‘Scuse Me While I Kiss the Sky

Well, we did it. Mr. Wonderful and I took our first flight together. There was a lot of sweating and many waves of nausea, but I overcame and ended up enjoying myself overall. The motion sickness during take-off turned out to be way worse than the actual fear of being in a plane the size of my car.



Mr. W was cool as a cucumber and kept me well air-conditioned when I thought I might get sick. I can see why he enjoys this as a hobby. The view was spectacular.



We flew up to Santa Ynez and stopped at the airport’s cute little picnic area for pita chips, hummus, cheese and apples. I tried to buy some mints from the vending machine, and when it gave me an error message, the nice man behind the airport desk offered me a pack of his own gum to help quell my queasiness. What a lifesaver. Totally helped during our next take-off and landing.



My sweaty palms returned as we banked west and flew over the ocean for bit on the way home. I actually stopped to think about the hammer I had seen in the center console, wondering if I’d be able break open my window should we plummet into the sea. Thankfully, this was a non-issue.



I loved seeing the green hills and the cotton candy clouds. I loved seeing Mr. W fiddle with knobs and say things like “Alpha Bravo Niner Romeo” and “left downwind departure” into his mic. I loved following those up with my own cool flight lingo, like “Bogey six o’clock” and “Permission to buzz the tower.” I asked him he would call me Goose and he said no.



I’m not sure when I’ll be going up with him again. We may negotiate a quarterly flight schedule. But I do know that I’m glad I went today. And glad we’re safely back on the ground.



** I tried to fix the fonts in this stupid post about twenty times. I don't know what the issue is... But for any of you who pay attention to that sort of thing, I apologize.

Cleared for Take-Off

When I first met Mr. Wonderful and he told me he owned a motorcycle and had his pilot’s license, I of course started accusing him of being a secret agent or an international man of mystery.

The truth is, he’s just a guy who likes fast stuff. Stuff that drives and flies. Stuff that requires knowledge of gadgets and environmental conditions. He’s a bit of a gear-head nerd. But a hot one, of course.

At some point during our courtship, Mr. W brought up the idea of me flying with him sometime. I think I politely said, “Hey look over there—“ and ran away.

It’s not that I’m afraid of flying. It’s just the thought of an eensy weensy plane hurtling through the air seems a bit dangerous. And Mr. W’s smart and all, but he’s not a pilot by trade. And then there’s the whole John Denver, Richie Valens, JFK Junior thing. Yikes.

Determined as he is, Mr. W found a solution that would make us both happy. He had heard about a plane that comes with a parachute. Not for the person flying it, for the entire plane. (See picture up to the left). So he went out and learned how to fly this plane, all in the name of making me more comfortable in the air.

We are supposed to go for our first time together on Sunday. I’m still a little nervous, but after watching Jake and Ali fly together on The Bachelor, I’m also pretty excited. (Yes, I watch The Bachelor. Shut up.) I’m sure this will be the first of many flights together…and perhaps the impetus for some future pilot/flight attendant role playing…

Snapshots of Commitment and Creativity

I'm posting over here again today, discussing Elizabeth Gilbert's book, Committed. I know, I already mentioned that work on this blog...but I did a better job on Powder Room so go read it. Pretty please.

I would also highly recommend watching Gilbert's speech on creativity from the TED conference that this lovely blogger turned me on to. It's a really wonderful talk about how ideas come "through" us rather than "to" us. Takes a little pressure off the whole creative process, doesn't it?

Is It Karmically Possible to Hate a Hippie?

Mr. Wonderful lives next door to what we believe is a full-fledged hippie commune. The house is a rental, and we’re not exactly sure how many “musicians” live in it, but there are people coming and going over there all day and all night. I know, I know, it’s Hollywood—what do we expect.

I can deal with their crazy, continual drum beating and jam sessions. I even got over the fact that two of them got into a screaming lovers’ quarrel in the middle of the cul de sac one Sunday morning at 6:00 a.m., shrieking and cursing like they were killing each other. Yes someone yelled, “Are you okay,” out a window—which they were. And yes, the cops showed up shortly thereafter.

What gets me most about the hippies is their car situation.

They have a two-car garage. But they choose to park between 4-8 cars (including a super hooptie hippie van) in the street spaces along the cul de sac. Which means there is rarely ever parking for visitors of other inhabitants in the neighborhood. Mr. W and Dirty Painter often have to park their cars on the street just to save spots for me and Southern Belle.

This irks me to no end. It makes me think about doing things like putting dead fish in the undercarriages of their cars. Or accidentally draining their tires of air. It also forces me to summon every bit of zen-ness and positivity I can as I drive toward the street.

And that of course causes me to pause and think, “Why am I hating so much when they’re just a bunch of peaceable hippies?” Sometimes I even consider, “If you can’t beat them, join them.”

Dirty Painter overheard the Head Hippie talking to guests in his yard yesterday. As one friend introduced a new female hippie to Head Hippie, HH said to her, “Tell me about yourself.” (Which immediately made me think he was interviewing her to become their 16th roommate). Her reply was, “Well...I love to love.” (Which made me think she was also interviewing for a starring role in their crazy hippie orgies).

