh please oh please.

So I restored it.

Your phone is in distress! Let's restore its factory settings and see if we can't save it, shall we?

Fuckity fuck fuck fuck. This happened four more times until I finally gave up and drove to work, feeling utterly cut off from the world. I actually had to WALK UP TO THE FRONT OF THE STUDIO TO CHECK MY EMAIL BETWEEN CLIENTS. I nearly sprained an ankle. I wondered how fast the payment turnaround was for selling a kidney so that I could afford a new phone. I felt ill.

I crept back to my phone as soon as work was done, thinking that perhaps in my absence it had sprung to life and would be engaging in a lively game of bridge with my computer, but still nothing. I plugged it into iTunes again. One last shot before heading to the Apple store and! BEHOLD! IT CAME TO LIFE! RESTORED! LIKE MAGIC! There was much rejoicing. I kissed the dog. (She still won't come near me.) BUT! I can once again check Facebook while I'm in the bathroom!

Down side being that I have to stop making fun of hipsters. Almost not worth the trade. Douchebags.

*AFTER it had been flushed, thankfully.

Question

2009-09-08T17:57:00.000-07:00

Does anyone else out there who uses Blogger notice that publishing has been a huge problem lately? Like, you'll write an entire post, hit "publish post" and get this really weird error message? Because this has been happening often enough that I've lost my voice from screaming and am considering moving to another provider.

Either that or I'm going back to stone tablets.

Leporsy! It might have been leporsy!

2009-09-07T13:48:00.000-07:00

How's everyone doing? Good? Great. I know I'm not updating as much as some of you would like...I'm trying to figure out how to juggle the blog along with other professional obligations and also the rest of my life. Not to mention it's gorgeous outside and I want to roll my naked body in sunlight and warmth before fall steals it away. You understand, right? Of course you do. Except for you. And you can just suck it.

So last week I finally came home from my thousandth trip down to SoCal. This time it was for wedding planning, and it was the most wedding-plan-iest five days ever. The sheer volume of things that we GOT DONE was staggering, but I won't go into detail as I'm sure at the mention of the word "wedding" most of the men who read this started to nod off and think of boobies.

By Monday I had reached a state of exhaustion so profound that I was unable to do much more than gum baby-food and drool politely as I listened to my mother take every possible opportunity to announce how WARM we were at all times due to the relentless HEAT. I knew it was time to go home. I was dropped off at the airport and made my way through security and to the gate without incident which, if you are a regular reader, you know requires a simultaneous act of God and Congress.

It was a late afternoon flight on Southwest meaning that only half of the flight was full. Lovely since it would ensure that I didn't have to sit next to anyone. I boarded early and secured an aisle seat in the seventh row which is important because, ahem, access to the toilets. Minutes later I had my nose buried in my magazine and was startled to feel a hand on my shoulder. I looked up to see a woman and her mother standing in the aisle next to me. I didn't actually see much of the mother who was swathed in robes made up of enough fabric to hide a small herd of goats. The daughter was in her 40's and emanated the unmistakable smell of BO and cumin. In a heavily accented voice she said, "May we sit in this row?" I looked back at the yawning mass of empty seats behind me and said, I'm sure frantically, "Wouldn't you like more room? To sit in a row with no one in it?" "No," she replied, "we'd like to sit here. She kept her hand on my shoulder and I noticed that her forearms were covered with an odd and painful looking red rash accompanied by a few open sores. I involuntarily itched my own and gagged slightly. (I am from a fundamentally over-hygenic family. I grew up in a house of unquestioned daily showers, weekly nail clippings [outside. OUTSIDE!] and twice-sterilized needles for splinters. Wounds of any sort were scrubbed and then addressed immediately with heavy bandaging, prayer and the threat of disembowelment if any fluid of any type leaked onto my mothers furniture or linens). Not wanting to be a jerk, I prepared to get up and make room for them to sit.

I stood to allow the mother to pass through while the daughter held up the rest of the passengers and she loaded their obviously heavy luggage into the overhead bins. I couldn't move as I was wedged between the mother who for some reason wouldn't pass and the daughter. The mother held onto my arm with one of her leathery hands and gesticulated at me, obviously unable to speak English. "Yes, you can pass," I said to her, pointing at the window seat. But she kept pointing at my seat. Confused, I said, "I'm sitting there. MINE." The stewardess, impatient as she had been trying to help the daughter maneuver their unwieldy luggage overhead said with some impressive volume, "YOU ALL NEED TO SIT DOWN...NOW." The daughter, sweat beading on her upper lip, whispered something to her mother and they shuffled into their seats. I was about to reach down for my purse and things so that I could move to an empty row but was stopped by the stewardess who said, "I'm sorry but we're running late. You need to take your seat." I whimpered, looking back at all of the empty rows behind me and sat down next to the daughter. The smell of cumin was overwhelming. Her forearm touched mine. I thought I felt my throat start to close up.

They were conferring with one another in hushed tones and as the flight attendants began the safety check the daughter turned to me and said, "My mother would prefer your seat." I just looked at her blankly. "Your seat," she tried again, "she would like to sit there." I didn't really know what to do with this information as I too wanted to sit in my seat - that's why I had chosen it in the first place. Suddenly, the mothers earlier hand gestures made sense. I replied, "I always sit on the aisle. If your mother wanted a similar seat, you should have moved father back into the plane." She turned to her mother, presumably to break the bad news and what came out of her mothers mouth was language so loud and so painful that I imagined the sounds to resemble what might issue forth from a pig being run through a wood chipper.

So I put my headphones on. And went back to my magazine. GOD. 80 minutes to go.

The plane took off. After it had leveled (at which time I was going to switch seats) the pilot came on to inform us that there would be prolific turbulence and to stay seated unless there was a dire emergency. I must have inadvertently killed a unicorn in a previous life as I was now convinced that God hated me. 70 minutes to go.

Apparently "turbulence" doesn't translate well as the daughter decided that this would be an excellent time to give herself a manicure. The only mercy was that the smell of the polish overpowered that of her body and I started to think that perhaps slipping into a chemical induced coma would at least make the trip go by faster. I looked on in disbelief as she swabbed away, often missing the nails entirely due to the bumpy ride. The effect was that she had been finger painting at a whore house. The stewardess came over after her left hand was done and said, "People are complaining about the smell. You need to put that away. Now." More earsplitting conversation between the two women. The daughter scratched at her infected forearm and flakes of dry skin floated between our seats. I wondered what it would be like to die of anaphylactic shock. Was my will in order? 52 minutes to go.

The attendant left and after approximately 8 minutes, out came the nail polish again. She'd made it to her middle finger when the turbulence really set in and she lost control of both bottle and brush. The bottle slid elegantly across her table and landed, open end down, into her purse. HA! BUT! THE BRUSH! It flew gently from her fingers and in a delicate arc landed first on my bare thigh and then slid down my calf, leaving a trail of bright red polish before disappearing into the depths. This didn't seem to bother her in the slightest since she was more concerned with the contents of her purse which she was spreading out all over her tray table, smearing polish as she went, giving her area the look of a mini crime scene. BUTMYLEGOMYGOD was covered. The stewardess chose that moment to come back our direction, perhaps lured by the pungent smell of nitrocellulose and disobedience. She assessed the situation in one disdainful look and said, "PUT THE POLISH AWAY NOW." She turned to me and said, "I'll be right back," and returned moments later with a rag soaked in something. "It will take the polish off in one wipe," she said. I swiped successfully and then handed it off to the daughter who took it from me and said, "Where is my brush? It came to you, yes?"

Indeed. 30 minutes to go.

The "fasten-seat-belts" light finally went off and I was able to escape for a few moments to use the restroom. The water in the tiny sink didn't reach a point I thought scalding enough to wash my arms with and so I sat on the closed toilet seat for a few moments longer than necessary wondering if I could sustain a landing here in the bathroom. Someone knocked. I returned to my seat. The daughter had commandeered my magazine. I said nothing, especially after she put the magazine on her tray table and leaned onto it with her arms. I'm sure I heard the magazine weep. 13 minutes to go.

We landed. Thankfully. I pulled pulled out my phone as the plane taxied to our gate to turn it on. The daughter turned to me and asked, "What is the time, please?" I resisted the urge to shout, "MOTHERFUCKING COCKTAIL HOUR!" and instead answered her question. She reported this to her mother who gesticulated towards me wildly and screeched something at her daughter. She turned back to me and said, "We need to use your phone."

"Why?" It seemed like a pretty reasonable question, but she looked at me as though I had just run over a baby.
"My mother would like to call my father back east to tell him that we have landed safely, yes?" she said, reaching for my phone.
I pulled it out of her reach reflexively. "No," I said. "There will be payphones on the concourse. I'm not comfortable with you calling on my phone long distance." I had just spent the last 90 minutes praying for the sweet release of a stroke or teleportation. Allowing her mother to all on my phone long distance would require at least a drink. Or heroin.
"You are terribly unkind," she said with a grimace. She scratched her arms.
At that moment the man in the seat across the aisle who had heard this exchange leaned over and said, "She isn't unkind. She's sat patiently next to you for this entire flight. You've made everyone around you completely miserable. Let her be."

I almost French-kissed that man right then and there, but we had reached our gate and I couldn't get off of that plane fast enough. I ran through the concourse to the closest ladies room and washed every bit of exposed skin with hot water and soap. I then hyperventilated into a toilet seat protector.

I later relayed this story to my mother who was still pool side in San Diego. After a long pull on her iced tea she said, "Well, the Lord was looking out for you since you didn't contract her flesh eating disease. It's SO HOT HERE. Open some wine. Or bathe in it. Alcohol is a great disinfectant. DID I MENTION THE HEAT?"

Next time I travel, it's by blimp.

Some things never change.

2009-08-28T10:10:00.000-07:00

I touched down in San Diego with my parents yesterday and the first thing out of my mothers mouth was, "OH! We need to go to the store to buy some of that powder so we can, you know, poop!"

The bands back together! It's always good to know I can count on "regularity" being a part of my weekend. Right after "laughter" and "possible girth increase due to too much food." But I brought my Official Eating Pants, so all is well.

Have a great weekend, everyone!

Someone needs to get engaged so that I don't perish from boredom in December.

2009-08-26T20:08:00.000-07:00

Back down south I go to help my niece plan her wedding! Did you know that EVERYONE is getting married this year? Well, really only two couples. But it seems like EVERYONE since each week up through November has some sort of wedding related activity assigned to it and doesn’t everyone realize that I need my SLEEP?

The weddings are going to be gorgeous, sweet and emotional (read: OPEN BAR) the way good weddings are supposed to be. But I had forgotten since my own years ago how much work it takes to get the bride down the aisle. Either I was a particularly lazy wedding participant or just drank to forget. It might actually be a combination of the two as evidenced by the album. I’m sitting down a lot with a glass of wine in hand, so draw whatever conclusions you may.

Come my nieces wedding right before Thanksgiving, I know I’ll be tired and probably only have the energy to sob something incoherently into the wedding video. But the next day, once the last table is broken down, the candles put away and I locate whatever pair of shoes I’m sure to lose in the shrubbery, I know I’ll feel glum like you do after Christmas and wonder what it is that I have to look forward to. But in the meantime, it’s good to be surrounded by so many declarations of love.

Zumba!

