She Likes Purple

I Hear It's Important To Update Your Blog*

Mike’s great-aunt recently passed away, and Mike attended her funeral this past weekend. While he was in Mississippi, he spent hours organizing and sorting through her stuff. He came home with an inherited deep freeze, a ladder, a gorgeous chest circa the early 1900s, a few end tables and a myriad of other things (including an original Clue board game which caused me to pump my fist in the air because Clue totally rocks it). The chest has found its place in the middle of our kitchen because, as Mike said, “that bitch is heavy” and until he sorts through its contents and lessens the load within, his wife sure as hell won’t help him move it. The deep freeze is against the wall in our dining area, where Molly’s corner used to be. Her personalized rug, her food and water bowls, her bin of odds and ends (leashes, sweaters, Halloween shark costume) have all been shoved under the table and basically her whole world has been replaced with an over-sized and unnecessary home for pounds and pounds of dead animal meat. (Note: animal meat we do not currently own.) Molly missed her dad, yes, but she keeps looking at me as if to say, “Mama, I can't remember, what exactly did we miss about him again?” And then I tilt my head and try to recall, but all I can come up with is: THERE IS A DEEP FREEZE IN MY DINING ROOM.

Mike did bring me a very cool antique stamp holder, for the roll of stamps I always have on hand. I’m a big fan of the written letter, but our recent wedding took up most of my correspondence efforts. (We made our own invitations and, HA, that turned me off of using writing utensils or addressing envelopes or marriage in general for a good two months.) But an antique stamp holder! So lovely! And I’m now inspired to get back in the letter-writing swing of things.

The hours Mike spent cleaning and organizing his great-aunt’s home revealed to him a very interesting and incredible woman. It was nice that he could be there to take in all the wonders one person can accumulate throughout a lifetime. And it made me think of our own sisters/brothers/kids/grandchildren/great-nieces/great-nephews sifting through our belongings one day, taking this or that home with them to forever keep a part of us.

I wonder who will want the deep freeze.

I wonder if they'll take it now.

::

Mike and I are leaving for California on Saturday morning, to attend the most anticipated wedding of the year (ours included!). My dear friend Cherie is getting hitched, and Mike and I wouldn't have missed this for the world. Weddings in general can be a beating, I know. But weddings of people you adore, well, there's almost nothing better. Except, maybe, weddings of people you adore with an open bar. And if there's one thing you should know about my friends, it's that they value free-flowing alcohol almost as much as I do.

Can't wait to celebrate with you, Cherie!

::

We'll be back Monday night.

Hold down the place until we return, OK?

::

*(Even if you update it with a poorly-put-together post.)

Not Sure Whose Genes I'm Pulling For

Mike's 30th birthday is in about a month, and although he'd prefer to let this milestone pass with no mention whatsoever, his wife is obnoxious and self-serving, and she is planning quite the party in his honor. (She's also immediately going to stop typing in the third person.)

I've asked for pictures of Mike from friends and family for a video-type-thing I'm putting together for his party. Yes, I have THOUSANDS of photos of my adorable husband but they are only from the last three-plus years of his life. Gems such as these:

Taken while camping in March 2005. He made this face right after I asked him, "Do you think there are, like, bugs out here?"

Yesterday I received a package in the mail from a good friend, a friend who has known Mike for most of her life. She sent me a CD of pictures and even a short video, and other than completely flooring me with her generosity and all-around loveliness, she also scared me right to death because there is no chance in hell our future child will be part of the cool crowd in school or, for that matter, in life.

Although, this guy? Is certain he rules the cool crowd.

And even though I find these pictures just painfully adorable (oh my gosh! the hair!) I'm also pretty sure I'll have to one day say to my sweet future boy or girl:

"Baby, I swear that beautiful red hair of yours is going to make all sorts of wonderful people want to nail you someday, but your innate fashion sense will have to be beaten out of you."

She Misses Her Dad

It's OK baby girl. I miss him, too.

