Go Tell it on The Mountain and The Neighborhood Streets of Long Beach

Hello chickens. I just want to preface this entire post by saying I in no way have anything against people of any religion that send people door to door to preach. I do think it is respectable to be that dedicated to your beliefs...so with that being said.

So a few weeks ago, there was a knock at the door and Adam answered it, as I hid in the back room. I wasn't hiding in the back room for any particular reason other than the fact I can be really socially anxious. So when I hear a knock at the door, my head starts screeching, "STRANGER DANGER, STRANGER DANGER." Plus, when there is a knock at the door, I seriously don't know what will be going on on the other side. I'm not even kidding. Yes, we have the run of the mill door to door people, but we also have some random junk peddlers and even a door-to-door strawberry salesmen. He is unsurprisingly concerned with making sure I get my appropriate servings of fruits and vegetables everyday.

Adam is exceedingly nice in these situations, and I truly love him for it. Although it is truly surprising how nice he is in these situations, being that he is such a curmudgeon. A lovable curmudgeon, but still a curmudgeon. I am exceedingly awkward in this situations because my cripplingly social anxiety gets paired with trying to find an extremely kind way to say, I'm not interested". Anyway, Adam talked to them for at least 20 minutes. 20 whole minutes of me cowering in the back room. 20 whole minutes where he never even mentioned he wasn't interested in conversion. As we are so fond of saying in the South, "God bless his heart."

After they left, I told Adam they would be back. He was certain they wouldn't. But as I often am, I was right. And the missionaries dutifully came back every weekend for the last month. And again, Adam never politely turned them away (he truly is a kind man, but still a curmudgeon). But then last Saturday, there was a knock at the door. It was them. Adam ducked down to hide, and gestured to me to have me pause the TV. Usually people leave after 30 seconds when you don't open a door. But these people kept knocking and knocking, and we could hear them talking about how Adam was a good candidate for conversion. Finally, they stopped knocking. But continued to talk about Adam (I only know this because Adam was standing on the bath tub, listening to them through the window LOL) for five minutes.

I started getting annoyed because I really wanted to get back to watching my DVRed episode of The Rachel Zoe Project (I really needed to know what she was going to do when she found out her clients couldn't wear white to The Oscars. Really compelling stuff, people!). I told Adam I wasn't going to hide in my house every weekend, so I would be really nice, but I was going to take care of it. He just kind of shrugged his shoulders. OK, so little ole social anxiety riddled me, step outside in my pink pjs and leopard print slippers to talk to them.

I opened the door, and they look slightly surprised. I employed my Southern Accent (cause Southern Accents equal sweetness) and the nicest tone I could muster, and told them that my husband had just been trying to be nice, but that we were Baptists and not really interested in converting. She told us she wasn't interested in converting us (umm I just heard her say SHE was, but I left that out) but just wanted to share some scripture with us. I just thanked her, told her I went to church often, and have read the bible.

I guess she was done talking to me, and wanted to talk to nice, sweet, and meek Adam.
But instead of simply asking me if she could talk to Adam (or even if he was home), she yelled over my shoulder, into the house, "ADAM! Are you in there?!" As if I had Adam chained in the backroom. As if I was the mean wife that doesn't allow her husband to speak for himself. I told them Adam was in the bathroom, which I'm sure they thought was a lie. Since I obviously had him locked in my underground torture chamber, where I pipe show tunes in, all day long, on full blast (his least favorite type of music), and feed him all the icky vegetables he hates. But that was actually the honest to Bob truth, since he was listening to the conversation through the bathroom window. They finally left, muttering something about coming back. Probably to rescue Adam.

I was worried that I hadn't been nice, but Adam said I had been. Adam said next time they come, he is going to answer the door all shaky and slip them a note, telling them when they can come back and save him from his tortuous existence. I just want to know how ME, who is nice to a fault, and scared of everyone, and never even complains when waiters get my order wrong, gets labeled as the mean, forceful one in this relationship. I'm the one always trying to pull him over to my annoyingly optimistic sunny side of the street where it rains lollipops and puppies.

Two E-mail Conversations We've Had That Classify Us As Crazy Dog People

We are "those" people.

Conversation 1:
Brittany: It has been so hot today, I have to get out of the house, I'm melting. Let's go out for dinner after your done working. 
Adam: I hate the idea of us out enjoying ourselves, while Sarah is sitting at home alone and hot.
Brittany: Yeah, but she is a dog. I'll leave all the fans going and give her ice water.
Adam: You must protect the BABY!
Brittany: Even though it is so hot, she is still happy, wagging her tail, and smiling. She is SOO BRAVE!
Adam: She is SOO STOIC.

Conversation 2: 
Adam: Do you think we should leave the ant poison in the middle of the floor like that?
Brittany: Yes because that is where all the ants seem to be.
Adam: What if Sarah licks it?*
Brittany: The hole is way too small for her to get any.
Adam: But what if she eats an ant that has just eaten the poison, and there is enough in that one ant to kill her?
Brittany: *blinks, blinks*

*We ultimately moved the poison to be safe, although I think the one killer ant theory is bogus.

P.S.-I'm flying to Atlanta tomorrow for a friend's wedding, so I hope everyone has a kick ass labor day weekend!

I'm Hot ,You're Hot, He's Hot

Do you know that the song with the lyrics, "I'm Hot, You're Hot, He's Hot," mentioned in my post title is sung by a guy named Buster Poindexter? Buster Poindexter! Some reason his name really tickles my funny bone. I just picture a little kid with glasses getting picked last for kickball, not a guy who sang a song that I always picture the Chiquita Banana Lady dancing to every time I hear it. Why do I picture the Chiquita Banana Lady dancing when I hear that song (and lets face it I only hear that song at weddings)? I have no effin clue. By the way, I only discovered  that the song was by Buster Poindexter because I googled the lyrics because I wanted to make sure I got the lyrics 100% correct.  This is who I am, I stress over the lyrics to the Chiquita Banana song. I'm so neurotic.

Believe it or not, I did not start this post to talk about the Chiquita Banana Lady (although she is worthy of a post). I wanted to tell you I'm sitting here and I'm extremely hot. And not the "bikini model sexy" type of hot. No, I'm the "I want to dive into a pool full of ice cubes naked" type of hot. We are smack dab in the middle of a heat wave in Southern California. We have had a particularly mild summer so far. A huge, huge blessing since we have no air-conditioning.

The other day I remarked to Adam that it had been a really cool summer, and I thought we had gotten off scottsfree. Later that day, I got some Chinese take-out and when I opened my fortune cookie, it said in a very cryptic way, "Don't count your blessings before they have hatched. Or you are apt to lose them." When I read that, I knew I was in for it because I am an avid believer in the wisdom of fortune cookies. Except once I got one that said I would soon be in a "family way." What kind of cruel joke is that?

When I woke up the next morning, the air felt stuffy. And that was a red flag that it was going to be a hot day. And it was. It was hotter than the devil's toe jam (as my Southern grandmother would say). The type of hot where you sweat wherever your skin touches the couch. Even the back of my knees were sweating. Yes, I just told you about the sweat on the back of my knees. I have no shame. And if there is one thing in the world I hate, it is sweating. I'm such a girl when it comes to sweating. I whine. I wither. I fade. Like a sensitive dandelion. And poor Sarah is so hot she has taken to sleeping wedged between the toilet and the sink, making it really hard to get into the bathroom. It is like trying to leap frog a killer whale.

