New Name. New Address. Last Post.

When I was a kid, I found a slip of paper in my baby book that had a list of names on it my mother had considered during her pregnancy with me. I think the top, starred girl name on the list was "Melissa/Misty." Thank God they didn't go with that as a nickname. We had a friend with a poodle named Misty. "Holly" was also on the list, which I always thought would have gone nicely with "Hetherington." If I were a boy, they were thinking they'd go with "Brent."

Though they chose "Melissa/No-Misty," I answered to "Heather" for much of my life, thanks to my last name. Teachers often called me Heather. People who met me and forgot my name used that one in its place. Coworkers mistakenly summoned me by it.

The name confusion is probably the one thing I won't miss about losing Hetherington.

Actually, that and having to write or say 12 letters every time I spell out my name.

But even with the few upsides to changing, the thought of a different moniker has taken me awhile to fully accept. You might remember my freakout about changing my initials. And then there was the heel-dragging on filling out forms on MissNowMrs.com. I've stretched the process out for 5 whole months (yes, today is our 5-month anniversary) and now it's pretty much totally complete.

My new last name is actually a beautiful one. It means "of the sea" in Greek. Funny because Melissa means "honeybee" in Greek, so now I'm Honeybee of the Sea. Brings sort of a cute visual to mind.

I was messing around on Etsy the other day and decided to create a treasury around the idea of Greek seas. It sort of made my new last name feel even prettier...


So now that I've made my peace with being a "Maris" instead of a "Hetherington," I've decided it's time to retire this blog and move over permanently to 'S Wonderful.

I still plan to write goofy stories and personal insights over there, even though I initially started it to be a blog about married life. I will still be Mel Heth on the inside. Just with a bit of a twist on the outside.

I really hope you'll all follow me over there. Update your blogrolls and reader feeds.

It's been so great getting to know you all over here. Wonderful, really...

See you soon at http://ourlifeofwonderful.blogspot.com/

Getting Cheeky

I had a very visual reminder this past weekend of how much I need to get back into shape. And maybe spend some more time in the sun. And perhaps invest in a cellulite-reducing cream.

Find out all the dirty details at 'S Wonderful.

Havisham, Here I Come

I'm over here at 'S Wonderful, writing about being a lonelywed. I guess I should let you all know that very, very soon I'll probably be posting over there all the time. Two blogs is one too many for me, and this URL is becoming outdated. I'll let ya know when I make the switch and I hope you'll all continue to follow me over there! Even if I do become Miss Havisham in the next couple weeks...

Diary of a D Cup

Do you ladies out there know your real bra size? Not the one you think you're supposed to wear, but the real, true one you should be special ordering from Vicky Secrets?

Check out my latest 'S Wonderful post and you may be surprised by what you learn. I know I was!

Sometimes Even Sneaky Peekers Receive Surprises AKA Nick Jonas Has Nice Hair

Before Christmas when I was in second or third grade, my older sister caught me and my cousin Kim peeking at our unwrapped presents. I knew where my mom had hidden them, and was certain my sister wouldn't hear what we were up to, so we went on our merry way and rifled through the Christmas shopping bags.

When my sister found us, she gave us a stern lecture but promised not to rat us out. Lie. She totally told on us. And of course my mom threatened to return all my gifts to their stores.

It's fitting that some twenty-odd years later, my niece peeked at a birthday present I'd bought for her.

I think it was 6 or 7 years ago when I'd taken the birthday outfit I'd purchased over to show my sister. I left it in a bag in the living room and when I went to leave, I noticed that the bag wasn't how I'd left it. I asked my niece, we'll call her Al (like that Paul Simon song) and I believe she tried to deny it at first. Then I think she burst into tears and said she really liked the skirt. I didn't know whether to laugh or give her a time out.

Then the next time I saw her, she gave me this. Which I've saved all these years...

In case you need a translation, it says: Dear Auntie, I'm sorry
I peeked in the bag, but I am glad to be just...

like you and Kim. Most of all is to get a boyfriend when I'm 30 and get married.