2009-08-26T02:36:00.000-07:00

I’ve had a membership at some sort of gym for, like, ten years. Twelve years, maybe. A long time. But for the past few years, I’ve had a rather spotty relationship with cardio. Given my profession – that of bossing people around until they are in shape – one would think that I would LOVE cardio. But with my health condition, I would start running or get on the elliptical or whatever and could usually take about ten minutes before I would start whining the Lord’s Prayer and wonder if going up a pant size was really such a bad compromise given my heart was about to explode. I would quietly get off whatever machine was causing this reaction and rub it enthusiastically with my middle finger until I felt better.

So I hadn’t darkened the door of any gym other than my workplace for a while. And then someone whispered the dulcet tone of “Zumba!” in my ear. I heard about it from a client – a person who sees me regularly but has a pathological aversion to cardio and hadn’t driven by her gym in half a decade. She takes an "all or nothing" approach to exercise - years of lying on the couch punctuated by brief spurts of rabid workouts that leave her unable to walk for weeks at a time.

But! She had heard of this thing called Zumba! which sounded fun and was at a local gym that also had a full service spa, all kinds of saunas, granite counter tops in the locker room, and... like, some other gym shit, I don't know. Mats or something. Wooed by the fancy interior in a weak moment, she decided she would try Zumba! but did not want to undergo this particular type of self-flagellation alone. So she called me! Her trusty trainer who is always saying, “BITCHES! If you want to fit into your skinny jeans for GODS SAKE do your cardio!” knowing all the while that I was full of shit since my own routine consisted of three minutes on the stair stepper followed by some heavy drooling and a collapsed lung.

"We're going to go," she told me over the phone. I heard her opening a bottle of wine in the background. "Because I don’t want to make a fool out of myself alone and you might actually look more retarded than I do while dancing."
"Ass," I said. What she didn’t know was that in taking my new medications, I had suddenly found myself full of energy and able to run without my heart exploding and leaking out of my eyes. Well-played, modern science!

We went on a Wednesday night. The instructor was a gorgeous man who looked Latin but was actually Vietnamese. Strange, I know. Gleaming women who were 98% perk and 2% insanely good hair surrounded him. They were unreal. These chicks could have karate chopped me in two using only their triceps with a little help from their hair. The instructor smiled at my client and me and she said, “Fuck. No one told me he was going to be hot. We should just go to the sauna.”

"Uh, no," I spat wetly. “If you dragged me here, away from The Rachel Zoe Project, we are going to do this.”

In we went. The room was packed. I stood next to a woman who reeked of coconut tanning oil and was the exact color of an armoire I had at home. Burnished, if you will. The music started and our instructor, the hot Vietnamese/Latin man started dancing. And HOLY HELL could he MOVE.

And, I found, so could I! I had no idea that my hips had that kind of range of motion completely independent from my upper body. Apparently I missed my calling as a salsa dancer as the instructor kept coming up to me and yelling to everyone over the music, “WATCH HER. SHE HAS A SPECTACULAR CENTER!” And he would kind of roll his r’s in that way that I cannot (even though most German words require it so I sort of end up spitting at people a lot when speaking that language). Regardless, I was elated! Yay! My center was spectacular! And so far, my lungs were staying inflated.

My client’s lungs? Well, not so much. She reported later that most of the class was a blur since the only oxygen getting to her brain was coming in through her ears. The hour was much of a red haze except when she would inadvertently smack her hand into someone’s face and turn to apologize, only to realize that she had run into the wall, unclear as to how she had traveled so completely across the room. She had started standing the class standing next to me, but by class’s end I had to make my way through the crowd to find her where she was bracing herself up against a Fichus tree, trying to find her dignity, which had fallen out some 45 minutes back during a rather complicated box-step.

The instructor came in for a meaningful high-five and rolled his r’s through some sentences about how great it was to have us at Zumba! and how he was so impressed that someone who had never taken dance classes had such hip control. This, I assume, was aimed at me since my friend had turned grey and was holding a heated and one-sided conversation with the Fichus that went something like, “FUCK CARDIO, FUCK CARDIO, FUCK CARDIO.” She then turned to me and said, “Do you think they have a bar here?” This was our cue to leave.

We were talking about this while I had her on the reformer the other day. It had been over two weeks since she had shared the meaningful high-five with the hot Zumba! instructor. She informed me in no uncertain terms that there was no way she was going to set foot inside of that building again despite their granite counters and saunas. She was afraid for her health. “Shit, I thought I was going to throw up half way through! I probably would have lost some weight THAT way, at least.” I reminded her that THAT kind of solution is called bulimia.

"So you’re never going back, even though this was your idea in the first place?" I continued, starting her in on some abdominal work.

"No. Unless they play The Real Housewives on the big TV’s and allow napping on the mats and I can make fun of you and your magic hips during class, I’m out. And just so you know, you’re an ass for holding out on me. I didn’t know you were all HEALED and could bounce around like that for an hour without exploding. You need to be hobbled.”

That's what she gets for bringing me with the sole intention of having me look like a bigger moron so her moron'ness would be hidden. The healing part of science rules. Suck on THAT.

Seriously. PULL OVER.

2009-08-24T16:27:00.000-07:00

One of my favorite things to do is to pull over and make way for a firetruck. I have ample opportunities to do so, given that our backyard shares a fence with a firehouse and they come flying down our street frequently. But there is something imminently satisfying about hearing the sirens behind you and moving over so that the trucks can go by, presumably on their way to save someone.

Perhaps it's because I will never be a doctor, or an ambassador for the UN or cure cancer. At the very least I can make way for those who run into scary situations to save others while the rest of us line up on the side walk and quietly pee our pants. So I'll happily pull to the side of the road when the need arises. Oh, and yell, "ASSHOLE!" at those who don't*. In the name of public service, you know.

*I may or may not have done that on the way home from work today.

GREAT Sauvignon Blanc, by the way.

2009-08-17T08:00:00.000-07:00

Mom: I’m so sorry about the wine.
Me: Why? It tastes fine to me.
Mom: Well, the label is a bit scandalous, you know.
Me: You mean the naked women? Psh. I don’t think that’s going to give anyone a boner over dinner.
Mom: JENNIFER. WE DO NOT SAY THAT WORD.
Me: Really? I do all of the time. You should try it.
Mom: How am I related to you? I actually tried to tie a ribbon around them so we wouldn’t have to look at their bosoms.
Me: And what happened?
Mom: I don’t know. It wouldn’t stay on.
Me: Just look at it as an anatomy lesson of sorts.
Mom: I don’t really want to look at anyone’s anatomy over my pork chops.
Me: Well, we’ll put the bottle in front of one of the men, then.
Mom: NO! It will make them think lewd thoughts!
Me: I’m not sure the women on the label are representative of anyone’s particular “type". Though most men DO like a woman with a tush, and they seem to abound here.

I felt confident no one was going to start fornicating over the main course because of some rubenesque women frolicking along a label. Perhaps it was all of the wine I had already had. Hard to say. Regardless, we brought the bottle to the table, where immediately one of the men went, “BOOBIES!” to which my dad replied, “WHERE?” And then, to my mother’s mortification, we entered into a ten-minute conversation about everything that she tries to avoid speaking about in her life, namely sex or the mention of hoo-has (which is polite code for VAGINA). The men were enthusiastic. My mother wept into her shirtsleeves. I pulled my shirt up over my head and waved my arms around to distract everyone, which didn’t work. There were naked ladies on the table, after all.

And yes, this is a normal family gathering at my house. Next time, there will be film.

Situation

2009-08-10T08:24:00.001-07:00

So, remember how I once wrote about collecting a stool sample when I was in the midst of getting diagnosed with some health stuff? (Update: since then, I have been unable to enjoy fries.) That whole post came back to me in frightening detail this weekend.

Because we went camping.

Which, you see, only brings this to mind because high on the list of Things I Will Not Do is poop in the woods. Also on that list is Work With Only Women, Wear Capris and Eat at a Restaurant That Has Pictures of Their Food on the Menu. Take note, please. The list is laminated, ergo, non-negotiable.

Camping means several things. It means seeing things that no one else gets to, not bathing, waking up with the sun and having breakfast while looking out over 12k peaks, and dodgy bathroom conditions. Generally, I'd rather go behind a bush given the state of most national park toilets, the conditions of which are better left undisclosed. And this is fine. Pee'ing poses few problems, the largest one being the inadvertent exposure of your backside to complete strangers. But at that point, you most likely haven't bathed for a day or two and so mooning someone who wouldn't recognize you in polite society doesn't really leave an emotional scar.

However, if you have more pressing business to attend to, the kind that you would prefer a stall OR four walls and an advanced kind of ventilation system for, then nature is a cruel bitch. Not only will you not EVER find sufficient cover, but one must also come prepared with a trowel and toilet paper to bury not only whatever you leave behind but a good portion of your dignity as well. As I discovered from my fry tray incident, there is never a good time to deal with ones own poop. It just serves as a very unpleasant and pungent reminder that no matter what state of life you're in, you can't get away from your own shit.

But back to camping, my rear has always cooperated with me and stopped all evacuation type business when we go away on these weekends where I may not be able to find a toilet. It knows that I would rather deal with bloat and minor discomfort. However, with my new medications and eating habits, I've been introduced to a new routine of startling regularity. I am the envy of all men. So while I was hoping for the familiar shut-down upon our arrival at Yosemite this weekend, my innards had different plans.

Day one was fine, as we were conveniently positioned near bathroom stalls whenever the need arose, but on day two, we found ourselves deep in the woods at a new climbing area which, sadly, did not include facilities. Why the park services did not anticipate my needs and haul a port-o-let miles into the back country is beyond me. I should write my senator about that.

I didn't think this would be a problem, given I had taken care of things hours before. Either my body was on a roll or I had consumed too much fiber that morning but familiar rumblings started some hours into the afternoon when we were no where near either a. leaving or b. spontaneously coming across a bathroom with sufficient amenities. So I had stern speaks with my intestines who were just going to have to PIPE DOWN since I was not going to hike off, dig a hole and make a deposit. It's on the LAMINATED LIST OF THINGS THAT SHALL NOT HAPPEN. Everything calmed down for a while and the afternoon went on with only an occasional protest from down below.

Everyone was nearly done climbing for the day when my stomach kicked into high gear, apparently having had enough of waiting. I realized that I was not going to be able to put off the inevitable for much longer and prayed to the Baby Jesus that people would be quick to pack up as we had a half hour march back to the car and excessive movement was only prompting my body to take care of things. Marc wondered why I sprinted down the hill, leaving our group behind as I made my way quickly to the car. I didn't want to announce the reason, hoping that he would just gather my situation via osmosis since he's aware of my newly found bathroom prowess.

We made it to the car and I said goodbye to our friends hastily, my mind on other things. I turned to Marc and said, "We need to go back to The Store NOW." The Store being a place that has a small restaurant, a gear shop and BATHROOMS and was also several miles in the opposite direction of where were headed. Marc, still not fathoming the gravity of the situation looked at me and said, "But wouldn't you rather get a head start and make our way out of the park?" I stifled the urge to kick him in the shins and whisper shouted, "IT'S NOT A REQUEST WE NEED TO GO NOW," at which, I think, he got the point. He even kindly sped through the Meadows which is not recommended given the very enthusiastic police who will pull you over at the slightest provocation.

With deliverance close at hand, I unbuttoned my pants as I ran across the parking lot to the ladies room, body-checking a small child who I thought might get there ahead of me. I was in no mood to wait. I met Marc back at the car, the relief registering on my face in a contented smile. "Seriously?" he said, "You couldn't just go in the woods back at the climbing area?" "You know my rule," I replied, settling in happily and looking for some celebratory music on the iPod.

