She Likes Purple

Love Quotes

Mike: Am I your one?

Jennie: Well, you're one of three.

Mike: Wait. There's me, Molly and...?

Jennie: Veronica Mars.

Mike: I'm not even surprised you said that.

::

Mike: Do you think you'll say things to our kids like, "ACT YOUR AGE!"

Jennie: No.

Mike: Really?

Jennie: I think I'll say things to our kids like, "QUIT ACTING LIKE YOUR FATHER."

::

Jennie: I just need...

Mike: Yeah?

Jennie: ...you to act a little more like Jim Halpert.

::

Mike: We could have Snuggle Fest 2007.

Jennie: Yeah, that's not going to help your "I'm not gay" case.

Balancing Act

I've talked quite a lot on this site about my weight and my weight-loss goals and my weight-loss goals getting knocked on their skinny little ass by my thighs. I usually end all of my weight-loss posts by declaring, "This time will be different. I'm going to shed the weight this time." And every time I fuck it all up with a baked good or a large pizza or every jar of ranch dressing in the state of Texas.

I've always said it's a vicious cycle, and a hard one to break. And I absolutely believe myself.

I hate how much I weigh. I hate that I don't fit into all of my very cute, I-own-because-I-purchased clothes. But I still enjoy food. I don't want to live a life where I'm not able to enjoy all of the scrumptious trimmings of the holidays or a birthday cupcake or a random carb on a random Tuesday. But I also don't want to live a life where I am ashamed of my body.

And there is, in my opinion, only one solution to satisfying both wants: Balance.

I've officially signed up and forked over money for Weight Watchers online. I've been going at it—hard core—for a week now. And I gained 1.6 pounds in that first week. You can imagine what sort of expletives were unleashed in the bathroom this morning. (Monday is weigh-in day.) Molly padded in and cocked her head at me and then I yelled expletives at her because have you seen my dog? Vizslas are the supermodels of the dog world. All legs and ribs and NOT MUCH ELSE.

You know, a few things happened when Mike and I got married: 1) I gained a crazy amount of weight because I didn't have a wedding dress to fit into and I felt that fact alone warranted the consumption of everything in arm's reach 2) people assumed that my weight gain was related to a baby and 3) people lost all tact and civility when it came to asking about the hypothetical baby.

(I do have to add this aside, because it's too good not to: I had someone ask me at a bar, while I was holding a beer if I was pregnant. I responded with, "Nominate me for mother of the year THIS INSTANT.")

Although I figured this was well-known—this little nugget of etiquette— it's apparently not:

IF YOU DO NOT SEE THE BABY CROWNING OR YOU'RE NOT AT A BABY SHOWER, DON'T ASK SOMEONE IF THEY'RE PREGNANT.

And not just because that question officially confirms this person is as large as they think they are, but it also so lovingly reminds them that they're just carrying extra pounds and not carrying a baby. So they have to reconcile being fat with being fat for no good reason and then they begin to hate you and your well-intentioned questions.

So, I'm on Weight Watchers. I'm not pregnant. But I realize having to clarify one basically demands the other. And I'm going to believe the encouraging message Weight Watchers gave me this morning after I entered in my higher weight about gaining before losing! and don't give up! and you're awesome as you are, but you're going to believe us in no time!

I've fought long and hard to put my weight issues behind me. And behind me they won't stay. I suppose I need to go about this a different way. I suppose fighting to move on isn't the answer. I suppose dealing with today is.

::

I'm going to end this on a much lighter and inquisitive note, because seriously it's Monday and all the WAH AM FAT thoughts really do nothing for the collective mood around here, I know. But easy, healthy recipes? Got any? This crazy hormonal non-pregnant woman thanks you for your help.

(Raven, your site is already bookmarked, and I check your archives often for updates.)

::

Also, I have Flex points! 35 of them each week! So, please offer up as many recipes as you'd like, even if sugar or butter or CHEESE is a listed ingredient. We're striving for balance here. Balance and a non-bump-like stomach. But balance, still.

::

I hope this post didn't totally bum you out. It sort of bums me out in hindsight, but it's what's going on. And we're keeping it real around here, right? Right?

::

I promise to post pictures of my shoes and Molly tomorrow. You deserve that.   

Why Parenthood And The Camera Should Have Rules

Roughing It

Mike and I have been talking about going camping this weekend, as it may be the last weekend we're able to do so for the next four-five months. We're checking weather.com every three minutes and also weighing whether or not our tent is cozier than our pillow-top mattress.

Mike, Molly and I went camping more than two years ago, and it was one of our best weekends together. (I tend to overlook the subsequent three weeks I spent frantically checking myself for ticks.) We reconnected and laughed and snuggled and hiked and even typing it makes me happy as we had such a nice time. We think of that weekend fondly, and every time we talk about doing it again, we smile.

When Mike mentioned leaving tomorrow night, to head to Oklahoma (weather permitting), this conversation ensued:

Jennie: I'm not sure. Maybe we should leave Saturday morning.

Mike: Why?

Jennie: I just hated setting up in the dark last time.

Mike: Really? That's why you don't want to go on Friday?

Jennie: Yeah, it was dark and we had like one flashlight. It's not worth it.

Mike: Baby, last time you sat on the bench drinking Andre and taking pictures while I set up the tent.

Jennie: Oh. . . . It's slowly coming back to me.

Pictures from March 2006.

