5 Years on the Other Side

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I was picking tomatillos in my garden yesterday when I looked down and saw a spider hanging out on the bare part of my flip flop-clad foot. I flailed and cursed for a minute, but quickly went back to my important business. Five years of country living has hardened me against such terrors.

Yep, five years.

August 17th was the fifth anniversary of my arrival here in Santa Ynez. I say "my" because Mr. W didn't officially join me for about 8 more months. Life in the entertainment industry. Sigh.

I'm amazed by how quickly the years have passed. In our time here, we've managed to extensively demo, remodel, landscape, and add on to our house (an almost up-to-date before and after tour here), plant two different gardens that have yielded hundreds of fruits and veggies, say goodbye to two beloved cats, hello to two more that we adore, and raise a flock of six chickens (minus one dearly departed Miss Carrie Birdshaw). I think I've produced more sweat working in our yard here than I did in my entire 37 years in So Cal. But the perspiration, determination, and even frustration have all been worth it.

We really do feel like we did it. We had a dream and we made it come true.

We're living the life we imagined when sat on our patio in Hollywood drafting our plans to move to wine country. It's far from perfect. It's hard to balance the draws of LA—family, friends, work—with our new life here. Mr. W has even been commuting back and forth for a film project since late spring of 2017. We still haven't finished remodeling one of our bathrooms. We had to replant our garden 3 times this summer before figuring out how to fend off the earwigs. A deer broke our young persimmon tree. I break out in a rash every time I make contact with the zucchini plant or certain grasses in our back forty. And Trader Joe's and Target still require a 35-minute drive.

But all of the prickles and inconveniences are no match for the upsides of life here. The strangers who wave from their cars when we pass them on our street. The way that we seem to bump into someone we know every time we go out to dinner. The fact that we can spend an afternoon wine tasting without driving more than 7 minutes from our garage. The beautiful hawks and foxes and quail we get to see wandering through our yard.

The very best part, by far, though is the people we've come to call friends.

Before we moved, my biggest fear and greatest hope centered around making friends. I was so scared we wouldn't find our people. Not having children and working from home, our chances seemed like they might be slim. I'll never forget going to my first yoga class here and scanning the room like a predator looking for potential friend prey.

I still attend the same yoga class, though it's now filled with sassy seniors who take part in women's marches and worry about water conservation and world events. I adore these ladies so incredibly much. They're like my tribe of elders and I love listening to everything they have to say. And, they're not the only extraordinary friends I've made in town.

Mr. W and I had the great fortune of falling into a crowd of a dozen or two couples that all know each other through the community and get together regularly for BBQs and beer nights at the local brewery and holiday parties. We never had a crew like this in LA. We had great friends who were couples, but never a sprawling collection that has come to feel more like family than just friends.

It's all been such an unexpected gift. I had hoped to make a few close friends and it feels like there are at least 20 people I could call now for help or a girls' night out or a shoulder to cry on. I'm amazed by our luck.

And the idea that those friendships and our memories will only deepen over the next five years and the five after that completely warms my heart. We planted a new life and get to watch it grow.

I hope continues to yield delicious and copious amounts of goodness.

Just like my beloved tomatillo plant.

Twenty-Four Months In

Everything's a trade-off. Lovely new bedroom under construction = decimated lawn and yard.

This afternoon I sat on the couch, looking out the window of our living room, watching the stillness of our yard, thinking how peaceful everything seemed. There was no sound except the hum of our wine fridge. With eye closed and ears open, one would never guess that there's still chaos and mess strewn from one edge of the property to another.

I hit my two-year anniversary of living here sometime last week (Mr. W is about 8 months behind me), and I have to say it still feels strange to call this place home. In fact, I still regularly refer to LA as "home." Considering that I lived mostly in the same 25-mile radius for the first 37 years of my life, this home adoption lag seems pretty natural. But I do wonder when the Santa Ynez Valley will really, truly feel like my own. I wonder if I'll ever really, truly feel like we fit in here.