I think it's hysterical that her apology included a littler buttering up about how she liked being like me and cousin Kim (my partner in crime for childhood gift peeking) but even funnier that at age 6 or 7, she was concerned with getting a boyfriend when she was 30. I'm pretty sure I was still in my 20s when she wrote this—it was nice of her to up the age on her note.

This year, Al is turning 13.

And in grand auntie tradition, I planned a very special night out to celebrate her induction into teenagehood. Her favorite food is Chinese, so I took her to Chin Chin on the Sunset Strip for dinner. After that, we did a little shopping at Hollywood & Highland and grabbed a pastry at Beard Papa's. Then we hiked up Highland Avenue to the Hollywood Bowl where we had tickets to see Hairspray. The big bonus for my niece: Nick Jonas was playing one of the lead roles. (Though Harvey Fierstein blew everyone else out of the water).

My sneaky little niece figured out her birthday surprise before I took her Friday night.

She knew what night we were doing our big celebration and when she saw a commercial for Hairspray on TV, she was certain that's what we were doing. I can't believe she found me out again...

The only person who turned out surprised that night was me: Nick Jonas was shockingly entertaining. Who knew?

I guess after peeking and foiling my own surprises as a kid, I can't get upset that my niece operates the same way. I wonder if she reads ahead in novels like I do. Thank goodness for both of us that there are still unexpected treats out in the world. Like Nick Jonas's biceps.

The Great Kid Debate

Saturday afternoon, I got stuck in an elevator at IKEA. This was my first time ever being stuck in an elevator.

I was riding from floor 2 to floor 1 with three friends from high school, two toddlers, three babies, two strollers and a shopping cart. It was hot in there. The alarm was ringing loudly. When I finally figured out which switch had been tampered with by tiny hands and the doors opened, I was hankering for an adult beverage.

The funny thing was that right before we got into the elevator, we were discussing whether or not I wanted kids. Whether I was really cut out for it. When we emerged from the stalled IKEA car, my girlfriend said, "That was a sign!"

I said, "I know - a loud one with alarm bells screaming DON'T DO IT!"

"No," she said. "A sign you should do it. You were totally calm in there."

And therein lies the debate that my brain and uterus seem to be having on a daily basis. My womb insists that I should for sure have kids, that I can absolutely handle it and that I might actually like it. Then my brain jumps in and explains that I love my free time, love dinners out with Mr. W, love drinking wine and traveling, am not a fan of poop or throw-up or bratty friends or sleepless nights. My brain reminds my baby parts about the news story I just saw about the kid in Florida who killed his parents with a hammer and the little girl on Oprah with multiple personalities.

For every positive I can think of, there are about a thousand negatives or concerns to match it.

The main being, I just don't really know that I ever want to take on that kind of responsibility.

My Creative Director at work has told me multiple times that I would make a great CD myself one day. Every time, I smile and say, "no way." I don't want the responsibility. I'm flattered by his confidence in me, but I'm a Peter Pan girl. I'm not looking to leave Neverland anytime soon.

You could totally handle the kids thing, my uterus, friends and family say.

I could probably handle running a half marathon multiple times in a month but I don't want to do that. I could handle giving up chocolate and wine, but I don't want to do that either. I'm a pleasure junky.

So the debate continues.

I'm kind of wishing they made muzzles for biological clocks.

Community Cravings

Last Friday night, I was running an errand up near my beloved hometown and I ran smack dab into my cousin and her two sons. We were both at Home Goods and ended up goofing around for a good thirty minutes in the store together. Even though it was 9:00 at night.

It made me miss Montrose.

That's the town I lived in for 8 years before I moved in with Mr. Wonderful. My grandmother's father was one of the first real estate developers there, so my family has lived in the vicinity for 3 (or rather 4 if you count my nieces) generations.

It is virtually impossible for me not to run in to familiar faces on the streets up there. So it wasn't a huge surprise to see my cousin out shopping.