Natalie

When I was 11—in the sixth grade, riding the bus home from school—I sat next to a girl who I was sure was a seventh grader. She was calm and aloof and adorable. At that time, I was just realizing the truth about my hair and my nose and acknowledging all of that was making me rather insecure. This girl I was sitting beside wasn't insecure, so she couldn't have been my age. But she was.

Which I found out after I introduced myself to her, right after I made her promise to be my friend.

After the introductions I remember thinking I'd never known a Natalie before. And although I've met many Natalies since, the first Natalie I ever met has been, for more than 14 years now, my Natalie. It turned out she was five days older than me, although born in a completely different year and that made me giggle, and it still does. (Admittedly, I didn't giggle much the year she was 21 on New Year's Eve and I was the designated driver who drank MILK.)

I've thought a lot about Natalie since starting this blog because no one—not my husband (he sees me as much cuter) and not my mom (she sees me the way I'd prefer the whole world to see me, DAMN NEAR PERFECT)—sees me the way Natalie does. I call her, often, the voice inside my head because she is responsible, impressive, downright together. Natalie believes in me. And loves me. I say that with complete certainty, and in my life I'm a lot of things, but certain isn't one of them.

Natalie is supportive of this hobby and doesn't think it's weird that I'm going to San Francisco next summer to attend a blogging convention. Natalie doesn't think it's weird that I do anything. Natalie has always understood, even when she doesn't agree.

My husband is adorable and smart and funny and so many incredible things that I am sometimes shocked the universe decided I deserve to be with him. But when I evaluate Natalie and all that she stands for and represents, I am blown away that she chose me as her best friend.

Natalie moved to the D/FW area a few months back, from Houston. We haven't lived in the same vicinity since we lived together in college, almost four years ago. We don't see each other as often as we'd like. Maybe once a week. But having her here—calling her and knowing she'll answer, laughing so hard while listening to her recount her day, seeing her comments on my blog— is a huge, throbbing part of me.

Natalie is a huge, throbbing part of me.

When Natalie and I were in high school, I began dating someone who took me away from life and friends and all that I knew before him. For two years Natalie and I only spoke when one or the other would randomly show up at the other person's house, desperate to rewind the clock. After this guy and I broke up, I remember driving past Natalie's house (it was a 30-second drive from my house) slowly and deliberately, while thinking Stop and talk to her already. She'll always love you. You must know that.

And yes, I've always known.

When I think about blog ideas, what will touch my readers, what will make them feel inspired to comment or e-mail, what will keep them coming back, I sometimes find myself at a loss. But I came across this post yesterday. And that last line, wow, it struck me.

Perfect the way I am.

Natalie is all wrapped up in who I am.

Ally, life isn't always easy or kind or simple or smooth or pleasant or colorful. But with you around, life always makes sense.

::

Ninth grade, before the junior varsity drill team banquet.

Natalie and her itty-bitty waist on my wedding day. Her smile was just as genuine as mine.

Chicago

So, I was in Chicago the first part of the week, and I want to say a few things—in list format!—about the city in general before I share my crappy not-from-the-expensive-Canon pictures:

1. It was far easier to catch a cab in Chicago than any city I've ever visited, New York City included. I coughed and a cab pulled up beside me. We walked out of our hotel door to find nine cabs inching down Ohio Street just waiting for us to signal our need for them.

2. Other than the cabbie who took us from Midway to our hotel on Monday morning—the one who translated "Best Western" into "The Inn of Chicago"; the one who insisted he had indeed brought us to the right hotel and was disgruntled, angry even, when we wouldn't go inside THE INN OF CHICAGO and ask for our BEST WESTERN reservations—we had some really lovely cab drivers. Cab drivers who helped us pick a place for dinner. Cab drivers who were delighted to drive us TWO BLOCKS to keep us out of weather that can only be described as INCOMPATIBLE WITH MY FLIP FLOPS. Cab drivers who whistled and hummed and chatted. Cab drivers who were downright cheery when we mentioned paying with a credit card instead of cash.

3. There is a river running through the middle of downtown Chicago. Did you know this? Is this well-known? It would seem to me that Oprah has totally stolen this river's thunder, because I literally had NO IDEA. We took an architectural boat tour on that river and what an incredible way to see the city, a way you can see no other city. If it hadn't been so damn cold I would have been much more excited about the last half hour of the ninety-minute tour, the thirty minutes I instead spent muttering, "Get me off this motherfucking boat" and "Ma'am, can I pour your coffee on my bare legs, please?"

4. Michigan Avenue? WILL YOU MARRY ME? OK, so I'm already married. Will you make-out with me then? You have the largest Banana Republic I've ever seen. So large, in fact, I had to ask to be pointed in the right direction of the sale department. And while we're talking about Michigan Avenue, let me take this opportunity to apologize to the salesman in the Kiehl's section of SAKS for allowing me to turn over every single bottle/tube/jar looking for a price tag and then finally exclaiming in a huff, "How do I know what anything costs?" I realize I was in SAKS and not in, say, Walgreen's, so your visible annoyance is understandable. Thank you for forcing a smile and price-checking my friend's item and thank you for not punching us both in the face when we hollered, "FORTY DOLLARS! FOR THAT!" I know I don't belong in nice places. From now on I promise to do all my Kiehl's shopping online or somewhere far, far away from your corner of SAKS.

5. Okay, so we went to Giordano's. And I wasn't that impressed. But I don't hold it against Chicago as it's safe to say that I've eaten more pizza in my life than anyone else alive and where I'm not picky about most of what I eat*, I am picky about pizza. So, I'll visit again! And try new pizza! And this list is mostly a raving review, Chicago, so can we overlook this one blip? Please?