Compared to when we lived LA, it sometimes feels like we're the misfits in town. We're the liberals among the conservatives. The childless among the families. The Prius owners among the SUVs. It's nearly impossible to be a misfit in LA. Especially if you grew up there and still have an army of friends who accepted you years ago for the wackadoodle you are. It's funny how normal it can make a person feel to spend time with pals who carry healing crystals in their pockets and take their dogs to acupuncture. I miss that.

We moved here on a mission to create our dream life—and I think we're trying very hard to do it—but it's equally hard not to miss the old way of living.

That's not to say we don't have plenty of moments and days where I feel like "This is IT! We're finally living the dream!" But those usually end up making me think about when I learned to water-ski. I was so determined behind my brother's boat, hanging onto the tow bar for dear life, fighting to get my balance, finally standing—and just when I'd start to think I had it, I'd inevitably hit a bump and fall back into the water.

The past two years have certainly left me feeling emotionally water-logged.

But I'm not sure that big changes and big challenges ever go any other way. I think trying to raise this house and this life is a lot like trying to raise a kid. Those first couple of years are hell, right? Sleepless, delirious nights, "tools" and mess everywhere, a million decisions that will impact the future.

I'd even compare my lamentations about how hard this process has been to those of a new parent. When I complain, I certainly don't want anyone to respond with, "Well why'd you move there, then?" —just like a new parent wouldn't want me to say "Well why'd you have the baby?"

Deep down both I and the new parents know that ultimately the pains of the first few years—or maybe every year—will pay off when you get to sit back and enjoy the amazing thing you created. I think with each passing year, the moments of proud admiration grow a little longer until finally they far outweigh the moments of struggle and worry and wondering what you were thinking signing up for such a big responsibility.

So, I guess, happy 2nd birthday to our baby. She's a disaster a lot of the time, but I think she's going to turn out to be something really lovely. And the new life and surroundings that came with her are sure to feel homier and homier as time passes. And hopefully when she finally grows up, she'll take very good care of us.

At least she better after the blood, sweat and tears we've invested in her.

One Year In

This week marks the one-year anniversary of my move to Santa Ynez (Mr. W's came later, of course). This is the furthest I've ventured from Los Angeles in all my 38 years, and the longest I've ever stayed away. In college, I lasted only 7 months in Orange County before moving back to my hometown to be near my boyfriend and finish out my education with a 45-minute commute.

It still feels a little strange to be away from LA. Over the past couple weeks, I've had to make trips down, and the same sense washes over me as I coast into familiar territory: I'm HOME. Memories sit on street corners. Comfort creeps in as favorite friends and restaurants and shops come back into my field of view. There's a lightness in knowing that I can run any errand in a few minute's time.

Mr. W gives me a hard time because I still say "When we go home," when I'm talking about trips south. "This is your home now," he reminds me.

And it sort of feels like home. The routine of our days, the hills outside our sliding glass doors, symphony of crickets, creaking of the mid-century floors in the hallway—it all feels right and relaxed. The cats stretch out in patches of sunlight on the living room floor like they've been living here for years. And when I wind my way up highway 154 from Santa Barbara, snaking through San Marcos Pass, past Lake Cachuma, and the stretches of green fields, I feel a strong sense of Peace. And Possibility.

Just not yet Home.

In spite of the foreignness that still lingers over our adorable town, we're very happy. We love what we have discovered here so far.

Every person we've met has been great. Our neighbors couldn't be more wonderful. The friends we've been introduced to are exactly the kind of people I'd order to have in my life. I've even really enjoyed my recent dentist and dermatologist appointments. And don't get me started on how much I love my vet.

We have so much space here—enough for a dozen fruit trees and a flock of chickens and trucks and RVs in the driveway. We have a farm stand up the road from us with fresh organic produce available 24/7. There's a cheese shop in town that not only has some of the most delicious dairy products around, but also one of the sweetest owners ever. I love that we recognize clerks from the hardware store when we're out to dinner. And that people wave at one another when they drive past each other on our street.

