'S Wonderful

Ooga Booga and Other Caveman Anniversary Sentiments

2012-03-16T17:00:00.011-07:00

I am pre-writing and scheduling this so that it posts while Mr. W and I are on the road. See, I don't want him to know about the sneaky (and likely to be terrifying) surprise I have for our one-year wedding anniversary trip to San Luis Obispo this weekend.

Right around the time of our ceremony last year, Mr. W informed me that he had booked The Caveman Room at the Madonna Inn (where we got engaged) for our first anniversary. I cannot believe it's already time for the trip. The last 365 days have absolutely flown by.

I made a joke back then about how The Caveman Room (yes, I believe it warrants initial caps) would not be complete without costumery. So I got to work figuring out how I could possibly construct a loincloth for my poor, darling, shy husband.

A couple weeks ago, I remembered that I had more than one article of leopard-print clothing in my Halloween bin in the garage. So I rifled through it one day, found a dress and a skirt (both velvet, tres chic) and cut and sewed them into proper caveman and woman attire.

Mr. W is probably going to have a stroke when I whip these out of my suitcase.

Even if I can get him drunk enough to put on the homemade Tarzan Banana Hammock, (again, initial caps totally necessary there) I will not be posting pictures. You all can just use your imagination.

Have a great weekend!

Taking Inventory

2012-03-13T11:53:00.000-07:00

When I worked at the coffeehouse in college, one of my oh-so-important managerial duties was to handle the weekly inventory of pastries, coffee, to-go supplies and retail goods. My parents had purchased their very first PC at home, so I laid out spreadsheets on the computer and took them into work to make my task more official and efficient.

Sure, there were days when we would find ourselves devoid of blueberry bagels, or running to the store for more dijon mustard, but for the most part, me and my sheets kept everything well stocked and running smoothly.

Last weekend, I found myself thinking of those old days as I pored over our pantry contents and wrote up my grocery list. Again, I am the taker of inventory. With Mr. W working such crazy hours, it is my sole responsibility to make sure our kitchen runs smoothly.

But how about our marriage? Should we have an inventory checklist there as well?

I think the answer is Yes.

Next Monday is our one-year anniversary. I can't believe how quickly the year has passed, yet when I think back to that special day, it feels like an eternity ago. And when I open our relationship cupboards and start tallying up the contents, I'm happy to say we seem to be balancing supply and demand quite well.

If I take a step back and look at an even wider perspective of my life, I can see that I'm also amply stocked when it comes to family, friends, free time, creative projects, house projects, and new dining experiences. The travel column could probably use a couple more tic marks in it. And although exercise is happening regularly, I could certainly do more—particularly because my circle of activity every day exists within the space between our driveway and backyard. Money could use a little restocking, as well, but right now I'm willing to trade smaller checks for bigger chunks of downtime.

Just as the coffeehouse depended on me to keep it filled and functioning, I think I have a personal responsibility to keep my life full and humming with the things that make me happy. I'm the only one who can see when supplies are running low, and I'll only notice if I regularly complete my inventory sheets. Thankfully, I've learned how to keep track of them in my head instead of having to deal with those pesky Excel documents.

What We're Making: A Coffee-Cocktail-Table

2012-03-08T21:07:00.001-08:00

You guys, all I want to do in this post is make dirty jokes. About Mr. W. And wood.

On top of that, I'm watching Grease right now and singing "Beauty School Drop-out" as I type. Heaven knows where this post will go...

Anyway, back to Mr. Wonderful's morning wood. Ooops did I just type that? I meant woodworking skills.

Let's back up.

For many years, Mr. W had a sort of sad-looking plain old black modern, cube-y coffee table that may or may not have been from IKEA. He talked for a long time about making a new table with a more stylish aesthetic, and this past fall he drew up a design sort of based on the Herman Miller Nelson bench:

Mr. W loves mid-century stuff and has made my love for it blossom, as well. (Avoiding a wood joke right now.)

Anyway, as part of his design process, he decided to go with walnut for the top. Which meant we had these planks of walnut in our guest room for about a month as they acclimated to the humidity in our house. Here's a before picture of the table pieces:

And here's the brown beauty after construction:

Although I didn't do anything instrumental in the building of it, I did help stain and varnish it. I love how each plank is slightly different. It's so pretty when the light hits it.

The first night we brought it into the house after it dried, I scratched it with a loose screw on the bottom of my laptop. I just said screw. And bottom. When talking about wood... I can't hold it in, I'm sorry.

It's definitely the most beautiful piece of furniture we have in our living room. Probably in the whole house. Mr. W sure is good with wood.

Now excuse me while I get back to Danny Zuko and American Bandstand at the school dance.

My 15 Minutes

2012-03-06T14:17:00.000-08:00

Well guys, last night may have been my pinnacle. I may never again achieve the kind of fame I enjoyed 18 hours ago. Even before The Bachelor: The Women Tell All episode aired on the west coast, I was getting reports from friends on Facebook that they had seen me on their big screens. I had officially made it.

When I arrived to my sister's house for her weekly Bachelor viewing party, and my niece brought out a sequined prom dress she had purchased (but intends to return), I did the only thing a proper celebrity could think of doing. I put on the prom dress myself and answered the door for some of the party guests.

Then I posed for a picture holding the Bachelor Ben sign and chocolate rose my sister has handy at every one of her Monday-night events.

Don't ask about the inexplicable mini Christmas tree on the right that's covered in Valentine's decorations. I have no answers for you.

Our group of viewers was watching the episode on a slight delay, so my only indicator that my dear friend SBW and I had made it on the close-up cam was a text from her that said "WOW" about an hour into the show. When we finally got around to that scene, everyone in the room cheered. I fist-pumped. It was glorious.

After several more sightings, I came home to find Mr. W perched on the couch fast forwarding through the show, looking for his starlet bride. I offered him an autograph, but he politely declined.

Sadly, when I woke up this morning, I was back to being a slipper-wearing, cat-talking-to, home-working face in the crowd. My fifteen minutes were officially up.

The history books may not ever credit me with curing cancer or inventing calorie-free wine and cheese, but at least my Wikipedia page will tell the tale of the girl who got zoomed in on four times during Bachelor Season 16's Women Tell All.

An endeavor most people would die to have on their lifetime achievement list.

Old Job vs. New Job

2012-03-02T18:44:00.000-08:00

Just another day at the office... Just kidding. Those are actually Mr. W's feet. My mom knitted me
a pair of slippers and I made him try them on because he needs a new pair more than I do.
We could barely get them on and off his big old meaty ham hocks. Thankfully, they fit me just fine.

This week, I had dinner with my old coworkers and as we went around the table trading tales of our new positions, I found myself weighing the pros and cons of my current situation and my previous one.

In my new job, I get to write from my living room. I don't have a commute. I don't have other people annoying me with their quirky habits and strange bodily noises. I have ample time to exercise every morning and I can take a little longer getting ready if I want—all I need to do is set my laptop on the bathroom sink and it's like I'm right there in the office. If Mr. W sends me an IM asking me to put his laundry in the dryer or go find a bank statement for him, I can do it in a flash. I can sit next to my open sliding glass door and listen to the neighbor practicing piano. I can make myself smoothies after lunch. I can sing a song to my cat (although I probably would have done that at Yahoo! too). I can run to get my hair cut in the middle of the day. I can burp loudly whilst drinking my morning Dr. Pepper.

Oh and I should mention that all of the people at my new company are super nice. Everyone seems motivated to do a good job and keep the little agency running at top speed.

Yet, still I find myself missing the old gig.

At my old job, the people in my department were like family. I would share anything and everything with them, on a weekly or daily basis. I knew I could talk to them about the exciting stuff, the hard stuff, the silly stuff. And I thoroughly enjoyed their company (except when I was tired or grumpy and didn't want to talk to other humans). If I didn't have any work to do for the day, I STILL GOT PAID. It didn't matter that I was really only writing for 4 hours a day—I was getting paid for the entire day. And I had amazing benefits and a good retirement plan. I knew the client inside and out and felt comfortable voicing my opinion and asking questions when I didn't understand the reasoning behind something. I felt very safe every day at work (well, except for maybe that one day my wallet got stolen off my desk, but every other day was cool).

And maybe that's part of why it was time for me to go. Maybe this fish had outgrown her pond.

Mr. Wonderful has been working until midnight an 1 a.m. every night this week. One night as he was crawling into bed, he told me he missed me. I agreed tenfold and reminded myself that I should be thankful I don't have to work hours like that or catch up on every little To Do on the weekends. I may only be billing 15 hours a week right now, but what I'm lacking in compensation, I'm making up for in free time.

But I still miss my old coworkers.

Maybe Mr. W can pretend to be one after he wraps his movie and is home with me during the day. Or maybe he'll let me get a few more cats to keep me company...

Right Under Our Noses

2012-02-27T12:26:00.000-08:00

Southern California seems to think it's summertime right now. We've had temps in the high
70°s—even up to 83° last Thursday. Everything in the yard is budding and blooming like crazy.

I felt like the Universe was throwing us a big old life lesson this weekend after I missed our bi-monthly produce pick-up because I was at a taping of The Bachelor. Mr. Wonderful and I belong to a Community-Supported Agriculture program in Silverlake CA, so every other week, we get to fill two grocery bags with a variety of gorgeous, locally-grown fruits and veggies. It's an awesome program and makes us feel like we're doing right by the people who farm in the area.

Mr. W bought this nifty heated seed sprouter to help us get a head start on our spring/summer
garden. I'm hoping we get loaded with homegrown goodies. And that we're in the country so
we can enjoy them...

When Friday's taping ran so late that I missed the pick-up window, we weren't only out $24, we were lacking a fridge full of produce to sustain us for the next couple of weeks. Huge bummer. Or so I thought until I walked into our backyard Saturday. As I looked around, I realized that I could find what I needed right under my nose.

The carrots got a little stunted but what they lack in size, they make up for in quantity!
We roasted some last night and they were delicious.

I made multiple trips from the yard to the kitchen, ending up with carrots, cauliflower, broccoli, broccoli leaves (which can be cooked like kale), spinach, tomatoes, and even a few spindly lettuce leaves.

We left the cauliflower on the plant a little too long so it was flowering, but we roasted and ate it
anyway and it was just as good as it would have been in a tight white bunch.

We'll pick this little guy before he goes to flower. Hopefully he'll get bigger between now and then!

My sweet precious tomato plant has not let us down once since it sprouted. Every week—
even when the weather hasn't been great—he has delivered. I'm totally buying him an engagement ring.

I was shocked when Mr. W told me we were already getting little grape babies.
Hopefully we'll be able to eat some this year. Last year they got a bad case of mold.
Good thing we weren't planning to make wine with 'em!

We picked all the spinach to make room for new plants next weekend.
I think the earwigs will be very sad to see their salad bar go.

Although its numbers have dwindled from the first planting, Mr. W's dream lemon orchard—grown
from contraband lemon seeds he smuggled back here after our honeymoon—continues to flourish.

I hacked off and relocated this big mama agave after it gave birth to SEVEN offshoot babies. Mr. W
has had this plant since he moved to LA 17 years ago. To the best of my knowledge, it's his only
teenage child.

We barely had enough pots for all the babies. I wonder if eventually, we'll try to harvest
some agave syrup to use in place of sugar.

The bees are loving the early spring flower outbreak. I'm loving how good the local citrus trees and
jasmine plants smell. It almost makes up for the severed heads around town.

It's funny how sometimes everything you want is right under your nose. Or right outside your back door. You think you're lacking and then you look around and suddenly see you have everything you need, exactly where you are.

I was already feeling grateful for this realization when the Universe hit us with another unexpected bounty. Saturday afternoon, an organization in the area was picking fruit from Hollywood Hills citrus trees to supply local food banks, and after they took oranges from our house, they came back with this lovely thank you basket filled with an assortment of treats from the neighborhood.

Somehow I think that $24 we were out on Friday came back to us in our lucky abundance of backyard and neighborhood crops!

My Post-Bachelor Support Group May Finally Get Its Start

2012-02-23T21:39:00.000-08:00

Despite more than one vow to never again watch the show, every season I find myself re-addicted to TV's matchmaking train wreck, The Bachelor. It is ridiculous reality slop but also one of my favorite guilty pleasures. So, last week, when a friend contacted me with an opportunity to see a taping of "The Women Tell All" episode, I nearly piddled in my full-coverage panties.

See, in addition to loving the show, I also have a fantasy about starting a support group for the poor, dejected women who don't get picked to be the bachelor's bride. These are beautiful (sometimes a little crazy), white-toothed, bikini wearing babes and yet, every week, they drown in tears, sobbing and cursing about how they can't figure out what's wrong with them and how they just wanted Ben to fall in love with them and why didn't he know they were soulmates?!

Oh dear sweeties... There are about 2.99 billion other men in the world to date. Some schmuck not choosing you on season sixteen does not mean you're going to be alone for all eternity.

If you know me at all, you know that I love to cheerlead for people when they're going through rough patches. I also adore doling out advice and tough love. Heck, I'm even planning to go through Martha Beck's coach-training program later this year.

So the idea of being in a studio with all the reject bachelorettes thrills me to no end. I wonder if I'll get kicked out for offering to be their wingwoman or teach them about manifesting. Maybe I'll just make a sign that says, "Your husband is out there. Quit all that crying."

In the Depths

2012-02-22T14:25:00.000-08:00

Wonderful on the surface

is a perfect

place to start.

Pushing

the boundaries

of kindness

to find

just how much

you can impart.

You learn how deep

love runs, though,

when grief

comes through

your door.

You trace its chains

to an immobile

anchor that's

cleaved itself into

your core.

And suddenly

your arms

long for the strength

to squeeze

away his pain.

You hold him tighter—

a futile attempt—

to silence

hurt's refrain.

Unsure if the tears

that dampen your cheek

came from his

tired eyes

or your own,

you realize that

this parallel ache

is something stronger

than you've

ever known.

And there in the dark,

in humbled awe,

you welcome

the caregiving chore.

You surrender

to the burn of certainty

you’ve never felt

love so boundless

before.

A Post for Yiayia

2012-02-17T16:50:00.000-08:00

Seven years ago this spring, I was helping decorate for a surprise party for my sister-in-law when I got the call that my beloved Grandma Hetherington had passed away. Although she had been in the hospital with a pulmonary embolism, she was recuperating in a nursing home and expected to make a full recovery. It came as a shock to the whole family when she threw another clot and didn't make it.

Grandma H. was always a kick in the pants, so it seemed like the right thing to carry on with the party that night and be together as a family, not just celebrating the birthday of my sister-in-law, but also the life of a quick-witted lady we all adored.

I remember, after the initial wave of sadness washed over, feeling immense gratitude that night. I wonder now if it was just some sort of coping mechanism kicking into gear. But I felt overwhelmed and eternally grateful for having had time with her (I was in between jobs then) before she was gone. I was so lucky to take in those last stories and cheeky puns.

When my dear Grandma P. died two years later, there was a slow decline leading up to it, so my thankfulness felt more spread out over a number of months. I hung on to every conversation in the nursing home. Even if they were disjointed, they were gems. I wore her jewelry more often. I made sure my schedule had me stopping by to see her a couple times a week. By the time she stopped being able to talk to all of us, I was ready for her suffering to end and I had prepared to let her go.

It was hard to lose these women who had helped raise me and had been my single gal pals at so many holidays after my grandfathers passed away.

But then in late 2008, I met a new grandma. Mr. Wonderful's sweet, Greek Yiayia.

We visited her on our first trip to St. Louis together and I was in love immediately. She hugged me and kissed me a million times, telling me how happy she was that I was dating her grandson. In what I assume is traditional Greek grandma fashion, she asked us at least a dozen times if we were hungry, each time rattling off a different snack she had to offer. She took us into her bedroom and yanked open drawers, revealing stacks of hand-crocheted doilies and other knit items. She insisted that I take with me an apron she had sewn, and sent Mr. W with a bedspread-sized handmade afghan. Being in her presence filled a little space inside me that had been empty for a year and a half.

On a subsequent visit, I got to try a lemon-orzo soup she makes that is now one of my favorites. Actually, a lot of her cooking skills were passed straight to Mr. W, so there are probably a lot of favorites I have that can be attributed back to her.

In September of 2010, Mr. W and I visited St. Louis again and Yiayia taught him how to make baklava so that we could hand it out as the favors at our wedding. Yia wasn't feeling well enough to travel for the ceremony, so it meant a lot to at least have her recipe there with us.

That's our wedding venue above, and if you look on the napkins you can see all the packages of baklava Mr. W made, thanks to the tutelage of his grandma.

Because she couldn't make the trip out, we had Mr. W's dad Skype the ceremony to her and other St. Louis relatives over his iPhone. We hoped it was almost like being there.

When we visited Yiayia again this past October, she was tired but so glad to see us and look through the book of wedding pictures we had for her. She was full of hugs and kisses, as usual, and I think she referred to Mr. W by her favorite pet name, "my best boy."

Last weekend we got word that Yiayia had taken a turn for the worst, and we found out this morning that she passed away.

My heart is broken for Mr. W and the entire family. They have lost an irreplaceable matriarch. But on the edge of that sadness is the same feeling of gratitude I had when my grandmas passed. I am so lucky to have met such a precious soul. I will be forever grateful for the chance to know Yiayia.

Gilded Shower-Cleaning Acknowledgment Glory

2012-02-15T19:34:00.000-08:00

About a month ago, I spent the good part of one of my unemployed mornings cleaning Mr. Wonderful's bathroom. No, we do not have a cleaning lady and yes, I am that kind of awesome wife. As much as I wanted to turn my cheek to it, I couldn't help but notice how much soap scum had accumulated in his shower. And given that I had no other work to attend to that day, I decided to go to work on the tile muck.

It took me an eternity and many different scrubbing tools and cleaning concoctions. When all was said and done, I was wet with sweat and funky rinse water.

So I did the natural thing that anyone would do after completing a task like that. I posted about it on Facebook. (Anonymous from this post is calling me a stupid American right now).

I wrote that I thought women who cleaned their husband's showers should be awarded a medal or trophy of some sort.

The remark received lots of comments, the funniest of which came from my brother. If you like gross humor, you'll love this one. If you don't like gross humor, I apologize for his crass creativity. He's a clever one, that brother of mine...