6. On Ohio Street, we ate breakfast at the nicest/biggest/fancy-schmansiest McDonald's. It had a bistro! And served gelato! And I almost took a picture but there was a bacon, egg and cheese bagel that required my undivided attention.

7. Now, what you've all been waiting for: H AND M. Contrary to popular opinion, Dallas is a pretty fashion-forward city. We have quite a lot to offer. But we don't have an H&M. So with 36 hours in Chicago, I found it important to carve out an hour to browse what can only be described as indescribable. THREE STORIES. OF CLOTHES. THAT ARE INEXPENSIVE. AND FOR THE MOST PART CUTE. I have to say the entire first floor was a bit much for me. What with all the teenagers and tourists who apparently consider personal space a myth. But once I worked my way up to the third floor, I actually had to ask myself, "How much can I spend while staying married?" I didn't spend quite as much as I imagine I could have. (I actually handed one sweater back to the cashier when it was my turn to check out because I was trying very hard to keep my total in the "reasonable" range and not the "holy shit, how am I going to afford gas on my way to work on Wednesday?" range.) Purchases can be seen here. (Not Pictured: a black scarf, a few under things and two rings—one of which may or may not have already turned my finger a lovely shade of rotting.)

I grew up in San Francisco. My childhood was different and incredible in that my dad's job directly involved us with the city. There will always be a part of me that loves the Bay Area more than any other place because it was my first home. It was where I lived before I knew what living anywhere else was like. Before I knew what paying to exist on this planet was like.

When I visited New York twice this year, I couldn't understand why the city felt so off to me. Why I felt out of place strolling the streets. Why I had no desire to go shopping and fight the endless stream of people. Why I had no desire to stay longer or take pictures. I really hated that I felt that way. I felt life had jaded me or scarred me or made me scared to explore other cities. Other great cities. (I do think NY is great, in many ways I wish I could have fallen in love with.) So, honestly, I was a bit afraid Chicago would be more of the same. That I'd be a little too antsy to get home, simultaneously over and underwhelmed with my time there. I was wrong.

Chicago is incredible, every hour of my 36-hour trip was great. It is a clean city. A friendly city. And even though I've visited countless other cities with so much personality that the pride of being a local just oozes off of the people walking down the street, it's not hard for me to say this: I've never met so many people who openly (with no solicitation) tell you how much they love their city. I hear it's the winters or the architecture or the history or the Cubs that unites them all. Whatever it is, I'm dying to go back. With my husband next time.

::

*Seriously, I usually choose IHOP as my birthday dinner location.

::

Also, crappy Nikon non-Canon pictures can be seen here.

A Business Trip That Doesn't Include An H&M Budget

So, I'm leaving for Chicago in the morning. Oh, didn't I mention? I'm going to Chicago in the morning. I'll be there for 36 hours, starting tomorrow around 8am. I'm going for work and will be there just long enough to visit H&M and eat as much pizza as possible. I wish I could do more: stalk Oprah, visit Wrigley Field, take my husband with me. But I'm still glad to be going. It's my first time, so I'll try to snap as many pictures as possible.

Either way, I'll be back late Tuesday night and will catch up with you then.

Or Wednesday.

I may need a little time to make up with Weight Watchers and beg forgiveness from my bank account for all the H&M purchases I'm planning to make.

I hope you each had lovely weekends and are enjoying a lazy Sunday afternoon.   

Recommendation

I saw Gone Baby Gone this morning. Although Ben's directorial debut was nothing if not impressive, it also left me wondering why Casey isn't the more famous of the Affleck brothers. I thought his performance was incredible. As was the rest of the cast's, starring and supporting.

Better than Mystic River, in my opinion.

Five

A friend recently told me she thought I had a great marriage. I immediately thought, Seriously? It was sweet, of course, and if you've told me something similar in an e-mail or comment or card, I thank you. I do. But I also invite you over on a random Tuesday night, as we fight over who gets control of the DVR or who drank the last beer or who Molly loves more or who is going to take the trash to the curb and you'll change your tune.

Mike and I are happy. In the quiet moments before I fall asleep, I am thankful. I know we like each other and I know that when I look into his eyes I want my future child to get his hair and his laugh and his sleepy affection and his ability to show up. But most days we just do our best and we rarely worry about what vicinity of the "great marriage measuring stick" our best happens to fall on.

Everyone said marriage would be hard, and it is.

There is a lot riding on you being a good person, you stepping up to the plate, you keeping your word. There is a life to build and an identity to keep in tact and dreams to define and budgets to stick to and RECIPES TO FUCK UP.

There's so much.

You have to work hard at carving out time to recharge, to concentrate, to connect, to be the spouse you want to be.

For a very long time I lived in a darker place and, surprisingly enough, it was easier to be there than here. It required a lot less accountability, showing up, rising to the occasion. Being Mike's wife requires me to be the person of my word and sometimes it does seem easier to throw in the towel and go back to empty relationships with empty people.

On this site I get to share with you what I choose to share with you. When something cute or funny or must-write-down-this-moment-and-never-forget-it happens, I want to share it with you. I want my community to feel that surge of joy, that peace, right along with me. But the harder times are easier to lock away. They're easier to edit out entirely. I don't find it especially exciting to share with you that I've thrown a laundry basket across the house or that cabinets have been slammed, on more than one occasion, or that tears have poured at 2am. I think there is a deep fear—among women, mostly—that we'll have the worst of something. So when someone reveals their truths to us, there is a part of us that feels relief. At least I'm not her. At least we don't do that, we think to ourselves, as we nod silently and pat her on the back.