These things don't happen to me in Hollywood.

The past several times I've gone to Montrose to see friends or family, I feel a little ache in my gut. It's a very charming small town (the main street is the one Will Ferrell went streaking down in Old School) with tree-lined streets and neat little houses. It feels safe and inviting. Cozy. Like home. Mr. Wonderful often calls it Mayberry.

But I realized on Friday night that the quaintness of the town isn't why I miss it. I don't want to move back. Don't want to retire there.

What I miss is the community it holds. The connections I have there—from high school, from my college coffeehouse job, from family and friends of family. It's really neat to know so many people in such a small space.

It seems to me that one can create a similar sense of community almost anywhere. People do it in their neighborhoods in New York City. And even when they live miles apart from neighbors out in the country. There has to be a way for me to cultivate that in Hollywood. I'm just not entirely sure how.

I know people routinely develop little friend circles by frequenting bars or particular shops or gyms or yoga studios. Sadly, I'm not über motivated to do any of those things. I think I'm more drawn to trying to meet friends of friends in the area. I do know some great people in town. The Boss and his awesome wife live just a few blocks from us and have had me over for some fun little get togethers. But of course, I crave more because of what I used to have in Montrose.

Mr. W has teased me recently after we met a couple of his friends' girlfriends. I was so enthusiastic and immediately wanted to be BFFs with them. Mr. W totally pinned me as a stalker and told me to simmer down or I'd scare them away. (I friended both on Facebook anyway...) I guess I was just hoping to find a new hiking buddy or movie pal.

It's sort of like being single again. I have to figure out how to hit on people in a non-creepy way. So, of course, I'm looking for advice. How do you guys build out your communities without seeming like desperate social rejects?

I'm Thinking of Adding a Pear Tree. And a Partridge.

Yesterday's backyard harvest was one of the best ones yet! I ate all 5 of the strawberries, made a tomato-basil salad with a couple of the big guys above and whipped up zucchini pasta for dinner tonight. Maybe there'll be a stuffed pepper dinner later in the week.

For some more pics of our little backyard farm, check out 'S Wonderful.

A Quiet House Makes a Thankful Heart

I'm over at 'S Wonderful today thanking my lucky stars and thinking about the effects we all have on each other's lives. I can't help it—I get a little schmoopy when Mr. W is away for work.

Read my post here.

Nothing Satisfies Quite Like the Real Deal

I eat dark chocolate almost every day.

I keep a stash in my desk drawer and peel into it in the late afternoon, pretending I'm just out to get my fill of antioxidants. But really, I just want the chocolate fix.

I've tried substituting other things. Fruit. Almonds. Cottage cheese. Milk chocolate. Which usually just leaves me eating more and more to try to fill the original craving. Nothing is as good as a little square of the dark.

But what if all my dark chocolate was out of the country for 7 weeks? How would I hit the 75% cacao spot in my stomach?

I suppose I would schedule as many activities as I could and start a million craft projects for my Etsy store and try to finally get my chocolate-eating butt in gear when it came to writing. At night I would lie in bed, missing the chocolate. I would get up and hike the next morning with an apple or a graham cracker and feel reasonably satisfied, but not fully.

I would drink wine alone on the couch, remembering times chocolate had been there with me, laughing over a mishap on Iron Chef. I would tend all the vegetables in the backyard, wishing chocolate was around to give me a little energy boost.

I would see movies with friends but think about having chocolate's hand intertwined in mine during the film.

All the distractions in the world couldn't quiet the chocolate yearning. Which is why it's going to be so hard to go without him for the next 7 weeks while he's in London working on that damn movie again.

Is It Better to Contract or Expand?

A couple of weeks ago, I broke down and joined Twitter. Feel free to follow me...

My main motivation for this was the thought that maybe I could promote my Etsy store on there after I beef it up a little. And maybe someday, promote a book I write. I also felt a sort of duty to my job to round out my grasp of social media. Everyone is tweeting now, everyone is liking everything on Facebook.

