This Is Not the Life I Ordered

For about the last 8 months, Mr. W has been commuting to LA two days a week for a film project. During the last 5 or 6 weeks, he's only been able to come home on weekends. Though we're no strangers to living apart, after awhile his absence starts to wear on me. Big time. Especially since we've moved, just because the responsibility list is longer in Santa Ynez than it was in Hollywood.

So Monday, when I went to let the chickens out to free range and saw our little Wellsummer hen, Miranda, looking under the weather, my already weakened husbandless constitution began to crumble.

At first, I thought maybe our girl was just overheated. She was panting. Her comb was pale. Her usually perky tail was pointed toward the ground. I led her to a container of water and of course couldn't get her to drink (the saying's not just for horses...). Though it was the middle of my workday, there was no way I was going to leave my ailing chick. So I took to Google and read every blog post and chat thread I could find about her symptoms.

The thing about chickens is that they're really hard to diagnose. Or maybe, when you're a total avian novice like me, they are. I needed Mr. W here to tell me what to do! In between my frantic visits to hen-devoted websites, I was IMing him like mad.

The first thing he told me was that I was forbidden from calling the vet. He was not going to shell out $100 to save a $4 chicken. He told me that if she died, I should just put her in a garbage bag in the garage freezer and he'd deal with her when he got home. Um, not the scenario I hoped would play out. 

Sad chicken soup

I decided to do the only thing I knew how to do: give her the "spa treatment" we'd given Samantha when she got sick. I drew her an Epsom salt bath in a Rubbermaid container, put the container in the master bathtub, then loaded her into the chicken ambulance and brought her in the house.

Desperate to do whatever I could to make Miranda feel better, I decided to try a second step in the "spa treatment" that I hadn't done before. I decided to give her some clean Epsom salt water by mouth. The article I read clearly warned to administer the liquid very slowly so as not to make the chicken aspirate any of it into her lungs. Armed with my syringe, I dripped dots of water along the sides of Miranda's beak and she tiredly gobbled them up. I thought we were making good progress until I noticed a low wheeze starting to build with her breathing.

Thinking she might just have a little chicken phlegm, I gave her some more water. The wheeze turned into a gurgle.

OH MY GOD, I'VE KILLED THE CHICKEN.

I was sure of it. I'd gotten water into her lungs and that was the nail in the freezer-garbage-bag coffin. My mind ripped back to a familiar place it likes to visit when Mr. W is gone and things feel tough.

"This is NOT the life I ordered," it screamed.

The life I signed up for was one where my husband and I were under one roof, throwing our heads back in synchronized laughter as we expertly remodeled our home. One where we spent warm summer evenings harvesting ripe tomatoes and admiring how tall the corn stalks had grown. One where we grew grapes in our backyard and turned them into delicious vintages which we served to friends at dinner parties.

Nursing a half-dying hen in my master bathtub was never a line item on the order sheet.

I IMed Mr. W and told him I thought I'd just sealed Miranda's fate. He told me to put her out with the rest of the flock and hope for the best.

So, fighting back tears, I did.

About an hour later, I took some apple slices out to the girls and Miranda appeared to have a little more life in her eyes. She pecked at the apples. She drank water from the pan I'd tried to cool her feet in earlier. Her tail was no longer pointing toward the ground.

As my fight-or-flight response began to dissipate, I realized how incredibly stupid it is to even think "This is not the life I ordered." I thought of Elizabeth Gilbert's line from Eat, Pray, Love about how she "had actively participated in every moment" of the creation of her life.

Duh. This was totally the life I had "ordered." Um and by the way—like any of us even have the power to command or control life (okay, well I do believe in The Secret and manifesting and all that jazz so I guess I do...um...but still). Anyone's life can suck at any point—it's all about where you choose to rest your attention.

Telling myself this sad story on top of my already dismal poultry predicament just made the entire situation feel that much worse. Ah, the pity party. I'm really good at throwing them, but they're sure no fun to attend.

