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…

Writers, Writers Everywhere

Friday night, I went to Elizabeth Gilbert’s Committed book signing in Pasadena. Now, I know not everyone enjoyed Eat, Pray, Love. In fact, some of you kind of hated it. But seeing and hearing this woman in person confirmed everything I love about her and more. She was humble and real and so engaging. She told a touching story (which I may have to post about) that actually made her get choked up on stage. I found her sincerity truly delightful. And her book? Oh my gosh I loved it. I would honestly call it a must read for anyone on the brink of marriage.

So that was writer encounter #1.

The second surprise came when I got home from the book signing. I logged onto my email to discover that this little blog here had received a comment from Stephanie Klein. STEPHANIE KLEIN, people! Author of Straight Up and Dirty and Moose. I went to her book signing about a year and a half ago and also found her to be a complete delight. I was astounded (and ecstatic) to find that she had somehow wandered over to my pages. Wow.

My third writer exposure was to a movie about Anaïs Nin. Though I didn’t know who she was when I did it, I recently put one of her quotes up as my Facebook status. “Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one’s courage.” A friend commented on it, referencing Nin’s diaries, so I had to investigate. Turns out (turns out I need to brush up on my literature…ahem) she was a famous 1930s erotica writer who had an affair with Henry Miller. The movie Henry & June is based on her life. And holy schnikes is it steamy! Seriously people, like soft-core porn. Interesting watch on the heels of When in Rome (Yes, I saw that and yes it was goofy but I just wanted to zone out and pretend I was in Italy for a little while…so I went. Be quiet.)

All this writer stuff has definitely made me feel inspired. Just what I needed to get out of my manuscript-ignoring rut!