I had forgotten about the Facebook exchange (and my sore shower-cleaning shoulder) until this past weekend when a mysterious package arrived in my mail. The return address was Washington DC and at first I thought maybe someone in the White House had sent me a collection of secret files to hide from the terrorists.

When I opened it, however, I discovered this:

This poses a serious problem. You see, I have no idea who to deliver my acceptance speech to. So I'm asking you for help, blog readers. If you have any idea who awarded me this gorgeous golden trophy, please contact me ASAP. Thanks and happy shower-scrubbing to you all.

Spreading the Love

2012-02-14T09:22:00.000-08:00

It may have been the residual effects of reading about Janice's Nurture Project back in November, or possibly the adorableness of this pillow on Etsy:

But I got it in my head that this year I was going to make some homemade Valentines and send them out to a handful of single-ish girlfriends. So last Friday morning I busted out my wicked craft skills and got to work making these:

I know how much I enjoy receiving cards and letters in the mail, and I just wanted to give that feeling to a few others.

Sadly, my Valentine-making skills were put to use again later in the weekend when I chose to participate in an "I Care" initiative that my hometown put together. On Friday afternoon, a 15-year-old boy took his own life on the campus of my niece's high school. The same school where my siblings and I went. The same school my mom graduated from in its very first senior class. My heart broke for the boy, his family, my niece, my school and my beloved town.

In an effort to do something to try to ease the pain, a card-making program was born. The cards will be delivered to the high school's students and alumni today.

I made a dozen.

Assembling both sets of cards got me thinking about how important it is to let people know you're thinking about them all year long. As commercialized as Hallmark is, I appreciate how they've encouraged us all to regularly remind one another that we care.

I hope the people who open my cards know I do.

Happy Valentine's Day, blog readers.

iShame

2012-02-09T22:44:00.000-08:00

Is it just me, or is playing on your phone the new coping mechanism for feeling awkward or alone? It seems like every time I see a single person waiting for a table at a restaurant, waiting for their friend to show up at the coffee shop, waiting for the bus to arrive, they're looking at their phone like they're extremely busy and important and oh so glad they have a moment of solitude so they can plow through that gargantuan list of text messages. Right...

I could be projecting here, but I really think most people are just trying to alleviate the anxiety of aloneness.

And the truth is, I do the same darn thing.

Just last night, as I was waiting for a friend to meet me at a hip West Hollywood restaurant, my immediate reaction upon entering the building was to pull out my phone to keep myself company. Two other single men sitting near me were both on their phones, too. God forbid any of us should just sit there and enjoy the ambiance of the establishment.

But as I retrieved my beloved coping mechanism from my purse, I was suddenly aware that in addition to being embarrassed that I was sitting alone in a bar, I also needed to be embarrassed by the phone I was about to pretend to check. See, I suffer from upgrade aversion, and for the last 4...maybe 5 years, I've been carrying around this:

I love my little 1.3 megapixel purple flipper. I can type out texts letter-by-letter with my eyes closed. I can drop it on the floor a million times and it never breaks. It holds a small treasure trove of pictures I have no idea how to get off of it.

But when faced with the idea of having hipsters see my counter-culture mobile device in the carefully orchestrated light of a bar lounge, I was filled with iShame.

No longer did my phone feel like my security blanket. Or maybe it did feel like my security blanket except this time I was in junior high and all the kids were going to laugh at me if they saw me cuddling it.

Mr. W says I should upgrade and get myself an iPhone. He says if I don't, he's going to force me to take his current phone when he decides to get a newer version. I'm sure when that happens, I'll feel more comfortable about mobily soothing my anxiety in public.

Until then, maybe I'll try to work on honing my other coping mechanisms. Like inspecting my cuticles or balancing my checkbook.

Yup, still have a paper checkbook, too...

Marriage: Because Icky Things Are Easier to Deal With When You Have a Sidekick®

2012-02-07T11:40:00.000-08:00

That is a homemade bandage on my cat's foot. It took two of us to apply it
and the process wasn't much fun.

Are you guys beginning to sense a trend here with my recent posts? Needy wife continually wants husband at side to tackle challenges and provide support. Let's just continue on that path, shall we?

I can distinctly remember the first time marriage made practical sense to me. I was nineteen or twenty and happened to be filling the bird feeder in my parents' backyard, daydreaming about how I'd travel to Europe someday. As my mind wandered through Italian fountains and French cheeses, I suddenly thought— "It would be really nice to have someone to go with me on my travels. Like a partner who I could do all sorts of fun stuff with. Wait a minute...is that why people get married?"

I had never thought about it from that perspective before. I'd always just sort of pictured two people playing house, keeping the cupboards filled with food, mowing the lawn when it got too high, taking annual vacations to the lake.

But a partner in crime who would have adventures with me? Now that sounded like something I'd enjoy!

My teenage epiphany realized its potential this past May when my new husband and I went to the Amalfi Coast on our honeymoon. Husband = travel buddy? Check!

However, in the months since then, I've come to understand many, many other important purposes that marriage serves. When I lost my job in October, I had a built-in financial and emotional safety net. When I had the opportunity to juggle freelance copywriting and personal writing projects, I had a cheerleader at my side, assuring me I could do it all. And this weekend, when I discovered bloody spots on the couch where my 13-year-old cat was laying, I had someone to recruit as my medical assistant.

Icky stuff is always easier to deal with when you have someone wincing next to you.

My cat had been biting his toenails or calluses or some other disgusting such thing when he got carried away and broke the skin on one of his back paw pads. Although I wanted to doctor him up because I felt bad he was injured, I also wanted to prevent him from leaving bloody footprints all over the entire house.

So with Mr. Wonderful's help, I held the unruly blob of fat kitty goodness in my lap and we wrapped him in Neosporin, tissue and surgical tape. I wish I would have taken video of him walking around with his "sock" on, because he kept trying to flick it off like someone who had toilet paper stuck to the bottom of their shoe.

Fatty 2x4 puts the "por k" in "poor kitty." He was SO not happy with that bandage on his foot.

I can't tell you how thankful I was to have Mr. W there to help me through the incident. It deepened my respect for single parents and unattached pet owners and of course expanded my appreciation for the groom I landed.

Thank you, Mr. Wonderful for assisting me in Operation Foot Gash and for furthering my tendency toward codependency. Montycat and I owe you big time.

Shakin' in My Bulkhead Seat

2012-02-05T22:09:00.000-08:00

Photo found on customerparadigm.com. ©Jeff Finkelstein.

After I accepted my new freelance gig a week and a half ago, the company's CEO asked me if I could fly up to San Francisco for a day of introductions, strategy talks and team-building. Although I loved the idea of meeting my new coworkers, my immediate thought was, "Yikes, I really don't want to do that."

The older I get, the more nervous I feel each time I fly. Particularly when I'm doing it alone.

About 7 years ago, I happened to be wearing a necklace of my grandmother's when I flew to New York, and ever since then, I've packed it in my bag with me like its some sort of disaster-defeating talisman. Unfortunately, my good luck charm only alleviates so much of my anxiety.

In the days leading up to my flight to Oakland last week, I was a ball of nerves. I could picture the plane going down and how sad Mr. Wonderful would be when he found out he'd been widowed. Yes, I know I should probably renew my therapy membership...

The morning of my flight, I awoke at 4:45, got myself ready, packed two necklaces that I thought could protect me from death, and kissed my husband goodbye, uncertain of whether I would ever see him again. Dramatic, much?

I went on to have a fantastic day.

That's the crazy thing about my fear of flying—once I'm actually doing it, I'm not scared anymore. I actually really enjoy having the time to read and relax. And on my flight home later that night, I purposely sat on the right side of the plane so I could take in the California sunset. Burning below me along the horizon of the Pacific Ocean was one of the most beautiful, deep orange glows I've ever seen. Inland, the city lights were twinkling white and red, reminding me of the Peter Pan ride at Disneyland. It was gorgeous. It made me thankful to have the opportunity to fly.

It's funny how often the leading-up-to part of situations is so much scarier than the reality of them. Whether you're flying or meeting new colleagues for the very first time...

The Lizard Part Two (Because I Know You're All Wondering How It Ended)

2012-01-31T16:00:00.000-08:00

If you read my last post, you know that Friday a lizard was being held captive in my kitchen. Or rather, he was holding me captive in the dining and living room... After several panicked IMs, phone and Facebook messages, and tweets, I was able to get my mom on her cell and have her coach me through what I should do to capture this little critter. This was, of course, after she laughed hysterically at me for several minutes.

Let the record show that when my mom was a kid, she was known throughout her neighborhood for using a shovel to cut the heads off of horned toads. She says it's because they were gross and would spit blood on you. I think it was really just her own thirst for blood and carnage... Don't mess with Mama Hetherington. She'll getcha.

Anyway, she suggested that I slide a yardstick under the fridge (very slowly) to try to gently prod Mr. Lizard back into the daylight.

Of course when I tried this, the yardstick was too thick.

So I decided to pull the front plastic grate off the fridge to see if that helped. It more than helped—it revealed Senor Scales sitting right on the other side. I immediately thought of Janice's post about meditating the rats out of her Parisian apartment, and decided to use the power of positive energy and a soft speaking voice to try to turn the situation in my favor. I explained to the lizard that I was on his team; I just wanted to help him get back outside where he belonged.

I kept talking to him the entire time I nudged him with the yardstick. "Come on little friend, lets just get you into the box so you can go see your family and not jump onto my face."

It may have been the soft tenor of my voice or the scent of reptile in the air, but of course both cats came to see what was going on in the kitchen. Knowing the little one wouldn't be smart enough to walk around to the other door, I closed the pocket door in her face. The fat cat came in and laid down on the rug, where I knew he would stay until I was finished. Chasing lizards is far too much work for him.

Eventually Mr. Lizard scurried out from the side where he'd entered and I was able to trick him into walking onto my dustpan. Then I slid the dustpan into a small box and tipped the box over so he fell in.

My toes were curled the entire time.

Too chicken to pick up the box with my bare hand, I slid the dustpan under it and carried him out to the back lawn where I gently tipped him onto the grass. He went on his merry way, back to his lizard family, boasting tales of black and white tile and stainless steel appliances.

I went in the house and collapsed on the couch. At least now I know what to do if he ever returns.

Needing a Second Opinion

2012-01-27T14:07:00.000-08:00

A harem (yes, I looked it up) of seals in the waters off the coast of Big Sur.
I'm pretty sure they're all soliciting advice from one another in this shot.

According to the Myers-Briggs personality test, I am an extrovert. And as such, I am prone to seek external input when making decisions or processing ideas. I may turn to my family or my friends or my blog readers or, usually, all of the above.

The funny thing is that I tend to end up following my own instincts anyway, but having that additional support from someone else makes whatever I'm leaning towards seem all the wiser. It's the old feeling-better-because-I-got-a-second-opinion chestnut.

When I was in college and my boyfriend broke up with me then decided he wanted me back, all it took was my dad saying, "I like him," for me to give it another go.

And this week, when a virtual marketing company contacted me (hours after my last mopey post) about a work-from-home, semi-permanent freelance copywriting job, all it took was Mr. W saying "if you think it's a good fit, take it," to push me into a contract. When they asked if I could fly to San Francisco for a company off-site next Thursday, I was struggling until I turned to Mr. W again and he told me I should do it.

It's so nice to know that I can now blame any failures I encounter on him.

Just kidding. But it is really nice to have a counterpart to help me along when I'm grappling with situations like these. Especially when I'll probably need him to reassure me as I'm readjusting to being on the clock again during the day.

****NEWSFLASH: Just as I finished writing this post, I went into my kitchen and was greeted by a lizard. In addition to running away very fast, I immediately IMed and texted Mr. W (who has not responded), posted a cry for help on Twitter and Facebook, and called my parents and sister. No one has been able to help me yet and the lizard has relocated himself under or refrigerator. I am so screwed. I'm totally waking up with a lizard on my face tonight.

Advertising Should Have Prepared Me for This

2012-01-25T09:56:00.000-08:00

When you work in advertising as a creative person, you discover very quickly the need to develop a thick skin. Everyone and their dog has an opinion on your writing and oftentimes those opinions aren't what you want to hear. So you learn to bury your ideas without mourning them. There will always be another one and it wasn't personal when your creative director told you that last one sucked.

At my last job, we literally had a sign in our conference room—where campaign concepts were often generated and reviewed—that said this:

My comical cohorts had a little paper table tent with "Doron" written across it, so if you suggested something really stupid, you had to sit with that in front of you like a name tag until the next moronic idea was presented.

It was sort of like being in a frat.

As you might imagine, I got really good at taking teasing and idea-squashing in stride.

But I'm beginning to think that being out of the workplace for 3 months now has completely thinned my skin. In the last few weeks, there's a level of sensitivity plaguing me that hasn't been around since maybe the junior high locker room.

One innocuous comment from Mr. Wonderful can turn me into a weepball who is convinced her muffin top and inability to shower before noon is making him find her thoroughly unattractive. One well-written blog post (like this one) sends me into a spiral of self doubt about my abilities as a writer. Cat litter pebbles on the rug leave me thinking I'm a terrible housekeeper who fritters away her days being utterly unproductive. Never mind that I'm working out almost every day, writing and exploring new creative avenues with friends and probably keeping the house cleaner than I ever did when I had a job.

None of that matters because my thin skin is continuously sending me signals that I'm an out-of-shape, hack writer, terrible wife.

And no, I'm not pregnant nor have I had PMS for the last month.

So I'm left wondering: will my rhino hide only return if I go back to a 9-to-5 job? Or am I in some sort of emotional growth spurt that will soon enable me to handle all of this without the help of a critical creative director?

Or is this just what life is like for stay-at-home writers and tortured artists?

It gives my wimpy skin goosebumps to think about it.

Bounty Hunting

2012-01-23T12:59:00.000-08:00

We're not sure if our carrots will be very long, but there are several bunches of them—
so even if they're shorties, we'll be able to enjoy them for multiple meals.

Two weeks ago, Mr. Wonderful and I watched a show on Food Network called The Big Waste, wherein chefs Bobby Flay, Michael Symon, Anne Burrell and Alex Guarnaschelli were tasked with creating gourmet meals out of food that was on its way to the trash. We had no idea just how much food gets thrown out in this country simply because we as Americans have come to expect every morsel of produce, meat, bread and dairy to be 100% perfect and unblemished when we buy it. I think the statistic in the film was somewhere around 40% of food produced on our soil.

Our broccoli is blooming like a superstar. In addition to the crowns, there are little individual
babies popping up along a lot of the places where stalk meets leaf.

As we watched the chefs visit markets and pick-your-own-food farms, we were amazed at how the tiniest of flaws could send a completely edible piece of food to the garbage. When you grow your own food, that does not happen. There's a totally different mindset when you go into your garden vs. when you enter a grocery store. In the garden, you want to make the most of every possible thing you've grown. You're proud of what you've cultivated. You want to reap your own bounty and you're not going to let bugs or blemishes stop you! I just picked a bunch of spinach this weekend that was riddled with holes from earwigs. It's going to taste exactly the same and maybe on some karmic level, it's good I let someone else enjoy my food before I got to it.

Last year's strawberries struggled a bit against animals and bugs, but we're hoping to enjoy
a nice crop of them this year.

I grew up in a family of DIYers, so it's in my blood to want to try to do stuff on my own and decrease my dependency on other people and corporate America. My parents have always grown all sorts of goodies in their backyard. My mom made my prom dress and almost tackled my wedding dress. And I don't know if my dad has ever set foot in a car wash. When I was 16, he taught me how to give my Ford Escort a professional scrub in the comfort of our own driveway. Mr. W (who made another batch of his own bread this weekend) is totally wired the same way as us Hetheringtons. I think I shall keep him.

Oh spindly lettuce, why do you break my heart? We're not sure why
the lettuce doesn't want to grow this year. We've been picking it anyway,
as its paper-thin leaves are still packed with vitamins.

Mr. W's and my desire to do out best to become urban farmers and homesteaders may have been part of what pushed me to add another movie Forks Over Knives to our Netflix queue. It looks at nutrition in this country and around the world and draws the conclusion that we would all be a lot healthier if we tended toward the vegan diet.

Now, we're not planning to give up our beloved proscuitto, short ribs, cambezola, coffee ice cream or any of the other meats, cheeses and non-vegan delicacies we regularly eat. But we're hoping we can be more mindful in our food consumption, trying harder to buy locally-sourced items and naturally fed, humanely treated animal products, plus plan better so we don't throw away as many leftovers and uneaten food.

We also agree that we want to to increase the amount of vegetables we consume. And we're pretty darn happy we can start that end of things right in our own backyard.

The rogue tomato plant continues to be my favorite thing in our backyard.
The fact that it's producing in the middle of winter is something
of a miracle.

What We're Making: Sweet, Sweet Pillow Talk

2012-01-19T21:34:00.000-08:00

After the severity of my last post (no severed-head pun intended), I thought I'd lighten the
'S Wonderful mood with a little between-the-sheets story and some sewing show-and-tell.

Excerpt from an actual conversation Mr. W and I had in bed the other night (for the record, we were clothed):

Me: I think something just hit me in the face. Did it fall out of your nose?

Mr. W: Uh, no pretty sure it didn't.

Me: Really? Because I could swear I felt something...

Mr. W: Nope. [Subtext: I am not the gross one in this relationship. If anyone is going to shoot nose floaters, it's you, Old Lady Washcloth Face.]

Me: Kinda makes me think of that time I fish-hooked your nostril with my pinky.

Mr. W: That was so funny!

Me: I think you just spit on my face.

Now I have to compose myself after rereading the fish-hook-nose blog. I had forgotten just how funny that was...Anyway...

There was another kind of pillow activity going on here last week after I bought some cushions at Home Goods for our fireplace hearth.

Fancy, aren't they?

My plan was to recover them in fabric I had left over from making pillows for our couch. And after much cursing and fumbling with my sewing machine, I reoriented myself with how to operate it and turned the cushions from green to gorge:

Now our guests will have two more comfortable options for resting their tooshies. Next, I'm going to sew myself a few handkerchiefs to keep in the nightstand drawer in case Mr. W continues to spit on my face in bed.

Yet Another Reason to Relocate

2012-01-18T13:02:00.000-08:00

A sunrise view from our front deck...in the Hills of Horror.

As if my recent issue with the post office weren't enough, Hollywood is pushing me again to flee to someplace more sheltered and rural. Only this time, the city's gone balls-out scary.

