She Likes Purple

I like, I don't like

I'm stealing this idea from many, many bloggers.

I like...

- hand-written notes.

- food and recipe blogs/shows/magazines.

- a well-made burger (try this place, if you're local).

- Sharpies.

- thunderstorms when I'm home and cozy and under our tin roof.

- a reason to celebrate: birthdays, anniversaries, holidays, promotions, babies, good news, a non-sucky Monday. I'm easy.

- movie trailers. Once a month or so, I visit this site and spend an hour catching up.

- making my husband laugh.

- planning a trip. I enjoy scouring the Internet for great finds, must-visit restaurants, cool neighborhoods, a good bargain. The excitement of an upcoming trip is hard to beat.

- my baby boy's happy sounds.

- when I get an e-mail/comment from someone who says just what I so needed to hear. I save those and re-read them when I'm feeling especially down on myself.

- clicking with someone I've just met.

- my favorites list on Etsy. Oh, I could do some damage to my bank account balance with that list.

- cupcakes. For what it's worth, I liked them before it was cool to like them.

- that Kyle has the very best grandparents. History doesn't have to repeat itself.

- Almond Joys.

I don't like...

- tomatoes (Elizabeth, I hope you'll still be my bff).

- other foods that have odd textures (potato salad, applesauce, meatloaf).

- the lack of humanity in a traffic jam. Want to feel shitty about humankind, sit in traffic.

- insurance ball drops. When I get a bill for $3,000 because someone (NOT ME) didn't do what they were supposed to, yeah, I don't like that much.

- baby sicknesses. He cannot TELL me what hurts or what aches or what doesn't feel right. He just pukes and cries.

- cocky sports teams.

- bad table manners. Eat with your mouth closed, pleeeeease.

- people who remind you (subtly or otherwise) that they're smarter than you. Hey, may be true, but you're douchier too.

- forgetting how baby kicks felt when I was pregnant.

- clowns of any kind, even that one clown you don't think I'll hate. I hate him too.

- family and friends who sometimes don't act like they love you. I don't like when love feels like judgment or something that will be held over my head at a later date.

- coffee or iced-tea.

- humidity.

- that I care so much what people think of me and/or my parenting. How do I quit caring so damn much? 

- insomnia.

***************

What do YOU like and dislike?

Sick and grateful

They say kids get sick a lot. They are very smart indeed. 

Kyle is sick this week with a stomach virus, an infected bellybutton (I just don't know) and he's also teething. And, hey, did I mention he fell on his head last weekend? I don't think Kyle would vote this Best! Week! Ever! He spent all last night screaming instead of sleeping and my child doesn't scream that often. When he's really excited about something he's found or when he's on the changing table and Very Not Pleased by that, but endless, pained screaming? No, not Kyle. It's not that the screaming really bothers me -- kids regularly scream and cry and make all sorts of other noises too -- but when you have gotten to know a little kid pretty well, it sucks when they're feeling bad enough, for whatever reason, they throw their personality and normal behaviors clear out the window. I wish he'd feel better. Like yesterday. 

When kids get sick, germs and lack of sleep descend upon the house but so does much stress. There are doctor's appointments that need to be made, schedules that need to be rearranged, and this week, in our little home, the stress level has reached very high levels indeed. I've also been thrown up on three times this week. I'm sorry, but show me a person who wouldn't be stressed out by that much vomit ON THEIR PERSON and I'll show you someone who is dead. In addition to all the chaos our own lives melt into when there's a sick baby, we've had to ask a lot of favors this week of the people we love. I believe it takes a village, yes, but that doesn't make it any easier to call in favors from people who aren't Kyle's parents and therefore have no real obligation to his well-being. Our friends and family don't have to step up, but they usually do, because we are surrounded by very good people. There aren't enough mimosa brunches in the world to properly thank the people who deserve to be thanked. (But thank you.)

Cross your fingers Kyle feels better in no time. Tonight, perhaps. Hey, right now would even work for me. Not so much because the screaming sucks (ALTHOUGH, OH YES, IT DOES) and not even because we're all really, REALLY, REALLY tired but because I miss seeing this smile. It's a smile I've gotten rather used to.

 

Come on, buds, let's kick this virus' ass and get back to life and fun and bananas.

Giveaway (but not here); other stuff too

You don't come here to read posts about other blogs, I know, so forgive me for continually forcing Style Lush-related odds-and-ends down your throat. I'm just so proud of the site and the writers. I had this little idea one day, and it's now an actual thing. That's cool, no matter how late that little idea keeps me up each night (hint: hella late). Hey, maybe you can benefit from my late nights.

We're offering one Style Lush reader a free Kramey Martin banner. Free! That's a really good price for a banner. Enter to win by midnight on Thursday, 10/29, which is basically tonight. So, go comment. That's all you have to do! 

***************

This year has easily been the craziest, hardest, most rewarding of my life, and as I approach 2010 and then Kyle's first birthday, I think of all I did and didn't do and what I'd like next year to look like. 

More than anything, I'd like to be more thoughtful of the people in my life. More often than not, my mom reads news or happenings about me and Kyle on Twitter instead of directly from me. Friends see Facebook status updates instead of personal e-mails or phone calls. Birthdays go by unnoticed or even unmentioned. I'm not proud of any of this, and I'm trying to find the delicate balance of being the kind of person I can respect -- the kind who goes out of her way for the people in her life -- while still staying strong and secure -- not letting other people's thoughts and opinions dictate how I feel. 

One thing I'm doing is co-hosting a champagne and cake party with Kristie next month. There is no special occasion for the party except the desire to get a bunch of friends together for a night. So often, insecurities cause us to begrudge the successes and joys of our friends because of our own shortcomings. This is a quality of mine -- the tendency to knee-jerkingly envy other people's lives instead of feeling genuine happiness for them -- that I hate and that I'd like to nip in the bud. Like yesterday. So, we've invited a houseful of people over to sip a champagne cocktail and to munch on cake and cupcakes. Not a bad idea, right? Mike asked if this was just an excuse to eat cupcakes and send out an evite. It annoys me when I'm reminded he knows me so well.

I also want to get my stress in check over the next few months, before Kyle's memories really start to form. I do a lot, and this is how I choose it. I don't have to blog or throw parties or go on trips, but I like having things to look forward to. I enjoy almost everything I choose to fill my life with (other than the dishes; those blow), but I spend most days tense, tired, snappy. I hate that. I talked a little bit about my thoughts on taking real and true care of myself -- physically -- at Bodies in Motivation, and I'm excited to get happy on the outside.

It's a little early to start looking to the new year and new changes, but as we gear up for the holidays, and I realize we have so much to do throughout the rest of 2009 to make some awesome Kyle's-first-holidays memories, this stuff has been on my mind a lot.

The first year as a mother is pure insanity, at least it has been for me, and I'm finally starting to design the life I want, on this side of normal.

A weekend of firsts

This weekend, we took Kyle to his first pumpkin patch. 

We also took him to the park, for the first time as a family.

