She Likes Purple

Warning: Excessive talk of cat puke

A few days ago Jennie sent me - Heather B. of No Pasa Nada - an email asking if I had time in my rather hectic schedule of sitting around and staring out the window, to guest post for her this Friday since she would be away for work. It took me exactly five minutes to reply that I was not busy and obviously so since I was able to get back to her immediately after I got her email. Of course then I did a bit of hyperventilating as I am prone to do because what the hell would I write about? Also Jennie is JENNIE and every time prose runs from her brain to her fingers to the page I curse the Universe for not giving me that kind of talent.

So later that day I went to get some wine - Riesling if you must know since I'm headed towards my light summer phase also because when it's good and cold, the second it hits your lips you want to be sitting on a backyard patio with an outdoor Mediterranean kitchen. While someone grills shrimp and corn and roasted peaches and excuse me because I've digressed and there is drool all up on my desk. Anyway, I get home with my Riesling and say hello to the animals. My roommate has a dog and a cat; Daisy and Simon. Daisy is perfectly pleasant and sweet as can be. Simon ripped a chunk out of my leg WITH HIS TEETH when I first met him. I ended up spending months walking around my apartment with a spray bottle to shoot streams of water at him anytime he entered the room. He now snuggles next to me while I'm typing and follows me around the kitchen while I bake and curls up in the nook of my arm and is so god damn precious that it makes me forget about the massive scar on my leg.

I say hello to the animals and they both eye me for getting to be outside and in the sunshine while they sat around the house watching Oprah all day long. I'm wearing flip flops and the second I step into the kitchen I feel my left foot slip from under me. I manage to regain my balance and grab onto the door frame and turn on the light. I look down as I mutter a hearty the hell?! and what I see when I look down and survey my kitchen causes me to recoil in fear.

It's cat puke. And not just one small pile of cat puke. It's like Simon ate furiously then purged each and everything he had ever eaten in weeks. If he were a human he'd be all "What the hell? When did I have corn?" The first pile that I had stepped in was the largest of the THREE piles. He puked in the door way. Walked in his puke then puked again. Walked in his puke then puked again by the window.

I remove my shoe and hop around on one foot while screaming maniacally because WHAT THE HELL there is CAT PUKE from a cat that ISN'T EVEN MINE all over my damn kitchen. Meanwhile Daisy and Simon just casually stare at me then Daisy walks over to me and is all sad eyes because she wants to go out and Simon starts weaving around my leg that is still on the ground wanting some love and I'm about ready to punt that little shit off the balcony. I then briefly contemplate leaving a note taped to a bottle of Clorox for my roommate saying that she should clean up after her damn cat and perhaps call her to tell her that her cat is about to be choked because DUDE it was EVERYWHERE and I needed my damn wine to be chilled.

But I'm nice so I clean up the puke without gagging and promptly email Jennie. I tell her that she's going to get a kick ass Pulitzer Prize winning essay on how my cat puked everywhere thus rendering me unable to get to my wine. Which is really the most important part of this story. Jennie writes back to me "You can even add that another good reason not to have pets is because when you put a beer on the coffee table they may "unintentionally" knock it over and then LAP IT UP themselves. Nobody wants to compete for alcohol with their dogs"

And that was the second I realized that if I didn't adore Jennie before I sure as shit did now. Because it's hard not to appreciate someone who gets you and knows that when it comes down to animal versus alcohol the animal will lose. So I had a come to Jesus talk with Simon where I shook my finger at him and said "If you ever screw with my drinking time again. You will be hanging off the balcony by your tail". He then sprinted away to my roommate's bed and I enjoyed my semi-chilled wine. Wine that would have been chilled perfectly if I hadn't had to maneuver around cat puke to get it into the fridge.

The end.

In which I ramble incoherently in someone else's house ...

Well, hello there! I'm ... well, I'm feeling rather nervous, if you can believe it, because this group is a strange group with only a few familiar faces, and I am NAKED, just naked right now and I'm totally going to take advantage of it. (Also, that line makes me think of Jennifer Love Hewitt and her one Top 40 hit "Barenaked" which I am embarrassed to admit that I sort of liked ... aaand also, I like Jennifer Love Hewitt quite a bit, despite the fact that people call her "Love" (GAG) and this definitely includes The Ghost Whisperer, where I am riveted by her spider-leg eyelashes and massive boobs. Do you hate me yet?)

I'm Jonna, by the way -- of Jonniker, if you didn't know, and why would you? -- and Jennie asked me to post in her stead while she's away on business.  To be honest, this is something I've never done before, mostly because I'm a pansy and don't want to ruin someone else's blog. And worse, I am a REALLY awful blogger to write something in one contained post, because I tend to go all over the place (see: Jennifer Love Hewitt and her MEZMERIZING BOOBS).

So ha ha! Why should this be any different? For the briefest of backgrounds, I'm a 32-year-old freelance writer married to the delightful Adam, and have recently relocated to Vermont from Florida, although Boston is my home, mostly. Oh, and I've been trying to have a baby for like, a really long time, and last time I checked, I didn't have one, or even the beginnings of one. I am not convinced any of this will be relevant to the post at hand, because -- per usual -- I have NO IDEA where I'm headed with this.

Can we talk for one second about infertility-lite, which is sort of what I have, for the moment (let's leave medical specifics out of this, shall we? Because I won't be able to do it well). While some people get up in arms when people ask if they're trying, or when they're going to start having kids, I am bothered by the fact that people tiptoe around us like we're broken. No one asks about it because they're afraid I'm a petite little flower who's going to blow up and begin weeping uncontrollably in their face. And you know, that's kind of insulting -- for starters, anyone who knows me realizes that's not particularly likely, and secondly, by avoiding it, it becomes this HUGE PINK ELEPHANT in the room. And the fact that it's become an elephant, not the situation at hand, is what makes me want to cry.

Nowhere, by the way, is this elephant more obvious than when my stepmother spends twenty minutes updating me on my brother's two little boys, then pausing for like A REALLY LONG TIME before blindly asking, "So, ah, how's Sunny? We really need to get a picture of her for the grandkid wall!"

Sunny is my dog. And while yes, she's my baby right now, she is not, in fact, an actual baby, and I know my stepmom is just trying to relate, and yes yes, I do love her for it, but I wish she would JUST ASK ME ABOUT THE ELEPHANT, you know? I'd feel better than trying to pretend that my dog is equal to her grandchildren. Because while for some people, it might be, because of my elephant, it isn't, you know? So I just end up feeling sort of empty and stupid.

So I guess I'm saying, if one of your friends has an elephant, maybe think about whether she'd like you to ask about the elephant. At the least, I'm sure she'd say she'd rather you not IGNORE the elephant and talk about a dog instead. I mean, at least I would.

Ahem. It feels good to say that. Also, I found out this morning that I am not pregnant, and I'm telling you, I really thought I was. Aand, my parents arrive today. Am looking forward to elephant talk.

So, ah, here's a totally unrelated question in the world's most awkward segue: You know those dances, like the Lawnmower, The Hammer Dance, etc? Seeing as I apparently MISSED the 1980s watching too many Golden Girls episodes and sitting with my nose in a Roald Dahl book (oh, The Witches!), I ... well, I'm having a hard time believing that anyone actually DID those dances back then, although once, at a fraternity formal in college, some dude busted out with the running man in utter sincerity and nope, we never went out again. Does this make me shallow? Probably. But I'm telling you, I couldn't marry someone who did the running man without the SLIGHTEST TOUCH of irony, and it was time to just ... well, get out while I could, I suppose, before a lifetime of running man's flashed before my eyes.

(And let's forget that once, I fell in love with a guy I saw breakdance at a bar in college. I am an onion of many incongruous layers. That guy, by the way, is now a pastor at a southern super-church and is married to a bottle blonde wife with acrylic nails and huge, barrel-curled bangs. And let's just say that's not a lifestyle I ever dreamed of, which means that I TOTALLY should have stuck with my dancing instincts on that one. A narrow miss, I tell you, A NARROW MISS.)

(My husband is not a dancer. No surprise there.)

Oddly, this is in conflict with my general feelings on dancing, which are that if you're going to dance, you have to go WHOLE HOG. You can't be tentative, you can't be a pansy. You just ... well, you just have to go for it, because nothing is worse than a dancer who's just awkwardly going through the motions, you know? It's like you can just SEE that they are in agony, which puts the witness in agony which ... well this, my friends, is why I don't dance. The genesis for this topic is because at the moment I wrote this last night, my husband was inexplicably watching quirky wedding dances (mostly based off of the Evolution of Dance, which surely you've seen, yes?) on YouTube while an NBA playoff game languished on pause. I don't get it, either, and I'm SO FIRED as a wife if he finds out I told you that. So don't tell anyone, okay?

And finally, because frankly, I've likely bored you to tears and lost Jennie as a friend at this point, I'll leave with a product recommendation. Now, I don't know about you, but I'm a picker -- gross as this is, I CANNOT let a whitehead just lay there, which often means that I'm either making zits worse, or creating one from nothing more than a tiny clogged pore. Either way, the result is an unpleasantly polka-dotted face. Non-pickers do not understand this, but I'm sorry, I CANNOT UNDERSTAND YOU EITHER. Also, if you have a whitehead, I am likely spending the bulk of our conversation wondering how I can politely ask you if I can take care of that for you. Which makes me gross. So utterly gross, I know, but I CANNOT LOOK AT THEM WITHOUT THE URGE.

GAH GAH GAH.

Enter Mario Badescu drying cream. Holly recommended the lotion here, but my preference is for the cream, mostly because my zits tend to be of the underground variety. And this stuff DRAWS THEM OUT, YO. As in, you put it on the night before, and the next morning, yes, yes, you have a zit that may, um, need to be popped (SORRY SORRY SORRY), but if you take care of business (GENTLY), and reapply the drying cream THE NEXT NIGHT AGAIN, you will wake up the next day and it will be very nearly gone. Poof! LIKE MAGIC. A word of warning, however: Unless you are the color of lemon curd, this cream is NOT skin tone and will not conceal in the slightest. Use at night, dude, when no one can see you and your lemony zits.

And now that I've grossed you all out, I think maybe I should wrap this up. Thanks for listening and thanks to Jennie for having me.

Have an awesome Thursday, Friday and beyond if I don't talk to you again you know, like ever!   