It has continued to be just as hot every single day since. Worse of all, it is usually too hot for me to nap! I love to nap. In college, me and my roommate used to take naps at the same time and plan our days around our nap. Not that I nap everyday, but I nap often. (On a side note, I actually did manage to take a nap this weekend. And I told my wonderful husband to wake me up at 3 and he thought I said 5. He claims this is due to the noisiness of the fans we have going 24/7 lately. To his credit, it does kind of sound like a 747 taking off in our living room. So I woke up from the nap 10 minutes till 5, out of the deepest sleep in my life. I had pillow marks on my face, and I'm surprised I wasn't drooling. Only to find I had slept 3 and a half hours! I felt like the energizer bunny and didn't sleep a wink last night. THANKS ADAM).

The last thing I want to say is weather.com is absolutely evil. I can't resist checking their site everyday, and every-time I see the temperature the house automatically feels hotter. And weather.com is also a total tease because when I check the ten day forecast it always makes me hopeful that we only have a few days left of the torture left until it drops again. But when I check back the following day, the day of relief keeps being pushed back. This isn't even the first time weather.com has told me tales. It also told me it was going to storm on my wedding day. BUT IT DIDN'T. Oh wait, that was a good lie. But a lie none the less!

Kowabunga, Dudes?

This is the building Adam works in. It is a very pretty building, and a very tall building in downtown Long Beach.  However, I think it is very lame that while he works in a 25 floor building, he works on the 1st floor. No one ever wants to be on the first floor. It is like when you go to summer camp or church camp and you have to race the other children to the cabin because everyone wants the top bunk. And if you happen to be one of the unlucky ones who doesn't get the top bunk, you have to lay in your bottom bunk and stare longingly at the bunk above you every night, knowing that their life is currently better than yours. Or at least you know they have a better view than you because they are probably looking at those plastic glow in the dark stars.

But shock of all shocks, Adam loves that his office is on the first floor.  That first time he told me that, I was really surprised because I thought it was impossible to not want to be on the top floor. But you know why he likes to be on the bottom floor? He worries about earthquakes.  I get it I do, Southern California has many earthquakes, and I have been in many small ones since I moved here. When we do have earthquakes, his entire building sways and creaks. I tried telling him that is a good thing. Buildings built today are made to sway, so the likelihood that they will crumble during a earthquake is reduced. My logical approach doesn't help him feel any better, although I imagine a creaking building is pretty creepy. And his reasoning is that if a major earthquake hits, he will be safer because he is closer the the ground, but I think he is wrong. OK, I know he is wrong.

I think it would be better to be on the top floor, because if the building started to crumble, you could just kind of surf the debris down. Grab on to a door or a desk and just hold on. KOWABUNGA, Dudes. If you are on the bottom floor, aren't you going to be crushed by the 24 floors above you? The only support for his argument, in my eyes, is that maybe you would have more time to leave the building if you were on the first floor. I will give him that, and ONLY THAT, but that is not really his argument.  So I feel he is dead wrong. 

We have discussed the merit of top floor vs. bottom floor in earthquakes many, many times. This conversation seems to be so important to us, that we have brought our arguments to friends and families, and we can't seem to get anybody to completely agree with either of us. Some people are Team Brittany! And some people are Team Adam! Frankly, I only count the people who are Team Brittany. (By the way, Team Brittany vs. Team Adam will be a lot more popular than Team Edward vs. Team Jacob, and will be a national phenomenon soon. Although I am not a fan of Twilight, never read the books, or seen a movie. But I would totally be Team Jacob because Edward looks like he needs a blood transfusion. I guess that is why he is a VAMPIRE). So in the great earthquake argument of 2010, are you Team Brittany or Team Adam?

Home of Wayward Animals

I just want to preface this entire post by saying I am not getting a second dog YET. I just didn't want to get you all ready for good news then have to let you down. I'd rather let you down gently, kind of like I dropped you on six feather mattress stacked on a pool filled with marsh mellows.

I am one of those people seriously lacking self-control; I think it is mostly due to my obsessive nature. I see a commercial for a piece of cheesecake, I want it. I mean really want it. I obsess and obsess and obsess over that piece of cheesecake, until I get that cheesecake. When I find something I want while shopping, usually a cute pair of shoes, it physically hurts me to walk out of the store without them. Although since I'm now broke most of time, it has become a lot easier! When I see a cute baby, I seriously contemplate stealing it, heck I'd even take a ugly baby at this point. When I see a cute man on the street, I jump his bones stare at him (Hey, I'm married not dead). And right now I want another dog.

You see recently my grandmother took a tumble. She is in her 80's and will probably never fully be back to her old self, as far as walking goes. She has a roly poly wiener dog named Gretta. Well if you want to be technical about it her name is Gretta Van Helene Berry. Gretta is probably the most anxious dog I've ever met. Loud noises make her shake, lots of people around her makes her shake, and if you go to pet her and you are standing up, she cowers. I love her because frankly she is my kindred spirit. I am just as socially anxious. And I too cower when strangers try to pet me. Gretta adores my grandmother and sits in her lap all the time. Unfortunately now she can't be with grandma like that because it is painful to have her sit on her lap, and it is hard to train Gretta not to jump on her. So the family is in the process of finding Gretta a replacement home and we are on the possibilities list.

We adopted Sarah from my brother after he lost his house and had to move into an apartment. Yeah, it wasn't easy convincing Adam to take in Sarah. Try convincing your husband WHO HATES CHANGE that a 100 lb golden retriever in a one bedroom house won't be a problem (by the way, Sarah has lost 20lbs since she moved in with us, my house is a doggy fat farm). Arguing with Adam about Sarah wasn't one of my prettiest moments. I think it is probably the only time I've wanted something in my adult life that actually made me cry. And it wasn't like I was fake crying, I was really heartbroken at the thought of not getting her. Eventually he relented and one Saturday we drove to Phoenix and picked her up from my brother, and the rest is history. He adores Sarah, I adore Sarah (almost to the point of sickness), and it made us a family. Do you just cringe at the cheesiness of that statement? Since getting Sarah, we have joked that our home is part of the family pet relocation program or a home for wayward animals.

When my mother asked me if I would like to have Gretta, I decided I really did. But I dreaded having that talk with Adam. I would rather relive that painful conversation I had with my mother in high school, when she said and I quote, "You can't have sex, but you can still do the OTHER STUFF." Being that our "Sarah" talk was probably one of the hardest conversations Adam and I have ever had, I was too chicken s*** to bring up Gretta face to face. So I did what chickens and bad boyfriends and girlfriends who want to break-up with someone have been doing for about a decade, I sent him an e-mail at work. Thank God I live in the age of e-mail; I get so many uncomfortable tasks accomplished that way. In college, I would send an e-mail to my mother when I needed money or bounced my account (I used to be HORRID with money), so I wouldn't have to tell her on the phone. And then I would dodge her e-mails for days until she was no longer mad at me. I'm such a wimp, I know it. But I have a chemical imbalance, I can't help it. Right?

The e-mail to Adam was peppered with "just hear me outs," "I promise I won't cry this time," "I won't hate you if you say no," (although I totally would), and "I promise there are no more animals left in the family to adopt." He fired back with "how will we afford her," "Is there no one else who can take her," and "I don't want to walk two dogs at once." Then I promised he wouldn't have to do a thing, I would do it all. This is exactly what I did for the first few weeks when we first got Sarah, before he decided he wanted to pitch in. But that tactic made me feel like a 5 year old bargaining with my mother. "Please Mommy, I want a puppy!"