He waved at us for the first time, as well, after weeks of annoyingly waving at him like loons while chanting, "Hi, Kyle! Hiya Kyle! Can you wave, buddy?"

At Target, we took him out of his car seat and let him ride in the cart like a big boy for the first time. He was captivated by all the cheap, lovely things. That's my boy.

To round out this weekend of firsts, I turned my back for a quick second Saturday night, and he face-planted off the couch. Taking my heart along for the plunge. He was fine just moments later, albeit fine with a small bruise on his head and a bloody lip, but no injuries some hugs and a bedtime story didn't fix. We're still hoping he's fine and that his vomit episode 24-hours later was merely coincidental. Go ahead and think good thoughts for our little man, just in case.

No one prepares you for the constant blood pressure spikes parenthood brings. Along with stretch marks and really unflattering clothes, I wish pregnancy had given me nerves of steel. They'd come in handy on a daily basis. 

I need to find a sense of calm amidst the storm of motherhood. Sometimes I wonder what on earth to do other than shooting Xanax straight into my eyeballs. Yoga? Reading more often? Sleep more? (Yeah right.) Then the irony of all ironies hits me: the one who causes the heart-stopping moments, gives me the greatest peace I could ever imagine.

Sorry about the fall, Ky. I can't promise it won't ever happen again, but, buds, I'll snuggle you after each and every one. If you'll let me.

**

More pictures from the park, the pumpkin patch and, randomly, Vegas.

The apple doesn't get thrown far from the tree

When Kyle was a wee little guy, and I was having an especially hard day, the kind of day where he woke up screaming and then continued to scream until he collapsed in his bouncer for a furrowed-brow nap (no, really, that child's brow was furrowed for the first two months of his life, see below), I walked out of his bedroom, into the kitchen, grabbed a water bottle off the counter and threw it across the living room.

So furrowed! 

Sometimes, when I get frustrated or angry or fed up with the business of being an adult, I throw things. Hey, listen, I'm not proud of this, but you should know I rarely throw sharp or dangerous things, and I also rarely throw things at another living creature unless Mike has deleted Gossip Girl off the DVR. AGAIN.

Kyle has recently started hating the changing table with every fiber of his being. I think this has something to do with being forced to lie down when he wants to be up! and army crawling! and eating power cords!, but for whatever reason the act of changing his diaper and putting him in clean clothes is equivalent to tossing acid on him. He writhes and screams and squawks. He kicks. He gets so wiggly that I have to literally pin him down with one arm while the other arm changes his diaper by itself. I should put this talent on my resume because if you think one-handed diaper-changing isn't a worthy skill to brag about, you've never done it. So, yes, the changing table portion of the day is the angriest my child ever gets other than the few minutes he can see the made bottle but can't actually get his grubby hands on the made bottle because I'm across the room taunting him with it.

The other morning, I walked in to get him out of his crib, and he was jabbering and smiling and holding his pacifier and eager to get up, and we had such a sweet 15 seconds while I walked him from his crib to the changing table. 

As soon as I laid him flat to get him out of his diaper and pjs, though, he scrunched that brow of his and hollered, loudly and angrily. I then said very sternly, "Child, you will stop this instant. We do not act like that when other people are nice enough to wipe our butts for us." I really said that, too, because I think it's just ridiculous that anyone, eight months old or otherwise, would act outraged at not having to sit in their own poop. As soon as I took the "stern mama voice," he stopped crying, looked at me, picked up his pacifier from beside him and threw it with much force onto the ground. 

I gave him the benefit of the doubt -- assumed he thought I handed him a hot coal and not his beloved pacifier that I rarely give him outside of his crib these days -- and handed it back to him. (Another skill: holding the baby with one hand while leaning down to retrieve the discarded pacifier with the other.)

He looked at me, even more angry and determined, and threw it across the room again.

I was, uh, rightfully stunned. This is a baby. He can't even say "mama" yet, so where on earth did he learn to express his anger in such a....ooooh. Yeeeeeeah.

That's my boy.

I sat him up soon after that and said to him what Mike and I say to him a lot, the parenting mantra that we've come to embrace, the one that will get us ridiculed and judged by everyone on our PTA committees. "Baby, only mama throws things out of anger." (Or, "Baby, only daddy uses words like that." Or, "Baby, only mama eats this many cookies in one sitting.")

He laughed at me, and I laughed right back.

Happy places

1. My grandpa's house, where no one I know still lives. There was art, painted by my very own uncle, hanging from the walls and old, faded pictures of people who have my nose or my straight hair or my insecurities. We'd sit around the kitchen table and talk about life and my dad and mistakes and then we'd have dessert. When I was 11, I was in an accident. My uncle accidentally hit me in the eye with a baseball bat in the batting cages at a miniature golf course. I was in the hospital for a week, for surgery and recovery, and then I stayed another three weeks at my grandpa's house so my stitches and eyesight could be monitored. My grandpa watched West Side Story with me, late into the night, and he took me to Wal-Mart in his sports car. He died less than two years later, and even though I still have a small scar under my eye and you can feel the plate that holds my eye socket together from the accident, I often think, Thank god for that injury. Thank god for those weeks I had with him. I would never have had them otherwise.

2. Bookstores. They're so much quieter than other stores I give my money to. I love leisurely walking the aisles for my next favorite read and also searching out books I've had a hand in creating. I could spend hours and hours in bookstores, reading the back copy on each novel, the first pages of the ones who are really intriguing. This is why my house is filled with books I've never read: sometimes the idea of reading is better than actually reading.

3. The passenger seat of our car. I love a good road trip, and that actually hasn't changed since having Kyle. The car has been the one place he never cries, never complains. I can read a magazine, check out the view, listen to some music or talk with Mike. I'm a big believer in the journey, and unless the destination is Target or a cupcake, I'm never in a hurry when I'm not driving.

4. A small little villa -- Siempre Azul -- on the island of St. John, where Mike and I honeymooned for nine days in the summer of 2007. We arrived, just us, to the most exclusive little piece of land I've ever been. I looked at my husband and thought, Just us, here, for so long? Yeah, I think I can manage that. Our money ran dry, and we were sun-toasted and we also had bills and a dog waiting for us back in Texas, but those nine days, in that villa -- where we drank beer and ate Pringles and watched the ants march by on the porch -- were as close to perfect living as I've ever gotten. Just you and me is nice, I said to him one night. He smiled. He always says so much more with his smiles. We have Kyle now, we're complete in indescribable ways, but still, love, just you and me is nice.

5. The Texas A&M campus. The warm sun and the donging bells and, when I visit now, never having to rush to class or rush to study or rush to cure a hangover. When I get to go back, I sit on benches and breathe in the humid air, the air college students never appreciate until five years later when they so rarely get to sit on benches just because.

