She Likes Purple

Distress Call: Internet, Please Help

Even though I've far exceeded the healthy amount of blog posts for a single week, I need a little help. Mike's birthday is this coming Wednesday. He is turning 30. This is a big one and for someone (me!) who celebrates half birthdays* and three-month anniversaries, my husband's THIRTIETH birthday has been on my mind since April. I kid you not.

I'm putting together a video for him. And I need great songs to go along with it.

Suggestions? Off-the-wall songs I've probably never heard of? Classic songs that'll bring down the house? Anything other than Greenday's "Time of Your Life" which is ALL I CAN COME UP WITH?

Rachel, this is one post you are not allowed to not comment on, and I don't even care if this sentence ranks me FIRST on the list of English majors who deserve to have their degree snatched from their crazy little hands. (Or their closet, which is where my degree currently resides.)

*Just this past July, I actually said the words, "But you didn't do anything for my half birthday." Pity anyone who's obligated to love me.   

Two Post Friday*

First things first: BLOGHER '08 IS IN SAN FRANCISCO! I'm going. Are you going? Let me know. It's from July 18-20 and registration doesn't open until November, I believe, but it's never too soon to plan.

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Should we talk about the Grey's premiere? The opinion heard round the Internet is that it 1) got it's ass kicked by CSI and 2) was a pathetic premiere AT BEST.

What did you think?

Sometimes when a few lead characters go missing (read: get spin-offs! get fired! go to rehab!), the show suffers not. Both LOST and 24 have managed to get stronger/better after key characters were let go/decided to go. (HOLY HELL, Tony is rumored to be returning to 24!)

But, well, last night Burke and Addison's absence was palpable. Also, George? PERK THE FUCK UP! But Izzy said "word," so I still think the season has potential to get better. Call me optimistic but I didn't think it was shockingly horrible or anything like that.

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Also, this absolutely inspired me to do the same. Expect that tomorrow.

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I bought this top yesterday for FIVE DOLLARS (color: oxygen). I wore it today.

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Mike and I are headed to Texas Roadhouse tonight for dinner. I hope you're having a fantastic Friday night, as well. Whatever it is you're up to.

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*I may be a glass of champagne (or four) into my night.

Molly Told Me So

Last night after we watched The Office premiere* I took a shower. When I was done, I walked into the computer room to find Mike reading my blog. Of course I would never post anything I thought he'd be uncomfortable with the world knowing, so I wasn't worried, but I was surprised when about a half hour later he was STILL READING. I paused All My Children** and went back into the computer room.

Jennie: What are you doing?

Mike: Reading.

Jennie: Yeah, but why?

Mike: You're funny. These are really good. But couple questions: WHAT THE HELL IS THIS? AND THIS?

*How many times did you rewind your DVR to watch Michael plow Meredith over with his car? We watched that scene at least four times. We watched Pam and Jim's kiss 16 times. We fist-pumped roughly 87 times throughout the entire hour.

**STOP JUDGING!

Whatever Gets You Through

Mike and I came to The Office relatively early and for a while it felt like we had stumbled upon our own little secret as so many people didn't seem to get it. I often heard, "It's just not, well, funny." Mike and I constantly found ourselves saying to one another, "This show is brilliant! I can't believe other people don't get it! It's just so good! Let's make Jim Halpert faces at each other again, OK?" And then we'd smirk because we? WE GOT IT. America eventually called our bluff and the show exploded and everyone else got it too. But for those of us who have watched from the very first stapler-in-the-jello episode, the show's popularity is just ever-so-slightly bittersweet.

I can only liken it to the small local band you saw every Thursday night at your favorite hole-in-the-wall bar. The band whose lead singer took shots with you that one time. But then the band went and got themselves famous (the nerve). And now everyone thinks the band is their band and it annoys the hell out of you because they weren't there back then, when the bass player was feeling you up between sets. THEY DON'T KNOW.

The Office is kind of like that. (With Creed as the inappropriate bass player.)

You want your favorite show to do well. Hell, you don't want it to remain a complete secret like CERTAIN SHOWS (coughveronicamarscough), getting canceled before even the whisper of syndication is heard. But you don't want everyone to love the show as much as you love it because, seriously, how? HOW COULD ANYONE LOVE THE OFFICE MORE THAN ME?

Mike and I began watching The Office while we were living with his parents. (Oh, you didn't know? Mike and I lived with his parents for roughly seven months right out of college.) (ENVY US.) It wasn't an easy time for us, and not because we were living with his parents. (I won't talk much about my in-laws because they didn't ask for their son/nephew/cousin/brother to marry the crazy girl with the crazy verbal-vomiting habit. Meaning, I feel a strong urge to protect them. But Mike's parents took us in and let us live—rent free— in their home, while cooking for us and taking care of us and, basically, saving our lives. For that, they will always be two of the most astoundingly giving people I'll ever know.) But it was a very hard time for us because even though I had a college degree, I didn't have the ability to MAKE MONEY SHOOT OUT OF MY ASS. I had just started working for the company I'm with now, and I was working for not a whole lot. Mike wasn't working at all. We had debt. We had bills. And we had a suicidal dog who shoved a piece of something into her eye, causing it to swell shut and causing us to spend well over $200 to hear the vet say: "Just watch her. It'll probably fall out and heal on its own." Thanks, asshole. Of course we'll watch her, seeing as we have no money with which to do ANYTHING ELSE.

We lived— stuff included—in one room, with very little floor space and Molly's bed kept in the closet, where our shoes would occasionally fall on her head. We didn't have much to fill our time, so we played games and downloaded a plethora of TV shows. (Don't believe me? We still have every episode of Duck Tales on some hard drive, somewhere.) The Office was one such show.

