She Likes Purple

A Day in the Life

(inspired by Janssen)

I nearly titled this "A Typical Day" but I realized there's just no typical day for us. Our lives are all over the place, and that's probably true for a lot of you, too. We try to create routines but damn if life doesn't make that hard. (Shaking my fist at life...)

Anyway, I wanted to record our steps for an entire day not because my life is all that interesting (oh, it's so not as you'll find out at about 10am) but because this is the kind of thing I'm going to enjoy looking back on one day.

7am: Kyle wakes me up, and I give him my phone to play with so I can steal ten more minutes of sleep.

7:10am: Okay, I'm up! I get Kyle breakfast and he eats while I take a shower. I remind him that when I get out of the shower he'll need to get dressed for school. 

7:20am: I'm out of the shower and Kyle goes (slowly, oh so slowly) to his room to get dressed. 

7:30am: I'm dressed and getting ready and Kyle comes into the bathroom so I can tie his shoes.  

7:35am: Kyle gives Mike a kiss and hug goodbye while I pack his bag for soccer practice after school. Kyle reminds me not to forget his soccer ball. 

7:40am: I grab a granola bar to eat in the car.

7:42am: I kiss Mike good-bye and tell him to have a good day. He hugs me for just an extra second. Funny how much I need that extra second.

7:45am: We're out of the house! Not exactly on time but good enough. On the way to the car Kyle sees a bunny that lives in our backyard and he gets so excited. I tell him that means we'll have good luck all day and then we wave good-bye to the bunny. Kyle says, "Have a great day, bunny! And you too Molly!" We drive off, waving.

(Bunny spotting!)

8:05am: We pull up to Kyle's school, which is usually just five minutes door to door. It took so much longer because, well, traffic. 

8:07am: Forgot the tuition check, so I run out to the car to get it. We're using the loose definition of run here, of course.

8:10am: Back in the car and on my way to work. 

8:23am: Remember my granola bar! It's the little things.

8:27am: Hit some unexpected traffic. (You know those six-word memoirs that were all the rage for a while? One of mine would absolutely be: Well shit, got stuck in traffic.)

(Unexpected traffic face with bonus Kendra Scott earrings!)

9:07am: Finally get to work, a few minutes late. 

9:15am: I make a cup of coffee (uh, of course) and chat quickly with my favorite co-worker.

9:20-10:30am: So many emails. I worked late the night before, getting my inbox under control, but I still come in to about 50 new ones I need to respond to or forward along. Also, my to-do list. It's very long.

10:30am-12:00pm: More work. It's a rare morning that I don't have a meeting or call, so it feels downright luxurious to put my head down and charge through my to-do list, uninterrupted. You are now oozing with jealousy of my rocking life, I'm sure. 

12pm: Leave for lunch. I have a work meeting with a local author, to go over her marketing plan.

12:13pm: Arrive for lunch, begin perusing the menu. Oh, menu perusing is one of my favorite things. 

(Settled on a Caesar salad with a side of salmon.)

1:45pm: Head back to the office. 

2pm: Call with a company we hope to advertise with. 

2:12pm: Call is done! Oh, under-15-minute calls are my very favorite.

3pm: Afternoon coffee and note writing. I know, afternoon coffee should be a very bad decision but my body is miraculous in that caffeine works on it (as it should) but it doesn't stop me from falling asleep whenever I'd like to.

4:40pm: Head out early, so I can make it to Kyle's school in time for soccer practice. 

5:37pm: Pull into Kyle's school. Chat with his teacher for a few minutes and head to the school bathroom to change Kyle into his soccer clothes. Oh, look! I forgot one of his cleats, so he has to wear his regular shoes. He is not thrilled with me for this. (Kyle is very rigid about few things but what he wears is one of them.) We have a brief heart-to-heart about how mommy might disappoint him on a much grander scale in the future, and I'm super sorry about the shoes but can we shake it off and move on? Eventually, we do. 

6:03pm: Pull into the soccer field parking lot. Again, the soccer field is five minutes, tops, from Kyle's school. Traffic can suck it. 

(He's briefly forgiven me for the cleat incident.)

6:06pm: Kyle realizes I ALSO forgot his water bottle. (There IS a water fountain directly next to the soccer fields, I'd like it noted.) He yells across the field to me, sititng on the bleachers, "MOMMY, YOU FORGOT EVERYTHING." I briefly think about pretending he doesn't belong to me (but all the parents know me) and then I briefly think about yelling back, "OH REALLY? DID I FORGET YOUR SOCCER BALL? NO I DID NOT." but that doesn't seem super mature (although it does seem super accurate). "Sorry, buds!" I yell back. I say a silent "you're welcome" to all the other parents for owning the "lamest soccer parent" award of the night. 

7pm: Soccer practice is over. I call Mike to give him a heads up we're on our way home. 

(Post-practice silliness and, uh, we're not driving here, I feel the need to clarify. I mean, of course we're not! He's not even buckled in! But "feeling the need to clarify" is one of the gifts the internet has given me.)

7:17pm: We pull into the driveway. Oh, it feels good to be home. 

7:19pm: Mike bought me flowers, and they're waiting for me on the table. This feels a little stagey for this post but I swear he is not a regular flower-buyer. He bought me some for Valentine's and then, before that, uh maybe our fourth anniversary in 2011. This night is a coincidence! Swear it!

7:20pm: I'm in yoga pants and QUICKLY. That's how I roll. 

7:30pm: Mike makes Kyle a PB&J sandwich for dinner (I wish I had whipped up some delicious meal for dinner on this day, to impress all of you, but sandwiches is ALSO how I roll.) Mike then makes me a fried egg sandwich. 

(With Doritos on the side. NUTRITIOUS.) 

8pm: Kyle brushes his teeth, washes his face, etc. while I ... tweet, I'm sure.

8:20pm: Story time. I think I read a Berenstain Bear book this night.

8:25pm: Mike came in and we had family story time for a couple minutes. Mike made funny noises, Kyle cracked up, I tried to keep everyone focused on the plot of the story (unsuccessfully). Hugs! Kisses! 

8:36pm: Big plans to go work-out.

8:37pm: In bed.

9pm: Asleep.

I'd like to do this once a month (I see a book-type-thing created with my once-a-month "Day in the Life" posts) but, in reality, I bet you get another one of these posts in 2014. No sooner.

Friendiversary

When we were 11, I made Natalie buy best friend necklaces. Like, all the time. You know, the really cool yin-yang-type necklaces that turned your skin green ten seconds after you put one on. I made her buy about a million of them.

