She Likes Purple

Tentatively Reposted

When I feel like writing, I always come here. This site is an indescribable extension of myself, and where you might not be able to share such personal facets of your life, I find strength in it. To me, the heart of this community is in the multiplying of joy and the dividing of grief. But, still, it's a very complicated dance: figuring out what to share (and how to share it) and what to keep private. In many ways—today for instance—I need you more than you need me, making any nugget of support worth the snap judgments and  tsk-tsking that are, of course, inevitable.

See, Mike and I are trying to have a baby.

And this "project"—what I'm calling it—is laced in every word I've written for some time now because it's Very Big News, yes, but also because the decision sort of carried us into a part of our lives I wasn't prepared for: this very stagnant, limbo-ish part. And I want to talk about these things, these unforeseen details, but I've been reminded to choose my words very, very carefully. I've been well-advised to think before I type because these words have the potential to haunt me relentlessly.

(And I'm being super dramatic, goodness, I know.)

We're still trying.

There's a normal fluttering of fear, wondering why it hasn't happened yet, and when you're afraid and you speak those fears, all you really want to hear in response is: Yes, yes. Of course. Here's a pair of shoes to make you feel better. But instead we so often get variations of the following: Oh, you should take more time for yourselves! Travel more! It'll happen when it's meant to! Don't stress! It happens when you stop trying! Just relax! You can watch my kid for the weekend and then you'll change your minds! 

And we know it's well intentioned. Of course, of course, of course we know.

It just doesn't help.

The other day, someone who wasn't thinking, someone who wasn't intending to ruin my day made a comment that did, indeed, ruin my day. And I internalized it, as I often do, because I don't want to appear crazy or obsessed or paralyzed. But, it's sad, to want something you don't have, something you're not sure will come easily now that it's been a few months of it not coming at all. And it's infinitely harder to bury everything you ever feel to avoid hearing thoughtless comments. So you take the good with the bad. The bad with the worst. And so on.

After that day, though, I remembered a post of mine, from long ago, that I sought out to find comfort in. Here is a part of it:

Mike is a special man, as he's like no one I've ever known. He is thoughtful and giving in the most genuine way. He is original and authentic and incredibly funny. (Just ask him, he'd be happy to tell you how funny he is.) He gets a kick out of life in the same way I do, which is amazing. He doesn't give away compliments as easily as some, so when he tells you that you look nice, or that he likes something about you or that he wants you to be his wife, you can feel it, because there's no doubt he means it. It's indescribable when you've met someone who has characteristics that you want your own child to have, including really cool red hair. Every now and then I think about our unborn kid and wonder if he'll laugh as deeply as Mike does, or if he'll be as smart and as able to fix computer hard drives, car engines or the hearts of those who love him as well as Mike is able to. I wonder if he'll be overly affectionate when he's sleepy or if he'll snore loud enough to piss the dog off. I wonder, every so often, if we'll be lucky enough to have a child that will be so fiercely loyal or as uniquely full of life as Mike is. Or, if he'll be as dramatic, which is pretty adorable despite how often I roll my eyes because of it. But, if that child doesn't come; if it ends up being just Mike, Molly and me, that'll be okay. Because on Valentine's and every day, I realize I have enough family in this man alone, and as we buy comforters, or make dinners or rewind Sonic commercials to laugh another time at them, I become so full of gratitude that someone out there looked down on me three years ago and thought, "I have just the guy she should meet." (Originally posted February 14, 2006.)

After reading I remembered that—despite how hard and emotional and draining the waiting has been and how hard it is to stay positive and make jokes such as, "Oh, we didn't want a summer baby anyway! Think of how hard throwing a birthday party would be!" and how piercing the headaches are from giving up caffeine and the fear that comes over me when the questions pop up along the lines of What if it never happens? Seriously, what then?—yes, he's enough for me.   

I want my husband to be the father of my child. It's the biggest dream I've ever dreamt. And so we're trying, to make this grand, huge, crazy dream come true. 

But, yes.

He's still enough for me. 

::

I want to hear your comments, really, but please keep in mind that any comment of the hurtful/insensitive/rude variety can't be forgotten with a handle of tequila. So, I'll be forced—by YOU— to throw things at my dog. Do you want that kind of guilt? I'm just saying. 

Tuckered

Apparently it's exhausting being adored, spoiled, loved on and photographed. What's more, the cord you see draped down the couch, is attached to a heating pad. That is on. Underneath our dog.

::

I've added a few more things to my sidebar. I realize it's getting a bit cluttered. One day, when I redesign the hell out of this site, I'll attempt to make it more tidy and streamlined. But for now I just hope it's not distracting or obnoxious.

