She Likes Purple

Sharing Perspective

Mike and I have been trying to conceive a baby for about eight months now. We know in the grand scheme of fertility, we still fall on the lucky side. But this journey we've been on is so strange in that it keeps us focused on one thing and that's getting pregnant. I don't let myself think about what's beyond that—having a baby, raising a child, being a parent—and a slice of that is to protect myself in case the journey gets tougher. But a greater part is because all of those things feel like complete dreams. I'm foolishly idealistic about a child because I am so desperate for one, and, yes, I know the first time my kid screams no at me, I'm going to be just floored because, um, kid, I GAVE UP CAFFEINE FOR YOU BEFORE YOU WERE CONCEIVED. That is love, so you watch those nos, got it? But, again, there's this idealistic way of thinking that sort of fuzzes up the reality, and the reality is you just never know what life is going to hand you. And you can only hope you'll be surrounded by love and support if what you're given is more than what you were prepared for.

Today I read a post by Emily at Not That You Asked, about friends of hers who are facing something suffocatingly difficult and yet they are managing to push forward, with smiles even.

They are facing what no parent should have to, and they need help.

Please read about their situation and then help, if you can. With a donation or just a positive thought.

Good Things And Good Things To Come

So, first off, I must tell you about this new ice cream flavor we inadvertently stumbled upon a few months ago, when we inadvertently stumbled upon this show on the Food Network with the basic premise being that thousands of normal people were afforded the opportunity to pitch a new and tasty ice cream flavor to Haagen-Dazs (which, wow, is not how I thought it was spelled), and then that great, big field was narrowed down to three finalists and after a trial distribution in Haagen-Dazs stores all over the country and, also, a rather cut-throat judging from ice cream experts, one lucky winner was crowned, and she received gifts and also the top honor of having her chosen flavor sold in grocery stores. Now, the winning flavor was Sticky Toffee Pudding, which is something I have to honestly admit I had never heard of until watching this show—but after watching the show, I learned it's a British dessert that looks rather delicious. Unfortunately, I haven't been able to find this flavor in any of the grocery stores I've been in since watching the show in February. But, get this, Mike really wanted Toasted Coconut Sesame Brittle—one of the runner-up flavors—to win, and, well, it didn't, but guess what flavor we have seen in a handful of grocery stores? Go on, guess! That's right! Toasted Coconut Sesame Brittle! This afternoon Mike brought some home, and although it didn't sound good—to me—when we originally watched the challenge, it is easily one of the most addicting and delightful (light! creamy! refreshing!) flavors of ice cream I've ever had. It's really giving Rocky Road a run for its money. So, all that build up was to say, get yourself to a local store and pick some up, as "limited edition" is splashed all over the container and that's a bit stressful, isn't it? How limited? Are we talking a few months? Through this coming Saturday? I really would like to know, as would my thighs. Also, let's all send out warm, fuzzy thoughts to the winner who was apparently straight LIED TO when she was told her flavor—and her flavor alone—would be available at all grocery stores.

Next up, I tried to buy a laptop today. We actively tried to give our money  to various stores (a large amount of money, mind you; this wasn't one of those pretend laptops for children to peck on) and the stores did not make it easy on us. Unfortunately, I am typing this post on Mike's boring old desktop, and the earliest I'll have my shiny, pretty laptop is tomorrow evening. Mike got a new computer mouse and a USB port thing, and I was subjected to a trip to Fry's with nothing more to show for it than a Cooking Light magazine. (Aside: Fry's has one of the best magazine selections I've ever seen—which I find kind of strange, don't you?) We have a date with Best Buy tomorrow night, so will you go ahead and cross your fingers for me, please? I really don't want to order the thing online for no other reason than I WANT IT NOW, GIMME!

I did get a really pretty dress at Target today, which softened the laptop blow (as did the Haagen-Dazs) but after scouring target.com, I can't find an image to share with you. Trust me when I say it's adorable in a mustard-yellow color, which I'm rather into these days. I don't particularly know why, but it's so much better than other shades of yellow, and it's apparently "in" as I've seen it at J. Crew AND Anthropologie (and, obviously, Target) and those stores rarely lie to me. When I wear the thing—hopefully to a baby shower I am hosting in a few weeks—I'll snap a picture because target.com failed me today, and it's not often I can say that.

Speaking of dresses, I am lusting after this one from GAP, and I even clicked it over into my shopping bag this morning and gap.com had my information saved and everything (which I've since cleared, identity thieves), making it so easy to click "purchase," but I didn't. (Note: In "Military Blue"—I tried to love the "Vineyard" color as it's a measly $19.99, but I just don't.) I resisted because the laptop purchase is a big one, and it doesn't leave us much money left over for gap.com shipping costs. I do plan to stop into a local GAP on a lunch hour this week, and if it's there and it's marked down as much as online, well, it's mine. I'll wear it while typing on my new laptop while spooning bites of Toasted Coconut Sesame Brittle into my mouth (don't tell Mike though—he says no food around the new laptop) and life will be just perfect.

And I'll do all of that while watching the SIXTH season of One Tree Hill, which was confirmed recently. Me and a slew of 13-year-olds really couldn't be happier.

I'm Somewhere Else Entirely

EmilyPie asked me to guest post for her today, while she's gallivanting in NAPA sipping WINE and CHAMPAGNE and probably eating cheese and bread, too. But, I'm totally happy for her and not a bit jealous. Why do you ask?

If you're long on time and short on blogs to read, go read my post about six things I'm loving right now. And bring your wallets. And comment because it's always embarrassing to be the guest poster who can't hold the attention of a single reader.

The biggest thanks.

The Small Horse

(On a recent post, I mentioned [#14] seeing the smallest horse in St. Louis as one of the life events I look back on with complete joy. Weren't you a bit curious?)

Mike and I celebrated our six-month-anniversary in St. Louis, way back in July 2004. It was our first trip, just us, and it was easily one of the best four days of my life. I think traveling tells a lot about a person and it was during that trip I realized I wanted to spend my life traveling with Mike.