I should back up and say we've had a stint of shady activity over here recently. First there was the guy who went on the shooting rampage a couple miles from our house. Then there was the New Year's arsonist. And yesterday a horrific discovery on a hiking trail I frequent.

I was sitting at my dining table, chatting on the phone with a friend when I noticed the hum of several helicopters overhead. This is far from uncommon in our area, but they were lingering for awhile so I decided to check my #1 source for local news to find out what was going on: Twitter. I logged on and did a search for Hollywood only to discover a series of posts and links about a human head being found in a bag on a hiking trail. A trail I love to visit because it's pretty and safe. A trail that connects with the one where I took my nieces hiking over the weekend. A trail that is a few streets over from our house.

I immediately felt a sick wave of panic wash over me.

I IMed Mr. W at work to tell him and he replied, "It's time to move." Then, still shaky and filled with fear, I texted a friend who lives nearby, IMed another one and called my mom. I have a tendency to try to suck other people into my stressful situations so I don't have to experience them alone.

When my mom picked up, I asked if she and my dad were watching the news (by that time, the story had traveled from Twitter and a couple websites). She said no, so I told her what had happened and that I was afraid there might be a serial killer on the loose.

"Oh, there's serial killers all over the place," she replied.

Words of comfort in my time of need. Thanks, Mom.

I was semi-glued to the television and the laptop after that, trying to find some piece of reporting that would make me feel better. But once I got the tidbit that made me feel relieved, I also felt a little guilty for not maintaining my stage-five flight of terror.

It was a 40+year old man's head. Not a 30-something woman.

Just knowing it wasn't my in demographic made me somehow feel safer. I told myself maybe it was an Armenian mafia hit or a drug deal gone bad.

I know terrible things can happen anywhere—and even small towns have their share of creepy situations—but if the trend here in Hollywood continues, Mr. W and I may need to consider moving up our moving date.

Going Postal

2012-01-16T13:09:00.000-08:00

Earlier this month when Mr. Wonderful and visited Solvang for New Year's, I really started to think about what life might be like if we moved to a small town. Solvang is on the short list of places where we'd like to relocate, but as we traveled its streets and spent time in its neighboring villages, I began to worry that I might not be able to handle the smallness of it.

I grew up in a quaint, little town and I love the communal atmosphere it offered, but I also had the highrises of downtown LA twenty minutes away. I could venture to the tri-city area of Pasadena/Glendale/Burbank to try new restaurants or watch a taping of The Tonight Show. And now I'm right near the center of Hollywood, which affords me endless possibilities for dining, entertainment and freaky people-watching.

After this last trip, I was questioning whether I'd be able to hack it again in suburbia.

And then I went to the Hollywood post office.

It was Monday afternoon and when I walked in, there were about a dozen people in the regular line and half a dozen at the automated postage machine—and everyone was pissed about being there. The air was filled with sighs and grumbling, and after fifteen minutes of standing in line, I aborted my mission and walked back to my car.

The next day, I decided to run errands in my beloved hometown of Montrose. The post office was one of my stops.

Two feeble-looking old men stood in front of me in line, both of whom sweetly bantered with the postal worker who called them "hon." Within five minutes, I was at the counter and when I told her my package held homemade jelly, she stamped it profusely with her "fragile" stamp. She was all smiles and sugar and after I paid I found myself telling her how much better of an experience it was coming to that post office vs. going to the Hollywood one. She said, "Awe hon, it was a Monday. They're always crazy!" But I have a feeling even if I'd gone to the Montrose post office Monday, it would have been just as enjoyable.

A woman in line behind me heard us talking and said, "I purposely came to this office instead of going to the Burbank one. That one's nuts, too!" This interaction only added to the lovey doveyness that had overcome me.

I guess I really am cut out for small town living. Mr. W and I can always come down and stay with friends in LA if we need a dose of hipster culture or a night out at crowded bar. I'll just be sure to get all my mailing and shipping needs taken care of before we drive south...

Casting a Wide Net: Good Practice for Freelancing and Internet Dating

2012-01-11T10:33:00.000-08:00

Photo courtesy of larrygerbrandt on Flickr

A few weeks ago, one of my favorite bloggers wrote a post about setting parameters when looking for love online. I wholly appreciated her post, not only an ex-online-dating-champ, but also as a freelance (under-employed) writer who is searching for matches online. Just like a single gal on a dating website.

Back when I actually was a single dating gal, I employed a tactic I affectionately referred to as Operation POE. Process of Elimination. I realized that It didn’t matter how many dates I went on—good or bad—as long as I stayed clear in my own head about who I ultimately wanted to find. I knew that the more people I let into my life, the better my chances of meeting the right guy, thus making every earwax-talk-filled dinner worth it.

That said, when I set up my "seeking" list on Yahoo! Personals, I included "college degree" as a must.

In my mind, college degree = smart. And that's what I was really hoping to find. Someone intelligent, ambitious, open-minded and creative.

It was pure luck that Mr. Wonderful made it across my criteria drawbridge. Like the late great Steve Jobs, Mr. W is a brilliant college dropout. Which is likely why he was smart enough to lie about his education on his dating profile (I think this is the only honesty infraction he’s ever committed since I’ve known him). Had he told the truth, me and my rigid standards may have ruled him out.

Being clear on what you or I hope to find is always the best starting point for attaining it—whether it be a man or a job or a house. I don't think anyone can make their dreams come true without knowing first what those dreams really look like. But I learned from the old online dating stint that you can't just size up the exterior of a package and label it "not the one" without taking the time to open it and see what's really going on inside.

I have to thank Jane for reminding me about all this as I try to build up my copywriting work. It’s best for me to cast a wide net and try to connect with as many potential clients as possible—and not worry that one may appear to be an imperfect match on the outside. Because the truth is, I won’t know how compatible we are until the first or second date.

And if the client isn't really who I'm looking for, I’ll just tell them I’m really, really busy next time they call. Process of Elimination style.

A Little Peek at Life in Our Bedroom...

2012-01-06T13:29:00.000-08:00

Admit it: you only clicked on this post because you thought it was going to be about sex. You thought I was going to divulge some crazy story about how Mr. Wonderful and I tried the new KY mortise and tenon formula and it was AMAZING. Well we didn't. And that's not what this post is about. So pick your mind up out of the gutter, dust it off and check out how cute our duvet cover is. Right?

My real reason in writing this post was to showcase the super fantastic vintage Santa Barbara map Mr. W bought be for Christmas.

At the end of last year, one of the things we put on our 2011 To-Do list was to buy a nice print for the bedroom. We considered having one of Mr. W's pretty wine country photographs blown up or even buying a stock photo of a vineyard somewhere. Our goal was to hang something on the wall that would have us going to bed and waking up focused on where we wanted to land in the future. Hello, visualization and manifestation.

Mr. W hit the nail on the head with his purchase of this hand-drawn vintage map. It totally supports our dream of wormholing back to old-timey California farm days. Just kidding. But the simplicity of the rendering does underscore our desire to move to a simpler life somewhere. And there are even little drawings of some livestock, which we one day hope to own in the form of some sheep and a couple pygmy goats.

So there's our bedroom. I won't tell anyone about the pervy thoughts you were having when you first landed on this page...

What We're Making: Pomegranate Jelly

2012-01-04T15:06:00.000-08:00

Now that we're four whole days into the New Year, I thought I'd start a new little posting series on the blog. Although he hasn't "made" a single blog post yet, Mr. Wonderful is always making something in our house (often with my help) so I thought I'd start sharing some of his creations here. Who knows, maybe they'll inspire some of you!

This week's creation came as a result of receiving homemade wine jelly from my parents for Christmas. Once we ate it, Mr. W was hooked and decided he should use the many, many pomegranates his dad had gifted us to make his own batch of jelly. Thus began our kitchen's transformation from culinary laboratory to crime scene...

Mr. W took on the tedious task of de-seeding the pomegranates while I watched the season premiere of The Bachelor. AKA, Crazy Nutbag Chicks and the Winemaker They Love. No we did not add the asparagus pictured above to any jelly. This was a pee-friendly recipe.

Using the tomato grinder I bought last summer from Williams-Sonoma, Mr. W then ground all the seeds to collect their juice without getting the bitterness of the pits.

I had to document the camouflaged kitchen helper. He lays on that rug and we can barely see him, which means his tail has been stepped on many a time.

All that grinding covered the kitchen with a fine mist of purple juice. We mopped the floor 3 times during the process.

See what I mean? Looks like Dexter's been in our house.

Our All-Clad runneth over with juice and pectin. I think... There might be sugar in there, too, but Mr. W isn't on IM right now, so I can't confirm. Oh, and see those peppers over there? Those are from our backyard and Mr. W used several of them to add a spicy kick to some of the jelly jars. He thinks they're jalapeños, but I've never seen a red one like that before.

Farmer Maris carefully sterilized (dipped in boiling water with kitchen tongs) each of the jelly jars we purchased at the grocery store.

Then he carefully filled each jar with his trusty ladle and screwed on their lids.

The jars were then added back to the pot of boiling water so that the lids could form airtight seals.

A few minutes in the pot and voila! We have a bajillion little jars of delicious pomegranate jelly!

I'm not certain where Mr. W got his recipe, but if you're interested in trying to make your own jelly, here's a link to one that sounds similar: http://allrecipes.com/recipe/pomegranate-jelly/detail.aspx

The Best Marriage Advice I Ever (Indirectly) Got

2011-12-31T16:58:00.000-08:00

The coastline near Carmel, CA 12/28/11

It must have been six, maybe seven years ago that I heard it. I believe I was at a friend's wedding shower when either the mothers of the bride and groom—or perhaps all of us—were asked to offer up our marital advice. The bride's mom told her that she and her husband should make it a point to take vacations alone together, especially after they had children. Whether it was once a month, once a quarter or once a year, she promised it would help the couple stay close.

Although it seemed like a somewhat obvious practice to employ, this idea stuck with me. And now that I'm nine months into matrimonial bliss, I can see why it's so necessary.

Pacific Grove, CA 12/29/11

Even when you don't have children, even when you don't have a job, it's easy to get disconnected from your partner. You begin to take him for granted, and amidst kisses, you find yourself mentally adding an item to your grocery list. As you sit side-by-side on the couch, you discover that you're both so engrossed in your laptops, you forget the other person is there. Clutter fills your head day and night, and although you have plenty of moments where you recognize and appreciate the person you married, you find yourself continually bombarded by thoughts, people and activities that distract you from him.

A river off Highway 1 near Big Sur, CA 12/30/11

One of the things I love most about travel, in general, is how it forces you to be in the moment. You're usually in somewhat unfamiliar surroundings, so you have to be more alert; pay more attention to sights, sounds and smells. You're taking everything in, all of the time.

Big Sur, CA 12/30/11

Travel with the object of your affection causes this alertness to spill over into your interaction with him (or her). You catch yourself smiling at him when he's not looking. You talk about the nuances of your wine and the flavor of your meal and your shared plans for the future, without the relentless mental tug of the dishes in the kitchen sink or the birthday card you need to send.

Getting away together forces you to be in the moment together.

Elephant seals near San Simeon, CA 12/30/11

I know I'm still a novice when it comes to this whole marriage thing, but the woman who I heard dole out the vacation advice has been married for at least three and a half decades. I think she knows her stuff. And I think I'm learning already how right she was with her recommendation.

The key to experienceing the wonderful side of wedlock may just be locked up in a hotel room somewhere along the Central Coast of California.

The sunset over Santa Rita Valley, CA 12/30/11

This post is dedicated to a friend who is celebrating something very special this weekend. I hope she reads this and knows who she is.

Deliciously Succulent

2011-12-29T13:21:00.000-08:00

This little bowl on our front deck is looking a smidge haggard these days after
being left unwatered for too long, but that's the beauty of succulent plantings—
you can almost always bring them back to life.

One of my favorite plant varieties of all time is the succulent. From the shiny flat leaves of the jade plant to the spiky horns of the aloe to the flower-like bursts of the Graptopetalum, I love the clean, sleek lines of all these little guys.

Our agaves have been delivering lots of baby shoots that we've relocated to pots around the yard.

The day after Christmas, Mr. Wonderful and I went to work replanting clippings to propagate more plants for our gardens.

One single aloe plant I stuck in the ground last winter has produced at least half a dozen of these new little sprigs.

The mini olive tree next to our front door got a few friends, courtesy of Mr. W and his garden shears.

As much as I love them for their aesthetic, what I adore most about succulents is their can-do attitude.

Clip part of one off, stick it in the dirt, just about anywhere, and it will most likely thrive. It doesn't need coddling. It's not picky about where it's replanted. It will just make the most of the situation and start a new chapter of its life.

We could all learn something from these determined little plants.

As you can tell from the mud speckles everywhere, Mr. W threw this container together
at the end of the day. I have no doubt it'll get itself cleaned up and turn into a lovely, prolific planter.

A Holiday Lesson: Lose the Expectations

2011-12-26T13:58:00.000-08:00

There's something about growing up in a small town that skews your perception of relationships forever. Awhile back, I mentioned here and here that before I moved to Hollywood with Mr. Wonderful, I lived in virtually the same town where I grew up. And that has caused me to stay friends with people I knew in preschool and kindergarten and, really, even back when I was a wee zygote in my mom's belly. For the most part, once you're a friend of mine, you're always a friend.

This small-town way of looking at things can make it hard to handle being dissed. (Remember that gem from junior high?)

When I see the number of Facebook friends on my page fluctuate or I notice I've been pulled from someone's blogroll or I don't receive a Christmas card from a once regular sender, I totally get my feelings hurt.

I immediately assume that I've done something to offend them or they don't like my writing or they hate me and want to feed me nails and chalk dust. Because why wouldn't they want to be friends when I'm so nice all the time? Right...

Mr. Wonderful can't count how many times he's had to tell me to "let it go." In fact, we were just having this conversation recently when I stumbled upon a horoscope of all things that reminded me of my erred, halfsighted way of seeing things. It said:

Sure, you've built up a lot of good karma over the past few months, but you can't stand there tapping your toe, waiting for the big payback to come. If you are doing that right now, you're missing the point of being selfless. Don't do things for others because you think that will earn you something in return. Life is not tit for tat. Do things for other people because it brings you happiness, a sense of importance or a heartfelt warmth. Reach out when there is nothing in it for you.

What I realized is this doesn't just apply to tangible things like holiday cards. It applies to friendships.

Just because I cheer someone on during a tough time or make time in my schedule for them or comment on their blog doesn't mean they are required to repay me. Furthermore, it's selfish of me to expect them to.

When you put thought or energy into a relationship, it's really easy to presume the same amount will be returned to you. An even exchange. But that's not what love and friendship are about.

I had forgotten.

Maybe it's time to shed this flaky piece of skin from my small town days and accept that here in the big city, people are entitled to change their minds. They're allowed to go in different directions and even decide to remove you from their roadmaps. And that doesn't mean that you are a bad person or in some way unworthy. It just means that their relationship requirements have shifted.

Trying to hang on to this notion may become one of my New Year's resolutions. Selfless giving of friendship seems like a good one to add on the 2012 list.

Holiday Cheer

2011-12-22T22:27:00.000-08:00

Of course the yearly cookie-making tradition with my dad generates buckets of
holiday cheer. We especially enjoyed his misspelled Fedex truck cookie this year.

Despite the fact that I'm job-free as a bird these days, I've not been impervious to the stressors of the holiday season. It's so easy to get caught up in the shopping and planning and frustration of waiting in massive lines, and lose sight of all the good things going on around me. But recently I've seen so many examples of goodness and humanity, I just had to talk about a few...

Secret Santas paying off layaway tabs. I saw multiple news stories about this and I just fell in love with the idea. Kindness from strangers at a time when people will appreciate it so much. So touching.

The new game show You Deserve It. In case you don't know the premise, people go on the show to win money for someone else who they believe deserves it. I watched part of an episode where a woman was playing to win money for her mother who had raised not only her special needs sister, but also taken in a special needs foster child. Very cool.

This post by Janice. It's all about taking people on as your "nurture projects." What a wonderful idea, huh? Sending love and kindness to people who really need it. Letting them know someone is thinking of them. Adore this.

The couple who found and returned $23,000. They were on The Today Show this week, telling the story of how they found the money under a mattress in the new home they purchased—and subsequently tracked down the previous owner's son to return it to him. Their karma rating just went through the roof.

The early Christmas present Mr. W gave me tonight.
The little Vespa looks just like the one Mr. W and I motored around Capri on during our honeymoon. But the one I got is better because he painted "Capri" and "2011" on its sides. The best part is that I almost bought him a yellow scooter magnet as a stocking stuff. Typical that we would have the same idea...

The fact that my oldest niece asked on Thanksgiving that we do less this year and give money to charities instead of buying presents. Oh, how that one always makes me proud. She's going to save the world one day. I decided to adopt orca whales through National Wildlife Federation for my cousin's kids. The money is going to a good cause, and the kids were overjoyed that they're now "whale parents." I did a few more things, but they're top secret until Christmas...

What's warming your heart this season? Have you seen any shining examples of humanity in your state or city or family? Lay it on me!

***After seeing Nilsa's comment, I need to clarify that the Vespa is a Christmas ornament! Not a real scooter!***

Another Story for the Parental Archive

2011-12-20T12:19:00.000-08:00

This past weekend, Mr. Wonderful and I took my parents to the Petersen Automotive Museum in Hollywood as a belated Father's Day gift for my dad. In traditional fashion, my mom showed up with holiday gifts in tow. A wooden "Merry Christmas" sign and a sprig of real mistletoe for us to hang somewhere in the house. As if newlyweds need parasitic plants around to prompt them to kiss...

Having not visited since the spring, my mom and dad were very interested in all the details of our house. They loved seeing our holiday decorations and the new coffee table Mr. W built (future post to come...and by the way, I was in a furniture store recently and noticed that they're now calling them "cocktail tables"—is this a new thing?). In the hallway, my mom temporarily confused a picture of her own mother-in-law with Mr. W's grandma, saying, "That looks just like Grandma Hetherington!" Yes, that's because it is Grandma Hetherington.

When my dad put his glasses on in the hall to inspect all the pictures a bit more closely, he too malfunctioned:

I immediately started to laugh, and he very dramatically yanked them from his face and stared at them in horror, declaring, "I thought one of my eyes had gone bad!"

This isn't the first time my dad's been convinced he has lost his sight. He has a tendency to immediately jump to the worst-case scenario rather than think logically for a moment that perhaps it's just dark or there's a lens missing from his glasses.