We would curl up on our bed, Molly between us, and laugh hysterically during a very laughter-light time in our lives. In our relationship. Then we'd watch each episode over again.

I think we always believed we'd make it through that time, as a couple, but I know there were some very serious discussions about depression and unhappiness and JESUS WILL OUR ACCOUNT BALANCE EVER APPEAR IN A COLOR OTHER THAN RED? And we grabbed on to anything that brought us closer, anything that reminded us that our favorite thing to do together was (is) laugh.

The Office very much reminded us. So much so that I mentioned it in my vows to Mike. It's more than a show to us, and lord this post just became the cheesiest bunch of words I've ever written.

I'm going to stop now and sum it up with this:

My husband and I are quite excited about one particular premiere tonight. And if we can make it, Pam and Jim absolutely can, too.

(And they sure as hell better or SO HELP ME, NBC.)

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(Happy fifth anniversary, Rachel and Mike!)

Letter To My 17-Year-Old Self

Inspired by Amy's writing prompt.

Dear 17-Year-Old Jennie,

First, stop cutting your jeans and instead put "boot-cut denim" on your Christmas wish list. You're ruining your wardrobe, and in five years when you work your butt off and can once again fit into those skinny things, you'll look stupid and you'll only be able to wear them to check the mail. And even then, the neighbors will snicker. Although six months after that your toe won't be able to fit into them so maybe wear them as much as you can. Even though it's really not a good look. Neither are those Doc Marten sandals. (The ones that weigh five pounds. Each.)

Also, more studying! In just about a year's time you're going to graduate from high school 49th in your class. The kicker: There will be 480 graduating seniors.* And that math is crueler than Algebra II was, I know. So stop winging it during tests. And even though you'll eventually get into your dream school, it will be touch-and-go for a while and you don't deserve that stress, what with all the jean-cutting energy you obviously need.

Now, he hurt you, I know. He forgot all there was to love about the two of you because of the new people in his life. And it feels as if you must hang on to the shreds of the relationship that are left, but, no, you don't. Walk away with your dignity in tact. You're going to fall in love again, sooner than you think and when you do, he'll come back. He'll come RUNNING back. And you'll say no, and you'll mean it. So, trust me, say no right off the bat. And save yourself the humiliation. Hold that chin up and wish him well and take the memories with you when you go. (And since I know you're going to flat-out ignore me, just know people care about you and want to help you through this. Some things you must face alone but this is not one of them.)

Please don't quit your job because he still works there. He'll quit like a week after you. Lazy bastard.

I'm not even going to touch on food here because regardless of what anyone says, it's a battle you need to fight and this is one of those things you have to go at alone. But you'll be OK. Eventually, my girl, you'll be just fine.

I want to tell you what's in store for you, to keep you holding on. But I know you're going to hold on anyway. I know you have this beautiful belief that things will get better, just up ahead. And you know what? One day you'll be right. And you'll meet a certain redhead and he'll quiet all the noise. And you'll watch The Office together and rewind Sonic commercials and ... well, I don't want to spoil everything because when he arrives, it's going to floor you. It's going to stun you with its un-expectancy. And you're not going to believe you deserve all that fun. All that happiness.

But you do. You always have. 

Love,

25-year-old Jennie (Lord, almost 26. Come to think of it, how about we scratch everything above and let me just hate you and the size of your 17-year-old ass for a little while.)

P.S.: I can hardly wait for you to meet Molly.   

P.P.S.: Just one thing: JOEY PICKS PACEY!

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Note: Top 10 percent of any Texas graduating high school class received automatic admission to any state public school in the year 2000. 49 of 480 = Top 10.2 percent.

I Want

I want to lose weight, to drop the 30+ pounds I've put on over the last year.

I want to continue working out, adding more nights (and more classes) to my routine.

I want to wear the clothes in my closet that haven't seen the light of day in months.

I want to actually send the birthday/anniversary/engagement/thank-you cards—all piled nicely on my back-room table—to the various friends and family for who they were intended.

I want to get Christmas presents taken care of before the month of December. (Most people will be getting framed photos from us, as we're poor. And we'll also be jumping on the Secret Santa bandwagon whenever we can.)

I want to print and frame some of the great photos we've taken over the last year, especially from our wedding. It's been four months and there's not a SINGLE wedding picture framed in our home.

I want to organize my closet.

I want to keep our house picked up and clutter free.

I want to turn off the TV and computer more than I currently do, which is never.

I want to begin and finish Pride and Prejudice next month. I've never read it, and although I hear it can be a beating to get through, I WANT TO READ IT. I was an English major. It's embarrassing how few classics I've actually read. (Although I'll never pick up another Dickens title, and I'm fine with that.)

I want to take Molly for more walks.

I want to cook (notice I can't say more, as I currently don't cook at all). I have a subscription to Everyday with Rachael Ray, but I've never made a single dish from the magazine. I doggy-ear like a crazy woman but I need to stop microwaving or making toast (fine, or picking up Taco Bell) for dinner and really step it up in the kitchen. There's no excuse, and I know that.

I want to have dinner parties and make fun cocktails.

I want to explore our city more often. It's often said that you don't have to leave town to take a vacation. You can go to museums, hot spots, great restaurants, plays, city events, B&Bs, downtown hotels, etc, without ever getting on a plane. But instead we go to On the Border or the local Cinemark for entertainment. Why? I really don't know.

I want to run races, 5Ks and 10Ks and eventually sprint triathlons.

I want to be nicer to Mike when he's behind the wheel. He drives too fast, too aggressive, and I hate it. But I always ask him to drive, and that's hypocritical of me. And, also, since we began dating, my number of wrecks total more than his. So, I'm not sure where I found my soapbox, but it wasn't at Valid-Reasons-to-Yell-'R'-Us.