When we first got to the fancy hotel I had booked online for us, and we walked into our arm-and-a-leg-per-night room, my stomach dropped. It was the size of a large walk-in closet. And, oh boy, I was not paying for a large walk-in closet. I had to put our suitcase on the bed because there was literally no room for it on the floor. Mike went downstairs to see what he could do, and he returned with keys to a suite for the same price per night as our pseudo-closet. A SUITE. To hear Mike tell it, he walked downstairs and calmly told the receptionist his girlfriend was losing her freaking head upstairs and could she please help with that. I think he probably exaggerated the story to make the woman take pity on him and, sure, I probably didn't come off looking so fantastic but, again, A SUITE. FOR NO ADDITIONAL COST. At first she offered to send up a fruit basket. To which Mike responded, "She doesn't want apples, ma'am; she wants a bigger room." And I still laugh, thinking of him talking to this woman, pleading with her to just help him calm his crazy girlfriend down and unless the apples were in a martini, it just wasn't going to do. And it worked. It was one of the nicest hotel rooms I've ever stayed in, rivaled only by the room in Caesar's Palace that had a mirror on the ceiling and a bathtub in the middle of the room. (Nothing says fancy like knowing your room was designed for hookers, am I right?)

In St. Louis, I gambled in my first casino, we toured The Arch, we saw the Cubs play the Cardinals, we spent an entire day at Six Flags and we toured the Budweiser headquarters, which is one of the coolest places I've ever been—mainly because I managed to drink roughly five glasses of free beer. During the tour, we stopped in the Clydesdale's stables to see the behemoth-sized horses. Our tour guide was rattling off the history and showing us the exact horse that was in this or that Budweiser Superbowl commercial and I was walking around, gandering at all the beasts. They all had strong, powerful names—King and Thunder and Zeus—except for one. The smallest horse in the place—practically a pony, really—was named "Mike." And I could not stop laughing when I saw this. I was wheezing and could barely talk, stammering through laughter-induced sobs, "Baby! Look! OH MY GOSH! You're the smallest horse!" The tour guide actually stopped mid-sentence, glared at me and attempted to wait for me to compose myself before continuing. But I couldn't. It was just the funniest sight I had ever seen—all those huge and strapping horses and then "Mike"—the smallest horse.

Needless to say, Mike didn't laugh quite as long or as loudly as I did. But he did suffer through me telling the story NINE MILLION times over the next few months. As I showed our trip pictures to friends—"This was the cool riverboat casino in St. Charles, where we won NINETY whole dollars! Oh, and this is our killer suite with the fancy mini-bar and sitting area! And that's the St. Louis Bread Company, which is really just  Panera!"—the uncontrollable laughter would always bubble up and spill out of me with no signs of stopping when we got to the horse picture. I would have to tell the story. No one has ever found it to be as funny as I still find it, but somehow Mike garnered a nickname out of all of it and big groups of friends still, years and years later, refer to him as the Small Horse. It's even taken on variations—The Little Horse, The Horse of Small Stature.

I even catch myself sometimes, talking to co-workers or acquaintances, saying, "I think that'll work; I just have to ask the Small Horse. I mean Mike." And, well, of course I have to tell the story then.

And it's one of my favorite stories, and I just can't believe I hadn't told you before now.

This is the only picture I have of "Mike" and it's a particularly crappy one at that, but I had to include it.

This is an unfortunate angle, I know, but for a size reference, I thought I should post it.

Things I Look Back On, Part Two

For part one (#'s 1-25), visit here.

26. Running around the streets of NYC late one night, at age 16
27. Giving the maid-of-honor speech at my sister's wedding
28. Laying in the California sun, reading the Bible
29. Sipping a Zapato's margarita on the outside patio, listening to a local band sing their hearts out
30. Seeing Mike's face when I turned the corner and stepped onto the aisle
31. Watching a production of My Fair Lady on a brutally hot day at Mt. Tam
32. Seeing Ragtime on Broadway
33. Spending the afternoon in the Valley of Fire
34. Picking my brother up from school
35. Slipping into my skinny jeans (years and months and ages ago)
36. Hugging my mother right before I walked out of the room to become his wife
37. Eating kiwi ... my first memory
38. Floating in a hot-air balloon in Napa
39. Crossing the finish line
40. Walking home from my last college class
41. Dunking my Aggie ring
42. Watching Cherie get married with the Pacific Ocean as her backdrop
43. Camping at Enchanted Rock in Fredericksburg, TX
44. Natalie and I, the first customers of the night at Dry Bean
45. Picking out the scariest movie so we'd be forced to grab hold of each other
46. Holding my week-old nephew
47. Sharing drinks, just my sister and me
48. Traffic-less commuting
49. Smashing the cupcake in his face
50. Searching for sea otters in Monterey

Things I Learned While Watching The Bachelor Last Night

1. I don't stare at Mike's lips nearly enough as I've never been able to use the phrase, "I've been staring at your lips all night." And that's really a shame, isn't it?

2. Being able to hold one's alcohol is considered an actual positive quality—similar to "good listener" or "calm demeanor."

3. If I'm fresh out of ponytail holders or clips, I should just stop in my local garden center and pick out a blooming flower to tie to my head.

4. Two things one should strongly avoid saying on The Bachelor or, better yet, in life are 1) "I wrote a song for you, and now I'm going to sing it" and 2) "My cat is the love of my life. I miss her purring body."

5. The women are far more mature than I would have guessed them to be as they all resisted the urge to drop kick Ashlee after her "I got a rose" dance.

6. Some girls—angry about having to share Matt with other people—were apparently never told the premise of the show.

7. If can-ripping doesn't hook him, opera singing will. Oh wait. NO, IT WON'T.

8. Having five credits on imdb.com with one role being the Red Bikini Girl in "Endless Bummer" doesn't exactly make you an actress.