Thankfully we have YouTube and beer and this here camera to keep us distracted. But let's not tell the Internet I somtimes give you beer. They're not ready for all that.

Even if it is light beer. 

A Normal I Never Knew I Could Hope For

Mike got up early this morning and left for the weekend to attend a family funeral in Mississippi. I'm staying behind to watch the dog and the laundry pile. He got up earlier than I did, and I woke BEFORE THE SUN in order to get in a work-out that will balance out the night of wine tasting I have planned. (Just FYI: This is the second consecutive day I've worked out at 5:45am. I think I deserve presents. In the form of strappy heels. In a size 8.)

I heard Mike come to bed last night and he stirred before I did this morning. When I finally got up, still half-asleep, I changed into my work-out gear and walked into the kitchen to say good-bye.

He held me for a bit, told me I looked cute all sporty and in lose-the-fat mode. Then he kissed me. The same kiss I've had a thousand times before.

I called one final good-bye to him as I walked out the door and, as an after-thought, I yelled back to Molly, "I'll be back baby girl. Mama will snuggle with you in an hour or so."

Before I pulled the door shut, I turned to see Mike scratching her ears as he toasted a bagel. He was wearing his soccer shorts and a ragged T-shirt, leaning on one leg as he always does, his hip cocked ever so slightly. I don't think he knows how often I take him in, the way I did this morning.

On the way to the gym I thought only about my sweet family.

My sweet life.

The Sign Of My Times

I was born January 3. I'm a Capricorn. Except I'm, um, not.

See, I'm not one to trust your BIG IMPORTANT THINGS with because I'll lose them or forget them or eat them. I am not serious or stable (oh holy no) and I'm not even in the realm of practical or disciplined. (Once, by myself, I ate an entire slathered-in-ranch pizza with a side of cheesy bread and then chased it with a bottle of cheap champagne. And by once I mean weekly.) Although I have stubborn spurts, I have never considered myself stubborn. Capricorns have a tendency to pessimism and I seriously (no really) think Britney will pull through all this and go on to have herself quite the little comeback. I am also fairly positive we're going to come into some unexpected wealth any day now and I'm patiently browsing carnival.com for the perfect celebratory cruise to take when we do. And, I'm dumb idealistic where Capricorns are realistic. Now, there are some things about Caps that ring true for me. I am deeply passionate (about teen television dramas) and I have one heck of a good memory, but humorless? It's as if astrology experts are basing that generalization on this site alone, and how fair is that?

Oh, and calm? Let's ask Mike how calm his Capricorn wife is?

Jennie: Baby, would you consider me calm? My blog readers want to know.
Mike: Your blog readers don't care.

Wait. What? Oh, nevermind, let's not ask him.

You know, it's always bummed me out a bit that I'm not your typical perfection-seeking Capricorn because how much money could I be making if only I picked up a little Capricorn ambition? MORE THAN I AM MAKING NOW, I CAN TELL YOU THAT MUCH.

Also, when I looked up Mike's sign and compared it to my sign to find out our compatibility match-up, well, let me just say we are no match made in the stars, no sir.

Here, read this:
Libra is very social and prefers a life style that involves lots of interaction with others. For example, a job that does not involve communication with others is very distasteful to Libra. Capricorn is more concerned with career, stature, and practical affairs than Libra, and many times Libra wishes that Capricorn would lighten up, take life less seriously, and simply be more fun to be with.

My first response: Well, I could have told you we're all wrong on paper. HE WATCHES NOVA. My second response: Please. Mike didn't know fun until I drunkenly stumbled into his life. And, before every party we go to, the walk from the car to the front door goes a little something like this:

Mike: I don't want to be here I don't want to be here they better have beer I don't want to be here you owe me I don't want to be here (door opens) Hi!

Also, Molly communicates better than my (cute) husband. Right, Molly:

"Bitch, you know it."

So what gives astrology?

I would just chalk astrology being way off the mark to, well, it being astrology, but I know plenty of people who fit their signs to a tee.