My mom was standing in a nearby doorway doing the silent cackle we know so well as the precursor to pants-peeing incidents. Like the one before Christmas in 2008. Mr. W later said he was very worried that she would have to borrow a pair of his jeans to wear to the museum.

Thankfully, we all left the house dry and sighted.

The best part of touring the museum with my parents was all the stories they shared as we looked at the different cars. A refurbished streetcar reminded my mom of how she used to take the "dinky" from Montrose to Glendale as a kid. Another car sparked a story about a thief jumping on the running board of my great grandparents' Ford (or was it a Chrysler...or a Studebaker...) and reaching inside trying to steal my great grandmother's jewels right from her neck. The race cars brought up a tale of my grandpa's cousin who had been a professional driver and lost his leg in a crash. And the suburban garage display of course reminded us of what my parents' garage looked like for years and years.

Mr. W and I took them to lunch at Umami Burger when we were all through, and tried not to be too embarrassed as my dad read the menu with one hand covering the missing lens of his glasses.

Near the register at Umami, there was a tray of homemade ding dongs that somehow my mother heard the waiter say were "favors." As though that's the new thing in Hollwyood—you go to a restaurant and then you get a little gift for dining there. I think the waiter was describing the "flavors."

So I have one blind parent and one deaf one...

Overall, it was a highly entertaining day made better by the stories that were told to us—and created by my parents' hijinks. We may take them out again on the town sometime soon. As long as my dad vows to buy new glasses and my mom promises not to have to borrow any of Mr. W's jeans.

The Proof Is in the Period Talk

2011-12-18T17:59:00.000-08:00

This weekend, Mr. W and I were watching an episode of House Hunters International where a newlywed couple was searching for a rental house in Florence. As we drooled at the footage of the Duomo and Ponte Vecchio bridge, Mr. W suggested that we move to Italy temporarily. That maybe he could find a movie shooting over there to work on.

"But I wouldn't have any friends," I said. "I think I would have a hard time."

"I'll be your friend," he told me.

I laughed and waited for some sort of proof.

He turned to me and said in a higher voice than normal, "How was your last period? Did you get cramps like I did?"

Ah, men... Of course that's all we women talk about when we get together. Makeup and menstrual cycles. Just like they taught all of you guys in boys' finishing school. Such a simple species we womenfolk are...

I Should've Sewn Capes for All of Them for Christmas

2011-12-15T10:41:00.000-08:00

I discovered this picture of Montrose on Flickr. Taken by cjanebuy.

When I walked into the restaurant last night, there were 12 adults and 8 kids crowded around a series of pushed-together tables. My entire immediate family, plus some in-laws, had gathered to dine on pizza then walk through the town I lived in for 8 years before moving to Hollywood with Mr. Wonderful. This little city was partly developed by my maternal great-grandfather, and it's the place where my beloved grandma lived from age 2 into her 90s. To say I adore Montrose isn't enough. It's my village. The place of my people and so many of my memories.

Though we lost a few members after dinner, there was still quite a group of us tromping down the main street to take in the holiday decorations. My brother was pulling my youngest niece and a friend's daughter in a wagon decked out with tinsel and Christmas lights. I joked that we should all start caroling.

But as we crossed the main intersection, my Mom said to my brother, "Oh my gosh you need to go help that lady!" On the other side of the street, an older woman in thin pink sweatpants was on her knees, struggling as two passers-by tried to get her back on her feet.

Immediately, my brother (a fireman), my dad (a longtime wannabe fireman/cop/superhero) and my cousin's husband (an artist who is very tall and strong) dashed across the street. My brother knelt on the ground, easing the lady back so she was resting in his lap. My sister (a nurse) darted over to see if she could help, too. They think the woman may have had a small stroke.

As I stood on my corner, watching the scene unfold, I was overcome by emotion. There was something about seeing my family rushing to the aid of a stranger that nearly brought me to tears. I don't know if I've ever felt more proud of them. They are such good people.

The fire engine and medic truck arrived and my sentimentality quickly passed as my cousin went to work on a rescue of another kind. A woman had approached us and asked what happened and when my cousin turned to respond, she noticed a spider on the lady's collar. "I'm really sorry but you have a giant spider on you!" she said, swatting furiously at the woman's head.

We laughed about it the rest of the way down the block.

It's pretty neat to be part of a family that's not only an asset to me but to the entire community. My grandma would have turned 97 this coming year, and although she's not here with us anymore, I know she'd be so proud to have her brave, strong children and grandchildren standing together, doing such good on her streets of Montrose.

Egg Beating My Husband into Submission

2011-12-12T15:54:00.000-08:00

One of the gifts Mr. Wonderful gave me last Christmas was a bottle of my favorite body lotion paired with this blue dachshund-shaped massager. I love this thing. It works the kinks in my neck like nobody's business. And each appendage serves different muscle-knot purposes. The feet are fantastic for big, sweeping massagery (yes, just made up that word), the nose is slightly more pointed for digging and the tail is pretty much like a slightly rounded ice pick.

Over the last year, Mr. W and I have routinely uttered the phrase, "I need you to use the dog on me tonight," when our backs and necks are particularly knotty. (Note: not "naughty" - "knotty" - the dog is not used for anything creepy and weird. Neck kinks are as kinky as it gets around here, folks.)

Anyway, given how much we adore the dog, I thought the gift below would probably be a big hit in Mr. W's stocking this year. See, he loves having his head rubbed and that little egg beater is a scalp massager.

We had seen these contraptions before and laughed at them, but when Amazon suggested one to me this year for the bargain price of $2.89, I really couldn't resist. If anything, I knew it would make Mr. W laugh when he saw it.

This past week, he had a really long hard day at work, so when he arrived home I told him he could open one of his presents early. Of course he cracked up when he saw it. But then we tried it...

OH MY FREAKING HEAD HEAVEN.

I cannot tell you how amazing this thing feels on your head. I almost drooled.

Mr. W looked drunk after I spent a few minutes popping it up and down on his cranium. He was in ecstasy. I don't know how you could hang onto any stress after spending time with the egg beater. It is seriously a godsend.

I'm so addicted to it that I've put it on my head every day since he opened it. Yes, picture me sitting on the couch self-stimulating my scalp. Perverted, right? Ohh but it's sooo wooonderfulll.

This weekend, Mr. W looked at me with a twinkle in his eye and said, "Can we take the egg beater to bed with us tonight?" He's such a wild man.

I think as we laid side-by-side, me gently grasping his head with the claw machine of delight, I heard the massage dog wimper from my nightstand.

There's a new massager in town and It Is SPECTACULAR.

Do yourself a favor—go on Amazon and order one. Your head will be thanking you all the year through.

It's a Body Image Bonanza Over Here, Ya'll

2011-12-08T20:28:00.000-08:00

After reading my last post, Geekhiker sent me an email with the following response:

"You totally mis-quoted me in your post. My point was not that it was "easy" for you. My point was that you can't dismiss those qualities as having been to your advantage. Would Mr. W have fallen for you, or gone out with you, if you looked like a 300 lb Hunchback of Notre Dame? Would you have fallen for him if that's what he looked like, and he melted in a gasping, sweaty puddle 100 feet into a hike?"

[He also went on to say that obviously other factors play a role (intelligence, education, etc.) and that the idea of manifestation may be only one small component. But I'm not tackling that part of the conversation right now...]

In yesterday's post, I wasn't meaning to say that physical appearance had NO bearing whatsoever on one's dating life. The human race likes eye candy; most of our Presidents have been tall; studies show that attractive people fare better in interviews; etc. I know how things work in our society. BUT I still believe that if you accept your perceived shortcomings and learn to love yourself, you will discover there's someone out there who finds you just as lovable.

It's not about striving to nab a Ryan Gosling look-alike, it's about finding someone whose whole package fits with your whole package. (Yes, there are a dozen dirty jokes in that last sentence...)

So if Mr. W or I had been 300-pound hunchbacks, we may not have attracted each other, but if we were happy, confident hunchbacks, I believe 100% that we could have each attracted other mates who fit well with us. If we had moped around lamenting the fact that we were overweight and had bad scoliosis, I doubt anyone would have wanted to spend time with us. But I think a smile, eye contact and a good attitude go a long, long way.

The bottom line is, most of us are not hunchbacks. Most of us aren't growing our twin out of our face or have black, hairy moles covering 7/10 of our chins. Most of us have small hangups—some of which only we will ever notice. Most of us (as Mr. W mentioned in his comment on my last post) need to lighten up and have fun. And if we spent more time focusing on our cute dimples instead of our muffintops, we would probably feel more deserving of finding our matches and put out the kind of irresistible energy that attracts people to us.

Steve Buscemi, Paul Giamatti and Hillary Clinton are all married. None of them fit the stereotypical confines of what society thinks is attractive, but they all found love at some point in their lives. Could it be that they focused more on their talent, their smarts, their charisma?

I'm not saying you have to embrace every little thing about yourself and call it a miracle from heaven. It's ok to use Crest White Strips and wrinkle cream. It's okay to go to the gym to try to trim your thighs. But if you let all that stuff hold you back from how you think of yourself, ya might have some problems finding someone who wholly embraces you.

Geekhiker is completely right about one thing: If Mr. W had "melted in a gasping, sweaty puddle 100 feet into a hike," I probably would not have been attracted to him. But that's because hiking is a huge part of my life. In order to fully enjoy a relationship, I need someone who can share that with me. That's the kind of stuff that is more important to me than looks.

Looks will fade over time. Hiking skills can last forever. Even when you're a hunchback.

Getting What You Believe You Deserve

2011-12-07T22:48:00.000-08:00

When I was in D.C. last month and met up with my friend Geekhiker, a couple beers in the hotel bar led us into a rather intense conversation about dating and relationships. I, of course, started in on my beliefs that individuals create their love lives based on the kind of thoughts and energy they project into the world. What you put out comes back to you. Like attracts like. Focusing on what you DON'T want will likely draw that right to you. Yadda, yadda go read "The Secret" and "The Power of Intention."

After I reminded GH that I am convinced this mode of thinking is what brought Mr. Wonderful and I together, he came back at me with something to the effect of, "it was easy for you because you're thin and blonde."

This has been eating at me ever since.

First of all, weight and hair color do not automatically make you some sort of siren with the menfolks. There are a multitude of other necessary components, many of which I did not have figured out for a long time. Also, for the record, my teeth are off-center, I have freakishly long toes, my voice could belong to a muppet and, as we all know, sometimes my tongue smells. But all that aside, my biggest issue when dating was that I lacked confidence.

I was so concerned with all the flaws in the list above and so worried that I wasn't worldly enough or smart enough or just ENOUGH that I put out a vibe that screamed "I'm afraid I'll never find a man to love me!" And guess what: for a long time, I had a hell of a time finding a man who loved me!

It wasn't until I accepted who I was, got really comfortable with what I had to offer and what I was looking for in a partner, and started believing I WOULD find him that I actually had luck—and ultimately met the man of my dreams.

When I was single, a friend's father once told me, "You get what you believe you deserve," and now I see how dead on he was.

Believe in your heart of hearts that you deserve everything you desire, and you'll figure out a way to get it—whether you believe in manifesting or not. But if, on some level, you don't think you're worthy; if you question whether you're deserving of true happiness, I don't know that you will ever find it.

Remember what our moms all used to tell us: you can't love someone else until you learn to love yourself. And part of that loving is knowing the happiness you want will come to you. Even if your tongue stinks and you have monkey feet.

Retraining the Mental Muscles

2011-12-04T15:18:00.000-08:00

For the majority of my life, I absolutely hated running. I can remember having to run one lap around the track during P.E. in high school and feeling like I might just collapse. It was only a quarter of a mile but it felt like the length of the California coast. Even in college when I was working out regularly, any attempt to run left me feeling winded and wimpy and totally unmotivated rack up any sort of admirable distance.

Then in my early thirties, my girlfriends distracted me with conversation and I realized that if I could push through the first couple miles, I was totally capable of running several more after that.

I just needed to get warmed up.

Those first two miles always feel like a slog. But I know that once I blow through them, everything is going to get easier. And the endorphins at the end of my run will be that much better. Yeay for endorphins!

I realized this week that writing for me is just like running.

Well, except that I never hated writing.

But it requires me to warm up in a similar fashion—or else I can't really get in a groove and enjoy the elation of accomplishment when I finish. It's funny because I need about the same amount of time at the keyboard as I do on the sidewalk. Twenty minutes is the magic number.

I wonder if they've done studies on the twenty-minute factor. Maybe everything gets easier if you stick to it for 20 mins. Maybe the payoff is always better if you do something for longer than that allotment of time.

I'm just glad that I recognized the correlation between putting on my shoes and panting, and settling in at the computer and typing. I'll likely have to remind myself of it every single day while I'm *living the dream*.

Just like training for my half marathons, if I'm ever going to get to the publishing finish line, I'm going to have to warm up and push myself into better and better shape.

Falling

2011-11-30T21:36:00.000-08:00

I was on the phone yesterday with my Creative Director from Yahoo! and he was talking about how he feels like he needs to make a concerted effort to get outside and enjoy this time off from work—because soon enough he'll be back in an office. Missing his own backyard.

He made me realize that I haven't been going out and enjoying mine enough the past few weeks, either. And it's certainly undergone some changes since my last post about it.

Mr. Wonderful's lemon-limoncello saplings have grown big enough that he had to move them into larger pots. We're still unclear on where we'll plant them when they become actual trees... Hopefully we'll be living on the vineyard by then!

We planted our autumn garden about six weeks ago and I'm very excited about the carrots. We didn't try growing carrots last year, but we got delicious purple ones from the farm share we bought. Here's hoping ours turn out as good as those ones!

The spinach is one of the first fall garden items I've actually eaten. We had trouble with our spinach crop last year, so I'm delighted that we're having success with it this year. And it was mighty tasty sauteed in olive oil!

Another thing I sauteed and ate: broccoli leaves. Who knew, right? I just read an article (I think in O Magazine) about things you might not think about adding to your diet that are good for you. Broccoli leaves was on the list, so Monday night I hacked off a couple and cooked them with my spinach. Healthy and surprisingly tasty!

The lettuce is a little scraggly, but we got some decent heads last year, so I think they'll fill out as the season continues. I think we planted about 10 of them, so we may be up to our ears in heads soon!

Although our artichoke plant flowered, died and then became so infested with aphids we had to hack it to bits, it appears to be making a comeback. I'm hopeful we get some good artichokes like we did last year. They're so cute when they're babies!

Over the summer, we must have had 8 or 9 tomato plants growing...until they got moldy and stopped producing. But in another part of the yard, this little rogue tomato popped up and it's still producing yummy tomatoes! We're now planning to move our tomato plants to this part of the yard next summer. I think it's the sweet spot!

Our apricot tree didn't fruit this year, which was extremely sad. But it looks darn pretty with all those yellow leaves on it.

Most of the leaves have fallen off the grape vines, but this little guy is still producing new stuff. I look forward to one day gazing out over rows and rows of these puppies in my backyard...

My picture doesn't do justice to the fig tree. Its leaves are bright yellow and look so pretty against the redwood fence. The squirrels stole most of our figs this year, but I did pick some early in the summer and ate them with crumbled blue cheese and honey. Doesn't get better than that.

My Creative Director was right about getting outside. After my little autumn photo shoot, I felt more centered. It's amazing what a little greenery does to the soul.

What Am I Doing?: The Mental Mantra of the Unemployed

2011-11-28T12:21:00.000-08:00

Each morning when I wake up, I lie in bed for a bit staring out
the window above our headboard. Apparently, I need to clean
some big smudges off of it. But I just can't seem to find the time...

It is 12:00 p.m. and I am still in my workout clothes. Haven't brushed my teeth. Won't take a shower until after lunch.

I'm having a hard time getting myself on a schedule.

It's not like I'm sitting around watching FoodNetwork all day. I definitely feel busy. I just don't fully know what I've been doing the past few weeks. Sure, I've regularly combed the job boards to see what's out there. I've emailed contacts about freelance. I've completed a draft of a manifesting workbook I've been noodling for 3 years. I've scribbled down scenarios and notes for a few different novel ideas. I've visited friends. I've spent time with family. I've filled two big Etsy orders. Done a whole lot of laundry and sweeping of the hardwood floors.

But I don't really feel like I've been productive.

Particularly when I see someone I haven't seen in awhile and they say, "SO, what have you been up to since you stopped working?"

It's like I go blank. I have no idea what I've been up to. But I know it's been keeping me on my toes every day until Mr. W gets home from work at 9:00 p.m.

The questions from other people just underscore the big ones bouncing around in my own head. What am I doing? Who am I working on becoming? Where am I going to be in 3 months or a year?

So many thoughts flood my mind when I ask these questions, that I become paralyzed. How do you know which path is the right one to pursue? How do you know where you should be focusing your time—and how much time when you know some things might be pipe dreams that may not ever pay you your previous salary?

It all feels too large to comprehend. It pokes at my anxiety, coaxing it to come out and play.

A couple weeks ago, I was having heart palpitations when I left the house. As soon as I got in the car, I started thinking, "What if I run out of money? What if I never get a job?" This happened more than once. A far cry from my previously cocky attitude.

And the thing is, I don't need to be worrying about these things. Financially, I'm fine. And if and when the right job comes along, I'm sure the Universe will swoop in and hand it to me.

In the meantime, I think I need to change the questions I'm asking myself. Instead of "What am I doing?" maybe "What am I going to do today?" Instead of "What if I run out of money?" maybe "What if I end up making more money than I ever dreamed of?" Maybe that'll help with the paralysis. And the well-meaning questions from friends.

I will remind myself that things take time to work themselves out. And that one day I will wish I had the luxury of waiting until noon to brush my teeth.

I Am Thankful for Children: A Follow-Up to My Last Post

2011-11-23T20:18:00.000-08:00

I suppose I should have said "we" are thankful because Mr. Wonderful is right here with me on this. We love all the kids in our life, so I thought Thanksgiving would be a perfect time to call out a few... Particularly after my last post that was all about how we're choosing not to have kids. We don't need any because we have all these awesome ones around!

• My eldest niece who got an incredible score on her SATs but sometimes chuckles like Napoleon Dynamite and gets very tongue twisted. I can always count on her to laugh at my jokes and make snarky remarks with me in the corner at parties.