I want to see a movie by myself. Dooce said Once is week-changing (and, just as with Oprah, I'll do whatever Dooce tells me to do), and it's playing a block from my office. If a co-worker or friend can't go with me, I need to go alone.

I want to take a picnic lunch to the park (with my husband and dog) before the weather cools off. Thankfully, we have a few extra weeks than the rest of the country to enjoy being outside (or at least to put off wearing a coat).

I want to own a winter coat (I never have; I'm not lying.)

I want to decorate my house for Halloween.

I want to host a Halloween party. Mike's already said OK, so I should start planning the menu and the guest list and, of course, the Halloween cocktail.

I genuinely want all of these things, yet can't find the motivation to go about DOING ANY OF THEM. It's not exactly the best way to live life, wanting so many things I can actually have yet obviously not wanting them enough to STEP AWAY FROM THE DVR or, sadly, a value meal from McDonald's (with a sundae for dessert).

I need to go after what I want.

It's not as if I have an endless amount of time. It's not as if balance will ever get easier. It's not as if I have anyone to blame but myself, and perhaps the laziness I inherited. (It has to be inherited, right? It comes pretty damn naturally.)

It's not as if happiness is for someone else to give me.

It's up to me to make my life what I want it to be. And I'm sick of pretending it isn't.

The Riesling I Love This*

I've read entries around the blogosphere about bloggers' "real life" friends not understanding why they post on the Internet (aka, porn mecca). And I think some of my friends don't quite "get it" either. We're taught to be skeptical of Cyberspace, and for good and valid reasons. We're taught to keep our hearts and our confessions where they belong: OFF OUR SLEEVES. (Or, if we're being more literal, off any potential Google search results list; it's not exactly comforting when some weirdo nut job individual searches how to make girlfriend turn purple and decides your site must have the answer.) (If you've found your way back, Barney-fetish friend, welcome! Lovely to have you return!)

Oh, yes, back to my point.

My favorite book is Melissa Bank's The Girl's Guide to Hunting and Fishing, and one of my favorite passages from the book is this exchange:

Voice inside Jane's head: He'll think you're a weirdo.
Jane: I am a weirdo.
VIJH: Well, don't go wearing it on your sleeve.

And suffice it to say, at the end of that book, Jane put her weirdness out there. And did I ever love her for it. As that's the only way I know how to be, candid about my crazy. I imagine if you're a regular reader, there's a good chance you've caught yourself—at one time or another—rolling your eyes and/or wishing I'd just, you know, take it down a notch. And I could definitely try to make things easier and more pleasant around here, sure, but it would be exhausting, and I need every last ounce of energy to prepare myself for The Office's season premiere next week. And to continually mourn the end of Veronica Mars. (No. I won't get over it. But thank you for asking.)

So this is what I do. I blog about big chunks of my life, and I love it. It's therapy. It's an outlet. It's a way to remember. It's a way to let go. It's a part of me, and you don't have to get it, but I thank you all the same for trying. And if you do get it, I thank you more than you'll ever know.

(All that above: grand build-up to the following.)

I'm not exactly sure how, but a few months (?) ago I stumbled upon Le Petit Chic and I think I may have sent an "I'm a newlywed! Hi! Wanna be friends?" e-mail, and apparently didn't scare her which says oodles about how awesome she is. She wrote back. We began mutually commenting and e-mailing, while cooking up grand BlogHer '08 plans.

Katie is also newly married and adorable and a gem. Today, when I got home from work, there was a bottle of wine waiting for me. From her.

I have no idea what she's referring to. Tequlia? Me? No. Never. And 175 pictures from my bachelorette party, where I'm taking a tequlia shot OFF A STRANGER, do not exist.

Katie! I too have personalized stationary!

Angella, the quasi-blurry background is all because of you! Thank you for your Foto Fridays!

Katie went to a wine festival this past weekend and bought me—technically a stranger—this bottle of Riesling-esque wine. In the words of my husband, "I wouldn't have believed someone could be so nice if I wasn't holding the proof."

It is such a comfort to know that these daily confessions I insist on making are embraced by total strangers. And that through this lovely little hobby of mine, I've found a friend.

The world is vast and enormous and there's little chance I would ever have met Katie without the Internet, bridging a million gaps every day.

I think Al Gore would be proud.

Thank you, Katie.

(And Happy Birthday!)

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I'm tempted to save the bottle and bring it with me to BlogHer. But, I'm also tempted to open it this very second and pour it into my stemless wine glasses while watching seasons one and two of The Office in EAGER ANTICIPATION OF NEXT WEEK.

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We're off tomorrow morning, earlier than Saturdays should be allowed to begin at. We're going to our nephew's first birthday party. We'll be back Sunday, with pictures and more exhaustion than we took with us, I'm sure.

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Happy weekend, Internet.

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*You're laughing, right? At the fabulous pun I just pulled off? You promise?

In The Fragments Of Songs

You often hear it said that scent is the strongest sense tied to memory. And I suppose it's hard to argue with the logic of an Old Spice commercial, but nothing brings me back to any given moment of my history quicker or with greater strength than music.

When I was little I would push the living-room furniture against the walls and pretend the bare carpet was a dance studio. I'd dance to Billy Joel's "Uptown Girl" or Bobby Darrin's "Mack the Knife" with as much passion and fervor as any six year old could. I combined fluid body rolls and waving arms with tight neck pops and precise arm movements. I looked ridiculous, and I didn't care. I have always meant to thank my parents for letting me do that without ever making me feel self-conscious or without yelling at me for scuffing up the walls with the coffee table.

My dad told me "Gypsy" by Fleetwood Mac has always made him think of my sister because he stumbled upon her dancing in our living room one day, to that song. Now he'll always have a song to bring him back to her.