Timeline: Ten

(One Through Six can be read here. Seven Through Eight here. And Nine here.)

1992, aged ten
My dad has moved back to California, from Minnesota, and I begin to see him every Sunday. We go ice-skating, to the zoo, to the movies, for ice cream. He has moved into an apartment in Parkmerced and one afternoon we sit on his apartment stairs and he tells me he won't be living there alone. It was hard for him to tell me, but I already knew.

My mom, sister and I will move to Texas in the summer, and I can't remember when that was decided, but I do remember being excited. It's not that I wanted to leave California, and all three of us will physically miss it every day we're not there, but every inch of that city is laced with a raw, aching pain. And in a lot more ways than one we just couldn't afford to stay.

The day before we move, I am with my dad. We end the afternoon at a nearby basketball court and through thick tears he tells me he'll move to Texas to be near us, if I want him to. He tells me he would do anything if I wanted him to. I never could bring myself to ask that of him—throughout the next ten years—and not because I'm selfless or because I didn't want him living near me, but because I knew he'd have to break his promise if I asked, and it wasn't something either one of us would recover from.

We spend the next week on the road and arrive in Garland, Texas in the middle of July. It's tough, getting used to this new place, this new home. My sister and I start new schools and make new friends, and we get by. We are strong, the three of us, and we do what we must.

Christmas rolls around and we fly back to California for our first visit (of dozens) with my dad and Elece. She is bubbly and fun and nice, and we like her even though we don't want to. And we forgive him, even though we don't want to.

Because we're young and because we love him.

Breaking News

I have a friend, Cherie, who lives in Portland and I probably talk to her every other day on my (ridiculously long) drive home from work. It's nice to have her on the other end of the line so often although I wish I had her just across town as no-one I've ever known is ready for happy hour at the drop of a hat like Cherie is. And she's also contagiously energetic and enthusiastic about life which is a refreshing quality in a friend. Oh, and she talks to me about One Tree Hill which, let's be honest, is not a conversation the average person is eager to partake in.

I called her the other day as she was just walking into Target; she said she would call me right back. About ten minutes later she called and before "hello" she said, "We're in trouble. Target is selling Origins, Kiehl's and Bumble & Bumble products."

Although I haven't been in any of my local Targets yet to see if this is a "trial" display in Portland Targets alone, you may be able to understand how potentially life-changing this news is. For both my bathroom and my marriage, admittedly.

Things I Look Back On

Inspired by Maggie at Mighty Girl, the first part (1-25) of my list that includes the events in my life that were injected with the perfect amounts of excitement and giddiness and pure joy.

1. The first bite of an In-N-Out burger, after a day on the Russian River
2. Seeing my name in print
3. My first midnight-yell kiss, on a hot August night
4. Dancing to "18th Floor Balcony" on my wedding day, my husband and I drunkenly singing the words to each other
5. Catching a shark off a boat in the Florida Keys
6. Laying on top of our family car in Grand Canyon National Park, taking in the bloated, star-filled sky
7. Reading aloud to my Kindergarten class
8. Beating dozens of men in a poker tournament
9. Having champagne hand-delivered to me ... by my dad
10. Eating drippy ice cream with my brother in the backyard
11. Laughing uncontrollably in a hammock in San Antonio
12. Knowing that something I wrote touched you
13. Dancing, alone, in front of a room full of people
14. Seeing the smallest horse in St. Louis
15. Waking up at 3am on my 15th birthday to drive, for the first time, around the darkened streets of Petaluma with my stepmom
16. Snorkeling in the Virgin Islands
17. Standing on the awards stage at the San Francisco Marathon
18. Being a part of the student body that could pull together the Red, White and Blue Out in less than ten days
19. In love atop the Empire State Building
20. Shivering on opening day at Candlestick Park
21. Watching fireworks on July 4, 1999 with my mom and dad in Meridian, Mississippi
22. Walking across the Golden Gate Bridge
23. Dancing to "SexyBack" with my sister and five-month-old nephew
24. Making s'mores on Thanksgiving Day
25. Watching a little girl read for the first time

Ten

In college, I met a man who was smart and sarcastic and aloof and it wasn't instant but it also wasn't very long before I became incredibly attracted to him. For far too many months, I weaved myself in and out of his life and allowed myself to be treated just horribly by him.

I believed him when he told me he cared about me and would be with me if he could—and all of his reasons for not being with me made quite a bit of sense to the girl who would have nodded along emphatically to anything he said, even if it had all been in French.

I saved every IM conversation we shared during that time, and every once in a while, I go back over them and allow myself to cringe at the desperation and the sadness dripping off every word I wrote.

I know what everyone says about regret: how it's utterly pointless, how every event—large, small, devastating, joyful—carries us to this moment, where we're exactly where we should be. Blah blah uplifting blah. I can't buy it. We're human; we regret that last tequila shot, the way we treated our mothers from ages 14-18, the second helping at the pizza buffet. And, oh yes, I regret Matt.

Eventually it became too much for me, and I began to break down and demand answers from him and he immediately shut me out. The last time I ever spoke to him was on Halloween 2003, when I had been left by my ride at a bar, and I had sent him a text message to see if he would pick me up and give me a ride home. He responded with, "Never talk to me again." He had met someone else, and that was that.

Just over a month later I walked into a bar, and I locked eyes with Mike and sat next to him, oddly nervous. And—although I obviously couldn't have known the magnitude of it all then—my life changed that night. I haven't been the same since.

Mike is stubborn and he's unromantic and he genuinely didn't care when Veronica Mars got booted from the CW line-up and he also goes to Molly before he comes to me when he gets home each night. He's flawed and frustrating and he insists on asking me questions when I'm clear across the house, forcing me to pause whatever great song I'm in the middle of listening to or whatever General Hospital moment I'm entrenched in. And he can't fold a load of laundry to SAVE HIS LIFE.