Just today I was commenting over at Jonniker about how I'm the worst Capricorn in the history of Capricorns. (Seriously, other responsible, grounded, mature Caps, why have you not done something about me? I am not good for your image.) And, I'll admit, I've felt a tad alone in astrology circles. A little sitting by myself at the lunch table while others hurl empty milk cartons at me, if you will. Because Capricorns are the opposite of failure and I fail at simply being one.

And then, after posting on Jonniker, I stumbled upon this link and, oh wow, my birthday is Festival of Sleep Day.

I finally know why I'm a Capricorn. So I can forever represent the bizarre holiday that falls on the day of my birth.

Now, I must go nap because it would be wrong not to.

::

So, are you a poster child for your sign or are you like me―patiently waiting for the reason you are a Taurus or Aries or Gemini to present itself? Or do you have absolutely no idea what I'm talking about because you read the first line and then skipped down to this part because the middle stuff sucked and such?

(Also, what's your bizarre holiday? Mike's is Virus Appreciation Day. Wait, let me rephrase, Mike's and Ashlee Simpson's are Virus Appreciation Day.)

(JUST BECAUSE I KNOW ASHLEE SIMPSON'S BIRTHDAY DOES NOT MAKE ME A LOSER.)

(Okay, it does.)

My Joy

Mike doesn't read much. Yes, he reads Popular Science and the TiVo listings and there was that poker book he devoured a few years back, but he's definitely not a reader. And a writer? Well, I got a card from him for our first anniversary, our second Valentine's and I think my birthday in 2006. Maybe. Could have been an e-card.

Mike isn't nearly as social as I am. I have our social calender booked for the next month and a half (and that's really nothing new) and he grumbles and complains and stomps around the house every time I announce a new social obligation. This conversation is heard weekly by our dog:

Mike: SERIOUSLY BABY, CAN WE JUST STAY HOME AND WATCH MYTHBUSTERS FOR ONCE IN OUR LIVES!
Jennie: No, love, we can't. Now go put on a shirt. And maybe some pants, too. And, don't kick the wall again. Thanks, baby.

Mike is also responsible (no, really). He doesn't spend money the way I do (with reckless and total abandon), and he budgets and he crunches numbers and he pays bills and he would rather go to Wal-Mart than Target because of the measly pennies we'll save.

He's stubborn on levels I've never experienced and I grew up with a family that won the Most Stubborn Family in the West Award ten years in a row (trophies and all). When Mike makes up his mind he MAKES UP HIS MIND and changing his made-up mind is something you only approach with 1) lots of porn 2) lots of Budweiser and 3) possibly a new motorcycle. Even then, he may cross his arms and shake his head and refuse to budge because my husband may be celebrating his 30th birthday in less than two months but BY GOD he will not grow up unless he is growing up ON HIS OWN TERMS.

Mike reads this blog because Mike knows this blog means a great deal to me. He leaves me alone as I type and type and re-type and then delete and delete and delete some more. He'll come into the computer room to bring me a Diet Dr. Pepper or just to make sure I haven't died and then he'll quietly sneak back out because, as he says, "I need to focus on being funny." Mike knows my favorite bloggers' children's names and he comes rushing (okay, I define Mike rushing by eventually getting around to doing something) in the room when I tell him about a new picture that's been posted on flickr by a COMPLETE STRANGER who I'm a big nerdy fan of. Then he'll open Photoshop in a sweet attempt to show me how our pictures can also look that good. He manages to look only slightly defeated when I say to him, mid-tutorial, "Can we get some ice cream? I'm bored."

Mike has never asked me not to do something because he doesn't want to do it. If he chooses to sit out this-or-that social gathering, he always tells me to go. He'll hug me before I leave and say (without fail) "Be careful. Have fun. Love you." And he hugs me even tighter when I get home. Mike encourages my social life and supports my social life, even if he has never been able to keep up with it.