When my brother was born I used to sing Kenny Loggins' "Pooh Corner" to him. I'm a horrible singer, but I hoped by singing to him, back then, he'd feel how his birth helped me shed all the pain from my parent's divorce. How his mere existence breathed life into me, and all I wanted, from that day on, was for him to be happy. That's all I still want.

In seventh grade, Natalie and I choreographed a dance to Toby Keith's "Shoulda Been a Cowboy" and although it makes me cringe a bit—we chose that song?—anytime I hear "California's full of whiskey, women and gold," I smile. I think of our friendship: how much it's been through, how far it's come, how lost I was when life (and poor choices) took me away from my best friend. Life with Natalie has always made more sense than life without her.

In 1995 I sat in front of my boom box, waiting for our local Top-40 station to play TLC's "Waterfalls" (with the rap!), so I could record it onto my patiently waiting blank tape. There was something incredibly exciting about the build-up and the anticipation and then finally hearing your favorite song of the moment. I don't know what I think about iTunes and MySpace and plain Google stealing that feeling from generations of angsty teens.

During high school, I performed a solo in front of my drillteam as part of a final round of officer tryouts. I choreographed it myself and it was rough and pathetically amateurish, and I cringe thinking about it in comparison to the studio routines of the other officer hopefuls. I danced to "Lucky" by Seven Mary Three. Somehow, I made it.

In high school, I fell in love with someone, and there are so many songs that bring him flooding to the front of my memory, but there is one song I play only in my most nostalgia-soaked moments. "Not Forgotten You" but Kelly Willis. He was a hard one to get over, but once I moved past him, I realized I had learned one of the greatest lessons first love teaches us: given enough time, you can heal from just about anything.

In the winter of 2000, my dad, sister and I all rode together to Seattle from Northern California (to settle my sister into her new home). During the trip we took turns choosing the music. My picks were limited to whatever my college-freshman self kept in her CD book. (Texas country, most likely: Pat Green, Roger Creager, Robert Earl Keen.) Rachel would pick "Best Of" box sets that ran close to three hours and my dad would pick the Gypsy Kings or Sade. We'd all moan our way through the other's selections, but I remember that ride from Petaluma to Seattle as some of the best days the three of us have ever spent together, contradicting music tastes and all. Every now and then when the radio is feeling extra kind or my iTunes sifts through Greenday's entire repertoire to land on Jackson Browne's "Sky Blue & Black," I'm catapulted back to that road trip and I think of all we've been through, my broken well-intentioned family. And I remember all the times words have failed us while music never has. (And the far too simple beauty / of the promises we made.) 

The first time I heard "18th Floor Balcony" by Blue October—a little over a year into my relationship with Mike—I imagined us dancing to it on our wedding day. And it was the last song that played at our wedding. We drunkenly danced to it, whispering the words into each other's ears. My husband and I. A dream realized. (We talked about moms and dads, about family pasts / just getting to know where we came from / I can't believe this is happening to me / And I raised my hand as if to show you that I was so yours for the taking / I'm still so yours for the taking.)

I'm making new memories even as I sit here, listening to "The Fear You Won't Fall" by Josh Radin. And how the chords and the slow rise of the chorus put me in the mood to write. It reminds me of what music should always be.

And there are thousands more. From Van Morrison to Jennifer Knapp. From NSync (seriously) to Rascal Flatts. From Starship to Journey to Ben Folds. And every song I've every heard by Matt Nathanson.

Songs that will never be just songs. Songs that make up the soundtrack of my life, setting every moment on fire. 

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What are those songs for you?

Inquiring Minds And All

This morning, I left a request (via comment) for Type (little) a to interview me. She sent me five questions less than a half hour later.

Before I post my answers, here's a fun little pass-the-wealth disclaimer: leave me a comment telling me you are interested/bored/lovely enough to humor me, and I will create five interesting and unique questions for you to answer. (I'll send them to you via e-mail.) You can post your answers on your very own blog (or just e-mail them to me, if you'd rather). Then the lovely blog chain of Q&A can go on and on and on until we all know all there is to know about all people everywhere. And we'll have more time to focus on napping and drinking, then.

So, here you have it:

1. What did you want to be when you grew up?/How far is it from what you do now? From Kindergarten through my junior year of college, I wanted to be a teacher. I worked with children all through high school and college (daycares, preschools and as a nanny). Although I have always loved working with kids, it became so obvious to me—one day—that teaching had stopped being my calling/passion. I now work in publishing.   
2. Crocs? Spectacular or stupid? I like them! I almost bought a pair this past Saturday night but I was just tipsy enough for Mike to talk me out of the purchase. A lavender and pink pair are both on my wish list, though.
3. What keeps you up at night? Money woes, work stresses or the sounds of the raccoons playing in our backyard.
4. Are you passionate about anything? I am passionate about much, thankfully. I could easily rattle off a long list of things that excite or breathe life into me (and that list would absolutely include Brooke and Lucas from One Tree Hill and every track on the latest Mandy Moore album) but I think at this junction in my life, I'm most passionate about two particular things that may seem a bit contradictory but are actually quite conducive to the other. I am equally passionate about the strength of my marriage and keeping my individuality in tact.
5. What do you like on your hamburger? Cheese, jalapeños, mustard, mayo, avocados, bacon, sometimes mushrooms. Is it a wonder I'm overweight?

(FYI: The questions will be different for each commenter. Aren't you dying to see what I'll think up for you?)

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I'm asking a lot of you with this post, I realize. My husband has been working until well past midnight all week, so I feel the need to demand things of SOMEONE.

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Wanna make me dinner?

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Thanks to Type (little) a for the questions!