And yet that night—in that bar, when it all shifted—when he put my Red-Bull-and-Vodkas on his bar tab and let me borrow his phone to make a call, I met a man who would help me, slowly and scarily, become the woman I was meant to be. The woman my mother saw when she looked at me as a child; the woman my encouraging friends would try to convince me I could be. I met a man who would show me just how horribly sad it was to think anyone could care about me who wouldn't be interested in hearing about my day, who wouldn't be worried when I drive in bad weather, who wouldn't care about my career successes or who wouldn't find me just hilarious when I make the dog talk.

My husband didn't "fix" or "save" me, but he did help me to see that any man who could leave me on a street corner isn't worth the time it takes to regret something but is, quite understandably, regrettable all the same.

Ten months ago I married a man who would never leave me in need, who would never degrade me, who will never be a regret, not in any way. I met and married a man—not by definition but by embodiment.

Happy ten months, Michael.

(I've thought about posting a blog one day about my actual wedding and how effing fantastic it was, but can we just take a moment and admire that flower arch? It was such a beautiful part of the day and, damn, if it wouldn't fit in my suitcase. And, my wedding colors were brown and PURPLE; are you dying of shock?)

Off The Figuratively Heavy Topics And Onto The Literal Ones

Two posts in one day! Aren't you the lucky reader?

That last post was rather intense, wasn't it? I wasn't entirely prepared for such soul-searching when I began my age time-lines, but now that I'm in the thick of them, I can't exactly abandon ship. But I can put a nice chunk of time in between heavy posts so this doesn't become the blog where we all must hide our razorblades. (She Likes Purple: Where You Shouldn't Have To Hide Your Razorblades.)

Now, let's move along to something fluffier, like the size of my thighs. I'm recommitting to this same, pesky diet I've been involved with but mostly ignoring for months and months now. Sometimes we go weeks enjoying one another but I inevitably toss it aside for a Chipotle burrito bowl piled high with creamy guacamole.

What makes this time different, you ask (great question, by the way). Well, this time I have some serious inspiration, and it comes in the form of this lovely drape-y dress from Francesca's.

It doesn't look so colorless in person—in person it looks heavenly. But it's also the kind of (heavenly) dress I imagine would be rather unforgiving to bulges, so I'll need to drop a few (dozen) pounds in order to flaunt it properly.

(Side question: what color shoes/accessories would you pair with this? Oh, and including links never hurt anyone.)

Now, how was your weekend? I'm dying to know what you did, what you saw, what you bought. I had the house to myself and I believe I mentioned grand plans of massages, manicures, chick-flick marathons but my weekend actually consisted of a lot of unpacking broken up by Soap Net watching (and, fine, champagne drinking and cupcake inhaling). I did have dinner at Mike's cousin's house on Saturday night and spent most of Sunday with my mom, shopping and taking in Definitely, Maybe for the second time. Mike gets back today, and although the house isn't as "put together" as I would have liked, it's getting there. And getting there is better than "still looks like total and utter crap," right?

I also wasn't snatched out of my house this weekend which was actually a concern since, as I tell Mike just constantly, I'm quite snatchable. There were only a few suspicious noises I forced Molly to investigate and they turned out to be nothing more than the air-conditioner kicking on (twice) and the air-conditioner kicking off (three times). I swear it sounds just like someone typing when it kicks off, and I sat straight up in bed all three times and thought, completely seriously, Is someone on our computer? Now, wouldn't they have been the most boring burglar in history.

Here's to a happy St. Patrick's Day, whatever it is you have up your sleeve. I had grand plans to make this cake tonight, but something tells me it's not the best way to kick off a diet.

::

And on a final and unrelated note, are you going to BlogHer? Do you need a roommate? Kristabella, a funny and snarky Chicago-based blogger, is looking for someone to room with in July. If you are in the same predicament, please contact me or Kristin, directly. You and your liver won't be disappointed. 

Timeline: Nine

("One Through Six" here. "Seven and Eight" here.) 

1991, age nine
My mom and dad sit us down, to tell us we're moving to Minnesota where my dad has gotten a job as the Twin Cities Marathon director. I call my best friend MacKay, as soon as I hear the news. My parents' friends throw us a going-away party out at Lake Merced and we dance and eat while we're buzzing with excited energy. My dad has to leave early for Minneapolis while we stay behind to sell the house and finish the school year. We'll join him in June, just a few short months away. We take him to the airport for a tearful but happy goodbye. For a few weeks, we regularly talk with him and during one call I ask him to tell me the name of the elementary school I'll attend. He can't think of it—he's scattered and distant—and my stomach drops although I'm not sure why. The calls eventually become less frequent, and my mom and sister become quieter. We've fixed up our little blue house. My mom has quit her job. We have it all planned.

I walk up the stairs one night, in early June, confused to find my sister cutting up pictures of my dad while sitting on the top step. Later my mom sits us down to tell us we're not moving to Minnesota, our dad isn't moving back to California, we're staying put for a while but everything—just everything—is changing. I cry and cry and cry as I bury my face in my mom's lap. I cry tears I can still feel. My dad calls the next day to ask if my mom has told us the news. Out of all the decisions my dad has ever made, and he's made some head-scratchers, this one ranks as the most cowardly, one of very few I'll never be able to forgive—the decision to let my mom handle this alone, the decision to sweep in the next day with platitudes, the decision to not get on a plane and tell his daughters face-to-face that he has left us.

I won't see my father for the rest of the year.

Despite a lot of pain, despite reality stripping away all the idealistic views I once held, we laugh a lot this year. We stay up late, talking around the dining-room table. Rachel and I dance for my mother. I begin going to an after-school program where I meet a boy who becomes my "after-school best friend" and I remember, precisely, what he looked like. We play tether ball on the playground for hours together.

Christmas rolls around and my mom fills the room with gifts, overcompensating a little, I know, but loving us so much, always loving us with such a fierceness that she'd do anything—break the hardest news, remake holiday memories, laugh with us when it's nearly impossible—to make everything OK.