The problem with adding another site to my collection of online endeavors is that I now have yet another time sucker to keep me from writing (or blogging or giving scalp massages to my new groom). And it has me wondering whether it's smart to expand all this Internet stuff—indulging hobbies on Etsy, documenting life on the blog, socializing with old friends on Facebook—or if I would be wise to simplify. Contract. Decrease.

I appreciate social media as a marketing tool. But in my effort to embrace social outlets, I'm worried I'm going to keep myself so occupied, I'll never actually have anything to market there.

So I'm wondering where you all net out with this stuff. A lot of you blog. Do you lose hours on Facebook? Do you tweet? And if you do it all, do you find it hard to balance? Is less more here or do I need to widen my perspective?

Men Are from Mars. And Sometimes So Are Their Daughters.

My dad worked for the same company for 44 years.

He started out there as a slick-haired 18-year-old and retired at 62, the grandfather of three girls. I have no idea how he stuck with it for that long.

He used to leave for work every day at 6:30 a.m. and return home at 4:30 p.m., change his clothes and retreat to his rocking chair where he would engross himself in crossword puzzles or the latest issue of Popular Mechanics. By the time my mom got home at 5:30, he was refreshed and ready to hear the tales of her hen house-like office job.

He had a system and it worked.

When I read the book Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus in college, there was a section in it about men "going to their caves" that immediately made me think of my dad. That's what he was doing in his rocking chair: removing himself from society so he could recharge his batteries.

The book said women dealt with stress differently, but I don't think that's the case with all of us.

You see, lately I've been noticing that I too do better if I can "go to my cave" after a hard day. Although I've been living with Mr. Wonderful for almost 8 months now, this just occurred to me last week. I was having a particularly frustrating time at work and one night Mr. W wasn't home yet when I arrived.

I poured myself a glass of wine. Decompressed. Shed my grumpiness from the prior 9 hours. By the time Mr. W got home, I was perky and pleasant to be around. (My mother and sister are rolling their eyes and muttering "liar" right now.) Every other day last week, I wasn't in the best mood when I greeted my hubby.

I really think the alone time did the trick.

Not quite sure yet what to do with this information. Maybe I need to tell Mr. W not to talk to me for 15 minutes when I get home. Or maybe I need to make it a habit to lock myself in the bedroom for a little while until I can have a peppy attitude.

Just when I think I've learned everything I could from my parents, dear old dad gives me another life lesson...

The Beauty of a Staycation

The big, fat Internet company I work for threw us a nice juicy bone this past weekend when they gave us not only Monday but Tuesday off for the 4th of July.

Mr. Wonderful and I debated on whether we should take advantage of my free holiday and go on a trip somewhere, but the idea of not packing, not getting travel weary, and cleaning out the garage (note: garage cleaning is NOT vacationary AT ALL) appealed to me more. So a staycation it was!

Rather than just hang around the house and catch up on chorebies (sometimes even hobbies feel like chores...) we brainstormed some ways to spice things up. When Mr. W proposed the idea of visiting the LA County Arboretum and Botanical Gardens, I was sold. We've always been big fans of those sorts of places.

We loved strolling the gardens of Paris in 2009.

And we dug Kew Gardens outside of Richmond in the UK.


The Arboretum definitely satisfied our European garden appetite. Visit 'S Wonderful to check out some of the cool pictures we took while we were there:

http://ourlifeofwonderful.blogspot.com/2011/07/all-this-and-they-filmed-fantasy-island.html

A Little Smidge of Horrifying Humor

This isn't necessarily a story I'd normally broadcast all over the Internet, but I found it quite funny and my pants are too tight today (likely cutting off bloodflow to my brain) so I'm going to share it.

Let me first start by putting us all on an equal plane: we all have body hair. In weird places. I think everyone has experienced the boobie creeper hair that pops up overnight. (A friend of mine once called it haireola.) And we've all caught the glint of a random chin whisker in the mirror. Some of you even have patches on your toes that require shaving.