Four

Mike and I have been married for four months today. And although that's nothing, merely a drop in the marital bucket to those who have really been in the trenches, these four months have been everything to me.

Every day with him is everything to me.

What Happens When Dad Works Late, Part Two

Molly would like me to disclaim that the gray chin whiskers are absolutely the fault of her breed or, quite possibly, her neurotic parents and are NOT because she's an old maid. SHE IS NOT THE BRIDGET JONES OF HUNGARY.

Also, she'd like me to mention she enjoys her torn-apart toy being on top of her head and she's not posing or obeying or BEING A DOG in the picture above. She'd never ...

Molly's mother would like to say:

MOLLY NEEDS TO BE CUT OFF AFTER TWO BEERS.

(Also, apparently, when Mike works late his wife and dog as well as all blogs posted in his absence suffer. Eh, it is what it is.)

What Happens When Dad Works Late

Mama, don't you post this on the Internet. Paper trails always kick your ass in the end. Remember that one time, when Dad found all those Target receipts? REMEMBER MAMA!

I'm bored. Will you un-pause The Hills?

Sometimes I'm not even sure why he married you.... Give me another beer and I'll take it back.

Take Two (Thousand And Eighty-Five)

I may as well go ahead and admit something.

My diet is waiting for me back in late August. I left it there, turned my back and walked away. No explanation given. It was loyal and decent and it deserved better than that, I know.

All my grand declarations of dieting intent were, apparently, made in vain as I sit here with an empty Sprinkles box on my desk.

I've kept up with working out. I've become almost decent at kickboxing and I'm enjoying other classes, from Yoga to Power Sculpt. But all the exercise I've done over the last month or two hasn't seemed to offset the total and utter crap I keep ingesting.

I really have no excuse. I am trying to come up with something—anything!—to validate my fatty fatness. But, no, I just really like buffalo wings and cupcakes and Taco Bell cheesy gordita crunches. Also beer.

I thought this site would hold me accountable for my weight loss, but: HA! You can't see me Internet, so excuse me while I post about my lovely goal to be teeny-eensy-tiny and then sneak into the kitchen to inhale a medium pizza. Because if you can't see it, it's like I didn't eat it at all.

So, what now?

I'm not entirely sure. I know I want to lose weight. Need to lose weight, even. But I'm not losing weight. So here I go again, hoping this time the dieting will stick. Unlike the last 85 times.

Sigh.

I'm updating you and leaving you hanging, I know, but I have no witty/funny/deep/original thought with which to end this post.

So I'll end by saying, weight loss is tough. For me, it's a very cyclical thing. I've never maintained my weight. I've always gained or lost or been in the process of one or the other. And I feel I'm at the beginning of the fight more often than not. And when I, quite rarely, inch closer to the finish line, I reward myself with a bowl of ice cream. Followed by another 57 bowls. As I've mentioned before, I have a slight issue with balance.

I'm going to try. And I'll probably stumble and binge and screw up. I can pretty much guarantee that. But I'll come back here and be honest with you when that happens. So if you're dealing with weight loss, you can breathe a sigh of relief with me since we're not alone, or you can give me tips on what worked for you if you've had great weight-loss success. (Note: my goal is still to tackle Weight Watchers, and to throw in the Couch to 5K program, which I hear is awesome, but I'm still 100 percent open to what worked for you because I apparently don't have a fail-proof plan going on here.)

I usually have the very best of intentions and I articulate them, to boot. And then, just like that, it can all fall apart because a piece of cake looked at me the right way.

But I promise to always try my very best to share with you how I feel in this moment. On this day.

I hope that's enough for you. And I hope by it being enough for you, it will begin to be enough for me.

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Google Reader? Where have you been all my life? Oh, right there. I see. I'm the idiot who didn't know of you until today, you say. Well, back off Google Reader. I've been a busy girl, what with all the browsing on YouTube for Britney's glory-days videos.

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Pandora? Where have YOU been, also? You've been much sneakier than Google Reader, don't pretend you haven't. And you're free! You're like the sneakiest sluttiest most wonderful thing I've ever stumbled upon. Aside from my husband.

Tucked So Close*

I sometimes get hesitant to publish entries about any specific friends or family for a couple of reasons: 1) Most of my readers don't know my friends/family, so I'm afraid it comes across a bit self-indulgent and 2) my family and friends didn't ask for me to choose this outlet. They didn't ask for me to enjoy writing about my life and my issues on the INTERNET. And some of them, I'm sure, would rather I just quit it already. I know it's a fine line between honoring and exploiting.

I usually go ahead and post pictures, stories, letters because this hobby all boils down to remembering today for what it is, not for what it will look like in a few years when recalled by my fuzzy alcohol-soaked memory and, also, (thank goodness) I have incredible friends and family who are supportive and encouraging. And I hope they know I'd remove anything in the blink of an eye if it made them uncomfortable.

One person who is not only supportive of all this but of the person I am, is my sister, Rachel.

She turns 29 today.

(You can't see Rachel's basket, but take a look at mine. ONE LONELY EGG. I guarantee she wasn't holding the 27 or so others to help me balance the weight. Also, I was apparently Amish as a child.)

Rachel and I are very different people, starting with our hair. We're the first to tell you that, and we both don't pretend our relationship has always been easy or smooth. But as all sisters can attest, one of the most comforting things in this world is having someone who knows exactly what life has put you through and loves you all the same. Sometimes it floors me when I recall the good and bad of my childhood, because she was there for it all. She gets it and when I talk about how royally nutty I am, she reaches a hand out (even from another country) and says, "I think you turned out beautifully." And I believe her.