It was the hardest year of my life. But, somehow—as she always, always does—my mother made it OK.

Behind The Love

I posted my love list the other day, and although it was ridiculously long, I know, I could have gone on and on and on. I found myself hitting my forehead at random times throughout the week; how could I have forgotten my birthday or Ashlee Simpson's first CD (shut it) or new jeans or a hand-written letter or Indian food or watching a child read for the first time? It'll remain an always-growing and never-ending list. I also monitored my stats a tad closer than usual to see if anyone else was taking the bait. I read all of your posts I could find, and I thought I'd share them here.

(My favorite lines are italicized, to give you a feel for the author.)

MeganJane (posted via flickr). "I love curling up on the couch with a glass of really good red wine, in the fall, when the windows are open, and a cool breeze is softly blowing in." (Her photographs are going to stun you. Be sure you're properly seated.)

Art By Chrysti "I love long, drawn-out and dramatic monologues and cheesy love speeches in movies." (Chrysti, me too. ME TOO.)

Slynnro "I love tomato soup with croutons."

Sensibly Sassy "I love the high I can only get from dancing."

Design Gal & Her Handyman "I love being outside at night in the summertime when it's still warm."

Formation of Me "I hate Nicolas Cage. No, I haven’t seen him in whatever movie made you like him. No, I won’t see it even on your suggestion. Sorry, that’s just how my hate rolls." (She spiced it up a little and made a "hate" list which I loved. Mine is soon to come, I think. Including: credit scores and the executives at CW. And, yes, Nicolas Cage except in The Rock, but only because Brenda was in it with him.)

Clever Blog Name Here "I love a fresh clean house and inviting people over." (Also, take a look at her photos—they're incredible.)

Cryptic Words Meander "I love putting a heating pad between my sheets before I get in bed so that the space where my feet will go gets all toasty warm." (I swear, I did this just last night.)

Rhi In Pink "I love a completed to-do list ... paying off a bill ... freshly colored hair."

Jodifur "I love spicy food. . . . I love a good glass of red wine, especially with dark chocolate."

Just Expressive " I love sliding into completely still water. . . . I love black and white photography and how it seems to make time more important."

Ramblings of "Just A College Kid" "I love being barefoot and being outside."

Princess Nebraska "I love Thin Mints ... Joey and Pacey ... Burger King crowns ... to hear the story of when I was born." (What didn't I love from her list?)

Pearls And Cupcakes "I love Friday afternoon tea and Sunday morning brunch."

Someone Being Me "I love crawling into bed in the middle of the day for the perfect nap. I love getting cards in the mail."

Sharon's Space "Hope and grace"

Thunderously Awesome "I love to think that the universe is teeming with intelligent life, and that someday, somehow, mankind will bridge the gap and make contact with it." (Aaron is Stara's husband. And I loved this post and this line especially because if Mike ever made a list, this would absolutely be on it, along with "The Discovery Channel and Rage Against the Machine.")

Tied Up With a Black Velvet Band "I love it when my house is just cleaned, there are fresh flowers on the dining room table and coffee table, and the candles are lit. Especially if we are awaiting company."

Everyday Reading "I love movie trailers, to the point where I'm sad when the actual movie starts." (Janssen, me too! I really thought I was the only one.)

A Charmed Life "I love October when the sky is morning-glory blue and the leaves are yellow and red and there's energy in the air." (October has always been my favorite month of the year for no other reason than, in my opinion, it's so charged with colors and energy.)

Crooked Halo "I love Gilmore Girls, strong family bonds, and witty banter."

Black-Eyed Susan "I love it when I don’t have a meeting to go to after work and I can just head straight home." (Jen, oh, I agree. There are entire weeks at a time when I have things to do after work, and the days I can just get in the car and head straight home are magical. Continually proving I'm 26 going on 80.)

Pickles And Dimes "I love grabbing an oversized blanket for a nap on the couch." (It's concerning me a little that I'm drawn to the lines in every list that include the words "sleep," "nap" or "snuggling." Perhaps I need a vacation.)

If you're not linked to above and you've posted a list, please let me know either through a comment or an e-mail. I'd love to add you.

::

Now, a little background on where the inspiration to do this came from. Years ago, before I was married, I caught an episode of Oprah with Kristin Armstrong, Lance Armstrong's ex-wife. She was well-spoken and beautiful but, most importantly, she was shedding some light on the myths of marriage. She knew why her own marriage had failed. She said, bravely and powerfully, that she had tried to become "the perfect wife and mother." She said she had forgotten "her list"—the things she loved most in life, including "red wine" and "taking her time." (The article that inspired her appearance on Oprah can be read here. It was the best thing I read that year, easily.)

I vowed to myself—after reading and watching all that—that I would never forget my list, regardless of whose wife I became, whose mother I one day would be.

I am a wife, an aunt, a daughter, an editor, a friend, a Democrat, a dog Mama, a Texan, a Californian, a sorority girl, an Aggie, a sister, a niece, a publicist, a granddaughter, a commuter, an eternal sap. And I wear a thousand other hats—all roles I am deeply and physically proud of. But they are each only one slice of me. Strip them away and here I stand with only my memories, my beliefs, my convictions and the things I love most.

Apparently These Weren't Items On Our Amazon Wish Lists

My mom helped us move into our new home last weekend and if I don't say it enough, my mother is a badass. She lifted/cleaned/packed more than I did and she did it willingly. In addition, she brought over some photo albums and my baby book, all of which provided quite a lot of entertainment before we had DVR last week. I've posted a handful of these pictures over here.

But the following two have to be shared right now, and I am laughing uncontrollably even as I type this. Mike has warned me none of you will find these pictures quite so knee-slappingly hilarious as I do, but I just can't resist. I MUST SHARE.