He just shook his head and started the drive back home wondering, I'm sure, how I consider myself any kind of outdoors-woman without being able to take care of this most simple of tasks. But you see, I HAVE done it once before and almost didn't live through the episode, the horror being too much to ever recall or document...and then there was the incident of the fry tray. So really, it's not for lack of experience that I don't want to have to deal with my own shit in such an intimate way. You have to draw the line somewhere.

Thank you to Facebook for a MeMeMe.

2009-08-04T23:05:00.000-07:00

Three names I go by:
1. Jen
2. Jenny
3. Jennifer

Three jobs I have had in my life
1. I nannied for a family of three children from the time I was twelve until I graduated college. I've potty trained, taught little ones to chew with their mouths closed and changed more diapers than the average woman who has no children of her own.
2. Manager of a bagel shop in Los Altos. This led to an extreme hatred of any food with a hole in the middle.
3. Copy editor of my college newspaper. Given my complete lack of understanding where grammar and sentence structure is concerned, I still don't know how this came about.

Three places I have been
1. Tamarindo, Costa Rica. Last stop on our honeymoon. There was an outdoor shower wherein you could watch the monkeys swing from tree to tree. Pervy monkeys would watch you lather up...though if you're into that kind of thing, you should go there.
2. On the shores of Loch Ness, Scotland. No sign of Nessie, but my brother and I did spend a lot of time throwing rocks into the Loch to see if we could scare her out. Did I mention I was in my early 20's at the time? Maturity for the win!
3. All over Europe. Being as we have extended family there, it was mandatory growing up. Fun fact, my brother had never seen a naked woman until the age of 5 when he almost stepped on one while scrambling down to the shore while we were in Croatia. My mother had taken us to a secluded cove in an effort to shield us from all of the brazen hussies who were wandering around in their birthday suits up on the hotel beach. My brother, unfazed, reported back that she "had HUGE breasteses!"

People who text me regularly
1. My Mom. "Child! Shall we have coffee later?"
2. Marc. "Bump it, yo!"
3. Angie. "Wedding wedding wedding wedding."

Three of my favorite foods
1. Salad! Seriously. I should make you one and you would be forever converted.
2. Sushi. Because it rocks.
3. Tequila! Shut up. It's from agave, which is a food.

Three Things I am looking forward to
1. Retirement.
2. Getting a manservant. Because someone needs to bring me a latte and croissant to my bedside first thing in the morning.
3. Any vacation that includes me in a bathing suit in warm water.

Three places I've lived
1. St. Andrews, Scotland. Third year of college.
2. Hillsdale, Michigan. Sweet Jesus...three very cold years of college.
3. San Francisco, California. After college.

Three favorite drinks
1. Lately, Coconut water. Apparently, more potassium than a banana. But don't tell the bananas. They get sensitive about it.
2. Margarita, with salt. See favorite foods, #3.
3. A good, dry, sauvingnon blanc.

Three TV shows that I watch
1. So You Think You Can Dance
2. Burn Notice
3. True Blood. My version of porn.

Shiny! And, like, ow.

2009-08-03T08:00:00.000-07:00

So I spent yesterday participating in what I believe to be a common American male pastime - I waxed my car by my very-own-self. Actually, I should rephrase. Yesterday I spent what I think some men consider a Valid Way To Fritter Away an Afternoon but what I would categorize as Seemingly Eternal Agony With a Side of Shoulder Pain Dear GOD. BUT! My car is shiny! and new looking! a sparkly! and red again! I was only a bathing suit and burger away from being Paris Hilton in that Carl's Junior commercial! You're welcome for that visual on a Monday morning. You're either going, "YEAH MAMA!" or wondering if you can get an STD from watching a video on YouTube. I think they make a cream for that.

I decided to take on this God-forsaken task by myself because the owner of the car wash place had the audacity to suggest that he could take my oxidized car from dull to shiny for the mere sum of $300. I blanched at this. It's a small car! How long could waxing something the size of a SHOE BOX take? Plus BCBG was having a sale, so, like, no.

Six hours, it would appear. Six hours of my life that I will never have back. And as I flung my desperate and limp body back towards the house - where I barely missed being run over by my neighbor who, insensitively, did NOT offer to drive me the last 10 feet to my front door but instead honked and swerved as she veered past me and out of the driveway (whore) - I thought to myself that car-waxers might be the most underpaid and under-appreciated members of the automotive industry. Or at least I think that's what I thought. My right shoulder was screaming at me with such vigor that it was hard to hear anything until I poured that bottle of vodka down my throat - for medicinal purposes, naturally. The rest of the weekend is somewhat hazy as a result.

I would love for the moral of this story to be the uplifting power of doing something yourself. But really, if we're looking for a moral here I think it might be to just let the experts do their job - let's not even talk about [myhourlyrate x sixhours = morethan$300]. I'm not a math genius. Eleventeen! But seriously. My car. It's shiny. You should come see it. Also, I think I'm still drunk.

I love how real estate terms can be applied to hideous couture

2009-07-22T08:00:00.000-07:00

A client came in today carrying a package. It didn’t yield a present for me, so I quickly lost interest. After her session she opened the bag and pulled out a purse that I can only describe as a Muppet that had gone up against a Viking and lost. There was a lot of fur and hardware…so perhaps the Viking didn’t fare so well, what with all of the leather and studs. I don’t know. Regardless, my client held up this pink, THING, and said to me, “This cost over $2k. Do you think I’ll wear it for more than one season?” Well…does that season exist, in, like, Xanadu? Because the only way that shit was going to work was with roller skates, ill-advised eye makeup and a lot of LSD. I didn’t tell her that, though. I wasn’t packing a shiv, and she might have had exceptional knife skills.

What I did say was, “The pink might be somewhat limiting,” and then I turned around to start chewing on my lip furiously so that DO YOU LIVE IN A BORDELLO??? wouldn’t fall out of my mouth and forever hang between us. Instead, I thought Baby Jesus and butterflies. Baby Jesus and butterflies. It's soothing. Try it.

She just twirled the bag in question around for a while and said, “Well, I’ll wear it for a while and see if it goes with enough of my outfits.” At this point, my next client had come in and was sitting on the floor next to me. The Pink Bag & Owner left and my client looked after her for some time. “You know,” she said thoughtfully, “I’d love to see the inside of her closet if she thinks that she has ANYTHING that would go with that bag. Because unless it’s Transvestite Adjacent, I think she’s shit out of luck.”

Healing balm

2009-07-21T08:00:00.000-07:00

So there are many things that I enjoy about my life, but what I love the most is being an aunt. My first niece, Holly, was born when I was only just about to turn seven and I’m closer to her and my second niece, Heidi, in age than I am to either of my sisters. For this reason, the whole familial package just sort of blends into one large group of people who are related. However, I’ve changed the diapers of anyone younger than my brother (and there's seven people who fall into that category), an activity that none of my nieces and nephews can claim. Yet. Turnabout is fair play, people, and those Depends have to get on one way or the other.

Anyhoo, we’d all been rather baby deprived up until three-and-a-half years ago when Nicholas came into our lives. He’s my sister Steph’s son. I don’t get to see him anywhere near often enough, and when I do, he’s been more interested in what he can Climb or Take Apart to really pay much attention to That Blond Lady Who Is Always Trying to Kiss Me Stop It PLEASE. I’ve persisted, however, because I HAVE changed his diapers and dammit, you’re going to hug me because I’ve dealt with your poo.

Sunday, I scootched down in the blistering heat to Steph and Tim’s house to enjoy an afternoon with the family. As I’ve mentioned before, the AC is out in my car, so I wilted into the house in a state of extreme dampness considering the temperature was well over 100 and DEAR GOD no one needed to hug me since I was clearly practicing for menopause. Everyone gave me wide berth as I stood in the foyer, a puddle spreading out from around my feet. Nicholas, however, had no such compunction about showing affection and hurled himself around my legs, where he proceeded to slide down to my ankles since he couldn’t get a grip on my skin. But he latched onto me furiously and didn’t let go for the entire afternoon.

If there is anything that will soothe a black mood better than an affectionate child, I don’t know what it is. At some point that weekend, I had cracked through his reality, and he was not going to let me out of his sight. This small person, my little nephew, completely erased the cesspool of negativity that I had been swimming in since Saturday morning. He drew me pictures, he insisted that I sit next to him at all times, he cuddled with me on the couch while we watched The Incredibles. Best of all, though, he came outside with a popsicle for me and insisted that we go and sit up in his tree house together. A date, if you will. And if you have not had such an experience in your life, then I pity you. Even in the withering heat as I sweat through my clothes, there was nothing better about Sunday than that moment, with Nicholas pointing to Kylie explaining, “She’s POOPING Auntie Jen! Then she will go peeps. Popsicle is COLD! Look! Spider! It’s HOT!” I find these kinds of conversations completely enlightening as most of my days are spent speeding through a packed schedule. To take the time to sit - even if my skirt needed to be wrung out - and notice the things that capture the sights of a three year old, well, you’d be astonished as to what you’ll notice.

And on that day, I sorely needed that. Not only the chubby arms around my neck, but for someone to say to me, look! the leaves are green! I pee’d in the potty! let’s spray the dogs with water just for the fun of it! And so we did…and my head felt remarkably healed. It was a good way to start the week.

Evidence

2009-07-16T07:00:00.000-07:00

Behold! Before I 'fro'd my hair out, before I put on my white bell bottoms, before I applied my blue eyeshadow, I had to pause as we payed homage to the pose that girls in their early 20's have been doing for ages. It also shows off the sequined top quite nicely, don't you think? You all can forward your thank you notes to Teresa who reminded me that I promised photographic evidence. Don't say I don't follow through.

And, you're welcome.

My almost life as a stripper, Part 2

2009-07-15T08:00:00.000-07:00

To say the roar from the crowd was deafening would be like saying the Pacific is damp. A mild understatement at best. We wondered why we were suddenly on stage – it had to be some mistake, the petite woman having led us here accidentally rather than to some back room where we could claim our prizes and then get back to our friends at the bar.

Apparently not.

From somewhere to my right, a large man came out on stage with a microphone in his hand and, with some lame shout – you know, like, one of those “HOW IS EVERYONE DOING THIS EEEEEEEVENING!” type things – brought the deafening noise down to a dull roar.

He went on: “SO! We told you all to come out tonight dressed to party like it was the 60’s and only these six were brave enough to make fools of themselves!” Many drunken cheers rose up and I resisted the impulse to kick him in the shins for the thinly veiled insult. The two drunken girls came up behind the announcer and pawed at him unnecessarily. He didn’t seem to mind.

“We promised them prizes for their costumes, but I think we should make this interesting!” More cheers. “Should we make them DANCE?!” No. NO. NO NO NO NO NO. But all that came from the crowd was a frenzied “YEEEEEESSSSSSS!!! WOOOOOOOO!!!” He came over to my friend, who was at the very left of the stage and said, “Come on our from behind your friend honey…” which she did. Something had changed in her face. I think it was very clear that we were not going to get out of this with any of our dignity intact, so she had just decided to go along with it, which made me realize that since I had buried most of my propriety, one final shove into the grave wasn’t going to hurt anything.