A Few Things, In No Particular Or Coherent Order

I am on book two of Stephenie Meyer's Twilight series. Not only did I purchase this book in Barnes and Noble yesterday, I purchased this young-adult FANTASY book, which is kind of unprecedented for me. (I read only one Harry Potter book and that was because it was assigned to me in an Adolescent Lit course.) I have to admit, I was downright embarrassed when I had to shuffle over to the customer service desk and ask where these particular books were stashed—"I already looked in Science Fiction, Romance and just regular Fiction, but I can't find it and can you please respond in a whisper so no-one hears this conversation?"—and then the very loud-voiced, couldn't-manage-a-simple-whisper customer service workers answered with, "Oh! Twilight! It's right there! But, I think Eclipse, the third book, isn't available in paperback, but New Moon may not be either. Which book are you actually looking for? I can take you right to it, if you'd like." I resisted the urge to shush them frantically and managed an, "I got it covered, thanks!" but not before dying. On the spot. I was an English major! I spent an entire month of school dissecting and falling in love with Shakespeare's Much Ado About Nothing. I wrote a twelve-page paper on the symbolism of the English countryside in Remains of the Day. Just this year I read Pride and Prejudice and cried when it was over because has anyone ever loved another person as much as Mr. Darcy loved Elizabeth Bennet? But I picked up Twilight (the first book) on a whim, after seeing the trailer and—OH MY!—I'm hooked. Edward and Bella? I CANNOT GET ENOUGH OF YOU TWO. A vampire loving a human loving a vampire. All the self-sacrifice and resisting the urge to suck your girlfriend's blood all the time (totally brings me back to early Buffy). I'm actually heading to Los Angeles tomorrow to attend a pretty large trade show for the book industry where there will be a ridiculous amount of free books for me to snatch up. I will have more reading material come Sunday than I'll know what to do with and all I can think about is does Bella ever become a vampire? Does Edward ever break down and nibble on her a little bit? So, anyway, what are you reading these days? And does it have you as obsessed as these books have me? AND ARE YOU TOTALLY JUDGING ME FOR MY CHOICE OF READING MATERIAL? (I plan to read Water for Elephants after this series if that redeems me at all.)

::

So, today I received some interesting spam. The subject line read "what a stupid face you have Jennifer." And although I was kind of taken aback—has Devland Ching even seen my face? If so, have I seen his/hers? That's a name I'm sure I'd remember—I was even more intrigued at this person's marketing strategy. Insulting your audience, that's a new one, and I work in marketing. Perhaps there's someone out there who is just insecure enough to click on the e-mail to see how to make their face look smart or quick or witty instead of stupid and, really, I will say it's a vast improvement over sending me an e-mail with nine typos (intentional or not) in the subject line alone. I'd rather you insult me with adjectives than incorrect grammar.

::

Like I said above, I'm leaving town tomorrow—leaving the DVR in my husband's care and taking far too many shoes since that pesky baggage-check fee will be covered by my company—and I've left this site in some pretty capable guest-posting hands while I'm away. So capable in fact, I'm almost giddy about having their words on my site. There may be printing and framing involved when I return. Anyway, enjoy them while I'm gone.

::

Now, I want to share with you a dress I have in two colors and I love so much I wore it both Saturday and Sunday (around mostly different crowds; NATALIE YOU SAW NOTHING). It really is the most comfortable, well-fitting, inexpensive summer dress, and IT'S ON SALE. I have black and berry chutney and the only reason I don't have wheelbarrow (which, come on, is just gray) is because it wasn't in my size. Dress it up! Dress it down! Pair it with flip-flops or snazzy espadrilles! It really is my new favorite find and when I woke up on Monday, I was actually sad I couldn't wear one again. Mike said that would be pushing it and also kind of gross.

$20 online! (Although, oddly enough, I got the black on sale for $14.50 over the weekend. Apparently Old Navy is slashing prices and then rethinking things, hoping no-one will notice. Interesting.)

::

Finally, Top Chef is on tonight! Come on Spike! (I, personally, think Richard is taking this season, but you really never know which is one of the reasons I absolutely love this show. The other is all the food.)

Life Is Short But Sweet For Certain

About four and a half years ago Natalie and I went to California together over New Years and we fought and laughed and went to the beach and ordered queso at a Mexican restaurant only to be brought shredded cheese instead and we took pictures and we drank Cristal and I sort of rambled on about wanting to be single but I was surprisingly excited when Mike called me for the first time during that trip and although Natalie also wanted to be single she rambled on about Micah—a friend of hers. They were just friends, she claimed. And she kept claiming that for a few months. But eventually the claims stopped, and she finally told me they were more than friends. And it didn't surprise anyone, really, but them. That was just over four years ago, when Micah and Natalie became each other's one.

I've known Natalie since we were eleven. I say that all the time, and she laughs when I do because is there anyone on the planet who doesn't know how long we've known one another? But at the risk of sounding entirely too dramatic, I say it as often as I do because life in general and my life specifically hasn't provided many constants. There are so few things I can really be sure of, and I don't think I'm alone in that. Life is sort of set up in such a way that the surprises are plenty, the certainties are few. There are a million times when this is good—the first time someone tells you they love you, watching the last few minutes of the SuperBowl, when you find out what your baby is: a boy or girl—but there are so many more times when you just want to be sure of something, you want to know that whatever sharp turn your life takes, you'll have a shoulder to lean on, a hand to hold, a smile to reassure you. Friendships are our way of staying sane in a world that seems designed to make us crazy. But then we learn that even friends aren't guaranteed and those we invest in and care for can change in the blink of an eye, they can walk on without ever turning back. I've had plenty of incredible friends in my life—some are still here, providing me laughter and love and great escapes when Mike is ranting on about how I can't seem to keep our floors clean. But some are long gone, turned into ghosts by time and circumstances.

So when you've known someone for fifteen years—when someone has seen you at eleven, awkward with braces and bad hair and then at sixteen, thinned out by the beginning stages of an eating disorder and at twenty-one, a bit out of control and out of place and at twenty-five, trying to make a baby—it is something kind of remarkable because knowing anyone for that long who isn't directly related to you is rare enough but liking someone for that long is really something. And even though it's annoying, I know, to walk around declaring to everyone who will listen how long I've known Natalie, I just kind of can't resist being proud of our friendship on an unprecedented level. What would have broken so many didn't ultimately break us—the fights and the totally-wrong-for-us boyfriends and the growing up and the changing.

Natalie got married yesterday, in a beautiful mansion in the town we became friends in. After the picture-perfect wedding there was an after party at the hotel we were all staying at. We hung out and drank beer Micah had brewed himself and I reclined on a bed with Natalie's mom and laughed so hard, I was practically crying and then I stole a beer from her dad, and it was one of those amazing full-circle moments. When I thought of being fourteen, lounging on her parent's couch watching taped General Hospital episodes and then I thought of being twenty-six, laughing with her parents, all drinking champagne together. In every way except the technical way, Natalie is my family.

And, lord, she was a beautiful bride.

Nat Attack, it's all in front of us. It's going to be all we deserve and more.

Show Of Hands: Who Cried When David Cook Won Last Night?

Anyone? You in the back? All right, so I admit it's a tad pathetic that I was so moved by a singing competition, but I won't sit around denying it. On the one hand, there were witnesses and, also, it actually pales in comparison to some of the other things I've cried at on television (hint: reality shows on Bravo; you wish I were joking). The thing is, I enjoy television. Not just watching it but becoming involved in it. (Same with movies and music and books and blogs.) I like anything that evokes feelings in me even if those feelings teeter on obsessive and strange.

This season American Idol received a lot of flack—for Carly Smithson having a previous record deal, for the judges apparently setting it up (although only on-air, strangely enough) for a shoo-in win for David Archuleta, for Andrew Lloyd Webber night. I'm not blind or stupid: I know that what goes on behind the scenes would probably dishearten me and it would taint a guilty pleasure millions of us enjoy.

(Aside: have I ever told you how much I hate the phrase guilty pleasure? The way I see it, a pleasure is a pleasure. The only reason you should feel guilty about something you enjoy is if it's immoral, illegal or if it involves abusing animals or voting for George W. Bush. [And a few other things that are too oogey to type.] I don't feel guilty that I listened to the first Ashlee Simpson CD on repeat for months or that I DVR The Hills or that I sometimes Google old pictures of Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt. I'm not hurting anyone by enjoying these things—except for Mike, he'd argue he's consistently tortured by the things I derive pleasure from. We can't always be the best versions of ourselves—reading the smartest books, enjoying the indiest music, only frequenting the artsy theater in town. Sometimes we want a plate of nachos, a good chick flick, an US Weekly, and I'm here to say, not a one of us should feel guilty about it.)

(Wow, look at that diatribe hanging out in the middle of what was supposed to be a gushy David Cook post? Sorry about that.)

But what I was getting at is that I totally disagree that this was one of the worst seasons of American Idol. I thought there was a lot of talent this season. I remember watching Ruben's season—and wanting Clay to win, although why? HE IS THE SCARIEST MAN ALIVE—but knowing, full well, I'd never buy a single piece of music either of them put out. I loved Elliot Yamin and Katherine McPhee, also, but, again, only as contestants. I never purchased a single song of theirs. I do think I'd be all about Chris Richardson's music (voting for him one week caused our phone bill to triple; it was a fun day in our house when that particular bill showed up, let me tell you). But most of the people on that show are good because they're on stage and they're done up and they are critiqued after each performance. It's not so much the music you fall in love with but the format the music is offered to us. But David Cook? OH MY LORD. I can't tell you how many times I've watched his Billie Jean rendition on YouTube. (No, really, I literally can't. It's been that many.) His tone! His control! His choices! My sister thought he was a bit arrogant and pompous although I think she was just upset because he didn't more closely resemble Bryan Adams because OH MY GOSH my sister has a secret crush on Bryan Adams, a crush I just found out about last night and it is KILLING me with its hilarity.

(She claimed she wasn't the only one; she said, "Poll your blog! There are plenty of us who appreciate his talent!" So, friends, do you carry a secret torch for the guy who sang that one song on the Robin Hood soundtrack? And if so, please tell us, for Rachel's sake, so I'll stop calling her and managing through entire-body laughs: "Bryan Adams! Seriously, BRYAN ADAMS? Oh hold on, Rachel. I can't breathe again.")

But even Rachel came around on David. As did Mike. This is the true testament to his coolness, I have to say: my husband liked an American Idol contestant. Now, I can't believe I'm going to say this, I'm going to regret it, I'm sure, but Mike's taste in television shows—although similar to paint drying—are of a higher intellectual level than mine are. (Not all of them! I loved The West Wing! And I stand by Veronica Mars' snarky smartness!) But he likes shows that teach him something, that show him the world a little bit. Granted they do all of that without soundtracks or soapy love triangles, so really what's the point, but if he offered his DVR queue and I offered mine, you'd think he was a fairly smart and interesting person. And you'd think I was thirteen. But Mike loved David Cook. It helped that he didn't remind either of us of a really awful Disney Channel reject who made it impossible for us to keep our dinners down when he was on stage. His win last night—by TWELVE MILLION VOTES which has got to be quite the bruise to a certain seventeen-year-old's ego, even more so than being four feet tall—was kind of awesome. So, yes, I cried. It doesn't make me cool, this is true. And neither did the hours of frantic online browsing I did on what David has planned next—any North Texas stops, David? Personal in-house appearances, by chance? No, not cool, but also not embarrassing either. It was a pleasure, David. And I'm not feeling a twinge of guilt about it.