It's not easy to be friends with me, but this lady has it down. She's been doing it for 20 years. 

Good, bad, really good, really bad. She's been there. And even when she wasn't there, she was there. Maybe especially then.

In college, I was having big issues with another friend. I was sad about it, so I called Natalie. When I got engaged at 5am, I called Natalie. (Fine, Mike made me wait a couple hours, so it was more like 7am.) On my honeymoon, when Mike was snorkeling and I was bored of my (really not fit for beach-reading) book, I called Natalie. When I found out I was pregnant, I called Natalie. 

She hated the term "friendiversary" that I said about a million times over the weekend. She hated it but laughed while hating it. I like to think that while Natalie and I are so very different, we always find a way to laugh. I like to think that's our language. 

When Natalie and I were in middle school, we lived just blocks apart. We'd walk to each other's houses, nearly every day, through our neighbors' yard. Over the course of four years, we created a ditch in that yard. We walked so often through it, we changed it.

This is Natalie's friendship, in a nutshell. It's changed me. 

Twenty years. Man, that's a long time to be so lucky.

Quote

We moved offices this past week and I found a post-it buried in a desk drawer with this quote scribbled on it:

"There are years that ask questions and years that answer." 

2012 felt like a year of many questions for me, not anything dramatic or alarming. It was just a year I questioned myself some and felt a little uneven in my footing. So much good stuff, but a lot of noise in my head, too, if that makes any sense at all.

Anyway, I think 2013 might have some answers.

I Didn't Break Open the Champagne Until Midnight. I'm Tired Today.

I've been with Mike for almost nine years. The year we began dating, President Bush was elected to a second term. In 2008, I sat on my couch, pregnant and hopeful, and watched those numbers roll in and when they were indisputable, I broke open a bottle of champagne and drank a (smallish) glass. It felt big, important, special. I had voted for the president. I liked that a lot. (I also wrote this because I liked a lot of people who didn't like it a lot, and I respected and understood that.)

Still, while my husband was happy for me and happy for the last election's results, he stayed mostly politically apathetic. I didn't blame him. It's a lot to watch an election's madness. It's even more to become invested in it. 

He knows my political thoughts, of course, and I don't think he disagrees with them. He just prefers not to talk about that stuff at dinner parties or even at our own dinner table. Again, I don't blame him much for that. 

All that's to say, I was surprised he decided to vote this year. Pleasantly, wonderfully, cried-actual-tears surprised. He said he did it for me, and if that's actually true, it's one of the best gifts he's ever given me. Voting means a lot to me, but I can't ask it to mean a lot to him. That he did it anyway made me fall in love with him all over again.

President Obama didn't take Texas, not even close, but we voted for our president, my husband and I. I like that a lot.

If you don't like it, and I know there are many of you, I hope you're given the time and space to be upset. No one should possibly begrudge you for feeling emotional. It was a lengthy, exhausting road to get here. 

I'll even share my champagne, if you need a glass. You might feel like celebrating something after a couple glasses. 

***

President Obama supporters, I have to share this picture with you. How awesome, right?  

I Had Forgotten

I found this email I sent Kyle on March 25, 2009. He had just hit seven weeks old the day before.

You make this adorable noise after you sneeze. I know you won't always make this noise and I already miss it, even though you still do it. It's my favorite sound in all the world.

I don't think he made that noise much longer after March 25th. I had forgotten all about it, quite honestly, until I read this email tonight. (Technically last night, once this posts.) But, shit, did I vividly hear it after reading.

What if I hadn't written it down? Never remembering that noise seems like such a cruel joke. Don't give us these beautiful things, life, if we won't remember them in three short years.

Write them down, life whispers back. Put them in a safe place. Visit that place often.

Damn, that noise was cute.

Seven-ish week-old Kyle, because this blog was never cuter than when there were baby pictures on it. 

(Molly is so pissed at me for that last line right now.)

Lost and Finding

Mike wasn't looking for me, even in those early days when he had me. I've told this story before, this sort-of unromantic story of how the guy I was falling for was spending an awful lot of time swearing up and down he wasn't looking for a commitment, a relationship, me.

It seemed to happen gradually at the time, that our plans began to include each other, although in hindsight it happened very fast. He Wasn't Looking For A Relationship in January and loved me by May and that's not very long at all, but waiting makes time move much slower, doesn't it?

He fell in love with me despite himself, I think. He said he went home from work one day, swore he'd wait as long as he possibly could to call me--promising he could make it until the next day--and he lasted a half hour. I genuinely believe he didn't want a relationship, that he didn't think I was that relationship even if he had been looking for one, but life is funny, isn't it? I like to think I was just that utterly charming and adorable to make him break all his promises to himself. It was probably just bigger than us, from the very beginning, bigger than his protests, bigger than my craziness.

I tell you all of this (again, for the hundredth time?) to emphasize the magnitude of the moments from that first year when Mike would show his commitment to me. Like the time he sat me on his couch, instructing me to close my eyes while he placed a diamond necklace in my hands, a beautiful shiny investment in us. I thought I was the luckiest girl in all the world that night. I loved that necklace so much.

I think I've lost it. I can't find it. It was in our bathroom, with the rest of my jewelry, and now it's gone. I cried when I realized it was missing and I cried when I told Mike and I'm crying again now.

Why am I so brokenhearted? It's just a necklace! It's replacable! But, oooooh, it's not. Of course it's not. It was his first big gift to me, this guy who wasn't looking for a commitment with this girl he was buying diamonds for. 

Damn, I hope it turns up.

***

I've been feeling a little like that necklace these days--lost, out of place. I'm struggling with my diet, my work-outs, my dirty house, my sad yearly to-do list. I still feel impossibly busy each and every day, but I also feel impossibly behind and out of focus, too. I think it's likely the time of year combined with an insane workload combined with a really busy social calendar. It makes me want to crawl under my blankets with any free time I have. It does not make me want to do laundry, but that's no surprise to anyone who has ever met me.

Anyway, I've decided to try and shake myself out of this lostness by setting daily goals for myself, simple things I can write down at the beginning of each day to stay focused. I tweeted my list today, and I might do that more often.

It's so easy to forget what we want to accomplish each day as we tick through the actual hours, so I hope this simple idea has a positive effect.

I also really hope I find that necklace.

Globetrotting

September is trying to make me forget I have a blog! I'm traveling a lot this month (six flights by month's end) and even though the last thing you need is some idiot complaining about all the flights she gets to read her Kindle on, traveling this much can be exhausting. I was eating dinner by myself in the JFK airport the other night and a guy pushed over a glass case of drinks. I'm not sure why he did this, and I'm not sure why because I couldn't be bothered to ask or get up or even look in the general direction of the chaos. When my waitress told me about it, I was just like, "Well, we all have bad days, you know?"