6. The San Francisco Zoo. I've been going for years and years, as long as I can remember really, and I've seen it in shambles and being slowly rebuilt and from behind-the-scenes at Zoo Camp and on chilly winter days and chillier summer ones. There are so many memories from field trips and visits with my dad when I was out for holidays. There used to be a wolf exhibit, tucked away in a tree-hidden part of the park. You would have to walk up a long, steep hill to get to it, and the wolf was usually hiding, almost always, but sometimes he'd be right up at the front of the enclosure, and I'd squeal and get excited. When I visit San Francisco in December, we'll take Kyle to the zoo, and I'll tell him of the wolf exhibit that is now long gone.

7. The front yard of our house. It's mosquito season, so we have to litter the yard with citronella candles and torches and I still get eaten alive when I go to check the mail, but our front yard is stunning in visual ways and in emotional ones. I've never really detailed how we came about getting our home or all we went through to get where we now are, but it was a long, stressful process. For a very long time, Mike and I were sure our past choices would keep us from ever owning a home. Here we are, though, in our home, with this beautiful front yard. We have red flowers that pop up randomly and without warning, and as I pull in after a long day or look out the window on Sunday mornings, I think, How is this ours? How did I ever get so lucky?

8. My best friend, Natalie's middle-school bedroom. When you've known someone for more than 16 years, you can't even begin to scratch the surface in one blog post or one conversation of all the memories you share. The good ones, the horrible ones, the coming-of-age ones, the heartbreakingly adult ones. I grew up with Natalie and she's seen the very, very worst of me, the kind of stuff that drove others away, and the very, very best of me, the kind of stuff she can take actual pride in because she knows what it took to get me to the light. We used to crank the radio -- Boyz II Men and Offspring and Alanis Morisette -- and sing and try on clothes and talk about boys. I don't know how to articulate how cool it is to look at someone at 27 who watched me greet life at 13 and know, without a doubt, that she loved me then and she loves me now.

9. Anywhere, just anywhere, my son is.

The good and bad of Vegas

Oh, man. Vegas. That city will kick your ass if you let it. And we let it. Mike celebrated his 32nd 27th birthday better than he has ever celebrated a birthday, I'd argue, and we really did have the best time. I'm still digging myself out of the hole that is always created when leaving work and home behind to gallivant somewhere, so instead of a proper re-capping post, you get lists!

Good

1. It's Vegas, so behavior you'd never, ever deem appropriate at home seems perfectly normal under the bright neon lights of Sin City. Bottomless mimosa brunches? Why not! You get a lot more odd glances when you're tipsy at 10:30 a.m. at your desk than at brunch in the Bellagio.

2. Bottomless mimosa brunches deserve a second mention. When I saw the sign that encouraged me to pay five extra dollars for the champagne breakfast, I might have turned to Mike and said, "DO YOU EVEN HAVE TO ASK?"

3. Nine Fine Irishmen in New York, New York. We were in Vegas celebrating my husband, so I wanted his birthday dinner to be a highlight. An Internet friend suggested this restaurant/pub, and the food hardly disappointed. The food, in fact, was some of the best I've ever tasted. Thankfully, we traveled with people who let me eat bites off their plates. If you ever go, try the goat cheese mashed potatoes and then thank me. Preferably in cash gifts.

4. The bartenders at Dick's Last Resort. This isn't a Vegas-only must-eat place, but it was fun and it was in our hotel (The Excalibur), so we stopped in for drinks two nights in a row. All the bartenders were fun and lively and one in particular, Craig, entertained us with his ridiculously talented card tricks. He'd rival any actual magic show on the strip.

5. The Burger Bar in Mandalay Bay. Giada featured this place on her show Giada's Weekend Getaways, and I do just about anything Giada tells me to, you should know, but it also came highly recommended by some locals. My burger -- the Angus patty with fried egg, spinach and chipotle aioli -- was just so-so, but Mike's -- Kobe beef and cheddar cheese -- was unbelievable. As were his zucchini fries. (Not cheap, though, as every single burger topping is an extra cost.)

6. Two beers for $6 in the food court at Caesar's Palace. That doesn't sound like a steal, but, trust me, it is.

7. In Excalibur (and probably many other casinos/hotels on the strip), there was a convenience store within the hotel. It was, as we dubbed it, a non-gas gas station. We bought a bottle of champagne for $10, which was nice since every other glass of champagne we bought/drank was $10 A GLASS. We only wish we had stumbled upon such a find earlier. We would have saved more money than I care to admit.

8. The Bellagio fountains. Not every city's major tourist attractions are worth the hype, sure, but when you get goosebumps standing outside in 90-degree heat, you know something is good.

9. The new Encore hotel. It's the fanciest, prettiest hotel I've stepped in. I'd like to stay there next time, when you foot the bill.

10. Penny poker. I could spend a long time with the same $10 bill if I didn't get all stupid and greedy and play max credit when I'm on a roll. And then, of course, immediately lose the entire $10.

Bad

1. Most of the drinks are outrageously expensive, and they have exactly three drops of alcohol. Stay away from all mixed drinks and cocktails and stick to straight beer or straight liquor. Because of how expensive drinks are, your dinner bill may come one night and kill you dead on the spot. That'll suck. I budgeted for our dinner at Nine Fine, and then that budget doubled plus $40. Even the Irish car bomb I chugged during dinner couldn't dull the pain of the most expensive dinner we've ever eaten. The dinner that cost more than my electricity bill this month. Plus our cable bill.

2. Your feet will hate you at the end of your trip to Vegas. You think, Oh, that hotel is just down the block. I can see the sign! Let's just walk. And then an hour later, you're still not there. But you'll still see the sign! You're also sweating and bleeding and sober.

3. I don't know why the creators of What Not To Wear haven't moved to Vegas and settled there permanently. I saw more fashion nightmares in four days than I ever have in my life. Also? Cleavage. There is much, much cleavage in Vegas. Mike would probably question why this is on the bad list.

4. Everything costs money. The tigers at Mirage -- the ones you could see for free five years ago -- cost money to see now. They cost more money than the entrance fee to any zoo I've ever been to, and the last time I checked, zoos had more animals than just tigers.

5. There is an insane amount of construction on the strip. I heard, before going, that Vegas' economy is hurting. Someone forgot to tell Vegas that.

6. You can smoke in many, many places. I have had a days-long headache and a scratchy throat, and I'm billing Vegas directly if I ever get lung cancer.

7. If you decide to gamble in order to get free drinks, you'll have to gamble for at least a half hour to get service (it seemed). By that time, my free beer cost $20.

8. A vacation in Vegas is about as relaxing as all the other times you stayed up all night drinking.

**

We had a really fantastic time, all in all, and I have pictures and memories to share on flickr sometime later. Until then, I have to go chug gallons of caffeine to get me to the weekend and to the precious few uninterrupted days I get to spend with my boy, the boy who keeps changing at rapid-fire speeds, the one who is closing in on nine months old. The one who makes even an alcohol-soaked weekend in Vegas pale in comparison to spending any amount of time with him.

I always feel better by the end of posts like this one

I had a horrible week last week.