Eventually I agreed that we wouldn't revisit the issue unless a home could not be found for her. And I know married couples are supposed to make mutual decisions and compromise and blah, blah, blah, blah. But I still really just want Gretta. Like really want Gretta. So while I think Adam made some really good points, it hasn't stopped me from dropping hints about my true feelings. Sometimes in the evening I talk in Sarah's voice (you know the voice you use when your voicing your dog's feelings, or am I the only one that does that? Tell me I'm not). And Sarah says, "Daddy, I'd really love a baby sister, Daddy." "Daddy, you'd love Gretta." "Gretta was my best friend when I lived in Texas." Then he rolls his eyes.

My other argument (or tool of manipulation) I'm using involves reality TV. All you guys out their in blog world know I love reality tv. I mean I LOVE reality TV. And Adam hates reality TV about as much as I love it. Sometimes he even employs headphones to ignore my TV habits. Sometimes when Sarah is sitting around the house goofily smiling for no reason at all, Adam will ask her what she is so happy about. I will usually reply with something like, "She is so happy because the Jersey Shore is on!" Then he mumbles something under his breathe about how he doesn't understand how people can like that crap and I'm like," Duh! I like it because it is crap!" It is just like watching a train wreck. But the other day, I told Adam that like him Gretta hates reality TV, so if we adopt her it will no longer be two against one, and together they have a better chance of regaining the remote.

That is a solid argument if you ask me. Yet, he hasn't budged. I don't know what will happen in the next few weeks, although I know what I want to happen. So who knows maybe Gretta will enter the Family Relocation Program and be here before I know it.

Water with a Side of Dirt

A few weekends ago Adam and I decided to go out to eat. Not a mind-blowing revelation I know. Not one of you is sitting out there thinking to yourself right now, "A married couple going out to eat? SO SCANDOULOUS! " Us going out to eat is only notable because on this particular day I decided I was so sick and tired of going to the same old places and wanted to try someplace new. But trying out a new restaurant can be a frustrating and difficult endeavor when your husband only eats foods from his five food groups: Burgers, Chicken Fingers, Pizza, French Fries, and Corn. At least he likes one vegetable! So whenever I want to go somewhere new, I typically scour the online menu to double check their burger and chicken finger selections.

I decided I wanted to check out a restaurant called The Elephant Bar. The Elephant Bar is, you guessed it, safari themed. They have animal statues and prints everywhere; it is actually a pretty, cool decorated place. Adam and I settled in, and I ordered a glass of water to drink. I have completely given up soda since I started my diet. Especially at restaurants. But before you start thinking I'm all dedicated and determined you should know I haven't given up soda because I've reached some dieting moral high ground. Nope. I have given it up because soda is empty calories that can be better allotted elsewhere, like for dessert!

So the water came and I took a sip of the water. Everything seemed fine at first, but then I noticed it had a really weird after taste. I couldn't figure out what it was though. Finally, it dawned on me. The water tasted like it had been mixed with dirt! But why? Did they do it on purpose? Was this part of the Safari experience? That is not the Safari experience I signed up for.

Adam saw me cringing and asked me what was wrong. So I forced him to drink it because my discomfort should also be his discomfort. He didn't taste a thing though, and you could have blown me over with a feather when he said that. It was so strong when I tasted it. In fact, he thought I was imaging it, like I had just made it up on my mind, or I was paranoid. I may be a nervous Nancy and sometimes I overreact but I didn't dream up the dirt water!

Adam figured it was just this glass of water, so he thought I should ask for a new one. Which seems like the totally logical thing to do. But I am not logical, and I have that social anxiety thing going for me, so I never complain at restaurants. I realize that requesting new water isn't exactly a complaint, but in my mind it sounded like it. I didn't want to tell my waitress about the dirt water because she would apologize, bring me a new glass, and then question me about the state of my water all evening. Not too mention that sometimes the manager comes out to apologize in these situations. TOO MUCH PRESSURE. I may whine on my blog and to my husband, but in public I'm all sunshine and lollipops

Yeah it is 100% neurotic I know, but that's just me. So I took a deep breathe, slammed the water back like a tequila shot, waited for a new glass, and prayed that my next water wouldn't taste like dirt. The second glass was better but it was still rather "earthy." But I just let it go because it was drinkable. Adam spent a good amount of time trying to convince me it would be ok to say something to the waitress about the water. But my neurosis does not allow me to accept his point of view.

Flash forward a few weekends later when a few people are hanging at my house practicing our counseling skills for the class from Hades. They felt just as scared and just as beat up as I did by the class. Which made me feel better, because my misery loves their company. After we were done practicing, we decided to all go out to eat together. But we experienced the age old problem of nobody wanting to make a decision about where to go to eat. Argh. When this happens, I'm always thinking on the inside, "Someone grow some kahonas and make a choice already! Just don't make me pick, because I hate making decisions!" I'm not hypocritical at all. So I just started throwing out some ideas for places to eat, one of them being the Elephant Bar.

When I said the Elephant Bar, one of my friends whipped around and said, "My kids hate the Elephant Bar! Every time I mention it they complain because they think the water tastes like dirt!" My eyes got wide, and I started laughing so hard I couldn't breathe. It felt like I had validation! Adam could take his "water paranoia" theory and shove it where the sun ain't shining. He was so shocked to hear her say it too! Then I got to do my, "I was right, You were wrong" dance. Which is the best dance of all time!

Needless to say we didn't go to the Elephant Bar that night. And if you are wondering if I passed my class, wonder no more because I did. Even though it took them FOREVER to post our grades. They posted the scores two whole days after the day I was supposed to find out! So I spent the whole weekend checking my grades every five minutes, and having mini panic attacks every time I clicked the grade book!

You know how I celebrated? By giving Sarah a bath at 11 at night because someone rolled in something nasty on her walk, and someone who will not be mentioned didn't stop her. So when Sarah walked in the door, I was immediately assaulted by her smell. But the person who will still not be mentioned suggested we wait to bathe her till the next day because they were tired. I told that person that unless they could go out and find the bubble John Travolta used in The Boy in The Plastic Bubble movie for her to be placed in overnight, we were bathing her right then. Oh and maybe while you are at the plastic bubble store you could buy us two plastic bubbles because they look like they would pretty fun to play in.

Two of These People Are Not Like The Others

A few weeks ago I found out that my cousin's band, Fire to Reason, was going out on tour, and one of their stops was in Long Beach. I was pretty excited; it would give me a chance to support my cousin. REPRESENT! My second cousin Blake (or Baby Blake as my family calls him) is only a few years younger than me. My biggest memory of Blake is going over to stay at his house when he was five and I was eight. He had just started taking some form of marital arts, and I think the first rule of martial arts is to not harm others outside of class. But he must have been a really slllllllllloooooooooooow learner because I got some swift kicks to my face. And there was also a lot of tattling (on my part), and playing Mario Paint. Which is a really weird game now that I think about it because you just sit around swatting flies. WTF? How was that even fun?

My cousin's band plays very heavy metal and screamo music. Not me and Adam's cup of tea. I love country music and show tunes and Adam is all about the 80's. So I knew I was going to get screamed at for a half of hour, but I would happily get screamed at to support Baby Blake! Tuesday evening rolled around and it was not a good evening in the life of married people. Meaning our marriage. You know how 90% of the time you are completely happy and in love with your spouse? And the other 10% of the time you want to pull out your hair (I'd pull out his but he is currently bald.....so)? Or take your husband on a trip to cage dive with the sharks....without the cage?