Traveling solo can also be kind of lonely. I was a little desperate for adult conversation at one point and invited a stranger I met on the elevator to dinner with me. I knew this was a mistake the second I said the words because she started awkwardly inching toward the door and trying to come up with a reason she couldn't. "I may meet you there! If I'm feeling up for it! Where is the restaurant, exactly?" Yeah, she was asking so she could walk in the total opposite direction to her own (not filled with crazy people) meal. (Kristie is somewhere laughing because it is just like me to freak out a stranger by inviting her to dinner.)

I called Mike to lament my lameness and he said, "Shake it off! You should go out and do all those Sex and the City things!" Apparently, Mike thought I was visiting New York in 2001. (Love him for it, though.)

Still, the marketing conference I was at in NYC was awesome, filled with great information and inspiring speakers, and I got to do this, a silver lining any day, if you ask me:

I have another quick trip this weekend and then I'm back for all of October. Where I might actually cook a meal in my own kitchen or sweep the floors or convince Kyle his mother hasn't moved to the airport.

(In reality, I'm going to dive right into party prep since Mike's big 35th birthday party is next weekend! It will not have a travel theme.)

What have you been up to?

Regrets

(This post brought to you by nothing more than catching sight of my flower tattoo in the bathroom mirror and smiling at it.)

I have a daisy tattooed on my lower back, which makes me as original as 75% of any woman who's ever been a college freshman. I got it on a whim, which is how I made most of my decisions back then. Well, either "on a whim" or "on a lot of tequila," but definitely one of those. I wanted to pierce my bellybutton but have always hated my bellybutton, so a tattoo felt like the logical alternative.

I don't even know. I was 18.

It's faded now, of course, and it's ridiculous and has no meaning AND IS SERIOUSLY A DAISY, but I still love it. You'd think at 30 I'd regret the hell out of it--that I should regret the hell out of it--just like I should regret the boys I "dated" that year (we'll go ahead and put dated in quotes and leave it at that), the amount of time I didn't study that year, the number of Keystone Lights I drank that year, or how over-tweezed my eyebrows were that year.

I don't regret any of it.

(Okay, maybe the eyebrows.)

18 was my hardest year, hands down, and that includes my first year of motherhood, which you'd think would be a lot tougher than a year that didn't include actual responsibility or any debt or even a regular job. But I was complete mess that year, getting tattoos, dating inappropriate people, drinking (cheap and disgusting) beer with reckless abandon, and trying to figure out how to stop throwing up so many of my meals. Or, really, trying to throw up more of my meals without anyone noticing.

My brain never stopped buzzing. I didn't know who I was. I was unhealthy. I was lost. I thought I might be a girl who walked into a grungy tattoo parlor, picked out the first unoriginal flower she saw, and slapped it onto her back forever and ever. Turns out I wasn't that girl--or wasn't just that girl, thank God--but I'm okay that I pretended to be that night.

I don't really see it much. It's on my lower back, an area I only catch a glimpse of in the bathroom mirror from time to time. I'm always a little surprised to see it, actually. "Oh! You're still there?" I think to myself. After everything else has faded from that lost and broken first year away from home, it remains.

I see it and think of that first boy, that first test (that I failed), those long, silent walks to early classes in whatever clothes I picked up off the floor. It reminds me of all those poor choices, of picking the wrong boys, the wrong friends, the wrong tattoo, of being an 18-year-old who was just crossing her fingers she'd make it to the other side in one piece.

She did, I did, and we have the memories, scars, and tattoo to prove it.

I'm proud of them all.

I Was Employee of the Month January 1999, You Should Know

This story begins as all stories from my teenage years seem to: Fell for the wrong boy, ended up wearing a rat costume. Wait, no, that's actually just this story. Easy mistake!

See, I took a job at Chuck E Cheese the summer after my sophomore year of high school because that's where my then-boyfriend worked. This is the ridiculousness of first love, am I right? I'd be willing to wager all my love for all the bad tv shows on the planet that I am married to exactly who I'm supposed to be married to and I find him to be just the best and would step in front of a train for him and BLAH BLAH BLAH YOU GET IT, HE IS AWESOME, but if he turned to me and said, "Baby, will you work at Chuck E Cheese alongside me, so we can spend that much more time together and so maybe you can even cover a shift or two for me so I can hang out with my going-nowhere friends?" I would probably pat him on the shoulder and say, "Oh, love, fuck off."

Not 16-year-old Jennie, oh no. She said, "THAT IS THE BEST IDEA EVER."

(It was not the best idea ever.)

The thing about Chuck E Cheese (at least late-90s Chuck E Cheese) is that they treated their employees like waitresses. And by treated, I mean paid. I started at $2.10. AN HOUR. I was paid less than $20 a shift. I got tips when I was an exceptionally awesome party host, which was a high percentage of the time when I was a party host. Unfortunately, I was only a party host about twice a week.

So.

That math.

It cuts.

Let's forget about how pathetically I was paid for a quick sec and instead talk about how my 24-year-old boss may have possibly inappropriately hit on me. (Often.)

I know, that's a fun subject turn!

I'm going to tread lightly here because no matter how creepy this man was (and he was), he has still probably heard of Google, and here is what my internet math looks like: heard of Google + one unfortunately specific search = THIS BLOG IS NOT JUST FOR LAUGHS ANYMORE. So, I'll just share this tidbit with you, instead, this conversation that actually happened:

Me: I think I wanna go to New York after high-school. To dance. Professionally.

Him, leering: You could totally be a professional dancer.

(I meant ballet. I am fairly sure he did not mean ballet.)

Another spectacularly awesome part of this job was the early Saturday morning birthday parties. Hey, moms everywhere, if you want  to throw a Chuck E Cheese birthday party but you don't want it to SUCK OUT YOUR SOUL FROM YOUR BODY, throw it first thing in the morning. Empty! Crickets! No one wanted to open on Saturdays because that meant there would only be one or two parties and that meant you'd most likely have to dance alone in front of those parties. (Saturday night meant you never had to dance alone, and I think I just named my next blog.) Yes, you had to dance for the parties you hosted, and there was even a choreographed routine. With arm movements. When no one else was there to dance with you, you were just....dancing in front of them.

Alone.

That's not weird at all!

I worked with a lot of idiots. I know, that's not very kind of me to say, but it is oh-so-painfully true. I worked with my boyfriend, yes, but we also worked with another couple, another pair of high-school sweethearts who were perfectly fine independently. Together they were....concerning.

