She Likes Purple

Timeline: Twenty

(Here are the others: One Through Six, Seven And Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve And Thirteen, Fourteen And Fifteen, Sixteen, Seventeen, Eighteen and Nineteen.)

2002, aged twenty
(Note: If I haven't mentioned this as of yet, I'm lucky in that my birthday falls at the very beginning of the year so for 99.9% of each year I am the same age, making it fairly easy for me to write these posts. Well, easy in terms of remembering not as easy in terms of ripping off long-ago-healed wounds.)

I turn 20 at a Cheddars in Plano, Texas. Lauren has joined me there to celebrate my birthday and it's the last stop on a Texas tour that took the two of us through Houston and then to San Antonio and onto Austin for various college-minded reasons. (Read: to drink and see boys.)

Now that I'm a sophomore and that horribly anxious first year of college is behind me, I've fallen into a peaceful sort of routine. Studying for History tests and writing in blue books and walking to class in wrinkled T-shirts. Eating sandwiches in on-campus delis and going to date parties and still spending an insane amount of time with Lauren who has become this calming force in my life. I'm a bit all over the place, thinking of this and that and this again and whenever I walk into our shared sorority-house room, I instantly feel more at peace. It's the same now, when we meet for dinner or go to the movies---even though years have separated then and now and a lot of growing pains have, as well---whenever I see her, I feel just that much more at ease. She has that way about her and when you're twenty (or fifty, I imagine) that's a beautiful kind of friend to have around.

That summer I find a job nannying two boys, aged ten and seven. I cart them to tennis lessons and for snow-cones, but mostly I stay out of their way while they reenact Spongebob and swim in their pool. I also take them to McDonalds far more often than I should and since my lunch is on their parents tab, I eat far too many orders of fries than I should. Thankfully I'm working out regularly---for the first and, possibly, only summer of my life---and it makes for a really calm, nice summer, that routine of mine. I don't know if all college students will agree with me, but there's something about the stillness of campus or the emptied-out streets or what, but summers were always my favorite time of year in College Station. When I think back on college I'm first brought back to the football games and I'm next pulled back to the summers. As miserably hot as they were, they were good to me.

I leave a few weeks into my junior year for my sister's wedding in Toronto. She's a stunning bride and it's surreal to watch her get married. Right before we're to go down the aisle my nine-year-old brother pulls me aside and tells me he's nervous that he'll drop his ring-bearer pillow. I lean down and hug him and tell him if he does to look at me. The photographer, somehow, captured the moment and it's still (to this day) my favorite picture---with me hugging my little brother on our sister's wedding day. I dance with my dad to "Unchained Melodies" and toast to the happy couple, pausing to thank Canada for their drinking laws.

In October we have an out-of-town date party---on a party boat on Lake Travis---and I go with Cherie and Crystal and Lauren and everyone's respective dates. Crystal has paired up a redheaded friend of hers with one of our other sorority sisters and I notice him as we sit across the bus from each other. I listen to him talk to everyone and tell Crystal how much fun he's having, and all I can think---not that he's cute or seems fun---is that he's all wrong for the girl Crystal paired him with. That's the first thought I had of my future husband, "I wonder who will warn that poor guy about her." Not love at first sight, no, but it is the first night I meet Mike. October 11, 2002.

I'm Back. Don't Mind The Germs.

Natalie e-mailed me the other day to see if everything was okay because I hadn't posted in a while. And although she may be the only one who's concerned, I thought I'd let all of you know I'm still around, just laying on the couch pretty damn sick. And when you've been sick for a few days, very little happens in your life that seems blog worthy. I did have some great soup for dinner yesterday and---oh!---we have a new, baby nephew. Mike's cousin had a little boy on Tuesday who is named Beckham Cane, and isn't that the best movie-star name you've heard in ages? We went to visit him (don't worry, I kept a safe distance) and he's adorable. He has this dark, full head of hair but with actual blond highlights streaked through as if he stopped by the salon on his way out. And as if that isn't enough good boy news for one week, my dear friend Cherie---who is having twins this December---found out they are identical boys. She's still a bit early so there will be official confirmation soon, but we're pretty sure, and I couldn't be happier for her. TWIN! BOYS!

But other than that, I really have got nothing to offer you. My house is dirty, but my husband has been wonderful while I've been laid up on the couch, and so things aren't all that bad even though I feel like ass.

Actually, there is the little matter of Molly officially learning how to open the back door on her own---video to come! camera is dead and I cannot muster the energy to find the battery charger!---but it's turned her into a giant, irritating asshole. See, when Molly goes outside and then comes back in, we usually give her a treat. Not always, but definitely when I come home from work and first let her out, and also when I'm just sort of feeling generous or she's being especially adorable. Now, she realizes that she doesn't always get a treat but that doesn't stop her from always hoping for one. Since she's learned to go in and out on her own, she goes in and out EVERY FIVE DAMN SECONDS I AM NOT EVEN KIDDING. She opens the door and lets herself out. And then, look! She's back in again! She walks around the couch, eyeing me to see if I have a treat in hand for her and then goes back outside. Yesterday, while home sick, I swear the dog went outside 976 times. She was even outside when a freak thunderstorm blew threw---knocking out power while I was watching Baby Borrowers---and she refused to come in. I got up, opened the door and yelled for her to come in but she just stared at me while getting pelted with insanely heavy rain. The look on her face said, "I WILL STAY OUT HERE AS LONG AS IT TAKES FOR YOU TO THINK I DESERVE A TREAT." That dog totally takes after her father.

So, moving along, BlogHer? That's, like, right around the corner. Heather wrote a really great piece on what to expect, what to bring, what to know before you go. And if you're going, it's definitely worth the read. And if you're not---JONNA, I AM GLARING AT YOU---then you really should be going only because how I will hug you awkwardly and compliment your shoes if YOU'RE NOT GOING TO BE THERE? But if you are, will you let me know? I'd like to know who I should keep my eyes peeled for. I'd hate to be constantly swiveling my head and craning my neck trying to seek you out and you're instead tucked safely in North Carolina or wherever else you may call home.