• Mr. W's oldest niece who was sweet enough to give up her bedroom for the entire weekend when we went to visit St. Louis recently. I know Mr. W thoroughly enjoyed sleeping under all those Justin Bieber and Taylor Lautner posters, and I'm sure she enjoyed the teasing we did about her throwing parties while we were out.

• My second-oldest niece who is always a jubilant little ray of sunshine. Although I often tell her to shut up when she's walking around singing, I do admire her upbeat attitude. She was the earliest adopter of Mr. W when I brought him into the family and I'll always love her for that.

• My third-oldest niece who Mr. W always says reminds him of me. She's all arms and legs and flailing. Just like I was. But she's smarter. I once told her Mr. W and I were going to a wine class and she said, "What are you going to learn? Ohh YOU DRINK IT - how interesting!" Smartass.

• Mr. W's youngest niece who can fill any empty space in a conversation and will always let me draw and color with her. She did once tell me that I smiled too much, but I won't hold it against her. Especially because she owns a Zac Efron doll.

• My youngest niece who provides us with hours of entertainment at most every family gathering. She recently acquired an invisible boyfriend who she says she met at the gas station. His name is Daniel. I wonder if he's coming to Thanksgiving...

• Mr. W's god-daughter who was the only non-niece in the kids portion of our wedding party. She drew a picture of us before the wedding that I keep in a frame. I don't think we're wearing clothes in it, which is part of why I love it so much.

• My cousin's two little boys who, last time I visited her house, stripped naked to do a dance for me before I left. She recently asked them what they wanted to be when they grew up and the 5-year-old said, "a zookeeper or worker at the La Brea Tar Pits with the woolly mammoth bones." The 3-year-old said, "a race car driver in an orange car." Brilliant.

• Mr. W's cousins' kids who we get to see lots of cute pictures of on Facebook but don't get to see too much in person.

• My friend's little boy who refers to me as "Mawissa."

• The twins I nannied for—when they were 2 months and then again when they were 3 years.

• The kids I babysat for who grew up and now have their own babies who are all absolutely adorable.

• All my friends' and extended family's little ones in this state and others—Utah, Arizona, Colorado and Texas. I don't get to see them often enough, but hearing their funny stories always brings a smile to my face.

• And lastly, the cute little faces I get to see on some of your blogs. I always get a huge kick out of your kids' stories, too.

Mr. Wonderful and I will get to enjoy a night of mayhem with my four nieces tomorrow. We'll be delighted to pay witness to all their antics and probably totally exhausted when we leave them.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

Better Selfish Than Sorry

2011-11-22T10:31:00.000-08:00

When I went to Boston and DC a couple weeks ago, all I took was my purse and a backpack. For an entire week. My sister packed a rolling suitcase, carry-on and a large purse, scoffing at my über compact packing. But, as I explained to her, I love the freedom that comes with less baggage. I love being able to weave in and out of crowds without a giant trailer in tow. I love that I don't have to deal with more than what's attached to my own body.

On the trip, we met a lovely man who was one of my brother-in-law's coworkers. He wore an Indiana Jones-style hat. He was in his late 50s or early 60s and was one of the friendliest people we encountered.

But as we sat chatting with him one night in the hotel bar, the topic of children came up. Specifically, whether Mr. Wonderful and I were going to procreate. I told him I thought we would probably skip that step.

"You know what you are," said the man who'd known me a mere 4 hours. "You're selfish."

Now, I could have gasped and fled the bar or retorted with some sort of scolding remark. But I'm used to people reacting this way when I say I don't think I want kids.

Even I am guilty of asking people after they get married, "do you guys want children?" I think to some degree, we're all conditioned to expect each other to do it. And I think our parents' generation is particularly so. Which is likely one of the reasons Indiana Jones responded the way he did.

But as I explained to him, I think the flipside of child-bearing is often far more selfish.

There are women out there who get pregnant simply because they "want someone to love." There are couples who dive into parenthood despite the fact that they do not have the means to properly support a child. There are moms who devote more time to pedicures and pilates than they do helping their children with their homework. And don't even get me started on the stupid 19 Kids and Counting people. There is NO way that mother and father can give each individual child the attention it deserves.

People like me and Mr. W who may spend our lives spoiling our nieces and friends' children: we are not selfish. We're realists. We realize that we prefer things the way they are now and that kids just may not be in the cards. And by the way, we may be doing a favor for the entire world, as overpopulation continues to be a problem.

It would be nice if others could understand this perspective better.

Just as I am genuinely happy any time I find out someone is having a baby (except for maybe the Duggar family), I would love it if other people were happy when they found out I may never have kids.

I wish that people could see that we all have to choose how heavy a load we want to carry. And for me, at least right now, a single backpack is all I want.

Old Lady Washcloth Face and the Curious Case of the Funky Tongue

2011-11-18T21:48:00.000-08:00

Mr. Wonderful's overly sensitive olfactory system went into overdrive again recently in our house. You may remember the washcloth incidents mentioned here and here. Well, the latest involved a halitosis issue.

One night, we were kissing goodnight and I thought his breath didn't smell its freshest. Trying to be nice, I continued with the kiss and then went to bed. But the next day I couldn't help myself. I told him I thought maybe he'd been dehydrated or something and that he should drink more water before going to bed.

"You have bad breath a lot of times, too," he told me.

I asked why—if it was such a regular thing—he'd never mentioned it. He, too, wanted to be nice. I asked if he thought my halitosis was the result of dehydration. He asked if I had forgotten to brush my tongue. Come to think of it...I had...

"Stick it out and let me smell it," he insisted.

Such romantic pillow talk.

Long story short, my tongue was the culprit. So I've been trying to remember to brush it thoroughly every night before bed. But there are still some nights I forget. I know, dental hygienists everywhere are crying right now.

I decided to try to devise a memory trick, training my brain to think of tongue brushing every time I looked at my dental floss container. Despite being a sporadic tongue brusher, I am an avid flosser.

Apparently Mr. W thought I needed even more of a reminder. Because when I came home from my east-coast trip last weekend, I discovered this:

Yes, that's a little hand-drawn tongue and toothbrush on the lid of my dental floss. Thank you Mr. W. I will never come to bed with halitosis ever again.

Fall Leaves and Freezing Buttholes

2011-11-16T12:37:00.000-08:00

The parks were all incredible in Boston. We don't get autumn colors
like that in California.

If you read my blog last week, you already know that I was on an east-coast college tour with my 17-year-old niece, older sister and brother-in-law. As goes with those sorts of trips, much hilarity, extensive snarkiness, and some good-hearted shouting at each other ensued.

My niece and I never tired of teasing my sister on the trip. Often her mouth moves faster than her brain, so she provided us with countless verbal gems to work with—and has really done so throughout most of my life. "Freezing buttholes" is one of her famous quotes. I think she might have meant to say she was freezing her butt off, but it came out the other way.

We used that phrase quite a bit on the trip, as our wimpy California skin wasn't quite cut out for the wind chill in Massachusetts. "Snow bitch" also got used on the trip. Big sister once called me that when I guessed a Wheel of Fortune puzzle before she could. We have no idea where the "snow" part of that one originated. And then we had our favorite line from last week: My brother-in-law was preparing to turn right onto a street, but there was an older woman crossing in front of him. Instead of saying, "Be careful of that lady" or "there's someone crossing the street," my sister shrieked, "Watch out for mama!"

We must have quoted that five dozen times during the trip. Anyway...

I hadn't been to D.C. in 13 years and I forgot just how much I love all
the buildings and monuments there. Such a great city!

We started out in D.C. and I was fortunate enough to be able to meet up with GeekHiker who is on a cross-country road trip right now. He is camping outside of the city center and took the metro in to join my niece and I for pizza one night. Of course, he and I had to have a couple drinks after dinner so we could discuss the ins and outs of dating. But that's a post for another time.

GeekHiker wasn't the only blog friend I met up with, either. In Boston, I got to finally (after 4 years) meet Brookem and her Manfriend for dinner. What a treat that was! Those two are so darn cute and funny together. And they were so nice to us after we complained endlessly about how confusing the streets of Boston were. (Seriously, we drove around Harvard for an hour trying to find the bookstore. My niece and I were literally ready to suffocate ourselves with our rain coats.)

Me and Brookem. She's so cute—total fashionista. I had outfit envy when I saw her.

The conclusion of all the college-touring was that my niece loved Georgetown and Boston College the most. If she gets in and becomes a student at one of them, she'll be the first person in our family to go to school outside of California.

Georgetown was one of the most gorgeous schools I've ever seen. Felt like Oxford.
And of course my niece was smitten because it reminded her of Hogwarts.

Selfishly, I'm hoping my niece ends up at UCLA or Berkeley. The thought of her being so far away gives this snow bitch a chill. Freezing buttholes style.

11.11.11

2011-11-11T09:00:00.000-08:00

What a neat date it is on the calendar, right?

Today is actually more than just a cool day for me. It's Mr. Wonderful's and my 4th anniversary of our very first date. Sadly, Mr. W has to celebrate all alone this year because I'm on vacation with my family. Although he might have mentioned something about this anniversary not counting anymore anyway because now we have a wedding anniversary to observe instead.

But it's been 4 years! FOUR YEARS.

That's crazy long. I always think about how high school is four years. And college (for most people...I was on the 5-year plan). At the time, that felt like an eternity. But now, years just fly by. I wonder if my parents who have been married for almost 48 years feel like it has flown by.

In our 1461 days together (there's a leap year in there, right?) we have done more than I've ever done with any other person I've ever known in my life. We've traveled to 10 countries, we've run a half marathon and completed a Muddy Buddy race, we've tried making cheese, we're in the process of trying to make wine, we've flown - just the two of us - in a teeny tiny plane, we've ridden on a motorcycle together, we've rowed around a pond in a rowboat, we've rollerbladed at the beach, we've both gone topless in a foreign country, and we've laughed almost every day we've been in each other's company. Not bad for two goofy control freaks.

Mr. W, I'm very sorry that I'm not with you to celebrate this now non-anniversary.

Thanks for helping me make that list up there nice and long. I look forward to assembling another one four years from now.

Happy 11.11.11!
XO

When Time Off Comes at Just the Right Time

2011-11-08T09:00:00.000-08:00

Nearly 7 years ago, I quit a job at a crazy office that smelled like pot smoke lots of mornings and was riddled with (what I believe were) drug-induced or withdrawl-induced psychotic breaks (not by me). Of course, the company sold for 62 million dollars a few months after I left and all the employees got big bonuses. But that's beside the point.

I left my position with not much money saved and no solid freelance gigs lined up. It was a stressful few months as I tried hard to keep myself afloat, but it afforded me something I would never have gotten had I not chosen to quit: Time.

A couple months into my career shift, my grandmother developed a pulmonary embolism. I can't remember how long she was in the hospital, but being job-free, I was able to go visit her almost every day. After surgery, she was moved to a nursing home to recuperate and I will always remember making jokes with her there the last time I saw her. Sadly, she threw a clot just a few days after she had checked into the nursing home and she passed away.

I will forever be grateful that I was out of work and got to see her so many times in those final days.

During that same period of time, my dad had to go in for gallbladder surgery. Again, because I wasn't working, I got to sit with my mom and sister in the waiting room and giggle at his anesthesia-hazed ramblings when he came out of the operating room. I was really thankful I got to be there with my family during that.

This past summer, my sister told me she was planning to take my oldest niece to look at colleges in Washington DC and Boston, tacking the outing onto one of her husband's business trips and asked me if I could go with them. Sorely disappointed, I told her I didn't have enough vacation time.

Then I got laid off.

And guess where I am right now? Yup in the beautificent old eastern side of the country with my niece and sister (actually I'm writing this before we're there, so I'm really just in my living room...but I wanted to give you guys something to read while I was away).

I feel so lucky for the opportunity to spend time with the people who matter during my "time off."

I think that may be one of the biggest keys to getting through job changes—or any changes, really—appreciating every minute of the good stuff. I hope I have lots more memories like this to look back on if I ever end up tethered to a desk again.

Warning: The Whiteboard Has Been Compromised

2011-11-04T17:29:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, Mr. Wonderful and I were out for a morning training run when the subject of my impending layoff came up and he offered what he thought was some friendly advice. He told me I should make a list of all I wanted to accomplish during my time off because it could pass by quickly and I might regret not getting certain things done.

I, of course, interpreted this as him trying to micromanage me.

So I got really snippy and told him I didn't need him watching over me, making sure I wasn't sitting on the couch in my pajamas all day watching HGTV with a Dr. Pepper in hand. I have this tendency to get extremely defensive when I feel like someone is pressuring me or trying to boss me around. Which, Mr. W was not at all.

In fact, he was only telling me to make a list because the last time he was unemployed, he didn't map out his to-dos and then when it was time to go back to work he realized there were lots of things left undone that he had really hoped to accomplish. (He told me this while holding me by the shoulders and staring intently into my eyes so that I knew he was being sincere and not authoritative.)

The funny thing was, I probably would have made the exact list he was talking about anyway. But, thanks to his suggestion, I sat down at my favorite little whiteboard and penned out all the things I hoped to get done during my "transition" period.

Earlier this week as I slid into joblessness, I picked up the whiteboard to reexamine my list. I read through each line and then noticed a new one scrawled at the bottom in someone else's handwriting...

I had to crop it to hide his real name, but it says: Practice BJs on Mr. W.

I have to wonder if his intention in telling me to write a list was simply so that he could add that to the bottom of it. He, of course, has no idea how that appeared on my whiteboard... I'm sure one of the cats wrote it.

It's a Marathon, Not a Share-athon!

2011-11-02T12:46:00.000-07:00

When Mr. Wonderful and I signed up to do the Healdsburg Half Marathon, both of us were concerned that his knees might not be up for the task. He experiences pain just about every time he goes more than a couple miles or tries to run downhill. I, on the other hand, haven't had any issues with my knees during any of the training for my four prior half marathons. Which is why I was shocked when my leg decided to gimp out on me this past weekend.

We had just passed the mile 7 marker when the outside of my right knee started to ache. I figured it was just tight or a little tweaked from some of the rolling hills. But with each mile we completed, it hurt more and more. By mile 10, it felt like there was a dwarf running my my side, hammering it with each step I took. Sounds like a new show on TLC—The Little Hammersmiths. Anyway, the pain was sharp and constant. I was literally grunting with each step.

When I saw the mile 13 sign, I was beyond done. Mr. W, trying to lighten the mood, said, "At least we can go in for double knee replacements together!"

"Can you not talk to me until we're done?" I said back.

I'm pretty sure he wanted to respond with "Fine beeyatch!" but instead he just went silent.

As we recounted the story to some friends the next morning over breakfast, the wife shared a similar story with us about a time she was sick. Lying on the floor, she called out to her husband (who was sleeping) to tell him she felt ill. He rushed to her side and began rubbing her back.

"Don't touch me," she told him.

"Can I get you anything?" he asked.

"Don't talk to me," she answered.

Defeated, he got up to go back to bed.

"Don't leave me!" his wife cried out.

Crack up.

I was thinking about her situation and mine on the (very) long drive home from Napa and I think I came up for a reason why we sometimes need silent support.

This may be a woman thing, or maybe just a me thing, but when someone talks to me I feel like I have to answer. When Mr. W touches me, I feel compelled to respond. So when I'm in pain or grumpy or starving, it's not that I don't want him talking to or touching me—it's that I don't want to have to reciprocate in any way. Because I'm hurting and pissed about it.

Fortunately Mr. W forgave me after we crossed the finish line. Still not sure if it was my improved attitude or the free wine tasting that prompted that...

Where Would I Be Without Yahoo!?

2011-10-26T13:19:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow is my last day at work, which means I've been spending lots of time reflecting on the past 6 1/2 years. When I came on as a freelance copywriter at Yahoo! in April 2004, my intention was to stay through my 3-month contract and then bounce on to something else. But 3 months turned into 6 and then 7 and when my boss offered me a full-time position, I couldn't resist. I had drunk the purple Kool-Aid and wanted to be a part of one of the Web's most beloved teams of underdogs.

Flash forward to the beginning of this year when my department got ravaged again by another layoff, and I was beginning to feel like it might be time for me to move on and drink Kool-Aid elsewhere. Changes and uncertainty and decisions I didn't always agree with had colored my opinion. But it wasn't lost on me that without this job, I would not be where I am in my life right now.

You see, working here enabled me to pay for trips to 10 European countries, it allowed me to realize my long-held dream of living abroad for a bit, it taught me more than I ever wanted to know about search engine marketing, it helped me buy a house last year, it connected me with dozens of really cool people, and most importantly, it's the reason I met Mr. Wonderful.

Yup, Yahoo! gets credit for my marriage.

It was the fall of 2007 and I'd been out to dinner with a friend and had a smidge too much wine. When I came home, I wandered onto Yahoo! Personals...just to see what the inventory was looking like. I had no intention of signing up. In fact, I'd sworn off online dating after my previous relationship. But when I saw a hot coworker on there, I decided to create an account and send him a message. (Remember, I was in a wine haze. I'm fully aware of the don't sh*t where you eat rule). I innocently asked him if he worked in the Yahoo! Burbank building and didn't say much beyond that, because I didn't want him to think I was a stalker.

He never wrote back.

And yes, it was embarrassing to wonder if he recognized me when I saw him in the hall now and then.

But the next day, I got a message from another hot little number from Hollywood. And now, 4 years later, we're happily locked in wed.

I got choked up this morning when I was driving to the office. As much as I'm ready for the change, it's sad to say goodbye.

So one last thank you to Yahoo! for helping make my life what it is. Dear company, you will be missed.

Compassion Ain't My Fashion...Or Is It?

2011-10-24T14:03:00.000-07:00

Back in college when I worked as a coffeehouse manager, I believe I was known in some circles as a hard ass. If you had a headache during your shift, it was only going to annoy me. If a late night made you even more tired for the morning rush, I would tell you to pull it together. And if the blender spewed smoothie all over your shirt, I would likely laugh.

That last scenario was one that first made me aware of my cold, cold heart. We had a line out the door and my sweet, sensitive coworker was visibly frantic over the sight of all the people. In his frenzied state, he went to make a smoothie, forgot to put the lid on the blender, and was quickly doused in a wave of pink goo. As I laughed, he ran back into the kitchen and burst into tears. And all I could think was, you've got to be kidding me.

I tried to be nice, but all I wanted to do was smack him in the arm and yell, "Get Over It! It's just strawberry yogurt! No one is going to die you big baby!"