So it should have been no surprise that I would end up with a tickler in my nasal cavity.

It all started Sunday when Mr. Wonderful and I went to a screening of Cars 2 and, in the darkness of the theater, I thought I had a cat hair up my nose. Every now and then, I'd breathe out and feel something up there. But I didn't seem to be able to whisk it away with the back of my hand.

Maybe it was the wine I had later in the night, but I stopped noticing the feeling and figured the stray fuzz/cat hair/phantom poker had disappeared.

Then I went to work Monday and felt it again. And I knew.

After work, I greeted Mr. W in the kitchen and told him I thought I had a monster nose hair growing in my right nostril. I don't think he signed up for that kind of talk when he married me, but he's stuck now.

I assembled my tools: a hand mirror, a pair of scissors and a set of tweezers. I sat down in the bright evening light by our sliding glass door and peeked up my nose.

Sure enough, there it was. A rogue hair growing from somewhere far up in the cavern down toward the entry hole. Tickling. Horrifying.

I'm happy to say that he is much shorter now. And that Mr. W has not served me divorce papers. Likely because of that one random sprout he gets on his earlobe sometimes.

Ah, the joys of getting older. I seriously do not even want to know what else lies ahead...

Mano Y Mano

I'm over at 'S Wonderful today talking about hand-holding. You can read the post here.

Um, and while you're over there, wanna add your name to my followers list? It feels awfully lonely on blog #2 with only one devotee. (Thanks for your loyalty, Scribe!)

When One Moment Passes, There's Another Right Behind It

Upon returning from my two-week honeymoon last month, I found myself thinking a lot about time limits. Not deadlines, exactly, but rather periods of time you know won't last. (I guess life is a period of time we know won't last, but bear with me...)

On vacation, you don't really know if the time you have in a particular city or a particular park or at a particular restaurant will be your one and only, so you generally tend to soak it up in a most magnificent in-the-moment way. You live each second. You enjoy experiences to an extent you might not at home. Because home is available. Like the nice guy you put off dating because you know he'll always be there waiting for you.

My return from Italy left me thinking, "how can I create that same sense of urgency and commitment to the moment in my day-to-day life?"

I did it when I got laid off in 2003. I got up every morning and made the most of every day—sometimes writing for hours on end—because I knew it wouldn't last forever.

But in the safety of my gainfully employed nest, I can't seem to push myself to live with the kind of vigor that comes naturally on trips and during bouts of joblessness. And unfortunately, once you've experienced that feeling, when you're not sensing it you sort of feel like you're not living.

If only I could fully convince my brain that life is short and every day counts, even if they're spent at your stand-up desk.

I want to be burning with desire to write. I want to hustle to churn out query letters or Etsy business cards or even that scrapbook of my half marathons. But I keep thinking I have all the time in the world for that. All the time in the world to fritter away on Tivo and Facebook.

Any suggestions on how I can get myself to start making more—making the most—of every moment? Even if it's not in a piazza in Italy?

Pucker Up!

I'm blogging over at 'S Wonderful tonight. Talking lemons and future lemon orchards and limoncello. Ah, to be a real farmer someday...

Um and also, here's a little shameless promotion of some of my recent Etsy additions. Gotta plug the goods anywhere I can, right?

Upcycled jewelry catch-all

Italian leather journals with eco-fi felt cover buddies

Upcycled travel jewelry box with eco-fi felt flower

Upcycled travel jewelry container with eco-fi felt owl top

Sc Sc Sc Score!

You guys, the Ttt Ttt dude got moved to a different floor. This means my eye twitch and neck spasm might stop!

What's more exciting though, is that I got a stand-up desk today.

Several weeks back when I was in the throes of insanity with Ttt Ttt and my new seating situation, I decided to put in a request to the ergonomics department to get my desk elevated.

See, I work for an Internet company that believes everyone should be equally miserable in grey, 4.5-foot-tall cubicles. But having my desk raised meant I could look over the walls and actually see my team members again and potentially attain an altitude above the jet stream of Ttting.