There's been a lot of talk of clothes (um, by me) and shoes and losing five pounds before showing up in the Bay Area for this bloggity conference, and I'm really trying to take a step back from all that. First, it gets ass cold in San Francisco, even in the middle of July, so those extra five pounds could serve you better than you think and, also, that's just SO MUCH PRESSURE. Trying to impress the pants off a hotel-full of people is effing daunting, isn't it? I'd like to think that the friends I've made here already like and respect me and wearing something from last season from (gasp) Old Navy won't change your mind. And if so, well, then that drink I promised you? REVOKED. I don't want to get too kumbaya on you, but it's so damn cool that the hotel is going to be packed full of really talented and cool women and we shouldn't lessen that by worrying about who will be judging us or calling us fat behind our backs. It's bigger and better than all that.

I'm leaving my husband for a week for this trip. I'm spending a LOT of our savings. I'm sucking up the last of my vacation days. I'm going to make the time worth it. I won't spend it hating on or obsessing about being hated from afar.

I am planning to wear these shoes, though, for at least a solid hour of the conference, so if you happen to see them, swing by and say hello. (Only if you'd like!) I promise the awkward hugs aren't quite so awkward after the first ten seconds. Or after you've run away screaming. Either or.

Searching

I don't often look at my stats for a few reasons but mostly because I think it messes with my head a little too much. If I'm having a light-traffic day I rack my head trying to think of why I'm losing readers. If I'm having a record-high day the pressure to keep the new readers around is daunting. I just think it misses the mark on why I do this, so I stopped reviewing my stats on a regular basis a while back. But every now and again I do look at them if only to see what search phrases are bringing people to my site. AND OH MY LORD, THIS IS SUCH A FUN PAST TIME.

To share the weirdness with you, here you are:

"drinking fresca when pregnant"---First, I must talk about drinking Fresca and getting pregnant far too often and, second, I can't be sure, but I think it's bad. Something about the aspartame? One of you more knowledgeable women care to chime in?

"Where's the party at bitch"---I can't get over how hilarious I find this. This may be my favorite search phrase ever to show up in my stats. Google is like this person's abused sidekick.

"turbokick cheat sheet round 29"---Oh, I wish I could have helped you. The only cheating I ever did in kickboxing was not breathing deeply when advised to because, you know, I couldn't breathe at all.

"www.she is gone to kick myass."---I don't know what hurts my head worse, trying to decipher what this means or realizing this horribly constructed search phrase brought someone to MY SITE.

"bachelor watch shane wears fun"---Seriously, why did the entire INTERNET skip its typing class freshman year of high school?

"I love purple because"---The answers are endless, I know, making it hard to fill in that blank with just one word or phrase. I understand. I DO.

"naked vacation photos"---I like that someone added "vacation" to their naked photos search. As if seeing naked people isn't enough, THEY WANT TO SEE NAKED PEOPLE AT DISNEYLAND OR ON BEACHES OR BACKPACKING THROUGH EUROPE.

"I LOVE DAVID COOK!!!!!"---First, why search this phrase? Did you find what you were looking for? I can't imagine you did since you clicked your way over to me. Disappointed, I bet. He is dreamy though, I'll give you that much.

"She likes to go naked in the street"---I think I talk about being naked too much as well. This has opened my eyes on topics to avoid for a while.

"How soon is too soon to say I love you"---If you have to ask Google, IT'S TOO SOON.

"Purple breathing"---I. Just. Don't. Know.

And, finally:

"Orgasm too peachy"---Is this a problem? Does this person want their orgasms to be less pleasant? Less peachy? Listen, if your orgasms are peachy, get off the computer and attend to them!

The View

You know what's hard for me, what's nearly impossible to come to terms with even after twenty-six years of being beat in the face with it: some people aren't going to like me. NO MATTER WHAT I DO.

Some people will always think I'm too ugly or too fat or too insecure or too liberal or too open-minded or too close-minded or too messy (which, well, they've got a point) or too happy or too depressed or too awkward or too wound up. They'll think my nose is too big or I'm too short or I don't listen to good enough music or I eat at Chili's too often or I make my dog talk or I watch too much reality television and not enough educational programming even though educational programming makes me more bored out of mind than more knowledgeable. Some people will think a million things of me, and they may dislike me for each one, and, regardless, I'd still be breathing in and out, and it would all be okay. It's even slightly self-absorbed to worry about all the ones who don't like me, isn't it? Why would I expect every breathing human to find me witty and likable?

But it's still tough, and it's something I haven't quite hurdled over yet. How to easily be myself while letting everyone else's opinions of me roll right off my back.

What's more, some of my own friends aren't going to like me sometimes. There are so few people in your life who will be with you through everything. Who will support you when you're wrong, who will comfort you when you're whiny and lame, who will defend you to other people, who will fight for you and stand up for you and will like you when you're at your worst and who will never---not for a single moment---have a hidden agenda. When they get annoyed with you, they'll tell you, and when they think you're wrong they'll say, "Hey, I love you, but that skirt is not your best look."

Of all the countless people we come in contact with in our life and the hundreds more we form real relationships with, there are maybe five people who you will ever be able to truly trust to hold your friendship in the palm of their hands without ever crushing it or letting it slip through the cracks in their fingers.

And, that's how it should be, I think. If the miracle was handed out to us all willy-nilly---at the grocery store, the movie theater, while sitting in traffic---it wouldn't be quite so beautiful. We would inevitably take those incredible friendships for granted if our life was chalk full of them.

Some friends are going to talk about you behind your back and some friends are going to let you down. And, funny enough, you'll do all of these things to friends of your own. We're all just as guilty as the next.

And it really is all okay, that some people will never like you, some people will only tell other people that they don't like you and very, very few people will ever tell you to your face when you're bugging them. And, let me tell you, those last ones are the ones you want to drink with because there will be no surprises after that last tequila shot. Well, there may be some surprises but of a completely different variety.

But, still, it doesn't make it easy just because it's okay, does it?

I was talking to Jonna yesterday---who I kind of want to visit and drink strong margaritas with; she just oozes cool and awesome energy---and she referenced this quote from Rocky:

"It doesn't matter how your life looks to other people, it matters how it looks to you."

I've been repeating that to myself since yesterday, and I even repeated it to a few other people, and I kind of want to print it out and frame it in my "writing room" and perhaps put it on shirts and hats because it's just so damn true. No, it's not easy to wrap our heads around, and it doesn't take away the sting completely when we know people are judging us, but our life is our own. And we're the only ones who have to live it.

We may as well enjoy the view even if our neighbors hate what we're doing with the place.