He put his arm around my friend and turned to address the crowd. “SO! What we’re going to do is put on some music…and whomever of our 6 friends here dances the best gets THIS!” The petite woman returned and had in her arms a leather jacket with HOUSE OF BLUES stitched into the back…something like the 8 Ball coat that Puddy wore on that episode of Seinfeld. Seriously. Not that what I was wearing would win any prizes, mind you, but really? They were making us dance for THAT?

Suddenly, Wild Thing came on full blast and the announcer pushed my friend out into the middle of the stage, where she did her best to shake what she’d been given. Somehow, we had been separated, and our two guy friends went next. What they lacked in rhythm, they made up for in dexterity, the both of them flailing their limbs about with much gusto, the one closest to my friend picking her up and swinging her around in such a manner that her underwear color was no longer a mystery to those within eye-shot. Bright pink, if you care to know.

Then it was my turn. For some reason, the announcer had been eyeing me for the past two minutes. He held up his hand and the music stopped. He came over to me, perhaps blinded by my top, I don’t know and said, “Sugar, what’s your name?” And I told him. And he said, “Are you going groove for us?” Sure, I replied, why not? I REAAAAAALLLLLLY want that jacket. He laughed, hearing my sarcasm and said, “I think you’ll do me proud. Shake it.” And with that, the music started.

And I did. Shake it, that is. Underneath it all, I must be an exhibitionist, because I can’t lie and say that wasn’t fun, being up there having a thousand people scream at you while you do your thing. Whee! The announcer even got into it, twirling me around a few times.

The two drunk girls were last. They were neither dressed up or really, I think, even aware of what was going on. I stopped after having executed a slide across the stage on my knees and waved my hands at them to say, “YOUR TURN.” And guess what fun maneuver they decided to go with?

They started making out. YES THEY DID. I saw about 600 male jaws go slack simultaneously.

Guess who won the jacket by a landslide? Whores.

I did win something, which after ten years as been obscured by my fuzzy memory. But as we made our way down from the stage we were assaulted by free drinks and many declarations as to how brave we were. Not really. We were merely Shanghaied with the promise of non-existent swag.

We battled back to the bar to our waiting and highly amused friends. I was enjoying my drink when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around to face a young guy, probably in his early thirties, who was dressed in requisite LA black. I don’t recall much about him other than he was hot and I was suddenly very aware of my ridiculous outfit in a way I hadn’t been all evening. He had a smirk on his face and said, “Where do you dance?”
“Excuse me?” I replied.
“Dance. What club do you dance at?”
“Besides this one? I don’t know where else we're going tonight.”
He sighed, exasperated. “No. I mean where do you dance for work?”
A little light went off in the back of my mind. Surely, he didn’t mean what I thought he might mean. “Oh, you mean, like, DANCE-dance?”
“Yes,” he said, smugly.
“Um, I don’t do that.”
“Well, you should. I just opened up a club in Hollywood, and if you can do there what you did here tonight, we have a place for you.” And with that, he slipped a card into my hand and finished off by saying, “Call me if you’d like to consider it.” I stood there with my mouth agape and my Afro drifting down over my eyes.

“OH MY GOD JEN THAT GUY JUST OFFERED YOU A JOB AS A STRIPPER!” This from one of my guy friends who immediately grabbed the card and examined it. “I KNOW THIS PLACE! It just opened and is supposed to be amazing. Come on Jen, be open-minded. I'll bet they have great chicken wings!”

We left once the band came back on, deciding that we had made fools enough of ourselves for one evening. Because really, I’m not sure you can come back from the sheer awesomeness of getting down to Wild Thing in a bar and then being offered payment for taking your clothes off. Can you recover from that?

We got into the cab to head home and a silence fell over our group. The lights of LA streamed by, reflecting off of the wet pavement, lulling us. We exited the freeway and started weaving through the residential streets towards my friends home when one of the guys suddenly popped up, a thought having roused him from near sleep. "JEN!" he said, "You should have totally asked if that job came with dental!"

Before I could crawl over the backseat and choke him with some sequins, my friend piped up, "No, she wouldn't dance for dental, but a good eye plan? That might sway her." Which made me pause for a moment, because DO YOU KNOW HOW HARD A GOOD EYE PLAN IS TO FIND? Very.

You'll be happy to note, however, that I didn't choose that route. My virtue has remained intact. I do, however, still have the tube top which has been brought out for several Halloweens. However, I can't hear Wild Thing without thinking of that night and considering how my career options suddenly flourished regardless of my mothers insistence that I never take dance lessons. That poor woman. What she doesn't know will let her sleep at night.

My almost life as a stripper, Part 1

2009-07-14T08:00:00.000-07:00

Have I ever told you about the time that I got asked if I wanted to become a stripper? No? I hadn’t thought of this story in a long time, but half way through a hip-hop class that cost me most of my dignity and several hard-earned dollars, the memory came flying back to me with chagrin inducing clarity.

When I was little, I spent much of my time up a tree. This is pertinent only because while all of my friends were heading off to ballet or tap or jazz, I was playing war outside with my brother. So while part of me wanted to put on pink tights and twirl around, I was more intent on perfecting my use of as sling shot which, may I say, was/is pretty precise.

I think this delighted my mother who would have given an emphatic NO to my request for dance class. She deduced, from where I’m not sure, that any hyper-awareness of the body would lead to sex, or at the very least, masturbation. I defied this logic through much of college by dancing on speakers and definitely NOT getting laid. Did you know that you can be Puritanical in your morals and still get down at least twice a week to the blaring rap that comes out of most frat houses? Bible truth, you can.

Somewhere in those four years, I got enough compliments on my "unique" dancing style to think that I was something of a good dancer. I thought people were just giving me wide berth because of the danger my elbows and flailing hands posed, but perhaps it's just because I was AWESOME on the dance floor. Let's just go with that.

Post-college and off the speakers of the Sigma Chi house, I went out with girlfriends in San Francisco to decorate whatever dance floors were available. Even better were weekends in LA. I had several friends who lived down there and the options were staggering compared to the dearth of good clubs in SF.

I was headed south one weekend when my friend called and mentioned that we were going to a 60’s themed party at House of Blues. Costumes were required to get in. This was a problem, since my closet screamed BANANA! REPUBLIC! at you in all caps when you opened it, but my friend assured me that we would take care of that upon my arrival. The next day, we headed out to a shop on Melrose where I found the most amazing sequined tube top that I had ever laid eyes on. I’m easily distracted by shiny things and this particular piece was like a prism. A HORRIFYINGLY TACKY prism, which was even better. I bought it without thinking and was ready to dress up like a disco queen for the night.

Which I did! I teased my hair into some approximation of a blond Afro, donned the gold, glittery top, white bell bottoms, and platform shoes and we headed out with our friends, guys who had shown up with fluffed chest hair and a cascade of gold chains. It was fabulous. There are pictures, somewhere, I’m afraid to say.

Anyhoo, we took a cab to House of Blues and got in line. It was a winter night so, but for my insane hair, I was under a heavy overcoat. I wasn’t really paying attention to anyone else, but did notice a guy down the way in a huge, blue Afro. He gave me a thumbs up, which I returned and then turned back to my friends, huddling together against the offending mist and wind.

We were finally inside, took our coats off and headed into the club. What we didn’t realize is that, apparently, costumes were optional this particular year. While we stood out in our 60’s appropriate attire, everyone else - EVERYONE ELSE – was wearing cute, black, L.A. evening wear, and we, amongst a throng of roughly one thousand people, were dressed like lunatics. I turned to my friend, horrified, and said, “BAR. NOW.” She was dressed in a skirt so short a gynecological exam would not have been impossible and a fringed tank that left little to the imagination. She just looked at me and said, “Indeed.”

My top, which had been merely glittery in the afternoon sunlight was electric inside. I don’t know what black magic that lighting system was playing with the sequins, but I was like a disco ball walking through the place with light bouncing off of me as I made my way to where the drinks were being served. It was not subtle. The huge halo of blond hair bouncing around on my head didn’t help.

But shots did!

I stopped at two, not because numbing the reality of the evening wasn’t an alluring idea, but throwing up all over my platform shoes in the presence of so many people dressed in this manner…well, I needed to maintain some scrap of decorum given my dress. I decided after that last shot to just fuck it and go with the flow. I’d probably never see these people again and certainly, since I’m not in the habit of wearing belly baring shirts and coating my eyes in blue eyeshadow, I would never be recognized even if I did.

Hours passed. We danced. The band stopped for break, and so did we. We had become friends with the blue Afro guy from the line as he and his friend were the only other people besides our group of six who were dressed up. We converged on the bar as music blared from the speakers waiting for the band to come back. Mid way through my drink, a felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to see a petite woman behind me. She was the event planner and had noticed my top from the DJ booth. “GREAT OUTFIT!” she screamed over the music. “WILL YOU AND YOUR FRIENDS FOLLOW ME? WE WANT TO GIVE YOU SOME PRIZES FOR ACTUALLY DRESSING UP!” Blue Afro guy and his friend went, “Hells-YEAH!” and my friend and I shrugged and decided that we ought to gain something from looking so foolish. The rest of our group opted to stay behind, even though there was the promise of swag involved.

We followed the woman up some stairs and down a back hallway and into a large room with a curtain on one end. We could hear the muffled roar of the crowd out in the venue, but didn’t really think much about it. There was free shit to be had, after all. The small woman rounded us up into a group and merely said, “Wait here,” and then was gone. My friend and I talked to the blue Afro guy for a while. Two other VERY DRUNK girls, though not costumed, had followed us back somehow, and they were giggling in the corner while we all discussed exactly how happy we were to have made asses out of ourselves because we were going to GET TREATS!

And then that curtain that I had mentioned? That was at one side of that large room? Yeah. It went UP. We were ON THE MOTHER FUCKING STAGE AT HOUSE OF BLUES. With about one thousand people screaming at us.

And I was in a gold, sequin tube top. With a blond afro that, at this point, had wilted to one side.

I died a thousand deaths. My friend cowered behind me, worried that with the elevation of the stage, the people down below were getting an eye full of her cervix. My thoughts, as I watched all of these people howl up at us were, “Please, sweet fancy Moses, do not let my mother find out about this,” followed by, “This swag had better be REALLY excellent,” followed by, “I hope these jeans make my ass look good.”

I’ll tell you the rest tomorrow. Because I have to dredge up the top and photograph it for you so that you get the full effect. I suggest wearing sunglasses.

Back.

2009-07-13T08:00:00.000-07:00

Hello? Anyone still there? Yoohoooo....

So, the longer I went without updating, the easier it was to forget about my little blog. Instead of calling that laziness, let's go with "inertia"...it just sounds better and as though perhaps I had other important things to do and wasn't just sitting on my ass watching So You Think You Can Dance.

Actually, I was attending to the business of Trying to Feel Better which, in my case, has been a full time job. Last month, I was finally diagnosed with an auto-immune disorder. I say finally because I've spent the better part of the past 6-10 years wondering what exactly the hell was wrong with me and it would appear that my symptoms - which covered everything from raging insomnia to extreme social anxiety - can be blamed on my bodies dislike for, well, itself. Essentially, my insides have been in constant battle and it took several doctors and any number of probing instruments and tests to figure this out. Let's just say that I've been poked so many times in so many different areas of my body that if I so much as hear the snap of a latex glove, I'm going to climb up your body and wrap myself around your head in fear that an index finger covered with lube is heading my direction.

Good times.