Three big cheers for David Cook and only two swift kicks for David Archuleta! I still want to punt the kid, don't get me wrong, but he did lose, and even I'm not that cruel, to kick someone more than twice when they're down.

::

(Bryan Adams, Rachel. SERIOUSLY?)

Some Would Say It's Not A Vacation Unless I Get Naked

When Mike and I neared Hot Springs early Saturday afternoon, he was confident he knew how to get us into town and from there we had a nice set of Google directions to take us the rest of the way. As we drove along the main street we got this funny feeling we weren't going the right way. Everything around us was just so ... barred. We made the decision to turn around—well, Mike made the decision to turn around while I made the decision to finish off one last chapter in The Time Traveler's Wife—find our way back to the freeway and put our faith in signs taking us to the general location we needed to be (actual signs, with approximate mileage listed, not omens or lightening bolts or black cats or anything like that). An hour-and-a-half later we did indeed find our Bed and Breakfast—about four blocks from where we had originally turned around at. Things did look drastically nicer on our block, thankfully, and there were no bars on any of our particular windows, but our sweet innkeeper did walk us through a fairly intense security process—"You must make sure you don't tell anyone the code to the main house! And pull the door shut when you leave. MAKE SURE IT'S SHUT! LIKE THIS!" And then she showed us how to shut the door properly. So, I'm not entirely sure how safe Hot Springs is, in general, but our room, in our little carriage house, was just wonderful:

(This is the view from the main house's upstairs balcony, but we stayed in the Carriage House, seen partially in this picture. And see that cat lounging on the hot driveway? To the right? Well, there's really nothing special about him--he's just a cat--but he was quite friendly and I named him Stanley.)

(Bed! King-sized!)

(Bathroom! There was a TIME Magazine in here from 1999. I didn't realize the date until I was halfway through an article on Monica Lewinsky, and I kept thinking, "Will they ever just put this story to rest?")

When we first got to town, after the security debriefing and after we had dropped our suitcase off, we headed out to grab dinner in downtown Hot Springs. We decided on Brick House Grill, where I had a deliciously juicy cheeseburger, and because it was vacation! and our anniversary! and, fine, just because I was upright and breathing! I decided to get a glass of champagne. When I ordered it, the waitress sort of scrunched up her face and said, "Well, I'm not sure if we can make that. I'll have to ask." I answered with, "If they have to make it, I'll take a Bud Light." Thankfully they had it (pre-bottled!), so I had the second glass to celebrate the first one.

Before I go on to talk about how I got naked on Sunday morning, I want to mention something about Arkansas, something you should definitely be aware of if you are ever visiting. There are crosswalks every fifty or so feet and regardless whether the light is green or how heavy the traffic flow is, if a pedestrian walks into one of these crosswalks, all cars must stop. IT'S THE LAW. (No, really. There are signs posted.) It sounds like an interesting little system—pedestrians really do have the right of way!—but Arkansasians (is this the correct term?) don't particularly care if you're going 45mph or if you've briefly glanced down at a map to see if you're headed the right way to the putt-putt place you're trying to track down. Arkansasians don't care what you have going on in your MOVING VEHICLE as they begin walking across the street. Before you know it, you may find yourself screeching on your brakes, heart palpitating with visions of vehicular manslaughter charges racing in your head. Thankfully I was never the one driving, so Mike would have been carted off to jail (clarification: thankfully for me; not so much for him), but I am not exaggerating, even a little, when I say not a single person looked up when they walked into the crosswalk. On the one hand, what faith they have! On the other, larger hand, they're apparently all crazy.

So after we finally found the putt-putt place, all Arkansasians avoided, and after Mike beat me by FIFTEEN STROKES (that's a lot of on-par shots by him and a lot of balls meandering into ponds by me) we called it a night but not before picking up cheap beer to drink back in our room because if there's one thing you need to know about how Mike and I celebrate anything—promotions! new houses! anniversaries! birthdays! random Tuesdays!—it's with plenty of cheap alcohol.

The next morning we had reservations at a bathhouse, where both Mike and I imagined we'd be spoiled all morning long with massages and wraps and, if I'm being totally honest, chocolate-covered fruit and more champagne. (I had no reason to think the last part, but I totally did anyway.) Granted, neither of us had ever been to a bathhouse, and neither of us had bothered to Google it beforehand, but they are all the rage in Hot Springs. There is even a "bath row" there, and who am I to question something so popular. Oh, I'm the girl who had to get naked in front of a room full of strangers, that's who! I'm not entirely sure when I realized this bathhouse idea was a bad one—at first everyone seemed happy and looked normal, and Mike went into his locker room and I to mine, and we made causal plans to meet up outside after all the relaxing and pampering, but let me mention that when we did finally meet back up, I asked him to hold me to erase the memories of the past hour.

When I walked into the women's locker room, I was ushered into a changing room but—funny tidbit—given nothing to change into. I was told to undress and my "attendant" would be right back to assist. It didn't dawn on me until about thirty seconds later that I was absolutely unsure what she would be assisting with. Now, I'm liberal! I have no problems with nudity or being naked in the privacy of my own home! But there are certain steps one takes when they know random (and plural) strangers are going to see them naked. ONE DOESN'T EAT A CHEESEBURGER THE NIGHT BEFORE, FOR INSTANCE. So, she opened my changing-room door—where I was naked, totally naked—and she wrapped me up in this very sheer sheet before ushering me towards a bath stall, where another (perfectly nice and, all things considering, perfectly professional) attendant stripped me down and told me to get into the tub. NAKED. AGAIN. She did leave me for a good half hour, to relax in the mineral bath, but while I laid there, no more than a dozen people walked by—some naked, some not, but all of them with actual eyes. I have never touched my own boobs so much in an awkward attempt to hide them. I went through a few more things as the day wore on—a ridiculously hot steam room that caused me to sweat more than any kickboxing class ever has, a sitz tub, a mineral shower, a mineral wrap, and some of these things were actually quite nice. I think there was even a solid five-minute period when I found myself relaxing. But then it was time for my massage. And you'd think the "relaxing" would be kicked up a notch—HA! YOU'D THINK!—but I was, again, ushered into a room, where a very large woman barked at me to get naked and lie on the massage table. Now, the fact that she was large didn't bother me—please give me some credit—but what did bother me—and I'm just going to put it out there because there is no skirting around political correctness here—was when her entire body smothered me as she leaned over to get out certain kinks and knots. Her very large stomach was on top of my face. And I just don't know if I can accurately describe the horror of those twenty minutes without you assuming I'm being judgmental or tacky. But, please, try to understand: I was naked. On my back. With a stranger's stomach resting on top of my face. Aside from all that, and I know you're wondering how it could possibly get worse at this point, she was really very nasty and mean. She kept barking, "RELAX! YOU'RE TOO TENSE! JUST RELAX! WHY ARE YOU STRESSED?" And I wanted to tell her about the one time I was knocked in the head with a baseball bat, lying on the ground with a fractured eye socket and how I was more relaxed back then than I was under her care. Finally, it was over and she shoved a tip jar toward me and I had sort of had enough, so I said to her, "I'm naked! I have no money!" She sighed and managed, "Well, enjoy the rest of your time here. Or whatever."

You know, as I changed back into my clothes, I couldn't be sure I had ever been so happy to throw on a pair of ratty Old Navy jeans before. There's a chance I may have shed a relieved and happy tear as soon as the zipper was up.

Mike's bathhouse experience seemed to go much better than mine. There was nakedness, sure, but much less of it and a lot less badgering and ushering for him. He even met a really nice attendant, named Billy, who kept repeating to him, "Who's your buddy? Who is?" And Mike would answer, "You are Billy." So where Mike found camaraderie, I found large, judgmental smothering. You win some, you lose some, I suppose.

Although it may be hard to believe, the rest of the trip was incredibly relaxing and lovely and fun. We did a little shopping on Main Street (which is actually Central Avenue, but Main Street just sounds quainter). We took a dinner cruise on Lake Hamilton. We cuddled up in our king-size bed and watched Jurassic Park on VHS. We ate. We lounged around. We stopped at a roadside rock stand where I bought hand-carved dice (I don't know why either; they were pretty and $1 a piece). We had fun.

Finally, after we had checked out of our room early Monday, we walked hand-in-hand towards The Pancake Shop, a cute little breakfast joint we chose for our anniversary breakfast. The trip was winding down nicely, and I was looking forward to the long drive home, for the chance to get started on Twilight. That's when Mike stopped, turned to me and said, "Baby. I don't have my wedding ring." HA-HA, you don't have your wedding ring, that's a good one, on our anniversary and everything! Except, he totally wasn't kidding. For about ten minutes, I did a lot of tongue holding and fist clenching because you just can't yell at your husband on your anniversary even if you REALLY, REALLY WANT TO, but he did know exactly where he had left it, on the edge of the tub, and it was still there when we went back to look for it. So, crisis averted! Just in time to enjoy eggs and pancakes and freshly-squeezed orange juice.

And each other.

I'm already planning our next anniversary trip, and regardless where we trot off to—Boston, back to Tahoe, Lithuania for all we know—I can tell you this much: Mike is the only one who's going to see me naked. I'm pretty sure.

A Reminder Of How Lucky I Am

So, I commented on a post over at Girl's Gone Child the other day, a post that called for most-memorable-meeting-of-a-friend stories. I told the story (which is the first comment over there; feel free to go read) of how I became friends with Crystal, the friend who introduced me to my now-husband and the friend whose hand I held through her divorce a few years ago and whose current relationship I watched blossom from one date to a second and much-happier and more peaceful marriage and whose baby shower I'm hosting next month and who said to me at dinner the other night—as I was on the verge of tears about our infertility problems—"I am going to tell your kid one day how much you went through to have them; how much you love them." And then she bought me dinner.

I won the contest, which is totally cool because—like everyone who wins something says—I USUALLY NEVER WIN ANYTHING!

I haven't shared this before, but about a year ago my friendship with Crystal was at its lowest point, and I really did worry that the scars from the situation would forever haunt us. It scared me, a lot, and I spent a lot of time crying. I loved her, and I didn't want to lose her. It's not that I ever thought I'd actually "lose" her, but I didn't want to lose the friendship as it was—deep and real and fun. We've slowly made our way back, and I hope she agrees with me when I say, I've never felt more supported or cared for by her than now.

The last line of my comment over on GGC says, "We are so close. She is family. And it all started because she looked past the stupid, ridiculous, insecure woman I was and saw me for who I am. And vice versa."