::

On a totally unrelated note, I'm not going to do the monthly anniversary posts anymore. But today is thirteen months---one year and one month---of marriage and, baby, thank you for changing my windshield wipers and cleaning my car the other day. It's one of the many reasons I recently said to your mom, "You know? I still really like him."

Summer In Texas And The Laziness Is Palpable

You know what's not fun when the weather turns warm and the patio umbrellas are dusted off? HAVING TO WORK. No, that's definitely not fun. Granted the paycheck to make patio drinks at least financially possible isn't so bad, but couldn't I have both? The money and the steady flow of free time? Could one of you very smart and talented women figure that out for me? I'll be over here, lounging on the couch, ignoring the dishes and the dust bunnies and the many laundry piles. Obviously I'll be fairly preoccupied while you're thinking things through for me.

But, in all seriousness, it's officially summer in Texas what with the scattered thunderstorms and the sweltering, miserable heat and the sweating when you check the mail and the sweating when you walk to your car and the sweating when you STAND STILL. Oh and there's also the insane---and often random---tornadic weather to break up the suffocating heat. I went to lunch yesterday with a co-worker and while we stood in line to order our tasty Baker Brothers' sandwiches the sky darkened and the lights began flickering and a few customers started FREAKING THE EFF OUT. I kept mumbling, "Power, please don't go out before I've ordered my Sonoma Chicken sandwich." We ate our lunch with trees bent at right angles just outside the window and rain pounding down. (Oh, and a metal newspaper stand blowing through the parking lot.) When we finally left, nearly an hour later, the skies had cleared and it was barely drizzling. Oh, Texas. You certainly keep us on our toes, don't you?

Moving on to BlogHer clothes because where else would we move on to, really? I stopped at GAP before dinner tonight and tried on this dress and immediately fell in love with it. What do you think?

In this color, of course.

So, awkwardly moving on from that pretty dress, do you know what I watched last night? Tori & Dean: Home Sweet Hollywood. Also---and this is going to shock you even more than me sitting through an hour of a show centered around Donna Martin---I kind of enjoyed it. I think that has something to do with the lack of other television options this summer or how far away the remote was at the time but I may have even laughed at a point or two. She's a silly wreck, obviously, but kind of endearing too.

Finally---and I really can't imagine not sharing this with you all---Mike has wrapped a rope around our back doorknob and has constructed this sort of haphazard pulley-type-thing to try and teach Molly how to open the back door on her own to let herself out back. And, people, SHE HAS ALMOST FIGURED IT OUT. I'm not gonna lie, I'm rather ridiculously proud of her right now. I'll try and take a video when she masters the trick---right after I remind Mike to add "teach her how to fetch us beer" to his list of to-dos.

He Gave Me His Hands And His Love for Donuts*

When I was growing up in San Francisco, my father was a race director. He worked for a nonprofit running organization and because of his job I spent more time in Golden Gate Park than in church on Sunday mornings. It really was a beautiful childhood, though, as I got to experience a lot of a city I didn't realize I would leave so young. A city I still miss, still love, even though it's no longer really home. For each race---and there were quite a lot he lent his time and energy to---there was always a winners podium just off the finish line where my dad stood with well-known men and women and awarded the winners cars and medals and things I always wished he'd come home with instead of boxes and boxes of Kashi cereal. It was a chaotic time and place for my dad---that winners podium---with the events of the day winding down, the sponsors standing by, the crowds inching closer to the stage, and he usually asked my sister and I to keep out of the way a little bit. We would stand off to the side, and I would tell anyone who would listen to the blond-haired kid that the man up there, in the green tracksuit, was my dad.

One such race---and the year totally escapes me, of course---as I was standing off the side of the stage with my mom and sister, a little tired and hungry I'm sure, my dad looked at me and reached his hand out. It must have been a fairly calm morning, he must have been in a particularly good mood. I walked up the steps of the stage and stood next to him throughout the medal ceremony and the end-of-the-race hoopla. And I couldn't stop beaming. I felt so important, holding my father's hand.

I was so proud to be his daughter.

Even though that feeling has escaped me somewhat over the last twenty-odd years when we've both gone about hurting the other---unintentionally, for the most part, but painful all the same---and even though life flipped upside down soon after that magical moment so those fuzzy, vague memories don't even feel like my own sometimes, I can still remember that full chest, that big, beating heart, that wide-faced grin. I remember the feel of my father's hand wrapped around my own.

We've come a long way, my father and I. We have so long to go.

But all this time and all these cracked promises later, I love him still.

Happy father's day, dad.

::

*I wouldn't say I have man hands; please don't have Seinfeld-induced mental images. Just a very feminine version of his hands. Yes, that's more accurate.

His Mother

My sister and I didn't always get along. In fact, it took her moving quite a ways away from me in order for me to miss her and her insanely large CD collection. We used to fight, quite intensely and---with some time between then and now to afford us a little perspective---quite impressively, too. I still have scars (and so does she) and that's impressive! Because we were two fairly non-violent children! But put us in a room together or just leave us home alone and there would inevitably be tears and physical violence and mocking, too. My mother didn't know what to do with us for a time there. I think she really thought we'd hate one another forever, and I know it kept her up at night, racked with guilt or worry or sadness and if my sister and I regret nothing else, it's what we put my mother through all those years.

But there was a time I didn't know if we'd manage to build a friendship out of the wreckage of our relationship. I was afraid the resentment would always be too big, the differences too many, the eye-rolling too obvious to ignore. There were quite a few years I wasn't so sure we'd find our way back to each other.

Rachel moved back to California when she was eighteen and when I was just beginning my sophomore year of high school. I had never lived without her, and even though I thought I would love it, that big house all to myself, the car keys tossed into my totally incapable hands, the TV for me to watch any time of day I desired, I instantly missed her. But, unfortunately, the fighting didn't stop when she moved---although I wish I could say it did; it would make the story better, wouldn't it?---but we fought again when I visited her in California, so badly I almost had to cut the visit short. We fought one more horribly memorable time when she visited me in College Station, the first time she met Mike. And we went months without speaking after that.

I'm not proud of any of the fights---the ones that were more my fault than hers and the ones that were more hers than mine. I'm not proud of the words we screamed at one another, the tears we forced out of the other one, the scars, even. I'm not proud of all that time we wasted when we had all the time in the world to spend with one another because now it's our sad reality that we sometimes have to go years without seeing one another. In fact, it's been over a year since I've seen her, since my wedding. And I desperately want that time back, to have her down the hall, across town, even in the same country. I'd do it so differently. As would she, I think.

