'Cause I'm a B-L-O-N-D

"You want a discount?" Rico Suave asked this afternoon, eyeing me up and down from behind the counter at Sport Chalet.

I assumed he was going to try to sell me on a store credit card. "These are already on sale, I don't need one," I politely declined.

"You a real blond?" he said. Which, now that I type it, makes me think he was being dirty and wondering if the carpet matched the drapes...if ya know what I'm sayin'...

"Yes," I answered. "It's darker than it was when I was a kid, so I highlight it. But it's real."

He looked to be Middle Eastern, with dark, curly hair and a tiny moustache and trimmed beard. "You a real brunette?" I shot back at him.

"Black, you mean, not brunette," he corrected me.

What do you call someone with black hair? Yellow hair is blond, brown hair is brunette, red heads are...well, red heads—does that mean I have to call someone a black head if they have charcoal hair? That just doesn't seem right...

Anyway, next he threw out, "Men find blonds very appealing, you know..."

I wasn't about to engage this guy and say something like, "Romeo, do you find me very appealing?" So instead I asked the next logical question that came to mind: "Is that because we're supposed to be stupid?"

That was the end of the conversation.

Worth the Wait

I met a friend—my old art director partner—for dinner last night. Well, I had dinner. She had eaten beforehand and was supposed to just have a drink. A glass of Chardonnay, I thought. But when she walked into the restaurant and sat down, she ordered water with lemon.

“Were you boozing at your work party this afternoon?” I teased.

“No, I’m not drinking.”

“What?”

My friend and her husband were never on the fast track. They dated for 10 years before getting married in 2005, and have been volleying the kids idea around since then. Being the pain-in-the-butt friend I am, I ask her—every time I see her—whether they’ve made a decision. I thought the closest they’d gotten to entertaining the idea was buying a dog last year.

“I’m five months along,” she said.

I couldn’t believe it. I started to cry. I was so pleasantly shocked and overjoyed that she and her hubby had reached their point of readiness. Had they gotten pregnant right away, I don’t think I would’ve been as overwhelmed by emotion.

I’ve been realizing this a lot lately: That good things are even better
when you wait.

Ever the late bloomer, and always the last to do everything (get my period, get a boyfriend, lose my virginity, ah yes and now, get married) I’ve gotten accustomed to waiting for things. But up until recently I’ve always felt impatient. It was as though life was a To Do list and I was just trying to hustle my way through it and check everything off.

But I see now, that things seem to mean more when I slow down and allow myself to get ready for them; enjoy everything leading up to them; savor them when they arrive. It’s not about the end product, it’s about the process. Seems like a complete no-brainer but I don’t think I used to understand this.

Before Mr. W and I said the L-word, I remember thinking that I should embrace the time without it. Even though I wanted to hear it so badly, I knew that someday we would say it as though it meant nothing (okay, not nothing, but you know what I mean). So I tried to enjoy that anticipation and the physical ways it showed up before it was actually said.

People are now starting to ask me about the M-word, and as much as I want to indulge the fantasy and start looking online for ring settings and gown designs, I know that if I just relax and relish the moments we have, an engagement, a wedding, and a family will be so much sweeter.

The present moment is a great place to be. And if I can be patient, I know beyond a doubt, that everything ahead of it will be worth the wait.

Congratulations to my friend J on the impending birth of her
little baby girl!

Elevuuuun Hours

Remember the great scene in Spinal Tap where they talk about turning the amp to eleven? If my weekend were an amp, I would have liked to turn it down to one. Because my "eleven" this weekend was eleven hours spent working on a freelance project.

It’s rare (like I haven’t actually done any in ohh 3 years, I think) for me to take on work outside of my day job. I LOVE my free time and usually the money just isn’t worth giving up a couple hours at the movies or a run at the beach. But this time, when the opportunity came up to make some fat cash, I thought about my credit card bill. And my nest egg. And my hypothetical trip to Italy. And I felt like I couldn’t say no.

So 3.5 hours Friday night, 4 hours Saturday, and another 3.5 Sunday night were spent staring at my computer screen as I edited 43 documents. Thankfully, I gave my eyes a rest Saturday evening when I went to see Tropic Thunder (some chokingly, gut-wrenchingly hilarious parts in it, btw) and visited Bottle Rock for some much needed vino.

But last night, I literally dreamed I was staring at my computer screen. I kept tossing and turning because, in my mind, I was still proofreading and editing. And this morning, I was exhausted. There’s nothing worse than thinking about work during the one time you really shouldn’t be.