Given that irritation has been my reaction to a lot of people's misfortune over the years, I was surprised when Mr. Wonderful used "compassionate" to describe me. We were flying home from visiting his family in St. Louis, and I duped him into telling me what he thought my top 3 strengths were so I could complete an exercise I was reading about in O Magazine.

He said that I'm compassionate because I worry about other people's well-being and cry all the time when I'm watching sad TV shows and movies. I had never thought about that being a sign of sympathy, but I guess he's right.

A few days later, I was engrossed in Oprah's new LifeClass webcast, and someone (maybe Iyanla Vanzant?) said something that struck a chord in me as the key to being a compassionate person. She was talking about one of the troubled viewers and she said, "Everyone just wants to know that they matter."

It was like someone had given me a magic pill that suddenly caused all human interaction to make sense.

The whiny barista with menstrual cramps just wanted to know someone heard she was in pain. The relative who called then sent two emails because I didn't respond fast enough just wanted to know I hadn't forgotten about them. The guy with strawberry smoothie all over his shirt probably just wanted to be told he didn't look like a fool in front of all those people. They all just wanted to know they mattered.

We all just want to know we matter to someone, don't we?

I feel like I've learned a new mantra to apply when someone is bugging me. It makes me want to put a hand on their shoulder, tell them I see them and that it's going to be okay.

So maybe Mr. W wasn't so wrong in his assessment. Maybe there's hope for my fractured sympathy bone after all.

Checking My Pulse

2011-10-19T17:18:00.000-07:00

That beautiful covered pathway above is one of the streets that Mr. W and I walked along in Positano during our Italian honeymoon in May. Because neither of us had ever been there, everything we saw was a surprise. A delight.

This is one of the things I love most about traveling.

You can wander around, not really knowing where you're going, and experience something novel at every turn. Much different from trekking through familiar territory.

Today I read a journal entry I wrote in July where I lamented the fact that I was feeling stagnant at work. I wrote about how I thought I should be appreciating the comfort of my cushy, stable job. And then I wrote about how I thought the problem was that discomfort made me feel more alive.

Thus, the love of traveling to unfamiliar places.

Now, I'm not talking major discomfort here. I don't need to be dropped in a jungle somewhere and contract a case of malaria to feel a sense of adventure. I just need some space for not knowing. A glimmer of possibility that my routine could get changed up or that I might stumble upon something totally unexpected and wonderful. Like a new office and time to work on my own writing projects...

When I wrote that entry in the summer, I was feeling really stuck. I didn't think it was "right" to walk away from a top company. I didn't want to abandon my coworkers or my boss when they've taken such good care of me these last 6.5 years. But I did want to feel alive.

Funny how the Universe hears us when we put these things out to it.

6 more days in the office. And then the adventure begins.

Knowing When to Hang on and When to Let Go (of Guilt and Friendships)

2011-10-17T14:54:00.000-07:00

When I started this blog, it was supposed to be all about life with the delightful man who married me. I'm finding, though, that because of my natural instinct to write my way through conundrums, I can't help but want to use it as my own personal sounding board—just like I did with my old blog.

If you have a problem with that, you'll just have to blame Oprah.

See, last week she started this Lifeclass series on her network and website. And being an O devotee, I've been watching. Riveted.

Today at lunch, I watched a webcast all about the lies and secrets we keep. It was co-hosted by Life Coach Martha Beck, who I adore, and darn it if she didn't have me wanting to barf out my secrets as a way of moving through them.

So, here I am. Proclaiming my guilt to the Internet over a friend who I partly want to let go of, partly want to rescue, partly want to punch.

This old dear friend has made a lot of self-destructive choices and although we don't have a lot more than a surface relationship these days, I've been trying to reach out and be helpful to her for a couple of years. I've tried being sympathetic. I've tried tough love. I've tried to build her self esteem in case she was feeling so bad about herself, she didn't know she could pick up her life out of the gutter. I've tried to learn who she is now, in case the key is seeing things from a different vantage point.

But I've hit a point where I feel done. And I'm feeling guilty about it.

There's my secret. I don't want to pretend to have a real relationship anymore when really, it's just fake Facebook messages and pretend email exchanges. It is not a friendship of substance, and despite various attempts, has not been for a long time.

So I've chosen to just put it away in a drawer in my head. Because I feel guilty about abandoning this person. Even though I don't feel like she has really been there for me. Even though I don't feel like I would even know who I was supporting because she's spun so tightly in a web of lies. I feel like it's my duty to hang in the shadows just in case I can somehow help. Just in case she morphs back into the person I used to know and calls out for me.

Oprah and her spiritual pals have me trying to unravel what this means. Am I lying to myself about being done with the friendship? Am I lying to myself when I think there's even the faintest glimmer of it ever being the friendship it once was? Is it wrong to either tell myself this is NOT my responsibility—or that it IS my problem to help my friend?

I'm trying to find some truth here and I guess I felt like I should summon the great Interwebs to weigh in and help me find the clarity through the muck.

Anyone else been in a situation like this and have some wisdom to share?

A Match for the Mad Scientist

2011-10-12T22:02:00.000-07:00

Last week, a cold front moved through Southern California and I decided to break out a sweater I hadn't worn in probably 8 months. It was rumpled in my closet and rather than iron it, I asked Mr. Wonderful if I could use his steamer.

As I went to plug it in, he said, "I'll do it." So I held the sweater while he ran the trusty steam gun over it.

"When did you wear this last?" he asked.

"Winter. Why?"

"It smells... Like old lady washcloth face."

Now for those of you who missed this post on my old blog, Old Lady Washcloth Face is the name my sweet, sweet husband has given to the scent that apparently disrupts my normal rosy facial smell if my washcloth has been used too many times.

I like to tell him he's very high functioning for being Autistic.

Anyway, I thought after divulging Mr. W's mad scientist behavior it was only fair that Old Lady Washcloth Face come clean about her other dirty little secret. A voluntary quid pro quo of sorts.

You see, O.L.W.F. is a craft hoarder:

I like to keep lots of wrapping paper supplies and boxes handy
because you never know when you might need something.
Yes, I'm the girl who folds up and reuses every scrap of tissue.

This is just a pile of some stuff that's featured in my Etsy store.
Some of it was made from boxes and other containers I hoarded...

Look at all that felt and paint and craftery. Oh and a little bag of cat treats.
Isn't that a fitting find for O.L.W.F.?

Paper is probably my biggest downfall. If I think I might use it again
as a gift tag or something, it goes into the Craft Cabinet of Mystery.

When I think about the Mad Scientist and Old Lady Washcloth Face growing old together, I imagine piles of cardstock gathering dust in corners next to strangely grafted fruit trees and bottles of moldy starter dough. I'll have strands of glue gun string permanently tangled in my hair and he'll have spreadsheets charting the growth of all his shot glass roots and bulbs.

Clearly, we're a match made in heaven.

He Blinded Me with Science

2011-10-10T12:54:00.000-07:00

When I was in high school, I had a string of eccentric science teachers.

My Biology teacher used to do this odd thing where he would stick his tongue out between certain words during his lectures. He got fired a few years after I had him because a student walked into his classroom during lunch and found him standing on a lab table, peeing into a sink. My Chemistry teacher was kind of a wacky super-nerd with these eyebrows that spiked out in all different directions like they'd been hit by an experiment gone wrong. And my AP Physiology teacher, bless his heart, was a gay biker with a handlebar mustache. I loved that man. I did think it was weird that he loved Miss Piggy and had a collection of her memorabilia at his desk, though.

Given my experience with mad scientist characters, you might think I would be alarmed to discover that I'm living with one...

Exhibit A: A little experiment in our kitchen windowsill. A hunk of ginger he's trying to sprout in a shot glass.

Exhibit B: The kitchen now houses a collection of jars that are growing different kids of yeast or pizza dough or something. I don't know exactly... And I don't ask.

Exhibit C: The mini lemon orchard Mr. Wonderful has cultivated by sprouting seeds from our honeymoon in Amalfi.

Exhibit D: The wine-making kit that arrived in the mail last week. I can picture him now, wearing a Pinot-stained lab coat, laughing maniacally as he does barrel tastings...

Okay, who am I kidding? I love that Mr. W is a crazy mad scientist. He gives me reasons to blog. I just hope I don't come home one day to find him standing on the kitchen counter, peeing into our sink.

A Few Thoughts on Authenticity

2011-10-05T12:00:00.000-07:00

Mr. Wonderful and I often joke with each other about how we better never expect one another to change because we've both been the same people we are right now for as long as we can remember. We're set in our ways. Defined in our personas. Consistent in our behavior. Thankfully, we both like each other's unwavering personalities.

Although I wouldn't call myself averse to change, I don't often seek it out. I like familiarity and comfort. I like knowing my way around—places and people. Some of my closest girlfriends have been in my life since kindergarten. I've lived in the vicinity of my childhood home almost my entire life. I still love Grease as much as I did when I was 4.

I do not understand people who can swing back and forth like unstable pendulums. I have a very hard time when I don't know whether someone is being authentic or a chameleon. It just doesn't compute with me. And frankly, I think people like that are doing themselves a great disservice. Because in one or another (or yet another) dimension of their lives, they are not being who they really are.

Several years ago, after our break up, one of my ex-boyfriends began actively attending church—something he never did when we were together. At one point, we were having a conversation and he told me he believed that if you didn't accept Jesus as your personal savior, you were going to hell.

My brain scrambled.

Not just because that notion seemed ludicrous and there was no way the God I believe in would ever punish a good person simply because they'd never had exposure to Christianity, but because my ex-boyfriend suddenly looked like a stranger to me. He was not the person I once knew.

And once you show me that you're a complete departure from the person I thought you were, it's really hard for me to want to maintain a relationship with you. I want the person I signed up for in the first place. Not the swinging pendulum.

This may make me seem short-sighted, close-minded and judgmental. But at least I know it about myself. At least I'm consistent. At least I'm authentic. And at least the people in my life know they can count on me to continue holding them to the same standards I have since I met them.

There are no chameleon scales underneath this skin.

The Ides of March-On-Over-Here-and-Take-Off-Your-Shirt

2011-10-02T16:13:00.000-07:00

When I was shopping for my wedding gown last summer, George Clooney was the last person I expected to see in the women's bathroom at the bridal salon. But there he was, staring at me as I took a seat on the toilet. The salon owner had his picture in a frame with a caption under it that said, "I'd marry you." Needless to say, I loved it.

As Carrie Bradshaw once declared on Sex and the City, "Clooney is like a Chanel suit. He'll never go out of style."

His name alone could pretty much become a new adjective. "Your designer glasses are so Clooney." "My Cabernet has sort of a Clooney mouthfeel." Clooney. Clooney. Say it out loud. It echoes in your underwear, doesn't it?

Where am I going with all this George jabber, you're wondering? Well, last week Mr. W sent me an IM asking if I wanted to go to a screening of The Ides of March Saturday night. I quickly replied that I'd love to. Then I reread his message more carefully... It was a screening wherein George Clooney and two other producers would host a Q&A session afterward.

I fell off my stand-up desk chair.

I might have put on a little more eye makeup last night before we left for the screening. Not that I thought George was going to zero in on my face out of the 300-person audience. It just felt like the right thing to do...

I'm happy to report that he was everything I hoped him to be. Laid-back and charming and hilarious. As Producer Grant Heslov was explaining a situation they had to handle delicately during the making of the movie, George gave his signature grin and added "like a proctologist." The audience completely erupted; the women's giggles clearly drowning out the men's. When the first audience question came in, George joked, "For those of you who couldn't hear her question, she said that I look a lot younger in person." Delighted laughter all the way around. And of course we all ate up his innuendos about working with actors' available time slots, and how slot size was important. Pervy humor. Right up my alley.

The gravely voice, the snappy wit, the foxy silver hair. The biceps under the tight t-shirt. It was all just as I had imagined. The man should pretty much just change his last name to Swooney.

Mr. Wonderful was a terrific sport through the whole thing. He said Clooney is known as being such a good guy in the industry, it's hard not to like him.

He didn't even get mad when I called him George after I kissed him goodnight.

Working on Life Support

2011-09-28T15:56:00.000-07:00

There's a certain irony in the fact that one of my past clients included
a job-seeker website. Also ironic that it too go cut from our company...

A couple years ago, I read Joshua Ferris' acclaimed novel Then We Came to the End which tells the story of a slowly dying advertising agency. Through lost clients, layoffs and personal tragedy the agency disintegrates character by character until there is no one left.

That book keeps popping into my head lately as I watch my coworkers deal with our impending department death.

We're lame ducks to some degree right now, putting finishing touches on projects we started Before The News. Handling the few assignments our clients beg us to jump on because they don't want to send them to the mothership in Sunnyvale. Mostly, though, we all come in and work on our resumes and portfolios and LinkedIn pages. It's rather nice that we're earning paychecks while we gear up for unemployed life.

It has been an interesting character study to observe the different attitudes of the people around me.

There are the angries. The people who say, "I'm checked out," and no longer want to invest in providing the service we once offered. There are the panic mode-ers who want a job immediately because the instability and wondering is just too much. There are the nostalgics who are most upset because this was a job they loved and they don't want to think about leaving.

And then there is me.

I am caught in the middle of a muddle of emotions.

I'm endlessly excited about having time off to work on my outside writing projects. Although my rational self doesn't feel scared about getting future jobs and income, there's a ratty little voice that has popped up a few times and said, "What IF you can't ever find a good job again?" Then there's the prickly little sadness that crept in over the weekend when I realized I won't get to be around the inside jokes and quirky personalities I've enjoyed so much these last 6 1/2 years. I suppose I'm feeling bittersweet.

I don't know how many more days we'll be in the office—if we'll actually continue coming in until our exit day, November 1st. I wonder if we'll just slip away unnoticed or if our client coworkers will feel our absence and rant about us being gone.

I wonder what my new normal will look like. Whether I'll segment my day into crafting, writing, cleaning and networking spells. Or if I'll talk Mr. Wonderful's ear off when he returns from his 12-hour days because I haven't had enough human interaction. Maybe I'll need to have skype lunch dates with people where I save money by eating leftovers from my kitchen, but still get to chat with a live person in the process.

I'm hopeful that the "great" will outweigh the "unknown." I'm hopeful that I will get paid to write in a new capacity that fulfills me more than ever. I'm hopeful that this job was not the pinnacle. And that I will continue feeling that this has all happened for an important reason. I am hopeful. I am hopeful. I am hopeful.

Night Terrors

2011-09-25T22:22:00.000-07:00

One of the realities of living in Hollywood (especially when you're up the hill from the 101 freeway) is that you will routinely be woken up by the sound of helicopters. Or as some refer to them, "ghetto birds." They hover over your house, breaking the silence of your slumber with their rhythmic whirs. And they don't go away for what feels like an eternity.

Earlier this week, I was peacefully sawing z's when that familiar rhythm interrupted my sleep. Not one but two—maybe even three helicopters were overhead. I started to wonder if maybe there was a bad guy on the loose. And then I heard something loud coming from the very near vicinity of our house.

It sounded like metal banging. It sounded like someone was breaking into our sliding glass door. In fact, I was positive that's what was happening. The choppers were after an escaped con and he was now trying to take cover in our dining room.

I reached over and grabbed Mr. Wonderful with both hands, "There's a loud noise!" I whisper-shrieked.

He flew out of bed and immediately went for the bedroom door.

"Don't go OUT THERE!" I panicked.

But he didn't listen.

I prepared myself for the sight of him being hit with the butt of a pistol.

He took a step out the door, paused to listen, then turned back.

"It's the trash truck."

Oh.

He has since instituted a new rule in our marriage. I am never allowed to put two hands on him to wake him up from a dead sleep. Giving him a heart attack over the morning trash pickup was apparently not an okay thing to do...

A Taste of Parental Pride

2011-09-22T14:46:00.000-07:00

My niece and I dorking out with glow-in-the-dark headbands
and our best model faces on 4th of July 2008.

In June of 2012, my oldest niece is graduating from high school. She hasn't decided exactly where she wants to go to college (has it narrowed to a mere 15 universities), so in November, I'm traveling with her and my sister to check out some schools on the east coast.

The thought of her being so far away makes me feel anxious. I'm pretty used to having her around—I was even in the delivery room when she was born.

My sister and her husband didn't find out the sex of the baby, and when we saw she was a girl, we all cheered. I'll never forget watching her tiny arms waving around like a mad woman as the doctor and my sister pulled her out. It was one of the most amazing things I will ever witness in my life. I'm sure of it.

I guess because I was right there when she came into the world, I've sort of always felt like she was mine. I had no problem disciplining her when she was a surly toddler. I never hold back the million questions about what's going on in her life. I chuckle every time she's sarcastic because it reminds me of myself.

But a couple weeks ago, I had what felt like the closest thing to a parental pride moment I think I've ever experienced with her.

Throughout high school, she has emailed me her English papers to proofread and help refine. Now, I should mention that the girl is a straight-A student, so she doesn't really need my help. But she sends them nonetheless and I enjoy reading them. Given this routine we've developed, it wasn't a surprise when she sent me a draft of one of her college essays to review.

She wrote about an experience she had while volunteering with her church in the Dominican Republic. Her writing was impeccable. Her story, so moving it nearly brought me to tears at my desk.

I have never been so proud of her.

Not just because she is aces when it comes to writing. I'm proud of the person she has become.

That must be the most amazing feeling for a parent to have. To look at your child and think, "Wow, you are really incredible. The world is lucky to have you in it."

I know she is going to go on to do great things. And I can only imagine how exciting it will be to watch her grow and succeed. How lucky I am to have a seat in the spectator box right next to her real mom and dad.

An Argument in Favor of Granny Panties

2011-09-18T22:41:00.000-07:00

No those are not my legs or my underwear. I was just looking for a little visual support. But thanks for thinking my stomach is that flat.

After having my suitcase stolen on the honeymoon, I had to go on a bit of a shopping spree to replace everything I'd lost. This included about a dozen pairs of underwear. Of course I stocked up on some cute ones before the trip, so I was happy to discover many of the same styles and patterns still available at Macy's.

In attempt to replace a comfy, silky boy-short-esque style I was missing, I accidentally bought some big lady briefs. They don't come all the way to my belly button, but they're definitely far more substantial than other pairs I own.

Mr. Wonderful is not a fan.