What I am proud of, though, is all we overcame to become friends, to become an integral part of each other's lives. We forgave each other what we wouldn't have forgiven just anyone. I am proud of who we have become and how we have fought for the relationship we have. It shows something about our character, our determination and even our stubbornness. And where I'm not proud of our actions over those twenty-some years, I am proud of us, who we are.

And I think a part of us hung on---even in the worst of times---because we knew one day we'd be adults, we'd be married, we'd have children and there would be someone very cool we'd want our families to meet---each other.

My sister gave birth to my nephew, Noah Jameson, two years ago today. I sometimes think about all my sister and I have been through, together, and what I'll tell my nephew one day about what his mother was like when she was young. How she'd hole up in her spotlessly-clean room and listen to music I was never cool enough to have heard of. How she always seemed indifferent to boys/men admiring her, and how I have always---ALWAYS---envied her hair, the hair she passed to him. How she was always so brave and, yet, she never really grasped that. How she loved spaghetti. How she was a great gymnast. How she used to take my dad's dog for a walk when she needed to smoke and, yes Noah, how she used to smoke.

Noah, despite all the fighting and silent treatments, there was always a fire in your mom I never felt in myself, a fire I always sort of longed for. She was passionate about everything---from music to the way she made her bed. She still is. She is original, one-of-a-kind, authentic, different. She always lived her life a bit on the outskirts, though. She never dived in, joined teams, struck up conversations or put herself really out there. She was always the cautious one, the guarded one, the one who you had to earn a smile or a conversation from. These aren't bad things, and in so many beautiful ways we loved her because of them, not in spite of them. But then she had you.

And now she dances and sings loudly and runs with you and lets you do things your way and is living out loud, right alongside you, in a way she never did before. In a way that is new to me because my quiet, composed sister is now shaking her ass with you on a daily basis. (Oh, Noah, your aunt says things like "ass"; you're going to totally love visiting me one day.) That stuff never came easy to her before you and then---BOOM---you came into the world all dark complexion and smiles and she couldn't help see the world differently, brighter and better. You changed my sister in an instant, in a way no other human being on the planet ever came close to.

That's fairly cool, doing all that by just being you, by just existing in the first place. It makes us adore you for bringing to your mother---my sister---a peace she has always sought for and will now have forever.

There is this tie that binds us, my sister and me, and it's been tattered and shredded and dirtied but it's never been broken. It's always stayed together, bearing the heaviest of weights. And although every time I talk to her my heart fills up and her comments on this blog have made my week at times and her e-mails get me through long, boring Friday afternoons, I think the one thing that kept me hanging on was knowing I'd get to meet you one day. Noah bug, you've given my sister two beautiful years. Thank you.

Funny, we haven't fought once since you were born. Seems like your life has been just one miracle after another.

I can't wait to see what's up ahead.

I love you. Happy birthday.

My sister.

My nephew.

Things And Stuff

As soon as I post something on a subject matter a tad deeper than, say, my BlogHer wardrobe---which so far consists of this dress paired with these earrings, what do you think?---I always get the shakes because it's kind of overwhelming being so metaphorically exposed on the Internet. And then you lovely, wise readers leave me some of the sweetest words I've heard in, oh, ever, and I'm instantly reminded of why I do this---this crazy blogging thing---because I'm never that alone here. And it's kind of wonderful, you know? So, thank you.

Now, let's move on to something else, something equally important: The Top Chef finale which I was COUNTING DOWN TO today. (I stayed home from work and even took a nap just to get me that much closer to 9pm and also because, fine, I was really tired.) So, Stephanie won, and I'm fairly happy about that. I was a bit on the edge of my seat there for a while because the judges were raving about Lisa's dishes and NOOOOOOOO! She couldn't win! I would have been forced to throw things and stomp around and I was just so damn comfortable curled up on the couch. I will say I felt badly for Richard and his bacon ice cream, and then he had to go and cry in his exit interview, so then I had to go and cry, but I am happy for Stephanie and, hey! She's not Lisa! That counts for a lot!

But something that occurred to me while watching the finale: every episode of Top Chef a "guest judge" is introduced---so-and-so from this fancy, random restaurant in San Francisco or New York or, hell, even St. Louis---and every contestant raves and gushes about their awesomeness---"I am so honored and humbled to be cooking for so-and-so from St. Louis! This is the pinnacle of my career!"---and I have to believe there is at least one contestant who walks out to meet a guest judge and is like, "Who the fuck is that?" and then has to totally feign knowing him/her because everyone else apparently knows him/her, and you just can't be that chef who doesn't know. But it's BOUND to happen. You can't possibly know every well-known and respected person in your field. Perhaps you're thinking, Um, yes, you totally can, and to you I say, you must not be watching enough trashy teen dramas or reading enough vampire fiction if you have that much room in your memory. And good for you, truly, but SNOOZE FEST.

Thankfully Weeds comes back this Sunday---thanks Heather B! I was certain the premiere was another few weeks away and I would have missed it and THROWN A TOTAL FIT---to fill the Top Chef gap in my heart. But really my TV-watching has been scaled way down lately. Just to give you an idea, I cleaned out all of my shows on the DVR this afternoon (since I wasn't at work) and we have 21% space left for recording. Do you know what that means? Mike's shows are taking up a whopping SEVENTY-NINE PERCENT and does anyone else think I deserve shoes for this fact, for being married to a man who is so clearly a DVR whore? ME! I THINK I DESERVE SHOES! Although these shoes---which are currently an additional 20% off---aren't available until July 24 (in my size) and what's the point of buying cute shoes AFTER BlogHer? I sort of believe half the reason I'm going is to have an excuse to wear cute shoes every damn day. Which, wow, that's one expensive excuse.

Now, I'm going to wrap this up by asking a question of you, a question that came about when I was e-mailing my sister yesterday about romantic comedies she should rent when her husband is away on a boy's weekend. I told her to rent Catch & Release---which she totally judged and ridiculed me for---but it got us talking about fluffy movies we just love and can't get enough of and are TOTALLY NOT ASHAMED about. For instance, I love Drive Me Crazy---the teen drama that Vince from Entourage was in years and years ago---and I also loved The Notebook which surprised me as much as anyone else since the book, well, TOTALLY BLEW. And I'm curious, what fluffy movies do you love? We don't judge here. (At least not to your face.)