The Santa Ynez Valley is truly an incredible place to live.

And it irks me that somewhere with crumbling freeway pavement and too many strip malls and teeth-gritting traffic feels homier than it does here. I really cannot wait for the day when that switch flips and the windmills of Solvang and vineyards of Santa Rita make me feel more at home than the bright lights of Hollywood.

Until then, we'll keep feathering our nest. Making it more and more our own. Connecting with people in our community. Learning the land around us.

Building our home where one didn't used to exist.

It's a Bumpy Ride to the Promised Land

You can just see the top of the Hollywood sign letters peeking up over the truck. The end of an era.

One of the first things we learned in life coach training last year was a handy little assessment gauge called the Change Cycle. It's comprised of four basic stages that spin together to take us through transitions. To better understand the phases, you can think of the metamorphosis a caterpillar goes through to become a butterfly.

Stage 1 is where the caterpillar decides to make the change, thinking in her squishy little head, "I have no idea what the hell is going on...but that's okay..."

Stage 2 is where she builds a cocoon and spends many days in there liquifying and re-imagining herself into a winged creature. This is my favorite phase. Who doesn't like to dream while wrapped up in a comfy blanky?

Stage 3 is where she has to struggle and struggle to free herself from the cocoon. The mantra for this phase is "This is so much harder than I thought it would be...and that's okay."

Stage 4 is the promised land. She's finally a real, live butterfly, free from her cocoon and able to fly wherever she darn well pleases.

Let me go on record and just say: Stage 3 is a bitch.

Apparently if you try to help a butterfly bust out of its cocoon, it will die sooner. The more it has to struggle to become free in stage 3, the stronger it will become.

In coaching, we describe stage 3 as a series of trials and errors. Fits and starts. Attempts and failures. Man, oh man does it wear on you...

This whole moving thing has put Mr. W and I smack dab in the middle of that kind of struggle. For weeks (actually months) it has felt like life is a series of two steps forward, one step back.

After making the first move to Santa Ynez with the cats, I was not only tasked with acclimating to my new (and lovely) space, I got to deal with two trips to the vet, a peeing-on-bedding incident, and a visit from a phone line repairman who I briefly thought might murder me.

We thought the cats were adjusting really well...until this guy climbed on top
of the cute pillows there and unleashed a flood.

I didn't make it through a single day the first week without crying about something.

Last Friday I drove back to Hollywood so Mr. W and I could pack up all of the furniture for the second part of the move. This process, too, was riddled with challenges. The trailer we rented to tow one of our cars wouldn't hold either. The refrigerator took 6 people to get down the front stairs of our house. The truck packing took hours longer than anticipated. 

Unpacking was going pretty smoothly but the cat with the bladder infection decided to pee on our aerobed and bedding three more times this week. Did I mention I don't have a washer and dryer here yet? Tons of fun.

The views here are stunning and are definitely helping me get re-centered. But with that fresh air and open sky comes a whole slew of new wildlife.

I couldn't capture the big bright moon with my little camera. It's really nice
to see the stars at night instead of strobe lights and helicopters.

Tuesday night I came down the hall into the dining room and saw a mouse-sized black cricket crawling next to the sliding glass door. I didn't know what it was at first and my heart hit the roof. It's funny how quickly you can slip into fight or flight... Too big for my beloved bug vacuum, the cricket fell victim to my broom.

I have to say even though he freaked me out, I was kind of happy to see him because I've always heard crickets are good luck.

Maybe the giant moth that I had to capture last night was lucky, too... A symbol of the winged creature I hope to soon become, flying freely in my new promised land.

Phase 1 Moving Day...Please Pour Me a Shot

Oh Stephanie Zinone, I so feel you sister. Just when I found him I lost him. He came home
a month ago and now we'll be living apart again. Thank you, Grease 2, for this gem.

I can't remember which class it was now, but in one of my advertising courses in college we learned a little bit about the psychology behind cognitive dissonance. I think we were discussing buyer's remorse. I don't remember a lot of things I learned in my college days, but the concept of cognitive dissonance has stuck with me all these years. And right now I'm in the thick of it.