When he came home from being in London for 8 1/2 weeks (or was it years...?) Friday, he was none too pleased to give me a little up-the-sundress-bottom-pat and discover I was wearing my big mama underpants.

"Just because we're married doesn't mean you can start wearing underwear like that now," he scolded me.

I told him they were comfortable and a good idea to wear under short sundresses.

About an hour later, we were heading out for a romantic welcome-home dinner.

I noticed that our green trash bin was still in the street, so I rolled it up the driveway and maneuvered it onto the ledge where we store it. (See below)

As I was hopping back down off the wall, something bad happened. I'm not exactly sure what even transpired, but my foot didn't quite work and my ankle twisted and the next thing I knew, I was lying in the driveway in my sundress with my feet pointing up the slope.

I didn't want to move at first because I wasn't sure if I had hurt anything—Mr. W and I are running our first half marathon together in late October and I can't afford to have any broken appendages. So I sort of sat there inspecting my bleeding foot and tweaked ankle until Mr. W dashed to my aid.

At the same time, I heard the male next-door neighbor shout, "Are you okay?!"

Enter: Humor, my best defense in embarrassing situations—"Oh yes, I'm fine! Mr. W's only been home an hour and already he's sweeping me off my feet!"

As I sat with ballet flats pointed skyward and my sundress hiked to my thighs, I looked at Mr. W and said, "Good thing I'm wearing my granny panties. He could've had quite the show otherwise."

Mr. W nodded... And I rest my case.

Eye Candy on an Overcast Friday

2011-09-16T14:39:00.000-07:00

A cliffside view from Ravello, Italy

When Mr. Wonderful and I were on our honeymoon in Italy a few months ago, I realized something about travel that I'd never thought of before. One of the reasons I love vacationing so much is the continuous visual stimulation. Everywhere you look, there is something new to see.

Walking around a city like Rome or Capri or Paris or Memphis, you're going to encounter things of beauty everywhere you look.

I don't think I ever realized what a glutton I am for beauty. Seeing lovely things both calms and excites me.

Which is why I'm now addicted to Pinterest.

I resisted the urge to sign up for it for several months. And then one day a friend sent a recommendation email and I caved. If you're not familiar with the site, go check it out. It's a girls' eye candy dream come true. Gorgeous house interiors, cute outfit ideas, hairstyles, DIY projects, funny quotes, recipes—anything cool that's on the Internet seems to be getting pinned. I have now lost hours scrolling through the images on that site. It's a fantastic escape.

Almost as good as traveling.

While I'm talking eye candy, I'll leave you with this little snapshot from my Etsy store. Ooooh pretty colors, right? Have a great weekend!

Knife-Wielding and Wenises Just Don't Mix

2011-09-13T15:10:00.000-07:00

My mom has this habit of getting off the phone with me and then calling five minutes later to tell me some random story she forgot to mention on the first call. It wasn't a surprise when my phone rang moments after I said goodbye to her Saturday evening.

"Yes?" I said.

"I forgot to tell you a weird story." Of course.

She went on to talk about how she'd been in the backyard a few days prior and heard a strange sound coming from the neighbor's yard. Naturally, she decided so spy through the fence boards.

What she saw was the neighbor's 20-something son throwing knives at a tree trunk. Stark ass naked (I believe those were her exact words.)

Now my first instinct was to ask her why the hell she was calling specifically to tell me this. Did she want me to go ask him not to do that again? Did she want me to call the police?

No. She just thought it was weird and wanted to pass it on.

We should get her a blog...

Anyway, as I thought about it later, I started to get kind of freaked out. I mean, one of those things independent of the other would be strange enough. Unless he was throwing knives in an Eagle Scout uniform, I think I'd be freaked out. And if he were doing yoga or gardening naked, I would just think he was communing with nature. But to be out there engrossed in a sort of violent activity while not clothed? That's a recipe for an amputated wiener. I can only come up with a few possible reasons for that kind of behavior.

1. He's a serial killer. Normal people don't do that sh*t. People who deep fry their own hamsters and collect human hair do stuff like throw knives naked.

2. He's batsh*t crazy. Total nutjob who needs to squeeze his nude little buns into a straight jacket.

3. He's a carnie. Every now and then when I was living in my old apartment, I'd see flame-throwers practicing their juggling in a nearby office parking lot. There may be a contingent of circus people in my old area that I never new about. Maybe the parents' neighbor is Nelbert the Naked Knife Thrower or something.

My mother didn't seem concerned that he was going to come across the property line and turn her skin into a dress for himself. She thinks he may in fact be some sort of circus person.

I told her next time he's out there bare-ass, she should strip down and wave over the fence, yelling "You into the nudist colony thing too?"

I guarantee that would scare him right back into his clothing.

The Rough Side of the Rockstar Lifestyle

2011-09-08T10:44:00.000-07:00

Last night, I went for a run around Lake Hollywood (yes, there's a lake there - I didn't know this until about 5 years ago) and was wholly transported to a little alpine village somewhere with pine trees and deer (and sadly an audible coyote attack somewhere). It certainly didn't feel like I was minutes from the big white sign on the hill and the chaos of the city below.

This morning, however, I absolutely felt like I was in Hollywood.

I was rounding one of the sharper turns on the way down my street to Franklin when I came upon a car stopped in the middle of the road. A man in a van was coming toward us and I watched him slow and leer out his window. Irritated, as I usually am during my morning commute, I said something like, "Come on people what the hell is going on here?!"

Then I passed the stopped car on the left and noticed its driver.

Her eyes were closed and her forehead was pressed against the driver's side window.

I didn't even think twice (or think about going to knock on the window to see if she was ok) I grabbed my cell phone and dialed 911.

I've never had to call 911 before and was kind of freaked out about actually doing it, but it seemed clear to me that the situation warranted it.

As I gave my location to the dispatcher and tried to explain what I had seen, I parked the car and began running up the hill toward the girl. By that time a few other people had gathered and two guys were banging on her window. No response.

It felt like forever that I was on that phone. The man on the other end of the line was so calm. He asked me to approach her and check to see if she was breathing. I saw her chest fall and rise and felt relieved. None of us spectators wanted to open her car door to take her pulse for fear that she'd come toppling out.

But then the dispatcher told me that we should try to get her out and onto the ground. My new friends Travis and Krishna who had been driving by, maneuvered the door open and laid her seat back, carefully holding her head straight so her airway didn't get restricted. They were just about to move her onto the pavement when we heard the screech of the ambulance.

The girl flopped like a rag doll as the paramedics extricated her. I never once saw her stir or open her eyes. One of the firefighters jumped in her car and moved it over to the curb.

"Is she going to be okay?" Travis asked.

"She'll be fine," one of the firemen told us. "It looks like she just had a little too much to drink and smoke last night."

Travis, Krishna and I shook hands and headed back to our cars. I felt like I needed a second application of deodorant.

Just another morning in Hollywood, I guess.

Perspectives on Perfection

2011-09-06T16:50:00.000-07:00

In the past few weeks, I've found myself engaged in several different conversations with friends who have confessed to feeling disappointed and pressured because they're "not where they're supposed to be" in life. They're not content with where they are because they're of a certain age and 12 of their friends are ten steps ahead of them and they feel so behind.

I blame Facebook.

Seriously, that site has an amazing ability to let people create perfect pictures of their lives. Upload the right photos of your new house and 2.5 kids, exchange a few cute messages with your significant other and BAM your life is impeccable in the eyes of others.

It's like this one site is perpetuating a society of people who feel bad about themselves because they don't have as much money/stuff/free time/family pictures as friend #264? And if it's getting to our generation, what the heck must it be doing to our teenagers?

Okay, maybe the keeping up with the Joneses phenomenon isn't all Facebook's fault.

It's Twitter's, too.

Just kidding.

I think most of us just have a tendency to fall into "what I'm lacking" trap instead of focusing on what we have. Some of us don't have big savings accounts. Some of us don't have jobs. Some of us are going through rough patches in relationships.

But maybe our lack of income is making us craftier and more resourceful. Maybe being out of work is giving us more time to spend with our families. Maybe the ups and downs of our relationships will ultimately strengthen them.

There is always good. You just have to look under the rug for it sometimes.

And I guarantee that the people on Facebook/the blog circuit/Twitter/your favorite coffee shop do not have perfect lives. Everyone has stuff. Everyone has flaws and anxieties and turmoil. Maybe the people who seem so pristine are just better at playing up the positives. Maybe the positives they see in their lives breed more positives. An upward spiral of sorts.

We'll never know 100% what goes on behind other people's doors. The best we can do is try to cherish what's behind our own. Or at least just close the Facebook window when it's blowing in a fowl breeze.

A Welcome Storm

2011-09-04T22:00:00.000-07:00

I walked outside tonight to pick some basil for the bruschetta I was making with dinner, and as I snapped leaves from their stalks, raindrops began plopping down around me.

It's not common to get summer storms in Southern California. So I decided to sit. Right there on the step where our basil pot rests.

I thought of Guy Montag and how pivotal the rainfall in Fahrenheit 451 was for him. He was the first person I knew of who had been cleansed by rain. That was the first book that really taught me about the symbolism of water in literature.

So I sat in my backyard, letting the spotty drops fall on me, washing away the invisible silt that's been coating me for 6 years.

I glanced up at my roofline and that's when I saw the rainbow above. Right over my house. And suddenly I was completely at peace. I knew without a doubt that all would be okay. All was right in the world. I felt so grateful to witness it. Those are the moments in life when you feel most alive, aren't they?

When Mr. Wonderful and I took our first trip together early in our relationship, we saw a full arc rainbow on our drive home from San Francisco. I remember thinking it was a sign. I still believe it was.

And I think maybe the one I saw today was, too. Good things ahead.

There's No Crying on the Doorstep of Possibility

2011-09-03T15:28:00.000-07:00

The outpouring of sympathy and well wishes over my layoff have been quite astounding to me. I have to credit social media for a large chunk of that. After one post on Facebook, people I hadn't talked to in years were contacting me with optimistic notes and potential job leads.

As appreciative as I am for all the nice attention, I feel pretty strongly that I don't need sympathy. I wrote a post about this once before—about how everywhere we land in life is a direct result of the choices we make. I could've chosen to look for a new job months ago when I saw things starting to slip out of whack at work. But I chose to stay. I took the risk, I'll pay the price. It was my choice.

I have a hard time with people who play the victim because I believe that many rough situations are simply our opportunities to create change. Every day is a chance to take a different path. Turn things on their ears.

When my team got the news that our department was being shut down and our work being moved to the Sunnyvale office, I felt a mix of shock and sadness, but also a huge flood of excitement.

What did it all mean? Where would I go next? Was it a sign that I was supposed to move on to something new?

Yes. Of course it was a sign. The old Yahoo! door was swinging shut and 50 new ones were flying open in front of me. I would have time to write. I could get caught up on projects at home. I'd be able to take a little breather from a workload that's been wearing on me since January. I could possibly travel with Mr. Wonderful on his next movie.

The possibilities of what I could do with this layoff—this gift—and where I could go as a result of it were overwhelming.

Of course, when I got up and went to work the next day (we're on the books until Oct. 25th) I felt pretty blue.

But every time I stop and think about what this change could mean, I feel energized.

I may be the victim of a corporate amputation, but I am not a victim. I wish more people I knew would stop feeling sorry for themselves and start exploring the possibilities around them.

Sorry, I think I get saucy when I'm not under a day job's thumb...

In Distance and in Closeness, for Richer and for Poorer

2011-08-30T20:51:00.000-07:00

I was planning to write a post about some dismal thoughts I had a couple weeks ago. The distance between Hollywood (where I am) and London (where Mr. W is) was beginning to weigh heavily on me, and I caught myself thinking, This isn't marriage.

Marriage is about two people being together. Not apart.

Then I thought about military wives. And how I have nothing to whine about. Military wives actively participate in marriages where togetherness is impossible for long durations of time. Military wives have to worry that their husbands may never come home to them. Military wives are rockstars.

I then realized that surviving distance is exactly what marriage is about. It should be one of the worst-case scenarios covered in the vows. In sickness and in health, in close proximity and in differing time zones. Commitment is commitment even when external factors complicate it.

I thought I had a clearer perspective on marriage.

And then today I found out that my entire team at work is being laid off.

And that really gave me perspective on marriage.

Of course, Mr. W was the first person I contacted after I found out the news. After asking me if I was okay, he made a joke about us moving to Tuscany. Then he assured me that I didn't need to worry. He would be there for me. My soft place to land.

When I was laid off from my advertising job in 2003, my family and friends were really wonderful and forthcoming with their support. I knew I could turn to them. But there's something really incredible about having a husband to turn to this time. A partner I know I can count on. I really do love this whole marriage thing...

And My T-Shirt Says: I Went to a Burlesque Show and All I Got Was a Slap in the Face

2011-08-26T15:42:00.000-07:00

My first (and only) trip to a strip club was about 9 or 10 years ago with three guys I knew through work. It wasn't some upscale club on Sunset Boulevard, or even a well-known diamond in a rough part of town. It was next door to a bowling alley in east Pasadena.

My judgment was high that night. I scowled at all the hungry-eyed lurkers, bristled at the strippers who came by our table, rolled my eyes at my companions. I was overcome by a mixture of disgust and pity, and I left declaring that I would never again watch a girl in a thong working it for money.

Until last night.

My girlfriend C emailed me a week or two ago and asked if I had any interest in going to see a burlesque show with her. Fairly certain that a show like that wouldn't be the same as straight up pole-spinning, I happily accepted her invitation.

So last night we ventured to Harvelle's in Santa Monica to see the dance troupe Harlow Gold. Six girls pretty much take over the entire space—dancing on the bar, running laps up and down the length of the floor, jumping on tables and hanging from straps attached to the walls and ceiling.

I found the differences between this show and the strip club staggering. First of all, the girls were real. No triple-F-cup stripper boob jobs. No tummy tucks. There were dimples and sagging—and the ladies all still looked sexy as all get out. Second, there were some thong-type items, but mostly fun lingerie, tassels, fishnets, thigh highs and bustiers. The costumery all felt very Moulin Rouge, as did the heavy lashes and red lipstick.

What I found most impressive was the dance skill and choreography. Each number presented a different sort of story (like a military one, flight attendants one, and pin-up girls/bathing beauties)—making the actual performing more of the focus than the exposed body parts. I was genuinely impressed by their interaction and theatrics on stage. And yes, the swinging from bars along the ceiling and maneuvering from straps attached to the wall elicited the same sort of wonder for me as watching Cirque du Soleil.

What I didn't like so much was getting smacked in the face by the saucy blonde when she did her solo.

C and I were sitting at the end of the bar closest to the stage, and the girls' little staircase up the bar was right next to us. As saucy blonde sauntered up it, she stopped and grabbed C by the hair, pulling her face close like a dominatrix. I nearly took a high heel to the head as she swung around the horizontal pole above me. And then toward the end of her number, she ran past all of us at the bar with her arm out, whacking each of us upside the head. Took me right back to this incident.

I suppose she was just showing the audience who was boss. My cheek did sting through the entire next song, though.

Despite the small streak of violent behavior, I would definitely return to Harvelle's to see the show again. Or another burlesque show. Maybe like this Star Wars one. Strip club, though? Not so much.

The Dingy Driver Dart System (Patent Pending)

2011-08-23T13:44:00.000-07:00

Mr. Wonderful can be a highly impatient driver. I can't tell you how many times I've been in the car with him, gripping my seat as he speeds past someone or spews profanity like a dock worker. Because he's generally a mild-mannered guy, this kind of behavior always seems a bit out of character.

My go-to tactic for dealing with the situation is to reach over and play with the back of his hair. It's sort of like petting a barking dog to calm it down. Works pretty well usually, particularly when coupled with a few light-hearted sarcastic remarks like, "simmer down, Turbo."

Anyway, I chalked up this feisty-ness as just being another component of his multifaceted, sparkly personality.

And then I moved to Hollywood.

And months of driving in the company of morons started to wear on me. And suddenly, Mr. W's outbursts made perfect sense.

Because I don't often have another person in my car to pet my hair and talk me down, morning and evening commutes are routinely filled with Tourette-style rants and heart palpitations.

I really think there is a concentration of mentally-challenged motorists in the Los Angeles area. Hollywood being one of the thickest populations.

Given that these jackasses aren't likely going to leave my new neighborhood anytime soon, I have devised a system of communication that I think could help relieve my frustration and give other drivers valuable perspective about their habits on the road.

Remember in the old roadrunner cartoons when Wile E Coyote would whip out a bow and arrow that had a plunger tip instead of a spear? Well, I'd like to create something similar—or maybe a dart system with a plunger attached—that would enable me to shoot out messages and have them stick to other drivers' cars.

That way I could let the guy who almost just cut me off know that he was a giant asshat. Or I could notify the dude going 50 in the fast lane that he should, "Give me a frigging break, buddy!"

If all goes well, I could even extend the product line to include customizable phone number tags. That way if single people were stuck in traffic next to someone attractive, they could just shoot their contact info over.

I really think this could open an interesting dialog amongst the drivers in LA. And it might help calm down Mr. W and his now road-raged bride.

Pink Wrigglers and Other Reasons I Miss Having a Man in the House

2011-08-18T22:17:00.001-07:00

I was already running two minutes late to meet a friend for dinner when I opened the back door to retrieve a bag of trash and noticed two pinkish wriggling worms smooshed between the threshold and the kitchen tile. The tiny worm was flipping and twirling like a madman. The fat one just seemed to be sort of tensing and releasing in place.

I can't be 100% certain, but I think I did four squealing laps around the kitchen.

There was no way in hell I was picking them up with a paper towel, but I had to get them out of the house somehow. Thinking quick, I whisked my flip-flop off and scraped it across the floor at the assailants.

I missed.

And then I realized that they weren't worms.

They were two separate pieces of one very small lizard. The tiny breakdancing one was its tail. The fat lethargic one was its body.

It's amazing how fast a person can run with their toes completely curled.

I really wanted to just sit and wait for Mr. W to get an emergency flight home to come take care of this problem. But I had a dinner. So I had to solve the problem on my own.

I looked around the kitchen. Curse words may have been streaming from my mouth. That damn tail kept twirling the whole time I was frantically trying to formulate a plan. And then it hit me.

I grabbed a spatula from the drawer and flipped the tail out the back door. Then went the little lizard. Then I screamed and threw the spatula into the sink and did a few more flapping laps.

