Wonderfully Terrifying

It's been almost a year and I haven't met Mr. Wonderful's family. They're spread out around the country, he doesn't see them all that often, and when he does, sometimes it's just for a quick dinner or whatnot when someone's in town.

This is totally counter to me and my family. We all live within about 45 minutes of one another and see each other once a month at the very, very least. I talk to them all the time, spend every holiday in their company, and have only a 7-minute drive to end up on my sister or parents' doorsteps.

Given my relationship (and proximity) with my family, I've been dying to meet his. It's like this missing piece in his puzzle. I feel like I'll learn something new about him when I finally see him with his people.

Last week, he told me his dad wanted us to come visit and I was ecstatic. Then yesterday, he changed that to "grandma wants us to come visit when dad is in town." Town is St. Louis and in addition to Grandma, Mr. W's sister, brother-in-law, nieces, cousins, and aunt and uncle all live there. Friends, I seem to have hit the family jackpot.

I know it will be a stressful trip—bringing the girl home to meet the family. I'll undoubtedly be craving wine throughout the weekend. But I finally get to put his childhood pieces together! I'll get to hug his yaya (that's grandma in Greek) and see his adorable nieces in person. And maybe we'll come home having reached an even higher level of comfort and closeness.

I've never been to the Midwest. Anything I should know about?

Exercises in Moronity

Any time Mr. W spends the night, I have to change the sheets. Sadly, he is allergic to cats…and being a crazy cat lady, I let Monty and Zoe sleep in my bed when no one else is around. Thus, there is usually a thin film of hair on the bed at all times.

Last week, when I went to do a sheet switcheroo before Mr. W and I climbed in bed, I couldn’t find the nice, soft off-white set I like to use. It wasn’t in the cupboard, so I figured it was in the hamper. Drat. I made a mental note to do laundry.

So this weekend, I flung open the hamper and began piling various whites on the floor, anxious to get my soft sheets cleaned. However…they weren’t in the dirty laundry. I went back to the cupboard, certain I was having a stroke or amnesia. They weren’t there either.

Where in the world could they be???

Then a hazy image began to form in the back of my mind. I was doing laundry when my neighbor (who I call Charlotte on this blog) invited me over for a glass of wine. Somehow that led to looking at pictures from high school and the next thing I knew, I’d been at her apartment for two hours. Exhausted, I hobbled home and went to sleep. AND LEFT MY LAUNDRY IN THE DRYER FOR A WEEK AND A HALF.

I ran to the laundry room and sure enough, there it was jumbled on top of the dryer. My off-white sheets, some t-shirts, and worst of all, a bunch of my underwear.

As you may remember, it’s only women in my complex. But they are the kind of women who might judge a person by her taste in undergarments. And given that they already have opinions about me, the last thing I want to do is fuel their fires.

So when I saw my hot pink thong with the pink bunny rabbit pattern sticking out from the laundry pile, I was mortified. Bad enough to leave one’s clothes in the dryer for A WEEK AND A HALF—but to have a pair of bunny panties in there…I don’t think I’ll ever recover…

All of It

When we got up this morning, it was sprinkling outside. It wasn’t like us to be out so early. 6:45 was usually when Mr. W was hitting the snooze button for the first time. But there we were, out in the street, taking a morning walk.

The sprinkles didn’t last. We only felt a half dozen each, but the sky had that streaky look off in the distance. Around the horizon, chalky orange and pink warned us that the sun would soon be up. We could see the downtown skyline bidding good morning in peaks and valleys of concrete and steel.

The air was slightly warm and I almost felt like we were somewhere else—on vacation in Hawaii on a spring day.

We wound our way up the hill, commenting on interesting architecture. A newly renovated home with a longhorn cattle skull hanging over the garage. A picturesque, ivy covered cottage. A miniature Taj Majal with meringue-like dollops punctuating its roof. As we continued in the direction of old Hollywoodland, we were met by 5 cop cars, yellow tape and a police officer. He told us we could go up the opposite side of the street—there had been an accident the night before that was being investigated.