::

Another note to say I made this dessert for Christmas Day and it was delicious. I should have let it bake for another minute or two, to melt the chips on top more, but the toothpick slid right out and I was afraid of serving Mike's entire family crispy cake. I highly recommend you stop eating for a week, make this and then immediately eat it all. It'll be worth it—I promise.

::

I hope you received every gift on your Christmas wish list or the necessary gift cards to snatch up the items at half price. I hope you laughed the day away and are gearing up for the New Year in whatever way you most desire. Mike and I are heading to Florida for a couple of days, to visit family and remind ourselves that not everywhere on earth is cold right now. We haven't been since we got engaged there a year and a half ago. Perhaps tomorrow will be a good day to tell that story. Something to look forward to.

Just the biggest hugs, to you and you and you.

::

Thank you a million times over for your comments yesterday. For now, it was best if the post came down, but that doesn't mean you didn't say just what I needed to hear. So, again, thanks.

Peace To You From Me

For me, Christmas has always been kind of quiet. I grew up in San Francisco with all grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins states away. It was just the four of us until I was 10—when my dad took himself out of the equation. From 10 on it was just the three of us, even though our move to Texas was made—in part—because of the more readily accessible family who lived near or around here. The family gatherings we envisioned upon arriving soon faded into the realization that family just isn't always a given.

I have a lot of joyful holiday memories—of looking at Christmas lights, of opening just one gift on Christmas Eve, of decorating the tree—but those memories are also mixed with a good amount of pain, brought on by the scars of a fractured family, my mom working so damn hard to feed our years-long desire for more more more, always leaving my mom at some point to travel back to California to visit my dad.

And yet I've always loved family, holidays, celebrating. I believe that in me—despite many reasons for the contrary—lies a person who is ridiculously optimistic.

Mike came with a very large and brimming-with-love family. It took just a bit of getting used to, all the people crammed together, laughing, playing poker, eating, drinking. We're celebrating our fourth Christmas together this year and although no two have been the same, they've all been louder, crazier than the Christmases that came before him.

And I know my mom sometimes thinks I like it better this way—with this bursting family I married into.

I find myself really lucky every time I'm around Mike's (now my very own) family because they are all funny and genuinely good people and all the horror stories I've heard about painful holidays with in-laws and drinking all the eggnog to get through them are not at all reminiscent of what I experience any time I'm around this large and lovely family.

And I am so fortunate, so grateful for his family, for each individual and for the collective group and each year—with the additions of babies and spouses—the family grows and the love never falls short. It's extraordinary, really.

One year—1996, I think, the last year Rachel was with us before she moved back to California—the three of us drove around our adjoining cities, marveling at the twinkling lights on the larger homes. My sister, at some point, got out of the car and danced in the street to a top-40 song on the radio, in front of a lit-up house and, possibly, a scared family within. My mom and I belly-laughed from the car, in disbelief that she was that crazy and that sane. It's one of my mom's favorite memories. And one of mine, too.

My Christmases have always been kind of quiet, but they've never been void of love, permeating off my mother so deep and so real that I've continually—for a lifetime, in fact—been wrapped up in it.

And I carry it with me when she's away from me.

I never put it down.

::

Mike and I are home alone for a few precious days, being lazy and finishing up our holiday cards (we like "holiday card" better than "Christmas card"  because there's a deadline attached to the latter—DECEMBER 25!—but holiday is more casual and can arrive by, say Valentine's without really being late). I've done a few loads of dishes and have promised to do a few loads of laundry at some point today, thus taking care of the wall of dirty clothes in our bedroom, a wall that doesn't quite fit the motif we're aiming for. I've updated my new address book and have finally caught up on most of your blogs. I've picked out the desserts I'm bringing to Christmas dinner at Mike's parents house. And this morning, we're having turkey burgers for breakfast because we can.

Life is really funny—funnier even than Sonic commercials—in that it forces you always forward. Once a year you celebrate something you celebrated a short year ago and you have a choice: to live in this moment or to live in any number of moments that came before. If you are living right, if you are living the way my mother taught me how to live, you take everything you need from the past (the good stuff, yes) and hold it close to you as you soak up all the joy and love from this moment, this day. And then you rinse and repeat until every moment is sprinkled with the greatness of your past while never really living in it.

And then, magically, you wake up one day to realize that no matter what painful past you're coming off of or what uncomfortable moment you may be currently standing in, you have enough good spilling out of you to make every day—holidays included—peaceful.

And despite the crazy chaos of holiday mall shopping and holiday traffic and being elbowed by that whore woman in Barnes & Noble who obviously needed—badly—to be in front of you in line and the never-ending to-do list and the stress of finding that one perfect gift for your hard-to-shop-for friend and the kitchen that apparently exploded under the weight of holiday cooking and the dwindling bank account, despite all of it, I think the real reason for the season is having enough peace within you to ignore all of that commercial insanity and enjoy it for all the painfully obvious reasons—time off work, time with those you love, warmth and food and company.