I am holding two very opposing thoughts about where I want to live. And starting tomorrow, one of them is a done deal.

It's funny because I've been dreaming about the big move to California's central coast wine country for years—and dreaming of getting out of Hollywood ever since that severed-head-on-the-hiking-trail incident. So it's surprising even to me that I would be feeling any bit of sadness about the transition.

I suppose the biggest contributor to my conflicted feelings is the fact that Mr. W won't be moving with me. Yet, of course. He has to stay in LA until post-production is finished on his film. I just got him back from Vancouver last month and now we'll be apart again.

Live in a city that's not your favorite with your husband you adore OR live in a town you absolutely love, sans husband. 

It feels like Sophie's Choice.

And then there are all the memories that live here. It's where we fell in love. It's where we learned each other and made pancakes and tested our cholesterol with a kit from the Internet. It's where I met our friend Pete. Where we cried and cracked up and shared secrets.

We're not selling the house yet (because the market isn't quite where we need it to be), so it's not like I won't be able to visit. But it won't be ours.

I started to picture other people in the kitchen and it was so bizarre to even entertain the thought.

Maybe the last owner of our new house feels the same. Strange that some odd couple from LA could be sleeping in his bedroom.

Cognitive dissonance.

Life is a weird ride. Thanks goodness we have movies like Grease 2 to provide a soundtrack. 

All Decked Out

How rad are these lamps? I so wanted to get them but Mr. W isn't a fan of gazelles.

Mr. W and I often joke that he is the President in our relationship and I'm the Vice President. Whenever we're doing projects at the house, he's always leading and I'm always acting as sous chef, surgical nurse, or secretary. I'm totally cool with this. I'd much rather be second in command than the person at the top of the responsibility chain. And it makes sense, really, because he's a year and 361 days older.

The great thing is that even though he's the chief, he always takes my opinion into consideration.

Like this weekend when we spent TWO WHOLE DAYS rebuilding our rotting front deck.

Mr. W's BFF came to town a couple weeks ago to help "pull up some of the rotten boards"
and the next thing I knew, the boys had demolished the entire thing. It took so much work
that they weren't even able to start the rebuilding process while BFF was visiting.

In addition to standing over Mr. W holding an umbrella so he didn't get heat stroke or a third degree sunburn while he screwed boards into place, I was able to inject some of my ideas into the decision-making process. Example:

Mr. W: I think we should just put this long board here.
Me: Why would you do that? That doesn't make any sense at all because... (I can't remember the reason now). That's stupid. No, we're not doing that.
Mr. W: Don't call me stupid!
Me: I didn't call you stupid. I called your idea stupid.

We make a really awesome team.

After working about 10 hours each day to get the house rental ready (anyone know someone who wants to rent a house with a nice view in late September or early October?), we retreated indoors to continue packing the never-ending supply of *important stuff* we've amassed throughout our 37+ years. It was super fun. Not.

It's ridiculous how long it took to finish this. And it's not even really finished... Eesh...

We did manage to sneak away for a couple hours early Saturday morning when we had to take our new beater truck to the mechanic to get the shocks checked (remodeling the new house in Santa Ynez pretty much requires that we have a truck, so Mr. W splurged and bought a 1998 Toyota...she's a beaut). While the truck was being inspected, we went to check out a prop clearance shop that Mr. W heard about from a friend at work.

I think there might have actually been less stuff in the warehouse than there is
in my parents' house.... Mama likes to hoard a little.

The place was so cool, even JC was hanging out there.

It was kind of a blast. It's filled floor to ceiling with just about everything you can think of from various TV shows. Apparently a lot of it came from the soap "One Life to Live." But I saw something that said "Reba" on it, so maybe some came from her show, too.

This room had all kinds of fancy paintings in it. Must have been the British room.
It was a little stuffy in there...