So over the past month, I've been taking an exorbitant amount of medication and have been on strict instructions to avoid stress, sleep and eat well. This would be somewhat easier if I didn't have this tiny little thing called REAL LIFE to contend with. I asked the doctor if he could write a prescription for a cabana in Hawaii or at the very least a trust fund. A humorless man, he merely looked at me and said, "No, just take these," and handed me my medications. I left before he could head towards the gloves and ask me to drop trow.

So I'm back, somewhat tentatively. I've missed writing but have found that over the course of these weeks, my brain has shifted. I'm not exactly dulled, but I've found that I'm less prone to imaginative thought. This is somewhat frightening, since I base my livelihood on my tendency to sympathize with the crazies, but I've been assured that this too will pass and I'll be back to my normal self...meaning the voices in my head will return and the space between my ears will stop being so echo'y.

But thanks to those of you who have sent such kind emails. The fact that you find this site entertaining and have made it a part of your life is hugely encouraging to me. Writing can be such a lonely task and I think I share many writers worries that our work is irrelevant. So for your notes, I'm so grateful. And extremely humbled.

A History of Annoyance

2009-06-16T08:00:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I was talking to my brother who had just made me aware of some freelancing work online. Applying for writing work online is about as fun as stabbing ones own eye out, which is to say NOT. But I have to keep myself in expensive heels and wine somehow, so I went and checked the site out. It seemed pretty straightforward until I came to the spot where they wanted a copy of my resume.

Um.

You see, I haven't had to think about one of those in a very, VERY long time. Like, seven years. In fact, I couldn't even find a copy of my old one to update and slap up on the website. This struck me as funny and also rather stupid since I used to work for a recruiting company and was often waist deep in resumes. So, I thought, how hard can this be? I'll just make a new one! And I did! In about 20 minutes. And it's not really any better or worse than the resumes that used to come across my desk on a regular basis. Except those people were trying to be CEO's and so had fancy things like MBA's and PhD's. And sometimes several other letters that were in ALL CAPS. Posers.

So I made a resume and got that shit up there. And then I thought to myself, what if I wrote what I REALLY thought about all of my past jobs? So I did, but just for myself. Here. Enjoy.

EXPERIENCE:

Pilates Instructor
I spend most of my day barefoot, which is pretty nice. I get to boss people around all day and they listen without question. My biggest worry is that someone will fart at an inappropriate time during their session. This happens at least once a week, but I’ve taught myself to NOT burst into laughter when it does occur which I think shows tremendous growth.

Some Internet Company
CEO and HR and PR Bitch. It was the dot.com era, baby. I did it all.
Have I ever told you how the CEO of this company was a furry? No joke. He dressed up in stuffed animal outfits with his girlfriend and would have sex. I know this because I went over to his house before a photo shoot to tidy up with the other PR bitch and the two outfits were strewn across the bed. We were afraid to touch anything. Also, one of the BizDev hotshots pressed me up against the copier one time and said how my skirt did perfect things to my ass. I elbowed him in the ribs, HARD, and then put in a complaint with HR about him immediately, but it WAS a good skirt. He tried to friend me on Facebook and I took GREAT pleasure in hitting the IGNORE button. I also got poo’d on by a girl who came in high off of her ass after a particularly long lunch with the finance guys. She passed out in the bathroom and while I was trying to drag her out from underneath the stall where she was choking on her own vomit, she lost control of her bowels. In my hand. That was not a great day.

Some Executive Search Firm
EA & Research Assistant
Essentially worked with a search team. I started out as the assistant, but my boss realized that I sucked at it and so said, Do research! I said, Ok! without really ever checking as to what that meant. I spent the rest of my time there trying to figure out how to read whatever the computer spit out at me and getting paid way too much money to do it. Really, I used this time to hone my business casual wardrobe. I can take anything from office to drinks, ladies, should you ever need help in that area of your closet.

Some Antiques Dealer
Art Restoration
Restored antique art for private dealer who was drunk all of the time. His penis made several appearances since he always walked around in his bathrobe which continuously came undone. His son skulked about and was often high on cocaine. He asked me out once and I said no, because hadn’t he ever seen those commercials from the 80’s where they put the egg in the frying pan and said, “This is your brain on drugs!”? I mean by my calculations his gray matter was almost completely pulverized and I didn’t have time for his fathers penis AND an idiot all in one lifetime. That’s asking a lot.

My weekend. Or, how when everything is perpendicular and parallel I experience spontaneous orgasm.

2009-06-15T08:00:00.000-07:00

You know how sometimes you're really excited for the weekend because of the prospect of sleeping in? and no work? and whatever wild and crazy thing you do on your days off? sex in a tree? I'm just riffing here. But then you're all wheee!, you get home, pour yourself a cold one, relax on the couch for a while and then find that suddenly it's Sunday night and you're watching Friends reruns on TBS and you think, "WAIT A MINUTE! Where did my weekend go?" and then you're all depressed and disgruntled because Monday is staring you in the face like a zombie who is trying to figure out how to best suck out your joy and verve?

Yea. I didn't have one of those weekends.

This weekend, I ORGANIZED. Which is to me what a speedball and a large bottle of vodka is to an addict. Or: HEAVEN. There were clothes to be thrown out, the front closet to be reckoned with and you should see my desk! The pure genius and creativity that shall now FLOW given the sheer beauty of my desk!

I also started to attack the guest bedroom closet, but that is going to take some planning. I'll have to draw up schematics and buy some shit to tackle that area which is also known as the third ring of hell OR The Closet of Which We Do Not Speak. I did step one toe in there to assess how bad the situation had become. We're at least on Orange Alert. I didn't stay in there long enough to really make an exact statement on it's condition as I was afraid of being swallowed whole by some pillows and Marc's down jacket(s). I did make it out with a bag that I hadn't seen in a while and SWEET HOLY MOSES. My knitting supplies!

I'm not bragging when I say that my mother taught me to knit when I was six years old. I'm not bragging because I suck at it righteously. In fact, after she went over the basics and was sure I wasn't going to inadvertently stab an eye out with the needles she left me to my own devices. I came to her some days later with the mangled scarf that I had managed to produce after dropping stitches for roughly a week straight - she patted me on my head and said, "Don't worry Liebchen, you're good at other things." She then turned around an laughed and laughed and laughed in a way that, as a child, I wasn't entirely sure how to take.

I attempted to knit on and off for several years, giving friends things that I'm sure have died dusty deaths in the back of closets. And so when I rescued this bag from the depths of The Place Where Things Go to Die, I was curious as to what I had most recently given up on. I pulled out a wad of dark blue, gorgeous yarn that had been stabbed through with needles, most likely out of frustration on my part. I unrolled the mass and realized it was a scarf I had been knitting for Marc in the early years of our relationship, when things that you made had sentimental value.

I sat on the floor laughing. I had started this project after being laid off during the wreckage of the dot-com years, my hands idle with the yawning gap of time I had between jobs. Mom had suggested that I re-attempt knitting and I had gone down to the store with her to pick out yarn and start a pattern that she deemed me capable of. I labored over it, driving down from San Francisco whenever I had dropped a stitch, which at first was often. About a month later, I had something that a person could feasibly wrap around their neck and, with the pride of someone who has no perspective on their work, I took it down to show my mother.

She took it out of the bag and unrolled it on the counter top, chewing her top lip furiously as she examined my work. A rather pregnant pause ensued with more lip chewing and some hand rubbing across her mouth. Finally, she could hold it in no longer and burst into laughter, the kind where she had to support herself on the counter top. I was flummoxed, surprised. She looked at me with tears in her eyes and said, "Oh darling. You could not possibly be this hard up that you have to give THIS to Marc for his birthday. Aren't you on unemployment? Do you need some money?" and then she went into another gale of laughter which lasted for a very, very long time. I think she actually had to sit down and there was a bottle of wine opened to calm her down.

I called her yesterday to relay this memory after I had given the scarf a proper burial. Her response was, "Ahahahahahahaha! Ahem. I DO recall that thing. You know love, we can't all be good at everything. Ahahaha! Perhaps you should just give knitting a rest."

Indeed. Know thyself - maturity for the win!

I think I just put my bra size on the internet.

2009-06-11T08:00:00.000-07:00

An excerpt from the email I sent to my sister yesterday regarding my flight home. Because, you know, airports hate me.

C,

The flight home yesterday was easy, though I did have something of an event at the airport. You know how I had my purse and my computer bag? Well, despite the "rule" of only being allowed two carry-ons, I've never had trouble bringing those two bags AND my roller bag onto the plane since both bags fit under the seat and my roller goes overhead. WELL, I lined up to board and the woman (who had battled her eye liner and lost given the sheer thickness of the kohl she had going on around her peepers) took my pass and said, tersely, "Nope, you have three bags. One has to go." I was astounded and told her that both bags fit under the seat and she goes, "Doesn't matter. That's the rule that you only get two. Go over there and fix it or check a bag and pay for it. NEXT!" And she truly hollered the "NEXT" with some gusto, clearly being done with me and wanting to just get the show on the road. Perhaps she was anxious to get home and wash her face. I don't know. I was annoyed at the prospect of a convenience fee - WHICH I WAS NOT GOING TO PAY. And yes, I'm aware that I just yelled that last sentence. But SHEESH.

So I marched over to the side and decided that I could smash my purse into my roller bag. Which I did, but only with the assistance of an airline worker who had to SIT on the bag to get it closed, and only after one of my bras decided to fall out and INTO THE PATH OF THE PEOPLE WHO WERE BOARDING. So now everyone in line knows that I wear a 34B. Did I mention that the plane was full of business men one of whom snorted as I said, "Um, you're sort of on my bra" while plucking at the pant leg of the man in front of him? It was neat.

So bag problem aside, I joined the line AGAIN in a serious sweat and all shades of red. My deodorant was really pushed to its limits. The woman looked at me and said, "Don't do that again," with a tone implying that I had REALLY sinned by trying to bring on more than the allotted luggage. You would have thought I had just drowned some kittens given her tone. Point taken.

Finally on the plane, I found an aisle seat and commenced with trying to shove my roller bag overhead. Which, with the addition of my purse, was not going to happen. And I pushed REAAAAALLLLY hard, even standing on my seat and using my shoulder. Nope. I motioned to a stewardess and said, "Look, I think I'm going to have to check this bag." She was thrilled, because it meant I was also going to have to PAY. She trotted off to get a tag for my bag, and I thought, "WAIT. I can just take my purse out and shove it under the seat along with my computer bag LIKE I AWAYS DO and it will be fine." Which I did! But first, my bra had to make an appearance AGAIN, which was fun for the guy who picked it up and handed it back to me with a chipper, "I think you dropped this!" I died a thousand deaths, let ME tell YOU, but I didn't have to pay to stow my bag, so ha-HA! Who needs dignity? NOT ME!

The rest of the flight was a non-event, though really nothing can top a stranger handing you back your BRA. And it wasn't even one of my cute ones. It was of the nude-colored, utilitarian variety. I can't decide if that's better or not, but now I feel all squirmy, like if he ever sees me again, he'll think, "Oh GOD, that's the woman who wears REALLY BORING UNDERWEAR. Quick! RUN! She must HATE SEX!" And I'll have to be all, "NO I DON'T! CHECK THIS BAD BOY OUT!" and then flash him just to prove that I have proper, lacy underthings. Which, I suppose, could get me arrested. But at least my reputation would be intact. As a ho. Sigh. I can't win with this one.

The End.

xo
J.

Why with the sequins? WHY?