Mike got really sick, so we sent Kyle to stay with his grandparents for two days to keep the germs far away from his adorable immune system. He loves his grandparents, and he was fine, didn't bat an eye, but when I called to check in his second night away, I couldn't stop crying. I'm his mother! I'm supposed to be able to protect him from everything! I should be stronger than a virus! And I missed him, too!

I drove over to their house to spend just 15 minutes with him last Wednesday night before he collapsed in the crib he has over there. My in-laws live about an hour and a half from where I work. I still had to go home after that and tend to my husband and make dinner and clean and then spend two hours on the computer working on Style Lush stuff.

I left feeling raw, tired, stretched thin, empty. I don't like leaving my son places, and no matter how right it is, that lonely walk to the car punches me in the gut every single time. It's why I hate doing the day care drop-off. Because of that five-second walk to the car.

This was all before I got an e-mail from a woman I loosely work with that basically said, "I don't think you can handle being a working mother. You should re-think things. For everyone's sake."

I broke down in a way I haven't since Kyle was first born when I threw a water bottle so hard across the house, the lid flew off. I was angry this woman would even imply what she was implying -- that I'm incapable of handling the responsibilities that are very much mine, but I was angrier still that my fears -- that I'm failing across the board -- were articulated and realized by someone other than the voice inside my head.

It's not that I don't get intense joy out of the things I do in my life -- I love my day job, I love my family, I love my side projects, I love making Kyle's bottle every morning at 6:30 a.m. and watching him FREAK THE HELL OUT because breakfast! breakfast! OMG! I'm so excited! Gimme! Gimme! I love life! Still, It's very easy to lose my footing every now and then, and it's also very easy to be caught off guard and hurt when some woman who has never actually met me in the flesh flippantly decides I suck at it all.

More than all that, why did I -- for a brief, insecure instant -- believe her?

I continually wonder when I'm going to feel like I have this whole adult thing down. When does life feel like a routine and not a crazed acid trip? How does one become more grounded and confident as more and more people judge and question? It's tough, yo. No way around that.

As a mother you're built up, torn down, exhausted, vulnerable, exposed and the dishes still need to be done every single night. No one sends you flowers for just getting your shit done even though it feels like a damn feat every time you do. I made it another day and everything got finished, cleaned, figured out and everyone got fed. WHERE IS MY PARADE?

We're all doing it, so that would be a lot of fucking parades, but I still feel like I've earned one. With fireworks, even.

I commute. I think I've mentioned that a time or 2 million. When I pull into our beautiful, peaceful drive, Mike flings the door open, either holding Kyle or with Kyle on his shoulders, and they both break into a grin. Kyle starts kicking his legs and then there's Molly, zipping around my legs, knocking my purse off my shoulder. I kiss them all, each one, and Mike hands me our grinning boy, and he starts to tell me about his day, by saying, "da da da baaaaah da."

"I missed you, buddy. Are you ready for dinner?" 

I don't sit down for another hour or so because the night routine is mine, I won't give that up for anything in the world. I feed him, bathe him, change him, read to him, love on him and then put him to bed. This time of day -- the witching hour -- when so many moms feel rightfully frayed after an insane day of demands is my favorite time of day. I won't let Mike do it, as selfish as that sounds. It's mine. All mine. 

It's not a parade, but it's better. It's not a pat on the back, but it's perspective.

The rest of life can still blow, and my skin is so damn thin, I sometimes think it's translucent. This welcome-home time doesn't make the rest of it easy, it just makes the rest of it irrelevant for at least an hour every night. I don't know if I'll ever figure out how to feel confident and good at all the things I do, love, work at. At my core, I have some deep-rooted insecurity issues that are both unfortunate and normal. I don't know if I'll ever stop needing to write posts like this to talk myself off the metaphorical ledge. 

I do know that no matter how hard things were last week, this week was better, and that's just how it goes. Up, down, back, forth, grimy view, silver lining, bitchy stranger, beautiful son, so on and so on.

Seems like as good a time as any to get away for the weekend. Mike and I are heading to Vegas, to try and win big, so we can move our little family to St. John and be done with the rest of it all. Or, you know, win a little, so we can enjoy the fancy kind of vodka when life gets as life sometimes gets.

Reposting

I started this blog YEARS ago (two years ago is technically years ago, right?), and when I recently re-read this post -- this post NO ONE, NOT EVEN MY OWN MOTHER commented on -- I thought, oh, it's a wonder anyone ever stuck around.

I wrote this a little over a month before I married the man I'm still married to. The man I had a baby with and bought a house with and FUNNY STORY: when I wrote this, we only had one DVR but we constantly fought over that one DVR and he didn't understand the importance of THAT MANY OPRAH EPISODES and, fuck, I'm starting to see his point, but wouldn't you know, two-plus years later, we now have two DVRs and that's not THE reason we're still married but, my god, it doesn't hurt.

Re-posting, for everyone who hasn't read it yet. So, everyone.

**

I’ve asked several people throughout the last few months for marital advice; advice to get us started on this life-long adventure we’re about to begin, or as I like to call it, the road that will eventually lead to the end of my shoe collection as I know it. I’ve heard lots of good nuggets of wisdom, things I’ll never forget. Things such as: Always be nice and Never call each other names. (This seemingly obvious piece of advice is actually impossible for anyone to adhere to who has ever met Mike. Because if you do know him you know there are such circumstances when “giant Nova-watching loser” is truly the nicest thing you can say to him.) But, hearing all of this advice, I got to thinking. What if someone asked me for relationship advice? What would I offer up? (For your sake, don’t be the person to ask this of me, because the quickest way to run your most-likely normal relationship into the ground is to do as we do, which includes lots of karate chopping and grocery-store behavior that can only be described as completely out of control.)

Here, in my opinion, is how to achieve a totally fabulous relationship:

• The only thing better for a relationship than TiVo is multiple TiVos.
• Get a pet and make fun of it as often as possible. Dress it up, teach it ridiculous commands like move a little to the left and if you’re as good as Mike and I, make it scared of any object you point directly at it. Nothing bonds a couple more than torturing a pet together.
• Make your own traditions. Eat pizza every anniversary, date night every Friday. Not so much for the romance of it all but because it's harder to forget something you do every seven days. Not impossible, mind you. Just harder.
• If you find yourself staring at a pile of dishes that your guy has walked by 178 times without rinsing or cleaning or even moving, remind yourself of the guy in college who made out with you for an hour before asking if you thought he stood a chance with your roommate. Sure, your guy may not realize you own dish-washing detergent, but he picked you, which means he’s got excellent taste even if such taste is accompanied by a poor sense of observation.
• Two words: separate closets.
• Remember that you need your friends. And they need you. And, even though it’s a bit hard to believe, he actually needs his friends, too. Even the friend who always sends him home $100 poorer and smelling like the inside of a smoker’s lung.
• Tell him, often, how funny he is, and when he responds with, “Oh, I know,” roll your eyes only after he’s no longer looking at you.
• Take a trip with him as soon as possible in the relationship. Nothing shows a man’s character better than how he responds to the Southwest ticket agent telling him he has to pay $50 because his girlfriend’s “shoe suitcase” is over the maximum allotted weight.
• Try not to criticize his driving. And when he gets pulled over for his “stellar automotive maneuvering skills” try to resist saying to the cop, “Oh, I’m with you on this one.”
• Don’t worry if the closest thing you have to a “song” is Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing."
• Thank him for spending his entire Sunday night trying to save the life of your fish. The fish you named Frankie. The fish that was worth $30 (meaning, quite replaceable), but the fish whose imminent death brought you to tears, so he said, sincerely, "I'll do what I can, baby."
• And, in all seriousness, don't take yourselves too seriously, laugh whenever possible, surprise him, don't keep score, remember that nothing is more precious than the commitment you made to each other, and always, always hide the shopping bags until he's just drunk enough not to care about the $150 you spent at Target.