Walking through it reminded me of going to Toys 'R' Us when I was a little kid. There was so much good stuff to look at I used to get a headache there. It was total sensory overload. This place was, too, but instead of hurting my head, it delighted my heart.

It took all my restraint not to climb inside this and try to find Narnia.

Have you ever seen so many soap dispensers?
And I thought nobody ever went to the bathroom on TV.

We came home with a brand new $40 sink for one of the new house's bathrooms, and some sconces that were about 65% off the retail price. I could have bought some other knick knacks for the house, but the President silenced my requests. Guess it's time for me to become like all the other wives I know and start shopping behind his back...

This is indicative of how big Mr. W thinks my mouth is.

Trying to Keep the Finish Line in My Sights

My first half marathon. When I was young and in good shape.

There's a reason I've never run a full marathon. Actually probably 20+ reasons... Half marathons are challenging, but they still (somewhat) allow me to maintain my sanity and enjoy the run. I'm almost 100% certain that wouldn't be the case if I did a full 26.2 miles.

Over the last few weeks, I've been feeling like I'm running the final leg of a marathon. I can see the finish line, but my legs are buckling, everything hurts, and I can't hear the people cheering anymore.

I'm pretty much a hot mess.

Remember that post I wrote about all the overwhelm feeling like abundance? That lasted about 24 hours.

After that (and before, too) what it really felt like was complete overload from having a husband out of the country for 6+ months, two houses and yards to care for, cats that are serious a-holes a lot of the time, more travel than I can handle, and a workload that gives me heart palpitations. Oh, and let's not forget this new career path I'm trying to pursue. Yep, I'm the life coach who totally has her act together. Not.

I took my niece to Santa Ynez to celebrate her 13th birthday this past weekend, and everything was going pretty great (she was even patient when I insisted on pulling weeds for 45 minutes Sunday morning) until she alerted me to a bug on the dining room wall. It was a freaking cockroach. In a house that literally has no food stored outside the airtight refrigerator.

Beautiful ride. Even though it was about 92° and we witnessed a squirrel murder.

The roach nearly put me over the edge. One more thing to take care of on my own. One more weight on my overloaded shoulders.

In a state of desperation, I called my mom on the drive home and said, "I need help. I'm going to have a nervous breakdown."

It's not easy to ask for help when you pride yourself on being an independent person. It took a lot to make that call. And after it, I made another to my sister. And then I took my brother up on some additional assistance (he's going to spray the house for roaches).

It's sort of like people have joined me on the race course and have hoisted me up by the armpits to help me get through the last few miles.

It definitely helps. But it didn't stop me from bursting into tears when I found myself scrubbing cat pee off the bathroom floor. And then there were more tears when one of the feline a-holes pooped over the side of the litterbox and I had to clean the floor again five minutes after the first time.

Cats are jerks.

Mr. W comes home in about 6 weeks. I have to travel next weekend and the weekend after, and at least a couple more times in July. Some people think traveling equals vacation. It does not. But it's nice to know that the end is in sight. The finish line is near.

And hopefully there's an ambulance waiting for me just beyond it.

One Is the Loneliest(ish) Number

My life has been filled with a lot of "twos" lately. There are the two cats I've had for over a decade. And the two primary writing clients I've been juggling for the last year. And the two houses I've been inhabiting. The two countries I've been traveling between since Mr. W started his latest work project. And last week, I had two of my favorite coaching cohorts staying with me.

One of the creative directors I work for made a joke that house guests are like fish—they start to stink after about 5 days. But my coach friends were here for 8 and 9 days, and didn't emit a single foul odor. That said, by about the 7th day, I was excited to get back to my solo lifestyle.

And then they left.

They moment the house was quiet and empty, I started to cry.

It could have been from exhaustion. But it was also just that feeling of vacation and fun coming to an end. I was filled with a deep empathy for empty-nesters in those first few moments they're alone at home after their kids have gone off to college.

Even when you're looking forward to flying solo, it still has the power to bring up swells of grief.

This got me thinking about the whittling that will take place in my life soon.