I'm happy to say that Miranda is still with us. Her comb is still a smidge pale, but her gurgle is gone and her neurotic nervous cluck is back. I'm also glad to report that Mr. W has returned to town full-time. Having my right-hand guy here always makes me feel better. Though I'm eternally grateful for both of those things, I'm also thankful for the reminder that lopping a sad story onto a stressful situation only makes everything feel 10x worse. Or as a wise farmer somewhere once said, "A resistant, defeatist attitude never kept any chickens out of the freezer." 

Renovation + Relationship Balance...in the Bathroom

Several weeks ago I was recounting the harrowing story of our master bath tub installation to a friend (it's very heavy and had to be cemented to the bathroom floor, which required many, many rounds of lifting it out of its wooden frame and putting it back in...anyway...) when she remarked that Mr. W and I must work really well together on this sort of stuff.

Yes. And No.

I cannot tell you how many times he has banned me from his workspace. (I ask too many questions and point out too many issues that aren't important in the moment.) And I can't tell you how many times I've nearly beaten him in the head with whatever object I just painted that he scuffed.

Typically, he is all about process and precision and I am all about speed and good-enough aesthetics.

Oftentimes, his by-the-book way of doing things leads to me whining in a pool of salted caramel ice cream, lamenting the fact that we're STILL Under Construction—while my corner-cutting drives him to lecture like Al Gore and curse like Amy Schumer. And then he usually bans me from the room.

But sometimes when the stars are aligned just right, our dueling approaches come together in marital renovation perfection.

For example, during the bathtub installation.

Although Mr. W had a bizarre Rainman-esque talent for applying wood veneer in our other bathroom, when it came time to install the veneer around the tub deck, we hit a wrinkle.

Literally, the veneer wrinkled. And so did Mr. W. He crumpled into the bathtub in total and utter defeat.

Cue my good-enough pep talk. I assured him that we could just cut out a bit of the extra veneer with a razor and flatten it into place and it would look like any other line of wood grain—no one would ever know we had popped a big bubble right there. He begrudgingly complied and you know what? It looks great. And no one will ever notice the line when they look.

The next snafu came when we were trying to get the tub lined up to perfectly sit in the deck hole and nestle just right between the floor joists so that we (haha who am I kidding with this "we" stuff—I meant HE) could connect the plumbing. The only problem was that there was a huge 4" x 4" beam just east of where the drain needed connect through the floor.

Mr. W had to cut the tub deck hole bigger so we could shimmy everything around and Doh—we accidentally ended up with a gap between the deck and the lip of the tub.

He put his head in his hands. I thought he might cry. After all the hard work with the veneer, now there was a stupid gap that couldn't be repaired.

But ah—wait a minute—this corner-cutter is also an expert problem solver.

So saddened by my poor husband's broken renovation spirit, I sprung into action and grabbed an extra piece of quarter-round floor molding. This is where we balance each other out perfectly, my friends. When the perfectionist is near tears, I use my ingenuity to bring him out of it.

"We'll just cut a piece of molding, paint it, spray it with high gloss and it'll look like it's part of the bathtub. Plus, it's on the backside so NO ONE WILL EVER SEE IT." (We say this a lot in our house.)

The clouds parted in his eyes and a little sunshiny ray of hope broke through.

So that is the secret to our renovation success. Picking the other person up after they've fallen (either on their own or because we've knocked each other down). It seems to work pretty darn well.

That said, do me a favor, would you? Don't scrutinize the bathroom when you come visit us.

An in-progress shot of the shower. Mr. W finished tiling, we just have to grout and find a shelf solution for inside the shampoo nook.

I'm in love with the hex tile in the shower floor. We're still installing the final little halvsie pieces (I think Mr. W cut about 85 of them today) but it's going to look great once it's grouted.

Still working out some kinks in the veneer. Need to grout the floor. Oh and then there's the whole building of the vanity and installing the sinks shtick to deal with...

A Tale of Two Light Sources

Back around Labor Day, I noticed that Wayfair.com was having a sale and I decided it was officially time for us to replace the light fixture hanging in our dining room. We've been trying to keep with the mid-century aesthetic of our home and a cool sputnik-style chandelier just felt much more appropriate to the space than the box light that came with the house.

Here's a shot of the old light. Solid, but not very exciting.

I jumped on the sale and ordered the light—of course making sure Mr. W was on board with it before I sealed the deal. Thankfully he was, and a few days later this eruption of chrome-covered disco goodness arrived on our doorstep.