When I asked Mike if I could sign up for a writing class to hone my skills, he immediately said, "Of course, baby." When I told him I was planning to go to BlogHer '08 (wherever it may be), and that the trip would include the purchase of a plane ticket, a hotel room, a new wardrobe, he said, "Sounds great, baby. You'll need to look cool when you meet all your blog crushes." When I told him we're paying a monthly fee for my blog and my domain name he said, "Makes sense." And when I told him about the shrink I wanted to see, he said, "I think that's a good idea."

Mike knows I post about him and even though he sometimes reminds me of all the funny things I should be sharing with the Internet instead of things like this, he never asks me to stop. He never stomps around the house or stands his ground or puts his foot down when it comes to this. (It helps that I tell him just how many views my site actually gets, and that half of those are by my mom. He's OK with my mom knowing he has horrible taste in television because my mom thinks he's adorable regardless.)

There are many things I'll never blog about. No matter what. Out of respect for certain people and certain experiences and because some places you just don't go, even if you are relatively void of shame like I am. But no matter what I write/do/say, I know Mike will support me.

One of my greatest joys is having a husband who may not always share the same pulls of the heart as I, but one who will always encourage me to go after mine.

And when I close my browser tonight, I know he'll be there, waiting in the other room to kiss my forehead and say, "Want to rub my shoulders now? We can watch Oprah or old episodes of Veronica Mars. And you can even blog that I said that."

And the joy he gives me, well, it's really something.

Perfecting Mondays This Fall

Just in case you thought I was only going to bring the batshit crazy today, well, here's proof that you're spot on! I AM SO FLIPPING EXCITED ABOUT THIS:

I have Jess. And now I have Veronica. All on my husband's favorite show. 

And a new movie! By Judd Apatow!

Now, if Logan could pop in and do my dishes ... naked ... life would be as perfect as it's ever been.

The Weight Of It All

I grew up in San Francisco. My mother worked in human resources, and my dad was a race director. He directed the San Francisco Marathon and a few other annual races. I remember going to church only once before I left California, but I spent countless Sundays, race day, in Golden Gate Park.

One afternoon, after school, my dad took me to the polo field in the park, to chart his latest race course. He was measuring, and I was wandering. (I wander, still, to this day. Mike will look up in Target, and I'll be gone, and he'll walk through the store, fuming mad at my pathetically short attention span, only to find me reading a book or playing with a slinkie, completely unaware.) Back then, when I was five, maybe six, my wandering was really bad. On this particular day in the park, I was talking to myself, dancing, making stories up in my  head, and by the time I shook myself out of my own imaginary world and looked around, my dad was at least 100 feet away from me.

The next few moments, when I conjure them up, all seem to have happened in extreme slow-motion. And it's difficult to decipher between what my fuzzy five-possibly-six-year-old memory has altered and what exactly happened. Some things I have no doubt about, others have probably become exaggerated with the help of fear and time.

But, from what I remember, I was standing on the south side of the track, and a man on a bicycle was slowly riding near me. He was biking in measured and very deliberate, zig-zag patterns, all the while looking at me; his glance steady, his expression odd. I stopped for a moment, to see if I knew him. At that age I didn't realize strangers looked at people in such a way, so I assumed I knew him. Still, I started to walk toward my dad, not sure why I was afraid, but aware I was all the same. And then this man began to bike toward me, and I screamed for my dad as he reached down to grab my shirt. He was angry, I could tell, as he biked off.   

My dad looked up, and I immediately ran toward him. When I reached him I didn't say a word about what had just happened, and from his distance, he couldn't have known. At five (six?) I hadn't been taught the right words to articulate what I was feeling, what had happened. Looking back, as an adult, I think, Oh. That was intense fear, that's what that was.

We left the park soon thereafter, and as I sat in the car, the man was riding around the parking lot, still looking at me. I was shaking and silent.

A few days (weeks, perhaps; I'm honestly not sure how much time actually lapsed) I was in a convenience store across the street from my gymnastics studio, getting a snack. I was at the check-out counter when I saw the same man in the aisle of the store, smiling at me. I wasn't alone; I was either with my sister or possibly someone from class, but when we left the store, he didn't follow.