Their song was "I'll Be" by Edwin McCain, which isn't weird BY ITSELF, that was a super popular song for the time, but they would sing it to each other WHENEVER THEY'D WALK PAST EACH OTHER. They worked together, so you can imagine they passed each other fairly often.

"Hey, can you help me clean up table...YOUR CRYING SHOULDER...six? There was a big spill."

Or, "I think I'm closing Thursday and Friday, so I could probably just cover your shift....WITH THE TRAPPINGS OF LOVE...."

It was a weird work environment.

(Although, hilariously, I was just neurotic enough to pick fights with my boyfriend about how he never sang to me when we passed each other at work. "ARE YOU NOT THE GREATEST FAN OF MY LIFE OR SOMETHING?")

There was also the time we found the joint under a table, during closing. We were STUNNED and APPALLED and SHOCKED that a MOM could possibly bring her KIDS to Chuck E Cheese and irresponsibly get HIGH while watching them. I remember shaking my head for a good half hour, what has this world COME TO, I thought.

When I recently remembered that story, I had a strangely different reaction: Shit, you do what you gotta do, you know?

In February, Kyle was invited to two birthday parties at Chuck E Cheese, and I took him to both. He really wanted to go, and it's hard for me to say no when he gets that excited about anything. I am so damn doomed when he's old enough to ride a motorcycle, aren't I? Anyway, it was kind of a weird full-circle moment to be there.

I used to pity the moms I served, with their screaming kids and cold pizza. Sure, I was awkwardly dancing alone in front of them, but I got to take my $20 and blow it on cheap booze or McDonald's with my stupid boyfriend who I thought hung the moon. I was living the life, back then.

When I was there last month at one of the parties, we had a super sweet waitress who was all enthusiasm and teenage hormones, and as she ran around serving all our screaming kids, she had that look in her eye, that "I can't wait to get to the cheap booze and stupid boyfriend portion of this day" look, and I smiled at her, genuinely, and said, "It gets better. Trust me, it gets so much better."

She looked at me like I was crazy, and she was right. I am pretty crazy. (You know this.) But I'm also confident that in fifteen years she's going to look back and realize I was right too. 

Next time I'll tell you about the time there were snakes in the ball pit. 

Missed, Part Two

Part one is here.

1. I thought about adding him to the first post I wrote years ago because we had already drifted apart by then. But, I hoped the months without talking would lead into months of better contact. I don't know if I've seen him since, though. Nothing happened -- no falling out or bad argument, and there are still "heard that old song and thought of you"-type texts from time to time -- but he's a single urban professional and I'm a married suburban mom and there are only so many meals you can sit down to together to relive the good old days before it becomes painfully clear there are no new memories to talk about. Still. Oh still. There are simply no words for how much his friendship once meant to me. 

2. We're still friends, technically, and I wish her all the best in all the world but there was a time we were inseperable. We would laugh so hard, I'd end up spilling tears, and friendships with that much laughter are so rare, so special. You can't stay that close with someone forever, of course, as you both grow up and get jobs and make families and move to different cities. Life just can't be an all-night laugh-fest in a college dorm forever, but you hope the friendship might evolve as the years barrel on. Ours didn't, and that's okay. It really is okay, but laughing until you cry is pretty okay too. 

3. I dated him for a couple months, maybe not even that long. He was the rare Democrat in a sea of young conservatives at my school, and it was so refreshing to find him. At lunch one day, I looked down at my phone and realized we'd been talking for hours, and he had missed his next class. "I'm so sorry! You needed to go!" "I'd rather be here," he said, and that's always how he made me feel, that he wanted to be with me, no matter what we were doing. While it ended when it needed to and I never wished it hadn't, I still wish I could thank him for reminding a broken 19 year old that she was worth talking to for hours.

4. I saw her at my high school reunion and she was just the same. Loud and full of life and beautiful and fun, just like all those years ago, and she put me instantly at ease just like all those years ago. I always enjoyed every minute I spent with her, but we lost touch for all the same pointless, stupid reasons every pair of great friends loses touch: geography, busy schedules, new friends, new loves. I hate that people can be so careless with the relationships they care about. I hate that we just let friendships end, not because we want them to or need them to but because we fool ourselves into thinking we can always reconnect tomorrow.

5. She was my dance teacher in high school and she was -- hands down, without a doubt -- the best teacher I've ever had in any subject or hobby. She was so damn tough, she left us all in a heap of sweat on the floor at the end of every class, and she smirked about it the entire time. She pushed and pushed and pushed and she never let us go a minute early but usually ten minutes late and she'd look at us with a gleam in her eye that said, "I dare you to complain. Just try it." We never did. I wanted to do one particular type of leap that I kept struggling with -- it was a tough move -- and she said, "Go home, move your furniture, and practice it over and over and over until you get it." Practice, that was her only advice. Keep going, she would scream at us. Again, she'd bark. She never expected us to be perfect, but she'd rage if we ever dared to give up. We became great because of her.

I got a call late one night a few years later. She was killed in a car accident. I never thanked her for all she taught me. 

6. He took me to a fancy dinner when I didn't have a Homecoming date and out for ice cream when I didn't have a Valentine's date and he'd leave me hilarious messages on my answering machine because he knew they made me laugh even if he never once saw me laugh while listening to them. My freshman year of college, I did something pretty shitty to another friend, and most of our mutual friends stopped speaking to me for a while. Except him. He stayed by my side for those painful few weeks of cold shoulders. It's so clear when I look back on our friendship that before Mike, no one really loved me for me like he did. I would have laughed in your face if you had told me back then that we'd stop speaking one day. Never, I would have thought. Not until we're both dead and gone. Life can be so predictable on the one hand and then break us in half with surprise on the other.

Keep Fighting

(I very nearly hit delete on this post that I wrote a little while ago because it's, well, it's so tough. The toughest thing I've written, maybe. I got a lot of strength and inspiration from this post I stumbled upon today by way of Elizabeth. Thanks to her and to the post writer. Thanks so much.)

***

The thing about eating disorders is that they never really go away.

The other day I stepped onto an elevator and caught the smell of the cologne my first boyfriend used to wear. After a brief moment where I mercilessly judged whatever professional was wearing Tommy cologne in 2012, I was instantly taken back to 1998, unexpectedly and without warning, and it was like one of those bad movie montages in my head. A good-and-bad highlight reel began playing and it's not that I really missed him or us (or ever really do) but memory just sort of works this way: one moment you're 30 and married and a mom and happy and stepping onto an elevator, thinking about an email you need to send or groceries you need to buy and the next moment you're 16 and dancing in a high school cafeteria and you can't help but think, I wonder if he ever catches my smell on an elevator? 