Look at us! (Me, top; Rachel, my older sister, bottom.) These were our Easter gifts one year: toothbrush/cup combos that we are obviously not pleased about. Can't you just hear me thinking (with that disgusted look on my face!), Now, really, what is this? This is NOT a My Little Pony! This isn't even one of my runner-up wish-list items! This doesn't even RESEMBLE a Rainbow Brite doll or a Pound Puppy. I hope they kept the stupid receipt.

My sister's look is much more burdened, beaten down by having to put on a brave face. I hoped and hoped and hoped for a Debbie Gibson T-shirt and they gave me this? A TOOTHBRUSH! I must look strong since Jennie just punched a hole in the wall with her combo cup.   

I can almost guarantee that a few hours later we could be overheard, mumbling in our shared bedroom, "At least yours is pink! Mine is this hideous teal color!" "Well, you know what's not teal? A POUND PUPPY!"

Requesting Assistance

Is it only Wednesday? I woke up this morning—in the dark, mind you—and wanted to bitch-slap my alarm clock because surely it got it all wrong, going off on a Saturday morning (barely morning! still dark!) but, no, it's Wednesday and how that's possible I'm still not entirely sure. I think my confusion has something to do with a combination of daylight savings, nights filled with unpacking, commuting, moving Mike's heavy fish tank from old house to new house on Sunday night and cramming in as many Law & Order: SVU episodes as our DVR can hold. This week has been heavy on the activities and lite on the cabana boys fanning me and feeding me grapes.

(Also, if we're being honest, One Tree Hill was just plain exhausting last night. I needed to lie down immediately after Haley called up Lucas to tell him not to marry Lindsay. Haley, I'm a big fan, I have been since the beginning—even with that unfortunate shawl you'd always sport in season one—but if you single-handedly send Lucas back into Peyton's arms, I'm going to bitch-slap you too. BROOKE WAS YOUR MAID-OF-HONOR and she let the entire school think she was pregnant because you weren't ready to tell your own husband you were the knocked-up one. And, really, that's quite the friend. Although, I must say, much-improved clothes this season; I loved that mustard cardigan you had on last night.)

So, Mike is going to be out of town this weekend. He takes off on Friday, riding his motorcycle to Big Bend and back. When he first told me about this trip, I may have gotten slightly mopey and not because I don't think Mike deserves a little time away from his ridiculously irritating wife but because Mike and I have a tradition—Saturday morning breakfasts—and they're easily my favorite part of the week. We get up, take quick showers and Google breakfast joints in our area, and then we pick one we haven't been to and one that also sounds delightful. (My favorite so far: The Snooty Pig.) I look forward to our Saturday breakfasts all week, and when we have out-of-town plans or when one of us has something going on, I mope my way through that Saturday morning because it's just not the same; it's just not what I want to be doing the most. But after I moped I thought of the free reign I'd have over the TV AND the computer and I may have offered to help Mike pack. This may sound terribly unromantic and you may whole-heartedly disagree, but I think even the strongest relationships need breaks. I think partners need their alone time, and I'm actually excited for a weekend to myself—unpacking, possibly a manicure, maybe even a massage, definitely some prosecco and cupcakes—and Molly really does step up her Mama-adoring when Mike is out of the picture.

Something else I've worked onto the agenda for this weekend is to pick up a few things for the house, and I'd really love your help with this. Would you mind? Are you terribly busy this Wednesday (gosh, is it still Wednesday)? Maybe you'll have some time to kill before American Idol tonight? Or! I've got it! You could record the show and help me while TiVo is working its magic and then come back to fast-forward to the last two minutes because, really, the elimination shows are the biggest waste of those first 28 minutes, aren't they? (Although I hear Katherine McPhee is going to be on tonight and, yes, she kind of ooges me out with her middle-aged husband, but I still get goosebumps when I think of her barefooted "Over the Rainbow" performance.) Now I'll get to the favor: I need a few household items and I'm having a heck of a time finding what I want. So, break our your Google skillz, you'll need them for this.

First, I'd like two laundry baskets for our laundry room—both with embroidery but one that says "Lights" and one that says "Colors." And—not that I have a problem with this style, of course—I'd sort of prefer nothing with the word shabby followed immediately by the word chic in its description. Or, obviously, nothing with the word shabby followed immediately by a period.

Next, I'd love a chalkboard for the kitchen. I can only seem to find plain chalkboards or chalkboards with roosters or cartoon chefs adorning them. There has to be stylish, cool, awesome chalkboards that are neither dull nor butt ugly, right?

Oh, and I need a laptop. If left up to me, I'd buy the first shiny one I saw, and Mike would just love you forever if you could help out his ridiculously clueless wife. I don't require much, although I'd like it to be not too bulky and it needs to be somewhat reasonably priced—$1000 or under? Is that reasonable for a laptop? I haven't bought one since college and the one I bought then HAD A HEART ATTACK and DIED, so I imagine I didn't set the bar high the first time out of the laptop gate.

Finally, I'm hoping Mike and I can take a tiny trip for our anniversary. On the maybe list: Chicago, British Columbia or Boston. Or, maybe, some place I haven't thought of yet. We probably need to keep the trip smallish, a long weekend of some sort, to an off-the-beaten-path location. Some place like Stars Hollow, perhaps? Except real.