It made me wonder how much sadness I'll feel when I'm fully settled into just one wonderful house. I suspect there could be tears at some point. And don't even get me started on the floodgates that will open when I find myself with only one living cat.

I wonder if, on some level, we always have to grieve losses—even when we want them.

As I adjusted to being the only human in my home, I found myself drawn to one of the things I always know will recenter me: the outdoors. I took to my garden and almost immediately felt reconnected. Even when I am just one, there is no need to be lonely. My backyard is continually giving me new companions.

Tomatoes, anyone?

Although these guys are arriving a little early, they taste amazing.

I ate that big one last week and it was so yummy!

Mr. W and I don't remember seeing any peaches on the tree last year, so I was
really excited when I noticed these little babies today.

Slightly stunted parsnips. Our soil is so hard. But I just roasted and ate these
guys with dinner and they were quite tasty.

And last but not least, our pride and joys: baby wine grapes. Hopefully we'll
be pressing these guys when we live at the new house fulltime.

Maybe (a Little Piece of) My Heart Belongs to Hollywood, After All

The view from one of my flights home from BC.

A funny thing has begun to happen to me lately. In the midst of counting the days until I can get out of Hollywood and get up to Santa Ynez, I've begun to feel a sort of nostalgic affection for my current city. Perhaps because I know I'll be leaving it soon, this strange, sweet appreciation for it has moved to the forefront of my heart.

I've found myself smiling more often at the sight of the colorful people walking the streets. And feeling warm pangs for the tourists who ride about town in their buses, snapping pictures of everything they see.

I even had to bite my tongue on the plane ride home from Vancouver last week when I overheard the Canadians in front of me disparaging my city. "Hollywood is pretty sketchy" one of them said to the others. Like she was some expert. I wanted to tap on the back of her seat and say, "There may be some slightly rougher parts but it's not nearly as bad as you think and the people in the neighborhoods are quite nice." It's sort of just like a slightly egotistical, doped up rockstar village. It may wear too much eyeliner and curse a lot, but there's goodness underneath.

It surprised me to feel that way. After all the beheading/weird neighbor/traffic-induced instincts I've had to flee the city as soon as possible.

But there are still so many good things here. And I'm trying very hard to see and savor them over the next several months. 

I took this about a month or so ago and am astounded by how much the grapevines
have grown in such a short time. They're about 5x this size now. I do love our little
Hollywood "vineyard." It's a good start for the real one we'll have in the next couple years.

This is my favorite tree on our street. I love eucalyptus anyway, but this one makes
the most soothing rustling sounds as the wind blows through it. It's like a natural
relaxation wind chime.

Mr. W hates that we have rogue California poppies popping up in the backyard,
but I love them. They add so much cheer to the scene back there.

Yes, the weather has been so beautiful, I've spent some hours working like this.
And my ghostly white legs are ever thankful for the vitamin D.

I was delighted to partake of a little spring feast this weekend from backyard pickins.
Everything was great except that golden beet. It tasted like dirt so I had to throw it
away. But the artichoke and tomatoes were delicious.

More Moronic Moves and Some House Before & Afters

After last week's unfortunate incident with the nail polish on the couch, I thought my marriage karma had miraculously turned itself around. Mr. W wasn't even really able to pick up my faint smear on the couch, so when we left for Santa Ynez Saturday morning, I thought I was irrevocably back in his good graces.

And then we opened the new faux wood blinds to hang in the kitchen...

As Mr. W pulled them from the box, I said, "I sure hope they're the right size." It was like one of those moments where as soon as you say the words, you know it's all going south. Like, "I sure hope that seagull doesn't poop on me," or "I sure hope the alterations on my dress are right." It's like a done doody deal as soon as you verbalize the hope.

Mr. W carried the blinds to the large kitchen window, and sure enough, they were the wrong size. Not because Lowes had mis-cut them, but because I had mis-measured the window.

Fail.

We had to go across the street and borrow a hack saw from our darling neighbors so Mr. W could cut each individual slat of the blinds. He was not thrilled with me at this point...