 

Rachel taught me how to read when I was four. When I started Kindergarten, I thought everyone would be reading. But no, I was the only one. I was taken out of class to read with a private tutor (to gauge my reading level). I was all, Bring it, bitches. My sister taught me like fourth grade shit. I read a book to the class, about apples, and everyone watched me, mouths agape. I didn't realize, back then, what an incredible gift Rachel gave me. She instilled confidence in me. I truly thought I was smart. And I lived in that blissfully ignorant state until I walked into my first college class and realized I probably plateaued around middle school. I don't think it occurred to me until college that Rachel—my teacher—was the smarter one. And still is.

Rachel sent me a list of things she wanted for her birthday this past week, and I picked one or two things that jumped out at me. I will mail off her present this week (belated! I'm sorry!) and my one wish is that I could be there when she opens it. I wish I could be there to see her happily enjoy her gifts, her day. I wish I could be there to drink cocktails with her. I wish I could be there to take in a movie on a Sunday afternoon. I wish I could be there to whine about how difficult life is and have her offer me a beer while watching The Bachelor? I wish I was there for it all.

My sister lives in Canada, with her beautiful family. And I live in Texas with mine. And yet we're eternally connected. Although it breaks our respective hearts to be so far away from one another, especially when the urge for happy hour or brunch or a shopping spree overcomes us, Rachel is one of my very few certainties. I know life will never keep us apart longer than we can stand.

(I'm wearing my mom's sweater, and Rachel's thinking, Lord child, stop touching me.)

(Rachel's wedding, almost five years ago.)

My sister became a mother a little over a year ago. To my baby nephew, Noah. Mike and I are talking/whispering/thinking about/considering having a baby of our own in the next year or so. And I wonder what that will bring. I think about it a lot: if we're ready, if we're strong enough, if we're young enough, if we're old enough. I have a lot of doubts, but I also have my sister. And she's been through it and she knows and she loves her baby boy so much. I wonder how I could possibly do right by our future child. How will I ever love our kid enough? And then I sigh and remember, Rachel will help me through it. She'll be there.

Just as she's always been there.

When I was four years old my sister taught me to read. She made me feel capable and smart and ready. She has made me feel that way every day since. And I don't think she even knows it.

Happy Birthday, Rachel. I love you.

::

*Always in the heart, tucked so close there is no chance of escape.—Katherine Mansfield

I'm Going To Talk About Britney Spears Now

Six years ago I was a sophomore in college, waiting at the bus stop after an early-morning history class. A girl was frantically crying nearby, and, honestly, she was annoying the hell out of me. I was obviously horrified in retrospect, but at the time she was shrieking in a very high-pitch volume and it was, as you can guess, just after 9am. She was yelling about needing a cellphone, and I didn't have one to loan to her. I got on the bus, and so did she. It took about ten minutes to add the newscast playing on the bus radio and her sobs together. Towers? Terrorists? Planes? She was shrieking about someone she knew in New York? It didn't quickly compute. And when it finally sank in, well, wow. It was just as all moments of its magnitude are: surreal. When I arrived home, I picked up my keys and my phone and drove back to campus to retrieve Lauren, my roommate at the time. We spent much of the rest of the day glued to the TV. We were like countless Americans in that we felt helpless, and absorbing information seemed to be all we could do.

It's been six years since 9/11, and the biggest news nugget of this week is how Britney Spears ruined her career by trying to seem sexy while carrying an extra ten pounds and by not dancing enough during her recent VMA performance. There's some sick voyeuristic pleasure in tearing down a young woman— a young mother—because she's what exactly? Stupid? Pathetic? Self-destructive? Angry? Broken? Chubby? Ruined?

To say our country is no better than it was six years ago feels like quite the understatement.

Our country gained and then gradually lost perspective after 9/11. And although we're fighting a war overseas, I feel we're desperately off the mark within our own borders. We're exploiting celebrities, making cultural excuses for severe animal cruelty and we're more than four years into a war that our president claims we're "kicking ass" in, but to me four years is simply too long time for so many people (so many kids) to be away from home, fighting for a goal that has become fuzzier and fuzzier.

I watched the VMAs this past Sunday because I was curious, like the rest of America, to see how Britney would do. I wanted her to wow us and, as you may know, she didn't. She lip-synced, as she's been known to do, and she looked chubbier than VMA shows of years past, and basically the performance was boring and awkward, but catastrophic? Abysmal? Career-ending? I started browsing the Internet as soon as she was done performing, just minutes into the show. And with each refresh the headlines got worse and worse. It was as if all the critics were feeding off one another. People claimed to have been pulling for her, and I believe they were. If she had given a top-notch performance she would have been rewarded with praise and well wishes. We're a fickle bunch, are we not? We sneer just as easily as we applaud. Sometimes we do both simultaneously.

We live in a very odd time in history, when everything we could possibly want to know is just a Google search away, and so we inhale images of Britney looking too fat, too stoned, too bored, too nervous, too ugly. We can't get enough of the train wreck she's become.

I read a blog post recently and some things were mentioned in the comments section that really upset me. Comments about Texas. How Austin is the only redeeming city within the Texas state limits. How the rest of the state is worthless. (I'm paraphrasing; I would link to the post but the blog author is eloquent and beautiful and the comments were of no consequence to the original post.) A whole state is worth ridiculing? Writing off? Some of these comments were made by people who had never been here. I am a liberal young woman who was born in San Francisco, and yet I love it here. My mother is here and good Mexican food is here and there are a few weeks in April when the wildflowers along any given road will shock you with their colors. Also, rent is cheap and gas is cheap and I've worn T-shirts in the month of December. We have year-round festivals and a beautiful hill country and small-town bars that will never charge $14 for a Bud Light. I met my liberal redheaded husband in such a bar and it annoys me when people write off our state because our idiot president is from here. That's like writing off France because a French Bulldog bit you. Six years ago terrorists flew our own planes into our own buildings and, by now, we should be kinder to one another than we are.