Whatever you're up to, whatever your traditions consist of, whatever gifts you end up getting or giving, whoever you're spending the next week with, whatever you get to eat or drink, I hope your holiday is filled with peace.

I hope it's just spilling out of you.

From my beautiful family to yours: Happy Holidays.

(If you get this card in the next month or so, act surprised, okay?)

For My Canadian Readers

And, also, because if your sister had e-mailed this picture of your 18-month-old nephew, wouldn't you feel the instant desire to share it with as many people as possible? 

If you haven't already, meet Noah, who has learned to say "no" and "backpack" this month, but not "badass Aunt Jennie."

It may be time for a visit.

Seven

Someone really amazing recently told me that love isn't a feeling, it's a commitment. And that doesn't sound too romantic, does it, but for some reason it spoke to me more than any other thought on love or marriage ever has.

This past month, Mike had surgery on his shoulder and the recovery (especially the first few days/weeks) tested me. He couldn't do much to help around the house, he couldn't drive anywhere and there was a bit of time that he couldn't put a shirt on without my help.

I commute every day. My days range from 11 to 13 hours, depending on what errands I need to run or what I have going on before or after work. I have been cooking more, so when I get home, I try to make dinner, do the dishes, do the laundry and for a while—right after his surgery—I was exhausted every minute of the day. And I just wanted Mike to help. I knew he couldn't (although, yes, he did manage to tear the kitchen apart in boredom but I've decided to let that go). I didn't begrudge him for his state, I was just tired.

And I remembered that thought my friend shared with me quite a lot over the last month. I committed to Mike, and that's bigger than my exhaustion. It's bigger than my impatience. Bigger than my desire for SOMEONE OTHER THAN ME TO DO OUR DISHES. It's the biggest thing in my life. It's the biggest truth I've ever known.

I committed to him long before seven months ago, yes, but seven months ago I got to wear a very pretty dress and frequent a very open bar in the name of celebrating that commitment. Seven months ago that commitment offered me a new name which also became official on my credit cards, checks and driver's license this month.

There's a lot to be said about my husband and about our relationship, but the most important thing I can or will ever say is that I'm committed to him.

Happy seven months, baby.

Early Christmas 2007

My sister and I were both born in California and moved to Texas when we were 11 and 14 respectively. Rachel moved back to California a year after she graduated high school. Upon returning, she began working in the city and eventually met her now husband. From there love took her a roundabout way to Canada, where Mike is from. (Yep, she married a Mike. I married a Mike. There are uncles named Mike on both sides. It's almost enough to make you think the name Michael is common or something.)

Toronto is now my sister's home—although a foot and a half of snow dumped itself on her "home" recently, giving her reason to rethink all those horrible things she's said about Texas, where a high of 71 is expected later this week. (Rachel, it got very chilly on Saturday, if that makes you hate me less. It actually dipped into the TWENTIES and stayed there for a good hour, I believe.) Anyway, my mom is flying out this Thursday to spend Christmas with my sister and her husband and baby boy and because we'll be apart on Christmas Day, we got together Sunday night to celebrate the holiday with my mom, Mike's parents and Natalie.

Natalie actually came over around 10 that morning, under the guise of quality time with me, and ended up decorating our tree, folding some laundry and mixing cookie dough for a half hour. Lucky girl, that one. We did rough the outdoor mall near my house and, what's more, Central Market. But a day spent with Natalie—even among the holiday crazies—is a good day.

After hours of shopping, cleaning, decorating, cooking and not a single glass-of-wine consuming, it felt much more like Christmas around our house.

Here, look:

(A few things to note in this picture: 1) Our tree is propped up on a stool for reasons I don't quite understand 2) If you ever come visit, I'll force you to sit through a viewing of our wedding album, resting on the coffee table 3) The apparent nature program on the TV is proof that our TiVo queue could cure insomnia and 4) It appears an A&M gift shop threw up in our living room.)

Also, there's PLENTY of room underneath that tree there for Christmas gifts. Hint. Hint.

So, my cooking kick hasn't run its course yet and NO ONE is more surprised about this than I am. For dinner on Sunday we made pizza casserole and veggies. For dessert we had The Pioneer Woman Cooks' blackberry cobbler and Kicky Boots' cookie dough truffles (what I've termed them).

We also watched Todd get crowned sole Survivor and, thankfully, James receive a nice Sprint-sponsored consolation prize of $100,000.

To view the rest of our "Early Christmas" photos, hop on over here.