I don't think we can help hurting the people we love sometimes; it feels almost inevitably human of us to do so. I also don't think we can really help acting like an ass or saying stupid things or occasionally breaking our word or just generally sucking at friendship and life, but if we do it right—if we choose just so—we may find someone who isn't immune to things, no, but who looks past them anyway. Who believes we are worth fighting for and forgiving.

Crystal said once, ages ago, that she knew if she ever needed anything, if she needed a ride at 2am or someone to break the kneecaps of some idiot who had hurt her, I would be there. And it's true. It's at the core of all good friendships: the comfortable knowledge that if we really needed something—a hand, a shoulder, a loan, a safe place to fall—all we'd have to do is ask.

But the best of friends—the kind of friend who sends you a small angel to keep in your pocket because she knows not being pregnant is breaking you in half and you could use all the help, figurative or otherwise, you can get—are there for you without ever needing to be asked.

They are there for you before you even realized you needed them to be.

(Arkansas stories! Tomorrow!)

Well It Didn't Taste Like Cake, I'll Tell You That Much

Head over here, will ya?

Whoa, my voice is annoying, isn't it? I always like to know what a blogger's voice sounds like, but my sincerest apologies, OK? But, I thought you might want to watch our first "wedding cake" tasting, one year later. And, OH MY, they weren't tasty. They weren't even edible and, seriously, where did this tradition come from? Trust me, brides and grooms, abandon it. DON'T SUCCUMB.

Other photos posted/posting soon. And more stories from Arkansas coming soon, too. Like the story of how I got naked in front of a LOT of people, people who weren't my husband and who also weren't the patrons of Schlitterbahn. And the story of how Mike lost his wedding ring. It was,  obviously, a great trip. Just to prove it, we ended the night dancing in our living room to our first-dance song and then watching old "Top Chef" episodes.

Seriously, marriage isn't that bad.

(I also watched the season finale of One Tree Hill, and let's just say, I'm officially sick of this show. IT PAINS ME TO WATCH IT. I should have stopped around episode one of season four.)

Twelve

You are a layer of my skin, the lines on my face, the shape of my hands—a natural, easy part of myself. You are great, big bear hugs, squeezing extra tightly right before letting go. You are long drives, singing into air microphones. You are lazy Thursday nights, lounging on the couch, rewinding the funniest parts of The Office. You are late college nights filled with fresh love. You are the one to have around: when the dishwasher breaks, the DVR screws up or when the world spins too quickly, and I need a hand to hold. You are breakfast on Saturday mornings. You are peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches and the one Molly loves best. You are the boy in the bar, the man in the suit, the friend of a friend with the red hair and the cool car. You are my tight grip, my voice of reason.

You are long, drawn-out fights in the early days over exes and bumpy futures and uncertainties. And you are the man who swore he couldn't commit, wouldn't settle down, but would then muster the gumption to sort it out with me at three in the morning. And you are the one—against all better judgment and against everyone's expectations—who would slowly, but certainly surely, form a relationship with the girl who was supposed to be a fling. Although I don't believe in fate—we work too hard for this to all be part of some grander, out-of-our-hands plan—I find it almost funny how little control we seemed to have in the beginning. We both didn't want it to evolve, we had other plans in mind, and, yet, we couldn't jump off the ride. Wouldn't even if we could.

You are stubborn, stamping your feet and refusing sometimes for the simple act of refusing. You are a Budweiser-drinking, poker-playing, eye-rolling-during-The-Hills man who owns almost every Disney movie ever made.

You are nine pillows and deep sleep and late mornings and late nights. You are comfortable in your own skin. You are the positive thinker, the steady hand to my madly spinning thoughts and anxious ways. You are strong, heavy laughs.

You are already a father, without a child. You are waiting, eager to give piggyback rides and coach soccer and smother him/her with kisses and tickles and promises. Promises you will keep and that makes you, already, a better father than I could have ever imagined giving my child.

You are strong arms wrapped around me while I do the dishes. You are the best mashed potatoes I've ever tasted. You are particular and just-so and this-way-not-that-way and, yet, never judgmental, never overly opinionated, never pretentious.

You are not mine alone—you are part of everyone who came before me, everyone you have met and touched along the way. You are a fingerprint on thousands of lives, thousands of hearts. You are not mine to claim, to own, to stamp my name on. You are simply a rich, beating heart I get to share a bed, a life, a laugh with.

You are sweet love songs and crude jokes and old Family Guy episodes. You are movie kisses and Journey best-of records and game nights and the stretched-out Texas A&M campus and QT hot dogs and Wideawake concerts and salty tears over lost dreams and big mistakes and broken hearts and then pushing on, relentlessly, to find beauty on the other side of the pain. You are laughing until we cry over nothing and everything just because it feels good to do it together.

You are hole-in-the-wall bars, greasy hamburgers, cheap but fun living, nonplussed by labels and brand names and who has what. You are about nothing out there and everything inside of you—loyalty and kindness and generosity and good times and great friends. You don't care what someone makes, you care what someone is.

You are at your best on the back of a motorcycle, underneath the hood of a car, on top of a wake board, in worn-out jeans and a faded, holey t-shirt and anywhere your mother is. You are stubborn, hardheaded, difficult, frustrating, never wrong and always beautiful.

You are a million things, a million memories, a million laughs and gestures and movements that stun me with their ease and their magnitude. You are my home, my friend, my favorite.

There are some days you infuriate me, you don't think things through, you don't remember something I told you mere minutes before. And you watch the most horrible television shows imaginable. (Junkwars? WHAT IS THAT?) But on other days—on most days—you are too good to be true. You make me feel as if I won the grand prize, beat out far better women than myself, picked the winning numbers or just got ridiculously lucky to wear this ring, to use this name, to introduce myself as your wife to anyone who will listen. Most days when I sit down and think of who you are and then who I am, I can't figure out how it fell into place this way. I don't know what I did before you to warrant you. I don't understand how life worked out so perfectly, so magically. I don't know why you chose me, and, honestly, why I was smart enough to choose you. But choose we did. Yes, we said, one year ago, with ridiculously big grins and full hearts and joy spilling right out of us.

We work so hard at this, every day. And, yet, it's the easiest, rightest thing we've ever done. You are my husband, and I still have to repeat that in my head over and over and over to believe it myself, to believe my dumb luck. In so many ways it is just too spectacular to fully swallow, but in even more ways, in a million trillion little ways—such as the way you say my name, the way your hand finds mine in parking lots and in bed each night, the way we finish each other's thoughts, find each other hilarious (although I'm totally funnier), travel so effortlessly together—life is just as it should be, with you and me on this big, wild ride together.

In so many ways I still have to pinch myself, but in even more ways I feel as if being your wife is like breathing. In so many ways this is unbelievably hard—the debt, the infertility, the commuting, the obligations, the lack of naps and disposable incomes. But in every way, Michael, loving you is the easiest thing I've ever done.

Life is tough. Marriage is tough. Even sharing a DVR is tough.

But loving you is anything but.

Happy Anniversary, my love.

Just Six?

Ali tagged me for a meme-type thing today, and I'm usually hesitant to do something like this because isn't this entire blog sort of one long, very poorly written meme? But I'm feeling kinda up for it today, and I'm even tagging other people at the end.

So, even though I'd prefer to preface this with a drum roll or something, here are six random things you may not know (and probably don't particularly care to know) about me:

1) I cannot drink a glass—a sip, even!—of milk if it's even one day past the sell-by date. I don't care that the milk is completely fine and nothing actually happens at 12:01am on the morning of the following day to make the milk go sour. I WON'T DRINK IT. My mother-in-law has told me that she checks the date before we come over to see if she needs to run out and buy more milk, so I'll have something to drink with dinner. (First of all, isn't she amazing? And second of all, lord, I'm difficult.) Mike has been known to LIE TO MY FACE when I ask him to get me a glass of milk and it's past the sell-by date. HE HAS BROUGHT ME BAD MILK BEFORE, and he had only himself to blame when I kicked him in the shins for it. 

2) I can recite most lines to Disney's Beauty and the Beast and it's the movie I've seen the most times, easily. In fact, when Mike and I first started dating, we watched it together and after about fifteen minutes of me singing and talking along with Belle, he said, "You know, that's not cute. That's actually incredibly annoying."

3) If I could go see any concert, regardless of ticket price, it would be Greenday, which makes you kind of want to vomit in your mouth, doesn't it? See, when I turned 13, my dad bought me a CD player and two CDs I had asked for: Hootie and the Blowfish and Greenday. I listened to "Basketcase" and "She" on repeat, for months, and they were the first band I fell in love with on my own, without help from my parents or sister or friends. Mike knows—I remind him weekly—that if they ever tour again, he needs to buy tickets. I DON'T CARE IF THAT MONEY IS SAVED FOR RENT.

4) I'm really, truly messy, which is a quality that shames my obsessively clean parents more than any other of mine—even more than my chronic drinking and all those years I was totally self-destructive. They are both neat and tidy people, and, thankfully, my sister totally took after them. When I say neat and tidy, I'm being sort of casual about the whole thing, but my parents do more than vacuum regularly, they have systems and routines and let's just say the day I moved out on my own was the last day I thought about coasters and elbow grease. (Well, I did think about coasters long enough to register for some but only because they were the fancy, insert-a-picture-type ones. And, what do you know, we haven't used them yet. ONE YEAR LATER.)

5) One night, during my freshman year of college, I dreamed a married a man named Michael. Four years later I started dating Mike, and a little more than three years after that, I married him. I never told him about my dream until after the wedding. Before my sister-in-law found out she was pregnant with her baby boy, Jake, I dreamed she was having a boy. About two months ago, I dreamed Crystal was having a girl. (She is.) For ten years, I've thought (and kind of hoped) I would mother a son one day. I could almost see what he looked like, but as I was sitting on the couch the other day, I heard a voice tell me I would have a girl. We would name her Sophia, even though we had only just started throwing that name around. It was so odd and so actual, I got up, walked into Mike's office and said, "Baby. We're going to have a girl. Whenever we have a baby." And he smiled. Because he totally believed me.

6) I really and truly believe life would be just a little bit sweeter if we had background music to accompany it. The difference between my silly little life and Joey Potter's (other than her great hair and Pacey Whitter): BACKGROUND MUSIC.

Now, let's hear some random things about you. Specifically: Kristie, Elizabeth, Bethany, Emily, Katie and Sarah.

::

I don't think I'll be posting again before we leave Saturday morning for Arkansas. So, I'll see you on Tuesday, with pictures and lots of whining about being back in Texas and back in the real world when there was free champagne in Arkansas. There is an anniversary post going live on Monday, but I won't be here to monitor comments, so if anyone starts throwing up all over the Internet because of my total sappy I-love-my-husband-so-much behavior, can one of you take care of it? Thanks, you.