Clarity

I'm sort of the most impatient person you'll ever meet. Just to give you a general idea of what I mean, I'm a reads-the-last-page-in-books, Googles-show-spoilers, unwraps-and-then-rewraps-gifts kinda person. Some people sort of glower at me and assume I'm terribly immature (which I am) because knowing ruins the greatness of the surprise, don't I know, but, see, I like to have things to look forward to even if it's more than I really deserve to know. It's not something I'm terribly proud of, that I can't resist the urge to know the endings of things, but I've also long ago accepted that if given the chance to know or not know, I'm going to choose knowing almost every single time.

Mike proposed to me two-and-a-half years into our relationship and, oh my lord, I was close to having a conniption with all the waiting. I knew we were heading towards an engagement, but I wanted one like now, could you propose now? How's now for you? And Mike has sort of always been an easy-does-it, let's-just-enjoy-the-here-and-now, let's-be-totally-prepared-and-not-be-impulsive kind-of guy. And I'm all, YOU ARE KILLING ME. CAN WE JUST GET ON WITH IT ALREADY? When I had asked him for the 87th time when he was going to propose—now? are you going to do it now? what about now?—he finally shook me and said, "You are going to ruin it when it finally happens if you don't stop." And so I stopped. I took many deep breaths and relaxed and waited. Not because it was natural but because I could see it was essential. It came a few months later, and it shocked me to my core when it did. Not because I was stunned that he wanted to marry me (I am a total catch) but because at 5am on a beach in Florida—when we were supposed to be on our way to the airport—I was thinking about whether we had our IDs and where we were going to stop for breakfast and when our next vacation was going to be, I was not thinking he was about to get on one knee. And if I had known it was coming right then, it would have totally ruined how I felt when he asked. In that moment I felt better than I had ever felt before.

So it would seem easy, after saying all that, to put two and two together. To realize that I should stop forcing the endings to show themselves before the beginnings have even gotten underway. But I can't help it. It's sort of this undeniable facet of myself—I am impatient, I can't wait. I am terrified that if I do wait, if I pause for even a second, the miracle will just pass me by. So I try, desperately, to reach out and grab it and force it to stay by me. And it's all wrong, I know, but it's instinctual all the same.

When Mike and I began trying for a baby, there was not a spot I could see on the horizon that I didn't envision I would be pregnant for. I couldn't see as far as the infertility would end up taking me. I could not imagine, last May, not being pregnant at Natalie's wedding. Good, I thought, when her maid-of-honor cake showed up at my door more than a year ago. You'll be the perfect choice, easily refusing all that champagne. But it was just me standing beside her, not me and her niece/nephew. Not me and the kid I will leave with her for long weekends and on date nights. (Natalie, by the way, I'm totally leaving my kid with you for long weekends and on date nights. You too Crystal.)

I sometimes fear this space is going to become far too dreary, far too sad with all my baby ranting, but bear with me will you? It lightens up soon enough.

See, I didn't know how I was going to do it last month—another month of waiting, counting, sipping water while craving wine, lashing out at my husband, my friends, even the cashier at Tom Thumb because of the medicine coursing through me. I told myself that if it didn't happen that month, I just didn't think I could go on. 

And it didn't happen.

And I'm going on. I have to. I want to. It shocks me what we—as humans—are able to bear sometimes.

So many people have told me that infertility ruins marriages, it takes this undeniable wrench and drives people apart. It's almost uncontrollable. And, you know, I get it. You're in such pain, so you project it. Instead of dividing it, you throw it. You want it off of you and unless the dog is willing to take it on, your spouse has to. They have to catch it. There's nowhere else for it to go. But in my case, it's not a child that I want, it's his child. I want to have a little boy or girl who knows they are so unbelievably, out-of-their-mind lucky because they have his hair, his ease, his desire to always see and do more. I want to look deep into my child's eyes and say, "Baby, you see that man? That kind of odd, funny man who still, at thirty-plus years of age, finds it hilarious to fart? I'm lucky to be married to him. He's a really cool husband. But you? You get to be his kid. And that makes you so much luckier than anyone I've ever known. You're never going to doubt that I love you; I'll make sure of that. One day it's going to hit you how fortunate you are to have me. But him? From here on, from this day until the day you die, it will never escape you that you won the damn father lottery." And I'll actually use the word damn because that's just the kind of mother I plan to be.

I'm not sure how we make it through all the pain. I don't know where the strength comes from, honestly. I don't know how we manage to stay sane, rational people when we have every reason to go crazy.

I'm an impatient person, by nature. I want to know now. I want to see now. I want to feel it all now. I Google One Tree Hill Spoilers once a week. SO WHAT OF IT. I wanted to be pregnant a year ago and every day since then. But I have learned something, slowly and surely, through all of this. And it is the single, most beautiful lesson I have learned in life. I have learned that when you want something--when you really want it--you will wait for it. You will be patient and you will hold on and you will wait. Where I can't possibly find the strength to wait for the rest of it, it's been easier than I thought to wait for this. And patience is something this painful journey has given me, has granted me. And I am more thankful for it than there are words in this world.

I've decided not to talk about this process for a while and not because I want to hide anything--goodness, if anything, my family is praying I'll just WITHHOLD for a moment because could I be any more out there?--but because I have a life to live. I'm going to focus on shoes and lots of champagne until we actually get pregnant and then oh holy hell do you have a lot of fun posts in store for you. No, really, I feel for you. Well, actually, I really feel for my mother who--unlike all of you lovely men and women--HAS to pay attention to me. But until then, I'm going to take a break from all the angst and sadness and wringing of my hands. Instead I'm going to enjoy my husband. I'm going to enjoy my friends. I'm going to enjoy Top Chef re-runs and US Weeklies (except when Heidi and Spencer are on the cover and I REFUSE TO CALL THEM SPEIDI, DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT SUGGESTING IT) and bubbly bottles of Prosecco and BlogHer and Francesca's dresses and playing Mario Kart with Natalie even though she totally invades my personal space and listening to the new Jason Mraz album and intensely reading the last book of the Twilight series and, fine, Googling John Mayer and Jennifer Aniston photos. I WON'T BE ASHAMED I DO THAT. And also kind of wondering if I can afford to go to Spain on $132. I'm leaning towards no but that won't stop me from researching the hell out of my options.