My Love List*

I love early matinées with handfuls of trailers. I love slow solo shopping, taking my time or, if I'd rather, jutting in and out in five seconds flat. I love browsing online for expensive, authentic heels I'll never own—but, just in case, saving the link. I love writing to-do lists in colored sharpies and crossing out completed tasks with a proofreader's curl. I love Aggie football games, when the weather is just so and the fans are roaring with every first down and I have salty nachos drizzled with fake oozy cheese. I love turning onto my street and catching a glimpse of a package resting against the front door. I love mosaic tables. I love when I wake up at 7am on a Saturday and remember I can sleep a few more hours if I want to, and I always want to. I love splashing Tabasco sauce on my scrambled eggs. I love long, leisurely road trips when I'm in the passenger seat, reading a trashy tabloid or listening to Wideawake's first CD. I love fountain drinks filled to the brim, in a Styrofoam cup. I love warm donut holes and chocolate milk on a rare Saturday morning. I love boutique jewelry, beaded and dangle-y and fun. I love crossword puzzles. I love snazzy champagne flutes filled to the brim with bubbly. I love walking into a hotel room and being met with cold, crisp air—the kind of air one can only fully enjoy when not being responsible for the electric bill. I love pepperoni and jalapeño pizza, with a side of tangy Ranch dressing and, even better, a cold Bud Light to wash it all down with. I love Nars lip gloss and dark nail polish. I love the jellyfish exhibit at The Monterey Bay Aquarium and this one gelato joint on Taraval in San Francisco. I love Central Market's cheese aisle, and hoping one day—by the grace of Giada—I'll be able to walk up and confidently pluck out just the right cheese to accompany this or that dish. I love romantic stories behind song lyrics and I sometimes wonder if she did miss him while she was looking for herself out there. I love lavender roses, faint and full. I love learning. I love dressing up and dressing down, equally. I love walking out my door in late November, early December, to smell the first chimney smoke of the season and imagining S'mores being smashed together somewhere just out of reach. I love the way a soft, worn-in T-shirt hangs on a man's back. I love the color purple (all shades—deep, light, pale, rich) and I love the taste of garlic and pesto. I love prosecco and fruit-filled cupcakes. I love redenvelope.com and monogramming. I love clean sheets and heavy covers and crawling into bed with a full TiVo and a bowl of Rocky Road ice cream. I love doggy-earring catalogs and then browsing on eBay for each and every wanted item. I love chili cheese fries and buffalo wings. I love the dream of one day having my own library. I love hardwood floors and the sound of deep, full laughter. I love hiking. I love a long day at the beach, with a book and no plans. I love finding new places to visit—Lithuania, Ecuador, Croatia, British Columbia, Thailand, Boston. I love an organized inbox and sending "just because" cards and packages. I love wasting entire afternoons in Target, searching out gifts to give. I love horribly angst-y teen dramas and, yes, a certain reality television program that is best known for having "the most dramatic rose ceremony ... EVER." I love floppy puppy ears and people who are easy in their own skin. I love montages and "best of" reels. I love kindness, in a million different forms. I love how squirrels are always running to get somewhere. I love bright colored winter coats and the combined flavor of raspberry and chocolate. I love Potato Shack in College Station and bars you don't have to dress up to walk into. I love Stern Grove and the desert night air and exhaling. I love dreaming big and hoping for something grand and believing things can be different just up ahead. I love the ordinary beauty of my life with its million-trillion flaws and its scary stops and starts and its painful inadequacy and its subtle disappointments and its sometimes falling short and its forcing me to never—not for one teensy-tiny moment—give up on myself, the one person guaranteed to be with me every day of my life. 

This is my list.

::

*I challenge you to make your own list. The only catch? You can't include a single person you know on your list. No "I love the way my husband laughs" or "I love hearing my little girl call for me." It'll be tough, I know. (Think about it, I couldn't include MOLLY on my list.) But this particular little exercise is about stripping away everyone who defines you and figuring out what you (not his partner; not their mother/daughter/sister/friend) love.

Timeline: Seven Through Eight

1989, age seven
On an October afternoon, my dad leaves work early to drop my sister and me off at home and to stick a blank tape in the VCR to record Game 3 of the World Series—The Battle of the Bay—before he goes to a late-night meeting. I'm in the backseat of the car, reading a library book, and we're just past San Francisco State University when I think my dad is being funny, swerving our car into another lane to the music on the radio. When I say to him, "Dad! Stop! I'm reading!" he swears it wasn't him. When we pull up to the light, the car next to us rolls down their window and yells over, "I think that was an earthquake." We get home to find our TV and VCR have both fallen off the shelf, our TV in tact but our VCR shattered. A few Calistoga bottles fell from the top of the fridge and one single book fell off our bookshelf—a book on how to survive an earthquake. My dad leaves us at home to go out in search of batteries—we're without power. My sister and I stay permanently lodged at the upstairs window, surveying the sidewalk below for the first glimpse of my mom coming up the hill. She works at a law firm downtown and no one has heard from her. When my dad returns he lets us eat the melting ice cream and we gather on the couch and wait. She finally makes it home, after walking much of the way. 

1990, age eight
My sister and I spend afternoons at my dad's office, stuffing envelopes and chasing each other up and down the stairs. We're given a few quarters each afternoon for treats at a convenience store down the block. One afternoon, for whatever reason, we're in trouble and my dad refuses to give us our quarters. My sister works up a plan—she tears my already-dirty shirt and grabs a mug from my dad's coffee station. She tapes a piece of paper to the mug that says some variation of, "I'm homeless. Give me money." I stand in front of the convenience store and make $2.19 and a Snickers bar. A friend of my dad's walks slowly up to his office, trying to stifle his laughter and says, "Scott, do you know what your daughters are doing?" When my dad comes out, he finds me handing over all of the money to my sister—the brains but definitely not the brawns of the operation. She does let me keep the Snickers bar. My dad was either too tickled or too floored to ground us. Later that same year, we'll gather shells from the beach and office supplies from my dad's office and peddle those off the street corner, as well. I distinctly remember trying to sell a broken shell to a young couple for a dime. They gave me a dollar instead.

Answer Me This

This week has been impossibly crappy; so crappy, in fact, that I left work today at 1pm, drove straight home, popped open an icy-cold beer and pulled out my leftover chocolate raspberry cheesecake, devoured one and then the other and then had a good cry. Moving is stressful enough, as you probably know, but there are many other factors contributing to this move being a giant, throbbing pain in my ass. Factors I could easily detail for you (unlike my boss, my landlord can't evict us over my blog) but they depress me so, I'd like to leave them vague and fuzzy. I love this house—it's beautiful!—but it's not perfect and we don't own it, so all of its imperfections have to be handled on someone else's timeline (and this person, in case you care, is batshit insane).