::

I'm a firm believer that you celebrate whenever you get the chance to celebrate. If schedules conflict and birthdays or holidays or anniversaries have to be celebrated the week or month before or after the event, oh well. A date is just a date—no more than a box on a calendar. And it's odd, that I feel this way, because NO ONE likes celebrating more than I do. But I believe that what you're celebrating isn't the number, it's the event, the memories, the rareness of genuine traditions. I was so happy to have family and friends over for food and fun. And even though it was December 16, it sure felt like Christmas.

And really, what's better than that? When life just feels right.

::

Also, a conversation that had to be included, from last night:

Mike: What did you just eat?

Jennie: Nothing.

Mike: Really? You didn't eat a cookie dough truffle?

Jennie: Nope.

Mike: You still have melted chocolate on your face.

Me And Mine

I rarely do memes and not because I don't appreciate being tagged for them but because, well, I'm inherently lazy (ask my mom) and that's that. But I read one over at Alyndabear the other day and thought it was perfect parts meme and perfect parts sharing a real taste of who I am. Also, it lets me share some of my favorite posts with you so you don't have to sift through the archives trying to find the worth-reading ones yourself. Now, let's see how far I can get before mentioning Veronica Mars.

(Also, I added one picture per category.)

FAMILY
This one post comes to mind, about how much I adore my nephews. Mike and I really want a baby and I have to say, it doesn't help that we have these kids in our family. (Although back when I wrote this I didn't know when we'd be ready for one, so it's rather funny that it turned out we became ready about four minutes after I hit publish.)

Because, for now, it seems they're enough

(They were all ring bearers at our wedding, in white button-down shirts and khakis. Micallen is hiding, but adorable, trust me.)

FRIEND(S)
I wrote about my thoughts on sororities and the friendships my particular sorority cultivated in the first post. In the second I wrote about Natalie, who I've known for the better end of 14 years and who can sometimes turn my day completely around by just being Natalie.

Like a sorority, but with much better linkage

Natalie

A friend recently told me that my wedding was the most beautiful wedding he'd ever been to, and I had to resist the urge to cry because that was a serious compliment. He then said I had the most incredible friends, and I then had to resist the urge to spend the next three hours telling him just how right he really was.

My crew:

(During the wedding party shot taking.)

MYSELF
I thought about a lot of posts I could share, but re-reading this one makes me truly happy. Getting a second tattoo (of what I got and where I got it) was something I did just for me. It was something I wanted and suffered through to get on my own. (FYI: Most pain I've been in to date.) I am surrounded by good, loving people. But ultimately I should be my own best company. This tattoo reminds me—every day—that I am strong enough to do anything on my own, even if I don't often have to.

My wings 

MY LOVE
Apparently I write about Mike a lot. It's hard to pick just one post. Do I go sappy? Do I go brutally honest? Do I throw a bunch of conversation snippets at you? When everything is said and done, Mike and I have the kind of relationship I always hoped I could one day have with someone, the kind of relationship where you're allowed to be your most authentic self, where you laugh more than you don't, where you hold hands more often than not, where you know the really hard days won't break you because you're both in this. And, the kind that allows you to write things like the following and not really care if people think you're crazy. Because, well, you are crazy. But you're also happy. And I imagine that's the point.

Trust me, but really don't

(Taken at our engagement party in August of 2006. I found his shirt at Target and thought it was hilarious.)

ANYTHING
Anything? Really? Because I have a whole category over there devoted to Veronica Mars that I'd be happy to dive into. But, as much as I love my little blond detective friend, Molly may stop snuggling with me if I don't link to posts about her.

What happens when Dad works late

All I needed was a sad song playing in the background

People tell me that when we have a kid, our love for Molly will wane. It's inevitable, they say. And it's not that I don't believe them, it's just that I really, really hope she never figures that out.

(I'm in a chair here, and all 37 pounds of Molly are on my lap.)

And I Love You

It took Mike nearly five months to muster up the courage to tell me he loved me. I had come to the conclusion myself around month two, so those extra three months were quite the test to my relatively non-existent patience. But I waited, assuming if he did, he'd eventually tell me. And if he didn't, he'd eventually have to tell me that, too.

We took a trip to Connecticut over Memorial Weekend (2004) to visit Crystal, who was living there at the time. While there we decided to spend the day (from the crack of dawn to well past midnight) in New York City. I had already been, once before, when I was a junior in high school. I was there—that first time—to dance in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade, and in addition to grueling, hours-long practices, we took in every sight we possibly could: Times Square, the Statue of Liberty, the Empire State Building, a Rockette's performance, shopping on 5th Avenue, a Broadway play. It was an incredible week, practically void of chaperons, and it was the first taste of real traveling I ever had. (Well, other than a few childhood trips to Disneyland and one winter roadtrip from San Francisco to Tulsa, where I saw my first snow in—oddly enough—Arizona.)