I'm going to have nightmares about that creepy little tail slinking into the house tonight.

Mr. W really cannot get back to the U.S. fast enough...

Turning the Other Cheek

2011-08-16T16:08:00.000-07:00

I don't know if I've ever mentioned it here, but Mr. Wonderful's house has a rental unit under it, and back in June we got a new tenant.

She's a bubbly little 24-year-old who just moved into the area and so far she has been a fantastic renter. Mr. W just told me she already paid him for September, and the only peep I hear through the floor is occasional giggling when she has a boy over. (Which lately, of course makes this old cat lady miss her hubby.)

Because she's such a sweetheart, I didn't bat an eye when she asked me if she could lay out in the sun in our backyard. Of course she could. She was quiet and she brought us guacamole one day. Totally won me over.

And then I saw her Brazilian cut bikini and 24-year-old butt.

I was cleaning the kitchen and glanced out our back window to see a perfectly tanned, smooth, and petite cheek hanging out the edge of her black bottoms. I winced.

I don't think my butt ever looked like that.

My 35-year-old ass (at around 30 I think it goes from being a butt to being an ass) most certainly doesn't. Of course I had to peek out the window a few more times as she stood up to adjust on her towel. Thank God Mr. W isn't coming home for 4 more weeks. I have a feeling he might be finding all sorts of new yardwork that needs to be done back there while she's sunning herself.

On the positive side, I'm more motivated than ever to train for my next half marathon!

Great Expectations (That Mr. W Will Be Home Sooner Than Later)

2011-08-14T21:53:00.000-07:00

I'm starting to worry more and more that I'm on the verge of descending into a Miss Havisham fit, wriggling into my wedding dress and not taking it off until Mr. Wonderful comes home from London. I'll waltz around our house with a glass of warm chardonnay in my hand and mascara streaks down my cheeks, lamenting my lost love.

When he first found out he had to go back, I thought it would be less than 7 weeks; that he'd return by Labor Day. But now it may be closer to 8 1/2. And when you're on the brink of Havishaming, every day counts.

I find myself trying to quantify the time in smaller increments. It's only 4-5 more trash days. 3 or 4 Sunday dinners. 2 paychecks.

But oh how the days drag on...

It's not that I'm not keeping busy. I've jam-packed my social calendar. I have chores and hobbies up the wazoo. But no matter how many hours I spend with Etsy creations, blogging, running, girls' nights or family meetups, the clock still seems to be moving at a snail's pace.

And as my friend GeekHiker recently pointed out, sometimes you end up feeling MORE lonely when you're around other people. A night of solitude in front of the TV feels like a choice. It's easier to rationalize. But when you're alone and other people are around, you miss YOUR people. It's like the difference between them and your person is amplified and makes you feel the absence ten times more intensely.

I guess like training for a race, I just have to keep running through the pain. Just keep on going and try not to count the miles or minutes.

In the meantime, I'm going to go slip into my wedding gown and smear my lipstick a little. Just to see if insanity feels better than the missing.

Mr. W's D Cup Dreams Are Finally Coming True

2011-08-09T14:31:00.000-07:00

I'll never forget the day I realized I needed to start wearing a bra. I was in 7th grade and we were having scoliosis tests done in P.E. class. While all the other pubescent girls lined up in their white cotton training bras, I stood by in a pink ribbed tank top. I was flat-chested and didn't see a real need to buy any sort of undergear. Until, of course, I saw that I was one of the only girls without it. And thus began my stint with the little triangle-top Calvin Klein training bras (which I could probably still squeeze into).

Nowadays, whenever I complain about being small-chested, Mr. W will try to reassure me with, "I like your little boobs." Kind of like "look at how darling that miniature tea set is" or "that small pothole is the cutest one on the whole street."

Given the adjectives usually associated with my mammaries, I was absolutely overjoyed to add a new one to the mix this weekend.

It all started when my 13-year-old niece told me she wore a 34B. Now, she's only 4' 11" and she's a tiny little peanut. The thought that she would need a bra size bigger than mine just did not seem right. So I introduced her to The Bra Lady:

Go ahead, watch the video, I'll wait...

I first saw this video a couple years ago when Daily Candy sent it out in one of their emails. I remember finding it interesting, but the only thing that stuck was that I shouldn't wear my boulder (or pebble, in my case) holder on the tightest hook.

After the niece and I watched it, of course we were compelled to grab my sewing tape measure to get our official stats. And that's where the magic began.

See, it turns out I have the same measurements as the first girl in the video - 27" ribcage, 31" bust. Which means...drumroll please...I am supposed to be a 30D. D CUP, LADIES AND GENTLEMAN, D CUP!

My niece was right—her ribcage is bigger than mine (which is just bizarre) but her ratio is smaller, so she is technically a C cup. I'm sure she's delighted that I just blogged that.

I was SO excited to share this news with Mr. Wonderful when I spoke to him on Skype Saturday morning. Next time he tells me he likes my "little" girls, I'm going to remind him that these sisters are D's and that definitely doesn't stand for dainty!

Summer Settles Upon the Backyard

2011-07-24T21:54:00.000-07:00

After writing this post a couple months ago, I thought it might be fun to write a little update on what's going on in our garden. With Mr. W out of town until September, I'll be enjoying the fruits (and vegetables) of our labor by myself for awhile. But the little butternut squash above may not be ripe until close to the time he comes home. I cannot tell you how excited I am about that squash. Butternut is the candy of the squash world. Love.

The zucchini has been extremely plentiful—and as you can see, the bees love it. Mr. W and I made ricotta-stuffed zucchini flowers once with blossoms we bought at the farmer's market, but we've yet to try it with our own stock. If I'm feeling adventurous, maybe I'll give it a whirl on my own. Just have to remember to get all the bees out before plucking them...

Apparently artichokes come back even better the following year if you let them flower. So we let our last few go and have thoroughly enjoyed their vibrant lavender spikes. 4 out of 5 resident bees are also big fans.

We have no idea what kind of squash this is. It's a total little rogue that just popped up near the tomato plants. We thought maybe it was summer squash or acorn, but the fruits don't seem to last long enough to take on their adult shape. They keep rotting on the vine as little green balls. I'm hoping the warmer weather will push them into maturity so I can finally figure out what they are!

I think we have about 7 tomato plants in the backyard. The cherry tomatoes have been awesome and I just ate a few of our larger tomatoes tonight—they didn't disappoint. The very first big, fat red one we had in the backyard was stolen by a furry backyard thief. Perhaps our the skunk who lives next door. Mr. W had been watching it for days and when he went to pick it and discovered that someone else had beaten him to it, I got an IM message with the f-word in it. He's very protective of his tomatoes...

This has become a very common sight out back in the mornings. The hummingbirds love our fountain and regularly take baths in it. We're pretty sure a sweet little hummingbird couple has built a nest up near our barbecue. Mr. W kept seeing a male up there sort of guarding the area. Naturally, he decided we should name him George. I need to come up with a name for George's wife. Maybe Martha.

We have a hummingbird feeder hanging off one of our trees, but I'm glad to see that the kids still go old school and drink out of real flowers. They're so cute I could just watch them forever.

I wonder if I'll be tired of zucchini and tomatoes by the time summer is over. I'm sure I'll be more than ready for a fall crop of lettuce and maybe some root veggies. Backyard food is seriously the best!

The Company We Keep

2011-07-21T11:59:00.000-07:00

I love this picture. Mr. W took it when we were visiting the central coast.
Don't they just feel like they're unconditionally in love?

The house has been pretty quiet since Mr. Wonderful left Monday night.

I'm not sure if it's the late summer sunsets or the cool evening air that are making me nostalgic, or if it's just the hush of living single again. But last night I was doing a lot of relationship pondering (and crafting...shameless plug: www.etsy.com/shop/hauterubbish).

I thought about a couple of my favorite girlfriends who are both moving away from LA soon. These two girls changed me. They're the ones who got me to climb Half Dome. They're the ones who encouraged me to run and eventually complete multiple half marathons. They've been my sounding boards, my advisers, my exercise partners and my favorite comedic companions for several years now. I'm not quite sure what I'll do without them nearby.

It could have been because I was thinking of them that, when I crawled into bed and glanced at the picture on my nightstand, I thought about how much I like who I am with Mr. Wonderful. I saw myself smiling such a genuine smile in the photo. I just had this funny flicker of, "I like that girl."

That hasn't always been the case in my relationships—friendship or otherwise. There have been some people who bring out the baddies in me. Friends who enticed my sharp tongue or coerced my sleeping sloth. Boyfriends who inflated my anxiety. People who I allowed to get to me in such a way that I turned into an insecure, unhappy little waif.

But we all get to choose who receives our time. We can seek and be loyal to those who make us feel like our best, happiest, most motivated selves. Or we can stagnate with the people who make us feel awful.

As I switched off the light last night, I was filled with a feeling of relief and gratitude that I married one who makes me feel so right. And that those friends who continually propel me forward will always be only a phone call away.

All This AND They Filmed Fantasy Island Here

2011-07-05T16:53:00.000-07:00

If there's anything the LA County Arboretum and Botanical Gardens are known for,
it's peacocks. Not exactly sure how they became an occupant of the neighborhood,
but my grandmother always had them in her backyard when we were growing up.

Is there really any feather more gorgeous than a peacock's?

These octopus agave definitely caught Mr. Wonderful's and my eyes.
We planted several agaves in our front yard when we relandscaped
but these guys are way cooler.

I can't remember now what sort of tree this is—
something from the Philippines. Doesn't it look like someone took
pastel chalk and colored the trunk? It was like a beautiful So Cal sunset.

I had never seen a female peacock before. Nor did I know that her proper name is peahen.
Nor did I also know that the general name for these birds is peafowl.
Mr. W has peafowl sometimes after he eats asparagus.
How cute are the tiny, nearly camouflaged baby peachicks?

Teenage peachicks. I think I saw one of them texting.

The very elusive Photographis Wonderfulrus. Snapping some nice shots of kangaroo paw
(another plant that we have in our front yard) with his snazzy new camera.

All I can say is that I'm glad this wasn't Mr. W's nickname in college.
Nobody wants to marry a woollybutt. Unless he waxes regularly.

Canadian defectors.

These canna lilies reminded me of Hawaii. Or a wall of flame getting ready to engulf me.

I love love love waterlilies. In a future life, I'd like to spend a brief stint
as a frog, just so I can lounge on the petals and lily pad of one.

Tell me this doesn't look exactly like an alligator! I saw it and had to walk
all the way over to the shoreline to make sure it wasn't. Turned out
to be a palm frond or something bunched up in the water.

Mr. W and I both really liked this tree from Madagascar.
Doesn't it look like some cool mid-century sculpture or something?

There's nothing prettier than a Southwest/Tuscan colored bit of
architecture against a bright blue sky.

...except maybe a bunch of grapes...

Varying Philosophies on Phalange Mingling

2011-06-28T11:31:00.000-07:00

That's us holding hands while we're getting married.
See, hand-holding is serious business.

The first time I can remember holding a boy's hand was at the Homecoming dance my junior year of high school. Sure, I'd kissed boys before him. But I don't recall ever holding another's hand until that night. His fingers felt strange laced between mine. And I was certain that things between us were really going somewhere because we had taken that step together.

Flash forward almost 20 years, and I'm married to a pair of hands now. A pair that disagrees with me on what it means to interlock fingers.

Mr. Wonderful and I got into a spirited debate recently about the significance of holding hands. To him, it's just a regular old gesture you make when you're dating—like opening a girl's car door.

To me, it's much more.

I even wrote a post around the subject after the first time Mr. W held my hand in 2007.

I always felt like hand-holding was a declaration. Much like I tried to hold in the words I love you so I wasn't the first to say them, I also held back on hand-grabbing until my Mr. made the move first. It felt coupley and I didn't want to be the first to proclaim boyfriend-girlfriend-hood by doing it.

I think it's possible to kiss someone you're dating—or even sleep with them—and not have it mean as much as when you publicly hold their hand.

Mr. W thinks I'm crazy. Just as I harassed him for running his hands all over town like ten-fingered hussies, he had a cow (hello '80s throwback) when I said I might sleep with someone before ever holding their hand.

Where do you guys stand on this topic? Which one of the Wonderfuls is the crazy person? I'll be keeping a tally of your responses...

Farmer Wonderful Strikes Again

2011-06-19T22:45:00.000-07:00

How does the old saying go—When life gives you lemons on your honeymoon, make limoncello?

Although we came home from Italy with one less suitcase, we had 24 more lemon seeds than we did before we left. And the ever industrious Mr. Wonderful carefully planted them in a series of sprout starter boxes.

We're hoping eventually we may end up with some trees that grow cranium-sized lemons like the ones along the Amalfi coast.

Apparently a lot (or maybe all?) of citrus trees require grafting. So Mr. W purchased 100 (the smallest order he could make) stems of a hearty rootstock to serve as the grafting points for his little lemon babies. Our back patio currently looks like this:

Yes, they're in paper popcorn containers from Smart & Final. Yes, it's sort of like some strange Willy Wonka Barbie Wonderland back there.

Particularly when you see that the other side of the back steps looks like this. This is the lemon tree nursery where all the little babies are still developing. In Solo cups...like they grew at a frat party. Hopefully there's no keg beer hiding in the bottom of those things.

Mr. W is hopeful that we can grow lots of little starter trees in pots and then dig them up when we move to the vineyard one day. Who says vineyards only make wine? Maybe we'll invent some new limoncello-wine hybrid. Or maybe we'll just make really killer lemonade for our guests...

The Planifesto

2011-05-30T15:32:00.000-07:00

Several months ago, I read this great article by Martha Beck about the importance of attaching adjectives to your life goals. She cited a couple different examples of people wishing for things—one woman thought she would find happiness by being her own boss, another by having a baby.

Unfortunately, both women failed to accurately investigate the details of their goals before charging ahead. The woman who aspired to be her own boss was really seeking a job with freedom. She quickly learned that starting your own company means you're tied down a lot of the time. The woman who wanted a baby thought it would finally make her feel fulfilled. But it also made her exhausted.

These examples got me to thinking about the life Mr. Wonderful and I are hoping to create over the next several years (or decade). We talk a lot about how things will be "when we move to the vineyard." But we haven't really tried to flesh out what that will look like. And as I learned from dating, you gotta put color to the details (and then stick to them) or you end up with some really unflattering shades...

After all the wedding hoopla finally faded, I decided that Mr. W and I should sit down and start listing our adjectives. Penning our descriptors might help us to start paving the path.

So I found an empty notebook. The French cat one above (which Mr. W actually bought me in Barcelona at the gift shop inside La Pedrera) and we sat down with a glass of wine and brainstormed. The hope is that we will continue to fill the book with ideas, and by the time we've covered each sheet of paper, we'll be well on our way to living the list.

Here's a little peek at what we have so far:

• blissful • peaceful • low maintenance • fun • easy • rich in experiences • satisfying • inspiring • creative • challenging (in a good way) • communal • balanced • healthy •

It's sort of fun to hypothesize where we'll end up and when. I think maybe we'll be farmers... Or maybe a writer and a photographer... The possibilities are endless, really.

How Does Our Garden Grow?

2011-05-03T17:24:00.000-07:00

Although we're planning to relandscape it this summer, I do have a bit of a crush on our backyard.

California poppies and red clover Mr. W planted between his grape vines.

I love it for its serenity. I love it for its sounds of chirping and buzzing. I love its breezes and patches of filtered sun. But most of all I love it because it holds our garden. There is truly nothing better than being able to walk out your back door and come inside with the fixings for a salad.

The first time I ever gardened with Mr. W, I was appalled at the level of precision he used. We didn't just carve out a space and throw down some seeds. We graded the dirt so it was level. We mixed bone meal and manure into the existing soil. We set up irrigation lines. It was intense. But oh how it paid off...

These are the best artichokes I've ever tasted. They're almost sweet.
Grilled with a little olive oil, salt and pepper and oregano—they're amazing.

We're very hopeful the family of skunks we discovered last week
in the backyard doesn't come feast on our baby strawberries.

Mr. W's old roommate grew corn a couple summers ago.
It was delicious but apparently when you only grow a few stalks,
you have to hand pollinate all of them. Anxious to see how ours turns out.

Practice for the mini vineyard we hope to own someday.

I didn't know that flowers had sexes, but apparently the zucchini
produces male and female flowers. The males fall off until a female
one is produced. We're still waiting for our baby girl to arrive...

In the summer, we try to get all the figs before the squirrels do.
And then Mr. W likes to do things like douse them in balsamic reduction
sauce or stuff them with goat cheese.

Hopefully the changes we make this summer will turn my backyard crush into a full-blown love affair. Until then, I'll keep enjoying the fruits (and vegetables) of our labors.

The Science of Certainty

2011-04-24T21:38:00.000-07:00

If I'm going to start a blog about my relationship with Mr. Wonderful, I really should start at the beginning. Which goes back before I even met him.

See, I don't think it was just luck or fate or coincidence that we found each other.

I believe it was science.

Oprah likes to talk about the third law of physics to explain it. According to Wikipedia, this law states that "The mutual forces of action and reaction between two bodies are equal, opposite and collinear." Every action has an opposite and equal reaction. Or, what you put out will come back at you as an equal force and an equal energy—positive or negative.

Before I met Mr. Wonderful back in the fall of 2007, I made a conscious decision to put certain things out into the Universe. I believed that what I put out would not only shape WHAT but WHO came back to me. So I did a lot of thinking about who exactly it was that I wanted heading my direction. I made lists. I made a collage. If you've ever read The Secret, you know this drill.

But more importantly, I focused on who I was. I worked on being my best, most authentic self. During the 3 years leading up to Mr. W's arrival in my life, I took some big risks (quitting my job and ultimately landing in a much better one), I tested my physical limits (beginning to run and doing a 17-mile hike to climb Half Dome in Yosemite) and I dug deep into the cracks in my psyche and self esteem (hello, Therapy, I heart you).

I wanted to make sure the Me I projected was a Me I was proud of. By the time Mr. W and I met, I was in a great place. I was ready for him. I knew who he would be and I trusted myself enough to identify him. This was something I didn't have in the past. That ability to discern.

The reason I feel the need to talk about this is that I believe other people can do the same thing I did and end up with just as much happiness. I think anyone can concoct the right recipe for this kind of wonderful.

I also think that Mr. W and I can project goodness out into the world to create the life we want moving forward. And maybe this new blog will help document some of that.