I was a bit nervous about what we might see as we resumed our climb. We finally saw it across the street and I tried not to look too closely. A kid had smashed his sports car into the side of a U-Haul moving van. The sports car was demolished. The driver’s side was nearly flattened against the van’s front wheel well. Glass shimmered in the street. A tow truck pulled up and began to lift the mangled car onto its forks. I wondered how long it had been since the accident actually happened.

On my way home to my apartment, the rain picked up again. As I was coming through the freeway pass towards my exit, I noticed a rainbow creeping up in the valley to my left. I tried to take a picture with my camera phone, but couldn’t quite get the right angle.

I thought of the rainbows Mr. W and I had seen on our first trip away together last January. We drove to San Francisco for a long weekend, and were met with rainbows on the way there and back. I remember thinking it was a sign.

When I reached the off-ramp, I was surprised to see, yet again, evidence of a car accident. Orange cones circled part of the right lane where a traffic light had been knocked down and demolished.

I was struck by the dichotomy of images. An incredible sunrise contrasted with a terrible car wreck. A stunning rainbow juxtaposed with the debris of a fallen tower of metal. It made me pause for a minute and appreciate how varied life is. And how beautiful it is in its chaos.

It’s not just about the pleasant things. It’s about the range of the human experience; the depths of emotion we're capable of feeling. There is beauty in the pain, the heartache, the ills because it is LIFE. It’s all LIFE even when it’s tragic and horrible. It is the mix of all the good and bad and pleasurable and terrifying that make life what it is—and us who we are. And when I come to an end, I will be thankful for seeing, feeling, experiencing all of it.

On the Same Page

It's about quarter to nine and we're hustling to get ready so we can eat some free breakfast and make it Napa in time to catch our wine tour limo. I need to brush my teeth. I need to curl my hair. He needs to get the wrinkles out of his shirt.

I slip into my pink peep-toes and trot into the bathroom. They clack on the tile floor.

“Why are you wearing your shoes?” he sneers from the bedroom.

I kick them off. Extremely annoyed. “I don’t know.”

A few minutes later, I slip them back on as we walk out the door. Why was he so high maintenance? I like my pink shoes. So what if I wanted to walk around in them before it was actually time to leave.

* * *

The next night, we sit across from each other over a huge plate of sushi. His eyes seem sleepy and his hair's a little wild. My favorite look on him.

“We did it again. We made it through another trip without killing each other.”

“We did.”

“The only time you made me mad was when you asked me why I was wearing my shoes in the morning…in a snippy voice.”

“Well, they were loud!” he laughs.

“Did I do anything to make you mad on the trip?”

He looks up, chewing his salmon thoughtfully...

“Yeah, you put your shoes on and walked on the tile at 8:45 a.m.”

Metamorphosissy

Remember back in high school or junior high or kindergarten when that one girl you hung out with got a boyfriend? And you and all your other friends suddenly had to deal with her flaking on you and talking about him all the time and carrying a lock of his chest hair around in her pencil case. And then she’d finally stop hanging out with you altogether because she was too busy making out with him in front of her locker and going to his water polo games, and eventually you’d barely even say hi to each other in the halls.

Yeah. I think I might be turning into that girl.

I’m beginning to find myself wanting to choose Mr. Wonderful all the time over my friends. I know, right? PUNCH ME IN THE FACE PLEASE.

It’s been a while since I’ve felt like this. A long while, actually. Like not since my first serious boyfriend (which I had in my early twenties, thanks to a near fatal case of the late bloomies). I remember being so infatuated with him, that I’d just want to be with him every minute and stare at him in awe like he was a newborn baby sporting one of those astonishing gas-induced smiles.

It was so long ago, I can’t remember if I pissed off my girlfriends in the process. Probably did. And I know for sure that I made him feel suffocated.