The second time in NYC, when we went with Crystal, I was okay skipping some of the touristy things I had seen/done before. We did visit Ground Zero and took a trip around New York Harbor, but when we arrived at the Empire State Building, I was okay passing on the three-hour long line snaked around the block. Mike, on the other hand, was insistent about going up. Now, at the time I chalked this up to him being a tourist and really wanting to see the view but now that I know Mike arguably better than I know most anyone and I know his total uneasiness with people in general and crowds in particular and I know that lines makes him physically violent, I realize his desire to wait it out should have been a sign. But, again, our relationship was fairly new. I didn't question him, and instead we waited. For hours.

Once we neared the top, I kept reminding our group of four to stick together. "It's going to be a MAD HOUSE UP THERE," I warned. "We need to enjoy the view as a group. WE CANNOT GET SEPARATED." Everyone nodded rather exhaustedly and half-heartedly for two reasons: 1) the three-hour-long line was at the end of an already long day and 2) Crystal was privy to what Mike was up to and knew that the quicker she scurried away to give us some privacy, the quicker we could put the last nearing-almost-four hours behind us. So as soon as we stepped onto the viewing decks, Crystal and her then-husband scattered. I kept yelling to them, "TOO FAR! TOO FAR!" (In the re-telling of this story, I realize how uptight I'm coming across, so maybe it's time to tell you that, hi, I'm uptight.) Mike convinced me we wouldn't lose them forever and we should just enjoy the view and I think I answered with something along the lines of, "Noooooooo." But he pulled me over to a small little hole in the wall of tourists and distracted me with bright lights below. We stood there for about 10 minutes, and in hindsight I realize Mike was gathering his nerve but I kept thinking, Geez, he's really into this view.

As I busied myself with trying to find the MTV studios, I heard him faintly whisper "I love you" into my ear. And because I was so focused on Is that it? No, that's McDonald's. Is THAT it? No, that's a billboard with a naked man on it I was afraid I had imagined he said it. And so I stood there for a solid minute struggling with whether or not to respond, because if I had imagined it, well, AWKWARD. I did finally say it back and Mike did immediately comment on how long it took me but regardless, it was a really cool, long-awaited moment. And one of my most favorite.

I bought him a little miniature statue of the Empire State Building to remember that day and I bought myself (and Crystal) a New York piggy bank to remember, also.

Mike and I are currently broke. Oh my, our budget wasn't designed for reckless disregard and, well, apparently that was news to me this month. (Fun aside: We went broke after some presents were purchased and before others, so cross your fingers you're in the first group. Or, to be honest, any group at all.) The other night Mike asked me if I'd go to the store and buy him some ice cream and I told him he could have ice cream next week, when everything fun in life could resume. Like paying the electricity bill. And filling the car up with gas. He told me he might have a few quarters stashed somewhere and that's when I remembered the piggy bank. I drop coins in it now and again and I never take anything out because we usually have a bank account to cover our expenses. I ran to retrieve it and poured the money onto our bed. I didn't feel much like counting (nor do I ever) but I knew I had enough to at least buy a few Diet Dr. Peppers this week and that cheered me right the hell up.

As I sat there, it was fun to remember where I got the piggy bank. And the story I just shared with you.

It's not as much fun to remember that back when I was 22 I had more money to my name than I currently have, but, hell, the man still loves me. So at least the important things haven't changed.

(I wish I could offer up another picture from that trip to prove I look as rough as I do because of the top-of-the-building winds and not because I didn't own a mirror in 2004 but upon on review of the rest of the folder, apparently I didn't own a mirror in 2004. Huh.) 

(Also, notice those earrings [kind of sparkly little things]. Mike bought those for me when we first started dating. They weren't real and he never claimed them to be. One day he asked me why I no longer wore them, and I had to tell him, "They turned my ears a lovely shade of rot." "Yeah, maybe throw those away." "Done. Like six months ago.")

It Was 83 Degrees On Saturday

It's no longer 83 degrees:

Fog

39°F
Feels Like
34°F

Updated: Dec 10 10:45 a.m. CT

(And, trust me, I realize you have no sympathy if you live in, say, Wichita, Kan., but just imagine what a 40-degree plummet over two days will do to your skin. Imagine and then send me Kiehl's products, would you.)

::

My weekend was nice in that it was a weekend and we spent time with friends and family and finished an entire back season of The Amazing Race and not nice in that we put a few hundred miles on my car without leaving the metroplex. Also the check engine light came on and we can't afford to investigate, so we're lovingly patting Sampson's dashboard while complimenting his svelte figure and hoping that buys us a week or so.