For a long time I lived in fear that people would judge me, that being honest about who I am would only make others feel better about who they are. And being used in that kind of way can make one feel very broken. But I no longer have those fears. I've let them go. So, no, it's not fun to share the bad stuff, but, yes, it is important.

Some days I wonder if I'm strong enough to do this, to be married to him because, oh my, he farts A LOT. And there are whole weeks at time when our bank account paralyzes us and strips us of hopes and dreams and SENSES OF HUMOR.

(Warning: I'm going to start talking about The Bachelor now.)

This past Monday, on The Bachelor, Bettina was sitting amongst the other girls and listening to them say, "I would have accepted a ring JUST TONIGHT if he had asked, even though I've known him for five minutes and all five minutes there were cameras shoved into our faces and SOMEONE ELSE'S CREDIT CARD PAYING FOR THE EIGHT BOTTLES OF CHAMPAGNE WE DRANK IN THOSE FIVE MINUTES." Finally Bettina said, "Do any of you know what it takes to be married?" And when she revealed that she had actually been married and it obviously hadn't worked out, the cameras cut to stupid Hillary saying, "I don't think Brad should like Bettina. She's been divorced. She's used." And then she said something about kicking her tires to make sure she still runs, and by then I wanted to hunt Hillary down and punch her in the face.

I also wanted to scoop Bettina up—even though her personality is a bit ho-hum—and tell her, "You did the best you could. I believe you did the best you could. And Hillary is only single because she's a NUT CASE and no one would ever marry her. You don't know this yet but she totally sobbed over wanting to be in love with Brad on their first date."

Marriage isn't what we see on TV. Of course it's not. We all know this. But seriously. It's really, really not. There's no laugh track. There are no supporting characters. In reality there is a lot of hanging on and hoping and spilling into his arms when your boss yells at you and spending too much money at Sephora and deciding Taco Bell is easier than anything other than Taco Bell. There is a lot of compromising and letting stuff go and biting your tongue and complimenting when you'd rather be complimented. There is the merging of lives and dreams and debt and insecurities and quirks and there is a lot of stumbling. There is learning the hard way and shaking your head in frustration and talking through clenched teeth. There is no background music.

Again, there is just so much.

I had a really shitty day yesterday. The kind of day that just exhausts you. The kind of day that makes holding your head up seem like a chore. Honestly every minute of yesterday was tough for me. As I sat at my desk at work, shaking from the stress and the sheer devastation of not being on a beach in Mexico, I began browsing my hard drive. I found a picture of Mike and me, from our wedding. I set it as my desktop background. And I looked at it, for minutes. I felt calmer, quieter.

See, when I met Mike something lit up inside me. A light was switched on. Something inside of me shifted. And although it's been tough. It's been hard. It's driven me to walk around the block and call a friend and pour a glass of wine and write in my journal and take deep breaths, nothing has ever turned that light off. Nothing has ever put the fire out.

It is not easy. It is not even easier.

But is it ever warm.

Happy five months, baby. It's been hard. It's been beautiful.

::

I just wrote a loving and honest post about my husband and marriage while using the word "fart" and referencing The Bachelor. Unprecedented, perhaps?

Referring

As many of you probably know, when you take a gander at your stats, you also have the option of seeing the referring Web address. When someone stumbles upon your blog by way of a Google search, you are also privy to what exactly they searched for in order to be presented with your site as a possible answer to their problem. It's voyeuristically fun!

As I've mentioned before, someone very upstanding, I'm sure, found me by searching "how to turn girlfriend purple" a few weeks ago and although I rarely have a bad thing to say about Google, I do wish it forced people to type in their reasoning because friend, do you simply have a Barney fetish or are your motives a little less weird and a little more illegal? Either way, I'm not going to mock or insult because I think—regardless—you'd be the wrong person to offend.

Other people have come across She Likes Purple by searching my name (by the way, do I know you? Are you my dad?) and still others have found me by searching Jennifer Aniston. A lot of people found me by searching skinny jeans, which is fairly ironic since— at this point in time—I have no business using the adjective skinny to describe me or my jeans. And, of course, there's the "She Likes Purple" search which is about as strange as me drinking cheap champagne on any given Tuesday.

But there have been a few other searches—as of late—that have taken me by, well, surprise.

A List of Recent Searches and My Initial Thoughts upon Reading Them:

"She likes it big 3"—Are you trying to complete your set? Round off the trilogy? How disappointed were you when you found my site? And FYI, she probably likes it with anyone but you, big or not.

"She likes to sit on my face"—Whoa.

"She likes me but ignores me."—There are other fish in the sea! She's not the one for you! You're better without her! Honestly, my advice is to introduce yourself to tequila. Also, I noticed your search produced this particular post of mine, which is actually quite fitting. But you went through (it seems) five Google search pages to find me. Friend, that's a LOT of browsing for advice. Were you hoping to eventually stumble upon the site that recommended Stalk her! Send her threatening e-mails! Bunnies + boiling water = Splendid idea!?

"Loves gets you through anything."—Aw! I'd respect you even more if you tacked "that alcohol doesn't" onto the end of that phrase.

"Cute boxing shoes."—Come back! Read more! You seem to be my most normal Google-searching reader!

"What kind of people like purple?"—LEAVE IMMEDIATELY! YOU ARE NOT WELCOME HERE!

I really do hope this type of post becomes a regular installment around here. It helps me remember that the Internet? IS KIND OF WHACK.