I sometimes think I've made this all up, but I know I haven't. I remember what he looked like (blond, early twenties, cold eyes), and I remember thinking what a coincidence it was to see the same scary man more than once in a relatively large city.

Of course, today, as I replay the events in my head, the coincidence seems all but gone.

I wonder why he didn't take me. I wonder why I only saw him twice. I wonder where else he followed me to. I wonder how I got so lucky, as not to become a statistic. I wonder if he found someone else, and if, God forbid, her scream didn't dissuade him. More than anything I usually feel desperately relieved and ashamed all at the same time, even today as I type this. I honestly can't remember why I didn't say anything to my dad, but if it makes any sense at all, I just didn't know how to. It seemed silly that I was even afraid.

To this day, I'm afraid of strangers. At stop lights, in parking lots, on our quiet cul-de-sac. I have constant visions of being shot or grabbed or even of being caught off-guard. I fight deep fears of tragedy on a daily basis: during my morning and evening commute, at lunch, while getting the mail, and so on and so forth.

I recently went to New York for work, and I flew, took a cab and stayed in my hotel room alone. I was convinced before I left I wouldn't return. I was sure of it. I said goodbye to Mike and tried to etch his laugh lines into my memory because I wanted to recall them right before I was killed by some psychotic murdering crazy man (or woman; my fears aren't sexist). Now, I can see all of your mouths slowly falling open while the words nut case form in your head. I have thought about this post for, literally, months, because how do I put my crazy out there for all four people to weigh in on? More than anything I've shared with the Internet, this confession feels as if I'm pulling my skin off and standing before you completely exposed.

But, the point of all this is, I'm going to start talking to someone. Someone professional. Someone not nut case-ish. Mike completely supports this decision because I'm pretty sure he'd like to go grocery shopping just once (in our nice, quiet and not crime-ridden suburb) without hearing:

"Baby, don't look now. But I'm pretty sure that man has a gun and is going to shoot me in the head. Oh lord, we're doomed."

I feel the need to say these fears haven't stopped me from going about my life. I still drive to work, check the mail, travel, etc. I just do those things with a never-ending commentary playing in my head of oh my god oh my god oh my god I'm gonna die oh my god.

So, basically, envy me, bitches. I'm awesome.

You know I think I stay pretty in control, externally, (OK, except when someone merely mentions clowns), but inside my head is a different story. It can be exhausting and it's definitely not easy. I don't think I experience panic or anxiety attacks because it's not physical, it's all mental. Most of all, I just want to calm down.

I'm going to Chicago for business in October. I want to venture out of my hotel without a meeting motivating me. I want to enjoy the sights and sounds and local flare without being overcome by "what if" every five minutes.

I want to walk down the street without my fists clenched.

I want to relax.

I want to put the weight down and walk away from it.

But, more than anything, I want to be able to say "I'm afraid and I don't know why" without feeling silly. This is the first step.

Three

He has always made me laugh.

Happy three months, baby!

(Tomorrow I'll be back with words and sentences and, perhaps, even a thought or two.)

Family Photo

My Canadian nephew, Noah, sporting this lone-star onesie because—and only because—my sister loves me that much.

And I love her, too.

Loveliness

Inspired by a new site I stumbled upon recently, Mama Zzz, here's a list of things I'm especially fond of as of late. (And note that fond does not translate to fond of owning because Mike thinks buying things is for everyone on earth BUT US. Unless things happen to be a boat and don't even get me started, OK?):