Adam has been really stressed about work lately, and the evening we were going to the gig, he had already been cranky and snappy with me all day long. It was like I just couldn't do the right thing or say the right thing to pull him out of it. So I kept ignoring it (recipe for disaster). I was also feeling self-conscious because I had nothing that seemed right to wear to a heavy metal concert. Going through my closet I realized that I LIKED pink a lot more than I thought I LIKED pink. Plus, none of my pants were fitting me right because I've lost so much weight, and haven't had the money or time to shop. Right now, all my pants make me look like I gained 100 lbs. So I wasn't happy with my outfit and as we were heading out the door and Adam was still being a total curmudgeon. 

Then Adam said something grumpy and annoying, and it was the last straw and I just lost it. I just wanted to have fun and be excited for the evening. He was ruining it for me. So I started to cry (I cry when I get mad, it's something I hate about myself, because people don't realize that I'm MAD and not UPSET). If it had been any other event I would have said forget it, but we had to go. So I storm out the door and he follows behind in a huff, and Sarah was looking around like what the f*** are these crazy humans doing.

We didn't talk the whole way to the bar, and I'm just thinking,"Great! Blake is going to see that we were fighting, and soon it will be going around the family that we are getting divorced. “Yes, I am a worst case scenario type of girl. I said, "Look, we just got to put this extremely stupid argument behind us and move on." That's what we did. Blake told me the event was at 8, but turns out it was really at 9 and they didn't actually show up till ten, so I guess that is rock star time? So to kill time, we watched the Lakers/Celtic game and I had way too many rum and cokes. And let me tell you guys, my drinking tolerance is way down. Because after one I was giggling, slurring my words, and taking silliness to a whole new level. My drunkenness really turned the night around for us. Because nobody can be pissed when drunk Brittany is in the house.

Finally the boys showed up and I got to spend ten minutes talking to Blake, and I was happy for him because I could tell he was just having the time of his life. No matter where his band goes in the future, I know that he will probably think about this as one of the best times in his life. It was a really small gig but people started to filter in. Apparently these people are aware of rock star time. It was a little bit of the mohawk and head banging crowd. Which I totally RESPECT but Adam and I both remarked that we felt like the old, fuddy parents coming to watch their son played.

They started to play and yes there was a lot of screaming and no I don't think I understood one word they sang. Yes there was some head banging, and some of me not knowing exactly what I was supposed to be doing. Dancing? Head Banging? So we just sat in our booth and enjoyed ourselves. Even though it wasn't my style of music, I could tell they were really talented, and we had a blast. They knew their music like the back of their hands and they were so passionate. They could make it, they really could. When we walked out, I felt like I had cotton in my ears, and I swear I still can't hear ANYTHING. Unless your yelling it through a megaphone right in my face.

Here's a little video of the performance. Of course, I picked the one moment the lead singer/guitarist was having technical difficulties to tape. And then I didn't want to try taping again because I didn't want to be like the crazy, unhip parents with the video camera. Or like the mother who picks her kid up from school in a mu mu and curlers. By the way, my cousin is on the left in the orange shirt. Poor guy was sweating all over the place.



P.S.-If you commented on my last post, I didn't reject it. Somehow they disappeared. It made me sad.

Baldy-Locks!

OK, I'm just going to come right out and admit this, by telling y'all this it is quite possible that I'm completely throwing my husband under the bus. You see, I know on a few occasions when Adam has been shooting the breeze with his coworkers, he has thrown me under the bus. Sometimes he comes home from work and tells me about something he told someone else, and I am mortified. Want to roll over and die MORTIFIED. And now when I do something stupid, which is all the time, the first thing I say is don't you dare tell anybody! But I work with children and have no coworkers, and I don't think it would be very professional of me to share with a 5 year old the ins and outs of married life. So in a weird way, you guys are like my sounding board. Or just the people I can use for a little payback.

A couple months ago, after a trip to Supercuts, where Adam's hair turned out wonderfully and mine was cut lopsided for THE SECOND TIME (Don't even get my started. I know my hair is impossibly thick but really? I need to find a stylist here in California) It occurred to him that all the lady was doing was using a shaving razor. He thought he could buy his own kit, and cut it himself. I thought this was a bad idea. Not just because I think doing hair is probably harder than it looks,  but mainly because I knew the task of doing his hair would probably fall to me. I just don't need the pressure of that kind of life or death responsibility. I can't even style my own hair. But I have to admit that the cheapskate side of me was really interested in the amount of money we could save. You know, I could use that extra money for itunes, lollipops, or maybe some strippers.

So he bought the kit and one Saturday a couple of months ago we broke out the razor. We stood in our bathroom (which is smaller than a kitchen cabinet by the way), both frozen in fear. He said he couldn't get started cutting his hair because every time he looked at me I had the, "Oh Shit" look on my face. An expression I wear quite often. But soon he started, and it actually went pretty well. And I even was able to calm my nerves enough to do a pretty decent job of the back of his head. Although I did think about shaving my initials in the back of his head, like my brother did with his high school girlfriend, but I didn't think Adam would appreciate that very much. Logically, the first time cutting your own hair should be the hardest time. Right? Wrong.

Saturday Adam's hair was getting a little long, so he decided it was time to break out the handy dandy razor. There was no worrying this time. He was going to get started on the front, and after I finished putting some clothes in the dryer outside, I would finish up in the back. When I got in from outside, I walked into the bathroom and was about to start nagging Adam because he hadn't taken the bathmats out of the bathroom first. Therefore, making it harder to sweep up the hair afterwards. But then I noticed Adam was slumped over the sink with a half-smirk, half-pained expression on his face. Then, I noticed two strips of hair where he was almost bald.

I'd like to think that the reason he chose the wrong length for the razor blade is because I wasn't there to stop him. But that is because I want to believe I'm all knowing and never wrong. But of course I didn't tell Adam that (no time to gloat), and instead  I just had to jump into damage control mode. "Yes, it is a lot shorter than you want it to be, but it doesn't look that BAD. But you have no choice now, you gotta finish to make it even." "Yeah, you keep saying it doesn't look bad, but every time I go to shave more off, you cringe." I don't know what was wrong with me, but I just couldn't stop cringing, and I couldn't stop watching. His haircut reminded me of when I was in middle school and the bald look on guys was the cool thing. It seemed like everyday I went to school, five more baldies would have suddenly appeared overnight. Except most of the guys had really really lumpy heads, or they would cut themselves shaving and would walk around all day with bandaids on their heads.When he was done he was a close to bald, as you could possibly get.

Its been hard this past week to take Adam very seriously. Once we were *making out*, and I just couldn't stop laughing, because all I could see was a big que ball head coming toward me. I know he has not been very comfortable with how he looks, and the big kids at work have been teasing him. (We call Adam's coworkers the bigs kids because he is the youngest guy in his office). I took a flip video of Adam after the haircut was done, and I promise you the video is amazing, funny, tragic, and magical. But unfortuantely I promised I wouldn't post it (because he has his shirt off), and even I will respect that. But just so you know Adam currently looks like a mixture of:

Balthazar from The ConeHeads

Really creepy Frankenstein monster girl from Splice!

And Admiral "Its a Trap!" Ackbar

Jack Bauer Says, "Eat Cake or the Terroists Win."

Step One: For weeks listen to your husband talk about how sad he is that 24 is ending. Half-jokingly suggest that you oughta bake a cake to celebrate. Find out that you husband thinks this is the Best! Idea! Ever!

Step Two: Spend a lot of time in the cake aisle at your local grocery store bickering about whether or not the 24 logo is orange or yellow as if the fate of the world depends on it. He thinks it is yellow, and you should probably listen to him because he is a 24 addict. But you think it is orange and you won't concede defeat. You are so convincing that he decides it really is orange. You feel vindicated.