Our Weekend At Home

Mike and I got married about five months ago. A month later we took a nine-day trip to St. John. We spent Labor Day weekend in Southern California for a friend's wedding. In between all that we spent two weekends in College Station (one for a wedding shower and one for a football game), one weekend in Taylor, TX for a BBQ Festival, one weekend in Austin for a bachelorette party, two weekends in New Braunfels—one for a concert and one for our nephew's first birthday party. When we were in town we hosted parties, threw parties, attended parties, celebrated this or that. In all honesty, we've been on the go for the last five months.

I have loved every second of it and Mike, well, he was there, too.

But this weekend we stayed put.

Friday night I met a friend for dinner, before grabbing some Marble Slab with Mike. (Sweet cream! With strawberries! Kiddie size! Thank you flex points!)

On Saturday, we went out to Fort Woof Dog Park* for Barktoberfest. Now, Mike and I had recently discussed how—over the last five months—Molly has been schlepped between grandparents, ignored by her actual parents, holed up indoors and, what's more, her squirrel got a massive hole in his crotch recently and is out of commission until the hospital re-opens. (Read: until her parents get their lazy butts to Target to replace the squirrel because mom doesn't sew.) It was time for a nice family outing. I got wind of Barktoberfest and visions of our dog frolicking among hundreds of her new best friends instantly began dancing in my head. Because, you know, I'M OUT OF MY MIND. Please forgive me when I say, Molly? Was an asshole at Barktoberfest. OK, so she wasn't as bad as that highly nervous whippet, and she couldn't have been cuter if she tried, but our only child was a bit overstimulated. First a Golden Retriever stuck his tongue DOWN HER THROAT before running off to make-out with a Border Collie (making her feel—understandably—a bit confused and upset), then a small child sort of rammed into her while screeching "GREYHOUND! GREYHOUND!", and finally a pug pranced by us wearing her exact same costume. But she did get to frolic—making her mama quite happy—in the off-the-leash section of the park. She also nabbed a FREE spooky Halloween bandanna. Not to mention! She found another vizsla! And they became best friends! And she got about 18 free treats!

I like this picture because it accurately shows how Molly thinks the leash is merely a suggestion and Mike thinks next year's Barktoberfest should have kegs.

Saturday night Mike and I spent at least an hour in Target, purchasing a garbage can, champagne, TV trays, Halloween cupcakes, detergent and other random things we absolutely did not need but Pay Day combined with the crack Target distributes through their air vents made it impossible to say no to. Then we went to Big Fish on Main Street for dinner. And we took in a few hours of Pushing Daisies after we came home. I'm trying to think of a funny way to tell the story of how—after I had left the room for that previously mentioned date with Google Reader—my husband barrel rolled out of the chair to show that he still "has it." (Nope, turning thirty isn't bothering him a bit.) Unfortunately (as I learned through the reenactment) something went terribly wrong mid-roll and for the next thirty minutes I had to massage the "horrible pain" out of his shoulder. I suppose idiot stunts are better than, say, a hooker, right?

Sunday I saw Elizabeth: The Golden Age with my mom and then napped the afternoon away, as spending a third of one's checking account balance and chasing a socially awkward dog/lobster around a park can—indeed—drain you. (Something tells me motherhood is going to kick my ass.) Sunday night we went to Coal Vine with Mike's parents.

As we were cleaning on Sunday night (fine, while Mike picked up and I browsed eBay for makeup) it dawned on me that I've felt so restless at home these last few months because I haven't been home these last few months. Mike is absolutely my home, of course. Wherever he is, that's enough for me, blah blah. But as we cuddled underneath the fort he built last night, after the dishes had been done and the recycling had been taken out, I thought:

It's nice to be here. It's nice to be home.

Molly is thinking: I effing hate Halloween.

::

*THAT PUG! ON THE HOME PAGE OF FORT WOOF! IS THE PUG! He must have an excellent (read: WHORISH) publicist. Please don't forward the link onto Molly. She's not at 100 percent yet.

Updated to add: When I showed Mike Fort Woof's home page, he said, "What leg did that pug have to hump to make that happen?"

::

Happy birthday, Lauren!

Scent Is The Strongest Sense

Mike and I had just finished up the first two episodes of Pushing Daisies—truly brilliant show—and he had started to watch his pre-recorded Nascar. I headed into the computer room for a little heart-to-heart with Google Reader. I got instantly cold. I walked into his closet—which connects with the computer room—to try and find something with which to melt the icicles forming on my arms. I was hit with the smell of him, as I sifted through his shirts. And, oddly enough, it brought back memories of sneaking out of bed—in the early days—to find something with which to warm me up. A shirt. A sweatshirt. Plaid PJ bottoms. Anything. Tonight I found an old Adidas shirt. Worn thin. Comfy. No warmer than the shirt I was aready wearing. Yet I quickly changed into it. And I remembered what it felt like to not know that I'd forever get to share a house with his smell. It's beautiful to be where I am now. It's only beautiful because I remember where I've been.

Because I Promised

Now, before you comment, please consider that 1) I'm not totally used to/sold on it yet and 2) this was taken by a camera phone. So, I think it's best you say something sweet, however fabricated it may be. Also, I have plans to buy some new eye makeup to better match the color. Regarding the colors and brands I should pick up: Help! Suggest! Recommend! Pay for!

(Mike did like it! Although I'm fairly certain the look on my face said you even think about being sarcastic or rude right now, and that TiVo will magically erase all saved episodes of Survivorman. Admittedly, he liked it considerably less when I mentioned the new makeup.)                                                 

A Change Will Do Me Good?