But I don’t think Mr. W is struggling for air. I think he likes having me around just as much as I like being around. I think he’s pleased when I cut plans short with my girlfriends and come over to play Rock Band with him. I don’t think he minds taking me with him to Home Depot or to look at new mountain bikes.

It’s funny because I actually thought I minded being with him all the time and not having my old single-life free-time oozing out of every crevice of the calendar. But then this past weekend, when I had an entire day to myself—to get all my chores and errands done and just bask in the quiet of my alone time—I found myself missing him.

By 2:00, I was sitting on the couch wondering what he was doing. ON MY ALONE TIME DAY! I was amused and frustrated with myself all in the same.

Is this normal, people? Am I supposed to be wanting to spend all my weekends hiking and biking and kissing with him? Is it wrong that I’m not craving girlfriend time—or worse—that I’m feeling blue during my own alone time?

I need some perspective please. Love makes me a little crazy.

I've Lost that Lovin' Feeling...and Found it Again (Maybe)

I started running because I was trying to move through a terrible breakup and was so filled with angst and hurt and rage that I had to do something to detoxify my psyche. It was either running or throwing plates in the driveway. And throwing plates wasn't going to give me shapely calves, so I picked running.

The first time I did 6 miles, I was astonished. I never would have thought I was capable of making it around the Rose Bowl. Twice. I couldn't believe that I didn't drop dead that night.

Nine months later, I completed a half marathon. Also something I never thought I'd do. I walked at various points during that race. And when I finished in 2 hours and 32 minutes I thought, I can do way better than that. I can definitely improve my time.

When the opportunity to join some friends in the Nike Women's race came up, I agreed to participate...although I'd lost the fire in my belly. The thought of devoting my Saturdays to long runs and forcing myself to get in miles during the week just didn't sound so fun anymore. It sounded like a big fat burden.

I didn't have the adrenaline-laced anger pulsing inside me like I did when I started to run. I had a boyfriend who I liked to sleep in with and drink lattes with on weekend mornings. I had blogs to write and freelance work to complete. Shoes and groceries to buy. A toilet and a Prius to clean. Yes folks, I would rather clean the toilet Saturday morning than run.

That is, until yesterday. I was absolutely dreading the 9.5 mile run through Los Feliz that my race buddy and I had planned. As we completed it, I developed raw spots on my shoulderblades where my CamelBak bounced and rubbed against me; my running buddy and I got lost; we had to walk up most of the hills because they were so steep; I thought multiple times that I Just Wanted It To Be Over.

But somehow through the pain and suffering, I found a little spark of love again. And as much as I was wishing for a helicopter rescue or a torn hammie that would enable me to stop in my tracks, I was also enjoying knowing that I was doing 9.5 miles. So next weekend, I'm going to do it again. I might even be looking forward to it a smidge...

What a Peach

One of the coolest places Mr. W and I went in Napa was the Greystone restaurant at the Culinary Institute of America. Former site of the Christian Brothers winery, the campus is perched above a beautiful vineyard in St. Helena.


We chose to sit outside, under the trees and heat lamps, looking out over Main Street. I was delighted when a French couple took the table next to us and began speaking in their native tongue—further amplifying the feeling that we were dining somewhere in Europe.


Mr. W and I both had delicious steaks that delighted the palate, however my first course of pimentos, almonds and manchego burned the crap out of my mouth. Not that there was crap in my mouth before I ate it... Anyway... We also discovered that the Greystone brand of wine is quite tasty—especially when paired with a slab of beef.


When it came time for dessert, I was giddy to see creme brulée on the menu. I love creme brulée. I love the sound it makes when you crack the sugary surface. I love the custardy taste and the smoothness of it as it slips down my throat. Mr. W ordered some sort of peach cobbler that was equally decadent, and as you can see from the picture, presented very nicely on the plate.

In fact, as soon as I saw his lovely cobbler presentation I said, "That dried peach looks like lips! Give it to me!" Thus solidifying my unwavering class and ability to fit in at any high brow establishment.