Anybody else ever had this happen?

Moving of the Toothbrush

I have issues with toothbrushes. The way they show up in your bathroom when you start dating someone and then linger there after you and that person have parted ways. I don’t like throwing them out. I don’t like keeping them around. I don’t like seeing my single toothbrush alone in the holder after I’ve disposed of an ex’s.

Last Christmas, my parents bought me an electric toothbrush. This does provide a dazzling and technologically advanced distraction, however I still keep a regular one in my medicine cabinet, and I still look at it every day, standing steadfast at its post.

When Mr. Wonderful and I began dating, and he started spending enough time over here to need his own dental care items, I decided to do the cautious thing and place his brush on the third shelf of the cabinet. That way, I wouldn’t associate it with my own brush, and miss it if it ever needed to be scraped along the lip of my toilet, torched and pitched into the trashcan.

It’s been perched up there since November, balanced carefully on a box of teeth bleaching gel, waiting patiently to be relocated to the porcelain cup on the bottom shelf.

Well, I don’t know whether it was the fact that I had a new box of Imodium to store on shelf three—or maybe Mr. W’s charming use of no-no hole—but this morning I moved his toothbrush down next to mine.

Yes, it’s a big risk. But I’m willing to take it and be hopeful that the only reason his brush will disappear is because he’s upgrading it to a new one. Or all his teeth have fallen out.

Assddendum

My mother actually just sent me an email that said:

"Dad wants to know what a no-no hole is.
He's never heard of that!"

People, this is why I am the way I am.

A Whole New Level of Romance

I have to thank Mandy for expanding my vocabulary last week with a term I found so absolutely hilarious, I had to pass it on to Mr. W. Mandy is brilliant and should be in charge of writing Merriam-Webster’s next Collegiate Dictionary. I know, you’re wondering what the term was… Well, read below and I’m sure it’ll jump right out at you.

Somewhere between Saturday and Monday I caught a little stomach bug. Mr. W and I saw an awful U2 cover band (broke my heart, seriously) at House of Blues on Saturday night and then went down to Newport and rollerbladed along the beach Sunday. He made a fantastic dinner and I fell asleep on the couch—from what I thought was post-rollerblading exhaustion. Turns out the exhaustion lasted right into Monday and was accompanied by body aches. Then my stomach got all topsy-turvy and I realized I was probably dying of e coli or arsenic poisoning.

Or maybe I just had a little touch of the flu.

Anyway, by last night, I’d had enough. I was uncomfortable on the inside and outside and I was whimpering my woes to Mr. W over IM.

His response: “Why don’t you go to CVS and get some Imodium for your tummy and some baby wipes for your no-no hole?”

I wiped a tear of pride from my eye, realizing that his continual exposure to my obnxiousness is paying off, and today I love him more than ever.

Seen It. Believe It.

I was approaching the freeway onramp when I saw them. His blonde hair looked damp, face was flushed, calves were rippling. Her brown ponytail swung back and forth, swatting butterflies from her shoulder blades. They were smiling at one another. Jogging side-by-side, unaware of whatever else was going on in the world around them.

I want that, I thought.

I knew him. He was a guy I’d had a crush on after college. And now he was with her and they looked blissfully happy.

I wanted to be the couple who ran together. Who enjoyed each other’s company so much and shared hobbies and laughed and laughed.

Someday.

There were dozens of bad dates after that day. My heart got broken at least three or four times. I cried orca whale tears. I lost weight. I gained weight. I hated men. I longed for them. I kept getting on and off the rollercoaster. Why? Because I believed. I knew I could have what the jogging couple had. I deserved it.

I believe everyone can have that. I believe there is someone out there for everyone. I believe that if you want to find your perfect match, you will. Someone to call when the sunset looks like it did tonight. Someone who will reach over and stroke your hair and neck while you’re driving. Someone who will put a spoonful of homemade spaghetti sauce to your lips and ask you if it tastes okay. Tell you they love your skin. Hold your hand at the movie theater. Play Scrabble with you on a Friday night. Race you to the top of the hill. Smear sunscreen on the places you can’t reach. Make plans with you. Give you a look, across the elevator in Target, that nearly takes your breath away. Make you have stomach flips that are gold medal worthy. Laugh at your jokes. Dab at your tears. Breathe in your exhales.

But I also know, that the only way to ever find it is for you to believe, too.