See, this is all too short to stand still. This is all too beautiful to see it through blurry eyes. This is all to good to be painful.

I am far too lucky to be ungrateful.

So I'll wait. I'll be patient. And I'll go ahead and dance in the mean time.

Two Girls, One Guy, 9,000 Lamps

So, IKEA. That's some place. I could move in there, couldn't you? When we first walked in (after some very aggressive parking-lot maneuvering) there were women tap-dancing to the right of the front door, welcoming us in style, and I sort of paused, looked at Crystal (who served as our seasoned tour guide) and said, "That overwhelms me a little bit." But after only a few minor freak-outs -- "Baby! You have to stay close! You can't wander off like that! Wait, should we have a meeting place if we get separated?" -- Mike and I felt like regulars, making notes of what things we liked, easily navigating the lighting section. It also wasn't long before we were elbowing our way through the display rooms like pros, oohing and ahhing over the spice racks! And the funky place settings! And the slow, self-closing cabinets! We didn't buy much -- giving us a nice reason to go back -- but we did wrap up our trip with a cinnamon bun from the bistro. (I'm not sure if you'll agree, but food just tastes better when it comes from a bistro.) Can I mention, for just a moment, that those gooey, sticky, DELIGHTFUL cinnamon buns were only $1 a piece. THAT'S ALL. One. Measly. Dollar. Why I didn't buy eight six-packs is beyond me. Oh! Yes! Because they're 400 calories. Each. I'd also like to mention that Mike was such a sport. He didn't say a word about anything I picked up and shoved into our hefty yellow IKEA bag -- that he somehow got stuck carrying -- because he is just that supportive of me putting together my "writing room" (fancy name for nap room slash office slash where I keep my shoes), and he's also just a really good man. I've been known to give him a hard time because he's sort of a crappy listener and he farts a lot and also our DVR is spilling over with horribly boring Discovery channel shows, but I'm really, ridiculously lucky to have him. And just in case the Internet is fuzzy about it, I hit the jackpot with him. I really did.

So, moving along, I also saw Sex and the City this weekend. I was so excited I shook Natalie right before it started. She appreciated that, trust me. Now, I've read some of the ho-hum reviews out there, and I could see the validity in a whole mess of points they've all made but I still kind of loved it. I laughed. I cried. And, look, if I do both in the same movie, I can't walk out saying it was bad. There was this one emotionally charged scene where one of the four women screamed at someone else in defense of one of the other four women (the vagueness is painful, I know) and it just sort of beautifully occurred to me that a team of writers created some of the best friendships we'll ever see on television or the big screen. And it made me awfully sad to see them go when the credits rolled.

And that's really all I have to tell you from this weekend. Sure, I could mention all the laziness and the naps and the dirty house that stayed dirty because of all the laziness and the naps, but that wouldn't interest you, would it? So I'll skip all that and go right to the winner from this post. I didn't document the selecting because I didn't have a camera with me (NEED THE NEW IPHONE, BABY) and also let's revisit all the laziness one more time. WAS. LAZY. But I promise it was legit and fair. I'll pinky-promise even.

So, the winner of ten whole Amazon dollars -- you can buy at least one used book with that amount -- is Ali from Cheaper Than Therapy*. I'll send the gift card to you by Friday, Ali. If you haven't gotten it by then (via e-mail) please let me know.

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*Her children! How freaking cute are they?!

Timeline: Nineteen

(The rest of the ages: One Through Six, Seven And Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve And Thirteen, Fourteen And Fifteen, Sixteen, Seventeen and Eighteen.)

2001, aged nineteen
I spend the holiday break moving my sister from California to Seattle with my dad, step-mom and eight-year-old little brother. We take two cars up to Washington and my sister, dad and I are in one. We take turns choosing the music and we groan our way through the others' selections and we give my dad a hard time about all the things he insists on pointing out to us--"Look at that rock right there! Have you ever seen a rock so ... round ... before? Oh, wait, is that a bluejay? We stop in Eugene, Oregon and in the middle of an Outback Steakhouse my little brother lets it slip that I have a tattoo. My dad is surprisingly calm about it and will tell me later--after catching a glimpse of it, for the first time--that it's kind of nice. I stay with my sister in her new apartment when we arrive in Seattle, and because of the eating disorder I still can't quite shake, I end up spending a night in the emergency room with what the doctors tell me is a slight esophageal rupture. I don't think anyone knows what to do with me except wring their hands and worry.

Back at school, Natalie and I begin spending a lot of time together--driving to Houston to see movies, going to bars to watch Texas Country artists play, eating lunch on campus--and through her I meet a guy who is funny and cute, in a kind of awkward way. He's a good guy, though, and I like him. He makes me feel safe and wanted and hopeful. He leaves a rose for me on the seat of his car and gives me a nickname. We whisper a lot of drunken promises to each other, and I think to myself, This is going somewhere, this crazy little unexpected relationship. But one night as I'm reading on his bed, I look over to see him at his computer, IMing a friend of mine. It sort of strikes me as odd--when did they exchange screen names?--but I don't think too much of it, he's making friends with my friends, I think, along with more spinning we sometimes do to convince ourselves our gut is wrong. And then one day soon thereafter he breaks up with me, and I ask him if it's because of her. And it is. Natalie got me through that time, writing me funny e-mails and glaring at him whenever she could. In the end it was fine, he wasn't the guy for me, it all worked out, I moved along and as everyone learns at one point in life your gut is so rarely, rarely wrong.

After a summer at home, exhaustedly working at a daycare center every day, I return to school and move into my sorority house, where I still don't know a single person all that well. I move into a room with a girl named Lauren and two other girls. Lauren and I start hanging out, driving to McDonald's and Fazoli's and going to Aggie football games together. About two weeks into the school year, I walk out of my American History class and wait for the bus to take me back to the house for a much-needed nap. As I stand there a girl is crying hysterically, screaming for a cellphone. As we pile onto the bus, there's a newscast streaming from the radio, and it takes the entire ride home to realize what has happened across the country while I had been jotting notes on The Great Depression. I pick Lauren up from class later that day, and we visit her parents; it's her mom's birthday--September 11--and my sister's is two days later. As you probably know--as you can probably remember--it takes a long while before anyone feels much like celebrating.