Then I went to work spray painting the frame of our guest bathroom shower—the tile was really ugly and we realized we could just paint it white until we demo the bathroom next year. The spray paint canister was a little different from others I've used recently and when I saw a plastic pluggy-looking thing attached to the nozzle, I pulled it out. Then proceeded to spray giant, unruly drops of white paint all over the inside of the shower.

Fail.

Thankfully, Mr. W is smart and told me to reinsert the plug—which was actually some sort of spray diffuser—and it was smooth sailing after that.

Seriously, that man is a saint. He even bought me a card for the five-year anniversary of our first date. I do not know what I did to deserve him, but I'm certainly not paying him back very well with all my home renovation disasters.

Here are a couple peeks at some of the stuff we worked on this past weekend. Just in case you were wondering how the future wine-making facility is coming along... (Please excuse the grainy pictures. I think a setting was wonky on my camera. Add it to the list of things I screwed up this weekend...)

The guest bath was a bit frightful when we first saw it...

 

We think it looks much lighter and brighter and inviting now. 

 

The retro diner booth and table setup was pretty cute, but I'm partial to the new table and chairs...

 

I bought the fabric to recover the chairs at IKEA and, although Mr. W thinks it's kind of an "old lady" print, I dig it. 

 

There's a before pic of the whole kitchen here in case you want a reminder. 

 

It's really nice to be whittling away at the very long to-do list for the house. By Thanksgiving, we should have the outside painted and quite a few more touches complete on the inside. If only we could go live there now...

Two-Timing

When I was a single girl, I often felt like I was living a dual life. I had my apartment, social circle, and niche in my cute little town—then I had the life I lived at my boyfriend's house. For the sake of niceness, let's pretend that boyfriend was only ever Mr. W. 

It was like every weekend I packed a bag and drove 25 minutes away to go enter into my altered existence. In my other house. With my other people. For a long time, this double duty way of operating was exciting. I got to escape to fantasy land four times a month! But after awhile, I just wanted the two lives to become one so I could relax and quit packing and unpacking clothes and all my other important lady items.

Then, of course, I moved into Mr. W's place and missed my cute, girlie apartment for about 4 months. Go figure...

Since we received the keys to our new/future house in Santa Ynez, I find myself feeling again like I'm living a split life. One foot is in Hollywood, enjoying familiar comforts, plugging away at the job that has long served me; the other foot is in Santa Ynez, eager to take a step forward into the realm of wine country life coaching retreats and full-blown backyard farming.

And just like when I was dating Mr. W, every time I have to leave the "other" life, I just want to lie on the floor and have a small crying tantrum.

The new place is just so wonderfulllll...

This past weekend, we went up to work on the house and were lucky enough to get a boatload of help from my parents.

Cute, aren't they?

We didn't just get twice as much stuff done as we would have if it'd been just the two of us. We got about fifteen times as much stuff done. My parents are expert DIYers and almost stubbornly productive. My dad insisted that he had a blast power-washing the house.

However, he was so wet when he finished, my mom hung his clothes on our back fence to dry. Tighty-whites included. Yes Santa Ynez, we are the crazy LA people who put our underwear on display for the entire neighborhood to see...

Here are just a few snapshots of the progress we made Saturday and Sunday:

 

I'm in love with my new rug. It was a steal on RugsUSA.com—75% off, plus free shipping. I think she's so pretty, I'd let Mr. W take her on as a sister wife.

My mom did a bang-up job of recovering the light fixture with a pretty, soft grey, brushed silky fabric. She's like a sharpshooter with a glue gun.

We did some work to the bedrooms, too, but I'll save those for another post. Still lots of items on the to-do list, but at least it feels like we're making a dent. The funny thing is, this is all just interim renovating. Sometime in 2014, we'll be gutting the entire kitchen and both bathrooms. But for now, we'll enjoy our seahorses and retro ash cabinets. And maybe we'll miss them when our dual lives reunite and we're finally living together under our new roof.