Mr. W went to work hanging and wiring it and once it was done, we turned it on to admire its brilliance.

"It's kind of...loud," he said, eyeing it skeptically.

"It's not—it's beautiful," I countered. "It makes me want to sing the Katy Perry firework song. Lampy you're a fiiiirrework!"

Mr. W wasn't convinced.

A little later, the real crux of the issue occurred to me: I was the new chandelier and Mr. W was the old one.

Mr. W is practical, sleek, sort of timeless, a bit sharp around the edges. He's solid. Maybe even a smidge square. But lights up a room without screaming "Look At Me!" first.

Then there's me... Kind of explosive, limbs often flailing in every direction, a style that most certainly is not for everyone. The opposite of subtle and refined.

Surely if Mr. W could learn to love me, he could learn to love the new light fixture. Surely he could come to appreciate the graphic flowery pattern it casts on the ceiling when it's lit. Surely he would soon feel the urge to dance under it to "Stayin' Alive" and "Boogie Shoes."

I'm sorry to report that he has not joined me for any dining room disco parties, but I do think he's gotten used to the lamp.

And I believe that with some persuasion, Friday nights doing the electric slide under it are just a few short months away.

Grumbling and Graveling in the Backyard

Ever since we started renovating our house, I've had to listen to people gush over how impressed they are that Mr. W is doing most of the work. How does he know how to install kitchen cabinets? That deck he built is beautiful. He did the tile in the bathroom—Gorge! You're so lucky to have him!

Marsha, Marsha, Marsha!

Readers, I've had enough. And I think it's high time I get a little recognition for my contributions—particularly because this week I did something that most every wife I know would never do: I spent every free moment of the better part of my week shoveling gravel and granite in our backyard. I'm not sure whether this makes me a complete idiot or a backyard bad ass.

Let me tell you, it was back-breaking work. Like sweat-all-the-way-through-your-shirt, every-muscle-is-sore, work. Oh, and did I mention it's been about 90° here this week? Yet, I pulled on my garden boots and grabbed my shovel countless times to help transform our yard.

It all started when we killed the grass during our add-on in the spring. We decided we should probably re-seed the grass before Godzilla El Niño hits this autumn/winter—but as part of that, we also decided it would be a good idea to rip out about half of the lawn and replace it with decomposed granite. Although we're supposed to get lots of rain this year, it's clear that we may be in a perpetual state of drought in California, so granite makes more sense than anything that requires water.

Because our baby grass will be fragile once planted, we had to lay down the granite first so that the delivery trucks could drop off loads without running over any fledgling blades.

Monday morning, after we laid down weed-blocking landscape fabric, the local rockery showed up with our base gravel...

I don't know how much the pile weighed but I'm going to guess it was about a sh*t ton. Yep, technical measurement...

We shoveled and raked it all out and then Mr. W compacted it with a fancy machine called "The Wacker." Here he is wacking now...

After that, it was on to two layers of decomposed granite, each of which had to be wacked into compacty perfection. Of course, the nosey chickens broke out of their yard and tried to help. Nothing like chicken poop on a brand new, pristine patio to make your day.

Once the patio was finished, we moved on to the vegetation row that will separate the patio area from the new grass. We planted 20 lavender plants today...again in 90° heat. We need to get another load of gravel to lay in the planter bed, but you can get an idea of what it'll look like in the progress shots below:

I'm pretty excited about how it's all coming along. I'll be really, really excited when we have some living lawn again.

And I'll be really relieved when I can put away my shovel for an extended period of time. But that won't happen until we finish the front yard, too. Stay tuned. And feel free to tell me I'm a backyard bad ass for helping Mr. W with this.

 

Rewards and Punishment in the Bedroom

I've gotten into kind of a bad habit of blurting out inappropriate phrases when Mr. W tells me he's making progress on one of my top priority house/renovation projects.

Like when he said he was going to install the shower backer-board that had been leaning against the wall of our master bedroom for weeks, I think I yelled "Take off your pants!" Or when he said he was going to clean up all the scrap wood from the backyard, I turned to the cat and said, "Your daddy's gonna get lucky tonight!"