Through all the chaos and confusion of my second year of college and of that particular time for our country, I have found a great friend in Lauren. A friend who stays out late with me, sneaking gulps of raspberry vodka outside of smoky Texas bars; a friend who lets me borrow her shoes even though I don't take excellent care of them; a friend who stays up all night talking with me about the guys we're seeing--they are all nuts this year, aren't they Lauren?--and a friend who encourages me to run for our sorority council, a sorority I wasn't even sure I felt a part of just months before. But I decide to run. And I make it. (I should probably mention I ran unattested, shouldn't I? Fine, I ran unattested, but there was still work involved! It wasn't so easy! I swear it!)

Lauren and I are now on council together, and we are joined by a handful of other great, smart, funny women. Our president is Crystal. Cherie is our VP of Marketing. We couldn't have known it back then, when we all sat down in an alum's house to learn the ropes of our new positions; we couldn't have known that we were sitting across the room from our future bridesmaids, from the women we'd go through devastating breakups with, health crises and failed classes, women we'd hang on tightly to and cry with and huddle up to watch Oprah or The Bachelor with and travel to Mexico and Vegas and Tahoe with and women we'd end up celebrating the highest highs and the lowest lows with. We couldn't have known we were just beginning friendships that would go on to last the next seven years. And would then go on to last a lifetime after that.

Dragging Along

Do you know what makes today different than any other day this week? I put on makeup! Now, I'm not proud of this--it's not something that really deserves that exclamation mark, I realize--but it's quite impressive, in its own pathetic way. I got up on Monday (albeit ridiculously later than I usually get up for work) and sort of zombie-walked my way through the afternoon. Tuesday I had meetings--plural!--but threw on jeans and a tank top and thank goodness that sort of outfit flies in my office. Yesterday was more of the same. When I got up today a strange thought sort of fluttered around in my head: Maybe I should think about applying a little foundation today, maybe even some eyeshadow! And then I realized that I would have to retrieve the makeup bag from my still-packed suitcase strewn about on my bedroom floor. I think it's officially time to rejoin the land of responsible men and women and, you know, do some laundry and put on a little lip-gloss. (The lip-gloss is for the latter group, of course. Or, come to think of it, for either. I don't judge.)

But I just can't shake the exhaustion I carried back from California with me. I need to get back on my workout schedule, as that usually lends me some extra energy. Apparently sucking down Diet Coke isn't as effective (or sweaty). Or perhaps I just need to go to sleep BEFORE TWO IN THE MORNING. You have no idea how badly I wish I were kidding about that time--on both Monday AND Tuesday night. For no real reason! Unless you count browsing people.com a real reason which you probably don't. Because you were probably asleep AT TWO IN THE MORNING like I should have been.

So, anyway, what are you doing this weekend? I'm going to IKEA. For the first time! EVER! I know, I know! How is that possible? There has been one just across town from us for the entire three years we've lived here, but Target was always just a wee bit closer and no-one told me IKEA had a food-court until just this week. (Is the food good? Should I bring designated snack money?) I am in search of a new desk, some nightstands, maybe even some magnets if I'm feeling crazy enough.

Moving along to something entirely unrelated: Are you watching Top Chef? (Quasi-spoilers below! You've been warned!) I've talked about this show before, and I wish I could say my obsession has waned some but no, not quite. Even though Spike--my Top Chef boyfriend--packed his knives (and his fedora) last week, he was back last night(!) to assist Richard (who is my pick to win the whole thing although I'd be fine with Stephanie taking it as well--since she, somehow, totally resisted stabbing Dale in the eyes for leaving her PORK BELLY sitting uncovered and exposed in a balmy Puerto Rican kitchen [which sounds gross before you think of flies buzzing around it] overnight forcing her to scramble and make something else, something she hadn't prepped for at all, and she seemed GENUINELY forgiving with him which made me kind of want to buy her a drink and stab him in the eyes myself, although, admittedly, he did seem fairly apologetic--but I will be appalled if Lisa wins because 1) she's mean and 2) she sucks. AND THOSE ARE THE NICEST THINGS I CAN SAY ABOUT HER. I keep waiting for her to throw something across the kitchen. She just comes across as a thrower or a wall-kicker or a pot-banger or something else kinda violent. So, what exactly am I going to do after the finale next week? I just can't imagine not getting to hear Padma kind of casually tell someone their dish was inedible. I presented Mike with this question at the end of last night's episode, and then I said, "I know! I'll try to make a few Top Chef recipes over the summer!" Bravo.com has recipes posted from different episodes like this one and this one and (yum) this one, too. Mike looked at me--sweetly, even--and said, "Baby, please don't try to make those dishes. Please."

Finally, I'm getting my hair cut tonight and then I have big plans to watch the freshly downloaded Suburban Girl which I hear is just awful--straight to video, never even had a release date, twee advertising budget, obviously horrific movie poster kind of awful--but it's loosely based on my favorite book, "The Girls Guide to Hunting and Fishing" and I feel I owe it to Jane (the main character of the book who was renamed Brett in the movie; I don't quite get that either) to see how badly Sarah Michelle Gellar screws things up. And I'll yell and throw popcorn at the TV and everything, which I'm totally serious about. I've already told Molly to skip lunch so she can properly clean the discarded popcorn as I throw it. She is pretty pumped about it, I'm not gonna lie.

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(Oh! Before I forget. Thanks to everyone who responded to my "best blogs you read" question in the last post. I have a bursting Google Reader account now! I'm going to leave the post open for another day or so and then pick a winner for the gift card after that. Tell your friends so they can participate! Or, don't, if you'd prefer a better chance at winning.)

Will You Please Help Me Waste More Time?

The other day Kristin, at Better Now, called for the Internet to answer a question: If you could only read one blog, which one would you choose? I'm going to ask the same thing--sort of. (I try to mask my compulsive need to copy by slightly altering things! Look how original I am!)

I'm asking you to expand your answer to a few different categories:

1) Your favorite regular slash general blog
2) Your favorite cooking blog
3) Your favorite entertaining (as in hosting gatherings not trying to hold an audience's attention) blog
4) Your favorite shopping blog
5) And your favorite photography slash craft slash hobby slash where can I go to spend more money and feel badly about my (lack of) talents blog

To entice you to answer and, really, just to guarantee you'll help me pad my Google Reader account, there's a $10 Amazon gift card up for grabs for a randomly selected commenter. And I promise it'll be quite random--I'll even document the selecting!--and I won't resort to choosing the person who says I'm the blog they could never give up. I'm pretty sure I won't, at least. I've been known to lose my scruples over far lesser things.