Then the Universe threw me a huge bone by not only enabling me to get my desk raised, but to have it moved over to a seat that was being vacated by one of Ttt Ttt's coworkers. I now have a view out the floor-to-ceiling balcony windows. Score.

In addition to my boosted morale, I'm pretty sure that I've extended my life expectancy. According to the American Cancer Society, "women who reported more than six hours per day of sitting were 37 percent more likely to die during the time period studied than those who sat fewer than 3 hours a day."

Yikes, right?

I've also heard that standing releases certain enzymes that help your metabolism. All in all, it just seems like a healthier option for getting through my 9-6.

The other benefits I discovered this morning after I moved in? I feel super productive like a cat who is continually springing into action because I'm on my feet. And even better than that: when a good song comes on iTunes, I can totally dance in place. Awe. Some.

Good Thing I Wasn't Wearing Wooden Shoes When I Stuck My Foot in My Mouth

This past weekend, I attended a very lovely wine-tasting bachelorette party in one of my most favorite getaway cities, Solvang, California. It's practically a second home for me—I've tried new dishes there, completed a couple of half marathons, and even rung in the New Year with my parents. Its windmill-lined streets and Danish charm have a very special place in my heart. However, it's a pretty funny little town.

Founded by Danes in 1911, it has retained so much of the original architecture and culture that it almost has a Disneyland-like feel to it now. You sort of expect to round a corner and see someone in a giant furry pastry costume waiting to pose for pictures with you. It's odd and sort of wonderful that this kind of storybook land can exist just north of Santa Barbara and right in the midst of Central Coast wine country.

Given its kitschy nature, I wouldn't expect it to be a huge destination for international travelers. Which is why I was sort of surprised (perhaps I shouldn't have been) when we pulled up to our hotel and the bellhop promptly informed us that the Prince of Denmark was staying there.

We walked into the lobby and a few of the girls from our group were commenting on the heavy police presence outside.

"The Prince of Denmark is staying here," I told them. "Because of course if you're the Prince of Denmark, you're going to visit Sooolllvaaang on your trip to the states."

There was heavy mocking in my tone.

A couple of the girls got very wide-eyed.

"He's right behind me, isn't he?" I asked.

They smiled and nodded.

I snapped my big fat mouth shut and froze.

The Prince breezed past me, likely thinking to himself, "Stupid American."

I guess if I were Princess of the U.S., I'd want to go visit "Little America" in a foreign land, too. And I probably wouldn't be too happy if some snarky local made fun of me for it.

Denmark, I would like to formally apologize for my insensitivity. I welcome you back for an American-made aebelskiver anytime you'd like to come.

And Now, a Very Special Story about Night-Before-Wedding Sex Talks

My mom reminded me recently that a rather hysterical night transpired before my walk down the aisle and I forgot to document it here.

It was the eve of the wedding and, with much fanfare, my matron of honor sister had welcomed me into her home for a slumber party. There was a little white bouquet on the guest bedroom pillow for me, streamers on the wall and a banner that said, "Tomorrow's the big day!" with a picture of me and Mr. W on it.

It was all fantastic.

But the highlight of the night came after my sister, nieces and I had changed into our jammies and were lounging in the family room.

I don't quite remember how it all started, but Younger Niece, who is 12, whispered something to Older Niece, who is 16, that caused Older Niece to sort of scamper across the couch and let out a wail. (We call her Moana because of the frequent moaning she does when she doesn't like things.) After a little prodding, we got Younger Niece to just ask the question out loud. She was in a safe, family environment—we would be honest with her and not punish her for being inappropriate.

"I just wanted to know if it's verbal sex or oral sex," she said.

And then my sister and I proceeded to pee our pants.

The conversation that ensued was something I could have only dreamed of the night before my wedding. Endlessly entertaining. Highly informative. I went to sleep that night feeling like the most knowledgeable virgin bride on the block...