Also, over the weekend my dad turned 60 years old. My dad lives in California and I, obviously, don't. I can't remember the last time I spent his birthday with him. I had hoped this year would be an exception, but it wasn't meant to be. Although my relationship with my dad isn't flawless or even great, he's my father, and where I think everyone deserves to enjoy their birthday, my dad is no exception. There are so many words I'm floundering over to offer up and nothing feels adequate, but I do think if we all sat around and tried to one up each other with stories about how our parents fell short of what we wanted/needed from them, I'd undoubtedly trump some and fall devastatingly short of others. He made a lot of mistakes. He did a lot right. I love my father. Very much.

At my wedding, I let my dad pick the song we danced to, and I didn't know what it would be until the moment the music began playing. He chose "You'll Be in my Heart" by Phil Collins. And although there's a lot I could say, a lot of mistakes sprinkled over a lot of years, a lot of heartbreaking ways that things went awry and a lot of damage I could talk about, I'd rather not. Because, again, I love my father. And dancing with him at both my sister's wedding and mine were two of the memories I hold closest to my heart.

I wish I could have spent his birthday with him.

Sometimes loving someone means hoping that what came before will not dictate what is to come. Sometimes loving someone means hoping period.

(My dad wore an A&M hat for most of our reception. I thought it was completely charming.)

Happy birthday, Dad.

(Oh, and save me one of those champagne-filled truffles, will you?)

I Think This Is Going To Be Your Best Year

I met Crystal a little more than six years ago, right around the time I pleaded with her to call a guy I had been seeing, pretend to be me and break up with him for me. She did it. She did it well, even. She talked to him for just about 40 minutes, and he never suspected a thing. Now, I'm not proud of this, but it is remarkable, is it not? That he couldn't tell the sound of HIS GIRLFRIEND'S VOICE? Although, arguably, we had never kissed. And he was Republican. Oh, and his favorite store was the Bass Pro Shop. And if Lauren is reading this, I know she'd want me to mention that he wrote a horrible song about me called "Crazy Little Angel." Basically, the two of us weren't on the same page. But, I was terrified of telling this man—who had been nothing but nice to me over the last couple weeks/months—that he wasn't for me. I was young and insecure and silly and I wanted someone to just do it for me (like most things back then including my laundry, my homework and the payment of all my bills) but everyone I asked looked at me with disgust and judgment and said, "No. Just no." But not Crystal. She said, "Sure. Why the hell not?" And after it was all over, I gave her a thank you card that mentioned it was the weirdest thing I'd ever thanked someone for.

It shouldn't shock you that, ultimately, a friendship was born.

Crystal gets a lot of credit for introducing me to my husband, which she did. And she gets a lot of credit for being our mutual friend, which she is. But before I met Mike, before she met Mike, we met each other. And even though Mike and I are lucky, to have one person we both care so deeply for, Crystal is still my friend, the girl who volunteered to do my dirty work for me, without a second thought. No judgment. No advice.

A few years ago Crystal and I were at Chili's, enjoying a Presidente margarita. And after we enjoyed that first one, we enjoyed two more. And we couldn't drive. We had to call our guys to come and retrieve us, and we knew they wouldn't be pleased. They hadn't planned on schlepping their drunk girls around. Crystal and I devised a plan, a brilliant plan to lie when they got there. To say we'd only drank two shakers of margaritas but they must have been especially strong, because we were tipsier than we usually would be. We were sorry, we'd plan to say, but it wasn't really our fault, see, because the margaritas were just stronger this night. It was this one specific batch of margarita mix, that was it. It was to work out wonderfully. No one would be mad and maybe—since they'd be there to drive us and all—they would just say, to hell with it, order another! So we practiced, the lying:

Crystal: So, how many margaritas did you have?
Jennie: Two! Just two!

When the guys showed up, I got nervous. One of them looked directly at me and asked, "How many margaritas did you have?" To which I immediately (seriously, no pause) answered with, "three." The slow-motion look of shock that took over Crystal's face still makes me giggle when I think of it. Later—after we left and all was not roses and sunshine—she pulled me aside and said, "What the hell happened?" And I was honest, "It just came out. I couldn't think of a lie fast enough." "YOU COULDN'T THINK OF A DIFFERENT NUMBER?" We still laugh about that night, but even then, she didn't judge. She laughed with me, as she laughed with me the first night we awkwardly bonded over a man who was very sweet and very clueless.

When you meet people when you're 20, you imagine a lot will change over the course of your friendship. You even imagine the friendship will change, fade. You grow a lot during the ages of 20 and 25 and you lose just as much as you gain. There aren't many certainties, sure things, truths you can really count on.   

Crystal is a certainty.