On the flipside, however, when he flubs it on something that matters to me, I punish him royally. Like when I casually mentioned 8,000 times that I thought the bedroom would look so much more finished if we could get the window moldings up. He bought the molding; I primed and painted it; and as he was hanging it around the doorway inside the closet he informed me he didn't have enough to go around the windows. He would have to go buy more. Later.

Completely calmly, I said, "Why in all that's great and holy would you install molding INSIDE the closet before you put it on the windows that I have to look at every day? No one looks at the inside of the closet!" Then my head exploded and I had to take an Advil. Punishment exacted. A few minutes later, without an ounce of murder in his voice, he advised, "Maybe if you'd get off your $%*#@*$ a$$ and help me once in awhile, this stuff wouldn't happen!"

And now we get to add the molding fight to our long list of benign, but extremely heated lovers' quarrels. 

It's funny what makes you feel delighted and/or enraged you when you're working on a house...

Now here's a little reveal of one of the happier projects we knocked out in the bedroom: the gallery wall.

Worry not, dear reader, I will be DIYing a bench to balance the big empty space at the bottom there.

Mr. W likes to do things very scientifically, so he busted out his 2-way laser level to get everything lined up just right on the wall.

That's not a big, red bald spot on his head, by the way. The laser is hitting him back there. And yes, his brain is level.

If you're wondering where we got the awesome grapevine, Mr. W found it outside the local recycling center in Solvang and brought it home. Unfortunately it had some sort of burrowing creature living inside of it that withstood a bug bomb inside a trashbag and had to be doused in Raid twice before dying. I'm sure we'll probably wake up with antlers or tails or something one morning because that thing is off-gassing insecticide in our room now...

The final product made me immensely happy, though. It was exactly what I had envisioned—a cool symbol of wine country surrounded by Mr. W's awesome photography. The pictures showcase some of our favorite places we've visited together—Santa Ynez Valley, Monterey, Capri, and Provence. 

And you didn't hear it from me, but Mr. W may have been rewarded handsomely for his efforts on this one...

What to Do When You and Your Husband Want to Give Each Other a Five-Fingered Hug Around the Neck

Remodeling might be one of the greatest tests of a marriage. That and errant hair removal. And traveling with your family. Anywhoo, needless to say, things have been a little tense around our house over the last few weeks.

Mr. W pretty much asked me for a trial separation last Tuesday. "I think you should go to LA for a few days," he said. To which I sat up taller and replied, "NO WAY." Someone has to stick around here to nag and make sure the house doesn't fall into a deeper abyss of disarray and dust.

Having a mattress in our living room and random crap from our bedroom shoved into every available crevice of the house is wearing on us both.

But in the midst of the chaos, I learned a really important lesson about how to break the tension in difficult times.

Mr. W was huffing around trying to get these drywall shim things installed before the contractors arrived the next day while I was wading through the detritus in the backyard, trying to clean up the chicken coop. There was an egg in the coop, so I set it inside the door of the remodel with the intention of putting it in the fridge when I was done outside.

Then I heard a loud, "Awwwwww," from inside our new bedroom.

Immediately, I knew what had happened.

Mr. W had stepped on the raw egg and now it was all over his foot and the floor.

And this, my friends, is what saved our marriage.

Because I couldn't help but laugh hysterically and let go of some of my anger over his hoarding of RC helicopter gear and 31 t-shirts on hangers that I had to squeeze into my closet. I don't know if he stopped being mad at me in that moment—I mean, I did just make him step on a raw egg—but I felt like things improved after that.

So the lesson here is that a little laughter can go a long way. Maybe next time I'll try a banana peel or a bottle of seltzer.

And now, without further adieu, here is an update on our add-on progress:

We're so close to the end. Well, sort of the end. The end of the contractor and mega mess phase. The laying of the floors and installation of the bathroom finishings will be their own animal. But likely not as draining as the hardcore construction.

And if they turn out to be as draining, I'm not going to worry. Because I know exactly where to find an endless supply of raw eggs.

7-Year Crack Itch

Last night as Mr. W and I stood side-by-side in the bathroom getting ready for bed, he turned to me and said, "You are one sexy woman..."