Step Three:  When your husband isn't looking, you go to Google to see if you were right about the 24 logo being orange. But first you become distracted for ten whole minutes by the Pacman game that has replaced the Google logo. You remind yourself why you were on Google in the first place, and discover that your husband was right about the logo being yellow. Decide not to tell your husband that you were wrong, because it might give him bragging rights. Because for the rest of your life, he would remind you of that time you were wrong.

Step Four: Then you realize that he is probably going to figure out he was right anyway when you and him watch the finale on TV Monday night. Decide you will milk it until then anyway, and maybe try to convince him he is color blind.

Step  Five: Lean over the cake with the icing, terrified to start because you might mess it up. The Horrors! Repeat to yourself over and over again that, “It is only a series of trapezoids, it is only a series of trapezoids." Remember that you failed Geometry the first time you took it, and question if the shape is actually a trapezoid. Go back to Google to find out what shape actually is. Get distracted by Pacman again, and then decide that you don't actually care about the name of the shape. STEP AWAY FROM THE PACMAN GAME.

Step Six: Hold your breath and start to draw. Think "One Trapezoid Down, Only Eight to Go."

Step Seven: Your husband wants to try so you glare at him. Doesn't he know that he is throwing off your groove? Let him try anyway, and watch as he becomes intimidated, claiming that you do it better. Find your groove again and take back over. Finish the cake. Think it is not perfect, but still looks good.

P.S.-Can you guess which part of the two my husband did?

The Surprise Party (or a million different ways to deceive your husband)

Adam is not a big fan of his birthday. This has always blown my mind, because how can you not love your birthday? Especially at our young ages. I adore my birthday; in fact I call myself a birthday whore. I start the countdown on May 1st (6 days to go!), and celebrate pretty much all month long. When we first started dating, I had to drag his birthday date out of him. I basically wore him down after begging and whining for a few weeks. Adam also never tells any of his coworkers that it is his birthday; he claims he doesn't like the attention. But I always assumed he was just full of a whole bunch of bull hockey, and secretly was jealous of my birthday whoring ways.

I decided I wanted to do something big for him this year. I first thought about throwing a surprise party at the house, but actually that seemed too big. Plus, I happened to have class on that night, and all these people left hanging out in my house while I'm not home, kind of gave me the heebe jeebes. What if they found all the dead bodies in the closet? That would be embarrassing! So I came up with another plan, a surprise lunch party. This would involve a lot of sneaking around on my part.

First, I had to get into contact with some of Adam's friends at work and rat him out, without him knowing. So I combed through all my sent e-mails to Adam (a monumental task since we e-mail each other quick notes a million times a day, our relationship is defined by oppressive codependence), and find some email that I had replied to that he had forwarded to the majority of his coworkers. I told them about how Mr. Cranky Pants doesn't ever tell anyone about his birthday, and that we should have a party for him. So we came up with the plan that on his birthday his coworkers and him would all head out to lunch (as they often do), not saying anything about his birthday, and I would already be there with cake, balloons, and the whole nine yards.

I sat on this information for over a week, and that nearly killed me. It's hard to keep this big mouth closed. I really played it up as well. I told him I was disappointed about having to put off our planned birthday celebration (a home cooked meal) for a day because I had class. I then had to contact Adam's mother to get a recipe for his favorite cake (chocolate with peanut butter icing). But I had told Adam I wouldn't have time to pull off, so I wasn't going to bake him a cake at all. I lied about not being able to buy him a birthday present, when I had already bought him an awesome present. And I knew Adam would never catch on to the surprise party, because I can be painfully shy. He would never imagine I would contact his coworkers and his family.

On the morning of his birthday, I woke up extremely early and went shopping for birthday supplies. I then started baking the cake at 9. That is the earliest I've ever baked a cake in my life. I must be the messiest baker in the world, because by the time I was done I had chocolate on the floor, wall, electrical outlets, and even in my hair. And honest to Bob I don't know how that happened. I then found out that homemade peanut butter icing is labor intensive and nerve-wracking. It takes a really long time to mix powdered sugar and peanut butter together! You know why? Because peanut butter is sticky, so if you use an electronic mixer IT STICKS TO IT. So I had to spend a half hour hand mixing that sucker.

When it was time to go to the restaurant, I packed everything up, and then parked a good mile away from the pizza place because I was scared he would see my car. After I set everything up, I sat in my seat just freaking the eff out. My brain doesn't recognize the difference between excitement and anxiety. So instead of being excited, I stared at my watch feeling like my heart was going to beat out of my chest. Finally they arrived and I hid in the corner of the room as they approached. I assumed everyone would automatically head to the table with the balloons, but no they were walking straight towards me, and TALKING to me LOUDLY. I started frantically pointing to the table, and thank Bob my husband is so clueless because he never saw me standing there in my bright pink shirt!

I snuck up on him from behind (that’s what she said), and I think it took him a while to put it all together because he kept starring at me like I was a mirage. A smoking hot mirage, but still a mirage. We had such fun, and I could tell that Adam was really happy. At the end of the meal, the waitress brought out the cake (the second surprise), and I made him blow out his candles like he was a kid. I then presented him with a note. I told him that just because stupid UPS didn't care about his birthday, didn't mean he didn't get to know about his gift. I then drew a picture of a guitar that looked slightly like a snowman with a railroad track going over it. Because I got him Rock Band 2!

I have been talking Adam out of getting Rock Band 2 for over a year now, because I felt it wasn't something we really needed.  So you can imagine his shock that I actually bought it for him. We've been playing Rock Band some with friends now. I'm always the vocalist, Adam is on drums, Luther is on guitar, and Sarah is the subwoofer (Get it, our dog is the subwoofer!)

It really was a special day, and I'm glad I pulled it off. Later that day he sent me an e-mail that said, "I literally am in awe of everything you’ve done for me today. If I had had any idea pretending to not like my birthday would get me all this, I’d have done it a long time ago. As it is, it really has been the best birthday I’ve ever had, and it was because of you. You treat me better then I deserve, maybe, but I am grateful. I love you so much, and I hope Rock Band doesn’t come between us…."

Now that Adam's Birthday is over we can get back to the most important things in life like... planning for my birthday!

Master of the Seas

Paddle Boating Shenanigans at The Tidal Basin in Washington D.C.
Happy Birthday to the man who growing up thought a "salad" meant putting sliced cheese on his cheerios, thinks wearing Hammer Pants in public would be perfectly acceptable, and once told me not to post this video online because it was "cute" but not "Internet cute." You are my husband, my lover, my best friend, my protector, my shoulder to cry on, and my partner-in-crime. Happy 26th Birthday, you old grump.

I'm Your Biggest Fan,
This is Stan
B

Hey Big Spenders!

Adam and I have never made any big, adult purchases since we've been together. But come to think of it, I haven't really made any adult purchases on my own (unless you count plunging myself into thousands of dollars into debt for my edumacation). We didn't even purchase the bed we sleep in. When we moved in together, my mother bought us a really nice bed as a house warming gift. This is kind of ironic, because originally she was really against me "living in sin." Once in high school, when I was dating my first serious boyfriend, she told me I could do other things while fooling around but I was not to have sex. I could not have been more uncomfortable in that conversation even if beforehand my mother had broken all my fingers one by one. After that talk, I think I did lose interest in the "other things" for a quite awhile. I bet that was her plan all along! Sly move, mother.