1. J.Crew's entire line of flats. Especially these and these (purple!). Oh and these, too.
2. Weight Watchers starter kit! With a points calculator! And a restaurant guide! And I'll never have to turn down my co-workers for lunch again because I will now know the point value of everything! And I'll apparently never stop talking about points or my diet or Weight Watchers and my blog will stay this riveting forever and ever and go ahead and close your browser now. I actually encourage it.
3. This $5 (!!) T-shirt that I can actually endorse because I own it! And I love it. (I bought this white tee for $7.99 but I forgive it for going on sale minutes after I bought it because, dude, SEVEN. NINETY. NINE. That's the equivalent of how many Diet Dr. Peppers I drink in a day.)
4. The 100-Calorie pack bandwagon every company has jumped on. Especially because of these artificially processed pieces of heaven.
5.  Crystal Lite Raspberry Green Tea.
6. Every archive I've read on this site. Not a product, no. But still so, so lovely.
7. This dress. 
8. Dedication, coming soon to a high-priced theater near you. (I've wanted to be Mandy Moore's BFF since seeing her in this movie which I most likely rah-rah-rahed through all by my lonesome.)
9. MY NEW CAR. (And by new I mean, would you like to buy it for me?)
10. These Urban Outfitters' tanks.

A Post Secret

When I come home from work, I usually check the mail. But I almost always leave the local newspaper coupons in the mailbox. Every now and then when Mike asks me if I've checked the mail, I'll say no, even if I have that day. I know he'll venture out to the mailbox only to find a handful of these papers stuffed inside. He'll come back in, muttering about all the junk mail we get. "We never get anything good in the mail. Just these damn ads," he'll grumble under his breath. "I hate these ads," he'll go on. Sometimes, if I'm lucky, he'll stomp around a bit.

And I turn away, smirking all the while.

I do this in part because the ads annoy the shit out of of me, and I hate bringing them into our house myself. But mainly because I find him so adorable when he acts like this it's sometimes hard to breathe.   

Final Fling

This weekend I was in Austin, celebrating Cherie’s final nights of alcohol-soaked freedom. My liver is refusing to speak to me and there are some weekend happenings I simply won’t be able to discuss here (or ever, for that matter) to preserve both my career and my family's respect for me. But we had an insane amount of fun and Cherie took on the bars of 6th Street (and her bachelorette to-do list) like the woman we know and love. The full set of pictures can be seen over on flickr.

And the girls looking fresh and sober; a look that waned quite a lot as the weekend wore on.

We had a fantastic and much-needed girls weekend. And I think it's safe to say, Cherie celebrated her final days of singlehood the best way possible: with friends, family, food and plenty of fun drinks.

Although I have to admit, I fell off the Weight Watchers bandwagon this weekend. (There were chocolate penises made by the bride’s mom, and I’m not in the business of insulting mothers by refusing their chocolate-y phallic-shaped treats.) But, I’m back to my routine today and hungry as ever.

Also, Mike bought a new TV this weekend. Although I'm thrilled we now get to watch TV in bed together since our schedules are crappy and conflicting, I wonder if all TVs come with husbands who insist on showing you how to zoom the picture in and out or insist on changing to the special HD channel they think they have memorized but DO NOT right in the middle of The Hills season premier. 

He Wasn't An English Major In College

Mike: What movie did you see?

Jennie: Becoming Jane.

M: What's that about?

J: Jane Austen.

M: The gorilla lady?

J: ....

M: Oh, wait. That's Jane Goodall. Who's Jane Austen?

J: She wrote Pride and Prejudice.

M: You're going to blog about this, aren't you?

J: I think I have to.

Update

Weight Watchers, Day 3:

I'm hungry. I want a medium pepperoni pizza with a side of fries (both slathered in ranch dressing, please). I'd like, for a snack, a few Taco Bell cheesy gordita crunches and 10 cupcakes (yellow cake, chocolate frosting; heavy on the frosting). I'd like some broccoli cheese soup and a loaf of sourdough bread to dip in it. And then, after that well-rounded meal, I'd like to treat myself to a few dozen warm and gooey chocolate-chip cookies. And maybe a hot dog.

But, I'll resist. I'll be strong because I now know that all of those delicious favorites of mine add up to 4,576 points. And I have only 22 points for any given day. I am learning balance and, yes, it's tough, but it's tough because my life has been void of consistent balance for, um, 25 years now. (My dad likes to tell the story of a bratty [but adorable!] little girl who was—years ago, I assure you— in tears while holding an ic-cream cone because she also wanted a soda.)