This is kind of how eating disorders work. You go months and months figuring shit out and losing weight by eating less and exercising more and rocking it and then one day you're walking down the hall to grab laundry or to check on your sleeping preschooler and something whispers, "eat something bad for you, keep eating until you hate yourself again," and you don't know how it happened, or how you lost control or even why (except that this is just how your brain defaults handling stress, without your consent), but the whispers, man, they sure seem to come out of nowhere sometimes.

I recently heard someone answer the question, "How is your eating disorder?" with "It's really loud right now," and I couldn't think of a better way to describe an eating disorder or (I'd guess) an addiction of any kind. Sometimes it's silent, but that doesn't mean it's gone. Other times, it can be all we hear. 

The last six months of 2011, despite working out regularly and with incredible dedication, I overate a lot, and I know that this is an eating disorder all its own. I know that this is bulimia without throwing up. I could list all the reasons this happens sometimes but it's not actually because of my job or my broken friendship with someone I thought would be there for me forever or my sometimes-fragmented-always-complicated relationship with my father. It's not really about any of that, although those triggers sure do contribute, it's just about my inability to handle life's stresses in a way that doesn't involve food. When stress is tossed my way, I stiffen externally and when the house is quiet and no one is looking, I break down, so to speak. I tip-toe into the kitchen and eat. Sometimes I eat a lot. 

I did this at 16 and 17 and 18 and 21 and 24 and 27 and while I haven't thrown up in so many years I can't quite remember exactly how many, I now realize that all this yo-yoing with my weight and my eating habits is still an eating disorder.

I want it not to be. I want all those reflective and introspective posts I've written before to be true, that I'm better, that I'm good, that I'm immune. This one in particular, and I felt so good when I wrote that. I was in such a good place that day. But I know that good periods come with bad, and I'm not immune to the lure of the whispers. I don't know if I'll ever be. I just need to figure out how to ignore them more consistently. Not just sometimes but most times.

I've become self-conscious to talk about exercise and eating here, two topics I kind of talk about a lot (remember when I was training for a half-marathon? Man, I did nothing but talk about exercise). It feels more "part of this crazy up and down pattern" than "being healthy." I fear you're all rolling your eyes because it sure can be annoying to live with such inconsistencies and I imagine at least partially annoying to hear about.

Just figure it out! I want to scream at myself and I assume some people want to scream at me. I'm 30! This is getting old.

I can't change that this is what it is, though. I'm exhausted that I'm still fighting this fight. I'm angry, too. I'm an adult, a wife, a mother, a professional. I should not still have food issues, but I do.  

So I keep fighting.

Exhausted just isn't an excuse to stop.

I keep saying that 2012 is my year, and it is. It's my year. It's my year to do so many things, I can't wait for you to see them all. I feel like I'm going to overcome a lot and conquer a lot and rock a lot and it's going to be grand. (It IS.) But, I think a big part of that is to take the next step in this fight and that's to make an appointment, finally, to see a therapist and maybe a nutritionist.

Then I think I'll make an appointment to take a really long nap. 

No longer chained to our house by babies or batshit weather

Kyle has become so damn awesome to hang out with. I know this feels like one more annoying endorsement for age two, but it's just that all these possibilities have opened up for us as he gets older. We can now take him places we used to pass on because of his then-age or (non-existant) attention span. I shudder thinking about dining out with him just a year ago. Oh, how times have changed.

Also, the weather is beginning to cool off, which means we can plan activities outside again. Do you know how much more fantastic life with a kid can be when you can actually leave the house? For extended periods of time!

(Lots more.)

A few weekends ago, we took him to a small local butterfly festival, put on by an organization some parents at his school are part of. I thought he'd freak out by all those flapping wings, but he loved every second of it, and he also let someone encourage a butterfly onto his nose.

{Bad cell phone photo! Oof!}

This past weekend we took him to get burgers and had such a lovely little lunch, the three of us. Then we took him to see The Lion King: 3D, his first in-theater movie, and it was entirely enjoyable, which stunned me. We asked him toward the end if he wanted to leave -- he was getting a little restless -- and he said, "No, we leave when it over." He also kept exclaiming, "Wow, what a big TV!" (We'll need to work on his whispering for the next movie outing.)

I know it seems so obvious to any parents who've been doing this for years and years but when your kid becomes less a screaming baby and more a fun little person, parenthood just indescribably changes and expands. It's still work, don't get me wrong for one second, but it's such different work and the rewards are a million-fold.

So, to inspire me off our couch this pretty fall, what are your favorite fall activities with your kids? I want to fill this fall with an insane amount of fun. Although, come on, it's us we're speaking of. Insane is part of the game.

Leaving, Growing, Frustrating

I leave tomorrow for San Diego for nearly a week, and I thought I'd schedule posts to go live while I'm gone (I always think I'll schedule posts to go live while I'm gone) but I haven't even begun packing yet, and I leave tomorrow morning. So. You know. Possibly not.

I'm excited because I'm always excited to go somewhere. New place, new food, new sights, new people. I get a rush from it all, and I'm also excited to market our books. I think we put out some really fun titles, so I like to tell people about them. (Hey, will you be at Comic-Con? Swing by Booth B4 for a mess of free stuff and fun signings, if so!)

I'm also equally excited to return from Comic-Con and get back into a routine. My lands, I've been going non-stop since mid-May, feels like, and I just need a little downtime to cook again, clean again, and work-out again.

Speaking of, oh my my my friends, I have been a bad little runner/half-marathon trainee. I run 13.1 miles in less than five months, and I haven't run longer than two miles in two months. (Ouch, that hurt to type.) I also haven't consistently cooked or consistently worked-out in any other significant way. It's showing in my waistline and in how I feel, all-around.

Yeah, I blame an insane workload and travel schedule this summer and it's SO FLIPPING HOT OUTSIDE the only activity I really enjoy is complaining about the weather, but life can be kind of consistently, regularly, always insane, you know? It's crazy now and it'll be crazy again and will I ever get this life-work-health balance down?

(I sure as hell hope so.)

I had this entire post I wanted to write months ago about telling ourselves no, just like we tell our kids no. If I wouldn't let Kyle have three helpings of dessert, why let myself? I know what's best for him but I apparently don't know what's best for me? Crazy talk! I do know! Sometimes he does get chocolate milk for breakfast and sometimes so should I, but not for every breakfast, no sir, because that's kind of crazy irresponsible. (And expensive, I'd think.)