**

Obviously, I'm a relationship GENIUS since we're STILL together and STILL happy and only fight when it really, really matters.

Or when it really, really matters TO ME.

Late-night napping

For a few months of Kyle's early life, there was this window in the dead of night where he wouldn't fall back asleep without being on my chest. He'd sleep fine in his crib for hours and hours and then he'd wake up around 3-4 a.m. and the only thing that would comfort him was lifting him out of his crib and onto my chest, where he and I would nap together until morning. Kyle is a great sleeper and, for the most part, always has been. He confused day and night at first and boycotted naps altogether a handful of times, but I know we got lucky with him. And it is luck. So much of it was out of our hands the moment he was born. You never know what kind of kid you're going to have, so you do whatever you can to make it to the morning. WHATEVER YOU CAN. I needed to sleep from 3-6 a.m. I had a job and a commute, and I couldn't watch Felicity re-runs during those hours forever. Putting him on my chest to sleep got me to morning, and so that's what I did.

I have no problem with co-sleeping because I believe for those 2-3 months, that's exactly what we were doing, just unintentionally and strangely and for just a few hours a night. I never slept all that well, though, and I knew it couldn't go on like that forever. I thought to myself, daily, that I needed to figure out how to get him to go back to sleep in his own crib when he woke, and just when I really made up my mind to make it happen, he slept through the night. He was five months old. He has slept through the night -- 95% of the time -- every night since.

I was so paranoid and exhausted from those hours we spent co-sleeping every night, that I rarely enjoyed them as much as I knew I should. Those were beautiful, quiet moments Kyle and I got to spend together. The most perfect moments, really. Oh, but you know how hindsight is. A total bitch.

One thing I do credit Mike and I doing well was putting Kyle down awake. He rarely fights bedtime, and it's only been recently -- when he figured out how to pull himself to standing on his crib rails -- that bedtime has become frustrating. Even now, it takes just a few minutes of aggravated squawking before he gives up, plops down and goes to sleep. I know, at least in part, that putting him down awake has helped him put himself to sleep, and we are a mostly well-rested, happy home. I have had to sacrifice one of the things all mothers love, though, and that's a snuggly, sleeping baby in my arms. 

We think Kyle is cutting his top two teeth, and they're giving him a lot more problems than the bottom two did. He never woke once in the night when he was teething before, but he's been waking a couple times a night now for a week or so. He usually goes back to sleep fairly easily, with a little head pat and maybe some Orajel, but Sunday night he woke around 4 a.m. and was either too restless or in too much pain to get back to bed. I was exhausted from a long weekend of work, cleaning, socializing and baby wrangling, and so I lifted him out of the crib and he put his head down on my chest and fell back to sleep. We stayed like that until morning.

I was exhausted all yesterday and those teeth are still giving him hell, it seems, but after months of normal, all-night sleeping, I was brought right back to those early, snuggle-filled, late-night naps.

This time I enjoyed every perfect, quiet moment.

The life I want

Last week was Style Lush's first official week on the web, and I'm ridiculously proud to reflect on it. I am writing with an incredibly talented and hard-working lot over there, and they amazed me last week. (From an awesome Etsy-inspired post on all things that literally rule to some really unique numbered cake toppers (which I now own), there was a little of everything, and you should really go check it all out.)

In the coming weeks, I hope to have more giveaways, some stylish guest bloggers featured and also more reader participation (example: What the hell should I do with my house now that I live in it?), but more than anything, I hope to inspire. At the heart of this project is the desire to inspire other people to design the life they most want, not just with stuff -- although stuff is neat -- but by understanding what moves them, what drives them, what gets them out of bed each day and helps them enjoy the monotony of commuting, grocery shopping, the carpool lane, etc. 

I've been trying to pretty up my life for awhile now, by inspiring myself to be true to who I am and what I want. This is hard for me -- hard for a lot of us, right? -- as it's hard to spoil ourselves when so many people need more than we need, like our own kids, for starters. But when you take care of yourself, you can take better care of those in need. I believe that. The desire to become women who take excellent care of ourselves and those around us is genuinely what moved me to start this site.

It's not a review blog, and it's not about making money or increasing page views, although we all like validation, of course, but this is more than that. I hope that I can focus on the voice that drove me to create the site in the first place as the site grows and changes. I really hope you'll help it grow.

This site has inspired me to be braver and ballsier about other things I want out of life. There are so many things I want to do and I let the desires leave my mind just as soon as they enter because, no, I can't do that. No time, no money, too fat, too busy. The excuses are grander than the dreams themselves. I want to get out of my own way and begin going after things while also enjoying the view of my own life more -- exactly as it looks today. It's not a bad view after all.

So, tell me, what is one thing you've been too scared to tackle lately? 

My final Blathering post

Oh, you thought I was done gabbing about my fun weekend escape to Sacramento, didn't you? Well, it would seem you thought wrong! Hey, if food gets an entire post devoted to it, some of the coolest ladies I've ever met deserve at least the same.

I wish there was a real way to do this post justice without 1) making the entire Internet roll its eyes in unison and 2) using plenty of adverbs and adjectives and EXCLAMATION! POINTS! And, look, you're rolling your eyes again.

We all blog because we enjoy the outlet, we enjoy the community, we really enjoy putting something somewhat vulnerable and personal into the abyss of CSS code and hearing back, "Yes, I feel the exact same way." It's downright cool to meet someone who lives in Sacramento or Vermont or even the same small Texas town you live in solely because of a wireless connection and a URL address. It's beautiful to have your son go through something pretty scary and be met with resounding support from people who care about your kid. That's ... that's really something.

It's also really something to sit around a moonlit tablescape with a dozen or more bloggers, most of whom you've never met, throwing back wine like its water and realizing, Yeah, it's pretty warm out right now, but I have goosebumps. And I'm laughing so hard, I can't breathe.

The Blathering was magical, and not because we all clicked and became instant friends -- although that was cool, yes -- but because we all walked through Elizabeth's front door feeling welcome and wanted. We didn't feel silly about being there or like we walked in on someone else's inside joke. We felt like we were all invited, no matter how many comments we bring in on our blog or how many Twitter followers we've racked up. There were no pretensions. We were ourselves and it was enough. Yes, it was magical.