But, I am becoming educated on the point values of dozens of food items. Buffalo wings: 12 points for three wings, and that's without the side of ranch I always ask for at WingStop. (Note: If you aren't on Weight Watchers because all your clothes fit, well, suck it first of all, but also go to WingStop and try their fries. They season them with both salt and sugar and they are, easily, the best fries I've ever tasted.) (Also, dip them in lots of ketchup and ranch.)

Exercise, week 3:

I went back to kick-boxing. You didn't think I would, did you? Hell, I didn't think I would. But my work-out buddy was being recruited by someone OTHER THAN ME and I couldn't let that happen. So I decided I would kick-box my way into permanent work-out buddy status, even if it killed me. But, I was nervous before class. I thought about faking an injury. I thought about suddenly coming down with something cough-y and contagious. I thought about "forgetting" my sneakers. (Lauren and I have the same shoe size, though. Lovely coincidence when she's your roommate for two years, less lovely when you're scamming to get out of kick-boxing.)

But, I didn't back out. I sucked it up. Guess the fuck what? I loved it. I loved every minute of kick-boxing this go round. I picked up the moves, and I got in the zone. I'm officially converted.

Clothes:

It's day three, kids. They're still too tight.

Mike:

He's doing swell. Thank you for all the encouraging e-mails that collectively stated: marriage is hard for everyone. I breathed a sigh of relief, because having people you look up to and admire tell you they know exactly what you are going through makes you feel less ridiculous for feeling that way to begin with. I love the redhead. I really, really do. I especially love when I ask him to pick up blueberries and non-fat cool whip (snack suggestion courtesy of Kicky Boots, who I can't resist the urge to link to EVERY CHANCE I GET because she is that fabulous), he says OK, no questions asked. Granted he picked up a tire gauge, as well, but apparently those are useful. Or something.

In other news:

Weeds starts in four short days. And since it's now cool to air fall premieres in January, this is very, very good news for me and my television addiction.

Also, Mike had a friend over last night and they bought a 12-pack of Bud Light. I totally know where 2 of my points are going tonight.

Finally, peacocks. Can't. Get. Over. It.

Scenes From A Cul-De-Sac

Mike and I woke up today to what sounded like some very pissed-off neighborhood cats. Instead, the squawking was caused by this guy, in our neighbor's yard:

And these guys (gals?) on our neighbor's roof:

I've completely zoomed in to take these, from the safety of our porch. I may insist on documenting everything in our lives, but I also insist on doing so from a safe distance (remember the mongoose attack).

You can only imagine what this is doing to Molly's sense of normalcy. 

This Time For Real?

A few weeks ago I posted about my weight issues and my weight goals. A few days after that weighty post, I talked about beginning to work-out with my friend Lauren. (You may remember how kick-boxing and LAUREN'S LIES almost cost me my life.)

But since then. Not much, right? I bet you're wondering how I'm doing. With the weight loss. The dieting. Yada yada yada.

Well, um, I've gained like three pounds.

(Seriously.)

See, when you begin to work out, you get hungrier than usual. And you also get stupid. Because if you've burned 500 calories, the pizza you eat immediately afterward shouldn't count. RIGHT? But, it does, apparently. Just ask my hips. Or my jeans, for that matter. (They hurt from being stretched so thin.) I have cute clothes, I swear it! I just can't wear any of them! And I've been working out! I have! No, really! I got up at 5am last week and cycled. I've done yoga, weights, hiking. And still? I've gained weight. Mike says it's muscles. I say: Let's ask the jeans what they think. Jeans: JUST FAT!

So, enough is enough is enough. I have capris and shorts and dresses and cute little tees—none of which were intended for a sausage.

I CAN NO LONGER BE A SAUSAGE!

In short: I've started Weight Watchers. Thanks in part to Kicky Boots (Hi!) and Amieable (Hi again!) and also in part to Google. (Do I need to link to Google? That seems like unnecessary linkage?)