2009-06-09T08:00:00.000-07:00

My time down south is coming to an end. I leave today to float up back home, but I’m happy to report that my head is in a much better place and I won’t be rending my garments and falling to the floor in paroxysms of misery and angst.

I've decided that I ought to open up a cottage industry, finding wedding gowns for people. (I just lost ALL of my male readers right there, I guarantee it.) I came down here with the intention of doing a lot of sitting and inspecting the insides of my eyelids, but my niece went and got engaged a few weeks ago, and we decided that a bulk of this weekend would be dedicated to finding The Dress. Seeing as I accomplished this with Angie just recently, I was primed and ready to wade my way through fields of sequins and bead work and tulle to find something sleek and magnificent for Heidi.

(Honestly, I’m having a hard time with her being engaged. Not only do I feel as though I was JUST changing her diapers yesterday, but so many of my memories are of her being small and racing around - she never walked - with a fountain of blond hair coming off of the top of her head that seeing her in dresses that make her look decidedly statuesque and grown up have me thinking, “WAIT! Is she potty trained yet? Come here and let me help you blow your nose!” I feel as though I’ve spent the last 20 some years standing still, and all of the tiny people in my life have just grown up so quickly around me. It’s strange, this getting older thing.)

We did find the most perfect and beautiful dress for Heidi. Poor Scott is not going to know what to do when she walks down the aisle. I suggest we have a glass of water on hand, more to throw at him than anything as there might be fainting involved. We were fortunate enough to find the right dress at the first boutique that we went into. Though, feeling as though we ought to do our due diligence and cast a wider net, we went to another shop yesterday. Bad idea. We walked in and it looked as though a sequin factory had had intestinal issues and exploded all over everything in sight – we all immediately broke out in hives, dry mouth and my left leg is still itching. Our requests of things that were “Sleek. Sophisticated. No trimmings,” somehow got translated into, “AS CLOSE TO LITTLE BO PEEP AS POSSIBLE.” All that was missing was the flock of sheep. Sweet fancy Moses, we didn’t last long and decided that we needed to go back to the original shop and try on The Dress once more just to erase the memory of the prior shop. And then have drinks. DRINKS WERE REQUIRED AND PURELY MEDICINAL.

And then we spent the rest of the day decorating various flat surfaces all over the house in an effort to recover. We do not like shopping. The end.

Old cheese

2009-06-08T08:00:00.000-07:00

So a new week! Yay! And I'm still in Southern California with some of my favorite people, which is delicious. Last week, I felt like I was in some sort of hellish holding pattern...some purgatory...you know, where you have to do your taxes all day, the cork always breaks off in the wine bottle and your pants are just a little too short and you have on lame socks. That was Last Week in a nutshell.

But the week took a remarkable turn for the better on Thursday. Amazing what a short plane ride south can do for one's spirits. I had boarded in San Jose and was settling into my aisle seat (preferred since it has such easy access to the often needed potty) when an older woman came up and asked to sit in the window seat. I happily gave it to her and hoped that no one would require the middle seat since I like my space...you never know when might want to break out into jazz hands during a flight. That extra seat gives you ample space to really flail.

The older woman was kind and chatty. We exchanged some pleasantries and about five minutes in she said, "Well, dearie, I'm afraid it's just one of those busy bladder days. I'm going to have to head up to the toilet, and from the looks of it (people were still boarding) I'm going to be swimming upstream and causing quite a ruckus." I let her out and she made her way back up to the front. Her comments of, "I'm so sorry, but my bladder just won't WAIT," faded as she was swallowed up by the passengers. I went back to reading my book (which is excellent!) and was surprised a few moments later to have someone smack my shoulder with considerable force. I looked up to see what I thought at first was a LARGE man, but ended up being a homely woman of impressive girth hovering over me. "I want to sit in the window seat. Get up," she said.

I don't like being bossed.

"The seat is taken," I replied, looking back into my book in the hopes that she wouldn't consider the middle seat since there was so much hate spilling off of her, I didn't think there was enough room for both her and her bad attitude in our row.

"Is your friend IMAGINARY? Because I don't see anyone there," she spat, apparently under the impression that I was put on this earth solely to make her life miserable.
Now, I really wanted to run with that because how can you not when given such a golden opportunity? I wanted to say, "No, idiot, he's right here next to me. Don't disparage my boyfriend Chris Pine like that." But with FAA regulations being so tight these days and not wanting to get kicked off of the plane for being a kook, I said, "No, she is in the bathroom."
"If you're trying to save a seat for a friend, I'm going to get a steward up here to make you give me the seat. You're not allowed to save seats. I want the window. Move."
I couldn't believe this woman was arguing with me when the back half of the plane wasn't even full. I stood up, partly to give her what for, and also because I saw the cute little woman from before come out of the restroom and knew she would want her seat back. (There are certain moments when I'm especially thankful to be tall - for instance when someone is irritating me and thinks that I'm just this little blond thing that can be pushed over. I was over 6 feet that day, being in high heels. It was glorious watching her lean back and blink as I rose over her). "I'm not saving the seat, the woman who is ALREADY sitting in it is on her way back and if you would kindly move, she'll be able to take her seat again. So if you'd still like to get a steward up here, that is fine with me as I'd dearly love to explain how rude you've been. I'm sure the passengers that you're holding up behind you would agree. So please, just find somewhere else to sit." See? I can be polite even when I'm basically telling someone to shove it.

The older woman slid back in and I sat back down after the angry woman moved on muttering something about how she couldn't believe she was being forced to travel with a bitch such as me. I got comfortable again, and the little old woman turned to me and said, "I'm SO GLAD you got rid of her. She was being just hateful to the people who were working the counter. HATEFUL. And then she came and sat next to me while we waited to board and she smelled of old cheese. It was quite awful, as old cheese tends to be. It would have made the flight very long, don't you think? Would you like a Wethers?"

And I DID want a Werthers. It was if Last Week went to the back of the plane with the Cranky Woman and the Lovely Older Lady ushered in the New Week with her cheery disposition and candies. I settled into my seat with my book and smiled the whole way to SoCal. And I've been smiling since.

CS™

2009-06-06T19:56:00.000-07:00

I know, I know, I KNOW. It’s been more than a week. I’ve had one of those spans of time when really, it was better for you all that I didn’t write. There were several doctors visits, my car was in the shop, I wasn’t sleeping. I sat each evening in front of the computer and most of what fell out of my brain was HATEFUL and FULL OF BILE and SMELLED LIKE SCALP. So, ew. It was nothing you would want to read, I promise. I just spent a lot of time telling Last Week to SOD OFF. It was about as fun as beating my laundry against river rocks or grinding my own flour. Which is to say, not very.

I’m now in Southern California, which is very good for my soul, so next week should be better. I’ve spent the past few days sleeping in, drinking good wine and basking in the company of my family. These things foster the Creative Spirit (CS™) whereas Last Week was chasing after It and trying to induce blunt force trauma to Its tender and sensitive head. Last Week was a crusty old bitch that smelled like chlorine and old mustard. Last Week was just being an asshole. This Week is cooing all sorts of lovely things into Its ears…the CS™ will be present and ready for duty. But for now, as you were. I'll get back to you on Monday.

I seriously can't recall what I did on Sunday, which means I either slept through most of it or...hmm...let's just go with that.

2009-05-28T08:00:00.000-07:00

The rest of the weekend, after the blood-letting, was pretty mellow. I fell prey to some as-of-yet unidentified stomach/head trouble that gave me the solid reasoning I'd been looking for to lie on the couch and watch cable all day. So there went Saturday. I was supposed to head up to San Francisco and hang out with Angie and Sabeen that night but around five I was still waiting for my peripheral vision to come back and thought that, perhaps, driving for an hour with impaired brain and innards might not be the best thing ever for public road safety. I’m sure I would have been able to react, like, thirteen seconds after someone braked quickly in front of me, but I’m almost certain that’s not an acceptable margin-of-response.

I’ve forgotten what happened on Sunday. Senility for the win! Marc arrived home after swilling about in the dirt and muck with some of his boys. There were mountain bikes and beer involved which is about as far as my understanding goes as to what they do on such trips. He assures me that there is no gay love, but I’ve seen the photos, and with that much spandex flying around, I’m unconvinced.

Monday was glorious. There was some sleeping in, some wine tasting. More wine tasting on our new patio. A walk that I don’t remember much of under the weight of all of that wine. Then we had dinner, which I thought would soak up some of the wine, but it didn’t. Whatever. I failed chemistry. Then, we saw a movie starring Christian Bale. I think it was Terminator, but honestly, I was so taken with his perfect bone structure, that the main plot points are still somewhat fuzzy in my head. There were robots that were anxious to blow shit up and some woman who’s hair managed to stay perfectly curled despite being under heavy fire, and then rain and then heavy fire again. And then she made out with a robot, which was cool because the robot was hot - I would have too, given the opportunity. But what I came away wondering was a) why is the future always so WET and DARK? And b) if this movie takes place 10 years from now, as the opening credits imply, we’re seriously fucked and should just cash in and go live in Hawaii. And c) why does future clothing require all of these straps and buckles? Won’t we all be swanning about in muu-muus or something more comfortable by then? Won’t we be wise enough to do away with obnoxious things like waist-bands and thong underwear? But perhaps in the future we’ll all have hair like that - that stays perfect, and shiny!, no matter what the circumstance. In which case, I might be talked into wearing complicated pants. But not a thong. I have to draw the line somewhere.

Honestly, I'd rather someone just set my hair on fire.

2009-05-27T08:00:00.000-07:00

Did you realize it's Wednesday already? How did that happen? I’m still coming off of my long weekend buzz and here we are, already in the middle of a new week. That’s not the only reason that I haven’t posted yet. It’s more that I’ve been trying to feverishly establish an Internet connection with a paperclip and a whispered prayer. For some reason, our DSL decided to go on holiday and celebrate the troops as well, so much of the weekend was spent in deliberation with the universe, making all sorts of promises ~~that we will not keep~~ if only the Internet would SPEED THE FUCK UP. Which it didn’t. So we just started opening wine, which seemed to solve a lot of the problem.

The weekend didn’t have good beginnings. I spent much of Friday morning with clenched fists, dry mouth and a mutated version of nausea, all because I had to go and get some blood work done. I am officially the most difficult person to gather blood samples from. This does not bode well for me should I ever bring a child into this world as my understanding of pregnancy is that they have to collect blood from you often and in somewhat copious amounts. They might as well have a bed ready for me in that office since I spend at least thirty minutes after getting blood drawn alternately passed out or leaning over a bucket waiting for my organs to be expelled through the force of my vomiting. It’s a really great way to make an impression. I think I would do better with leeches.

Anyways, I drove to the blood letting place, whistling through my cold sweats, clinging desperately to the ten and two position of my steering wheel with such furious angst that I couldn’t even be bothered to turn on the radio. I walked in full of fake bravado, all “LALALA! I’m going to get drained and LIKE IT!” But my crepe-thin façade of cool disintegrated when I saw the 5 vials that were waiting to be filled. The clinician was full of spunk and had some of the most remarkably fuzzy hair I’ve ever seen. I was momentarily distracted, which is perhaps her reason for looking as though she has a nest on her head, who knows. But before she plunged the needle into what she described as my “gorgeous veins!” I stopped her and said, “You know, you’d be wise to have a bucket and a glass of juice at the ready.” She looked at me quizzically and patted my arm, laughingly, “Oh, honey, you’ll be fine.” Which is not what she was saying 2 minutes later. What she was in fact exclaiming was, “Oh, WOW!” and then there was some leaning out of the door and the hollering of, “SOMEONE BRING ME SOME FUCKING JUICE AND A BUCKET!” since I was slumped over in the chair in a manner that would only be appropriate had I actually bled out. But no, 5 vials later I was nearly comatose and, literally, green. Seriously. After I had recovered, she said she wanted to take a picture since she had never seen anyone turn that hue before but felt bad asking given my condition. I’m glad to have been such a landmark patient.