Saturday night we had a fancy dinner, then drinks and then a stop in a gay bar. Now, we all come from different walks of life and we all properly warned each other that some ladies were raging liberals and some were, um, not raging liberals, but each woman got out on that dance floor and shook their ass to Michael Jackson's "Bad" and no one felt self-conscious or silly or judged. We all threw our arms up together, and we danced like we were friends.

By then, we all were.

Let me show you:

The day I got home, I was already thinking about where we'd meet up next year. The day I got home, I texted and twittered and e-mailed and missed those women.

We will be meeting up next year, oh yes, and I hope you'll come, too. I can promise, we're all excited to meet you.

Celebrating

Mike's birthday was over the weekend, and even though we're headed to Vegas next weekend to properly celebrate, we hosted a party this past Friday night also. Something you should know about us, we love a good party, and we are of the mindset that the more is always the merrier.

Here's a picture of me line dancing in the garage toward the end of the night -- after my sweet boy was fast asleep at his grandparent's house, rest assured.

 

Here's Kristie and me, too.

And, here's one of Mike's best friends, Trent, and he's also one of my favorite people. He's hilarious, and, what's more, he loves my kid (and my kid loves him). That's about all it takes for me to be your biggest fan, you should know.

Ooh, that's definitely water in that shot glass. I like to rehydrate in small doses. Uh-huh, yeah.

Before Kyle headed out, he partied as best he could. He even wore his rock 'n' roll hat for the occasion:

 

**************

The day after the party, we celebrated Mike's birthday as a family at one of his favorite area restaurants. It was Kyle's first time in a high chair! Well, an out-of-the-house high chair, and I know that seems odd -- he's 8 months old already -- but there just hadn't been a need until now, funny enough.

 

I was very proud, like the pathetic mom I am.

We had a great weekend, and the only damper on the whole birthday celebration has been that now we're both sick. Kyle's in quarantine at his grandparent's, so he doesn't get what we both have, and Mike is laid out on the couch whining about a long list of things, including the weather, his aches, Cheez-Its and poker.

But, look, pantsless soccer!

 

That cheers me up a little, definitely.

Eight months

Dear Kyle,

You're just across the room as I write this. You're tossing your pacifier off your exersaucer and then looking at me as if to say, "Well, come on now, fetch that." I smile and say, "No, love. Mama hates that game." So you go on to something else, smiling even. I'm relishing in how easy-to-please you are this month, how quick to distract and how without-effort it is to turn your attention on a new toy or gadget or hair ball. I know one day the stubbornness that is programmed into your DNA will take over, and it won't be so easy.

Oh, but for now. For now you are the greatest delight and the most fun you've ever been. I've been saying this awhile now, yes I know, but this month, more than any month since I first met you, something has shifted in me. I've begun feeling desperate to see you, spend time with you, hold tightly to this time. When I leave you now, it hurts more than it ever has before.

Forgive me, Ky, but the fact that you're actually going to grow up and become a real person with opinions and thoughts and the ability to move away from me and never call to check in hit me like a semi-truck this month, and I find myself -- more than ever -- longing to press pause, to go back and slap that woman who wished away your newbornness because, my god, it's all over so soon, and all we have are words and pictures and memories to cling to in the wake of time. Those are lovely, don't get me wrong, but you can't snuggle with any of them. You can't take in the scent of memories. You can't get intoxicated over the belly laugh of a word. I miss you every moment I'm with you because I finally understand that just as soon as I drink that moment in, it will be gone. It's over just like that.

I left you this month, for five long-but-lovely days. I had an incredible time, and I dedicated post after post to how much fun I had with friends I hope I still have when you read this. I call it my soul-healing vacation. When I was driving home after my trip, I thought about having to work the next day and how unfair it is that I can't be with you all the time, how I sometimes hate being the kind of person who thrives when working outside the home, and who needs a circle of friends that extends past your dad and Molly. I sometimes hate I'm this person, this person with a desire to live beyond our front door. When it comes down to it, what's inside our house is all that matters, yet I leave sometimes, and I want to try to explain to you why. When I was driving home from this trip, I got stuck by a train, and I was livid! I wanted to be with you, and I was just miles from you, and how dare a TRAIN prevent me from holding you! When I finally got home, you were fast asleep, but I tiptoed into your room and began sobbing before I even saw you. I could sense you, breathing in-and-out, and it broke my heart like it always does. That gentle, natural, beautiful breathing of a sleeping baby. It's enough to fix all the world's problems. I picked you up and out of your crib while your dad shook his head from the couch because he sometimes can't believe he married someone so damn girlie. I can't ever remember a moment so perfect, me holding you after five days of only seeing you in blurry, bad cell-phone pictures. And I thought, if I had never left, I would never have known how incredible it felt to come home to you. I leave sometimes because nothing reminds me how much I love you like being apart from you, and sometimes the most beautiful moments of parenthood come from the perspective that distance brings. 

Kyle, I know it's with the help of rose-colored-parent-glasses and the ease of hindsight that I say this, but you are such a damn joy. You are an incredibly happy and delightful baby. You scream, sure, and when we don't hand you your bottles RIGHT AS WE MAKE THEM you freak out like a boy who very obviously got his love of food from his mother. You've also been on a very frustrating nap strike the last month or so. You've decided real napping sucks it big time but cat napping, well, that's really where it's at. Who cares what your mother thinks of that. (Note: she thinks it blows.) You will not stay still to save your life, and although every parent understands this, how hard it is to contain mobile babies, you are ever-so-slightly different, I suspect. You deserve to be on the cast of Nitro Circus Junior. You don't just try to get away, you try to HURL YOURSELF AWAY. You actually climbed out of your exersaucer the other day, and, ha, I wish I were exaggerating for comedic effect when I say that, but you actually worked like hell to get out of a contraption that's sole purpose is to contain and entertain babies. YOU DEFIED FISHER PRICE, CHILD. I also found you just this morning with a bloody lip. You were smiling like a fool with blood all over you, and, yeah, MAMA DOES NOT LIKE TO BE GREETED LIKE THAT FIRST THING IN THE MORNING. We think you were probably chewing on your crib and fell, your lip getting caught in the crossfire. Or, possibly a troll crawled into your crib and you got into a fist-fight. Regardless, I am seeing glimpses this month of what parenting a boy is going to be like and on the one hand, man, it's going to be a ridiculously wild adventure but on the other hand, holy shit, my heart and nerves were not made for this. But, aside from all that exhaustion and blood-pressure raising, Buds, you are the sweetest, happiest, most fun baby I could have ever hoped for. You are just amazing, kid. Simple as that.