A few months ago, Adam and I spent sometime hanging out with my friend Albert from school and his wife. They had a huge flat screen TV, and since then Adam has wanted a new TV. He has been obsessed, like driving me insane obsessed. I asked him why he never mentioned wanting a new TV before we went to Albert's and he said, "I always wanted a big TV, but seeing theirs made it a reality." Say, what? But we had been saving for quite a while for new couches because our couches were horrible. Adam got those couches used from a friend years ago, and they were OK at the time (barely), but they had eventually morphed into uncomfortable and stained couches that to me looked like saggy, green ogre boobs. Kinda like how Fiona from Shrek's boobs would look after she had spent years breastfeeding 10 little ogre babies.

So now all of sudden Adam is telling me he wants to take the money saved to buy couches to buy a new TV, and I wasn't having it. I wanted couches! Just something comfortable, that looks nice in the room,  Plus, I don't really get the fascination with having a big TV. Believe me, I love me some reality TV, a.k.a brain rot, but as long as I have a TV to watch it on, I don't really care how big or nice it is. Am I right or am I the only one? But eventually I gave into Adam, because honestly I love making people happy. I'm the happy helper lady, it is just what I do. This is why I'm in school to become a therapist.

So last Sunday we went to Best Buy to buy the TV, and we did buy the TV. I was actually starting to get kind of excited about the TV. I guess watching Heidi Klum say," That Means Your Out," might be even better on a big screen in High Definition. Since we were running around town, we figured it wouldn't hurt to go and at least glance in Living Spaces. Maybe it was the leftover endorphins from buying the TV talking, but we decided we could possibly, maybe afford one couch that day and then buy its match later on. But we soon quickly discovered that we had widely differing taste. I like bright colors and he only wanted brown. So I would suggest blue and Adam would look really disgusted. Then I would suggest red and he would say that red was, "too seventies." *rolls eyes* I also learned that picking out a couch color can make me oddly emotional. But heck, sometimes I cry at commercials.

We finally decided on a shade of brown I didn’t hate, and a couch that had two built in recliners. We were debating buying that couch, and talking to the salesperson. He said that we should be aware that Living Spaces rotated their furniture sets often, and we might not be able to get its match later on. I started panicking because the thought of not having matching furniture suddenly sounded like the worst thing that could ever happen to me. "I've watched too much HGTV to allow that!" I cried! So I convinced Adam that we just had to get both couches, and that we could afford it as long as we didn't eat anything at all for the next few months. I also might have guilt tripped him a little by hanging one big, flat screen TV that I allowed him to buy over his head.

After we paid for the furniture, we weren't really excited like I imagined we would be. Walking out of Living Spaces we both had huge lumps in our throats. I know it’s not as expensive as a car or a new house, but for us it was a lot of money. I mean we had just spent more money in one day than we do in a couple of months! We kept looking at each other with a deer in the headlights look asking, "Are You Excited Yet?" But once the buyer's remorse wore off, we really did start looking forward to delivery.

The couches arrived yesterday and we love them. I'm still not crazy about the brown color, but I think I can offset it with bringing other colors into the room. But I have to give props to Adam because having couches that recline was a totally inspired idea. So freakin comfortable. And watching reality TV on the big screen? Totally Amazing.

So now I'm having fun sending Adam messages at work like, “I bet I'm more comfortable than you right now!” Which let’s face it, I totally am.

The Paper Anniversary

 

Today I have been married a year. I really can't even begin to explain how much that really blows my mind. Adam and I sometimes relive moments from our little, sweet, perfect for us, outdoor, spring wedding. There were the funny moments, like how everyone that went to the bathroom, got locked in the bathroom. Including our best man who was locked in the bathroom by the flower girl, who then left! Then there was the most aggressive "wedding cake in the face"" scene in the history of weddings.

But I really remember the sweet moments, watching him pace around nervously outside while the girls got ready upstairs, the way my heart was beating out of my chest right before the music started, and the moment I saw his face down the aisle. He still tells me how amazed he was at how beautiful I looked. I remember dancing with him to Feels Like Home, the song that describes how I feel about our relationship to a tee. And when we got to the hotel room, our friends had filled our room with rose petals, champagne, and the flower centerpieces from the wedding. I popped open the champagne bottle, and the cork bounced of the ceiling. And then we talked, laughed, and cried because we were so happy.

We have known each other for 11 years now, and not much in our history says, "Those two are going to get married someday." But if I'm completely honest with myself, I have to admit that I loved him even back then. It is a long and winding story, that one day I should tell. A story that to me really proves that if it is meant to be, it will happen.

When we finally decided to give this thing a go, for real, it was absolutely terrifying for me. I wasn't sure I even wanted marriage. I had never been exposed to a healthy marriage. Marriage was something that seemed to always end badly, leaving many hurt people behind in its wake. Even when we were first engaged and living together, I just wasn't sure if this was a smart choice. Some days my heart was all in, but my head was halfway out the door. If we had the tiniest of fights, I worried I was getting in way over my head. I was not a commitment phobe so much as a girl with a huge fear of divorce.

I can't say what exactly shifted when we got married. But something definitely changed. After the wedding, we went back the same routines. We went to work, we came home, we did the same things we had done for the last year. But it just felt so different. I stopped questioning, I felt more safe and secure than I had ever been. It was as if I finally understood what it meant to be quietly content with my life.

This morning I'm waking up in Washington D.C. on our long overdue honeymoon. We are about to head out to go paddle boating in the Potomac river surrounded by hundreds of Cherry blossom trees. And I can't help but sit here in awe about how rich my life has turned out to be, especially after all the heartbreak of my childhood. Girls like me don't always get so lucky. Time and time again I see girls who grew up with mean/abusive/absent fathers choose men just like their fathers. Hoping they can rewrite their own histories.  But I found a man that is the exact opposite of my father. I don't know how I got here, or why I deserve this happiness, but I'm just so thankful.

If you can find the one person who loves you for who you are, doesn't try to change you, and puts up with all your bullhockey.  Marry them and don't let them get away.

Playing Hookey

I've been attending school for over 8 months now. I've done the calculations. I've attended class 38 times, and a total of 152 hours! That is six whole days people! Snaps for me! In all that time, I have never missed one day of class until last week. This is pretty amazing, considering that when I was a undergrad, I often skipped class. At the beginning of each semester, I would find out how many days I could miss each class, and make a chart. I would then document the days I missed, so I wouldn't go over.  I wasn't doing anything really bad, just the normal college stuff. You know, staying up so late that it would take a category five tornado to get me out of my plastic dorm mattress (properly potty proofed for us college students).

I guess in grad school, I've just gotten a lot more responsible. Although it could be that I am married now, so I'm going to bed at more reasonable hours (most of the time). Or that I'm paying a butt load of money to attend this school. Or that I attend class with the same people every week, and I'm a scardy cat, and I don't want them to judge me. Yeah that is probably my real motivation.

But last Thursday was the end of some hard and long weeks. Plus, I had just gotten a fat check in the mail (a refund from my school loans). Which technically, this is money that I have to pay back eventually, but it still feels like a huge treat when it comes. So I started to consider skipping class, and going out to eat with Adam instead. I expected him to talk me out of skipping, but he didn't. I needed him to guilt me, and save my perfect attendance record! Ugh what is he good for?

So we bugged off, and went to Famous Daves for dinner. After dinner started, the text messages started rolling in from concerned classmates, "Where are You? Are You OK?" I felt like a deer in the headlights (or that armadillo I ran over late one night in college, when we were returning from a krispee kreme donut run in Tuscaloosa, on a dark Alabama highway. My friend in the front seat and I started screeching, and the girls in the back were freaking out, because they didn't know what we were screaming about. Then BAM the armadillo was no more. I guess they really are nature's speed bumps) But darn my class mates and their well meaning ways! My first instinct was to lie and say I had car trouble or that my third cousins neighbor ex-roommate’s dog died, and I was too bereaved to attend class. But I knew that was ridiculous, so I told them the truth. I just needed a mental health day.