But, you know, I survived. I finally stopped dry heaving about 4 hours later and was able to get on with my day, but really, that’s hard to bounce back from.

I DID learn a lot about the prostate. So there is that.

2009-05-22T08:00:00.000-07:00

So have I told you all about how, over the years, I've morphed into something of a germ-a-phobe? No? Let's discuss...

My phobia is really quite specific. I'm not running around spritzing every door handle with Lysol or stock-piling in case of a pandemic or anything normal like that. No, it's more that I get incredibly irritated by people who are ILL who just move around without regard for those of us who are trying to stay well. That woman who coughed into her hand and then picked out some apples at the grocery store? GROSS. Clearly, we need to burn the entire produce section down. That man who is at the store sneezing all over the place and then TOUCHING everything? Were you raised by wolves? Well, no, that's insulting to the wolves. I feel this incredible urge to hose these people off with Clorox, cover them with gauze and ship them off elsewhere. While wearing a hazmat suit and then showering in penicillin. Twice. I can just see someone moving about in a manner that suggests illness and my brain automatically goes to this place of, "OH SWEET JESUS, if we share the same air space I will wake up tomorrow with oozing lesions and no hair." And I realize that my immune system is quite capable of dealing with someone's heavy, snot-laden mouth breathing, I'd just rather not. Get your mucus away from me, please.

So today I had to go to the drug store to pick up a prescription. I realize that my chances of running into someone who is suffering from some malady in a place such as this are high. I'm willing to admit that it's unreasonable for me to think that you can always have someone else ferry your medication to you. (Though someone should look into that as a business. You're welcome.) But while I was standing in line, a woman came up behind me and stood quite close, breathing in such a moist manner that I was surprised she didn't mouth-drip a massive spit ball onto the back of my neck. I was reasonably skeeved out and afraid to turn around for fear of what my eyes might see. The end of the world, I was certain.

I moved a few steps away which seemed to indicate to her that we were getting closer to the front of the line, as she moved with me and now stood even closer. I could smell her, and it was a combination of sock and the grave. My blood pressure began to soar and I wondered how impertinent it would be to go up to the counter and stand behind the non-mouth-breathing man who was picking up something for his prostate. He was also hard of hearing as he kept yelling at the pharmacist, "WILL THIS MAKE THE SWELLING IN MY BALLS GO DOWN?" So I didn't think he would mind if I hovered, despite the signage above him that read "STAY BACK TO ENSURE CUSTOMERS PRIVACY." Yeah, no.

At this point, I was pretty sure there was a huge puddle of snot building up behind me as the woman kept breathing in this rattly and choking manner. I rummaged into my purse, found my Kleenex and turned to her saying, "Would you like one of these?" I didn't make eye contact, but looked busily over her left shoulder while she reached out a wretched hand and took the tissue, dabbing at her eyes and nose with it all while hacking up what I can only assume to be a lung, and perhaps a kidney, given the force of her heaving expulsions. I turned back around and inched forward. We stood for a while longer, Mr. Enlarged Balls seeming to have an infinite amount of questions about how long it was going to take for the swelling to subside. A long time, apparently, since the pharmacist had to yell back instructions to him and now I know what he'll be doing this weekend. And it won't involve sex. For a few weeks, in fact.

I felt a tap on my shoulder. Cringing, I turned around.

The sickly woman clutched at my arm and said, "I seem to have something in my eye...can you look and tell me if you see anything?" I continued to look over her left shoulder for fear that if I gazed directly into what I can only assume were bleeding eyeballs, I would subsequently succumb to the Plague, or Consumption or an STD. My visions blurred and suddenly I heard "Next!" from the pick-up window. Saved! Sorry about your eye! I have to go home now and burn this shirt.

It should be mentioned that, oh yeah, I was pre-med! And wanted to specialize in infectious diseases! How's that for a one-two punch of irony? Regardless, I got out of there somewhat unscathed but with an acute sense of needing to shower. I suppose this can be read as something of a cautionary tale. Should you come to my house with suspicious sniffles, don't be surprised if I put you out back and visit with you through the sliding door. It's either that or the Clorox bath. Your choice.

Who doesn't like whales?

2009-05-21T08:00:00.000-07:00

A while back Marc and I were eating dinner and Marc mentioned that he needed to get his oil changed. A large portion of his brain is devoted entirely to being responsible so this wasn't surprising. He then eyed me over his salad. "When was the last time you had your oil changed?"

Sometime in ought nine? Bush was still President, I think? Because that was the last time.

A very small part of my brain used to be devoted to responsibility, but the battery in that part of my head got weak and the whole thing started beeping so I smashed it with a hammer.

"Also," I went on, "my steering wheel has become loud and my brakes have started making a noise."

"Like a squeaking sound?" he asked. "When you brake? That's the signal it's time to get them checked."

"Yeah, no," I shook my head. "It's more like a 'GRRREEEEOOOOORRRRREEEEEOOOOW' sound." I crinkled up my face in a menacing manner in an effort to communicate the exact pitch of what comes out of my car each time I use that pedal. Marc looked at me aghast. You'd think after almost ten years, he would be used to the continuous disappointment that I bring to our relationship.

(Really, it's not that big of a worry, the noise. I just do everything in my power to avoid activating the brakes. It's a pretty small car so I only need about one hundred or so yards to coast to a stop.)

This of course started yet another ~~rant, I mean diatribe, I mean~~ conversation about why my car is Old and Needs A Proper Burial, all of which I listened to with a glazed over expression on my face while really I was thinking, "I wonder if Sawyer will take his shirt off on Lost this week?" Marc finished and went back to eating his meal, I'm sure wondering how exactly I manage to get through the day without a minor understanding of How Things Work & When They Need Care. I don't know. I guess as long as a tire doesn't spring loose and go bouncing across the freeway, I'm cool.

I eventually did go and get my oil changed and the brakes looked at, though the steering wheel still puts a stop to conversation each time I have to make a sharp left. I didn't consider this an issue until the other day when my mother was in the car with me (an event which I had prepared for by cleaning the insides furiously, first). We were off, somewhere, and when we reached our destination, she turned to me and said, "You must really hate to talk to people." That's true, yes, but I didn't know why she had made this particular observation and so asked. "Well," she replied, "with how loud your steering wheel is, I can't imagine anyone can get a word in edgewise, what with it sounding like you have a herd whales mating under the hood."

So, I suppose what's she's saying is, it's time to get that fixed.

Nothing good comes from deviating from the Routine

2009-05-19T08:00:00.000-07:00

Over the years, Marc and I have established a Weeknight Routine in which we do, wear, watch, and eat pretty much the exact same things from night to night. It's easy and familiar and unerringly consistent - I assume most couples fall into similar patterns of habit. Maybe not, though; maybe when you guys get home at night, you spin a giant wheel of Random Adventure! and then end up gleefully hitchhiking to Mexico or having sex on a firetruck or something, I don't know. The only wheel we're spinning over here has "Official Eating Pants/Jeans" on it, and Jeans is crossed out.

My part of the routine essentially entails piling up on the couch with my laptop while periodically piping up to criticize Marc's piss poor Tivo forwarding skills and then eventually grabbing the remote from him and assuming the task because I'm sick of missing the first ten seconds after every commercial break. These lapses in plot don't seem to bother Marc, though he's usually two beers deep and mildy unconscious which might have something to do with it.

So the other night we were roughly 1/2 way through an episode of 24, wherein Jack was shooting someone in the knee, slowly dying of that bio weapon thingy that everyone is up in arms about this season and still not stopping for a pee break when I heard Marc softly snore from his section of the couch. I turned off the show, because usually what happens is that I'll watch the rest, and then the next night, Marc will be all, "Let's watch 24!" To which I'll reply, "I watched it last night while you were passed out on the couch."
"I was?"
"Yes."
"Well, did you finish it without me?"
"Of course."
"Why would you do something like that?"
And then I assume the position of mute fury, because we have this conversation at least once a week.

So, on this particular night, I decided to avoid it and went upstairs to get ready for bed, leaving him in his semi-comatose state.

We have, in our bathroom, one of those mirrors that is two sided. The one side is normal, great for putting on makeup in the morning while Marc is splashing about in the sink, trying to cover the counter with water, and the other, well, it magnifies your shit back at you times ten. Most of us could get through life without this particular brand of self-flagellation, but I'm 1/2 blind and like to actually get my blush on my cheeks and not, say, my chin. This particular night, it was somewhere around 10pm, a time of day wherein I had never looked into the magnifying portion of the mirror. And Sweet Moses. It was like staring down the barrel of a gun with Satan at the other end holding a new pair of tweezers and a blackhead extractor.

I don't even know what happened next. It's possible I blacked out. But roughly two hours later I came to and now I need like three different eyebrow pencils and a skin graft. I would recommend not purchasing one of these mirrors and leaving this kind of grooming to the professionals. Stick to the Routine, people. Your face will thank you.

What did you do this weekend?

2009-05-18T08:00:00.000-07:00

Was this weekend not glorious, people? I spent most of it out in my backyard on the new patio trying out different positions...nothing dirty, so get your head out of the gutter. But I tried sitting at the large table with a beer, at the small table with some tequila, lying down on the lounger with a book, listening to music on the outside speaker while watering some plants. Each activity was successful, though I think those that were accompanied by a beverage really were glowing experiences - to be oft repeated as summer marches on. I had a few invites to trot on up to the city, but the patio would have missed me, and we're just getting to know one another. I don't want to come home and find it in a sulk, feeling all neglected.

I waited all week for Saturday morning. I had been sleeping wretchedly, for no other reason than my body hates me, so you can imagine my frustration when I woke up on Saturday - a morning I had planned to sleep through - and saw that the clock said 6:15am. I closed my eyes in the hope that if I pretended to be asleep that my brain would follow suit and wake up somewhere around lunch. About 45 minutes later, I fell into a sleep so coma like that it took the blaring sound of my phone to push my shallow-breathing husk out of bed.

Sidebar: the phone rings like this: "BLAAAAAAARGH I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU BLAAAAAARGH!!!" It's essentially a migraine sitting on the bedside table. Whomever called, waking me out of my slumber, didn't really get to have a conversation as I, in my haste to stop the ringing, knocked off the entire contents of the bedside table. The first thing they would have heard was a loud crash followed by, "FUCK! Hello?" They hung up.

So! Not the most magical way to start a weekend. But! It did improve. It was so HOT, that things like bikinis and sunglasses were definitely necessary. Shoes and pants were not. I spent all of Saturday out in the sun and on one sojourn into the house to use the restroom misplaced my sunglasses. This is somewhat noteworthy if only because that entire trip is roughly 20 feet and the glasses were completely lost somewhere along the way. It made the rest of the day rather annoying, since I couldn't see anything, what with the glare and all. And going inside was out of the question given the weather. So I made do. It was hard. I attempted to check the mail without my sunglasses and I ended up crouched in the front yard with my fists balled into my eye sockets until dusk when I could actually see again. It was a really unproductive way to spend ten hours. Not to mention probably in violation of our HOA.