A year ago today, actually, I was in Lake Tahoe, preparing for my wedding. This year I'm throwing the remote at the TV because ANDY BERNARD? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? Not exactly as cool as 366 days ago, but, hey, Mike made me laugh so hard in the middle of Wal-mart tonight, I couldn't breathe. Different setting. Fewer gifts to open. No open bar in sight. But same cool guy. Yeah, I'm good.

Timeline: Eighteen

(To catch up: One Through Six, Seven And Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve And Thirteen, Fourteen And Fifteen, Sixteen and Seventeen.)

2000, aged eighteen
After a ridiculously fun surprise party for my eighteenth birthday, I head back to school to finish the last semester of high school. I walk into my Government class on the first day of second semester, and Natalie is there. It's the first class we have together since freshman year. For the rest of the semester I'll steal glances at her binder, which is covered in pictures of her and her then-boyfriend. We make eye contact every once in a while.

On March 30, 2000, I get a rejection letter from Texas A&M. I've been wait-listed, but chances aren't good for late admission as this year they received more applications than ever before. My chances are slim. The letter makes this clear.

I finish out my senior year with great friends, wonderful memories and a trip to Disney World to dance in a parade at one of the parks there.

Sometime, near the end of the semester, Natalie and I speak to each other for the first time since we were both 16. I don't remember what about, I don't remember who initiated the conversation, but, regardless, I muster the courage to ask her to sign my yearbook the last week of class. And she does. She wrote: I really have missed you, but I'm terribly proud of the battles that you have won in high school. I'm sorry for what has happened, but, hopefully, when we remember each other it will be positive. I re-read it nearly a thousand times over the next few months.

In late May, my dad, sister and other family and friends fly into town. I put on a black dress, a little extra makeup and I graduate from high school. It's incredibly bittersweet, as I walk across the stage 49th in my graduating class of 480. The top ten-percent of all graduating high school seniors in the state of Texas receive automatic admission to the state school of their choice. Texas A&M—a state school—is my choice. I cross the stage in the top 10.2 percent of my graduating class.

My mom and I fight a lot this summer, and it's because I'm going slightly crazy. Leaving high school is traumatic and terrifying, and I feel I'm leaving all the good behind me. We're in the middle of a particularly nasty, silence-filled fight when I check the mail one day to find a thick envelope from Texas A&M. I've been taken off the waiting list. I've been accepted. I call my mom, screaming and happily crying and laughing, too. The fight is over, and this is just how my mom is: the quickest to congratulate, the quickest to forgive, the only person in my life who is never anything but proud of me, no matter what I've done to her. We celebrate that night, and, finally, my future begins falling into place.

Before I leave for College Station, I write Natalie a letter. I say a lot of things in it, I imagine, but all I remember saying is this: I miss you. Because I really, really do. She is going to A&M, too. We both decided on the same school unbeknownst to one another. Regardless of who's going though—and I have a handful of other friends moving there, as well—I stand on my front lawn the night before I am set to leave, and I break down. I've changed my mind. I don't want to go. I think I'll just stay right here, instead, thank you very much. Two friends talk me off the metaphorical ledge, and I wake up insanely early the next day—my hands shaking from the word go—and drive into College Station, Texas, a town where more than two-thirds of the residents are students at the university. I try and take everything in, try to envision eating at restaurants we're passing, shopping at little stores dotted along the main drag in town. But I just can't believe this is my home now. It feels so foreign, so unfamiliar to me. I wouldn't have believed a single person if they had told me that in five years, almost to the day, I would cry hysterically—feeling my heart shatter in my chest—as I drive out of that town, desperate to stay for one more day, one more hour even.

I start my first semester of  college—I take Zoology, Sociology, Political Science and History—I join a sorority, I make new friends on my co-ed floor, I begin drinking a little (fine, a lot), I go to football games, I actually date—for what feels like five minutes—someone I had a huge crush on in high school and he takes me to my first Midnight Yell. One sort of crazy, messy night after that boy broke up with me, I walk next door to a local tattoo parlor and get a daisy tattooed on my lower back. I don't hate it, when I catch a glimpse of it now, although it's been almost eight years and I was absolutely certain I'd come to regret it by now. But, actually, it reminds me of that girl from way back when, a girl I think I'd kind of love if I met now—dramatic, deep, scared, fun, insane, desperate, hopeful. She was also ballsy, even though she didn't know it, and these days, when I get out of the shower and see that flower on my back, I always smile and think of her. Even though it's faded and not really my style, it reminds me that I was 18 once. And I wasn't half bad.

In between getting my heart smashed by that boy and drinking far too many Keystone Lights and awkwardly hanging around a sorority house I didn't feel a part of yet and studying far less than I should have (first college test score: 52) and also just plain falling in love with every corner of that town, I spend a lot of time in my room, browsing the Internet, illegally downloading music and chatting with friends on Instant Messenger. One afternoon I get a call from the front lobby of my dorm. It's Natalie. She has stopped by for a visit. I can't tell you—there really aren't words—how good it is to see her. It has been far too long.

Currently Obsessive

I went through a period of time last year when I became unhealthily obsessed with Giada DeLaurentiis and her show Everyday Italian. Even though I've made a few of her dishes, and they've all been delicious, I think my obsession actually sprang from how thin that woman is regardless of how many dishes she whips up containing entire vats of mascarpone cheese. My obsession has waned some, and recently there have been whole months at a time when I've resisted the urge to walk into Central Market and order pancetta just because it's something Giada would do. But for a while there—for months—I would walk through the door each night, kick off my shoes, throw Molly a bone and settle in to watch thirty minutes of Italian-cooking bliss. And one week I spent three lunch hours trying to track down one of her cookbooks—a cookbook I've cooked from ... once ... since then.

This is just kind of how I am: I discover something—a product, a TV show, a celebrity, a song—I use/watch/talk the hell out of it and then I'm pretty much over it. I always think back on my obsessions fondly—I'll still pick up a magazine if Giada is on the cover, I'll always think a little less of Oprah for bullying her on-air a few months ago and I still DVR the show (as well as Giada's Weekend Getaways) but my obsession morphed into something fairly normal.

The same goes for other things including Milo Ventimiglia (start lusting after teenagers when you are the same age as MY HUSBAND and you immediately get bumped down on my freebie list), Mandy Moore's Wild Hope album, Gilmore Girls, Googling photos of Jake and Reese, GAP clothes, Bath and Body Works products, Diet Dr. Pepper, the Freddie Prinze Jr. movie "Boys and Girls," Real Simple (turns out I like the paper the magazine is printed on better than the actual content of the magazine) and even eBay.

So, even though all of the following things are subject to fizzle in the coming months (days?), here is a list of things I'm currently—possibly just for the moment, even—obsessed with:

Top Chef: I just love this show. Perhaps it's because of this one particularly scruffy, cute contestant named Spike who constantly wears a fedora—even while cooking!—or perhaps it's because of all the edge-of-your-seat Quickfires or, most likely, it's because I can watch dishes (plural) being presented to the judges without recognizing a single ingredient, making me feel smarter at the end of an episode than at the beginning—something I can't say about too many of the other shows I watch. Except for The Hills which is nothing but brain food.

Old Navy: I can go years hating everything Old Navy stocks on their shelves. Once I walked into the massively big store in my city and immediately turned around and walked back out because the first thing I saw had a unicorn on it, and I just ... I couldn't go any further. But I've been in Old Navy quite a lot lately—ALTHOUGH NOT IF MY HUSBAND ASKS—and I love their jewelry, their t-shirts, their jeans, their dresses, their skirts. Should I go on? Should I say I also love their underwear? BECAUSE I DO!

This one particular song by The Weepies: Lately whenever I want to write something with a little substance, I turn on this song and feel instantly introspective. I listen to it on repeat if what I'm writing is especially lengthy, and Mike will walk through the living room, on his way to measure under our wet bar for the keg he'd like to put there, find me tapping away on my laptop and will say things like, "What is that crap you're listening to?" Or "Are you wallowing again?"

World Spins Madly On
Everything that I said I'd do
Like make the world brand new
And take the time for you
I just got lost and slept right through the dawn
And the world spins madly on

Greenz: Every now and again I get stuck on a restaurant or lunch spot, and I eat there for weeks and weeks while all of my co-workers and friends roll their eyes and refuse to eat with me until I branch out to somewhere other than Quiznos (which is the kick I was on before Greenz). Greenz is a great little salad/wrap place in Dallas, and I go there far too often and get the exact same thing. The cashier totally knows my order by heart but he never repeats it to me with any tone of judgment.

Letterpress stationary: About once a day—when I need a break from fixating about next week's One Tree Hill finale (Lucas, take Brooke to Vegas!) for instance—I search Etsy or Paper Source or other various online shops for letterpress stationary. I even find myself dumping things into random online shopping carts. I usually talk myself out of actually purchasing things, but I'm just obsessed with beautiful and authentic stationary. See, in our new house I have a room that's just mine. It's my writing room. My space. My haven. And it's totally disorganized and full of crap right now and I only go in there, as of now, to get dressed or to hide from Molly who has been such an asshole lately. When I finally organize it and get it just-so, I really do want to get lost for hours writing letters. And I envision all of those letters being written on letterpress stationary because it's just prettier than regular stationary.

Honorable mentions: Diet Cherry Sprite from Sonic. Clutch wallets. David Cook. Counting Crows. And Nars lip gloss.

So, what are you currently obsessed with?

How He's Made It (Almost) A Year Is Beyond Me. And Beyond Everyone Who Knows Us.

When Mike and I returned from our honeymoon, late last June, I began planning for a Mediterranean cruise I wanted us to take for our one-year anniversary. I thought a year was plenty of time to save the THOUSANDS of dollars any type of Mediterranean cruise would cost. Mike looked at me—somewhat lovingly, somewhat afraid he had vowed to be with a woman for the rest of his life who had so clearly LOST HER MIND—and said, as I searched my way through the entire Internet, "Baby, we won't be able to afford that trip. Please stop practicing your Spanish."

I finally roped myself in a little bit and realized that, no, the Mediterranean would not be in our first-anniversary plans. I then promptly began tossing around the idea of traveling to Chicago or Boston, and because I had already been to Chicago, I began leaning heavily towards Boston. I even bought The Lonely Planet: Boston and began looking for Red Sox tickets. But—sigh—soon enough it dawned on me that with BlogHer and a fall trip to Toronto paired with one too many visits to Old Navy, we just couldn't afford any extra plane tickets.

The part of me that is an idealistic traveler is always the hardest to reconcile with my reality—even harder than the earnest napper with the full-time job holder. I am constantly itching to travel. If Texas weren't so aggravatingly big, and didn't take DAYS UPON DAYS to get out of, I'd probably leave it more often. (And if our neighboring states were just a hair more exciting. No offense to Oklahoma, but when I'm racking up the miles on my Saturn and forking over an obscene amount of money for gas, I'd like to be in any state other than Oklahoma. OK, so slight offense.) It's frustrating to want to go somewhere and be forced instead to sit idly in your house, watching ANOTHER Jon & Kate Plus Eight marathon. (It's rather sad when you are envious of a mother of EIGHT screaming, thrashing children because she's sitting on a Southwest airplane—one that isn't even moving but has the potential to take her somewhere other than her home.)