We should be cutting each other more slack because remember six years ago? Remember the op-ed pieces and the vigils and the ceremonies and the bumper stickers and the random acts of kindness? Where there was community there is now constant and unmerciful judgment.

Two weeks into my freshman year of college, I walked into a tattoo parlor and got a daisy tattooed on my lower back. Later that night I got good and wasted in a friend's dorm room before going out to a local bar. I was passed out in my friend's car before the night was over. I wish I could say that was the last dumb thing I did in college, but, no, that was pretty much the first. I'm sure more dumb decisions will be shared on this site before I officially wise up and erase every entry with the word college in it. But, along the way I got an education, I found better friends, I found a man who believed in the good in me, and I've always had a loyal family. And, thankfully, not one of my bad decisions ended up on TMZ. (Admittedly, if someone offered me 100 million dollars, I'd probably submit my own naked photographs to whatever gossip site would bite because it would seem a small price to pay for a life of luxury. I'm sure I'd soon discover, as so many young women in Hollywood already have, that no amount of money is worth the cost of your soul. A lesson best learned through hindsight, unfortunately.)

I realize I've just strung together a handful of paragraphs that are all trying to convey their own separate message. And so bear with me as I try to segue into one cohesive thought.

Six years ago we learned some very hard lessons about life and faith and family. We learned the very real need to shout "I love you" as often as possible because life is painfully short and there is always a possibility that this time will be the last time. We learned to hug tighter and forgive quicker and to believe in the good in people even when we had absolutely no reason to. We learned that fear, if allowed to breathe, will consume us and turn us into unrecognizable versions of ourselves. We learned to push through the fear in hopes a new normal would present itself to us, as we healed. And then we learned time can very much heal the deepest wounds. Young and old can move past losing fathers, mothers, children, best friends, to find a very beautiful—albeit different—life on the other side of hell. We learned about resilience. And about God. And about blurring borders and political preferences in order to re-define one nation. But somewhere along the way, we collectively forgot most of those lessons and began turning on one another yet again. Not all of us and not completely. There is so much good and I don't have to be reminded of that, even in Texas. Kindness isn't reserved for liberals, I assure you. But I know our weaknesses are not solely for our own country's eyes to see, and that divided we are very much falling.

Today reminds me that we should go a bit easier on one another, Britney Spears included.

This is absolutely all we get.   

So This Is Growing Up

Game Day, 2003:
Get up, painfully hungover. Debate going to the football game because that would require being upright. Shower and get dressed and then sit on the stairs because cursing tequila requires one's undivided attention. After much internal debate, decide to go to the game. Spend the first quarter leaning against the bathroom wall, ingesting $5 sprite after $5 sprite. Go back and stand up the rest of the game because Aggies are masochistic, obviously. Win in double overtime and head to Northgate to take celebratory shots. Make up with tequila and forgive it because it promises to be different this time and you—so young and foolish—BELIEVE IT. Stumble home around 2am and make sure Potato Shack is programmed into your phone for the next afternoon's lunch. Drink a beer before passing out on the couch while watching You've Got Mail. Wake up at 11:30am and swear to your roommate you and tequila are OVER. DONE. FINISHED. Order a greasy potato, filled with buffalo wings and cheese (and accompanied by a side of ranch, of course) before planning a dinner at On the Border with some girlfriends because tequila called and said all the right things and sent flowers and it's just so hard to resist the bad ones.

Game Day, 2007:
Wake up clear headed and head to the game, after a long shower and a good breakfast. Sit on the former student side, which means getting to sit through 90 percent of the game. Stay through three overtimes, and then suffer through the walk to the car, because sitting at a game is exhausting. Go home and drink two beers and eat a nostalgia-inspired dinner of roughly six buffalo wings. Fall asleep at 10:00pm. The next morning, at 8:30am, text message a friend who is also in town for the game, and find out they fell asleep after dinner, as well. Realize your stomach is in excruciating pain from the previous night's dinner. Get back to DFW around 2:30pm, only to take a four-hour weekend-recovery nap. Get up in time to watch Britney put on a nervous fist-clenching performance because BRITNEY? WE WANT YOU TO DO WELL! WE'RE PULLING FOR YOU! BUT YOU ARE NOT MAKING IT EASY ON US! Decide to stay home next weekend to continue recovering. (And vow to never eat buffalo wings again.)

Also, spend most of the post-VMA-watching night wondering when the pains of growing up are outweighed by a fat paycheck.

::

I also finished watching Knocked Up tonight. Beside it being just as hilarious as everyone said it would be, I can't help feel elated that Josh from Clueless (my favorite movie from 1995-97) is doing so well for himself. Also, I've officially taken the "to have or not to have a baby" topic off the table after seeing the birth scene because, um, OH HOLY SHIT, NO THANK YOU.

He Has Only My Best Interests At Heart

Jennie: You know how I said I was going to boycott the CW this fall because the whole network is run by a bunch of idiots who canceled the best show without taking my feelings or my life into consideration?

Mike: I remember that well.

Jennie: I may be having second thoughts.

Mike: Excuse me?

Jennie: Well, I'm a sucker for a good teen drama, and Gossip Girl may fill a fraction of the void left by my favorite blond detective. And Kristen Bell is the narrator for the show! I want to support her in any way I can! The girl's gotta eat!

Mike: I think you should absolutely stand your ground here. Boycott. Never turn the TV onto that channel again, even while channel surfing. Be strong. For Veronica.

(I may be bouncing ideas off the wrong person.)