If they’re just out to love—is it even possible for me to hate them? Can my seeds of disdain even survive if they’re fertilizing the ground around me with goodwill and musical kindness? I think their many-man love juju might be too overpowering for my bitter yuppie parking space entitlement. After all, I do drive a Prius…

Quotes from My Weekend

During yoga class, right as we were getting into corpse pose during the final relaxation, we heard the super yogi teacher in the class below us shout:

“Okay everyone, laugh as loud as you can for two minutes straight. Laugh it out. Hoot and holler.”

Needless to say, it colored the relaxation a bit.

During Supercross Saturday night, as Mr. Wonderful, Dirty Painter, DP’s brother, Southern Belle and I watched punk kids and tarty girls mill around in the stands, there was a volley of:

“Does every guy here have that hat?”
“Could that dude’s pants be any lower?”
“Is it really necessary to wear a tube top when it’s freezing outside?”
“How much ratting is required on one head of hair?”

Right before the giant plastic wrap-around beam for Mr. Wonderful’s vertical blinds came crashing down on me, bloodying my shoulder, I asked:

“How did you get this piece off the other window? Mine feels stuck.”

After Valentine’s night dinner, as Mr. W and I sat on the couch sipping wine, he assured me:

“I didn’t see you on the toilet. I saw a sliver of your leg as you handed the magazine out the door.”

Romantic, eh? Fits with last year…

During the cheese-chocolate-wine-tasting class Mr. W and I attended last night, he turned to me and said:

“When we get home tonight, I want to try my flight headset on you. Your head is so tiny, I think we might need to get you a dog headset to wear when I take you flying.”

As Meg Ryan said in When Harry Met Sally, "Who is the dog in this scenario?! I am the dog."

The very best quote of all wasn’t one I heard, though. It was one I read in a Valentine’s Day card. It was sweet and genuine and it included the word “wife.” Cross your fingers for me readers, I think we’re getting closer…

Just in Time for Valentine's Day

There in the late, dark hours of the evening, Mr. Wonderful and I laid side-by-side, whispering to each other about something we’d never before discussed. My toilet.

It’s been misbehaving lately and rather than call my landlord and say, “Hey B, I keep clogging up the crapper—can you send someone over?” I wanted to snake it myself. But Mr. W informed me last night that my apartment likely has clay pipes and if I snake it, I could break a pipe and flood the place. I think I may just go buy some Liquid Plummer and call it a day (I know, I am the Green AntiChrist. It’s just that…when the shower stopped up, LP worked like a charm.)

When the toilet incidences first started, I thought it might be my fault.

I’ve been watching a lot of Dr. Oz lately and he talks about fiber constantly. So much so, that I became insecure about my own fiber consumption. Was I not getting enough? Was I slowly building an indestructible pebble wall inside my sewer line because of the lack of roughage in my diet? Was I going to end up on the show as a worst-case scenario pooper?

I’m not sure if I expressed these concerns to Mr. W, but as we did with the Napa/Birthday idea, we had a brain-sharing moment about all this over the weekend. Thinking I could solve my plumbing issues by way of the bowel, I picked up some Benefiber at Target Friday. Then Saturday when I went over to his house, there on my nightstand was a container of Benefiber.

I laughed and asked him what that little gift was all about. “You said you didn’t think you were getting enough fiber, so I picked up a bottle for each of us.”

That’s the kind of thoughtful guy Mr. W is. The kind who cares about me and my colon. And my clay pipes.

Expanding My Horizons

I was invited to blog over here a few weeks ago. Check out my first post!

Super Bruise Sunday

I’m not a sports fan, but yesterday when Mr. Wonderful’s roommate’s girlfriend (got that?) invited us over for a little Super Bowl party, we gladly accepted. As always, she was a gracious host—cooking burgers for us, filling wine glasses, teaching us to pole dance.

Let me back up before I get to that story…

Shortly after we arrived to the party, Mr. W’s roommate started complaining about how he didn’t have a “special name” on my blog. He said he liked to consider himself part of the ensemble cast of my life, and that, as such, he deserved a character name like Mr. W.

So today I will give him that. Because he is an artist who regularly has giant canvases around the house with half naked women on them, I will name the roommate “Dirty Painter.” And because his girlfriend is the most adorable, sweet little Disney princess of a girl, her name from here on out will be “Southern Belle.”

Southern Belle took lots of dance lessons as a child and has the natural grace of a ballerina. A couple years ago, she decided to spin her dance abilities into something new, signing up for pole dancing classes. Now, they say anyone can be trained to pole-perform, but I think it takes someone with extensive skill and coordination like SB.

Anywhoo, being the awesome girlfriend she is, she went out and purchased a pole that could be erected in her living room for Dirty Painter to enjoy. When Mr. W and I walked into her place last night, we nearly ran into it—it’s right inside the front door, just as any good, serious pole should be.