You will hold a rock and study it for 18 straight minutes because, whoa, what the hell is THIS, I must figure it out, and then you will try to WALK WHEN YOU CANNOT WALK and you will bruise your head from that attempt, and when I think back to our first night in the hospital when your dad and I stared at each other and asked, in all seriousness, "WHO MADE THIS CHILD? HE DOES NOT LOOK LIKE EITHER OF US?" I laugh because, oh baby, you are so your dad's kid. Your dad, the man who will stand in Fry's for TWO DAMN HOURS when choosing a modem cable but who will then attempt a flip on his snowboard just to see if he can do it. You are his boy, his buddy, his buds. I'm so glad you remind me of him. It's heartwarming, it's comforting, it's all I ever wanted, but I'm starting to get a little selfish this month. I'm starting to look for anything that will remind me of, well, me. I know I had a part in making you, I REMEMBER LABOR FAIRLY VIVIDLY, but when I look deep into your eyes, I have to really search for traces of myself.

So, you can imagine my sort of selfish joy when it started to become very apparent that you don't give a damn how messy you are. Your grandma has said so many times how your dad hated getting dirty as a kid. He'd FREAK OUT whenever he got wet or messy, and would rather play cleanly and orderly thank you very much, but I was the exact opposite of this. I was a dirty, messy kid who turned into an adult who still spills food down the front of her shirt.

And look at you:

A beautiful mess. Just like your mama.

Eight months. Buds, how did this happen? How are we already here? How can such a contradiction even exist, the deep desire to see who you'll become and the deep desire to go back, for just a moment, to who you were. I don't know how it's possible, but it is. It's the one thing I'm sure of. That the gift of time is also a curse. That I long, equally, for the past and the future. You are eight months old, baby boy, and I am both stunned and humbled. I'm both terrified and ecstatic. I spend every day eager to see what lies ahead while grieving what came before. If being a mother has taught me anything it's that life is ridiculous. It's a nonsensical ride, and we do our best to hold on and enjoy ourselves while we can. We forever try to live in the moment because it really is all we have.

I had a book shower when I was pregnant, and so you have a bookcase full of books already. There is one I read you a lot because it's my favorite, and it's not even a classic or that well-illustrated, but it's a story of a busy mom, you can tell, and sometimes she's at work and sometimes she's at the grocery store and sometimes she's upset and sometimes she's in the sandbox with her baby boy, but no matter what, no matter what she's doing, she loves her son. The name of the book is "I Love You All The Time." And this is how I feel, as I sit in traffic and talk to the Terminix guy very sternly about why there are ANTS IN OUR KITCHEN and when I am in a meeting and when I am at dinner with the girls. When I am blogging and when I'm doing the dishes and when I'm feeding you your dinner -- my favorite time of my day -- and when I'm folding your little-but-so-much-bigger-than-before clothes into their drawers and when I'm cooking dinner. Whenever, wherever.

Oh, Kyle, I love you all the time.

Love,

Your Mama

Big news

For months and months I've been secretly working on a little project on the side, something that's proven to me, yet again, that I married a very patient, supportive man.

I had this crazy idea to start a style blog, separate from the other blog projects I'm a part of because I apparently don't like to sleep or relax. Ever.

In all honesty, I decided to this because a voice was continually telling me it would be something I would enjoy, and I know if I don't listen to that voice every now and then, I'll never do anything fun or exciting. I am already proud of the site and it's day one. I roped some very talented, very lovely bloggers to write on this site with me. I have driven them just as crazy over the last few months as I've driven Mike. They would all have much to talk about over a pitcher of margaritas.

If you enjoy reading my blog, are just a random passerby or are my mother, I'd strongly encourage you to click over to my new little project:

Style Lush.

I see this site evolving and growing over the next few months, but only with your help. Please comment, contribute ideas and add the site to your feed readers. We have some fun things in store.

I'll be back here later today with pictures of me line dancing in our garage at Mike's birthday party over the weekend. Obviously I'm a professional, should-be-taken-very-seriously writer.

His day

The entire time I was traveling across the great state of California, one constant thought kept playing on a loop in my mind: I am so lucky to have my husband. I am the luckiest. Not just because he physically stayed home to watch Kyle while I sipped champagne and slept in, although, yeah, that was important, but because he encouraged me to go, repeatedly told me to enjoy myself, urged me to forget about our money woes for at least the five days I was gone. When I talked to him throughout my trip, he'd say, "I hope you're having fun, baby." When I called him hungover on Saturday morning, apologizing for the drunken phone call the night before -- the "I'm not drunk, baby, I'm just drinking" phone call -- he laughed, nothing else.

I am not an easy person to live with, and although I do the dishes and the laundry and always get up to make Kyle's bottles in the morning, I also sigh and act put-upon and demand lots of attention and reassurance. I know my even-tempered, level-headed, funny husband wishes I'd just BRING IT DOWN A NOTCH EVERY NOW AND THEN, WOMAN.

But instead of saying that, he kisses me every morning when I leave for work and every evening when I get home. He pauses the TV when I want to tweet something hilarious. He eats whatever I cook and says things like, "Yeah, this isn't too bad," WHEN IT IS IN FACT INEDIBLE. He thanks me, every day, for the things I do for him and Kyle.

Kyle likes Mike more than me, and I don't even blame him. Mike is fun! And funny! And he never furrows his brow over our cell phone bill or the roach in the laundry room or dropping a glass. I've been saying "no" to Kyle since the very beginning, to get him used to the word, and Mike hasn't said "no" once. He doesn't flinch when Kyle bangs his head or pukes. He rolls with parenthood like a pro, like he was made to be this kid's dad, like he's been a father forever and ever. People who know Mike laugh and say, "I can't believe someone as childish as Mike HAS HIS OWN CHILD," and they shake their heads while I say whole-heartedly, "Oh, no! You've got it all wrong! He's a great dad. He's the very best dad there is."

I am so proud I chose that man to be my kid's father.

Mike is the least competitive, least jealous man I've ever known. He is genuinely happy for everyone's successes and genuinely down for everyone's bumps and bruises. Nothing about life really startles him or rattles him. When I left last week, multiple people said, "God, how is Mike going to handle it? Is he freaked out?" Oh god no. When it comes to taking care of Kyle, Mike feels only one thing: honored. He's never upset or stressed or bothered. He rolls with it. He soaks it up. When I got home he said, "We had a freaking blast together." He meant it.

My husband drives me crazy. He does. I roll my eyes and raise my voice and WOULD IT KILL YOU TO WASH A SOCK EVERY NOW AND THEN? As he snoozes on Saturday mornings, I curse him from the couch. He can be unromantic and slightly clueless and he doesn't play any mind games, which is annoying when I really want to play one. He drives me crazy, you should really know that. We fight. We've had some doozies in our day, fights that would make you really uncomfortable if you witnessed them. We've gone to bed angry more than once, and I holler across the house, "YOU ARE DRIVING ME INSANE!" at least once a week. And he does drive me insane. I have rolled my eyes more in the last six years than I ever did as a teenager, and I rolled my eyes a lot back then. He's stubborn and frustrating and he snores very loudly. He also hogs the DVR like you wouldn't believe, and when he says to me, "Can we delete Oprah?" even though 80% of the used space is because of his boring Discovery channel shows, I want to kick him. Hard and repeatedly. But, on this day, the day before his birthday, you should also know this:

My husband is the kind of person I'd like to be one day.