On How I Feel About This

I've only recently really discovered blogs. Before venturing over to my own site (away from MySpace; everyone applaud me) I read just a few here and there for a couple years. Over the last few months I've begun devouring dozens of blogs. I have a list in my sidebar (over on the left!) of the blogs I read daily, but those are just some of the ones I've stumbled upon in the blogosphere. There's hundreds of blogs I've clicked on over the months, all written by people who are smart and funny and accomplished. People who are blogging about their travels, their children, their published work(s), their creations, their photography, their cooking, their talents.

And then there's me.

And my topics of choice are pretty much limited to my dog, my issues, my margaritas, my guy and sometimes Veronica Mars. (Who, by the way, doesn't even exist as someone so lovingly reminded me recently. Thanks for that, kind stranger, because I was all worried about my little blond sleuth friend whose reality show had been canceled. And can I mention how ballsy—and immoral, I might add—the CW is for allowing her to get locked in refrigerators and held at gun point and to orchestrate a fake-ID ring out of her high school locker without stepping in.)

I get the urge, once a day or so, to go back and delete every single past word I've posted because in comparison to other bloggers who can blow me away with a simple photograph, or even a post title, I'm, well, what am I doing? (Apparently not conveying sarcasm all that well.)

I feel so painfully inadequate every time I stumble upon another unbelievably fabulous, well-written and well-designed blog that speaks to me in a way my own story cannot. (And I went to college! And I now work in publishing! And I'm a total fraud!)

I never clean our baseboards. I have a paralyzing fear of strangers. I am lazy. I procrastinate. I can't afford a new car or even birthday presents for my friends. My eyebrows never look good. My dog would pick her dad over me every time, and I can't even blame her because sometimes I think rawhide bones are a sensible dinner and her dad? KNOWS THEY ARE NOT. I think Ashlee Simpson is more talented than people give her credit for and I, too, have sipped the Justin Timberlake kool-aid. I sometimes split my infinitives and I can never remember if it's just bad or really, really horrid to end a sentence with a preposition. I don't iron. I don't cook. I haven't read the manual on our very expensive camera so I use the auto-setting and, as someone told me this weekend, the auto-setting is for idiots. I care far too much about what others think of me. I annoy myself and avoid myself and I drink too much. Also, I'm hard on myself, but I bet you'd never guess that.

I received an e-mail today from someone who told me I was funny and they thanked me for writing something I wrote and my first instinct was to write them back and say You accidentally sent this to me! Simple mistake! But thank you for the mix-up! Made my day!

But painful insecurity is not necessarily endearing. So I thanked them even if it didn't feel natural to do so.

And then I remembered I do this for me before anyone else. I do this to reflect and to learn and to teach myself not to take myself so damn seriously. And I realize that last part makes this post utterly ironic.

When I was in high school, I danced on both my high school drillteam and in various studio classes. My talent wasn't natural. I worked really hard to keep up with the rest of the officer line my senior year. I stayed after school and practiced in the empty gym. I used to push the furniture against the walls in my living room to practice at home. I had to work really hard to be considered "naturally" good, and I remembered today that working that hard is what you have to do sometimes, when you really love something.

I blog because there's only one way to get better at something, especially something you love. And that's to keep at it.

And it can be hard to keep it all in perspective when my site views take a nose dive or the comments on any given post teeter around zero or I literally can't think of anything else to write about except how I can't write well at all. But I know that I love this outlet. Hammering out thoughts and words and phrases so that every so often one post makes me feel proud or makes one person send me an e-mail. Well, that's enough.

So here I am.

Keeping at it.

::

And now I'm going to go clean my closet, because when I start to feel all introspective and shit, I like to be surrounded by my shoes.

And They Lived Happily

I met Cherie in college, just about five years ago. She's been one of my favorite people since the day we took a plane ride together to our sorority convention in Memphis and she politely said to me as we boarded, "You're not going to read on the flight, are you? We're going to talk, right?"

Cherie got married this weekend in San Clemente, California and Mike and I were lucky enough to be there to help her and Darrell celebrate. Cherie looked breathtaking. She was relaxed and calm and when she walked down the aisle it reminded me of what so many little girls dream of. It was that perfect.

I got up during the delicious dinner to take a few pictures of the reception, and I stopped for a moment to watch the bride laughing with her husband. She had her family surrounding her and the most incredible flowers adorning the table. I got a little teary because 1) free champagne will do that to you and 2) it was the most beautiful day of her life and I got to bear witness.

We then danced and ate and drank the night away and like other perfect days, it ended much too quickly. It ended, it seemed, just as soon as it began. We had such fun and it was no surprise that Cherie threw one of the best parties I've ever been to.

I could go on and on and try to convey each sparkling moment to you, but thankfully our camera did a better job of capturing the highlights than my words ever could.   

A few of my favorites:

I'm of the age where a big chunk of my friends (including myself, obviously) are tying the knot. Weddings are around every corner. And everyone knows what it's like to feel obligated rather than excited to go to one. But as I watched Cherie take her vows, with the Pacific Ocean as the backdrop, I felt so lucky to be a part of her day. I felt so lucky to be with her and her husband and their families and our friends. I felt so lucky to be included.

And as horribly inadequate as it feels to say, that's how I've always felt about Cherie. Simply lucky to know her.

::

The full flickr stream from the wedding can be seen here. And the rehearsal dinner here.

You unfortunately won't find pictures of our drunken ride home from the wedding. (Natalie, our driver, was sober, rest assured.) Four people were squished into the backseat, pouring water on one another. I'm not sure why we got the urge to start a water fight in our suits and dresses, but apparently that's how we roll. Then Mike suggestively rubbed Evan's shoulder for a good ten minutes before someone mentioned to him it wasn't me. And Lauren rolled my hand up in the window. It was one of the best nights I've ever had. And I hope Cherie can say the same thing.