I'm reminded, once again, how strongly I feel that "Keeping A Squeaky Clean Credit Score" should be a required college course.

I sat down to write a baby-related post just now, but you would not want to hear the drivel I'd come up with today. It would be a lot of whining and pleading with you to send me shoes to make up for the empty-belly thing. And your eyes might get permanently lodged in the back of your skull because, seriously, Can I get a hobby or, maybe, an OFFLINE diary?

So, instead of blabbering on like a worn-out idiot about various sucky topics, I have a very serious question I'm going to ask you. And I look forward to each and every answer.

What book are you currently reading?

Distract me, will you? I'd be just ridiculously grateful. 

Timeline: One Through Six

1982
I am born in San Francisco, on a Sunday afternoon during a 49er playoff game and a rainstorm. My sister asked for a puppy and it took her years to forgive me for showing up instead. For weeks my parents struggle between Noel and Marie as my middle name. They finally decide upon Noel but not before the birth certificate had already been filed and processed, with my middle name left blank.

1983, age one
Instead of a security blanket, I carry a security bottle. Finally, months and months past the healthy age for bottle sucking, my mom tells me she won't take a bottle away but she won't buy me another one either, so it's up to me to keep track of the ones I have. It isn't long before I lose them all, one by one. My mom tells me of the very last one, left on a city bus, and how it was painfully hard for me to realize she meant what she said.   

1984, age two
We go to the zoo, as a family, and it quickly becomes one of my favorite things to do. When we pass the seals and sea lions and catch a glimpse of the polar bears—the first bear at the San Francisco Zoo if coming from the main entrance—I crane my neck, tense up and hope there are two in the cage. It's a ridiculous quirk of mine, to become incredibly—inconsolably, really—sad when there is just one polar bear in the exhibit. I cry to my mom, "But, they're lonely! They need friends!" I imagine my sweet mother tensed up just as much as I did, hoping for two; hoping her sensitive, deep-souled toddler would be able to hold it together if the zoo had been unfair.

1985, age three
One of my first real memories was the sound of my mother's voice. I would walk beside her and grip hold of her purse as she would beg me to stop pulling on it. For years—beginning this year, it seemed—I needed to be near her. We left West Portal and moved to Daly City, and our new house was blue with hollow steps, big columns and deep brown carpeting. I thought we lived in a mansion until I was old enough for reality to taint me. Next door was a church; a church that would praise at all hours of the night. I remember keeling over with laughter, years later, as my mom stomped next door in her Snoopy slippers to tell the congregation she had daughters trying to sleep and could they please just KEEP IT DOWN.

1986, age four
At my Christian preschool I collect rocks at recess. One day, during worship, I dance around, forgetting about the rocks I've shoved into my dress, and they fly out all over the stage. The worship leader stops the music and makes me pick up each one before she'll begin again. At home, my sister begins teaching me after she gets home from third grade—and after making me schlep books and paper downstairs to our make-shift classroom. Before I turn five she will have somehow taught me to read.

1987, age five
I begin Kindergarten, at a great elementary school in the city, and we lie about our address so I can attend. I become best friends with a girl named Lindsay Farrell and we conduct the class symphony together, which I thought made us terribly important. At Christmas, after tearing open Barbie's Dream House and board games, my parents call me to the front room where a dog named Spencer is waiting for me. I spend the next few days convinced he is my surprise as I was the only one who didn't know he was coming. Months later, we come home to find he's chewed up the living room couch and my dad tells my sister and me we should get rid of him because of it. Instead, my dad puts Spencer out in the rain and leaves us to watch him. We cover him with a blanket and stay outside in the rain with him, never leaving his side. We call my dad, pleading with him to let us bring Spencer back in the house. Years later my dad will tell us he was always shocked we didn't just sneak him back in—it was a thought that had never occurred to us.

1988, age six
I move onto first grade. My dad and I walk hand-in-hand down Taravel, past a video store, while I yell out the lyrics to "Margaritaville" by Jimmy Buffet. When I screech out "it's your own damn fault"—the wrong lyric, I now know—he snickers for a minute before saying to me, "Some people may not know you're just singing a song; some people may think you're talking to them, so you should probably sing that in your head." This is the patient and incredible reason my father gives for why I shouldn't scream out—at six years old—the word "damn." It takes these memories to remind me he hasn't always been the man he is now.   

Limbo

We don't have Internet (or TV) at home right now. I steal a few minutes from work, here and there, to say hello to this or that Internet friend and I try to get to a few of your posts on my lunch hour. We are supposed to get everything hooked up tomorrow but, well, our window is still broken so promises are kind of like unicorns these days—nice in theory, but I don't believe in them for a split second unless I'm looking at some solid, unquestionable, signed proof.

I had these grand plans to write posts on the following topics recently:
- My love list
- Age time-lines (inspired by Holly at Nothing But Bonfires)
- Recently found and adorable pictures of my sister and I as kids
- A numbered list of things to do before I go (inspired by Maggie at Mighty Girl)
- A deep, poignant post about wanting (and still not having) a baby and how, at the end of the day, it really is OK
- A post pleading with anyone with a lick of interior design ability to help me decorate my office and spare bathroom
- My scary and cringe-worthy memories as an 18-year-old (inspired by Moose)

Instead all I can manage is a quick hello post before I have to get back to media campaigns and pitches, all the while still exhausted from the marathon moving weekend.

I also find myself wondering what the hell happened on One Tree Hill last night and is Sam really dead on General Hospital?

Thankfully (hopefully!) things should be back to normal soon.

Until then, thanks for bearing with me and for all the warm and fuzzy new-home wishes. I really do miss you when I can't check in regularly. That sounds bizarre (even to me, as I re-read it), but you're important to me. As is One Tree Hill, so tomorrow couldn't come fast enough.