During dinner, I gave two benedryls to Adam for some allergy problems he had been having. He hardly ever takes any medication, so he asked me if it was ok for him to take two. Adam is a big guy, so I told him of course he could take two! I just mentioned that Adam does not take many medications and he never drinks. The night before we married we had a joint bachelor/bachelorette party. And the boys talked him into taking a vodka shot. He downed the shot, and immediately stripped off his shirt and ran around the lawn. It was hilarious.

Thirty minutes after I gave Adam the meds, he started acting really funny. He started talking loud and cracking the lamest jokes that he found HI-LAR-IOUS. The type of jokes that if I were to tell, he would just stare at my like I was insane. Then a song having something to do with trains started playing, and he made up a choo choo dance. And then did it at the table! I was having fun, but I couldn't figure out why he was acting so out of character. But then it clicked, that the bendryl was making him act drunk. As drunk as you are after a round of badly played beer pong. I told him this, and he was like, "Woah, I am drunk." I totally drugged my husband! But I mean come on, who is such a light weight that they can't handle two benedryls? My husband that’s who.

I even had to drive us home, as he reclined in the passengers seat, to try and sleep it off on the way home. Then as soon as we got home, Adam went to take a nap. He told me to wake him up in thirty minutes, so I did, but he kept requesting another 30 mins. I was turning into a human snooze button. But he never did get up, meaning that he went to bed at 7:30, and I spent the rest of the evening alone. At least I had The Real House B****** of New York to keep me company.

A Golden Tale

So tonight before Adam went to bed, he asked Sarah if she would like to hear a bedtime story. I know this sounds insane, and its not like he has ever told her bedtime stories before. But I guess when it boils down to it, a big part of our lives is coming home from work and saying really ridiculous things to our dog. But I wanted to share the story with you guys. So here is A Golden Tale by Shel Silversten Adam M.

Long ago, in the kingdom far away across the Great White Ocean, there lived a monarchy that was ruled by three ruling goldies. These goldies ruled a vast land overflowing with raw hide bones, fried chicken, and McDonald’s french fries. However, the goldies did not know their limits, and soon became greedy. The greediness lead to sloth and stifled their creativity. It took their promise and smashed it upon the rock of laziness! This is a cautionary tale, young Sarah.

In other news, I've been serving on a jury all this week (wrapped today), and I can't wait to tell you guys all about it because the defendant was actually a celebrity! Talk about a quintessential Southern California experience. I go in for jury duty, get chosen, and its a celeb. That is better than my, "I saw Richard Simmons at LAX story!" But jury duty has set me so far behind in work and school, I barely have any time to breathe. And I'm running on like no sleep, so now I'm having issues sleeping because my body was like, "Ok girlfriend, so you don't ever get in bed before 3 a.m., I'm going to make it impossible for you to fall asleep before that time from now on, TAKE THAT." Which would be fine if one ornery golden retriever didn't make it her job to wake me up.

I also haven't been able to check up on everyone in the blogosphere, so I can't wait to have time to come by and say hi.

I Need a Support Group to Run a Support Group

Right now I am taking a class on group therapy. I am really enjoying it, and now I can watch shows like Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew, and know exactly what is going on. So they will be in group therapy on the show, and I will be getting all psych nerd up in living room yelling things like, "They are totally storming the group!" This gives Adam a second reason to want to go into the bedroom to get away from me, the first being that I am watching Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew.

So I have another pesky role-play Thursday night for that class. You know where I get in front of the class and play therapist, and I ask people about how the feel about their feeeeeeeeeelings. While all 16 people in my class, plus the professor are looking at me with their scary eyes, my heart is beating like a jungle drum, and basically I'm convinced that I will just die. And how dare they actually make me act like a therapist, when I'm going to school to become a therapist?!? Life is just so unjust.

I know that one of my New Year's Resolutions is to become more confident in role-plays. Believe it or not, I am slightly less nervous than I was the last time around. But I have made about as much progress as a person who claims to be doing better on their diet by eating 3.75 spoonfuls of frosting a day instead of their usual four. Baby Steps, Right?

I'm doing my group therapy presentation and role play on Social Anxiety. This is ironic for two reasons-In college, I once saw a flyer for a social anxiety support group and I thought,” No one will show up!" Ha. Plus, most of my own anxiety issues center around social activities and interactions. So I will be experiencing some of the symptoms I'm supposed to be treating. Is this what a marriage therapist feels like when they are getting divorced?

Earlier today, I was having a woe is me, life is hard moment about this all, so I posted this to my twitter:

I also sent the exact same message to my husband via email. This is when you learn that following me on twitter is a lot like being married to me. The angst, the PMS, the bad grammar, the excitement over random things, the "did she really just say that" moments, and all the other brilliant and awe inspiring things I say. You guys are so lucky to know me. *snort!*

Adam’s replies were sweet in the beginning:

Adam: If there’s anything you want to practice tonight just let me know. I can play multiple roles.
Me: Maybe, if only to get idea bout what I'm going to say, so I have some direction. It’s just annoying, because I've never done bad in a role play, and yet I don’t believe in myself.
Adam: It’s okay. I don’t believe in you either. :P

This conversation, my friends, sums up my entire marriage quite fittingly. Support and Sarcasm all rolled into one.

Black Holes and Revelations

The benefit of having over 8 years of your life documented on a old live journal, is that whenever you feel the need to relive your past you can. Every angst-filled, toe-cringing, my god-was-I-really-that-ridiculous moment is there in black and white (and the occasional pink sparkly text). So a few days ago, I combed through the archives looking for some old entry on a old vacation I took and stumbled across the entries following my break-up with my high school boyfriend. A year of heart break spilled over entry after entry. Part of it was slightly amusing, I mean the melodrama of it all! Part of it reminded me just how little perspective you really have as a teenage girl. But most of all, I just ached for my 18 year old self, because I remember exactly what if felt like to be the girl who once wrote, "I am positive I will never ever find anyone else to love again."

I can't tell you exactly what it was about him that made me want to be with him, but I can tell you he really made me laugh at a time in my life when I walking around with a fake smile everyday. At 14, everything was so incredibly hard. I was living in a house where I literally never spoke to my stepfather, my father was treating me horridly, and my anxiety and depression felt incredibly isolating. But once I met him, I felt less alone. Soon we were staying up every night talking till the sun rose, and on my bad days I would just call him and cry for hours without fearing judgment. And after I talked to him, I always felt better. We soon spoke of getting married in the future, and what we would name our kids (and I realize that was a little silly for our ages). And on the eve before Thanksgiving in 2002, I lost my virginity to him in my bedroom at my grandmother's house. Although I had always promised myself I would wait, we really loved each other and even after we broke up, I have never regretted it.

After we had dated 4 years, the dynamic of our relationship started to shift. I was not the same wounded girl that he had met years earlier. I was no longer depressed, no longer needy. He had always been my protector, my shoulder to cry on. He could no longer fill that role, and we started to lose who we were as a couple. Plus, he was in college, had new friends, and had less time to devote to me. At first, I really didn't mind, but as time went on, he really began neglecting me. Eventually I got tired of arguing with him, and just decided I would just take any time he was willing to give me. But once I realized I was just settling I knew it was time to move on.