(Kidding! Will be totally random!)

I'll even start, if you're having a bit of brain freeze or stage fright or just utter confusion over how I have any time on my hands to read MORE blogs what with all the getting naked and stepping over used condoms I fill my time with:

General: Nothing But Bonfires and Princess Nebraska

Cooking: Smitten Kitchen

Entertaining: Hostess with the Mostess

Shopping: Oh Happy Day

Hobby/Craft: It's The Little Things

I thank you! My husband--who sometimes has to pry my laptop out of my hands so I'll rub his back or, I don't know, talk to him--thanks you considerably less fervently!

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Also, what is a show I should definitely be watching? It's summer and all of my favorite shows are in their sad, lonely hiatus phase--except for Top Chef--and it's time for me to download new things to become obsessed with.

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Updated to add: You don't HAVE to offer up blogs for all categories. Offer one or all. Either (or in between) is totally fine with me.

“Tip the world over on its side and everything loose will land in Los Angeles.”*

Before I talk about stepping over a used condom in downtown Los Angeles, can I spend just a moment oozing gratitude for Heather and Jonna? They are fabulous bloggers--as I (and the Internet) know--but they are equally fabulous guest bloggers. When I called Natalie during my trip (so she could Google the closest In-N-Out Burger to me) she said, "Your guest bloggers are so funny." And Natalie knows funny. When Natalie gets drunk, she sometimes talks in nothing but Spanish. Natalie doesn't actually speak Spanish. That's funny! Don't you want to get her drunk now? Anyway, thank you Heather and Jonna for taking care of my site, for causing me to double over in hysterics on Monday, mere hours after I had to rip off the screen on our master bath window because I was locked out of my house at 2:30 am. (Husband hid the key so well, his wife couldn't find it!) To sum up, you are quality writers, quality women, and my admiration for you both is kind of ridiculous, I have to say.

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So, anyway! I'm back! Exhausted and bloated from all the awful food I ate since I was eating on a company credit card but back all the same! I returned late last night and then sat in the D/FW airport for an extra two-and-a-half hours waiting on luggage that was there--not lost luggage, luggage that I could probably have seen if I had been allowed back in the terminal to look out the window--but luggage that couldn't be sent up to me because something was broken, some belt thingamajig that the bags are sent up on. Now, can we think about this situation for just a quick minute? Can we think about how long it took from the onset of the problem (thingamajig breaks) to the solution (thingamajig all better), and that during that (long) time I could have walked out to the tarmac and picked up my bag myself. I COULD HAVE TAKEN ANOTHER FLIGHT. Who was managing this problem? Who was standing around, surveying this broken belt and mulling over potential fixes---send the passengers to another baggage claim (hell, another terminal, even), carry the bags to the exhausted, irritable passengers ourselves, OFFER THEM COCKTAILS WHILE THEY WAIT---and settling on waiting until a thingamajig fixer can be stirred from his/her sleep, summoned out to the airport and coerced into spending hours fixing the belt. I work in management, and I think I would have a stern talking to if that was the solution I settled on with not even a mention of meal vouchers. I think I'd be sent back to management training and then TALKED ABOUT BEHIND MY BACK for my obvious asshatedness. Now, I don't usually resort to so many capped words but I was tired and whiny and grouchy and when I thought about it---sitting in a hard plastic chair reading vampire fiction---it just irritated me to no end that the airline industry is the only industry I can think of that can make you sit around, uncomfortable and exhausted and angry, for close to three hours and not have to be HELD ACCOUNTABLE for their shitty service.

All right, then. Aren't you just thrilled to have me back? Are you slowly backing away from your computer? Hiding all the sharp objects? Let me apologize. This trade show is one of my favorite times of year but it's also a lot of work with very little naps. Let's move on and talk about that condom, shall we?

So, Los Angeles? Kind of a shit hole, no? Now, granted, I didn't see all of Los Angeles this trip but it sure didn't look like an episode of The Hills, I can tell you that much. The last time I tuned in to see Lauren walking to class or eating brunch I don't remember seeing a used condom on the sidewalk beside her. Or a rat scurrying in the background. But, funny enough, that's the Los Angeles I was introduced to. Not to mention the stroll I took down a street that was apparently a gang hangout; that was interesting. Oh and that In-N-Out  Burger Natalie looked up for me? In nice-sounding Huntington Park? NOT NICE. I love that burger joint more than most--we had our rehearsal dinner there after all--but fearing for your life isn't what you imagine ordering a side of to go along with your chocolate shake and greasy burger. We did take a fairly expensive cab ride to Hollywood/Beverly Hills for the sole purpose of eating a Crumbs cupcake, and that was nice. We then strolled down Rodeo Drive in a sugar coma and in hot search of a restroom--"Do you think they'll let me use the bathroom in Michael Kors? What about Chanel? Fendi? Versace? What if I tell them that this lovely cotton dress I'm wearing is Old Navy? Think that'll persuade them?"

The show was a success and I scored a few nice books and a fun tote bag I have absolutely no space or use for, and other than bringing two left flip-flops (I have two of the same pair) making it obviously impossible for me to change out of my uncomfortable shoes before heading to the airport, therefore securing some bleed-y and puffy blisters on my heels AND toes (and other than the condom, rat and various times I feared for my life) it was a nice little break from reality.

We opted to walk to the convention center one afternoon--the day of the condom spotting, actually--and the weather was just perfect, not too hot, not too chilly. I took off my jacket and enjoyed the California sun and it dawned on me that this was weather that could sure make you overlook a lot--that scowling man with the mask on, reaching into his jacket pocket pulling out what you can only hope is a cell phone, for example. You won't hear me say a little sun doesn't go a long way. But then I caught a glimpse of the gas prices--regular gas for $4.56--and I thought, "Seriously, why does anyone live here?"

I'm sure you've wondered that a time or nine hundred about Texas,  haven't you? But as it goes with trips--even trips to the greatest of places--and traveling and lugging suitcases and airport food and cramped hotel rooms and even expense accounts: the coming home really is the sweetest part, wherever home may be.

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*Frank Lloyd Wright