Tonight I cut and colored my hair. I cut it short. I colored it dark.

Our camera is at Mike's parents' house and even if it wasn't I'm not sure I'm ready to share. I like it. I do. But when I look in the mirror I don't recognize myself. I'm also worried about my trek through the lobby of my building tomorrow because I work in a law building and (some) lawyers don't gawk subtly.

Hopefully I'll have found my tougher skin by the time our camera returns home. (It's got to be around here somewhere. Something tells me it's collecting dust in my closet, along with my size 6 jeans.)

When I mentioned the other day how I didn't want to get too comfortable in life, I didn't realize I'd take myself so seriously.

Why couldn't I have picked up knitting or perhaps decided a cooking class would shake things up. No, instead I decide to begin reading Pride & Prejudice (Jane? YOU'RE KIND OF A SNOOZE FEST) and dye my hair a very darkish-brownish-reddish color.

Mike's not home yet. I think I should get good and drunk so as to blur his initial reaction in my mind.

What I Get For Thinking

I commute.

I live in a suburb in the metroplex and work in Dallas, and if you're not familiar with this particular part of North Texas, it's actually not too ridiculously far of a drive. I can make the trip during off-hours in 30 minutes or so. But on any given on-day, the drive is closer to an hour.

(For kicks, my longest commute—one way—was almost three hours after a semi ran into an overpass and the road had to be closed. WHILE I WAS ON IT.)

(If you lived in Rhode Island—and felt so inclined—you could drive across the state like 87 times in three hours.)

I try to constantly find the silver lining of my commute: alone time! time to think! regardless of how many loads of laundry Mike has failed to do that month, I'm ecstatic to see his face when I walk through the door since his face doesn't resemble a brake light! I get to hear every Top 40 song so I can finally hold my own during all those Fergie vs. Rhianna debates I find myself entangled in!

And I can think up blog ideas.

Today—HA! THE IRONY!—I was mulling over how I was fresh out of blog ideas. I was thinking of posting how television hasn't been the same since Veronica Mars was canceled Or perhaps how Milo's new haircut is knee-quiveringly sexy. How Molly is stoked about Barktoberfest this weekend and the costume contest she's going to make her bitch. Or how I'm back on Weight Watchers and I'm not joking around this time.

But all those ideas just seemed meant for another day. I didn't have the urge to expand on any of them, so I figured I'd just sit this day out.

And THEN as I was stopped at a light—bopping my way through this song, which I happen to love—some idiot PLOWED INTO ME.

When I finally gathered myself and had muttered "You've got to be fucking kidding me?" a good 62 times, I pulled into the nearest parking lot—can I stop here and mention how many ADULT ESTABLISHMENTS were around me?—and I know I should have been more careful about the words I chose to speak to my Sampson's* attacker, but when I stepped out of the car, all that came out of my mouth was:

"THANKS FOR THAT."

So I am fine. And Sampson—although less fine—is still OK. I have a slight headache and, really, it most likely stems from my anxiety over my Life! Changing! Haircut! appointment tomorrow and not over my rather uneventful and unfortunate fender bender. But I do have to admit to immediately thinking—upon being thrown INTO MY STEERING WHEEL:

Well, I know what I'm blogging about now!

::

 

*My car's name is Sampson.

The Desire To Go

The summer before Mike and I left College Station we were faced with what countless college grads are faced with: the shock of life being turned upside down. The March before I graduated I began interviewing with companies and by August I had lined up an unpaid internship with the company I now work for (and, thankfully, now get paid by). We left college with Mike still unemployed and with our respective credit card companies unsympathetic to the state of our bank account.

I imagine this transition from college to real life is as painful as it is in order to teach twenty-somethings a thing or two about gratitude and strength, those lessons that all the keg stands of the previous four years failed to impart. (Although I'm sure keg stands require a different kind of strength.) Quite honestly, nothing has humbled me more than calling in sick to work because I couldn't afford to put gas in my car and when I did buy gas, the next day, I paid for it with quarters I found in my now-in-laws' kitchen. Regardless of your education, it seems some dues must be paid.

Before we left college, we struggled with certain questions about our future. Where did we want to live? What did we want to do? Who did we want to be? How many kids did we want to have? And when those answers didn't immediately present themselves, we ended up drinking our way through that summer, scared by all the decisions we weren't ready to make yet.

(The one piece of knowledge that kept us comforted was that we knew we wanted to go forward together, and the other questions—although daunting, to be sure—were less terrifying knowing we had found the right person to face it all with.)

One day, during that summer, I walked into Mike's house and he announced—with a smirk on his face—that he wanted us to move to Alaska. "Sounds good," I said. He was obviously shocked, as it was thrown out there as a dare, little more than a joke. He had recently watched a PBS documentary about a man who made a solitary life for himself—for years—in the wilderness of Alaska. Now, I made it clear to Mike I wouldn't move anywhere without plumbing or a shoe store and he assured me Anchorage had both. Soon after, through a mixture of frustration, inspiration and avoidance, a plan was made. We decided we'd work hard for a few months, saving every penny we earned, until we had saved the decided-upon amount. And when we reached our goal, we'd gather Molly and our things and head north.