I still haven't located them, but am wearing an older pair which are infinitely less stylish and have a few cracks in the lenses which give the impression of looking through a kaleidoscope. So when I take them off and everything resumes its normal shape and outline, I get the distinct impression that I'm about to throw up. Or perhaps it's the tequila. Either way, it made for an exciting two days.

And now, back to work! Blargh.

Wherein I explain why I've not been posting this week.

2009-05-14T08:00:00.000-07:00

Did you know that I received three emails this week that said, basically, "Dude. Update." And you're right, I haven't been good about it. I've been busy. With what, I can't really tell you, only because I've forgotten. Why have I forgotten? Because I'm focusing on not collecting a stool sample.

You heard me.

This really, REALLY, passes into the territory of Things That I Do Not Want To Share, but I'm going to anyways. Because most of this week I've been staring at the box that says "STOOL PROFILES" on the side and almost praying for constipation so that I won't have to go chasing my poo around the toilet bowl and then ship it off to someone for inspection.

(Speaking of, who do you have to piss of to get THAT job? Is that the entry level position in any lab? "Well, son...everyone here has to learn the ropes. From the bottom up, so to say! Hahaha!" And then they get led to the table that has all of the poo that they are forced to inspect. I'm fairly sure EVERY day is a shitty day. HA! God. I'll be here all week. Tip your waitress.)

Anyways, you get this clever little tray that looks like something your fries come in - and if ever I needed a reason not to eat those hallowed, bits of potato wonders, the visual of said tray in use will come in handy. It's even decorated with these fetching red stripes:

You're encouraged to put on the enclosed gloves first. Then you do your business in the fry tray, collecting a good bit of "the specimen." It would then appear that you have to determine what type of poo it is, whether hard, formed, loose or watery. They have a handy chart, in case you should be confused - if your poo is having an identity crisis and not communicating its mood to you properly. Even poo's have bad days and don't feel chatty:

Then, using the enclosed spoon, you scoop your stool into the vials provided to the fill line. Apparently, there is great danger in overfilling these vials, as it is mentioned several times, "DEAR GOD DO NOT OVERFILL. And please screw on the cap tightly, thank you." Then you get to ship it off to that poor, UNDERPAID, lab rat who then tells your doctor exactly what it is that is going on with your bowels and intestines.

Poo. It's pretty wise stuff.

So I've spent much of the week ignoring this task. NOT doing this has taken up a lot of my energy, which is to say that between watching The Real Housewives Reunion, memorizing the rap section of Lady GaGa's Starstruck and NOT poo'ing in a fry tray, I've had little time to post. You'll have to forgive me. I'll get back to you once I've shipped off my poo. And my dignity.

The Yard - Part 3

2009-05-11T15:34:00.000-07:00

So you'll note I wasn't very good about posting last week - or this morning, for that matter. It's been a nail biting past few days over here at Lucky Paw HQ. We've been putting the final touches on Phase One of this yard overhaul, and we're coming slowly to the end. May I emphasize slowly. As I type this, there are still men in my backyard. This is Day 7 of what was supposed to be a TWO day project, and they will be back again tomorrow to finish off some peripheral things.

But - LOOK! We now have a PATIO!

Marc spent quite a bit of time scrubbing the furniture and making it look all sparkly and brand new. Pat him on the back when you see him next, won't you?

Isn't it amazing and nice? Say yes. My nerves can't handle any criticism.

It's hard to tell from these photos, but the cement has this lovely, subdued color to it. It looks speckled and white-ish in spots because they have not yet scrubbed off all of the rock salt that they put down to give it a mottled surface. Trust me, it's going to be gorgeous.

I'm still not happy with the path, which we'll muck about with tomorrow in the hopes that we can make it look a little less clunky. It's just me being rather adamant about everything looking just-so and the path not quite having achieved the same appearance that I have floating around in my head. Poor path. It's going to suffer from low self-esteem what with my constant criticizing.

Kylie doesn't quite approve. Note her stance. Marc, however, found that he could do some sweet tricks down the path whilst on his bike. So that's something.

After we've recovered from the financial hurricane that has been these past two weeks, we will begin planting. Or, my mom will. Or, really, my mom will tell me what to buy and then point at places in the yard and some willing souls will dig holes and put the plants where she tells them to. I'm not allowed to participate given my talent for killing things. I'll be banished to the inside where I'll press my nose up against the glass and watch the garden take shape. All while indulging in a glass of wine. Really, who's the winner in that part of the process? That would be me.

The post wherein I confess to eating too much chocolate

2009-05-08T16:18:00.000-07:00

Sweet tap-dancing Moses, it's been a week. It's Friday afternoon, and a project that was supposed to take two days - TWO DAYS - is now on Day 6. It should also be noted that I have consumed more calories this week due to stress than I have in ages. Thank God I now have a lovely backyard to swan about in as I'm not going into polite society until I've worked the chocolate off of my ass. So if you need me, I'll be over here, curled up in an unflattering pair of dog-hair covered yoga pants. You know, that pair that's been pre-stretched for such situations.

I would put up more pictures today, but the workers are still in the yard, and they didn't come prepared for a photo session, so you'll have to wait until Monday when I shall post our yard in all of its patio-laden glory. Next step, plants. Seeing as I kill everything that I touch, I'm leaving that area to an expert. Which is to say, my mother. Things thrive under her care; they are too frightened not to. What she lacks in stature, she makes up for in German-ness, which sound dubious at best, but if you meet her, you'll understand how the Germans made it as far as they did during WWII. It's not the master race, but it's an efficient one. Trust.

Have a great weekend, all! More Monday - and Happy Mothers Day to the Mom's that read this. May your daughters not grow up to have a not-so-secret blog wherein she regularly uses her family for content. Or, at least do enough to give her GOOD content...it's the least you can do.

To the one I loved the most

2009-05-05T08:00:00.001-07:00

A little slice out of a piece I'm writing...enjoy.
***

A week later, she received a phone call from a number she didn’t recognize. Later, she listened to the message. It was Jack. He was home from having been abroad and wanted to meet up with her, having heard through mutual friends that she was about to marry. She listened to the message twice and then carefully lay herself down on the bed as if her bones were sore and stayed there until the daylight had faded.

She called him back. She ignored the vibrations around her heart when she heard his voice, though after she hung up, she felt as though she were moving about under water. They had agreed to meet for lunch at a place they used to love, a restaurant on the pier that stuck out over the water and gave one the impression of being out at sea. Sophie had not been there since she had left him and wondered if that had been a wise move since it wasn’t neutral territory. She didn’t tell Chase. It was, after all, only a meal.

They hugged, briefly. She didn’t look into his eyes but busied herself with the business of putting down her purse, taking off her jacket, spreading the napkin onto her lap, first lengthwise and then the other way. He set a carefully wrapped gift in front of her. She opened it and looked up at him, astonished. Something rose up between them. The awkwardness was not yet gone, but for a moment, they could not move.

“I picked that up in Paris for you. I remembered that you had always been on the hunt for a first edition. It was in a little shop near my flat.”
“Thank you,” she said quietly. “I’m surprised you remembered.”
“I remember a lot of things,” he said, playing with the salt and pepper shaker.
They ordered. A bottle of wine appeared.
“You look good,” he said. “Thinner.”
“Thanks. I am good,” she said, annoyed for some reason.
“Really?”
“Sure.” She ran her finger around the rim of her glass. “I’m getting married. My book is finally being published. I have everything I want.” She hadn’t intended for the sarcastic edge to creep into her voice.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Please,” she said, her glance flitting around the table. “Jack.” She rested her forehead in her left hand, her fingers spreading through her hair.
“What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know. I just hoped – “
“What? That I’d pretend not to be able to read you?”
“I guess,” she whispered. Sophie looked outside. It was an unseasonably grey day and everything seemed bruised.
Jack took a deep breath. “Listen, Soph. I’m sorry. It’s just still hard to see you. I don’t understand what happened. One minute you were there and everything was fine and then suddenly you left.”
“Everything was not fine.”
“Ok, but you’re still the one who left.”
“Do you want us to go over this again? The why’s – ?”
“No,” he said. Around them at other tables people were having pleasant, chatty lunches. He shook his head. “I still don’t get it, though.”
“You didn’t want me,” Sophie said.
“God. That’s not true. You just wanted, expected too much. You know? I don’t think I ever stood a chance at understanding you.”
“I don’t think you ever tried.”
The woman at the table next to them dropped her fork and Jack leaned down to pick it up and give it back to her. The distraction was a relief. Sophie looked out over the white tips of the breaking waves.
“God, this wine tastes like shit. Does yours taste off?” He waved for the waitress, a beautiful girl who Jack turned to with his smile, that smile. Sophie didn’t hear what he was saying, but thought back to when things had finally fallen apart between them. He had drifted away, like a fog really. He had been so persistent when seeking her attention and then it just faded despite his insistence that he still wanted to be with her, though she felt him looking over her shoulder whenever she was in his arms.

He turned the conversation to other things but Sophie had retreated into her own head, realizing that by leaving him, she had spared herself the pain that went along with allowing herself to be so vulnerable. His voice, with its forced gaiety, revealed a crucial space between them, a gap that comforted Sophie. She couldn’t, wouldn’t be harmed.

They embraced upon parting. He held her for too long and she was folded into his familiar scent; it paralyzed her for a moment, but she was able to pull away before it became dangerous. Something had hardened inside of her over their entrees and he noticed the shift. He looked at her for a while with a pained expression and said, “I’ll call you when I’m in town next.”
“No,” she said, wrinkling her nose so as to appear aloof. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.” She felt safe behind her sunglasses, as if behind a steel mask.
He didn't ask why. The wind blew down upon them and he reached out to touch her cheek. She didn’t move, willed herself not to.
“Bye, Soph,” he said, and walked away along the boardwalk, the mist licking off the water, giving the impression that he was fading from her view.

She watched his retreating back until he disappeared, and then exhaled heavily, not having been aware that she was holding her breath. She looked down at the book in her hands and opened the cover. His familiar, loopy handwriting danced across a sheet paper that he had slipped between the first pages. To the one I loved the most, it said. Sophie shut the book quickly. She had the distinct impression that someone was shoving broken glass deeply into her heart.

The Yard - Part 2

2009-05-05T08:00:00.000-07:00

I'm happy to report that yesterday came and went drama free. The patio form was put in...lookit!

I even get a step out into my backyard! I shall stand on it and wave at all of my subjects. Or just the dog. Whatever.

I tried to get Kylie to pose with that thingy that tamps down the earth. She wouldn't comply. Bitch.

Anyhoo, you can imagine my relief, coming home from work and finding that not only were there no other disasters, but that progress had been made. The leaky pipe? A thing of the past! Behold!

Pipe! Gone! Leak-no-more! And my tennies, since I just went for a run.

Yay! So there was rejoicing in our house last night. Which means that we had two glasses of wine with dinner and not just one! And Marc did naked lunges in celebration of our soon to be patio. He saves those for special occaisions.

However, the earth is still wet wet wet. From THREE DAYS AGO. This ought to tell you how little sun we get back here. If you're worries about melanoma, come hang out in our yard! You'll come away paler and quite possibly with the sniffles due to the cold...but just think of how much you'll save on sunscreen!

I mean, REALLY. Check out how MUDDY that is. From SATURDAY.

So the concrete goes in this afternoon. Good thing Marc got that body buried yesterday.