Of course, I wanted to see the thing being used, so at some point during the football game, we all wandered into the living room for a demonstration. I think she went first, cascading down and around that metal shaft like a rose petal falling from its bud. Dirty Painter jumped on the pole next and not only maneuvered quite impressively around it, but landed on the floor with one hand on his head, striking a pose that sent all of us into hysterics. Mr. W, of course, wouldn’t touch the pole with a ten-foot pole…

After shooing the boys out of the room, SB gave her own roommate (oh sheesh, I guess I have to think of name for her too, now…) and me a quick tutorial on how to do some simple moves. She made it look so easy. She was controlled and graceful—toes pointed the entire time, hair fanning out around her, perfect landings that would have earned lots of dollar bills in the real world. Her roommate went next, and she too did an excellent job.

And then it was my turn.

Apparently my brain is incapable of making one leg go one direction and the other go another. I could get the first leg tucked safely around the pole, but when I started so swing down around it, the other leg flung forward and smacked the metal shin-first. Ow. Bruise. I tried again. Same spot, this time more tender.

Before we left, I invited Mr. W to come watch my ape-like grace in action. He, Southern Belle, and SB’s roommate watched on with hopeful expressions as I jumped and spun—wacking my leg harder than ever against the pole. I crumpled to the ground and, when I looked down at my shin bone, saw the big old goose egg pictured above.

Me and my raised bruise? We’re dead sexah.

Oh But I Love Him

After some of the comments on my last post, I felt more than a little compelled to defend the Wonderful name.

My impatience may have made it seem like I was just sitting helplessly by while this awful guy made all my life decisions and strung me along like an evil puppeteer.

But I assure you, that is not at all the case.

Though he’s a bit slow (in the relationship department), I do not feel that Mr. W is taking me for granted, leading me on or trying to lap up all the milk without ever buying the cow. The current “waiting situation” is completely about logistics outside both our control. And although we could scrap our initial idea of moving into his house, the other scenarios we’ve discussed just don’t seem to make as much sense.

It’s not a case of “He’s Just Not that into You.” The boy shows his into-me-ness all the time.

He’s the guy who brings me back fancy chocolates every time he has to travel. The one who bought me special socks to wear to yoga because I got cold during one session. The guy who agreed to go see CATS with me next month. The one who works out the kinks in my neck if he sees me rubbing them. And who told me that if he has to leave the country for a movie again, he will support me so I can go with him.

He’s the one who watches me compulsively apply hand lotion before bed, and when I ask “Dejavu?” he responds with “Just something to look forward to for the next 50 years.”

He’s wonderful, I tell you. And that makes him worth the wait…it’s just hard to wait when you have someone so fantastic that you want to go to sleep with every night and wake up next to every morning.

So even though I may whine now and again about things surrounding our situation, please know that those things do not make him any less perfect for me.

Oh and thank you, you and you for your offline discussions with me yesterday. What great perspectives you all have!

A Logistical Standstill

I feel like I’m stuck at a relationship rest stop. Sure, it happens to be off a nice mountain road with pretty views and clean bathrooms, but it’s not my destination. It’s not even like the lovely picnic grounds before the ultimate destination. It’s a rest stop. And I’m getting antsy here.

I don’t know if I’ve written it on this blog yet, but Mr. Wonderful and I started talking about moving in together back in November. Now, being a girl and all, this shot my mind forward like a domestic cannonball—sailing my thoughts through pockets of home décor and homecooked meals and alone togetherness. It was the step forward I had been waiting for.

On the subject of waiting, lets just recap here and remember that I had to wait 7 months for an I love you, a year for a meet-the-family trip and many, many weeks and months throughout 2009 to even spend time with Mr. W. I know, I know, that should make me incredibly grateful just to have him back in the country, right? Well it does. But it’s not always enough to make me sit still and ignore the trajectory I’m yearning for. I’m growing oh so tired of waiting.

(Note to Self: This is a life lesson because I hate waiting. I’m a snap decision-maker and these continual stints in limbo are great immersion therapy for me. Whatever.)

A few nights ago, Mr. W and I were again discussing the possibility of a move-in when he began breaking down all the logistics involved. He has a roommate, so this isn’t as simple as me packing up my apartment and renting a U-Haul. There are financial issues, personal issues, and a whole lot of sticky red tape precluding anything from happening fast.

I said, “So are we looking at like 9 months here?”

And he said maybe.

This isn’t what I had planned out in my head when the subject first came up. Particularly because a year from now, Mr. W could end up working on another movie in a foreign country. So it’d be great to actually have some living time with him here. Now.

Being me, I made another snap decision and said, “Maybe I should just buy a condo then.”

And being Mr. W, he said something like, “That’s not going to solve anything. These things just take time.”

Why oh why is it so hard for me to forge a harmonious relationship with the clock and calendar? I really wish that I was the kind of person who didn’t mind the wait. But instead I feel like I’m going to rupture my spleen over this.

I bought a book by the Dalai Lama (or Rama, as my mother calls him) about the Buddhist perspective on patience. I’ve been reading it every night before bed. So far, I don’t think it’s working…