Obviously we didn't go. And why we didn't go is much more complicated than finances, which is the reason we offer to people. By no means is that reason a lie, it just isn't all there was to it. Yes, we have debt, and to some extent that debt has limited us. But we also have a family. My family is a scattered bunch, with my dad on one coast, my sister on another, my mom here with me. But a huge chunk of Mike's family is nearby. Although we try to make life decisions based on what is best for us (and for Molly; I won't tell you in which order), when you're thinking about having a child, how geographically close your family is to you comes into play. We just couldn't bring ourselves to leave, as I think we both knew we may not have come back. Although we wanted to go, we also wanted more than just an adventurous childhood for our kid. Travel would be nice, sure, but family seemed—still seems—non-negotiable. And even that, of course, isn't the whole of it.

A few months ago I stumbled upon Nothing But Bonfires, which, in my opinion, is one of the best and well-written blogs I've ever read. It's original and easily accessible. It's beautifully articulated while not being too high-brow. The author is what all great writers are—authentic, inspiring and relatable. I inhaled her archives, especially her posts logging her three-month trip around Southeast Asia. Her passion for traveling reignited something in me. I got the itch to go. Somewhere. Anywhere. And then Alaska started calling to me again.

I mentioned my itch to Mike, and although our credit card balances temporarily blinded him, I think Mike has never fully given up on Alaska. It's always stayed with him, the grand plans we once had to do something different and brave together.

And then there was the preview for Into the Wild.

Obviously we don't know what the future holds. I don't think we're emotionally or financially ready for that move just yet. For now we'll plan as many vacations as possible (on our short list: Boston, a cruise around the Galapagos, Spain and certain parts of British Columbia) and we'll suck up adventure wherever we can find it.

Maybe Alaska is in our future. Maybe it's in our future in a different way than we planned before. Maybe not, on both accounts.

The number of unanswered questions hasn't wavered much in the few years that we've been living a life void of keg stands. The one answer we did have figured out all that time ago has, thankfully, not wavered either. We'd still rather be together than apart.

But, I think it's important to remember that becoming too comfortable in life can lead to years zipping past, with real experiences becoming fewer and farther between.

I thank Holly (of NBB) for reminding me—through her stunning words—that life is what we make of it and that it doesn't present itself to us but, rather, we must search it out, grab hold of it and ingest it.

For now I'm OK simply knowing I want to see and experience more, even if I'm not entirely sure what that means.

Scenes From A Birthday Bash

Mike's party was all kinds of successful.

Deep thanks to everyone who joined us and helped to make these two people deliriously happy. (Or, possibly just delirious.)

It's rather easy to have a great time when you are surrounded by the coolest people around.

And when the bar happens to serve Korbel at $7 a bottle.

Here's another one of our favorite moments of the night.

The full flickr set is up, too.

For those of you who have been paying attention the last few weeks, here's the birthday tribute video that made me its bitch but--ultimately--turned out not half bad.

(FYI: It runs about 13 minutes, and contains quite a bit of red hair.)

Update: The video will be up just as soon as I figure out Vimeo. Apparently Vimeo is in cohorts with Windows Movie Maker. Bastard programs.

That Was The Point

I've received a few e-mails since Wednesday, asking how Mike's birthday went. And, truly, thank you. Mike thanks you, too. It's refreshing to know you care. But, there's probably something you should know.

Mike's birthday? Began on Tuesday night and will end Sunday morning.

Mike's birthday? Is actually his birth week.

Tuesday, around 11:50pm, Mike started shimmying up to me, shoving his shoulders and back into my face. In case you're shockingly confused by his "signals" and also wondering UM, WHERE IS THIS GOING? I'M READING THIS AT WORK, rest assured this will stay PG. The full-body shaking is how Mike communicates that he wants his back rubbed. (Although I won't sing his communication skills' praises, I will always admire his originality.) Beginning with that back rub and lasting until the hangover wears off around mid-afternoon on Sunday, I think it's safe to say we've been doing this 30 thing up right.

Wednesday night we went to WingStop and watched Southpark and MXC. (Basically Mike's birthday plans mirrored those of my brother, who rang in the big FOURTEEN this year.) Last night we had a mini-celebration with Mike's parents and my sister- and brother-in-law, who are in town for all the carousing. Tonight we have a poker party. Tomorrow is THE party, the one I began planning for in April. (Although if you'll be there and it turns out to be a serious let down, I threw it together mid-week, so what did you expect?) (Also, if you're coming and it turns out to be a serious let down, can I suggest visiting the bar.)

As I've mentioned before, I'm putting together a video of pictures to show at the party. This video hates me and is forcing me to consume alcohol on WORK NIGHTS. The transitions and the text treatment and the music and the fading, they're all a bunch of bitches. I'm about one scanned photo away from just pointing to Mike when I have the entire party's attention and saying, "That redhead is adorable. And it's his birthday. That's my tribute. The end."

Mike was as excited about turning 30 as he was about that Gilmore Girls marathon I suggested we watch together a few months back. Multiplied by 8,000. He's been whining and complaining and, yes, there was even one failed attempt to move his birthday to February 7. He's like this every year, but obviously the big three-zero magnified his sheer detest for aging. Even though I point out that aging is much better than the alternative, he usually answers in his least dramatic tone: "How? When I feel like I'm dying."

But last night, as we were cutting up his mom's famous birthday cake, his brother-in-law asked if it was as awful as he thought it was going to be, the actual event of turning 30.

Mike said it surprisingly wasn't. It wasn't that bad, actually, he said.

Although I'm not positive, I like to think all the presents I left out for him from Sunday-Wednesday and the cards and the e-mails and the phone calls from friends and family and, yes, the back rub, and the party and the out-of-town guests and the pain-in-my-ass Windows Movie Maker program and the overall love he's felt this past week from all sorts of directions has softened the blow of this birthday.