I already have a few points-friendly meals in the freezer and some WW muffins and yogurt, too, so hey, not entirely starting from scratch. (Phew!) But, as I've said before, it's going to take a while. You gain weight a lot quicker than you lose it, and I've gained it over a whole year . . . so . . . shit.

But the time will pass anyway, and with this plan I can eat cupcakes and pizza.

(Even if that's all I can eat.)

(For a week.)

Soft Edges

Because even when it's hard, I still get this:

And this:

::

Oh and here's proof my feet aren't always snaggly:

(Too lazy to photoshop the remote or ponytail holders out of the picture. Or my giant cankles.)

Just Imagine A Sad Song Playing In The Background

It’s been less than three months, and I’m wondering if it’s too soon to take a second honeymoon. I’m also wondering if marriage is easier on couples who can afford to take a second honeymoon. Or is it impossible for problems—such as the ones we seem to be facing—to be quick-fixed by fruity drinks sipped on sandy beaches. Money is an issue and, no, it’s not everything and it’s not all there is, but it’s easier to say/think/believe that when you actually have some, is it not? Of course it’s also not our only issue. We have a handful, and I hear this is normal. (This is normal, right?) (RIGHT?)

I’m also wondering if it’s just me and my paranoia/insecurity/ability to over-analyze and over-think everything that causes this wall of funk to erect itself every now and again.

All I really know is that yesterday evening I got blue and everything was unsettling me. Our busy and conflicting schedules, our communication breakdowns, our finances, my weight, the CW’s new fall lineup, our milk-less fridge, the ozone, the neighbor’s cats, those cute shoes I bought a year ago and have yet to wear.

I slammed a door last night—hard—and Mike followed me into the bathroom to ask WHAT THE HELL WAS WRONG WITH ME (he didn't use those exact words, but I wouldn't have blamed him if he had), and I said to him, “I just needed to slam a door.”

Months ago, we bought a nice comforter for our bed. We decided, as a couple, Molly would no longer be allowed to sleep with us because, if we’re being honest, she is the reason we needed the new comforter in the first place. This decision was ultimately harder for me because I snuggle and Molly snuggles and Mike? HE DOES NOT SNUGGLE. Mike prefers for nothing to touch him while he sleeps (other than those nine pillows he carefully hand-selected). We’ve been pretty diligent about keeping Molly off the bed, and it helped that we bought her a new bed and a new comforter of her own to ease the transition. She handled it all in stride—other than those few months she ignored us completely and constantly muttered under her breath that her grandma would never do this to her.

Last night, after the door slamming and the hours of feeling blue-ish and funky-ish I did finally go to bed. Only to toss and turn and then throw the covers off in a fit of rage because SLEEP, YOU CAN'T EVEN BE NICE TO ME?

I walked back into the kitchen and said to Mike: “I need Molly to sleep with me tonight. I just need her to.” I could tell he was conflicted but he ultimately said no. He said it would erase months of training and we’d have to start from scratch. He looked torn, he did. But he still said no. I went to bed, and I cried. Because on top of the ozone, I couldn’t even snuggle with my dog and, OH MY, life is hard.

About five minutes later I felt a weight on the covers. I turned to see Mike silhouetted in the dark, lifting Molly onto our bed. He whispered to her, “Mama needs you tonight. But just for tonight.”

And then I cried some more.

Life is hard and it turns out marriage is hard too. But it’s much easier when you know you’ve picked the right partner.

Today

Happy birthday Mike!

 

My brother-in-law (and an incredible husband and father) celebrated his birthday today, and I hope it was a spectacular one.

::

In other news Mike and I spent a good chunk of the day hiking with friends at Dinosaur Valley Park. We were so sweaty and so exhausted when we finished, we convinced ourselves we burned at least 1,000 calories throughout the day (running from chomp-y horseflies in the 90-degree heat also helped, with both the sweat and the exhaustion). But we quickly packed those calories back on by stopping at Domino's Pizza on the way home.