I'll get back to the rest of the sentence in one second.

Yesterday marked the 7-year anniversary of our first date. I remember that night so vividly, still. It was a Sunday. It was chilly. I carefully chose an outfit that was warm but still seemed kind of chic (black sweater, jeans, and flats). I had my hair highlighted the week before. I tried hard to temper my excitement throughout the night as I realized this guy could be somebody important. I'm sure I made coy facial expressions all through dinner.

We ate fondue. We drank wine. Mr. W put his arm around me to keep me warm when he walked me to my car.

We were on such good behavior, so committed to putting our best selves forward to woo one another.

Flash forward seven years, and this is what my husband said to me last night:

"You are one sexy woman. Polka-dot pajama bottoms under your dress while you're scratching your butt."

Yep. I was scratching by butt in front of him. On the anniversary of our first date.

The old seven year itch.

It's funny how relationships transform over the years.

I cannot express enough gratitude for the fact that Mr. W stays married to me even though I act and dress this way (ask him how many times a week I stay in my workout clothes until bed...) He is a gem and I am so lucky he liked me enough on that first date to ask me on another and another.

Before I climbed into bed, I changed out of the flannel pj bottoms and dress and into something with a bit more black lace on it.

And then, of course, we worked on scratching a different kind of itch.....

My Ballast

This week, Mr. W and I celebrated our third wedding anniversary. Well, I shouldn't say "celebrated" because we were about 120 miles apart from one another on the day. We "reached" our three-year anniversary. That feels more accurate.

I was lucky because two of my dearest life coach buddies happened to be staying with me for the week, so they took me to dinner and we toasted my relationship. It was lovely (and delicious—if you ever find yourself at Los Olivos Cafe, order the short ribs) but there was an enormously important component missing.

Last night yet another coach friend came up to the Maris Ranch to spend the night and as we huddled around the coffee table drinking wine and gobbling quinoa salad, she asked me what was going on with my business endeavors.

"All I care about right now is being with my husband," I said.

The other day I did the math and of the three years that Mr. W and I have been locked in wed, one and a half of those have been spent living in different cities.

Half of the time we've been married, we've been apart.

"All I want to do is be with him and work on our house and start really living the life we've been dreaming about for the past few years."

I told her how I'm not my best self when he's away. He brings out something better in me, but more importantly, he keeps me grounded in a way no one and nothing else does.

The title of this post and the boat shot under it might lead you to think I know something about sailing. I do not. But I do know that when I'm away from my husband, I feel like an untethered sail, flapping wildly in the wind. When I'm reconnected to him, I can handle the gusts again.

The girls joked about how he was like my little energetic stability pillar. Which he totally is.

The conversation turned and as we poured more wine, we suddenly heard a commotion come from the kitchen.

I thought it was the cat until all three of the girls shouted, "Oh my gosh, it's him!"

He surprised me and came up a whole night early to be with me closer to our anniversary.

And then he proceeded to hang out and drink wine with my girlfriends and me.

I don't know how I got so lucky to have such a strong, steady person as my own. But I will take him and thank him again and again as he helps me weather every last gust of wind that comes our way.

The Things We Fight About While Building Our Dream Life

I was just telling a friend my favorite Fight-With-Mr.-W story last week and I realized I don't think I've ever told it here. It happened sometime last year. I think maybe the weekend that we "moved in" to the house the first time with our temporary furniture. My parents were coming to help us for the weekend and I wanted to get the guest room all set up for them.

Mr. W wanted to treat the floors with a wood conditioner first.

I said no, that it didn't need to be done—we should just put the furniture in and do it later. He insisted it was important. We went back and forth until finally Mr. W spewed an f-bomb and I knew it was time to give in.

It's so rare that Mr. W ever curses like that. And I kind of love that he did it over floor polish.

Much to my dismay, he was totally right, too. The floors looked spectacular when he was done with them.

Another one of our finer moments likely came from the ongoing wear on our nerves from being apart, juggling too much, and probably not being naked in a bed together often enough (thanks to living in separate cities). It involved a trip to Santa Barbara to run errands that I believed should be completed in a particular order.