Today my friend, who is a quarter Japanese, is turning 27. And as Mike said to her years ago—when he called to wish her a happy birthday—happy thanks for bombing the hell out of our country day, since our dear friend was born on Pearl Harbor Remembrance Day.

We're both just glad she was born at all.

Because we met each other through her, yes. But, more than that, because we met her period.

Happy birthday, Crystal.

We were dancing to "Hips Don't Lie" when this picture was taken.

An Open Letter To Central Market

Yo Central Market:

I've been hesitant about jumping on the open letter bandwagon. I think it's an excellent bandwagon, don't get me wrong, but I try not to follow trends if my skillz aren't up to snuff. And although my husband would say my ranting and raving skillz are most excellent, he'd probably whole-heartedly agree when I say I can deliver the crazy but the funny sometimes gets lost in translation. But, hell, I've sure been tempted. I worked out plenty of letters in my head to the state of Texas, especially this summer when it rained for like 9,000 hours straight. Or to that asshat I stood behind in line at Tom Thumb the other night—the one who made the nice cashier re-bag his groceries SIX separate times, chastising her all the while until she was CRYING. I think that letter would have been more parts heartbreaking than funny, though, so I am comfortable with my decision to have left that one alone. Hey, even a nice open letter to my husband has crossed my mind from time to time. Dear Mike, You're so cute. And funny, too. You're a real catch, truly. BUT STOP SPENDING MY SHOE MONEY ON FISH TANK SUPPLIES. Love, The Best Thing That Ever Happened to You! And I think a letter or 87 to Veronica Mars may be hanging out in draft form somewhere. Perhaps.

But, Central Market, I haven't taken the plunge until today and, well, although this is the first time, it's nothing you'll want to frame and display on your sparkly, over-priced walls.

Now, we have a few supermarkets within a few miles of us. There's Tom Thumb which I frequent quite a lot because it's a really nice store, and—truth be told—I get a very odd pleasure from waiting to hand over my rewards card until the last possible moment and then, after it's been scanned, watching all those dollars melt off my total. Also, there's a whole slew of gift cards I can purchase there, so when I spend $216 on groceries and Mike screams from the other room, "DAMN COUNTRY! HIKING UP THE COST OF MILK! LOOK HOW MUCH WE'VE SPENT ON GROCERIES LATELY!" I can nod emphatically and say, "Word, baby. WORD!" with only minimal guilt because, sure, an Old Navy gift card isn't technically a grocery expense, but it was bought at Tom Thumb and Tom Thumb is MOST DEFINITELY a grocery store. And there's Super Target which—maybe you know, maybe you don't—is fucking awesome. But it's also much harder to spend $216 at Super Target without having to explain why I only came home with three things that ended up in the kitchen. And there's even Kroger, which I go in every now and again, but which I hate because it's always sticky. Have you noticed that about Kroger? How sticky the store seems to be ALL THE TIME and the lights in there are like florescent lights on crack. It's ridiculously bright in all Kroger stores. Of course you can't agree with me, though, Central Market. I'm sure crossing enemy lines is frowned upon, especially at an establishment such as yours—you know, a bit high-end. But trust me, Kroger is bright. And sticky. BUT KROGER IS NOT GETTING THIS LETTER, NOW IS IT?

I choose to shop with you as often as I do, Central Market, because you're bringing a lot of things to the table other stores aren't, even if all those things come with a few extra zeroes. For instance, you have a jaw-droppingly cool cheese selection and a salsa bar and that nice man who works in the wine department has never been wrong in his recommendations. That prosecco that got me through a very rough last Friday night was purchased within your walls and all these things I'm mentioning are REDEEMING QUALITIES to what happened Monday.

Mike and I have discovered the joy of ground turkey, balled and patted into delicious turkey burgers. Sprinkled with some salt and some pepper and some other spice—which wasn't allspice because apparently that's not for grilling, and, sorry baby, I must have misplaced that spice cheat sheet YOU NEVER GAVE ME and excuse this English major for breaking apart the word to try and decipher its meaning: allspice --> all + spice --> a spice that works for all things! Apparently not—and eaten between two soft, tangy slices of sourdough bread (again, purchased within your walls, CM) and topped off with a perfect, half-melted slice of Swiss, and Mike and I had found a new favorite meal. We have had like 18 turkey burgers in the last few weeks and Monday we were going to have a few more. WERE. DID YOU CATCH THAT?

See, Central Market, I can put up with your exorbitant prices and all the soccer moms elbowing me to get to the good wine and all the Lexus SUVs taking up the compact spaces in the parking lot and even the judgment I faced when I couldn't find the deli the other night (or the additional judgment I faced when I finally found the deli and ordered pancetta) and I can even deal with the snippy lady telling me that taking four samples isn't "fair to the other shoppers" but I just can't deal with getting home, after dropping $10 on ground turkey, and slicing open the package, only to be hit in the face with the smell of FART.