So, all this whining is to say that, no, we aren't hopping on a plane to celebrate one year of marriage, but we are packing a bag (or two) and getting out of town. We're going to Hot Springs, Arkansas this coming weekend for a couple of days—one day being our actual anniversary. I've never been to Arkansas, but Mike has a handful of times—always on the back of a motorcycle—and he swears it's one of the most beautiful states he's ever been to. If that's true (and I suppose I'll know soon enough), the state of Arkansas really should step up and do something about how often Arkansas residents are featured on Wildest Police Chases and—truly—how often they hurl themselves out of moving vehicles to escape the law. (Quite often, in fact! Mike and I used to watch this show far more often than is respectable, and more than once—MORE THAN TWICE—Arkansas residents, when faced with being apprehended by the law or JUMPING from their moving [stolen] vehicle, chose jumping. When is jumping from a fast-moving car EVER Plan B unless the car is suddenly and inexplicably filled with bees or clowns or Republicans?)

Anyway, part of our weekend "package" with the Bed and Breakfast we're staying at is a massage and a complimentary dinner on a river boat. And a free bottle of champagne.

I know what you're thinking: the free champagne is worth the trip alone. To that I say: I LIKE THE WAY YOU THINK. In fact, when the B&B called me last night to confirm our stay and to give us the option of champagne or wine, I may have yelled, "CHAMPAGNE! EVEN IF IT'S CHEAP! AND DON'T TELL MY HUSBAND THERE WAS EVEN A CHOICE!"

::

If you've been to Hot Springs, do you recommend anything in particular? I'm forcing Mike to go horseback riding with me—one of my favorite things to do. And he's forcing me to go two straight days without mentioning that as charming and quaint as Hot Springs may be—and as nice as it is to spend time with my husband of ONE WHOLE SOLID YEAR—Arkansas isn't exactly the Mediterranean. AND WHY CAN'T YOU JUST WIN THE LOTTERY ALREADY. GOD!

The champagne will help with my end of the bargain.

Your Day

There are many, many mothers in my life. My sister—a beautiful, dark-haired mother to an almost-two-year-old boy who has his mother's gorgeous coloring and her fierce independence—my sister-in-law—the most calm and grounded and downright together mother I know—and Mike's cousins who are just so beautiful and loving. I have many friends—some who are just about to be mothers and some who have just become one. There is also my stepmother who is the quirkiest, most original, most authentic woman I know who taught me how to drive a car and how to climb out on a limb and, also, how to be beautiful in my own skin. Then, of course, there's Mike's mom who once, years and years ago, when I first met Mike, made me realize how much fun raising a son would be one day.

But of all the moms in my life, this day makes me think of one more than any other:

My own.

My mother, right there, was in her second trimester with me. That's my sister she's holding (circa 1981).

My mother has fought her entire life for respect, for her own space, for happiness, and it hasn't always been an easy fight. She raised two daughters—both demanding and exhausting in our own ways—and she did so for many years without any help, when her own family had turned its back on us. Because of all she's gone through, my mother takes nothing—not a minute, not a second—for granted. And there is just nothing she wouldn't do for both my sister and me.

I have a great, albeit small, circle of family members who love me, who are loyal to me, who came to my wedding and poured their love out for Mike and me. I have incredible friends—a few I know will be in my life for the long haul, a few I truly believe will see my children and grandchildren grow. Mike's family is the most incredible group of people I have ever known, and there is not a day I don't feel downright undeserving to be married into this loving, loud group.

But my own mother—my sweet, kind, giving, warm mother—is the one person who loves me completely, unconditionally, with no pretenses, no expectations.

If you have met her—or if you will ever be lucky enough to meet her—you will understand, it will become so clear, why I want my own child.

I want the chance to love another person the way I have always been loved.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom.

And thanks for buying me a pair of shoes today, on your day. And thanks for making me laugh by saying, after you bought them, "Now, sweetie, I want to see these on your blog, OK?"

So, here they are, a picture stolen from someone's eBay site since that was the only place on the Internet the shoes could be found:

Let's Just Say I'm Probably Not The Only One Who Still Remembers

Do you want to know the most humiliated I've ever been? It was sometime in June of 2004, and it was on a day I was spending with Mike—my then-boyfriend—his sister and her husband and MIKE'S PARENTS. Let me repeat: the most embarrassed I have ever been—in my life—was in front of my now-in-laws.

Years ago (almost four, to be exact), Mike and I drove to New Braunfels to spend the weekend with his sister, her husband and his parents. New Braunfels is home to the biggest water park in Texas and one of the best water parks in the nation—Schlitterbahn—and we decided to spend the Saturday of our visit there. Although I had already spent a good amount of time with Mike's family, it was a relatively new relationship, so I was still in try-to-impress mode.

We were nearing the end of our day at Schlitterbahn, exhausted from being thrown down chutes and splashed in the face with about eighty gallons of water when Mike—adventurous man that he is—suggested we all take a turn on this interesting-looking surfing ride called Boogie Bahn. Now, if you've never been to Schlitterbahn, this is going to be a tad hard to explain because that link takes you to a picture of a girl on top of a surfboard SMILING and that's not at all accurate. Let me try though: there is this ride—The Boogie Bahn—and you begin elevated on a platform, with a rubber surfboard-type-thing in your hand. You get the go-ahead from the bored-out-his-mind lifeguard (just wait lifeguard! things are about to pick up!), and you sort of slide down into this big pool of water where waves are simulated. If you do it just right (as in, IF YOU EFFING KNOW HOW TO SURF), you hop up and ride the wives for a bit and then glide into a much larger pool of water that feeds into a communal swimming area. If you don't do it just right (if you, say, HAVE NEVER SURFED—NOT ONCE—IN YOUR WHOLE LIFE), you sort of awkwardly slide down into the wave-simulating part of the ride and all hell breaks loose. You instantly lose your board and you fall face first into the water and right before you begin to drown, the ride sort of sucks you up—backwards!—onto another slide, where you are taken into the communal swimming area a different way—down that long slide.

Before I go on, I want it documented that I did not want to go on this ride at all. There was a long line of people but in addition to the line there were bleachers for spectators. This ride had SPECTATORS, people. Mike wanted all six of us to go on it together, though. Most of you have never met Mike (if you have, feel free to support my claim here), but Mike likes to do things. Mike is not a spectator. Mike is a tryer-outer and an experimenter and a hey-why-not-er. But more than that, more than all of those things, Mike is the kind of guy who likes to see his girlfriend try things too. He likes a girl with a little guts, a girl who takes a few risks, someone with the ability to put herself out there. (Just this past weekend when we were in San Antonio at a carnival, I went on this crazy, spinning, gut-turning, dizzying ride which I actually happened to love, but it was also a ride not many other people wanted to go on. Mike loved that I rode that ride.) And back in June of 2004, he really wanted me to take a stab at The Boogie Bahn. Because I wanted this man—and this man's family—to think of me as a total badass, I said OK. RELUCTANTLY SAID OK, I WANT IT NOTED.

But I would not go first.

And that decision—to go after Mike's parents and Mike, even—was the best decision I have ever made, even better than the decision to try champagne for the first time.

As the line snaked onward and people got on, one-by-one, I noticed an awkward, unfortunate trend happening. If you didn't master the surfing immediately and you lost your board and got sucked up backwards—and you were a female—the amount of force and sucking and water blasting inevitably made your bathing suit top creep up or to the side or down. This was a horrible side effect of the ride but one that totally clarified the bleachers.

I tightened my suit every few seconds, as we inched closer to the front of the line, and I kept repeating to myself, in my head: Must get up on the surfboard, must not fall. When it was my turn, and after a few more repeated prayers, I went for it.

And. Um. It didn't go so well.

I lost my board, yes, and I fell face first into the water, and I definitely thought I was going to drown right when the ride sucked me up and backwards and then, RIGHT THEN, is when things went from bad to ... well ... much worse. See, I lost my entire bathing suit. Top and bottom. The (once bored) lifeguard snapped to attention rather quickly, I must admit, and he managed to grab me with one hand while grabbing my bathing suit bottoms with his other hand. My bathing suit was not on my body. IT WAS IN HIS HAND. (My top had fallen off, as well, but somehow by the grace of God and karma and positive thinking, I had managed to grab it myself.) So, let me sum it up: I was naked. IN FRONT OF SPECTATORS. And in front of my future sister-in-law.

I got everything back on in record time, and when the slide spit me out into the pool, I swam over to Mike who missed all of it because of how the ride is set up. I whispered to him: "Baby, my swimsuit came off. I just flashed everyone."

He put his arm around me and said, "Oh, I'm sure no-one noticed. It couldn't have been that bad."

About twenty seconds later my brother-in-law came sliding down after me and said, "Hey, thanks for that." And Richelle came after him and was STILL LAUGHING.

From then on, at every family function, on every family vacation, every time we're just eating dinner together, someone manages to work in something along the lines of: "Now, Jennie, we are having dessert but you don't have to get naked."

It's funny now, years and years later. I have even laughed a little bit while writing this. But back then, when a lifeguard had to grab me—naked!—and then had to hand me the bottoms of my bathing suit, I could only think one thing:

Should I buy him dinner now?

::

And, aren't you just incredibly glad Mike and I ended up getting married? I would totally have been that girl he dated who got naked that one time. WHO WANTS TO BE THAT GIRL?

You Know, He Does Rock

Mike read this blog, from yesterday, and he scowled a bit when he came home, reminding me there were vital parts of the story missing. Parts like: he does do the dishes an awful lot (although, come on baby, definitely not more than me) and he also does other things such as picking up after me more than he ever thought he would have to and listening to me lament about Veronica Mars a solid YEAR after the show was canceled. (There's a cruise! This November! Who's with me?) But you know what I love about Mike, what I love so much it stuns me sometimes? He supports this site regardless of what I write. He's not a blathering idiot, unable to filter his thoughts like I am. He doesn't verbally vomit all over THE INTERNET like I tend to do, and yet he is still proud of this site, proud of what I write. He doesn't necessarily understand it, no, but he loves me all the same.

So, anyway, I woke up this morning to this note on our chalkboard:

(I imagine the other nine are coming.)

AND! As if that wasn't enough, I arrived to work this morning (early! look at me!), to these:

They are my favorite flower—a lavender rose—but even better, with pretty pinkish tips. They aren't from Mike, though. Molly, actually. She sent them for Mother's Day (clever little girl, stealing Dad's credit card to send her Mama pretty flowers). I gave her TWO treats when I got home today.

She was hoping for three, though. Right, baby girl?