That post was going to be good, I could feel it, but then I allowed myself to have chocolate milk (or the equally irresponsible equivalent) for breakfast enough times to feel like a fraud, so I waited.

Still waiting.

I've been reading a lot of healthy living and running-type blogs lately because they're inspiring. They're not about tossing champagne out the window (how sad would that window be?) but about balance. They're about working hard to play hard and I love that. I want that. I'm struggling with that. Oh am I. And, sure, some of it is the schedule and the workload and the HEAT OMG THE HEAT but some of it is just me, my self-destructive tendencies, my perfectionism, my personality. I'm not an easy person to be sometimes, and this is one of those times.

So, I'm in a bit of a frustrated phase, eager to move out of it, hopeful for some free time when I'm back to focus on healthy living and balance but, also, acknowledging that this is where I am today. It ain't great but it still is.

I don't know why I feel the urge to share with you every misstep and obstacle I face. I could just call up Natalie and vent and leave you with pictures of Kyle, and we'd all be none the wiser. Except that there's always one of you out there who says exactly the right thing, the thing I print out and carry with me, in a pocket or purse or taped to my day planner, the one thing I credit for getting me to the not-so-frustrated point. I am so thankful for those words, for your words, when they come, because I always, always need them.

I keep being honest because, in return, you keep throwing me life rafts.

Kyle Keeps Saying, "Mommy Broke the Car!" Which is Both Inaccurate and a Little Mean.

On Wednesday, I went to Quizno's for lunch. For many of you, this would be enough to make Wednesday a shitty day. There are so many of you out there, I've found, who do not enjoy a toasty Quizno's sandwich, but I am not one of the many because it's one of my favorite sandwich joints around. This makes you lose considerable respect for the food blog I manage, I'm sure, and that's even before I tell you how often I make this delicious dessert for myself.

Anyway, if that would make Wednesday a shitty day for you, JUST WAIT.

I got my sandwich to go, to take back to work, but when I went to start the car, the car ... well, it didn't start. (I just typed nine different variations of that sentence with the word fuck in them, but I deleted them all. I believe this is a sign of maturity.) Anyway, I did what we all would do in this situation. I kept trying to start the car. I was sure I was just IMAGINING the clicking, grinding sound the engine was making and if I just tried one more time, it would miraculously start right up!

I think I accepted my reality around time 48.

I then did what probably very few of you would do in my situation, before I called Mike or a coworker or AAA or Natalie, I ate my sandwich. Yep, that's right. I wanted to enjoy it and I knew my life was about to get shittier before it got less shitty, so I enjoyed my Baja Chicken right there in the parking lot while I started to sweat (it was 104 outside; good timing asshole Passat!).

Long story short, my car was towed to the shop, the shop couldn't get to it until the next day, Natalie was the saint of a best friend who picked me up from work that evening and drove me the hour to my house and then the hour back to her house and she didn't call me a single name, at least not one I could hear.

Yesterday evening, the shop called to give us the official diagnosis.

Guys.

It wasn't good.

Let's just say I can think of a million other ways I'd rather spend $800.

It has gotten a wee bit better since then because Mike (that gloriously talented man I married) thinks he can fix at least one thing himself, but he did go out last night without complaint to buy me TWO bottles of champagne (although he had to buy the really, really cheap, twist-off-cap stuff, because we're now broke, which made me depressed enough to need another bottle).

We had a family vacation planned for next weekend, a roadtrip up to Colorado, through New Mexico. We were going to introduce Kyle to Mike's dad's side of the family, 95% of whom haven't met him yet. It was going to be a refreshing break from the heat and a little time for my little family before I jet off on another work trip in a couple weeks. I don't know if we can take that trip now, and that makes me EVEN MORE DEPRESSED, MAKE THAT FOUR BOTTLES OF CHEAP CHAMPAGNE.

Hey, you know, this is normal life-type stuff. I know that in the grand scheme of problems, having to pay out the ass for a car fix is irritating but also normal. Having to (possibly; we're still weighing some options) cancel a (much-needed and much-anticipated) family trip sucks but there will be another trip, another opportunity. Life is full of disappointments, you know? That's never going to change. Doesn't mean it doesn't suck, but it also doesn't mean freaking out and losing my head is going to make anything better.

Not that I didn't totally freak out and lose my head anyway, of course.

So, cross your fingers for car miracles, winning lottery tickets, and a bottle of the good stuff in my future.

(Thanks, you.)

So, I Have This Idea

Since Kyle turned 8 weeks old and my own clouds lifted, I've felt a need to do something for new moms, especially for those moms who are feeling crazed, anxious, and exhausted with the beautiful (but oh-so overwhelming) responsibility of being a parent. Kyle had colic, and that contributed to those first two months being so hard, and I also had anxiety-induced insomnia, so he screamed during the day and I was awake all night, and I felt like I lost my mind a little bit.

What was harder than all that, though, was the feeling that no one really understood. No one looked at me and said, "I get it, and you're doing great," and when I sum up that time I can think of only one word: lonely. I'd walk around my house, even when it was filled with people, and I'd just feel alone. I'd look at Mike from across the room and ache. I'd scream and cry and break down and instead of feeling cared for, I'd feel judged.

Because of those two, hard months, my advice to any parent would be to find a community, find a group of people you click and connect with and trust and just talk to them, often and honestly. Find a church, a mom's group, a book club filled with other parents, a blog community that you can take offline, anything at all that will let you feel part of a group. And to the women out there whose friends are having babies, take them food, a bottle of wine, a DVD, look them in the eyes and tell them they are rockstars and that if it sucks, you get it, and it won't suck forever.

With all that said, I've still felt this need to do something to help new moms. I feel it's my cause, as kind of cheesy as that sounds, but beyond that feeling, I've been completely at a loss as to what to do.

I wanted to raise money for new moms for my upcoming half-marathon, but how? Who do I decide to give the money to? Do I just take donations and then choose where it goes? That felt shady.

I've thought about organizing a site of resources for friends and family of new moms to more easily provide food and house cleaning and restaurant gift cards for the new moms in their lives, but that felt vague and weird and who do you specifically market to? And it's not brand new information, it'd just be consolidating information already out there, so that's not exactly a new service.

Then, over the weekend, I was reading a running magazine and there was an article on starting your own race. I thought, okay, yeah, this could be awesome. Picking a cause (post-partum depression, single mothers, or something like that), and then trying to organize a race to raise money for that cause.

That sounds like kind of an insane amount of work, yes it does, and I do have a job and a family and a very full DVR queue, but how incredible would it be to pull off? It combines something I've had a longing to do (provide support for new moms) and something I credit with helping me become the mother I am today (running) into one cool event.