I don't like my ground turkey to smell like fart.

So, Central Market, in short, rotting meat is totally worse than sticky floors. Just something to keep in mind for your next "How to Improve" roundtable.

Sincerely,

The nice lady who would stop shopping at your establishment altogether if half of Giada's ingredients couldn't only be found at your store.

And Other Strange Behaviors

So, I came home on Friday night to a broken router. We haven't had a working Internet connection until about an hour ago, when Jerry, the nice Verizon man, came and saved our lives in fifteen seconds flat. He said it was as simple as the power supply cord being broken. That simple.

I cleaned the house yesterday. One more day without Google Reader and e-mail and people.com and there's no telling what I would have resorted to. Reading a book? Taking a walk? Oh, the thought of it. Thankfully, we're saved from contemplating all the possibilities, and also the twitching in my face has subsided.

Life— as we've grown to know it—has returned to normal. Except our kitchen is sparkling.

I'm home sick today, and you're probably wondering how I'm managing correct grammar and wit while not feeling 100 percent. Or I'm wondering that and you're wondering if you could come over and break the new power supply cord to get me to go away for another three days. Regardless, in addition to napping and running a few errands, I have grand plans to finally (for the first time since November 1) kick my Google Reader's ass. I didn't post every day of November, but I did—as I mentioned before— read each post that my blog subscriptions' author's wrote. Even if I didn't always comment, I always read. And that caused me to get a bit backlogged. (The broken Internet hardly helped.) I'm roughly 200 posts behind, but I'll catch up. I promise. And I commend all of you for making it through the month. I hope you take some time off in December and enjoy all that this months means: open bar holiday parties and twiddling our thumbs until January (and my birthday!) gets here, right?

I love December. Always have. It's an easy month for me as I've only lived in two general areas: San Francisco and north/mid-Texas. Snow happens, but it happens about as often as George W. puts together a coherent thought. I'm glad December is here, bringing with it time with family, a plethora of seasonal foods/beer, after-Christmas sales at Target and—mostly—lots of opportunities to remind my husband he only has this many days to plan my birthday festivities.

I was sad on Friday night and not just because our router was all broken and non-flashing. I know I've been cryptic around here about being sad, being emotional, being a raging bitch and I'm sure some of you are just downright sick of all the vagueness, but it needs to be this way. For my sanity. For yours, too, I assume. And the sad is really only a normal amount of sadness. It's not debilitating. It's not ridiculous. It's just, well, normal.

I'm fine. But as I mentioned to someone recently, all this being fine can get exhausting, so you need to just be sad sometimes in order to properly go about being fine again.

So on Friday I poured myself a glass of prosecco (or, perhaps, I whined and pouted and produced a tear or two in order to get Mike to pour one for me) and popped in a girly movie—Catch & Release. And maybe I was just in the best mood for a girly, cheesy movie or maybe I adore Jennifer Garner or maybe the soundtrack was just perfect or maybe the prosecco was, you know, being prosecco-ish but I cried my way through that movie and then immediately watched it again when it was over. It was just what I needed.

I think there are times when we don't know what to do with our blues. We bury/ignore/avoid/project. We just are at a loss. I tend to embrace them, and do exactly what I need to do in order to let them pass. A bath, a glass of wine, a trip to DSW, a dinner with a friend, a good snuggle with Mike, a baked good that isn't part of my daily allotted points, a good movie with a great soundtrack and a few perfectly romantic and unrealistic lines. I don't know where I figured out how to take care of myself when I'm sad. But I did. And I think it's made me a stronger/better person.

And sharing things with the lot of you has made me stronger too.

So today is feeling a lot more normal, what with the Internet back and the blues gone.

Now I believe it's time to shower, so I can smell normal, as well.

::

Also, a big birthday shout out to my mother-in-law. You hear the stories about people tolerating and putting up with their mother-in-law. You hear about the intruding and the interfering. You don't hear about any of that from me. Other than my own mother who is as close to perfect as mothers come (Mom, I swear that wasn't written because Christmas AND my birthday are just around the corner, but size eight shoe, I'm just saying.), Mike's mom is the kindest, most incredible woman I've ever known. To say I'm lucky to have her doesn't come close to covering how I feel about my mother-in-law. I'm fairly certain the words I'd like to use haven't been created. So I'll say I love you, Mama. And I wish for you a very happy birthday.

::

Oh! And! Bethany from Bethany Actually won the Smashbox makeup. Bethany, send me your address, please, and I'll mail this off tomorrow.