(Mama, could you turn the flash off next time and maybe, you know, GET OUT OF MY FACE?)

As you can imagine, my Thursday was complete even before The Office came on. Mike isn't romantic. He just isn't. He doesn't write poems or send love letters or sweep me off my feet on a consistent basis. What he is, though, is thoughtful and sincere and genuine. And he does these random, wonderful things that help me stand a bit straighter, a bit stronger on my own. He's also adorable, which doesn't hurt things. But best of all? I get to keep him.

::

"You give me a quiet mind, and I love you." —Blue October

Coming To Terms

I first got the idea to hang a chalkboard in our kitchen from Holly at Nothing But Bonfires. I thought her note to her boyfriend was so charming, and I envisioned leaving Mike little love notes in the morning, before leaving for work and before he had gotten up yet. I also envisioned returning home from a long day of work and commuting to find notes to me in return (because I apparently forgot who I was married to).

I found a chalkboard at IKEA (through the help of a reader) for $14.99. A co-worker was planning a trip there, and she picked this up for me as a housewarming gift. As cheap as the chalkboard was, I got it for free. I'm already in love with IKEA and I've never actually set foot inside one.

Anyway, Mike put it together the same night he cooked dinner which is totally enough for me, I swear, but when I saw him writing on it from the living room, I began smirking. First love note!

When I walked into the kitchen to do the dishes—do you have a similar system? When one cooks, the other cleans? We had this system for years and years when I did very little cooking, but when I began cooking more regularly about a year ago, Mike mysteriously forgot about this system. I found myself more often than not slaving over the stove and then slaving over the sink because his day was so hard and Mythbusters is new tonight and look how Molly is lying on top of me, do you want to be the mother who makes her move? But, over the last few weeks Mike has picked up cooking again (and has made a few delicious grilled chicken dishes) and—wouldn't you know!—the system has been reinstated—I saw the note he wrote on the chalkboard. The first note on our chalkboard reads:

MIKE ROCKS!

Mike tells me all the time that I build things up in my head, and that's why I'm sometimes disappointed. It's why I was kind of bummed by The Break-Up—I had a countdown to its release!—and why we also got into a huge fight this past Valentine's Day because WHERE WERE MY DIAMOND EARRINGS? This is just a massage; massages don't sparkle! When I waltzed into the kitchen expecting to see Mike declaring his undying love for me in white chalk, I laughed to myself, realizing I was doing it again: building things up instead of appreciating them for what they are.

So here it is Internet: I appreciate that I'm basically married to a fourteen-year-old.

Timeline: Seventeen

(Wow, seventeen was quite the year. Sorry, ahead of time, for how many words I used to describe it.)

(And because linking seems appropriate for anyone who may be new—and thus confused—around here: One Through Six, Seven And Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve And Thirteen, Fourteen And Fifteen, Sixteen.)

1999, aged seventeen
It hits me as I'm sitting at a high school talent show one Thursday night in late January: I want to go to college, and I should really begin thinking about that. I buy a university resource book and place a dozen calls to colleges across the country requesting catalogs and as much free information as I can get.

One afternoon, in Spanish class, a friend asks a casual question about Jason. She asks how we're doing, and since we're doing fine, that's what I tell her. She then says, with a sincere smile, "You'll probably be one of those lucky girls who marry her high school sweetheart." And because it is what we've planned on, I smile. And then, an unexpected feeling overcomes me: I want out. I want to go to college and travel and he doesn't. I want a future beyond the city limits, and he doesn't. I feel like I have instantly grown out of us. Although I realize it didn't happen quite like that—it actually unfolds the way many things do in life: we push on and on and on until one day the weight of carrying this or that around becomes too much, and we have to put it down or it'll break us in half—it feels like I loved him one day and stopped the next.

The following day I do something I know will make him mad. I go to a party without him, while he's working. It makes me sick to think that this is what he breaks up with me over, but it makes me even sicker because I KNEW HE WOULD. He tells me not to go, he tells me I'll be sorry, he tells me he'll break up with me if I do. So I do. That night, at around midnight on February 12, 1999, he does, indeed, break up with me. Relief washes over me for a solid day before I slowly freak out. Wait, I think. What did I do?

Even though this is what I wanted, this is what I anticipated, I don't know who I am without him and it scares the shit out of me. So I decide I want him back. I spend the next month allowing him to treat me worse than he ever has before and will ever again. I beg him to take me back. I show up at his house uninvited. I call him repeatedly. I convince him to take me to our winter formal, which will go down as one of the worst nights of my life. A night I'll never forget. A night that makes me want to throw up, even now. That night should have been it. It should have been a clean break after that. But, lord, it wasn't. For another few weeks I continue to beg, to write him pathetic letters. I continue to lose weight.

And then, something happens. I am invited out by some girls on my drill team. They show me what high school should be like, with casual dinners and lots of laughter at things no one would find funny now. One night they bring me to one of their friend's houses—a guy—and for the first time in as long as I can remember I get butterflies. From that day on, I will never spend another moment on my proverbial knees, begging things of Jason, which makes him come running back into my life.

It's something I still laugh about, that the minute I developed feelings for someone else, he came rushing back in, ready to give it another go. He spent the next few months doing the calling, showing up uninvited, grabbing hold of me, territorially, in the hallway. And even though Jason wouldn't fully be out of my life for a while (we'd go through a million more shades of gray and we'd do our best to hurt each other another 4,000 times), I had taken one giant step forward. I had fallen for someone else. Someone who would spend the next few years trying to heal all the scars left behind by a too-intense love. Someone who would never fully love me back but who gave me all he could. Someone I still care for, am still close with.

Sometime in between letting go of my old ties and forming new ones, I decide to try out for an officer position on my drill team. It's a long shot—I am just a regular line member and hold no position—but it distracts me and gives me something new to focus on. I practice all day, every day. I walk around with a nervous stomach for weeks. Right before I am to walk out into the middle of the basketball court and dance the solo I choreographed to "Lucky" by Seven Mary Three in front of my entire team, a friend grabs hold of my arm and whispers to me, "Just dance." And this piece of advice is magical, and it's one I think back on often. When I'm nervous about a conference call, when I face another month of infertility, when my father lets me down, I find myself whispering to myself at all times of the day, "Just dance." It's the best piece of advice I've ever been given. And I do. I dance in front of my entire team, alone, and somehow—I still don't quite know how—I make it. I become an officer.

I spend the next few months—the rest of my junior year and the beginning of my senior one—dancing my way through all the pain. It's the most alive I have ever felt, dancing in the middle of stages and football fields and my living room, too. My new friendships grow stronger, my old life fades, and I am happy. It's new—this physical joy, all this laughter, all these things to look forward to. And, yet, I am still keeping secrets behind closed doors. I'm still skipping meals and lying. I'll continue to lie for years. I wish I could erase the memories from my mother's mind from that time, but I can't. I permanently damaged her while permanently damaging myself. You have to be a deeply selfish person if you choose an eating disorder, and during that time I was as selfish as I've ever been.

But all these years later, as I look back, I am still proud of this year. The year I shed things and figured out things and realized things and pieced myself back together and broke myself apart some more. Sometime in the middle of July of this year, my mom and dad took me around the country, touring my top-three college picks (one in coastal California, one in Georgia and one in small-town Texas). I began dreaming really grand dreams on that trip, while reading One Hundred Years of Solitude in the back of my dad's rental car. I began seeing myself as a college student, and the excitement that began buzzing inside of me because of those thoughts was almost like a current.

One day, on that trip, I stepped inside the Memorial Student Center on the Texas A&M campus—right smack-dab in the middle of College Station, Texas. As I stood in the middle of the sweatshirt section, taking in all the maroon and white surrounding me, watching the students pick up scantrons and blue books before tests, I just knew. I turned to my mom, and said, "This is it. This is where I'm going to school." And I can't tell you why I made that decision. Why this liberal, California-born girl felt so comfortable on such a conservative campus, but from the ruins of a handful of very difficult, very painful coming-of-age years, rose a bright, hopeful future.

On that day, I had come home.

Mother's Day Gift Guide

I've been planning to combine some of my "products of the day" and some other great finds into gift guides for a while now. After reading Elizabeth's Mother's Day Guide, I was reminded of this plan, and I immediately told Mike this is why I need an iPhone, to set reminders for myself about important dates and birthdays and BLOG IDEAS. Anyway, please visit her site first—she has some incredible picks over there—and then come back here if you have any holes to fill in on your shopping list—for all the spectactular mothers in your life. (Oh, by the way baby—if you're reading this—I'm feeling very vulnerable this year about the whole not-a-mother thing, so why don't you make sure Molly gets me those shoes below, OK?)

1. Francesca's Collections earrings
I discovered Francesca's on my lunch hour one day and, OH BOY, was my life ever changed. It's more than just a clothing boutique, it's more of well-rounded gift shop—gifts for you, for your friends, for the bride-to-be in your life and, also, for your mom. Whenever I take my mom there, she's instantly drawn to the earrings. Check out their online store or a location near you. But, you really can't go wrong with any of dozens of pairs. Like this one:

($24)

2. Red Envelope monogrammed candle and soap set

($40)

My love for Red Envelope runs deep, and my love for personalizing gifts runs even deeper. I love this set—monogramming something slightly unconventional.

3. Anything from Lisa Leonard Designs
This is one of my new favorite go-to gift sites. You would be astounded if I told you how many new moms are in my life. In the last two years, SEVENTEEN people have had a baby (some have had two), and they aren't distant, long-lost acquaintances, they are FRIENDS. They are FAMILY.

For all of these expectant and new moms, I love this spoon ("baby's first spoon"):

($20)

Another beautiful gift to give from Lisa Leonard Designs is this "teenie tiny initial" necklace.

($42 for two charms; $8 for each additional charm)

4. Etsy SewMo Shop
I just found this Etsy shop recently, actually, and I love the unique patterns and interesting colors of the accessories. This particular bag is fantastic:

($46)

5. Fleur-de-lys glasses from Anthropologie

($32 for set of four)

You may be safer ordering these online for the mother in your life who loves collecting pretty (but useful!) things for her home and kitchen. I say safer because the moment you step into an Anthropologie I dare you not to walk up to 9,000 different things lamenting how you can't afford this or that but you just CAN'T LIVE WITHOUT IT. It won't end well. You'll leave depressed (or broke!) and you'll forget you even went in there to pick something up for someone else. So, order online. Trust me.

6. Our Name is Mud mug

($13.50)

I've loved this line for years. (I keep meaning to buy this bling holder for my rings.) They have tons of mugs that would be perfect for the mom you know who is addicted to caffeine. But this particular mug made me think of Crystal, my friend who will be a mom to a little baby girl in late September. Along with dressing her daughter in a million different shades of pink, I think she'll be in need of a pink mug filled with strong, hot coffee, as well.