Still, this could takes years and years and then not happen anyway. This could be a really stupid undertaking, in hindsight. But, if someone told me today that it would happen one day, I'd start working, so I figure that's a sign to start working anyway.

My dad was a race director for years, so I'll be picking his brain when he comes to town for a visit this week, but you're the smartest people on the internet, so I'd love to know what you think. Do you have any thoughts or advice or resources you could share? People you know who I could talk with? Maybe you could pass this link around to other smart people? I wouldn't ask if I didn't think we could make a really cool thing happen here. So thank you.

I truly believe it takes a village to raise a happy child, but more than that, it takes the right village. I want to organize the right group and the right event for the moms out there who don't yet have that village.

I hope you'll help me.

What To Do In Fort Worth: Two-Step At Billy Bob's

I grew up in San Francisco and have a definite liberal leaning, so it might surprise you to know that one of my absolute favorite things to do is go to a dusty, old, hole-in-the-wall bar, order an ice-cold bottle of Bud Light, and either two-step with someone who knows what they're doing (because I most certainly do not), or listen to a country music concert.

I got to do all these things last weekend.

We went to the pretty famous -- at least locally -- Billy Bob's, which is called the largest honky tonk in the world. Admittedly, I'm not even sure what that means, but the place was enormous, so I'm going to go ahead and believe them.

I even dressed like a hussy for the occassion.

That is an awfully short skirt for a nearly-30-year-old mother, I know, and I was more than a little self-conscious, but when we stepped inside the place, there were quite a few (dozens, really) of women much older than me wearing much less, and by much older I mean much older and by much I less I mean nearly illegal.

Honky tonk might just be a euphemism for something else entirely.

(Not that two short skirts make an appropriate wardrobe decision, but I felt better about pushing the dress-for-your-age envelope when I was around people who tore that envelope right up and then gave it the finger.)

Anyway, we were there to see Pat Green, who I was a big fan of back in college and whose music takes me right back to being 19 in that tiny little Texas town, and it was a lot of fun to be swept up in nostalgia for a night.

(If you want to take a listen, my favorite songs of Pat's are: "Nightmare," "Ruby's Two Sad Daughters," "#2," "Here We Go," "Threadbare Gypsy Soul," and "Galleywinter.")

It was a really fun night, and I kind of hope we'll go back, although Mike (not really the country music or two-stepping kind) would like to remind me that my year list made no mention of going twice, so we'll have to wait until 2012.

Summer Experiment

I am about to take off for the rest of the month. I know, that's insane, right? I'm a little tightly wound over it, too, truth be told. Now, I like traveling, a lot, and if a few months go by and I haven't taken a trip -- near or far -- I start to twitch. That's not even an exaggeration for blogging effect, I really do get restless and cranky when there's not an out-of-town overnight adventure to look forward to.

So, a trip to NYC for work (but also for fun) and then a cross-country flight to the Bay Area to see my brother graduate high school is exciting and I am looking forward to nearly everything that's going to happen over the next (gulp) nine days, but my chest tightens at the thought of being gone that long.

It's the longest I've been away from either of my guys.

(Mike has very strict instructions to take no fewer than five pictures a day and to mention me endlessly to Kyle, so he doesn't forget me.)

(I know he won't actually forget me.)

(RIGHT?)

I'm going to try and schedule a few posts to go live next week while I'm gone, so my site doesn't collect too much dust, but no promises. I haven't started my laundry yet and I leave bright and early on Sunday morning.

When I get back, though, I've decided to give up tv for the month of June (except Friday Night Lights, which I live-tweet for work) and I'm also kicking off a 12-week Vegan Experiment.

I plan to visit a doctor at the beginning of my Vegan Summer, to see what all my numbers are and then again afterward to check again. I think that makes the experiment a little more credible and interesting.

(Although come to find out, a lot of champagne isn't vegan. So. Yeah. That's not good news at all.)

You know, after wrapping the Biggest Blogging Loser, I was kind of emotionally drained, and I took a mini-break from challenging myself so I could recover a little bit. (Well, unless you define "challenging yourself" to include a lot of chocolate. If you do, you're my kind of person.) I really do like challenging myself, I like seeing what I'm capable of doing when I put my mind to something, so after an April and May mini-break, I'm ready for a new challenge. 

I also start my half-marathon training in full-force this summer. 

It's so easy to get complacent, and really all these wacky ideas of mine are just ways for me to prevent complacency. To have new adventures and new stories and new experiences, and I think that makes me happier, in the long run.

In the short run, I'm off to research the hell out of "vegan champagne options."

Oh, and hold my kid for a lot longer than he'd prefer because, my oh my, am I going to miss the hell out of him.

When I Became a Mother

Becoming a mother happens kind of gradually, especially if you're trying to become just that. You finally see the second line and are in a slight state of disbelief on what that even means and it's all very out-of-body and super-surrealy and it keeps on being those things for some time. Now, you're not in denial because it sure feels real as shit when you're up all night with a screaming newborn, but it's just not ONE LIGHTNING BOLT KIND OF MOMENT for us all, at least it wasn't for me.

The other day, Kyle and I went to watch Mike play softball with his work intramural team and a foul ball was hit over the fence and came toward us in the stands. Since I couldn't pause long enough to glance up at the sky for the ball, I just went ahead and DOVE ON TOP OF MY SON to protect his little head from the ball. It was all very instinctual and the rest of the bleachers kind of chuckled because "oh look at that mom protecting her cute kid." But that's just what you do, right? I mean, that instinct has always been there (since I was pregnant and had a slight scare) but I could still never really pinpoint the moment I felt like a true mother.

Until yesterday.

I picked Kyle up from school and got this crazy idea to go to the park. I turned to him and said, "Buds, wanna go to the park?" And he very emphatically said yes. He then went on to say, "I want popcorn but AFTER the park. I want Handy Manny but AFTER the park. I wanna see Molly, Mommy, but AFTER the park, ok?"

So, we went to the park, and he was being adorable and laughing and going down the slide saying, "OH, THAT WAS FUN, MOMMY!" It was a fine decision indeed! He was wobbling across the bouncy drawbridge all by himself, and I was staying close enough to swoop in if he needed help with a potentially neck-breaking task but far enough away to let him roam independently and who cares if the dishes go unwashed another night, this is what's really important!

And then these two boys -- probably 8 years old -- came onto the scene. They started laughing and whispering to one another and walking toward my kid on the bouncey drawbridge. They saw me -- which is what really pisses me off, that they knew what they were doing IN FRONT OF THIS CHILD'S MOTHER -- and then proceeded to walk up next to him on the bridge and jump really high and hard so they could "make the baby fall." (Their words, not mine.)