In April when I may or may not have started talking about THE PARTY OF THE YEAR Mike asked me why I was going to so much trouble when he wasn't even excited about his birthday.

I'm sure I answered, I'm nuts, love. You know this. But the truth is, hearing him say "it wasn't that bad, actually" is exactly why I (and everyone else in his life) did this.

::

Pictures and video from his party to come. And then I promise the birthday blogs will cease. Until at least mid-December when we start gearing up for my birthday.  

The Great Mofo De-lurk Day

I debated posting another blog today and also another blog that has nothing to do with my husband's birthday. But I couldn't resist because the button (see the button on the left side of my blog) is PURPLE. How could THIS site resist that?

If the button came with a shot of tequila, this post would have totally trumped Mike's birthday tribute post.

(KIDDING, KIDDING!)

I receive a fair amount of page views per day (although I haven't yet received my official respectable-amount-of-page-views-in-a-given-day pie chart) but the amount of comments I receive is, well, NOT SO RESPECTABLE. Kidding! It totally is! It just isn't respectable compared to my page views.

And apparently I'm not the only one whose blog is PLAGUED by lurkers.

Schmutzie did something about it. She created the Great Mofo De-Lurking Day. And she made up buttons for all of us lovely bloggers to paste in our sidebars. AND SHE GAVE US COLOR CHOICES. I don't know her, but she seems just awesome.

So you must de-lurk and comment and since you're now officially ON THE SPOT and pressure is no commenter's friend, I'm making it as easy as Dutch Blitz made it. I'm offering you a question and you can comment with your answer.

What is your favorite movie (JUST ONE)?

::

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MIKE!

Someone Keep The Fire Extinguisher Nearby

When I first met you, you told me you weren't big on birthdays and I immediately thought Well, we'll just have to change that, now won't we? And every year it's more of the same: you tell me you don't want to do anything, you don't want presents, you want to pretend it's just like every other day. You don't want to make a fuss. And I completely ignore you.

And you married me.

(HA! SUCKER!)

Today, my love, is your 30th birthday. And today I get to ignore you for the fourth year in a row by throwing you a party, showering you with gifts and kisses and karate chops. And all this fuss? You're worth it.

Do you know that? How worth it you are? Do you know how many people want to celebrate the highs of life with you? Despite your very stubborn and grouchy streaks, you are a deeply loved man. Sometimes I think you sort of glide through it all, without really taking in moments like today. The moments that are saturated with life. The moments that are making you the man you are.

So let me tell you a little bit about you, in case these truths have slipped by you, unnoticed. You are kind, my husband. You are giving and thoughtful and sensitive. Even if you'll scoff at the mere mention of those things, you'll still drive out of your way for those you love. You will give your last $100 to a friend because, as you say, that's what friends do. You will exhaust yourself to make the people in your life feel important. And even though you complain all the while, you also do it because your heart is vast and wide and deep. You think it's simple, to live your life that way. Everyone who knows you thinks it's anything but.

You are smart in indescribable ways. You have worked hard for the knowledge you have. If you don't know something, you take the time to figure it out. You are determined to know what you want to know, and you forgive yourself when your knowledge falls short.

You are funny, but not quite as funny as you think. Sometimes when I laugh with you, I'm totally laughing at you. But you want to know why? Your laugh is my favorite sound on earth. Your laugh has saved this relationship more times than I can count. Your laugh has carried us through dark times, through hard times. I never tell you how lame your jokes can be because I know as soon as you deliver the punchline, you're going to double over in laughter. And so I hold my breath. I wait. And then I fall in love with you again.

And again.

You're so good with Molly. You teach her and love her and you do both with equal passion, as you want her to be a good dog more than you want her to like you and you know the result of that? SHE LOVES YOU WAY MORE THAN SHE LOVES ME AND DO YOU KNOW HOW FLIPPING ANNOYING THAT IS?

Someone asked me recently if you're jealous, and I laughed. Because if there is anything to be said of you it's that you're the least jealous person I've ever known. Your integrity and confidence has allowed you to stay a grounded and unaccusing person. You trust that people are as good as their word and if they betray you, that's because of them, not because of you. By just being around you, I think I've absorbed some of that. Your strength of character has improved mine.

(And because I know compliments make you horribly uncomfortable, I'll balance this all off by saying: Can you please curb the amount of CRAPPY TELEVISION SHOWS YOU WATCH? I don't particularly feel like saying to our future child: Daddy is cool, I swear it, love. STOP LAUGHING. He just likes planets and bodies of water and SHARKS more than your friends' dads. But that doesn't make him lame.)

Michael, we're on the cusp of really carving out our lives together. We're on the cusp of starting a family. Of making BIG decisions and having BIG responsibilities. Of recommitting ourselves, again and again, to this life we're trudging our way through. And I know that there are going to be countless times when we want to fall in a heap on the floor, no interest in ever getting back up. WHEN WILL IT ALL SLOW DOWN, we'll wonder. And we'll want to run away to a beach with Molly (and whatever kid we we may have) in tow. I know we'll want to throw our hands up and be done with it all. Because seriously? SERIOUSLY? THIS IS WHAT WE'RE WORKING WITH? (Kind of like last Tuesday, remember?)

But, on our worst day together (and we've had some doozies, I know), I have never—not for a minute, not for a second—been without a reason to celebrate your presence in my life. I have never known anyone worth celebrating more than you.

As your wife—as your friend—I will always celebrate you.

You're 30 today. It's your day. It's you.

Happy Birthday, Michael Joseph.