Happy 32nd birthday, babe. Every year that I get to celebrate this day with you is another year I've gotten to spend with you. So, I'd say we both get gifts.

{If you feel so inclined, tell Mike happy birthday in the comments. He loves my readers just as much as I do.}

My food tour of California

First, I must say, I was rather terrified about taking a vacation in the middle of a serious attempt at shedding these lingering kajillion pounds. I am overweight, and I know this. If you see me and you know me, and you think to yourself, I wonder if she knows she's put on some weight, the answer is OH HELLS YEAH I KNOW. It's not like I'm defying gravity and fitting into old skinny clothes. But unlike college, where pounds just melted off if I even thought about skipping breakfast, it's tough to lose the weight this time. Combine a girl's vacation focused on relaxing and indulging with an already molasses-like metabolism, and, well, my waistline was scared about this trip. I wish I could tell you I maintained my weight loss or even lost more pounds, but I didn't. I gained a couple pounds, pounds I've already lost since returning Sunday, thank god, but I also enjoyed myself, walked and danced a lot and didn't give a damn about guilt or calories. I only cared about enjoying myself, and it wasn't a bad way to mentally go about my little trip away.

If you're ever traipsing across California and you'd like to enjoy yourself, may I suggest:

Los Angeles:

Lunch: The Farm, in Beverly Hills. It was very moderately priced, which was a pleasant surprise first thing off the plane from Texas. I ordered half a delicious BLTA (bacon, lettuce, oven-roasted tomatoes and avocado) sandwich with a side of black bean turkey chili. (Also, there was bubbly.) Oh, you'd like to see a picture? Well, I just so happen...

{Oh, that bread!}

From there we split a squiggle cupcake from Crumbs. I watched a skinny little thing walk by me as I was devouring my half, and I thought instead of God, I shouldn't be eating this, God, this tastes incredible. I could use some milk. 

After a quick hotel power nap, we enjoyed a tasty drink at Melrose Bar & Grill. I just had a measly beer, which I look back and scoff at. Don't get me wrong, I love a frosty beer, but on vacation? No! Beers are for parties at home and ball games, not for a girl's vacation!

We had a late dinner with my author, and he took us to Ketchup on Sunset. You should know that the very first thing I said upon walking in was OH MY GOD, BRODY AND LAUREN CAME HERE ON THE HILLS. Nothing gives an author confidence in his publicist like squealing over MTV reality shows. I had a delicious Caesar salad with a side of the lobster bisque, which is one thing I wouldn't recommend. The table shared the Threesome, a trio of fries and sauces. The table also shared some bubbly (much better than BEER). 

After dinner, Kristie begged us to take her to Millions of Milkshakes, which, we found out, is apparently a publicity stunt disguised as a milkshake shop. I felt weird just sitting out front. But, for what it's worth, I got the 90210 shake. CAP'N CRUNCH BABY, which ironically appeared under the "healthy" column.

The next morning, before hitting the road, we stopped at a great little coffee shop, Euro Caffe. I got a mocha with whipped cream. IT WAS VACATION, LET ME REMIND YOU.

Malibu:

We stopped for breakfast at Marmalade in Malibu, and this place was incredible. Great waiter, great food, great atmosphere. Seriously, perfect. Along with a mimosa (sense the trend), I got a Gilson's Scramble. Now that I type this all out, I apparently ate a lot of avocado and drank a lot of champagne on this trip. Now the inching-up-on-the-scale thing is making some sense.

Santa Barbara:

I ate the most delicious chocolate croissant, but I can't recall where. Good luck!

Carmel:

Dinner was at Merlot Bistro, which just sounds lovely, doesn't it? And it was! This was a very low-key joint, and most of the patrons were, um, quieter and more reserved than we were, but it was delicious and cozy and perfect. I got a filet mignon and Gorgonzola pizza, and I've decided I really like this steak paired with this cheese. You probably already KNEW this and UNDERSTOOD this pairing, but I'm 87 steps behind when it comes to adult cuisine. Regardless, yum. We also shared two half-bottles (uh-huh, I know) of the Ventana Sauvignon Blanc, which was the cheapest thing on the menu, but also tasty, too. Love when that happens.

After-dinner Long Island Ice Teas were at Sade's. The nightlife isn't hopping in Carmel, but if you do need an after-dinner spot, this was nice.

The next morning, we ate breakfast at The Cottage Restaurant, and I hate to do this because if YOU go to Carmel, you may love this place, and it was recommended to us, but I didn't like the food. I ate the food, sure, but it wasn't remarkable or noteworthy at all. I may have wished I were at IHOP instead. I got a choose-your-own-ingredients omelet.

San Francisco:

We had a very quick yet delicious lunch at La Mar on the water, an incredible Peruvian seafood joint. I ignored all the ceviche on the menu because nothing sort of grosses me out more than thinking of seafood marinating in citrus juice. I know it's technically cooking, but, yeah, I'm of the old traditional camp that thinks COOKING SHOULD REQUIRE FIRE. I got the pan con lomo, basically a steak sandwich, which was good, but Kristie got the most incredible risotto, the risotto de calabaz, that I actually thought about at various times throughout the weekend. Sorry, Kristie, for all those bites I stole. And then you paid for lunch. You're too to me.

Sacramento:

Dinner was at Elizabeth's house, and there are no words for the awesomeness of both the dinner and the wine tasting courtesy of Astrale e Terra. Seriously, if you want to take in a little wine tasting in Napa, AND WHY WOULDN'T YOU?, stop in this winery. The tasting was casual, laid-back and with no pressure to buy anything. I will be buying a bottle, but not because I felt I had to. 

Lunch the next day was at Cafe Bernardo, and I got something that will stun you. SIT DOWN RIGHT NOW. A roasted turkey sandwich with avocado. 

Dinner was at Zocalo, and it was so trendy and fun, I assumed dinner was going to be, well, EXPENSIVE. It wasn't! It was reasonable! The drinks were pricey, but for the most incredible blackberry margarita, I would have paid well more than the $10 I did pay. I got the queso fundido, mostly because FUN! was in the name, and I also love chorizo regardless how disgusting I know all sausage is. 

After dinner, we stopped at Lounge on 20 for drinks, and I got brave and drank champagne from a can. AND IT WAS GOOD. So good, in fact, I'm stopping in my local specialty store tomorrow to try and buy some for a party we're throwing this weekend. I want people to ask me where I heard of it just so I can talk more about my fun trip.

And to end the night, Elizabeth and I took a Patron shot at Faces. Yum. (Visit that site at home, for the security of your job.)

Oh, it was such a good food trip, and if all those avocados and glasses of champagne don't convince you, you're just plain crazy.

When Elizabeth visits Texas, she's going to be stunned when all I offer her is cheap beer and Quizno's.