So on a quiet, summer morning I broke up with him. I cried, he cried, but we both agreed it was for the best. And for the first few days I was fine, and then it hit me like a ton of bricks, and I changed my mind. But he was standing firm, and insisted we needed to not talk to each other for a while, to be able to move on. But that was hard for me. So I would promise him I wouldn't cry, if he would just call me, so he would call, and the minute I heard his voice, I would fall apart. I still had his email password, so I was obsessively reading his sent email, and he had told someone he was kind of "relieved" about the whole thing. I was devastated, but now I understand that was only male bravado.

For six months, I could not stop crying or spewing melancholy over my blog. And it probably took a year and a half before I had fully recovered. And I strongly believed I had missed my chance at lasting love, but ironies of ironies I had already met the man who would be my husband. And when Adam came into focus, he filled a niche that wasn't based on loneliness or neediness. Things just flowed so easily for us from day one. Pure and simple.

I know I get really schmoopy on here a lot when I talk about my husband. But I just love him so unabashedly. And sometimes in the really quiet moments, like when we are cuddling on the couch or just driving down the road, I feel so overwhelmed by how much I love this man. Adam has given me something I have never had my entire life-stability. And he has taught me what I never really believed, "Growing up in a broken family doesn't necessarily mean you won't have a good marriage.” I don't know what I did to deserve this kind of love, but I know how blessed I am.

A big part of me really wants to go back in time and tell my younger self that it will be ok. That her life will be so much different and brilliant than she could ever imagine But I know myself, and my younger self would never believe my older self.

About a month ago, I put together a little mini-video chronicling 2009. I did it so I would never forget what a wonderful adventure my life has turn out to be. The song is Crash Into Me by The Dave Matthews Band, and I apolgize for the picture at 3:10 (it was a big part of my year!)

Moment of Clarity

Do you ever have one of those days where you find yourself crying over unimportant things? Like because your husband comes home after a long morning of running errands with some Jack in The Box, and he didn't even bother to ask you if you wanted anything? So you ask him why he didn't call and ask you if you wanted something.  And he says he didn't want to tempt you because you'd been so good on your diet for weeks, and because you asked him not to offer you any fast food anymore. And the truth is you didn't really want Jack in The Box in the first place, but how dare he even do something that you asked him to do? Then all of a sudden you burst into tears, and your husband is looking at you like you grew two heads, and one of those heads is spinning around spitting out pea soup, and he is flipping open his phone to call an exorcist which he obviously has on speed dial (because he is married to a crazy lady).

But then it occurs to you that maybe you aren't crying because of your missed encounter with a cheeseburger, but because of the amount of pressure in your head. You know the sinus infection you have, that is making you feel like there a rhino trying to charge its way out of your skull. And usually you aren't such a cry baby about things like being sick, but this has been hurting for days, and you are just plum exhausted. Also your heat isn't working, and Long Beach has been pummeled by storms for days, so there is no sunshine and you are cold 100% of the time. So you're frustrated that you are paying $875 a month for rent,  for a place with no heat. When you could live in Alabama, and probably own your own bigger home with central heat and air! And you're watching TV thinking I wish I lived in the Jersey Shore house, because it looks warm there. Then you feel kinda of dirty inside, because you are even watching Jersey Shore.

So now you know you are just having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.  And your remember why you love your little duplex in the first place. And you tell your husband this mini-break down has nothing to do with his behavior. But he is kind, and basically spends the rest of the day taking care of you, while you hide under the covers and cuddle with one warm golden retriever. And the day turns out not so bad after all.

This Ain't My Mother's Tree Trimming Party, Y'all

So last year Adam and I didn't have a Christmas tree. Adam convinced me that we didn't need one for two reasonable reasons. 1. We were flat broke and 2. We would be in Wisconsin on Christmas day. But I'm not in anyway a rational and reasonable person, so I decided that Adam was just being a Grinch. Adam's heart must have grown a half a size this year, because he said we could buy a tree. But on our budget it would have to be like the before picture of the Charlie Brown Christmas tree. Luckily, my mother, the reigning Queen of Christmas herself, offered to send us her old Christmas tree. She also sent along some of my childhood ornaments. I was so excited.

Before the tree even got here, I was thinking about how I wanted to decorate it. And I spent a good half hour roaming the Christmas ornament aisle at Big Lots, because I couldn't decide whether or not I wanted a blue/silver ornament theme or a gold/red ornament theme. There was a whole lot of putting the blue/silver ones in the buggy then putting them back, and going for the gold/red ones, and putting them back. You see I'm a waffling waffler, and I don't like having to make choices. I finally settled on the blue/silver ones and bought a tree topper and skirt.

Back in Alabama, putting up the Christmas tree was an all-day event. We would pop in Christmas movies, drink peppermint shakes, reminisce about our favorite ornaments, and get it done slowly. Adam and I put up the Christmas tree last Wednesday, after we both had really long days at work. While decorating the tree, Adam and I ate burritos from the microwave and watched I Didn't Know I was Pregnant and The Real World/ Road Rules Challenge. Disclaimer: I'm the one that watches those shows, Adam has much better taste in television shows.

(On a side note let us talk about I Didn't Know I was Pregnant for a minute. First of all, I don't know why I watch that show; it’s not like when the girl starts feeling pain I wonder, "OMG, what is wrong with her?" Second of all, the actresses that reenact the births are typically really pretty and smart looking girls, and then they show the actual person and they are almost always these hicky people from the South. WHY ARE THEY ALWAYS FROM THE SOUTH? Also, I love when they have the so called experts on the show to explain the things that happened. On one episode this woman has a baby in the toilet, and then the expert comes on to explain why a baby shouldn't be born in a toilet! I mean really, did that person get a medical degree so they could go on a cable show and do a public service announcement about having baby in toilets. There Mama must be so proud. By the way, that show scares me, and I can almost bet that the next time I feel a little bit of stomach pain, I'm going to be convinced I'm in labor. Because I am that paranoid. So expect a tweet from me soon, saying I’m having a baby, and then a follow up saying it was only gas.)

So about the tree trimming. We struggled with the lights, even though it’s a pre-lit tree, and put up all the ornaments I had as a child. We were really having a wonderful time. And I'm all about capturing snap shots of great moments in my mind, and I’m thinking this is the first time Adam and I are putting up a tree together! Oh how nice. And then Adam found an old photo album my mom had packed in the Christmas tree box, and it all went down hill from there. First of all, he saw a picture of me from middle school. This was before I finally figured out what to do with my wild curly hair. So it was always all over the place, and I hated it. After many years of therapy, I learned how to handle it and accept it as an adult. But when he saw the picture, he was laughing so hard he couldn't breathe. He said, "Which Designing Women character did you steal that hair style from?" In one foul swoop, he reopened all those middle school wounds all over again. He wanted me to scan it and email it to his family. No way Jose. Never ever going to happen.

All in all it really was a lovely evening. But when I told my mom we ate burritos, watched trashy television, and made fun of each others hair while putting up the tree, is it any wonder she didn't approve? :)

Here are some pictures of the tree and some favorite ornaments. Man it’s hard to take a good picture of a Christmas tree.



The angel blinks on and off, so I couldn't capture it.

Adam's little Packer Football Player. Go Cheeseheads!

I buy a new ornament every year.This year it is a goldie for Sarah.

I colored this when I was five years old. Makes me smile.

I make Adam sleep under the tree when he is a bad husband.

Sarah has been sleeping under the tree and knocking off ornaments. That poor tree's life is in peril every time she walks by.

Because She is too Precious for Her Own Good

I love how she keeps looking at me, as if to say please stop the madness.