When Mr. W disagreed, things got heated and spiraled into a silent treatment shopping trip through Trader Joe's. Honestly, I think it was one of our worst fights. And all about whether groceries should be purchased before or after the bachelorette party gift I had to buy...

Our most recent tiff was over the driveway. I hate our driveway. When I go on walks around the neighborhood, I pine for my neighbors' concrete and gravel drives. I think one of the 10 home ownership commandments is, "Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's driveway," but I can't help myself. So I sketched out a design of how I would like the front and backyard landscaping, and how I thought we could redo the driveway more affordably.

When I presented my brilliant idea to Mr. W, I expected him to compliment me on my determination and design skills. But instead he told me we couldn't dig up the driveway. I reminded him I hated it and he replied with a couple of expletives and an explanation about how we were already spending a lot of money to renovate the house.

Naturally, when we went to bed that night, I slept waaay over on my side of the mattress to communicate to him that I didn't like his tone.

We don't always follow the "Don't go to bed angry" rule, but we do always make up in the morning. It's hard to stay mad at a cute face (I'm not sure he would stay the same). And I've come to realize I like our fights. Because they're completely silly.

I would much rather be yelling at each other over floor polish than infidelity or addiction or financial irresponsibility.

I will gladly take our tiffs over dumb stuff. Which is good because I'm sure there will be many, many more to come.

With This Ring, I Promise Thee Never to Cut Off Thine Finger

Although I have a really fun collection of rings in my jewelry box, ever since I got THE ring in 2010, I don't wear my fun ones nearly as much. Last night we had our first double date with locals in our town and, wanting to get properly dolled up for our date, I decided to don one of my fun rings. I grabbed one with a multicolored browinsh stone that I probably paid $5 for at Forever 21. I shall call her Little Streaky. The minute I slid her onto my finger I thought I might be in trouble.

Back in the day, I wore her on my left hand (which is slimmer than my right) but the old ball and chain ring goes on that hand now, so I had to switch Little Streaky to my right hand. I think she was supposed to go on my ring finger...but I stuck her on the middle one.

Our double date was so much fun, I quickly forgot about my ring woes. We were with our wonderful next door neighbors taking advantage of Santa Ynez Valley restaurant week and, in addition to having a delicious meal (grilled prawn and bacon-wrapped pork tenderloin, thanksforasking), we chatted and laughed and drank wine for several hours. But when we returned home and I couldn't get Little Streaky off, I began to panic.

I tried olive oil. I tried soap. I tried icing my hand to shrink my finger. Nothing worked. Finally I decided to go to bed wearing Little Streaky—hoping that my finger would somehow dehydrate and shrivel overnight so I could get her off in the morning.

I had more than one dream that I was able to remove her when I woke up.

But in reality, she seemed to be fitting even more snugly when I awoke.

I Googled "How to cut a ring off your finger" and found this video about using an elastic band to compress your finger tissue and slide the ring off without having to cut it. Eureka.

I retrieved some elastic from my sewing kit and gave it a try. Total joke. Little Streaky didn't move a millimeter.

Mr. W tried to snap her with bolt cutters but that didn't work either.

It was time to bring in the Dremmel and saw her in half.

"The doctor is ready for surgery," Mr. W said to me as he entered the kitchen with his tool kit and safety glasses for each of us. Immediately imagined the safety glasses getting covered in a spray of blood as Mr. W accidentally dug the saw blade into my finger...

It's funny how being married to someone periodically requires you to fully renew your trust in them. I was pretty terrified that I might get injured during this "surgery" but I had to just trust that Mr. W would be beyond careful and stop the Dremmel before it hit flesh.

As he pressed the spinning blade against the band, a couple little chunks of metal flew off and hit me in the face. Good thing for the safety glasses... We kept ice nearby to cool the metal as it heated under the friction of the saw. I made him stop at least a half dozen times because I was so freaked out.

Finally the groove in the ring seemed deep enough that he could use pliers to pull each side of Little Streaky apart. When he did, her plastic stone popped off and landed on the counter. As soon as I slid her off, I jumped up and down and threw my arms around him.

My finger is still green from wearing a $5 ring for 15 hours.

And I think Mr. W may have missed his true calling...

Thanks, Doctor McDreamy.