7. Laptop sleeve

($34)

How many moms do you know who blog? A HELLUVA LOT, RIGHT? Well, if they blog on a laptop (highly possible), they'll need something pretty to carry it in. I love the green one, but it also comes in black, which is just as lovely.

8. J. Crew shoes

($195)

When I'm a mom, this is what I would personally like for Mother's Day. (HEAR THAT MOLLY!) Shoes you can't justify buying for yourself, but shoes that have a Pavlovian effect on you nonetheless.

9. Personalized cards from Sugar Paper

($125 for 50 cards)

This site makes me want to pawn things, so I can afford every set of expensive (but pretty!) stationary. If your mom has been particularly good this year, splurge on a set of personalized flat cards for her. And then ask her to send you a card with a check enclosed.

10. L'Occitane Honey & Lemon gift box

($81)

Every now and again I go in this store and buy one travel-size lotion or powder or room spray. I can't afford any more than that, but I like to have nice things, even if they're particularly small in size. This gift box will spoil the mom you give it to. And there's really nothing like being spoiled if you're a mom, right? At least that's what I've been told. Being Molly's mom is ridiculously difficult, but I don't get much sympathy when I bring that up in conversation with other mothers. Not even when I mention how she loves her dad more than me. (Also, the site is currently offering free shipping for orders over $40. Incentive!)

::

Enjoy shopping for all the mothers you know and love. And look forward to the next gift guide, either Father's Day or "What You Should Buy Me For Our Anniversary"—I think both will be fun.

We'll Also Serve As Your Tour Guides When You Get Here (For A Small Fee)

I grew up in San Francisco. It's an authentic, incredible city, and a part of me will always be sad I no longer live there, but a bigger part of me enjoys eating on a regular basis, and I don't think I could do both there (at least not at this point in my life). Also, when I go back and drive around the city, I wonder how anyone ever gets around by car because you can't seem to turn left ... anywhere. But there is this indescribable feeling, when you're walking along one of the busy downtown streets, and you're shivering because it's the middle of July and you didn't realize you would need a parka but apparently you do and then, all of a sudden, you step into a patch of sunlight, and you are warmed from the inside out, and it's magical, really.

But these days, and for a long time now, I've lived in Texas. And—what's more—I love it here. I work in Dallas and live in a suburb about thirty miles away. 

I realize when you're planning your next vacation—listing cities you desperately want to visit, sites you just have to see—Dallas or Fort Worth probably don't spring to mind. I realize if given the chance to visit NYC or Boston or Chicago or, hell, even Santa Fe, or Dallas you probably wouldn't describe yourself as conflicted. But, in case you are here (work/by choice/against your better judgment), I've decided—with the help of the wonderful Stara—to help make your trip enjoyable.

Also, Metalia's post the other day month inspired me. (And I know she was recommending NYC—a slightly different dot on the map than Dallas.)

First things first: a disclaimer.

Disclaimer: If you are traveling to D/FW, and you plan to visit each letter (the "D" and then the "F" and "W") rent a car. The cities aren't close to one another. When I lived in a suburb just north of Dallas for EIGHT years I went to Fort Worth a total of three times. And one of those times was only because I was insanely lost.

Now, let's begin!

Jennie's Pick: Something Is Fishy
In the heart of downtown Dallas is the Dallas World Aquarium. It is an incredible experience, filled with animals, plants and fish from all corners of the globe. (Such a silly expression, I know! The globe is round—no corners!) There is a black jaguar, a shark tank and manatees, and all exhibits are surrounded by lush vegetation. I've been to the Monterey Bay Aquarium a dozen times, and the Dallas World Aquarium still blew me away.

Stara's Pick: Best Hot-Spot Off The Beaten Path
If any of your time in Dallas includes an extended period of time in the Uptown area, which is quite possible due to its proximity to downtown and many Dallas hotels, you will likely be craving an escape. An escape FROM THE DAMN YUPPIES. It’s okay. I am one of them, but I’m not offended. I need to get away from myself sometimes. Lee Harvey’s is the place to do that.

Traveling to Lee Harvey’s is a harrowing experience, I will not lie. I’m generally terrified each time I go. (Fun Fact: One time, on my way there in a cab, we got so lost that the cab driver actually threw us out of his cab because he was sick of dealing with our Yuppie selves who could not find the damn bar. Thankfully, he took us back to Uptown first, or I likely might not be alive to tell the tale. Anyway, take directions is what I’m saying.) Do not let this dissuade you. Once you get there, you will find outdoor seating—at picnic tables no less—dogs, fire pits and rather strong libations. In case you are, well, ignorant, Lee Harvey’s is named after Lee Harvey Oswald, whom we all know was the victim of a mass government conspiracy and alleged to be JFK’s assassin. (I’m totally kidding about the conspiracy theory thing. OR AM I?) Anywho, get yourself down there and you are guaranteed to have a good time

Jennie's pick: A Day Trip
Get out of both cities for a day if you can. Head over to Grapevine for a day of wine tasting and good eating. Lined along Main Street in Grapevine, TX—about a half hour from both Dallas and Forth Worth—you'll find incredible places to grab a quick lunch* before the wine starts calling your name. You can stop in the nearly ten wineries on and just-off-of Main Street to do a little tasting. My favorite stop: Su Vino where you can taste five generous pours for $5. On the list of must-taste-selections, almond champagne and the red Ruby wine.

(*That second suggestion, Guadalupe's, has the best margaritas I've ever tasted. Order a half-and-half—half frozen, half on-the-rocks with no rocks. Also, order the blanco queso.)

Stara's Pick: The Perfect Dinner/Dessert stops
Dinner: If you are in Texas long enough to require a meal, you simply must enjoy a chicken fried steak. And if you are in Dallas, you will probably find out that we regard ourselves as somewhat more cosmopolitan than other Texas cities (You love Austin so much? HA! They don’t even have a Galleria.), as such, the CFS I recommend isn’t comprised of the traditional beef steak. It’s a freaking Rib Eye! So classy! It is served up at Perry’s Restaurant in Uptown Dallas. Have it along with the steak fries, which are made up of a quartered and deep-fried potato. Best things ever.

Dessert: I would then skip dessert at Perry’s, and instead head over to nearby La Duni for a piece of the Nutella Milk Chocolate Cake. La Duni has a variety of desserts, each better than the next. This is my absolute favorite restaurant in Dallas, and the prices are fairly reasonable—entrees range from $8- $22, and cakes are $7.25 slice.

Jennie and Stara's Picks: Forth Worth Must-Sees
Fort Worth Zoo—The best zoo I've been to next to San Diego. (And, oddly, I've been to quite a few zoos.) Wear comfortable shoes, bring your camera and make sure to see the interactive Texas Wild section, featuring more animals, fishes and birds than I ever thought Texas was home to. Also, try and make it there on any given Wednesday—half-price day.

Kimball Museum—A beautiful and renowned museum nestled in Cowtown, the Kimball is a must-visit place. Peruse the calendar of events before you go to see what's in store for you that day.

Stockyards—If you think you can't be smacked in the face with too many cowboys and longhorns, you'd be wrong. You'll get your cowboy-fix here, but it's still a fun, interesting place to learn about the history of Fort Worth and it's perfect for kids. With that said, if you have time, stop at the Cowtown Cattlepen Maze, a kid-friendly attraction you may remember from the season-five finale of The Amazing Race.

Billy Bob's—Billy Bob's purports to be the world's largest honkey tonk. I didn't take measurements, but Billy Bob's is damn big. I'm not much on country dancin' and country ... whatever else, but Billy Bob's is a concert venue, and a great place to people watch. If you're in Fort Worth, and looking to validate all of your Texas stereotypes (mullets, tight jeans, big hair, gas-guzzling trucks, bull riding), Billy Bob's is the place to get it done get 'er done.

Joe T. Garcia's—After a long day of taking in as much as you can in Fort Worth, stop at this famous Texas restaurant. The menu is small (fajitas and enchiladas only), they only take cash, they don’t take reservations and the wait is usually hours on the weekends, but people can’t seem to get enough of this place. Rest assured, the hype is warranted. (Again, try the margaritas and also try to sit outside. The ambiance is amazing.)

Jennie & Stara's Pick: SHOP!
Any guide to Dallas would be remiss without mentioning shopping. Though I gripe a fair amount about Dallas, one thing I cannot complain about is the shopping. So, if you have time and money to burn, stop by these places:

Northpark—Stara's favorite place to shop is Northpark Center. Northpark has all the usual suspects—Nordstrom, Banana Republic, J. Crew, Ann Taylor, Anthropologie, and of course the requisite Neiman Marcus. But North Park also has a variety of real (i.e. sit down) restaurants, a large food court, a movie theater, and is one of the more aesthetically pleasing malls I have ever been to. It is not overwhelming in size, and a large portion of North Park is one story. It is also an excellent place to people watch.

Southlake Town Square—A cool new trend is the outdoor shopping mall and one fantastic thing about Texas is you can enjoy shopping at one of these establishments eleven months and three weeks of the year. Southlake is near Grapevine and is also about a half hour from both Fort Worth and Dallas (although closer to Fort Worth). The shopping at this Square is insanely good, and there's also a Cheesecake Factory conveniently located, so you can reward yourself for not buying everything you laid your eyes on with a piece of brownie sundae or key lime cheesecake.

Highland Park—Highland Park is an area just adjacent—though miles away in many respects—from my (Stara's) neighborhood of Uptown. One of the nation's wealthiest suburbs, Highland Park is home to a fair number of famous peeps—Mark Cuban, Jason Sehorn and Angie Harmon, and I don't know ... some other people. Jessica Simpson and Owen Wilson, for example, are often seen shopping in Highland Park Village. The homes of Highland Park are quite a sight to see, and if you have some time to kill, it is pretty entertaining to check out the multi-million dollar mansions and wonder what life is like inside them.

Honorable Mentions
If you are looking for cowboys of a different persuasion, you can always visit the Round Up Saloon. Or, if you want a healthy lunch stop—with delicious salads, wraps and soups—try Greenz in three Dallas locations. If beer is your drink of choice, well, we could definitely be friends, but also stop at Flying Saucer the Draught Emporium with two D/FW locations. Another great thing about Texas is the sheer number of patios available to eat on. Sure it gets stifling hot here in the middle of July and August but there are a few weeks in May when the weather is so glorious it's painful to stay inside. Stop at Ozona on a Monday night, for $1 margaritas and a beautiful tree-heavy patio experience. There is also live music from time to time. Or, if you're a sports nut, purchase tickets to a variety of sports, including hockey, baseball, football, basketball, soccer, minor-league baseball and probably a helluva lot more I'm not aware of because I mostly go to sporting events for the excuse to eat more than one hot dog in a single sitting.

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Really, the most important thing to remember when visiting north Texas is to call us. Let us personally show you around we'll allow you to buy us margaritas.