He did fall and they laughed.

As I began to swoop in to get him (I had to walk up a couple steps on the playscape), the bigger one kicked him (not too hard, but just hard enough) while he tried to stand back up. And then that kid laughed some more.

I fucking saw red.

I deserve a medal for not punting those boys into the parking lot because that's what my instinct told me to do. I remained calm, told them this was a little boy they were picking on and that weren't acting like boys their age should act, and I also didn't think their mothers would be proud of their behavior (their mothers who went on to say it must have all been "a misunderstanding" but that's for another post), and then I picked Kyle up and moved him to another area of the playground.

I had a little talk with Kyle about why I did that, why I moved him away from those boys and why I didn't want him to play with them, and he looked up at me, that beautiful child of mine, and said, "yes, mommy, those boys not sweet," and then he went on to play with something else.

While my heart shattered.

The colic and the Nap Strikes and the teething and the head bonks and the projectile vomiting and all the rest of the Infant Insanity is nothing compared to the first time you witness another human being going out of their way to make your child feel small.

Yesterday, as this whole scene unfolded, I felt like there was only one other person on this planet who would feel what I felt in that moment and that person was Mike. A rush of gratitude for his mere existence came over me in the strongest and realest way. I mean, I am grateful for Mike, always, but yesterday I thought, thank FUCKING GOODNESS for Mike because in this instance he will not beg me to be rational or try to point out the opposite side's point of view. HE WILL SEE RED WITH ME. When I told him the story, hours later after he got home, I saw the red swell up in his own eyes. He said, "I would have fucking lost it."

I don't think those boys were bad kids, and that's not the point of this. I also don't think this moment scarred my own kid at all, he was just fine mere seconds later, but I will never forget what I felt in that moment, the feeling that I was created for one reason: to protect this kid, to let this stubborn, blonde-headed, sweet-eyed little boy know that he would always have someone in his corner.

I've been through a lot with him -- oh, a helluva lot, yes -- but yesterday it was so obvious to me that I went through the last two years and then the twenty-seven years before, so Kyle could have a mother.

And a mother he has.

We Went To Chicago A Million Years Ago

Did we go to Chicago? It almost feels like we didn't. Did I make it up? I have all this vacation weight hanging around my waist and hips, so I'm nearly certain we did go somewhere, but it's been so long and there is no post to prove it. I'm so confused.

(WAIT! THERE ARE FLICKR PHOTOS! THAT MEANS IT HAPPENED!)

Ok, ok, Chicago was fantastic. I know you were holding your breath for that statement and now you can exhale. (Oh, you weren't? Awkward!)

Chicago was also, sadly, cold. We had one glorious, sun-filled day and THANK THE GOOD LORD that was the day we picked to go to the Cubs game but the rest of the time there was a lot of rain, a lot of biting wind, a lot of looking out the hotel window and tossing ideas back and forth only to curl up in bed and order room service instead.

Which, come on now, was not such a bad consolation prize.

Just how chilly and cold, you're wondering. I mean, you're from Texas. Well, the last day we were there, we walked from our hotel to the Shedd Aquarium (roughly a couple miles) and it was 39 degrees outside.

I looked like this upon arrival:

COLD!

But then I think back on all we did and we did a helluva lot for being there only three-ish days and for having a hotel bed we could have always opted for.

We ate pizza!

Gino's East. I can't stop thinking about this pizza, I loved it so. But, Mike asked upon its arrival: "Uh, why is the sauce like that?" (He doesn't read enough food blogs.)

We went to Wrigley Field.

And it was just as ridiculously awesome as you'd expect. It's what all baseball experiences should be, but too few are.

I day drank at the Cubs game as if you had any doubt.

And they won, so, you know, now I have to toss back an Old Style every single time they play. FOR THE STREAK, NOT ME.

We went on an awesome architecture tour.

We drank at the Signature Lounge, atop the Hancock Building.

The view!

We also saw The Bean. In the rain!

We were also, and this one is important, staying across the street from:

We bought orange juice! And hummus! And croissants! And cheap champagne! And the nice cashier asked where we were from after we oohed and ahhed about being in a Trader Joes and she said, "Texas? Oh, I heard we're coming to you soon!" And then we Googled like MAD and couldn't find a thing and were all, THAT LIAR but look! She wasn't lying! (She just knew before Texas did and we could have broken the news and didn't and AH, I COULD HAVE BEEN FANCY GROCERY STORE FAMOUS!)

(I'm sorry, but I'm done saying bad things about Texas. In N Out and Trader Joes in the same year? Yeah, I'm good here.)

We did have such a good time, though, truly, and the Chicagoians (that doesn't look close to right; is it?) were just warm and welcoming and lovely. The city is clean and beautiful, the history incredible, and the food amazing (we had dinner at Tango Sur one night, and Mike would like to start a blog of his own just to write about the steak he had.)

Most of the good Chicago feelings are from experience but it's also possible we were told by the local news as we lounged in bed with the heat on.

  

Next vacation: THE SUN!

Cherie's Too-Quick Visit and Small-Town Sushi

Cherie came to town for what felt like five minutes. I had to work (and so did she) so we really only had two nights to hang out. Two nights is not enough nights but we made the best of it. Both nights we walked from my house to my (small) town's Main Street and ate dinner.

This is us walking. You know, in case you couldn't visualize that yourself.

The first night, we had delicious pizza at Brix. The second ... sushi.

I know what you're thinking, "Why yes, small-town Texas is totally known for its delicious sushi!" Or maybe you're not thinking that at all. Hard to tell. Cherie was feeling brave, though, so sushi it was!

We were basically the only ones in the restaurant all night. That was the first sign.

Then, it took an hour to get our food. (Second sign.)

We had a sake bomb while we waited.

(I used to love these in college and having my college friend in town inspired me. I forgot you are supposed to chug them, though, so Cherie and I became the first people in the history of the world to order sake bombs and then sip them for the next half hour. Mom version of sake bombs!)

The third sign was our waiter, our crazy crazy waiter who's shirt read:

 

Clearly the dress code for this restaurant falls under the headline KLASSY.

So, the food and service was not top-notch.

But the company was.

(We convinced Kristie to tag along with us.)

Cherie's gone again, damn distance and geography. I hope to see her again soon. Until then, I'll go pout for a little while and then remind myself it's just a good thing I have these kinds of friends at all. Even if they live all the way over in TOO-FAR-FROM-ME-VILLE.